Her friend was so unlike her parents. He sent her “listening” messages – open-ended questions followed by soft advice. He referred to her as sweetie. A strange endearment because from anyone else, it would have been creepy. It helped that Freddie Z, as he was known on Facebook, was a trained counsellor who ran a victim support group. Somehow, unlike the social workers she shunned, he knew how to handle Ellen, who struggled to accept that her destiny had been determined by her father stabbing a man to death. When that poor sod's heart had been pierced by the blade, hers had been too.
From then on, she had relinquished her maternally depleted mother of any semblance of parental responsibility and gave it to Freddie. He read her messages, which he insisted she use in an encrypted service, and he answered them in a considerate fashion, but not always immediately. He teased out her ambitions, especially her love of history and archaeology. And her fears.
She had dreaded visiting days. Mark used to tag along, but after he had left home he insisted on going on his own, if he bothered to go at all. On her last visit, approaching the imposing prison gates, she had nearly retched. Hearing the keys clang and the doors slam behind them, she had been convinced she would be shut in with those violent men and left there as some kind of punishment for keeping her secret, the one Mark knew nothing about. Ellen had been watched the whole way by security cameras and the gnarled men with their faded tattoos and creased uniforms. In the visitors’ room, they had ogled her breasts; the one part of her that seemed to grow disproportionately to the rest of her shapeless body.
‘Remember he's innocent,’ Deidre had whispered.
‘Then why is he still here?’
After that awful encounter with her father, who hadn’t looked her in the eyes and bundled cigarette packets into his pockets, Ellen decided she wouldn’t visit him anymore.
She had spent the last summer holiday in Manchester volunteering for a local archaeology trust that excavated urban sites; something worthwhile and enjoyable, and the time away from Deidre had brought her into adulthood with the belief her fate lay in her own hands and nobody else's. Freddie had suggested she leave home and seek out the excitement of London, and new adventures. Get out and meet people, he had typed.
She had packed her bags on her eighteenth birthday, any hope of studying archaeology shattered by the lack of money. She refused to cry when she had tottered up the costs of going to university, instead she had hatched a different plan – raise the money herself. Announcing to Deidre that she was leaving home to find work in London as a secretary or administrator or something, Ellen had braced herself for the anticipated tirade of disappointment. Instead, Deidre had spoken with icy precision from behind a veil of cigarette smoke.
‘Selfish. Idiotic. Girl.’
Ellen hadn’t minded the idiot. With a good batch of exam results, she wasn’t stupid. However, the selfish had riled to the point of fury. Leave her, the little voice in her head screamed. Let Deidre dedicate her life to proving her husband's innocence, something that had consumed her since Ellen’s twelfth birthday.
How's London, sweetie? Freddie had written the day after she had arrived.
Great. Liberating. I've a little bedsit in a sea of bedsits. I've met this guy called Nicky. He's living above me and moved in at the same time. He's lovely.
Lovely?
She had ignored the hint of jealousy.
Don't fret. He's gay.
It had been a couple of hours before he sent a reply.
Be careful, sweetie. People aren't always what they seem.
She had agreed. She knew exactly what he meant.
Freddie steadfastly remained her pillar, her secret daddy. If anyone else asked what she meant by seeking advice, she referred to her professional counsellor, Mr Z. He was so much better than social workers at teasing out her problems, so much more interested in her life than her own mother.
Freddie was the best.
She gulped down her diet coke. Freddie wanted to know everything about her abrupt meeting, what she and Mark talked about, how it felt to have her brother back in her life. He was such a curious bloke.
She typed furiously.
Forensic accountant?
Ellen explained as briefly as possible what Mark had told her. It wasn’t the best explanation, but Freddie was quick as well as curious.
Like a copper, but for a company?
Yes. He works for Haynes Financials. It's on his business card.
She flipped the card over to examine the corporate logo.
She waited. Minutes ticked. She switched on the television and channel hopped. It happened sometimes. Freddie had other clients and she shouldn't monopolise his time every evening. She was one of many girls he helped. Boys, too, he frequently pointed out. She knew, given how secretive he was about his work, that they had been abused. At least her father wasn't like that. He wasn't that kind of nasty man. Bill Clewer orchestrated things but had never got his hands dirty. Until that one day of extreme violence.
Good for him.
His brevity signalled the end. He was too busy now
