The Forgotten Woman: A gripping, emotional rollercoaster read you’ll devour in one sitting Read online

  The Forgotten Woman

  A gripping, emotional rollercoaster read you’ll devour in one sitting

  Angela Marsons

  Contents

  Dedication

  1. Kit

  2. Kit

  3. Fran

  4. Fran

  5. Kit

  6. Fran

  7. Kit

  8. Fran

  9. Kit

  10. Fran

  11. Kit

  12. Fran

  13. Kit

  14. Fran

  15. Kit

  16. Fran

  17. Kit

  18. Fran

  19. Kit & Fran

  Letter from Angela

  Acknowledgments

  Dear Mother

  Silent Scream

  Evil Games

  Lost Girls

  Play Dead

  Also by Angela Marsons

  Copyright

  This book is dedicated to my fantastic editor and treasured friend Keshini Naidoo who made sure that I did not become a forgotten woman.

  1

  Kit

  ‘Come on, girl, you can do this,’ Kit chanted to herself as she attempted a shortcut around a backstreet to escape an icy wind. There’s nothing to it, she told herself, I’ll stand up, say my bit and that’ll be it.

  She felt no better and realised that a pep talk worked better if it included more than one person. Her jumping nerves were not soothed by the fact that she was not going to make her first meeting on time.

  The shortcut led her to an alley where lurking fire escapes jumped out at her from the darkness. She was forced to retrace her steps to the main road. Great, that little caper had made her even later.

  She pressed the button on a pedestrian crossing harshly, waiting for the red man to turn green. He wasn’t quick enough so she darted across the road anyway. She was narrowly missed by a silver BMW that sped past, covering her back and legs in murky sludge left over from a brief snow storm.

  ‘Bloody idiot!’ she screamed, raising her middle finger. She chose to ignore the fact that she shouldn’t have crossed.

  The patchwork leather jacket prevented the cold water from seeping through into her T-shirt but the black canvas jeans absorbed it and clung damply to her legs. A furtive glance around told her that the embarrassment level was low: no one had seen.

  The dark, open mouth of an underground passage loomed ahead. It didn’t frighten her nearly as much as admitting her weaknesses to a group of fellow drinkers who would now think her incontinent as well. I know, she decided, I won’t go. I’ll walk around until the meeting has finished, go back to the hostel and tell Mark I’m cured. The thought appealed to her for little more than a second, until she realised that her action would mean that she was running away and lying to Mark. Her thoughts changed pace. Why the hell should it matter that he’d smile with understanding while trying to hide his disappointment? Why should she care that his earlier pride and encouragement had been a waste of time? He was nothing to her. It was his job anyway – he got paid to irritate her. The aggression faded as quickly as it had appeared. It did matter.

  It wasn’t exactly where she’d imagined herself at twenty-three; wading through used condoms and syringes in a subway, on her way to meet a group of strangers to bare her soul. There was just one problem; she’d sold it years ago to the devil himself.

  The odour of stale urine invaded her nostrils as three youths came forward out of the darkness with cans of beer and lecherous expressions. Kit tensed slightly as she passed them. The crude catcalls started as she’d expected. They were unoriginal and nothing she hadn’t heard before.

  ‘Hello, darlin’, come and put your mouth round this!’ shouted a receding voice behind her.

  If he’d been talking about the can of lager she might have considered it.

  ‘Fire your bloody scriptwriter, you ignorant tosser!’ she called back before picking up a speed that she maintained until she reached the safety of the street.

  She shuddered with relief. At last a bit of life, a few crowds. Figures scurried hunched with heads down as protection against a wind that could freeze spit. Even at five minutes to seven the city centre was still buzzing with people leaving work.

  A brightly lit wine bar mocked her from across the street. She closed down all of her senses; taste, smell, sight, she could even hear the brandy calling. She groaned audibly as she passed by with her head bent low.

  Fifty yards before the entrance to the meeting place Kit spied a silver BMW parked beneath a street lamp. It looked suspiciously like the one that had almost reduced her to roadkill. A tiny red light flashed on the dashboard, which luckily she noticed just as she raised her foot in the direction of the driver’s door. She peered inside, wondering what it was like to be in the front of one of those cars. She’d spent plenty of time in the back doing her job.

  She took a deep breath before entering the building. The steep staircase, barely covered with a loose-fitting, threadbare carpet, did nothing to calm her churning stomach. She entered the smallest room on the top floor. The meeting had already begun and her attempt to join the sombre circle quietly was ruined by a loud screech as she pulled out a chair that had rubber missing from two legs.

  Oh well, no chance of being teacher’s pet now, she thought, sitting down as quietly as she could, just as the man beside her stood up.

  ‘My name is Kevin and I’ve been sober for seven months.’ Claps and cheers filled the room.

  ‘My name is George and I’ve been sober for twelve months.’ Enthusiastic claps, cheers and a lone whistle bounced back off the plasterboard walls.

  This cannot be real, Kit grimaced as they worked around the ten people there. There were men in suits, men in casuals and suit men dressed in casuals. This has to be a low-budget movie, she thought as she realised it was her turn.

  She stood abruptly. ‘My name is Kit and I’ve been sober for…’ she paused and checked her watch ‘…about thirty-five minutes.’

  An unappreciative audience remained silent. ‘Okay, okay, I’m sorry,’ she apologised.

  ‘Sit down, Kit,’ Jack said, shaking his head. Kit sat and stopped listening. She hoped the humiliation was in her mind only.

  Her long legs stretched lazily before her, crossed at the ankles in a position of forced nonchalance, bare arms folded across her breasts. The warm palms of her hands achieved little as they moved quickly over areas of goosebumps rising from her skin. Her body gave an involuntary shiver as a breeze of icy February air found its way through the wooden window frame and brushed past her bare neck. She wondered idly if she would receive another chastising glance from the group co-ordinator if she retrieved her jacket from the back of her chair to protect her from a room as warm as an Eskimo’s attic. Nope, she was in enough trouble already.

  When the pinstriped suit beside her clapped, she copied, throwing an occasional ‘well done’ in for good measure. Next came a cake complete with candles. Ooh, it’s a birthday party. Yippee, jelly and ice cream all round, Kit cringed, until she realised it was for a middle-aged man with a ruddy expression who’d abstained for a year. Yeah, so what, she wondered, fighting back the envy. Dry for a year, if only.

  She glanced at the redheaded woman opposite who even to her untrained eye was clad from head to toe in designer labels. The cream Armani jacket sat ramrod straight without touching the back of the chair as though supported by wooden stakes. Wouldn’t want to get that nice, expensive jacket dirty, would we, Kit though
t. Cold eyes stared right over Kit’s head.

  Her interest was piqued slightly as one man told how he’d been a doctor for twenty years after drinking continuously since medical school. It hadn’t affected his work until he’d chosen to get help. Kit was surprised until she thought about it: alcohol had numbed the effects of her job too.

  ‘Okay, that’s enough for now. Refreshments over there,’ Jack stated, motioning to an unvarnished table housing bottles of fruit juice and a stack of plastic cups. Kit didn’t hesitate. Anxious to leave the orange plastic chair that had imprinted itself on her behind, she hated sitting for long periods. Her legs were long and demanded exercise.

  She reached for the orange bottle – she could at least pretend there was gin in it. The telltale trembling returned as she tried to pour the juice into the feather-light cup that refused to stay upright against the force of the liquid.

  ‘Shit,’ she cursed as the table began to disappear beneath an orange blanket. She looked around for something to mop up the spillage as it seeped to the end of the table and trickled to the floor.

  ‘Let me help,’ murmured a strong female voice behind her. Kit’s gaze met with the cool, slate grey eyes that belonged to the redhead.

  ‘People have told me for years that I can’t hold my drink. I guess I’ve just proved them right.’

  A polite smile that held little warmth was the reply.

  Kit sensed rather than heard a presence loom up behind her. Her heart jumped inside her chest. She didn’t like anything behind her, it made her too vulnerable. She turned quickly, her body tense, but it was Jack, just Jack, the group co-ordinator. He registered her startled expression.

  ‘Sorry if I made you jump. Just trying to help.’

  Kit smiled shakily. She was being silly. She grabbed a cup of weak liquid from the table and stood against the metal radiator that kept her back safely against the wall.

  She chastised the jumping nerves in her stomach, but it was too late. An unwanted vision of Banda charged into her mind. His ebony face punctuated only by the absolute white of his eyes that held a manic glint that could travel the hundred miles that separated them and chill her blood to ice. Her memory filled in the detail of the shimmering blade in his hand. She shivered and forced the image away.

  ‘Are you all right? You looked a little shaken.’ Kit hadn’t seen Jack approach from behind. ‘I was only wondering why you were wet.’

  She forced a smile, imprinting Jack’s round, bearded face on top of Banda’s. ‘Some idiot in a flash car almost mowed me down and then attempted to drown me.’

  ‘Which probably wouldn’t happen if people used crossings properly,’ said the redhead, who was standing four feet away. Kit wondered if she could taste the plums that lived in her mouth.

  ‘Well, thanks for the shower and the heart condition,’ Kit sniped, hardly able to believe that such a car had been carrying an alkie no better than her.

  ‘Thank you for the hand gesture. Exactly what phrase would that be in sign language?’

  ‘I was trying to tell you to fu—’

  ‘Kit,’ Jack warned, as the woman re-took her seat.

  ‘What the hell is a woman like that doing here, and how many people did she sleep with to get that car?’

  Jack shook his head.

  ‘Inspiring surroundings, don’t you think?’ she remarked wryly at the drab paint that peeled in places from the wall. The stark emptiness punctuated only by an occasional suitably encouraging poster. The message was as outdated as the flared trousers and wide lapels of the individual smiling the heartening words. She’d been in rooms much like this one in London. The walls were the same, even the posters were similar, except those had warned against sexually transmitted diseases and encouraged contraception. She’d been escorted by Banda for her three-monthly check-ups to make sure she was clean. Even that indignity had to be observed by him after one of his girls had escaped by attacking the nurse and jumping from a second-floor window. Banda never made the same mistake twice.

  ‘I bet he needed a stiff drink after seeing that haircut,’ remarked Jack, following her eyes to the poster.

  ‘Hmm, very Saturday Night Feverish,’ she replied, pulling herself back from London. ‘How the hell are we expected to bare our hearts and souls in a room that’s like the inside of a fridge, but without the food?’

  She wondered at the likely reaction of these people if she bared her soul. She could imagine the faint expressions of distaste if she revealed her hidden nightmares. Which would shock them most? The one that lived in a two-up, two-down terraced house in Liverpool, anonymous in a line that stretched for half a mile; or the terror in a London flat that she’d escaped less than three months ago.

  Her hand softly touched the skin around her left eye. She had to remind herself that the bruises had gone but beneath the jeans a scar ran the entire width of her buttocks. It served as a permanent reminder. She would never forget.

  Jack summoned them back to their seats. It was time for the twelve Twelve Steps to be repeated and discussed. As it was Kit’s first night she was not expected to contribute too much, only observe. She noticed that Miss Fancy Pants said very little too. Kit listened while wondering idly if the AA principle was correct. Was alcoholism a disease of the spirit? And was spirit really a suitable word?

  An audible sigh of relief filled the room as the words, ‘See you at the next meeting,’ left Jack’s lips.

  Kit was already reaching for the heavy jacket behind her. It would be some comfort during the walk back to the hostel in the cheek-numbing wind. She was out of the door and down the stairs while some of the others waited for a private word with Jack.

  A coffee shop beckoned from across the road. She shrugged. Hell, why not make a night of it?

  The cafe was spacious with American diner booths that aided privacy. Fifties music played quietly in the background. Waitresses tended tables dressed in rock’n’roll attire, down to the nylon scarves and thick belts.

  Kit checked her back pocket. Three pounds was her total asset value yet she was about to blow two-thirds of that on a cappuccino. Sheer decadence.

  ‘Let me get that for you,’ said the news-reader voice of the redhead from across the road. Kit hadn’t seen her approach.

  ‘No thanks, I’m no charity case,’ she snapped, handing over her money.

  ‘I meant as an apology for our earlier altercation.’

  Kit didn’t even know what that was, but guessed she meant her attempt to get a breathing motif on the bonnet of her car.

  ‘Nah, I’ll just sue you instead,’ she snapped, heading directly for a booth beneath a ceiling-mounted blow heater. She removed her coat and shuddered as the circulating warm air caressed her bare arms.

  Shit, thought Kit as she saw the woman approaching her table. She wondered if the words ‘misfit magnet’ were stamped across her forehead.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  ‘Didn’t realise I was coming apart,’ Kit said.

  ‘Frances, Frances Thornton,’ the woman said, offering her hand.

  ‘Kit Mason,’ she replied, ignoring the outstretched hand, wishing this alcoholic would remain anonymous.

  The woman removed her drink from the tray and returned it to its proper place. Kit’s remained on the table. She sat at a perfect ninety-degree angle just as she had in the meeting. Christ, has she got a built-in spirit level or what? Kit wondered.

  Frances leaned forward. ‘That child by the counter is going to raise hell in a minute,’ she stated confidently.

  How utterly thrilling, Kit thought.

  As if on cue, a huge shriek, followed by a loud sobbing tantrum, ensued. Frances looked satisfied.

  ‘Got a crystal ball in there, have you?’ asked Kit, nodding towards the Gucci handbag.

  ‘I heard him wheedling and threatening for another piece of chocolate fudge cake. His dad was quietly telling him no as I walked past. It must be hard being a single parent.’

  ‘You can’t know that
,’ Kit snapped.

  ‘How old do you think that little boy is?’ Frances had to raise her voice over the increasingly dramatic squeals emanating from the small body.

  Kit shrugged disinterestedly, wishing this stranger would just go. ‘Dunno. Six or seven?’

  ‘Exactly. No wedding ring. It’s half term. It’s nearly nine thirty and they’re in an Americanised burger bar. He’s with Daddy for the school holidays.’

  ‘Well, I wish Daddy would shut him the hell up!’ Kit exploded at the exact second the child ceased crying. She was rewarded with a chilly expression from the father as he led his son out of the door.

  ‘Christ, there I go again! I only open my mouth to change feet. Thanks a lot, I’m thrilled you decided to sit by me,’ Kit said, trying not to laugh.

  The pursed lips turned slightly upwards into what Kit guessed must be a smile.

  ‘You got any kids?’ Kit asked, just for something to say.

  The shutters on her face slammed shut. Kit decided there were two people in that body.

  She shook her head. ‘You?’

  ‘I love kids but I’d struggle to eat a whole one,’ Kit said with a straight face. ‘Anyway, it’s too many years until you can send ’em to the shop for fags.’

  Kit had never really had a lot to do with children. She couldn’t remember being one and they’d had no place in her life in London. She thought that maybe she would like to have a child one day but she had plenty of time. She wanted to become a whole person by then.

  The muffled ringing of a mobile phone made them both jump. Frances scrambled in her bag. She pressed the answer button harshly. ‘Hello,’ she barked into the mouthpiece. Kit watched as her face closed up completely. ‘No, Mother, I’m not at home… Yes, the case went well… Yes, Mother, we won… No, promotion hasn’t been mentioned yet… I’m… s… so… ther… ad… li…’ Frances said, waving the phone about. She switched it off and placed it back in her handbag.

  ‘Nice trick,’ Kit observed.