The Lost Ones

by Ben Cheetham

  Tom swished open the curtains. A pale, skinny boy splayed face down across a bed pulled a duvet over his long black hair and groaned in a recently broken voice, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘What do you think I’m doing? I’m waking you up.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s a gorgeous day and you’re not going to waste it festering in here.’ Tom stooped to tug the cover off his son’s head. A silver stud in Jake’s nose glinted in the sunlight. Tom felt a barb of irritation. Amanda had let Jake have the stud put in on his fifteenth birthday. Tom hadn’t been consulted. They’d argued for days afterwards and the issue was still a sore topic. Blinking, Jake pressed his hands to his eyes. ‘Help, I’m melting. I’m melting,’ teased Tom, pulling his son’s hands apart.

  ‘Go away!’ yelled Jake, wrenching free. ‘This is my room. You can’t just come in here whenever you fucking want.’

  ‘Oh, yes I can, because this is my house. And don’t you dare talk to—’ Hearing the anger in his voice, Tom pulled himself up short. His gaze moved over Jake’s face, taking in the scattering of spots, the faint shadow of stubble, the smudge of something that looked suspiciously like mascara. He continued evenly, ‘Look, Jake, I didn’t come up here for an argument. I came up here because . . . Well, because I’m worried about you. You don’t seem happy. I can’t remember the last time I saw you smile or heard you laugh. You just sit in here by yourself with all this’ – Tom glanced at the pentagram and the open book – ‘stuff. What is it you find so interesting about witches and magic?’

  Avoiding his dad’s eyes, Jake shrugged.

  The taciturn response sparked another little flare of irritation, but Tom suppressed it. ‘I know we haven’t spent much time together recently, but I promise you that’s going to change after today.’ And not only that, he found himself adding in his mind, but everything. One way or another, everything is going to change today. ‘We’re all going to spend more time together. Start doing things as a family again.’

  Jake stared at some indeterminate spot on the wall, his expression indifferent.

  Holding in a sigh, Tom glanced at his watch. Time was running short and he still needed to print out his speech. ‘I’ve got to go now. We’ll talk more later. Oh, your mother and sister are going walking in Harwood Forest. Erin really wants you to go with them.’ Wrinkling his nose, Jake opened his mouth to speak. But Tom continued quickly, ‘Before you say you don’t want to, just hear me out. I’m not going to force you to go. I’m asking you to as a favour to me. It would mean the world to Erin. And, who knows, you might even enjoy yourself.’

  Tom waited for a reply, but Jake’s expression made it clear one wouldn’t be forthcoming any time soon. He lightly brushed the dark curtains of hair away from Jake’s face. ‘Whatever you decide to do, try to enjoy yourself. I know you think I’m being a hard-arse, but I just want you to make the most of your holiday.’ Jake shook his hair back down over his eyes. This time Tom’s sigh escaped. ‘See you later.’

  He headed for the stairs. Once the attic door was closed behind him, all thoughts of Jake were driven from his mind by what lay ahead of him. He hurried down to his office and set the speech printing.

  Amanda came in. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Hmm? What did who say?’ Tom replied absently, without looking up from his work.

  ‘Jake. Who do you bloody think?’

  The edge in Amanda’s voice got Tom’s attention. She’d changed into cut-off jeans and a vest top that hugged her curves. Even without make-up, her skin glowed from days spent walking and horse riding with Erin. He felt a faint stirring in his groin. ‘Sorry, darling, I was miles away.’

  ‘So what’s new?’ Amanda muttered under her breath.

  Tom accepted the prickly comment, knowing he deserved it. Jake wasn’t the only one he’d neglected in recent months. ‘He didn’t say much, but I think I got through to him. I’m sure he’ll be going with you.’

  Amanda arched an eyebrow, unconvinced. Moving close to her, Tom stated the obvious. ‘You’re dressed.’

  ‘I decided to throw on some clothes and head straight out. Don’t worry, I’ll be all showered and sweet-smelling by the time you’re home.’

  ‘Don’t bother.’ Tom nuzzled Amanda’s neck, murmuring, ‘I like you sweaty.’

  She gave a little shudder. ‘Isn’t it about time you got going?’

  ‘I can spare a few minutes.’ Tom slid his hand up the inside of Amanda’s thigh. She gently but firmly pushed it away. He drew back, his eyebrows pinching together.

  Amanda returned his frown. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Tom. What do you expect when one minute it’s like I don’t exist and the next you’re all over me? I don’t know where I am with you these days.’

  His eyes fell away from hers. He turned back to his desk and inserted his speech into a plastic folder. There was a slight tremor in his hand. Sighing, Amanda took hold of it and squeezed. ‘You’ll be fine.’

  Tom’s eyes worriedly met hers. ‘I’ve sunk every penny we’ve got and more into this. If they turn us down, the bank won’t release the business loan and then . . .’ He couldn’t bring himself to say what then.

  ‘They’re not going to turn you down. And, even if they do, we’ll get by. I could get a job.’

  Tom shook his head. ‘You know how I feel about that. I want you to stay at home while the kids are young.’

  ‘They’re not that young any more, Tom.’

  ‘Erin is. And, anyway, it’s not only about the kids. You gave up a lot to be with me.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. Perhaps when the quarry’s up and running you’ll finally understand that.’

  ‘Do you really think we’ll get planning permission?’

  ‘I’m certain of it. They know what’s best for Middlebury.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Tom drew in a steadying breath. ‘You’re always right.’ He kissed Amanda’s cheek. ‘I love you.’

  She smiled, a trace of something that might have been sadness in her eyes. ‘You haven’t said that in a long time.’

  ‘I know. I should say it more. You’re everything to me. You and the kids. I don’t know where I’d be without you.’

  ‘You’d probably be out enjoying yourself every night, like you used to when we first met,’ Amanda teased.

  ‘Funny, I was just thinking earlier about when we first met.’

  A wry note came into Amanda’s voice. ‘You mean when you saved me from the unwanted attentions of that bloke in the Black Bull. You remember, the one who later turned out to be your best mate.’

  ‘No, I was thinking about the forest.’

  ‘Ah, you mean when you spied on me taking a nap.’

  ‘I didn’t spy—’ Tom started to protest. He smiled. ‘Actually, I suppose I did. But what else could I do? You were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I was only fourteen, but I remember thinking to myself that you were the girl I wanted to be with for ever. And then you rode away and I was heartbroken.’

  ‘Aw, poor baby.’ Amanda briefly kissed Tom on the lips.

  ‘I love you,’ he said again, whispering in her ear.

  She drew away, her eyes levelled at his chest. He waited for her to say, I love you too. But she said nothing. A little stung by her silence, he tucked the folder under his arm, went into the hallway and put on some shoes. At the sound of the front door opening, Erin came running from the living room. ‘Daddy, you haven’t said goodbye!’

  He bent to wrap his arms around her and plant a kiss on her apple-red cheek. ‘Bye, gorgeous. Have a lovely day.’

  She wriggled free, frowning. ‘Have you been smoking, Daddy?’

  ‘I . . .’ Tom began hesitantly, caught off guard. Erin had badgered him more than anyone to give up smoking. She was like him – as tenacious as a dog with a bone when she wanted something. ‘No.’

  ‘Honest?’

  ‘Honest.’ Tom felt a vague prickle of guilt at the white lie as he turned to Amanda. ‘Wish me luck.’<
br />
  ‘You don’t need luck, Tom. You’ve done everything possible to prepare. The rest will take care of itself.’

  He held her words in his mind and tried to believe them as he headed for his Volvo. Waving to his wife and daughter, he reversed onto a leafy road lined by scattered houses. Some, like his own, were modest places separated from the road by low stone walls and neat little gardens. Others were much bigger, set well back behind tall hedges. He eyed his house – small porch, single garage, two bay windows beneath a peaked slate roof. It had been a happy place to bring up his family, but the thought that this might be it, that this might be as far as he ever got, made him press down harder than necessary on the accelerator.

  A short drive brought him to a humpback bridge whose trio of stone arches crossed a shallow river. Large houses with terraced gardens lined the far bank. His gaze lingered on one whose decorative battlements mimicked those of the church’s bell tower rising in the background. He’d fantasised about living in that house since he was a boy. He knew the ageing owner was amenable to selling up to a local family for the right price. He sometimes pictured himself triumphantly taking possession of the house. That would be the moment he’d know he’d truly made it.

  Houses and buildings were spread across the gentle hillside to the north of the river. They were built of the same grey-gold sandstone as the level-topped, heathery hills to the north-west. The eastern and southern horizons were dominated by oak woodland, pine plantations and rolling green fields.

  Tom crossed the bridge into town, passing rows of pretty terraced cottages – many of which served as holiday homes for wealthy out-of-towners – and hotels and B&Bs that were busy all year round with tourists who came to sightsee, hike, cycle and climb in the surrounding countryside. The broad high street was the usual mixture of pubs, cafes, banks and local shops that characterised Northumberland’s smaller, remoter market towns. Nothing much had changed about it since Tom was a child. And he saw that as both a good and a bad thing – good because it was important to preserve the traditional way of life; bad because as well as preservation there had to be progress. Without progress people stagnated and didn’t improve their lives. It was all about balance. The people of Middlebury would have to decide – was their town little more than an open-air museum, or was it a place of opportunity and growth?

  At its midpoint, the high street opened out into a cobbled square with a stone war-memorial cross in one corner. On market days, as it had been since the twelfth century, the square was crowded with traders and shoppers. Today, although there were no stalls, there was a large crowd. Not of shoppers, but of protesters. The crowd was gathered in front of the Town Hall – a broad stone building with an arched doorway and a pinnacled clock tower – watched over at a slight distance by a couple of constables and a passing trickle of curious locals and tourists.

  The protesters were divided into three distinct groups. There were the eco-activists. Or what Tom’s business partner, Eddie Reed, referred to as ‘those bloody hippies’. Since setting up camp several months ago on the site Tom and Eddie hoped to develop, the activists had become a familiar sight around town with their colourful clothing, dyed and dreadlocked hair, tattoos, piercings and ‘Save Maglin Hill and the Five Women’ banners. They were a pain in the neck. It was going to cost thousands to clear out their camp. But Tom wasn’t overly worried about them. One way or another – either of their own volition or with a police boot up their arses – they would be leaving town after today.

  The second group was smaller and also prompted little more than irritation. Seventeen men and women wearing black hooded capes over flowing white robes were formed into a circle with joined hands. At the centre of the circle was a grey-haired woman crowned with a circlet of leaves and carrying a long staff. The staff was raised and her head was thrown back as if she was proclaiming something to her obscure gods. Her chanting voice was all but drowned out by the deep, rhythmic drumming coming from the eco-activists. Tom didn’t recognise any of the druids. They turned up twice a year on the summer and winter solstices, did their thing, then buggered off back to wherever they’d come from. They contributed nothing to the local economy, apart from the consumption of an inordinate amount of cider in the pubs. So as far as he was concerned, their voices counted for nothing.

  The third group was smaller still. Its members ranged from young children to OAPs. Each was carrying a home-made placard bearing the blood-red slogan ‘Stop the Quarry’. Except for one young girl whose sign read, ‘The meek shall inherit the earth’. A small grimace passed across Tom’s face. The girl was a classmate of Erin’s. He recognised her fellow protesters too. Some of them he’d known all his life. Two or three who lived near Maglin Hill had already voiced opposition to his plans. But the others had remained silent until today. They were people he’d considered friends. Now he knew different. And he knew too that life in Middlebury would never be the same for him and his family. These weren’t the kind of people who chose their allegiances lightly. If he went against them, they wouldn’t forgive or forget. They would hold their grudges as tight and close as he held his.

  A reporter from the local news was interviewing several protesters in front of a video camera. The sight was too much for Tom. He sped out the other side of the square as if he was being pursued by an angry mob. All he could think was, If they’re the meek, what does that make me?

  DAY 1

  9.13 A.M.

  Tom sat in his car, staring at the small dormant quarry that fifty years ago had been blasted into the lower part of the hillside. Nestled against the crumbling sandstone cliff was a ramshackle collection of blue plastic tents and tepees. A treehouse constructed from scraps of wood was perched high in the boughs of a solitary old oak near the quarry’s entrance.

  A footpath climbed to an exposed nipple of grass capped by the stone circle. At that distance of three hundred or so metres, the standing stones might indeed have been tall, top-heavy women. The Five Women commanded sweeping views, taking in the brooding crags, lonely heather and grass mosaics, peaty bogs and tarns of the Simonside Hills to the north-west. Blanketing the southern flanks of these hills was the immense man-made expanse of Harwood Forest, where Tom had spent many hours walking without ever encountering another soul. It was a landscape he loved. It cut him up that anyone who knew him would think he’d hurt it unnecessarily. The quarrying operation would pump fresh blood into the area, provide strength for new growth. But, like any operation, it would leave a scar, a permanent reminder of the cost of progress.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Tom wondered out loud. His phone rang for the fifth time in the space of as many minutes. He didn’t need to look at it to know who was calling. Bracing himself for an earful, he put it to his ear. ‘Morning, Eddie.’

  ‘Where the bloody hell are you?’ retorted a gruff voice. ‘You were supposed to be here a quarter of an hour ago.’

  ‘I needed some time to . . .’ Tom’s voice faded lamely.

  ‘The meeting’s about to start. So get your head on straight and get your arse over here.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’ Tom hung up and murmured forcefully to himself, ‘Stop being a dickhead. No fear. Believe and succeed.’

  He headed back to town. When he arrived at the market square, the druids had finished whatever ritual it was they’d been performing. Likewise, the eco-activists had ceased their drumming. But they started up again with thunderous intensity on seeing Tom, accompanying the rapid-fire booms with chants of ‘Say no to the quarry!’ and ‘Middlebury Stone wants to destroy our environment for profit!’ The local protestors simply stared at him with a silence more scathing than any words.

  The reporter shoved a microphone in his face. ‘Can we get your thoughts on this protest, Mr Jackson?’

  Ignoring the question, Tom hastened up the steps into the Town Hall. A stocky man with thinning short brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard was waiting agitatedly by a door marked COUNCIL CHAMBER.

  ‘S
orry I’m late, Eddie. I—’ began Tom.

  Eddie cut him off with a swipe of his hand. He prodded the folder under Tom’s arm. ‘Is that your speech?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s bloody well hope you haven’t missed your chance to give it.’

  Eddie took hold of Tom’s arm and pulled him towards the door. Beyond it was a lofty-ceilinged, oak-panelled room. Five churchlike pews were packed with planning applicants, objectors and other interested parties. They were faced by two long desks and a lectern fitted with microphones. The planning committee was seated along one of the desks. Local councillors occupied the other.

  All eyes turned towards the two men. A portly, bespectacled man with a broad red face and a thatch of silver hair was addressing the room. A little laminated sign identified him as COUNCILLOR BROOKS. He raised an admonishing eyebrow as Tom and Eddie found a seat, before continuing, ‘As I was saying, I now ask Mr Carl Wright to step forwards and speak.’

  A tall thin man with a goatee beard and a limp blond ponytail approached the lectern. His wiry arms were laced with colourful tattoos and his earlobes were stretched around CND-symbol hoop earrings. He was wearing heavy boots, camo trousers and a faded T-shirt that matched his nickname of ‘Greenie’. Tom and Eddie had spoken to him only once, when Greenie had informed them that he would rather die than let any harm come to Maglin Hill. Eddie had replied that that could easily be arranged. That was on the day Greenie had set up camp with his little army of eco-warriors. A scuffle had broken out between Eddie and Greenie. The police had been called. They’d advised Tom and Eddie to stay away from the camp until the planning permissions were settled.

  ‘You have three minutes, Mr Wright,’ Councillor Brooks informed Greenie.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ Greenie began in a mellow voice that didn’t match his sharp, sunken features, ‘the quarry on Maglin Hill has been dormant for fifty years for good reason. It is situated within an area of outstanding natural beauty less than three hundred metres from an ancient monument. People come from all over the world to walk and worship in this tranquil, sacred setting. How can they do that with the noise of cranes and bulldozers in the background?’