A Death to Record

by Rebecca Tope

  She refused to meet Den’s eye, as their cars passed within inches of each other. Looking straight ahead, she bounced her Astra through the puddle at the farm entrance and sped up the farm track. Bugger Den Cooper, she repeated to herself, five or six times.

  Gordon was washing his boots under the tap outside the back door when she found him. ‘Perfect timing,’ she boasted. ‘What’s for lunch?’

  He looked her full in the face, without smiling. His eyes were more shadowed than usual, and there were lines she hadn’t seen before around his mouth. ‘Wrong,’ he said lightly, but with the controlled anger just audible. ‘Perfect timing would have been if you’d got here half an hour ago, and had something waiting on the table for me.’

  ‘Ha!’ she responded, choosing not to notice that he was serious. ‘You should be so lucky. After I did the milking for you, too!’ She moved towards him, tucking her hands under the fleecy jacket he wore. ‘Anyone would think you weren’t pleased to see me.’

  He kissed her lingeringly on the forehead, working his lips against her skin. A slight moan told her she’d achieved her goal; the power of her effect on him was intoxicating. Her own body was responding, too, the familiar throb building up.

  ‘Never mind lunch,’ she whispered, nestling into his chest, feeling his heat under the rough layers of clothes. ‘First things first.’

  There was a greed to their lovemaking that had been completely new to her. A confusing sense that they could have as much as they wanted, and yet never really have enough. All her previous experience now seemed prim and miserly: snatched nights with Den in their first year together, with his job and her farm responsibilities distracting them. It had very quickly become routine, secondary to the plans they kept making and the discussions of daytime matters. With Gordon, there was much less conversation and much more direct bodily contact. There were never any plans, no references to the future.

  She hadn’t known it was possible to be so aroused. She felt perpetually on the edge of orgasm whenever Gordon was in sight. He had taught her an infinity of practices, which she felt frightened and foolish not to have discovered before. Frightened, especially, at the knowledge that, if she’d stayed with Den, she might never have discovered this secret world. Gordon used parts of their bodies she had never previously imagined could be given a sexual role. He rubbed her armpits hard with his nose, he massaged her inner thighs with his heel. Introducing her to sensations she might have gone to her grave never having known.

  From the start, he had demanded that she avoid all contraception. ‘I won’t make you pregnant,’ he’d promised. ‘I’ll make sure of that. You have to trust me. That’s why I have those tests – so you needn’t worry about infections.’

  This had been a shock initially, and for a few minutes she had to fight down the panic that came with it. ‘But why can’t we use condoms?’ she’d asked him. ‘What difference does it make?’

  He’d given a self-conscious little smile, and shrugged. ‘It’s a thing with me,’ he said. ‘I like sex to be unimpeded.’

  ‘But the Pill …’

  ‘Is very bad for you,’ he’d reproved her. ‘And it damps down your responses. You’ll have to believe me – it’s much better my way.’

  And he’d been right. At twenty-five, Lilah’s body was screaming to reproduce in any case, and the danger of knowing he could lapse from his promise and ejaculate inside her sent her insane with irrational excitement she didn’t even try to control. She found herself employing all kinds of tricks to make him do just that, and many times believed he had. It didn’t seem possible that he could last so long, driving her to frenzy, and still withdraw in time to come all over her belly, thrilling her with his final abandonment of control. It made her feel powerful, that he could be so helpless, if only for these few final seconds.

  She was impressed, this lunchtime, that he could perform at all, after a night in police custody and with the threat of arrest hanging over him. But the sex was not as abandoned as on some previous occasions, and there was a moment when she was sure he wasn’t going to pull away – a long, hovering, crescendo of a moment, when his eyes met hers and she saw him almost decide to stay where he was. She flinched involuntarily, and he withdrew, flopping onto her with a groan.

  She was increasingly aware that Gordon was predominantly a physical being. He went through his daily routines, he read farming magazines and completed endless government forms, he balanced his accounts and instructed his employees – and all the time he was only half alive, until he took his clothes off and became his true self. Lilah felt she’d been handed a uniquely precious gift, that she had discovered the elixir of life, the secret of true bliss. The idea that all this might be snatched away from her was unendurable. She would fight to the death to prevent it from happening.

  Because Lilah had already – silently but definitely – made a number of assumptions about the future. She would marry Gordon and move into the house, living with him and his mother and sister – and grandmother. She would have babies with him, but that wouldn’t impede their sex life. Nothing could do that. She’d help on the farm, and use her horticultural skills to augment their income, diversifying into fruit and vegetables, where a substantial sum could still be made. Her mother could sell Redstone, and move to a house in town, where she’d settle down and be quite happy. Farm prices were rocky, but at worst there’d be some hundreds of thousands of pounds in equity after such a sale. Roddy would make his own way in life – Miranda could keep it all and indulge whatever whims she liked. To Lilah it had all seemed so obvious, so easy. Until yesterday.

  The two of them stumbled shakily down the stairs again at ten to two, Gordon muttering about keeping Granny waiting for her lunch, surprised she hadn’t started ringing the bell or banging her stick by now. Lilah spread Flora on slices of granary bread while Gordon shaved thin slivers of cheese onto a plate, and then cut two tomatoes carefully into slices almost as thin as the cheese. ‘Just how she likes it,’ he boasted. ‘Plenty of black pepper, and it’ll be perfect.’ Lilah watched his big square hands deftly arrange the filling in the sandwich and smiled. Gordon’s affection for his granny was one of the things she found most sweet about him.

  ‘What are we having?’ she asked. ‘More of the same?’

  He shrugged. ‘Whatever you like. There’s some leftovers at the back of the fridge. One of Mary’s crumbles, and a wodge of cottage pie. I never had any supper last night, so they kept it for me to have today.’

  ‘We’d have to heat it up, and there isn’t time. I’ll just do a couple more sandwiches, shall I?’

  But Gordon had gone, carrying a small tray with Granny’s sandwiches and a glass of orange juice on it. He appeared five minutes later, and picked up the conversation as if there’d been no interruption. ‘Fergus used to love cottage pie,’ he said, scratching an eyebrow absently. ‘I always tried to save him a bit.’

  ‘Fergus? Oh – the dog.’ She spoke carelessly, still savouring the recent lovemaking, still tingling, hot in some places and cold, almost raw, in others.

  ‘He was a dog in a million.’ The intensity of his tone made her freeze. She worried that she’d been flippant, dismissive of something important to him.

  ‘Oh, I know,’ she said with deliberate sincerity. ‘We had a dog just before Daddy died – Lydwina, of all dopey names. She got kicked to death by a heifer. It was terrible. I’ve never seen Roddy so upset.’

  ‘I remember your dad. A lot of people thought he was a bit round the twist. Calling a dog Lydwina can’t have helped his reputation.’

  ‘He was just unusual,’ she said loyally. ‘Didn’t want to be seen as a thick Devon farmer. Actually it worked very well, as a name. You can sort of sing it when you’re calling.’

  ‘Sean killed Fergus, you know,’ Gordon said quietly. ‘Poisoned him.’

  Lilah’s blood stood still. She could feel veins of ice forming deep inside her. ‘What?’

  ‘At least, I thought he did,’ the farmer am
ended. ‘He denied it. Said he’d never do such a thing. But Fergus attacked him, ripped his ear half off – I wouldn’t blame him really.’ He spoke in a dull voice, as if it really didn’t matter.

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ she queried. ‘It might be a good idea to try and keep that story quiet, though. I mean, the police …’

  ‘They’ll see the scar. They’ll ask what happened. Heather’ll tell them, if no one else does.’

  ‘Gordon—’ She finished cutting up the sandwiches, and put the knife down. But she didn’t go to him, remaining out of arm’s reach.

  ‘What?’ He leant over the breakfast bar and helped himself to a sandwich. ‘I hope you’re not going to ask me whether I killed Sean?’

  ‘No. Of course not. I know you didn’t. Obviously you didn’t.’

  ‘But it isn’t obvious, is it?’ he demanded, staring into her face, the aftermath of their lovemaking still in his eyes, on his lips. ‘What’s obvious is that I had ample opportunity, a whole farm full of means, and maybe a motive as well. Revenge for Fergus. Everybody knows how much I loved him, how proud I was of what he’d turned out like. He went everywhere with me. He could read my mind.’

  Lilah became aware of an unexpected emotion rising from somewhere in her chest. Jealousy! She realised. I’m jealous of a dead dog! Out of nowhere – or so she supposed – came the suspicion that she had been a mere replacement for Fergus. A playmate, a companion who would feed Gordon’s ego, be something to be proud of.

  He laughed, still watching her face. ‘I can read you like a book,’ he chuckled. ‘Every thought is plain on your face. Don’t worry, little girl – I never got round to fucking my dog.’

  It was a sluice of cold water and she almost drowned in it. She floundered like a swimmer out of her depth, at the glimpse of the person she had taken up with. He was so … unknowable. She felt so young and naïve in comparison to him. She was insubstantial and ignorant, inexperienced and ingenuous. He had seen and done dark things, he could make jokes about bestiality and murder. But much worse than all this, she suspected that he regarded her as nothing more than a sexual plaything.

  Well, she’d show him. Forcing a smile, she picked up one of the sandwiches, as casually as she could. ‘I never thought you did,’ she said, with her mouth full. ‘I shouldn’t think you were ever that desperate. And – well – it’s not as if it was a female dog, is it?’

  Gordon put up one hand in an odd kind of salute, and said nothing. The gesture said, Well done, kiddo. Good to see you’ve got some gumption.

  Too right I have, she silently responded. She knew now what she had to do. Her bridges were well and truly burnt – there was no going back. And Gordon had thrown her a challenge she couldn’t ignore: Take me as I am, face up to the person I might turn out to be, and you won’t be sorry. It was like that terrible moment, poised at the pinnacle of the highest of all rollercoasters, knowing pure terror as it tips you over into the abyss. Knowing that when it’s all over, you’ll be proud and thrilled and relieved.

  ‘We’re going to prove you didn’t kill Sean,’ she said with sudden force. ‘We’re going to make sure there’s never going to be a case against you. It won’t even come to trial.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that,’ he smiled. ‘I was hoping that’s what you’d say.’

  Deirdre had another farm to record that afternoon. One of her earliest ones, starting at two-thirty in the afternoon and three-thirty in the morning. Perversely, it was one of her favourites, even in the winter. The cows were friendly and relaxed, and the calf-pen adjacent to the office, so she could watch their antics as she filled in the events of the previous month. And, unlike Dunsworthy, Streamside Farm was lavish with straw, ensuing that the animals were clean and their legs undamaged.

  She arrived promptly at one-thirty, allowing a full hour for the laborious paperwork necessitated by burgeoning quantities of government regulations. The Streamside herd boasted one hundred and eighty cows, the majority of them scheduled to calve in the autumn. This meant that there were sixty-five ‘services’, by five different bulls, to be documented. Fast as she was, it comprised an onerous and irritating job. Miraculously, the laptop seemed to have recovered from its vapours of the previous day, and submissively absorbed all the data without a single recalcitrant beep.

  The milking parlour was far from being in the first flush of youth, with six stalls on either side, and scarcely space in the well between for two people to move in without knocking into each other. Deirdre was well accustomed to the intimacy this involved, and she and Tom had long ago ceased to laugh and apologise every time they collided. She was skilful in anticipating his next move, and managed, most of the time, to stay out of his way. But the meters from which she obtained her samples were at floor level, so she had to bend or squat to reach them. More than once, Tom found himself bumping backsides with her, as he worked on the opposite row of cows.

  They talked idly about the weather, caught up with how Christmas and the excesses of the new year had treated them, and only then cautiously sidled up to the subject of the events at Dunsworthy.

  ‘You heard, then,’ Deirdre said, knowing full well the answer. The bulk tanker driver, assorted reps, even the postman, would all have spread the news in the time-honoured fashion. What price the Internet? Deirdre thought to herself. It’s never going to improve on this!

  ‘Heard you were there at the time,’ he grinned back at her. Tom was fifty-five, energetic, unworried even in the face of his industry’s darkest hour. Murder on a nearby farm wasn’t going to throw him into any sort of a spin.

  ‘That’s right,’ she said, giving nothing away.

  ‘Nobody’s saying just how it happened,’ he prompted her. ‘Percy Fielding said he heard Sean’d been trampled by one of the cows. Have they still got that great Simmental bull?’

  She shook her head. ‘I think he’s got that a bit wrong,’ she said. There were three more hours of milking still to go – plenty of time to feed him the story, little by little. Plenty of time to select exactly which details she was going to share with him. The image of Gordon’s contorted face, the things that had gone unsaid between him and her – those were definitely to be edited out.

  Much later, Tom paused after attaching a row of clusters, and summarised. ‘So poor old Sean was definitely murdered? Some people were saying it was most likely suicide. Plenty of farmers topping themselves these days. And Sean was a miserable sod a lot of the time. It could have been that. But didn’t they take Gordon in for questioning?’

  She nodded.

  ‘So they must think he did it? Right?’

  Deirdre wouldn’t commit herself on that point. ‘Who knows what they think?’ she said, before embarking on another row of sample retrieval.

  As often happened, conversation gained momentum at the very end of the milking. Having checked that all her pots were filled, and that everything tallied, Deirdre watched Tom release the final row of cows. ‘How well did you know Sean?’ she asked him, as they enjoyed a moment of satisfaction at another milking accomplished.

  He met her gaze. ‘Can’t say he was my closest friend – nor anything like it. Saw him in the pub now and then at dinnertime.’

  ‘What, the Limediggers?’

  ‘No, no. The Bells, in West Tavy. You must know that’s where they get together.’

  ‘Seems a bit of a way to go for lunch.’ It was often good policy to pretend to a greater ignorance than was genuine. If the police started to investigate the herdsmen’s ‘protest group’, she didn’t want it supposed by local farmworkers that they’d learnt about it from her.

  ‘It’s where we all go on a Thursday, when we can get away,’ Tom elaborated. ‘’Specially in winter.’ Something in his manner alerted her; he seemed to be half-regretting being drawn into this conversation.

  ‘You make it sound like a meeting of Freemasons,’ she said lightly. ‘What do you all talk about?’

  ‘This’n’that. It’s good to get off the farm for an hour or tw
o. I only go once in a blue moon, myself. It’s mostly herdsmen – not the farmers. Makes me feel a bit out of place, to be honest.’

  ‘And this was something Sean went to regularly, was it?’

  ‘One of the keenest, so they say.’ Deirdre recognised the impulse to talk that most of the men she worked with suffered from. ‘Sean was a bit of a weirdo,’ he went on, with a grimace that showed he knew he shouldn’t say such a thing about a dead man. ‘Always thinking up some new subject that he thought we should chew over. Some of the chaps thought he was a pain in the backside, to be honest. And there was something …’ He paused, eyeing her uneasily. ‘I oughtn’t to speak ill of him, now. He didn’t deserve what happened to him – whatever it was.’

  ‘That’s true. But I didn’t find him an easy man to like either,’ she encouraged. ‘He looked as if he had a lot of secrets. And that wife of his – I never thought he could be quite such a saint as he made himself out to be, where she was concerned.’

  Tom spluttered at that. ‘Saint! No way. You’re right about the secrets, too. We none of us know the half of it, but there’ve been rumours.’

  ‘Oh?’

  His glance slid away, unease plainly increasing. ‘Well, the usual sort of stuff. Badgers, mainly.’

  ‘What? Badger baiting?’ She widened her eyes at him. ‘Sean? Not just lamping – you mean real baiting, with dogs and everything?’

  ‘Sshh,’ he warned her, although there was nobody around to hear. ‘It’s only a rumour. I’ve never heard anything definite. But Fred Page has got that Staffordshire bull terrier, which always seems to have some sort of injury – and Sean was very matey with Fred. We all like to pretend it doesn’t happen, but we know it does. Cock fighting, as well. Not that I mind that particularly – bloody things’ll fight to the death whether people set them up to it or not. But the badger thing’s different altogether. Sick.’ His face puckered at the thought.