by cass green
With difficulty she tries to get it to close and, after a moment, it moves suddenly, painfully trapping the skin of her knuckle.
She sucks the blood away and blinks back hot tears, determined not to cry. If she starts now, she won’t ever stop.
The knock at the front door, half an hour later, makes her leap up from the table. She had been drinking a cup of coffee and eating some cereal, despite having a stomach that feels like a closed fist.
As she opens the front door there is a reassuring static emission from a police radio. A short, round female officer with chestnut bobbed hair and keen dark eyes peers at her. Next to her is a male officer, who is tall and thin with heavy brows. His face is folded into grumpy wrinkles.
‘Thank God you’re here,’ says Neve and barely manages to resist the urge to hug them.
Inside they sit at the table. Slowly, and carefully, Neve goes through the whole story, from being left the cottage in the first place (which prompts an exchange of raised eyebrow glances) to the magpie, Jarvis’s escape and injury, to getting back tonight and seeing the axe is missing.
She is aware that they haven’t made many notes when she finishes. The silence in the kitchen makes the back of her neck prickle with irritation.
‘Look, I know what you’re thinking,’ she blurts at last. The female police officer’s expression remains impassive.
‘What’s that then?’ she says.
Neve hesitates. ‘Well, I know how it sounds. You probably think I’ve let my imagination run riot.’
There is another pause and then the policeman speaks.
‘Is it something about this property, Miss, er, Carey?’
Neve frowns. ‘What do you mean?’
They exchange glances again.
‘Well,’ says the policewoman, ‘it’s just that we have been here before you see. When the previous, uh, owner was here. She seemed to be convinced that she was in danger in some way, despite taking, uh, security precautions.’
Neve leans forward and places her hands flat on the table, palms down.
‘I know,’ she says. ‘Bars! Doesn’t that make you wonder? That maybe there really is someone lurking around?’
She has to swallow back the quavering note in her voice now.
The policewoman regards her and then sighs.
‘We never did find anything out of the ordinary here,’ she says. ‘But we are very happy to do a thorough search now if that will make you feel happier?’
‘Yes.’ Neve nods her head vigorously. ‘Yes it would.’
They get up and the woman begins to wander about the cottage, while the male officer asks her to open the back door so he can look out there. With difficulty, she opens the bolt again and he thanks her and takes out a thin torch, which he switches on as he goes outside.
Neve hovers nervously in the kitchen. She half hopes they will find something odd, and half hopes they won’t. It’s hard to work out which scenario would be the least terrifying.
Jarvis pays little attention to what is going on from his basket, only occasionally looking up and giving his tail a few desultory thumps.
The female officer comes back into the kitchen and says the property seems to be secure.
The back door opens again then and the male officer stands in the doorway. He is holding the axe.
‘Is this the item you were referring to?’ he says.
Neve feels heat flooding her face and neck.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Where was it?’
The policeman looks at his colleague and then back at Neve.
‘It was just to the side of the wood pile,’ he says. ‘Can you tell me if that’s where it usually stays?’
Neve chews her lip, frowning. ‘Sort of,’ she says. ‘But it’s usually on the top. That’s where it was before.’
‘Don’t you think it’s possible that it simply … fell down?’ His tone is so reasonable that Neve feels herself get even hotter and redder.
‘I don’t see how,’ she says, raising her chin and meeting his gaze directly.
‘You don’t see how,’ he repeats. A wave of anger shudders through her.
The woman officer sighs again.
‘Look,’ she says, ‘we understand that it’s quite remote out here. It’s not for everyone. If you’re not used to the quiet, to the strange noises that old houses make … well, it can be …’ she seems to hunt for the right word, ‘unsettling for some people.’ She pauses and her expression is sympathetic for the first time. ‘I think the last lady here was … quite highly strung, shall we say, and maybe it got to her. Maybe you might want to think about whether this is the right place for you to be living too?’
Neve breathes slowly through her nose and tries to muster the frostiest expression she can manage, despite the fact her nose is reddening and her vision threatening to become a watery blur.
‘How do you explain the dog getting out then?’ she says, her voice letting her down by wobbling. ‘And the footprints? Look, they’re just …’
She points wildly at the floor, but there is now no evidence they were ever there. The room seems to lurch and tilt for a moment. Neve’s head pulses with confusion.
She’s going mad. This must be how it starts.
The male officer’s voice cuts into her thoughts.
‘Miss Carey, didn’t you tell us you’d been out drinking the night this happened? And that you were feeling unwell?’
The implication is clear.
‘The magpie,’ she says, with a defiant lift of her chin. ‘What about the fucking dead magpie then?’
‘There’s no need to raise your voice or use bad language,’ says the female officer and the injustice and frustration of this fizz almost painfully. ‘But,’ she continues, ‘I will admit this could be unsettling, especially to someone from London, who isn’t used to the actions of wildlife.’
Neve’s emotions begin to still again and she stares coldly back at the two police officers.
‘Right,’ she says. ‘It’s quite clear how you made Isabelle feel. And now I’m the second hysterical female to be bothering you, aren’t I?’
The male officer starts to speak but Neve’s high-pitched squawk of sarcastic laughter seems to surprise them all.
‘It’s okay,’ she says. ‘Off you go then. I’ll be alright. There are no axe murderers around here, that’s for sure. Go on, off you go.’
They exchange glances.
‘Miss Carey, if there’s anything else we can—’
‘No,’ says Neve. Too loud again. Too shrill. ‘You go and get on with more important police business now. Sorry to have inconvenienced you. I’m all good here, that’s for sure.’
‘And anyway,’ she adds. ‘I’ve got this brilliant guard dog, haven’t I?’
All three of them look at Jarvis.
Dreaming heavily, he sticks out a shivering back leg and the kitchen fills with a noxious smell.
A few minutes later she is alone again. She puts on Radio 6 in the sitting room loudly and then goes back and unplugs the radio from the wall. She doesn’t trust that radio.
Going back into the kitchen she, somewhat guiltily, wakes up the dog and encourages him to come sit by her side.
‘I don’t like it here, Jarvis,’ she says out loud. ‘It’s a horrible shitty, creepy cottage and I wish I’d never gone anywhere near Waterloo Bridge that night. I don’t like it, and I don’t want it.’
She hates herself for being so weak, so ‘hysterical’ as the police clearly thought. She tries to imagine what it felt like for Isabelle, here in this house, becoming increasingly frightened. So frightened she went to the extremes of getting bars put on the windows.
So frightened that she killed herself?
Neve reaches for the prison band on the table and then remembers the note in the pocket of Isabelle’s waxed jacket.
When she gets up the dog gratefully slinks back to his basket.
She walks back into the kitchen, studying the limp piece of notepaper.
<
br /> HMP LL 14/07/16. PBH date TBC
Neve pours herself a glass of wine and goes to the table, where she stares at the piece of paper.
The HMP LL part is clear now – Her Majesty’s Prison Low Linney. What does PBH mean though? She searches her brain for the possible meaning of the initials but finds nothing.
Neve grabs one of the envelopes she opened earlier and hadn’t cleared away and picks up an old Biro that she finds on the table.
She starts to doodle the word ‘Prison’ and then makes a mind map of words associated.
Bars
Screws
Drug
Lock up
Break out
Free
Parole
The words begin to come to her and soon she finds herself writing down the word, ‘Parole’ and then, faster, ‘Parole board’.
She looks at the note again and the meaning seems to float up from the back of her brain, as though it had been waiting there for her all along.
PBH.
Parole Board Hearing.
Her mind is racing now.
This prisoner that Isabelle was visiting, maybe he was coming out? And if so, could he be the person who was frightening her? But why visit him?
She shifts in her seat. This man could be on the loose, trying to freak out Neve for reasons of his own. This thought causes a sudden sick lurch in her stomach. Her brain floods again with images of hulking men with hidden faces; knives, axes held within meaty hands. Watching her from outside.
From inside …
‘Get a fucking grip!’ she says out loud and the dog starts.
Come on, she says, inside her head now. Think this through. Be systematic for once. Be the logical person. Think about it like Lou would.
So, if there was a person like that on the scene, why would Isabelle go to visit him? Neve taps her fingers on the table rhythmically and tries to think this through.
Whatever was going on, she has a feeling that Bob Dyer, the policeman, is connected in some way. Why was he watching the cottage? Why did he rush away?
Neve reaches for the Christmas card and looks at the address inside:
6, The Fairway, Sherborne, Dorset.
She has no idea how far away this is, or how she will get there. But she doesn’t think she can sell this cottage without understanding what happened to Isabelle here.
Bob Dyer seems like the only person who can help her right now.
32
Diary entry –19/07/16
I was doing so well.
Despite grieving for Granny, I was really getting back on my feet. Forcing myself to take on her beloved garden helped, as did the presence of old Jarvis.
And now all I can think about is HIM again.
My letter to the parole board was cathartic but ultimately pointless. He’s coming out anyway.
The words in their letter are seared onto my brain even though I ripped it into tiny shreds and then burned it in the kitchen sink.
‘We can assure you that the Parole Board fully took the matters you raised into account in its decision-making process. However, the Board concluded that in the light of the length of sentence served, positive reports about his behaviour and the prisoner’s recent ill-health, he is safe to be released.’
Safe? I’ll never feel safe again.
I thought I was being so brave, booking that visit, when I had word the hearing was due. I knew there must be a chance he would be freed. He had been a ‘model prisoner’ according to Bob’s research.
I suppose I thought if I saw him in the flesh, I could lay it all to rest once and for all.
What a bloody fool I am.
He seemed so ORDINARY. He could have been any whey-faced, overweight, elderly man.
He didn’t speak at first, just sat there drumming his stubby fingers on the leg of his grey prison trousers. I made myself sit there for several minutes, looking straight at him. I could see he was uncomfortable and I was glad. How can monsters be so … normal? That was what felt so strange, after years of seeing him as twenty feet tall in my imagination for all those years.
I forced myself to utter a single word after a few minutes. The only possible word.
‘Why?’
He stared at me with his watery green eyes and for a second something shifted in his expression. He muttered, ‘It was a long time ago. I was a different man.’ His voice was reedy and high.
There seemed to be no reason to stay after that. I felt suddenly exhausted and I got up to leave. As I was about to walk away he said in a quiet voice, ‘Isabelle Shawcross …’ drawing out all the syllables in an almost luxurious way.
I flinched. Then I realized; he would know my name if I was accepted as a visitor. I didn’t even think to tell the prison to withhold that information. And then … and then a slow smile spread across his face and he said, ‘You look just like her, you know. Same eyes. I remember them still. How they looked up at me.’
I just about managed to get out of the room to get to the Ladies to be sick. There was something so malignant in that smile. As if he deliberately wanted to frighten me. Bastard, bastard, BASTARD.
My one small comfort was that surely this would stop him getting parole. I mean, how couldn’t it?
But as far as they were concerned, he hadn’t done anything threatening.
They just didn’t care.
And now, according to Bob, today is the day he gets out. All Bob’s reassurances about keeping an eye on him don’t help.
I thought this cottage would be a haven and now all I see are shadows.
33
Neve stays up late planning her journey. She can get a bus to St Piron, then another to Truro. From there she will get a train to Exeter, then another to Sherborne.
It’s going to take the best part of four hours. Neve thinks about her dwindling finances and the prospect of selling the cottage quickly. But it will have to wait. She has to see this through now or it will nag at her for the rest of her life.
She looks down at the sleeping dog. Richard is back in the morning and she is dreading having to explain what happened. She just hopes she won’t be made to feel like a neglectful criminal. Neve is already sure he’s not going to believe that anything weird is going on in this cottage. He has that air, the patronizing one a lot of men have, as if she is a bit of a fool. Not a proper person, to be taken seriously. A pretty face with a head full of fluff.
Is this what Isabelle felt? That no one believed her?
Neve gets up and does another round of checks on the doors and windows to distract herself from the fear, which feels like it could envelop her, tsunami-like, if she let it. Next she checks the electricity meter, anxiety worming in her stomach about the lights going off, knowing this really would be the end of her.
Checks all done, she picks up the knife and her iPad and persuades a sleepy, reluctant Jarvis to come through to the sitting room with her. The dog gives her a forbearing look and lies at her feet, groaning as he settles into place.
Online, she types ‘Women who visit men in prison’ into Google and finds there are multiple hits, with titles such as, ‘Why do women love men who kill?’ and ‘The Death Row Brides’.
Neve is soon engrossed. She learns that serial killers such as Ted Bundy and Charles Manson received hundreds of letters from adoring women on the outside. Soham Murderer Ian Huntley has received thousands, she reads, with a shudder. There are even specialist websites with names such as MeetAPrisoner.com and InmatesForYou.com.
An article from an online newspaper quotes ‘psychologist Lindy Preston, author of Women Who Love Killers’ who says, ‘the type of women drawn to this sort of behaviour are often those with a very poor body image or problems with self-esteem. It may be that they feel these type of desperate men are the only ones they deserve. Alternatively, they may have a strong religious incentive to make contact with men who have committed terrible acts. They may feel that they will be the ones who will show them forgiveness and reform them.’
>
Neve sits back and idly strokes Jarvis’s back as she takes this in. Was Isabelle one of the desperate ones? Surely not. By anyone’s reckoning she was a beautiful woman.
What, though, if she had contacted him and then he got out and stalked her?
But then why does no one around here – the Gardners, Richard Shawcross – seem to have an awareness of it?
Neve gives a growl of frustration that makes Jarvis twitch in his sleep.
None of this really makes any sense. She can only hope that her long trip to Dorset tomorrow will lead to some light being shed on this whole scenario.
She tries to stay awake as long as possible but after a while her eyes are so gritty and sore that she can’t stop them from drooping. Her chin keeps jerking to her chest and she awakes with small cries that send her heart frantically pounding in her chest. The sickening jolt of it becomes too much after a while and she begins to surrender, making sure her fist encloses the handle of the knife.
As her body sinks sideways onto the sofa, Neve thinks about the first night, and how the cat came into the house and frightened her. Funny that it has never come back, she thinks, as the irresistible suck and drag of sleep begins to pull her down.
At first she is conscious that it is a dream. She even thinks she speaks to the dog to say so. Then she is riding a bike, for the first time in years, down a country road. Sunlight sparkles through the canopy of trees overhead and the colours of everything are more vibrant than in real life. The grass is bright emerald green and the flowers dotting the side of the road a yellow so sharp it almost hurts her eyes.
Suddenly Lou is next to her, also on a bike. They begin to race, going faster and faster, and at first Lou is laughing, then Neve realizes that her sister is wracked with heart-breaking sobs and begging her to stop.
She takes her feet off the pedals and free-wheels but she is crying now too for some reason and the sadness is almost unbearable. It’s like she will never get over this feeling, nor will she be able to stop.
When she does, there is no impact, or sensation of shock. She is just sitting in the road with the bicycle next to her, wheels spinning with a tick-tick-tick sound. She looks at her hands and realizes they are slick with blood, up to the elbows as if she has dipped her whole arms into a bucket of gore. She doesn’t cry or scream, but feels a sense of great curiosity as she holds them up to the light and studies them. When she looks down at the road again, she sees that the entire surface is red and sticky.
