by Peter James
He must take some photos for future reference, he thought, so that they could remember what it was like when they first moved in. Also, perhaps tomorrow he’d take some pictures of the workers. He had in his mind some Lowry-inspired images of the men in their hard hats in this vast wasteland. He might make a group of paintings for his exhibition – they would be something different, he thought, inspired.
He turned away and looked towards the lake at the end of the lawn, studying the ducks. There was a group of a dozen or so mallards, and another similar-sized group of Indian runners, each sticking to their own tribe. The two groups were some distance apart, moving around the water, staying close to the island in the centre on which there was a large, bare weeping willow.
When the Bedfords had popped over yesterday afternoon, Tom’s wife, Marianne, had said the way to make sure the ducks all stayed was to feed them daily. She recommended buying something like an old milk churn to keep the feed in, to avoid attracting rats.
One mallard suddenly rushed across the water, almost standing up on it, and jumped on the back of another. Doubtless a female, he thought. The female flew off a short distance, landing with a splash. The male hurried after her, caught up and pounced, landing more firmly on her back this time, and pushing her head under water as he shook vigorously.
Jason smiled at the antics; male mallards clearly weren’t much into foreplay. And within moments it was over. The female scurried off, shaking herself, and the male, looking like a braggart, returned to his group.
He’d never painted ducks before, but entranced by the view and their behaviour, he decided to go down there later today and do some rough sketches and take some photos. Meanwhile, he had the two urgent last-minute commissions to get on with. One was a portrait of two dogs, a grey labradoodle and a golden one, for a client who wanted it as a surprise Christmas present for his wife, and the other was a pencil sketch of a King Charles spaniel. He had photographs of all of them to work from – the one of the two labradoodles showing them looking cute as hell curled up on a sofa together.
This was just the kind of painting he loved doing. It would be fun, and if he worked hard today and into the night, and all tomorrow, using the quick-drying oils he favoured, with luck he should have it ready to take to the framer tomorrow, and ready for his client, as he had promised, by Thursday.
Some artists who worked in oils used canvas, others painted straight onto hardboard, but a few, like himself, liked to paint on gesso. This was a compound made for him by David Graham, his framer, comprising white glue, calcium carbonate and zinc with white pigment, heated then applied to hardboard; it was a modern version of the moist lime plaster, fresco, that many of the great Italian Renaissance painters, including Michelangelo, used for their murals. Jason liked to work with it because, in addition to brushes, he used a scalpel to get certain effects, one of which was animal hairs, which he achieved by scraping away the paint, very finely, down to the base.
He selected a board from the three different-sized ones stacked against a wall, checked it for imperfections – rare, as David Graham was a total perfectionist, to the point of being a pain in the arse at times – and lovingly placed it on the easel. Beneath it, he pinned the photograph of the dogs and his composition sketches. He worked in three sizes, with prices accordingly. This commission was for a medium-size: 40 x 40 cm.
Walking back over to his laptop, he opened iTunes and went to his playlists, feeling in a London Grammar mood today, and clicked on one of their albums.
As the lead began singing deeply and softly in the background, he tied on his black, paint-spattered apron, pulled a fresh pair of surgical gloves out of the box, and snapped them on.
Next, he went over to his trestle table, on which he had laid out everything he needed – the sheets of paper for mixing his paints, the jar of white spirit in which he kept his brushes, the scalpel and spare blades, the tubes of Winsor & Newton paints, and his pencils and charcoal for sketching.
He selected a pencil then stood in front of the blank gesso board, focusing, getting himself into the zone. Behind him, he heard the sound of the door opening, then felt Emily’s presence, coming up behind him. He felt a flash of irritation. She knew how much he needed solitude to work and never interrupted him, unless it was an absolute emergency. And she was well aware how tight he was on time, and just how important this commission was – his client was the CEO of a digital advertising company and had talked about commissioning him to do paintings for the lobby of their London Docklands office. He absolutely had to deliver a good piece, and on time.
For some moments he ignored her, leaning forward and making the first mark on the board, outlining where he felt the sofa should be positioned.
But she was distracting him too much.
He turned around, irritated. ‘What, darling?’
It wasn’t Emily.
21
Sunday 16 December
It was a woman in her thirties, with short dark hair, smartly dressed in a black suit with a white blouse. She stood there for a fleeting instant with a strange smile on her face.
Then she vanished.
Goosepimples rippled down his skin.
He stared at the door, which he had distinctly heard open. But it was closed.
She had looked so . . . so real. So damned real. He strode over to the door and yanked it open. There was no one outside. ‘Emily!’ he shouted. ‘Emily!’
‘Yes, what is it? I’m in the kitchen.’
The image of the woman he had just seen burned strongly in his mind, like a photograph.
So damned clear.
He must have imagined her. But why? From where? From somewhere in his past?
He went down. Emily was at the sink with rubber gloves on, washing the cups and glasses she was unpacking. He stopped and stared at her.
‘You OK?’ she asked.
He nodded, uncertainly.
‘Are you sure? You look very pale.’
He nodded.
‘Have you eaten?’
He said nothing, still staring at her.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
He continued staring at her.
‘Hello!’ she said. ‘Hello!’
He walked over and kissed her. ‘Had a good lie-in?’
‘I did, I needed it – I’m feeling seriously hungover. Did you go for your bike ride?’
‘Fifteen miles,’ he said proudly. ‘It’s just stunning countryside all around here.’
‘Wish I’d come with you.’
‘Didn’t want to disturb you. You were lying, paws up, snoring like a warthog.’
‘Thanks!’ she said.
He grinned. ‘Did you just come into my studio, a few minutes ago?’
‘No – I’m trying to get everything unpacked for the catering kitchen. Why?’
‘It’s OK, don’t worry about it.’ He turned to go back up.
‘What do you mean, did I just come into your studio?’
‘Nothing. It’s OK. What time shall we leave for the pub?’ he said.
‘Are we walking or driving? We could walk, then we could have a drink – and it’s a glorious day.’
‘I’m not going to drink – I’ve got to work this afternoon – but let’s walk anyway. It’ll take about twenty minutes.’
‘Perfect. Are you really feeling OK? You don’t look right.’ She peered at him closely. ‘Why did you ask if I came into your studio?’
He shook his head. ‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘Absolutely. Just a bit hungover, too, that’s all. Actually, maybe a small hair of the dog in the pub will do me good.’
He made himself another double espresso from the machine and carried the cup upstairs. As he reached the door to his studio he hesitated, feeling a sudden cold draught, and with it a frisson of fear, then pushed it open.
The room was silent. Low winter sunlight streamed in through the windows. He breathed in the smell of whi
te spirit and oil paints, the smells he had always loved. All the same, as he entered, he looked around – for the woman in the smart suit with the curious smile.
The triple-glazed room felt cold, as if the heating had gone off. He went over to the thermostat and checked it. Twenty-two degrees – it should be plenty warm enough in here. He went down to their bedroom, put on an extra sweater and returned to his studio.
The woman was still ingrained vividly in his mind.
Who was she?
Why had he imagined her?
Jan Dixon, his clinical psychologist, warned him that moving home could be a very stressful experience for people, and he might find his emotions seesawing for some while. Perhaps that included hallucinations?
Parking it, now he had a possible explanation, but still unsettled by the woman, he sipped his coffee then focused on his work in progress, and within moments had put her completely out of his mind.
22
Sunday 16 December
The Crown was an attractive Georgian building, let down by a rather shabby modern extension with a corrugated iron roof. The pub was set well back from the road, with a scrubby, uneven lawn in front of it, on which were randomly arranged wooden tables and benches. Two of them were occupied by smokers, nursing pints and well wrapped up.
Although it was still sunny, a biting wind was rising as Jason and Emily walked up the path to the entrance. They both wore woolly hats, and the brand-new waxed Barbours that Emily had excitedly bought, as early Christmas presents to each other, for their new country life. Jason also had on a pair of new hiking boots, which were starting to rub painfully. He was ruing not having worn them in around the house for a few days, first. Although at least, he compensated himself, they did look the part.
In small gold letters above the saloon bar door were the words: LICENSED PROPRIETOR, LESTER BEESON.
As they entered the noisy interior, into the ingrained smell of beer, ancient carpet and wood smoke, Jason peered around, taking it all in with excitement. The wooden tables and chairs looked as if they had been there forever, as did some of the characters. In addition to festive decorations, the nicotine-ochre walls were hung with ancient agricultural artefacts and there was a row of horseshoes nailed to an oak beam above the bar. Below were rows of spirit optics, a photograph of a cricket team and several pewter tankards. A warren of doorways led off to other rooms. He need look no further for the archetypal English country pub for inspiration for his paintings of drinkers, he thought, happily. And there were plenty of candidates here this Sunday lunchtime, hunched on bar stools, standing around or seated in the recessed booths.
Presiding over the L-shaped bar, from behind the counter, was a massively tall and large-framed man in his late fifties; he had a mane of hair, a cream shirt with the top two buttons undone and a large gut bulging his midriff buttons. A younger man and two women worked busily alongside him, pulling pints, pouring wine, jabbing shorts glasses up against the optics.
Instinctively, Jason patted the right pocket of his jeans, checking his phone was there, deciding he would try to take some surreptitious photos.
Then, suddenly, it felt to him as if someone had hit the pause button on a video he was in.
Both he and Emily stopped in their tracks.
Heads were turned towards them. Staring eyes from every direction.
The hubbub of conversation stopped. There was total silence, punctuated only by the ping-beep-bloop-ping of a flashing gaming machine on the far side of the room, like a forlorn extraterrestrial left behind on a mission and trying to attract attention.
Jason felt like they were the couple in the film he had seen years ago, Straw Dogs, entering a pub full of folk in rural Cornwall. Was he just imagining the atmosphere? He put an arm around Emily and squeezed her, reassuringly.
Almost as quickly as it had happened, the moment passed. The video began playing again. Conversations seemed to resume throughout the room. All except for one old man in a checked lumberjack shirt and grey trousers, seated on a bar stool, who continued to stare at them with open hostility. Jason had a good memory for faces, and he looked like the tractor driver who had thundered recklessly down the lane towards them, passing them without slowing down.
Emily was looking at him strangely again, the same look she’d given him in the kitchen earlier. She waved a hand in front of his face. ‘Hello? Darling? Are you OK?’
He nodded.
‘I thought you were about to pass out,’ she said.
‘No – I – I just – had an image – for a painting – flash into my mind. I was trying to capture it.’ He smiled. ‘I think it’s time for that drink.’
Was the shrink right, he wondered, about the trauma of moving? Was his mind in shreds from the pressure of the move plus anxiety over his forthcoming exhibition? Hallucinating?
They waited at the back of the crowd at the bar, until he caught the big guy’s eye.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘We’re booked in the restaurant for lunch – name of Jason Danes at one thirty – we’re a bit early.’
The barman beamed. ‘No problem at all, sir, madam – and welcome to Cold Hill village. If I understand it, you’ve just moved in?’
‘That’s right,’ Jason said, proudly, happy to be recognized as part of the community.
‘Well, we all look forward to seeing more of you both.’ He stretched out a hand past the grizzled old man and another old man seated beside him. ‘Lester Beeson, I’m the landlord, in charge of this rabble.’ He looked pointedly at the man who was still glaring daggers at Jason and Emily.
‘Jason Danes,’ he replied. ‘This is my wife, Emily.’
‘All of us in the village are happy to have you both with us; we need a little rejuvenation. Too many grumpy old gits like Albert, here.’ He nodded at the grizzled man. ‘And old Wilfred over there!’ He pointed at an elderly, morose couple seated in a window booth, whom Jason had noticed when they’d entered. They were sharing a pack of crisps, eating without saying a word to each other.
‘Wilf!’ the landlord boomed across the crowded room. ‘Meet some new arrivals in the village! Give them a real Wilf welcome, eh?’
The man, who had lank white hair hanging down either side of his face as if a damp mop had been plonked on his head, picked up his pewter tankard and raised it in the air at Jason and Emily, while his wife just scowled.
‘Your table’s not quite ready, sir,’ Beeson said. ‘Can we offer you both – as a tradition to all newcomers to Cold Hill – a drink on the house? A pint of Sussex’s finest – Harvey’s – for you, Mr Danes, perhaps?’
‘Thank you very much. And a dry white wine for my wife.’
‘Pinot Grigio?’
‘Perfect,’ Emily said.
All the seats were taken, so they stood with their drinks a short distance from the bar. ‘Cheers, darling!’ Jason said.
They clinked glasses. Emily sipped, then wrinkled her face.
‘How’s the wine?’ he asked.
‘Lukewarm and horrible.’
‘Want me to change it?’
She shook her head.
Behind them, a loud rural Sussex accent said, ‘What they doing in here, Lester? You letting standards drop?’
‘Shut it, Albert.’
‘I’ll not shut it. They should never have allowed that development. I told Mary, over my dead body would it go through.’
‘Yep, well, you still look pretty much alive to me.’
‘Bah! Scandalous. A blooming housing estate, ruined the whole village, that’s what it has. He’s that painter fellow?’
Jason and Emily, hearing him clearly, exchanged a smile.
‘Probably does nudes and all,’ he continued.
‘I could paint a portrait of you in the nude, if you’d like!’ Jason called out.
‘Jason!’ Emily hissed.
The old farmer stared at him again. Then he broke into a near-toothless smirk. ‘Paint me to look like James Bond, eh?’
&n
bsp; ‘Superman, if you’d like – Albert, is it?’ Jason said.
‘Albert Fears.’ The old guy supped his pint, then set it down on the bar top. ‘Seen her yet?’ he said, suddenly, still staring at him.
‘Seen what?’ Jason responded, aware of Emily frowning.
The old man smirked again. Two yellowed stumps in a mouth of bare gums. ‘They’re all around, still. You can’t get rid of ’em like that, you know. It’s not about bricks and mortar, old or new.’ He winked and turned back to his tankard, lifting and supping it again.
‘Who is around?’ Jason asked. ‘What do you mean, they’re all around? Who?’
Albert Fears gave him a piercing look. ‘They’re around to those what can see them. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’
‘No, I’ve no idea, I’m sorry.’ He turned to Emily, who was looking puzzled.
‘Why don’t you tell ’em, Harry?’ He turned to the equally ancient, wiry man next to him, who had been sitting in silence, pint glass in front of him, holding an unlit briar pipe. A stout, rough-hewn stick was propped against the bar beside him.
Taking his own time, the man pivoted on his stool. He wore a baggy shirt with a red and white spotted cravat, grey trousers and ancient walking boots. His white hair was styled in an old-fashioned, boyish quiff, and he sported a goatee beard. Observing Jason and Emily through sad, rheumy eyes, he said, ‘I used to drive the digger.’
‘Digger?’ Jason echoed.
‘Ask anyone, they’ll know about the digger.’
Albert grumbled loudly behind him at the landlord. ‘Six generations of my family have farmed here, Lester. Cold Hill exists because of the big house. The Lord of the Manor. Now it’s a bloody housing estate, we’re going to have all these city folk coming along, thinking they’re living the bleedin’ rural idyll.’ He swivelled around and stared hard again at Jason and Emily. ‘That’s what you believe, isn’t it – that you’re living in the countryside, eh? But actually you are just living in suburbia. Bah. Good luck to you. You’ll never leave. No one ever has.’ He swivelled back to his beer.
