Susie's Secret

By Beryl Lowe

susie has cause to look back from her years of living in auckland mew zealand to the traumas, fears and happy times that led her there. but when that past resurfaces, she has to confront these feelings once more and deal with them forever. enabling her to continue her life with peace of mind.
the year is 2015 - susie is living in auckland new zealand with her fifteen year old daughter. circumstances happen while she is preparing for her art exhibition at a friends gallery; her mind is spiralled back on a memory trip. a long held back, deep seated memory which she has not been able to face since the freak accident in which her husband died.
she opens up to the time back in 1997 in spain where a stupid mistake put her in danger and altered her attitude to life forever. she now has a secret she can not divulge to anyone, not ever. but goes on to meet people who help her face the future; a future holding marriage to a wonderful man, a daughter and lifestyle she never dreamed possible.
the release of these deep held memories afford her the opportunity to realize she can go forward into the future, and laugh again, without guilt. maybe to even love again!

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Goodwin
• Release date: Nov 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781999720414

Beryl Lowe

Beryl was born in the north of England. Over the years, she spent a lot of time in Australia, New Zealand and America. She is now retired to live and write in Cyprus where she is an active member of The Paphos Writers Group. This is part two of her trilogy. She is working on part three.

Book preview

Susie’s Secret

A novel by Beryl Lowe

Copyright © 2017 Beryl Lowe

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

The views, content and descriptions in this book do not represent the views of Anixe Publishing. Some of the content may be offensive to some readers and they are to be advised.

Objections to the content in this book should be directed towards the author and owner of the intellectual property rights as registered with their local government.

All characters portrayed in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Published by

Anixe Publishing Ltd

www.anixepublishing.co.uk

E-Book Edition

ISBN 978-1-9997204-1-4

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This book is dedicated to

Alison & Colin.

— Love you —

*

How time can disappear in seconds when memories flood in.

Beryl Lowe

Susie’s Secret.

Acknowledgements

TO MY FRIENDS

Teresa Elliot, John Goodwin and Sharon Whitehouse. I am indebted to them for their patience, time and enthusiasm as I created this second part of my trilogy.

1. Maggie’s Secret -2016

2. Susie’s Secret -2017

3. Lizzie’s Secret – to come

I also wish to thank my sailing club friends, Kit, John, Tony and Mike for answering my many questions.

Special thanks to Sharon Whitehouse for the cover design.

Contents

Chapter 1 New Zealand 2015

Chapter 2 England September 1997

Chapter 3 Spain October 1997

Chapter 4 New Zealand 2015

Chapter 5 Spain 1997

Chapter 6 Spain Hotel 19977

Chapter 7 Auckland New Zealand 2015

Chapter 8 Spain 1997

Chapter 9 France 1997.

Chapter 10 To England

Chapter 11 Somerset - England 1997

Chapter 12 Auckland New Zealand 2015

Chapter 13 New Zealand 1997 Memories

Chapter 14 Auckland New Year 1998

Chapter 15 Auckland New Zealand 2015

Chapter 16 Auckland Memories 1998

Chapter 17 New Zealand Memories

Chapter 18 Auckland New Zealand 2015

Chapter 19 Memories 2011

Chapter 20 Auckland New Zealand 2015

Chapter 21 Europe December 2015

Chapter 22 Somerset December 2015

The End

About the Author

Chapter 1 New Zealand 2015

As I pushed the door to The Gallery, it gave way as a young man held it open.

‘Oh hello,’ he said, as he stepped back inside the entrance to let me pass through. ‘I was hoping to see you.’

‘Do I know you?’ I asked, faintly recognising him.

‘I’m with the Weekly Reporter and was going to ask for an interview - is that possible? Just a little time - now I’m begging,’ he laughed.

How could I not take notice of this, as I laughed too!

‘Not today,’ I told him, ‘but I will ring you, do you have a card?’

He produced his card and handed it to me.

‘I too come from the UK; what brought you to New Zealand?’ he asked.

‘Long story,’ I replied as I turned to go into the gallery to help Diane organise my exhibition.

That night, as I looked back on my day, I reflected on the young reporter. What had he asked? ‘What brought you to New Zealand?’

Dare I let my mind go back, would it be easier after all this time. Where do I start!

Chapter 2 England September 1997

The happiness of knowing I had a degree after three years at Falmouth College of Art in Cornwall! Decisions - do I take a year out and go travelling with my friends in Europe, or do I apply for a teaching job and earn some money to help pay off my student loan.

Both those options were taken away from me after I received a telephone call from Spain. My parents had been killed in a car crash. They had only been home in Spain a week after visiting friends in the north of England. Then they had come to Cornwall to see me get my degree. It was a happy time of meeting my friends; Marion they already knew, as she had been to Spain with me to their house. Lots of splashing in the pool and sun-bathing!

‘Use factor 30 or you’ll regret it when you’re older’, I can hear my mother’s voice.

Then my father standing in the doorway calling ‘turn over’! We had asked him to inform us every 15 minutes to do this, to get an even tan all over, well almost, as we lay in our bikinis.

We took a trip on a pirate boat up the coast and landed in a small cove. There were men already there cooking the most massive paella you could imagine; the pan must have measured two metres across and full of chicken, rice, tomatoes, mussels and big chunks of bread to soak up the juices. Rough red and white wines were flowing freely and we all went back on board with smiles on our faces.

Marion held my hand as we talked about these times and how we must not take time for granted. Making memories; memories I am remembering now.

My parents had lived happily in Spain for three years after my mother took retirement from teaching art and my father sold his business. They were looking forward to years of sunshine and the lifestyle it gives. They both loved their golf and sailing, had joined clubs and made many new friends. My mother gave art lessons to a few people in her studio - a part of the house they had bought in a town called Nerja on the Spanish coast about thirty-five miles from Malaga. Nerja had a good mix of European and Spanish people for them to choose to spend the rest of their lives with. They were so happy doing all the things they had planned for their retirement.

The house was in a quiet road, part of a small complex. I loved my many holidays there in the long college breaks. It was a time of getting to know my parents in a different way to growing up in England. We were all adults now and they were no longer stressed with working life. More relaxed, as they sipped their gin and tonic on the balcony, looking at the Mediterranean Sea glistening in front of them.

I am an only child and totally unexpected as my mother told me. They had given up trying for a baby and then along came me; my mother was thirty-eight years old. I know I had a privileged childhood and realised this as I grew up visiting the homes of many school friends. I was aware of broken homes, divorces and abuse - sometimes to mothers from drunken husbands, and to a friend personally, where mental torture can be worse than the bruises. This taught me to appreciate my secure easy home life, but sometimes I wished I had a brother or sister. Being an only child can be quite lonely but I think this helped me value my friends; they loved to come to my house and be spoilt by my mother and her home baking.

Chapter 3 Spain October 1997

A daze surrounded me as I flew to Spain. Friends of my parents met me at the airport and took me to the house. The nightmare of entering and knowing they would not be there ever again. It was arranged to have a cremation. I know that is what they wished, as it was in their will, and the ashes to be scattered from a boat. It was very moving for everyone; tears ran down my face as I stood on a friend’s boat. He turned it into the breeze and I let the ashes blow away into the wind and sea. They are together, I told myself as I crumpled into a heap on the seat and wept.

We returned to their favourite restaurant for something to eat and drink. I realised how happy they had been for the past three years with these lovely people, their friends.

Entering the house, now mine, I wandered around in a lost fashion going from room to room just looking into space.

What do I do now? I looked up and asked for help. Back to Falmouth came into my head. I had been sharing a flat for my three years at college. That tenancy was now at an end so I could move to Spain - but not this house. It would be better to sell it and buy something else, an apartment maybe, but where? I felt I was drifting in a sea of nowhere. The world was open to me, but where to go?

I decided to speak to an estate agent for some idea of the value of the house. I could go back to England, sort out my things there and talk to Marion, my friend.

‘Come home,’ she advised on the phone. ‘Leave that sadness behind for a while.’ I did just that. Closed up the house and went back home.

Marion was going travelling with her boyfriend, Ben.

‘Come with us to India,’ they encouraged.

All these thoughts were going around in my mind - but what option to take?

In a short time, with Marion’s help and sensible attitude, I made a decision. I called the estate agent in Nerja to say I would be back to sort out the house, put it on the market and sign any necessary papers. Then I put my few things from the flat in the basement of a friend’s house and booked a flight back to Spain.

Everything I needed was at my parent’s house - now mine, or so it would be when all of the paper work was finalised with the lawyers. It would take a while but if anyone was interested in buying the house the circumstances could be explained. So, carrying only hand luggage, I made my way through departures, bought a bottle of water and opened my book, keeping an eye on the departure board. Go to gate came up and I followed my fellow passengers there. Another wait and we were boarding. Settling into my window seat, I was aware of a man taking up the next seat to me. We passed smiles as we did up our seat belts and settled in for the journey.

He was pleasant looking, brown hair, medium build, tanned face and hands - spent a lot of time in the open. That was my assessment of him. He asked if I was going on holiday and I told him I had a house in Nerja. He was going to collect a motor cruiser to deliver it to near Barcelona, making his way up the Mediterranean; port hopping.

‘Sounds wonderful,’ I remarked.

We talked about our love of sailing and exchanged stories and experiences. He had been in the Navy from an early age, but now enjoyed moving around the world, working as he pleased on yachts or anything that floats on the sea.

‘Never tried a submarine,’ he laughingly joked and held out his hand to introduce himself. ‘Sam Matthews.’

‘Susan Barclay,’ I replied.

Time flew by as we chatted easily, remembering little tales to tell each other.

‘How are you getting to Nerja?’ Sam asked me and I explained there was a coach that ran up the coast from Malaga airport, but the timing was bad and I would have a long wait for the next one.

‘No problem,’ he explained how he had a car waiting for him. ‘The owners of the boat have gone to America and left their car for me to pick up. I can give you a lift. The Susie, as the boat is called, his wife’s name, is in a marina about a ten minute drive this side of Nerja. So, if you can wait while I call and check in, I can run you up the road to Nerja.’

‘Sounds a good idea and I would love to see The Susie, my namesake too. Thank you.’

‘She’s not a modern craft,’ he explained. ‘She’s a good sturdy boat. The owners had their sailing years, but now need the comfort of a cruiser to keep their enjoyment of the sea; age catching up with them.’

In no time we had landed. Neither of us had a case to collect, so we went straight through customs and out to the car park. Sam had all the instructions and found the car key on top of the tyre under the wheel arch. The car started and we were on the way. The sun was shining and we were soon on the coast road from Malaga, enjoying the warm breeze through the open windows.

‘It’s so good to be back on the Med,’ he remarked as he threw back his head, absorbing the sea breeze and sunshine.

’I’ve missed it so much,’ he exclaimed. ’It’s a whole different world to living in England.’ At that moment, I agreed with him.

‘Why don’t you come with me on the Susie? Do you have to be anywhere in particular?’ He suggested, ‘We could take our time calling in at ports. There is no hurry, no time scale for the boat to be delivered. Just imagine how wonderful it could be.’

Yes, I could imagine it would be wonderful, but I had to see the estate agent and the lawyer, and I don’t know this man. I was sorely tempted to say yes. No one would miss me for a while. No precise appointments had been made.

‘But no,’ I explained, ‘I can’t do that, however much I’m tempted’

Sam was quiet for a while so we drove in silence. He seemed deep in thought and I felt I had upset him in some way, perhaps rejection after his suggestion.

As we came is sight of the Marina he became animated again, trying to catch sight of the Susie and where she was berthed. He had a plan of the Marina and his instructions. We parked in the owner’s car park and he went to an office building. I waited by the car in the shade of a tree. It was a while before I saw him coming back, smiling and jiggling some keys.

The Susie was berthed at the end of a long gangway. We passed about eight different craft to get to her. She was beautiful, her name painted in exquisite curls and squiggles. As we stepped on board I could feel the slight movement of the harbour waters.

‘Let’s see what we have here,’ Sam remarked as he set about inspecting the Susie.

I was entranced by everything about her.

Chapter 4 New Zealand 2015

I was brought out of my reverie by the telephone ringing. It was Diane, refining some details of the exhibition.

‘What about an article in the Weekly Reporter?’ She asked.

I told her of the young journalist that morning wanting an interview.

‘Can you deal with it’? Then it will be in the paper before we open. I know we already have some coverage, but never too much and he seemed quite professional when he came asking for you this morning. His father is Simon Brookes, the editor of the paper,’ she added.

‘Really,’ I answered her. ‘I know him quite well. I knew his wife, Margaret. It’s hard to believe that Jack is their little boy all grown up. Where does time go these days? I’ll give him a call.’

After we had finished talking, I took Jack’s card out of my handbag and rang his mobile number.

‘Hi, Jack here.’ Music came over the background and it sounded as if he was in a bar.

‘Sorry to be so late Jack.’ I explained who I was and asked if he could do an interview, tomorrow if possible, to get it into the paper before the exhibition started.

‘No problem, what time suits you?’

We made arrangements for the following day and I made my way to bed.

*

We shook hands.

‘Thank you for the interview and good luck with the exhibition.’

‘No, thank you Jack and say hello to your father.’

The door closed with a click and, leaning back against it, I fought a wave of exhaustion. Turning to look out of the side window, the handsome young journalist was getting into his red sports car. Had he noticed my hesitation at some of his personal questions? If so, hopefully he would put it down to being interviewed with the voice recorder beside me. The car circled the lawn and headed up the drive. Watching until the red spot disappeared over the hill and out of sight; I sighed with relief and made my way back to my studio. Sitting at my desk with the warmth of the sun on my back, I could feel the tension leaving my body. I was aware of how quickly past memories could bring back physical feelings - feelings of fear.

Looking at the calendar in front of me, I counted back the years on my fingers since it all began. Daring myself, I opened the desk drawer and reached to the back, knowing it to be the only way to face and control those overwhelming feelings from the past, to put them in their place forever and ever, never to be caught out again.

I took the box, and putting it in front of me, I lifted the lid. There were two objects - one a key on an elaborate fob with the word Nerja printed on it -a key from my parent’s house in Spain. The other object I didn’t want to touch - a cigarette lighter. I shook the box to make it turn over and revealed the name of the owner - SAM. I made myself pick it up and flicked open the top. I tried to engage a flame but it was so old the fuel had evaporated. I wonder if it would work, I thought, so went into Raef’s flat to find some lighter fuel. It worked! I was amazed. I flicked it on and off a few times. Going back to my studio, I placed it on my desk in front of me and observed it. My memories came flooding back.

Chapter 5 Spain 1997

I remember being on the lovely old boat, the Susie, sitting having a drink and soaking up the sunshine. Sam called me to go down below. I made my way carefully, watching the steps and, bending my head, wondering what the strong smell was, I felt my hair being pulled back and a hand going over my face. It held a pad covered in chloroform. I recognised the smell as I drifted down and down.

It was dark when I opened my eyes. I was lying down. Lifting my hand to rub my eyes, I realised my hands were tied together. Panicking, I tried to sit up. Oh no! My ankles were also tied. The panic made me struggle and I fell off the bunk, banging my head on a locker. Rolling on the floor, I felt something - it was a plastic bucket. I felt sick; the nausea rose in my stomach and heaved the vomit into my throat. I groaned as I felt the acid rise into my mouth. I retched and retched over the bucket, then needed desperately to empty my bladder. Struggling to get up enough to squat over the bucket, I felt relief as I peed into the vomit.

The light came on and Sam stood at the open door.

‘A lot of noise in here!’ he shouted. In the light, I realised I was naked and blinking, reached up to pull the cover off the bunk and held it over myself, hands clasped together in front of me. I cowered on the floor, my back against the locker.

‘Come on girlie! Get yourself cleaned up.’ He heaved me to my feet and pushed me into a tiny shower room. Making me sit on the toilet, he reached in and cut the ties on my wrists and ankles.

I was totally disorientated, still under the influence of the drug. He turned on the water for the shower and I put out my foot to feel it. Then I managed to ease myself onto my feet using my hands against the walls of the tiny shower cubicle. I found I couldn’t stand, so let myself slide down the wall onto the floor and curl up into a ball; the water eased over my back and head.

I heard a high-pitched sound and realised it was me screaming, a strangled pitiful cry like a frightened animal.

‘No one can hear you.’ Sam’s strange voice came to me. ‘Scream all you like; no one will hear you girlie.’

Eventually Sam appeared with some clothes in his hand. ‘Get dry and put these on.’ He threw them onto the floor outside the cubicle.

I stood enough to dry myself on the rough towel; my breasts felt quite sore. Struggling in the small space, but not wanting to leave it, I managed to get into the shorts and tee shirt.

‘Come on, back to the bunk.’ He reached for my arm, dragged me back to the cabin and threw me onto the bunk. ‘Sleep now!’ he commanded as he slid the door back into place and turned off the light. I heard the lock click.

I could hear him moving about overhead. Exhausted with the struggle and effect of the drug I must have slept.

When I woke, my mind was clearer and I could recall everything. How long was I out for? I asked myself. What did he do to me? Investigating my body, I realised I was quite sore between my legs and touching my nipples was really painful; also there was some kind of cream inside me. What sort of pervert has sex with an unresponsive body? This thought flashed through my mind.

*

There were two bananas, two apples and a bottle of water on the locker. I grabbed the water and drank deeply over and over again.

The sky was becoming lighter around the edges of the windows. The covering on the outside of the windows was not quite blackening out the daylight. My hand luggage was on the other bunk. Tipping it out, I found my small handbag. Thankfully, it still contained my passport and cards. I have to get away, I have to get away, I repeated to myself. I must stay calm and plan. How long since we left, how long have we been moving? – could be days, I rumoured. How long does chloroform last? I had no idea; maybe he reapplied it before I came round the first time. Could he do that? I wish I had done nursing instead of art, I may have understood more. No point going there, just stick with what I know, I told myself as my head felt groggy and I sank back onto the bunk.

The light went on and the door slid open. Sam stood there. He reached into the pile of clothes on the bunk.

‘Put that on.’ He pulled out the black underskirt I had used as a nightie and threw it at me. ’I’ll be back,’ and closed the door.

I wanted to climb into the tiny closet and lock the door so he couldn’t get to me. I’d rather starve than have him touch me. I rolled off the bunk and stood up, letting my shorts drop to the floor. I stepped out of them. Exhaustion overtook me with the effort to raise my arms to remove the tee shirt. I donned the underskirt, curled up into a ball on the bunk.

My mind kept telling me not to upset him; I lay on the bunk and waited but my head was going round and round thinking what has he done to me? I felt he would have used a condom. Surely, he wouldn’t have risked getting AIDS. He knows nothing about me; I could give him an infection, syphilis or gonorrhoea. How I wish I could, it would serve him right - might even kill him. Kill him! How is he ever going to let me go? I will end up as fish food! I have a headache. My mind circled, head pounding like my heart in my chest.

The light went on, the door opened. ‘Oh dear, untidy!’ he announced as he picked up my clothes from the floor. He folded them neatly and placed them with the pile on the other bunk. He approached me as he took the dreaded ties out of his pocket. They looked like the plastic ones my father used to tie up plants in the garden. I tried to object but felt so weak. He had no problem tying my wrists together again. He is very strong I remember thinking. This time there was no smell of chloroform, but he held a piece of cloth in his hand. Leaning forward, he placed it over my eyes and tied it at the back of my head. I raised my knee. He grabbed it.

‘Don’t go there.’ He had guessed I was going to try and kick him in the balls. ‘Do that and I will strangle you slowly and feed you to the fish.’

I had been right, flashed through my mind - fish food!

He became very gentle then; I could sense the change of mood. Stroking my face, he reached for a pot of cream that he had placed on the locker. Slowly he put a dab on my nose, cheeks and chin then rubbed it ever so carefully into my skin.

‘Can’t spoil this lovely complexion, can we? Real English rose; you are beautiful,’ he murmured.

I waited, wondering what would happen next. My mind said, can’t you put your arms over his head and grab him, strangle him, choke him: I had to keep myself from getting angry, keep him calm. From past experience, I knew how he would calm me - with chloroform. No, at all costs I don’t want that again.

He touched my lips with a lipstick, very lightly. ‘Mustn’t look like a tart,’ he murmured again. Taking a hair brush, he smoothed my hair and lifted my head slightly to brush the back. I felt him moving the straps of my underskirt from hanging down my shoulders and placing them straight.

The wait was killing me. Taking my hands, he placed them over my chest, moving them around. He didn’t seem to like that, wasn’t satisfied.

‘Don’t move an inch!’ he commanded. I felt him stand back, viewing his work I assumed. He reached forward and adjusted my underskirt, raising it up my thighs. He must have picked up a camera as I heard a click then a whirl sound. Instant camera; I remember the sound, I had one years ago. He stood taking picture after picture.

A bloody photo shoot! I thought.

He untied the blindfold. ‘You can relax now,’ I heard him tell me.

It is a photo shoot to him, who does he think he is?

Begging him to let me use the toilet, I told him that a bucket wasn’t enough, and waved my tied hands about. He cut the ties and I stumbled into the toilet cubicle. My mind was on overdrive to find something to use to get him. At least I was untied but there was nothing. Perhaps a tablet of soap to slip on! Was there anything