Don't Turn Around Read online

  AMANDA BROOKE

  Don’t Turn Around

  Copyright

  Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London, SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

  Copyright © Amanda Valentine 2019

  Cover design by Micaela Alcaino © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

  Cover photograph © Chris Reeve / Trevillion Images (front, spine); © Shutterstock.com (back)

  Amanda Valentine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008219185

  Ebook Edition © January 2019 ISBN: 9780008219192

  Version: 2018-10-23

  Dedication

  For my children, Jessica and Nathan

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Discover Amanda’s Other Novels!

  Look Out for Amanda’s Two Short Stories:

  About the Author

  Also by Amanda Brooke

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  The Confession

  The rhythmic slap of my ballet shoes against the linoleum-covered steps echoes down the stairwell. As my pace slows, my head droops and my gaze falls onto the worn and familiar treads that lead to the seventh floor and home. I know each and every scuff mark, every chip of paint, and even the crumpled tissues and sweet wrappers discarded by my thoughtless neighbours are familiar to me. Unlike my apartment block’s gleaming city-centre exterior, its spine has an air of abandonment. The stairwell is rarely used and less frequently cleaned, and there have been times when I’ve taken it upon myself to return with rubber gloves and a bin bag, but no more. Believe me, I’ve tried, but nothing I do ever makes a difference.

  My legs are trembling by the time I reach my floor and I take a moment to catch my breath. Drawn to the window with its view of the Liverpool waterfront, I follow the line of docks until they’re rudely interrupted by the modern edifice of a thirteen-storey office block that sits awkwardly between Canning Dock and the Pier Head. This is Mann Island, and although it hasn’t been an island for centuries, the place where I work certainly looks stranded next to the iconic outlines of the Port of Liverpool, Cunard and Liver Buildings. The Three Graces had been basking in the afterglow of a crisp autumn day when I’d set off on the short trek home along the Strand, but the world has darkened since, and the Graces have been reduced to silhouettes, pockmarked with yellow, fluorescent lights. As I step back from the window, my eyes refocus and I catch my reflection.

  The apparition floating beyond the sheet of glass is weighed down by the heavy houndstooth woollen jacket hanging off her shoulders. Her round face is framed by straggly mouse-brown hair and a severe fringe that’s become frayed from her exertions. Her complexion is pale against the starless night and there’s no spark in her eyes. The fight has left her.

  I don’t recognise this woman captured by the failing light, or perhaps I do. There’s something about her that reminds me of Meg. My cousin’s hair was a similar shade although you would describe hers as golden, and she never hid behind a fringe. Meg was bold, and yet the hopelessness in the face that stares back at me immediately brings her to mind.

  I retreat to the exit door only to stop when I hear a noise. The soft squeak of a rubber sole on linoleum came from the floor above, or I think it did. The world falls silent again and I’m about to dismiss the crawling sensation that I’m being watched when—

  ‘Hello, Jen.’

  Instinctively, I grab the safety bar but I don’t open the door because I’ve already recognised the deep voice that sent a jolt of terror down my spine. The fact that he’s here shouldn’t surprise me, and I know it won’t matter if I run away, or stand and fight. He’s already won.

  I turn my head slowly but he stops me.

  ‘Don’t turn around.’

  Keeping my head to the side, I stare at the window with its mirror image of the landing behind me. No figure appears from the shadows, no hand reaches out to wrap around my neck.

  ‘What is this? Don’t you have the guts to face me?’ I ask, my voice surprisingly calm.

  There’s a pause and when he replies, he sounds closer. ‘If I thought it was going to be easy, we would have had this conversation ten years ago.’

  ‘This conversation?’ I ask. ‘If it’s a confession you’re planning, I’m not the one you should be talking to. It’s Meg’s parents who deserve answers.’

  ‘Ruth and Geoff don’t need to hear what I have to say.’

  ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me you’ve been protecting them all these years.’

  ‘Not only them.’

  My laugh catches in my dry throat. ‘Oh, I see. You’ve been protecting me too.’

  ‘If Meg had wanted you to know everything, she’d have told you everything.’

  ‘Maybe she tried,’ I reply as I picture a torn scrap of yellow lined paper. Meg’s suicide note, or at least a remnant of it.

  ‘No, she didn’t,’ he says with finality. ‘Christ, Jen, didn’t you know her at all?’

  ‘She was my best friend. Of course I knew her!’ I tell him, raising my voice to camouflage the doubt.

  ‘Not like I did,’ he says in a whisper.

  A door swings open three flights down and shrieks of laughter ricochet off the walls as a group of raucous, and possibly drunken friends race to the ground floor. Their giddiness reminds me of times lost, but I can’t
trust my memories. How many of Meg’s smiles were a disguise for unfathomable pain?

  When another door slams shut and stillness returns, I hear the whisper of stealthy footfalls. I scan the reflection of the empty landing and glimpse movement on the small section of the stairs that are visible to me. I spy a pair of black boots and legs clad in dark jeans. I twist my body towards him.

  ‘I said, don’t turn around.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I can’t …’ He curses under his breath. ‘I won’t do this if you’re looking at me.’

  1

  Jen

  Two months earlier …

  As I watch the TV crew setting up the interview, I stand as close as I dare to the floor-to-ceiling windows to give myself the best view across the office. The intensity of the summer sun reflecting off the white Portland stone of the neighbouring Port of Liverpool Building forces me to shield my eyes as I follow what the camera sees.

  A banner for the Megan McCoy Foundation, set up by Ruth and Geoff set up in their daughter’s name three years after her death has been strategically placed to obscure the logo of McCoy and Pace Architects. It looks a little worn but better than it did this morning when I unearthed it from the bottom of the stationery cupboard. I used a Sharpie to cover up the scratches and I’m hoping the camera won’t pick up where I went outside the lines on the telephone number for the Lean On Me helpline. There’s half a roll of duct tape holding it all together on the back, but if the relaunch goes as well as we’re hoping, I can order new banners.

  The cameraman points his lens over the reporter’s left shoulder while she asks, ‘Perhaps you could start by telling us a little about Megan.’ The camera zooms in on the middle-aged woman sitting at one of the two helpline pods that represent the sum total of the foundation’s resources.

  Ruth’s long, slender body is tense but I see the lines creasing her brow soften as she begins to build a picture of her daughter in her mind. ‘She was my youngest – I have a son, Sean, who’s two years older – but Megan was the baby of the family. I know we spoiled her but that didn’t spoil her, if you know what I mean. She was no trouble, always did as she was told and she couldn’t have been more thoughtful and caring. Not a day went by without her doing something that was sweet, or funny, or just made my heart clench with love.’ Ruth’s smile broadens as she adds flesh to her daughter’s memory.

  The spider’s web of wrinkles around her eyes that mark the ten years Ruth has lived with her heartache cut a little deeper and her smile falters. Her short, dark brown hair emphasises her paling complexion.

  ‘What went wrong?’ asks the reporter.

  Ruth’s eyes flick towards me. ‘She fell in with the wrong crowd.’

  I know my aunt better than I know my own mother. The look she gives me is not one of reproach. I’m no more responsible for Meg being led astray than she, but we carry our own guilt. I shift uncomfortably, aware of the wall of glass next to me that seems suddenly fragile.

  ‘Megan had been doing extremely well at school. Eleven A star GCSEs,’ Ruth continues. ‘Sean had gone off to university and we expected her to follow suit, but when she went into sixth form, everything changed. In those last two years, she went from being able to talk to us about anything, to not wanting to be in the same room as me or her father. I thought our relationship with our daughter was unbreakable but it was as if someone had hacked into her mind and completely rewired it. Geoff and I tried everything to get her back on track, from cajoling, to bribery, to threats, but nothing worked. As a last resort, we grounded her, something we’d never had to do before, but when she wasn’t barricading herself in her room, she would sneak out as soon as our backs were turned. We could see what was happening and were helpless to stop it.’

  Ruth pulls at her polished fingernails and I find myself looking through her and into the past. I spent more time with Meg than I did my own sisters and of all the memories I have, the one that rises quickest to the surface is our last trip to school to pick up our A Level results. I have a vivid picture of standing with a cluster of friends as we tore open our envelopes. I had the grades I needed for my first choice uni, but my joy was short-lived as I became aware of other people’s reactions, and Meg’s in particular. She was deathly pale but her cheeks were pinched crimson as she watched Lewis Rimmer punch the air. She screwed up her envelope and flung it at his smug face.

  ‘What did I do?’ he asked as she stormed off.

  It’s a question I still ask myself.

  I wonder if Ruth is thinking of him too as she curls her fingers into fists. ‘Meg was devastated when she failed her exams. Uni had been her escape route, I think. It would have given her the chance to distance herself from the bad influences in her life.’

  ‘Was there substance abuse?’

  ‘No, but there was abuse,’ Ruth says carefully.

  Shock forces me back a step and my shoulder thumps against the window before I can right myself. What is Ruth doing?

  ‘When Meg died,’ Ruth continues, her gaze remaining fixed on the reporter, ‘there was evidence of self-harm and a previous attempt to take her life that we knew nothing about. She hurt herself and I believe that was because someone was hurting her more, emotionally if not physically. Through my years on the Lean On Me helpline, I’ve learnt that an abuser’s greatest weapon can be the mind of his victim.’

  A frown forms as the reporter checks her notes. She’s done her research and knows there was no mention of abuse in the coroner’s verdict. The foundation’s website simply states that Meg took her own life less than two weeks after failing her exams and that it was a senseless loss. That’s always been the official line and the abuse that we as a family know Meg endured has gone unrecorded and unpunished. Up until today, Ruth has kept to a carefully edited version of her daughter’s death to avoid litigation, and I don’t understand why she’s chosen now to speak up. Or perhaps I do.

  Despite our best efforts, there has been little interest from the media in our cause. Press releases have gone unread and the handful of press interviews we’ve been able to secure have resulted in minimal column inches. This pre-recorded interview is our last-ditch attempt to draw in new callers and keep the helpline open, but there’s no guarantee that it will air this evening. It’s been a slow news week after the August bank holiday weekend but if something more newsworthy comes along, our story will be shelved. Ruth wants to make sure that doesn’t happen, and she certainly has the reporter transfixed.

  ‘It’s no coincidence that one of the foundation’s principal aims is to give young people the tools to recognise when they’re in toxic relationships,’ she continues. ‘Tools that could have saved Meg’s life.’

  The reporter leans in closer to ask the question Ruth shouldn’t answer. ‘And who was it that hurt your daughter, Mrs McCoy?’

  My fingers dig into the flesh of my arms – surely she won’t do it. Naming the man we all loathe might grab the headlines, but a lawsuit would follow and my next press release won’t be to promote the helpline, it’ll be to announce its closure.

  ‘There was a boyfriend,’ Ruth explains, skirting dangerously close to the truth. ‘I’m sure part of the attraction for Meg was that she knew we wouldn’t approve, but I’d been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Geoff was less accommodating and, as it turned out, his instincts were better than mine. To understand what this man took from us, you would need to have known the person Meg was before she met him. When she was at her best, my daughter could light up a room. Pick a memory, any memory, and there was Meg right at the centre of it all, bright and beautiful.’ Ruth’s eyes light up, only to dim when she adds, ‘But in the space of two short years, he took every last spark of life she had and stamped it out. It was as if my sweet girl had been hollowed out. I lost her long before the day she died.’

  I close my eyes, feeling a tension headache creeping up my temples. Even without a name, there are plenty of viewers who will know exactly who Ruth is talking abo
ut. I have to hope that Lewis won’t be one of them.

  ‘And that was three days before her eighteenth birthday,’ the reporter adds.

  ‘Ten years ago this coming Thursday.’

  ‘And the note Megan left. Did it mention anything about what she had been through?’ the reporter asks as she refers back to her notes.

  ‘The scrap of a note we were left with explained nothing,’ Ruth replies, choosing her words carefully.

  When she looks at me, I shake my head urgently. The police investigation had found no evidence that someone else had been there when Meg hung herself, or that the note she had left had been tampered with, despite never finding the missing half to the page taken from her notepad. No matter what we might think privately, our suspicions can’t be made public. Acid burns in my stomach as I watch Ruth return her gaze to the camera, her eyes blazing with fury.

  ‘Meg told us she wanted her shame to be buried with her, but no child should be buried in shame. She was seventeen years old. If there’s any shame, it’s mine. I didn’t see what was in front of me, and I can never change that.’

  ‘You have nothing to be ashamed of,’ the reporter tells her.

  ‘Tell that to the people who go to extraordinary lengths to avoid mentioning how I lost my daughter,’ Ruth hits back. Her voice softens when she adds, ‘But if we don’t talk about suicide and the pain it causes families like mine, how can we open up the conversation and reach out to those struggling with suicidal thoughts? Meg thought she was sparing us. I wish I could have told her that whatever she was going through, or whatever she thought she was putting us through, it wouldn’t last. It’s the grief that goes on forever. I didn’t simply lose her that day, I lost an entire future. I’ve recently become a grandmother but I’ll never see the children Meg might have had, or celebrate countless other milestones in her life.’