Dark Melodies (The Black Combe Doms Book 1)

by Ashe Barker

  And all that fortnight, the monstrous specter of my return to the college loomed closer. I counted down the days, then the hours, my panic mounting, my desperation gripping me so fiercely at times that I couldn’t breathe.

  I started to have asthma attacks—a problem I’d thought I left behind in childhood. I managed to scrounge some Ventolin from the girl in the flat below, saying I’d just run out, when in reality making a doctor’s appointment to get a prescription was beyond me. It was a pity, really. A doctor was probably exactly what I needed, though I would never have admitted that to myself. Not then.

  I sat in my flat and imagined myself in a cell awaiting execution, conscious of every passing moment, trying to hold onto each second as it slipped inexorably past me and out of my reach. I spent the night before I was due back at work crouched on the floor in my bathroom, shivering. By the time I could put off the evil moment no longer, I was numb with fear. I’d rather have stuck pins in my eyes than go to the college and face a day at work. Worried about being late again, I left my flat about two hours early, determined to walk to the college and clear my head on the way.

  I might as well have tried to remove my own spleen with a knife and fork and a couple of aspirins. It just wasn’t happening, and by the time I arrived at the college I was little short of sleep-walking, forcing one foot in front of the other by sheer willpower. My all-consuming panic couldn’t have been any more compelling if there really had been a pillow over my head, because that was how it felt to me. I was gripped by utter terror and absolute desperation to escape.

  That morning is something of a blur now, but I vaguely remember that I made my way on autopilot to the small office I shared with two postgraduates and sat down at my cluttered desk. It was all just as I’d left it, and all the more terrifying for that. Everything that had so scared me before my enforced leave was all still there, waiting for me. Only one of my colleagues was in residence, and Susie’s cheery ‘hello’ only served to prove to me how mentally mashed up I was. I couldn’t even remember what the right response was, so I just ignored her, sat down and pressed the button on the front of my PC to fire it up.

  “Are you okay? Eva?” The disembodied voice from somewhere nearby eventually penetrated my consciousness and I turned to look. Susie was there, standing just behind me. So was Professor Benson—Ben to us—and they both looked worried, perplexed. Ben stepped forward, reached out for me, and I thought he was going to put his hand on my shoulder. I leaped to my feet, my every confused instinct screaming at me to run for the door. But they were blocking my way. I was trapped. I caught sight of the clock on the wall—nine-forty—and realised I’d been sitting, staring at the blank screen, for over half an hour. I suppose Susie had noticed, become concerned—no flies on that girl—and had gone to fetch the professor. Their sympathetic concern was the final nail in the coffin of my flimsy composure, and I had no other thought in my head by then but to get out of there—just make a run for it and never come back.

  So that was exactly what I did. I picked up my bag, went to put my coat on and only then realised I’d never even taken it off. I asked them politely to excuse me, and I left the room. Slowly and calmly, I made my way along the corridor, heading for the outside, and only started to run as though my life depended on it when I hit the fresh air.

  Looking back, I know now that I had some sort of mini breakdown. Or maybe not so mini. Nothing else explains my overwhelming desperation, my phobic need to get out of there, to fight my way out if need be and to make my escape. Maybe I should have presented myself at the university health realise. They might have cured me. But instead I went back to my poky little flat, sent an email from my phone resigning my fellowship in the Faculty of Linguistics, apologized to Ben for letting him down, then got in my car and headed for my mother’s apartment in North London.

  She was delighted to see me at first, thinking I’d come for a little flying surprise visit. Her joy was short-lived. She was as horrified as Ben had been when I told her I’d resigned and was staying. Indefinitely.

  Ben was on the phone constantly, talking to my mother because I flatly refused to take his calls. Through her, I learned that he understood—which was more than I could say for me. That he knew I needed more time off, and he thought maybe I should go and have a chat with my GP, but I was not to come back until I felt well enough. Through my mother, I asked him what part of ‘I resign’ was not perfectly clear to him and refused to take part in any further discussion.

  Despite my mother’s pleading, I flatly refused to go anywhere near a doctor either. I knew something was wrong with me, badly wrong, but the last thing I needed—or so I thought, was to be labeled unstable. I knew what they’d have to say. The talk would be of mental health issues. Depression. The very words terrified me, left me feeling weak and inadequate, somehow tainted, and I was having none of that.

  So it was just me, my duvet and my mother’s home cooking, and for the next four weeks or so that was all my world consisted of. It was enough, and eventually I began to peep out. I began to think it might be safe to actually come out, just briefly. I could always scuttle back if things went wrong. What those ‘things’ might be, I wasn’t sure, but the very thought of them scared me rigid. And the first few times I did scuttle back, but eventually I got a bit braver, and began to think maybe I might like to do something after all. I wasn’t sure what, as long as it wasn’t too challenging. As long as I didn’t have problems to solve, new systems to create. I wasn’t sure where I wanted to be—as long as it wasn’t St Hilda’s College, the scene of my terrifying humiliation. I just knew that if I ever, ever had to return there I’d be dragged back down into that dark and terrifying place, and maybe I’d never manage to scramble out again.

  So one day, seized by a rare excess of forward-looking enthusiasm, I sauntered into Natasha’s pristine agency and told her cockily that I could teach music. And despite her obvious disdain she apparently believed me. What’s more, she now seems desperate enough to give me a chance. And I’m desperate enough to take it.

  I need to do something. I need to be somewhere different, doing something new. Most of all, I need a job. A real job with wages and a contract and a job description, where you have to turn up on time. A job where you need qualifications and actually use them. I need to Do Something Useful. In the real world. Just for once.

  Brontë country sounds lovely, on reflection…

  Chapter Two

  So that’s how me, Ludwig and Miranda—my 1990 red Mini with the red, white and blue Union flag crisscrossing the roof—came to be splashing up the M1, torrential rain lashing against the windscreen that has developed a leak, blinded by spray and not able to get above about fifty miles an hour. I have thrown together a bag of just a few essentials and slung it on the back seat, along with my violin, lovingly packed in my chiffon skirt. As Natasha brightly noted, I can always drive back down to London at the weekend to pack properly.

  I charged out of my mother’s house in Stamford Hill by just turned seven-thirty p.m. I’d never have made it if it hadn’t been my mother’s night for hitting Covent Garden with her friends from the North London Ladies’ Circle. God knows how I’m going to get past her at the weekend to collect any more stuff. I left a quick note to explain, and she’s got my mobile number so she can unleash the budgie on me when she gets back and finds me gone. I’m expecting the call before midnight, by which time—roadworks and torrential rain permitting—Miranda and I will be in Yorkshire. Natasha has called the client to tell them I’m on my way, so they’re expecting me.

  That’s a nice feeling, I note with some interest. To be expected…

  Well, they’re expecting someone. Probably not someone quite like me, if I’m totally honest with myself, some scruffy individual in my signature outfit of faded denim jeans, black T-shirt and a hoodie of indeterminate colour but probably gray, turning up on their doorstep in the middle of the night. What was that about first impressions? Did I learn nothing from Natasha? They
’ll probably set the dogs on me. I could have thought this through a bit better, smartened myself up a bit, even if I was in a rush to get away before my mother got back.

  I did remember to bring my certificate proving I hold a BMus from King’s College, London, though, so at least they’ll know I’m qualified to teach the violin. And the rest…

  I pass Sheffield at eleven o’clock after a brief stop at a brightly lit motorway services for a burger and a fix of strong coffee. I reach the outskirts of Leeds by half past, and join the M62. A few miles west, I see brown tourist signs announcing the vicinity of the Brontë attractions and head obediently up the M606, an odd little three-mile stretch of motorway that seems to finish up in a field. Then the satnav comes into its own, guiding me through the suburban fringes of Bradford—not too salubrious—onto the ring road, then out again into the open countryside.

  Haworth is well signposted, and despite the teeming rain I reach it by around half past midnight. After driving past the quaint little lovingly restored station—I told you so, Natasha!—I make my way up the steep and winding main road. I bypass the cobbled, touristy bit of the village, which is silent and deserted at this time, but looks intriguing from what I can see of the little curiosity shops and cafes. Names like Heathcliff’s Antique Books and Branwell’s Tea Room are just visible through the lashing rain. I make a mental note to come back in daylight for a proper look. When it’s dry.

  Haworth soon disappears behind me, along with any form of street lighting and other signs of civilization. I plow on through the pitch-black night. Miranda is still gamely climbing like a mountain goat, and I am secretly relieved that she’s made it this far. I don’t usually trouble her for more than short jaunts around the city, so this is a big deal for both of us. Although I can’t see much around me—visibility is down to around five yards or so—I have a strong sense of space and height. My straight beam points straight up, so I turn that off and settle for the dipped headlights. These last few miles are slow going.

  About twenty minutes out of Haworth, I take a right turn as the satnav sends me up a narrow side road. I think we must be somewhere near now but still the satnav wants to continue on. I check. According to the figures on the screen, we have another two and a half miles before we reach our destination. We carry on, down to a slow crawl now because I am terrified of going off the road—if you can call this cart track a road—or clipping one of the dry stone walls on either side.

  Onwards, onwards, up the single-track lane, which is now reduced to a muddy, narrow cart track. This can’t be right. It’s absolutely pitch black everywhere around. The rain has eased a little, maybe, but I can’t make out a thing in front of me. The silence is crushing, terrifying. I hadn’t realised what a city girl I was. Even if I wanted to turn back—and I do at this moment—there is no space for such an ambitious maneuver, even for a tiny car like Miranda. I’m terrified of coming off the road, ending up in a ditch or over a cliff. Or in a river. Or whatever is beyond the pool of light from my headlamps.

  Down to about ten miles an hour, and with loyal Ludwig turned down low so I can concentrate, I edge along the track, peering out of the side windows for any sign of life—lights, a house, another vehicle. I see only blackness.

  Then I hit something.

  My nose pressed to the windscreen, I squint out. It’s a gate. A big metal monster of a gate securely hinged to two massive stone pillars, at least seven feet tall. Not a gate to be messed with. Holy fuck, how did I not see that? It’s probably visible from the Moon.

  Should have kept my eyes front—there’s a lot to be said for looking where you’re going, especially when driving. My mother is always on about it. It’s lucky I was going so slow. I only rattled the monster gate—not to mention myself and Miranda’s bumper. But this has to be the end of the road. Bloody satnav has got me lost and stuck up a dead end in the middle of nowhere. There’s no room to turn around and it’s about five miles to reverse back out. There’s nothing but wilderness and dry stone walls for miles around, I’ve been driving for hours, I’ve a new job lined up that I can’t find… I’m dead tired, scared and probably about to cry.

  Terrified of the silence and the blackness, I grab my hoodie from the back seat, slip my arms through and pull the hood up over my head. Why didn’t I think to bring a raincoat? I climb out to check how close I am to the ditch and try to work out if a three—who am I kidding? Thirty-three—point turn might be feasible.

  With a smooth whirr, the gate starts to open. Bloody hell, it must be one of those electric things with a sensor. It knows I’m here. It’s letting me in. There must be someone about, and if there is I can find out where I am and where this Black Combe place is. I’m saved!

  On that joyous thought, I suddenly catch sight of bright lights hurtling toward me from out of the darkness back along the lane, and they are coming up fast. I hear the growling purr of a powerful engine as a big, long, low black car comes into view round the final bend. From the brief glance I get, I know it’s one of those hideously expensive, gas-guzzling, penis-substitute boy’s toys—quite beautiful, really, if you like that sort of thing.

  There’s a momentary lurch as the driver spots Miranda at the last moment and tries to brake. Not a chance.

  From my vantage point by Miranda’s front bumper—miraculously unblemished by the recent encounter with the gate from hell—I hear the scream of tires desperately trying to grab wet tarmac, then the harsh crash of impact as the prick-mobile roars straight into the back of my faithful little Mini. As I leap for my life the momentum takes both cars forward, through the now wide-open gate, onto a gravel driveway beyond, where they both stop.

  And after the clattering racket of grating metal comes a hush, the only sound now good old Ludwig, who is still gently pouring forth from my CD player. I note idly that we’ve now reached the final movement of his Symphony Number 9 in D minor—‘Ode to Joy’. Perfect!

  Disentangling myself from my relatively safe refuge behind the massive stone gatepost, I creep forward to survey the damage. At first sight, the gas-guzzling monster looks to have come off worst, so apparently there is some justice in this world. There’s steam coming from under its bonnet—which is not exactly straight and sleek anymore—and some liquid dribbling underneath. In contrast Miranda looks quite chipper, considering. A couple more dents and scratches on her rear end, which are clearly shown up by one searchlight still functioning on the front of her attacker, but she’ll live. Probably.

  Then all hell breaks loose.

  The driver’s door of the gas-guzzler flies open. “What the fuck is that wreck doing there?”

  The man who storms out is tall, broad-shouldered, spitting with fury—and absolutely beautiful. I am stunned and can only stare. I think my mouth is open. I fumble in my hoodie pocket for my glasses.

  His long, dark hair—quickly drenched in the continuing downpour—is thick, wavy and brushes his collar. He is smartly dressed in a crisp white shirt, open at the neck with no tie, and charcoal-gray trousers. Reaching back into his car, he grabs a leather bomber jacket and thrusts his arms into the sleeves, then zips it up and pulls the collar up around his neck. His obviously expensive clothes look completely incongruous out here in the wilds of the Yorkshire moorland, and that jacket is probably never going to recover from the soaking it’s getting. But he’s incandescent with rage and obviously not thinking of his wardrobe at this precise moment. I manage to spot highly polished Italian leather shoes. Wellies would have been more practical…

  He is towering over Miranda, looking as if he might just pick her up and lob her back out through the gate.

  I have never seen a man I’ve thought beautiful before, but there is no other way to describe him. I stand there, dripping wet and just gaping. After a few moments, I realise he hasn’t seen me yet. His outrage would be comical if he wasn’t so intimidating, his gaze going from his crumpled bonnet to Miranda’s relatively unscathed rear end and back, and his fingers combing roughly through his ha
ir. He bends to look into Miranda’s driving seat, then stands back, obviously puzzled. Leaning down again, he reaches in and turns off the engine, and Ludwig finally quietens. He pockets my car keys, then straightens to look around him, clearly puzzled. Uh-oh, time to make myself known. “Are you all right?”

  At my question, he whirls and—by the look of total amazement on his face—he can’t believe what’s in front of him. And I know what he‘s thinking. I’ve seen that look before. Frequently. All he sees is what appears to be a scruffy teenager in a hoodie, faded jeans and trainers, soaking wet. Probably joyriding in a stolen car, and definitely up to no good on his quiet country lane in the dead of night.

  Damage limitation seems called for. I walk up to him, hand outstretched, my face plastered with the politest smile I can manage. “Good evening. Sorry about that. I’m Eva Byrne. I’m afraid I’m not familiar with this area. I’m trying to find a place called Black Combe and I seem to have taken a wrong turn somewhere. I wonder if you can direct me?”

  He looks at me, then at my hand—checking for hidden flick-knives?—then back at my face. Then good manners take over, just momentarily, because he takes my hand briefly and shakes it before stepping away to more closely inspect the damage to his penis substitute. He walks slowly around his once-gorgeous car, crouching to examine the crumpled bonnet and smashed headlamp, and God knows what other internal injuries, judging by all the steam and fluid slopping about.

  Finally standing upright again and towering over me—he is nearly a foot taller than I am—he glowers over my head in the direction of poor, innocent Miranda. “Is this heap of junk yours, or did you steal it?”