The Moors: Some secrets are better left buried Read online

  The Moors

  Copyright © Pen Works Media 2015

  The right of Jody Medland to be identified as the sole overview author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means – graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems – without the prior written permission of the publishers.

  THE MOORS

  First published in July 2015 by

  Pen Works Media Ltd

  1 Yasmin James Villas, London, N11 2LP

  www.penworksmedia.co.uk

  This book is a work of fiction.

  ISBN: 978-1-908730-15-2

  “Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.”

  Benjamin Franklin

  C o n t e n t s

  Prologue

  Chapter One The Station Call

  Chapter Two The Help

  Chapter Three The Story Begins

  Chapter Four Mind Over Matter

  Chapter Five The Secret Garden

  External Map of Home The Prince Care Home

  Internal Blueprint The Prince Care Home

  Chapter Six Lights Out

  Chapter Seven Left Behind

  Chapter Eight Seldom Late

  Chapter Nine The Boy from Room Four

  Chapter Ten Testing Borders

  Chapter Eleven Serpent’s Kiss

  Chapter Twelve A Promise is a Promise

  Chapter Thirteen The Tip-off

  Chapter Fourteen Checkmate

  Chapter Fifteen Better the Devil You Know

  Chapter Sixteen The Point of No Return

  Chapter Seventeen Hunt or Be Hunted

  Chapter Eighteen Buried

  Chapter Nineteen Goodbye, Dear Friend

  Chapter Twenty Closing In

  Chapter Twenty One The Beginning of the End

  Epilogue Lydia’s Story

  Afterword Conception of The Moors

  About the Author Jody Medland

  P r o l o g u e

  BEING ABUSED AS A CHILD appeared to be the most common factor when analysing the backgrounds of rapists and serial killers, but this was something Amanda Connors never fully understood.

  When she was a girl, her stepfather took liberties no adult ever should with a child. He did it not once, but on a regular basis for a period of almost three years. It was a phase of her life that certainly shaped her, but she was determined not to let such ill-treatment define her. She was tired of seeing people spend their lives blaming their problems on things that happened in the past and using them as an excuse not to create a brighter future.

  This would never be her.

  She would not be a victim.

  Stored away somewhere in a dark corner of her mind was a series of hidden memories, buried in a place no person would think to look.

  The house Amanda grew up in was somewhat pokey. Islington was full of such buildings that had families and their belongings spilling out onto their lawns, but in general the people of North London had a certain ability to carry on even when things got tough.

  Bright red. That was the colour of the door at Amanda’s modest house, which always stuck in the frame as her abuser fumbled at it when drunk. A weak push, as if forgetting the door was ill-fitting, was followed by a second sturdier effort that still wasn’t enough to force the door open. There would be a momentary silence, as though he needed to study the problem, before an overtly powerful shove overcame the obstacle with ease. He would then close the door so hard that it shook the walls throughout the entire house.

  At this point, Amanda would close her eyes and pretend she was asleep, a peculiar habit as it never stopped him taking what he wanted. She would lie in silence as his feet clumsily staggered up the stairs, his body landing against the wall as he continually fought for balance. She often prayed he would slip and fall back down, but he never did. She equated hearing him struggling up the stairs to feeling sick. There was nothing worse than feeling her cheeks tingle and her brow and palms grow clammy as nausea took a hold of her and she knew she was about to vomit.

  Well… almost nothing worse.

  On occasion, he would walk right past Amanda’s room and pester her mother, who he rarely assaulted sexually. He was violent towards her in other ways and listening to the beatings was a very different kind of helplessness.

  On the rare occasion he would be so completely inebriated that he would just fall onto one of their beds and pass out.

  Those were the good days.

  As he lingered at the top of the staircase, his shadow could be seen interrupting the soft orange glow that crept underneath Amanda’s door from the hallway. She would sometimes stare at the swaying shadow, willing it away as her heart pounded against her chest. She would always know when her luck was out. The cheap metal doorknob would squeak as he twisted it in his hand. The latch would make the noise of a winding spring as it retracted, allowing him to stumble through the doorway. The naked floorboards would creak and the unwelcome scent of smoke and ale would infiltrate her room. It was an odour that always made her grimace.

  As he inched towards her bed, she would hear a series of lazy unfastening and unzipping sounds and when he was close enough, his perverted wheezy breath would rise and fall as he looked down over her body. He would run his grubby, smoky fingers through her hair, making her skin crawl and her eyes close still tighter as she attempted to reject what was happening. By the time he would clamber onto her bed – always leading with his knee and causing the springs to scream weakly, as though calling for help they knew would never come – Amanda had invariably found her “safe place.” It was this magical haven that spared her from further details of these endless encounters. The next thing she knew, she would look up to see him slumped over her, crying as he begged for forgiveness. Even at her tender age and vulnerable proximity, she found it a pathetic sight, mainly because she knew he would not have the power to keep the promises he made – neither to her or himself.

  This would never be her.

  She would not be a victim.

  It would have been all too easy for Amanda to blame her problems on the countless nights that stole her innocence. It would have been just as easy to feel bitterness towards a youth that had been so heavily stained. However, this simply wasn’t who Amanda was.

  She could not support the argument that abuse was a by-product of earlier abuse and that it was an unbreakable cycle. Instead, she condemned anybody who used such stories as some form of defence for doing wrong towards others. In her experience, the fact she had been handled so neglectfully made her more determined to treat people well. It made her more motivated to keep people – particularly children – safe, so they did not have to suffer the same misfortunes she did.

  In a twisted form of logic, Amanda embraced what had happened to her. It had made her a better person, more grounded and aware.

  Her stepfather died young of Crohn’s disease, an illness that had plagued him from birth and had robbed him of his younger years. Incredibly, she was able to feel pity for him and reasoned that his actions probably stemmed from not being able to experience “normal” interactions with girls during his adolescence. Did that make it right? Of course not, but at least it provided some kind of explanation for his behaviour, allowing her to put the events in a box that she could store away.

  As it was, the one person Amanda was never able to forgive was her mother, who sat by and allowed the abuse to take place. Not once did she validate Amanda’s stories about what was happen
ing and she even punished Amanda for speaking up. Now that Amanda was older, she could tell her mother knew he was guilty, yet denying the reality was simply more convenient. To Amanda, denial was the highest form of weakness and was a trait she had grown to loathe. Every time the front door closed in that house, Amanda – a young, helpless girl – knew exactly what to expect, so it simply wasn’t feasible for her mother to be lying in bed oblivious in the very next room. No. She must have been aware and could have stopped it at any moment. Instead, she turned a blind eye, and that was simply unforgivable.

  This would never be her.

  She would not be a victim.

  After a few years of working in care, Amanda realised it was a deeply rewarding career but one that came with many limits. Therefore, she combined her desire to help those in need with her ability to write in the most beautifully expressive way. It was in her early twenties that she discovered the power of journalism. It gave her a voice with which to speak and, more importantly, a platform where people would listen. Her curious nature led her to many great stories and it wasn’t long before she had carved out a reputation as a fearless investigatory journalist. Her work was so good, in fact, that she won a position at The Times when women were considered far from equal. Her brief was to generate the type of hard-hitting material that would give the paper an edge over their competitors, and she certainly achieved that.

  In the winter of 1972, whilst sitting in the editorial office, she received an anonymous phone call. Distressed, the caller sobbed down the phone saying they had been to the Prince Care Home and had witnessed something truly horrible. The call was brief but prominent and by the time the line went dead, Amanda’s research had already begun.

  The Prince Care Home was based in the middle of Exmoor in North Devon and had housed both physically and mentally ill children since 1960. The property was owned and managed by one Christian Prince, who had recently started advertising for a carer. Without a second thought, Amanda applied for the job and after a successful telephone interview, she was hired.

  Suddenly, Amanda felt vindicated, as though every single event that had unfolded in her life had led her to that moment for a reason and handed her a story that was surely her destiny.

  As she boarded the First Great Western train from London Paddington to Tiverton Parkway, she felt as though an inexplicable force was guiding her. Its power was so great that all she could do was allow herself to follow. After all, following her instincts had always stood her in good stead before.

  She looked out of the window as the large buildings of the city fell away, replaced by fields and greenery that held a different kind of beauty. The closer she came to her destination, the greater the adrenalin that rushed through her veins.

  She busied herself by reading the morning papers. On every page, another horror story: a baby found dead in a bin, a wife stabbed by her husband in a jealous rage, a man beaten to death for being gay. She spared a thought for each of the victims before repeating the mantra that had seen her transform herself from an unfortunate child into a strong and powerful woman.

  This will never be me.

  I will not be a victim.

  Suddenly, the train slowed to a gradual halt and there, outside of Amanda’s window, was a tall, rusty sign that read: Tiverton Parkway.

  She had arrived, and this is where the grisly story begins.

  The Moors

  Some secrets are better left buried

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Station Call

  Friday 11th February, 1972

  Sometimes when landing upon a new place, a person can get a good sense of what to expect almost immediately. Amanda had never been to the West Country before. Her first impressions of Devon were surprising, but not at all complimentary. Something about the manner of the roadside café where an elderly waitress glared at her whilst pouring coffee for a truck driver reeked of outback America. Amanda felt uncomfortable from the moment she stepped onto the rickety old platform, but then again, she seldom felt comfortable anywhere outside of the city. Her mind was quick, some might say manic, and when the surroundings didn’t match her inner intensity, it often caused her to become restless.

  Amanda’s piercing green eyes hinted at a beauty often buried beneath expensive suits and a moody yet focused expression, which she displayed as she juggled multiple sugar sachets above a polystyrene cup whilst speaking quietly into a payphone.

  ‘It was okay. The train pulled in early if you can believe—’

  An unexpected tear in the sachet sprayed white grains of sugar everywhere.

  ‘Shit!’ she cursed, attracting unwanted attention.

  ‘What’s wr—g?’ asked a male voice on the other end of the line, the phone crackling as he did so.

  ‘What?’ asked Amanda, frowning as she pressed her ear hard against the earpiece.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ the man repeated, this time clearly, as Amanda fussed over the mess she’d made.

  ‘Sorry. The line’s pretty bad. Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine,’ she said, quickly realising Tony would decipher her lie.

  She tried to coax the sugar into a napkin, but to no avail. Disapproving looks from the locals were met with a defiant glare of her own.

  City mouse was in no mood to play.

  ‘I wish I could believe it,’ said Tony.

  ‘Fine! Everything. Everything’s wrong!’ she snapped. ‘Tony, I…’

  ‘Hey! It’s okay. We’ll b- -kay,’ he insisted.

  She imagined the expression on his face; the prominent wrinkle that appeared in the middle of his forehead whenever he spoke delicately and the look of sincerity that was ever present in his deep brown trustworthy eyes. These were the traits that first endeared him to Amanda. She was not the type of person to hand out her trust freely. She didn’t often make friends as, when it came down to it, she saw friendship as an inconvenience that sapped her time and energy – two invaluable assets that were better spent on pursuing her career. She was even more selective when it came to potential lovers.

  Tony was her senior editor and because of this, they spent countless hours together. Had that not been the case, their friendship would have been unlikely to grow. However, the passion they shared for their profession provided them with a common ground on which their bond could flourish. With Tony, she never had to apologise for her unpredictable schedule. Unlike most men who were intimidated by her ambition, he was very much an advocate of it. What’s more, he fully respected her boundaries and never repeated questions that she seemed reluctant to answer.

  These were the many factors necessary for Amanda to consider falling in love, but love was hard and just recently Tony had asked for her hand in marriage. When she questioned his reasons, he told her straight. He longed for a future where they would live together, share a bank account, plan their movements around one another and begin a family, linking them for the rest of their lives. It was all too much for Amanda to comprehend. Sure, she could see the validity in why he might view such things as progress in their relationship, but she was reluctant to bring a child into a world as vile as the one that surrounded them.

  This was a difference in opinion that was sure to prove a major problem. There was simply no denying it.

  Amanda rested her head against the payphone, looking more regretful than consoled.

  ‘You’ll be back in three days,’ Tony reminded her. ‘We can talk then.’

  The fact he had been so lovely, caring only about her feelings and forfeiting that of his own, only served to make her feel worse.

  She wished she had not left on such bad terms.

  ‘I guess,’ she said, resigned to the fact she had no other option.

  ‘And that’s three days. You’ll be back here on Sunday, as agreed. Okay?’ said Tony.

  ‘Yeah,’ she agreed, softly.

  ‘Because I know what you’re like when you get your teeth into something and if you try to go back on your word, I’ll come down there and pull you out myself!’ he
continued, in a mini-rant that was heavily based on past experience.

  Amanda smiled, her spirit lifted.

  ‘Yes, boss! Message received,’ she replied, playfully.

  ‘I do l--- you,’ he said, the interference cheating Amanda of the word she most needed to hear.

  ‘You too,’ she replied, before placing the phone back onto the receiver.

  She took a moment to collect her thoughts and then picked up her suitcase.

  ‘You gonna clean that up?’ asked the waitress, the positioning of her chubby arms making her look like a short, dumpy teapot.

  ‘No. You are,’ stated Amanda, before striding across the floor donning a superior posture.

  ‘Oooooooh…’ goaded the truck driver, causing the waitress to snatch his mug away.

  ‘Hey! I’m not done,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Yes you are,’ the waitress scorned.

  *

  Amanda grimaced at the stench of stale urine in the ladies’ toilets. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have accepted such standards but as far as she could see these were the only facilities for miles around. Besides, her ride was soon to arrive, giving her little time to be fussy.

  She placed her suitcase on the floor and squinted to see her reflection in the grimy mirror. She attempted to run some cold water from the tap but the banging pipes only offered spurts of brown liquid. She turned the tap off immediately and recoiled, pulling on a fresh top and placing a black hairband over her soft shoulder-length hair with precision. It was amazing how those two simple items combined with her fake but brilliant smile to make her appear so much younger than her thirty-one years. The face that now looked back was not Amanda Connors but Amanda Green – the innocent yet inquisitive alter-ego she’d created for the job. The character was well rehearsed and gave her the greatest chance of extracting the most information whilst remaining unobtrusive. As she stepped out of the dingy bathroom, she was ready to implement the first phase of her plan.