The Heights: A dark story of obsession and revenge

He looked at the boy, but the boy was staring at Cathy, eyes wide. The look on the brat’s face said it all. Cathy had him wrapped around her little finger. Like the old man. In their father’s eyes, Cathy was his little princess. She could do no wrong, while Mick couldn’t do anything right. And now his dad had brought this brat home. Not that Mick cared.

He stalked past them up the stairs, jabbing the boy in the ribs with the toe of his boot as he did. The kid started, but didn’t make a sound. Mick wondered if the brat would cry if he knocked him down the stairs. Maybe one day he’d find out.

Chapter Three (#ulink_1b6541ff-ddfd-51f5-81eb-338a10148596)

March, 1978

Ellen Dean didn’t have time for this. She still had a pile of case notes to write up from yesterday as well as all today’s home visits. She could do without an extra trip to the Heights estate being dropped on her as well. Her boss, Elizabeth – always Elizabeth, never Liz or Lizzie – had handed her a scrap of paper with the address on with some glee. Ellen had no idea why she had to do this today. The kid had only arrived yesterday. Cases like this usually waited a week or two before anyone got around to doing something about them. What did it matter? But oh no! Queen Elizabeth said today, so today it had to be.

Every social worker in the county knew about Collier’s Heights. It was a rite of passage for the new starters and a source of many a well-told war story for the old hands. A lot of their work was up there. The name said it all. The estate had been built for the miners when the pit was new. Back in the day, it might have been a close-knit and happy community, but things had changed. Now it was the roughest end of a rough town. Ellen had only been in this job three weeks, and she’d already been to the Heights twice, tagging along behind Elizabeth, who had taken great delight in sending her junior up there today – all alone for the first time. What Elizabeth didn’t know – what nobody knew – was that Ellen had grown up on an estate not all that different to the Heights. Hard work and a bursary to pay her rent at university had been her escape route. Social work hadn’t been her choice, but it was the only scholarship available, and now it had led her back to the same sort of place she had left behind. This time, however, she was on the other side of the fence, and determined to help other kids the way she had been helped.

She turned her car into Moor Lane, right at the top of the hill to which the Heights clung, and drove slowly along the street, peering for numbers on the rows of identical, weatherworn, redbrick terraces. She was very aware of the groups of lads at the corners, eyeing the car. Here and there she caught a twitch of a curtain or a slam of a door that had stood ajar in welcome a second before. She hadn’t expected any different. She’d grown up doing the same thing.

She pulled up outside number 37 Moor Lane, and picked up the buff-coloured folder from the passenger seat. The Earnshaws. Ray, Shirley and two kids. A boy and a girl. She mouthed the names to herself as she waited for someone to come to the door. She’d learnt that on her first day, when she’d completely forgotten the name of the mother she was coming to see, and the woman had called her a stuck-up bitch and accused her of not giving a shit about anyone. The Earnshaws. Ray and Shirley and… She flipped the folder open. Mick and Cathy. Mick’s entry in the file was longer. Truancy, shoplifting and the odd run-in with the police. Nothing unusual there for a fourteen-year-old kid from an estate like the Heights. The door swung open.

The man was older than she expected. Half the parents she’d met so far were about her own age, if not younger. This man was more her parents’ generation. Smartly dressed, or as smartly dressed as money allowed around here, with a shirt and tie under his faded pullover and hair combed over a slight bald patch. She held out her hand. ‘I’m Ellen Dean.’

The man didn’t respond.

‘From social services?’ She heard the hint of a question in her tone, and hated it. ‘About…’ She stopped. What was the boy’s name? ‘About the young boy.’

‘Heathcliff.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’d best come in.’

His wife was waiting in the back room and offered tea, which Ellen didn’t accept. Mrs Earnshaw tutted at that as she tucked her cotton skirt tightly around her legs and sat down, back straight and stiff, at the wooden table.

‘Shall we go into the front room?’ Mr Earnshaw shuffled slightly from foot to foot. ‘It’s nicer in there.’

Mrs Earnshaw shook her head. ‘I’ve not aired it. This’ll do.’

‘This is fine.’ Ellen took a hard wooden seat at one side of the table and waited for Mr Earnshaw to sit opposite her. She arranged her face into what she hoped was a friendly smile rather than a grimace, and wondered if the Earnshaws could hear her heart pounding.

‘So it’s about Heathcliff?’ Her voice was louder than she intended.

‘What about him?’ Mr Earnshaw’s expression was closed.

‘Well, I understand he’s living here now.’

Earnshaw nodded.

‘Okay.’ Ellen swallowed again. ‘I need to check that everything’s in order…’

‘In order how?’

She took a deep breath, afraid her inexperience was showing. ‘Sort of… well, legally. I need to establish why he’s moved in here and make sure everything’s above board. He’s what… six?’

‘Seven.’ Earnshaw pulled his chair back. ‘There’s papers.’

‘Right. Good. Papers are good.’

Mrs Earnshaw hadn’t spoken or even moved. Ellen gave her a tentative smile as Ray left the table. The woman’s face was stone.

Ray carefully opened a drawer in the dark wooden chest that dominated one wall of the tiny room.

‘A letter from his mother.’

Ellen unfolded the crumpled sheet, apparently torn from a notebook. The writing was wobbly and uneven, as if the writer wasn’t confident forming the letters, but the three short sentences were clear. Heathcliff’s mum couldn’t manage. She wanted him to live with Ray Earnshaw and his family. She didn’t want anyone else sticking their nose in. Ellen was doing just that, but if she didn’t she’d get no end of grief from her supervisor. Besides, it was the right thing to do. Someone had to make sure the kid was safe.

‘Right. Do you have a birth certificate or anything? To confirm that this is his mother. And whether there’s a father around.’

Mrs Earnshaw folded her arms.

Mr Earnshaw was quiet for a moment before he spoke. ‘I don’t. But you can get that, can’t you? Ring up the records place or what have you.’

Ellen nodded. She could. She made a note in her folder. ‘And he’s been registered with the school? As Heathcliff Earnshaw?’

‘That’s right’

Ellen heard the sharp intake of breath from the wife.

‘Could I see him?’ She glanced at the clock. ‘If he’s not in school.’

Mrs Earnshaw stood up, moving towards the door in a way that gave the distinct impression that Ellen’s visit was over. ‘He’s poorly.’

‘Right. It only needs to be for a second.’

Mr Earnshaw shook his head. ‘Shirley’s right. He were sick in the night. He’ll be asleep.’ He shrugged. ‘Can you come back another day?’

‘Right.’ Ellen hesitated. She was supposed to see the boy if she could. Another glance at the clock. He would normally be in school anyway, so she hadn’t really expected to see him. And her next case was across town. She already had another job from the Earnshaws to find the blessed birth certificate, so she had to come back. She shook her head. ‘That’ll be fine for now, I’m sure.’

She heaved a sigh of relief when Earnshaw closed the front door behind her. That poor kid wasn’t coming into a very welcoming household. She couldn’t imagine Shirley Earnshaw pulling some bastard kid to her warm embrace. Still, he had a roof over his head, and there’d be a meal on the table every night. The sound of voices drew her eyes to her parked car. Three teenagers were leaning against it – a boy and two girls. All three had cigarettes hanging from their mouths. It was hard to see past the make-up, but Ellen guessed the girls were not more than thirteen. Fourteen at most.

‘You all should be in school,’ she said as she approached, trying at the same time to appear firm and friendly.

‘What’s that got to do with you?’ the boy asked insolently. He slowly lifted himself away from the car. Taking a last drag on his cigarette, he stubbed it out on the faded red paint on her bonnet.

‘Sod off! You little shits.’ Her carefully cultivated demeanour vanished and the words were out before she could stop them.

The group ‘oooohed’ like an overexcited audience on TV, taking the mick out of her even as they strolled away.

Cathy sat on her step and watched Daddy walk into the back room and shut the door. She didn’t know what the straggly-haired woman wanted, but it was something to do with Heathcliff. Mick was at school. Or at least he was supposed to be at school. He was probably off with his mates somewhere getting into trouble. Cathy should have been at school too, but she’d said she had tummy ache. Her mum wasn’t paying much attention – she didn’t seem to pay attention to much any more – and had grunted that she could stay home. That was all Cathy needed to hear. School was boring. Heathcliff was staying at home today and he wasn’t boring at all.

Cathy ducked up the last couple of stairs and opened the door to Mick’s room. She wasn’t allowed in Mick’s room, but Mick wasn’t here. Heathcliff was sitting on the floor in the corner of the room, his arms wrapped around his knees and his forehead resting on them. The foldout bed he was supposed to be sleeping on was covered with Mick’s stuff.

‘Did you sleep on the floor?’ she asked.