Her Dark Past

1

It started with two phone calls.

The first was to a house in Sheffield at nine in the morning. Sara Yorston took the call. She was in the barn, a small, shed-like structure in the backyard where she worked, when the landline rang. She couldn’t hear it from the barn, but her daughter yelled that someone was calling. Sara waited for her husband to get it, but Marcie shouted again a few seconds later. Sara got up, wiped clay off her hands, and trekked through the thin snow blanket smothering her backyard.

When she entered the kitchen, she heard the shower running upstairs – that answered the question of why her husband hadn’t picked up the phone. She answered the call in her standard form, receptionist style: name and how could she help?

It was a male voice she didn’t know: ‘Mrs Yorston, my name is Oliver Elliot with Elliot and Harmon Solicitors. I’ll get straight to the point. Mr Drake Mills wants to meet with you. Now, I understand this is–’

She hung up and stepped away from the phone as if it were radioactive.

It was Sara who made the second call, about thirty minutes later. Sixty-three miles almost directly south, at a house on the northern edge of Birmingham’s Burbury Park, a man answered on the third ring. She asked for Jenny Pitchford.

A crack as the handset was put down. A shout of, ‘Mum.’ Extraneous noises as people moved about. The scrape of the handset being lifted once more.

‘Hello?’

That voice: unmistakable, even though she’d last heard it almost twenty years ago. ‘I need your help,’ Sara blurted, tears washing down her cheeks. ‘I need to see you. Please. That evil bastard, Drake, has reared his ugly head.’

2

Marcie wasn’t an observant teenager, but nobody could have missed her mother’s dour demeanour. Sara was quiet as she made breakfast, and although Marcie asked what was wrong, her mum couldn’t even fake a smile. How could she after that phone call?

When Joe had showered and suited up and thumped downstairs to make a packed lunch, he paused, watching his wife. Sara knew he’d sensed something off with her, but as yet hadn’t mentioned it. At the table, as the family ate, Marcie finally clocked that her mother had something worrying on her mind.

‘You okay, Mum? What’s wrong?’

‘How’s the research going?’ Joe asked his daughter before Sara could respond.

Marcie had recently joined VolunteerLife and was due to jet off to South Africa. Learning about her placement had made her giddy and she was always eager to speak of it. As the teenager talked ten to the dozen, Sara glanced at Joe and saw him staring right back. She realised he’d distracted Marcie so Sara could fret in peace. She also knew he’d demand answers later.

After her breakfast, Marcie grabbed her bag and shoes, kissed her mother’s brunette fringe, tickled her dad’s thick, wiry beard, and left the table. Sara waited for Joe to ask about her mood, but he didn’t. He left the table and headed out to work. Maybe he hadn’t noticed her dour mood after all. She would have to tell him though.

Sara went to the living-room window to watch Marcie leave. Outside, the sky was as white as the skin of snow on the ground, but scaffolding at the front of the house cast gloom across the window. It matched her mood. As Marcie stood on the pavement, awaiting her ride, a grimy blue van pulled up at the kerb and ejected three men in coveralls: the roofers here to fix their tiling.

As the trio of men congregated outside the front window, Sara shut the curtains. She didn’t want to hear their masculine chatter, or the radio they’d soon set blaring, and this time hoped that short, bald one had used the toilet before leaving his house. She trekked out the back door, using her existing footsteps to cross the snow and enter the barn.

She sat at her pottery table and began feeding clay into the roller to create flat pancakes for moulding. A shadow moved across her and she looked up. Joe was in the open doorway. He must have been impatient for answers and had turned his car around.

‘Okay?’ he said.

‘Yes. Of course. I had the dream again, that’s all.’

He didn’t buy this and she knew why. That terrible dream had invaded her sleep for thousands of nights, and she had learned to manage its effects. Sometimes it resulted in a sleepless night, but it had been a long time since it had caused a black attitude the next day. He knew this was about more than that.

‘Anything I can do to help?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m fine. Just a bit of a headache.’

No lie here. There was a headache, but she wasn’t yet ready to explain the phone call that had caused it. Joe looked unconvinced. ‘Anything else I should know about?’

Yes, she almost blurted. But she held her tongue. She wouldn’t tell him a thing until after she’d made a journey.

So, here a lie: ‘No, I’m fine. Just this freezing weather, I guess.’

Despite spending half her life with Joe, from the age of nineteen, she could still find his expressionless face hard to read. If he accepted her words, or didn’t but chose not to push, she couldn’t tell. He bid her a good day and left. She felt guilty, but he would know everything soon.

She went to the tall fence between their backyard and the driveway, poking her nose over until she saw his car peel away from the kerb. Then she rushed upstairs to get changed. For the journey that would change her entire life.

3

Little Riders was a riding school where kids could try out horses at five pounds for ten minutes. Sara saw a school party in the muddy car park as she arrived. The arena was alongside, with young women in high-vis jackets walking children on horses. There was a static caravan that had been turned into a café with tables out front and a small petting zoo by the livery. The place was very busy for a wintry school day. She waited for the throng of schoolkids to clear and parked.

A path led from the car park and through high conifer hedging to a lake of gravel, in the centre of which stood a two-storey Georgian farmhouse with a modern annex. The stone archway in the hedge was barred by a gate with a keypad, but she’d been given the code during her phone call that morning. The house was set next to the main road but shielded by more high hedging. Behind the building, a long lawn laid with smooth snow sloped down. Sara was instantly jealous. Jenny hadn’t managed her dream of a house in the country, but this was an adequate runner-up.

The front door was a massive slab of oak, like something from a Gothic castle. Sara slammed the knocker against it and waited. Curiously, there was a ramp rather than a doorstep. She wondered if Jenny lived with an elderly, infirm relative.

The handsome young man who answered the door wore a shirt and trousers, but had marred his smart appearance with sturdy safety boots. Earlier, when she’d phoned Jenny and a male had called for ‘Mum’, Sara had been too worked up to understand. Twenty years ago when Sara knew her, Jenny had never mentioned a son. The man looked about thirty – which would have made him about ten back then.

Before Sara could state her business, he stepped past her and said, ‘Hey up. In you go. Living room on the right.’

He left her there as he crossed the gravel, headed wherever. She entered the foyer and closed the heavy door, which automatically electronically locked. To her left was a wide staircase with a lift next to it. A door at the far end led to a kitchen with long windows displaying the distant, snowy landscape.

The first doorway on the right led to the living room, which was smaller than she’d imagined from the exterior of the house. A bay window had a deep sill with framed photos vying for space. There was a corner sofa, a three-seater sofa and an armchair, and the entire back wall was a bookcase with a doorway cut into it.

Jenny was sat on the corner sofa, doing paperwork. Sara was shocked to see a wheelchair by the older woman’s legs. And she looked tired and worn out, older than her years. Noticing her guest, Jenny put her arms out for a hug, which Sara gave. She then took the armchair, but Jenny patted the sofa.

‘You’ve aged well,’ Jenny said as Sara sat by her. ‘Still a pretty girl. And now you have a grown-up daughter. How is she? How’s Joe? I assume you’re still with him.’ She pointed at Sara’s neck, where a yin-and-yang charm with faded black hung on old string. It had been a gift from Joe to celebrate a… new dawn, she liked to call it.

Sara had come here to discuss Drake, but that monster was a subject she was happy to avoid at the moment. She told the older woman all about her family. Joe was manager of an events venue in Barnsley and sometimes played gigs at pubs with his rock band. Marcie was studying humanities at college, keen to dedicate her life to charity; with VolunteerLife’s Blue Ocean Research and Conservation, she would be helping the needy in Plettenberg Bay, South Africa’s major beach resort.

‘She’s under eighteen, so I had to give my permission for her to go. I did that with a heavy heart. She goes in a few weeks. I don’t want to lose her for a year, but she’d probably move out and never speak to me again if I refused.’

‘And you? You had those dreams of teaching football to kids…’

‘Long gone,’ Sara told her. ‘My new love is pottery. I’ve got a Facebook business page and I sell through some shops around Sheffield. Speaking of dreams, I see you got your wish to own a horse stable.’

Jenny explained that she’d met a man called Raymond, a music producer, on a day trip to Birmingham. A year to the day, he asked her to marry him. His wedding gift to her: this house and the stables. Jenny caught Sara’s glance down at where a finger should have held a wedding ring. There wasn’t one.

‘He died nine years ago,’ Jenny said. ‘Car crash.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Jenny waved it off, but there was sadness in her eyes. ‘A long time ago now. Let’s not talk about it. That wound is scabbed over and no longer painful.’

‘The young man who answered the door. Is he…’

‘My son, yes. I know what you’re thinking. He’s too old. I had no children when I knew you. Raymond already had a son when I met him. Christian and his wife bought this house and land off me after Raymond died. The stables were just a hobby for me, really, but since they took over it’s become a pretty successful business.’

‘You still live here though?’

Her room was the new annex, she explained. She didn’t want to live alone, so Christian let her stay on, and she made a wage by cleaning the house, running the café, and managing the staff. But Jenny would be alone again in a few weeks because Christian and his wife were going backpacking for six months. ‘So, we’re a couple of gossips moaning that our kids are about to abandon us. Anyway, that’s my history since we last met. Except for one thing, which I know you’re dying to ask about. The wheelchair.’

Embarrassed, Sara shook her head. ‘Oh, no, I wasn’t going to…’ She saw Jenny’s smile and deflated. ‘Okay, yes, I was. What happened?’

‘I’ll tell you another time. Now we’ve broken the ice, let’s get down to why you’re here. Let’s talk as I show you around.’

Jenny climbed into her wheelchair and escorted Sara from the house via the back door. A rubber mulch pathway, ideal for the wheelchair and clear of snow, led around the back edge of the land, with offshoots spearing to the arena, the café and the other outbuildings. They took the path to the closed café, entered through the rear, and took a table in the back corner, by a window overlooking the arena.

While Sara watched two young girls have the time of their lives riding horses, Jenny rolled behind the counter to make tea. When they were both at the table, sipping, Jenny said, ‘Okay. In your own time, Sara. You said Drake has reared his ugly head.’

Sara had to put her cup down before her shaking hand sploshed tea everywhere. ‘Drake wants to meet me. I don’t know why. I can’t think what to do. I hope he doesn’t think he can… I fear he wants to… I’m scared he’ll come for me.’

Jenny took Sara’s hand in both her own. ‘He can’t, you know that. That bastard can’t hurt you or anyone else who matters, ever again.’

4

With Jenny watching, Sara knew she couldn’t back out at the last second. But her old friend’s presence also gave her confidence. She paced up and down an aisle of the café as the phone rang.

‘Elliot and Harmon Solicitors, how can I help?’ answered a female.

‘Mr Elliot, please.’

The secretary’s happy tone continued, even though she imparted bad news. ‘Mr Elliot is out at the present time, I’m afraid. He also doesn’t take unsolicited calls. Is he expecting yours?’

‘No, but he’ll take it, I guarantee that. Give him a message. My name is Sara Yorston and I’ll be at the office at seven tonight.’

‘I’m afraid office hours are nine until five, and neither Mr Elliot nor Mr Harmon ever–’

‘Seven o’clock,’ Sara cut in. ‘And if he’s not there, tell him never to call me again.’

She hung up and looked at Jenny. ‘I sounded rude. I should call her back and apologise.’

‘No. Solicitors deal with all manner of scum and you’re probably the most respectful call they’ve had all week. Just remember that they need you, you don’t need them. So this will all happen on your terms.’

Sara sat at the table and cradled her tea, now as cold as her hands. Jenny said, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to bring the solicitor here? I don’t mind.’

‘No. I want to be able to walk out at a second’s notice.’

‘Of course. What if Joe doesn’t want you to go?’

Sara had picked the evening so she could talk to Joe beforehand. She would steadfastly refuse if he demanded to accompany her to the solicitors’ office, but part of her almost hoped he’d try to talk her out of going altogether. She couldn’t imagine any outcome to the meeting that benefitted her. ‘Joe will understand. As long as you’re there. He might have a problem with it if I go alone. You really don’t mind?’

‘Sara, mind or not, I’ll be there. Those horses out there couldn’t drag me away. I can’t wait to hear what that monster, Drake, wants.’

‘He won’t be there, will he?’

Jenny laughed, which surprised Sara. ‘At the office? You think they’d let him out for that? Relax, Sara. The only time that animal is getting out of his cell is when they drag his corpse to an unmarked grave.’

5

When Joe returned home after work, he was in his usual inert mood, until his Waltons -like shout of ‘Hey, I’m back!’ received no reply except Marcie’s. She was upstairs, washing her hair over the bathroom sink, and he appeared in the doorway with a rare frown.

‘Where’s your mum?’

‘I got a text saying she’d be late. She said your phone was dead.’

‘Battery went. Where is she? You’re dripping water.’

Marcie turned away from him to lean over the sink again. ‘Dunno. Didn’t say.’

It was uncommon for her mum to be out when Dad got home from work, so his puzzled face was warranted. He made a curious grunt and vanished. A few minutes later, while towelling her hair dry in her bedroom, she heard the landline ring. Her dad answered it, listened for a moment, and yelled, ‘What?’

Her dad was the most chilled man she knew, so this outburst drew her to the top of the stairs to eavesdrop. She only got his half of the conversation, but filling in the gaps was easy.

‘Well, I hope you told those fools to get lost,’ he said next, again loud. She’d never seen her father angry. None of her friends would believe it; they all thought he had no personality.

‘Why would that bastard, Drake, suddenly have anything profound to say?’

Drake? That was a name she had heard before. Someone bad from her mother’s past – an old boyfriend, she suspected. Marcie was so eager to learn more, she leaned too far over the stairs and almost overbalanced; only a fist around the banister prevented a thudding tumble downwards.

‘Meet? The hell do you mean, meet?’

This Drake man wanted to meet her mother? Why? And how could he? The man had been in prison for years and years. No wonder her dad was angry – what man would want his wife’s old lover back in contact?

‘Well, I’m going to be there when it happens. No way you’re meeting that bastard on his own. Look, where are you?’

Marcie learned little from the rest of the conversation, except that her mother wouldn’t be back until later in the evening. But there had surely been more juicy information, because when her father got off the phone, he fell into a thoughtful trance. Marcie bounded down the stairs like someone who hadn’t just overheard a scary conversation and was desperate for news. She adopted a fake smile as she entered the living room.

‘Did I hear the phone? Was it for me?’

He barely seemed to hear. He was in the armchair, erect and stiff, staring off into the distance. Marcie had to break his line of sight with her body to get a response. He blinked rapidly, as if exiting hypnosis.

‘What?’

‘I said was that phone call for me?’

‘No, nothing to do with you. It was your mum. Just to say she’s shopping and won’t be back until after eight. Look, I’m going to go out. You’ll be okay on your own, right?’

‘Fully grown woman, Dad.’

The moment he was gone, Marcie went upstairs. She stood on the upper landing, eyes raised to the ceiling. To the attic trapdoor. Only now did the gravity of the situation with her parents hit her.

They had never spoken to her about this Drake, but she knew a little because of her grandmother. He was a former boyfriend or husband of her mother’s and he’d gone to prison, many years ago, for murder. Which made the secrecy obvious – how embarrassing to have been romantically involved with a killer. For a long time now Marcie had respectfully refrained from using the internet to research Drake, knowing her parents would tell the story when the time was right.

But things had suddenly changed. For some reason, somehow, a man long locked up and forgotten had entered the picture, and Marcie was desperate to know why. She knew those answers lay just feet away, above her head, in that dusty attic.

6

The centre of Sheffield could be hell for parking, but there was a private car park behind the long building containing Elliot & Harmon Solicitors. The gate opened by a code number Oliver Elliot had sent by text after his receptionist had relayed Sara’s message. Jenny’s Mitsubishi Outlander pulled in at two minutes to seven, but the two women decided to take five minutes to chat. There was no need for punctuality. The solicitors needed her, not the other way around.

‘You’re sure you don’t mind coming in?’ Sara asked.

‘Nobody is keeping me out of that office. But one thing. Only give them my first name, no other details. If they don’t know who I am, they won’t be guarded and I’ll get a better read on what’s going on.’

Sara nodded. She stared out the window, summoning the will to do this. With every mile closer to ground zero, she’d had to fight against telling Jenny to turn the car around and take her home. Now, this was her last chance to back out. If she opened her door, this was happening all the way.

‘Are you ready?’ Jenny asked.

‘No, but let’s do it.’ Sara threw open her door and got out. And it was done. Knowing there was no going back, a calmness overcame her. But it quickly eroded as she felt the darkness of the car park close around her, as if weighted and tangible. She had hated dark and lonely places for a long, long time.

Once Jenny was in her wheelchair, the women set off. The office was situated in a row of commercial establishments, just past a funeral home. Sara wondered how many of the solicitors’ clients had created work for the neighbour. This late, all the businesses bar a betting shop were closed. The front window of Elliot & Harmon had a shutter across it, but the one for the front door was rolled up and the light was on.

As they moved into the oblong glow across the dark pavement, the door immediately opened. Someone had clearly been very eager for Sara’s arrival.

He was a man of about sixty in shirt and trousers with a loose tie. He looked at both women, but his longest glare was for Jenny. He clearly recognised Sara, but hadn’t expected her to arrive with an unknown. It gave Sara another sliver of confidence.

He introduced himself – Oliver Elliot – and put out a hand, but Sara didn’t shake. ‘Let’s just get this over with,’ she told him.

He asked both women to step inside, where they found a man already seated to one side of the desk. He was more dapper, tie knotted tightly, jacket buttoned, and younger by at least fifteen years.