‘We’ll keep you informed, and thank you again for your help and vigilance. We’ll be contacting you later.’
‘Later?’ she whispered from behind the door, aware of Mark’s footsteps in the hall.
‘When’s that?’
‘As I’m sure you understand, Mr Williams is our priority at the moment. I can’t say too much, obviously, but an arrest is imminent. It’s good people like yourself and Mr Thomas who enable us to enjoy the success rate we have in solving crime.’
Enjoy? And what about May 1987?
She shoved the phone back in her pocket and sat down again in front of the file. The word Darwin suddenly like a tic on her brain.
Her stomach rumbled and she thought of toast again, so she got up to pull open the cutlery drawer beneath the old worktop. Where the bread knife had been was just an empty space.
Don’t panic.
But where on earth was it? She’d have to ask someone, because there was nothing else to use apart from a small worn-down vegetable knife. She checked the sink and the other drawers without success then gave up on the idea altogether because when she glanced out of the kitchen door, Mark was carting an array of full carrier bags and assorted holdalls to the front door. His face a mask of grim determination.
She followed him, surprised not only to see him wearing a black leather jacket and matching jeans but also the fact that by wearing these clothes, he clearly wasn’t going to work. And now wasn’t the best time to ask for his help.
However, once he was safely outside, she ran upstairs to what she now knew had been Richard’s room. Apart from the knife, she had to find those black shoes. This time the bed was strewn with various items, as if waiting to be either binned or sorted, including, and here she held her breath – a half-empty pack of white postcards, nestling under a paperback on Dürer’s art with RF Jones scrawled on its flyleaf. Nothing remotely like the writing style of those two poisonous messages.
YOU’RE NEXT and WHORE was all she could think of as she searched for the familiar onyx shoe box, and when she’d discovered it under the bed, breathed a huge sigh of relief. She lifted off its lid. So far so good. Both black shoes still lay inside it. However, they themselves were empty and the collection of Spar bags and their contents nowhere to be seen.
For God’s sake, where to look now? she wondered, wishing she’d snatched the lot while she’d had the chance on Saturday. Now the police would never find them. Nor was there time to look anywhere else, or even work out whose postcards they were. Or indeed if they were significant.
And what about the knife . . .?
No time to dwell on that. She had to get out of the room pronto, and as the door into the green-tiled bathroom was conveniently wide open, she ducked inside and leant her weight against it, not daring to breathe. While he returned for yet more belongings, she noticed Mark’s facecloth and toothpaste had gone, and also more oddly, the lid of the cork-topped stool was open. Had someone been looking for what she’d already found in that plasters box? she asked herself, more than puzzled by what had triggered off his show of leaving. He’d said he’d loved her, hadn’t he? She’d never forget that pleading look in his lustrous eyes as long as she lived. That need to be some part of her life. So why was he presumably finding somewhere else to live? Or was this all because she was seeing Paul tomorrow?
As a kid, she’d done what he was doing. Twice round the block and back home for a sound telling-off from her mother. So much for freedom. The great escape. And then she remembered his ever-present fear. Was something or someone driving him away?
As Mark repeated his journeys to and from his own and his brother’s room, she kept track of him, and sure enough, from her vantage point by the umbrella stand, saw him load up his van in the drizzle. She went out to join him but he was patently ignoring her.
‘What’s all this about?’ she tapped him gently on the shoulder. ‘Where are you off to?’
For a moment he flinched, then glanced at her long enough for her to notice that between his thick black eyelashes lay droplets of tears. He looked the saddest man on the planet, and she was tempted to reach out and stop any more of his loading up. To ask him to stay, to write her more of his strange poetry. To be a friend. Instead she thought of the kitchen drawer.
‘You’ve not seen the bread knife anywhere, have you?’ was as bland as she could make it. ‘I wanted to cut some toast.’
He in turn, barely reacted.
‘It’s in the van. I need it for cutting baler twine. OK?’
‘Sorry I spoke,’ she muttered to herself, feeling somewhat stupid as he retrieved it from the front somewhere and waved it in the air before returning it to the car.
‘You can have your toast when I’ve finished.’
‘Fine. Not.’
Then, just as she’d turned towards the Hall again, wondering where Hector was, his voice suddenly boomed out from inside his truck, making her jump.
‘That’s enough, Mark John Jones. Stop right there.’ He pushed open his driver’s door and charged over to his son before expertly locking his arms behind his back. ‘I’ve been watching you,’ he grunted. ‘And where do you think you’re going eh? Deserting the fucking sinking ship, is that right?’
Sinking ship? What on earth did that mean . . .?
Too confused to fully absorb the implications of what he’d just said, she didn’t know whether to stay and watch the proceedings, or go to Mark’s aid. She felt the shower cap safe in her pocket. A time bomb maybe, but now wasn’t the time to reveal it to anyone because tomorrow was for pleasure. The first she’d known since she’d arrived in Wales, and nothing was going to stand in her way. Friday – deadline day – would come soon enough.
‘Leave me alone, you poxy old turd.’ Mark wrestled in his father’s grip until suddenly Hector kneed him in the back and brought him down.
She couldn’t bear to watch any more. She’d left the mean streets of London for a better quality of life, and here she was in the middle of peaceful Radnorshire with a serious and to her, unnecessary, brawl on her hands. She went over to where Hector who now straddled his croaking son on the wet muddy ground.
‘Corax . . . corax . . . corax . . .’
Time to act. To show she meant business. She took a deep breath. It was now or never time. As if everything she’d heard so far had curdled into that river mist. As if reason and logic were just useless words, with even her own father egging her on.
‘OK,’ she addressed them both, seeing Mark’s dark eyes focused up on her in a way that was impossible to ignore. ‘Whatever’s been done, whatever’s been said is history and it must be put back in the past where it all belongs. The fact is, I’m going to need you both. I realise you’ve strung me a load of lies like some kind of weird double-act and my project’s been derailed from day one, but,’ she looked away towards Wern Goch not noticing the steadily advancing cloak of ravens overhead. ‘I’ve given up everything to come here. I mean everything. And look what you’ve got, for God’s sake. I’ve seen decent people through no fault of their own shacked up in cardboard boxes. Women and kids scavenging round the bins for food . . . You take a trip under Waterloo Bridge sometime. That would make you bloody grateful. There’s this place for a start,’ she gestured towards the building behind her, ‘which could be a stunning home; you’ve got the landscape, the skies, the whole natural world on your doorstep . . .’
But her rousing monologue was cut short by the ravens’ sudden presence, as if from nowhere. They were advancing even closer towards her, their white-tipped beaks open in attack mode, and suddenly she screamed as Hector let go of his grip on Mark and staggered towards the Hall. He gamely fought them off and cursed non-stop as he pushed her up the steps and into safety.
An uneasy truce reigned throughout that dank and dismal morning, with neither man referring to the incident either to each other or to her. While Mark changed back into his old gear, unpacked his van, and left in surly mode as though for the forestry, she overhea
rd Hector receive several calls, getting more and more agitated as each one ended. When she finally went into his study, she found him hunched inside his bar in surly silence, and upon asking for both her items back, received no reply. It was as if she’d never been in Ravenstone Hall and triggered that hopeful change in him. Now he looked like a man awaiting the gallows.
She then binned her stinking birthday lilies and finally, with her half of that postcard safe in her bag, she went up to her room holding a welcome mug of coffee between her hands. She placed it on the floor while she tried the door of Richard’s room to hunt again for those morsels. It was locked.
Damn. What else did she expect? Now there was no way anyone would believe those bits had ever existed, and that thought filled her with such panic that she delayed going down to blitz Wern Goch. Better to try and chill for a few moments with her drink and Mr Harries’s little book, she told herself. She needed to calm down. To try and think straight.
She sat at the dressing table amongst her make-up bits and pieces, the new window lock still hermetically sealed in the Parry & Sons DIY pack and the new Chanel companions. Anna would have gone ape at Mark’s interference over that. However, seeing these replacements which had cost him a day’s wages, hit home to her how traumatised he still must be. Traumatised enough to sustain what were clearly now untruths, and lead her up so many convoluted garden paths? Possibly. And hadn’t her Christian upbringing rammed forgiveness down her throat since day one?
Maybe that’s what she had to do, now that iconic Magical Tales from Magical Wales was so obviously wide of the mark. Her mother would approve; her father too. She actually felt better believing that yes, she could forgive. Forget? No way, but at least that particular Commandment might help her see a way forward. Because now, more than ever before, that’s what she needed.
She now turned her attention to the musty little volume whose pages almost seemed to part on their own to reveal a pen and ink study of a giant male figure, who, with his wheeled club, dwarfed the surrounding landscape. She stared at the face – full of glowering menace, of hatred even. Nothing remotely like the decorative picture in Magical Tales. She suppressed a shiver then began to read the accompanying caption . . .
THE DAGDA
The most illustrious of the Celtic gods who was specifically associated with Druidism. His is a deity of great power and two of the most potent symbols of this power are the Club or Staff, and the Cauldron. These, according to Druidic tradition, were both primal and pagan implements, providing both spiritual and physical nourishment.
By controlling the Cauldron, the Dagda shows himself to be the god of abundance and fertility, while his club brings life with one end and death with the other . . .
So, the Dagda overrides Cerridwen . . .
She stared at the text’s unsettling symbolism, but read on, unaware of time passing. However it wasn’t until she reached the next section which detailed several other well-known legends, that the shiver had become an inexplicable chill invading her whole body. But why? There was no draught from her door or the window which was wholly shut. Nevertheless, as she read further, she had the strangest feeling that maybe at least a small part of Ravenstone’s puzzle might just be falling into place . . .
On the eve of Samhain, the turning point of the Celtic year, the Dagda makes love to the Morrigan, the fiery red-haired goddess of death.
He mates with her while she stands astride the river Unius in Connaught, for she is the death goddess, washing the dead of an imminent battle which he will win.
The Morrigan (see also page 27) otherwise known as the Phantom Queen, possesses other forms known as Nemhain and Badhbh, meaning ‘frenzy’ and *‘raven.’ Therefore, good readers, here is a god of life conjoining with a goddess of death – symbolising the great universal forces which affect mankind . . .
*Ravens are deeply significant in Celtic mythology. It is widely believed they can induce memory loss, even death, but so far, research into these phenomena is unproven.
Lucy stared at the page, feeling the blood leave her face. Was it possible that those creatures out there were casting some kind of spell over her own memory? Hadn’t she been waking up too early recently, having to crank up her brain to function? Weren’t things she’d seen and heard beginning to blur and lose their significance, to form part of that vaporous veil of mist which now hovers over the Mellte for most of the day, spreading its milky fingers over the marsh?
She closed the book and blinked hard to return to reality. She had tomorrow to think about. Her one big chance and she mustn’t blow it. Everything must be perfect. She gathered up her new T-shirt and skirt then took them downstairs to the scullery to be re-ironed. But, just as she was setting up the ironing board her mobile rang from inside her bag. At first she thought police or even her mother saying her cheque had arrived safely, but no.
It was Anna.
Lucy clamped the phone to her ear in relief at hearing again her friend’s happy-go-lucky voice. And why shouldn’t she be happy? Nick seemed a good guy and Lambourn was a lovely place to live. She deserved it.
‘So, how’s old Luce getting on in the midst of woolly Wales, or daren’t I ask?’
‘Less of the old, for a start, and yeah, it’s okay.’
‘Okay?’ Anna challenged. ‘For an assistant editor, shortly to be a freelance for Sayer Price, that’s hardly an in-depth response. So, come on. Tell me . . .’
‘Are you serious? About the freelancing?’
‘Course. I had a word yesterday.’
‘Do they know I got the sack?’
‘Look, you showed an independent pro-active response. In other words, spunk.’
Lucy winced at her unfortunate choice of word and hesitated. It sounded as if Nick was with her friend, tickling her. Having fun. She suddenly felt more alone than ever, aware of how abandoned her clothes for tomorrow looked, heaped up on the ironing board.
‘We heard about that girl and her two kids going off the road near the Beacons,’ Anna went on. ‘And that old chimney sweep. Hell, Luce, I thought Wales was all milk and honey, with those lovely Biblical names, all that singing . . .’
‘It should be. Oh, Jesus. I mean, I’m not sure of anything any more. A lot’s happened since I got here.’
‘I’ll hazard a guess. It’s man trouble. Go on. I’m listening.’
Lucy heard her tell Nick to back off so she could concentrate. Salty tears began to sting behind her eyes and she turned her back to the kitchen door lest Hector catch sight of her in that state.
‘Men plural, if you must know. Are you on your own?’ she asked.
‘I am now. Nick does as he’s told.’
‘Look, Anna. D’you know why I came here in the first place? The real reason?’
‘You didn’t get that last interview for the new editor’s job and because you found some slapper and palmed her off with part of your slush pile, Merrill gave you the push. Oh, and growing stuff in Wales was something your dad always wanted to do. Correct?’
‘Not quite. There’s something I’ve never told you. But once I have, you’ll know why my need to make a go of things here has been, well, almost maniacal. At the expense of pretty well everything . . .’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘Remember those shoes? 15th June?’
‘Course I do. I bet you looked a million dollars in them.’
‘I did, and that’s not being immodest.’
Lucy then glanced back at the door and perched upon one of the chairs by the table to begin her story of the rape. When she’d finished, the silence which enveloped her seemed to come from another world.
‘You are kidding,’ Anna finally murmured. ‘Did our friend use a rubber?’
‘Yes.’
‘I hope you told the police.’
‘How could I? I still had my precious job to hang on to.’
‘Well, I can start dishing some dirt now, don’t worry. I’ll be glad to.’
‘I think his wife has
plans in that direction too. She tried to bribe me to shop him. At least, I’m sure it was her.’
‘Who needs fiction?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Hey, I just want to give you a great big hug. So hug yourself and pretend it’s me, okay?’
Lucy managed a tiny smile as Anna went on.
‘Now I come to think of it, when you brought those shoes back you didn’t hang about. In fact, you looked washed out.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No wonder your little house on the prairie’s a bit special. It would do for me if a toad like that had slobbered all over me, and the rest. You should stick with it. It’ll be brilliant. I’ve got really good vibes about it. Can you send me some pix?’
‘Do you really mean that?’
‘What?’
‘About sticking with it.’
‘Look, when I told people at SP the other day what you were doing, they all turned green. Honestly. God’s truth.’
‘I’m meeting someone tomorrow, actually,’ Lucy lowered her voice. ‘Paul. From Bristol. He’s nice.’ She felt herself blush.
‘Nicer than Jon?’
Damn. Did she have to?
Typical Anna.
‘Different. Anyway, will keep you posted.’
‘You do that. And remember what this wise young bird said? Up and at it, girl, and when you’ve got a bed ready, I’ll be the first one in it. Let me grab my diary . . .’
While Lucy waited, she felt as if the sun had moved away from the massive cloud which had so far smothered her day. Somehow now, there was nothing she couldn’t handle and nothing was going to stand in the way of success. Like she’d said on the driveway only hours ago. The past was the past.
‘Say the 28th September. Then we’ll have the whole weekend to catch up.’
‘Just you and me, OK? No men.’
‘No men, and it’ll be like a little palace by then. You’ll see.’
‘I’ll bring some manuscripts to keep you out of mischief.’
‘Cheers you.’
‘And good luck with Paul.’
Yes, Anna had given her hope. In fact all the hope she needed and a goal to aim for. Immediately Lucy made a short list, not a Truth List any more, but of jobs to be done. She couldn’t just sit around and let the grass grow. Not now, and as she extracted her old Hellebore diary and began to write, She felt once again that William Mitchell was right alongside her.
A Night With No Stars Page 30
