by Emma Snow
He was standing perfectly upright with his hands clasped behind his back. All at once Martha felt as if she was the one intruding even though he’d knocked on the door. It was a very odd feeling.
“I’m Benjamin Robertson,” he said, thrusting a hand towards her. “And you are?”
Martha couldn’t place the name for a moment but then it came to her. “You’re Ben?” she asked, taking his hand, feeling him grip her fingers. His skin was rough but warm. She liked the feel of it. At once she jolted her hand away from him. “I didn’t think you were coming.”
“Neither did I but here I am.” A half smile spread across his face, lighting it up despite the tiredness in his eyes.
“Was it a long journey?” As she asked the question, she pushed the door closed momentarily, sliding the chain off its hook before opening it wide again. “Can I make you a tea?”
“Is he here?” Ben asked, stepping inside and pausing in the hallway, suddenly looking like a wild animal that had become trapped. Unbidden an image came into Martha’s mind, an image of him if she shut the door. He would be sprinting around the walls, fighting to find a way to get outside to freedom.
A few years ago she had watched a film about a girl who tried to tame a wild fox. She had spent a long time patiently tempting it towards her, coaxing it with food and kind words. Eventually she had been able to persuade it to enter her house but of course it had wanted to escape as soon as she shut her bedroom door. After crashing into her furniture it had finally leapt out of the closed window, shattering glass and injuring itself whilst teaching the girl a lesson about trying to tame wild things.
Ben reminded her of the fox in the film. Not in appearance, in appearance he reminded her more of a grizzly bear. But in manner he looked tense as soon as he stepped inside. It wasn’t an overt display but after what had happened to her at the care home, she had learned to read the little signals people gave out.
His left hand was curling and uncurling as if he was trying to resist clenching it into a fist. His eyes were fixed on her but they kept darting to the sides of the hallway, as if he was looking for an exit.
“He’s upstairs,” she said, wanting to do something to ease the tension he was clearly feeling. “He’s asleep though.”
He was already heading upstairs, leaving her to close the front door and head back into the kitchen, putting the last of the pots onto the draining board. By the time she had done she could hear voices. Father and son were talking.
She didn’t want to listen but nor did she think it wise to leave. Peter sounded angry and she wanted to be nearby, ready to step in and separate them if needed.
“Bullshit,” Peter was saying. “You came back to take the place for yourself. Too bad for you I survived, hey?”
Ben’s voice replied, quieter, trying to keep calm. Martha stood in the hallway, straightening a picture on the wall that was already perfectly straight. “Is that what you think? Let me put your mind at rest on that one, Dad. I have no interest in this place or what happens to it. That isn’t why I’m here.”
“How did you even find out?”
“The hospital rang me.”
Martha was relieved her name hadn’t been mentioned. She had no desire to rush into the conversation she was going to have to have at some point, explaining to her employer her part in bringing Ben back home.
“Well, you’ve had a good look at me. You might as well get going. Drive carefully. It’s a long way back to Scotland.”
Martha was just able to get into the kitchen before Ben stamped back downstairs. He stopped in the hallway, rubbing his eyes and sighing. She coughed politely, letting him know she was there. “He’s glad you came,” she said, taking a step back as Ben walked into the kitchen. “You can tell by his voice,” she added in response to the look he gave her.
“I should go,” Ben said, sounding defeated. “I don’t know why I bothered.”
“He’s in a lot of pain,” she replied. “Give him some time to sleep.”
Ben shook his head. “All the sleep in the world won’t stop him being as stubborn as a mule.”
“Where are you going?” she asked as he headed towards the front door.
“I’m going home.”
“Listen,” she said, following him outside. “Why not stay the night? See what he’s like in the morning?”
“Why do you even care? What’s this got to do with you?”
“I don’t like seeing people argue.” A flash through her mind. Samuel screaming at her and Lisa. “You can stay in my house tonight. I’m only there.” She pointed at her front door. “I’ll sleep here and keep an eye on him overnight.”
Ben looked as if he was going to refuse but then all of a sudden he looked utterly exhausted. “Fine,” he said, the word more of an exhalation than anything else. “But I’ll watch him. You go home, you’ve done more than enough.”
TWELVE
While Ben and Martha were standing in the courtyard by the castle, Timothy Burleigh was explaining for the tenth time what had happened since he spoke to the police officer at his home.
He was sitting on the wall outside Lisa’s house, a detective in a dark grey suit leaning on the wall next to him, his arms folded.
“I don’t know how many times you want me to go over this,” Timothy was saying. “I’ve been here all day. Am I under arrest or what?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned,” D.C.I Gregg replied. “Just for me, once more, please.”
“I arrived at the house wanting to speak to Lisa. I hadn’t heard from her all day.”
“And that’s unusual because?”
“Because she rings me every day without fail. I’ve already told you all this.”
“And why is that? Why does she ring you every day? You’re not related are you?”
“No, we’re not but I fail to see-”
“I don’t speak to my daughter every day. She’s at university. Sometimes I don’t hear from her for weeks.”
“Good for you.”
“I’m trying to help you here, Mr Burleigh. Think how this looks to us. You turn up at a house you’ve never been to before to speak to someone you’re not related to. Her body is in the bathtub, limbs bound. She’s been there at least a day, maybe longer. Convince me you didn’t do it.”
“Do you think I did it?”
“I doubt you’d have rung us if you did. But who did do it?”
“I told you. Samuel Lyons.”
“The Gamesman? Dead for almost a decade.”
“He’s not dead, that’s the whole point.”
“Do you have any evidence that the body found at the time was wrongly identified as being his? Anything you can share with me? I’m all ears, Mr Burleigh.”
“No. Look, am I under arrest?”
“As I said, not at this point.”
“So I’m free to go?”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
“But are you going to stop me?”
There was a long silence, the detective looking at Timothy without blinking. “No,” he said at last.
Timothy walked towards his car, not looking back.
“We’ll be in touch, Mr Burleigh,” the detective called after him as he climbed inside and started the engine.
He drove away slowly, needing to weave his way through the assembled emergency vehicles. An ambulance almost blocked the road and he had to mount the curb to squeeze past. Once that was done, he was able to pick up speed.
He thought about the letter he’d read. The police would find it. No doubt they’d go through the house with a fine toothcomb. But by the time they’d realised Martha might be in danger, it would be too late.
He could close his eyes and picture the scene. Samuel tortured Lisa into revealing where Martha was hiding out. He’d then strangled her, dumping the body in the bath, leaving the gaming piece because he couldn’t not do it. Then he would drive to Martha to finish the game.
How long would that take? From Chester to Mart
ha? Was she even there? Timothy could only hope so, the letter from Martha to Lisa saying how she was thinking of “working at the place we always talked about,” how she had an interview lined up. There was no return address on the letter.
His mind went back to the care home. He had just stopped mowing the lawn, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. Behind him, sitting on the steps that led inside, five girls.
He knew all their names. He knew the names of everyone who stayed in the home, he considered it his duty to know them despite the fact he rarely spoke to them. Martha was talking, listing all the things she loved about history, moving from the middle ages to the Civil War. He stood for a moment and listened, impressed by the depth of her knowledge. “One day, I’ll work at Helmsley Castle,” she was saying.
“But why?” Sophia asked, leaning back on her elbows and staring up at the fluffy clouds floating past.
“Because then I can dress up as a princess.”
Timothy was amazed he’d even been able to dredge the conversation up from his long term memory. Had she talked about working anywhere else? Not that he could think of. But she’d talked about that castle several times after seeing it in one of the books in the Home library.
He liked thinking about protecting Martha as he drove, about finding her and protecting her. It stopped him thinking about Lisa, about how he’d failed her so badly.
He could have told the police to go to Helmsley, make up for his failure. But he had a sneaking suspicion that detective would arrest him if he mentioned it. If he was locked up because he seemed to know too much where would that leave him? Where would it leave Martha? Would they even visit her? They knew nothing of the link between Lisa and Martha, of the bond they had had.
Let them find the letter, see if they could work it out. By then, he’d already be there. If she was still there, she’d at least have someone watching over her, keeping guard, looking for Samuel, trying to stop the game before he had a chance to play it out. What more could he do?
THIRTEEN
Timothy set off from Chester as the rain started to fall. He was glad to be away from the house, though the image of Lisa’s swollen body in the bathtub travelled with him, continually popping back into his head as he looked out at the worsening weather.
He wanted to mourn her, wanted to stop and weep for the sheer injustice of her death. But there wasn’t time for that. He needed to get to Martha. That was why, when his phone rang, he ignored it at first.
It was in his jacket pocket on the passenger seat, the sound of it’s trilling tones echoing around the inside of the car.
When it rang for a second time, he pulled over to the side of the road, leaving the engine running. The indicator blinked on the dashboard as he dug out the phone, wondering if by some miracle it might be Martha, contacting him to tell him she knew what was happening, that she was safe, that the police were with her.
It was his daughter. “Timothy,” she said without preamble. “I need you to do something for me.”
He rankled at the sound of those words, the fact she still wasn’t willing to call him Dad. “You haven’t spoken to me for two years and now you need something from me?”
“Yes. I need you to look after Jennifer.”
“What?” The flare of anger was evident in his voice before he could get it under control. A lorry drove past too close, making it impossible to hear what she said next. He caught the end of it.
“-for me.”
“Hold on,” he said, moving the phone away from his ear, finding the volume button on the side and turning it up. “Say that again.”
“I said I just need you to do this for me.”
“Listen, Catherine. I’m not-”
She interrupted him. “Let me guess, you’re not free at the moment? You’ve got a lot on. You’re busy doing something involving Lisa sodding Kirke. Christ, you should have adopted her, you know that?”
“Lisa’s dead.”
“Oh.” She fell silent for a moment. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
“I’m in a real bind though. Will you look after Jenny, please? It’s just for a couple of days.”
“Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“I can’t explain right now. Would you please just do this for me? Please.”
He sighed, closing his eyes as he did so. He kept them closed while he answered. “Where are you?”
“She’s at homework club. I’m supposed to pick her up at nine. Can you get there for nine?”
“Homework club? She really is just like you.”
“Can you do it or not?”
He looked at his watch. Back to Worcester. Two hundred miles. It was already six o’clock. He could be there by half past eight if he didn’t stop. Then back up to Helmsley. It would make it pretty late by the time he got there.
He froze for a moment, trying to calculate frantically in his head. If he said no, any chance for a relationship with his granddaughter would be gone, she’d never forgive him. But if Samuel was already on his way to Helmsley, what then?
“I’ll come and get her,” he said quietly. Give me the address.”
“Can you hold onto her for a couple of days for me?”
“What about school?”
“It’s half term next week. She won’t miss anything. What do you say? Will you do it?”
He could hear an undercurrent of tension to her voice. Something wasn’t right but he didn’t want to push, he might push her away again. “Sure, I was heading on holiday anyway. I’ve a cottage booked in Yorkshire. She can come with me.”
“Great. I’ll leave the key under the mat. Let yourself in and pack her a few things. She’s got a backpack in her wardrobe.”
“Are you all right, Cathy? Are you in trouble?”
“I can’t talk about it now. I’ll be in touch, okay?”
“Fine.”
She gave him her address, different to the one he remembered though still located in Worcester.
Once he was off the phone, he loaded the Internet and typed in Helmsley Castle. It was worth ringing. It was possible she might answer. He could at least warn her.
He tried the number twice, getting the answer phone both times. He didn’t want to leave a message, just in case Samuel was already there and was listening. He might still have a chance to catch him by surprise. The thing Samuel believed in required a strict timeline, in amongst all the completely insane beliefs he held. He had spoken of a comet, how the offering needed to be made when the comet was brightest in the sky.
Timothy had looked up all the celestial events around the time of the fire and had come to the conclusion that the comet he spoke of was the Churymov, due to return in 2017. He couldn’t be sure his calculations were correct but the proof was back in Lisa’s house. He was looking for Martha in order to offer her up when the comet returned.
He doubted Samuel would act before then. If he was in Helmsley already, he would be watching, nothing more. He had to hold onto that thought, remain positive that it wasn’t too late. Any other thoughts would have crippled him.
He drove back along the roads he so recently travelled. On the way up, he’d been nervously hoping he wasn’t too late to help Lisa. She was already dead and he hadn’t even known. The image of her in the bath again.
Think about something else, think about Jennifer. Little Jenny who he hadn’t seen since she was eight. She would be ten now. How much would she have changed in two years?
All because of a stupid argument. He had not approved of the complete moron his daughter had chosen to live with but he had kept his mouth shut for as long as he could. But when Anthony had begun waxing lyrical at the Christmas table about rights for whites and how people should stick to their own kind, he’d been unable to keep quiet any longer.
He thought Cathy would back him up, remind Anthony that freedom of speech did not mean freedom from consequences. But she had sided with her partner, telling Timothy that the fool “had a point.” Then she had
launched into a long prepared speech about his “obsession” with Lisa Kirke as Anthony vanished into the garden for a cigarette.
“Not all of us have got the martyr complex so finely tuned,” Cathy snapped. “But you, you care more about her happiness than your own daughter’s. I like Anthony, Dad. Why can’t you accept that?”
It had been too much for Timothy to bear. He had retreated to the lounge and an hour later they had left, taking a crying Jenny with them. She hadn’t even had chance to open her Christmas present from her Granddad. He hadn’t seen any of them since.
He knew which school Jenny attended although the concept of a homework club weighed heavy on him. She was too young to be drowning in such things. Another image of Lisa flashed into his head. He shook it physically away, twisting his neck rapidly from side to side, forcing his thoughts back towards his own family.
He arrived at the school after a painful journey, his jaw hurting from grinding his teeth together for the last half hour, anything to stop himself thinking about Lisa.
There was a short driveway into the school playground. A number of cars were parked up in front of the doors and he headed to the last space at the end of the row. From there, he could see to his right through one of the classroom windows. The lights were on but there was no one in sight.
Climbing out of the car, he looked at the time. Quarter to nine. He had made it in time. There were several parents standing by the entrance, waiting for the door to open, some talking, others staring down at their phones.
He remained by his car until nine. Only then did he walk across to the door, in time for it to open and children begin to emerge.
He looked for Jenny, hoping he would recognise her. She was the last one out, stopping on the top step and looking down at him. “Granddad?” she asked, running and throwing her arms around him. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to take you on holiday of course,” he said when she let go of him. “If you want to go, of course?”
