Authors: Mandasue Heller
Afraid
Contents
Also by Mandasue Heller
The Front
Forget Me Not
Tainted Lives
The Game
The Charmer
The Club
Shafted
Snatched
Two-Faced
The Driver
Lost Angel
Broke
Respect
About the Author
Mandasue Heller was born in Cheshire and moved to Manchester in 1982. She spent ten years living in the notorious Hulme Crescents which have since become the background to her novels. Not only is she a talented writer, but she has also sung in cabaret and rock groups, seventies soul cover bands and blues jam bands.
AFRAID
Mandasue Heller
First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Mandasue Heller 2015
The right of Mandasue Heller to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Ebook ISBN 978 1 444 76953 1
Trade paperback ISBN 978 1 444 76952 4
Hardback ISBN 978 1 444 76951 7
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
This book is dedicated to my precious mum, Jean; my children, Michael, Andrew, and Azzura; my grandchildren, Marissa, Lariah, and Antonio; and, of course, my man, Win. You are the flames that leap in my heart, and I love you all dearly.
As always, much love to my and Win’s families: Ava, Amber, Martin, Jade, Reece, Kyro, Diaz, Auntie Doreen, Pete, Lorna, Cliff, Chris, Glen, Joseph, Mavis, Nats, Dan, Lauren, Toni, Valerie, Jascinth, Donna and their children.
Love and thanks to my ace agent, Sheila Crowley; and to everyone at Hodder, especially Carolyn Caughey, who is so much more than a brilliant editor; Nick Austin, and Cat Ledger.
And love to dear friends: Norman, Betty and Ronnie, Kimberley, Liz, Katy and John, Rowetta, Jac and Brian Capron, Ann Mitchell, Angela Lonsdale, Hilary Devey, Martina and Wayne Brookes.
Big thanks to Jennifer for the Social Services advice. Thanks also to the buyers, readers, libraries, and my FB & T friends.
And, lastly, a special mention to the Crescents crew, especially those lost but never forgotten: Jaynie, Karen, Ray, Dino, Carole – to name but a few.
Live fully, love deeply, and laugh often, my friends. We get one shot, and this is it.
PROLOGUE
‘Oscar, come!’
Bob Wilks shielded his eyes with his hand and peered down the muddy bank to the litter-strewn path which verged the stream below. He had taken his dog for its usual early-morning walk through the woods but it had decided to go exploring and, while Bob could still hear it snuffling around, he could no longer see it.
He glanced at his watch. It was almost eight a.m. His wife would soon be awake, and he needed to be home before she took it into her head to try to go to the toilet on her own again. The last time, she had slipped and fractured her elbow. Bob still felt guilty, despite everyone insisting that it wasn’t his fault.
‘Oscar!’ he called again. ‘Come on, boy, we’ve got to go.’
The dog was making little whining noises now. Afraid that the dozy creature might have got itself entangled in something, Bob carefully made his way down the bank. He slid the last few feet, and just about managed to stay upright as he landed on the narrow strip of ground at the water’s edge.
The dog’s head was buried in the grass a couple of hundred yards away, its tail sticking up in the air. It was foraging, and Bob hoped it wasn’t worrying a rabbit or some other small creature. He knew it was nature, but he hated seeing animals in distress and he really didn’t have the time to rescue it
or
put it out of its misery.
‘Leave it,’ he ordered as he approached. ‘Let’s go.’
The dog wagged its tail at the sound of his voice but carried on digging and whining. Bob pushed the long grass aside and saw an ancient sewage-outlet pipe, the mouth of which was stacked with debris that had gathered there over the years. Guessing that Oscar had probably chased a rat into the pipe and was trying to go after it, Bob gripped the dog’s collar and tried to tug him away. But, just as he was about to clip the lead on, something caught his eye that caused him to freeze for a second.
Sure that he had imagined what he’d glimpsed, Bob reached into his inside pocket for his key-ring torch. He leaned forward and directed the faint beam at the heap of tin cans and bottles that were snagged behind a mangled bicycle wheel. As his vision sharpened, a sickly taste flooded his mouth. He tried to tell himself that it was an animal that had crawled into the pipe and died, but no animal he’d ever seen had long blonde hair like that.
‘Oh dear lord!’ Legs almost giving way with shock, Bob staggered back onto the path. ‘Oscar!’ he barked when the dog seized the opportunity to go back to its digging. ‘
Stop that!
’
The dog obeyed and Bob quickly clipped its lead on. Then, hands shaking wildly, he fumbled his mobile phone out of his pocket.
‘Police!’ he blurted out when his call was answered. ‘I’ve found a body. I th-think it’s a young girl.’
1
Skye Benson pulled her pillow down around her ears to block out the sound of her parents arguing in the living room below. It didn’t work. No matter how hard she pressed, she could still hear every word.
When the sound of smashing glass filtered up through the floorboards, followed by several loud bangs, she sat up and checked the time on her small bedside clock. Almost two a.m. Were they
crazy
? Their landlord had already threatened to evict them if they disturbed the neighbours in the early hours again. Luckily, the old man who lived to their right was in hospital, so he couldn’t grass them up again; and the students on their left were always too stoned to care. But if the fight got any louder the whole street would soon be up.
Skye lay back down and pulled her quilt right up over her head, whispering ‘
Stop it
,
stop it
,
stop it
’ over and over, as if the mantra would actually have an effect. There was no way she was going down there after what had happened the last time. She had been hit in the face by a flying ashtray, and they had asked so many questions at the hospital that she’d been terrified they were going to lock her mum and dad up for life. And her parents had obviously thought the same, because they had both acted really sorry when she got home. Her mum had fussed over her all the next day, fetching her drinks and dinner in bed; and on his way home from work her dad had bought some magazines for her to read in bed, along with a big bag of mixed sweets. Treats like those were rare in their house, so Skye had relished it while it lasted. But the small scar on her cheek was a permanent reminder of the pain and fear she’d felt that night, so she had never made the mistake of interfering again.
Her mum was screaming now, and Skye squeezed her eyes shut. When she could no longer stand the smell of her own damp breath she pushed the quilt off her face, rolled over and slid her laptop out from under the bed. It belonged to the school, and every kid in her year had been loaned one some months earlier as part of the new headmaster’s stupid plan to drag them into the modern world. He’d thought that getting the pupils to do their homework online would eradicate the ‘forgot it, sir … dog ate it, miss’ excuses, and get the kids interested in learning. But it hadn’t worked out too well so far. Sammy Green and Matthew Fletcher had claimed that theirs had been stolen, but Skye knew they had sold them to a guy in the pub on their estate. And most of the other kids just used them to faff about on Facebook and Twitter, or to watch porn.
They hadn’t had internet access in Skye’s house since her mum, during one of her scarier episodes, had declared it the Devil’s tool to trap souls and had closed their account, so Skye hadn’t been particularly excited about having a laptop. She certainly hadn’t bothered doing any stupid homework on it. Then, one day, she’d been messing about with it in her room and had accidentally discovered that the students next door hadn’t password-protected their WiFi. She’d been secretly logging on via their signal ever since; she just had to be super careful to cover her tracks after a session, because her mum would totally hit the roof if she ever found out.
She covered the laptop with her quilt now, and signed into Facebook. As she’d expected, given the time, her best friend Hayley wasn’t online, so she switched to her
WhisperBox
account instead. She and Hayley had found this site after they had been caught slagging off some girls from school on Facebook and had got into a massive fight, and they used it whenever they wanted to gossip, safe in the knowledge that no one who knew them would ever suss that it was them behind the screen-names BlueBabe and Sugarplum.
Skye usually only went on this site in the evening, when it was mainly girls online, chatting about boys, make-up and music; but it seemed to be mostly boys right now, and their talk of football and sex both bored and disgusted her.
About to log out again, she hesitated when her
Whisper
button started to flash, indicating that someone wanted to talk to her in a private side-room. She clicked into it and smiled when she saw that it was
QTPye
: a girl she and Hayley had met in the open room a few months earlier.
Hey BlueBabe
, QTPye’s message read.
Surprised to see you on here so late. Where’s Sugarplum?
Probably in bed,
Skye replied
. She wasn’t well today so she didn’t come to school.
What’s up with her?
Think she’s got a cold.
Another one?
Yeah, I know,
typed Skye, a twinge of guilt causing her to chew on her lip as she added,
Feel dead sorry for her sometimes.
In truth, she actually thought that Hayley put these colds on for sympathy, because she was always moaning that she didn’t feel well, and had stayed off school three times this term already. Skye didn’t believe that anyone could catch so many colds, but she didn’t blame Hayley for trying it on, and she’d probably do the same if she thought she could get away with it. But her mum wasn’t as soft as Hayley’s, so she had no chance. She’d have to be dying before her mum would believe that she was too ill to go to school. And even then, her mum would probably bring her schoolwork in to the hospital and force her to do it on her deathbed.