Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
KAT
When I wake up, he’s gone.
I guess to eat or shower. He can do neither here in his mask. But a note pinned to the door promises that he’ll return soon.
A little miffed that he keeps disappearing on me, I grab myself a shower before sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop, intent on locating Martha.
It takes most of the morning to follow up on outdated phone numbers and leads.
First port of call is my mother, who keeps me chatting for half an hour before I can get anywhere near asking her about Martha.
I tell my mum that I need to get in touch with her for something at university, keeping things incredibly vague when she probes about what Martha can possibly have to do with economics.
With a dramatic sigh, she relents from her questioning and goes to fetch the little red book that lives next to the phone in the hallway.
I can’t believe she still bothers with a house phone, let alone an analogue phone and address book.
The number she gives me doesn’t work. Hopefully, I’ll have more luck with the address book.
I text Heart Eyes to let him know I’m heading out for a bit, that I’ll be back in the afternoon after I see if I can track down Martha at her last known address, and grab a taxi to the train station.
The village the address is in is just under an hour away. I slot into an empty seat with a coffee and a brownie, only for my phone to light up with a text.
You shouldn’t be going on your own.
Are you going to rock up to her house in a mask beside me? She’s old, you’ll give her a heart attack.
Kat. Give me the address, and I’ll drive to meet you. I’ll stay in the car if I need to.
No. I need to see her on my own. If she’s even still living there.
Kat.
It annoys me that I can’t reply with his name. Because I still don’t know it.
I’ll see you later at my house. You could start working on any names you remember from your dad’s friends.
Friends… if you could call a group of abusive men that.
His dots bounce for a while, but no message comes through. Guilt nips at me, but as much as I love knowing he’s there, I can’t rely on him for everything.
According to Mum, Martha’s name changed when she got married. It’s no wonder my searches proved fruitless.
The fields zip by in a blur of green, not as vibrant as in summer, the coming winter dulling them. The train is quiet, and I’m thankful for the peace.
By the time I get to the station and get another cab to her cottage, the nerves start to make me nauseous.
The village is barely more than a hamlet, so I take the cabbie’s number for the journey back, fairly certain there’s not a taxi rank anywhere nearby.
I stand at the side of the road staring at the sign on the red brick house. Acacia Cottage. How quaint. I really hope she still lives there, or if worst comes to worst, they have a forwarding address.
And that she’s still alive. Martha isn’t super old, but life gives no guarantees.
Picking my way through the overgrown garden, I set my shoulders. I need to look her in the face and find out if she’s told anyone about what I did. While I don’t think Martha’s stalking me, it doesn’t mean she didn’t set whoever is into motion.
It takes three rounds of knocking before the door opens an inch, a metal chain crossing the gap.
‘Hello?’ Comes a voice that is unmistakably Martha’s.
‘Martha.’ My voice comes out steadier than I feel. ‘It’s Katherine Elliot. I don’t know if you remember me—’
A wrinkle enveloped eye appears, narrowing as she cuts me off. ‘Yes. Yes. I know who you are.’
‘I hope it’s okay that I’ve shown up. Your number is out of service.’
‘What do you want?’ she asks, sounding annoyed. Not exactly a reunion, huh?
‘I need to talk to you,’ I say. ‘About that summer. About the boy.’
Silence stretches before she sighs and closes the door.
Shit.
I’m about to knock again when the sound of the chain sliding comes from the other side of the door.
‘You’d better come in then. Wipe your shoes.’
Martha leads me through the cottage, which can only be described as ramshackle. She must have taken up art as there are paint-clarted jars everywhere, most with greyish water and an assortment of brushes sticking out. Half-finished canvases litter every corner, piled up against each other.
I step over a particularly fat tabby cat, who stretched as I pass, swatting lazily at my shoelaces.
When she offers me a cup of tea, I decline politely, because I’m not sure I’d trust that she can find a clean one amongst the chaos.
Sitting across from her throws me right back to being a little kid, dependent on her but also a bit afraid. I’m not sure how she ended up a nanny, but it couldn’t be for the love of children.
‘I knew what was happening in that cottage,’ she says. ‘Even before you told me. I’d seen the boy hanging around, and the bruises on his skin.’
‘Why didn’t you help him?’
‘I’m not a monster. I did try to help once. But the father threatened to burn the house down while we slept if I didn’t keep my nose out of it. It’s why I tried to stop you playing with the boy, but you were never one for listening.’
‘That’s why you slapped me the night I’d peeped through the window?’ I say.
‘I know what they might have done to you had they found you there. You were a pretty little thing, and so spirited. I didn’t want you near that man.’
‘But you knew those boys were being hurt.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you said nothing?’
‘I tried to bring it up with your father once, but he shut it down.’
‘Why didn’t you go to the police?’ I grip the seat of my chair to try to keep myself calm.
‘Your father knew some of those men,’ she says eventually.
‘Socially. He wasn’t involved with all that other stuff.
I want to be clear about that. But he knew them.
They moved in overlapping worlds. I was afraid of what would happen to your family if I said something. To my position. To everything.’
‘To your position…’ I say.
‘I know. I was selfish.’
She’s quiet for a moment. ‘I was protecting myself. And you. The area chief of police was involved. Going to them would only have it swept away anyway. When I caught you coming back that night, I was frightened for you.’
I press my fingers to the stone at my throat. ‘I’m being threatened. Someone who knows what happened that last day of summer.’
The look she gives makes me squirm. It’s not something I’ve brought up with her since the day it happened.
‘I need to know if you’ve told anyone. Spoken to anyone about any of it.’
She shakes her head.
‘No,’ she says. ‘I haven’t. He deserved it. Deserved worse, really. I am seventy-one years old, and I have thought about those children every single day since. Whatever mistakes I made, telling anyone else is not one.’
I nod, feeling both relieved and more concerned. It’s a dead end.
‘Whatever is happening to you, it isn’t coming from me, Katherine.’ She reaches out and places a hand over mine, patting softly.
I believe her.
It would be easier if she had told someone. At least I’d have a lead. She’s just old and tired. The secrets weighed her down, too.
‘You told me silence would be best. Best for whom?’
‘For us,’ she says.
‘The boy from the cottage is back. After all this time, he found me.’ I don’t know why I’m telling her, but unloading the secret feels good.
‘How is he?’
‘Alive.’ Intriguing. Tortured.
I don’t stay long. Being back in front of her has me feeling like I’m folding myself back up to be small, and I hate it.
I don’t relax until I’m back on the train and heading for home.
I’m back where I started, no closer to finding the note-leaver. Could it be one of the men who were part of the abusers’ group?
Picking up my phone, I look at the last message from Heart Eyes, and wonder if he’s going to be mad at me for leaving without him.
And what he intends to do about it.