Mary Beth’s crockery was impressive too. There was a quirky brown teapot in the shape of a dormouse, one paw acting as the spout. I couldn’t resist lifting it up to see a pair of sleepy eyes painted under the lid. Next to it on the tray was a pair of mismatched china cups and saucers featuring Beatrix Potter characters. There was one of the kittens from The Tale of Tom Kitten and Jeremy Fisher in his black ballet pumps, one foot in the water, a fish about to nibble on his toes. Oversized chocolate chip cookies, evidently homemade, sat on a plate shaped like the handsome head of a black horse. Black Beauty, nobility personified. It couldn’t help but bring a smile to your face.
‘Oh, I love your teapot!’ I said.
And I did. I adored Alice in Wonderland. The illustrations were as brilliant as the text, with its Cheshire Cat grinning from a branch and the Mad Hatter’s hat, its owner pontificating, jauntily bedecked with a selling price of ten shillings and sixpence. When I’d thought of Mary Beth’s pottery business, I’d imagined earthy brown hues and chunky ethnic mugs, not this colourful nod to classic British children’s books.
‘Are these yours?’ By which I meant had she made them herself.
‘The teapot is,’ she said, bobbing in pride at my admiration. ‘I love all that cosy, quirky, nostalgic charm, the period characters and references to nature. You Brits do it so well.’
‘Have you been in England long?’ I asked.
‘Oh, years. I was in Yorkshire before this – had a partner there, but she and I split up and I thought I’d start again, up here in the Peak District.’
‘Well, you and I have something in common,’ I said. ‘I illustrate children’s fiction.’
We chatted happily for over an hour, munching on biscuits and sipping tea, until at last I asked her about her plans for the kitchen.
‘Did you find someone to do your kitchen?’
In the corner of the room was a slightly dated-looking collection of 1980s flat-pack cupboards in yellow pine and a square of black and white chequered linoleum.
‘Oh yes, your lovely Craig has agreed to come and build me something more in keeping with the house.’
‘Oh, I’m pleased. I’m sure he’ll do a good job for you,’ I replied.
‘Much better than that awful Angus McCready.’
‘Angus McCready?’ I asked.
‘That builder guy we were talking about, remember?’
‘Oh, the Wassail. With the tan.’
‘And the teeth!’
We both laughed, me a little uneasily. Mary Beth, it seemed, had known all along who Angus McCready was. I brought out my hand as I coughed over my tea, flapping my palm in apology to Mary Beth.
‘You know he’s got your Craig in trouble, don’t you?’ Mary Beth leaned forward, her expression suddenly serious.
My teacup jittered on its saucer. I struggled to know what to say next, but I was desperate to ask.
‘I … that is, Craig and Angus …’
‘Well, of course you know all about it. Most of the village do too. I mean, it’s a lot of money!’
What had she said?
‘I don’t want to do business with a guy like that, it’s not fair.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
Mary Beth threw me a quizzical look. ‘You don’t know?’
I shook my head.
‘Ah.’ She paused as if to consider what exactly she should say next. But then what had been said could not be unsaid. She sighed.
‘I was asking my neighbour, Josie, for recommendations – for the kitchen, you understand. She warned me about Angus. You see, Craig did a great deal of work for Angus last year, some classy development on the edge of Derby. He was subcontracted to Angus, but Angus hasn’t paid him a dime! I do hope it comes out alright, my dear, and that Craig gets paid. It’s a lot of money, twenty thousand pounds.’
CHAPTER 33
The fight in the village hall car park made sense now – I’d been right, it had absolutely nothing to do with me. But this? Why hadn’t Craig mentioned it?
As I drove home, the violence of that confrontation replayed in my head. It still shocked me, Angus head-butting Craig, Craig punching back. But Mary Beth’s story, didn’t it explain everything? Shouldn’t I feel relieved that now I understood what was between them?
When I got to the house, I headed for the kitchen and poured out a small glass of whisky. Not too much this time. I grimaced when I thought of how much I’d been drinking since coming to this place. Paul had read the riot act if I’d so much as had a thimble-full.
I moved to the sitting room, reaching up to the window, one hand pressed against the glass pane as I sipped the drink, waiting for the kick of alcohol in my stomach, the heat to spread through my limbs, the sense of floating indifference to calm my nerves and assuage my thoughts.
Why hadn’t Craig said something to me? Shame? Had he worried that I wouldn’t like him any more if I thought he was struggling for money? Was that what he thought of me? I contemplated the view over the hills.
I thought of all that had happened here, how unwelcome I’d felt in the village, the scratch on my car, the rat in my bed. Steph’s revelations about Danny, her obvious distress and the pear drum still in the attic waiting for me to open it. I felt more and more confused. Poor Craig – he had as much reason to hate Angus as I. So why had he seemed so friendly with him at the Wassail? I couldn’t figure it out. Perhaps Craig thought he should stay on good terms with Angus, until later, in private, they’d argued over the money. Even the best of friends could fall out over money. I sipped the whisky and let my other hand drop to my side.
I stood there listening to the hum of the pipes in the wall, a bluster of wind slapping against the windows and rattling the wooden frames, smelling the scent of furniture wax and an unexpected drift of lavender, watching the chintz curtains swaying gently as if Elizabeth was still standing beside me. Enjoying my distress.
The fog lifted, burnt off by the morning sun. Lunchtime came and went but I had no desire to eat. I decided on another walk. No reservoir this time, just down the lane from the house – away from the cottage. I couldn’t come to any harm this time, I could still see the house.
The cat followed me. Her tail was held high, curled at the tip, like a lemur trotting along the road. She seemed to sense my sour mood as she kept pace behind me. The lane wound its way to the main road at the bottom, where the sudden rumble of a truck going by made the cat finally give up, jumping through a hedge.
I didn’t want to go into the village. I climbed a stile in the corner of a field and walked alongside the hedgerow. It led to a copse and a stream – it was only a trickle of brown water, winding between the trees under small overhanging banks of soil. After a while it disappeared underground and I passed into another field. A pheasant hurtled out across the stubble, a burst of red flying low over the ground, clattering in alarm. A group of wind turbines rose from the brow of the hill, great white blades revolving slowly, catching the afternoon sun.
I remembered this hill. Alton Heights. It was the one my sister used to drag me to when she was babysitting me but wanted to see her boyfriend. I’d hated being forced to watch the two of them snogging on a bench. Elizabeth would have been livid if she’d known. Was that why Steph had left home so young? An argument over boyfriends? Elizabeth had never said and I’d never asked. It occurred to me I could ask Steph myself now, not that it was really any of my business. I turned my face into the breeze, closing my eyes, feeling the weak rays of the winter sun.
They say that siblings feel a connection, even if they’re far apart. Even though we hadn’t spoken for twenty years, I realised Steph had always been in my mind. But you can’t force a person to respond if they don’t want to. It had been her choice to lose contact. It had left me with an emptiness, a regret for a loss over which I had no control. Was this how she felt about Danny? He’d been our half-brother, but the connection must have been there. She hadn’t said much about how she felt, but it was in
her voice. Why was it not the same for me? Because I’d been so young? Or was something wrong with me?
I opened my eyes. Yes, I remembered this hill, watching Steph with her boyfriend. She hadn’t seemed to care that I was there, the child in me repulsed and curious both at the same time. The turbines drew my eyes, their steady movement was hypnotic. It was on the way home, sort of.
I climbed the hill, finding a narrow road that zig-zagged to the top. I was out of breath when I got there, high up overlooking the valley and the hills beyond – they swept out across the horizon, three hundred and sixty degrees of rolling banks of dusty blue, pitched against a clear sky. The light had begun to fade, a haze of pink silk highlighting the turbines behind me. They stood on the heathland right on the brow of the hill, caged off behind a wire fence. A white sign pronounced ‘East Midlands Power Distribution Plc. Trespassers will be prosecuted’. It was the car park I remembered. Abandoned cigarette ends and takeaway packaging rolled in the wind and a bench faced the view, a single motorbike leaning on its side. My heart gave a small leap. I looked about but the car park was empty. There must be another walker nearby, perhaps a couple, but I could see no one.
I sat on the bench, swivelling in my seat to identify the different landmarks. In one direction were the six cooling towers of the power station south of Nottingham. In another were the cliffs of Matlock and the beginnings of the Peak District. To the west were the grey hills of Staffordshire. I spotted an opening in the land on the far side of the car park. It looked as if the ground had collapsed, but I knew it was an old quarry. I stood up and walked across.
I peered over the edge. It was a steep drop, with no fencing, no warning. I felt my stomach lurch. A narrow path led down either side, forming a horseshoe shape, the sandy grass peppered with rabbit droppings. At the bottom, I knew, was another bench. This was where Steph had used to meet her boyfriend.
I couldn’t resist. I followed the path down, loose stones rolling under my feet. As I got close to the bottom, a vague smell drifted up, a whiff of stagnant water and rotting vegetation. The cliffs rose like a sheer wall, hacked away to leave a circular pit gouged in the rock. Water pooled in the cracks and craters left behind and a number of large boulders were strewn across the quarry floor like abandoned pieces on a chess board. In the middle was the bench.
The sun couldn’t reach down here. The cold made me shiver, the smell made me gag. Why would anyone want to sit here? Privacy, I realised. I made to leave, but something caught my eye: a cluster of beer cans, a half-eaten burger and a pile of charred wood. People had been here before, of course they had, young kids no doubt. But there was something else. Beside another giant rock a motorbike helmet lay on the ground.
The visor was closed. It glinted black and iridescent. I cast around for its owner. I wasn’t happy that someone else might be here with me, a man (why did I assume it was a man?), perhaps the rider from the bike in the car park overhead. I had no phone and was suddenly aware of my own vulnerability. I felt angry, it wasn’t rational, the shadows were playing tricks on me. I couldn’t see clearly, my eyes drifting out of focus. I swallowed and lifted one hand to my face; that smell. Helmets were expensive, it was an odd place to find a thing like that, apparently discarded. I took a step closer.
I sucked in my breath. The helmet hadn’t been discarded. It was still attached to its owner. A body lay prone upon the ground. A man, hidden behind the rock. He wore a leather jacket and trousers, his feet facing the wrong way, his arms splayed awkwardly against the ground, his face hidden behind the visor. He was lying quite still.
My stomach heaved. I hovered in an agony of indecision. Was this some kind of a trap? Surely not, from the look of him. I stood rooted to the spot. I didn’t want to touch him. But this was a human being, I couldn’t not do anything. I looked up at the car park – had he fallen?
‘He … hello?’
It seemed a daft thing to say. I reached down and touched him lightly on the arm.
‘Hello!’ I said again.
There was no response, his body stiff and cold. I snatched my hand away. I felt a jolt of shock and a sickening sense of knowledge. A wave of nausea made me turn away. The man was dead, wasn’t he?
How long had he been lying there? I dropped to my knees, still unsure. Something hard dug into my skin, a key. The shape of it was familiar and it had a yellow tag – my house key. It must have fallen out of my pocket. The pain of it spurred me into action and, panicking, I reached out again.
My fingers shook. It was as if I was waiting for someone to give me permission, to take over and save the day. But it was just me here in this lonely spot. If I didn’t look and he was still alive, then it would be my fault, if there was something I could do.
My fingers gripped the visor, feeling the edge of the plastic, all the time terrified he would wake up, yet terrified he would not. Slowly I pushed the visor up and over the helmet.
He was definitely dead. The face was grey and swollen, completely distorted, the cheeks pressed out against the padding of the helmet. His lips were bloodied and split and his tongue hung fat and grey between his teeth, like a cow’s tongue, oversized for its mouth. My heart pounded like a drum. The hair was blond and damp against his cheek.
I scrambled to my feet, turning to run. But at the last minute, I swung back. I wasn’t sure. I took another look.
That face, that hair. The size of him.
It was Angus McCready.
CHAPTER 34
It took me twenty minutes to scramble up the slope and find the nearest house, a cottage rooted in the hillside like an obstinate goat. The woman who answered the door must have seen from my face that something was wrong.
The words tumbled from my lips and she drew me in, guiding me to her sitting room before reaching for the phone. My skin was clammy, I felt tired, a numbing, empty kind of tired as I stood blankly by the window. It was that same view, the hills now steeped in shadow. I watched a cloud of starlings twist and turn in the wind, one large amorphous black shape against a purple bruised sky.
She handed me the phone and I told the police where he was. They asked to meet me there. The woman locked up her house and came with me and we stood, buffeted by the wind, in the car park overlooking the pit, the orange street lamps of the villages twinkling on their hills.
Eventually, two police cars swung in off the road, one after the other, lights spinning, blue and yellow squares plastered to their doors, like two angry mutant bees. The men disappeared down the slope, bands of torchlight flickering across the scrub. Another policeman stood next to me, wittering on about the view. He was guarding me, I realised. What did they think I was going to do?
More cars arrived and a van. Suddenly the place was buzzing, lights, tents, people in white suits. He – Angus – was someone else’s problem now.
It was so late by the time they’d retrieved the body, they’d told me to go home and get some sleep. I had to go to the police station in the morning to make a full statement. The woman from the cottage had stayed with me till I was free to leave and she very kindly drove me home.
I moved like a robot around the house, locking the doors and climbing the stairs and getting ready for bed.
Finally, I closed my eyes and slept.
I awoke to hear the sound of him breathing. A rasping breath, rattling through nostrils bloody and wet.
I lay frozen in my bed, eyes held shut.
I could still see it, the body of Angus McCready, the strange angle of his limbs, the grey colour of his skin, his tongue rolling outside his mouth.
But all I could think of was another dead body. Images flashed beneath my eyes. That of a young boy. His face was obscured, his hands curled into small fists, his chest curved in towards his legs. His clothes were soaked in fresh blood. Beneath the blood, I recognised the garments – Power Rangers red.
I wanted to open my eyes, but they were glued shut, my body pinned to the bed. With each sound of his breath, it was like a strobe light firi
ng off in my head, each flare a new close-up of the same scene. The boy corpse crumpled on the ground. The head facing the wrong way. His eyes staring at me in shock. His bubbling and bloodied mouth accusing me.
I tried to move, to will each limb to lift, my legs, my hands, my fingers. I felt that should I move one inch, then all the evil spirits in the world would find me, would come crashing down on me, fluttering at my side, pushing and shoving, each of them clamouring for a piece of me, a chunk of my flesh, a lump of my hips, my hand, my big fat tongue …
When my eyes did open, the impenetrable dark of the room was the same as the suffocating blackness in my head and I opened my mouth to scream.
The dream had gone by the morning, the way that dreams do. There one minute, gone the next. The details had dissolved into the night, but the feel of it hovered on the fringes of my memory, teasing me with an echo of the terror I’d felt, my body charged with adrenalin, my skin slick with sweat.
After breakfast, I drove to Chester Green in Derby. The police station looked like any other corporate office – a large brick building surrounded by car parks, a reception desk with a glass screen and a bank of blue plastic seating. I sat down and waited.
‘Miss Crowther?’ A uniformed officer scanned the room.
‘Yes?’ I stood up.
‘This way please.’
I followed the man down a white, characterless corridor and he indicated a door on the left.
‘In here, Miss Crowther. Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?’
‘No thanks.’ I stepped inside.
The room had one table and three chairs, economical in its furnishing. A single window ran the full length of the wall, but the glass was frosted with only a blurry hint of grey roofs and white cloud beyond. Two officers were already sitting down and I felt a wave of dizziness – this was beginning to feel worse than finding McCready’s body. I swallowed and took the remaining seat.
The Stranger in Our Home Page 20
