by Stephen Laws
Even above the sound of his own vehicle, Drew heard the roar of a high-powered car up ahead. Headlights swept in an arc in his direction. The car was heading down the road toward him, and it was traveling fast. He slowed, eased the car closer to his side of the road. The headlights swerved again, now full beam and directly in his eyes.
The farmhouse was less than fifty yards away.
“Too fast!” hissed Drew. “You’re coming too fast!”
The road was just wide enough for two cars to pass, but even though he was fully caught in the oncoming headlights, it seemed as if the other driver just didn’t know that he was there. Tyres screeched, the headlights veered to the sky—then came straight back full beam. The other driver was making no attempt to slow down, still had his or her foot hard to the floor—and was right in the middle of the road, coming straight at him.
Drew slammed his hand hard on the horn—once. In the next moment, he wrenched the wheel over. The Land Rover slewed up onto the grass verge with a juddering screech and spray of soil, twisted up onto two wheels and jounced back on its suspension. Drew’s head whacked against the side window. The oncoming car was gone, still traveling at the same speed in the direction of the village. Rock music pounding from its open windows faded into the night.
Cat’s eyes.
He saw them again in his daze, as he’d seen them on that day two years ago. Opal green and deep. Cold and still and holding a secret. A mysterious and terribly dangerous secret.
“I saw them.”
Someone or something was pulling at him. He tried to pull away, but he was in a dream and there was no strength in his limbs. Cold air enveloped him, and now that dream-mistiness was leaving him as he came back into focus.
“I saw them . . .”
“Drew, are you all right?” It was a woman’s voice, somehow familiar.
“I did see them.”
“I’m sure you did, honey. But they either didn’t see you—or didn’t care to see you. Come on now. You’re hurt.”
The Land Rover door was open and a woman was holding on to his arm, trying to ease him out of the car. He knew her, but couldn’t yet put a name to her.
“They forced you off the road! I saw it from the kitchen window.” The sound of outrage in her voice was very familiar.
Drew! Pay attention—your mind’s wandering again. You’re here to learn, not to dream.
“Miss Roche . . .”
“Miss Roche? Goodness, it’s a long time since you called me that. Come on now. You’re head’s bleeding—we’ll get you inside.”
Someone else was running up to them now. A woman, with a young girl close behind.
“Is he all right?” Not a Northumberland accent. Southern maybe. Perhaps London.
“I think he’s concussed. Help me get him inside, Cath.”
The cold air was reviving Drew quickly, but when he tried to take his arm away from Faye’s shoulder, she hauled it back.
“I’m okay, Faye. Really . . .” When he touched his forehead, there was blood on his fingertips.
“Best come inside,” said the woman with the southern accent.
The young girl joined her mother. In the Land Rover’s headlights, they were mirror images. The same shape of face, the same colour hair. The woman called Cath leaned quickly into the Land Rover and switched off the headlights. When she moved to help him, this time he did not pull away.
THREE
Drew winced as Faye dabbed disinfectant on his cut temple, noting how the little girl—dutifully holding a strip of Elastoplast at the ready—winced too. The soft, warm lights in the cottage kitchen seemed to give her blond hair a golden halo. Her big eyes studied him, as if he were some strange and new roadside find that the adults had brought in for examination. He couldn’t help noting how the decor, the furniture and the easy decoration compared to his own kitchen back at the farm. This was clearly a home, whereas his own place was . . . well, not a home.
“What happened?” The woman called Cath moved into his sight as Faye continued to dab, studying the cut. He could smell her perfume.
“Ran him off the road,” murmured Faye, concentrating on her task. “I saw it from the window.
“Best get this seen to properly, Drew. At the infirmary. The cut’s not much, but you might have a concussion. Do you feel dizzy, or sick, or . . .”
“I’m fine Miss . . . I’m fine, Faye. Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve patched me up.”
“You know each other then?” Cath asked.
“I was his teacher once. More years ago than I care to remember. Oh, I’m sorry—this is Drew Hall . . . Rynne, let me have that Elastoplast, honey.”
Drew winced again as Faye smoothed the tape into place. “I own the farm on the other side of the road. A mile or so up. I guess you can just see it from here.”
“The one with the crackly walls?” asked the little girl.
“Rynne,” admonished Faye, giving her a ‘look’.
“Well, it has!”
“That’s the one.” Drew smiled.
“I’m Cath Lane, and this is my daughter Rynne.”
“You’re the writer?”
“Yes,” Cath replied, moving to the kitchen bench and lifting the kettle. Why did it still make her feel uncomfortable answering that question after all these years? “Who’s going to have some tea?”
“Great,” Drew replied. “I’d ask for something stronger if I didn’t have the Land Rover.”
“You can leave it here,” Faye said. “I’ll drive you up to the farm.”
“No, no—I’m okay. Really.”
Faye transferred her ‘look’ to Drew.
“Really, Faye! I’m fine. It just shook me up, is all. And tea would be great, thanks.”
Cath smiled—but there was something fractured about her smile that made him wonder for a moment before she turned her back to fill the kettle.
“Haven’t read any of your books, I’m afraid,” he said, wanting to say something—and now worrying if that had come out wrong.
“I haven’t read any of yours either.” Cath turned to smile at him, and this time there was no shadow in it, just good humour.
Everyone laughed.
As Faye sat back to admire her handiwork, Drew said: “You patched up the other side of my head when I was a kid, remember? Football in the schoolyard? I took a heavy tackle and ran head first into a wall.”
Faye raised a finger and looked at Rynne, as if some great dawning memory was coming. Then—emphatically—she said: “No.”
Rynne hooted with laughter, wrapping an arm around Faye’s neck.
“Then there was the time you broke up a fight between me and Billy Hunnam? One kid in each hand—lifted us apart. Very impressive.”
“You sure you’ve got the right teacher?”
“Was she scary then?” Rynne asked.
“Scary? No, not scary. But she had a way of making sure that you didn’t step out of line.”
“Like when she makes that face? Like she did just now?”
“Rynne!” Cath admonished from her tea preparation. Faye stuck out her tongue and moved to help Cath. “I’m going to report this,” Cath continued. “That other car, I mean. You could have been killed.”
“Don’t think that’ll do much good,” Faye said.
“Why not?”
“Because I recognised the car right off, even in the dark.”
“Who was it, Faye?” Rynne sat opposite Drew, where Faye had been, now staring intently at the Elastoplast, perhaps to see if it moved.
“It belongs to Kapler Dietersen.”
“Who the hell is Kapler . . . ?” began Drew.
“Kapler Dietersen.” The note of derision in Faye’s voice was unmistakable. “He bought Oakley Estate up past the Fell.”
“Right . . . I thought I saw removal vans and stuff up there.”
“Hold on,” Cath said, pouring tea. “You’re all leaving me behind here.”
“Sorry, honey. Oakley Estate is
fifteen miles on the other side of the Fell. Big country house and gardens. We drove past it a few weeks back.”
“Right. Got you.”
Drew watched Cath raise her eyebrows in inquiry about how he wanted his tea. He suddenly realised that she was a very beautiful woman. “Milk, no sugar please.”
“The Oakleys were gentry,” Faye continued. “But they were broke. Couldn’t maintain the property, and no one was interested in paying a tenner a ticket to walk around the place. They moved out about a year ago. And now Kapler Dietersen, millionaire businessman, has moved in.”
“Okay, so why don’t you like Mr. Dietersen?” Cath handed cups around. “Quite apart from the fact that he just ran our neighbour off the road.”
“It’s your face again,” Rynne said. “Keeps giving you away.”
“You are a cheeky madam—but you’re right. I don’t like him.”
“It’s not like you to be so judgmental,” Cath said.
“Let’s put it this way—I have friends who have met him and had dealings with him. He seems to think that money will buy him anything and everyone. And no one seems to know where he gets his money from. “
“The man who owns everything also seems to think he owns the road,” said Cath.
Drew finished his tea and stood.
“Look, you’ve all been very kind. But I need to get back. There are things I have to . . . be doing.”
“What about the police?” Faye asked. “Are you going to report him?”
“I’ll get back to the Land Rover. If it’s damaged, I’ll take it further. If not—well, I’m inclined to let it drop.”
“But he shouldn’t be allowed to speed down country roads like that. You could have been killed.”
“Like I say, if there’s damage—I might ask you to back up any claim I make.”
“You can count on it, Drew. But I still think that you should maybe have an x-ray or something. You can’t be too careful.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
FOUR
The two women and the girl watched from the kitchen window as the Land Rover’s headlights passed the cottage. Faye waved, and Drew tooted the horn as the vehicle was swallowed by the darkness.
“He’s a strange one,” she said after a while.
“Strange? How?”
“He’s . . . well, he’s very . . .”
“You should be a novelist, Faye. You know how to draw out the tension.”
“Sorry. He’s changed so much from the time I knew him. His wife died tragically, and he was never the same afterwards . . .” As the words came out of her mouth, Faye caught the expression on Cath’s face. It was only a fleeting and passing shade, but it was still there. Instantly realizing the territory she had unwittingly entered, her next words poured out as if to anxiously heal over any wound she might have opened. “He keeps himself to himself. Doesn’t want to get involved with anyone or anything—other than those Big Cats.”
“Big Cats, Faye?” asked Rynne. “What Big Cats?”
Faye grabbed for the girl, pulled her close and tickled her—glad for the interruption. “The Big Cats that aren’t there.”
“What?” laughed Rynne.
“Nothing, nothing, nothing!”
She kept Rynne close, still hugging and tickling—trying not to notice the way Cath was standing still and silent, arms tightly folded as if holding herself in, looking out of the kitchen window into the darkness.
FIVE
Cath bundled the bag into the back of Faye’s hatchback car.
“Mum!” Outraged, Rynne pushed past her and stroked the bag. “Don’t be rough with my stuff.”
“What?” laughed Cath. “I’m not being rough.”
“You’ll break something.”
“How can you break a towel, a fresh top, a pair of trousers and three cuddly toys?”
Faye emerged from the cottage.
“Your mum can’t help being rough. She writes rough, tough novels remember?”
“With a soft sentimental centre, remember?”
“If there wasn’t a child listening—eager to get to her play group—I’d make a rude reference to spherical objects.”
Cath scooped up Rynne, hugging her close. Rynne pretended to struggle, kicking her legs and flopping her arms.
“Did you say the play group was finishing early this afternoon?”
“Only half an hour early. Mrs. Guernin’s got someone coming in to fix some slates on the school roof. She doesn’t want kids around while they’re working up there.”
“Okay . . .”
“But look—I thought I’d just stay in the village with Rynne. Maybe take her for ice cream or something. Bring her back the usual time?”
Letting Rynne slide carefully to the ground, keeping one arm around her, Cath pulled Faye close with the other arm and kissed her on the cheek.
“Writer’s cliché Number Seventy-three. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Faye made a dismissive, half-embarrassed sound, pulling away to the car.
“Just make sure you get the two thousand words done. No slacking.”
“Yes, miss. No replacement activity. No unnecessary tea making, walking around the house or staring out of the window. Just fingers to keyboard, pen to paper.” Rynne also pulled away, running to the passenger door and clambering inside.
“I’ll be checking your work when I get back.”
“Ooh-err. Will you be using the red pen on me?”
“Go on—get back in the cottage and get on with it.”
“Do lots of work, Mum!” Rynne called, struggling with her seatbelt.
“Did he really call you miss?”
“What?”
“You know—Drew Hall. When the Land Rover went off the road last Tuesday.”
“Yes—yes, he did. That’s what made me worry about concussion. I think . . .” Chewing her bottom lip, clicking Rynne’s seatbelt in and then adjusting her own, Faye paused and looked straight ahead as Cath leaned in at the driver’s window. “I think I might check on him. He won’t have gone to the doctor, you know. Stubborn. Always was. Not stupid stubborn. Just very, you know—mind made up, do it my way. And he’s up there on his own—no one to look out for him.”
“What happened? To his wife, I mean.”
Faye turned to look directly into Cath’s eyes, remembering the way she had frozen and looked out the window when she had first mentioned it. Cath realised what was happening.
“It’s all right, Faye. Honestly. I’m not . . . this stuff doesn’t bother me. I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not always okay, Cath. And you know it. There are times. I’ve been there, I’ve seen it.”
“I make a living out of death, doom and disaster. Don’t you know that?”
“I know more about what goes on inside you than you think, madam.”
“You’re school-marming me again. Come on, what happened?”
“It was an accident. Farm equipment.”
Cath waited for more. Faye switched on the car engine in exasperation.
“Come on, Faye!” Rynne called. “We’ll be late.”
Cath stood back as Faye began to reverse.
Without making eye contact, Faye said: “A harvester. She got caught in a harvester. Killed her instantly—and completely wrecked Drew’s life. There, now you know.”
“Bye, Mum!”
“Bye, love. Be careful.”
The car slid backwards into the lane. Cath walked slowly with it, arms folded.
When Faye turned the car and slipped into first gear, she looked back.
“You are all right, aren’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I didn’t want to tell you. But you know—there are other people out there hurting as well, aren’t there?”
“Yes, there are, Faye. And I’m okay, honestly.”
Faye looked at her steadily for what seemed a long time.
“Faye!” Rynne called again. “Come on!”
<
br /> “Okay. We’ll be back usual time.”
Cath watched them go. Just before the car rounded the bed, she heard Faye call:
“Two thousand words!”
SIX
Back in the cottage, Cath strode into the living room, switched on the television, then switched it off again. She looked at the CDs piled by the player, rattled through them and when one case slid to the floor, she let it lie there and moved into the kitchen.
Nothing on the radio was what she wanted, despite quickly moving the tuner right across the wave band.
Standing at the window, arms folded again, she realised that she was behaving in the same way that Faye had warned her against.
“Damn it! I hate it when she’s right all the time.”
Upstairs, in the study, Cath rearranged the papers, switched on the computer and reread the material she’d written the day before; trying to convince herself that it was usable. Back downstairs again, she made coffee that she didn’t want, drank it, paced and said: “Damn it!” again.
The work hadn’t dried. The words were still coming out. But there was something wrong with the novel she was working on. It wasn’t coming . . .
“Alive!” she said aloud, banging the coffee cup down on the bench. “Writer’s cliché Fifty-six: The book isn’t coming alive.” The novel was something that she had originally been working on when the Bad Thing had happened in New York. The new novel had been delivered to her New York publisher and her—their—visit that day had been their way of showing how much faith they had in a project they believed would be the new big best seller. The fact that they had been right—that the book had gone on to become a runaway success, and subsequently an award-winning movie, had brought with it financial security beyond her dreams. The cottage she’d bought outright, the money still coming in. It wasn’t as if she were dependent on the next book becoming a success to maintain that security, even five years later.
But on that day, on that cold New York street, her life had been ripped apart. None of the success or the financial security meant anything to her—other than the safety and security of her daughter. No, her writing since then had been blocked because of something else. She wanted the new project to mean something, she wanted it to . . . to . . .
