by S M Hardy
‘I’m paid to cut the lawn and tidy the garden once a week. I usually do it every Thursday, so unless you’d prefer I did it another day I’ll be along tomorrow.’
‘Right,’ I said.
‘I’ll show myself out,’ and with that he was gone. I waited until I heard the front door slam before reaching for the whisky bottle.
CHAPTER FOUR
I didn’t sleep well, but at least I didn’t dream. The clock said seven twenty-five when I finally swung my legs out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. I had a faint ache in the centre of my forehead, which I put down to the whisky, and when I looked in the bathroom-cabinet mirror my red-rimmed eyes confirmed my diagnosis.
I washed and, although tempted not to just for once, shaved and by the time I’d dressed I was feeling a whole lot better. Shaving had been a good idea; my reflection was less wild and haggard. My hair was already getting long and I really should have had it cut before I left the city; the last thing I wanted was to end up looking like Jed. And that took the smile from my lips. What had that all been about yesterday?
Deciding to forgo bacon and eggs, I instead toasted some bread while I sipped on a mug of coffee and stared out through the kitchen window at the garden. The grass didn’t look like it warranted a cutting, but I supposed Jed’s regular ministrations kept it that way. Better a quick mow once a week than having the major job of hacking through six inches of grass.
I munched on my toast at the kitchen sink, still staring out through the window. It was another murky old morning, but there was a brightness coming down through the mist that made me think the sun would burn it away by midday.
Dropping my plate into the sink I turned on the tap and, as I reached for the washing-up liquid, caught a glimpse of movement out in the garden. I peered across the lawn, but there was nothing except for the swirling mist.
Seeing and hearing ghosts where there were none; maybe this break away from it all wasn’t what I really needed. Ghosts? No, what I really didn’t need or want was Jed filling my head with his old nonsense.
I scrubbed at my plate with more force than was probably necessary. When he arrived I would be polite but keep my distance. Sadly, it meant I would have to restrict my visits to the pub until he got the message, though if he got there at eight there was nothing to stop me popping in for a pre-dinner drink. I couldn’t isolate myself; that would do me no good at all.
Throwing the scrubbing brush down on the side of the sink, I placed the plate on the drainer and glanced out the window – just in time to see a small, red-cardiganed figure disappear through the mist and into the trees bordering the end of the garden.
‘What the hell?’
Not bothering to dry my hands I hurried to the back door, threw the bolts and ran out into the garden.
‘Hey you!’ I called. My voice sounded hollow, like the mist was devouring it.
There was no reply. Why would there be? The kid was trespassing and she knew it. I was pretty sure it was a she. I thought I’d glimpsed a grey-pleated skirt and long, possibly fair hair tied in braids.
I jogged across the lawn, too late remembering I was wearing my favourite pair of nubuck deck shoes I’d bought in Jamaica and was getting them soaking wet for my trouble. Still I carried on until I reached the low wooden fence surrounding the garden. For a moment I was nonplussed as to how she had got out, then saw the small latched gate to my right. I pulled it open and hurried through and was immediately within the patch of woodland bordering the property.
After the first few feet the mist petered out, the leafy canopies above me forming an impenetrable barrier. It was disconcertingly quiet, like I was the only living creature inside this wooded sanctum. There was no rustling of foliage from above or the sound of birdsong, just the crunching of years of leaf litter beneath my feet and the steady beat of my heart, which sounded overloud in the near silence.
I opened my mouth to call out again but changed my mind. It would be like shouting in a church. Then I wondered why I’d thought of that.
‘This is ridiculous,’ I muttered to myself and stopped. She could be anywhere. In amongst all the trees and shrubbery she could be hiding only a few feet away and I’d probably not see her.
I glanced around me, breathing in the mixed aromas of living vegetation and the loamy musk of decaying wood and leaves. This would be a good place to have a dog. I could almost see Kat dressed in waxed jacket and jeans striding ahead of me, Jack Russell by her side. This was another thing we would have argued over – the breed of dog, though I think she’d have settled for anything if I’d said yes. I was more for keeping a big dog if I were to have one at all. Kat had said it was a man thing: big dog, big dick. She was probably right. I’d been full of pride and ego. How she’d put up with me I’d never know.
‘I’ve grown up, Kat – the last two years have made me,’ I said, then realised I’d spoken out loud.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I heard a giggle. My eyes snapped open. I’d heard a giggle, a child’s giggle.
I took a few more steps and I heard it again, coming from in front of me and to the right. I started towards the sound. Then more childish laughter, but this time it sounded further ahead and to the left. How was she moving so silently? My progress was being proclaimed by the crackle of my feet upon the wrinkled, dead leaves.
She giggled. She was having a lovely time. She obviously wasn’t scared of the stupid townie trying to find her.
Why was I trying to find her? And if I did, what was I going to say to her? I almost stopped there and then, but something made me carry on. I wanted to see this little girl. I heard her laughing. Or was she sniggering – sniggering at the stupid, stupid man who thought he could catch her?
I’d show her. I’d show her who was the stupid one. I started to run. I would find her and I’d show her. Little brat.
Then I was out in the open, crossing mown grass, and up ahead through the swirls of mist was a grey, crumbling stone wall. I stopped for a moment, suddenly disorientated. The anger, no, rage I’d been feeling drained away. Why had I been so angry? The thoughts that had been flowing through my mind were … terrible − shocking, even − and more than a little reminiscent of the awful dreams I’d been having. I ran a hand across my face. I was losing it. I was truly losing it.
I turned back towards the trees. I was going straight to the cottage and phoning my doctor. The girl giggled again and I almost ignored her, but a little spark of the anger returned and I spun around and strode towards the wall and, as I got closer, I could see a shadow of a building loom up through the murk. It was the church. I was at the back of the church and over the wall I could see the first of the many headstones and tombs that filled its grounds.
I hadn’t realised how vast an area the cemetery covered, but then I’d only seen it from the road out front.
I followed the wall around for a few yards and came to a place where the grey stone had collapsed into an avalanche of rock and dust that was only a foot or so tall. I clambered over and then wondered why. Why would I want to wander around a graveyard on a misty, murky morning? Almost immediately the thought was gone as I heard the child once more, but this time she was singing.
Now I lay me down to sleep.
Ice-cold fingers traced my spine and I felt the first inkling of fear. Her voice had a haunting, eerie quality to it. A little girl’s voice singing a child’s lullaby in a graveyard shrouded in mist probably had something to do with it, I told myself, but it did nothing to dispel the cold fist clutching at my heart. Even so, I carried on walking and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me making my feet move; if I was in control of my actions, I’d be returning the way I’d come – at speed. Yet I didn’t stop. I carried on walking into the mist that in places was so thick it could have been low-lying cloud.
My shirt was sticking to me and my hair plastered my forehead. The long grass between the tombstones soaked my jeans almost up to my knees and when I got back to the cottage I would have to chang
e. If you ever do get back, a voice that sounded very much like Jed’s whispered in my head.
I was tempted to turn and run. I didn’t want to be here. I was cold, I was wet, I was … angry. I was so bloody angry and I had no idea why. A little kid had been running about in my garden – big fucking deal.
I scraped my wet hair back from my brow and forced myself to stop. I was going to return to the cottage right now. I began to turn, and as I did, to my right I saw a flicker of red amongst all the grey. Just a glimpse before it was lost again in the spiralling mist.
Despite my earlier conviction that I should immediately get away from this place I started towards where I thought I’d seen her. I had to weave between gravestones; some crooked, some fallen, some rough and crumbling, some probably only erected in the past ten years or so. Had I the time or inclination, this would be as good a place as any to learn something of the village’s history.
Another flash of red through the smog; it appeared closer now. I hurried on. I wanted this over with and yet I had a feeling of déjà vu. Like maybe I’d been in this place before, like maybe I’d dreamt this.
Now I lay me— A few more words of song that abruptly stopped, so close I could only be steps away. I felt a breeze against my cheek and the mist twirled and twisted as though being blown away as the sun at last found its way through, bringing some light to this place of darkness.
Directly ahead of me was a grave; newer than the rest, more cared for than the rest. Flowers only a day or so old lay on the freshly trimmed grass cover; an oasis of colour amongst the gloom.
The headstone was of white marble with gold-painted lettering engraved into the surface in a font similar to Times New Roman. I began to read and, for a moment the world swung out of kilter and I felt like I was falling.
Here sleeps Katherine Moran born 16th April 1989.
Kat? I ran my hand across my face. It couldn’t be – it couldn’t … My eyes swum and then focused.
Here sleeps Krystal Morgan born 14th June 2009. I drew in a ragged breath. The Morgans’ dead child shared my birthday.
‘Tragic, very tragic,’ a voice said from beside me. I jerked around. ‘I’m sorry, did I startle you?’
‘No! Yes. Sorry, I was miles away.’
‘Peter Davies,’ the bespectacled and rosy-faced reverend said, sticking out his hand.
I hastily wiped mine on my jeans before taking hold of his. ‘Jim Hawkes.’
‘My, my, you’re freezing cold,’ he said, his bright smile fading a tad. ‘Why don’t you come in and have a cup of tea?’
‘I wouldn’t want to impose.’
‘Ah, come on, Jim – may I call you Jim? Do an old man a favour; I don’t get to meet people from the big, bad city all that often and it’d be nice to get to hear what’s happening in the outside world from someone who’s seen it first-hand for a change.’ And with that he shepherded me through the grass and onto a stone path and guided me towards the rectory, chatting all the way.
The rectory wasn’t in much better fettle than the church. Even through the gradually clearing mist I could see the paint around the windows and door frame was chipped and peeling. The reverend pushed the door open and gestured for me to enter.
The hallway was dark and gloomy and smelt musty, bringing to mind the yellowing pages of long-forgotten books. A staircase led up to the top floor of the house; a narrow, worn carpet of indistinct colour and pattern covered its centre, flanked by dark-brown varnished wood.
He ushered me along the corridor past a coat stand harbouring a long, waxed jacket and an even longer once-black coat that looked as though it had seen better days. Beside it was a cylindrical, brass container holding two umbrellas: one funereal black, the other a kaleidoscope of red, green and blue and probably more at home on a golf course. The brass hadn’t seen a duster for many a year and was fast turning green with neglect.
He showed me into a sitting room that clearly doubled as his office. By the window was an oak desk cluttered with papers, files and books with a large, black leather-bound Bible balanced on the top as if to weigh down the melee of paperwork that was likely to explode off the desk if left to its own devices.
‘Sit down, sit down. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll get you that cup of tea,’ he said.
‘Please don’t trouble yourself.’
‘No trouble, dear boy. No trouble at all. I could do with a cuppa myself,’ he said as he bustled out of the room, leaving me to perch on the edge of the large leather sofa flanking the fireplace.
I could smell damp soot and it occurred to me that a fire hadn’t burned in the grate for some time. I supposed as we were coming to the end of summer he hadn’t needed a fire thus far, though the grey ash and the remains of blackened logs said otherwise. I was beginning to suspect the good reverend lived alone, without even a housekeeper to maintain order. It certainly looked that way.
I glanced around the room. An old upright gramophone player stood in the corner with lid open. I levered myself off the couch to take a peek, and sure enough an old 78 rested on the turntable, a film of dust coating the once-glossy, black disc.
I slumped back down on the couch and sank into the leather where the springs had given up the ghost. I felt a bit sorry for the poor old boy. No wonder he craved company: I doubted he had much of a congregation − the village was tiny.
The door swung open and he backed in clutching a tray. He’d taken the trouble to get out his best porcelain; a white and floral teapot with matching cups, saucers, sugar bowl and milk jug rattled about as he searched for a clear spot amongst the clutter on his desk.
‘Here, let me,’ I said, scrambling to my feet and moving a couple of files out of the way.
He muttered his thanks and busied himself pouring the tea. ‘Milk? Sugar?’
‘Just milk, thanks.’
He handed me a cup and saucer and then settled down behind his desk. ‘So, how are you finding it here in Slyford?’
‘It’s certainly different,’ I said.
‘A quieter pace of life to what you’re used to, I’m sure.’
‘Hmm,’ I said.
‘You’re staying at the Morgans’,’ he said. ‘A real shame about them. It was at their daughter’s grave where I found you.’
‘I heard there’d been an accident.’
The reverend put his cup and saucer down on the desk and leant back in his chair. ‘That’s what they say.’
I gave him a puzzled look. ‘You say it like you don’t believe it.’
He picked up a lump of sugar with a pair of tarnished tongs and dropped it into his cup. I raised my own cup up to my lips and almost gagged. The milk was off. I looked his way as he dropped another lump of sugar into his tea and began to stir. While he was otherwise occupied, I hastily put my cup and saucer down on the floor beside me.
‘I’m not sure what to believe,’ he said, and I watched in morbid fascination as he took a sip of his own tea.’ He gave me a sunny smile. ‘Ah, that’s better.’
I inwardly shuddered. No wonder he laced it with sugar. ‘You make it sound as though there’s some mystery over how she died.’
‘The poor child was found at the top of the stairs with a broken neck. They said she fell from the loft while looking for Christmas presents.’
‘That’s what I heard.’
‘It was September.’
I frowned at him. ‘September?’
‘She’d only been back at school a week and yet there she was at home on a school day, allegedly on her own.’
‘Allegedly? What are you getting at?’
‘When you get back to the cottage, take a look at where the loft hatch is in relation to the stairs.’
I remembered charging up the stairs to search for the cause of the loud thump the previous day and afterwards looking up at the loft hatch. It was about a metre from the end of the hall; at least two metres from the top of the stairs.
‘But there must have been an investigation?’
The r
everend sipped at his tea, peering at me over the rim of the cup. ‘You’re not in the city now, you know,’ was all he said.
As soon as was polite I made my excuses and left. He saw me to the door, and I could feel his eyes watching me as I followed the path from the rectory back into the churchyard. This time I walked to the front of the church and took the main street back to the cottage. I had seen enough gravestones for one day.
CHAPTER FIVE
I was greeted at the cottage gate by the sound of the mower coming from the back garden. I let myself in through the front to avoid disturbing Jed, in truth wanting to avoid him. He had left me disconcerted the previous evening. I was now doubly so after my conversation with the Reverend Davies, though any anger I’d had for Jed and his bullshit had temporarily subsided.
I changed my wet jeans and ruefully wondered whether my deck shoes would ever be the same again after their soaking. I then made myself a coffee and sat down at the kitchen table, considering whether I should make that appointment with my doctor. It would mean going all the way back to the city, and what for? She’d only repeat what she’d told me before. I was stressed and needed to relax. Unfortunately, thus far I was finding Slyford St James far from relaxing.
There was a rap on the back door and Jed poked his head inside. ‘I’ve done the lawn. Is there anything else you want doing?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘No thanks.’
‘Then I’ll be off,’ he said, his voice gruff, and I suddenly felt mean.
‘Would you like a coffee before you go?’
His craggy face creased into a smile. ‘I wouldn’t say no.’
He came in and sat down at the table while I boiled the kettle and shook out some biscuits from the packet onto a plate.
‘The mist’s clearing,’ I said, glancing out the window.
‘It’s gonna be a nice day,’ he said. ‘I think we might be heading for an Indian summer.’
I handed him a mug and offered him the biscuits, then we chatted for a bit. ‘Who does the wood at the bottom of the garden belong to?’ I asked.
