Chapter Fifty-Eight
2019
Anna
Tuesday 16th July
When Anna left Sandie’s house, her mind had been filled with
questions about Tina and Pat. She’d walked back down her
mother’s path, but instead of going in the front door, she’d
slipped down the side and into the garden shed, her fingers
curled tightly around the doll’s leg. She hadn’t wanted to show
Muriel. And she’d wanted to be alone when she uncovered the
words on the paper. The arm and note from the other day were
also safely stowed away in the old wooden storage unit at the
back of the shed – her dad’s – the one where he used to keep
all the odd bits of junk: spare plugs, nails, plant stakes, garden scissors and small tools and God knew what else. Most of it still remained in the drawers, which hadn’t surprised her given the
rest of the house, but the cupboard part had enough space to
fit the additional items.
But what had her mother done with the doll’s head? Anna
had forgotten to check last Saturday when she’d come back
from the shop as she’d been too relieved to find it gone from
the front door. But now, given the latest parts, she wanted
them together in a safe place while she figured out what to do
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next. Whether to inform the police or, at the very least, Pat.
Although now he might not be of any real assistance. He was
with Tina; he was too close. He was involved, and therefore
not objective – but still, he could have a better memory of the
events of July 1989 from an official perspective. Anna had
called Lizzie, partly in desperation – because she felt she wanted someone to show, someone her age and who might be able to
help her put the pieces together – and partly to watch her
reaction. See if there was a glimmer of guilt – a sign that would give her away as the culprit. The Knock, Knock game that had
been relentlessly played on her father now being played out
by his daughter – there was a certain irony to that. Anna had
assumed the game was being played on Muriel, but in fact it
might be aimed at Anna herself. She’d been one of the key
players of that game back then – her mother didn’t have
anything to do with that.
Maybe this was Lizzie’s way of getting Anna here, back in
Mapledon, to exact revenge against her. Muriel could merely be
the conduit; the target was really her. She’d have to be careful
around Lizzie. Trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford. But first, she needed the head. Which meant asking her mother where
she’d put it. Anna hadn’t looked inside the head’s hollow, and
to her knowledge neither had Muriel – there was probably a
note stuffed inside that too, which they’d missed. It could hold
vital information.
‘Mum, when you took the head off the door, where did you
put it?’ Anna asked as soon as she walked into the kitchen.
‘Oh. Where’ve you been? You were gone ages; I was
worried.’
‘Next door, having coffee with Sandie, like you told me to
do. No need to have been worried.’
‘Well. You two certainly seemed to have a lot to talk about
then!’ She seemed put out. Jealous even.
‘It’s been twenty years, Mum. We had a lot to catch up on.
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And you never told me Pat was with Tina now,’ Anna said, suddenly side-tracked.
‘Didn’t think of it. Not particularly relevant is it?’
‘I guess not. But would’ve been nice to know. Strange though,
isn’t it? How long after Mark’s passing did that happen?’
Muriel’s gaze faltered. She slipped away, her mind elsewhere.
Irritation growing, Anna went back to her original question.
‘Didn’t you put the doll’s head in the shed?’
‘No. I threw it right in the bin. Disturbing-looking thing,
didn’t want to keep it!’
‘Shit. We haven’t had bin day since, have we?’ Anna felt the
panic rising in her voice.
‘No, not until tomorrow.’
Anna rushed out of the door, ran to the black wheelie bin
and flung the lid open. It banged against the side. Relief flooded her. Underneath a bin-liner and some wax cartons, she spotted
dragged the head out. She hoped if there was a note, it was still tucked inside. She didn’t relish the thought of having to
empty the entire contents of the bin to find a scrap of paper.
She tried to angle the head so the light was right and she could
see inside. Yes, there was something in there. Another white
piece of paper, just like those found within the limbs. Anna
pushed two fingers inside and was able to grasp hold of it and
withdraw it.
She quickly returned to the shed and deposited the head
inside the cupboard. The pieces of paper were lined up on the
top, in order of receipt, weighted down with jam jars that now
held screws and nails. Three notes. Three threats, if you wanted
to take it that way. Which Anna did now, as she read them in
order:
SOMEONE KNOWS THE TRUTH
SOMEONE HAS BLOOD ON THEIR HANDS
SOMEONE HAS TO PAY
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She wondered what Lizzie would make of them when she got here. She still hadn’t called to say she was on her way. Had she
chickened out? Perhaps she’d realised Anna was on to her.
No matter. At least she had evidence. It was about time to
pay Pat a visit. She’d give Lizzie another hour to turn up, then
go across to Tina’s.
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Chapter Fifty-Nine
2019
Lizzie
As soon as Lizzie had parked up next to Muriel’s house, Anna
appeared in the doorway.
‘I didn’t think you were coming,’ she said, her voice lowered
so Lizzie could barely hear her. ‘You said you’d call when you
were on your way.’ Anna closed the front door cautiously and
stepped outside.
‘Sorry, I was distracted, didn’t realise the time,’ Lizzie said.
Which was true. Her walk with Billy had taken longer than she’d
anticipated. ‘What’s so important?’ she asked. Lizzie felt a pang of unease as she looked at Anna’s pale face – worry had etched
its lines across her forehead.
‘Follow me,’ she instructed as she marched down the side of
the house. Lizzie gave a furtive glance around, then followed.
She wondered where Muriel was. It seemed Anna didn’t want
her involved. This sneaking around, trying to catch her before
Muriel saw her set alarm bells ringing.
When Lizzie caught up, Anna was disappearing into a garden
shed. She assumed Anna wanted her to go inside. Something
caused her to hold back, the uneasy feeling she’d had a moment
ago doubling in intensity. But, bearing in mind she’d just spent
two hour
s with a convicted murderer, she weighed up the risk
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this petite, boring teacher-type woman posed and decided she’d be safe. For now, at least.
It took Lizzie a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the
sudden darkness. There was a dim light inside the shed,
emanating from a single electric pendant light hanging from
the ceiling, but it took a while for it to be bright enough to
make out her surroundings.
‘These are what’s been hammered to Mum’s front door,’ she
declared, pointing to the items laid out.
Lizzie’s gaze followed, and for a split second she thought she
was imagining it – seeing what wasn’t really there. But then her
body reacted: her palms becoming hot, her armpits clammy.
Tears sprang to her eyes, tears she tried but failed to swallow
down, the lump in her throat preventing it.
She stared at the doll’s head, unable to tear her eyes from it.
Her breath stuttered and caught in her lungs, trapped. Her
trachea tightened. She was going to choke.
It looked just like Polly.
into care. But now, staring down at it, she felt sure it was Polly.
Not just the head, but the leg and arm also resembled her beloved doll. The only doll she’d never ripped apart. But now, it appeared someone else had.
She was aware of sounds – slowed-down speech, like a record
playing at the wrong speed, coming from her right. An arm
on hers: the touch light, unreal. It was as though she were
experiencing an out-of-body episode. There she was, hovering
above herself and Anna, each of them looking down at the
surface of the wooden cupboard – at the head, arm and leg
lying harmlessly, still. Inanimate. No need to be afraid, she
told herself.
Only there was a reason to be afraid.
Someone was messing with her, playing around with her
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emotions, tossing her life into turmoil. Why was someone hammering parts of Polly to Muriel’s door?
Lizzie had the sensation she was moving. Air swept around
her body, her face. Anna was talking. She could hear more clearly now – not in slow motion, not as though she had cotton wool
in her ears.
‘Lizzie! God, are you okay? I think you fainted.’
Lizzie gasped air, trying to force as much of it in and out of
her lungs as she could manage without hyperventilating. She
was reassured when her breathing became easier, less painful,
steady. She wasn’t going to die.
‘It . . . it was a panic . . . attack,’ she managed to say.
‘Shit, it was scary. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have taken you
in there. I didn’t think it would have that effect.’
‘No. It’s fine.’ Lizzie sank fully to the ground, sitting cross-
legged, her hands on the grass. ‘It was claustrophobic in there,
and so hot – just got to me. It was so sudden I didn’t have time
to get out.’
‘I’m glad you’re okay now. I’ll get you a drink,’ Anna said,
and disappeared into the kitchen.
Recovered now, Lizzie stood and, checking all was clear, went
back inside the shed. She grabbed the head. Polly’s eyes stared
at her accusingly. Poking her fingers inside, Lizzie retrieved what she’d seen tucked within it. Obviously Anna had missed it, taken
out the paper and thought that was it. But lining the head was
a small piece of material. Lizzie quickly shoved it into the top
of her jeans and returned to the garden.
Not only was someone messing with her, they were also
leaving clues only Lizzie could know about. And the only
conclusion she could reach was that her own flesh and blood,
Billy Cawley, was behind it all. Who else would know about Polly, let alone keep her for all these years? And Lizzie had
allowed him to talk to her, had given him a chance to explain,
clear his name.
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Lying. Fucking. Bastard.
He must be laughing hard right now, thinking he’d won her
over. Believing she believed him. What a gullible fool she was.
Again.
He wouldn’t get away with it this time.
She had a friend now.
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Chapter Sixty
1989
The Plough, Mapledon
Friday 16th June – 33 days before
Reverend Christopher Farnley was sitting at the bar nursing a
warm pint of bitter while listening to the group of men discussing everything from their wives and children to work and golf . . .
and Billy Cawley. It seemed everyone always got back to the
topic of Billy, however the conversation initially started. He
sighed as he took a sip of the insipid liquid, wishing he’d asked for a whisky instead. If he could bear sitting there listening
further, he might ask for that next.
Chris tended to keep himself to himself outside of church.
There were few men he wished to converse with; not many of
them had anything interesting to talk about in his opinion. He
missed the city life: the diversity and stimulating discussions,
although it’d been over ten years now since he’d moved back
to Mapledon to head the church. He sometimes also craved the
anonymity a large town had offered him. His father had been
instrumental in the posting – having lived in Mapledon and
serving as the local vicar for most of his adult life. Now Chris
was literally walking in his footsteps after years of trying to
escape them to walk in a different direction. His path, it
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appeared, was preordained. He’d probably die here too, as his father had.
He made the best of it – his life in Mapledon hadn’t been a
bad one. Boring, but not unbearable – he’d become accustomed
to the small-mindedness, the power-hungry, the gossipmongers,
the top dogs, the underdogs. And Billy Cawley was most certainly
the latter. He’d never really stood a chance. The only reason
Chris had been accepted was because he’d lived there once, his
roots firmly established – he came from a long line of Farnleys,
so was classed as an insider despite his time away from the
village.
Chris had tried to intervene by speaking about inclusion and
community spirit in his sermons – impressing on his congre-
gation the importance of being kind and supportive, of being
non-judgemental like the Lord Jesus – but nothing changed.
He’d then gone for the more direct route, visiting Billy at his
home and trying to make him and his family feel welcomed.
But his attempts had been met with a disapproving grunt and
the door slammed in his face. And that had been before Billy’s
wife, Rosie, had passed – before Billy b
ecame a drunk and virtual recluse.
Rosie had been to church, though, on numerous occasions
following her diagnosis. Not at services – she would sneak in
when the congregation had dispersed, crouching down behind
a pew, making herself as small as possible. For peace, and an
element of comfort he presumed; she never spoke with him
about her illness, about her worries. She seemed a closed book.
She had, however, asked Chris not to mention to anyone that
she’d been visiting the church – especially Billy. How he was
meant to ever mention it when Billy refused to speak with him
anyway, he didn’t know, but he’d assured her he wouldn’t tell
him or anyone else. He’d often wondered why Rosie appeared
afraid of Billy, and against his wishes, he’d found himself ques-
tioning the things people said about him. Were they true?
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But God didn’t judge, and nor should he, he kept reminding himself.
Everyone had a cross to bear. Some had several.
‘What do you think, Rev?’ The voice jumped into his thoughts,
and Chris turned sharply. Eric was standing beside him, eyebrows
raised, appearing to be waiting for a response.
‘Oh, sorry, Eric. Miles away. Say again?’ He picked his pint
up and took another sip.
‘We were just discussing what to do with Billy. What do you
reckon?’
Chris felt his insides contract. Getting dragged into such talk
would not be a good idea. He allowed the silence to stretch,
pretending he was considering the question. He made a mental
note to avoid The Plough in future – he’d be better off buying
alcohol from the shop and drinking alone in the comfort of the
rectory. He had a sudden feeling of affinity with Billy Cawley.
‘I’m not sure what you mean, do with him?’ Although Chris could make an educated guess. Eric was a meddler, the same as
his wife, Muriel – he hadn’t reached her level as yet, but together with the other husbands, the group of men were always keen
to make their mark. Ensure their presence was felt and to drive
home the fact their wives might well hold the Mapledon
Meetings, but it was they who were really in charge. Some of
them were also on the local board of councillors, which only
added to their self-inflated sense of power. As much as Chris
would like to assert his own authority as a man of the cloth, he