by Jane Holland
I remember the shelf across the alcove near the metal bed frame. The tools I saw there. A workman’s tools.
‘I’m your brother. Have you forgotten that?’
‘You were never my brother. You don’t have the same tainted blood. That’s obvious to me now.’
‘Connor, for pity’s sake … ’
‘Sorry, Tristan.’
Connor takes deliberate aim at his brother’s head. He’s planning to blow his brains out, I realise. Destroy the last thing in his life that’s still good. And then he’ll turn the gun on me.
‘You had your chance. You chose Eleanor Blackwood over me.’ His voice cracks. ‘You’ve broken my heart. This is the hardest thing I’ll ever …’
He has no chance to finish.
I hoist the long-handled hammer above my head in a two-handed grasp, and smash it down across the base of Connor’s skull as hard as I can.
There’s a nauseating crack as metal meets bone, and metal wins.
Connor crumples without a sound, the shotgun clattering across the stone floor. I drop the hammer, which is stained with blood, and crouch down, fumbling for the pulse at his neck.
There isn’t one.
Cars are approaching along the road from the village. Two or three vehicles, by my guess, coming as fast as it’s possible to drive on these narrow Cornish lanes. I hear sirens too, that eerie wail bouncing through the trees.
I look down at Tris, but his eyes have closed.
‘Hang on, Tris,’ I tell him urgently, and then kneel, lifting his head into my lap.
I remember how he ran for a coat to wrap around me after I nearly drowned at Widemouth. Connor’s coat, as it turns out, not his as I thought. Now it’s my turn to keep him alive until help arrives.
‘You need to hang on. The police have arrived. You’ll be in hospital soon. We’re going to get you fixed up, do you hear me?’
The cars screech to a halt a short distance away, probably outside the front of the old mill. I hear car doors slam, the sound of voices.
The police, at last.
‘I’m sorry I thought it was you,’ I whisper.
Tris does not stir. His head falls back into my lap, his mouth slack, one hand trailing in his own blood.
EPILOGUE
The church service is quiet and subdued, only a few locals turning out for the funeral. I asked DI Powell to discourage journalists from attending, promising them a press statement tomorrow if they stay clear. And it seems they have listened to his warning, because I don’t see a single photographer at the church. After the simple ceremony, the coffin is driven slowly up the hill in the undertaker’s black hearse, followed by the congregation on foot, with the Reverend Clemo at their head in his black robe.
It’s a windy morning after several days of rain and heavy cloud over the moors, but at least the sun is shining now. Up ahead, the wind whips at the vicar’s robes, flapping them about his ankles; I catch flashes of the green wellington boots he’s wearing underneath.
DI Powell is there to pay his respects. He shakes hands with me at the gate, and we talk for a few minutes before walking up to the grave. The inspector is wearing a black suit with black tie, very smart, very sombre.
‘I pushed you too hard during the investigation,’ he admits. ‘I should have been more understanding. Listened to your instincts more.’
‘You wanted a result.’
‘I’m just sorry about the outcome. Not our finest hour, I’m afraid.’
I know he’s talking about the first investigation too, when the police failed to find my mother’s killer. But there was never any evidence to link Connor’s dad to her murder. And I had been programmed never to mention his name, so deeply and traumatically that it took me eighteen years even to remember the details of that day.
DI Powell sees my father coming, nods to me again, then continues on ahead.
‘Here, you’ll want these.’ Dad hands me the bouquet of long-stemmed white lilies we’ve brought to lay on the headstone. He studies my face, then bends to kiss me on the forehead. ‘You okay, love? You look pale. You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I still wish they hadn’t agreed to let Connor Taylor’s service take place up at the crematorium. His ashes shouldn’t be buried locally. Not after what he did.’
‘He’s dead. What does it matter?’
‘It matters because he strangled two women and shot his brother. Kidnapped Jenny Crofter, did God knows what to the poor woman. He nearly killed you too.’
‘I know.’ I pat his arm.
I am feeling quite emotional, I realise. The lilies are all open, the perfume from their white throats so sweet and intense, it makes me almost light-headed.
Jenny appears from behind us in a floral dress and pumps for once instead of her tracksuit. The long sleeves carefully hide any marks still lingering from her imprisonment. I am surprised to see her, considering what she went through. But I guess she is trying to be supportive.
She kisses me on the cheek. ‘Come on, everyone’s waiting for us. You first, Eleanor.’
Reverend Clemo actually smiles at me as I walk up to the burial plot, flanked by Jenny and my dad, a bouquet of lilies fragrant in my arms. Unlikely as it seems, he appears to have forgiven me for bringing so much unrest to his parish.
But then, so much has happened since that day at the mill. Soon after the police arrived and set up camp there, a fluttering crisscross of Police Do Not Cross tapes were wound between the tree trunks, sealing off the whole area from the public. The buildings were thoroughly searched and items tagged and removed as evidence. Then, with the vicar in solemn attendance, Mrs Beverley Taylor’s body was exhumed from the overgrown rose garden.
Acknowledged at last as a murder victim, just like my own mother, Mrs Taylor was given a full postmortem, kept at the morgue while the investigation was still ongoing, and finally released for burial once the police had closed the case.
We buried Hannah last week. It was traumatic. I don’t think I will ever get over the loss of my best friend, nor the guilt I feel over the manner of her death. Her absence in my life is an aching space that no one else can never fill.
Tris is waiting for us at the graveside, leaning on crutches, his leg still bandaged. He only recently left hospital; thankfully the lead shot that grazed his thigh was not as serious as the loss of blood he had suffered. An emergency transfusion saved his life.
There’s a sheet of handwritten paper, much creased, clenched in his fist. He wants to say a few words as his mother’s coffin is lowered into the grave.
Wordlessly, I reach out and touch his hand. I know what it’s like to stand at a grave and mourn a mother.
Hill Farm will be sold, he has told me. And the old mill too. ‘Too many bad memories,’ Tris told me when I showed surprise at this decision. ‘I’ll use the proceeds to pay my way through university. Better late than never. Then I’ll get a job somewhere far away from here. London, perhaps.’
I hope he won’t go away forever.
Reverend Clemo begins to speak. Tris turns his gaze towards the vicar, straining to hear every word. There’s desolation in his face. We watch in silence as his mother’s coffin is lowered slowly and solemnly into the grave.
Everyone falls silent, listening as Tris reads from his sheet of paper. His voice is strong, carrying right across the village cemetery in the sunshine.
He stumbles over his brother’s name, but ends more firmly, ‘If you can hear me, Mum, I’m sorry you lay undiscovered for so long. I love you and I wish I’d known you better. God bless.’
Afterwards, as the mourners slowly depart down the slope, I tell Dad I’ll meet him at The Green Man, where a few of us are gathering for drinks and a buffet lunch. Tris is still at the graveside on his crutches, hunched over, staring down at the earth.
‘Tris.’
When he turns, I lean forward and kiss him on the lips, taking my time. He tastes great. ‘I’m g
lad you’ve decided to go to university,’ I tell him. ‘But I’ll miss you, you know.’
‘Come with me, then.’
‘I like my job too much. And I’m still settling into it.’ I meet his intense gaze. ‘Maybe later.’
‘I love you,’ he says. ‘Going away won’t make any difference to that.’
‘You say that now, but – ’
‘Tell me not to go, and I won’t. I could get a job here.’ His gaze holds mine, and I see no bitterness in it. We’ve never spoken about Connor’s death, and we probably never will. What is there to say, after all? ‘Haunt your every move.’
‘I want you to be free, Tris, and to get out from under the shadow of this place.’ I turn my face into the sun, enjoying its warmth. It reminds me that I am alive, that I survived. ‘Besides, we’re both still coming to terms with what’s happened. It’s like any kind of shock. We need plenty of space around us or we’ll end up doing things wrong, suffocating each other.’
Tristan nods.
‘We can stay in touch.’ I hold up my mobile. ‘Being apart doesn’t have to mean we never speak to each other again.’
He looks at me through long lashes. ‘True.’
‘We really should get to the pub. They’ll be waiting for you.’ I hesitate, my voice becoming husky. ‘Though you could always come back to my place afterwards. Would you like that?’
Tris smiles slowly. ‘I would.’
Thank you for reading GIRL NUMBER ONE
Please read on
for an extract from MIRANDA, also by Jane Holland
Jane Holland is also the author of MIRANDA, an historical novel set in the Isle of Man in 1978.
In the summer of 1978, Lawrence takes Juliet to visit his father in the beautiful and unspoilt Isle of Man. He finds Gil has built himself a haven on the island where the past can be relived rather than forgotten. Relived as it should have been, not as it was. Under the spell of the island, Lawrence believes he can rebuild the magic with Juliet.
But everything changes when the child Miranda goes missing.
MIRANDA on Amazon com
MIRANDA on Amazon UK
Extract from MIRANDA
Chapter One
Summer 1978, off the Isle of Man
Lawrence put his shoulder against the large metal door and pushed. Reluctantly it yielded, and he felt the wind blast at him as it opened slowly outwards.
‘Juliet?’
His shout was ripped away into the night as the ferry plunged sickeningly. He lurched through the doorway, and saw a vast wave crash over the ship’s railings and across the deck, the wooden boards left swimming with water. The reflected floodlights gleamed in its pools, illuminating the deck but no further, the sea beyond still dark and oily. Lawrence shook each foot, then waited for the water to drain away before venturing out of the doorway. His shoes were new, and salt water would soon perish the expensive leather.
His wife was standing in the shadow of a huge orange funnel, her hands cupped to light a cigarette. The wind made it an almost impossible task.
He staggered along the deck towards her, supporting himself on the slick, white-painted walls of the ferry. Juliet had told him she wanted to catch the view as they approached the island. But when he looked out over the railing, the Irish Sea was nothing but a rolling black swell alongside the ship.
He shouted, ‘We’re nearly there.’
Juliet leant into his jacket for shelter. She managed to light her cigarette at last, saying something incomprehensible as the wind tore across the open deck.
He shook his head. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch a word you said.’
Smiling, she gestured at his watch.
‘Ten to midnight,’ Lawrence yelled back. ‘Bang on schedule. My father’s expecting us for about one o’clock.’
‘What?’
Lawrence gave up the struggle, pointing back over his shoulder. His throat was hoarse. ‘Come on, let’s get back inside. This wind is appalling.’
Juliet showed him her half-smoked cigarette.
‘Five minutes,’ he insisted, spreading his fingers out to make sure she got the message, then dragged himself back along the wall towards the door.
The ferry dipped violently and another wild deluge came flooding over the side, sending a group of kids in plastic macs and trainers squealing for cover. The ship ploughed on through the waves as though struggling to leave the storm behind.
Lawrence turned to look back, unsteady on his feet, but his wife had climbed onto one of the benches against the railings and was staring into the blackness with her hair flying back, one hand on the rail, the other still holding her cigarette. She looked like the ship’s figurehead, forcing them ever onwards through the waves. There was something decidedly witchy about her these days, he thought. Perhaps there always had been but she was only now allowing it to show. As though she had grown tired of the old veneer, and this was her new, less civilised face. Whatever had caused this latest crisis between them, he could feel the tension in her, hidden just under the surface. Like a rock under the water.
He began to wish he had never agreed to visit his father. This summer storm had blown up out of nowhere, Juliet was in one of her moods, and they had not even arrived on the island yet.
Yet how could he have refused his summons? It had been years since his last visit, and his father had sounded so urgent on the phone. Through the hissing rain of spray across the deck, he watched another group of kids run past with mischievous faces, shrieking and clutching at each other before vanishing round the corner into darkness.
One minute they were there, the next they were gone, like water sprites.
And where were their bloody parents? Snug in the downstairs bar, he suspected, or asleep in one of the cabins. Lawrence knew that’s where he would be if he was crossing the Irish Sea on a night like this with a parcel of brats in tow.
God, only just into his forties, and already he sounded like an old man.
Had he been like that as a child? Tearing about with his friends, making a racket, not caring what anyone thought? He recalled himself as a strange, diffident boy, quiet and with his nose in a book much of the time, but then suddenly, inexplicably rage-filled, striking out at the world without any clear idea why. Some fleeting awareness of failures to come, perhaps, along with a futile desire to escape them. He still harboured that desire, of course. But at least he was rarely angry these days, though he had his moments when Juliet was at her most imperious and impossible. His father had always mildly irritated him too, he realised, wryly conscious of a desire to take the next boat back to England rather than face going home. Probably because his duty as a son irked him now that he was older.
Besides, he had found his father hard to talk to since his mother’s death. When he had come to stay with them in England, the old man had been forever staring at nothing, or disappearing to his room for hours. Sometimes he had been heard whispering to himself. Other times he had gone striding out on a long walk without telling anyone and even without a coat, whatever the weather.
‘His second childhood,’ Juliet had called it, shrugging off his father’s behaviour as quaint and amusing. But then, she had not known Gil in his prime, so could not appreciate the ever-quickening rate of decline that had occurred these past few years.
Whatever lay ahead, they could not hope to escape it now. Less than a mile away, he could see the first lights of the island waiting for him, strung out like ghostly pearls round the dark neck of a bay.
‘Lawrence?’ It was his father’s voice, echoing through the temporary tunnel they had erected to protect foot passengers on their way in and out of the terminal building.
Lawrence could not see him at first. Rain was still falling hard, thundering on the tin roof above their heads, making conversation impractical. There was some barely audible announcement going on over the loudspeaker system inside the main building, reduced to a kind of whisper out here in the tunnel, its sibilant crackle permeating everything. Kid
s with sodden anoraks, hoods up, trudged past them, followed by sullen, bleary-eyed parents. The sea slapped up against the grey stone quay, then rushed back to prepare for another assault. What had happened to summer?
Beside him, Juliet was looking wild, trying to light a cigarette while struggling with her luggage. He could hear the click-click-click of her lighter in the draughty tunnel, and her impatient breathing.
‘Here, let me.’ Lawrence grappled with her trolley case, though he was already laden down with two suitcases. ‘Over here, Dad!’
His father was waiting to one side of the steady file of foot passengers. He looked old, Lawrence thought suddenly. Stooped shoulders, narrowed chest, his trousers hanging looser than he remembered, held up with a sturdy belt. But his eyes were as fierce as ever, his embrace fumbling and impatient.
‘Sorry to hurry you,’ his father said by way of welcome, ‘but I’m double-parked. Hello, Juliet, good to see you again. Can I help carry something?’
Reluctantly, Lawrence parted with his wife’s trolley case. ‘What the hell is this weather about? Who cancelled summer?’
‘Blame Manannán.’
Juliet kissed his father on the cheek. ‘Hello, Gil. You’re looking well,’ she lied, glancing at Lawrence as she did so. Unsubtle code for he’s not looking well at all that was not missed by his father. ‘Man who?’
‘Manannán mac Lir,’ his father explained briefly, waving his hand towards the sea. ‘Irish God of the sea. Much associated with the Isle of Man. When danger threatens, they say he spreads his cloak of mist and rain across the isle to protect it.’
‘He doesn’t sound much fun,’ Juliet remarked flippantly, then caught Lawrence’s eye and added, ‘You must tell us all about him though. So we can make votive offerings to his misty Godliness. Maybe get a few sunny days during our stay.’
