Some Kind of Luck: An Addictive Domestic Psychological Drama

By Gwen Ekins

YOUR PAST IS NEVER FAR BEHIND YOU…

 

When seven-year-old Tim sees his mother covered in blood after being beaten by his father, he flees his home and sleeps rough before stumbling into greater danger when he's enticed away by a seemingly kind stranger. Fast forward a few years and, despite being haunted by horrific childhood memories, Tim gets his life on track. He has a great job, a wonderful woman at his side, and he's putting his past behind him. When a friend accuses Tim of a heinous act, and later, more vile accusations emerge, Tim is pushed to his limit, and his life spirals out of control as he realises that his dream of a happy, peaceful existence is doomed.

 

Will Tim manage to overcome his past and save his family when danger threatens everything he holds dear?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gwen Ekins
• Release date: Mar 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201536251

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Trying in vain to stay calm, she could still feel her skin stinging where the knife blade had been pressed unceremoniously against her throat.

Glancing sideways, she could see her great grandmother’s vase, now balanced precariously on the edge of the dresser. Moving her hand slowly towards it, she quickly pulled it back again. What if it didn’t work? What if it made things worse?

The sound of muffled voices drifted up from the front garden. Maybe she could raise the alarm, get them to safety...

Bracing herself, she moved her hand again. This time she managed to reach the vase. Realising it could be her last chance to get help, she desperately launched herself and it at the window.

‘Bitch!’

An explosion of glass and precious Chinese porcelain cascaded noisily to the garden below, accompanied by her frantic cries for help.

Almost immediately, she felt herself being wrenched from the window and slammed heavily against the opposite wall. Already concussed from the earlier head injury, she blinked and tried to clear her head before sliding, semi-conscious, to the floor, her legs no longer willing to hold her weight.

‘That was you. You did that. Your fault. Your fault.’

She nodded slightly. ‘Sorry,’ she croaked. ‘Sorry.’

CHAPTER 1

September 23rd 1985

Tim shivered and shifted his thin blanket to cover his young shoulders. Three nights running now, he’d slept fully dressed on the floor; a jumper for a pillow and a meagre single cover for a bed. As usual, he accepted his ‘lot’ without any protestation - complaining or making a fuss would only draw unwanted attention from downstairs, and he knew from bitter experience that being noticed was ill-advised; especially if they’d been drinking.

Basically, no one cared. No one would check he was safe and warm. No one would gently kiss him goodnight or even care if he was home at all.

There were seven of them in total; his parents, three boys and twin girls. The three boys shared a bedroom, and Tim (being the youngest) slept on the floor a lot of the time. It was easier than fighting for the covers of a cramped single bed or being kicked awake by his brothers’ disturbed dreams.

It was gone midnight. Tim had been woken from his fitful sleep by his father’s voice - loud and angry downstairs. His mother’s voice was raised too. Tim stirred uneasily. He never understood why she argued back, and here she was, doing it again.

Unlike his mother, seven-year-old Tim had already learnt not to answer back. He knew when to keep quiet, that silence was the only thing that could help once Alf started. Arguing back always ended one way - especially when Alf had been drinking. He’d learnt that particular lesson many times over and was painfully aware of the unenviable consequence of being noticed.

For Tim, pretending nothing had happened when he’d been on the wrong end of Alf’s fist or boot was just how things were. It wasn’t just him, though, he always knew when his brothers had taken a beating (and in a macabre way would be relieved that it was their turn – not his), but he never mentioned it, just as they never mentioned it when it had been his turn. Curled up in bed, nursing a bruised leg from being kicked, covering bruises with long sleeves, bunking off games lessons so he didn’t have to expose the truth to the world, was normal to him; he didn’t know any other way. Once, after being shaken, shoved against a wall, and punched repeatedly in the ribs by his drunken father, Tim had forgotten he had games at school and got caught out. His teacher noticed the bruises and pulled him to one side.

‘Tim, how did you get those bruises? They look nasty.’

Tim was terrified. What should he do? Tell his teacher his father had come home drunk and decided a suitable punishment for ‘looking at him funny’ was a good hiding? It was his own fault anyway. He should have got out quicker, but Alf had cornered him.

He’d be in trouble if his father found out.

Say nothing, he thought to himself. Best to keep quiet.

‘How did you get them?’ His teacher was getting more curious. Tim bit his lip. Part of him wanted to tell; wanted to scream it at him. Another part knew it was best to keep quiet.

Say nothing. It’s safer.

His teacher stepped back and Tim looked quietly up at him.

I know you know.

Tim could see the pity in his eyes.

It was 1985 and Childline hadn’t started yet. For those poor kids needing help and protection, there was only social services and that was taboo. Tim didn’t want social services; they would take him away to a borstal or a children’s home if they knew. His brother Simon had put a stop to him telling anyone years ago. His friend had been hit by his stepdad and was sent to a home where the older boys made him stand outside in the rain naked. No matter how scared Tim was of his father, he was used to taking a few punches and was more scared of being taken away to a strange place and humiliated.

The teacher’s gaze moved lazily off him to where two boys were starting to shove each other.

‘McLaughlin and Smith – stop that now.’

He moved away, leaving Tim feeling empty and alone. For a brief moment, Tim had been close to telling him how miserable and scared he was; but he couldn’t do it. He didn’t want to go into a home, and anyway, a few bruises weren’t so bad, and his teacher probably didn’t want to get involved.

Tim knew the teacher wouldn’t take it further, wouldn’t care enough to spare the time to investigate the bruising and unusually high number of absences and frequent excuses for getting off sports. There was always a note from his mother, though.

Tim was unwell yesterday and shouldn’t do games lessons for another week. How many of those had she written over the years?

The night his father disappeared was a bad one. Tim could hear them following the same old routine. They would come back from the pub, either arguing as they came in or if not, it started soon after. Angry voices getting louder, doors slamming, items being thrown, glasses and bottles broken.

This time was different, though. She’d stopped shouting. Tim could hear her voice coming up from the room below and knew (from bitter experience) something wasn’t right by the way her tone had changed. It was low and tense. He could sense her fear; she was scared and trying to calm him down.

Tim could hear his father’s raised angry voice, inflamed by his mother’s attempts at defusing the situation, escalating in strength until interrupted by a tremendous crash, followed again by his mother. This time Tim knew she was panicking, pleading for Alf to stop whatever atrocities he was inflicting on her.

Tim kept his eyes shut and curled up even tighter.

Stay still. Don’t let them know you can hear.

He waited, almost too scared to breathe… too scared to move, until the noise from downstairs stopped abruptly and the house was silent.

She’s probably hurt. That one sounded bad.

Eventually, Tim plucked up enough courage to glance across the room to where his brother Simon lay; his eyes were open. He was awake too. Tim waited, wanting Simon to tell him it was okay, tell him what to do, make it go away, but as usual, he got nothing from his brother, who silently turned over and pretended to be asleep - in the same way Tim himself had pretended countless times before.

This time though, for no reason that he could explain, Tim wanted to know what had happened; was she okay? Did she need help?

Tim knew he would be the only one to move. No one else would; no one else would try to help. Fear kept them prisoners in their beds; freedom only coming with the morning light and the hope that their father had either sobered up - or had left the house.

Moving slowly and trying to be as quiet as possible, Tim left the relative safety of the bedroom, then made his way carefully across the landing and down the stairs.

Fearing what he might find (or be caught), Tim stayed on the bottom step for a while, taking in the situation, deciding on whether it was safe to proceed further. He could feel the chill of cold night air seeping down the hall, bringing with it the smell of damp leaves and rain. Looking through the bannister rails to the front door, Tim could see that it was fully open. He let out a huge sigh of relief as he realised his father had already left the house and the imminent danger of a good hiding had left with him.

Feeling safer, Tim moved with trepidation towards the kitchen and summoning up his last bit of courage, he pushed the door gently so he could take a peek inside.

Tim’s mother was slumped against the opposite wall, her face, clothes and hands covered in blood. She didn’t notice Tim standing there - her eyes wide with fear and shock as she gazed blankly into her lap, slowly turning her hands over and over, inspecting the blood that was already starting to dry and crack on her skin.

She looks too scared to move, he thought, as his eyes quickly ran over the scuffs on her leg. She’d been kicked or stamped on; Tim knew what that felt like well enough. He dragged his attention from her and stared in silent horror at the broken table and smears of blood on the wall and floor.

Someone’s going to get it for that mess.

Just as Tim was deciding whether or not to risk his mother seeing him, a rogue gust of wind whipped down the hall, forcing the door from Tim’s grasp and banging it loudly against the wall. Tim froze. To his dismay, he now realised that Alf was still in the house, standing over the sink, splashing water on his face and hair.

Alf, hearing the sudden noise, wiped his face quickly on his sleeve and turned to face Tim, who stared back at him - terrified. He wasn’t supposed to be there. He wasn’t supposed to have seen this. This was different from the quick punch or kick to the shins that she normally got. This was dangerous; it had gone too far. Tim had gone too far, seen too much. He should have done nothing, shut his eyes like Simon and stayed in bed. He would have been safe then.

Alf glanced over to where Tim’s mother lay, then turned his attention back to Tim, who was frozen to the spot. Even in his drunken state, Alf realised that Tim had seen too much (generally, she cleaned up okay and the odd black eye could be explained away easily enough). His face contorted into a mask of guilt-ridden anger; the boy needed to be taught a lesson once and for all.

‘It’s always you, ain’t it? Always causing trouble! Come here – I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget in a hurry!’

Alf lurched towards his son – staggering - too drunk to move quickly but able to reach out; his swollen fingers dripping blood from an unseen cut, tore into the air in a desperate attempt to get to the terrified child.

Tim knew from the moment he’d seen Alf at the sink that he was in deep trouble. He should have stayed in bed and stayed safe. Luckily, his instincts, used to protecting him from his father’s temper, immediately took over as he stepped quickly back into the hall and slammed the door in his father’s face. He spun around and started to run as fast as his slippered feet would take him as the door was smashed open and his furious father stumbled down the hall after him.

The only part of his father that managed to reach him was the smell.

Stale sweat, cigarettes and alcohol.

CHAPTER 2

September 23rd 1985

Tim ran. He ran out of the house and along the street for as long as he could hear his father’s voice shouting for him and then some more. When eventually he thought he was safe, he slowed to a walk and realised he’d run halfway across town to where there was row upon row of old Victorian terraces.

He liked these houses, some of them had names over their doors, and a few had elaborate patterns on their front paths made from different coloured tiles. He couldn’t see the names as it was dark, but he knew they were there; he’d walked these roads loads of times. There was a park a few minutes away, with excellent swings and a painted red roundabout that you could lie on and watch the sky race by. You really needed someone else to stand on the edge and spin it to get the best effect; he’d come here with his brothers a few times to do just that. Plus, it was nicer than their park. This one had loads of grass to play on. Theirs was tired and rundown and developed big muddy patches when it rained. They had some swings and a slide but no painted red roundabout.

It’s lucky I didn’t have my jammies on... it’s never been this bad before, he thought, brushing away a tear that had started to trickle down his cheek and wiping his nose on his cuff.

His handed-down jumper caught and held the misty autumnal air like a spider’s web – feeding it through to his skin, making him shiver. He was horribly cold and now really tired. The adrenaline that had kept him awake had long disappeared, leaving an empty void that desperately needed filling with sleep. Tim entered the park gingerly through a squeaky turnstile gate, and remembering that there was a cricket pavilion somewhere nearby, he wandered along the silent footpaths until he eventually found what he was looking for.

It was lucky he did find it because by that time, the dark shadows of trees and bushes had played enough tricks on him to make more tears start to fall, and he had almost considered going home again. At this point, though, he knew he was too scared to walk back through the dark labyrinth of footpaths, and a cold panic had started to creep up from his stomach, tightening around his throat and making his breath come in short sharp bursts. When the pavilion eventually appeared out of the darkness, Tim, forgetting his plight for a brief moment, gave a triumphant yelp and ran the last few yards to his sanctuary, only to have the feeling of elation disappear as quickly as it had arrived, when he realised the front door was locked firmly against him.

Fortunately for Tim, luck was on his side, as the park warden had been a bit too keen to get home that day and had forgotten to lock the side door properly. Once he realised, a relieved Tim was able to slip quickly inside to relative safety.

The inside of the pavilion was dark, freezing cold and smelt of damp and rotting wood. Tim fumbled around in vain - searching for a light switch, eventually giving up after stumbling upon several musty smelling cushions which he pulled together to make a bed for himself on the floor. Searching a bit more, he found a woollen overcoat that had been hung behind the main door and forgotten by its owner. Tim, now exhausted, lay down on the cushions and pulled the coat over himself for warmth before quickly falling into a deep sleep.

Tim woke hours later with the early autumn sun streaming across the pavilion floor. He was freezing cold and shivering. Looking out of the window, he could see fingers of light mist rising over the cricket pitch, occasionally catching the sun and glowing like ghostly flames. Tim knew he had to go home sometime, but he needed things to quieten down first. Once things had settled down, he could return, and no one would say anything about what had happened. His mother would have some nasty bruises for a while, and he was sure Alf would be quiet for a good few weeks after this one.

Tim felt relieved. He’d avoided a beating, and it’d be safe now for quite a while. No one would say anything about his being out for the night… he knew they wouldn’t say anything because he’d run away a couple of months ago without bringing any trouble on himself. That time it was a lovely warm summer’s night and he’d sat under the pier for hours until it was light. His brother Simon had found him later that day on the beach hunting for crabs.

‘You can’t stay here - you have to come home or you’ll be in trouble with the social,’ he said as he grabbed Tim by the arm and started to drag him protesting off the beach.

He wasn’t in trouble with anyone. His mother said nothing to him when he walked back in, not even bothering to lift her head to acknowledge his reappearance as he walked through the kitchen. He wondered if he’d actually been missed by anyone but Simon.

Tim left the pavilion and wandered aimlessly back along the paths to the swings. It looked different now. No dark shadows jumping out at him, no ghostly horrors waiting to pounce; everything was back to normal – back to how it should be. Despite this, the memory of his scary walk the previous night made him shiver and quicken his pace.

Next time I’ll go to the beach, it’s nicer there, he promised himself as he walked across the damp grass, only then realising that he was still wearing slippers and they were soaking up the dew, making his toes sting with the cold.

The swings were wet too. He hated wet swings. You couldn’t sit on them without the damp soaking your bum. Wet feet and wet bum. Tim wasn’t too happy with that idea, so he stood instead and quickly forgot the cold as he swung so high he thought he’d fall off when the chains buckled at the top reach.

Enjoying himself now, he took advantage of the park being deserted and had turns on everything - especially the roundabout. It was difficult to get going on his own, but once he got some speed up, he held tight to the hand rails and leant back, looking at the now mist-free blue sky spiral by. He thought about using the slide, but it was still wet like the swings. He decided to wait until it had dried out – or someone else went on first – drying it for him.

‘It’s a bit early for swings, isn’t it?’

Tim glanced across to his left where he spotted an oldish man watching him with a slight smile on his face.

‘Maybe,’ Tim looked absently away from where the man was standing; hoping he’d go away.

‘It’s very early, no one’s up yet,’ the man said. ‘Where did you come from?’

Tim wasn’t about to tell him where he came from or why he was there.

‘I always come here early.’ He lied, pretending to be intensely interested in something in a tree to his right. Tim found lying quite easy. It had got him out of quite a few hidings and difficult conversations in the past.

The man nodded. ‘Me too – though I haven’t seen you before.’

Tim remained silent. He wasn’t going to give anything away. If the man kept asking questions, he’d leave and go to the beach.

The man looked about him and whistled. Immediately, a small white terrier came bounding out of the bushes at the side of the park, ran round the man’s feet and sped off again.

‘Punch likes his early morning run.’ The man smiled as he watched the dog chase a leaf that was blowing across the damp grass before turning back to Tim.

‘It’s a bit cold out here – where’s your coat?’

Say nothing.

The man paused, waiting for an answer. Tim had had enough. The man was right, it was cold, but he was asking too many questions, and Tim didn’t want to get in any more trouble. He jumped off the swing and made to walk away.

‘I’m just over there; we’re going back for breakfast. Would you like to come in and warm up for a bit?’

The man nodded at a row of small painted cottages facing into the park.

‘I’ll put the kettle on and make us some tea and toast. How does that sound? If you’re lucky, I may have some sweets somewhere.’

Tim shrugged his shoulders - he wasn’t going to admit he was cold and hungry, but tea and toast sounded nice, and sweets were a rare commodity in his house.

The man turned towards the cottages and started to make his way across the grass, casually swinging a red leather dog lead as he walked. He whistled once, and Punch came racing back, but this time he raced past the man towards the houses and into the garden of the last but one cottage.

Tim hesitated for a moment before turning and slowly starting to follow the stranger.

The man smiled quietly and started whistling under his breath as he heard footsteps following behind. Punch, impatient for his breakfast, came running back to his master and started playfully tugging at the lead before running to Tim and barking at his heels.

‘Easy there, boy!’ The man laughed. ‘We don’t want to scare this one away now, do we?’

Tim laughed as the dog jumped up to lick his hand before once again making its way at full speed towards the cottage. He looked at the stranger striding casually in front of him and grinned.

A new friend… tea and toast and the promise of sweets... his luck was certainly changing for the better!

CHAPTER 3

Northalt - May 2006

‘You went with him? Into his house?’ Zara tried her best not to shout at Tim who had been watching his partner Anita playing beach rounders with friends. They’d decided to make the most of the early summer sun and have a day at the beach for a change. Taking a break from the game, Tim had been contentedly watching Anita cheating and loudly protesting her innocence, when their friend Zara had joined him. For some reason that he couldn’t explain, he’d started telling her about his childhood.

Tim didn’t reply. Maybe he’d said too much. He looked over to Anita who was out of earshot. He needed a diversion, something to change the subject.

Anita, sensing his gaze, glanced up at him, smiled and waved him over to take his turn at batting. It didn’t take long for him to be caught out, though, and he re-joined Zara, who was rolling herself a cigarette.

‘I think I may have a heart attack – I’m so unfit,’ he gasped.

She grinned mischievously. ‘You’re just too old!’

‘Oh, right! Cheers for that.’ He laughed as he wiped beads of sweat from his forehead.

Tim and Anita had known Zara for years, from before they both got together. They’d all met whilst working for the same company. Anita and Zara were in the marketing team and Tim was in IT.

Tim had fallen for Anita as soon as he laid eyes on her but couldn’t ask her out as he was engaged to someone else. Instead, he took advantage of his privileged access to the computer systems and secretly sabotaged Anita’s computer so she’d call him for help. For ages, Zara had chastised Tim for being rubbish at his job. When he eventually asked Anita out, he admitted what he’d been doing, and Zara was then more concerned about her friend than anything else.

‘God, Tim, you’re such a prick. You’re engaged. Don’t mess my friend around. I don’t want you coming to me moaning when it all goes wrong - so sort yourself out.’

She didn’t mince her words, but at least you knew what she was thinking. That was a few years ago now, and after Zara’s telling off, Tim had sorted it just as she had told him. He left his fiancée and moved in with a friend almost immediately, but that didn’t last long - within a couple of months he was living with Anita in a rented flat in Northalt.

Zara gazed out to sea at a cruise ship slowly moving across the horizon. She knew there was some history of childhood abuse with Tim, and didn’t like to pry too much, but he’d brought it up, and she was a firm believer of ‘better out than in’ as she put it. She decided to tread carefully, Tim didn’t often discuss his childhood, and she was pleased that he’d confided in her.

‘Um... so, this bloke... you went with him?’

Tim sighed, he’d started the conversation, and now he’d had a few moments of fun, carrying on with it didn’t seem too difficult.

‘Yeah. He gave me tea and toast. It was proper bread too - nice and thick with crusts and lots of butter. It was a bit burnt but was bloody lovely. He had an old coal stove in his kitchen that heated the water. It was lovely and warm. He didn’t say much, just made us tea and toast, and we sat by the stove while we ate.’

Zara looked at Tim, who had a big grin on his face as he remembered his first experience of licking melted butter as it ran down his already sticky fingers.

‘How old were you?’ Zara felt her stomach sinking and regretted starting the conversation again.

‘Ummm... about seven, I think. He was okay. Bill Hamble – that was his name. He had his own kids, but they’d grown up, and his wife was dead. After that, I went round there loads. We were friends for a long time; he was always there for me.’ Tim paused, reflecting on the past. ‘He never asked me why I was there. I’d turn up at his door and he’d cook me toast and baked beans. In fact,