by Claire North
Of course.
You have to …
Well thank you. Sorry to have bothered you I’ll just …”
Theo sits a while, and stares at nothing, and only moves when the cold becomes unbearable. In the valleys below, the bells are singing a joyful song, and somewhere there is the laughter of children, behind the walls.
Theo reached Danesmoor on the early afternoon of his second day of walking.
Paced around the great stone wall that cut it off from the rest of the land.
Paid £19.50 for the entrance fee, showed his Cotswold papers, hoped no one cross-checked, for by now surely the theft would have been reported.
An old woman in a heavy lambswool coat sat behind the counter in the gatekeeper’s lodge, and did not cross-check his papers.
“There’s tearooms by the stable,” she barked, handing him his receipt. “We close at 4 p.m.”
Theo thanked her, walked up the neat gravel path, framed by yew trees carved into clownish spheres, towards the front door.
A beautiful house.
Three storeys of light brown stone, pitched grey roof, smaller windows on the top floor, servants’ quarters. A series of stone arches and pillars had been raised at the end of the garden, mimicking something Roman. Beyond, forest began to intrude into the tended knee-high yew mazes and cherub-capped fountains.
Approaching the house down a gravel path, he found white doors standing half-open despite the cold, a blast of heat from radiators tucked away behind carved wooden facings striking his face as he went inside. A wooden sign in the shape of a pointing hand directed VISITORS towards a staircase, and a plinth invited him to remember that Danesmoor was a working family house, and guests were welcome only to appreciate a fascinating historical and cultural heritage.
Black and white marble floors, locked together in geometric squares and triangles to create a map of a madman’s chessboard. Plaster ceilings, adorned with horsehair carvings of Greek gods and heroes: Hercules fighting a lion, Persephone reaching out towards fading summer as Hades dragged her down into perpetual night, Venus and Mars locked in an embrace, the Goddess of Love glancing a little away from her husband’s shoulder as if catching sight of some other entanglement more interesting than the limbs of the God of War.
Paintings. Lords, ladies, their spaniels and babies, the dynasties that had gone before. A statue of a woman, veiled, weeping; a marble carving of a boy throwing a javelin, muscles tight and buttocks bare, head turned to one side as if, at the moment of truth, he had heard a voice cry from the crowd, but it was too late now to stop the spear’s flight.
A roped-off route for guests to walk, little stands explaining the significance of this room or that flowerpot, the history of a fireplace, the craftsmanship of a chair. Theo wandered, and was the only wanderer, while outside the snow grew a little thicker, until he came at last to a sign that said NO ENTRY and, trying the door handle, found it unlocked.
The private family rooms of Danesmoor had all the painted grandeur of the public areas. Portraits still hung on the walls, but on the mantelpieces above the pink-veined fireplaces were photos of younger men and women, drunk, tongues waggling at the camera or dressed up in heroic swatches of leather and paint for a stag do. On the sofas, tattier, softer than the sculpted furniture in the rest of the house, out-of-date newspapers, magazines ringed with coffee stains, the sound of a TV somewhere below playing a reality show in which the contestants had to eat bugs, or a snake’s heart, or their own vomit or some such, to win prizes and the adoration of the texting crowd.
TVs in most rooms, playing at empty air. Once Theo heard someone move, and ducked through a white wooden door disguised as another piece of panelling which turned out to hide a toilet, complete with a bottle of bleach on top of the cistern and a waste basket containing a collection of old tampons wrapped in tissue.
Footsteps passed by, and he waited, and when they were gone, he let himself out and continued wandering.
A room
potted plant a portrait above a long table he
knelt down by the plant and looked up and saw in that moment the image he had seen in a film on a USB stick, where once Simon Fardell and Philip Arnslade had stood and said, “The problem with the excess is that …”
Another room.
Crystal glasses, the port decanter had been refilled, thick purple liquid behind shimmering glass. A white cat with a black spot at the top of its tail, curious, brushed against his ankles. He stroked its head, rubbed under its chin, tickled its belly, until, too excited by this play, it flicked out joyfully at his wrist and nearly scratched him, at which point he pulled back, and it grew bored and slunk away, a king disappointed by a courtier.
A flight of stairs. A bin filled with blue latex gloves, a golden drinking chalice on a table next to a half-drunk bottle of Diet Pepsi. Light fading through the windows, the end of the day; a man ringing the bell in the courtyard outside to summon the tourists away.
A noise from the corridor. He ducked through a closed door because it was there, shut it quietly, pressed his ear against the wood, listened, waited, heard footsteps pass, let out a breath.
Looked around the room.
A single bed, long dressing table, a mirror, a picture of a cat, ginger, hackles raised, painted in oils, hissing from the wall. A TV, the volume turned down, showing a programme about organising garden parties. On the dressing table—pills. Over two dozen bottles, orange plastic, containing fat ones thin ones square ones round ones, big red horse-pills and small yellow stubs that vanished under the tongue, and boxes in which these pills could be laid out in order—Monday morning, lunch, dinner, bed; Tuesday morning lunch dinner bed Wednesday morning lunch
Someone was halfway through filling a box, and had been called away by something else. Theo picked up a pill between thumb and forefinger, rolled it around, put it down, turned to go.
Saw the door, big black key in the lock, the sound of a radio playing static-cracked Russian classical music from the other side, something triumphant and brassy.
Hesitated.
Went to the door.
Tried the handle, slowly.
The door was locked.
Turned the heavy iron key, felt an oiled latch slip back.
Tried the handle again.
Pushed the door open.
The stink hit first the stink it was like …
He gagged, turned away, closed the door, caught fresher air.
Put his sleeve over his mouth, opened the door again, looked.
The sound of the radio, high and proud, a chorus of children’s voices raised in triumphant song. A double bed, carved wooden post in each corner, no curtains hanging from the frame. At the end of the bed was a low, long bench for sitting on and taking shoes off, or leaving books on or for a sitting cat, he wasn’t quite sure. On one wall was a picture of a man, one hand on a turning globe, a spaniel leaping in perpetual surprise at his feet, its eyes wild as if to wonder what cruel fate it was that it would be caught for ever leaping, never catching its prize. A single lamp was on by the bed. In the shadows to its left was an armchair, upholstered in thick, itchy thread woven with pale roses. A woman was in the armchair, eyes closed, head on one side, yellow-flecked spit on her chin where it had rolled from the corner of her mouth, fluffy slippers on her feet and a thick dark blue dressing gown around her frame. A blue cap had been pulled over her head, capturing the white fluff of her hair; her nails were cut to translucent stubs, and where her legs emerged beneath gown and nightie, brilliant blue-black veins throbbed and spidered over her chalky flesh.
The smell seeped through arm and cloth pressed over his mouth, there was no denying it, no pretending that there wasn’t vomit in a bowl just visible under the bed. No one had bothered to remove it or change it, it was just vomit, a bowl full of vomit.
he closed the door again, thought he might puke, didn’t, took another deep breath, opened the door, tried again
a yellow stain in the centre of the bed,
old urine, new urine, brownish smear of faeces too but the woman sitting by the radio didn’t seem to mind she was just
sitting.
Asleep perhaps or maybe
He looked again, and her eyes were open, drifting up to the ceiling, her head rolled back. She made a little noise.
Uh uh uh.
Perhaps language, of a sort.
Theo closed the door, didn’t lock it.
Stood for a while with his back pressed to the wood, the key pushing into the base of his spine, and it seemed to him that there was a story to be told here. There was evidence which would be very easy to deny there was …
Theo opened the door, one more time, to the room where the old woman sat.
Crossed the floor.
Squatted down in front of her, trying to ignore the fact that if he rocked back too suddenly he’d sit in puke, trying to exhale into the stench.
Took her hands in his, held them softly, waited for her drifting eyes to drift down to him, pupils far too wide, tongue loose in her mouth, the flicker of her gaze somewhere in the vicinity of his but unable to stay still.
“Lady Mantell?” he whispered. “Ma’am? My name is Theo.”
“Who the hell are you?”
A sudden leap of noise from the room next door, a man in the open door pursued by a blast of TV, a cheerful chorus of, “So with her customised bunting in place it’s now time for the final touches as …”
The man standing in the door to the stinking bedroom wore black T-shirt, blue jeans, carried a tray of baked beans on toast and a flask of sugary orange gloop.
For a moment the two men stared at each other, wondering which way the next twenty seconds of their lives would go. An instant, perhaps, in which there could have been some bluff, some bluster, but no sooner had Theo begun to formulate the lie than it was too late, the opportunity to deceive had passed them by.
The man dropped the tray and lunged for a grey button on a thin cord by the door.
Theo threw himself across the room, caught the man’s wrist before he could press it, kneed him hard in the stomach, not really knowing why or if it would work, he’d never kneed anyone anywhere before, but he had a knee and the man was in his way and so he
kneed him and it didn’t really go as well as he’d hoped because the man gave a little grunt and then caught Theo by his left ear and tugged. He’d probably been aiming for hair, but in the scramble ear would do, and it hurt less than Theo thought it would do so he resisted and tried instead with his free hand to dig his thumb into the man’s eyeball, he had no idea where that idea had come from it just seemed
the man let go of Theo’s ear, caught his wrist as he went for the face, and for a moment there was an awkward push-pull of strength as neither knew quite where they were supposed to go from here, teetering with arms locked and fingers scrambling, bodies swaying until their balance broke and the pair tumbled down, Theo pinned beneath the larger man. The fall smacked the breath out of his body, smashed a bowl of baked beans beneath his left ribs, orange gloop and white ceramic shards smattering across the room. He lost his grip on the man’s right hand, and now the man had found a brilliant thing to do with elbows, tucking his left elbow under his body and letting his whole weight drive it down, point first, into Theo’s belly.
Theo tasted half-digested sandwich in his mouth, gagged, curled and writhed and couldn’t get any breath inside, and the man sensing this snarled in expectant triumph and punched Theo across the face. He couldn’t punch very well; there wasn’t any room to draw the fist back and release, but it seemed to make him feel good so he did it again, a ring on his third finger slicing through Theo’s cheek, warmth spreading inside his mouth as the pain knocked through to the back of his head, and again, and again and
then the woman in the dressing gown hit the man over the head with the remnants of the dinner tray, and his eyes went wide and his weight buckled to one side, and she hit him again, then dropped the tray, followed immediately by dropping herself, sitting with her legs curled up under her like a child picking daisies, and her eyes rolled up again and her mouth drooped open, but Theo
pushed the man off him, caught the fallen tray and hit him again and again and again and
at some point realised that the man wasn’t moving, and there was blood on the floor, and it wasn’t Theo’s and
and wondered if he’d killed a man and
and if that man had a daughter and
Theo dropped the tray, crawled across the floor, felt through the blood on the man’s face, found a pulse.
Felt around his skull, couldn’t feel anything that had buckled or caved.
Looked into his eyes, saw that they were open and looking back, but the man didn’t move, didn’t speak, little gasping breaths, wondered if there was something he’d broken if there was
wanted to apologise, thought it was stupid
stood up
fell down
something inside him was, if not broken, then certainly turned around and he’d not really had time to heal from Shawford, he’d not really known what he did he’d not really stopped to think about
Crawled to the woman sitting on the floor.
Held out one hand.
“Lady Mantell?” he breathed.
Her eyes drifted again to his face, danced this way and that, fell away, rose, fell away again.
“Helen,” he murmured softly. “My name is Theo. May I take you away from all this?”
Chapter 52
They stole a car.
For a moment Theo wondered if he’d have to hot-wire the thing. He’d read plenty of reports of people doing it, a minimum of £550 if you were caught hot-wiring any vehicle over an estimated road value of £3275, it was also likely that you’d be charged for …
But the man he’d beaten had some car keys in his pocket, so that made things easier.
He found a coat in a wardrobe, wrapped the ribbon-faced woman in it. He put her carer in the recovery position, eyes still open, that didn’t seem right that wasn’t normal that wasn’t
took the car keys
held the woman gently under the arm
led her away.
A car in the staff car park.
A little Nissan that smelled of chips and sporty deodorant.
He put the woman in the passenger seat, and she didn’t object.
He sat in the driver’s seat, turned the engine on, and the moment he did the radio came up, far too loud, a Michael Jackson number, he turned it off quickly lest it upset the woman, and she didn’t seem to care either way.
There wasn’t a barrier to smash triumphantly as he drove out of the car park, and the woman on the ticket desk didn’t look up from her mobile phone as they passed, which Theo found a little disappointing.
Chapter 53
He parked the car on the edge of a town whose name he couldn’t find. Sodium light shot up the spire of a red-brick church. A large shop selling light fittings resembling mallards and soup bowls painted with puppies’ faces cast white light out of its long windows onto the street. A fish and chip shop was still open, selling mushy peas with English mint, beer-batter fish, and chips three-times cooked in duck fat. Theo looked at his face in the mirror, and saw bruising and a long cut from a stranger’s ring.
The woman slept.
He drove on.
Four miles from the Cotswolds border he saw the first sign: POLICE SEARCH IN EFFECT. EXPECT DELAYS.
He pulled off the road into a farmer’s field, where a herd of fat-bellied cattle regarded him suspiciously for a while before forgetting and returning to the business of eating the wet winter grass.
The woman was still sleeping.
Theo watched her a while, and wondered what the hell he’d done.
Washing his face in a brook.
Somewhere upstream there was probably a dead sheep or something, so he didn’t drink the water, just washed the blood away, which upon consideration was probably worse.
When the emergency fuel
light came on, he drove the car to the edge of a ten-house village built around a small manor house that now hosted poets’ retreats. He shook the woman awake gently. Her eyes opened slowly, the pupils shrinking down tight as light met her face. Her gaze fixed on him for a moment, confused but steady. Then she said, “I need socks.”
Theo licked his lips. “Okay. I’ll see if I can find some.”
“Thank you,” she replied, and closed her eyes, and went back to sleep again.
Theo walked into the village.
Found a house with no four-by-four parked outside.
Tried the front door.
Found it unlocked.
Went inside.
Climbed stairs of soft cream carpet, leaving muddy boot tracks behind him.
Brushed past the pictures of family friends and family cats.
Used the toilet, because it was there, washed his face in hot water, found it sensational, wondered if he should have a shower, decided against it.
Found the bedroom. Stole some socks, trousers, shirts—armfuls of the stuff, he didn’t even know why he took so much.
Shoved it into plastic bags that he found in the kitchen, in the cupboard that held the washing machine.
Helped himself to bread and last night’s roast chicken, saw that this was a family who kept their ketchup in the fridge rather than the cupboard but seemed to just leave mayo standing wherever they wanted—odd that, very odd. He was at a loss to understand.
Walked back towards the car.
A curtain twitched, but he kept walking, a man with nothing to hide, and no one shouted, and the wind pushed the fallen leaves through the narrow cobbled lanes.
Chapter 54
They hid in an old stone hut where once the shepherds had tended their flocks, and which now only the kids and the teenagers used, the bored ones from the village come to drink beer and smoke pot and maybe try this sex thing.
Theo laughed despite himself as he kicked condom packets and crunched-up aluminium cans out of the way, remembering for a moment a night with Dani on the beach, cries of “Ow it’s really cold is there more blanket … my bum’s gone to sleep!” At the time it had been as close to magic as his teenage brain could really …
