Magpie: The gripping psychological suspense with a twist

by Sophie Draper

  Duncan slipped the coin end on into the fresh cement and quietly finished the job.

  When he was done, they walked back the way they’d come, pushing the grille back to how it should have been. They drove home through the woods and carried on with their lives as if Evangeline had never been.

  Neither of them ever referred to her after that. It was that one thing they never spoke of. One small seed of guilt and fear and shame, undermining their marriage, poisoning their lives. Slowly pushing them apart.

  It had been her decision, not his. He’d given her every opportunity to change her mind. He’d helped her, supported her, had done what was necessary, but ultimately this had been what Claire had wanted.

  CHAPTER 62

  DUNCAN – AFTER

  Duncan leaned forwards on his chair. The only light in his consulting room came from his computer screen. It was night. He hadn’t been able to sleep. Nor had he been able to stay in the Barn a moment longer, rattling in its empty, sterile rooms.

  He swung out of his chair and made his way to the animal ward, flicking the switch so that only the night lights came on. A few animals stirred on his arrival, barking, whining, shifting in their beds to watch their visitor as he walked in front of the cages. He knelt in front of one, a cat with both its back legs in bright blue bandages. She lifted her head backwards to acknowledge his presence. He opened the door, reaching in to stroke her head, that special spot between her ears where the friendship gland was. She purred, her eyes slow and blinking.

  He kept thinking about Joe. Little Joe being given a tour of the veterinary ward, the day before the new surgery was due to open. Joe wide-eyed and squealing as Duncan swung him up into his arms to show him the skeleton charts on the wall. Joe holding Arthur that first day he was brought home as a young pup. Arthur’s giant puppy paws, his round-eyed puppy face, his wriggling nervousness as Joe scooped him up in to his arms. Joe grinning as he buried his nose into Arthur’s velvet puppy-soft fur. Arthur had had such a bad start in life and yet he’d taken to Joe right from the start. It had been a good decision, bringing Arthur home, on so many counts, watching Joe find his confidence with Arthur.

  He thought of Garfield and Betsy. The way the dog’s shoulders had slumped in pain the day that Garfield brought her in. He thought of the faces staring from the back window of the bus as he shouted at Garfield, and the student who’d tried to intervene. They’d got it all wrong, hadn’t they? That wasn’t him, normal him.

  He remembered Frances taking him to task, threatening to tell Martin about his daughter. To tell Sally too, about his new romantic interest. She had told Sally, hadn’t she? Perhaps she’d been right to. He saw Sally – that secret smile she’d had only for him as he walked through reception each morning. That same smile hovering over his, pink and flushed and parted, the pair of them entangled on the bed. The look of horror on her face as Duncan confronted the old man at the bus stop. Her set expression as she’d placed her resignation letter on his desk. He thought of the envelope even now scrunched up in the wastepaper basket.

  She didn’t mean it. She’d come back. Maybe tomorrow he’d find her sat behind her desk as if nothing had ever been said. Or maybe next week, after she’d had time to think about it. But then again, maybe she really did mean it. He had only himself to blame.

  Then he thought of Claire. Her face day in, day out as he went to and from work. Joe watching them both across the kitchen. And the faces he didn’t want to remember. The same faces twisted in disbelief. A frantic fist banging against the window, lips opening to scream. A face, with its eyes wide open, blank and unmoving.

  Evangeline’s body, limp and bent and folded in his hand.

  He pushed away from the cage, shutting the door, switching the lights off so that the ward was dowsed only in the dim green glow from the emergency exit. He returned to his office. He grabbed his coat and strode urgently out to the car.

  CHAPTER 63

  CLAIRE – AFTER

  The fog over the water has rolled back. Enough at least for me to see the shoreline at the bottom of the land by the Barn. And the tree – the one with the dead flowers. I can see which one it is from the stunted shape of it. It’s different to all the others.

  I think back to those nodding dried-out blooms on the tree, all those cellophaned bouquets. Someone must have died there. My eyes rise up the slope, towards the Barn that not so long ago was my home. I have avoided going anywhere near it since I left, except for that one night I drove along in the fog. There are tents low down in the field, almost completely hidden by the trees, and another one at the top near the house. Why didn’t I see those before?

  The fog, of course – I couldn’t see a thing that morning in the fog – and the Barn is perched in a fold of the hills where things aren’t visible from elsewhere. I can see blue-and-white tape too, weaving a zigzag line up the slope, some of it torn free and waving in the wind like a gymnast’s ribbon.

  Police tape.

  My head swings back to the tree. The flowers, those dead and dying flowers.

  My eyes widen. Those flowers torment me. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and remember.

  CHAPTER 64

  CLAIRE – AFTER

  Memory saturates my thoughts like watercolour on wet paper. Blossoming, staining, pushing where I don’t want it to go. I remember being in the kitchen as I waited for Duncan and Joe. That day six, seven weeks ago. Has it been that long?

  I remember how I’d been hugging another mug of tea when my mobile rang. I hadn’t been able to eat or drink but somehow the act of holding a warm mug had kept me connected to normality.

  I remember hoping and praying that Joe hadn’t gone into the tunnels, after all. Then the phone had suddenly played out its familiar tune and I’d snatched it up, shoulders hunched, fingers digging into the leather case of my phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mum?’

  Oh! Jesus, Mother of Mercy, it was him!

  ‘Joe! Joe, is that you?’

  I’d juggled the mug with the phone before letting the mug drop onto the kitchen island, liquid pooling across the surface.

  ‘Oh God, where have you been? Why haven’t you called me? Where are you, Joe?’

  The words tripped over my tongue and my chest had tightened with anticipation.

  ‘It’s me! I’m here! I’ve found something!’ he said. ‘Do you want to know what?’

  I’d felt the shock of his words in the clawed movement of my hand. I didn’t want this to happen, I didn’t want him to say those words – what he’d found.

  ‘This is the real deal, Mum. You’ll never believe what I’ve uncovered!’

  Excitement made him almost incomprehensible down the phone.

  I bit down on my tongue. Hope, I felt hope. He sounded happy, he couldn’t have … It was okay after all and I needed to listen to him.

  If I’d listened to him then, I think now, and before – would that have changed everything?

  ‘What, my love. What have you found?’

  ‘That coin, the puppetrider. I thought there were more. But now …’

  ‘That’s lovely, Joe, but where are you?’

  ‘No, you don’t understand, Mum—’

  ‘Joe, for goodness’ sake, where are you?’

  ‘I’m outside – on the road. I’m back!’

  I slammed the phone down on the worktop and rushed to the front door. I flung it open as best I could, given the weight of it.

  I ran out and down the drive and called out to him.

  ‘Joe! Joe!’

  Snowflakes filled the sky – thick, broad snowflakes obscuring everything yet lighting up the late afternoon. The cold caught in my throat, my breath dancing in the air. He was there – I could see him, a dark figure walking up the lane just below the entrance to our property.

  The cold had frozen everything, branches, twigs – even the last few individual leaves were weighted down, held fast in suspended frigid slumber. The stones on the wall by the entranc
e to the drive were covered in white and the snow sank beneath my feet.

  Arthur barked in joy. He’d been waiting all day, too. He slipped past my legs to go bounding and galumphing ahead of me. A sudden gust of wind shook a pile of new snow from the trees over my head. I felt the cool air whisper across my skin and I saw Joe, his long hair flying out behind his shoulders, running to greet his beloved dog.

  From the other direction on the lane a lorry came hurtling round the bend. I vaguely registered a supermarket logo. The lorry lurched one way and then the next. In a rush, perhaps, to beat the weather. Too silent in the thick snow. Too fast on the road. Way too fast.

  The dog barked again.

  I flew onto the lane.

  There was a screech of tyres and a single piercing scream from Joe. I smelt diesel and something else – the acrid stench of burning rubber foul on my tongue. Then everything went quiet. It was so quick, so fast, yet that one second drawing out so slowly.

  I heard nothing. No one.

  Everything was muffled by the snow, melting on my skin.

  Just the soft, delicate touch of snowflakes landing on my outstretched fingertips.

  CHAPTER 65

  DUNCAN – AFTER

  Duncan drove out of town, in the dark and the quiet, taking the twists and turns in the road too fast before braking and indicating and rumbling onto the road that led to the reservoir.

  He took a deep breath and slowed down.

  He drove along the flat of the valley, the water only inches from his side, He drove towards the cross that still hung suspended above the water. It was even taller than before.

  He carried on driving until he saw the tree with its dead flowers.

  He brought the car to a stop right in the middle of the road.

  It was here that he’d almost crashed into a car only a few days ago, in the fog, when he was too drunk to know better. Too stupid, more like. Remembering. He still wasn’t sure it had actually happened. Here, where he’d sat in his seat transfixed by the driver’s face. He could have sworn that it was Claire he’d seen then.

  He twisted round and reversed a few feet, then pulled off the road onto the verge. He cut the engine and the headlamps were extinguished. The darkness pooled around him until his eyes adjusted and the shapes began to clarify. Thick, solid hedges and tall grass, nettles and brambles reaching out to grasp at unwary animals, and the skittish movement of last year’s leaves dancing on the road.

  He got out of the car, stumbling the few yards to the tree, as if he were still half-drunk. Then he pulled himself upright and looked out across the water.

  The density of woodland framed the far side of the shore. The lack of streetlights had meant that the valley had always been dark at night, with or without the moon, the natural bowl of the reservoir making it perfect for stargazing. He tilted his head up and down again. There were the seven stars of the Plough lined up across the sky and the three bright stars of Orion’s Belt reflected in the water. Venus, goddess of love, was the brightest star in the sky.

  Tonight, though, the water was black. It felt deceptive, oppressive, vindictive almost, calling him, and Claire, to account.

  CHAPTER 66

  DUNCAN – AFTER

  Duncan stood by the tree with the dead flowers for a long time, waiting for the dawn to break. Cool fingers of damp prickled on his skin, the water drifting in and out of view as the mist breathed across the reservoir.

  For the first time in a long time, he let his mind go back. It had all started with Garfield and his dogs.

  With Arthur.

  Arthur had been less than six months old when he’d come to live with Duncan’s family. Five years ago. He’d been an oversized but too thin, loopy, big-footed puppy whimpering at Garfield’s leash.

  ‘There!’ Garfield had said. ‘Glad to be shot of ’im. He makes that much of a mess.’

  A large puddle of urine had appeared between the puppy’s rear paws.

  ‘He ’as no idea how to behave, the stupid mutt. I bought him to guard me ’ouse and all ’e does is mewl like a cat. That’s not a proper dog. Can’t be doing w’ it no more.’

  Garfield gave another tug on the leash, dragging the poor pup across the floor.

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ said Duncan, his voice sharp and angry.

  He could barely contain himself, but he’d had to keep his anger under control for fear of Garfield taking offence at the last minute and refusing to hand over the dog.

  ‘Cost me five hundred pounds! That’s almost a whole month’s pension!’

  Garfield looked up from under his heavy eyebrows, his yellow teeth chewing an imaginary piece of wood. His hand reached down between his legs and he scratched himself. He might have been about to spit on the floor, but then he seemed to think better of it.

  ‘Free treatment, right?’ Garfield looked smug. ‘That’s what yer said. For Betsy, me other dog. For life.’

  ‘Aye. On condition you always bring her to me, here at this surgery.’

  Garfield held his gaze, scowling. Then he nodded. He handed over the leash. He shuffled out of the room without even looking back at the dog. No attempt to say goodbye. Already, Garfield’s shoulders were slumped, his head down, doing his weak, poor old man act again. For the benefit of the other folk in the waiting room.

  Duncan hated that people took on a puppy without realising what was involved. Especially a dog that was going to grow into a big animal – you could tell from the size of their feet, even if you weren’t familiar with the breed.

  Garfield had been particularly obstinate. He was a wily old fellow. He claimed he loved both his dogs, the puppy and his other full-grown dog, Betsy. He knew Duncan couldn’t report him for animal abuse, or force him to hand over his dogs without definite proof. So Duncan had made a proposal – that he would take the two dogs himself and give them both a home. No reports, no recriminations. Sorted.

  But Garfield wasn’t having it. Maybe one dog but not both. It had taken several weeks to persuade Garfield to agree to a revised solution: Duncan could adopt the puppy and Garfield would keep Betsy on condition he brought her in to the surgery for regular check-ups. Duncan phrased it as ‘free veterinary care for life’. Garfield finally said yes.

  Duncan gave a sigh of relief. It was one of those win-win situations, he told himself. Garfield got rid of an unwanted dog and gained a financial benefit, and Duncan got to rescue Arthur and keep an eye on Betsy.

  A win-win. Sort of.

  Those first few days, Arthur cowered behind the sofa in the kitchen. Then his four big feet pattered cautiously on the hard surfaces of the Barn, sniffing and snuffling as he familiarised himself with new smells. It took him a while, but he seemed to know that his new owners were different.

  Once out of Garfield’s hands, he thrived. By the end of that first year, he was skidding as he raced around the corners, black ears folded by his cheeks, head moving from side to side in a constant state of excited curiosity. The dog was an absolute softie. Duncan, Claire and Joe were all besotted with him.

  But it was Joe who Arthur particularly took a liking to. He’d sidle up to Joe’s legs at the dinner table, tail sweeping on the floor. Or flop down beside him the moment Joe entered the kitchen. He whimpered if Joe left the house without him, and at night, the two of them lay together in Joe’s bed, the young teenage boy under the duvet, the dog on top.

  ‘Shhh!’ Claire had said, opening the bedroom door a crack.

  Duncan peered through the gap. There was Joe, settled for once in his bed, one arm curved around the dog’s body, Arthur with his wet nose nestled right under the boy’s neck.

  ‘Look at them,’ she said. ‘It’s a miracle!’

  Duncan loved that his son and Arthur had bonded so well. It was what they both needed. The utter faith that someone loved you unconditionally. Duncan acknowledged that it must appear as if he’d failed Joe in that respect. He and Claire had each struggled in their different ways with the reality of what life with J
oe was like.

  Duncan thought back to Garfield. It was hard to live with the knowledge that Betsy was still at the old man’s mercy. Each time Garfield brought her in, you could see the poor animal was miserable, her big eyes round and reproachful. Duncan felt his guilt about that even now – he had colluded with her situation, hadn’t he? It made him despise Garfield even more.

  Duncan shifted his weight, pushing himself away from the tree.

  He thought of that day he and Claire had argued. She’d seen him and Sally at the stables the night before. Duncan had been drinking later as he watched a film after he’d got back. Then early that next morning Claire had picked a massive row. Not surprising, really. He’d deserved every moment of it. Joe had heard. Joe had always heard. Duncan and Claire had got so used to playing out their private conflict in the Barn, they’d forgotten that Joe lived there, too. Duncan had said things in the heat of the moment he never should have.

  Joe had run off. Like he always did. When Claire told Duncan about the coin, Duncan had gone too, heading for the sough in the grounds of the Hall in the conviction that was where Joe had gone. He knew more than anyone how dangerous those tunnels could be. It wasn’t about Evangeline – the likelihood that Joe would find her burial place in the wall was about as likely as finding a needle in a haystack, especially now that the marker, the coin, was gone. The police search was far more of a realistic concern now. But then …? He knew Claire had been fraught with worry that maybe Evangeline’s skeleton, what was left of her, had been disturbed, too. Duncan had never believed that.

  No, it was the danger of those tunnels that was the real issue, Claire had known that too. Joe not being aware of when the water came and went, risking an exploration inside in search of some mythical hoard. Damn you, Joe, Duncan thought, always setting hares running with his stupid, hopeless treasure hunting.