A Night With No Stars

by Sally Spedding

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Can’t write see. And Bryn Evans, well, he’s got God to answer to, hasn’t he?’

  ‘So, why did he say to Mark that both he and his brother were a curse on the land? That’s pretty shocking isn’t it? What did he mean?’

  ‘D’you fancy one of ’em, then?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Anyway, I’ve already got a boyfriend.’

  Hughes shrugged, unimpressed. ‘Our Bryn’s a Bible puncher, isn’t he? Kind of words he uses. Mind you, it’s what folk round here think.’

  Lucy glanced out at the rain and the empty fields stretching upwards to the leaden sky and the sustained shiver which followed wasn’t simply because of her soaking clothes.

  ‘So they both killed their mother, right? Look, I’ve got to know, because after Friday, I’m legally committed to buying the place. Just think if I was your girlfriend . . .’

  He ignored that remark, but she could see he was beginning to bite. ‘Is that what you meant by urgent?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hughes glanced at the door. He seemed uncomfortable. His ruddy complexion now even paler. His eyes shifty. What was he frightened of? Why were his blackened fists clenching and unclenching?

  ‘Look,’ she began. ‘If it’ll help, I won’t breathe a word of this conversation to anyone. That’s a promise. No one knows I’ve been here. No one needs to know.’

  ‘Don’t bank on it. Anyway, it’s that Richard dickhead you’ve got to watch out for. He’s off his fucking tree, I’m telling you. If he ever came back . . .’

  He was interrupted by a sudden noise from the front room and Lucy cursed inwardly at this interruption. Hughes had flinched, was already on his way.

  ‘Tell me, is Mrs Evans a nutter?’ she persisted as he reached the open doorway. ‘Has she ever, you know, been in a mental home?’

  ‘Get off. Sharp as a new hoof-pick she is. More than you can say for the preacher. Why? Whose been spreading shite like that?’

  ‘Just gossip, that’s all.’ She tapped his shoulder to restrain him from going any further and he spun round as if his whole life was lived on a high tension wire.

  ‘I know it’s a lot of questions,’ she began, ‘but I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think you could help. Please.’

  He stalled, leaning against the door frame. He was far too thin, she thought, and those teeth . . . He’d probably had to have all his real ones out in one go to save trips to the dentist. Mrs Evans had told her it often happened. Even now, in 2001.

  ‘Did Hector ever call round to either of you last Friday evening, after that incident in Rhayader?’ she asked.

  He hooted his derision and the top row of teeth moved.

  ‘Fuck no. He’s a right wuss, him. Can’t even look at himself in the mirror.’

  ‘So you didn’t see him at Caban Coch?’

  Just then, a second noise from the parlour, more urgent this time and Hughes left his post an ran up the passageway.

  ‘What’s up, Mam?’ he shouted. ‘Someone out there?’

  Lucy couldn’t hear what the poor woman mumbled but her son had already flung open the front door and stood, legs apart surveying the yard where the rain had now turned to hail.

  ‘You’ve just said no one saw you come here,’ he snapped without turning round. ‘Lying Saesneg.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ She saw the woman’s stricken face, the hands locked on to the arms of her chair.

  ‘Some white van’s been in, turned round and fucked off.’

  Her heart seemed to stop beating.

  ‘Maybe someone’s got lost, made a mistake. It’s easily done round here.’

  ‘You’re the one making a mistake. If I was you. I’d get the hell out, back to wherever you came from.’

  A threat and a warning all rolled into one. Each harsh syllable stung far worse than anything the sky had on offer as she pushed past him and headed for her car. When she looked up from unlocking it with a shaking hand he was still there, guarding his territory. Then she remembered that scream near Wern Goch. It was now or never.

  ‘Do you ever use a whistle when you’re getting the sheep in?’ she yelled over to him.

  ‘What sort of crap question’s that, eh?’ he stepped from the house and made for the barn once more. ‘If I used a whistle with my dog, she’d have me leg. And the rest. Hates the things . . .’

  With that, he unlocked the black door and slammed it shut behind him, leaving her staring after him, in a pall of singed flesh.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Hi you,

  I forgot. This is for you as well. Bit of a find, considering.

  THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL

  Llandrindod Wells

  REPORT FOR – Summer Term 1987

  As Mark’s Pastoral Tutor and in the absence of his form Teacher/Year Head, Mr D Roberts, it behoves me to add what I can to the comments of Mark’s specialist teachers in an effort to secure for him the psychological help he so clearly needs.

  When first a pupil last September, he displayed undoubted aptitude in a wide variety of subjects, without excelling in any one in particular. He seemed eager to learn and to emulate his brother who until 1st May, showed unflagging application and enthusiasm. However, this term’s progress has shown us a boy clearly unable to deal with the recent family tragedy. He has started to bully other pupils in a way which is completely unacceptable, showing a degree of cruelty towards them which, in a school such as this cannot be tolerated. Therefore, the Head’s request for him to leave is the only option open to him. I will send you details of appropriate agencies to contact in the hope that Mark will be helped.

  SV Briers BA

  Although he’d slept fitfully and not heard Hector leave, Mark had listened to every sound of Lucy’s movements. Getting ready, nosing around his mother’s room just as he’d expected she would. A call from the study to the sweep, then a trip to the scullery. He could have intercepted her to apologise, so why not? Because she was stepping out of line. Each of her footsteps, each shut of a door had said to him ‘Sod you, I’ve got my own agenda’. Besides, he wasn’t putting himself up for yet another rebuff.

  Saturday and that kiss, that declaration of love had been embarrassing enough. He had some self-respect after all. But as far as courage was concerned, it was as if it had suddenly bottomed out of his system altogether, replaced by a growing fear of what this coming week would bring. What had she been looking for? What was she up to? This fear was affecting his head. Up to now, he’d been able to use it to change things, like ballsing up her car or that Birmingham car’s brakes. But not any more.

  His special gift was being slowly destroyed because, apart from her snooping, Richard was around. He must have sneaked up to the Hall in the overnight mist. This was fact, and he’d known it the moment he’d seen that disgusting note on his mother’s grave. Also the note on Lucy’s windscreen. The screw was being tightened alright. He could feel it in every nerve of his body, every blood vessel in his head which now seemed engorged with more than fear. Why he’d phoned in sick today. The most honest excuse he’d ever made in all his seven years as a sawyer.

  However, this fear wasn’t just for himself, but all three of them at the Hall. And what was there to defend them from the Prodigal’s return? he asked himself while slipping his T-shirt over his head. Even that brief darkness brought a frisson of panic, and he almost ripped the thing in his haste to see daylight again. The fucker should be in the army now, with the proper licence to kill. Getting it out of his rotten system. But come eighteen, he’d probably been a draft dodger. Yeah, that sounded about right. Par for the course.

  OK, so he’d once idolised him. Trod in his footsteps wherever he could. Slept with his old PE shirt on his pillow. Sad bastard, you, Mark Jones . . . Until the stabbing. Part one of a modern crucifixion, he’d said. After that, nothing was the same again.

  He ran downstairs and bolted the front door as pricks of lightning lit up the sky to the north, foll
owed by thunder so deep, so resonant that he wondered if the Underworld could hear it.

  Having secured the scullery door and checked all the windows – at least those whose sash mechanism was still working – he realised that Lucy’s room was the only one which could be levered up from the outside.

  Lucy . . .

  Out there somewhere. God knew where, doing God only knew what and it was all his fucking fault for being so careless. He suddenly charged back up the stairs and into the bathroom they’d been sharing. Here at least, was something he could do. He knew what he was looking for and surely amongst his and his father’s drab gear the metallic midnight blue of her Nocturne gel and spray would be obvious. But no. Her toiletries weren’t there. Nothing for it but to try her bedroom. It was conveniently unlocked. Just like her big sash window.

  He went in and recovered what seemed like the whole product range in her waterproof bag. He had no choice but to take them, thinking RISK more appropriate than NOCTURNE. He squirted a little of the scent on his hand and sniffed it.

  My God. No . . .

  He clamped his hand to his head as the past fast forwarded so that it was that last Saturday in April all over again. Sonia Jones had a gig booked up in Newtown for the opening of some new pub or other, and before setting off she’d looked, well, not thirty-five for a start and certainly not old enough to be a mother of two teenagers. She’d also worn her hair up that night, styled like a woman in a painting from some art history book he’d once seen at school. The name Fragonard seemed to ring a bell at the time.

  Anyway, Richard had begged to go with her but she’d argued what could he possibly do? Sit in the bloody car for three hours? He was too young to be allowed in the pub and too young for drinking. He was best off keeping his da and Mark company, she’d said.

  Well, he recalled as he sniffed his mother’s favourite scent again. That had done it. He’d called her all sorts, hadn’t he? Not whore, not then, but fairly close. By Jesus, he’d kept out of his way then. Just like he should be doing now.

  He unscrewed the shower gel and the scent bottle and tipped both down the lavatory. Next, after pulling the chain he tore off two joined pieces of loo roll, wrote the words R’S BACK and took it into his father’s room to lie unmistakeably on his still-dented pillow. Then down into the cellar where, so he’d been told, Irmgard Muller had hidden herself before being taken to the Abbey and where his special hole in the west wall lay behind a big loose stone.

  He counted twelve up, and twenty-six along from the corner, then extracted the stone. Here he hid the spray can along with the contents of his shoe and the pieces of burnt fabric. Nothing was safe upstairs any more he thought, replacing the stone to look like all the rest. He’d have to substitute her things too, of course, with something less evocative. Less tricky.

  The storm now seemed to be targeting the Hall and straightaway he unplugged the aerial in the study, noting as he did so that the Yellow Pages lay open on the CHIMNEY SWEEPS page. He then crammed his feet into his trainers and forgot to tie up the laces, but took more care than usual in locking the front door behind him, feeling the stinging rain, almost hail, slide down his neck. Once ensconced in the Renault, two anxieties surfaced in his mind. The risk of being waylaid, and someone from work recognising the van.

  He held his breath all the way along the single track road to the A44, past Evans’s farm with the sheep hurdles still exactly where he’d dumped them. Maybe the resentful so-called Christian had finally got the message. Maybe he’d now lie low.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  My tuigen will be black as my soul is black.

  It will warm my blood. Strengthen my purpose.

  What is his was mine and will be mine again.

  I am here. That is enough.

  If I was you, I’d get the hell out . . .

  No way. Not now, even if the sky did seem to be falling in. Even if the catalogue of lies from Ravenstone Hall seemed to be multiplying, and the truth she needed seemed further away than ever, because there was still one person who could tell her what had really happened. And that person, according to the Yellow Pages she’d consulted, lived fifteen miles away to the north. In the rural hamlet of Maesybont.

  Lucy left Bwlch Ddu Farm behind and, having repeatedly checked her rear view mirror, rejoined the original B road signed Llanidloes, driving too fast she knew but not fast enough to get there before anyone else could tail her. It was surely too much of a coincidence that a white van had turned up at the last farm for no apparent reason – unless Mrs Hughes was hallucinating or her son’s vile “smokies” business had been rumbled. If not, who’d gone to the trouble on such a wet morning? And why?

  For the first time since buying her car, she regretted its vivid blue metallic colour which had caught her eye amongst all the other makes and models at the dealership. Better she’d gone for grey or black as Jon would have surely done, then it would be blending in perfectly with the drab, saturated conditions.

  As she neared her destination and the rain eased to a steady drizzle, the word “families” stayed in her mind. Three syllables, that was all, but the most significant she’d heard so far. And the next half hour could well reveal all. Thirty minutes in which at least she would know which way to turn. She was prepared to believe Rhiannon’s view of Richard, but if the sweep were to hint that he’d been guilty, she still might proceed with the purchase, because to all intents and purposes, he was still on the other side of the world. However, if he said Mark, then she’d be packing her bags that very afternoon . . .

  An Arafwch Nawr sign preceded that of the hamlet and the road suddenly narrowed to a single car’s width. She slowed to second gear as a humped-back bridge came into view, where a caped fisherman was casting his line into the water beneath. He turned briefly her way when the act was done then focused once more on his sport.

  She slowed up and lowered her window. Her father had once told her that fish can be scared off by the slightest sound so not wishing to upset him, she whispered, ‘Excuse me, but I’m looking for Mr Williams, the sweep.’

  ‘Pantyfynnon it is,’ he replied without looking. ‘Turn left by here, then it’s the second bungalow on the right.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She was about to navigate round him when he continued.

  ‘He’s poorly, mind. Not been at work since Thursday last. Thinking of retiring, he is. Then where’d we all be?’ He wound his reel as he spoke and cast again into the flow while she parked up on the wet high verge beyond the bridge rather than venture down any more poky lanes. Was it possible that ravens attack at Wern Goch had been the last straw? He’d sounded pretty uptight on the phone. Scared even. Hadn’t he said, ‘I don’t want to be next?’ What the hell had that meant? Then her own special note surfaced into her consciousness making her keep a wary eye out as she locked the Rav. She shoved in both wing mirrors and checked the plasters box was still in her pocket. It was. Safe and dry, but not her. Not by a long chalk.

  She sneezed twice as water slewed away downhill under her trainers and gathered in a dark pool outside the gate to the second bungalow. The already familiar new van was parked in front of one of the bay windows on a cindery patch of ground, but, apart from the simple logo along its side, there was outwardly no sign of this being home to a chimney sweep. In fact, the place didn’t look like a home to anybody.

  She stopped to take in the place which had now accrued so much significance in her mind.

  A kind of Delphic Oracle, and one she should have consulted three days ago straight after his visit. Here too, like the other places she’d visited, an uncanny stillness prevailed, added to by the drawn curtains, the total lack of anything else living or breathing wherever she looked. She felt like a trespasser. As if here, someone’s very private, self-contained domain didn’t welcome strangers, least of all, anyone from Ravenstone Hall.

  So, instead of going straight to the front door, she made her way round the back of the bungalow. Here again more curtains were drawn against t
he dark midday and the damp drenched air, in which clumps of lilies and dahlias in the busy garden had keeled over under the weight of water. Here were new PVC windows and guttering. Money well spent, she thought. A brand new chimneyless roof too, she noticed, judging by the even rows of Welsh slate the colour of Hector’s bruise. ‘Simnai’ Williams hadn’t lied. Business had clearly been going well until . . . until . . .

  Mark would have to know about the consequences of his actions, she decided. The old man had obviously been badly affected by the birds’ attack. In fact, if the sweep saw her, he might suddenly snap. Might even have a gun, and leap upon her like the little gnome he was. Instinctively, she looked behind her and to her surprise saw that same fisherman standing in the road. A dark, conical shape with his rod protruding like a mast against the sky.

  ‘Haven’t you tried the front yet?’ he asked in a gruff Welsh voice. ‘He never answers the back door.’

  ‘Course I have,’ she lied. ‘But there’s no reply.’

  ‘Try again, then. He sleeps like a dog.’

  ‘OK.’ But her confidence wavered as she approached the porch, aware of the stranger’s gaze on her every move. He was local, that was obvious. In his sixties she guessed, and proprietorial too. She pressed the doorbell.

  ‘What’s your business with him, anyhow?’ he challenged her.

  ‘I’ve got a bird’s nest in my chimney. I’m not sure how to deal with it.’

  ‘Nesting season’s over. No harm in lighting a fire now. Where you from?’

  She thought quickly. Tried to remember the signs passed along the way. ‘Llanmadog.’

  ‘Saesneg are you?’

  ‘Welsh mother. Born in Cardiff.’ She felt like adding, if that’s alright with you.

  ‘That’s not Wales,’ he said. ‘And as for that Assembly. Blair’s bloody puppets, the lot of them.’

  The wait was too long. She tried the bell again, aware that now he was joining her, nudging the door with his black-cloaked arm.