A Night With No Stars

by Sally Spedding

  As she left the main trunk road and entered the now-familiar confines of the unnamed lane, her mobile suddenly rang from the seat beside her.

  ‘Damn.’ She’d meant to switch the thing off in case her mother was up for some more negativity, but no, it wasn’t her number which appeared, but an unknown one. She dropped down to second gear as she let it ring until her voicemail took over and a female voice echoed into the car. She felt her stomach tighten as she passed Carreglas Farm, but there was no sign of either Bryn Evans’s Defender, or his collie dog which had sat upright in the passenger seat outside the B&B while his master was inside.

  ‘Your friend,’ the woman began. ‘In case you’ve not heard the news. He’s on the Booker longlist.’ That was all.

  Your friend? The Booker longlist? Who else but Benn?

  Her grip on the steering wheel loosened and in that split second, the Rav veered to the right, its bonnet suddenly buried in the hawthorn hedge. Her blood had already chilled despite the moist warm day not just because of that call but because she’d spotted a much bigger vehicle looming up behind.

  She then revved the throttle so that plumes of blue smoke obscured her view through the rear window. It’s power was oddly satisfying and just what she needed. Then fifty, sixty, far too fast, not just to lose the huge piece of farm machinery which seemed to be gaining on her but symbolically putting more distance between herself and the world of lies and betrayal she’d just left behind. Of people who, like fishermen, draw in their drift nets ever closer to the boat until life within is reduced to a twisting struggle, a last painful gasp.

  ‘Who are you?’ she yelled. ‘And how the hell did you get my number?’ But only the roar of the following vehicle answered, making her glance round again. If she slowed up, she’d be mulch.

  She careered down the watery hill and then a sharp swerve into the track for Ravenstone. With her pulse thudding in her neck, she stalled to watch through her rear view mirror as the yellow combine harvester with its giant beak stuck out at the front, bowled along behind her and vanished beyond the untrimmed hedge which bordered the estate.

  She was shaking all over. Whichever maniac had been driving that contraption surely wasn’t some local yokel in a hurry. They’d wanted to frighten her. Maybe worse. Maybe, this was just the appetiser, and if so, she’d better get some allies behind her. Better get a survival plan up and running, she told herself, setting off again to reach Wern Goch, because later might be too late.

  So. If this longlist news was true then the monster was halfway to winning. She felt sick imagining the Holy Trinity at Hellebore swanning around, champagne glasses in hand. Just like last year and the year before . . . Of course, it had been Manda who’d just called her with the Booker news. Who else had her number? And no problem for her to borrow someone else’s phone. She must have heard something about June 15th at the Chandos, and that would explain her subsequent froideur in the office. QED. Lucy punched RECALL but nothing came up.

  Her legs felt boneless as she emerged from the Rav and, despite the sun’s residual warmth on her back as she faced the Hall, it was as if all the blood in her body had turned to ice. She shivered then fetched her denim jacket from the boot. It didn’t help much and she was still trembling with rage and fear as Mark Jones appeared, sawdust in his black hair and a shy smile on his face.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked. ‘You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost.’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ she lied. ‘Except some bloody great combine harvester thing seemed to want me out of the way. I thought life was supposed to be a bit gentler out in the sticks.’

  ‘It should be,’ he said knowingly, brushing the bits of wood from his hair with a few swift movements. ‘But where two or three are gathered together – same old story, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Is Bryn Evans around?’ she asked to fill the slightly strained silence which followed.

  ‘In there.’ Mark indicated the Hall. ‘Why d’you want to know?’

  ‘He’s offered to do a kind of survey for me. Work out what needs doing first.’

  ‘I bet he has.’ A look of concern came and went on his sunburnt face, but not before Lucy had noticed. ‘So where did you come across him, then?’

  ‘Met his mother in the Morfa tea rooms in town. She suggested it, and I thought, why not? Hey, is anything wrong?’ she challenged, wondering why so many questions, but not yet prepared to tell him where she was staying.

  ‘No. Not at all. It’s just that I know a guy at work whose brother’s a surveyor. Got the right letters after his name and the rest. You should have asked me . . .’

  ‘How could I?’ she retorted. ‘You were hardly putting out a welcome mat.’

  ‘True.’ This time a wry smile moved his lips then he glanced again at the Hall. ‘But at least with him there’d be no vested interest problems.’

  Her look of puzzlement made him explain further.

  ‘The Evanses have rented the land off us even before my grandparents moved here . . .’

  ‘You mean, when Frau Muller was around?’

  ‘She was called Irmgard. Anyway, how did you know about her?’

  ‘It seems to be common knowledge.’

  Mark closed his eyes for the briefest moment against the sun and she noticed how long his eyelashes were. How they curved like a blackbird’s wing against his cheek. They were beautiful, but now wasn’t the time to suggest he put himself forward for some Calvin Klein modelling.

  ‘Anyway, as I was saying, Lloyd Griffiths let slip that Evans was trying to get some money together to buy the whole acreage. Bloody cheek.’

  ‘I know that foot-and-mouth’s been bad round here, but I thought farmers were basically rich,’ she said. ‘Don’t they get huge subsidies and that sort of thing?’

  ‘Carreglas isn’t high enough. Not like Bwlch Ddu. And put yourself in his boots. If he can’t have the twenty-eight acres then three will do. It’s a start.’ He glanced at her. ‘I could paint an even nastier picture to put you off, but I won’t.’

  ‘You mean that poor German woman?’

  ‘We’ve got our theories. So,’ his tone changed as he held her gaze with a fierce intensity, ‘you’re definitely going ahead with Wern Goch?’

  ‘Of course,’ she nodded and was surprised to see a faint look of relief pass over his face. Then she spotted the top of that same yellow harvester skimming the top of the distant hedgerow on a return journey along the lane. This time it was crawling along, but just to see it again made her catch her breath.

  ‘Look,’ she pointed in the direction of the growling engine. ‘That bloody thing’s coming back now.’

  ‘Sad bastard.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Hughes, Bwlch Ddu. Always showing off his latest gear. Don’t know where he gets the dough from. People smuggling, I bet.’

  ‘Why pick on me, then?’

  Mark shrugged and she wasn’t entirely convinced by this show of nonchalance.

  ‘They’re the Odd Squad alright. We just give them a wide berth.’ He squinted into the sun until the noise and flashes of yellow steel had all gone, leaving the taint of diesel in the air. ‘By the way, Miss Mitchell,’ he turned to her once more, looking sheepish. She decided it didn’t suit him. ‘I’ve an apology to make.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘It was me who sent you that email to your work. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Was the hangdog look genuine, or was he acting? She wasn’t sure.

  ‘I was scared stiff if you must know, what with that blood colour filling the screen. Our IT bloke at Hellebore reckoned it had come from an internet cafe in Hereford. So, you went all that way just to bug me?’ She continued, deliberately avoiding his eyes. ‘And why call its subject SPEAR? That was so creepy.’

  ‘I am spear that roars for blood.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ But she shivered, nevertheless.

  ‘Seriously, I couldn’t help it. You see, it was t
he thought of someone, anyone, having that house. One day you’ll get the whole story. I promise.’

  She wondered if this revelation might include anything about his brother Richard, some plausible reason for that haunting scream and the blood on the salting slab, but sensed that snow in July was more likely.

  ‘So, how did you get my email address?’ she asked instead.

  ‘Easy. On the Hellebore website. But there’s something else I need to know.’ He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the now orange sun. ‘Did anything go wrong with your car on the way here on Saturday? Think.’

  ‘I don’t have to. I was in the middle of nowhere and my petrol gauge suddenly slipped to empty. I had to pay for a fuel pipe repair at Builth. Thank God I managed to get there.’

  ‘My fault, sorry.’

  ‘What?’ She stared at him and then recalled what Mrs Evans had said about local opinion. He didn’t look like some weirdo with a swollen head or bulbous eyes. There was nothing blatantly odd about any part of him. Intense, yes. Fit, certainly, with an ease of movement which came from an outdoor life. ‘You?’

  ‘Yes. I was desperate.’ He dug in his jeans pocket and produced two folded ten pound notes. They still felt warm from his body. ‘Take these, please. It’s the least I can do. I’ve been a total idiot.’

  She put out her hand to stop him and tried not to smile.

  ‘Some fencing might be a better penance.’

  ‘You’re on then. Thanks. And I’ll write you a poem. I’m not exactly Dylan Thomas, but Truth is the Word. Will give it a shot anyhow.’

  ‘I’m impressed. “Do not go gently” was my dad’s favourite.’ She blinked away a tear just to think of it.

  ‘Mine too, if you must know. Oh, and Taliesin.’

  ‘You’ll have to excuse my ignorance as far as he’s concerned.’

  ‘I won’t just excuse you. I’ll forgive you.’

  Was he joking? No. He was deadly serious.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Just then, the Hall’s front door begin to open.

  ‘Someone’s coming.’

  Mark spun round as Bryn Evans came down the steps with surprising agility for a man his size. He jogged over towards them both clutching an old clipboard and piece of paper held together with a rusty clasp, while a fat pencil lay wedged in the greying curls above his right ear.

  ‘United we stand,’ whispered Mark in her ear. He smelt of pine sap and the forest. ‘Trust me.’

  ‘Afternoon, both.’ The farmer gave him a strange look then led the way proprietorially towards Wern Goch, his gimlet eyes missing nothing of his sheep-strewn surroundings and after several stops and measurements with an extra long steel rule he jotted down some figures on the top sheet, smudged them out and began again. ‘Let’s say four hundred for two layers of hardcore over this track and three drains,’ he announced. ‘Then you’d get your car down the house no problem.’

  She and Mark exchanged glances.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘But what about the land? Surely that needs some drainage too? I mean, look at it.’

  ‘I’m not going to pull the wool, Miss Mitchell, but that’s a big job. You’d need a ditch at the bottom end of that field and an outflow under the lane into the Mellte.’

  ‘That would need planning, surely?’ she queried.

  Mark tapped the farmer’s boiler-suited shoulder.

  ‘I can easily sort it out. Leave that to me, eh?’

  ‘And what about my grazing?’ The other man’s eyes had narrowed and suddenly, the little bonhomie which had existed between the two men evaporated. Lucy looked from one to the other, wishing now that she’d not fallen so easily for Mrs Evans’s idea.

  ‘That’ll be up to Miss Mitchell now. But I’m sure any manure will be useful.’

  Bryn Evans didn’t pursue the matter but walked on ahead, probing the early evening air with a length of his steel rule. Like a fine sword blade, it caught the light and, when he’d reached the bottom of the track, he tapped its end against the red-brown bank where that same jet of water still flowed from the soil.

  ‘We can get your water supply from here,’ he announced as she and Mark joined him. ‘Then run the pipe under these.’ He stamped the ground with his big black wellingtons and bent down to prise up one of the thick stone slabs buried under the mud. ‘Say five hundred quid.’ He let it drop and, because Mark was closest, the mud copiously splattered his jeans. He looked down at his legs in dismay.

  ‘Shit, man. Did you have to?’

  ‘Accident, beg your pardon.’ He turned to her, unrepentant. ‘Now then, what about fuel? The choice is oil, electric or LPG.’

  She tried to defuse the situation by asking him which would be best.

  ‘Take your pick. If you go for oil, mind, remember the tanker’ll need access and you need to ask yourself, do you really want to depend on the bloody Arabs for your warmth and comfort?’

  ‘So what’s LPG?’ she asked, wondering if all Chapel Deacons were really bigots in disguise.

  ‘Expensive and it stinks.’ Mark piped up before Evans could reply. ‘Besides, who wants to see loads of canisters hanging around the place? I reckon electric’s best. I’ve got a mate who can get you a generator in. Then you can heat your poly tunnels, run a computer, the lot. That’s all you need, plus wiring of course. It can go by the barn – nice and discreet.’

  ‘Thanks for that, squire.’ Evans was bristling now, spittle whitening the corners of his mouth. His pencil fell into the mud and he didn’t even bother to retrieve it. ‘You see, Miss Mitchell, your friend here knows damn well I’m the local LPG dealer round here.’ He tucked his clipperboard under his arm and turned to leave. ‘And if you’ve half a whit of sense, you’ll put your money back in the bank and look for somewhere else to invest it in.’ He then wagged a blackened forefinger at her. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  With that he headed back up the wet path, but Mark ran to catch him up and in the stillness of the day’s ending, she heard every word.

  ‘Rhaca’s been killed,’ said Mark. ‘Was anyone hanging around here on Saturday morning?’

  ‘You accusing me, then?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘You’re bitter enough.’

  She watched Mark draw nearer to the older man. For a moment she thought he was going to hit him, but when he spoke, his voice was clear and controlled.

  ‘By the way, Mr Preacher, we’ll have those two keys back if you don’t mind. You’ve been hanging on to them long enough. They’re Miss Mitchell’s now.’

  ‘What keys is that, then?’

  ‘You know damn well. Front door, scullery door. You’ve till midday tomorrow. Got it? And by the way, tell that little Hughes nonce of yours not to go round scaring the shit out of other road users. It isn’t very clever. And whatever you’re paying him for intimidation, it’s not worth it.’

  She sneaked up closer to the two figures to hear their voices more distinctly, but nothing prepared her for what came next. And when Bryn Evans had stopped shouting, Mark pushed him aside so he stumbled on to all fours, then ran back past her, into Wern Goch. His whole face resembled an angry mask, and for the first time since they’d met, she saw murder in his eyes.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hi, you again. Been nearly a year. My fault. How slow time passes in hell. I’ve stopped eating, only you won’t want to know about stuff like that. Not been sexy is it? But the only way I can get the f——s to listen. Remember Bobby Sands? Well, this is my Troscad. I had a nightmare last night and some woman’s voice told me a scream always brings a death.

  Your one. x

  ps Now for the Biggest Secret ever. In invisible ink. Read then hide safely.

  On that same dry Monday afternoon, the small Dorset village of Burton Minster seemed to have coiled itself into an invincible shell of quietude. Even the ancient beech trees which lined the Wimborne Road out of the village, and normally home to a multitude of singing birds, were eerily silent.

 
; Elizabeth Benn found herself longing for their cheerful chorus, indeed any sound other than the mind-numbing tick tick tick of the alarm clock placed just out of reach on her bedside table. She was being punished alright. That small show of defiance with the army knife last night had meant that today her hands and feet were bound by a pair of stockings apiece and her bedroom door had been locked from the outside.

  She also noticed that the blinds in her ground floor room had been cleverly half-closed to deter any stray visitor from peering in, and now the late sunlight brightened their white slats bringing memories of Paphos where twenty-seven years ago she and James had honeymooned in the height of a perfect summer. This detail was typical of the man who never left anything to chance. Whose novel plotting read like a novella itself and whose characters were strictly caged within its limits. Under his strict control. However, no less than Tom Sachs of the Literary Review had already deemed this to be one of Tribe’s main flaws. And he was on the Booker judging Committee.

  Despite her growing discomfort, she smiled to herself that maybe after all, justice would be done and by autumn, James Montague Benn would have slid away from the public gaze he so craved. That would, for her at least, be some consolation.

  Tick tick tick . . .

  No one would be calling. She knew that. Forget the once-chatty bread man, the fruit and veg husband and wife team, or anyone else from church or the village. The author had deterred them all by his disdain for those who worked with their hands, not the right side of the brain as he did. Those who’d never learnt Latin nor knew what a thesaurus was. And as for any carer or family . . .

  She swivelled her tired eyes to the two photographs of her only daughter, which stood on her dressing table. Not even Katherine was around any more. The dear sweet child born from a short affair with Oxford history professor Lance Hewitt, had died of leukaemia, while Benn, her step-father was still with the Queen’s Own Regiment in the Falklands. Before the books had spilled out of his head and fiction had usurped any truth. While there’d still been some love between them.

  She stared at the schoolgirl’s happy smile and felt such a surge of longing to hold her again that a small cry escaped her parched lips and tears lurked, ready to fall behind her eyes. For this house had been Katherine’s too, and its large meandering garden had fired her young imagination, provided the centrepiece to her world. There’d been the treehouse cradled by branches of the massive chestnut tree, the pond full of newts and water boatmen to which she’d given names and made up stories about their watery lives . . .