Isolated. M. A. Hunter

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СКАЧАТЬ on account of the glue becoming less adhesive. There was no guarantee the same logic applied to a bloodied bandage, but what did she have to lose?

      Manoeuvring her injured leg over the side of the bath, she used the large handle her dad had installed for Grandma to pull herself into a standing position, and brought her left leg in to join her right. Then, switching on the shower, she shrieked as a hard spray of cold water hit her upper body like winter’s rain. It soon warmed up and, lifting down the shower hose, she targeted the spray onto the stubborn strapping, giving it another gentle tug every few seconds, until the whole thing dropped into the tub with a splosh. The sight of the bloodied hole was still a shock, but as the shower spray continued to work its miraculous magic, the wound began to look less threatening. Her calf muscle was definitely swollen to almost twice the size of its rival but she’d managed to avoid fresh bleeding, and as she switched off the shower and climbed back out of the tub, she would have argued that the leg was slightly less painful than when she’d woken too.

      Raiding the medicine cabinet, she located the box of plasters and, selecting the largest square one, she pressed it firmly over the wound and limped back to her bedroom, just as the sound of a flushing toilet signalled her dad’s imminent exit.

      He didn’t speak as he emerged, just closed the door behind him, folding and tucking the magazine beneath his arm and waddling slightly as he returned to his own room, oblivious of the towel-wrapped and dripping girl edging slowly across the landing. Her mum always said he couldn’t be relied on for anything until he’d had his first coffee of the day.

      Back in her room, Natalie dressed, opting for a thick pair of black tights to cover evidence of the plaster, and, having wrung out the bandage in the bathroom basin, she stuffed it into her school bag, before zipping it up, and hoping that a) her mum wouldn’t look inside the bag, and b) the moist bandage wouldn’t dampen her books too much.

      Arriving in the kitchen, Natalie could hear her mum talking on the phone in the other room, but her dad was already at the breakfast table munching burnt toast with a snarl across his lips. Just a typical breakfast in the Sullivan household. The radio in the background was playing some hit from the 80s – a decade of music Natalie didn’t personally care for but which her mum adored. Natalie couldn’t understand how grown-ups couldn’t appreciate modern music; even the older songs both her parents frequently crooned along to must have been new at one point in time, so they couldn’t always have been so stuck in the past. Why couldn’t they listen to normal music?

      Reaching for the Shreddies, Natalie filled her bowl, before asking her dad to pass the milk. He sighed as he did, as if her request was the most challenging task in the world. He’d obviously got up on the wrong side of bed again this morning, but it seemed like he didn’t know any other way these days. She knew it was safer just to keep her head down and avoid drawing his attention.

      Her mum’s voice in the other room grew louder, but Natalie couldn’t work out what she was saying, or to whom. Either way, it didn’t sound like it was good news she was receiving. A moment later, her mum came into the kitchen, clutching the phone in her hand but pointing it at Natalie.

      ‘I’ve just got off the phone with Diane Curtis, Sally’s mum,’ she said, her tone somewhere between anger and concern. ‘Seems Sally wasn’t in her bed this morning when Diane went to wake her. She’s phoning around everyone to see if anyone knows where Sally might be.’

      There wasn’t an obvious question, but Natalie knew to infer that an answer was expected. Slowly swallowing her mouthful of cereal to buy some time, Natalie opted for ignorance. ‘I don’t know where Sally is.’

      She hated lying to her parents, particularly her mum, but it wasn’t exactly a lie; she genuinely didn’t know where Sally was. Not now.

      Here mum’s eyes narrowed. ‘I know she’s your friend, and the last thing you’d want to do is get your friend into trouble, but her mum is going spare with worry. If you have any idea where she might be, or what might have happened, you need to tell me, Natalie.’

      ‘I told you I don’t know, Mum.’ The lie felt like a mound of earth she’d just brought up and out of her throat.

      ‘Well, Diane said Sally was tucked up in bed when she checked on her at eleven, and then again at five this morning, but now she’s gone.’

      Natalie couldn’t keep the confused frown from developing, but tried not to give anything away. If her mum had seen her in bed at five this morning, did that mean…?

      ‘What?’ her mum asked. ‘Do you know where she is? Or where she was planning to go?’

      ‘No, Mum.’

      ‘Swear to me.’

      This was the last thing Natalie wanted to do. It would be so much easier just to admit the truth: they’d snuck out, left the safe confines of the garrison, and headed into the woods. She could tell her mum how it had all been Sally’s idea, and that Louise and Jane had pressured her into joining them; she could tell her mum how she’d fallen and hurt her leg and then her mum would make everything better. But then Natalie remembered Louise’s slap and pact warning, and instead shovelled another mouthful of cereal into her mouth.

      ‘I swear I don’t know where Sally Curtis is.’

      Chapter Five

      Now

       Blackfriars, London

      Sitting in the padded chair across the desk from Maddie’s latest stack of manuscripts, I can’t help but notice the subtle changes she’s introduced since my first book, Monsters Under the Bed, flew off the shelves. Back when we first met in this very room, the picture reproductions on the walls weren’t framed, there was no television or mini-fridge in the corner of the room, and the only luxurious chair was Maddie’s own well-worn bright-red faux-leather recliner. I remember her commenting that she preferred to read manuscripts at a forty-five degree angle – caught halfway between rest and the real world. Each to their own, I figured back then.

      Choosing the right literary agent is a challenge for all new authors; if you’ve ever written and tried to publish a book, you’ll understand why I say this. I mean, writing a book is a marathon of a challenge, just in terms of putting the words down on paper, but to then give each sentence and paragraph the tender, loving attention they need until what you’ve produced resembles something nearing literature is far from easy. And then at that point, when you think your part is complete – you’ve actually written a book for goodness’ sake! – that’s when the real work begins, because although you believe passionately in the piece of writing you’ve poured your heart and soul into, convincing a very busy literary agent that it’s worth their time to read it is another matter.

      I was lucky in that I was introduced to Maddie at a book launch of a friend of a friend. As soon as I explained that I was looking into historical abuse at the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys, with detailed witness accounts from three victims, she was salivating at the prospect. I should explain that Monsters is not a work of fiction, and whilst I am proud of the outcome it brought about for the victims – particularly Freddie – it was probably one of the most challenging projects I’ve taken on.

      As an investigative journalist, you’re warned that fate can take you down some dark alleys in the search for the truth, but my interviews with Freddie, Mike and Steve were unrelenting; we got through more than one box of tissues along the way. But earlier this year, it all seemed worth it when the men responsible for the vicious abuse were tried and СКАЧАТЬ