Thirty-Six

Several days later Mandy stood in front of the easel, dry paintbrush in hand, and continued to study the blank canvas. Having finished the painting of the church with its spire rising high into the blue sky and been reasonably pleased with it she now found she was blocked again. Propped on the table beside the easel was her sketch pad; she kept flicking through it for inspiration but none came. It was mid-morning and Adam was at work; she was expecting him to phone or text later as he had been doing each day. Although they’d seen each other every evening, following her wishes he’d returned home to sleep.

With a sigh she moved away from the easel and wandered over to the window where she gazed out on to the front garden and street below. What was Jimmy doing now on this clear April morning? she wondered. Was he at work? Concentrating on a computer screen, with a client, or in a meeting? Or perhaps he was rich and didn’t have to work and was playing golf, or was even at home, reading the newspaper, or out shopping with his wife. Or maybe he was on holiday, taking a week before the schools broke up for Easter. Since obtaining Jimmy’s details Mandy found she kept trying to imagine where he was or what he might be doing. It was starting to become an obsession, overriding all her other thoughts. Knowing where Jimmy lived had brought him that much closer and made him more accessible and real, instead of the shadowy figure in the Pink Room or at the foot of the slide. But in bringing him closer, the horror of his attack had taken a step closer too. Mandy knew she couldn’t put it off any longer – she needed to confront him, preferably before the funeral on Friday when she would see all her family again, which effectively meant she had to do it today, Thursday.

Two hours later she boarded the 12.05 at Paddington Station which would get her into Mowbury – the town closest to where Jimmy lived – at 13.40. From there she would catch a bus (No. 247) to the outskirts of the town, and then it was approximately a five-minute walk to his address. She’d worked out the route from maps she’d printed from the Internet, including a detailed street map of the exact location of his house. She sat in the carriage with a bench seat to herself and gazed out of the window as the train pulled away. She tried to silence her racing heart and not think about what she was doing, for she knew any more thought could weaken her resolve and she’d turn round and go home. Of course her family would be upset when she went to the police and the hurt of the past was reignited, but she was sure they’d understand. She was equally confident they would give evidence, and their evidence, together with that of Mrs Pryce and the doctor’s report from the time, would surely secure Jimmy’s conviction. She needed to make sure he wasn’t free to do it again and also to see him punished.

Gazing through the carriage window, the offices and houses of Greater London were gradually replaced by countryside, peppered with the occasional town or village. It was only from a train or plane, she thought, that you realized just how much of England was still green – easily forgotten living in London. Her mobile bleeped with an incoming text and she took it from her bag. It was Adam: Hav a gd time. take care x, She’d told him she was going to see an old friend and wouldn’t be back until late. She texted back: I will thanks x, and then felt guilty for lying to him.

An elderly couple sat across the aisle and the woman looked over. Mandy returned her smile, and then allowed her head to rest back on the seat. She hadn’t been sleeping well with all she’d been thinking about, and the rhythm of the train on the track soon persuaded her eyes to close. But as happened at night her thoughts immediately began to race – now with the various scenarios of what could happen when she arrived at Jimmy’s: no one was in; he was out at work but his wife or daughters were in; he was in with his wife or daughters; he was alone in the house. She’d considered all these possibilities over and over again since she’d made the decision to come that morning, and had worked out what she was going to say and do for each scenario. The last, finding him alone, was the least complicated and most direct:‘Jimmy Osborne?’‘Yes.’‘I’m Mandy, your brother’s niece.’ Then she’d watch the horror spread across his face as he realized his past had finally caught up with him. She could feel her pulse race again at the very thought of it: standing face to face with her attacker after all this time. If his wife or daughters answered the door, she’d ask for him, and if he wasn’t in she’d ask what time he was expected, and return later. Yes, she was sure she’d covered every eventuality.

Opening her eyes Mandy looked again at the passing scenery, and then took the magazine she’d bought at the station from her bag and forced herself to read – of celebrity lifestyles and large glossy photographs of their luxurious homes. Every so often she took her phone from her bag and checked the time. The journey seemed to be taking for ever. Eventually it was 1.35 and she knew she had five minutes before the train arrived. She tucked the magazine into her bag, straightened her jacket and, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, looked out of the carriage window for the first sighting of Mowbury.

Five minutes later the train began to slow as the station approached. Mandy stood, then waited by the doors until the train stopped. The doors opened and she got out, her pulse quickening and her breath coming fast and shallow. She looked the length of the platform and then followed the dozen or so passengers who were walking towards the exit barrier. She’d never used this station before; it was on a different network to the one she used when she visited her grandparents, twelve miles away. She fed her ticket into the turnstile and then followed the signs to the ladies’ WC.

A few minutes later she was outside on the station forecourt, which was exactly as the Internet map showed. She went past the taxi rank and joined a woman waiting at the bus stop for the number 247. According to the timetable she’d downloaded the bus ran every fifteen minutes on a weekday, starting at two minutes past the hour. Keeping her gaze away from the woman so she wouldn’t be drawn into conversation, Mandy concentrated on the ground. Her thoughts returned to Jimmy. She checked her mobile again. The time was 1.55. What was he doing now? If he was at work when she arrived it could be many hours before he returned and she wondered where she should wait. Her stomach contracted with anxiety as she pictured his wife asking her what she wanted and her offering the excuse she’d concocted that she was carrying out a survey.

‘At last,’ the woman next to her sighed.

Mandy looked up and saw the 247 coming towards them. It drew to a halt and the door swished open. The woman before her got on and Mandy followed her up the steps. ‘Return to Cranberry Avenue,’ she heard herself say and gave the driver £2. She knew from the map Cranberry Avenue was the nearest stop to where Jimmy lived. She took the 40p change and made her way down the aisle.

There were only half a dozen passengers downstairs and she went halfway down the aisle and slid into a window seat. Taking the street map from her bag she opened it on her lap. She’d marked the train station and Jimmy’s address with a Biro. She knew the route the bus would take and the stopping points from the printed timetable, and that it would take twenty minutes. After that she had about a five-minute walk to Jimmy’s house. Her pulse raced and her stomach churned. She took a deep breath and reminded herself she didn’t have to go to his house and confront him – that if it all became too much she could go straight to the police, which is doubtless what Adam would have advised her to do had she told him. But confronting Jimmy was essential if she was ever going to move on, and she knew it had to be done before she reported him; after that he would be able to hide behind legal protocol and then his barrister in court. Confronting Jimmy wasn’t something Adam would have understood, nor would anyone else who hadn’t been in her position. It was about taking control of her life again and making the abuser responsible for his crime.

Mandy looked between the map and the streets passing outside, tracking the bus’s stop-start journey. They had left the town and were now entering the outlying suburbs: rows of 1970s’ semi- and detached houses with integral garages and neatly tended front gardens. It was nothing like the private road in which John and Evelyn lived, but it was pleasant and had an air of suburban respectability. Mandy felt another stab of anger that Jimmy had been allowed to continue his comfortable and respectable life uninterrupted for the last ten years, and she wondered again if he ever thought about what he’d done to her.

From her seat by the window she saw the boys’ school and then the playing fields. She knew she was getting close. She began counting down the stops, checking the map, mentally ticking off the roads they passed: Rose Way, Tulip Close, Thorn End; she knew the next stop was hers. She stood and made her way to the platform at the centre of the bus and held the handrail as the bus shuddered to a halt. The doors swished open and she stepped on to the pavement followed by another passenger who headed in the opposite direction. With the map open before her Mandy walked along Cranberry Avenue and then took the second on the left. This was Berry Lane, although clearly it wasn’t a lane but another road of similar 1970s houses. She followed it for about thirty yards as it curved to the left and then she stopped at the corner. The next turning on the right was Jimmy’s. Jimmy. How she’d come to loathe that name since Evelyn had first spoken it and told her: Mandy, it wasn’t John who came into your room that night and attacked you; it was his brother, Jimmy, and Mandy had been forced to remember.

She stood on the corner of the street, folded the map in half and tucked it into her bag. She checked her phone and then switched it off. She didn’t want to be disturbed by the phone suddenly ringing and interrupting what she had to say; she needed everything to be calm with her firmly in control. Taking another deep breath and summoning all her courage, Mandy looped her bag over her shoulder and made the right turn into Hawthorn Drive. The first house was number 2, so she was on the correct side of the road for Jimmy’s: number 22. With her stomach tight and her legs heavy she put one foot in front of the other and continued steadily along the pavement, bracing herself for what she might see. The road was quiet and appeared to be on the very edge of the estate; she could see fields in the distance. Doubtless it was deemed a desirable area, Mandy thought bitterly as she scanned the front door at the end of each drive for the house numbers. She passed number 12. Four more to go until Jimmy’s. Fourteen, 16, 18…Her heart thumped loudly. It wasn’t the sort of street you could loiter in without attracting attention, not like a London street corner where you could wait almost indefinitely. Twenty, then 22. She saw the house. Panic gripped her. Quickening her pace she continued past, taking in what she saw. A small, respectable 1970s detached house, with a neatly mowed lawn and short drive leading to a garage, the same as all the other houses in the road. Could he really live in there? It seemed impossible. She didn’t know what she’d expected to find but it wasn’t this; not normality and conformity. Net curtains had hung at all the windows in his house, as they did in many others, so she hadn’t been able to catch a glimpse of the inside.

Forcing herself to slow to a walking pace, Mandy continued up the road. Her breath was coming fast and shallow and her pulse beat wildly in her chest. She hadn’t expected to be so affected by seeing his house. When she’d run through the possible outcomes in her head she’d always seen herself as anxious but composed. Now she was beside herself and wanted to get on the next bus home.

She finally came to a halt outside number 60. She stood in the centre of the pavement, took deep breaths and told herself to calm down.

‘Can I help you?’ a woman asked, suddenly bobbing up from tending her front garden. Mandy jumped. ‘You look lost,’ she said.

‘No, I’m all right. Thank you,’ Mandy stammered. ‘I know where I’m going.’ She turned and started back down the street, towards his house. The woman watched her go.

Mandy knew if she went past his house again and put it off any longer she would lose her nerve completely and go home, never to return. She couldn’t go through this again. She began counting down the houses she passed: Fifty-two, 50, 48, 46…She drove her legs forward, towards Jimmy’s house, trying to keep her breathing even. Thirty, 28, 26, 24, 22, a small hesitation and she forced herself to make the left turn into Jimmy’s drive. Keeping her gaze fixed straight ahead and her thoughts in check, Mandy went down the path beside the short drive and up to his front door.

She saw her hand in the air waver slightly, and then her forefinger went towards the bell and pressed it. One short sharp burst – she heard it ring inside – and then silence. She waited, trying to calm her pounding heart. Perhaps they were all out. Relief mingled with disappointment. Then she saw a faint movement behind the frosted-glass panel door. She stared at the door and steeled herself. The lock turned with a small click and the door opened.

A girl in her early teens, dressed in school uniform, looked at her questioningly. All of Mandy’s well-practised opening lines vanished and her mind went blank. ‘Yes?’ the girl asked after a moment. ‘Can I help you?’

Mandy forced herself to say the words she’d rehearsed so many times. ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Osborne, please. Jimmy Osborne. Is he in?’

The girl’s expression changed from polite enquiry to confusion, and then suspicion. ‘Why? What do you want?’ she asked brusquely – defensively, Mandy thought.

‘I’d like to speak to him, please. It’s personal.’ She heard her voice quiver.

The girl hesitated and stared at her, quite clearly shocked. ‘No, you can’t speak to him,’ she said. ‘I’ll get my mother.’

The door closed in Mandy’s face.