Sing Me To Sleep

by Chris Simms

  ‘They moved out before my appointment. The cottage was empty – until you moved in.’

  He glanced at her and she didn’t see anything on his face to suggest he was concealing information.

  ‘I could ask my congregation after the service this Sunday. Lord knows plenty of them like a chinwag, bless them.’

  She picked up the biscuits. ‘Would you mind?’

  Chapter 11

  Dusk had fallen by the time she pulled up outside the cottage. All its windows were dark and the chimney loomed up against the sullen sky.

  She finished reading the leaflet and looked sadly across the valley. A cluster of spots glowed in the field. One or two shifted, winking out then reappearing as the lantern-carrier moved about. The scene should have had an enchanting quality, she thought. But it failed to stir her. She felt flat. Despondent. They’d cleared more mud from around the skull, and as she left, were preparing to cover the spot with a tarpaulin. Adrian Moore was even talking about pitching a tent and sleeping there to guard his find.

  She’d peeped into the shallow pit, glimpsed the curve of bone showing in the earth and felt a worming sensation in her spine. It had risen rapidly up and caused her shoulders to hunch. But she’d also felt intrigued: who was the child? How old had it been? Why did it die? Grubbing around in a cold, muddy field suddenly made sense. To discover the answers to these questions must be fascinating.

  With a sigh, she looked at the leaflet again. The menopause. It didn’t make sense. She reread the opening lines. Fifty-one was the average age for when a woman’s ovaries stopped producing. She closed her eyes. I’m thirty-nine. Menstruation could sometimes stop suddenly. She lowered the leaflet and became aware of her hands pressing against her lower abdomen. Was this it, then? Is my time over? She imagined her insides, empty of eggs. It made her feel like something within her had died.

  It wasn’t fair! I’m too young, I’m not ready. She turned a hand over and felt with her fingertips. I don’t feel empty. She went through the list of symptoms again. Hot flushes, mood swings, palpitations. She had none of those. No night sweats or urinary infections. Everything felt normal. Some problems sleeping, yes. But that’s to do with this place, she thought with a glance at the dark cottage. Not me.

  She angled the rear-view mirror to examine her face. I don’t feel old, or exhausted or...less of a woman. Oh God. Will Owen still find me attractive? Will anyone? She remembered the visit to the butchers’. How the brothers had reacted when she’d laughed. And the vicar; she’d spotted a few sparks in his eyes, too.

  For some reason, her mind switched to the part-built swallows’ nests at the chimney end of the cottage. Crumbling little mud ruins. Like the nesting birds had suddenly decided it was all futile. She shoved the leaflet back into the glove compartment.

  Once in the cottage, she switched on the lights in the entrance hall then turned left to do the same in the lounge. It was only when she reached the far side of the room that she sensed something wasn’t right.

  That plant pot in the opposite corner was lying on its side. Small lumps of soil were spread across the carpet. She knew that particular palm had grown top-heavy, but it had never toppled over in their place down in Richmond. Her hands were frozen on the curtains, ready to draw them across the main window. She looked down. There were dark droplets on the windowsill. Blood. It was still wet. She felt the skin of her scalp tighten and everything suddenly sprang into sharp focus.

  Heart hammering, she turned round. The magazines on the coffee table were all askew. Someone had been in the – she swallowed back a wave of sickness. Someone could still be in the house.

  Standing perfectly still, her mind shot into reverse. The porch had been locked. So had the front door. She thought of all the other ways of getting in: the kitchen door, the patio doors, the orangery doors. Ground-floor windows. Oh Jesus, she thought, why didn’t I bother with the burglar alarm? Oh Jesus.

  She hoped the person was upstairs, going through her jewellery. Please God, let him be upstairs. What was the quickest way out? The door into the snug was on her left, just the other side of the fireplace. There were speckles of soot scattered all over the hearth. What were they doing there? The door to the snug was ajar. The patio doors into the garden were just through it. But she didn’t want to go into a dark room. No way was she going into a dark room. She decided to tiptoe back the way she’d come and slip out the front door. That way, she knew for certain no one was hiding between her and the way out. It meant getting across the length of the lounge then the hallway and into the porch. Twenty steps or so. That was all.

  Her eyes crept to the right and she hardly dared breathe as she slowly lifted a foot. She stopped.

  A tapping sound came from beyond the doorway into the snug. A fingernail making contact with glass? Tap. Tap. Tap. Something rustled. It sounded like the hem of the curtain dragging over the carpet. The noise came again. Was someone coming out from behind the curtain in there?

  She leaped over the coffee table and started sprinting across the room. An image of a man – a dark silhouette – was in her mind’s eye. He was coming out of the snug and pursuing her. Closing the distance. She got to the lounge door. There was no noise of movement behind her, no heavy breathing, no hand grabbing her hair. She didn’t dare look back as she careered out into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind her. The rug shifted and she fall to one knee, a hand connecting with the oak floor. He would be just behind her now, about to crash through the door and dive on her back. It took all her balance not to go over completely. She regained her feet, tugged the porch door open and then the front door. Cold air. Out! Out and running away from the cottage. The lane stretched away before her. Too far back down to the junction. The hedge reared up on each side and she knew she’d be trapped there. Hemmed in. She swerved to the side, vaulted a waist-high wooden fence and ran out into the field. After a few seconds, she looked back.

  No one was there. The front door was wide open. No one was there. She slowed to a stop, breath rasping in her throat. There was no one there, but there was no one to help, either. I have no neighbours, she thought. I’m alone up here. My phone. Thank God I have my mobile phone.

  Not taking her eyes off the house, she eased it out of her jeans pocket and lifted it up.

  Who the hell to call? Owen was in Manchester, miles away. The police? She could dial 999, but how long would it take for them to arrive? Who else, she thought, do I know nearby? The brothers who ran the butchers, but she had no idea of their number. Then she remembered Martin Flowers handing her his card. Her fingertips slipped into her back pocket and she felt it there. Oh, thank God. Keeping one eye on the cottage, she keyed his number in.

  Chapter 12

  ‘This is really embarrassing,’ she murmured, sending another mortified glance at the police car and fire engine parked on the track before the cottage. ‘There’s no one in there.’

  ‘We don’t know that for sure,’ Martin said. ‘Are you warm enough?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ She had his ski jacket on, hands tucked into its pockets.

  He’d taken less than five minutes to arrive, roaring up the narrow lane in a red sports car. At first, she thought he was going to rush straight into the house: her phone call had been jumbled at best. So she shouted across, one hand waving above her head.

  He’d looked shocked to see her standing in the field, shivering in just a linen shirt. Removing the ski jacket from the back seat of his car, he’d set off towards her, speaking into his phone as he did so. The patrol car took less than quarter of an hour to arrive, shortly followed by a fire engine.

  Watching the cottage windows, Laura could see people moving about in the house. Most seemed to be in the lounge. Then they began to make their way across the room, towards the hall. Seconds later, figures started pouring from the porch.

  One of the police officers smirked. ‘It’s OK, madam. We’ve found the culprit.’

  ‘Is it safe?’ Martin asked. They were both t
he other side of the fence, long grass up to their ankles. Laura’s feet were cold and wet.

  ‘Safe?’ The officer said, looking back at the cottage. ‘What do you reckon, lads? Is it safe?’

  The firefighters were laughing among themselves as they started climbing back into their vehicle.

  ‘Yes, it’s safe.’ He addressed her directly. ‘Your house is secure; no doors or windows have been forced.’

  She knew there was a joke in there somewhere, but couldn’t work it out. He said they had found the culprit. Another firefighter stepped out of the porch. He approached, holding something in his hands.

  ‘Mrs Wilkinson? I think you need a cowl over that big chimney.’

  He was holding a bird. A live bird. Light from the kitchen window glinted in the dark sphere of its eye.

  ‘What is it?’ Martin asked.

  ‘A blackbird,’ the firefighter answered. ‘Or that could be soot from the chimney. Hard to tell.’ He held it higher. ‘See that cut on its foot? That’s where the blood on your windowsill came from.’

  Suddenly, it all made sense to her. ‘Oh my God – it fell down the chimney? That was why the hearth was such a mess?’

  The firefighter nodded. ‘Then it flapped around your front room trying to find a way out.’

  The tapping noise she’d heard; it was probably its beak against the glass. The rustling sound, its feathers. She wanted to laugh with relief. ‘Is it OK?’

  ‘Fine. The bleeding on its foot has stopped.’

  Now she did laugh. A chuckle bubbled up from deep in her chest. She turned to Martin who was smiling right back. ‘A bird. Can you bloody believe it?’ She looked at the chimney stack and had the crazy impression it was eavesdropping on the conversation.

  ‘Shall I let it go?’ The firefighter was looking at her expectantly.

  ‘Please.’

  He stepped back from them and placed the bird on the ground. As soon as his hands lifted, it instantly took flight. Keeping low, it arrowed straight for the mouth of the lane where deep shadow engulfed it.

  ‘Drama over,’ the firefighter said, brushing one palm against the other.

  Laura lifted her hands. ‘Thank you so much, it was very kind of you to come so quickly.’

  ‘Our pleasure,’ he replied, beginning to turn away.

  ‘Oh, Laura,’ Martin announced. ‘This is Steve Maystock. Molly’s father.’

  The firefighter looked back at the vicar with a questioning smile.

  ‘Laura was asking about Molly,’ Martin explained, ‘she saw her photo up at the church.’

  Molly’s father turned round properly but didn’t look at her. ‘I can only thank you and your congregation for all the hard work you’ve done. It’s amazing.’

  As he spoke, Laura’s gaze was on him. His face was handsome, in a bony sort of way. He looked like a marathon runner. But she detected a hint of weariness there, too. The strain, no doubt, of caring for a child with a life-threatening condition. She wanted to reach out and touch him. Embrace him. She wanted to march back into the cottage and write him a cheque for whatever was needed to make Molly better. How could life be so unfair? She almost turned to Martin and demanded he answer that. Why was God so cruel? ‘She’s such a lovely little girl.’

  He looked at her, pride making his eyes shine. ‘Thank you, she is.’

  It was no good: she couldn’t fight the urge to say more. She just couldn’t. ‘We… my husband and I…’ God, she thought, I sound like the queen now. She knew she was blushing. ‘We’ve been talking to Martin about staging something at the church – a fundraising event for Molly.’

  Her comment obviously took Martin by surprise. He blinked a couple of times before recovering his composure. ‘I’m not sure if you realise, Steve, but Laura’s husband is Owen Wilkinson, the –’

  ‘I know who he is,’ Steve cut in. ‘He’s the famous conductor.’

  He looked, to Laura, like a boy who had been promised a treat by an unreliable adult. Too many disappointments to risk smiling. ‘I appreciate anything you might do to help my girl.’

  Might. There would be no might about it, she thought. ‘I can tell you Owen is really very keen…He said to me this morning, the moment the concert he’s involved in is out of the way, we’ll start making arrangements with Martin here.’

  Steve was moving backwards, nodding as he did so. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’

  A few seconds later, the fire engine began to swing round on an open section of field beyond the cottage. She heard the sound of a car engine from further down the lane. Owen’s Audi emerged from the gloom as Martin began to speak. ‘Sorry if I just put you on the spot there – I really didn’t mean to. I only meant to introduce you to Molly’s dad. That was all –’

  ‘Don’t apologise,’ she said, climbing over the fence. ‘I wanted to let him know we’ll help.’ Owen was getting out of his car, a look of confusion on his face. ‘Just don’t mention anything: not yet,’ she added quietly, before turning to her husband with a smile. ‘Darling! Panic’s over. I’ve been a complete idiot.’

  ‘It is?’ He went to cross the track but had to step back to let the police car pass. The fire engine started to emit a loud beep as it began to reverse. Owen raised his voice. ‘What on earth is going on?’

  ‘A bird fell down the chimney. It had been flapping round the front room, knocking things over.’

  ‘A bird? Jesus Christ –’ He directed an apologetic glance at Martin, who pretended not to notice. ‘Bloody hell, Laura. I broke off rehearsals. I’ve just been flashed by at least three speed-cameras getting back here. Who knows how much that will have cost?’

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Martin flinch. She was well aware that Owen never was the best at choosing the right comment. ‘I’m sorry, I tried to ring you again when the police car arrived… but you didn’t pick up.’

  ‘Probably because I was racing along the sodding M60 trying to get here.’ He had to pause as the fire engine rumbled past. She gave the faces looking down at her a wave. Owen ran his hands through his hair. He looked flustered. She knew he hated anything unexpected. ‘Well…at least you are all right. A bird, you say?’

  ‘Yes, a bird. It scared the life out of me when I heard it moving about in the snug.’

  Now Owen’s eyes were on the ski jacket she was wearing. ‘Is that yours?’

  ‘No – Martin kindly lent it to me when he arrived. I was standing out in the field shivering.’

  ‘Right…of course.’ He turned to the vicar. ‘Thanks for taking care of her.’

  ‘Absolutely no problem,’ Martin replied, swinging a leg over the fence.

  ‘Would you like to come inside for a cup of tea?’ Laura asked. ‘I think we all deserve one.’

  ‘Got to dash, sorry,’ Martin said. ‘But listen – call in at Oldknow any time. Both of you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she glanced at Owen who was now regarding the vicar with a dubious expression.

  ‘Let me give you this.’ She unzipped the ski jacket and handed it back. ‘Very cosy.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Martin draped it over one forearm and tipped his head. ‘Great to meet you, Mr Wilkinson.’

  ‘Yes. Likewise.’

  Martin set off for his sports car and she saw Owen’s eyebrows lift at the sight of it.

  ‘Let’s get inside,’ she said, linking an arm through his. ‘It’s freezing out here.’

  Chapter 13

  ‘I don’t like him. “Got to dash.” “Call in at Oldknow any time.” What sort of a vicar speaks like that? And did you see his car? Bloody BMW? What are they paying vicars nowadays? A bit of humility wouldn’t go amiss.’

  She poured tea into a pair of mugs and put them on the table. ‘Darling, he’s only young. Better him than some florid-faced old bore with dandruff and an unhealthy liking for sherry. Isn’t that your standard countryside vicar?’

  ‘Not round here, it isn’t,’ Owen snorted, examining a digestive before taking a bite out of its side.
A flurry of crumbs fell unnoticed into the folds of his jumper. ‘How long has he been vicar of Oldknow?’

  ‘Not long. He’s still settling in. Like us.’ She hoped desperately she could turn Owen’s opinion of the man: it would make the organisation of Molly’s fundraising event go far more smoothly. ‘They found the remains of a child earlier; that bit they’re excavating in the field by the church.’

  ‘A child? Bones, you mean?’

  ‘Only a skull. The top of one. They’re searching around for more tomorrow.’

  ‘Did they tell the police?’

  Laura hadn’t thought about that. ‘Even when the remains are so old?’

  ‘How old are they?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s an Iron Age hill fort.’

  ‘I imagine the police will still want to look. Though, if the remains date back that far, they won’t be bothered. But that’s if.’

  ‘You mean someone could have buried the body there more recently?’

  ‘Who knows? That’s why they’ll need to inform the police. Anyway, I thought that vicar was an idiot. Suggesting I do an organ recital to raise funds. He reminds me of a young Tony Blair. All smiles and surface appearance. Not to be trusted.’

  She wanted to say it was her idea about the organ recital. But once something was in Owen’s head, it was hard to make him see things differently. ‘It is in aid of a sick child, darling.’

  ‘Is it? Not a little PR coup for him? A step on his way up the church ladder?’

  How cynical of you, she thought. ‘I believe he has the little girl’s interests at heart.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  At least he’s able to show an interest in children, she nearly retorted. ‘I saw Dr Ford again this morning.’

  ‘Did you?’ His shoulders sagged and his voice lost its edge. ‘Of course you did, sorry. How was it?’

  She gave a smile. ‘I think we have an explanation for the mysterious noises I’ve been hearing.’

  ‘We have?’