Rock Paper Scissors

by Alice Feeney

  I think when you feel abandoned by your own parents, it’s impossible not to spend the rest of your life suspecting people of plotting to leave you. It’s something I always feel anxious about with everyone, even Adam, despite how long we’ve been together. Whenever I get close to someone – partners, friends, colleagues – there inevitably comes a point when I have to back away. I rebuild barriers, higher than before, to make myself feel safe. A constant fear of abandonment makes it impossible to trust anyone, even my husband.

  I’d managed to calm my breathing when I found him in here, but this new anxiety is pressing on my chest.

  ‘Writers are a peculiar breed of human being,’ Adam says, still staring at the antique desk as though he is talking to it, not me. It’s so cold in this room that I can see his breath. ‘There are people I’ve worked with over the years – people I trusted – who turned out to be nothing more than…’

  The light from the stained-glass windows casts shattered fragments of colour on the parquet floor, and he seems too distracted by them to finish his thought. I try to think of anyone he has fallen out with since I’ve known him, but there aren’t many. He’s had the same agent since the beginning. Everyone loves Adam, even the people who don’t.

  ‘Do you remember the film Gremlins?’ he asks. I’m glad he doesn’t wait for a reply because I don’t know what to say or see how this is relevant. ‘There were three rules: don’t get them wet, don’t expose them to bright lights, and don’t feed them after midnight. Otherwise bad shit happens. Authors are like Gremlins. They all start off like Gizmo – these individual and interesting creatures that are fun to have around – but if you break the rules: if they don’t like the adaptation of their book, or they think you changed too much of the original story, authors turn into bigger monsters than the ones they write about.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Adam? Who owns this property?’

  ‘Henry Winter.’

  I freeze. I’ve always been afraid of Henry, and not just because of the dark and twisted books he writes. The thing that scared me the most the first time I saw him were his eyes. They’re too blue, and too piercing, almost as though he could look inside a person, not just at them. See things he shouldn’t be able to see. Know things he shouldn’t know. My breathing starts to get a little out of control again.

  ‘Are you all right? Where’s your inhaler?’ Adam asks.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I insist, grabbing the back of the chair.

  ‘The Daily Mail wanted to do a feature on where Henry wrote his novels when the last film came out. He wouldn’t let them send a journalist or heaven forbid a photographer – he always hated those. I’d known him for years by then, but he wouldn’t even tell me where he lived when not in London – always obsessively worried about privacy for reasons I could never fully understand. I only ever saw one picture of him in his study – which the newspaper said was “supplied by the author”. This is it. The room where he writes. I remember the picture of him sitting at this desk,’ Adam says, touching the dark wooden table. It’s a peculiar old thing on wheels, with lots of little drawers. ‘It once belonged to Agatha Christie, and Henry paid a small fortune for it at some charity auction years ago. He became quite superstitious about it; once told me that he didn’t think he could write another novel anywhere else.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. Look at the shelves in this room.’

  I turn and do as he says, but the bookcases that line the back wall of the study look exactly the same as the ones in the lounge. Then I notice the spines of the books, and I see that they are all written by Henry Winter. There must be hundreds of them, including translations and special editions. It’s a giant vanity wall and exactly what I would expect from a man like him.

  ‘So, what is this? A prank? A bad joke?’ I ask. ‘Why would Henry send an email from a fake account, telling me that I’ve won a weekend at his secret Scottish hideaway? Why is everything covered in dust? Where is he? And where is Bob?’

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Adam asks. ‘Your breathing sounds—’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  He looks unconvinced but carries on anyway. ‘I think he might be upset with me. Ever since I said I didn’t want to adapt his books anymore—’

  I stare at him, taken aback. ‘You did what? I don’t understand.’

  ‘I just decided that maybe it was time to focus on my own work.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me—’

  ‘I couldn’t bear the inevitable I told you sos. He didn’t take the news well at all. It was like a spoilt child throwing a tantrum. I’d had Henry Winter on too high a pedestal my whole life. I looked up to him even when he looked down on me. But then I saw him for who he was for the first time: a selfish, spiteful, and lonely old man.’

  I take in his words, processing what they mean for him, and for us.

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A while back. I tried to keep things friendly, but then he ignored my calls, and I haven’t spoken to him for… a long time. His books were all he had. But if there’s one thing I have learned from life as well as fiction, it’s that nobody is ever just a hero or just a villain. We all have it in us to be both.’

  Adam glares at me when he says that last sentence. I’m about to ask why when I spot my inhaler on the desk behind him.

  ‘Why do you have that?’ I ask.

  ‘Your inhaler?’ he says. ‘I didn’t even notice it was there.’

  I stare at him for a long time, I can normally tell when he’s lying and I don’t think he is.

  I grab the inhaler and slip it in my pocket. ‘I think we’re both exhausted, and now that we know who this place belongs to, I just want to find Bob and get out of here.’

  As soon as I say his name, I hear a dog barking outside.

  Adam

  We run out into the snow.

  I don’t know what to expect. Henry Winter standing outside the chapel? Holding Bob’s lead, and laughing manically like a comedy villain? Maybe he has finally lost his remaining marbles? The man writes dark and twisted fiction, but I still struggle to believe he would be capable of something like this in real life.

  The sound of a dog barking stops as soon as we step outside.

  ‘Bob!’ Amelia calls.

  It’s pointless – the poor old thing is practically deaf at the best of times – but I start shouting his name too.

  The valley is now eerily silent.

  ‘Maybe it wasn’t Bob?’ I say.

  ‘It was him, I know it,’ she insists. ‘There were a pair of men’s wellington boots by the door when I got back, now they’re gone. Whoever was here before left and they’ve got Bob with them.’

  She runs further out into the snow and I have no choice but to follow her.

  The sheep are back. They stare in our direction, but aren’t as scary as they were in the dark last night. We both stop in our tracks when we see the back of a person wearing a tweed jacket, dark trousers, and what looks like a panama hat… in the middle of winter… in freezing cold snow up to their knees. Amelia looks in my direction. I can’t read the expression on her face, but if it’s anything like what I’m feeling, I expect it is one of terror.

  I remind myself that I used to know this man – as well as you can know someone you work with and have only met a handful of times. I clear my throat and take a step closer.

  ‘Henry?’ I say gently.

  For some reason, I remember the antlers on the wall of the boot room. It occurs to me that authors of murder mysteries and thrillers probably know a lot of ways to kill a person without getting caught, and I don’t especially want to have my remains mounted on a wall. He doesn’t move. I tell myself he’s probably just a bit deaf, like the dog, and carry on until we are face to face.

  Except he doesn’t have a face.

  What I appear to be looking at is some kind of scarecrow, but with the head of a snowman. He has wine corks for eyes, a carrot for a nose, a pipe sticking out of
the space where his mouth should be, and one of Henry Winter’s silk blue bow ties tied around his neck. It’s a shade darker than it should be, saturated with melting snow. Henry’s walking stick, the one with the silver rabbit’s head handle is leaning against it, as though for support.

  Amelia comes to stand by my side. ‘What the—’

  ‘I don’t know anymore.’

  ‘This wasn’t here before, was it?’

  ‘No. I think we would have noticed. I really don’t understand what is happening.’

  We stand side by side in silence, staring at the scarecrow snowman as his head slowly melts. One of his cork eyes has already slipped halfway down his face. Apart from the odd dead-looking tree and creepy-looking wooden sculptures, we are in the middle of a vast open area. Whoever did this must be close by. And if Bob is near enough to be heard barking, we should be able to spot him, but all I can see is empty white space. Thanks to the sheep, the snow has been disturbed almost everywhere outside the chapel. If there were any footprints to follow, there aren’t now.

  ‘We have to find Bob. He’s out here somewhere, we both heard him, and we just have to keep looking,’ Amelia says, and I follow her.

  There is a small cemetery at the back of the chapel. The old gravestones are barely visible thanks to the snow, but one stands out as I get nearer. The reason it catches my eye is because someone has wiped it clean, so that the dark grey granite stands out against everything else covered in white. And, unlike all the other headstones, this one looks relatively new.

  That isn’t all.

  There is a red leather collar sitting on top of it.

  Amelia picks it up and I see Bob’s name on the tag, as though there had been any doubt in my mind that it belonged to him.

  ‘I don’t understand. Why remove the dog’s collar and leave it here?’ she says.

  But I don’t reply. I’m too busy staring at the headstone.

  HENRY WINTER

  FATHER OF ONE, AUTHOR OF MANY.

  1937–2018

  Amelia

  ‘I don’t understand. If Henry died two years ago, wouldn’t we have known about it?’ I ask.

  Adam doesn’t answer. We stand side by side in silence, staring at the granite headstone, as if doing so might make the words engraved on it disappear. No matter how many times I rearrange the pieces of this puzzle inside my head, they just don’t fit. I can see the confusion and fear and grief on my husband’s face. I know he thought everything we have was a result of Henry Winter giving him his big break, and trusting him with his novels. A silly falling-out didn’t change that. The man dying when they weren’t even on speaking terms is going to hit him hard. But Adam must realise we have bigger problems right now: if Henry didn’t trick us into coming here, then who did?

  ‘We should get back inside,’ Adam says.

  He’s still looking at the headstone, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

  ‘What about Bob?’ I ask.

  ‘Bob didn’t take off his own collar and leave it here for us to find. Someone else did that. I don’t know what’s going on, but we’re not safe.’

  His words sound so melodramatic, but I agree.

  As soon as we are back inside the chapel, Adam locks the doors, and pushes the large wooden church bench in front of them.

  ‘Whoever we saw letting themselves in earlier must have had a key. This will stop them getting back in without us hearing,’ he says, heading towards the kitchen. ‘Can you show me the email you were sent about winning a weekend in this place?’

  I feel for my phone inside my pocket, but find my inhaler instead. Now that my breathing has returned to normal, I don’t need it, but I feel better knowing it’s close to hand.

  I find the email on my mobile and hand it to Adam.

  ‘info@blackwaterchapel.com, that’s the email address they used?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes. It sounded like a genuine holiday rental.’

  ‘Henry had a thing about the number three and the colour black. A lot of his novels were set in Blackdown or Blacksand… I think there may have been a Blackwater too…’

  ‘You never mentioned that before.’

  ‘I didn’t realise there was a connection until now. But Henry can’t have sent this email – he doesn’t do emails, or the internet, doesn’t even have a mobile phone. He thinks they cause cancer. Thought.’

  For a moment, I think Adam might cry.

  I put my hand on his shoulder, ‘I’m sorry, I know how much you—’

  ‘I’m fine. He hadn’t even been in touch since…’

  Adam trails off and stares into space.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  ‘I hadn’t heard anything from or about him since last September, when his latest agent sent me a copy of his latest book. Luckily this agent approves of screen adaptations, not like Henry’s first one. He’s a nice guy, we even joked about how Henry wasn’t speaking to him either, but the author had still sent his manuscript, three days before his deadline, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string just like usual.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The headstone outside says he died two years ago. Dead people can’t write novels or send them to their agents.’

  It takes me a few seconds to process this latest piece of information. ‘Are you saying that you think he isn’t really dead?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think anymore.’

  ‘Did he have any family? Surely someone would have known if he passed away. One of my old foster parents died last year, do you remember? Charlie, the guy who worked at the supermarket all his life, and always brought home free food that was about to go off. I hadn’t spoken to him for over a decade, but I still knew when he died. Henry Winter is a world-famous author, we would have read about his death in the newspapers or—’

  Adam shakes his head. ‘There was nobody. He was a self-confessed hermit, and liked living his life that way… most of the time. Whenever he drank too much whisky, Henry would get all teary-eyed about not having any children – nobody to look after his books when he was gone. That’s all he really cared about: the books. The man was stoic as a tree at all other times.’

  ‘Well, someone must have been helping him. Henry was no spring chicken if he was born in 1937,’ I say.

  Adam’s eyes narrow. ‘That’s an odd detail to remember.’

  ‘Not really. It was written on the headstone and Amelia Earhart went missing in 1937. I was named after her. Don’t you remember why you were called what you were? I think names are important.’

  Adam stares at me as though my IQ has dropped to a dangerously low level. ‘Henry Winter didn’t have any children, he didn’t have any family at all. I think the only person he had left in his life other than his agent was me, and we weren’t even on speaking terms when he died…’

  His voice wobbles and he looks away.

  ‘The headstone outside said “father of one”. Someone had that made, and someone buried him. He couldn’t have done that by himself.’

  The way Adam looks at me scares me a little. It’s hard not to say the wrong thing when nothing feels right. I sometimes think that his inability to recognise other people’s faces might make it harder for him to control the expressions on his own. The well-worn frown has gone, and it’s almost like he is… smiling. It vanishes as quickly as it appeared.

  ‘We should get out of here while it’s still light,’ he says, adopting a serious face once more to match his tone.

  ‘What about Bob?’

  ‘We’ll find a police station, explain the situation, and ask them to help.’

  ‘The car is snowed in. The roads look dangerous—’

  ‘I’m sure we can dig it out. I’d feel safer out there than I would do staying here for another night, wouldn’t you?’

  He opens the door to the walk-in larder where we saw the wall of tools when we arrived. The industrial-size chest freezer hums an eerie soundtrack, and I avoid looking at the trapdoor to the crypt. I’d rather forget w
hat happened down there.

  ‘Are you going to chop our way out?’ I ask when Adam takes an axe off the wall.

  ‘No, I just think having something for self-defence might not be a bad idea,’ he replies, taking a shovel down off a rusty hook with his other hand.

  The Morris Minor is covered in so much snow, it blends in with the scenery. I feel like a spare part as Adam begins to dig it away from the car’s wheels. It’s freezing cold, but he’s still sweating from the effort. Until he stops and stares at the front wheel as though it has offended him. He drops the shovel and bends down behind the front left-hand side of the car, so that I can no longer see what he is doing.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ he says, sounding breathless.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We appear to have a flat tyre.’

  I hurry over. ‘It’s OK, on these roads in this car it’s to be expected. I have a repair kit in the boot, so long as we can find the hole and it’s small enough I can—’

  I stop talking when I see it for myself. It won’t be a problem to find the hole because it’s the size of a fist. There is a smile-shaped gash in the rubber: the tyre has clearly been slashed. I was already so cold that I could barely feel my hands or feet, but the chill I feel now spreads through my entire body.

  ‘Maybe we drove over some glass?’ he says.

  I don’t answer. Adam’s knowledge of cars is very limited as a result of never owning one. I used to find it endearing, now not so much. He starts digging out the back wheel, then abruptly stops. Again.

  ‘Have you ever had two flat tyres at the same time?’ he asks.

  It looks like the back wheel has been slashed as well. It’s the same with the other two.

  Someone really doesn’t want us to leave.

  Robin

  Robin lets herself back inside the cottage and locks the door. She takes a small red towel from a hook on the wall, then wipes the snow from the dog’s feet, legs, and belly, before taking care of herself. He wags his tail while she dries him, then licks her face. Robin smiles, she likes all animals, especially dogs like this one. Even Oscar the rabbit has warmed to their new house guest.