Standing by the back door is Joe. He’s barefoot, wearing jeans and an old T-shirt as if he’s not long got out of bed. His arms are wrapped tightly around his body.
Joe’s eyes are looking right through me.
He looks as though he’s just seen a ghost.
CHAPTER 34
CLAIRE – BEFORE
Joe’s in the kitchen when I get back inside. I’m surprised – I thought he might already have scarpered back to his room. It reminds me of when he was little and wanted to stay close. He looks unhappy. I place my boots against the wall in the utility room and, still wearing my coat, move across to fill the kettle at the sink. Water pools on the tiles at my feet.
‘Do you want a cuppa, Joe?’
He doesn’t reply.
He looks dazed. Like his brain is momentarily stranded. I’m determined to behave normally. The coin itself doesn’t matter, I realise that now. But Joe does. I flick on the kettle and busy myself with a couple of mugs and the tea caddy. I cut two slices of bread and push them into the toaster, then search around for a tin of baked beans and some eggs. Food, that’s always been my first response. Feed him and then perhaps he’ll talk to me.
Joe slides onto a bar stool at the kitchen island and waits, exactly as he did when he was a child. One hand is picking at the skin at the base of the other hand’s thumb and he still doesn’t speak.
A few minutes later, I push a plateful of scrambled eggs and beans on toast under his nose and fish out a knife and fork.
‘Eat, my love.’
He doesn’t complain about the phrase my love. He eats. I join him at the island, nursing my cup of tea. After a moment, I speak.
‘Do you know him, Joe?’
He looks at me briefly but doesn’t reply.
‘Is he one of your metal detecting friends?’
I’m sure friend is entirely the wrong choice of word.
He shakes his head. His grip on the fork tightens and he stabs a too big piece of toast and levers it into his mouth.
‘Not freakin’ likely,’ he says, speaking with his mouth full.
‘But you do know him – he said he knew you. He wanted to bring some of his mates to work on the field. He said he’d split anything they found fifty-fifty.’
Joe’s eyes dart up to mine and he lets his fork drop loudly to his plate. Only half of his food is eaten.
‘You said no, didn’t you?’
‘Course I did.’
I take a deep breath.
‘Joe, is there anything you want me to do? Anyone we should ring? If you think these guys could get nasty, then we could talk to Martin.’
Duncan’s best friend, DCI Martin White. He’d be discreet. What are police contacts for if not to be discreet?
‘No!’ Joe shakes his head vigorously. ‘No, that’s the last thing you should do. I … I need to figure this out myself.’
I reach out to touch his arm and he flinches like he always does. Or at least has done since he hit puberty.
‘Joe, it’s not worth it – nothing’s worth it. If you think there’s anything dodgy about these people, then you should let your father and me deal with this. We should contact the authorities and be done with it.’
‘No, you can’t do that, Mum. You promised me, remember? We agreed …’
He stands up, eyeing his plate as if the food has suddenly turned to poison.
I stand too, the rigid bulk of the kitchen island between us.
‘It’s okay, Joe, I won’t say a thing to Martin, or anyone else outside of this family. I know I promised you. But we could at least try and speak to your father about it.’
He pushes back from the kitchen island, his face closed to me.
‘No!’ he says. ‘No way! Definitely not him!’
His hands are shaking as he shoves his plate backwards and he runs from the room.
I clean the kitchen with a methodical efficiency, loading the dishwasher, rinsing the few items left by the sink, sweeping the floor with one of those fleece mops that can’t scratch the expensive porcelain tiles. It’s only more misdirected energy.
I thought things would improve after Joe turned eighteen. I’ve had it planned for so long. I’d promised myself when he left school and started work, I could go … we could go. It was not just his end date but mine too. That was on the basis that Joe had a job, that he was settled and happy. He’s got a smattering of GCSEs: English, maths. His best subject was computer science. But he failed his A levels. I could have cried, but I did my best not to let him see how disappointed I was – for him, not me. The world out there passes judgement on you based on exam results and it’s cruel, wrong. Not all kids fit into that mould of performance. Certainly not Joe. It’s so hard on him. What was he to do now? There’s been talk of an apprenticeship in horticulture, but Joe isn’t interested. The summer has passed since he left school – autumn too – and he’s been so obsessed with the metal detecting – always at night – that he’s refused to do anything in the day except sleep.
So I’ve hung on. I’d not found the right house to rent, anyway. Now it’s the middle of winter, well into the new year, and still he’s not sorted. I’m beginning to feel angry – like he made me a promise. He didn’t, of course, it was me that made myself a promise, but damn it, he needs to grow up, get real. Bloody hell, Joe, this isn’t fair anymore, I think, as I scrub and scrub at a stupid spot on the floor that’s been there for over a year. And why am I bothering to clean anyway, since I’ve no intention of staying here a day longer than necessary once I get those keys? What do I care if the house is clean when I go? How pathetic is that!
I’ve found the right place, signed the papers and paid the money. There’s no going back. I keep saying this in my head, over and over again, as if I need convincing. It’s a question of timing, that’s all. I know I’ll have to wait until the very last moment to tell Joe my plans or things will implode. You can see from the state of him today, he’s not himself.
It’s clear he knew that man I spoke to in the field. I rewind what Joe said – that we have to keep the other metal detectors out of our fields, that he has to find whatever might be there first. What he said about night hawkers. I didn’t like Ray Turner. I wonder if that’s even his real name. He had a look about him like he didn’t care about the rules, or us. How far would someone like him go to get what he wants? No, I won’t think like this, paranoid like Joe. It’s only a coin, one stupid coin. Except it isn’t just a coin to me. And it’s not people digging in our field for coins that scares me but digging about by the reservoir. If the coin has come to light, then what else has come away, too?
My mind shuts down. I can’t think about that, either.
My hopes of a career in veterinary research never happened. And looking after Joe has taken its toll. I can’t go on like this, I tell myself, living half a life, never having that chance to start again, to be me. If I don’t do this now, leave whilst I still have a chance of picking up my career, it will be too late. I’m not getting any younger.
I’ll tell Joe tomorrow, right after I’ve got the keys. I’ll help him to pack, load us both up and leave a note for Duncan. I’ve already written it – it’s in the top drawer of my bedside cabinet, ready to go. That’s how it should all pan out.
I stand up and stretch my back. It’s odd to think that leaving is now a reality. Change. Change is a scary thing. For me as well as Joe.
I move to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of milk. I reach out to make a cup of tea. The kettle whines, the light on the base snaps off and I pour hot water over the teabag in my mug. I watch the water changing colour, the scent of it filling my nostrils. Camomile tea. It makes me think of summer lawns and floaty dresses, women wearing hats with ribbons trailing down their backs, and children playing on the swings, squealing with delight as the sunshine warms their skin.
These little routines, the little flights of fancy, they hold me by a narrow thread.
CHAPTER 35
CLAIRE – AFTER<
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Outside my car, the fog folds back into place, pressing against the windscreen. The car that almost drove into me is long gone and I let my breath release.
A wind blows across the water and the white fog lifts.
I see the solid tarmac of the road ahead and press down on the accelerator. My car doesn’t move. I press again, right to the floor; the car still doesn’t move. Again and again I try, panic filling me. The engine chugs angrily but won’t bite. It must be flooded with fuel.
I give a whimper – not now! Please, not now. But the car won’t budge.
I have to wait. I know I have to wait to let the engine clear.
I step out and breathe the air, filling my lungs, willing my thumping heart to slow. The road is empty. The mist has retreated. The car, the driver, whoever it was, has gone. It’s alright, I’m okay.
Idiot, I think.
I can’t think who would be driving along the bottom of this valley at first light. Someone taking the scenic route home from a night shift, or more likely, someone who’s been out in the countryside all night, poachers, night hawkers, even. I shake my head. Joe’s paranoia is getting to me. It was just someone, anyone. It doesn’t matter anyway, because they’re gone.
A narrow shaft of dawn sunlight breaks through the cloud. It warms the air. There’s the heavy beat of wings in the distance, the hue and gaggle of geese jostling in flight. A line of them emerges from the mist, round heads, thick necks, a row of stubby orange beaks calling as they fly one behind the other. Their cries bring me back to normality.
I had a little nut tree, nothing would it bear,
But a silver nutmeg, and a golden pear.
In front of me, leaning out over the water, is a tree. It must have been completely hidden in the fog. It’s smaller than the others – an oak tree, thick and stunted by the weather. The roots buckle beneath my feet like old rope left unfurled on the walls of a harbour.
Last year’s dead leaves and dried acorns lie scattered on the ground, crunching beneath my feet. I gaze at their distinctive shape, so synonymous with English culture. I think of a man’s painted face, skin, hair, even his beard stained with green. Only the whites of his eyes are different, blazing out. A twist of fresh leaves and acorns perch upon his head. I let the image fade like the mist upon the water and take another step.
Something is tied to the tree trunk.
It’s a bunch of flowers. A limp, oversized sunflower head nods under the weight of its own seeds. Chrysanthemums cluster beneath, the thin multitude of their narrow petals blackened and dead. There are carnations too, their stems knotted and broken, heads folded down – sad, pathetic things with their petals brown and fading.
I reach out like a curious child. The petals separate between my fingers. They flutter useless to the ground. The florist’s ribbon might once have been pink and shiny, but now it’s tattered and grey. There are more dead flowers, in wet cones of cellophane and paper, drooping in piles at the foot of the tree. And a smell. A damp, fetid, rotting kind of smell that seems serenely familiar.
I stumble backwards. I fling my hands out to catch my balance and turn to face the reservoir. The first sunlight has spread across the water. There’s a swell below the surface. A fish gulps for air and dives down again. There’s another and another, a whole shoal of them visible in the water. I am mesmerised by their coiling silver bodies. They writhe one way and the next, mouths wide open, eyes unblinking and blank and I see more and more, bodies slipping this way and that as their tails slither in the murk. I watch and they slip from sight only to rise again, one after the other, like bubbles from some large object trapped underneath.
I’ve seen them before, in my nightmares. Only this is real. I think of stories of frenzied animal behaviour, portents of a world gone mad. The ten plagues of Egypt: blood and boils and thunder and hail and pestilence and marauding wild animals. Even the death of the firstborn, sent to punish the wrong.
I step away, mouth open in horror. I open the car door and almost fall onto my seat. My eyes are dry and gritty. I feel the tiredness from my early start and my stomach yowls with hunger. I swing my legs under the dashboard and try the engine again.
This time, it jumps into life. I slam the door shut. My clumsy fingers wrench the gears into first. The car judders forwards and I pick up speed. Behind me, the oak tree grows smaller, fading into the distance. The branches sway, and the dead flowers lift and nod their heads. The central span of the reservoir glimmers smooth and grey and one last streak of white sighs across the water.
CHAPTER 36
DUNCAN – AFTER
Duncan had stayed out too long. He’d driven home the worse for wear and he was lucky that the police hadn’t stopped him – if they had, they’d have found him well over the limit.
What were you thinking of, Duncan? said the voice in his head. Martin would have lynched him and there were only so many favours a mate could do. The investigation was still ongoing at the Barn but, fortunately, it was too early in the morning for any of them to have arrived yet.
Duncan’s car passed under the cherry trees, fog swirling through the branches. It had risen from the valley below, creeping up the lane, the drive, to settle over the Barn. He was scarcely aware of how he’d got home. Guilt, shame, fury … Claire’s face kept looming in front of his eyes. He was supposed to be the cool scientific professional, but look at him now, an angry drunken wreck.
He parked with a slurry of gravel on the drive and sat in his car, letting the engine idle with the heating on to keep warm. The world was a ghostly white, the Barn shrouded like a giant piece of furniture put to rest. Here in the quiet of first light, the building had taken on a different mood. The tall stone walls, the blackened windows, the cool designer chic that jarred with the landscape. Why hadn’t Duncan realised it was like that before? Hadn’t Claire said? He gazed at the carefully restored bricks leaching evaporated salts like dried-out tears.
He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, willing the nausea to go away. Then he pulled open the glove compartment and rummaged for his phone. He held it in his hands, trying to think of what he would say. He pressed the button and the screen sprang to life. He tapped on the first icon and began to type:
I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.
How easy it was to say the words, whether or not he meant them. Did he mean them? He pressed Send.
I shouldn’t have done that, he wrote next. I miss you.
He waited but there was no reply.
You know I can’t stop thinking about you.
He could tell she’d seen the message from the little green tick that had popped up alongside the box.
I’m at home. He wrote. Do you want to come here?
Again, he pressed Send, his fingers sliding out of control.
The car had steamed up. He reached forwards to wipe the inside of the front windscreen and looked down again at his phone. No answer.
She’d come, he was sure of it. It didn’t matter what time it was, it was her little thrill, sex at odd hours of the night. And it had been long enough, hadn’t it, her making him wait? He leaned back in his seat, imagining them bursting through the big front door to stumble clumsily down onto the tiles, laughing as they fought with sleeves and legs, fumbling to undo zips and knickers until finally he …
His mind was befuddled, too spent from his long night. He needed to sober up. He got out of the car. As the engine died, the drive was swathed in a haggard gloom. He looked up at the Barn, the great bulk of it twice the height of the lower wing where the kitchen was, where the farmer and his family would have once lived.
He tried to imagine it as it had been then, a thriving workplace. The men caring for their stock, the flow of animals and supplies, the barn piled high with hay. It would have been a man’s world, their shouts and calls bouncing off the walls. At this time of the morning, there might have been a brazier inside the doorway, keeping out the cold – they’d found one when they were clearing the site. He could ima
gine a father and his sons, readying for work, their voices filling the void above, the men gathered around a makeshift table as their womenfolk still slept next door. The whole place would have been seeped in the sickly, sweet smell of hay, laced with the pungent stench of manure.
It brought his thoughts to Joe. His son. How things might have been if they’d lived a generation or two earlier. Working the land. It would have suited Joe. The two of them in partnership in a way they’d never been before. Would he have had other sons? Grandchildren, even? A whole brood of children helping on the farm, each with their allotted jobs according to their sex and age. As people did in those days.
It would have suited Claire too, wouldn’t it? A life on the land. She’d never been one for coffee mornings and the high-level grooming of the beauty salons of Derby. She’d always been interested in livestock, the problems of different genetic lines. She’d talked about getting a few sheep to graze the fields, chickens to give them fresh eggs, but Duncan had said no. He didn’t have the time. She didn’t have the time. Their lives were complicated enough. His head drooped. No, he couldn’t go there.
But that hadn’t stopped Duncan doing what he wanted to do, flouting his marriage. After he’d first slept with another woman, he couldn’t meet Claire’s eyes when he got home. He was sure it was obvious from his face, the timbre of his voice, or some other gesture revealing his betrayal. He’d been conscious of the very smell of feminine perfume still clinging to his clothes. Claire had carried on as normal, talking about her day, asking about his as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
It was that easy. It became a habit, like a beer after work, or a coffee first thing in the morning. Whether anyone else had cottoned on, it didn’t matter – no one ever said a thing. Apart from Becky, his family lived miles away in Yorkshire. Claire’s family, what was left of them, had moved to Australia. Their friends from uni were scattered across the country. Claire saw more of Becky than Duncan and he didn’t think Becky knew.
Magpie: The gripping psychological suspense with a twist Page 15
