Pendulum

by Adam Hamdy

  She stood to one side, and Wallace edged past her and the dog, and found himself in a small hallway. Sunlight glared off red ceramic floor tiles, illuminating a rustic staircase that was lined with photographs of Cynthia and Stewart Huvane. Taken over a number of years, the photos featured the happy couple in different locations around their farm.

  ‘This way,’ Cynthia commanded. She led Wallace through the hall into a large farmhouse kitchen. ‘You can sit or you can stand. I’ll be seated.’

  She moved towards an imposing farmhouse table. Beyond it a large, squat Aga lay flush against the wall. Copper pots hung from a rafter that cut across the room, and oversized matt red tiles covered the floor. The windows offered views of open fields that sloped down to ancient woodland. The kitchen would have been like something out of a farmhouse catalogue had it not been for the memorial portrait that stood at one end of the table. A framed formal photograph of Stewart stared at Wallace. Pinned to the top right corner was a small black wreath.

  ‘We still talk to each other,’ Cynthia explained. ‘He’s still with me.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Wallace said meekly. He’d never been particularly good around death. He couldn’t remember much of the month after his own parents died, but Wallace did recall the feeling of distraught awkwardness that had overwhelmed him. He put his backpack down and looked at the memorial portrait for as long as possible in a futile attempt to avoid her gaze.

  Cynthia rested the shotgun against the edge of the table and grunted something indecipherable as she sat down. She looked at Wallace expectantly and when he didn’t react, she added, ‘Well, go on then.’

  Wallace took his eyes off the photo and was about to speak, when Cynthia commanded, ‘Come, Ronnie!’

  Ronnie trotted over to his mistress, his claws clicking against the hard floor. He sat behind her and rested his huge head on the bench. Cynthia scratched the top of Ronnie’s skull and stared at Wallace with growing impatience.

  ‘I think your husband was murdered,’ Wallace began.

  ‘You’ve said that,’ Cynthia sniped.

  ‘And I think the man who killed him tried to kill me,’ Wallace continued. ‘Twice.’ He noted a shift in Cynthia’s mood, and her impatience seemed to turn to hostility.

  ‘So you’re one of them, are you?’ she asked. ‘One of them pigs?’

  Wallace was puzzled by the response.

  ‘Well, you can just get out!’ Cynthia exclaimed. ‘Get out!’

  ‘Mrs Huvane, I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Wallace protested.

  ‘You knew Stewart?’

  ‘I’ve never met your husband,’ Wallace replied.

  Cynthia fell silent. She studied Wallace and then said, ‘You weren’t part of what was going on?’

  ‘Like I said, I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Wallace responded. ‘Maybe if you explain.’

  Cynthia looked at the photograph of her husband and welled up.

  ‘You stupid bastard!’ she cursed. ‘You stupid, stupid man!’ The troubled old woman took a moment to compose herself and then turned to Wallace. ‘After he died, the police found a suicide note on Stu’s Facebook profile. I didn’t even know he was on Facebook. He said he couldn’t take the lies any more and that he’d been living a double life,’ Cynthia’s voice cracked at the memory. ‘They also found videos. Lots of videos. Stewart had been driving down to Cannock Chase to meet people. Strangers . . . for sex. They were like animals . . .’ Cynthia trailed off. ‘And I never knew! I never knew. We were married thirty-two years. How could he keep something like that secret from me?’

  Wallace shook his head but Cynthia wasn’t really looking for an answer from a stranger.

  ‘The police accepted it was suicide,’ she continued. ‘But I thought it was one of the sick perverts in the videos. Or maybe some woman’s husband. When I saw what they did – some of those women – the things they did with all those men. I could have killed for it.’ Cynthia fell silent and the only sound in the kitchen was Ronnie’s deep breathing. The huge dog had fallen asleep.

  ‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs Huvane, but I wasn’t part of what your husband was doing. I’ve never been to Cannock Chase and I can assure you that I’m not involved in any of that sort of activity,’ Wallace said.

  ‘So what are you here for?’ Cynthia brimmed with hostility.

  ‘The description of the man your husband said attacked him. The way he tried to kill him. That was exactly what happened to me,’ Wallace replied.

  ‘I should’ve done more!’ Cynthia cried out suddenly. ‘I shouldn’t have listened to that bloody doctor! Stu needed me and I let strangers talk me into thinking he was crazy.’

  ‘If it’s the same man, I’ve encountered him twice, and believe me, Mrs Huvane, there was nothing you could have done,’ Wallace said in an attempt to comfort the distressed widow.

  ‘I could’ve killed him,’ Cynthia noted quietly, glaring at her gun.

  ‘Can you tell me what happened?’ Wallace probed gently.

  ‘The first time, I’d gone to play bridge at the Johnson Farm, had a bit of dinner with them first, but I felt poorly and came home early,’ Cynthia recounted. ‘I found Stu hanging . . .’ She broke down and cried, but after a minute or so, she continued, ‘I forced him to go into therapy and I was with him all the time in case he tried again. They said he was better, but four weeks after the first attempt, I woke up and he wasn’t in bed. I knew something was wrong; he never gets up before me. I went into the garage and I found him. I tried to get the police to investigate, but they wanted nothing to do with it. No way could an intruder get into the house without me hearing, they said. When they found the suicide note and the sex videos, they wrote Stu off completely. And they wrote me off too. How well could I know my husband if I hadn’t cottoned on to this double life of his?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Wallace said. It was an inadequate response, but it was all he could offer.

  Cynthia stood, tore a couple of sheets of kitchen roll from a dispenser by the large double-door fridge, and used them to dry her eyes. ‘I found something after he died,’ she told Wallace. ‘Something you’ll want to see.’

  Stewart Huvane’s study was a mess. His small leather-topped oak desk was covered in paper, farm equipment catalogues, and invoices. Shelves lined all three walls and were crammed with lever arch folders full of documents. An old photo was propped up against the window. It showed a smiling young Stewart Huvane standing beside what looked like his first tractor.

  ‘I tried to clean it up,’ Cynthia explained as she and Wallace entered, ‘but it’s hard. Every time I get started . . .’ she trailed off momentarily. ‘Well, I have to stop.’

  ‘I can only imagine,’ Wallace sympathised.

  Cynthia surprised him by getting to her knees. She shuffled under the desk and pulled a red metal filing cabinet forward. The cabinet was on casters, so it slid out easily. Cynthia fished behind the cabinet and produced a cardboard box file. She stood up, placed it on the desk and stepped back as though the box was dangerous.

  ‘I found it a couple of weeks ago,’ she said. ‘There didn’t seem to be much point giving it to the police. They’ve already made up their minds.’ She continued towards the door. ‘I can’t look at it again,’ she said with tears in her eyes.

  Wallace watched Cynthia leave and heard muted sobs as she walked downstairs. He turned his attention to the box. Scrawled across the purple lid in black marker was the word Private. He pressed the plastic button on the side of the box, which released a catch inside. He lifted the lid and was immediately greeted by a grainy photograph of a woman on her knees giving a man a blow job. The scene was lit by car headlights and Wallace could see other men and women standing around the intimate couple. Underneath the photograph was a handwritten note.

  Stu,

  Thought you might like this one. Came out well didn’t it? Until next time.

  Kisses

  Sally

 
Wallace took the photograph and note out of the box and found another seedy picture beneath. This one showed a woman, possibly the same one, kneeling on all fours on the bonnet of a car, while a man penetrated her from behind and she fellated another.

  Stu,

  The thought of you both inside me always gets me wet.

  Kisses

  Sally

  Wallace picked his way through the box. There were dozens of notes and images. Early in his career he had worked fashion shoots. Some models required careful coaching in order to feel comfortable performing in front of camera. Others were brazen, and no matter how little they wore, or how outrageous the setting, would exhibit themselves with no sign of discomfort. The images in the box all featured the same woman – likely to be Sally – in a variety of sexual encounters with a number of different men, and Wallace recognised her eager exhibitionism. She was not lost in the moment, but instead posed for the camera, almost goading it to capture her in a depraved sexual adventure. Some of the photos were taken during the day, but most happened at night and there were usually a number of onlookers. Wallace found Stewart Huvane’s face staring back at him in a couple of pictures. The jolly farmer was either smiling excitedly, or grimacing in sexual ecstasy.

  When he neared the bottom of the box, the contents changed dramatically. It started with an email exchange between Stewart Huvane and an artist called Wynn Goldman. The first email came from Huvane.

  Dear Mr Goldman

  I write to inquire whether you would undertake a commission of a single piece of artwork based on my design.

  Yours expectantly

  Stewart Huvane

  The next email was a reply from Goldman saying that he did indeed accept such commissions. The two men then exchanged emails agreeing a fee before Huvane sent Goldman his brief.

  Dear Mr Goldman

  The individual I would like you to draw wore a black face mask, like the one worn by Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs, but not exactly like it. A bit like a cycling mask, or a military combat mask.

  He wore body armour over his chest like the new Batman, but not as sophisticated. A step up from what the combat types wear when paintballing. Also black. Black trousers, black gloves and boots, with black goggles over his eyes, and a black coat with purple lining.

  If you have any questions, let me know. I look forward to seeing your drafts.

  Yours sincerely

  Stewart Huvane

  There then followed a series of exchanges when Goldman started sending Huvane his draft images. There were about a dozen rough illustrations, each one slightly more refined than the last. Huvane commented on every iteration, changing the shape of the mask, the body armour, and the image gradually evolved into a piece of finished artwork. Wallace caught his breath: it was an almost perfect representation of the man who had tried to kill him. Huvane had paid an artist eight hundred pounds to produce an exceptional illustration of his murderer. Wallace was unsettled by the sight of his own assailant, but excited by the prospect of real evidence. He had what he needed to go to the police. He put the illustration back in the box, closed the file and took it with him when he went downstairs.

  He turned the situation over as he passed the photos of Stewart and Cynthia that lined the staircase walls. Happy lies. The truth was miserable and sordid, and he needed to figure out a way to convince Cynthia to let him take part of that dirty reality away with him. He couldn’t begin to understand what the old woman must be feeling, having spent so many years living what she thought was a simple, wholesome life. To discover that her cherished husband had a secret existence that betrayed their life together. To carry the guilt of knowing that he was murdered while she slept. Anger, sorrow, frustration; whatever her emotions, they would be devouring her. There was no correct way to approach Mrs Huvane, Wallace concluded as he entered the kitchen.

  Cynthia was in the far corner, stooped over a dog bowl, filling it with a can of jellied meat. Ronnie had already started to gobble the chunks greedily. As she stood, Cynthia caught sight of the box folder and nodded sadly.

  ‘I thought you’d want it,’ she said quietly. ‘I haven’t known what to do with it. I thought about burning it, but fire can’t cleanse what’s in there. The police helped me take down the suicide note and destroy the videos. Damage was done by then, though. I can’t show myself in town any more.’ She looked around the kitchen. ‘Time to move on, I suppose.’

  Wallace coughed and shifted awkwardly. ‘The woman—’ he said, but he didn’t get a chance to finish.

  ‘Sally Harris,’ Cynthia cut him off. ‘A hundred and fourteen Mercer Avenue, Stone. I hired a man to find her. Never had the courage to confront her, though. I just want to take a pill. Forget it all happened. Remember the man I knew, not the one in there.’

  Wallace felt the gloom of intense sadness as Cynthia stared at the box. It spread like a heavy black storm cloud and filled every inch of the kitchen. They stood silently for a moment, until Wallace crossed the room and put his arms around this woman he hardly knew. There was no resistance. Cynthia simply slumped against him and sobbed into his shoulder.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he murmured. ‘It’s OK.’

  They stood there for what seemed like an age, until Cynthia composed herself enough to break his embrace.

  ‘Well, that’s enough of that,’ she said in an artificially brusque tone. ‘I’ve got a lot to do. Farm doesn’t run itself. You’ll see yourself out.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Wallace said, as he stepped towards his backpack.

  Cynthia said something inaudible. He slung the bag over his shoulder and nodded at the sad old woman as he moved towards the front door.

  ‘Good luck,’ Cynthia called out to him.

  Wallace turned to see her silhouetted against the kitchen window, her canine guardian standing loyally beside her. ‘And to you, too,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, go on then!’ she commanded.

  Wallace stepped outside to be greeted by a bright blue sky and crisp, cool air. Relieved to be free of the misery inside, he shut the door and started for the road.

  13

  It was quarter to eleven by the time Wallace made it back to the bunkhouse. He found Mark bent over a wheelbarrow full of stones, painstakingly selecting one that would best fit a hole in the drystone wall surrounding the building.

  ‘Needs some attention,’ Mark explained, when he saw Wallace watching him. ‘Did she talk to you?’

  Wallace nodded slowly.

  ‘You got what you came for,’ Mark observed. It wasn’t really a question.

  ‘Kind of,’ Wallace replied.

  Mark furrowed his brow.

  ‘Can I use your phone?’ Wallace asked.

  ‘Go on then,’ Mark indicated the door.

  Wallace entered the bunkhouse and headed straight for the recreation room. He fed the payphone and tried Connie. It went to voicemail. ‘Hi, Con,’ he said. ‘The farmer commissioned an artist to draw a portrait of the killer, so I’ve got a picture, but I still can’t find any connection to me. I’m going to a place called Stone to follow another lead. I’ll try you later today.’

  He hung up and used his remaining credit to order a taxi. The dispatcher told him it would be a ten-minute wait, so he headed back outside to find Mark still searching for the right stone. He stood nearby and kept an eye out for his cab.

  ‘You leaving?’ Mark asked.

  ‘I need to find this man,’ Wallace explained. ‘People think I’m crazy.’

  ‘Like Stu,’ Mark noted without looking up. Stones clanged against the metal barrow as he continued his search.

  ‘Is she going to be OK?’ Wallace asked, gazing towards the high rocks of the Roaches.

  Mark glanced up at the peaks and shrugged. Wallace couldn’t even begin to imagine how a person could recover from the ordeal that had wrecked Cynthia’s life.

  ‘Here we are,’ Mark said, holding up a stone. ‘Takes time, but it’s worth doing right.’

  He spun th
e stone in his fingers. He lined it up with the hole and pushed it in. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but with some careful manipulation and pressure applied to its neighbours, Mark managed to make it seem so. Satisfied with his work, he wheeled the barrow further down the wall, a little closer to Wallace, and stopped alongside the next hole. He began the selection process again, rooting around the wheelbarrow for perfection.

  Wallace watched him work. If he had simply wanted a way to delineate his property from the road, a wooden fence or a brick wall would have sufficed, but it became clear to Wallace that the stone wall was more than a boundary marker; it was meditation. What seemed like manual labour appeared to nourish the gruff man. There was no frustration in his search; in fact he seemed serene as his rough hands worked their way through the stones. His movements were repetitive. He picked through the stones until he found one that might work. He lifted it out of the barrow and eyed it like an assayer valuing a diamond. He would check it against the hole, and if it failed to measure up, the stone would be carefully replaced at the far end of the barrow. The seemingly haphazard walls that criss-crossed the countryside grew in beauty now that Wallace knew the meticulous care with which they were created. The cracks between the rough grey stone ran in every direction like wild veins and reinforced the wonderful disorder of the wall as a living work of art.

  Mesmerised by Mark’s work, Wallace mentally framed dozens of stunning macro photographs of the stonework, and didn’t notice the taxi when it rolled up ten minutes later. The driver honked his horn, which only irritated Wallace and Mark, who glowered in the direction of the cab.

  ‘Thanks for everything,’ Wallace said as he approached Mark and offered him his hand.

  ‘No bother,’ Mark said. His hand was covered in dust and felt rough and gritty. ‘Hope you find what you’re looking for.’

  The journey to Stone took a little under an hour. Wallace necked a couple of painkillers en route and noted that he was running low; only four pills remained. He flipped through the contents of the box file for part of the journey, but concentrating on anything in a moving car always made him feel nauseous, so he gave up and put the file into his backpack.