The Buried Circle

by Jenni Mills

  I lay my hand gently on her forehead. Be careful how you rouse someone sleeping. The skin’s warm and papery. Her eyes blink open, and gradually focus on mine. A smile spreads across her face. ‘Oh, how lovely,’ she says. ‘What you doin’ here, Indy? Come to take me home?’

  She’s asleep again, only five minutes later. I sit by the bed, back sweaty against the beige plastic upholstery of the visitor’s chair, waiting to slip my hand out of hers until I’m sure it won’t wake her.

  What happened, Fran? I asked her.

  Don’t recall a bloody thing. Fell over, din’ I? Banged me head or summat. Her accent becoming broader, old Wiltshire, a sure sign she’s frightened. Not of the person who hurt her–I’m sure she’s not faking memory loss this time–but afraid because she can’t remember.

  The room fills with the thrum of engines, the clatter of rotors.

  ‘Air ambulance coming in. Big excitement of our day,’ says a voice, bringing me awake with a jerk. The woman in the next bed nods towards the window with relish. ‘Probably a motorway accident.’ She’s propped up against a pile of pillows, reading Woman’s Weekly, enormous boobs encased in a black satin nglig with embroidered pink roses. A nicotine-yellow tube snakes from under the sheet into a plastic sac on a stand. ‘Why don’t you go and have a coffee or summat, my lover? You look wore out. You might want to buy her a nightie in the hospital shop while you’re downstairs.’

  Fran’s bony shoulder is draped in a blue hospital gown, faded with much laundering.

  ‘I never thought. I’ll bring one from home tomorrow.’

  ‘Bring her two, dear, one to wash and one to wear. Don’t forget her dressing-gown and slippers.’ She flaps her magazine at me. ‘I’ll keep an eye on your nan, don’t you worry, and tell her where you’re to when she wakes.’

  I take the lift down to the lobby. As soon as I turn it on, my phone bleeps with a text. It’s from Martin: So sorry about yr gran, petal. If u need place to stay, my cottage empty tonight. Have to be in Bath, but can leave key

  The air ambulance is leaving, hovering like a nectar-laden bee over the far end of the car park, as I sit down on the smoker’s bench to text back that it’s a kind thought, but no need.

  A second text arrives immediately: And forgive me for being crass yesterday afternoon

  I buy Fran essentials–nightdress, pants, comb, toothbrush–and a newspaper from the WRVS shop, then go in search of food. John’s in the coffee shop, at the till with a laden tray. He doesn’t immediately see me. The light from the window behind leaves his face in shadow, hollow cheeks and deep eyes momentarily sinister, until he looks up and his face splits in a smile. Indy–want something to eat? I’ll pay for it,’ he says to the woman at the till.

  We sit at a table near the back of the room.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asks immediately.

  I play for time. ‘How did it go at the police station?’

  ‘How you’d expect. They haven’t anything on me, so they took samples, blustered a bit and told me I’d be hearing from them.’

  ‘What’s this about an ABH conviction?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ John puts down his fork, his eyes chips of flint. ‘Don’t tell me you believe I had anything to do–’

  ‘No, of course I don’t,’ I say. ‘Jennings wrong-footed me, that’s all. I didn’t know what to say.’

  ‘You were there–1985, Battle of the Beanfield. I gave a policeman a black eye.’

  ‘Oh.’ The picture comes back to me, the one in the paper, a startlingly young John being led away by cops with riot shields, blood streaming down his face. ‘Sorry. I’d forgotten.’

  ‘Given you were four at the time, that’s forgivable. So now you see why I don’t rate too highly with the Wiltshire constabulary. Jennings was probably there too, as a sprog copper.’ He chews another mouthful of battered fish. ‘Anyway, that’s irrelevant. He’s trying to set us at odds.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Jennings put it to me that, at two o’clock, he had only my word for it you weren’t at Trusloe. That these things are almost always family, and you–young, stressed out by the responsibility of caring for your senile gran–are much more likely than me to have belted her one in a moment of frustration. He good as said I’m covering up for you. Because, of course, I’m only a drugged up old hippie, aren’t I?’

  ‘Oh, my God.’ Under the table, my legs have started to shake. ‘He can’t–’

  ‘Don’t panic. He hasn’t anything else so he’s trying for a reaction from one of us.’

  My egg sandwich has become inedible. ‘Look, if that’s the way they’re thinking, it’s a bad idea for me to stay with you. I’ll go back to Trusloe tonight.’

  ‘You can’t. The locks haven’t been changed.’

  ‘So? Let’s call out a twenty-four-hour locksmith. By the way, Jennings told me you left the back door unlocked last night.’

  I didn’t.’

  I stare at him. ‘You must have. That’s how the SOCOs got in to fingerprint this morning.’

  ‘I remember locking it. Come on, you were in the kitchen.’

  He’s right. I was. I can picture him turning the key. His key, of course…

  ‘John, you should tell them about those missing keys.’

  ‘You think I’m going to tell them anything voluntarily after this morning?’ He glares at me defiantly.

  ‘Anyway, you’re right.’ I push my chair back and stand up. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t sleep at Trusloe. But I don’t have to go to yours. Martin said I could stay at the cottage the Trust’s lent him. The filming’s finished but he’s not leaving until the stone’s cemented in next week and they backfill the trench.’

  John seems uneasy. ‘You sure?’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ His fingers are drumming on the tabletop, itching for a roll-up. ‘Doesn’t feel a good idea, that’s all’

  ‘Finish your lunch.’ I look around for a bin to chuck my uneaten sandwich. ‘I’d like to catch a doctor, and find out what they think about Fran.’

  He follows me out of the cafeteria and taps me on the shoulder while I’m waiting for the lift. ‘You left your stuff behind.’ It’s the bag holding the nightdress I bought for Frannie, and my newspaper.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Listen, stay at my place, after all. Don’t you think it’s better to be together, in case–’ He stops abruptly.

  ‘You did…find her guardian, didn’t you?’ I know this stuff is crap, but it feels important that John believes she’ll recover.

  ‘Yes, I found it. No mistaking it.’ His lips quiver in what is almost, but not quite, a smile. ‘It has to come to you four times on the journey, to be certain, but I recognized it immediately. A blackbird.’

  That’s so much like Fran that I laugh with relief. ‘That’s all right, then. Thank God one thing is.’

  The lift arrives with a ping and the doors open; shiny steel walls reflect our blurred outlines as splashes of colour. He catches my arm before I can walk in. ‘No. You don’t understand.’ His eyes are anxious. ‘I found it, but it wouldn’t let me near, kept hopping away, head on one side, looking at me. I couldn’t catch it to give back to her.’

  I feel the smile fall off my face. ‘It’s bollocks, John.’ The lift doors are trying to close on me, and I shake his hand off my arm. ‘Doesn’t work even on a symbolic level. Sorry.’ I push into the lift and punch the button for Frannie’s floor. The doors begin to shut again, but he’s not moved.

  Indy…’

  ‘What?’ I hit the doors-open button.

  ‘Tonight. I’ve a bad feeling about us not being in the same place…’

  ‘This is spooking me, and none of it’s real! I jab the button again, more viciously this time. ‘Look, I said I wouldn’t go back to Trusloe. I’ll be fine at Martin’s.’

  The doors slide together, cutting off the sight of his worried face.

  Fran’s awake, though groggy, and
chirping merrily as I stow the new nightie in her locker.

  ‘I’m a pickle, in’ I?’ Head on one side, exactly like a blackbird. ‘Look at the shiner I give meself.’ She points proudly to her black eye–or what would be her black eye, if she was pointing to the right side of her face. ‘Nurse brought me a mirror when she helped me comb my hair, couldn’t believe the state of me. And me wrist…’ She pulls back the covers with her left hand to reveal a cast on the right. ‘Plastered up this morning.’

  ‘Doctor been round yet?’

  ‘Ooh, yes. Lovely girl, not much older than you, ever so clever. Nurse said to tell you, if you wanted to talk, go and find her at the desk before the round’s finished. Go on, I’ll be all right. Might have another little nap. Can you plump up my pillows?’

  I help her to shuffle forward, and adjust the backrest. My eyes snag on the whiteboard above the bed, where the nurses write each patient’s treatment details.

  Nil by mouth.

  * * *

  ‘How long’s she been nil by mouth?’ I ask the nurse at the desk. ‘And why?. Are they going to operate on the wrist?’

  She shrugs. ‘You’ll have to ask the doctor.’

  John’s coming up the corridor. I wave at him, and go back to Fran’s bedside. Her eyelids are already drooping. ‘You go ahead and snooze, love,’ I say. ‘John’s here now. We’ll both sit with you, after I’ve found the doc’ I stoop to give her a kiss on her forehead.

  ‘Love you, darlin’.’ Her anxious eyes hold mine. ‘You will be taking me home soon?’

  The doctor leads me into a side room. She has thin, stooped shoulders and pale hair escaping from a scrunchie, and looks about a year older than me. Probably is about a year older than me. In doctor terms, I’d bet she’s my equivalent in the food chain at Overview TV.

  ‘You’re Mrs Robinson’s next-of-kin?’ I nod. ‘Your grandmother’s in no immediate danger, we think, but she is over eighty, and she’s had both a shock and a fall. Lucky not to have fractured more than a minor bone in her wrist.’

  ‘Is that what the operation’s for?’

  ‘No.’ She tugs nervously on the stethoscope slung round her neck. ‘The nurses noticed some bleeding today that wasn’t apparent last night.’

  ‘That cut on her forehead again?’

  ‘Not her scalp. Down below.’

  Beyond the pale doctor’s shoulder is a fearsome piece of equipment with an array of lights on the top, looking like something that could reassemble itself any moment into a robot and stomp out of the room to destroy the planet. It’s easier staring at it instead of her.

  ‘Down below?’ My voice comes from a long, long way off.

  ‘Vaginal bleeding. There are a couple of possible explanations. One would be a gynaecological problem of some sort–anything from fibroids to cancer, I’m afraid. I understand from her she’s not been feeling entirely well for several months. We’re taking her up for an ultra-sound scan later this afternoon. Don’t worry, if there’s anything we’ll whip her into surgery soonest and have it out; the bleeding’s heavy enough to cause a little concern. But we also need to eliminate the other possibility.’

  My heart’s started to thud with the same stuttering rhythm as Fran’s: b’dm’dum, b’dm’dum. Reflected in the shiny bulbs of the big lights, the doctor’s scrunchie is bobbing in time as she goes on speaking: ‘I’ve notified the police surgeon, and he’ll want to do an internal examination as soon as he can get here.’

  CHAPTER 53

  The other possibility. What kind of sick bastard could hurt an old lady that way?

  John and I manage a swift conversation when the tea trolley arrives, while Frannie’s arguing with the nurse that surely she could have just a little sip of tea, her mouth’s like the bottom of a buggerin’ birdcage.

  ‘You go home,’ he says. ‘You’re so tired you’re white. Hospital visiting takes it out of you–have to pace yourself. I’ll wait around and find out what’s happening with the scan, and the police surgeon. Any news, I’ll phone.’ He ignores my dubious face. ‘Go on, you can see how much brighter she seems. I doubt they’d operate tonight, anyway, even if they found something.’

  ‘But what if it’s…’

  …the other possibility.

  ‘Let’s think about that if and when,’ says John.

  ‘She’d have said something, wouldn’t she? I know she claims not to remember but…’

  ‘If and when, Indy. Have you eaten today at all? Go back and heat up something from my freezer.’

  The idea of warm food and bed seems unbearably attractive. ‘I still don’t think I should stay at your place. What if this doesn’t change DI Jennings’s mind? It’ll probably fuel his sick fantasies that you and I are involved in some conspiracy. I’ll go to Trusloe, there’s food there.’

  ‘No,’ says John. ‘Especially not now. If you won’t stay at mine, go to Martin’s. At least there’ll be someone with you there.’ As I turn back into the side ward to say goodbye to Fran, he catches hold of my arm. ‘Be careful, though, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll light a candle to the Goddess,’ I tell him.

  ‘Don’t be flip.’

  As the car takes the bend into the gap between Avebury’s massive stone teeth, I remember my return last September, full of hope under a dusty golden harvest moon. Now there’s nothing friendly about the stones’ smile. Instead, it reminds me of the dead, broken grin of a fleshless jawbone.

  Martin will have left the key to his cottage under a stone by the front door. Naturally I didn’t tell John that Martin won’t be there tonight or he’d have had me behind locks and bars and sitting in a pentagram for good measure at Fortress Bolger. Nor did I mention I’d be going back to Trusloe first to pick up clean clothes.

  Bella Vista seems a different place without Frannie. The plywood tacked over the broken glass, the grey dust left by the fingerprint men, a smell of damp, all give it an air of dilapidation. The people who lived here left years ago.

  She will come back.

  I keep seeing things I hadn’t noticed yesterday: a saucepan in the sink, encrusted with soup, a bowl and spoon on the table. In the sitting room, there’s a cup containing a half-inch of cold tea. I move around the house collecting things Frannie might need in hospital: dressing-gown, slippers, clean underwear, book of crossword puzzles…Her reading glasses have slipped down the side of the armchair where I found the anonymous letter months ago. Who it was from, whatever happened to it seem irrelevant now I’m facing the possibility I could lose Fran. From the bathroom, towel, flannel, soap. A flash of white catches my eye–

  Glass exploding everywhere, in my hair, trying to push myself down into the upholstery of the passenger seat of Mick’s van–

  You stupid little cow. Don’t you understand what you’ve done?

  Only my reflection in the glass door of the shower. The pink, medical smell of old ointment leaks out of the bathroom cabinet, calming like rescue remedy. I come back to myself, taking deep, heaving breaths. The house is ringing with silence. I kneel down and pick up the toothbrush and the Colgate and the other toiletries scattered on the floor from the sponge bag I dropped.

  My phone pings: a text from John. No police surgeon yet, no news, they haven’t done the scan. As I lock the front door of the house behind me, I can’t help glancing towards Windmill Hill. It’s still broad daylight, so what was I expecting to see up there?

  I park the car in the lane outside Martin’s cottage and sit for a moment, remembering him talking about the strangeness of bedding down for the night in an ancient stone circle. The cottage is set back from the others, the last in the lane, backing directly onto the stones, with a tiny strip of garden to one side. The walls are whitewashed, probably built of sarsen from megaliths broken in the eighteenth century. So, not only sleeping inside the circle: I’ll be sleeping inside one of the stones.

  Unlocking the door, I realize I’m ever so slightly nervous. Kipping down here reminds me of the woman’s skeleton found in
the ditch, her body ringed by small sarsens.

  Keeping something out, or keeping something in?

  There are logs and kindling in a basket by the hearth. Although it’s midsummer, I lay a fire and prop myself against the sofa with a glass of wine, watching flames lick the logs, warmth and alcohol making me drowsy.

  The rap on the window brings me to with a start, spilling a trickle of wine over my shirt.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  Ed is peering in.

  ‘I only just heard.’ He hovers uneasily on the doorstep when I open the door. About your grandmother, I mean. I’ve been at the airfield all day. Martin rang and said you’d be here. Can I come in?’

  I nod, trying to be cool. Truth is, although we parted on less than friendly terms yesterday, I’m unbearably happy to see him. His jeans and T-shirt are so clean they smell of fabric conditioner, as well as the familiar safe Ed-scent.

  ‘I didn’t know if you’d eaten,’ he says, as he steps into the room, ‘but in case you haven’t I brought something with me?’ The question in his voice suggests he’s expecting to be thrown out any minute.

  I burst into tears.

  ‘Hey, hey,’ he says, stroking my hair, a couple of minutes later. ‘I don’t normally have this effect on you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say into his chest. He does smell safe, and I’d never realized it until now. I’d always thought of him as smelling dangerous. I lift my head cautiously, tracking up the dark stubble until I find his eyes.

  ‘You might be able to tell,’ he says, ‘that I’ve suddenly lost interest in supper.’

  ‘Is it going to take a long time?’

  ‘Not if you keep doing that.’

  ‘Supper, I mean.’

  ‘Five minutes in the microwave?’

  ‘That’s all right, then.’

  Afterwards he makes me sit by the fire while he busies himself in the kitchen.

  ‘Can’t stay all evening,’ he calls. ‘I’m earning decent money for once, flying the R44 to Ascot late tonight. Last-minute booking for a local racehorse trainer and a couple of owners. Right now, lucky bastards are celebrating at the Fat Duck in Bray.’ The ping of the microwave interrupts him. ‘Of course, nothing as fine as our sumptuous repast…’ In plastic containers from Waitrose.