by Stephen Laws
“Come alive,” she said aloud again.
But David is dead.
“I know. I know that, damn it!”
She needed this book—the first after her life was torn apart—to . . .
“Come together. I just need it to come together.”
So that she could move on.
And leave David behind? Leave the memory of him behind?
“No!”
This was the internal, irrational argument that had blocked her.
The novel she was working on wasn’t about her and David, it wasn’t about their life together, wasn’t anything to do with how she’d struggled to cope after his murder. She needed to complete this independent entity with its own heartbeat, its own rhythm, its own form and being to prove that she could still create, that she could still be what she’d always wanted to be: a writer. But she continued to struggle, had given up on the project several times—but she always returned to it because it was something she needed to do. If she could only . . .
“Break through. If I could only—break through!”
Then she could finish it, and become—
“Whole again.”
Angry with herself, Cath returned to the study—opened Word and threw herself at the keyboard. Half an hour later, and four hundred useless words later, she saved and exited the document—refusing to delete the unsatisfactory work she had done. At least she’d have something to delete when she came back to it.
Outside, the air was growing chill, and there were clouds moving fast up the valley. Cath walked to the gate, leaned on it and looked up and down the lane. There was no traffic, no movement apart from the clouds. No jet trails in the sky, no birds on the wing. Not for the first time, she felt very alone.
Across the lane, on the hill overlooking her cottage—a man was standing and watching her.
SEVEN
Drew Hall crested the rise and looked back at his farmhouse.
Summer was on a slow burn, on its way out—and autumn was coming. He could feel it, as only someone who had spent his life in the country could. He stood and looked at the house itself, at the pens and sheds that surrounded it. The house seemed too big, and that was because once—what seemed a very long time ago—his farming operation in this lower part of the valley had been much more widespread, much more like a business. More alive. Now a majority of those pens, sheds and outhouses were semi-derelict. The livestock, the arable income and the whole operation had shrunk. But the house had remained the same. White brick, picture postcard some might have once said. But the fascia was weather-beaten, corroded and unrepaired. There was a hole in the roof, and he felt sure that there were pigeons on the top floor. Why chase them out? They had to roost somewhere. A three-story building, built for a family. But he lived on the ground floor alone and rarely used the other two.
The view from where he stood was breathtaking, but he couldn’t remember the last time that he had enjoyed it.
Off to the right of the farmhouse and its cluster of smaller buildings, was the barn. Something was wrong with the main doors. It looked as if there was a gigantic crack in the left one, skewing it to one side, even though the chain that held those doors locked was still in place. He had no idea what had happened there, and had no intention of finding out. He’d locked that barn a long time ago, and it would stay that way. So would the thing that he’d locked inside. Drew looked quickly away again, tried to concentrate on the sky, then the boundary fence a quarter mile below him. Trying to ignore the barn and failing, he wondered—not for the first time—if he shouldn’t just put a torch to the damned thing and be done with it. But as much as he’d considered it, the thought of the thing inside prevented him from acting. Maybe it was best if it was destroyed, but in a perverse way he realised that destroying it might also in some strange way destroy him. Sell it? Perhaps. God knows, he could use the money. He was thirty-five and almost penniless, living practically hand to mouth from his farm earnings. Fit and physically well—but not so fit and well in other ways, perhaps.
Drew kept walking, along the ridge and away from the house, looking down to the fence that bordered the main road into Nicolham. There was no traffic this morning, which was a shame. He’d often watched cars come and go. He recognised a good few of the locals when they passed, but liked to spot unfamiliar vehicles with unfamiliar occupants. Then he could guess about what people might be like, where they were going, what they did for a living. Tourists, perhaps? He could wonder if they were happy.
The few friends that he had left—those who still chose to visit the farmhouse on occasion—often urged him to get down into the town more often. They felt that enough time had gone by, and it was important to get on with life and to begin socializing again. Farm work brought him into limited contact with some of the town businesses, but he must surely need more than that. He had to get into the ‘company’ of people properly. Move on. Not just cling to the past. But he was a blank wall on that subject, as much as he would have liked to take their advice. How could he? What had happened back then had killed something inside him. So he stayed and watched vehicles pass and wondered—because, after all this time, it was all he could do. He scanned the hollow down there on the other side of that road and the cottage that nestled in there—where his ex-schoolteacher, the writer and her daughter had tended to him.
“Wouldn’t be the first time I’d been run off the road,” he said aloud ruefully. “Figuratively not literally, as a writer might say.”
He still read books for pleasure. It was his main preoccupation after the chores were over and he was back at home—mainly the classics. But concentration was often a problem when the memories of the past were still so clear. His growing hoard of ‘specialist’ books, however, was a different matter. These were the books he pored over, that he devoured, that he studied with an intensity that sometimes frightened him. He was afraid that it was an obsession, a replacement for life somehow. But he didn’t want to think too much about it.
He knew what he had encountered out there that night.
He knew what he had seen.
And he knew they were still out there.
He’d find them.
After all, what else was there for him to do?
In that moment came a familiar smell—a faint and acrid musk that he knew only too well: a trace scent, drifting on the breeze and now whisked quickly away again the moment that it had registered. Drew shook his head, stared straight down and ahead, telling himself that it was only his mind playing tricks again. He’d started thinking about them again and had only imagined the smell. It wouldn’t be the first time. But now, he realised that he was waiting for it once more. And when it did come, faint and acrid and sour, he whirled to look back at the long grass by the dry-stone wall, one hundred feet from where he stood. He froze. The scent had gone again. The long grass was stirring, but that must surely only be the breeze.
So close to the farmhouse this time? Could they be daring to come so close after all this time?
Slowly, Drew bent and picked up the gnarled branch that lay close by. Rising again, he waited. The grass barely stirred. Could he be wrong? No, he wasn’t wrong. There was something in there, watching him. He took a careful and quiet step forward. A breeze stirred the grass this time. Another step.
What am l doing? What do I intend to do if it’s in there?
Another step. This time the sound of pebbles grinding under his boot made him wince. Drew hefted the branch like a club. And this time something did move in the grass.
I just want to see! That’s all. I just want to see!
Something slithered—and Drew sprang to the edge of the clump of grass, this time yelling at the top of his voice; wanting to make something happen.
The grass instantly thrashed and writhed in a blurred flurry of movement, and whatever was hiding behind it flew out directly into Drew’s face. He flailed with the tree branch, lost his footing and toppled—and in the next moment, something wild and squalling was sc
rabbling at his face. Drew rolled, lashing out—and thrashed back to his feet, arms flailing to protect himself.
Brown and white feathers flew around him.
Squawking in fear, the partridge escaped into the sky in an erratic and awkward flight.
He watched it go, angrily swatting the feathers from his hair, jacket and trousers.
“Damn, damn, damn!”
Drew stood for a long time, watching the bird vanish over the ridge. When he looked back to the boundary road, there were no cars. Clouds were moving up over the valley from the south, and the air was turning chill.
And there was the smell again. The faint and acrid musk now seemed like a taunt. Just as suddenly as it had reappeared, it was snatched away again on the breeze.
You’ll never find us.
“Damn, damn, damn!”
Drew walked angrily from the brush, back to the crest of the hill. The clouds were moving faster, and the air seemed even chillier. He looked down to the farmhouse, thought about returning; but he wasn’t ready yet. There was a different kind of chill in there, much worse.
He walked slowly along the rise, then looked down at the boundary road.
A woman was standing at the cottage gate far below, watching him. Even from this distance, he knew who that woman was, recognised the sheen of her lovely hair. Startled, unsure and awkward, he stumbled—wanted to make some kind of gesture but could not.
Face burning, Drew turned and started down the rise again, toward the home that was not a home.
EIGHT
“No, darling! Not there. That’s right. Don’t climb up there. You fell last time, remember?”
Rynne sat cross-legged in the schoolyard, kneading the Play-Doh on the tray in front of her. Sitting nearby, on the fold-out chairs that Faye had brought out of the classroom for the other mothers at the play group, Bianca Fairley and Victoria Marr’s mothers continued their nonstop conversation. Rynne watched Bianca climb down from the railing wall in a sulk. She didn’t like Bianca; she was mean. And Bianca’s mother didn’t like Rynne because Rynne knew she was mean.
Rynne returned to her Play Doh again. She knew what would happen next.
Just because she wasn’t looking at them, they’d start talking about her mother again. Like, just because she wasn’t looking, she couldn’t hear?
“So what’s she supposed to be writing? Do we know?”
Something about the we and the know. It was as if Mum was going around talking about her books all the time or something, and as if they were fed up hearing about it, and as if they were supposed to be impressed or something, but weren’t.
“Did you see the thing on the telly? That documentary about thriller writers?”
“Last night? No, had a feeling she might be on it, though.”
“Thriller writer? No—‘actress turned thriller writer,’ please. Did you see that film she was in?”
Laughter. “Deadly Impact!”
“Did it make an . . . ?”
“Impact?” More laughter. “Oh yes.”
Laughter. “What kind of impact did it make on you then?”
Now the laughter was hysterical.
“Deadly!”
“I can hear you talking about my mum, you know” Rynne said, without looking up. Rynne squashed the Play-Doh with two tight fists, then stood and walked away toward the schoolyard wall, veering away when she saw that Bianca was still—against the instruction of her mother—hanging on the railings and kicking against the wall. Behind Rynne, the laughter had stopped. But she didn’t look back because she didn’t want to see their faces.
“Rynne!”
Suddenly Rynne was between Shelley and Joe, playing some kind of tag game, whirling between them as they used her to fend each other off. She laughed and allowed herself to be pulled around before they spun away, leaving her dizzy. “Come on then!” Joe shouted back to her as they ran to join the others. But at the moment, Rynne didn’t want to play with the others. She wanted quiet time to think. She allowed herself a glance back at the two gossiping mothers, who had now turned in their seats so that their backs were to her. She didn’t care. Just ’cause they were mean.
Bianca began sidling along the wall toward her; so Rynne moved away again, this time whirling and spinning her arms as she looked up at the sky. She caught sight of the hills beyond the village, ran to the far wall and grabbed its railings, pushing her face against them and looking at the rolling green and brown. She’d been thinking a lot about the strange man and the crashed car and the Elastoplast on his head. She’d also been thinking about the strange way her mum had looked at the man while Faye put that sticking plaster on, as if she was thinking about someone or something else. Something important and troubling. And that’s why Rynne couldn’t stop thinking about it. Because if she thought about it lots, then maybe she’d get the answer to what Mum was thinking. She knew she couldn’t ask her about it, because it was too important to ask a question—and she wouldn’t get an answer anyway. That was Mum. Thinking important things that took her eyes a long way away, and when you asked what she was thinking about, she’d never tell; she’d just change the subject. One thing she knew—Mum wasn’t thinking about things she was going to put in her books. This was something else.
Bianca made a sound of delight, and when Rynne looked back she could see why. A cat had appeared on the schoolyard wall, sliding sinuously between the railings as it weaved along the wall, looking as if it had been trained to do so. Bianca kept pace with it, looking back to see if Rynne was watching, then—with a sulk on her face—moving to block Rynne’s view, claiming ownership of the tortoiseshell coloured cat.
“Bianca!” called her mother once more. “Leave that cat alone!” It was a command instantly ignored by the child, then almost instantly forgotten by the mother. Bianca stroked the cat’s back. The cat arched its back, apparently in pleasure, raising its tail.
Rynne wished that she could stroke the cat and began moving toward them, prepared to be friends just for the moment. The cat raised its head to Bianca. Aware of movement, Bianca turned to see Rynne coming—pouted—and moved back to the cat.
Bianca shrieked and jumped back.
The cat’s back was arched. It hissed at her and in the next moment was gone over the wall and away in a brown-grey blur. Clutching her hand, Bianca ran back toward her mother, crying. Rynne watched her; saw Bianca’s mother rise quickly, glaring as if Rynne had somehow done something.
“Rynne, darling!” Faye was suddenly at her side, holding a glass of juice. “Are you all right?”
“Bad cat,” Rynne said.
NINE
“There’s a man at the door to see you, Mr. Dietersen.”
Startled at the intercom buzzer and voice, Kapler Dietersen jerked in his seat. Someone moaned under the desk. Dietersen leaned forward and snapped the intercom switch.
“For God’s sake, Garvey. Just a minute . . .”
One minute later, Trudi emerged from under the desk, tossing ringlets of blond hair away from her face and moving back to the drinks cabinet. As she poured a brandy, rinsed and gargled, Dietersen readjusted himself and watched her with disgust. Angrily, he flicked the intercom switch again.
“What do you mean, a man at the door? People don’t just come to my door, Garvey.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Dietersen. But he says he wants to talk to you . . .”
“Have those bloody front gates been left open again?”
“The men were grass cutting. They had to get their equipment out and . . .”
“And so someone just walks right through, past everyone and up to the bloody front door. What am I paying people for, Garvey? I’m supposed to have security here. S-E-C-U-R-I-T-Y.”
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Dietersen.”
Trudi poured another brandy and sprawled out on the sofa by the window as if posing for a fashion shoot. She straightened a dress that didn’t need straightening, picked dust motes from it that were not there. Her eyes looked as bl
ank as they usually did. Dietersen pushed back his chair and strode to the lounge door. He could still hear Garvey apologizing as he shoved hard through the door and into the hallway. Garvey—a sixty-five-year-old man in what looked like an undertaker’s suit—recoiled in alarm from the intercom system on his own hallway desk. He looked as if apology had become a way of life for him.
“What the hell does he want anyway?” Dietersen snapped. “Is he selling something?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dietersen. I really have no idea. But he seems . . . well, all right.”
“So if he pulls a gun out and shoots me, at least you can tell the police that he ‘seemed all right.’ Ask him what he wants.”
“He doesn’t have to ask me,” came a voice from the external hallway door. “I can tell you myself.”
Now it was Dietersen’s turn to be startled, he turned to see the man standing there. Casual, grey-black hair, donkey-jacket, farm boots. There was no hint of a threat on his face, but Dietersen didn’t like the casual smile. Without looking back at the nervous man in the undertaker’s suit, he said, “Piss off, Garvey.”
Garvey disappeared into a side room, closing the door with great care in case the sound of its closing should give offense.
The two men stood and looked at each other. When the newcomer showed no sign of speaking or moving, Dietersen said, “Well, since you seem ‘all right’ according to my staff and you think you’ve got a right to just walk in here like you own the place, you may as well tell me what the hell you’re after.”
“Not a lot. I’m not selling anything. I just want to have a word with you about something that happened last Wednesday.”
“Last Wednesday?”
“About ten in the evening. On the Fell Road.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
