No Way Back Page 2

  I know something is badly wrong here. I quiz the girls who slept in our dorm, I approach the least hostile members of staff, probing for details. I find out nothing of course, but then when I least expect it the answer falls into my lap. I’m finishing off my chores, lugging huge bin bags into municipal bins at the back of the house, when the heaviest one rips, spilling its contents onto the floor. And there, amidst all the detritus, I spot something familiar.

  I choke with emotion when I see what’s inside the battered C&A bag. All of Gemma’s possessions. The passport photos we took together, a half-eaten bag of Opal Fruits and worst of all her beloved tapes. She would never have gone anywhere without her fix of Cold Cut and Adonis. They were the most precious things she owned.

  Chapter Eight

  I can’t stay here.

  Carole hasn’t come near me – has barely looked at me – since that night. But I know it’s still going on. Sometimes late at night I hear girls whimpering as they trudge back to their dorm. And in the morning I see girls with fresh bruises. Girls who used to stare right at you, but now can’t meet your eye. I don’t know how long my luck will last, but I’m not going to wait around to find out. Not after what happened to Gemma.

  I think about waiting until after dark. I could slip out unnoticed, which would buy me some time, but there would be no explaining away my absence after hours if I was rumbled. So instead I just go for it. I’m down to take the rubbish out after dinner, so I slip my things into a bin bag and take them out to the back yard with the rest of the stuff.

  I’ve got five minutes now, so I don’t muck about. I put my shoulder to the municipal bin and shove for all I’m worth. It won’t move, so I take a run up and barrel into it. My shoulder protests, but I do it again and again and eventually the giant metal bucket starts to move. Now I push for all I’m worth, ramming the bin into the back wall.

  I pause to gather my breath then, tying a knot in my bag of possessions, sling it over the wall. Gripping the side of the bin, I haul myself up. It’s pretty full and barely registers my additional weight, remaining steady as I reach the top and hop up onto the wall.

  My hands are scratched, my knuckles bruised, but I’ve done it. But as I prepare to jump I hear a sound. Turning, I see Alexis in the yard below. She’s just come out the back door, a half smoked fag tucked into her palm, but she freezes when she sees me perched on top of the wall. I don’t know what I’m expecting her to do – tell me to go or scream in alarm – but she says nothing. Just stares at me. It’s too late to back out now, so I turn away and slip over the wall.

  I land awkwardly, yelping in pain as my right ankle goes over. It hurts like hell, but gathering up my bag, I limp away. The deed is done and now I just need to get moving. I pick up the pace, gulping down tears of pain, heading away from Grove House, away from danger.

  It’s getting dark now and the streets seem unfamiliar and confusing. I don’t really have much of a plan. I just want to find the main road out of here and hitch to somewhere else. For no real reason, I think of heading west – towards Somerset or Dorset maybe. I’ve had enough of cities and towns. Maybe I can get a job. I can pass for sixteen and so long as nobody wants to see identification I should be ok.

  Pretty soon I’m lost. The streets all look the same and when I ask for help, people give it grudgingly, suspicion writ large on their faces. Who is this girl? Where is she going to? Has the alarm already been raised at the home? If it has then I need to get away from here, but nobody wants to help me and I seem to be going round in circles.

  Eventually an elderly woman offers to take me to her church – I decline – and half an hour later a middle-aged man offers me a lift, though he doesn’t say where to. I shrug him off, but he persists, following me down the street, telling me he’s got kids, so I’ve no need to worry. That starts me running and when he follows me, I break into a full sprint.

  I’m crying, running blind now and when I turn the corner I’m going too fast to stop. I barrel straight into her. My possessions tumble to the floor, the breath is knocked from me. I look up, expecting trouble, but see a kind face looking down at me. A middle-aged woman with dyed blonde hair and a warm smile. But what really grabs my attention is her uniform. She’s a police officer.

  ‘Now where are you going to in such a hurry?’ she says, casting an eye up at my pursuer, who is now walking hurriedly back to his car.

  For a moment, I can’t speak, the tears running down my face.

  ‘What is it, love? What’s wrong?’

  Still I feel too choked to speak, but gathering myself I finally get out the words.

  ‘I think something terrible’s happened to my friend.’

  Chapter Nine

  I’m taken to Basingstoke Central Police Station. The last time I was in a police car was the night my parents died and though the warm interior should feel comforting, it freaks me out. The police station’s the same – the cold terminology of the custody sergeant, who refers to me throughout as a ‘juvenile’ – unnerving me further. But WPC Simmons stays with me the whole time, holding my hand and reassuring me.

  ‘Now I want you to tell me your story,’ she tells me later, ‘but as you’re only fifteen there are certain procedures that need to be followed. So we’re going to go to the relatives’ room whilst we sort ourselves out. In the meantime, how does a hot chocolate sound?’

  The drink when it comes is thin and watery, but it warms me up. I feel utterly exhausted, worn out by the anxiety and tension of the last few hours. I want to sleep, but I have to stay alert. It’s been a couple of years since I dealt with the police and none of the faces are familiar here. I want to do it right. I’m sure Carole and the others are out looking for me, perhaps they have even been told that I’m here, so I have to get my side of the story in first. If they have hurt Gemma, then they need to pay for it.

  ‘As I mentioned before, because you’re a juvenile,’ I hear her saying, ‘we need to have someone present when I talk to you, to ensure you understand what’s happening, what you’re being asked.’

  I snap out of it, raising my eyes to hers. I often get lost in my own thoughts, but I have to get a grip.

  ‘They’re called an Appropriate Adult. Mr Lang is going to sit in for us today,’ she continues, as the door opens. ‘He’s done this many times, so there’s no need to worry.’

  I nod, then chance a look at him, as he seats himself next to me.

  ‘Hello, Jodie. My name’s Daniel. But you can call me Dan.’

  I stare at his outstretched hand. It’s him. The smiling man from the basement.

  I don’t know what to say. He looks straight at me, as Simmons probes. His eyes should be warm and supportive, given the considerate smile on his face, but they are nothing of the sort. They are boring into me, challenging me.

  WPC Simmons is getting frustrated now, wants me to repeat what I told her before, so they can get a statement down and ‘set things in motion’. But I can’t find the words – his hostile gaze robbing me of the ability to speak – and when I do finally blurt something out, I see disappointment and anger on her face.

  ‘I made it all up.’

  Chapter Ten

  The pain arrows through me and I cry out. Nobody turns a hair of course – they are all too busy pretending to be asleep to involve themselves with me.

  Carole is sweetness and light when she picks me up from the police station. Even when we get ‘home’ she is considerate and helpful. It’s only when I’m tucked up in bed that the real Carole emerges. She twists my left nipple savagely, digging her long nails into it, as she lowers her face to mine.

  ‘Your turn is coming, sweetie. So don’t go to sleep.’

  She continues to grip me, then with a final twist, pulls her hand free. I yelp and immediately my hand goes to my chest. Holding up my fingers to the weak light, I can see that she has drawn blood. She hovers in the doorway, casting one last look at me, before turning and walking away down the corridor. I watch her go, trying to
gulp down the sobs that want to escape from me. I feel anger. No, I feel fury. But most of all I feel a crushing sense of helplessness. I’ve no doubt that she means what she says.

  The night passes agonizingly slowly, each creaking floorboard or clanking water pipe making me sit upright in bed. And with every passing hour, my anxiety rises a notch further. Pretty soon I am beside myself, too scared to move, too terrified to stay still. I don’t know what to do, my head feels like it’s going to explode and for the first time in my life I wonder if I might be going a bit mad. Is this what it feels like when you finally lose your mind?

  I sink my teeth into my wrist. I don’t know why I do it, but suddenly it seems all I can do. I bite down hard, wanting to split the skin, needing the pain. Suddenly I am in control – I’m doing this, this is me – and as the pain shoots up my arm, the throbbing in my heart starts to recede. So I do it again and again.

  And for a brief moment I feel better.

  Chapter Eleven

  That night I dream of Marianne.

  I’m back in that flat again, where Marianne and I shared a bunk bed, hiding away in our bedroom as the drunken arguments raged outside. Except this time, we’re not ­cowering, we’re celebrating.

  Our parents are dead. My vicious, unrepentant father is dead and his spineless accomplice – my mother – lies beside him. Their arms and legs are gaffer-taped to the corners of the bed and their blue faces are covered in cling film. Their eyes are open, but they see nothing now.

  ‘What have you done?’

  I turn to find Marianne in the doorway. She looks horrified at the sight of them on the bed.

  ‘Nothing. I’ve done nothing.’

  And it’s true. In reality, Marianne did this, not me. She took matters into her own hands, cold-bloodedly killing them whilst they slept. She’s the one serving two life sentences in Holloway for their murder … yet in my dream here I am, the guilty party.

  ‘Jodie, what have you done?’ Marianne repeats, ashen with horror.

  Then I wake up. I don’t sleep a wink after that – fear of attack merging with the disquiet that lingers after my nightmare. I have always believed Marianne and I were different, but in the dream I felt no remorse or regret. In fact I was pleased that I had killed them. Am I different to her? The way I feel right now, I’m not sure. If I got the chance, I would stab Carole Matthews through her black heart.

  Chapter Twelve

  Three days later, I spot it. In the usual scheme of things, it would have provoked annoyance rather than alarm, but these are not normal circumstances.

  It has been another gruelling day of chores. My skills sessions seem to be few and far between now – increasingly my life consists of hour upon hour of drudgery. Carole watches me like a hawk and if she detects the slightest drop in standards, then I am made to repeat the task. Say what you like about this place, it’s always spotless. Which is probably why it is always rated outstanding by the inspectors – something Carole makes great play of.

  So I’m diligent. Very diligent. And it’s as I’m scrubbing the Ladies cubicles to a gleaming polish that I see it. A splash of vomit down the side of the toilet bowl. I bend down to check, then recoil from the strong, acidic smell. I scrub it off vigorously, my mind already elsewhere. It could be food poisoning and if not there are enough bulimics in this place to explain it away. But there is another possibility.

  Over the next couple of days, I keep an eye out for who’s going in and out. I am an outcast now, despised and ignored, which means that I can watch largely undetected. Nobody seems to be going to any great lengths to avoid me and it’s only when Jaz catches my eye that I know. She pauses at the entrance to the loos, eyeballing me aggressively, challenging me to move on.

  ‘Well, go on. Fuck off,’ she eventually says.

  I oblige, but moments later I return. I follow her inside. And listen to her regurgitate her breakfast. When she comes out ten minutes later, I’m waiting for her. I’ve never seen her look so weak and vulnerable as she does today. My eye is drawn to her waistline – which looks slightly fuller than usual.

  ‘Can’t you understand English?’ she says, brushing past me on her way to the sink. She makes no attempt to attack me though, which tells me all I need to know.

  ‘Let me help you, Jaz,’ I find myself saying.

  ‘Do what?’ she says, incredulous.

  ‘I know what’s going on and I want to help you.’

  ‘I ate something bad, that’s all,’ she says quickly, shaking the water from her hands.

  ‘You mustn’t tell anyone,’ I continue quickly, ignoring her protestations. ‘You just need to find somewhere to go and then get out of here as fast as you can.’

  Now she says nothing – the thought is clearly tempting.

  ‘They will find out. And you don’t want to be here when they do.’

  Jaz stares at me. Does she want to confide in someone? Normally it wouldn’t be me of course, but who else has she got? She moves towards me. Is she going to hit me or cry on my shoulder? I genuinely can’t tell which – then suddenly she grabs me by the throat, pulling me so close that we are practically nose-to-nose.

  ‘This conversation never happened.’

  And then she’s gone. I want to go after her but daren’t risk creating a scene. And as I watch her go, I feel something I’ve never felt for Jaz before.

  Pity.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I hardly sleep a wink for the next four nights. I’m running on fumes now, worn down by drudgery and anxiety, but still I can’t switch off. Jaz doesn’t sleep in my dorm, which in some ways makes it worse, leaving me to imagine all sorts of terrible things happening in the long, dark nights.

  What will Jaz do? If anything she is even more alone in the world than Gemma was. Her father killed her mother ten years back and is still doing time on the Isle of Wight. Jaz is violent, unpredictable and abusive, meaning the other kids generally steer clear of her. Now in her hour of greatest need, she has no one to help her. These bastards really do pick their girls carefully.

  On Wednesday night, I’m tossing and turning in my bed when I hear voices. This is not unusual – many of the girls cry out in their sleep – but this is different. I can only hear it faintly but it sounds a lot like Jaz. I can make out raised voices and tears, though I can’t make out what’s being said. I slip out of bed and head for the door. I don’t know what I’m walking into, but I feel compelled to move in case Jaz is in trouble. I’ve never liked her, in fact I’ve hated her most of the time I’ve been here, but I’d fight to the death to protect her from them.

  The corridor outside the dorm is cold and gloomy. The muffled voices are coming from the far end and I hurry along it, clinging close to the wall. Carole’s office is shut up and swathed in darkness, likewise the canteen and caretaker’s station. Which means the noise must be coming from the basement.

  I walk slowly down the stairs. The voices are becoming clearer now and I can hear crying. Only ten steps separate me from the door and I take them slowly, anxious not to make a noise. Ten, nine, eight –

  A scream rings out. I stop in my tracks, unsure whether to stay or turn and run. A couple of loud bangs now come from inside the room and then silence. I hold myself still, not daring to breathe. From inside, I hear muttered, urgent voices. One of the voices seems to be coming closer, getting louder. I turn and run, darting into a doorway at the top of the stairs, just as the basement door swings open. Seconds later, Carole marches past, heading fast towards the storeroom. She doesn’t see me and I slip inside the empty classroom behind me and take up a ­vantage point. Moments later, Carole returns clutching a sleeping bag, descending once more to the basement.

  I count to ten, then leave my hiding place. The door to the basement is closed, so I don’t hesitate, hurrying back down the corridor to the dorms. I walk straight past mine, making instead for Jaz’s. I peer in through the open doorway and my heart sinks as I realize her bed is empty. I hold onto the doorframe for supp
ort. My head is pounding, my heart is beating sixteen to the dozen and I’m finding it hard to breathe. What the hell should I do?

  Then suddenly, a noise. It takes me a moment to work out what it is. Then I move quickly to the window and see the van. That van. Carole now appears, talking earnestly to the driver and seconds later they turn and head towards the ground level entrance to the basement.

  The coast is clear and suddenly I find myself moving. Down the corridor and straight through the fire exit. They are supposed to be alarmed, but Carole doesn’t bother with that. I slip down the iron stairwell, wishing now that I’d brought my dressing gown and slippers, but there’s no time to go back.

  I’m at ground level now and I hear doors slamming. I see Carole heading back into the basement, shutting the access door firmly behind her. I see my attacker climb into the cab of the van and seconds later the engine starts up.

  It’s now or never. I can’t believe what I’m doing, but I find myself running towards the back of the van. I don’t care any more. I have to know. So turning the handle, I open the back door of the van and slip inside.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The interior is full of dustsheets and pots of paint, which slide around as the van speeds through the night. I cling onto the wall as best I can, but a sudden change of direction does for me and suddenly I’m on the floor of the van, the side of my face smarting fiercely. I lie there, trying to make sense of my surroundings, but the dirty windows at the back of the van admit only the occasional dull flash of a streetlight and it’s hard to make anything out.