A Lesser Evil - Lesley Pearse [83]
She knew the front room quite well from looking into it so often from her flat, yet close up it proved far more disgusting. Dirty cups and plates littered the floor and the battered and stained couch and chairs were strewn with clothing. The television was a big one, and there was a long, low walnut veneer radiogram, its top scarred with cigarette burns and rings from cups and glasses.
On she went, up the stairs, peeping briefly into each of the three bedrooms. All were vile; there were beds that looked like heaps of dirty rags, a smell that made sure she kept her hand clamped over her nose, and the light filtering through the covering on the windows was grey. She couldn’t bear even to look into the bathroom.
Finally she got to the last flight of stairs. There had been no carpet anywhere except in the downstairs front room where the television was, and her footsteps rang out on the bare boards. Balls of fluff, refuse and even crusts of bread were everywhere.
‘Angela!’ she called out. ‘It’s me, Fifi!’ Her voice echoed alarmingly, and her heart pounded with fear that the front door would open and Alfie would catch her in there.
She could smell stale urine on top of the other putrid smells now, and the buzzing of flies was much louder. She went first to the front room, as she’d seen Angela look out from that window so often, but it was empty except for two double beds pushed up close to each other, and the now all too predictable filthy bedding. A naked rubber doll with one arm missing lay on the floor, the only toy she’d seen in the entire house.
There was only one more room now, and she had a really bad feeling about opening that last door.
She braced herself as she pushed it open, but recoiled momentarily at the frenzied buzz of flies that flew at her. Her eyes met the end of an old-fashioned black iron bed with fancy brass knobs, and through the rails she could see a shape under a surprisingly clean sheet.
‘Angela!’ Fifi called, creeping hesitantly closer.
It had to be her under the sheet, the mound was the right size and there was even a little tow-coloured hair by the head rails. But even so, Fifi was afraid to pull the sheet back. Goosebumps came up on her limbs and her heartbeat accelerated with fear. She wanted to flee without looking, but she knew she must.
The smell which filled the whole house was much worse in here, rank and heavy with overtones of urine, sweat and mould. But there was another smell too, something she couldn’t define, and this disgusted her most.
But she had to get this over with, so she grabbed the sheet and pulled it back sharply.
‘Oh no!’ she exclaimed, clamping her hand over her mouth in horror.
It was Angela, stark naked.
Her arms and legs were all splayed out like a starfish, and her mouth was gaping open. There were smears of blood and bruising on her thighs and stomach. Even without touching her, Fifi knew she was dead.
For a second Fifi could only stare at the child in horror. Her eyes were shut, but her features were set in an expression of anguish. Such a thin little body, every bone visible through her pale skin, and her little vulva was swollen and red.
As she began to heave, Fifi turned and ran down the stairs, wrenching open the front door.
The heat of the sun hit her like opening an oven door. ‘Did you find her, Mrs Reynolds?’ she heard Matthew call out. She knew she was going to be sick, but some sort of instinct made her hide it from the boy.
‘Yes, I’m just going to the shop to get her something,’ she managed to croak out. Then, taking a deep breath to try and calm herself enough to fool him at least temporarily, she began walking quickly to the end of the street and the phone.
It seemed like an hour before the police came, although in reality it couldn’t have been longer than ten minutes. She managed to report the crime, give her name and address and walk swiftly back to her flat. Fortunately Matthew and the other boys