She Is Gone

by Ben Cheetham

  Karl held out his hands. “Give him to me. I’ll feed him.”

  Butterfly tightened her grip on Charlie, eyeing Karl warily.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “Lie down. Take a nap. I’ll sort Charlie boy out.” He made to lift Charlie from Butterfly’s arms. She held on to him for a second before reluctantly letting go. She didn’t lie down, though. She watched Karl like a hawk as he awkwardly cradled Charlie in his arms. Charlie let out a mewl of annoyance, then fell silent as the bottle’s rubber teat touched his lips.

  “There you go, little man,” said Karl. “Wow, you are hungry, aren’t you?” A smile spread over his face as he watched Charlie gulp down his milk. It was a different sort of smile. Less self-conscious. Warmer. When the bottle was empty, Charlie gave a contented gurgle. Karl looked at Butterfly with a boyish twinkle in his eyes. “I think he likes me.”

  Butterfly reached to take Charlie back. She checked his nappy before strapping him into his seat. “You should smile like that more often,” she commented as they got going again.

  Karl treated her to another of his soulful looks. “Would I stand a chance with you if I did?”

  “No, but some other woman might want you. A woman who could give you a family of your own.”

  “There’s only one woman I’m interested in.”

  “Fucking hell, Karl.” The words hissed through Butterfly’s teeth. “How can I get this through to you? We don’t have a future together.”

  His knowing smile returned. “That’s the first time you’ve called me by my name. I call that progress.”

  Resisting an urge to scream in frustration, Butterfly took a slow breath. The road descended into a softer landscape of lush grassy fields sprinkled with picture-postcard villages of stone cottages. The brooding hills lurked on the eastern skyline now.

  When they passed a sign with ‘Gosforth ¼’ on it, Karl gave Butterfly a grin of anticipation. “I can’t wait to see the look on Beech and Sutton’s ugly mugs when we rock up.”

  Butterfly frowned uneasily. “You’re not going to do anything crazy, are you?”

  Karl chuckled. “You mean crazier than kidnapping you and Charlie? Relax. We’ll play it cool, unless they force us to do otherwise.”

  Chapter 15

  The road passed a terraced row of white cottages on its way to the centre of Gosforth. Three pubs clustered around a mini-roundabout. To the right was The Lion & Lamb, to the left The Wheatsheaf Inn, straight ahead The Rose & Crown. Between the road and The Wheatsheaf Inn stood a magnolia tree in full pink bloom. The base of the magnolia’s trunk was hidden beneath dozens of bunches of flowers. Many of the bouquets were withered and brown. Others looked fresh. In amongst them were teddy bears, dolls and cards sealed in plastic. The village basked sleepily in the midday sun.

  Karl blew out his cheeks. “What a fucking graveyard.” He nodded at the flowers. “What’s that all about?”

  “I don’t know,” murmured Butterfly, but she was thinking about Hawkshead Manor, the thirteen children and seven women who’d drunk Dennis ‘Phoenix’ Smith’s spiritual and literal poison. She recalled seeing news items about people coming from miles around to place offerings at an impromptu memorial outside the grounds of Hawkshead Manor. Another such memorial had seemingly sprung up here.

  “The Rose and Crown looks closed.”

  Butterfly glanced at the dashboard clock – 11:58. “It’s not quite twelve.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot they’re still living in the Stone Age around here.”

  A man with heavy rounded shoulders and a sagging belly opened the pub’s front door. Butterfly recognised Len Simmons from the case file photos, although the intervening twenty years had robbed him of all but a tonsure of grey hair and left his face looking like a wrinkled red apple.

  “That the same bloke who was running the place back when you stayed there?” wondered Karl.

  “Yes.”

  Len wedged the door open and disappeared back inside the pub. Butterfly reached to open her door. Karl put a hand on her arm. “What are you doing?”

  “I want to see inside the pub.”

  “What for?” Karl’s eyebrows lifted in realisation. “Oh I get it. You want to see if you remember anything.” He thought for a moment, then said, “OK, but we’ll just have a gander through the windows. And Charlie stays in the car.”

  Butterfly nodded assent. Karl pulled across the mini-roundabout. With a meaningful glance at her, he slid the pistol into his pocket.

  They got out of the car. Karl quickly moved around the bonnet to take hold of Butterfly’s elbow. His other hand remained in his pocket. They approached a sash window to the right-hand side of the pub’s entrance. A chalked sign advertised ‘Home Cooked Food’ and ‘Cask Ales’. Cupping her hands against the glass, Butterfly peered into the pub. The landlord was nowhere to be seen. She took in the flagstone floor, the sooty fireplace, the dark wood bar counter, stools and tables, the black and white photos of the village adorning the walls. Nothing much had changed since the Ridleys stopped there. The barroom was exactly as she’d expected it to be from scrutinising photos of the pub from the time of the murders. But that was all it was – an image brought to life, not a memory.

  “Well?” asked Karl, looking at her as if searching for something he recognised.

  She shook her head. “Maybe if I saw the bedroom where I stayed.”

  “No chance. That would be way too risky. And besides, what about Charlie boy?”

  Butterfly allowed herself to be drawn away from the window towards the car. Three men rounded the corner of the pub, striding purposefully towards their first pint of the day. She came to an abrupt halt, half-expecting to see Phil Beech’s long, thin face amongst them, but they ranged from perhaps late twenties to early forties. Beech would be in his late fifties by now. Karl gave her arm a sharp squeeze of warning.

  The men stopped too, staring at Butterfly and Karl as if they’d just emerged from a spaceship. The oldest of the three – well-built, close-cropped salt n’ pepper hair and matching stubble – stepped forwards with a frown on his nut-brown face. “I didn’t realise the circus was in town,” he said, prompting uneasy laughter from his companions.

  Karl smiled humourlessly. “Now that’s not very friendly, is it?”

  It flashed through Butterfly’s mind that she might furtively signal for help, but the way the man was staring at her squashed the idea. His eyes were hard with hate. “I know you.” He spat the words in her face. “You were one of them.”

  “We don’t want any trouble,” said Karl.

  “I went up to the manor house that night to help. I saw…” The man choked up for a second before continuing in a trembling growl, “I saw the dead children.”

  “She’s the one who ran away,” one of the other men exclaimed.

  “Yeah,” said the nut-brown man. “She knew what was going on up there and she did nothing.” He stabbed an accusing finger at Butterfly. “You let those kids die.”

  Butterfly winced as if she’d been punched in the chest. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

  Karl stepped between Butterfly and the man, making a wafting motion towards the pub. “I suggest you gentlemen go inside and enjoy your lunchtime.” His words were polite, but there was an unmistakable warning in his tone.

  “We’ll go inside when we’re good and bloody ready,” retorted the man, squaring up to him. “This is our village and you’re not welcome here.”

  Karl’s lips curled into a slow smile. For a tense moment, the two men eyeballed each other, neither backing down. Butterfly put a hand on Karl’s arm. “Come on,” she urged. “Let’s go.”

  Not breaking eye contact with the man, Karl retreated towards the car.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Go on. Piss off,” said the man. “Show your ugly faces around here again and you’ll be leaving in an ambulance.”

  Butterfly got into the car. As Karl moved around to the driver side, he made a gun signal at the man and popped off an i
maginary shot.

  The man lifted his hands, pretending to tremble. Laughing at the taunt, Karl ducked into the car. “That was fun. Where to now?”

  Butterfly wordlessly pointed to the road ahead. The tremor in her hand wasn’t pretend. She stared at her lap as they accelerated away, her eyes haunted by the accusation – You let those kids die. “Why didn’t I warn anyone about what was going on at the manor house?” she murmured. It was a question she’d asked Jack dozens of times over the past ten months. His answer was always the same – You were fleeing for your life. You didn’t have chance to warn anyone. The insinuation was that maybe she would have warned someone if Ryan and Gary Mahon hadn’t caught up with her. But the more she found out about who she’d used to be, the more she doubted that was the case.

  “Don’t let those rednecks bother you,” said Karl. “They don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about.” He took out the Glock. “Do you know what they’d do if I pointed this at them? They’d shit themselves. Literally. What did you do? The only thing you thought about was protecting Charlie. That’s because you’re a lioness and lionesses protect their cubs. Fuck everything else. The law of the wild. That’s all it is.”

  “The law of the wild,” Butterfly echoed, giving Karl a curious sidelong glance. Perhaps he was right. Maybe, despite all the civilised words of men like Jack, that’s what it always came down to in the end. Animal instinct. Survival of the fittest. And maybe, just maybe Karl knew her better than Jack would ever do.

  “How about we head up to Low Lonning?” suggested Karl. “We’ll reconstruct your movements on the day of the murders. You know, like they used to do on Crimewatch.”

  Butterfly frowned at his jokey tone. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “I’m with my lioness,” he said as if that was all the explanation necessary.

  As they headed out of Gosforth along a lane lined by cottages and fields of sheep, Karl whistled the incongruously upbeat Crimewatch theme tune. After three-quarters of a mile or so, they came to a fork in the road. The right-hand fork led over a stone bridge that spanned a narrow river. Karl pointed to the left-hand fork, which passed between several small bungalows and a short terrace of stone cottages. “Beech lives down there. We’ll pay him a visit later.”

  They crossed the bridge and ascended a steep slope. Butterfly’s eyes passed over the hedgerows and fields of grass, gorse and bracken. How many times had she travelled this route before? Why had she chosen to live at Hawkshead Manor, less than a mile from where the murders occurred? Had she somehow felt closer to her parents and sister there? She’d come up here to find the killer, but somewhere along the way she’d lost sight of that purpose. Or maybe she’d already been lost. Perhaps that was why she’d been taken in by Dennis ‘Phoenix’ Smith’s pseudo-spiritual bullshit. She still felt lost in so many ways. Glancing in the wing mirror, the familiar feeling swept over her that the face staring back belonged to a stranger.

  Who are you? her mind demanded to know.

  Karl’s words echoed back to her, You’re a lioness.

  She repeated them defiantly in her mind and the sense of dislocation subsided. In its place, she felt a welling of strength and determination. She wouldn’t lose sight of her purpose this time. The police had failed to find the killers, but she wasn’t the police. There were no rules or regulations restricting her.

  The road dipped through a tunnel of trees. At the tunnel’s end a view of the craggy, shale-strewn fells of Wasdale opened up. About fifty metres off to the right of the road was a white farmhouse. Butterfly knew Bray Farm was hidden somewhere amongst the trees on their left. She stared into the woods she’d fled through as a child. They held no more fear for her than the woods where she’d been shot as an adult.

  They pulled over at a bridleway that crossed the lane on its way to another farm nestled amidst the rolling fields. Charlie burst into tears the instant the car came to a stop. Butterfly got out and ducked in at the backdoor to comfort him. Karl watched closely as she lifted Charlie out of his seat and placated him with a rusk.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to run.” As Butterfly said it, she was surprised to realise that she meant it. The only thing on her mind at that moment, apart from looking after Charlie, was tracking down the killers.

  “I wish I could believe that,” Karl said with a note of longing. He lifted Charlie from Butterfly’s arms and motioned for her to lead the way. They walked along the pot-holed gravel bridleway, Karl and Charlie on one side of the band of grass at its centre, Butterfly on the other. On their right was an overgrown hedge, then fields sloping down towards woodland that hid the blackened husk of Hawkshead Manor. Beyond that the vast amphitheatre of Wasdale basked in sunshine. Trees overhung the left-hand side of the bridleway, dappling it with shadows. Leaves rustled in the pleasantly cool breeze blowing from the north. Birds sang and twittered. Sheep munched grass. A deep sense of stillness hung over the scene. It was difficult to believe such terrible events could have occurred amidst such beauty.

  After what she judged to be a hundred and fifty metres, Butterfly came to a stop. Her gaze moved intently over the bridleway’s surface, almost as if she expected to see some clue. “This is where it happened,” she murmured hollowly, turning to stare into the woods. She took a steadying breath, then spoke with a forensic dryness, as if reading from the police reports, “The masked gunman came out of the trees. After making us tie each other up, he put bags over our heads. Then the second man came out. The first man sounded nervous. The second man was more confident. He egged on the first man to sexually assault Charlie. The first man began to remove Charlie’s t-shirt and bra. He likely intended to rape her, but it seems he ejaculated prematurely. This led to speculation that the first man was more sexually inexperienced than the second man. Dad struggled and shouted for the men to leave Charlie alone. They dragged him about fifty metres into the trees and cut his throat.”

  Butterfly walked into the woods. At a little clearing carpeted with twigs and leaves, she squatted to inspect the ground. The bodies of her mum, dad and Charlie had been found at this spot, stabbed, slashed, riddled with shotgun pellets. The ground must have been sodden with their blood. “The killers inflicted many more injuries on Mum and Charlie than was necessary to kill them,” she continued. “It was speculated that they held some sort of grudge against women.”

  “Or perhaps they were just pissed off that you escaped and they couldn’t take their merry time doing whatever they wanted to do,” said Karl.

  Moving like someone in a trance, Butterfly returned to the bridleway. She stared at what she reckoned to be the spot where she’d been tied up, picturing herself wriggling free from her bonds. She’d tried to free her mum and sister, but it had come down to a simple choice – stay and die or flee and live. Survival of the fittest. The law of the wild. “I ran back towards the road. My mum shouted, ‘Watch out.’ There was a gun shot. I wasn’t hit, but I fell over. I got up and ran into the woods.” They walked back along the lane a short distance before heading into the trees again. A soft gloom enfolded them as they made their way deeper into the wood.

  “Run, run as fast as you can,” Butterfly said more to herself than Karl.

  “Stop! We want to eat you,” he added with a shake if his head. “It’s some messed up shit. You must have had twenty or thirty copies of The Gingerbread Man.”

  “Why so many?”

  “I guess you were looking for clues. There are loads of different versions of the story. The version that particularly interested you was the one where the old man and woman live in a cottage by a river. Just like you-know-who does.”

  Butterfly’s eyes narrowed as Phil Beech’s weasel face rose into her mind. They walked on in silence, crunching dry leaves underfoot. There was no way of knowing the exact route Tracy had taken. At first, she’d run in a blind panic. After regaining her composure, she’d had the presence of mind to keep the sun on her left-hand side. Butterfly looked skyward. It was rou
ghly two hours earlier in the day and a month later in the year than when the murders had been committed. The sun was ahead and slightly to the left.

  “Hey look at this,” said Karl, dropping to his haunches. A faint animal trail wound its way through the trees. A sturdy branch had been driven into the ground at one side of the trail. At the other side of the trail stood a Y-shaped stick. A noose of twine tied into a slipknot dangled between the sticks. “I think it’s a snare.” He ran a finger over the thick, furry green twine. “Remind you of anything?”

  Butterfly stooped to inspect the twine. Was this the same type of twine that had been used to bind her wrists and ankles?

  “There’s another one.” Karl pointed to an identical snare a few metres further along the trail. “I bet Beech sets them to catch rabbits or foxes or whatever.”

  “Tracy said the bag that was put over her head had an animal smell,” said Butterfly.

  “What more proof do you need? The fucker did it. I say we have a gander inside his house.”

  “How do we get inside?”

  Karl grinned. “I’m one of the best house-breakers in London, remember?”

  Chapter 16

  Jack barely took his foot off the accelerator all the way up to The Lakes. The stunning landscape swept by in a blur. With each passing mile that Butterfly didn’t call to let him know where she was, he became more convinced his hunch was correct. The question that bothered him most now was – was she alone or with Karl? Other possibilities prodded at him like sharp sticks. Surely she wouldn’t have gone with Karl of her own free will. Would she? Not if she was Butterfly. But what if Io had come back again? What if… What if…

  He raced north across lonely heaths and hills. When he was a few miles out from Gosforth, he got on the phone to Eric Ramsden. “No reported sightings of them so far,” Eric informed him. “I’ll meet you outside The Rose and Crown.”

  Jack pulled in behind a blue and fluorescent yellow chequered Landrover outside the pub. A man in a police-issue short-sleeved white shirt, black tie and black trousers got out of it. Sergeant Eric Ramsden was a stocky forty-something with neat brown hair, a matching beard and a broad, earnest face, the sort of face you could trust. He extended his hand to shake Jack’s. “Good to see you, Jack, although I’d hoped next time we met it would be under better circumstances.”