by J. A. Baker
‘Think I might head up to the hills for a walk if that’s okay? Need to get away from here for a bit.’ Alec has stopped pacing and is standing staring out of the window at the frothing sea outside. ‘Do you fancy coming or are you busy?’ He nods towards her computer then turns back to the water, his breath misting up the glass.
Peggy thinks about Alec’s dark mood the last time they visited the moors together and how impossible it was to keep pace with his gigantic strides. It wasn’t a stroll or a gentle amble. More of a regimented march as if there was somebody chasing him. Which to be fair, there usually is. Not a visible entity as such but a niggling army of demons perched on his shoulder constantly throwing him bait to see if he will bite. Alec’s countryside walks are anything but leisurely.
‘I was thinking of High Cliff Nab or maybe parking the car at Clay Bank Top and taking it from there?’
Peggy smiles, knows what his ploy is. He’s doing his best to put her off. That suits her. She is behind with her work. She needs to write and Alec needs to take his frustrations out on the ground beneath his feet, force his anger out into the open countryside where it can be released into the wild.
‘I’m okay here. You get yourself up there and blow off a few cobwebs.’
He nods and plunges his hands into his pockets, ‘Think I’ll make myself a flask and take a couple of sandwiches.’
‘Why don’t you go and get yourself changed? I’ll do it.’ Peggy stands and makes her way into the kitchen, catching the look on Alec’s face as she passes.
‘Wanting rid of me?’ he says, his eyes dark, full of contempt. It doesn’t take much to set him off, to unsettle him and bring his fury to the fore.
She feels her face flush and grits her teeth, ‘Just thought I would slow you down, that’s all. You really want me to come along?’ Peggy turns and smiles at him, gives him her best humble look, the one where she dips her eyes slightly and lowers her shoulders. She is humility personified.
He shakes his head and stares down at his feet sullenly, ‘No, no. You’re right. I need a good walk. Get it out of my system. Sorry, just feeling pissed off.’
‘Go and get yourself sorted. I’ll make you up a flask and a few snacks,’ Peggy says and reaches down to pull a small black bag out of the kitchen cupboard, shaking the dust off as she unzips it, ‘Coffee and ham sandwiches do you?’
....................................................................................................................................................
For someone who was desperate to get out of the house and clear his head, Alec took forever to do it - shuffling around the place, swapping walking boots, changing coats, hunting for maps that he decided at the last minute he didn’t need anyway. It seemed to go on for an eternity. But now he’s gone, Peggy leans back against the door and surveys the debris he has left behind. Stuff everywhere - old handkerchiefs, empty crisp packets he pulled out of his backpack, laces, frayed and snapped in half, all manner of useless items - they all lay strewn across the living room floor. She sets about gathering it all up, sifting the rubbish out and binning it and then salvaging things such as socks and an old bandana, an item he wore once and discarded with a fair amount of scorn claiming it made him look like a complete prick.
It doesn’t take too long to clear the decks. She gives the place a quick vacuum and puts everything away before tackling her next job.
A band of worry wraps itself around her head as she shuffles into the kitchen and snaps on a pair of rubber gloves. The odour coming up from under the floor is starting to become unbearable. She has to do something about it. The thought of going down there fills her with complete dread. She knows what this is. She knows only too well.
Peggy gets down on her haunches and tugs at the oblong raffia mat that sits in the centre of the kitchen floor. Pulling it to one side, she rolls it up into a long rectangular tube and stuffs it down the side of the fridge freezer. The handle on the hatch to the cellar glints menacingly and Peggy feels her heart begin to thump arrhythmically as she leans down and lifts the heavy trapdoor up. A waft of something so indescribably horrendous hits her in the face causing her to wretch. Gagging, Peggy reels backwards leaving the door to slam back down with a loud crash. Jesus Christ. She had no idea it would be so pungent once unleashed. Her arm is spread over her face as she scrambles up and drags a cloth out of the kitchen drawer. Tying it round her face, she takes a few deep breaths then reaches down and begins to pull at the hatch again. The makeshift scarf is no barrier against the almighty stink that immediately springs up from below, but it’s better than nothing. Gasping and swallowing hard, Peggy turns and descends backwards down the metal ladder and into the darkness beneath. Her hands flail around for the light switch. She hits it with an uncoordinated slap and suddenly the basement is lit up like a football stadium, a carpet of yellow light spread over the grey concrete under her feet.
She glances around, sickness gripping her. The floor is littered with the rotting carcasses of dozens of dead mice, their tiny, black bodies slowly becoming desiccated with the passing of time. They stare up at her accusingly, their eyes glazed, their bodies stiff. The stench of death chokes her. Such a distinct and unforgettable odour. She can never erase from her memory the smell of rotting rodents from her time working in a grotty pub in Newcastle. No matter how often they got the pest control guy in, the little blighters kept coming back. She was once serving on a busy Saturday night and had felt one crawl up over her foot. She had shrieked as she looked down to see it scamper across the floor into a hole in the corner of the rotten skirting board. In complete turmoil, she had panicked and accidentally thrown a full pint over a waiting customer who roared in her face that she was ‘a fucking useless bitch who deserved to be slapped about.’ Peggy finished her shift that night, hung up her apron and left, never to return.
Breathing through her mouth only, she grabs a bag from one of the metal units against the wall and looks around for a dustpan and brush. Propped up against the far wall is a tatty old hand brush, its bristles bent and twisted with age. Trying to stop the vomit rising, Peggy picks it up and sets to, sweeping up the mass of dead mice, desperately doing her best to not count them all as the bodies continue to mount up. Some are still in the traps; other have struggled free but died after escaping, their injured limbs twisted and broken and sticking out at horribly peculiar and unnatural angles. Using a large spade, Peggy gathers them up and shovels them into the bag. They hit the bottom with a sickening thud, sending her stomach lurching down to her boots. Without looking inside, she quickly ties the bag up and then deciding one layer isn’t enough to stop the smell escaping and foraging foxes digging it open again, she grabs another bag and puts it inside. The odour is still there, foul and cloying in its intensity. Choking and spluttering, Peggy starts to make her way back to the steps. Her right hand reaches out and she clasps her fingers around the bottom rung, its cold, hard sensation a shock on her burning skin. That’s when she hears it - a sinister scraping sound. A deep, grating echo that chills her to the bone. Too loud to be mice again. It’s something else. Something bigger. She carefully places the bag on the floor and slowly edges towards the noise. It seems to be coming from behind an old chest of drawers that is placed against the rough surface of the wall. Peggy feels her throat begin to close up. She creeps forward, her breathing irregular and ragged, then stops and listens, her ears attuned to the raging rhythm of her own heartbeat as it pumps through her veins with frightening ferocity. She brings her hands up to her forehead and presses her palms into her eye sockets to alleviate the pain that is beginning to burn at her brain. Is it possible for a person to collapse from fear? Because she feels that at this point in time, her body could easily rupture from the strain, her blood squirting out like a jet wash, spraying the bare brick walls of the cellar a deep shade of crimson. Swaying slightly, Peggy removes her hands from her sockets and finds herself staring into a pair of dark, prying eyes. Her head begins to pulse and vibrate as she
watches a huge, grey rat make its way towards her from under the old cabinet, quickly followed by another one of similar size and shape, their bodies casting long shadows across the dusty floor. Unable to catch her breath properly, she lets out a short guttural grunt and starts to back up the ladder then remembers the bag of dead mice at her feet. Quickly snatching them up, Peggy slots her feet onto the first rung and hauls herself up, her hands shaking uncontrollably. She leans down and before she has chance to flick the light switch off, feels her gaze drawn to them as the two large creatures turn and head back under the arched legs of the furniture and disappear out of sight.
The black sack swings from side to side, weighted with the bodies of well over a dozen dead mice - probably more - as Peggy slips and stumbles her way back up out of the basement. She half falls onto the top rung and flings herself through the opening, landing with a thump onto the narrow kitchen floor. The thought of a pair of scavenging, disease ridden rats in hot pursuit, forces her up off her knees. She grabs at the hatch and swings it closed with a huge, desperate crash. The pots on the small nearby dresser wobble and rattle in protest, one of them falling off and rolling round the floor, coming to a standstill at her feet.
Peggy rips off the material draped over the lower half of her face and feels her stomach go into an involuntary spasm as she is hit with another blast of the death stench. Two bags suddenly seem a weak barrier against such an overpowering smell. Picking it up, she flings the back door open, marches outside and dumps it in the wheelie bin, then thinking better of it, retrieves it and goes back inside where she double bags it again before striding back outside and finally disposing of it. A gust of wind whips up, swirling around her feet and forcing her back against the gritty, whitewashed wall of the cottage. Peggy secures and closes the door of the small wooden shed that houses their collection of bins. She stops next to it to catch her breath and let her racing heart slow down then narrows her eyes against the glare of the sky and stares out over the horizon wondering where Alec got to in the end, which route he decided to take. Peggy shivers as her body cools itself, the breeze welcome, as it caresses her burning flesh. Wherever he is, she hopes he is wrapped up warm. The easterly wind is raw at this time of year. Shielding her eyes from the glare of the low, watery sun, Peggy watches the line of tankers that are stacked up out at sea, waiting to enter the dock and unload their cargo. She thinks about the fishing boats that still set sail regardless of weather and riptides and the myriad other reasons that would stop most people from even entertaining any idea of going. Not the fishermen on the north-eastern coast. Come hell or high water they always set sail. It’s in their blood her father would say when she once questioned why her cousin Frank used to still go fishing even after losing his best friend overboard in the height of a winter storm. Peggy blinks. The thought of her father is still enough to bring a lump to her throat. Fifty-nine is no age to die; no age at all.
Peggy scurries back inside, the breeze building into something more powerful. She wrinkles her nose and closes her eyes against the smell. It’s everywhere. She flings windows open to rid the house of the stench of decay. A gust of wind whips the torn shreds of paper up out of the grate. They flutter about, swirling around her like blossom. Peggy sighs and reaches down to gather them back up. Why on earth would Alec’s dad suddenly want to contact him after all these years? Pity his mother didn’t do the same thing instead of fleeing to the west coast and forgetting that her son even existed. Peggy is pretty sure Alec would have welcomed her back into his life. But she didn’t. Instead she chose to start afresh and leave her child to the care system and all its failings. What sort of mother would do such a thing? She knows she wouldn’t. Leaning up to reach the box of matches that sits on the fireplace, Peggy opens the box and strikes one, holding it to the scraps of paper that are clasped tightly between her fingers. She watches, enthralled by the rapidity of it all as Barry Wilson’s plea for forgiveness and a reunion bursts into flames and turns to ash in her hands. She leaves go and drops the crisp, black flakes back into the grate. Into the fire with all the other rubbish. No more than the old bastard deserves.
18
Audrey
It’s been a week now. A week since she dropped the papers off at Peggy’s cottage. Papers detailing the disappearance of a young woman, along with some snapshots of Alec and the very same woman drinking coffee together. Audrey got lucky on that one. She had initially wanted to follow her daughter to see the kind of places she visited; see what her daily routine was, get to know her some more, maybe even get asked back to Chamber Cottage for coffee and a chat. She had planned on accidentally bumping into her somewhere - in a shop or a cafe. Less invasive than knocking on Peggy’s door and giving her the chance to slam it in Audrey’s face. But it soon became clear that Peggy didn’t actually have a routine or ritual worth speaking of. In fact, she rarely left the house. She took brief visits to the town which saw her snaking up back alleys, always avoiding the crowds. There were times Audrey lost her and had to retreat back to the car, disappointed and frustrated by her daughter’s eccentric and often unfathomable behaviour. It worked out well in the end however, Peggy’s reclusive ways. It meant that Alec was often on his own for a lot of the time. Twice she saw him with her, this Sheryl lady. Twice they sat in a coffee shop, heads together; talking, laughing, colluding, while her daughter was at home, only a few miles away, by herself, completely unaware what her conniving husband was up to. Audrey sucks her teeth and shakes her head. A complete shit of a man. He was easy to track too, making it so simple for her. He strolled around town without any idea he was being followed and that his affair was being documented. The meetings lasted more than a few weeks giving Audrey plenty of time to work out her plan of attack. She didn’t need to follow him for too long. Just a few photographs was all that was required. They told her all she needed to know. She hung onto those pictures, salted them away ready for the time when she would present them to her daughter, show Peggy what sort of a man she had chosen to spend the rest of her life with - a liar and a philanderer. But then the absence of her daughter’s face proved too much for her. All the waiting about for Peggy to emerge from that bloody cottage took Audrey’s plan in a different direction. She decided to enter into the complex world of social media. It was taxing - having to set up a Facebook account, create a profile, put out friend requests, find Peggy’s author page, search out who her friends were - it took some doing. With Audrey’s limited capacity for understanding technology and how to navigate her way around social media sites, it was tricky. But she persevered. And by God it was worth the effort. Because then she was able to find out about Sheryl; catch a glimpse into her life, monitor her movements. Read all about her disappearance. That came as a shock initially but, after giving it some thought, all the pieces slotted together perfectly. He had it in him. He was a Wilson after all. Like father like son. She had probably threatened to go public with their affair and he will have panicked, flipped his lid, and now she is gone. Awful clichéd behaviour. Duplicity at its worst. The newspapers are full of such stories. Her daughter’s books are full of such stories. The irony of it is absurd.
Audrey flips her laptop up and opens the page set up by Sheryl’s sister. She reads it again. She’s been missing for a few weeks now. Nobody disappears for that long without a sinister motive. Fingers itching to contact this poor lady and pour out what she knows, Audrey grits her teeth tightly and releases them again, her jaw aching from the tension. She needs to keep it to herself. For now, anyway. She doesn’t want to ruin any chances of a meet-up with her estranged daughter. She’s waited too long to risk ruining that. It’s all she’s thought about since retiring. She has focused all her energy on bringing her family back together. She often dreams about visiting Beatrice and taking Peggy with her. The three of them back together again. Just like the old times. She clenches her fists, a gnawing sensation churning around in her gut. She could do with a drink. She hasn’t had one for three or four days now, probably the lon
gest she has been without for as long as she can remember. She closes her eyes and waits for the moment to pass, doing her best to ignore the craving. The longing for the sensation that alcohol brings threatens to engulf her - the warm, muggy feeling, the blurring and dullness, the ability to help her through. She has to ignore it, let it pass. Be the stronger force. But it’s hard, so very hard, when your days are empty and your life is fuelled only by anger and suspicion. Because that’s all she has going for her at the moment. No Peter, no daughters. Nothing worth speaking of. Just a pressing need to unearth the dirty crimes of her errant son-in-law and save her daughter from his iniquitous ways.
She has John of course. He is there for her, in a fashion; popping in and out of her life, calling round to see her when he finishes work, his fluorescent green jacket a sign he has arrived as he passes her living room window. He’s a good man. But he’s not hers and never will be. Peter was her man, the only one she ever wanted or needed. But a premature death brought on by a heart attack put paid to that. And Peggy even blamed Audrey for that. Putting him under strain with her constant moaning and demands was what she claimed had caused it. That had hurt. Even more than the scathing words directed at Audrey herself. Because for all of her faults she had loved her husband more than life itself and would do anything to have him back. But life’s not like that, is it? Life is a chain of events that once set in motion are impossible to undo. Peter is dead and that is that. Her daughters are all she has left and she cannot afford to lose them as well. This is why she has to be so very careful with the information she has about Sheryl, make sure her plan is executed with absolute precision. No room for error. She says Sheryl’s name out loud, listens to the sound of it as it echoes around the room, enjoying the sensation it brings as it rolls off her tongue. She’s said it so often of late in her head, she feels as if she knows her, as if she is the link that will lead her back to her daughter.
