by Guy N Smith
Packing wasn't easy for Marie Halestrom, not even just one overnight case for herself and Amanda. She had difficulty in thinking, finding items, because her brain could not drag itself away from the horror of these past few days, a mounting tension which she could almost feel. And it wasn't over yet. Only for herself and her deaf daughter, because they were getting right away from it in just a few minutes. Somehow even the town didn't seem far enough away. Was anywhere far enough away from Gabor?
Marie made Amanda accompany her from one room to another, watching the child closely throughout, fearful lest she might seize the slightest opportunity to run off again. Amanda didn't seem interested in anything at present, though, just sitting or standing, staring fixedly ahead of her, engrossed in her own strange thoughts.
‘There!’ Marie slammed the lid of the case, had difficulty in fastening it. ‘If I've forgotten anything then that's too bad and we'll have to manage without. Come on, Amanda, let's leave Gabor and your stubborn father to sort themselves out.’
Amanda appeared not to have heard, perched on a three-legged stool staring vacantly at the window but not seeing through it; expressionless, tense.
‘Amanda!’ Marie's tone was sharp. ‘Come on. For goodness' sake, child, have you switched your hearing aid off again?’
Amanda turned, her action proof that she was not the victim of a self-imposed total silence, and on her face was a look of acute sadness. ‘Don't go,’ a whisper that trembled. ‘Please don't go. I have to stay because they want me to. It isn't finished yet.’
‘What!’ Marie experienced an inexplicable churning in her stomach. ‘Whatever are you talking about, child? Who, and what, isn't finished?’
But Amanda quite obviously wasn't going to explain. Her eyes were welling up, tears beginning to trickle down both cheeks, her slender form shaking as she gave up trying to hold back the sobs.
‘My poor little darling.’ Marie put down the suitcase, slipped a comforting arm around the child. ‘It's all been too much for you, confused and terrified you. Just like it's done to me. Come on, we're both going away from here, never coming back.’
With unbelievable suddenness Amanda's mood changed yet again. The tears stopped, the shaking sobs turned to a rigid tenseness, sorrow to anger; the incoherent whisperings became loud screams of rage and hate. Marie grabbed her wrists, prevented a rain of blows, held the struggling girl back from a headlong dash out of the room.
‘Amanda, stop it at once. Be quiet!’
But Amanda wasn't stopping. Cursing, struggling, she tried every trick she knew to wrest herself free of Marie's hold, kicked out and heard her mother give a sharp cry of pain.
‘What the hell's going on?’ Ron Halestrom burst into the room, grabbed Amanda angrily. ‘I thought you two were going.’
‘We are.’ Marie's voice was cold, a hostile glance at her husband. ‘Make no mistake about that. You're a selfish sod, Ron. How the hell d'you think I'm going to manage Amanda on my own when she's in a state like this? She's gibbering all sorts of rubbish.’
‘She wants a bloody good hiding.’ He released his grip on the girl. She made no move to continue her childish assault, strangely placid now as though she recognised the futility of continuing her outburst. ‘Now, you'd better get going.’
Tight-lipped Marie stalked from the bedroom, across the landing and down the stairs, out of the front door, slamming it hard behind her. She did not let go of Amanda's wrist, unlocking the back door of the Citroën one-handed, throwing the suitcase on to the seat and bundling Amanda after it. Slamming it, offering up a short thanksgiving to the anonymous inventor of child locks.
Then Marie Halestrom stopped. She stared; it had to be a cruel trick of her eyes, an optical illusion brought about by mental stress. A nightmare, the kind where nothing worked, your legs refused to move when you were being pursued … where you couldn't drive your car because all four tyres were as flat as the proverbial pancakes!
She walked around the car, disbelief merging into despair as she kicked each tyre, discovered they all really were flat; went round again the other way as though by some miraculous means she was going to discover them reinflated.
Finally she sprawled over the sloping bonnet, banged it uselessly with her clenched fists, then let that flood of tears that had been gathering burst forth. It was some time before she looked up, saw Ron standing watching her as she knew he would be. She glared at him, a look that said ‘You did this to keep us here’. She almost believed it.
‘Somebody's let the tyres down,’ he stated the obvious. He felt he had to say something and he couldn't think of anything else, adding as an afterthought beneath his breath. ‘And it wasn't me.’
‘Who?’ she screamed. ‘For God's sake, who?’
‘How the hell should I know?’ He inspected them briefly, wondered why in nineteen years of motoring he'd never bought a foot pump. In all probability the spare was flat too, not that it would have been any use to them now if it wasn't.
‘Well, they'll have to be blown up again, won't they?’
He glanced at his watch: five past six. That garage beyond the village would be closed now and they wouldn't be interested in turning out. Certainly not for ‘outsiders’. Another of his motoring omissions, he didn't subscribe to either the AA or the RAC. That was a heritage of his conventional nine-to-five life, one didn't fritter away money on things that might never happen.
‘Amanda and I are leaving Gabor today!’ Marie screeched defiantly. ‘We'll get a taxi.’
‘Feel free.’ He waved towards the house. ‘The telephone is at your service, madam.’
‘Keep an eye on Amanda,’ she hissed, broke into a run, almost fell headlong up the steps.
All kinds of fears crowded her in the hall. The phone might be out of order. She tested the dialling tone, breathed a loud sigh of relief when she heard it purring. Trembling fingers flipped through the telephone directory; Christ, they were entitled to a Yellow Pages as subscribers but in keeping with everything else appertaining to Gabor that small service had been overlooked. Two car hire firms that offered taxis, one in town, the other in a village she'd never heard of. She tried them both. The first rang until she gave up and slammed the receiver back on its cradle. Probably a one-man concern and he was out on a call. The second call brought a deep elderly voice with signs of asthma. ‘Can't help you, madam, I'm afraid. We gave up the taxi side of the garage last year. Price of petrol, you know. Made the fares prohibitive and folks just won't pay that sort of money.’
Well I would and why the bloody hell d'you waste people's time and money by leaving ‘taxi’ in the phone book! Marie was sobbing again when she turned round from the phone and saw Ron and Amanda coming in through the front door.
They were leaving Gabor tonight. Even if they had to go on foot.
Mrs Flaherty's conscience had been troubling her. For her that was a new experience, one that disturbed her. The police hadn't found Donna. She had fully expected that stubborn daughter of the late Sean O'Brien to come slinking back to the caravan woebegone and full of apologies. The child had gone off in a tantrum but she'd be back once she got cold and hungry.
Now it was dawning on Mrs Flaherty that Donna O'Brien wasn't coming back. If Sean had still been here it wouldn't have mattered either way because that would have been his responsibility. Suddenly she came to the awful realisation that now it was hers. Well, it wasn't her fault Donna had gone off but at least she had to make some outward show of caring, a token effort at finding her.
The other tinkers were acting strangely towards Mrs Flaherty, virtually ignoring her as they went about their work of rebuilding the wrecked encampment. Nobody had actually said anything but she could tell by the way they kept glancing in the direction of her caravan, those huddled, whispered conversations that told her they were talking about her.
She put on her old brown coat; she didn't need it but she always wore it when she was going somewhere in just the same way that she always took her walking
stick with her. They'd all know then that she was going off to find Donna, bless her little soul. A sweet child even if she was sullen and rude most of the time.
Mrs Flaherty made sure that the others saw her go, watched them out of the corner of her eye as she shuffled up the greasy slope that led to Gabor Wood. At seventy she wasn't used to walking far but her rheumatism was easier today or else she had so many things on her mind that she didn't notice it. Her perpetual stoop disguised her true height for in her younger days she had been quite tall. Now she was a little old wizened woman with a wrinkled face that would have been more in keeping with her role in life had it been nut brown instead of a sickly pallor. But she never had been the outdoor type, preferring to remain in her caravan both in summer and in winter. A habit, really; laziness. Few, if any, knew her first name and she was reluctant to disclose it. Petronilla. She tried to forget it because one night many years ago her father in one of his frequent drunken stupors had told her a story about another Petronilla. A witch! This woman - she was Irish, too - had been flogged six times by order of the Bishop, excommunicated, and burned at the stake in 1324. It gave her the creeps just thinking about it, especially after the other night when those youths had set fire to the camp and she had fully expected to have her childhood fears realised.
In a mild sort of way she'd done a bit of witchcraft. Fortune telling. A bit of a con really, that time Sean had joined up with a travelling fair down south and he'd put the suggestion to her in his usual persuasive way. Somehow it had all come naturally, a combination of a bit of gibberish and the good old Irish gift of the gab. Well, nobody had complained but that was because she had told them the sort of things she thought they'd like to hear, so everybody had been happy and Petronilla Flaherty had been richer by a few pounds, less Sean O'Brien's commission of course! God rest his soul.
She was winded by the time she reached the edge of the big wood and sat down on a bank for a rest. The grass was still wet after last night's thunderstorm and she could feel the damp soaking into the seat of her wide-legged knickers. It didn't do you any good sitting on wet grass but she had to have a short rest before she could go any further.
From here she had a panoramic view of the camp below. A few of the menfolk were still working, sorting through a pile of scrap metal for replacement parts for caravans and vehicles. She watched them idly, saw the tall youth coming back up the lane, his very posture one of furtiveness. She had never liked Paddy. Rumour had it that he was one of Sean O'Brien's illegitimate sons which was quite feasible. Paddy was lazy, furthermore he was a thief; only last year he had been in court on a shoplifting charge.
Mrs Flaherty knew only too well where Paddy had been, he had been boasting about it only yesterday. He'd been up to the big house, the one on the other side of the wood where those new toffs lived. What he'd been up to was anybody's guess but he'd been shouting his mouth off about getting even with them. Lord, she thought, she'd no time for the snobs of this world but you couldn't go around committing acts of aggression against them. Paddy was stupid in the head, didn't think, and he was likely to have done just anything; smashed windows, wrecked vehicles, set fire to something … An unnerving thought … somebody had set fire to that holiday cottage which had started all this trouble, been responsible for Sean's death … Holy Mother, it just had to be Paddy!
She was convinced of his guilt, but the Lord would punish him in His own good time, that was as certain as night followed day. Mrs Flaherty was trembling with rage. But it would be dark in a couple of hours and she had to go and look for Donna. Now Donna was a sweet child, she wouldn't do the sort of things Paddy did even if they both had the same hot-headed father.
Petronilla Flaherty didn't like the wood at all. It was so dark, smelled damp and … evil. She crossed herself, muttered a short prayer. This was when she needed her faith. Surely Donna wouldn't stay in a place like this. No, but she had probably gone on through the trees and out onto the fields the other side. Mrs Flaherty would follow and maybe there was a way back which avoided Gabor Wood.
Once she was round the first bend in the path the darkness seemed to close in on her; she had to squint and peer to make out the course of the track, habitually using her old willow stick to prod the ground in front of her. You couldn't be too careful in these sort of places.
She stopped, listened. There were no sounds to be heard, none of the usual noises of the countryside. Woodpigeons should have been going to roost in the tall trees amidst a chorus of contented cooing, an owl anticipating its nocturnal hunt and giving a premature hoot or two. But there was nothing. Nothing at all.
Surely the path must emerge somewhere soon. One twist after another, getting darker all the time. Maybe she ought to turn back; nobody could blame her. Except herself. Her conscience hadn't troubled her like this for years.
That feeling that she was being watched; the way she sometimes felt when she went into the bushes to pee and afterwards young Paddy was to be seen slinking out from where she had been. In a way that gave her a kind of thrill but here in Gabor Wood the sensation was disturbing. She wondered if the youth had followed her and suddenly that was a terrifying thought. He wasn't right, he'd do just about anything when he was in the mood. Hadn't he killed Sean O'Brien, albeit in a roundabout sort of way, set fire to that cottage, gone up to the toffs' house to do them some harm? In which case he was quite capable of doing something to herself …
She shrank back, cowered beneath an overhanging tree, tried to make out the shadows ahead. There was somebody there, something moved!
‘Who's … there …?’ It was doubtful whether whoever it was could have heard the low quavering whisper.
‘It's me, Mammy.’
Mrs Flaherty started, felt her heart jump in a way that always frightened her as though she was about to have a heart attack. Not so much the voice but the ‘Mammy’ left her in no doubt who it was standing there in the shadows.
‘Donna!’ she croaked. ‘Be Jesus, if it ain't my darlin' little Donna and here's me thinkin' I'll be searching these woods all night for you and here you are all the time. Come here, child, and let's be lookin' at you.’
Donna advanced out of the shadows but only far enough for her foster mother to be able to discern her outline. It was Sean's girl all right, there was no mistaking the heavy build. Puppy fat that would melt in a few years and she'd grow into a fine strong girl.
‘We'd better be goin' home, child.’ Mrs Flaherty was trembling violently with relief. ‘There's supper on the stove and a big blazing fire in the field for you to warm your frozen bones by. You must be perished. Whatever did you stop away all night for and give us a scare like we've not had since …’ Since your Daddy was crawling about bleeding to death!
‘There's no hurry.’ Donna's voice sounded strange, almost like she had a throat infection. ‘And I've got something to show you, Mammy.’
‘Well you can show me when we get home.’ This was no place to be hanging about and it was getting very dark now.
‘But we can't take home what I've got to show you.’ The girl smiled, those same green eyes of Sean's that showed up in the dark like a cat's. ‘You'll have to come with me.’
‘Oh, very well then, but be quick about it 'cause my old bones are beginning to ache with the damp.’
Donna turned, began to walk slowly back up the path, Mrs Flaherty struggling to keep the silhouette in sight. ‘Don't walk so fast, child, your Mammy's not as young as she used to be. And another thing, how did you not come to be found by the police? They searched the wood for you, even got a man in a diving suit to go down into the pool and …’
‘They didn't look very hard,’ Donna O'Brien laughed. ‘or perhaps they saw me and they didn't see me.’
‘Now you're talking in riddles. Hurry up and show me what you've got to show me and let's get back.’
‘There. There it is!’
Mrs Flaherty stared through the trees, saw a patch of night sky that glinted ominously on a sheet of very black w
ater.
‘It's that damned pool, child. Is that what you've brought me all the way here for? Be damned with it, it's an evil place.’
‘It depends.’ There was a pensive expression on the girl's face which for some reason wasn't hidden by shadows any longer. ‘There's both evil and good in it, that's why there's been so much trouble lately. The evil is much stronger than the good. A man hanged himself in here last night, you know. The police have taken his body away. Hanged and gibbetted himself and the birds ate quite a lot of him.’
‘What!’ The old woman stepped back, felt icy fingers clutching at her heart, speeding up the beat so that her frail body was vibrating with it. ‘So that's what the police took away all wrapped up in a blanket, and when I rushed after them thinking maybe it was you they'd found, they said “Not to worry, Ma, it's not the girl” and wouldn't tell me any more. Be Jesus, let's get home quick, child.’
‘I'm not coming home.’ There was a new edge to Donna's voice which disturbed Mrs Flaherty, something more sinister than mere childhood petulance.‘This is my home. Let me show you around.’
‘You're ill, child, suffering with a fever brought on by sleeping out in that thunderstorm. Come on now, you come home with your Mammy and I'll tuck you up in bed and …’
‘Come … with … me!’ Donna O'Brien's voice cut into Petronilla's brain with all the viciousness of a whiplash. She found her aching feet moving forward in obedience, trying to hold back because if she fell she would topple right down into that deep water below, but there was no stopping them.
‘This is where I live now.’ Donna was several yards ahead up the steeply rising rocky ledge. ‘Down there with the others. You'll see.’
Terror such as Mrs Flaherty had never known in her life before. The girl was mad, just like her father and Paddy. Maybe she'd even helped the boy set fire to that cottage, started all this trouble deliberately. But there was no way the tinker woman could stop herself from climbing after Donna as though some invisible rope linked them, pulling her along.
