It was getting late. Shutting down the laptop, Aaron gloomily readied himself for bed.
Today had been a good first day, he supposed. But he needed to steel himself. Because tomorrow he was determined to interview Cal Anderson’s mother.
5
MONDAY MORNING WAS cold and bitter, the wind whipping up from the sea to stalk the streets of Porth an Jowl. Aaron stood on Clarence Row, his coat doing little to keep him warm. Yet another sleepless night had left him tired and irritable, and the three cups of coffee he’d downed for breakfast had done nothing to clear his foggy mind.
It had taken him just two minutes to find Carrie Killigrew’s address in the local telephone directory. Now, he stood outside her garden gate, wishing he’d remembered to shave before leaving the hotel, and wondering if showing up unannounced was the right approach. He’d considered telephoning ahead, but it would have given Carrie an opportunity to say no before he’d had a chance to work his charm in person.
“Here we go,” he muttered to himself as he pushed open the gate. He could tell the garden had once been lovingly tended, but winter had killed most of the plants and those that remained had been left to grow wild—a sign that all was not well in the Killigrew household.
The front door was just ahead. Aaron slid to a halt, doubt flooding his mind. Carrie had been hounded by the press not once, but twice in her life. And although Aaron was not the press, would she see him as any different?
He would have to convince her that he was.
Carrie’s interview was crucial to the book. Sure, he could write it without her and enjoy moderate success, but to have an exclusive interview with Cal Anderson’s mother, to have her personal thoughts and words about what had happened to her son . . . it would be the magic sauce that shot his book into the stratosphere and finally make Aaron Black a household name.
He pressed the doorbell, stepped back, and held his breath. Moments later, he heard a chain unlatch. The door opened a crack. Aaron flashed his most charming smile.
“Yes?”
The woman in the doorway was not Carrie Killigrew. She was older, perhaps in her early sixties, but she did have more than a passing resemblance to Carrie. Her mother?
“Good morning, my name is Aaron Black. I was wondering if I could speak with Carrie,” he said, keeping his smile friendly.
The woman stared at him, her eyes narrowing.
“Aaron Black?” she said. “Are you a friend?”
Aaron shook his head. “Actually, no. We don’t know each other. But I would like to speak to her about—that is, I was wondering if. . .”
The woman’s expression hardened.
“No journalists.” She moved to shut the door.
Aaron held up a hand. “I’m not a journalist. I’m an author. I’m writing a book and I’d like to interview Carrie about—”
“No authors, either!”
The door slammed shut in his face. Aaron stumbled back. Further along the street, a dog started barking. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he checked the time. It wasn’t even ten in the morning and already he’d wrecked his chances of his book hitting the number one spot.
“Well done, asshole,” he muttered.
Angry with himself, he returned to the street. Movement from an upstairs window caught his eye, and he turned in time to see a curtain fall closed.
She was up there, watching him.
He stood for a long time, waiting for the curtain to open again. When it didn’t, he stalked back to his car.
There had to be another way of reaching Carrie Killigrew. All he had to do was find it.
6
CARRIE HOVERED IN THE darkness of the bedroom. She had watched the man come and go, observed him pause in the street looking defeated before driving away in his car. She wondered who he could be. Another journalist? But they’d stopped coming around a month ago.
Her curiosity passed. All she wanted was to be left alone.
She thought about returning to bed. Somewhere inside her conscience, a voice told her to shower, put on some clean clothes, return to the world. But she couldn’t.
A voice called to her from somewhere below.
“Carrie, love? I’m making tea. Are you coming down?”
Carrie heaved her shoulders. She didn’t want tea. She wanted alcohol. It was the only medicine that could numb her pain and erase her memories.
Now, she heard feet on the stairs.
“Carrie? Are you awake?”
Carrie glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was almost ten a.m. She’d slept through most of yesterday and it was her intention to do the same today. Before her mother had arrived two weeks ago, she’d hardly bothered with getting out of bed at all.
A soft rapping on the door.
Carrie grumbled and gave a cursory glance at her crumpled bedsheets.
The door opened, letting in light from the landing.
Sally Nance stood on the threshold, peering into the shadows. Carrie and her mother shared many physical traits. Dark, wild hair. Dark, intense eyes. Both small in stature but strong. Except Carrie didn’t feel strong. Not anymore.
“There you are,” her mother said. “Didn’t you hear me calling?”
Carrie nodded.
“Then why didn’t you answer? And are you going to sit in the dark like this again all day? It’s not good for you, love. You’ll disappear into nothing. At worst, you’ll get Ricketts.”
Carrie rolled her eyes. It was like being a teenager again, her overbearing mother scolding her over her latest misdemeanour. But Carrie was thirty-six and in no mood for a lecture.
Her mother hovered in the doorway, wanting to come in, yet seemingly afraid of what her daughter was becoming in the darkness.
“Come on, darling. Come down. I’ll make something to eat. We can talk, if you like. Maybe watch some television.”
Carrie’s focus moved from her mother to the window.
“Who was at the door?” she asked, her voice dull and lifeless.
“No one important.” Her mother was still hovering, still wringing her hands. “Well come on then, get yourself on your feet.”
Sally stood for a few moments longer before throwing her hands up in defeat. Leaving the bedroom door open and the light flooding in, she returned downstairs.
Carrie heaved her shoulders. Ever since her mother had arrived, she’d been trying to make things better between them. But you couldn’t fix five years of absence in two weeks, no matter how much tea you made.
Rubbing her eyes, Carrie leaned forward. Guilt pressed down on her. “Fine,” she grumbled. “Anything to shut you up.”
Besides, all the alcohol was in the living room cabinet and the bottle stashed beneath her bed was empty.
She found her mother buzzing around the kitchen, pouring tea into a teapot and setting cups on the table.
She’d cleaned again. The dish rack was empty. The surfaces sparkled.
“There you are!” Sally beamed. “Now sit yourself down and let me finish making the tea.”
Carrie slipped into a chair. She was tired and sluggish. Her bones ached. The voice in her head warned her again about the dangers of mixing alcohol and sleeping pills. She should probably stop taking the pills, she thought. The problem wasn’t that she couldn’t sleep. The problem was that her dreams were filled with him.
Cal. Her son.
The pills made him disappear, leaving Carrie’s sleep dark and empty, as if she ceased to exist. Just the way she wanted it.
Sally poured tea into cups. She laid out slices of fruit loaf on a plate, which she offered to Carrie, who shook her head but accepted a mug of tea.
“You have to eat something.” Sally’s face wrinkled with concern. “You’ve lost too much weight already.”
“How would you know?”
Sally flinched then looked away. “I meant since I’ve been back.”
Carrie stared at the loaf. Her stomach tightened. It would not let her eat, even if she was star
ving.
Mother and daughter sat at the table in silence as Sally made quick work of spooning sugar into her mug. Carrie watched her, half resenting her still being here, half relieved that she still was.
“I’m defrosting a chicken for dinner,” Sally said, when the silence had become too much. “Thought I’d make a casserole.”
Her gaze moved down to the uneaten fruit loaf, then back up to Carrie.
Carrie nodded. She’d force a little of her mother’s casserole down later, if only to stop her from calling the nearest mental hospital and having her committed.
More quiet.
“Tomorrow, I thought we could go to the supermarket. We’re running low on everything. . .” Sally cleared her throat. “And then on Wednesday, Joy’s invited us over. Do you remember?”
Carrie stiffened.
“Melissa will be excited to see you.”
The name was a blade sinking into Carrie’s heart. She winced but stopped short of clutching her chest.
“I don’t think so,” she said, once she was able to breathe again.
Sally’s brow wrinkled. “Oh, Carrie, don’t say that! Of course Melissa will be excited to see you. You’re her mother. She misses you very much.”
“I meant I don’t think I’ll be going over.”
“But she’ll be expecting you. Joy and Gary, too. And Dylan. . .”
Carrie stayed quiet. Just the mention of her daughter’s name made the void she was tumbling through feel even more vast.
She shook her head. “I can’t see her. Not right now.”
Across the table, Sally gripped her mug. “Your daughter needs to see you. She’s four years old. She doesn’t understand what’s going on, or why you sent her away. It’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair would be to keep her here. For her to see me like this.”
“If you don’t go, you’ll only disappoint her. It’ll make things more difficult for when you’re ready to be a family again.”
Carrie lifted her mug to her face and pressed the porcelain against her cheek. She welcomed the burning sensation. Images of her daughter’s young face filled her mind.
It had been over two weeks since they’d been in the same room. She knew it was wrong, that refusing to see Melissa was hurting her and making everything more confusing. And it was doing nothing to heal Carrie’s relationship with Dylan.
But what could she do? She couldn’t be a mother to Melissa right now. She’d already failed one child. It wasn’t her intention to fail the other.
She just needed more time.
Carrie sipped some of the tea, which was bitter and unpleasant. She stared at her own mother, who had failed her. Who was now trying to make amends.
“You go,” she said. “I don’t need to be there.”
Anger flashed in Sally’s eyes. Carrie could tell she was struggling to keep it out of her voice. “Melissa’s still getting to know me. She’s shy, scared to be with me without you there. Besides, I’m not sure Joy and Gary are particularly fond of me. . . Please Carrie, if you can’t do it for me, do it for your daughter. She needs you.”
“I . . . I can’t.” Carrie stood, almost tipping the chair.
She felt the darkness reaching for her again. Calling her name. And then Cal entered her mind. She tried to push him out. To cast him away. But his face remained, his eyes burning into her brain. Searing her unconscious. He would never leave her thoughts. And she could never let him.
That was why she couldn’t see Melissa—despite everything Cal had done, despite all the atrocious things he’d been accused of, she still loved him. She could still forgive him.
She was still his mother.
“Tell Melissa I’m sorry,” she said, backing away from the table. “Tell her I’ll see her soon. I promise.”
She glanced at her mother one last time before ducking into the hall. She slowed as she passed the living room door. Memories assaulted her. She was back in Grady Spencer’s basement, tied down to his torture table with Cal staring blankly at her, scalpel raised. Instantly, the scar on her right shoulder began to throb.
Alcohol. She needed it now.
Bursting into the darkness of the living room, she headed straight for the cabinet. Grabbing the closest bottle, she unscrewed the cap, filled a glass, then swallowed its contents in three desperate gulps. She filled it again and drank.
The basement faded from her mind, taking the pain and blood with it. Carrie sank to the carpet, her back resting against the cabinet. Tears came. She refilled her glass and drank some more.
The tears went away.
7
THE RAIN PERSISTED throughout the day, adding to Aaron’s sinking mood. He spent the rest of the morning sat in a dingy tea room by the harbour, battling an ailing phone signal and hostile stares from the locals as he worked through a list of potential interviewees.
With Carrie temporarily out of the picture, his next key witness was Margaret Telford. Her daughter, who was visiting from Penzance, told Aaron that Margaret’s health had been in decline since discovering her poor dog’s remains in the backyard, and that any kind of interview was out of the question. That left Aaron circling back to the Pengellys. He’d already tried searching local directories, both physical and online, but it was too soon for their change of address to be registered. He’d also searched social media and come up empty.
So far, the family’s whereabouts remained a mystery, which meant he would need to somehow convince Nat Tremaine to give up their address.
Moving on to his secondary list, the families of Spencer’s other victims, proved almost as fruitless until he spoke with Anthea Baker, mother of Toby Baker, who agreed to be interviewed and would be free this coming Friday; which was something, at least. Finally, with some disdain, Aaron moved onto his third list of interviewees; a ragtag cohort of neighbours and residents who’d either been namechecked or quoted by the press. Predictably, almost everyone he called agreed to be interviewed.
He spent his afternoon navigating the narrow, windswept streets of the cove and drinking several mugs of tea while repeating his list of questions and recording the answers. Not one of his interviewees had had any direct involvement with September’s grim events, but all had something to say on the matter.
Mabel Stevens, manager of the local post office, emphatically declared a curse had been placed on Porth an Jowl by Grady Spencer, who was almost certainly a deranged practitioner of the dark arts. A Satanist, no less.
“That’s what happens when you name a place Devil’s Cove,” she declared. “You invite evil in.”
Old Peter Pascoe, proprietor of Porth an Jowl Newsagent and Stationery Store, was also convinced the town had been gripped by malevolent forces.
“There’s a cancer growing in this place,” he said, jabbing a finger across the shop counter. “And it ain’t finished with us yet.”
By four o’clock, the sky was aglow with sunset embers and Aaron’s head was teeming with bad omens and strange folklore. His research into Cornwall had revealed a culture long steeped in tall tales of faeries and goblins, witchcraft and dark magic—and he’d assumed that such stories had been kept alive to entertain the tourists. But here, in Porth an Jowl, it seemed that a belief in dark forces was still very much alive.
Perhaps it was these so-called dark forces that were hindering his progress. All he had to show for days of research were photo-graphs of empty rooms and a bunch of interviews that had only served to waste his time. With the last of the day fading above him, he found himself back at Clarence Row and standing outside Carrie Killigrew’s house. The curtains were all closed but he could see light seeping through the cracks of the living room window. He was tempted to knock on her door again, but he had a feeling that, with his present luck, a second encounter with the woman he’d met earlier wouldn’t end well.
Instead, he moved on to his final pointless interview of the day, just a few doors down. Five minutes later, Aaron was sitting at Dottie Penpol’s kitchen table
, sipping hot tea, and doing his best to look interested in what the elderly woman had to say.
“I knew that boy was trouble as soon as he washed up on that beach,” Dottie said, waving a crooked finger. “I could tell just by looking in his eyes. There was something dark there. Something unnatural. Like you couldn’t see his soul.”
“You met Cal?” Aaron asked, sitting up. “You spoke with him?”
Dottie shook her head. “Not exactly. But I seen him through the window, and I swear to you, it was like the devil himself was staring right at me. Lord, I ran home and prayed that night, I can tell you!”
Aaron forced a smile to his lips as he drank more tea. Another lunatic. He wasn’t going to glean anything useful here, just more wasted time.
“It’s a tragedy, really, if you think about what that poor woman’s been through,” Dottie went on. “First, she has to deal with the guilt of not watching over her son and letting him drown. Then she has to deal with the shock of him being alive all this time, never mind all the terrible things that happened since! I tell you, it’s no surprise to anyone in this town that poor Carrie’s lost her mind.”
“Is that right?”
“Had some sort of breakdown, she did, supposedly. Not that I listen to rumours or anything, but Dylan, that’s her husband, he’s had to take that poor daughter of theirs to live with his folks on the other side of town. Carrie can’t cope, apparently. You’d think now Sally’s back in town, she’d be doing better.”
“Sally?”
“That’s Carrie’s mother. Turned up a couple of weeks ago. I expect Dylan called her because it’s not like Sally ever won Mother of the Year herself. She and Carrie were estranged, you see. Ever since Cal was thought drowned and Sally and that husband of hers took off on their fancy pants yacht.”
Dottie paused for a moment to catch her breath and take a sip of tea. Aaron picked up a pen and jotted down some notes. It was a strange thing to do, he thought, to leave Carrie when she needed her parents the most. But grief made people behave in all sorts of strange ways. When his father had died, his mother’s reaction had been to book herself in for a face lift.
Desperation Point Page 4
