Secrets 1 of 25

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----------=BigCloset Retro Classic!=----------

John finds the body of a neighbour who has been murdered. The police detective
assigned to the case deduces that John hides a secret - but the detective has secrets of her own.

Secrets

Part 1 Discovery
By Susan Heywood
Copyright© 2013 Susan Heywood
All Rights Reserved.

 
Admin Note: Originally published on BigCloset TopShelf on Wednesday 04-10-2013 at 8:10:28 am, this retro classic was pulled out of the closet, and re-presented for our newer readers. ~Sephrena
 
Author's Notes: I will say this only once:

This story is fiction, as are all the characters and the town in which most of the action takes place. GSD - Global Synthetic Developments (UK) Ltd - is a fictitious company. The story is intended for personal perusal only; no other dissemination is permitted without the express permission of the author, her heirs or assigns. There is a little adult language and implied sexual activity; there are no explicit scenes. If, however, you think you might be offended - don’t read it.

Medical, legal and other procedures are correct according to my knowledge, belief, experience or research.

I would like to thank everyone, especially Angela Rasch and Persephone, for all that they have taught me about writing and Carla E. for editing this story.

 © Susan Heywood 2013 ([email protected])


 

If you’re all sitting comfortably, then I’ll begin….

Part 1 of 25 - Discovery
 
March 2004

I stopped for a moment and listened to the sounds of the night. The constant hum of traffic was interrupted occasionally by the screech of car brakes. Traffic on the nearby main road stopped, then accelerated as the traffic lights cycled through their regular, monotonous colour changes. A door slammed; voices were raised in greeting.

I sighed and continued my lonely walk.

A jogger ran towards me and passed me without breaking stride. I stopped breathing for a few moments; I certainly didn’t want to meet anyone else. I wrapped my coat tightly around me and continued to walk as quickly as I could. I didn’t want to be out too long. Besides, March was living up to its reputation as a windy month and I was getting cold.

“The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men,” as Robert Burns would have it, “gang aft agley”. In this case, his observation was spot-on.

As I returned to my home, I noticed a neighbour sitting on the doorstep of an adjacent building. I rarely saw anyone else, and especially not at night. I was so surprised that I called, without thinking, “Good evening Mrs Jones.” I punched in the security code and opened the door. Then I froze.

Shit!

I realised what I’d said and was about to rush indoors, when I heard a gentle thump. The hairs on the back of my neck rose. Full of trepidation, I glanced over my shoulder and saw Mrs Jones lying on the footpath. Plucking up my courage, I crossed the car park, approached the still form, knelt down and asked automatically, but rather stupidly, “Are you okay?”

No response; of course she wasn’t okay. A quick check of her pulse told me that she was dead.

Double shit!

I saw a little blood staining the front of her sky-blue sweater. I have no medical training but even I knew that I should touch nothing else.

Do I pretend that I saw nothing, or do I call for help?

I couldn’t ignore it. Someone would be certain to interview me later, and I’d either say something stupid, or the look on my face would give me away. Some feelings I tried to hide, some I was never very good at hiding.

Filled with second, third and more thoughts, I dashed back to Coleridge House and ran up the stairs to my apartment on the top floor. I telephoned the police and an ambulance.

~ O ~

Apartment; sounds rather grand, doesn’t it? The truth was somewhat different. Every room was small; the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom and the two bedrooms - a double and a single - but, although small, the place was adequate for me, as I lived alone. It was in a terrible state when I first got it and this was all reflected in a lower than usual price, but I could see its potential. It had taken months, and all my spare money, to get it as I wanted it but at least it was mine — okay, much of it was owned by the mortgage lender. Still, it was somewhere where I could shut the door on the world and ignore it for a while.

~ O ~

It was the work of a minute, and handful of wet-wipes, to make myself reasonably presentable for when official company arrived. I hastily flung on some jeans, a tee and some trainers, brushed my hair, grabbed a warm coat, slammed the bedroom door behind me and ran back down the stairs. While I waited outside the front door of Coleridge House, my mind inevitably turned to my latest challenge (read as ‘nightmare’), namely that of condensing three hours of raucous verbal drivel, at last night’s Cricket Club Annual General Meeting, into a couple of pages of gripping historical record.

I kept myself as occupied as possible, both at home and at work. On the odd occasion that I did have time on my hands, like now for instance, thoughts of how I arrived at this point in my life would creep unbidden into my consciousness and take over.

~ O ~

Most people in the office ignored me — unless they wanted something.

Phil Sullivan wanted.

“John; the Cricket Club desperately needs a secretary and you do shorthand, don’t you? I’ve seen you at meetings in the office.” He nagged me several times a day for a week until he eventually ground down the small amount of willpower that I had.

“But I know nothing about cricket,” I moaned.

“You’ll soon pick it up.” He said, cheerfully, as he walked away.

I groaned.

~ O ~

Cricket, that time-honoured, peculiar ritual of throwing heavy leather balls at members of the opposing team, who were supposed to avoid injury by using the bat to send the ball into oblivion - or was it the pavilion? I adopted the ‘jump out of the way and fall over’ survival method. This, of course, went down like a lead brick at school. As for the places on the pitch; I ask you, ‘silly-mid-off?’ When I enquired, I was peremptorily told, “It’s a fielding position close to the wicket on the off-side, square of the batsman.” That said a lot, but told me nothing of interest.

Old Bolshie the sports coach — when you’re a teenager, anyone over thirty years of age was old - would bellow. “Smith! You’re supposed to hit the ball, not shy away from it. Get up and play properly!”

I tried, only once. “Hit the ball? If you throw the thing at me that fast, can you really blame me for trying to get out of the way? And if it hit me, there’s a good chance that it’d break something.”

My protest often resulted in another beating for being queer. I always thought that a queer was a derogatory name for a homosexual male. My father and my fellow pupils said that I was, but I knew that I wasn’t, as I didn’t fancy any of the boys in the school — or any boys at all, for that matter. I could fancy girls all I wanted but they didn’t want a weedy kid with glasses. As far as I was concerned, I was a nothing — not that my opinion counted for anything or was listened to. It seemed that everyone who didn’t conform to a stereotype must be queer and therefore should be soundly beaten.

I was soundly beaten.

Teachers were no longer allowed to administer corporal punishment, but fellow pupils seemed to use violence with total impunity — usually on the way to and from school. If it was on school premises, the teachers might have to do something about the bullying that went on — not that it happened at our school, of course. If anyone in authority admitted that it did happen, there was a danger that the bullies would have to be punished, which should at least involve losing places on the sports teams. We couldn’t have that, could we? Horror of horrors; we might lose a football match, or something. Was I cynical? You bet your life I was.

I might have wanted to study but I was in the same classes as the thugs, so there was no chance. It didn’t help that, as far as the teachers were concerned, we were all equally to blame for any perceived misdemeanour, whether or not some of us only wanted to stay below the radar.

~ O ~

While nearly every school day was torment, I especially hated Monday afternoons; two hours of competitive team ball games or cross-country running. If the weather was particularly bad, we’d end up in the gymnasium where we were encouraged — read as ‘yelled at’ - to climb up ropes or the wall. There were no alternatives; I asked only once. I said that I wouldn’t mind aerobics; that earned a laugh from Old Bolshie, who never listened to a word I said.

“Smith! Why aren’t you joining in?”

Old Bolshie was deaf as well as thick

“No one wants me in their team, Sir.”

I don’t throw properly and can’t catch. I get breathless when running and don’t try hard enough to show how strong I am. In other words, I don’t show off how much testosterone I have coursing through my body. Add to that the fact that I don’t really want to be here anyway and you have a ready-made punch-bag.

“You don’t even try to fit in; you just stand there like a spare prick at a wedding! Run around, boy, run around!”

Old Bolshie (Mr Victor Green always seemed to be angry about something, hence BolshieVic) would yell at me as I stood on the sidelines. What pea-brained idiot decided that we had to use that particular sports field, which was near the harbour? In the winter, the bitter wind off the sea turned your legs blue as soon as you stepped off the bus. Maybe all that aggression and expenditure of energy was supposed to warm you up. I was about as aggressive as lukewarm tea, and my limited energy went towards my feeble attempts at survival. In the summer, of course, you boiled and sweated. Then you had to endure a busload of smelly boys on the journey back to school, where you suffered the indignity of the obligatory post-sport shower. There, your shortcomings received a suitable measure of ridicule and retribution. As if I had any choice in how I was put together. The girls didn’t have Old Bolshie for a sports coach. They probably had some sadistic ex-army PTI woman putting them through purgatory.

I’d shrug and run around the edge of the field. There were three hundred and sixty five bad days in the year, and every fourth year some bloody-minded sod threw in an extra day for good measure.

“Smith, you’re pathetic; run properly!”

Thanks; just pin a target on my back, why don’t you?

~ O ~

Macbeth is a tragedy? You should try Mr Charles ‘Old Henry’ Ford, the English Literature teacher.

“Let’s all have a mass debate.” Colin Hammond’s suggestion earned a laugh from most of the class.

I groaned.

Old Henry wasn’t amused and kept us all in after school.

Simply bloody wonderful; as if the school day isn’t already too long

I left after detention, but obviously not quickly enough.

~ O ~

I dragged my bruised and aching body through the door at something after six o’clock in the evening and dropped the remains of my spectacles onto the kitchen table.

“John Edward Smith, You’re late!” My mother stated the obvious.

What is it with parents? About the only time they use your full name is when you’re in trouble. What was it for this time; trying to survive childhood again?

I tried to explain this incident. “Colin Hammond managed to earn us all half an hour’s detention every day for a week, and I got another beating from Simon Bennick and friends when we left the school. I suppose I should be thankful that they took my specs off my face before treading on them.”

Simon bloody Bennick and his mates were louts and bullies, hyped up on beer and some drug that Simon’s elder brother supplied. I wondered if they could have got Saturday jobs at a zoo. They probably out-weighed much of the gorilla population, but it was obvious that the gorillas had more brainpower. I stood no chance against their gang that, they boasted, was always involved in things violent or illegal — or preferably both.

My mother, as usual, didn’t, or wouldn’t, understand odds of three on one. “Tell your father.”

“That’s very likely to solve my problems,” I responded, dryly.

She fumed as she surveyed the wreckage that had been my spectacles. “This is ridiculous! We’re always paying to repair them. Why do you keep getting into fights?”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t get into fights, I get bullied,” I replied, angrily. “Neither of you do anything about it. I might just as well wear a sign around my neck, saying “Thump me.” If I had more courage, I’d walk under a bus. I just want a quiet life; study, get good enough grades for me to go to college, and get out of that dump as soon as I can.”

Getting away from home would be good, too

I’d heard her next speech so many times that I could parrot it word for word.

“Don’t be stupid; bullying doesn’t happen these days. You’re just making excuses. School days are the best days of your life, you know. You’ve a wonderful opportunity; many children would love to go to a good school. I remember when I was a girl….”

Yeah, yeah — change the bloody record, Mother. If that school is so great, why don’t you go?

When my father came home from work, my mother blabbed, and I got another earful. “I'm fed up with you getting into trouble at school, you lazy little tyke. You ask for everything you get; you should fight back. You should take up boxing; it’d build some muscles and toughen you up. Then you could handle yourself properly when you do get into a fight.”

Of course, he’s got an answer for everything. Try living in the real world, Father

I responded, angrily, “Firstly, as I keep telling both you and my mother, I don’t get into fights, I get bullied. Secondly, how am I supposed to retaliate against that bunch of psychopaths? Newbolt and Hammond held me while Bennick took off my glasses and knocked seven bells out of me; you want me to take on a gang of thugs who all outweigh me?”

He exploded; a shame it wasn’t literally. “Get out of my sight, you lazy little pansy! Heavies only go for soft targets; you should defend yourself properly, then they’d give up and you’d get a reputation as a bruiser who’s not to be messed with. And don’t answer back!”

I ran up to my room and shut the door; tears weren’t very far away — again. No doubt that would earn me another lecture along the lines of “real men don’t cry.”

My father’s frequent advice - what my brother and I needed to do for him to be proud of us - almost invariably began with “You should.”

I know what we’ll put on his gravestone;

“Here lies the body of
WILLIAM ERNEST SMITH;
YOU SHOULD
because I always knew best.”

~ O ~

If my mother ever wanted me for anything, she’d usually find me in my bedroom. “John; you’ve always got your nose stuck in a book. Why don’t you make some friends and go outside to play? The fresh air and exercise would do you good.”

Sometimes I sit and wonder; and sometimes I just sit

I’d shake my head in disgust, “I keep telling you; if I poke my head outside the door, some thug will probably use it as a football. Isn’t it enough that I get beaten up on the way to and from school? You want me to get beaten up in the evenings as well? Let’s face it; nobody wants to be friends with me; all I’m good for is just a punch-bag.”

I’d sigh. How could she be so naíve?

“It’s not healthy for you to stay indoors so much.”

“It’s not healthy for me to go outside more than I have to.” I rolled my eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re so afraid of.”

“Pain, Mother; I’m afraid of pain.”

“I’m sure that you’re exaggerating; your father says you’re just lazy.”

I’d sigh again; we’d have this conversation several times a week.

~ O ~

I finally survived school — no thanks to my parents - left home, went to college and found a job, but I’d still not found the courage to talk to my parents about what I really wanted out of life. They seemed to me to be old and set in their ways, and I regularly got a lecture from my parents, especially my father, whenever I visited — a duty as I saw it.

“You should get a proper haircut and some decent glasses. You look like a queer; you’ll never get a girlfriend looking like that. And you should get some decent clothes while you’re at it; you look like a ragbag.”

Why bother? I had to wear a suit and tie for work — what I called the ‘office uniform’ — and that, like all menswear, only fitted where it touched. At other times, I settled for jeans, tee shirt and baggy sweaters; at least I could get something by mail order that more or less fitted. It didn’t seem to matter what I said or did; I always got some sarcastic criticism from my father. The occasional word of praise was reserved for my brother Peter, the star rugby player, footballer and cricketer; I never qualified. I knew that I wasn’t queer (homosexual), but my father read the “Daily Trash”, and believed it all. If they said that the Martians were playing in the World Cup, he’d be talking about it for weeks.

My mother kept on at me as well. “It would be nice to have some more grandchildren. It’s time you settled down and found a girlfriend; there must be lots of eligible women where you work. Peter had no trouble finding a girl to marry; Geena and the twins are delightful.”

I’d give her a black look, she’d throw up her hands in an ‘it should be obvious’ gesture and walk out.

Pray tell me, mother; how am I supposed to ‘find’ a girlfriend at work — given that nobody in the office talks to me, unless they want something? How do I find someone female who is desperate enough to want to be with me? Should I search under rocks or do they grow on trees?

~ O ~

Phil Sullivan, my cricketing work colleague, in his infinite wisdom, probably thought that he was doing me a favour; perhaps trying to kick-start my social life, by which he probably meant those manly pursuits of beer, sport, cars and women. As I’ve never liked the taste of beer, had no interest in sport, was more likely to give up driving than change my car, and had never had a girlfriend, I was, as usual, an outsider.

I wish I could say “no” when people ask me to do things

~ O ~

I spent a few hours a week at the local public library. Other than that, and my monthly visits to my parents, I mostly stayed at home. Sometimes, like tonight, I’d go for a short walk around the block to post a letter. I learned some years ago that it saved me a lot of grief if I told my parents nothing about what I did or what happened to me. Now I saw no future other than working another forty-odd years towards a lonely retirement; I was too much of a coward to try to get off the merry-go-round early, despite how attractive the idea often seemed.

~ O ~

The demented jukebox that regularly replaced my brain was thankfully jammed into pause not long after it had started its current cycle. The wail of sirens broke into my consciousness as a police car and an ambulance screeched to a halt. The ambulance crew jumped out, took one look at Mrs Jones, did the usual tests, shook their heads and promptly handed over to the law. The two uniformed officers spoke briefly to the ambulance crew, glanced at the body, cordoned off the area and called for backup.

~ O ~

“I’m Detective Inspector Ian Salisbury and this is Detective Constable Jane Dyson.”

He showed me his warrant card, crushed my hand and pumped it like he was going for a jackpot on a one-arm bandit (slot machine with a side handle). Why do some men do that? Is it a display of power? To convince you that they are the dominant male, the top dog? He looked to be in his forties, was quite tall and was built like the proverbial brick outhouse. His receding brown hair was cut very short - what I believe our American friends call a buzz-cut - and his craggy facial features reminded me of the Mafia hit men in films like ‘The Godfather’. He only needed a fedora and a violin case to complete the look. I was sure he could get me to confess to anything — whether or not I’d actually done it. He was definitely a man I’d not like to cross.

Although I wasn’t particularly short, I had to look up to DC Dyson, whose blonde hair, styled in a pixie cut, crowned a heart-shaped face. She went through similar introductions but just gently gripped my fingers in greeting. Maybe she somehow sensed that I wasn’t impressed by her boss’s macho posturing.

A well-built woman who appeared to be in her mid-twenties, she moved with cat-like grace despite her size — she towered over me and must have been well over six feet tall, taller even than DI Salisbury. She wasn’t what you’d call slim, either; perhaps she’d had ballet training when she was a child and filled out quite a lot since then.

Both officers wore charcoal grey trousers, matching jackets and lace-up shoes; typical detective uniform. She knelt and searched the body while he questioned me. He’d not long started on his “did you see anything suspicious” and “what were you doing over the past 30 minutes” when DC Dyson said, quietly, “Knife wound, Guv; professional job, too, by the look of it. Single stab to the heart, and judging by the small amount of blood, I’d say that death was instantaneous.” She used her fingers to indicate the size and type of weapon that, she deduced, was used to despatch the late Abigail Jones.

Goodness, she’s posh

Later, I thought about the officers, especially DC Dyson. With that voice, she wouldn’t be out of place at a society ball; although there was a trace of an accent there that I couldn’t identify at the time.

A scene-of-crime team arrived and took some photos. A doctor arrived, carried out some tests, spoke briefly to Ian Salisbury and went; the ambulance crew took away the body and the detectives escorted me back to my apartment. He asked the questions while she stood, apparently staring into space - impassive.

I told them about my earlier walk — but not everything.

DC Dyson asked, “Do you have a wife or girlfriend, Mr Smith?”

Somehow, she seems as intimidating as her boss does

“N…no, I live alone and there’s nobody else,” I stammered.

They seemed satisfied; they took my contact details, promised to keep in touch and left me to my thoughts.

~ O ~

The next day, I had great difficulty concentrating on my work in the Accounts department of the local council. I kept turning over in my mind the events of the previous evening and wondered why Mrs Jones had been killed. DI Salisbury telephoned mid-morning.

I confirmed that I had no wife or girlfriend, I’d lived at Coleridge House for about a year or so and I saw Mrs Jones only occasionally, when we’d pass the time of day. I let out a slow breath as the call ended, and my heart returned to something approaching a normal rhythm.

~ O ~

I arrived home later than usual, and reluctantly decided that Jenny would have to stay in the closet for the evening. I still had the Cricket Club minutes to sort out but in order to do that, I had to try and understand what had been said at the meeting - and précis it. I firstly had to prepare my evening meal, cook it, eat it and clear up afterwards.

I’d just finished washing up when Jane Dyson ‘phoned.

“I’d like to ask you some more questions but not over the telephone. Could I pop round in about half an hour? Please tell me if it’s too late or if it’s not convenient for any reason.”

I assured her that it was convenient.

More questions? Still, I suppose this must be a murder enquiry

I put aside the Cricket Club papers and prepared to receive my visitor. No one else had been to the flat, so I wasn’t used to having to hide things. I made sure that all the doors to the other rooms were shut. It didn’t pay to take chances with the police, who were reputed to be very observant.

Jane Dyson showed me her warrant card as I opened the door. She was soon seated, with a cup of tea on the little side table.

She glanced around.

I felt uneasy.

“Your apartment is very neat - for a single man, I mean,” she said.

I winced at her comment. I answered quickly. “I can’t stand mess; I get very frustrated if anything is out of place. I’m the same in the office; I must drive everyone else to distraction.”

“The soft furnishings, décor and accessories are a little unusual, aren’t they? The colour scheme, pot plants, figurines and the painting of an Edwardian lady don’t exactly scream ‘male’, do they?”

“Err, I just like that style,” I conceded, trying to think quickly but getting very warm. Blast! I’d completely forgotten about the living room furnishings and so on. I had an awful feeling that I’d dropped myself in the deep brown and smelly.

“You were seen on your walk.”

It took a couple of seconds for me to realise what she’d said. Oh HELL, I hadn’t mentioned the jogger “Pardon?” I tried stalling, but still went bright red.

“You were seen. We did house-to-house enquiries. As you can perhaps appreciate, timing each event in the chain was down almost to the second. You also gave yourself away with some other vital signs. I believe that you have another self that you try to keep well hidden and it was she who found the body. Do correct me if I’m wrong.”

End of Part 1

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Comments

Secrets

Thank you for the start of an interesting story.
Your skills at starting a story are impressive.
I will be reading this chapter many times as I find
the writing impressive and interesting. It catches
your attention and leads you into the story and before
you know it you have to finish reading it and you
can't wait for the next chapter.

Thank You

So, it was Jenny who called

the police. Will be interesting to see where the story goes.

    Stanman
May Your Light Forever Shine

Nice start

I liked the way this started, looking forward to pts. 2 and beyond.

Susie Dahling...

Andrea Lena's picture

...time to get ready for another whirlwind book-signing tour, aye? Daniel Craig says meet him by the bar in the lobby of the Hilton.....

  

To be alive is to be vulnerable. Madeleine L'Engle
Love, Andrea Lena

Secrets by Heywood

It is a good beginning and glad to from the start it will continue. His life holds little interest even for him; maybe it is good to be found out. ?Who else knows?

Hugs, JessieC

Jessica E. Connors

Jessica Connors

Still trying to figure out

how you hid this little gem :) Off to a great start, as I've come to expect from all your stories. Please, do continue!

We feel so guilty ...

But it is all unfounded. I do it all the time and everyone knows. So what! Too bad we don't realize that sooner.

G

OH that

dreadful feeling of feeling like you have been outed, spotted or clocked as people call it lol.

About eight years ago I was home alone, since I lived alone duhhh lol. I was dressed in some of my finest and I heard a knock on my door. Welll, I was so relaxed that I gave it no thought and went straight to my front door and answered it. OOOOPS! It was my boss! He had just stopped by to hand me my pay check in person. Of course he saw me, he just grinned and handed my paycheck to me and left.

I was so worried. Nothing came of it though, no one said anything so I didn't either.

A year later I declared that enough was enough and just came on out as Vivien to the world, or town really. No one gave me any grief. As a matter of fact people asked me what the hell took so long. Go figure, the whole town knew right off and seemingly figured that Vivien was better than the other jerk who was always so sad and grouchy I guess.

It sort of looks like at this moment or chapter rather that John may be headed in the same direction?

Great start by the way.

Vivien

It's good to see this again

Angharad's picture

Has anyone heard from Susie Heywood recently? I haven't seen her around BC for a year or so.

Angharad

Not to be missed

Rhona McCloud's picture

Although this was first posted only 2 years ago I'm glad to see Susan's story being highlighted again

Rhona McCloud