by Tim Lebbon
“I’m coming now, babe.”
“We’re doing the right thing, aren’t we? You don’t think this will just dig it all up again?”
Tom winced at her choice of words. “Jo, we’ve agreed that we’ll go, and I think it’s the right thing to do. Really. Besides, it’ll be good to get away. Steven will be on our minds, but it’ll be a break for us too. A break from everything.”
“Some things you can’t escape from,” she said.
He nodded, hugged her. “Let’s go.”
Jo hugged him back, and as Tom looked around the room he held on hard to his wife.
* * *
They were silent for most of the journey. Jo made occasional comments – pointing out a hovering sparrow hawk, an air balloon, asking Tom whether he wanted some mints – and Tom answered briefly, with a yes or a no, or sometimes with a nod or a shake of the head. It was not because he did not wish to talk, nor even because he knew that Jo really only wanted to sit there and think about the coming weekend. His silence was borne mainly of frustration.
In his back pocket sat the envelope he had found shoved beneath a windscreen wiper blade when he had been loading the car. He had not yet had a chance to open it without Jo seeing. And he had a feeling – a – that whatever it contained he would not want to share with her.certainty
He must have waited outside the pub, followed me home.
“Shouldn’t be long now,” Jo said. Tom nodded.
Couldn’t finish the story face-to-face, and now it’s there in my back pocket, more hints at the truth.
“It’s been a long time since we were down this way.”
Tom was certain the envelope was from Nathan King. Anything else would be a huge coincidence, and a cruel one.
The miles swept by and Jo nodded off. The envelope burned in his trouser pocket. Read me, read me. He even began to reach into his pocket, but the car drifted into the next lane and the blare of a lorry’s horn startled him back to awareness.
“Shit,” Tom muttered, heart pummelling him for his stupidity.
“You want me to drive the rest of the way?” Jo said, yawning.
“No, no, I’m fine. Fine.”
Don’t feel fine. Feel fucked.
The motorway filtered down to dual carriageway, then they turned onto an A-road, and then B-roads led through startlingly beautiful countryside to the village where they were staying.
Not far from here, Tom thought. Not far from here at all.
After a few minutes they pulled up in the driveway to their holiday cottage.
“You check out the box in the shed where they said they’d leave the keys,” Tom said. “I’ll start unloading the car.”
As soon as Jo’s back was turned Tom pulled out the envelope, and though there was no writing in the clear window, Tom’s name had been scrawled across the front in red ink. Whoever had written his name had pushed so hard that the pen had torn the paper, like a cut in pale flesh. He ripped it open, glanced at Jo disappearing around the side of the cottage, and pulled out the sheet of folded paper.
It was a map, an enlarged OS section of part of Salisbury Plain. And near the centre, away from any distinguishing features, sat a small, neat ‘X’. It was marked in red. There was nothing else, but no explanation was needed.
“X marks the spot,” Tom whispered, and then he heard Jo’s footsteps in the gravel behind him, and he crumpled the map and envelope in his hand.
“Lovely cottage,” he said, even though this was the first time he had even glanced at it.
“Don’t break your back unloading the car, will you?”
Tom smacked Jo’s butt as she walked by, delighted at her giggle, already wondering how he could get away on his own for a few hours.
* * *
After unloading the car they had a look around the cottage together. It was small, cosy and very countrified, with plates lining walls, dried twigs stacked on windowsills and arranged in an old china pot, and dozens of landscape prints by local artists gracing the walls upstairs. The bath was an old, cast-iron freestanding type, great chunky pipes standing proud off the floor at one end like the exposed arteries of the house. The toilet would not have looked out of place in a museum. The air was musty with age, and although Tom spotted air fresheners secreted in several places upstairs and down, he thought they were fighting a losing battle. This house was old – maybe three hundred years – and it would take more than a few modern chemicals to purge the tang of its history from the air. It had stood for a long time, and it had a right to project its age. He breathed in deeply and enjoyed the aroma, smiling at Jo when she gave him a quizzical look.
From the kitchen a low door revealed an impossibly narrow staircase that led down to the cold room. Jo declined Tom’s offer to investigate, but he had always been one for exploring hidden places. It was that idea of never quite knowing what he would find: an old painting in the attic, a forgotten master; a half-buried chest in a seaside cave, the padlock a rusted remnant from centuries before. He never had found anything of value, but that did not deter him. In fact, it encouraged him to explore further, because really it was the mystery that lured him on. If he ever did find something other than darkness and empty spaces, the mystery would dissipate, and perhaps he would change.
The staircase was narrow and twisted in a tight half-spiral, so that even moving down sideways Tom’s shoulders and gut touched the walls. He would be filthy when he came back up, but the cool, damp darkness below was irresistible.
“What’s down there?” Jo called. She was standing aside from the doorway, allowing as much light as possible to enter.
“Spiders,” Tom called. “Big ones. Huge. huge! Oh my Unnaturally God!”
“What?”
Tom chuckled and the sound carried up and down. Above it elicited a muttered curse from Jo, and below it echoed for a second, overlapping itself and turning into a groan. Tom took out his car keys and pressed the button on the tiny torch that hung on the key ring. Its maker’s claim that its light could reach nearly a mile was instantly vaporised when the beam barely managed to fight back the dark more than a couple of feet.
Thick dark, Tom thought, like it hasn’t been disturbed for ages.
At the bottom of the narrow stairs he found himself in a tiny room, with a low ceiling and bare stone walls. The walls had been whitewashed at some time in the distant past, but moisture had bled through and shed the paint to the floor. His torch lit the room just enough for him to see that there was nothing down here, other than a few shelves and a damp floor that looked prone to flooding. No sign of an electric light, and no indication that the room had been used for decades.
It was cold. Bitterly cold. He wondered if everywhere underground was like this.
“Anything?” Jo called. Her voice was muffled, even though the staircase only took a half-turn.
“It’s horrible!” Tom called back, putting on his best Hammer Horror voice.
“Well, retreat from the horror and help me in the bedroom.”
“That’s an offer I can’t refuse.”
Jo laughed. “Maybe after dinner if you’re lucky.”
“If lucky!”you’re
He started up the staircase, knees straining from the unnatural angle at which he had to climb. He thought of the people who had actually used this place to store their meat and perishables and wondered how they had lived, whether they had shared the same banter as he and Jo. Perhaps the cottage was haunted. At least a ghost tickling his foot in the night would take his mind off Steven, and that map, and the fact that Nathan King for some reason wanted him to find the grave.
Or did he? Maybe the red X was a red herring. Perhaps King was just a cruel man, taking pleasure in Tom’s desperation and loss.
“You’re filthy!” Jo said. “Oh for God’s sake, you and your bloody exploring.”
“Want to wash me off in the bath?”
“Stop being a frisky old sod and carry our suitcase upstairs, will you?” She smiled at him, one s
ide of her mouth rising in a look that spoke of years of love and familiarity. Sometimes Tom thought they knew each other too well – that Steven’s death had left an irreparable hole in their lives that they tried to fill with more of themselves – but he found endless comfort in their strong relationship. Many people turned to God, but he had to look no further than his wife.
Upstairs, Tom and Jo unpacked their suitcase, hung their clothes, pulled back the bedclothes to let them air, and all the while Tom was aware of the map in his back pocket. It felt heavier than a simple piece of paper. He kept touching the pocket, slipping his finger inside to make sure it was still there. If Jo found it he had no idea what he would tell her. Not the truth, for sure: Jo, I think this is where Steven is really buried. Oh no. That way lay madness. But lying to his wife was not something that came naturally, and he was sure that whatever happened, she would see through his lie to the terrible truth beneath.
“What shall we do for dinner?” Jo asked.
Tom looked at her blankly for a few seconds, trying to haul his thoughts back from their buried son. “Dinner?”
“You eat it,” she said. “Here, or in the local pub?”
“Oh, er . . .” Tom shook his head. “The pub, I think.”
“You sure? I could cook the steak we brought.”
There’ll be people in the pub, he thought. Noise, bustle, spaces I can stare into without Jo wondering why. “Let’s have that tomorrow,” he said. “Come on, it’ll be nice to eat out our first night here.”
“Alright, but you’re not allowed to choose steak. That chance has gone, mister.” She pecked him on the cheek and went into the bathroom.
Tom clunked downstairs, making noise so that Jo did not think he was sneaking around. He snorted, shook his head and sat on the flowery settee in the living room. Damn it, I’m not sneaking about all fucking weekend! But he took the map from his pocket, coughing as he opened it to mask the sound of paper crinkling, and spread it on his knee. There was little to reveal its location on the Plain other than the coordinates, and for that he would have to buy a larger-scale OS map. There were no villages, farms or settlements, no major roads, and no names that he could see to identify any particular area. All the map displayed were the contour lines of gentle hills, a couple of stone mounds, and a meandering stream at the bottom edge. That, and the red X. How dare they bury my Steven in no place at all, he thought, the sentiment raw and sore in his eyes. He wiped away the first tears, sniffed, stood and walked to the kitchen. In one of the food boxes he had packed a bottle of Jameson’s, and he spun the top off and took a long, luxurious swig from the bottle.
Jo said he drank too much. But then she barely drank at all, so she did not understand the pleasure he derived from it. That was his excuse anyway, and his stock answer when she brought it up, though sometimes he thought his drinking had more to do with drowning pain than promoting pleasure.
He took another swig, put the top back on, and closed his eyes as the whiskey burned its way into his stomach. Upstairs he heard the toilet flush and the tap turn on, the water hammering the pipes and seeming to set the house shaking on its foundations.
“Tom!” Jo called.
“Okay, I hear it!” he shouted. “Probably the ghost trying to get out of the pipes.”
Jo was silent. Tom knew he could take this ghost thing too far; she claimed not to believe in them, and yet they terrified her. Perhaps the mention of ghosts only brought Steven to mind.
* * *
The local pub was surprisingly accommodating to visitors. It had a smattering of locals – they gathered at one end of the bar, playing darts or sitting protectively around their pints of local brew – but there was still an honest welcome from the staff, and a friendliness that put Tom immediately at ease. The landlady recommended a pint of local beer for him, and she let him try some before buying, which he did. She gave Jo her first glass of wine on the house, and when Tom said they’d like to eat she showed them to a comfortable, private table in an alcove close to the front door. Its window looked out onto the village street, and past the houses opposite they could make out the rolling hills of Salisbury Plain in the dusk. Tom glanced that way, saw Jo do the same, and then they both concentrated on the inside of the pub.
Tom had left the map back at the cottage, hidden in the book he had brought to read this weekend. His pocket felt empty without it, as if he had left purpose behind.
They ordered food, and while waiting they indulged in one of their own private games: spotting peculiar-looking people, giving them a name, then building a background around them. The old farmer at the end of the bar, sporting sideburns the size of small rabbits, became Major Crisis of the Indian Expeditionary Force, here on leave and making the most of British beer brewing. Whenever he spoke he spat at those around him, and Tom had to bury his face in his hands when Jo muttered, “Machine gun effect.”
There was a huge open fireplace but the fire remained unlit. Tom imagined it would be very cosy here in the winter, with flames roaring in the hearth and hail pummelling at the windows. Perhaps they would have a lock-in after eleven o’clock, allowing the locals to remain here lest the wind blow them away. The landlady would cook them bacon sandwiches throughout the night, and if any beer barrel needed changing one of the regulars would volunteer, sparse payment for their use of the pub as a shelter against the elements.
And maybe Steven had drunk here once.
Tom sighed and took a drink. Jo spotted his instant mood change but ignored it. He thanked her silently, smiled, and made a joke about the young family that had just come in. They had a daughter and son, both under five, and the parents looked hassled and strained. The children stared around the pub wide-eyed, marking places for forthcoming expeditions and items to investigate as soon as their parents turned their backs.
He might’ve had grandchildren that age, if Steven hadn’t been killed.
Tom tipped his beer, and as he was looking into the bottom of the glass King’s face came back at him, pale and haunted by what he had seen. He had obviously wanted to tell Tom everything, and yet from that first moment in the pub he had seemed reticent about speaking. He had let out a few details, but everything he said inspired a dozen more questions. And then he had left the map.
Why? What could Nathan King gain from revealing any of this? Unless it really was as he said: Maybe sharing my nightmares will lessen them.
“Do you remember how he used to like vampires and werewolves?” Jo asked. Neither of them ever had to say who they were talking about.
“And not just when he was a kid,” Tom said, smiling. “There was always something going on with him. He always liked to think about things differently.”
“Just like his father,” Jo said, smiling. “I never understood the fascination.” She was moving her wine glass around in small circles, setting the wine swirling, staring into its centre as if seeing the past in there. “Stuff like that always seems so nasty.”
“I think maybe that the fascination,” Tom said. “Finding nastier things than anything you’ll meet in the world. Reading about them. Facing them.”is
“Still, there are nicer things to read about and watch.”
Like war, and death, and murder, Tom thought, but he said nothing.
“I wonder if he’d still be into all that stuff if he were still with us,” she said, setting the glass down and watching the wine settle. She looked up at Tom, eyebrows raised.
“The person he would have been is someone we’ll never know,” Tom said. “Ten years is a long time.”
“A stranger,” Jo said sadly, and she turned and looked out the window. A street lamp reflected in her eyes, catching the moisture of threatening tears.
“Don’t cry,” Tom said. His wife looked back at him, and then their food came to save them.
They ate in silence, enjoying each other’s company and the fact that there was not always the need for conversation. Tom often saw couples sitting in pubs or restaurants, not conversing, un
comfortable, obviously with nothing to say to each other. He and Jo had never been like that; their silence was merely another form of conversation. It said, I’m alright, I’m content, I love that you’re here next to me. A big part of their being together was their comfort in themselves.
Later, Tom sipped some single malt while Jo had one more glass of wine. They had finished their meal and moved chairs so that they both sat behind the table, looking into the pub. They watched the young couple struggle through a noisy dinner, bickering with their children and each other, leaving when the little boy began crying and refused to stop, whatever the parents offered him. Major Crisis remained at the end of the bar, slumping further and further down in his seat the more he drank. He was a quiet drunk, his moist eyes blinking slowly and heavily.
Tom began to feel tired, worn out by the journey here but also troubled by the map and Nathan King’s comments. Such a weight on his shoulders, unshared. Such a burden to carry, secret from his wife. And that lie by omission caused a form of mental exhaustion. For the first time in years there was something between them, blocking the total contact their minds enjoyed and demanded, and it was something that Tom had brought on himself. If only he had been able to take things as they were, accept whatever reality made life most comfortable. But just as he liked to explore derelict houses or dingy basements, so he could never resist delving into mysteries secreted away in dark hidden corners of reality.
Somewhere not too far away from where they now sat, Steven may be buried. However disturbing that was – however wrong that made everything feel – it was something that Tom could never simply ignore for the sake of a quiet life.
But he would spare Jo that knowledge for as long as he could. Forever, perhaps.
* * *
Next morning, fate dealt Tom a powerful hand. Jo woke up with stomach cramps and reached the bathroom just in time to vomit. Tom went to her, held her, wiped her mouth, wanting to shy away from the stink but too concerned to do so. After a few more dry heaves she staggered back to bed, muttering about gone-off food or too much wine. Tom sat beside her, stroking her hair.
