The tune worms its way into my brain. It pulls me in, haunting and familiar. It’s like the deceptively simple soundtrack of a horror movie. Like Britt Ekland in The Wicker Man, slapping her hands against the policeman’s bedroom wall. It fills my head with images of a moonlit countryside, the Derbyshire moorlands further north, windswept hills and standing stones, satanic rituals performed under cover of night.
I picture the blood of beauty and youth and innocence seeping into the damp and fragrant earth. My son’s blood. I think I see Joe, drifting in the water, his body bloated and wet. His skin is plump and swollen, a long shape sinking down into the murk. His legs are encircled by weeds like a chain, tugging him, pulling him, unknown hands grasping his ankles as he’s slowly dragged beneath. It’s my nightmare again but worse.
I turn the radio off, put my foot down and accelerate. This time turning up towards the village of Brereton Edge. It’s raining, always raining as it does in early spring, and the wipers on my front screen bend and turn, bend and turn, echoing the rhythm of my heart. I drive past the first house, towards the old Hall, willing the car to climb up the hill, then push my foot down hard and slam on the brakes.
The car hums restlessly in the middle of the road.
Someone has taken them down. All of my posters. I’ve only just realised. The one here at the Hall gates, the ones along the road. Every single one around the southern perimeter of the reservoir is gone. It’s like I never put them up. Except I clearly see the drawing pins and broken lengths of string.
I feel a growing flush of heat that makes my cheeks burn. It’s like someone has systematically removed each one.
Who? That man I met at the village? I saw him crush my poster in his hand. Or someone else? I can’t understand why anyone would do that. I swallow. Maybe it was Joe himself, not wanting to be found. I feel tears pricking at my eyes again. Are things so bad with Joe that he doesn’t want to be found?
Then another thought hits me. My mind has been casting around like a ball in a pinball machine until it stops. Not the man in the village, or some stranger with no reason to hate Joe. Nor even Joe himself.
What if it was Duncan?
CHAPTER 29
DUNCAN – AFTER
The door swung to behind him. Duncan slapped his gloves into the bin, pulling off his cap and smoothing what short length of his hair there was as he dropped onto his office chair. It had been hard keeping himself focused. Maybe that was why the operation hadn’t worked out. Anger fuelled his frustration – anger at himself. His own stupid fault. Now he had to ring the dog’s owner. Shit.
‘I’m sorry. It’s bad news,’ he started, his old north-country accent slipping through.
The silence was always heartbreaking.
‘Why? I don’t understand why.’ The woman’s voice was trembling. ‘He was doing so well after the first op. You said the operation would fix him.’
‘He was, it did, but sometimes the body can’t adjust. It was always fifty-fifty – and there are bugs in the body that sometimes we can’t deal with; we talked about that.’
Silence, always there was that silence whilst people processed what they’d been told.
‘I’m so sorry, really I am,’ he said. ‘We did everything we could. In the end, he passed away as comfortable as we could make him. I can honestly say there would have been no pain. And you gave him every chance at life that you could.’
That he was sure of, at least. What else could he say?
For Duncan, it was more than just the loss of an animal. The dog had been his patient. When the call was done, he leafed through his notes. A photograph of the spaniel had been pinned to the file, he insisted on that. Big eyes, round and trusting, a soft toffee-coloured brown-and-white coat, a typical mad-capped spaniel. Everyone had loved him on the ward.
‘You okay, mate?’ It was Tim, poking his head round the door. ‘It was bad luck, you know that?’
‘Maybe.’ Duncan gripped a pen between his fingers.
‘Don’t stay too late, hmm?’ Tim hesitated, then: ‘Goodnight, Duncan.’
‘Night.’
Duncan scanned the medication charts and took another look at the x-rays on his screen. He stayed an hour, bleary-eyed, sipping coffee under the narrow beam of his angled desk light. Then he stood up and walked through to the operating room.
He contemplated the body of the animal still lying on the table. You could drive yourself mad, trying to figure out what could or could not have been done differently. Already, the warmth of the dog’s blood had faded, the eyes glazed over, the life in him gone. Duncan lifted up the surgical sheets around the body, tucking them in on either side. It was a useless gesture. He dropped his shoulders and turned away, unable to look anymore. He wasn’t seeing the dog. Then he was aware that Sally was in the doorway.
‘What is it?’ he snapped.
‘I need you to approve these invoices, before I can go.’
She couldn’t look him in the eye. Somehow that made him feel even more irritated.
‘For fuck’s sake, not now!’
He stood up and walked over to the door, slamming it right in her face. He was only vaguely aware of the alarmed expression on her features and Frances walking by.
That evening, Duncan didn’t go home. He drove to Derby and sat on his own in a restaurant. He ordered Dover sole and potato dauphinoise and smothered the whole thing in vinegar. Claire would have been horrified to see him treat a delicate dish like that.
Why did his thoughts keep coming back to Claire? He was trying so hard to block her out.
He downed a pint of lager and then ordered another one, watching the other diners. They were couples mostly. An older couple sat nearest to him, eating in comfortable, communal silence. A younger pair sat the other side. It was a corner table with a plush two-way built-in padded seat. She wore far too much make-up; he looked like the cat that had got the cream. Their arms and legs were entangled like the misplaced ten-tacles of an octopus. Poor sods – too young, the pair of them, just like he and Claire had once been.
His first sight of Claire had been her riding a bicycle. It had been one of those old-fashioned sit-up-and-beg things with a basket that shook as the bike bounced across the wet cobbles in front of Nottingham Castle. It had been their first term as students, late October, and a soft, mild southerly wind had blown wet red and yellow sycamore leaves like painted hands across the street.
She’d worn tight jeans and a loose wide-necked T-shirt. He still remembered how it had shrugged off one shoulder, revealing an expanse of smooth, soft skin. Her whole body juddered as the bicycle rumbled over the gleaming stones. Her brakes squealed to a stop and her feet hit the ground and she tipped and hopped, leaning over to one side to prevent the bike from careering right into him.
‘I’m so sorry!’ she said, her voice gasping, out of breath, her cheeks pleasantly pink from effort.
Duncan had reached out to catch the handlebars, holding the bike before it rolled further towards his body. It also brought him closer. Her long hair swung in a ponytail down her back, glistening in the autumnal sun.
‘It’s alright,’ he said. ‘I’ll live.’
He laughed, softening the impact of his words, watching with poorly concealed pleasure as her slim legs swung over the saddle. She stood in front of him, shoulders straight, taking back full control of the bike. Her eyes searched his face uncertainly, as if deciding if he was merely being polite or rude. Then she smiled.
‘You’re at vet school, aren’t you?’ she said.
‘How’d you know that?’
‘Seen you in class.’
How could she have been in the same class and he’d not noticed?
It was as simple as that. A chance meeting outside the castle in Nottingham. He’d asked her out for a drink and that evening they pushed through the after-work crowds on the street into the Olde Salutation. He found a nook where a narrow wooden monk’s bench meant they had to sit thigh pressed against thigh. Duncan had to r
esist the temptation to push one hand across the fashionably ripped fabric of her jeans. Within a week, they were dating.
They were seen everywhere together, locked in physical contact whatever the excuse. It was one of those uni romances that everybody envied. They sat together in class, ate together at the student union café. They got drunk together, did all the concerts and festivals together and camped out under the stars. He didn’t date anyone else and Claire and he were married scarcely a month after graduation.
His eyes were drawn back to the couple in the corner. Octopus girl and octopus man were now bonded in multi-limbed unity. Duncan nodded to the waitress, ordering yet another lager, even though he knew he had to drive home. The pair were kissing now, all lips and nose and tongue, and her hands had disappeared under the table. Duncan swivelled to face the other direction. He couldn’t stop himself from thinking about Claire. Already, he could feel the heat in his own body.
That summer they moved into a crappy rented flat over an antique shop in Beeston, the trendy student end of Nottingham. On Saturdays, the front doorbell of the shop below would ring like the servant bells of one of those grand aristocratic houses and in the evenings, the smell of pizza and Chinese takeaway would drift across from the busy end of the high street.
He still remembered his first bitch spay, the animal’s organs sliding between his fingers, panicking as he tried to figure out what was what and make sure he’d tied up all the relevant bits. It was Claire who went through it all with him when he got home, despite her being ill. She’d got the textbooks and calmly talked him through each stage, each image, bolstering his confidence for the next one. You wouldn’t think it now, with his growing reputation for technical expertise and his smart, shiny new practice.
He owed a lot to Claire.
Duncan took another sip of his beer, downing the remaining liquid in the glass. She’d been there right from the start, encouraging him, helping him, loving him. In spite of everything. He hadn’t deserved Claire and she hadn’t deserved him.
Duncan paid the bill. Afterwards, he went on to a club. The strobe lights and sound levels were enough to drown his thoughts, for a while. Men and women staggered on their feet, bodies writhed, and the whole place stank of sweat and tequila. Duncan watched from the bar, feeling too old, slowly drinking another lager.
‘Hey, gorgeous. Haven’t seen you in here in a while.’
A woman draped her arm across his shoulder. Her hair was jet black. Too black, apart from a little fading at the roots. Her lips were bright red and a heavily beaded dress slid across her hips. Her breath smelt of red wine and she let her hand play against Duncan’s neck, long painted fingernails smoothing over the base of his neatly trimmed hair. Duncan turned towards her as she whispered something in his ear.
He and Claire had been mated for life, that was what all of their uni friends had said. Bonded for ever, like swans or wolves or turtle doves. Or so it appeared to everyone who knew them. If only that had been true. His anger returned. She’d gone. Left him behind.
‘Fuck you, Claire,’ he muttered under his breath.
Then he stood up and led the woman with black hair down the corridor.
Student life was one thing, real life another. That summer they graduated – the summer he first saw Evangeline – had changed everything.
CHAPTER 30
CLAIRE – AFTER
I slept a lot when I was married to Duncan, in those later years when Joe would allow me. It was my only escape from reality. As Joe grew older, I gradually gave up all hope of a career.
They say depression makes you sleepy. It used to make me angry reading that, like being depressed was lazy, or a medical condition with no basis in reality. I raised it once with my GP, naïvely thinking he’d understand. Depression, he implied, can be the result of chemical emotions that have no meaning, no cause, a bodily response that can be fixed, given the right set of pills. Mothers, he said, can be particularly prone to the level of their hormones. I felt my anger grow. It seemed that my aspiration to be an intelligent, career-minded woman had been completely superseded by my bodily functions. Like one of those Victorian theories about women and their ‘humours’. He launched into this questionnaire:
Claire, do you feel like hurting yourself?
Claire, have you ever had thoughts of suicide?
Mrs Henderson (I wasn’t Claire anymore), have you ever thought of hurting your son?
Each time he said my name like that, it sent shivers down my back. I was no longer a person. I was a patient, a liability, a potential lunatic. It was so humiliating being asked all that just because I was tired and low, because I was a mother, a woman, stuck at home with her challenging son. What was I supposed to say – yes?
The consequences overwhelmed me – what if they took my son away? What if they incarcerated me in some institution and no one ever believed me after that? What if they put me on drugs so that my brain turned to mush and I couldn’t even look after myself? Even if any of those questionnaire answers were yes, sometimes – how could I possibly admit to that and set hares running over which I had no control? Did they really expect me to answer those questions honestly?
And besides, even if I actually had any of those thoughts, it didn’t mean I’d act upon them. I doubted myself after that, even more. If only Duncan had had to go through all that, had his confidence undermined by prodding and poking both physically and mentally. Try answering those questions yourself, Duncan.
I suppose the GP was only doing his job. Following up on statistical risks, ticking boxes just in case. But I felt reduced to nothing. Another mother who couldn’t cope. It felt like a denial of me as a mature adult person. I wasn’t depressed, not like that. I was sad for good reason. My resentment grew. Sad and miserable for lack of love. Sad and miserable from the stress of it all. Sad and miserable because no one cared. Certainly not Duncan, or Joe, or the staff at the school – not my doctor, or Ian, my closest family. Nor any of the other people I met.
Except Becky. Becky cared. She understood what it was like. She’s been through it all herself and then some.
I feel the guilt of not telling her the truth, the whole truth. The way I’ve kept my plans from her, then left my husband, her brother, with no warning. She’s not answered my texts, or my phone calls – I have rung and she answered once, but I hung up before I could say anything.
All those years of friendship. She wasn’t just my sister-in-law. We shared our pain about our sons, but I never told her how things were with Duncan, it was too private. Too personal. She didn’t know about his affairs, or if she did, she never said. Perhaps she was waiting for me to speak first.
And I’ve never, ever told her about Evangeline. Nor did Duncan. There’s no way either of us could tell her about Evangeline. I still remember that smell – a smell like disinfectant. The sickly-sweet metallic smell of too much blood. The woozy, hazy stench of the drugs that filled my head. The soft music that pumped into my ears, each note more perfect than the last, exaggerated by my intoxicated state, like nectar drip-fed into my arm. And all the time the pressure of Duncan’s hands, his wide, strong hands too hard against my skin. And white against her skin. I can’t breathe, I can’t hear, I can’t, won’t look …
CHAPTER 31
CLAIRE – BEFORE
I’m flitting from one task to another without settling properly to any. I’ve just been told I can have the keys to my new cottage tomorrow. That’s a few days sooner than I expected and it’s thrown me into a spin. It’s all suddenly very real and it feels like I have to do everything in the next hour.
I pause to look outside. The weather’s turned. From bright and windy, now it won’t stop raining. The news is filled with pictures of heavy snow on the Continent, ski resorts closed by the risk of avalanche and German motorways brought to a standstill. The rain slides down the big sheet window of the Barn and I think, thank God! At least it’s kept Joe indoors.
The home phone goes. I almost jump. I didn�
��t give that number to the estate agents and it hardly ever rings since we each have our mobiles. But there it is, trilling from the side of the sofa. I kneel on the seat cushions to lean over the arm and pluck the phone awkwardly from its rest.
‘Hello?’
There’s no reply.
‘Hello?’ I say again, louder.
I feel guilty as if it’s Duncan, already aware of what I’ve got planned. But that’s nonsense of course, never mind he always rings me on my mobile.
I hear a scuffling and the sound of breathing, not the creepy, heavy breathing sound that women dread, but the uneven rasp of air caught against the microphone. And crackling. Then the phone line goes dead.
The phone goes again, a different sound. It’s my mobile this time. I make a dash for the kitchen, where it’s buzzing against the granite worktop. Must be the estate agents.
‘Hello?’
‘Hey, love, thought I’d see how you’re doing.’
It’s Becky. I feel my hands tighten around the phone.
‘Hi!’ I try to keep my voice light and carefree. ‘Did you just try to ring me on the landline?’
‘Now when have I ever rung you on the landline?’
‘Oh, I thought … never mind, it must have been someone else.’
A wrong number, I think.
‘Is Joe with you today?’ says Becky.
‘Yeah. He’s upstairs.’
I look up at the rain outside and Arthur bedded down on his big cushion by the sofa. He’s snuffling in his sleep, the covetous wobbles of his nostrils giving way to little wistful sniffs.
‘Got anything planned?’ says Becky.
‘Not exactly,’ I lie.
Like hell – more sorting, packing, girding myself even for that conversation with Joe. I’m dreading it – what if he refuses to come with me? I simply don’t know how he’ll react to the idea of leaving his home, especially now when he’s so excited about a possible hoard. Oh, Lord, that coin business couldn’t have happened at a worse time. He might not believe me when I say we’re not going far.
Magpie: The gripping psychological suspense with a twist Page 13
