The Craftsman

by Sharon Bolton

  ‘I’m perfectly OK to drive.’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ he said. ‘Now, close your eyes and walk in a straight line to my car. If you make it, you can drive me home.’

  I closed my eyes and the world began spinning. Noticeably, I mean – I know it does anyway. I opened them again. ‘Babycham is disgusting,’ I said.

  ‘I told you not to have a fifth.’

  I could not have drunk five Babychams. We’d only been in the pub an hour. ‘A swift one before we get some kip,’ they’d said. ‘We all need to unwind.’

  I stumbled on the uneven ground. Tom caught me and steered me over to the car, opening the door and gently pushing me inside.

  ‘So tomorrow you will take one of the most crucial tests of being a good copper,’ he said. ‘Doing a full day’s work with a hangover.’

  He started the car engine. From the back of the pub van, John watched us leave.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I said a couple of minutes later, because even in my not-quite-with-it state, I could tell we weren’t heading for the Glassbrook house.

  ‘You need to sober up before I take you home,’ he said. ‘Sally and Larry will not take kindly to the detective working their daughter’s case rolling home drunk and disorderly. There are some mints in the glovebox. I suggest you start chewing them.’

  We carried on along the main road, leaving behind the big Victorian buildings, the shops and the terraced housing. Tom turned on the radio, of course. We hit the open moor and still Tom drove on. The radio station started playing the latest Simon & Garfunkel song, ‘Scarborough Fair’.

  ‘We’re heading for the Hill,’ I said, when we came to a crossroads and turned left. I could see it ahead, a dark shape on the horizon. It was a bit like driving into darkness. Then we turned suddenly off the main road, along a track tucked away behind a stone wall. Tom dropped into second gear and we started to rock and pitch up the side of the Hill. I wound down the window.

  ‘Nearly there,’ said Tom, to the back of my head.

  ‘Nearly where?’ I managed.

  ‘A true love of mine,’ sang Tom. He turned again, and this time we left the track behind and were driving over rough ground. After a few more yards, he pulled up and switched off the engine. ‘Come on,’ he said, opening the driver door. ‘Got something to show you.’

  I pushed open my own door and got unsteadily to my feet. The Hill was very close, but we were on a sloping piece of ground that seemed neither farmer’s field nor open moor. There were trees some distance ahead that, in the darkness, looked like evergreens. I turned at the sound of the boot closing and saw that Tom had something under one arm.

  ‘I’m not sure I’m up for a hike,’ I said.

  ‘Gentle stroll,’ he replied, and then he took my hand. He set off, pulling me along with him, and all I could think was, Tom is holding my hand.

  We followed a short path, dry and crunchy with pine needles, towards a great expanse of blackness. It was a lake. I heard the scurrying of waterfowl as they took shelter in the reeds and could smell the bitter scent of the air coming off the water. We stopped about five yards from the lake’s edge, and Tom unrolled a blanket, laying it on the ground at our feet. He sat down. After a second, I did the same.

  ‘This is the Black Tarn,’ he said. ‘We used to come here when we were kids, frighten ourselves to death with ghost stories.’

  I thought of the monster creeping around the streets of Sabden, of Luna, alone and terrified. ‘I don’t need ghost stories to be frightened.’

  Above us, the moon was full, its reflection shimmering on the water, creating a constantly moving pool of bright silver. Away from the light pollution of the town, the stars seemed unnaturally bright, and they, too, were replicated in the water. The lake was like a black mirror, surrounded by forest.

  Black mirrors, I remembered, were used in dark magic.

  ‘There’s a legend attached to this place,’ Tom said. ‘According to which, female babies of Pendle are baptised twice. Once in church, in the way of all good Christian people, so that they are welcomed into the family of Christ, our saviour …’

  ‘I didn’t know you were religious.’

  ‘… and then once in this lake, in the Black Tarn, at the foot of the Hill. At which time they become daughters of a different master entirely. The double baptism is a blessing because it gives them powers beyond those allotted to mortal women, and at the same time a curse because they must spend the rest of their lives coming to terms with the dark side of their nature.’

  ‘That’s very poetic,’ I said and, in a way, I almost meant it. I didn’t think I’d ever heard Tom be quite so serious before.

  He turned to look at me. ‘So the question is, Florence, do you want to be a woman of Pendle?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This lake is also famous for skinny-dipping.’ He jumped to his feet and shrugged off his jacket. I heard change clinking in his pocket as it dropped to the grass.

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  He was. Or, at least, he might be. His shirt was halfway off. He didn’t bother with all the buttons, simply pulled it over his head, and then his hands dropped to his trouser fastenings.

  ‘I don’t believe I’m seeing this.’ I wanted to look away, I really did.

  He kicked off his shoes, bent and pulled off his socks, and then was walking the last few steps to the water’s edge. ‘Don’t worry about your modesty, Florence – I won’t look round until you’re in.’

  ‘You’re out of your mind. It must be freezing.’

  He stood on the edge and rubbed his upper arms. ‘Only when you get in. And pretty cold for the first ten minutes, I grant you. After that, you get sort of numb.’

  I struggled up. ‘Tom, you’ll have a heart attack. I won’t be able to get you out.’

  He pushed his jeans over his hips and bent forward to tug them off. I turned away, so I heard, rather than saw, them fall to the ground. I kept my eyes on the car some distance away, but its surface was reflective, and I saw Tom in miniature, naked, rush forward and leap out of sight. For a split second the night was silent, and then I heard a yell of bravado that I thought must surely wake every sheep for a mile around and an almighty crash as he hit the water.

  I turned back then and saw his dark, wet head break the surface.

  His shoulders were white against the black of the water, his arms ploughing up and down, one after the other, in a strong front crawl. He was swimming away from me, getting smaller by the second.

  I strode to the beach, ready to yell again. He was a good twenty yards out – he had to be way out of his depth, but he trod water and even raised an arm to wave. Then he dived and I held my breath until he appeared again, a few yards further along the shoreline.

  ‘What?’ He cupped a hand round his mouth. ‘Do posh girls not swim?’

  I was still drunk. I have no other excuse for what I did next. Tom whistled as I pulled off my own clothes. Unlike him – I could see his underpants on the grass at my feet – I didn’t go the whole hog. I left my bra and pants on.

  I remember to this day how cold that water was. I didn’t dive straight in – I didn’t have the nerve, and besides, I’ve always had a healthy wariness about clinging pondweed, big fish and what might lie beneath the surface of deep, dark water. So I stepped in, gingerly.

  Tom vanished below the surface again, but I was in shock and worrying too much about my own wellbeing to care about his. Then he reappeared a few yards in front of me and started splashing. Each cold drop felt like it was burning.

  I turned round and set off back. ‘Stop it. I’m getting out.’

  ‘Oh no you’re not.’

  Two strong, wet arms grabbed hold of me and then I lost all ability to act, or even to think, as I was dragged under and the cold flooded the inside of my head. I was being burned alive by ice. When we broke the surface, I was gasping out loud. Then I wasn’t, because Tom’s mouth was on mine, and I was holding him tight, feeling his nak
ed body hard against mine and his arms around me, and suddenly it wasn’t so cold after all.

  Tom and I made love three times that night, on the blanket he’d brought from the car. I’d like to say I remember every kiss, every touch of his hands on my body, but the truth is that much of the detail has fled, the way all sense of caution and common sense left me that night. I remember the cold wind on our still-damp bodies and his hot breath against my neck. I remember the urgency of his kisses but the torturous gentleness when he entered me. I remember a night bird screaming overhead, and the sounds of my own cries echoing around the Hill.

  After the second time, the night was growing colder and he pulled me close, drawing the edges of the blanket up around our bodies. After the third, we lay flat on our backs, holding hands, staring up at a moon that I swear was looking right back down at us.

  I said, ‘We probably shouldn’t mention this at work.’

  He gave a soft laugh. ‘Contrary to popular belief, it’s women who kiss and tell, not blokes. And I’ve got more to lose.’

  The moon’s light dulled a fraction. ‘I don’t exactly have mates I can gossip with,’ I said. ‘I suppose I could tell the bees.’

  He turned his head, puzzled for a second. ‘Oh, right. Sally keeps bees.’

  ‘Hmnn.’

  Silence.

  He gave a heavy sigh and said, ‘You’re going to have to give me some time, my love. I can’t walk out on Eileen without some plans in place. And I don’t think either of us need any more upheaval while this case is ongoing.’

  Half of me was thinking, Wow, he’s making plans for the future and they include me. The other half, though? And so begin the excuses. First it was the case. What would it be next?

  I sat up. ‘On the subject of the case, I am now completely sober and ready to face the music at home.’

  We found our clothes and dressed with difficulty, because we were damp and sticky, then hurried back to the car, seriously cold by this time. We kissed some more, and then he started the engine and drove me home.

  He didn’t kiss me as we said goodnight in the street outside the Glassbrooks’ house, because we had no way of knowing who was watching, but he squeezed my hand and smiled, and that felt like enough.

  45

  Monday 30 June 1969

  I woke in the night, a second before the phone started to ring. Don’t ask me how. All I know is one second I was in a deep, deep sleep, the next I was wide awake, sitting upright in my bed.

  Then the phone rang.

  I was out of bed, on the landing, sliding down the stairs before my thoughts had a chance to catch up, but by the time I reached the phone, I knew this call had to be about Luna, was almost certainly coming from the station and that neither Sally nor Larry could be the first to hear whatever the news was.

  When my feet struck the cold tiles of the hall, it occurred to me that it might be Tom, and I dismissed the idea as stupid, even as my heart started thumping at the sheer inappropriate wonderfulness of it.

  ‘Hello.’ I spoke softly, although I could hear muffled voices and movement upstairs. ‘WPC Lovelady.’

  I was so completely prepared for the station officer that for a second I didn’t take in what was happening when a voice I didn’t know said, ‘Flooorrrenssse?’

  I’d never heard my name pronounced that way before. I’d always quite liked my name, but not then. Not that way.

  ‘Who is this?’ I was still half whispering into the phone.

  On the floor above, I heard a door opening, Larry saying, ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘If you want to save her, you’ll have to be quick.’

  I cupped my hand round my mouth. ‘Do you mean Luna? Where is she?’

  ‘She’s walking the corpse road, and we all know where that leads. She’s almost at her grave, Florence.’ Again that drawn-out, hissing-consonant version of my name.

  The line went dead.

  Corpse road. My first thought was that it was a figure of speech, but a couple of seconds later, I wasn’t so sure. Corpse roads were real: I’d read about them.

  Larry, meanwhile, was halfway down the stairs, Sally close behind. Cassie was leaning over the bannisters, and Ron, the third lodger in the house, was standing in the doorway of his bedroom. The only occupant of the house I wanted to see wasn’t there. Randy was on the night shift.

  ‘What? What is it?’ Larry had grabbed the phone from me, even though the line was long dead.

  ‘Sorry.’ I looked up. ‘Sorry, everyone. Nothing to do with Luna. I have to go into work, but there’s no news. Sorry. Go back to bed.’ I pushed past Larry and ran upstairs.

  I felt bad about keeping the Glassbrooks in the dark, but getting them involved would achieve nothing and might actually slow us down. Sending a silent prayer of thanks to Tom for getting my car back safely, I drove to the nearest police box and reached the station officer in a couple of seconds.

  ‘Corpse Road?’ he said, and I could practically see him scratching his head. ‘I’ve lived and worked here for nearly thirty years and I’m pretty certain there’s no road with that name.’

  ‘It’s a generic name, not a specific one,’ I said. ‘There are corpse roads all over the country – they’re basically paths to churches – but they’re not usually called that. They’re called other things, like Coffin Road, Bier Road— Oh Lord, Sarge, I’ve got it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lych Way. It’s a farm track and then a footpath off the Well Head Road.’

  ‘I know it. At the foot of the Hill.’

  ‘Lych Way is a name for a corpse road. Sarge, do you know where it leads to? When I was up the Hill yesterday, I thought I could see a building in some trees.’

  ‘Not any more you can’t. There was a church there, ages ago, not now. It’s a pile of stones now.’

  ‘What about the churchyard? Will that still be there? Sarge, are there graves there?’

  ‘I’m calling Jack Sharples,’ he said. ‘And I’ll get a car up there. You’d better come in, Flossie.’

  ‘I’m going to drive up,’ I said. ‘I know where I’m going. I’ll stay in the car and wait for back-up.’

  ‘Flossie, I do not want you going up there on your own. Come in, now, and get your orders here.’

  ‘I’ll be careful, Sarge, I promise.’

  I disconnected. I’d be in trouble for putting the phone down on the sergeant, but arguing would only waste time. I was the one who’d been called. I was the one who’d been told to hurry if I wanted to save her.

  It took less than ten minutes, at that hour, to drive to the point on the Well Head Road where the farm track leading off it was signed Lych Way. I turned off the main road and drove slowly, because my car wasn’t built for such rough terrain and because the track was narrow. When I reached the stone stile and the hairpin bend that, yesterday, had taken me up the Hill, I could drive no further. Leaving my headlights on, I got out of the car.

  There was a great, flat stone at the foot of the stile. In its centre was a small candle in a jam jar; I knew it had been left for me.

  She’s walking the corpse road.

  I knew, from my reading on the occult, that corpse roads dated back to mediaeval times, when new churches were being built all over the country, and when priests in charge of the mother churches were anxious to protect the influence, and the income, that arose from having the rights to bury the dead.

  Paths were made, linking the isolated communities to the mother church, often using the new satellite church as a starting point, and it was along these that the coffins were carried.

  Lych Way, a path along which the dead had been carried for hundreds of years, stretched ahead of me, disappearing into darkness. At the far end of the field, though, I was pretty certain I could see a light.

  I’m not an idiot. Of course I thought Trap as soon as I saw it. I stepped away from the car, turning in a big, slow circle in case someone was creeping up on me.

  The light in the distance did
n’t move. It was there to light my way. Or maybe to lure me in.

  I looked back to the road, searching for approaching headlights. Nothing that I could see. Come on, come on. I had no desire to walk, alone, along the path of the dead.

  From somewhere in the distance I heard a scream.

  I set off running, telling myself I was an officer of the law and it was my duty to attend the scene of a crime. None of my colleagues would wait at the car having heard screaming; they’d be doing what I was now, racing towards it, being careful, keeping a watch on all sides, alert for anyone springing out, but going on, running towards danger, not away from it, because that was the job.

  When I reached the wall at the far side of the field, I stopped. The light I’d been following was another candle in a jam jar, set on a flat stone in the wall. There was another stone stile, and on its far side ran a small stream with stepping stones to allow me to cross. I remembered from the reading I’d done that spirits could neither cross running water nor negotiate stiles with ease. Every step a dead body was carried along the corpse road was designed to ensure the spirit didn’t come back. This was a one-way street. I had to hope it wouldn’t prove so for Luna.

  Or for me.

  I set off again, my pace a mixture of fast walk and half-jog, afraid my courage might break, and by the time I was nearing the end of the next field, I thought I could see the ruined outline of the old church among the trees ahead.

  I climbed the last stile and moved into the darkness of the woods. Slow steps now, listen carefully, look all around. I was not going to be taken unawares. One last bend.

  The tiny churchyard looked as though no one had disturbed it in years. Apart, of course, from whoever had left yet another candle, in a glass jar, directly beneath one of the headstones.

  Through the trees I could see the distant road and, at last, headlights. Still a mile or so down the road, but coming.

  The porch had long since crumbled and the entrance was guarded only by two large stones. I passed between them, heading for the light, watching out for moving shadows, for anything or anyone that didn’t belong.