by Chris Simms
The door to the surgery swung back faster than she’d meant it to. The receptionist behind the counter looked irritated as it hit the wall with a bang. Not slowing down, she marched down the corridor toward Dr Ford’s room. His door opened and he stepped out, attention on the file in his hand.
‘Lee Perkins?’
A man in jeans and a sweatshirt started rising to his feet.
‘What were you doing just now?’ There was such rage in her voice it took her by surprise.
Dr Ford’s head came up and he just blinked as she closed the gap between them.
‘I saw his car leaving just now.’
He turned his head. ‘Mr Perkins, sorry. Could I..?’
The man was swiftly retaking his seat. ‘No problem.’
Dr Ford stepped back and motioned her in. ‘Mrs Wilkinson, there’s really no need to be upset.’
‘No need? How dare you discuss me with him?’
He closed the door behind her. ‘Please, sit down.’
‘I will not sit down! I’m making a complaint about this. I want you to be punished for this!’
‘Mrs Wilkinson, try to be calm. Can I get you a hot drink?’
‘A hot drink?’ She knew she was shouting but she didn’t care.
‘You look cold. You’re shaking.’
She glimpsed herself in the mirror on the wall above his sink. Oh my God, she thought, I look...wild. The wind in the fields had blown her hair all over the place. Her face was pale, except for two bright crimson blotches on each cheek. ‘I do not want a drink– ’
‘Have you eaten today, Laura?’ He lifted a hand as if to usher her towards a chair. ‘Let’s get you something to eat. A snack.’
She stepped away from him. ‘Don’t tell me what to do!’ She could see he was trying to take control of the situation. ‘This is about you, not me. I will not allow you and my husband to hatch plans about me, do you hear?’
He nodded, hand still out, showing her his palm as he backed away. ‘OK. That’s fine. I’m sitting down, Laura. I won’t come near you. Won’t you sit down too, so we can talk?’
‘I will not. What did you two decide about me? What plan have you made?’
His eyes went to his desk and he adjusted the mouse on his mat. Mouse, she thought. I’ve lost Mouse. Eaten by the badgers. Torn to shreds. She glanced at the window. My poor Mouse.
‘Mrs Wilkinson, there is no plan.’
‘Rubbish!’
He went to say something else then changed his mind. Sitting back, he closed his eyes and then spoke. ‘Mrs Wilkinson, I don’t think I’m the best person for you to be seeing right now. Would you mind if I called in the practice nurse? Perhaps you’d feel more comfortable with someone else. Just until you, until things are...more settled.’
‘You’re evading my question. He was here just now.’ She looked for any sign of her medical notes on his desk. Clever. He must have filed them away. But there was something on his screen. He saw where she was trying to look and closed it down.
‘Mrs Wilkinson, I would never discuss a patient with someone else.’
‘I heard it again. This morning. We were in the kitchen and I could hear it, plain as day.’
His face changed. The sympathetic tilt of his eyebrows adjusted and he looked at her intently. ‘The birdsong?’
‘Yes.’
‘You heard the bird singing?’
‘Yes, I heard the canary singing.’ She looked at him. He squirmed as she did. Why, she thought, is he so concerned about it being birdsong? Of course, she realised: William heard it, too. William is another of his patients. ‘I’m not the only one, am I?’
He frowned. ‘Mrs Wilk– ’
‘William – he knows about it, doesn’t he?’
‘I cannot discuss another patient with you.’
‘God damn you! You’ll discuss me with Owen!’
‘Laura, I have not– ’
‘Stop lying to me! I just saw him. This morning, when it was singing, Owen was oblivious to it. Or is that just what he wanted me to think? Getting warm, am I?’
‘Warm?’
‘Closer to the truth?’
‘I’m sorry – I don’t follow you.’
‘Oh come on, we both know there’s birdsong in that cottage. Or maybe the recording of one. Playing on a speaker hidden somewhere.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Is that what Owen’s up to?’
Dr Ford dipped his chin slightly, eyes still on her. ‘You think Owen is the cause of what you can hear?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Laura, you must talk to your husband about this. I can assure you, he is not plotting against– ’
‘Bullshit. You wait until I get my hands on him. You just bloody wait, I’m going to– ’ She realised her mistake. She shouldn’t have said that. Made a threat. She crossed her arms.
Dr Ford was now sitting forward, hands clasped between his knees. ‘Go on, Laura.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘You were saying something about your husband. How you were going to...’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘What would you like to do to Owen?’
No chance, she thought. He won’t lead me down this path. He knows I’m angry. More than angry. He’s trying to trick me into saying I’m angry with Owen. That I want to hurt him. He can only section me if I’m a danger.
‘What if you discuss your thoughts with one of my colleagues, then? Or someone from social services? Would you prefer that?’
‘I’m not discussing it with anyone. I have to go.’
‘Laura, I really think you should stay here.’ He began getting to his feet.
‘Don’t come near me!’ It came out as a shriek. Her finger pointed at his face. ‘Keep back!’
His hand was up again as he sank back into his chair. ‘OK, OK. But please stay here, Laura. Don’t...don’t go back to the cottage.’
There’d been something in his voice. ‘Why?’
He looked away for a second. ‘You’re very distressed. At least sit in the nurse’s station until you– ’
‘It’s not the end of this.’ Keeping her eyes on him, she reached behind and scrabbled for the door handle, not wanting to give him the chance of grabbing her.
He sat with a sorrowful expression as she stepped back into the corridor, slammed his door and started running for the way out. He’s hiding things from me, she thought. Everyone is. Only one person can give me the answers I need. Adrian Moore.
Chapter 33
She couldn’t see a red BMW among the few cars parked at Oldknow church. Which meant Martin Flowers must be still in Chester. Thank God, Laura thought. My visit to the Skylark Trust must have got back to him by now. He’ll be just as appalled as everyone else.
One of the beech trees at the edge of the graveyard was creaking in the wind. Dead leaves were tumbling across the path. They made little scratchy noises as they passed her feet.
She gazed out across the Cheshire Plain and saw the horizon was misty and blurred. Snow, maybe, sweeping in from the Irish Sea. It was now certainly cold enough.
At the far end of the graveyard, she looked over the wall. Adrian was there with five others. The pit was larger now and they were all inside it, totally engrossed in their work. To the side of the rim was a folded tarpaulin, weighed down by several chunks of stone.
She climbed through the gap in the wall and silently made her way over. I said to Owen I wouldn’t do this, she told herself. Go looking at the remains of a dead child. But now, standing at the edge, she couldn’t help it.
There were a lot fewer bones than she’d imagined. The skull, then a modest pile of vertebrae and collapsed ribs. The pelvis was off to the side, as was what appeared to be a femur.
It’s not it, she realised, with a mixture of confusion and relief. It’s not the body from my dream. No arm bone was trapped behind the head. First the chimney had nothing to do with it, now this. All my stupid fears, she thought, are turning out to be false
.
She circled the rim to see what the nearest pair of archaeologists were doing. Brushing away at a U-shaped bit of bone. It was embedded with small teeth. Adrian and the other three were kneeling next to more bits of skeleton. The thin bones looked like little branches half-submerged in the dark earth.
The child wasn’t the only one. More people had died here.
‘Adrian?’ Someone said.
He glanced at the person who’d spoken, who pointed at Laura. Adrian craned his head back and, for a long second, they just looked at each other.
‘How many?’ Her question caused all work to stop.
Adrian put his brush down. ‘We’ve found four so far, maybe five. Hard to tell. There are animal bones here, too. Not as deep as the human remains, so probably more recent. We’re trying to work it out.’
She hugged herself against the cruel wind. ‘How did they die?’
‘We don’t know. Perhaps they were killed. One skull has certainly been crushed.’
‘Are they all children?’
‘We’re not sure about two of them.’
‘How long have they been here?’
He climbed to his feet, grimacing as he did so. ‘A long time. One had some beads near the hand: we’re sure they’re Iron Age. Carry on everyone, we’ll lose the light soon.’
One by one their heads went back down. Only Adrian continued to watch her.
‘Sorry,’ she said, pushing a clump of hair back. It will, she thought, take hours of brushing to clear these tangles. ‘I’m interrupting you.’ She looked across at Lantern Cottage. It squatted there on the opposite slope of the valley. Vile toad.
He adjusted the sleeve of his fleece. ‘Are you looking for the vicar?’
‘No. I was looking for you.’
He nodded as if he suspected that already. ‘Shall we go inside? I’ll make us a drink.’
As they walked to the church hall a handful of fat snowflakes drifted past. They touched down silently in the long grass. Advance parachutists of a much larger invasion.
Inside, Adrian said nothing as he prepared their drinks. She observed the snow starting to come down in fits and starts. Things looked in the balance – sometimes it almost stopped, but then it picked up in intensity.
‘Milk and sugar?’ he asked from the kitchen doorway.
‘Just milk, thanks.’ She felt remarkably calm. Like finally learning your marks for an exam. You couldn’t sway the result, so why let things get to you?
He brought the drinks over and sat on the opposite side of the table. ‘You look cold.’
‘Yes.’ She’d stuffed each hand up the opposite sleeve and her forearms were pressed against her stomach. ‘I was out walking.’
‘Over near your house?’
She nodded.
‘Are you OK, Laura?’
He hadn’t used her Christian name before. She hadn’t been sure if he even knew it. She pursed her lips. ‘Not really.’
‘No.’
‘How much do you know about Lantern Cottage?’
He looked into her eyes. She could see him preparing an answer. Which meant he was deciding which details to filter out. She didn’t want to be told half a story. She needed everything. ‘I know about the Halls. I know what happened to the parents. I know about William. I’ve been...hearing things. Sometimes a bird sings in the cottage.’
His eyes slid away from hers. She saw movement in his throat as he swallowed.
‘It’s a canary,’ she continued. ‘I’m certain about that.’
He made eye contact for a moment and then stared into his tea. ‘A canary?’
‘Yes. You told me the cottage was once owned by a man who bred them.’
‘I did.’ He brushed the rim of his cup with a fingertip. Dirt was packed under the nail.
‘Apart from the Halls, who else has lived in that cottage? The original part has been added to. There’s the conservatory and the extension. Do you know who built them?’
‘Just previous people. No one of any note.’
‘I found a birdcage hidden in the wall.’
He dragged his eyes back to her face. ‘Where?’
‘To the side of the chimney shaft. Up on the first floor.’
‘A birdcage?’
‘With a dead canary inside. It had been hidden there a long time ago. Who built the extension at that end of the house? I found the cage when I was in there, removing some bricks in what used to be the outer wall.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you do know something. You’re not telling me something.’ She removed a hand from her sleeve and placed it on his wrist. ‘That’s why we’re sitting here, isn’t it? Please tell me.’
He looked across at the exhibition stand on the other side of the hall. ‘It’s a tragic story. You say a canary...’ He quietly mouthed the words. Like they were a crossword clue that baffled him.
‘Yes. Why? Is that important?’
Slowly, his eyes returned to hers. ‘The man who bred canaries – he was one of the last people to be hanged at Strangeways prison in Manchester.’
Her hand slipped off his wrist. It retreated, like a frightened animal, across the table. She heard William’s hoarse yell once more. The bad person will come. The old photo in the estate agent’s. That man with the wire-framed glasses and harsh face. Adrian’s voice was distant and the troubled look hadn’t left his face. ‘He was convicted of killing his wife.’
‘When?’
‘1865. He strangled her, put her body in a cart, wheeled it to the limekilns and placed it inside.’
‘The ones down the road?’
‘Yes, there’s a path. Not used much nowadays, apart from the odd mountain biker. It cuts across the valley. A stone bridge goes over the Goyt and then you follow it up the other side. He only confessed to it a week after killing her; there was nothing left of her by then but ash.’
Her hand was clamped over her mouth. She peeled it away. ‘Why?’
‘He refused to say. He was a very quiet sort, shy, devoted to his birds. Maybe too devoted, who knows? They say he wept whenever one of them died.’
‘So he didn’t ever explain why he killed her?’
‘No, he never did. She was, by all accounts, a large woman. Larger than him. Some say domineering – that she had a tongue on her.’
She mulled over the comment. Domineering. A tongue on her. Grounds, in time gone by, for a husband to use violence. She could see her in the photo, standing slightly behind the husband. Master of the house. ‘That’s why he killed her?’
‘Who knows? But...there was something else, from that time.’
‘What?’
The cry of the wind outside lifted and a mass of ticks sounded on the window. She looked toward it; dusk was beginning to fall and the air was now thick with fat swirling flakes. Another gust of wind. More buffeted the glass.
‘I should get back out. We need to put the tarpaulin in place,’ he said distractedly.
‘What else was there?’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘Just before he killed her, a child from the village vanished.’
Everything seemed to go very still. His face was the only thing she saw, as if he was looking at her down a long, dark, pipe. ‘A child?’
‘Yes, a boy. Six years old, he was.’
The words thudded into her brain and she knew that whatever he was about to say would explain everything. She stared at him as he drew in a long breath.
‘The canary breeder didn’t admit to killing him, but he used to let children look at his birds. He’d take them into the shed, the one with that hatch, and let the kids pet them. They didn’t have any children of their own...’
He couldn’t keep the look of disgust from his face as he pushed the bench back and stood. ‘Most people thought he killed the lad. Certainly, no one shed a tear when he went to the gallows. Why he killed his wife? Maybe she found out what he’d been...doing. To the youngsters.’ He came round the table and laid a hand on her shoulder.
She kept looking straight ahead. It was all she could do. ‘What about the boy’s body?’
‘Never found. Probably also went into the kiln.’ His hand left her shoulder.
He reached for his cup and she heard a glottal clicking as he gulped. She thought of rope cutting into windpipe.
‘Sorry to be the one to tell you all that, I really am.’
Once he’d gone, she dug her hands through her hair, thoughts flying around. The boy was never found. The cavity in the wall, where the canary had been hidden. How far did it go? Far enough to hide a small boy’s body?
Chapter 34
The beeping from the burglar alarm cut out and silence reasserted itself. Her hand hovered before the buttons, forefinger still extended. She listened. More than listened. Tested. For sounds. For smells. For anything that might indicate something amiss.
The house gave nothing up. It seemed impervious to her presence. As she’d driven up the lane, power lines bowing back and forth in the gathering gale, the building had slowly taken shape through the haze of swirling snow. First the front corner, then the first-floor windows and, finally, the chimney.
Reaching the cottage, she’d pressed the brakes too hard. Or maybe the layer of snow had been thicker than she’d realised: the car had gone into a slow skid, only stopping when the front wheels went over the edge of the top step. Stone had ground loudly against the vehicle’s underside. The vibrations through her feet had felt like a dying shiver: sure enough, the car had refused to start again. It would be a long walk back down the lane.
She flicked the hall lights on and was about to set off up the stairs when she did hear something; a single beep from the kitchen. The answerphone. Did Owen keep to his promise and ring at lunchtime?
The number five was flashing on the display. Five new messages. A red light was also blinking on her mobile. She started with the landline. The electronic voice told her the first message was received today at 2.19.
‘Mrs Wilkinson, it’s Dr Ford here. I’m really sorry you felt the need to rush off like that. I think it’s very important that we talk. Please call me as soon as you get this message.’
