She wasn’t mummy, or daddy, but that didn’t matter. She shouldn’t have stayed in the hotel last night, all that really mattered was here.
She tiptoed out again, closed the bedroom door. The pole and hook were propped on the landing, as always. She hooked open the trapdoor, pulled down the folding steps, climbed up into the loft.
She changed into walking boots, combat trousers, a thick sweater. She looked in the bedroom mirror; she looked pale and sick. A little makeup hid the worst of the damage.
She turned off the light, climbed down, pushed the steps back up, pulled the trapdoor into place, looked at the door of Mary’s room. The urge to go in again; hold the child, breathe the sweet soft smell of her hair–
No. Let her sleep.
Downstairs was a thick waterproof jacket with a tuck-away hood, gloves stuffed in one pocket, a woollen cap in the other. There was a backpack, too. She packed quickly; her files on Ash Fell, a pair of wind-up torches, a half-dozen items from the medicine cabinet, two bars of chocolate-coated Kendal Mint Cake, a Thermos of sweetened coffee. It would be cold there.
She let herself out, easing the door shut behind her. It was 6.00 am.
THE TESTAMENT OF LANCE-CORPORAL MELVYN STOKES for with pluck hes brimming full hes old john bull and hes happy when you let him have his head for its a feather in his cap when hes helped to paint the map with another little patch of red for its melvyn stokes i am and i am an englishman and on this earth there walks no prouder race for i fought for land and king nought in return asking till a german shell blew off my fucking face i fought not for a girl women are soft easy and inconstant creatures fit only to be despised for all that they breed the next generation of englishmen sing hosanna god save the king no i fought for my country for england for my race for it is as simple as that
6.15 AM.
At Stangrove Wood, there was a light in Nan’s window. She always woke early; Anna had banked on it.
Nan picked up on the third ring, as if she’d been waiting. A faint, indrawn breath, then: “Hello?”
“Nan, it’s me.”
“Anna? Thought so.”
A buzz; the door opened.
6.18 AM. THE briefing room at Mafeking Road. In front of Renwick were Stakowski, McAdams, Wayland, Crosbie, Ashraf, a Police Sergeant called Skelton and twelve uniformed constables. This was it; all she had. It’d suffice. It’d have to.
“Any questions?” Skelton – wiry and weathered, with black, grey-flecked hair and beard – raised his hand. “Frank.”
“All due respect, ma’am, it’s a pretty tall order for a team our size.”
“I know. At present we can’t get through to anywhere outside Kempforth on either landline or mobile. Same problem with radio, and the internet servers are all still down. I’ve sent two officers out by Land Rover to request some back-up.”
“All due respect once again, boss, but mightn’t it be better to wait for them?”
“We’ve a minimum of four mispers, possibly more.” Including Roseanne Trevor. “We don’t know what the kidnappers have in mind for them.”
Skelton chewed his lip.
“I’ve no intention of needlessly risking any officer’s safety. The kidnappers could be a comparatively small group we can handle with what we have. If not, we fall back, keep the area secure and wait for the back-up to arrive.”
6.23 AM.
A thin dirt track, off a B-road off the Manchester-bound Dunwich Road South. A police Land Rover lay with its nose in a ditch. Colin Tranter sprawled in the long grass of the neighbouring field, still clutching the rock he’d smashed his skull with. He’d stopped screaming now.
Susan Janson lay across the steering wheel, face blackened. Older, less fit, her heart had burst before she could take Tranter’s way out.
In the crackling static from the police radio were faint, murmuring voices. Some belonged to the living. Others didn’t.
They weren’t far from the main road, but their bodies would never be found and given decent burial. And their souls would never rest.
VERA LOOKED DOWN on Allen, lying tangled in the bedsheets. The thin, cruel early morning light showed the fine tracery in his cheeks that would become wrinkles, and the dark ugliness of the bruise flaring along his jaw. Stakowski, the bastard. His chest hair was almost all grey now. Age. He’d never looked so old, so depleted.
The bastard North had done this. Kempforth. The black sun. They should never have come back.
She snorted. As if there’d ever, really, been a choice.
As long as they got through this somehow. As long as she did. If nothing else, as long as she did.
Vera peeled off her nightdress and went into the bathroom; behind her, the alarm clock rang.
6.30 AM.
“How many of you are Specialist Firearms Officers?”
Four uniformed officers raised their hands.
“OK. Frank, I want six men on Dunwich Lane, along the old branch line, including two SFOs with precision rifles. If the kidnappers try escaping via the main access path, they’ll have to come out near there. The other two SFOs come into Ash Fell with my team, along with yourself and four of your other armed officers.”
Skelton nodded. “Very good, ma’am.”
“We’ll approach from the rear, through the woods. Search A, B and C Blocks first, then whatever’s left of the Home Farm and Chapel. One we’ve eliminated them we can focus on the most likely locations – Blocks D and E, which have secure facilities for restraining violent patients, and the Warbeck building itself.”
“Literally going round the houses,” said McAdams. “Won’t they spot us?”
“Ash Fell was built so the woodland hid each section from the other. With a little luck, we can use that to our advantage.”
“It won’t be a quick job,” Ashraf said.
“No, but I can live with that. I don’t want to delay anymore than we have to, but we won’t help anyone by not doing it properly. We don’t know their numbers or their capabilities.” Or what they were. But now wasn’t the time to think on that, if she wanted Roseanne to have a chance. That was Cowell’s province. This was hers. “Also, there’ll be four civilian advisers. Need to make sure they don’t get damaged either. So, no heroics. Work in pairs, don’t spread out too far. Questions?”
None.
“Alright. Report to the armoury.”
WHEN ANNA FINISHED talking, she looked up; Nan looked back at her with calm, sad eyes. She nodded slowly, biting her lip, then picked up her teacup again.
“Suppose it shouldn’t surprise me,” she said at last.
“What shouldn’t?”
“That place, darling. You really think I’d know nothing about it? We all knew. Even if we hadn’t, your great-grandfather was there.”
“Your dad?”
“Yes.”
“He... he was a patient at Ash Fell?”
Nan shook her head, behind her spectacles her eyes glistened. “Anna, you’ve got to remember, dear, back in those days there wasn’t any such thing as Social Security. You were on your own. And he’d lost an arm. Couldn’t go back to his old work. Don’t know myself a lot of what he did after the War. You didn’t ask. Back then, the man provided for his family. That was it. You did what you had to do. He was a proud man. Strong, too. Even with only one arm, he was strong. Wouldn’t have got the job otherwise.”
“Job?”
“At Ash Fell, Anna. He wasn’t a patient. He worked there.”
“When did he...”
“In the thirties, love. Can’t remember exactly when. Worked there through the war, and after. He didn’t like to talk about it. It was awful for him. I mean, he’d fought at Passchendaele. Been through hell. He never talked about that, either, but... oh, it wasn’t until all the other veterans started telling their stories that I realised how dreadful it must’ve been. I just saw what it had done to him and that was terrible enough. And those men, in that place... God, any one of them could have been him. But this was the
Great Depression, you mustn’t judge him too harshly, Anna.”
Nan squeezed her eyes shut. Anna knelt by the armchair, took her hands. “I’m not judging him, Nan. I know how bad it was round here.”
Nan pulled her hands free, half-raised them, let them fall back into her lap. “Oh, you don’t know, Anna, you can’t. It was terrible, terrible. And he’d come home and he’d drink, and I don’t know what he was trying to forget, Passchendaele or that place.” She took a deep breath. “But what choice did he have? In his state? Oh, that Gideon – Mister Gideon, he always called him.”
“Gideon Dace?”
“Gideon Dace.” Nan whispered it as if afraid to speak it aloud. “He was a terrible man, Anna. My da... only spoke about this once, you understand. Close to the end. He’d been drinking. He was ill. Very ill. Cancer of the throat, it was. Ah...” Nan shook her head. “It made him laugh to have someone like my father around. Most of his work was clerical, you see. But Gideon made him help with the tours as well.”
“The tours?”
“Oh, you know, Anna. You know what those buggers did. He had to help. Open the doors for them, play the host. He was there the night it happened.”
“What happened?”
“The night Mister St. John died. He wasn’t supposed to be, but he was. He let them out, then locked the doors. No-one knew. Only me. He told me. And now you know too.”
Nan sank back in the armchair. Anna took her hand again; Nan gripped it tight. The pictures on the mantelpiece: the tall man staring off into some terrible distance, the bowler-hatted man holding Nan’s arm on her wedding day, trying to smile.
“Anna, love, I really don’t think you should go.”
“Go?”
“To Ash Fell. I don’t think it’s safe.”
“Nan, I’ve got to. Eva could be there. There’s a little girl missing. They need my help. I know more about Ash Fell than anyone.”
“Don’t bet on it, mate.” Nan gave one of her fierce little scowls. Anna laughed despite herself.
“I have to go,” she said. “It’s for Mary as much as anything else. Those things have come near her twice now. And... sometimes I’m not sure what’s real and what’s not, Nan. And that really scares me. But it’s starting to look like some things I’ve seen were real, and–”
“Anna... we’ve never talked about this, I know. I don’t think you wanted to, but I’m going to ask you now. When you were in the hospital, what did you see?”
Anna looked down. “Thought I saw Grandpa, once. And I thought I saw–”
“What?”
“The Spindly Men.”
“It’s the Sight, Anna. That’s what it is. I think you got it from me, and I’m sorry for that.”
“What are they?”
“When the night wind blows on dale and fell, the Spindly Men come up from Hell,” said Nan. “That’s what they used to say round here. I don’t know much about them, love. Only that they were supposed to live on Ash Fell. And if they touched you, you died or went mad.”
“I just wanted to see you first–”
“Because you know it could be dangerous.”
Anna nodded. Nan stroked her hair.
“You’re sure you have to go?”
“Yes.”
“There’s no other way?”
“No.”
“Before you go, then, love, will you do something for me?”
“What?”
“Fetch my jewel box from the bedroom.”
The box was a plain wooden thing, painted with a diamond-pattern of brown, beige and white; Nan had owned it as long as Anna remembered. There were only half a dozen pieces of jewellery inside; Nan took out a thin dull pewter cross, no more than three inches long, set into a pyramidal wooden base. A tiny metal Christ, detailed and agonised, was spread out on it. “Here. Take this.”
Anna hesitated. “Please,” said Nan, “for me.” She folded Anna’s fingers around it. “I’ll say a prayer for you. I know you’re not much of a one for God, but... maybe it’ll help. Or maybe my father will listen.”
“Your–”
He was here before, you know. I saw him. At the window.
“Has he been back?” she asked finally.
“Nearly every day. I didn’t say anything. Knew you’d think I was going bananas. But it was him.” She smiled. “It’s alright. I’m not afraid. But I don’t think I’ll be here much longer. I think he’s come for me. Expect it’ll be quite soon now.”
Anna just stared up at her. Nan was a constant; she’d always been there. Each Christmas, every birthday, she’d sigh and say this would probably be her last one. It was practically a tradition. But this was different: calm, accepting.
Nan winked at her, then reached out and, very gently, pinched Anna’s cheek. “You go on now,” she said. “Just take care, whatever you do.”
Anna embraced the thin, hunched body. “Love you, Nan.”
Nan’s grip tightened. “Love you too, Anna.” She let go. “Go on, now.”
Anna nodded and stood up, blinking fast. Focused. There was work to do.
7.05 AM.
Silence in the kitchen. Martyn’d finished his cereal; Mary picked at hers, eyes down.
She’d woken a good hour before he’d got back last night. No aunty, no daddy; bastard power cut hadn’t helped either. “Poor little mite were near hysterical,” Mrs Marshall had said. “I know it’s not been easy for you, but you’ve got to take better care of her.” But she’d agreed to look after Mary today.
He should love her better than this, he knew. OK, the phones had been out last night, but he’d not even thought to try. But Eva might be alive; that pushed everything else out of his head. And if she was, if he could get her home, it’d all be right again. Just one more day, and he’d know.
And if Eva was dead after all? He wouldn’t think of that. In fact, he couldn’t; his imagination plain refused to go there. No surprise, that; not really.
“Love you, Daddy.”
“Love you too, princess.” And he did. He did. Just not enough; not the aching, unconditional way she loved him.
He wanted to tell her Mummy’s not dead, but couldn’t, not yet. Mummy might not be dead, maybe? But she wouldn’t hear the might. Doubly cruel to raise her hopes, then dash them. Just a little longer, Mary lass. Then he’d know.
Mary pushed her bowl aside and looked up, eyes huge. Martyn went round the table, knelt, held her. She hugged him so hard he thought she’d crack a rib, her head against his chest. Her hair smelt clean and sweet. Martyn’s back started aching, but he didn’t budge. He’d stay like this as long as he had to. As long as Mary needed. He’d give all he could, all he had. He knew there should be more. Eva would’ve known, so would Anna. But he’d give all he had, even if it fell short.
Didn’t matter. His head was clearer than in months. The depression, the flu-like debility, had drawn back, like he’d scared it off. He smiled at that; daft talk. But it felt like that. He had purpose again. If Eva was still alive, he’d walk through fire to get her back. And once that was done, everything else would fall into place. Everything would be alright. And there’d be enough love to go around for his wife and his child.
Mary’s grip relaxed. She looked up at him, smiled; he ruffled her hair, smiled back.
“I’ve got to go out for a bit later.”
“No!” Her grip tightened.
“Ow. Easy love. I’ve got to. But this’ll be the last time. Promise.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Spend every bloody minute with you after this.” If Eva was alive he’d have to spend time with her, of course. At home or the hospital. But Mary wouldn’t mind that.
“Don’t want you to go. Scared.”
“It’ll be alright. Promise. Anyway, thought we’d see if you could play round at Mrs Marshall’s today?”
“’Kay.”
“Thought you liked Mrs Marshall.”
“Yeah. But...”
“Be back this afte
rnoon, sweetheart. Back before you know it.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
7.10 AM.
Vera finished applying her makeup, clipped on two pearl earrings. A last touch of her hair. She nodded. Yes. She wore casual wear today – jeans, trainers, lumberjack shirt, zip-up fleece; all designer labels, of course. Simple but smart. Probably be ruined after today, of course. The paint was flaking off the walls. Pieces of it lay all over the floor. There’d be rats too; Shackleton Street all over again.
From the bathroom, the low insect buzz of Allen’s shaver. He was humming: Heelya ho, boys, let her go, boys...
Vera washed the morning-after pill down with two quick swallows of lukewarm hotel coffee, put on her waterproof jacket. Their belongings were packed; they’d leave them at reception, come back for them after this.
The shaver’s hum stopped; Allen came out of the bathroom, donned his shirt and white roll-neck and picked his long black coat up off the bed, eyes bright, hair brushed, skin cleansed and moisturised. The signs of creeping age were gone; he’d be ready to step out in front of the cameras, even if there weren’t any.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Nearly.” He took a powder puff, dabbed at his jaw to cover the bruise. “Where did you go last night?”
She looked at him. “The bar.”
“On your own?”
“I had a drink with Anna Mason.”
“Just a drink, was it?”
None of your bloody business. I’ve a right to a life of my own. “Yes.”
“Really.”
She breathed out through her nose. One way or another, for better or for worse, this was about to end. “Ready to go?”
A pause. “Yes.”
THE PISTOL WENT in a hip holster. Then on went the bullet vest. Then the peaked cap with POLICE across it.
Stakowski looked across the room. McAdams caught his eye and winked. His own vest looked ready to pop free already, straining across his beer-gut. Wayland gave a last tug on his belt to ensure it was fastened properly, then put the cap on. No posing now. Crosbie pushed the magazine into his pistol and holstered it too.
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