‘Yes.’ He is marching back towards the cars. ‘Lyla’s with the Spaldings, right? So she’s safe, yes?’
I try to walk as fast as him. ‘Of course.’
‘Good,’ he says. ‘That’s good.’
I give up chasing and watch him as he gets into the Land Rover. Without a hint of goodbye, he cranks the engine and races away, flinging mud and leaves into the stony walls of the lay-by. I get a glimpse of his face as he skids into the distance.
He is on a mission. He has something urgent but necessary to do.
I think of the way he shot that sheep.
Tavyhurst Church
Wednesday afternoon
I’ve spent another hour walking around the moors as the light dies. Trying to work out the puzzles. Where did Adam go, his face suddenly filled with fury? I definitely saw the rage, but for once it wasn’t aimed at me.
The puzzle is unsolved. I walk the springy dry turf, away from Bellever Tor, towards Postbridge car park, trudging moors as Adam and I used to do, when we were young and in love.
Once more I jog around the circuit of the facts. I am sure I didn’t try to kill myself. Someone is out there. Someone who looks like Adam. Or it is Adam, because he still has no alibi. Alternatively, perhaps, it is nothing to do with our family, could be it really is a random stranger. A random psycho. A teenager from the Devonport slums, on skunk. Wanting to kill me. To kill Lyla. For no reason at all.
And how does this fit in with my mother, and my husband’s supposed evil traits? I’m not sure I can trust anything my brother says, at the moment.
The confusion becomes weariness, and the weariness drags as I climb in the car. Engine on. I drive quite fast through the closing dark and the encroaching fog. In the murk, it feels as if mine is the only car on the moor, my headlights making lonely silver cones in the mist. I imagine someone watching these lights from a hillside far away, wondering who I am and where I am driving.
The cattle grids rattle. I see a turning and the headlights catch a black-and-white roadsign. Tavyhurst ¾ mile.
I remember that name: I remember the village church. St Andrew’s, Tavyhurst. It’s where my mother asked us to hold her memorial ceremony. It was another strange request, like asking for her ashes to be scattered at Kitty Jay’s grave. My mum despised Christianity, the patriarchal faiths, the conventional funeral. It seemed odd that she wanted us to assemble there. I never could work it out.
On an impulse, I take the turning. The last slants of winter sun cast upon the wintry hedgerows a brief, rich, saddening copper – which fades to blackness and darkness, as Tavyhurst appears over the rise: a cluster of thatched cottages and ugly council houses. At the centre, by a black duckpond scummed with dead leaves, is a shuttered post office, a pub closed for the winter and the medieval church.
Parking by the pond, I button my coat against the cold. This is a proper Dartmoor freeze, dry and steely. I wonder if there is another ammil on the way. If so, it will ruin the plans for the swaling. Everyone is making firebreaks, cutting notches in the gorse, getting ready for the big yellow and scarlet fires. My mother would be packing picnics.
There was certainly no ammil on the day we remembered her. It was a classic dank grey Dartmoor winter afternoon like today. We all filed through this metal gate, walked past the Georgian gravestones and pushed open the iron-bolted fourteenth-century door.
I push it now. The interior of the church is dim and chilly, and soaked with the usual sweet, sour, melancholy perfumes of mildewed paper, old incense, wildflower water left too long. An English church in an English village, stranded by time and history.
Why did Mum choose to be remembered here?
Sitting myself in a pew as the final winter daylight strains through the gaunt, stained-glass windows, I examine the memorials along the walls, the dusty marble tombs of the local gentry, the brass plaques dedicated to dead archdeacons, of local sailors in the Royal Navy. Remnants of Empire.
Everything feels deceased.
I look down the empty aisle, past empty pews, to the west wall of the church, where ropes hang from silent bells in the silent tower. It feels as if there is no one on the moors but me. But I am not mad. I did not try to kill myself. I will find an explanation. I will, I will, I will. Perhaps it is here. Where my mother was remembered.
Leaning back, breathing deep, I gaze up at the ceiling. And my blood runs hot and icy.
The Green Man.
All along the medieval ceiling are wooden bosses decorating the curves of the wooden arches, each one engraved with a version of the Green Man, grinning, leering: vomiting tendrils and vines. One is skeletal, another fat-faced. There must be a dozen or more. A festival of writhing mouths and eyes, death and fertility, the skull vomiting the rose.
The wind bangs the door, making me jump.
This pagan motif, the Green Man, is common in Dartmoor churches.
You can find it over doorways, under windows, even carved into gravestones. But I have never seen so many as this in one place. Leering faces laughing down at me.
This is my mother’s bleak joke on all of us. Another key to her puzzle. She chose a church stuffed with non-Christian symbols. We didn’t realize she was telling us something. And she is still talking to me, weaving her spell.
Katarina, darling. Katarina, Katarina …
Katarina.
I need to understand what she is saying and I will be free.
Something about fertility and sex and death.
Now I wonder if she is saying something specifically about her own death. Why her remains were scattered at Kitty Jay’s grave, the famous suicide spot: where the shamed woman was buried – with the unwanted child in her womb.
A cold wind presses at my neck as I gaze down the empty nave to the altar and the choir. I can smell the moor that surrounds us: the sheepshit and the mires, the dead leaves and dead marriages.
The wind blows through the door that I stupidly left open. Oddly. It feels as if it is blowing in time with my breathing. The world is surrounding me. And the door creaks on the breeze, and now I realize that I can hear someone. Behind me. Someone has come into the church, with great quietness. I can hear footsteps. Stealthy and soft. Someone trying to be as silent as possible.
Creeping up behind me.
My mind freezes, my fear burns. Yes, I hear footsteps. Light, female footsteps.
I dare not look round. Because who would come to a deserted medieval Dartmoor church on a dark winter evening? Only someone looking for me.
In the chill, I hear that voice, once more, and the cold wind raises the hairs on my neck.
‘Kat.’
I do not turn.
‘Katarina.’
It is the breeze.
‘Oh, Katarina … My darling, I never meant to favour him …’
The world is frozen. It is an ammil of the soul.
‘Kat … Kat … my darling. Katarina.’
It is my mother’s voice. Behind me.
I turn.
Kennec Farm
Late Wednesday afternoon
As he neared the cottage, Adam looked left, where the wet grey grass yielded to a line of rowans and gorse and tiny stunted trees, where moss streamed in ribbons. The rags of moss looked like strips of green cloth, clouties tied by locals praying for sick children, for the dying, forever petitioning the Lord.
Help us. Help us.
But of course, there was no one listening, no help to be had. There was no man on the moor, and no God in the heavens. Adam had to do it all for himself. Save them all.
He felt an odd sense of calm as he contemplated things. He’d solved the puzzle. This was it. Everything fitted together: he just had to restrain his brutal anger.
Kath’s diagnosis, of prosopagnosia, was too piercing and perceptive to ignore. He’d seen it himself. Years ago, he’d watched as Lyla mistook Charlie for Oscar – misnamed them – even as they stood right in front of her, one Christmas. These were cousins she’d known, essentially, si
nce birth. Yet in Adam’s presence she had misidentified them.
Of course he’d never shared this. It was just a one-off: that’s what he had told himself. He didn’t need to give Kath more evidence, to have their daughter carted off, packaged, put in a little box called Autism Spectrum Disorder. That’s why he’d kept it to himself, at the time. Yet this new diagnosis, face-blindness, explained too much, right now.
Lyla has surely witnessed, that night, a man who looked very much like Adam. A man who had probably had sex with Kath. A man like Adam yet not Adam. A Redway of a similar age; one of the cousins. And Harry Redway was ruled out. He was in the Warren that night, with Adam.
This left one candidate.
Adam knocked on the door of the cottage. Night was over the next hill. The moon was already hiding behind inky clouds.
Jack Bryant answered wearing T-shirt and jeans, motorbike boots. And that deceptive grin. ‘Well, well. Hello, Cousin, whassup?’
‘Can’t you guess?’
Jack sighed sarcastically and wiped his dirty hands – soaked with motorbike oil – on a rag. A man who liked to mess with engines. He chucked the rag on a shelf. ‘Nah, sorry. Forgot my mind-reading goggles.’
‘Have another go.’ Adam stepped closer.
Jack didn’t budge, blocking the door.
Adam repeated, ‘I said: have another go.’
Jack squared his muscled shoulders. ‘What the bloody fuck are you on about, Ad?’
Adam allowed himself a half-smile. ‘What did you do to my wife, Jack, the night she tried to kill herself?’
‘You what?’
Somewhere in the yard the wind rattled in metal. The farmyard, as Adam had already noted, was a total mess. Cousin Jack wasn’t much of a farmer, he was more like Adam’s dad. Booze and gambling. Motorbikes.
Drugs.
Women.
Adam said again, ‘What did you do to my wife, Jack, the night she tried to fucking kill herself?’
This time Jack shook his head. ‘Ach. Fuck off, Adam. Nutter.’
‘What did you do? You did it. I know you did. I can’t believe I didn’t work it out before. You and women, you always like it rough. Don’t you? And you always liked my wife.’ He pushed his way in, a hand firm on Jack’s chest. Adam was taller by two inches, but Jack was not small. Was this size difference enough? No. Adam had to restrain himself. Have it out with words. Call the police. But get satisfaction first.
The hallway smelt of mud and dogs and rain and beer. This was the house of a bachelor farmer, who liked the girls.
Jack stared at Adam’s hand on his chest. ‘Get your fucking hands off me, Adam.’
Adam stepped back a few inches, preparing. He made fists of his hands, but resisted the urge, for now, to punch his cousin. Very hard. Though he’d always wanted to. Ever since that night back in Chagford, all those years ago. Jack had always teased him with that knowledge of the past, used it, manipulated Adam with an air of joking devilment, yet with malignance, too.
And Adam had never forgotten the way Jack teased the ponies with the Trebor mints before putting a bolt in their brain, laughing at the blood, at the desperate, whinnying mares.
The two men stood in the darkness of the hallway, breathing heavily.
‘Look, calm the fuck down, you melt,’ said Jack at last.
‘What did you do that night? Where were you? Not at the Warren, like everyone else.’
‘Sorry? Am I going mental, or is it you?’
‘I was in the Warren that night, with Harry and the other guys. They all said that they hadn’t seen you for a while. Since Christmas. Dez said, at the time, you were in London, maybe, but you never go to London.’
‘Really.’
‘Yes,’ Adam growled. ‘Yes. Fucking. Really. So where were you?’
Jack glanced quickly around him as if looking for a weapon. A wrench, a blade, a hammer. Then he stared back at his cousin.
‘Listen up, Adam. Get this clear.’ Jack shook his head angrily. ‘I literally have No Fucking Clue what you are talking about. I had nothing to do with whatever shit your crazy wife did.’ He folded his tattooed arms.
Muscles bulged in his biceps.
Adam wondered who would win, if they fought. Probably he would, but he couldn’t be sure. Jack Bryant was definitely the kind of guy who’d use a blade, if it came to it. Adam wondered what kind of guy he was: could he use a blade on this bastard, the man who had been tormenting his daughter, cutting up hares, seducing his wife, or worse?
‘Why do you think I had any involvement with Kath, you nut? It’s bollocks. Total bollocks,’ Jack scowled dismissively. ‘She’s too old for me now, anyway. Like ’em younger. Sagging tits and a drooping arse don’t do it for me any more.’
Adam raised a hand, close to punching, to killing, even. ‘I know it’s you, Bryant. Been you all along. Because you love all this shit: joking, teasing, cruelty. You’re a sadist. You liked killing the ponies, you loved tricking them. Didn’t you? I remember the way you grinned, with the blood and brains all over you. Sometimes you’d do it in front of the mothers, wouldn’t you, bolt the foals, let the mothers foam and whinny. So you could kill them too. My uncle despised you for that, everyone despised you for that.’
‘Jesus.’
Adam moved closer, before Jack could find a knife. ‘What’s more, this is when I realized it was you. This afternoon. Talking to Kath. You’re the only one who knows all those ghost stories, all that folk stuff, from Nan in Doccombe. Aren’t you? Especially that song. Because there are only two people who might know that song.’ Adam stiffened himself, readying himself. ‘We both know one of them, and she’s dead, so that leaves you. You went to Doccombe with me the day she taught us that song. You and me. I’ve remembered. So it’s you that’s been freaking Lyla out, teaching her that song about the blue lights. It was you that blinded those hares. It was you left that rat there, with the teeth, poisoned, and it’s you that’s been putting down those stones. It’s been you all along, playing some stupid game. This is the shit you do. And you did something to my wife that night. You drugged her. You fucked her. You’ve always got drugs. And then you messed with her car, the brakes, the throttle, and made her drive into the water. It was you.’
‘Jesus.’ Jack smirked in the gloom. ‘You’ve got it bad.’
He turned his back on Adam and pushed open the door to the kitchen. Adam followed, his fury contained. But violence was coming. He could sense that Jack sensed it. Jack didn’t have his back to him for long.
They were face to face again. The room was brutally austere. Some cheap cans of beer stood on an old wooden table. A stopped clock hadn’t been fixed. A few dirty plates were piled in the sink.
Jack grabbed one of the cans, cracked it open and drank, and offered another to Adam. ‘Seriously, mate, fresh out the fridge. Have one before you bust a fucking blood vessel.’
Adam waved the beer away. He surveyed the room again, looking for proof, for anything, before he beat the living shit out of Jack Bryant. A large photo of a young woman, pretty and blonde in a summer dress, with long, tanned legs was pinned to a corkboard.
‘Not bad eh?’ Jack smiled, watching Adam. ‘Lives in Okehampton. Name’s Amy. Dental nurse. Arse on her, Jesus.’ He tilted the beer, drank, burped loudly.
Adam felt the urge to smash the can from Jack’s hand, put a knife to his throat, force a confession. It was coming, it was coming, the violence was coming. Now, now, now. Beat the truth out of him. Because if he got some confession out of him, any kind of confession, his wife wasn’t mad.
Somehow Jack Bryant must be responsible, someone had to be responsible. If it was Jack Bryant it would explain things, and they could go back to being happy, him and Lyla and Kath. It was all Adam wanted.
Jack slugged another mouthful of beer, and pointed, once more, to the photo.
‘Remind you of anyone?’
Adam snapped. He swung a punch at Jack. It was a good punch: he felt his knuckles crunch into Jack’s
chin. He felt teeth and muscle yield and crack under the weight of his fist, felt the kind of crunch that turns into proper pain. Bruises and blood.
A good first punch. Almost a knockout blow. Practically a jaw-breaker.
Jack staggered back, dropping the beer can, coughing blood. He grabbed a tea towel to wipe it away. Adam knew he should go in for more: he had the advantage. He could finish him off, beat him to the ground, kick him till he was unconscious. Kick the sludge of brain out of his ears and nose. But he couldn’t. He was a father. And a National Park Ranger. He’d lose his job. However much he wanted to take revenge, he had to obey the law. He needed to go to the police. He had his proof. Jack Bryant was the man.
Adam reached for his mobile phone, but as he took it from his pocket Jack flung the tea towel away, and smirked. He smirked.
‘You know, Adam …’ Jack coughed, and spat a glob of blood into the sink. ‘Before you call the cops with your fucking theory, maybe you should hear something. About that girl in the photo.’ Adam stared at him. What was this?
‘Because, funnily enough, she’s your answer, mate. Adam. Cuz. Her with the legs and the tits. Between her legs is where I was, December thirtieth, the night your mad bitch of a wife drove into the water. I was with Amy Royle.’ Jack had regained himself, no longer slurring, no longer coughing blood. He took up another can of beer and grinned as he drank. ‘Yeah. I was with Amy, in Florida, a winter fucking holiday. We went via London, all right, but we went to Florida, and got back New Year’s Day. We kept it quiet cos she’s got a fiancé, she didn’t want him to know, but she thinks he’s a dick, prefers me in bed. Cos, you know, I know how to fuck a girl. Do it properly. Shove her face in the pillow, force her legs open – they love it, they love it rough, with a proper man. They say they don’t, but they do.’ Another shot of lager. ‘Perhaps you should try it on your wife?’
Adam wanted to punch again. But he held back.
‘You ever been to sunny Florida? You could take your poor little girl. Y’know, Disneyland. Cheer her up. Get out of that pit of a longhouse.’
And now Adam stood there. Not knowing how to react. Jack Bryant was cruel, selfish, uncaring – but he wasn’t an idiot. He wouldn’t say any of this if he couldn’t prove it. Airline tickets, hotel receipts, it would all be on record. Jack Bryant was too smart to make this up if it could be easily disproved.
Just Before I Died Page 23
