I was hoping that I might catch up with Rosie on the way home if I walked quickly enough, but I can’t see her. Then the breeze picks up, and the rustling of undergrowth becomes louder. I know it’s ridiculous, but I find myself checking over my shoulder to see if I’m being followed. As that low hum of air tickles my skin, I move my feet more quickly until I’m almost jogging. Out of breath, with the Buckthorpe Jack warning in my mind, I wrap my arms around myself.
Drizzle begins to drip down from the sky. The whistle of the wind dies away, and my clenched muscles slowly relax. The drizzle becomes a light rain, and I pull my damp hair away from my face, wishing I’d tied it back before leaving. This is typical Rosie, hurrying us out of the house without checking the weather forecast or bothering to grab coats. Even so, I still feel guilty about our squabble in the café, and consider getting out my phone to call and see if she’s okay.
I don’t, though. She was the one who stormed out, after all. And yes, it’s petty, but she did start it by prodding me with those stories of Buckthorpe Jack and my sleepwalking. I carry on, huddling up against the cold. The rain heightens the smells from the fields around me, but it also blocks out the sun with dark clouds, giving the impression that night is coming. The ground becomes slippery, and without realising, I stop paying attention to my surroundings and instead focus on my foot placement on the path. It’s only when I sense a stirring behind me – whether it’s a tree or a bush, I don’t know – that I spin around to see some sort of movement far off between the trees.
The only sound comes from the pattering of the rain on the path. I wish Rosie hadn’t brought up my dreams about Buckthorpe Jack, because now I can’t stop thinking about him chasing me, even though I’m nowhere near Buckbell Woods.
‘Is there someone there?’ Despite attempting to say the words with confidence, my voice breaks slightly. I straighten my back and search the area with my gaze. Everything is quiet.
The movement could have been anything – a fox, a gust of wind making the bushes move, a trick of the light through the shadows – but my mind keeps going back to the idea that someone is following me. I need to get out of here. I turn around and set off at a slow jog, feeling partly ridiculous for letting such a small thing get to me, and partly terrified to my core.
Watch your back, it’s Buckthorpe Jack.
I hurry over another stile and onto a narrower path that moves downhill towards the road. My feet slip on the wet ground and sweat begins to form between my shoulder blades, but I push on. Why did Rosie have to bring up my old fears? She was incredibly argumentative today, as though she was trying to goad me. Was she trying to scare me, too?
As I hurry towards the road, I cast another glance over my shoulder. The footpath is relatively silent apart from the rain, and no one is lurking in the shadows, but I’m still convinced I’m not alone.
My mind races as fast as my feet as I reach the road and make my way back to the cottage, thighs and lungs burning. I’m not a runner, and this is the most exercise I’ve done for months. Caring for an ailing mother and constant travelling doesn’t give a person much time to work out.
I finally allow myself a little breathing time as I walk along the road, relieved to see the Campbells’ cottage coming up. A few minutes later I can see the driveway of Ivy Cottage and know I’m almost there. As soon as I’m through the gate, I close it, place my hands on the top bar and suck in several long, deep breaths. Sweat stings my eyes, and my light clothing is sodden from rain. There’s a hint of wet dog emanating from my hot body.
I need to calm down and apply some logic to this situation. Why would anyone be following me? To be sure they couldn’t be seen, they would have had to move through the tangled weeds and bushes next to the footpath. Why would anyone do that? As far as I know, no one wants to do me any harm. Except maybe Rosie.
No, that’s ridiculous. My sister wouldn’t hurt me. Would she? I can’t deny that she has been acting strangely today.
It’s as I make my way up the drive that I notice the front door is wide open. My heart skips a beat until I remember that it’s most likely Rosie arriving home before me.
‘Ro?’ I call, stepping into the house. ‘Are you there?’ I stoop down to pick up an envelope left on the doormat and throw it on the kitchen table to deal with later.
The house is still and silent as I make my way into the living room. Nothing is out of place. Everything is as I left it.
‘You upstairs?’ I shout, half expecting her long legs to come striding down, a towel drying her hair. But there’s nothing.
What if someone has broken in? What if they’re still upstairs? I grab a knife from the kitchen and make my way up, dripping on the carpet as I go. That same sensation of being watched lifts the hairs on the back of my neck. Halfway up, I find I have to check behind me again. Did I imagine a shadow moving through the hallway? Did someone slip out of the house?
Heart pounding, I come back down the stairs and check the kitchen, then the downstairs toilet. No one. The loo was the one room I hadn’t checked before coming upstairs. What if they’d hidden down here and then sneaked along the corridor and out of the front door as I was walking upstairs? I keep hold of the knife as I lock the door then hurry up the stairs again, trying not to let myself be afraid. There’s no one here. But then my mind jumps back to: Watch your back, it’s Buckthorpe Jack.
My fingers tremble as I open the door to Mum and Dad’s room. It’s empty, but yet again, what I’m seeing sparks a visceral reaction. The room isn’t quite how I left it.
When we went out, boxes and clothes were stacked up on the bed. There are still piles of boxes and clothes, but they’re not in the same place. I know this because I remember the order I put the boxes of photographs in, the blue shoebox on top. Now all the shoeboxes and photo albums have been moved slightly. A leather-bound album is underneath the red scrapbook instead of on top of it. The box filled with recent photographs is next to a pile of skirts not underneath it.
Rosie?
I quickly work my way through the belongings on the bed, making sure that nothing is missing. It could be that she came home, resumed our sort-out, and then for some reason forgot to close the door when she left.
But why? And would she have had time to do all that before I arrived home? I walked quickly for most of the way and ran the last part of the footpath. She would have had to run all the way home to do this, which seems odd, but not impossible.
After checking through everything, I realise that there is a photo album missing. It was one of the large leather-bound albums that I hadn’t opened yet. It’s possible Rosie took it to her room to look at. Or out of the house.
Suddenly my back straightens. With my heart still racing, I move away from the bed and face the open wardrobe. The shotgun. I drop to my knees and part the remaining clothes, but find nothing but the wooden back of the wardrobe.
The shotgun is missing.
Fourteen
Heather
Now
Joan Campbell opens the door a crack and stares at me, unsmiling. Her short curly hair is now almost completely white, rather than the fiery red I remember as a child. The pink fur of her slippers peeks out from the gap between the door and the wall.
‘Hello, Heather,’ she says simply. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Actually, no,’ I reply. ‘I can’t seem to find Rosie. She left the front door wide open and I don’t know where she’s gone. Have you seen her?’
‘No,’ Joan says, her jowls wobbling slightly as she shakes her head. ‘But I’m sure you’ll find her.’ She steps back and begins to close the door.
‘If you see her, can you call?’ I say, but the door is already shut, leaving me bemused as I stand there on the step with the drizzle pattering behind me.
Joan and Bob Campbell have never been the friendliest of neighbours, but they have in the past been polite enough to invite Mum in for a cup of tea. Opening the door a mere crack was just odd. Shutting it in my face was plain
rude.
Nowt so queer as folk, Dad used to say, hamming up his Yorkshire accent. The words resonate with me now, especially after my strange run-ins with Ian Dixon and the Murray family.
I decide to check if Rosie has returned. After another quick search of the house, which is still empty, the white envelope I dropped on the kitchen table catches my eye. It is hand-written, with no stamp on the front. Cautiously I slide a finger beneath the seal and tear it open.
Heather and Rosie,
It is unanimous. We do not want your presence here. Wherever you go, you bring destruction. Sell the house and get out.
We do things our own way here. You’ve been warned.
Sincerely,
Buckthorpe Village
My hands begin to shake. I read the note a second time, and a third, somehow hoping for a different outcome each time. Sincerely, Buckthorpe Village. Is this real? Did the village hold some sort of democratic meeting to vote on our fate? I know that a lot changed after Rosie’s accusation, but I didn’t realise they hated us this much. Why is it my family targeted by the wrath of these people? Why not the Murrays?
Because Samuel isn’t here any more, that’s why. Rosie is. They want this to be over, and they want us gone.
Did the person who left this letter also break in and steal the shotgun?
I don’t want to be here on my own. Not after finding this note. I fold it up and stuff it into the pocket of my jeans, and hurry out to my car. There’s no reply to the quick text message I sent Rosie, and I have no missed calls. Perhaps she just wants to be left alone. That could have been her slipping out of the house when I thought I saw a shadow, deciding to run away rather than deal with the argument we had in the café.
It wouldn’t be the first time she’s left without dealing with conflict.
But the missing gun and the threatening note makes this … sinister.
I sit in the car and force myself to consider every logical solution to what has just happened. Someone broke into the house, took the gun and left the note. Why would a stranger steal the gun, and how would they know it was there? As Rosie said earlier, we live in a place surrounded by farms and people who hunt. Many households have a rifle or shotgun of their own.
Alternatively, Rosie came home, didn’t see the letter, and took the gun. Would she hurt herself? Someone else? Who would she even want to hurt?
Or Rosie wrote the letter, left it on the mat and took the gun.
I shiver at the thought of her orchestrating all of this to convince me to sell the house. I know she wants us to sell. She could be in debt. I conjure up an image of a seedy drug dealer in a white vest and baggy jeans, with dirty skin and missing teeth. I have to face the fact that I don’t know Rosie’s financial circumstances, meaning I might not be far from the truth.
I try calling one more time before starting the car and taking it out through the open gate. My only option is to drive around Buckthorpe and see if I can spot her. Not that I can imagine Rosie walking down the street carrying the long shotgun case. Another thought flashes across my mind. Could my sister be the kind of lone-wolf killer you see on the news? Terrorising a small neighbourhood after a mental breakdown? The thought makes my skin go cold, but I don’t truly believe it. She was upset, but I saw no signs of a breakdown.
At the same time, she was in a strange, agitated mood. I find my mind drifting to the image of her holding the gun, knowing how to load and unload it. What I’m not sure about is whether there were any boxes of ammunition in the back of the wardrobe. And if there were, would Rosie use the gun on herself? Or would she settle an old score?
A flood of emotion washes over me as my thoughts turn to Dad and what he did, but I push them back down. It all depends on Rosie’s intentions in the end, and I have to admit that her orchestrating this to frighten me is more likely than her stealing the gun to use it.
For a while, I find myself driving aimlessly. At one point I head over to the Murrays’ farm and park on the road next to the fields. Somehow I feel as though I should be here to make sure she doesn’t turn up in a rage, armed with the gun, a wronged woman in a movie taking her revenge. It’s ridiculous, and after a few minutes, I leave. As I drive away, I hate myself for even thinking that she might hurt them. But then maybe I should own up to the fact that I hate myself for believing she killed Samuel, too. I’ve hated myself for ten years. But I still can’t let go of the suspicion …
Focus, Heather.
I drive along the road adjacent to our old school and look out for anything untoward, but the place seems empty. It was a long shot. I don’t believe Rosie has any real connection to the building. Then I carry on into the village, driving past the newsagent, the café and the pub. That’s where I decide to stop.
Rosie is a recovering alcoholic, and it would be remiss of me to not check the pub. Now that I’ve calmed down a little, I can see that my wild theories were just that: silliness from the shock and fear of the letter and the missing gun. Chances are she either moved the gun, or she didn’t take it at all. It’s possible that I misread her mood today, and that her strange argumentativeness was actually down to alcohol withdrawal. Or perhaps Mum’s death has tipped her over the edge. Perhaps this is where she is.
I enter the Prince of Wales, still somewhat bedraggled from the walk in the rain, almost certainly resembling a complete mess. Reg is behind the bar as always, his tall, willowy frame leaning over the beer pumps. The expression on his face is somewhere between wary and hostile when he sees me, with a slight curl of the upper lip and his eyelids half closed. He nods to me with his mouth set tight. As grim a welcome as I’d expected.
Did you write the letter? Did you sign it ‘Buckthorpe Village’? I glance around me, wondering if anyone else here contributed to the note. The place isn’t packed, but it is humming with voices as people enjoy a drink on a Saturday afternoon. I turn and walk to the bar.
‘Don’t suppose you’ve seen my sister in here, have you, Reg?’ I ask, attempting to keep those thoughts at bay.
‘Nope. Sorry. You getting a drink?’
I shake my head. ‘Not right now. If you do see Rosie, can you ask her to call me, please?’
He shrugs. ‘Sure.’
On my way out, I cast him a final glance, less than convinced that he actually will ask her to call me. Dad once said that Reg failed to take Colin Murray’s car keys one night after he got drunk, and that he didn’t trust a man who failed to watch out for his mates. But I don’t have many other options at present.
‘Heather!’ Peter Murray saunters up, pint in hand, cheeks flushed. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Actually, I was just on my way out.’
His eyes flick up and down my face, taking in what must be a pale, tense woman with frizzy hair and damp clothing. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘I can’t find Rosie. She’s not answering her phone and I think she’s taken some of my parents’ things.’ I lower my voice. ‘Dad’s shotgun is missing.’
Peter places his pint glass down on the nearest table and gently leads me to the exit. ‘Come on. I’ll help you find her.’ I almost want to smile, because for the briefest of moments it’s like we’re back at the farm, and Peter is saying: Can I help you, Hev?
‘Oh, I don’t want to spoil your afternoon,’ I say limply.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. This is important.’
It’s at that moment, hearing him say those words, that everything inside me squeezes and releases. My stomach cramps up with fear.
‘You all right?’ He reaches out and touches my shoulder. ‘Your clothes are wet. Have you been walking out in the rain?’
‘I got caught in a downpour,’ I admit.
‘Do you want to go home and get changed?’
I shake my head and find my throat is thick with emotion when I reply. ‘No, I just want to find Rosie.’
‘Okay, come on then.’
We hurry back to my car and Peter climbs into the passenger side. ‘I’m sorry I can’t
drive,’ he says. ‘I’m three pints in.’ He casts me a sheepish glance, eyebrows up in puppy-dog fashion. ‘It’s Johnno’s birthday.’
I don’t have time to ask who Johnno is, but I nod as I reverse out of the parking spot. ‘I’ve driven all around the village and I can’t see her anywhere. What with her problems, I thought I might find her at the pub, but obviously she’s not there either.’
‘Let’s just think for a minute. She took your father’s gun. Do you think she might hurt herself or someone else?’
I bite down hard on my bottom lip. ‘I don’t know. She might not even have been the person who took it. When I came home, the door was wide open and the gun was gone. All I know is that we had an argument in the café and she left. But …’ I take a left onto the village road, a little too sharply, and Peter grasps hold of the car door.
‘What is it?’ he asks.
‘There was a note,’ I say. ‘From the village. It was left on the doormat.’
‘What kind of note?’
‘The unpleasant kind,’ I reply. ‘Telling us we’re not welcome here because we’re troublemakers.’
Peter rolls his eyes. ‘Fucking hell. This place.’
‘Yep.’
‘You okay?’
‘No, I’m not, if I’m honest,’ I admit. ‘Do you think I should be worried someone is going to hurt us? The letter and the missing gun are pretty serious. Maybe I should call the police.’
Peter is quiet for a moment. ‘Do you think it’s possible Rosie wrote the note?’
Even though I’ve already considered this as a feasible solution, I bristle at the accusation.
Peter seems to notice this and quickly adds, ‘Sorry, that’s stupid. Why would she do that?’
I let out a sigh. ‘Maybe she wants to make sure I sell the house.’
He nods. ‘That makes sense. What kind of mindset was she in during your argument?’
The Liar's Sister (ARC) Page 10
