HE (The Dartmoor Thrillers) Read online

  When he wasn't beaten or berated for being sloppy, selfish and useless, he would allow himself to silently dream of plans for his life ahead. These aspirations were guilty pleasures and alien perversions that had no place in his realty, even though, he was determined not to be the loser that his father had tried to make him. If his life was to be hard, he would make sure he did reap the rewards in later life, for all the sacrifices he had suffered when he was younger.

  Even as young as five, the necessity of fending for himself, with no affection, no smidgen of kindness was his reality. As soon as his mother had walked out the door, leaving her cold, mean and physically violent husband, she had abandoned him to a life not worth living. Like the animals at the slaughter house, where his father worked, he was at everyone's mercy. With no other carers and poor attendance at school, he felt the brunt of the harsh life his father felt would give him the backbone for life he needed to survive. He was never to repeat what went on indoors, that was made clear. Their private life, was their private life.

  Any display of tears were ridiculed, he was given something real to cry about, usually involving his father smacking him around the head so hard he would fall to the ground and be kicked. He learnt once on the ground to protect his head by curling up in the foetal position. As he got older and wasn't caught so easily off balance he was punched harder, when his tears wouldn't appear his father would rent his full rage, only stopping when exhausted. He wondered if the animals at the abattoir were treated the same as they showed fear before they were slaughtered.

  His father would scream what a waste of time he was, soft like his whore of a mother and a drain on his resources. He pitied his son his cowardly nature and vowed to make him a tougher man. His drinking was also the fault of his son, he would have had a better life if he had not been burdened with him, he ranted when inebriated.

  Not once had he ever had a friend back to his house, how could he? Never once had he been invited to a party. He was the kid without a mum. Whose father never put in an appearance at his school. He walked to and from school alone. No one ever questioned this state of affairs, indeed, he had heard teachers say that his father was to be admired for trying to bring up a child alone and still keep his job going. It was so much harder for a man, they didn't bother him with the small things they noticed about his son. The fact that he was dirty, badly dressed, often late and off school, didn't register.

  Other mothers would stand around the playground gates, chatting amicably and planning opportunities for their children to attend clubs and activities. He learnt early to not look in their direction because of the scrutiny his clothes and his appearance received. He knew, they knew about his mother. He didn't want their sympathy, their lack of understanding, their ignorant simple judgements. His mum the slapper that had run off with a sailor from Plymouth leaving her child and husband. His father viciously taunted him as the offspring of skate bate. Never referring to the fact that his own father had been a criminal. Not once did those sickeningly over sweet mums offer to walk alongside and sincerely engage him in conversation to see how he was. Not once did they flash him an ounce of a smile that they threw loosely out to the hoards of other children who streamed out from the school at home time.

  On one occasion in his final year, he remembered, Angela Goldthorpe's mum actually trying to engage in conversation with him by yelling out in an excruciating manner, “You alright love. Still miss yer mum do you?" Then turning to another mum, in a vulgar over loud voice, not meant for his ears, she had said ,"Poor little sod, better off without her, she always was trouble."

  The irony of this statement, of how anyone could have a better life living at the sole mercy of his father had never left him. He felt the neglect he endured, must be written all over him but apparently not. But then neither did he want pity either, then he would be the weak one.

  When he was really young he would allow himself to replay daydreams like a scene from his own film. He would be at school, get a message to go to the office and there his mum would be with her new partner and they would take him back to their home to live with them. He would perfect every detail of this imaginary happening, right down to her outstretched arms, her loving smile, the fresh flowery smell of her perfume and how pleased her new partner was to have him as his son.

  She did love him. She had wanted him in her life. There must have been a good reason she couldn't take him with her when she went.

  These daydreams wilted with age and the harsh reality of his life compared to the comfortable lives of other children around him.

  The lovingly packed lunch boxes, an extension of everyone else's mother's over coveting, came out every lunchtime to taunt him at how unloved and uncared for he was. He had for a short time stolen snacks when he had felt no fear of being caught but had stopped when the eye of suspicion had temporarily focused on him. The dread of his father being called in, put the brakes on these little luxuries. His meagre simple lunches attracting sneers and quips that he learnt to ignore, eventually.

  When cruel remarks really stung him, he relied on his ability to talk to himself in his head to steel himself. He was the smelly kid, the boy whose grandad had committed suicide in prison, whose father was a loser, so he was branded one too. Small communities never forget bad news, he was never allowed to forget his parentage. So he learnt never to forget those who taunted him. When he was snubbed or criticised, he would inwardly reassure himself that that person would get their comeuppance. If he was physically or verbally teased, he would stare at the ground and imagine what he would do back and enjoy the increasingly imaginative punishments he would hand out, visually in his head. When he had his things hidden or broken, by those who knew he was an easy target, he would keep a tally of hurt in his mind , like a point system that he was now owed by the culprit. He felt more empowered that way, because all the others were too stupid to realise just how much they owed him. When he was in bed at night, he would have delicious dreams of revenge at specific children who wounded, hurt and made his life worse. In these dreams, he would have super powers that meant he could beat them at everything and in the end they were very sorry for the hurt they had caused and they always said sorry. Primary school had confirmed he was not like other children with normal families, or so he believed. At home his father ensured he was one of those children who could never have anything like a normal childhood.

  He remembered his father coming home. In particular he remembered , the daily dread he felt, as his father stripped off his abattoir overalls at the back door, stinking of animal waste, blood and the faeces where the animals had shat themselves as they lined up to die.

  It was his job to soak the overalls, wash them by hand and wring them out until they were able to be hung above the Aga and be worn the next day. If they were still damp or there was any scrap of filth on them he would have his face ground into the overalls with his father's spittle landing on his skin as he swore and screamed obscenities of what would happen,if it occurred again. It was on one of these occasions, his father driven into a frenzy of rage, performed an act of barbaric violence against him. He didn't watch as his father pulled up his trousers and left the room, slamming the door.

  From that day on real terror and shame lived in his mind, body and soul, like nothing he thought could exist. All he could do was wonder why his mother had left him there to be brutalised.

  Again and again and again.

  Why? Why didn't she take him with her?

  She knew the type of man her husband was. She must have hated her child to condemn him to this life. Was he the end result of being brutalised herself.

  He must be worthless to have been left and fit for nothing. Perhaps the very sight of him had sickened her and that is why she left.

  Eye contact with others and himself stopped after that day. He could not bear to look at himself or for others to look at him, in case they saw what he was. They would know what had happened and what he was. He was the filthy by-product of his parents di
s functional relationship. His mother young, naive and dominated. His father the brutal legacy left by his mental case of a grandfather.

  Secondary school was worse than primary school, with a whole new set of physical, emotional and mental barbed torturous events.

  He watched others being young and carefree, while they could be, knowing he could never have this time in his life again. He turned that jealousy of their laughter and camaraderie into pure and unadulterated hatred. He was exceptionally able to hide this hatred, never exploding, just storing it up inside like a bomb with a timer. He watched the boys in his school of a similar age go through the rituals of developing into young men and despised their bonds, their success with girls and their hobbies. He was in turn so different from them all, he became the easy target of their derision. He was the loser. The smelly, unattractive, lonely young boy with no skills to equip him against their taunts, their misunderstanding. While he did not understand all his father preached to him, he was able to find strange comfort in his anger at the endless bullying he endured. He had his own belief system developing based on the warped lonely, lifestyle his father had imposed on him and the need to punish those around him for their cruelty and their bad life choices that he could never be a part of.

  If only those who hurt him realised that he was keeping a tally. There would be a day of reckoning for them all. Even adults who should know better, labelled him and treated him as a loser, like his father did. The boys who isolated him from their friendship groups and the girls who sneered. The weekend job employers who never gave him the chance to prove himself. They would all pay. They would all realise the error of their ways.

  He was going to prove to them all now that he was a person to be noticed. Quite a few people would now be very sorry for the suffering he had had to put up with. Then he could move on and draw a line under the past and have the future he wanted. He knew he could not unsee or unhear and undo, all that had happened to him. But he could get peace, if they got their comeuppance.

  Payback time. He was going to clear the score board.

  Chapter Four

  "Let's be having you guv, get a move on," chimed the two sergeants as Rob Robertson entered his department room at Police-headquarters.

  The lets-be-having you jokes were wearing very thin, after a solid year of ridicule since his wife, police constable Annie Robertson had buggered off and left him for another female officer.

  Male pride to one side, the devastation she had left behind her at home with their two boys, while she went off to rediscover her sexuality was primarily picked up and dealt with solely by him and the occasional appearance of her parents, to remind the boys that she, their mother was still a warm and caring person who was just having an identity crisis that she would get over.

  He tried hard to button his lip on their visits and to announce what an evil, conniving selfish bitch Annie actually was and kept himself busy with work, the boys, or occasionally in his allotment near their home in Lamerton. He went less to the local pub, as he was now eyed with sympathy and Annie was only referred to as 'her' or an 'it', as it seemed beyond West Devon repertoire to understand why a married woman with children, a husband, home and allotment would want to come out publicly as gay. Although he had never heard any detrimental comments about his own role as the man in the marriage, that had failed so spectacularly, he perceived sympathy from every set of eyes that sat around the bar and every conversation in a quiet tone, he imagined, just had to about his inadequacies.

  He'd felt the butt of the joke all through school for being called Robert Robertson, his parents apparently thought it'd had a nice ring to it, he felt it was severely limited in imagination, yet being the butt of this latest marital farce paired the name joke to an all-time low.

  As a good looking athletic man, he had never had a shortage of attention from women. The irony was that he had broken off a long term relationship, after being pursued by Annie for months after she transferred to Tavy. The quips about how crap he must be in bed for his wife to prefer women, somewhere deep down had left a permanent mark. He felt a deeper failure than a man might, if his wife had simply left him for another man.

  He woke up from his bitter reflections, as a large styrofoam cup of something was sloshed down in front of him on his paper laden desk and his partner in crime, Kate Tregullan, announced he needed to return an urgent phone call to a distressed parent of a missing teenager.

  "Who is the kid, how long have they been missing and what's the background?" He mumbled.

  "Nice, very caring and you being a father and all.Not the response that will boost our ratings in the local community Rob! Another bad night I am assuming. Did the in-laws pop in for a friendly chat?"

  "Okay, point taken and yes they did."

  "The mother that rang is a Mrs Sellars, married to a Dr Sellars, a doctor based at Derriford Hospital. They live out at Mary Tavy. Their youngest daughter, Andrea went to bed last night, the mother went to wake her up, so she wasn't late for her shift at her summer cafe job and she was gone. Not much missing, possibly an old backpack, a teddy and some clothes. Mother says it is completely unusual and is beside herself. Rang in straightaway about 7.30, after she found the girl was missing. I have an address, we could stop at the pasty house on the way, which would give you time to brush up on your personality and hopefully, a decent coffee and a pasty, might sharpen up your people skills too. Yes?"

  Only Kate got to speak to him on this level. They had known each other a long time, all through training and were solid mates. He grabbed his stuff and followed her to their car for the day, from a pool of three waiting in the yard.

  Heart FM came on the radio, some bloody love song that vaguely held some significance in his past with Annie was being aired, so he hastily switched the dial to Radio two where he tried to focus on answering the pop master questions and beating his previous all-time record of fifteen. On a chosen topic of something totally obscure the contestant was crashing worse than he was, so this time the radio was switched off. Kate emerged from the pasty house with two takeaway coffees, a standard steak pasty for him and the normal veggie one that Kate religiously stuck to.

  He burnt his mouth on the super-hot snack within the first bite and Kate laughed at his impatience. His mood lifted with every mouthful, despite feeling that he had no roof left on the top of his mouth and soon he was back to taking the piss out of Kate for her veggie pasty based on his theory that no self-respecting miner would have ever allowed a pasty to have no meat in it, if they were to have the energy for a full shift down a local tin mine.

  They argued over the quality of each other's diets until they pulled into the drive of a detached cottage in the picturesque village of Mary Tavy, fifteen minutes from the station albeit a little longer with their pasty shop visit.

  As soon as the car was parked, a tall elegant woman somewhere in her forties came into view, her eyes red and puffy from crying and obviously impatient to speak.

  "Good Morning, Mrs Sellars, I am Detective Sargent Robertson and this my partner..."

  "I rang two hours ago, police sergeant, do you have idea how urgent this is..", sobbed the visibly hysterical woman, looking as if she could throttle him for his stupid introduction.

  " and this is Kate Tregullan. Shall we go indoors and talk about your daughter's disappearance, so we can gather some information together."

  Rob followed the distraught woman through a back path at the side of the garden and into a rear entrance, where after bowing to go through the low doorway, he entered a stunning architecturally designed modern extension that served as a kitchen and dining area. The cottage itself was grade listed like many of the cottages in the village; whoever had designed the extension, brought it to a new level of modern well-lit luxury, so it was hard to not be impressed with it.

  The solid light oak beams supporting a glass roof, married well with the beautiful warmth of the real wooden floor and the expensive bespoke kitchen cabinets and furnishings, not seen in m
any coppers houses, that's for sure.

  Once seated around the circular kitchen table, Christine Sellars, handed over a recent school photo of her daughter, emphasising continually that her daughter never left the house without letting them know where she would be and without her phone charged. She had obviously been busy on the phone to every friend and parent she knew of her daughters friends and contacts, to complete her own search. Allowing her to outline her daughter's personality, friends, school life and complete domestic timetable, Rob listened patiently, only interrupting to firm up the essential details he needed.

  “This may be a hard question to answer Christine, if I may call you that, but what reasons would your daughter have to suddenly leave the house without any explanation to you or your husband?"

  “I don't know what you are intimating constable..."

  "Detective," corrected Rob. This followed a look of daggers by Kate that reminded him that he needed to let some things go. Funnily, his ex-wife did the same and look where that got him, but he conceded Kate probably had a point at this time.

  "If Andrea had no obvious reason to leave, that you are aware of, we need to establish why she did. There is no sign of a break in, you heard no noises, so we perhaps can all safely assume she left of her own free will and that is what I was trying to get to the bottom of, Christine. This is a deeply distressing time for you and so we need to get to a motive that may help us to relocate her. Can I ask where your husband is?"

  “He had to go into work to rearrange his appointments," she replied showing her dismay at his priorities, " but promised he'd be back ASAP."