A Night With No Stars

by Sally Spedding

  Spooked by her recent experience, Lucy stopped outside a small snack bar in Llandegley for a much-needed coffee and a cheese roll. She felt cold even with her denim jacket now on, and the warm drink between her hands made little difference.

  ‘You alright, Miss?’ asked a solicitous-looking woman wiping over the pastries counter and who, to her amusement, lifted a blob of piped cream from a doughnut and popped it in her mouth.

  ‘Sort of, thanks.’

  ‘Like that, is it? You from here, then?’ Was more automatic than genuinely curious, so Lucy felt she could respond with a question.

  ‘Tell me,’ she began. ‘Have you ever been to that place called Water Break Its Neck?’

  ‘Only the once. Why d’you want to know?’ She rinsed out her cloth in a bowl positioned below the counter and continued wiping.

  ‘I’ve just been there and heard screaming going on. It was weird.’

  The woman stopped her labours and looked at her.

  ‘Well that don’t surprise me at all. Let’s say I wouldn’t let no family of mine go to it, leastways not on their own. Been two deaths there since last March as it is. Now, I’m not saying they was anyone’s fault, but when you’re talking about a seventy foot drop into what the locals here call The Pit Of Hell, then you’d think twice.’

  The Pit of Hell?

  ‘I did.’ Lucy felt even colder. She was now entirely convinced that the waterfall was one experience she could have done without. Yet this surely wasn’t a rational response, she reasoned, finishing her coffee, wondering whether or not to ask to use the phone. For before meeting Jon hadn’t she trekked to the Gorge de Verdun, sailed through the Peloponnese and stood on Beachy Head without the slightest fear?

  But Wales was another world. Never mind the native Welsh themselves who seemed to say one thing and do another. She’d also picked up on other not-so-hidden forces at work. For a start, their language used to keep so-called “incomers” in their place. She’d found that scenario in the bank and in the tea rooms but guessed it was pretty widespread. Even her quota of words from the Magical Tales glossary didn’t add up to much when she needed it. Then there were the sheer numbers of black predatory birds – especially ravens – and, despite Mark’s companions having helped to save her life, to her, reared on urban streets, they represented nothing less than a persistent malevolence.

  Look, she told herself half an hour later, pulling up a short distance from Horeb house to collect her belongings. Like that farmer had said, there’s probably some entirely normal explanation for those noises at the waterfall, and at Wern Goch. Anyway, Hector was an ex-copper. He’d know what to do. She was getting too jumpy. This wasn’t the Great Wen for God’s sake, where she’d got so used to being wary. Where every young black in a baseball cap was a potential mugger and some stray pervert was lying in wait around every corner.

  No, it was best that she think positively and re-acquaint herself with the little house and its urgent renovation. For example, what sort of floor tiles to choose? Which curtain fabric would let in the most light? And, during a thankfully uneventful trip back along the dreaded narrow lane to Ravenstone, with the sun on the hills and huge white clouds motionless in the still air, she felt for the first time that despite all her doubts, the unexplained tensions there, at last she was coming home.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I invoke the woman of my childhood,

  The breasts which fed me, the

  breasts of sweet yellow milk as she

  sings of love . . . of love . . . but not for me.

  Anon

  Thursday’s dying sun had cast the sky over the estate’s acres into a liquid gold, threaded by blood-red strands like those severed veins which he’d witnessed fourteen years ago. And now, despite a refreshing shower, Mark stood by his bedroom window at the front of the Hall, fixed by such a devilish Celestial resemblance to that horror, that he relived yet again the dread morning when he’d seen her lying there. His own mother, butchered in a way which made the halal method seem kind, but not only that, abandoned as carrion, just like that other long-ago occupant from Munich.

  His stomach turned over, as it always did on these occasions, and he wondered if a day would ever dawn when he’d be free of the constant watchfulness which kept him awake at nights. Free of the black lies poisoning his mouth, when he knew that Truth was the Word and the Word was sacred and divine.

  He now trained his eye along the distant hedge bordering the lane, checking for unfamiliar vehicles passing along, musing how, unlike his grief which came and went like a tidal sea, a huge fear had grown and festered in his mind for fourteen years. He closed his eyes tight and mentally exhorted every fibre of his being not to let the unseen enemy steal his fragile sanity, and by doing so, sabotage his one possible chance of happiness.

  He saw Lucy’s blue 4×4 on the driveway, still stuffed with her belongings from the B&B. She’d be down at the little house, or rather, her little house, probably deciding on wall colours and working out what furniture would go where. Everything had happened so quickly, he thought to himself. Like the final moments of human birth, from light into darkness. Between her initial call to Lloyd Griffiths and her arrival, he’d barely had time to consider the implications of her not only occupying such a special place, but also her permanent proximity.

  Maybe even his favourite goddess Cerridwen had had a part to play in all this. He liked to think so. Cerridwen, keeper of the Underworld’s cauldron. The mother whose two children represent dark and light. And which was he? he asked himself yet again, knowing that like most ancient mythology, nothing was ever that simple. Maybe the Londoner’s presence here was all meant to be, and now, gradually, there’d be time to find out more about her; her previous job at Hellebore, her family – if she had one – and why she’d moved so quickly from the metropolis.

  He’d never had much opportunity to fight his apprehension of the opposite sex, and to have asked her these personal questions already would have seemed way too intrusive. A risk he wasn’t prepared to take, because from the first moment he’d glimpsed her getting out of her car, he’d realised that here was someone special. And not just physically, even though she was taller than his mother, blonde where she’d been a redhead, and had the most expressive blue eyes he’d ever seen. Not only that, but Lucy Mitchell was following her soul. Determined to live her dream, whatever the cost.

  Whatever the cost.

  He felt a chill reach under his clothes as those crimson skeins in the sky turned the colour of old meat, and her now-familiar figure trekked towards her car and began disembowelling her possessions. She seemed preoccupied and he wondered if she’d had any more hassle with Bryn Evans or that little rat Hughes on her way to Ravenstone.

  He saw her glance up at his window, catching him unawares, then gesture for him to come and join her. He didn’t need bidding twice and, in pleasurable anticipation, slipped past his father’s study where the old man could be heard laughing to himself. Perhaps there was something funny on TV, he wondered, or, more likely, he was into double figures with the gin. However, he’d not been too pissed to ask Lucy if she’d like to rent one of the Hall’s bedrooms until after completion and Wern Goch becoming habitable. In fact, it had even crossed his mind that the cunning old sod might just fancy her himself . . .

  As he reached the front door, he also wondered how he could play Jesus with the near-empty freezer and drum up the loaves and fishes equivalent of an evening meal for the three of them. He’d meant to go shopping straight after work, but Lucy’s order for the builders’ merchants had taken priority. And so it had been mortar mix instead of mozzarella, and treated hardwood from sustainable forests instead of a pre-packed salad.

  No contest, he told himself, seeing her smile at him. No contest at all.

  ‘Thanks for that poem,’ she smiled again, then finally closed her boot door and locked it. ‘I’ve never heard of an englynion. It was certainly powerful stuff.’

  ‘That’s me,�
� he bluffed, and she smiled.

  ‘And for getting those windows for me. That sash style will really suit the house.’

  ‘No probs, besides, hardwood will last for ages even with all the damp we get here. Is that why you called me down? I’m not used to gratitude, you know.’

  ‘Yes and no.’ Her smile stayed long enough to reassure him, then she grew serious.

  She picked up the two heaviest bags stuffed with clothes and started walking towards the Hall.

  ‘No you don’t.’ He took them all from her as she began to describe her morning’s visit and how she’d seen a large black 4×4 race away from near the waterfall.

  ‘Did you see who the driver was?’ he ventured.

  ‘No. But he or she was definitely on their own.’ She frowned to herself, trying to recall that profile, the shape of the head . . . ‘I’m pretty sure it was a bloke.’

  ‘A bloke?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the make of car?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some Jeep type of thing. An off-roader.’

  ‘Them and vans is ten a penny round here.’

  ‘So I’ve noticed.’

  She’d also noticed how he’d ironed creases into his jeans and his dark hair now cleared his collar instead of straggling over it. All of a sudden, Mark Jones was smartening himself up, and the big question was why? The possible answer brought a sneaking blush to her cheeks. She was glad he was some way ahead of her when she broached her next question.

  ‘Does your dad still have any contacts with the Police Force?’

  He stopped in his tracks. His expression made her think of the woman farmer she’d encountered earlier.

  ‘Yeah, but not much. Why?’

  ‘Something’s wrong. I can feel it, here.’ She pressed a hand to her chest and for a split second saw his eyes on her breasts. ‘I’d like to have a word with him,’ she went on regardless. ‘Might be useful, you never know.’

  Mark laughed wrily, setting her bags down on the top step before nudging the front door open with his shoulder. ‘All you’ll get is alcoholic poisoning by proxy.’

  She repressed a smile because now wasn’t the time for humour. ‘Has he always been a heavy drinker?’

  Mark lowered his voice as he held the door open for her. ‘No. But like I promised, one day I’ll tell you everything.’

  ‘Ah, Romeo and Juliet . . .’ A yet more unshaven Hector Jones beamed at them both from inside his bar. This time a full glass of Burgundy lay to hand and he promptly raised it in the air. ‘To the two of you, and may lots of happy little sprouts be following . . .’

  ‘Cut it out, Dad.’ Mark strode towards him, reached over and snatched the glass away, swearing as the wine slopped on to his jeans leaving dull red stains on each thigh. ‘If you can’t think of anything useful to say then shut the fuck up.’

  Her lingering blush had deepened in embarrassment. Her plan to ask for Hector’s help quickly evaporating.

  ‘Well I can, and you’d better listen,’ the ex-copper eyed her as if to ingratiate himself into her good books. ‘a), the sweep’s just phoned from a job he’s just finished in town. He’ll be here any minute and b), after midday tomorrow there’ll be no sheep on the land. Easily upset is our preacher. When you think what the good Lord suffered. However, thanks to Miss Mitchell here, we’ll soon be solvent again, and besides,’ he smiled at her benevolently, ‘it’s too long since we had a pretty woman around the place.’

  ‘Dad . . .’

  ‘I mean it, son,’ he said, looking her up and down appreciatively. ‘She’s a real looker.’

  Lucy went up to the bar, cheeks burning. Whether Hector was pissed or not, that compliment was more than Jon had ever managed in front of anybody.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Jones. Only my dad ever said that to me. He was special.’

  ‘Was?’ Mark seemed more than curious.

  ‘He died of a heart attack three years ago.’

  For a moment no one spoke as if the well of grief there was already full to the brim and words of sympathy had long since swirled in its depths and drowned. Yet she now had Hector’s full attention and close-up she noticed how his dark eyes had the same intense expression as his son’s. How they were ringed by sadness.

  ‘Mr Jones, I know you’re not in the Force any more . . .’ she began.

  ‘Detective Inspector, retired,’ he interrupted, not without some pride. ‘And call me Hector, please. Yes, I’m out to grass just like those buggers down there.’ He indicated the cropping sheep beyond the window. She could have added that her own father had never even reached that stage. That NHS targets had worn him out, but Mark spoke up first.

  ‘They’re killing ewes,’ he said darkly. ‘In a month’s time they’ll be dog food and that preacher’s wallet’ll be full to bursting.’

  ‘I wish yours was, son. No good sneering at those who get on in the world.’

  ‘He’s had it cheap here for years. On our bloody backs, let’s not forget.’

  She decided to break the strained silence which followed this outburst. She had to press on and to that end, renewed her eye contact with Hector.

  ‘If you’re out somewhere and you hear something suspicious, like a scream,’ she began, ‘would the police take it seriously? I know people often fool about, but . . .’

  ‘It depends. There are screams and screams. If it sounds like someone being threatened or assaulted, then it’s taken very seriously indeed.’ His voice grew more animated as he spoke, and she sensed that here was a man who’d clearly loved his job, loved the work . . .

  ‘It was at Water Break Its Neck,’ volunteered Mark, ‘and there was also some jeep keen to get away.’

  She shot him a grateful glance, while Hector pondered what he’d heard so far.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Around two o’clock.’

  ‘Why go there, Lucy? It’s a danger area, for God’s sake.’

  ‘I’m just trying to get my bearings. See a bit more of what’s around. Making sure this place is right for me.’ She sighed. ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘I’m waiting.’ Hector came out from his bar and parked himself in one of the shabby unmatching chairs put out for visitors who rarely came. Mark too sat alongside listening intently as she spoke of her time at Hellebore and, careful not to mention her rape and its aftermath, gave the glass ceiling and her dead father’s dream for a country life as her reasons for quitting. And of course Anna’s offer of editing work. Actually paying her . . .

  ‘So, what did you do after you’d heard the screams and seen the vehicle leave?’ he finally asked, as if despite his apparent attentiveness, it was her first account which really mattered.

  ‘I called in at the nearest farm, just to tell someone.’ Then Lucy added how she’d given a false name to the woman there.

  ‘What name was that?’

  ‘Sonia.’

  Suddenly the study felt like an ice box. She looked from one stricken man to the other, completely at a loss as to why that particular Christian name should cause such a reaction.

  ‘God’s truth.’ Hector muttered, then, as if to regain his composure, attacked his stubble, rubbing it this way and that. Mark got up and stood by the window to hide his face. ‘That’s what my wife was called,’ Hector said. ‘Mark’s mother.’

  She wanted the floor to open and swallow her up. Of all the ones to choose . . .

  ‘I’m so sorry. I never realised . . .’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Mark turned to face her. ‘How could you have possibly known?’ He then looked at his father. ‘We’ve had fourteen years to get used to it.’

  ‘Why give a false name, then?’ Hector was businesslike once more and although she’d breathed a sigh of relief, she took a few seconds to collect her thoughts.

  ‘I had to be careful. Anyway, this Mel woman didn’t seem too chuffed when I said the word Police.’

  Hector smiled.

  ‘Plenty of dodgy farmers out there. Still, she could be useful.
’ He got out of his chair with unexpected vigour and tapped her gently on the shoulder. ‘Would you like me to take a look?’

  ‘Someone ought to. Yes please.’

  ‘What, now?’ Mark incredulous. ‘How much have you had?’

  ‘Son, mind your own business. Now then, if you’ll forgive me, I’ll just go and get myself cleaned up a bit . . .’

  Both she and the sawyer stared after him as he lumbered over to the study door ignoring his walking stick which still lay propped up near the bar. She also noticed with a mix of gratitude and pity, the shiny seat of his old black trousers, the back of his hair still ruffled from his pillow.

  ‘Let me give you something for the petrol,’ she called out.

  ‘You can try, but I won’t take it,’ he stalled by the mound of her belongings in the hallway, then half turned towards Mark. ‘Why don’t you show the young lady to her room and help her get sorted out? And when I get back, a Cornish pasty and mushy peas wouldn’t go amiss.’

  ‘The old sod.’ Mark hefted the bulkiest of her bags to the first floor landing, then stopped at the sound of a car coming up the drive. ‘Might be old Williams. I’ll go and see. By the way,’ he gestured towards the rear of the landing where two closed doors stood next to each other. ‘There’s your room,’ he said, and she automatically headed for the one with the rose on it.

  ‘This is pretty,’ she said, her hand already closed round the door’s strange brass handle. A raven’s head, its beak cold against her palm.

  ‘No, not that one,’ Mark interjected so abruptly that she turned round in surprise. ‘It’s private. Sorry.’

  As his thudding footsteps faded, she could hear sounds of running water coming from a nearby bathroom. Obviously Hector, she thought, which gave her the chance to compare Horeb’s overstuffed accommodation with her new quarters’ grander proportions, and to puzzle about Mark’s sudden reaction to her going near that particular room. Why too weren’t there any mementos of those who’d previously inhabited the Hall? Lord Howells and his descendants, for example? Irmgard Muller or the grandparents with their funeral business? Even Sonia Jones and her other son, the so far elusive Richard? It seemed to Lucy that all these lives had, for some reason, been secreted away, just like the dead who lie in drawers within France’s marble tombs.