Beyond the Dark Waters Trilogy

by Graham West

  Sebastian liked her enough to have entrusted the woman with his house keys. She wasn’t old and could have made something of her life, but she was still mourning her husband and chose to find solace in her four legged friends rather than give her heart to another man. She was the obvious choice.

  Sebastian finished his toast, deciding to leave the rest of the breakfast. He had too much on his mind, and Elizabeth’s grave was right in the forefront, casting a shadow across his soul.

  ***

  Darren Pascoe studied his reflection in the bedroom mirror. Most of his clothes could be folded—sweat tops, joggers and a couple of pairs of faded denims. He was turning into his uncle, who seemed to live in ill-fitting tee shirts that hung over his beer gut like a draped tarpaulin. That’s why he bought himself a suit. It wasn’t one of those tailored things his father had worn. He’d paid mega bucks for his clothes, and Darren just didn’t have that kind of money—not yet. It had been easier to go to one of the superstores and buy one off the peg.

  He’d got enough money working some overtime at his uncle’s back street garage. Well, it wasn’t exactly his uncle’s—he’d have had a little more respect for Harry if he’d owned the place. He might have had some say in the way it was run. Not that he was in the position to be spouting about morals, but he hated the way the greasy haired owner ripped people off. Anyone who didn’t have a clue what was going on under the bonnet was fair game.

  Tony, the owner, just picked a figure out of the air; he’d decided to charge a blonde girl two hundred notes for a loose wire. But unfortunately, the girl knew exactly what was wrong with the car and asked Uncle Slimeball to lift the lid. Greasy Tony held up his hands and claimed it had been an honest mistake, agreeing to wave the bill. It was a freebie. Uncle Harry had waved her off.

  The fake smile soon turned to a scowl. “Bitch!” he muttered.

  “That’s because you’re a bastard,” Darren said under his breath.

  His uncle spun round and fixed him with a look. “What did you just say?”

  Darren shrugged. “I said you’re a bastard—all of you are. Rip off merchants. Two hundred notes for a three-minute job? I’d have fucking knocked you out if you’d done that to me!”

  Things had been even cooler around the pigsty that Harry called a home since then, and Darren started calling in at McDonalds and buying his own meals. At least there was less chance of food poisoning. As long as he stuck to the salads with chicken, he’d keep off the weight. But now he was even more determined. He had paid for his mistake. Other kids did stuff and had gotten away with it. Not him.

  That poor woman and her kid. He never wanted to take a life. He only wanted to lob a brick at her window—and even that had been Taylor’s idea. He probably wouldn’t even have stopped, not on a Sunday afternoon, anyway. If only he hadn’t listened to his pissed up mate. If only his father hadn’t decided to start messing with his patient. If only he hadn’t gotten her pregnant. If only his mother could have just given Dad another chance.

  He’d been trying to deal with the anger, but it was still there, bubbling, smoking, waiting to erupt like a volcano. He had to get away from that greasy pit of a garage—maybe get himself a job in an office somewhere. He’d have to smile nicely, and learn to obey orders, but he could do that. He’d have to do that if he wanted to get on in life. Darren Pascoe smiled, adjusted his tie, and threw back his shoulders. Whatever was going on inside his head, he still looked shit hot in a suit.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dennis Blakely Stared into the CCTV monitor. “So what am I supposed to be looking at?”

  Larry Thomas tapped the keypad. “Just hold on a minute,” he said. “Any second now…”

  Blakely screwed up his eyes and moved closer to the screen. Sometimes he wondered if cost cutting on the security system had been a good idea, but he hadn’t been expecting any major incidents—not in Tabwell.

  “There!” Thomas cried as a car came into view. The picture wasn’t that good. Black and white and poor quality. “It parks up outside the old village hall. You can still get access to the footpath from there. And if you get through the perimeter fence then you’re in—right by the woods.”

  Blakely watched as the car came to a stop a couple of hundred metres past the main entrance to the park. It was just possible to see the glare of the brake lights, but the car itself was partially hidden by a tree. “We’re not gonna see who gets out,” he said, “and we don’t have any cameras around the perimeter.”

  “I know,” Thomas replied accusingly. “But I’m guessing whoever is driving that car is up to no good—parking up by a half demolished building at two thirty in the morning. You can just about see the car door being opened, and someone is getting out—you can see the feet. See?”

  Thomas still had his cop hat on. They never lost the hat. “So it wasn’t just some couple having a shag—they had to be up to something.”

  Blakely grunted. “So we can’t get an ID. Is there any point?”

  “I’ve got the car registration,” Thomas replied. “It wasn’t easy, not with those cameras.”

  “What kind of car is it?”

  Larry smiled, looking quite pleased with himself. “That’s the thing, it’s hardly a Ferrari but it’s not a cheapo either, so if this is our little graffiti artist then they ain’t exactly on the breadline!”

  Blakely turned. “It doesn’t look that flash.”

  Thomas shrugged. “It’s pretty new. Probably about twenty odd grand. Nice car, and to be honest, the missus would piss herself with joy if I bought her one. She’s always wanted a Mini Clubman.”

  ***

  It was the first time for nearly two years that Jenny Adams had feared sleep, wondering if she’d find herself back in the attic or, worse still, beneath the murky depths of the Mosswood Lake. But sleep, when it finally came, was dreamless—or at least, nothing she recalled upon waking early to find Jake showered and ready for work.

  “There’s a juice and some cereal on the table,” he told her. “I’ve got an early start. Dad wants me in Cumbria. Some new coffee shop, apparently.” He shrugged. “Like they need another one of them in the Lake District!” He kissed her on the cheek, throwing a canvas work bag over his shoulder. “Text ya later, babe. I shouldn’t be too late.”

  The door slammed as she glanced over at the kitchen table. It was only eight; there was plenty of time to catch up on some homework. The doors leading to the garden were wide open. Jake liked fresh air—cold air, warm air, it didn’t matter. His love of the outdoors was something that she found endearing. He didn’t smoke, and he wasn’t much of a drinker, either—maybe that was another reason her father had decided to get his act together and ditch the booze. But if it hadn’t been for Josie, his kidneys might be on the verge of packing in by now. Things had worked out well.

  She looked over at the sketch pad on the table. The line drawing of Amelia was in the paper recycling bin at the college, but Jenny hadn’t told Jake. Some things, she decided, belonged in the past. Amelia Root was at rest—it was over. Jenny took a sip of juice and flicked open the sketch pad and stared down at a clean page. No face, no crude line drawing. A fresh start.

  ***

  Blakely took the call from his father from the site office. He sounded like a man about to explode. “I’ve been talking to our friends at the council,” he growled. “They’re not happy about the whole thing with that vicar.”

  “What vicar?” Blakely replied nervously

  “What’s his name? Allinson or something?”

  “Allington.”

  “That’s him!” his father snapped. “You’re going to have to take him out of the story, Dennis. That whole thing with the girl. They don’t want him mentioned—the rape, the baby—”

  Blakely couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “There’s no way! That’s like telling the story of the fucking Second World War and not mentioning Hitler!”

  “I’m not asking you, son, I’m telling you. They’ve go
t us over a barrel with this one—”

  “Meaning?”

  “We might not get the old village hall!”

  Blakely felt like he’d just taken a cannonball to his chest. “We have to have that land—we have to! I thought all that was a done deal.”

  “It was!” his father retorted. “As good as! But now they’re threatening to sell to one of those supermarket chains. They know what they’re doing here, Dennis. It’s a double whammy. Not only will we lose our reception and car park but our customers will be stocking up with cheap food right on our doorstep! There will be no point in having a shop on site—or a fucking restaurant, for that matter!”

  Blakely’s face was burning. He’d had the plans drawn up. The grounds would be free of vehicles, leaving the land at the front of the house to be landscaped. The main gates would be ripped out and replaced by a tree lined wall. Several lawned acres at the side and rear had been earmarked for a rustic adventure playground and a crazy golf course to rival anything in the Country along with an archery range. Then, of course, there was the swimming pool. If they lost the car park, they lost half of that land. It just wasn’t an option.

  “So what exactly do they want?” he mumbled, feeling winded.

  “The thing with the girl. You leave out Allington altogether, right?”

  “It’s shit,” Blakely muttered

  “Look, Dennis,” his father continued, “the parish want to deal with the Allington thing themselves. So let’s leave them to sort it out with God, and we’ll get on with building the best adventure park in the country.” He paused. “I had reservations about this whole thing, son, and I gave in. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose half the park for a grave. So just stick to the script. A nice little tale of Victorian injustice. I don’t mind the attic tour—that’s fine—but if I get one whiff of kids running around those woods claiming they’ve seen some girl rising out of that fucking lake then the whole circus stops, do you understand?”

  Blakely nodded without a word and flung the phone across the desk. Sometimes he wondered if Tabwell had been the right place to set up an activity park. Its ageing, wealthy population, with their small minds and big houses, had been quite hostile to outsiders, so it was probably something of a miracle that the plans for the park had been passed in the first place. The church had obviously resented having their shady history examined by families on a fun weekend and decided to lean on certain council leaders. That’s if some of those deacons weren’t actually on the council themselves.

  It wouldn’t be difficult to change the story. Now the visitors would read about the lady of the house who fell in love with the gardener—that would be okay. Real life Lady Chatterley stuff. Then she has a baby and hides her away in the attic to avoid bringing shame on the family. Even the council would probably accept that there had been a certain amount of fornication amongst the squeaky clean Tabwell folk. The story would continue, telling how the unfortunate girl was raised by a governess, visiting the woods every day where she would meet with her father before that fateful day when, as a young woman, she drowned in the woodland lake. Her death was an accident, of course; much more civilised.

  Nothing had changed in two years, and it was obvious the church were waiting for everyone to forget that Allington was nothing more than a misogynistic, baby thieving rapist. It had all happened a long time ago, when attitudes towards women were very different—wrong but different. And had the minister really raped Amelia? They only had the word of a disgruntled governess and a young girl, who could never have supported her child, to go on.

  Blakely could see it now. Facts could be twisted and the villain returned to his former status as a local hero. The letters and the diaries would be discredited and forgotten. But that would never happen when Allington’s misdeeds were hung out for the amusement of visitors at a local attraction. Maybe, as angry as he was, Blakely understood how they’d got into a twist over the whole thing. His father had been reasonable, and it wouldn’t hurt to get new pamphlets printed up with the revised and sanitised story of Amelia Root.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “What did I tell you?” Josie said, squeezing herself into a pair of skin tight jeans. “You’ve cleared the air with Jenny now, so let’s put this whole Gordon thing to rest, eh?”

  Rob nodded, distracted by the sight of the semi naked woman before him. Josie had beautiful legs—not just good for a woman in her forties. They were just good. Full stop.

  “You’re staring at my arse! Is there something wrong with it?”

  Rob shook his head. “Nothing at all, babe. You’re perfect. I was just thinking how—”

  Josie grinned mischievously. “How you’d like to throw me across the bed?”

  “Is that an invitation?”

  Josie stopped, her jeans half way up her thighs. “Well, I need to know. I mean, is it worth putting these on?”

  Rob grinned. They had time. But then his phone pinged like a microwave.

  “Best see who that is,” Josie sighed.

  Rob grunted, tapping the screen. He stared, read the message and blinked. Then he read it again just to check his eyes hadn’t deceived him.

  “Babe? Are you okay?” Jo asked, drawing her jeans over her thighs.

  Rob handed Jo the phone. It must be some kind of joke, but it still didn’t make sense. Who would do something like this? Who was sick enough? The message was brief.

  Your wife’s grave awaits you x

  “What the hell does that mean?” Josie hissed, peering at the screen. “My god! There are some sick bastards in this world!”

  “We can always get it traced,” Rob said, feeling dazed.

  Josie shrugged. “I think they’ll have pretty much covered their tracks, and unless there is a threat to your life, the police won’t get involved.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Well, I suggest we both get down to the cemetery—now.”

  ***

  Jenny took a sip from a glass of spring water, flicking through the several pages of notes she’d printed off the previous evening. She hated art theory—particularly when it came to what they loosely referred to as modern art. God! Sometimes it could be almost painful. The bullshit these so-called experts came out with! She remembered being dragged to an exhibition less than twelve months ago. A group of students had gathered like excited school kids around a child’s pushchair parked in the centre of the exhibition hall, loaded up with clothes and several celebrity magazines.

  Jenny joined the group as they pontificated as to what the artist might be attempting to convey. Maybe it was about the pressures of life—the mother’s need to look like the women in the magazine while working to buy clothes, or perhaps it had been about how everything in the mother’s life revolved around the child. Jenny had felt like screaming until a bemused young woman arrived with a two-year-old boy, wondering why her belongings had attracted such a crowd.

  It had made her smile, and she loved repeating the tale around college, but now she was going to have to join the pseudo intellectuals and write a whole essay about one particular piece of modern art. Thankfully, one of the student’s own choice. She wondered if a glass of wine might help—or maybe a bottle. That was when her phone buzzed. It was a text—probably from Kelly, wondering when she was going to join the girls for a night out. Jenny shaded the screen with her hand and read the message.

  C’est Pas Fini

  Meet me at your mother’s grave.

  ***

  “I don’t understand,” Josie said. “Why? Why now?”

  Robert Adams felt physically ill. He couldn’t go through this. Not again.

  They stared at the grave. The epitaph was obscured by blood.

  “What have they got against Elizabeth?” Jo continued. “Why is she a whore?”

  Rob shook his head. “According to Jenny, Amelia called her the daughter of a whore. That was in one of her dreams, and—”

  “I remember,” Jo interrupted. “Because she had an affair
with Benjamin Pascoe.”

  Rob nodded. “Someone else remembers too,” he said. “Someone who’s been doing their homework. They’ve been digging deep.”

  Jo shook her head. “I just don’t know what they want.”

  “I’m going to have to tell Sebastian,” Rob cut in. “I know he doesn’t need this, right now, but—”

  Rob stopped. They both heard footsteps and turned instinctively.

  “Dad!” Jenny looked as if she were about to collapse. Her face was pale, almost grey. “What are you doing here?”

  “We got a text,” Josie said. “Look what they’ve done!”

  Jenny stared at the grave. “Oh my god! Please, no!”

  Neither of them spoke. They stood like three statues, their eyes fixed on the headstone. “I got a message too,” Jenny said, her voice strained and little more than a whisper. “But who would do this?”

  Josie shook her head. “It’s got to be someone who knows the story,” she said. “Someone who’s got a good reason. I mean…this? It’s morbid.”

  Rob nodded. He knew that graves got wrecked by screwed up kids, probably pissed up and looking for an adventure, but they rarely left a message. “You’re right. But shouldn’t we clean it up?”

  “No, leave it!” Josie said. “We need to report this.”

  “No,” Jenny gasped. “Please—just do what Dad says. Let’s clean it up and go. I don’t want anyone else involved this! No one!”

  Josie shrugged and pulled a wad of tissues from her shoulder bag. “There you go,” she said, handing them to Rob, “That’s all I’ve got, but I think you’re making a mistake. We’ve got nothing to hide.”

  ***

  “What’s the face for?” Jake snapped. “You’ve hardly said a word since I got home.”

  Jenny shrugged. “It’s nothing. Just this assignment. I hate modern art.”

  “Then just say so. Be honest. If you think it’s pretentious bollocks, say so!”

  “It doesn’t work like that. You just have to be pretentious along with them.”

  Jake didn’t answer, and when Jenny looked up, she saw that he was studying her. “It’s not the assignment, though, is it? There’s something else. I can see it in your eyes.”