We Belong Together

by Beth Moran

  Ziva called in ten minutes later, her face scarlet, hair bristling, hands wringing with distress. ‘The H boys are gone.’

  It felt as though a trapdoor had opened in the kitchen floor right where I stood. To my relief, at that point the police officer arrived, a woman in her fifties who firstly insisted we called her Brenda and secondly took charge with a brisk efficiency that was simultaneously reassuring and intimidating in equal measure.

  Having relayed why we had called her, and gone over the little we knew, she then asked the question I had been dreading.

  ‘Has anything like this happened before?’

  I took a deep breath, kept my eyes firmly in Brenda’s direction and away from Daniel, Becky and Ziva. ‘Yes.’

  Brenda’s eyes flicked to Daniel, sitting beside me, who had gone rigid.

  ‘Can you tell me about it, please?’

  ‘Um. Before moving here, I was a journalist. I wrote food reviews, and a few other things, and sometimes… people sent me… messages…’

  Brenda, sensing I was on the brink of choking on my own witness statement, carefully put down her pen and notepad.

  ‘Dr Solomon, Becky, I think I’ve got all I need from you, for now. Please don’t let me take up any more of your day.’

  Taking the hint, they made their excuses and left.

  ‘Okay, Eleanor. Take your time. You were telling me about your previous messages?’

  I nodded. Daniel was gripping his coffee mug so hard his knuckles were white.

  ‘I had the usual trolling on social media. Letters to the paper I worked for, comments on my blog. It was nothing unusual, never anything extreme enough to worry about.’

  ‘And then…?’

  ‘And then…’

  And then I told her about the messages to my phone, the heart in the box, and the middle of the night phone messages, and with every word Daniel grew even more still.

  ‘And have you heard anything since?’

  Oh boy.

  ‘Yes.’ My voice broke. I swallowed, taking a moment to breathe in some much-needed air before I continued. ‘I bought a new phone, but I’ve had a couple of messages to my old one.’

  ‘Can I see them?’

  As I pulled my old phone out of my hoodie pocket and handed it to Brenda, to my enormous relief Daniel’s own phone rang. He glanced at it before pushing back his chair, swearing under his breath.

  ‘I have to take this.’

  ‘Of course, no problem.’ Brenda smiled. She waited for him to leave before looking me straight in the eye. ‘Now, are you going to tell me what’s really going on?’

  So, with many more choked back tears, my head hung in shame, I told her precisely that.

  An hour or so later, Brenda left, taking my old phone with her. She’d said that the obvious place to start was trying to locate the Alamis, but she would also look into the other restaurants that the stalker had messaged me about on the night I left London. She’d call Miles Greenbank at the newspaper, as well as seeing if she could get any more information from my parents. Another priority, of course, was to speak to Lucy. Although it seemed clear the animosity was aimed at me, and the chilling discovery about the missing H boys suggested their focus was now here, not in London, Lucy needed to know what was happening. She also had all the new passwords for Nora’s social media accounts, so we needed that information from her, too.

  However, while Brenda reassured me that a crime had been committed, and she was proceeding accordingly, I couldn’t help thinking that surely underneath the calm professionalism Brenda and I shared the same opinion: I had brought this on myself. A box of bees and a lamb’s heart were insignificant compared to the upset and damage I had caused over the past few years, and I should feel ashamed at wasting valuable police resources.

  I wouldn’t have involved the police at all, would have packed up my stuff and run away again if it was only me involved. But I wouldn’t even consider risking a grief-stricken maniac turning up at Daniel and Hope’s home.

  So, I would stay, and cooperate as best I could, and follow Brenda’s advice about keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary, keeping the doors and windows locked, and not going for any long rambles around the countryside alone.

  I would hope, and pray, and do anything I could to make sure that I wasn’t responsible for ruining any more innocent lives.

  I couldn’t call Lucy myself, as Brenda now had my old phone. I did, however, look her up on every online platform I could think of that didn’t require me to set up a profile, as well as reading through as many of the comments as I could stomach.

  Nora Sharp was riding high. I had no idea what was happening with her venue or event reviews, but she had clearly been having fun reviewing her own life, and the seemingly endless free items that now accessorised it.

  And while I would generally baulk at the idea of any human being degraded to the level of ‘accessory’, that was clearly how Nora viewed the man currently featuring in around half of her pictures. Nameless, consistently relegated to the back of the frame, or used as a prop to drape herself over, her new boyfriend clearly wasn’t choosy about which version of Nora Sharp he hung out with.

  Marcus.

  I was distracted from my stalker-search enough to scroll through the pictures until I found one that stopped me in my tracks. Nora was staring into the lens, lips pursed in defiance. She wore a tiny white crop-top, across which was written in red lettering, ‘FireStarter’.

  FireStarter was the name Marcus had used for the woman he’d been seeing behind my back.

  Lucy had ended up with my job, my pen name, the opportunities and the attention that came with them. Had she started with my boyfriend?

  Had she planned the whole thing?

  She certainly didn’t look like a woman being tormented by creepy and disgusting packages.

  Daniel finished his call in time for lunch, not that either of us managed to eat more than a few token bites of a sandwich. My whole body felt seized up with tension as frenzied thoughts raced through all the potential ways he might react to the interview with Brenda. Pushing his plate away, he finally put me out of my misery.

  ‘You should have told me.’

  I gave a wretched nod. ‘I know. I’m so sorry. I genuinely didn’t think this was anything more than nuisance messages. I never would have knowingly put you and Hope at risk. I never would have stayed here if I’d known. Like I said—’

  ‘I can’t believe you were dealing with this by yourself,’ he reached across the table and took my ice-cold hand. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  I shrugged. ‘I thought I’d left that awfulness behind. I was trying to start again. I didn’t want to contaminate this lovely place with the disgusting dregs of my life in London.’ The one millionth tear of the past two days dribbled out, and I swiped it away with a frustrated hand. ‘I was ashamed.’

  ‘Eleanor, you did nothing wrong. Why would you be ashamed? And can I remind you that this entire village has been at war for the past thirty-six years? Can you imagine the nasty, petty, ugly things that people have said and done around here? I’m not living in some naïve idyllic countryside bubble. And I know that sometimes people hate for reasons that are completely irrational and unjustified.’

  I knew I should tell him quite how much I deserved the hate, but I was so tired, and so scared, and needed him not to hate me too.

  ‘I’m a little insulted, to be honest, that you thought so little of me – of what we’re building here, together – that you wouldn’t share this.’ He let go of my hand, then, and the pain in his eyes made my throat ache.

  ‘It was a couple of messages… this kind of thing was an everyday part of my job. You don’t tell me every time someone at work has a go at you, or sends an arsey email…’ My voice fizzled out, unable to deliver such a feeble argument with any conviction.

  ‘Or sends me a heart in the post?’ He shook his head, frustrated. ‘Don’t downplay this. They sent messages to your personal
phone. You left your home in the middle of the night.’ He paused, waiting for me to find the courage to look at him. ‘You should have told me.’

  My whole body drooped. ‘I know. I can’t tell you how sorry I am for embroiling you in my problems. Do you want me to go?’

  He sat back, then, eyes wide with shock. ‘No! I want you to trust me enough to let your problems be our problems. This is your home, Eleanor. I want you to stop thinking like I’m allowing you to stay. Like there’s any doubt about whether you belong here. I want you to not even think about that as an option.’ He paused, mouth curling in the hint of a smile. ‘Team Damson.’

  I managed a rueful smile in return. ‘Team Damson.’

  ‘Most of all, I want us to stop dithering about pretending to play it cool and officially admit that we’re a serious, committed, exclusive, head-over-heels-for-each-other couple.’

  Wow.

  ‘Okay.’ I ducked my head, suddenly overcome.

  ‘Okay? That’s it?’ Daniel leant forwards across the table so that his face was looking right into mine. When that failed, he gently reached under my chin and tipped my head up so my eyes met his.

  I took a deep breath. This man, his gorgeous smile, his tenderness. He was downright irresistible.

  ‘That would be lovely, thank you very much.’

  I would tell him. I just needed a little more time to pull myself together first.

  30

  By Friday, my heart rate had almost returned to normal. Brenda had spoken to my parents, my old boss and to Lucy, currently safe and sound in a resort in the Alps. She had apparently been appalled and concerned, promising to be vigilant and immediately inform Brenda if she spotted anything that might be related to what had happened.

  ‘She said that since taking Nora in a new direction, the trolls have largely lost interest, so it will be a lot easier to spot if the Bee Murderer tries to make contact.’

  ‘Okay.’ I pressed my phone tight to my ear, just in case Daniel could hear the other end of the phone from the study.

  ‘She also said to tell you that she hopes you’re keeping safe, and to send her love.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Despite our awkward ending, I felt a rush of relief that Lucy was safe, and even more so that she seemed to have veered away from the Even Nastier Nora.

  Brenda had not much else to add. ‘I’m following up with the Alamis, but it seems Layla’s parents have left the country, and it’ll take a while to locate the wider family. I’ve got another officer looking into the bee theft, and contacting the parcel delivery company, but again there’s not a lot to go on. Be reassured, though, that I’ve dealt with plenty worse in Ferrington over the years, and none of it came to anything. Try not to worry, leave it to the experts.’

  Her calm demeanour helped settle my nerves down another notch. I spent an afternoon tidying up the garden with Becky, and even managed to stop looking over my shoulder every two minutes, instead allowing myself to enjoy the spring flowers peeping out from amongst the weeds. We saw rabbits hopping through the meadow beyond the fence, and a family of ducks sailed along our stretch of the river.

  Recent events had dragged my mind back to my life in London, to the constant nag of inadequacy and discomfort and the never-ending need to cram my life so full it would smother the self-loathing.

  My world had been filled with the illusion of glamour. I’d had parties and clothes, notoriety and enough money to enjoy it, but it had all counted for nothing, because this was what I had needed all along: to sit with a friend and share a pot of tea, the birds singing, sheep bleating in the distance, and to savour the satisfaction of taking something neglected and shambolic and setting about restoring it to something beautiful.

  I didn’t know if it would ever be enough, these small attempts to counteract the damage I’d caused but I would pledge myself to keep trying, and that was the best I could do.

  It was five o’clock, and a distinct nip had settled in the air when we decided to down tools for the week. Luke was also finishing up. We went to inspect the progress and found him packing up the last of his equipment. We now had the bare bones of a bathroom and two single bedrooms. On Monday, the shower and other fittings would arrive, and we would be able to start painting the bedrooms.

  ‘Wow, you’ve done loads!’ Becky said from where she stood by the window. Given that she was contained in a small room with Luke, her voice was impressively close to normal frequency. ‘You must be ready for the weekend.’

  ‘Yep.’ Luke nodded as he checked through his toolbox.

  ‘Any plans?’

  ‘Heading to the Boatman.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to try the pie at the Boatman. Alice says they’re amazing.’

  ‘They’re not bad.’ Luke clicked the toolbox shut.

  ‘Like, with a pint.’

  Luke did one last visual sweep of the bathroom. It was a good job he scanned straight past Becky because she looked about ready to melt in a pile of molten mortification.

  ‘They probably go really well together.’

  ‘It’s a classic combination.’ Luke picked up his toolbox and walked the three steps to the doorway, where I stepped back to allow him past.

  ‘I heard they do an offer. On Fridays?’

  He twisted back to face Becky, one eyebrow raised, the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. ‘I’ll save you a seat.’

  And then Luke Winter swung down the stairs and into his van before Becky had time to collapse into the space where the toilet was supposed to be.

  In between jumping at every sudden noise, thrashing about in my duvet all night and going over increasingly disturbing scenarios involving the bee killer’s return, I did my best to spend the weekend immersed in weeding, and talking to Alice about her plans for the Rebuilding Committee meeting on Sunday evening. Daniel was trying to pretend he was totally chilled out about his girlfriend being on the receiving end of multiple sinister messages from someone who had broken into his orchard and stolen a hive of bees, but he always seemed to coincidentally be drifting about wherever I found myself to be. At one point I had to turn around and tell him that I was going to the toilet and really didn’t need a chaperone.

  On Sunday, once Alice arrived, we spent an hour sorting out the barn before the meeting was due to start. This meant dragging in whatever makeshift seating we could find – a few garden chairs, followed by some crates, boxes and a couple of logs. We had no idea who – if anyone – would come, but both Alice and Ziva had been working hard at promoting the message on each side, and we were buzzing with anticipation that we were on the brink of seeing Ferrington history in the making.

  A few minutes before seven the first few people began to arrive, with a fairly even mix of wariness and enthusiasm, and by five past it was standing room only. As expected, the Old and New Sides had naturally drifted to different halves of the barn, and so the first thing Alice did was instruct everyone to find someone from the opposite side to them and say hello.

  ‘That’ll wheedle out the troublemakers,’ she whispered, eyes scrutinising the stilted interactions now taking place.

  Once she’d called everyone to order and gone through some ground rules, most of which involved trying to prevent violence from breaking out, the first item on the agenda was to agree the purpose of the committee.

  Alice nodded at the manager from the Old Side off-licence, who was waving his hand in the air.

  ‘Can you state your name and then make your point, please?’

  ‘DJ Vapes.’ He paused, glancing around to absorb the room’s admiration for his cool name before realising that it didn’t exist, and hastily carrying on. ‘Er, isn’t the purpose to rebuild the bridge? I thought that was obvious,’ he said, revealing a remarkable change of heart since he’d thrown Alice out of his shop.

  ‘Surely that’s only part of it?’ Ziva replied. ‘There’s no point rebuilding the bridge if the village is still divided.’

  This elicited a murmur of approval.
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br />   ‘Well, yeah, but we have to start somewhere,’ DJ Vapes said. ‘You can’t just tell people to get over it, forgive and forget and that’s that. We need a project like the bridge to get people working together again.’

  ‘We aren’t planning on building the bridge with our own bare hands!’ another man said.

  ‘Why not?’ an older teenager called, huddled at the back with a small group of similar aged boys. ‘Save us some money.’

  ‘Raising the money, applying for planning permission or whatever else needs doing, that’ll be where we work together,’ Ziva said.

  ‘How about a massive party on the bridge once it’s finished?’ a younger woman suggested, bouncing a baby on her hip.

  Lots of people liked that idea, throwing out suggestions for local businesses to provide food and drink, and entertainment, maybe even to make it an annual event.

  ‘Okay, that’s all fantastic, just what we’re looking for,’ Alice yelled above the growing enthusiasm. ‘But we’ve got a long way to go before we can start thinking about that. I’d like to invite Malcolm Blackthorn, chair of the Ferrington Parish Council, to come and fill us in on some details.’

  ‘The Parish Council?’ several people asked, faces scrunched up in confusion. ‘Since when did we have one of those?’

  ‘Since the 1894 Local Government Act!’ Malcolm retorted, coming to stand beside Alice at the front of the barn.

  ‘Well, of course we wouldn’t know anything about it, if it’s run by Old Siders!’ a man who had ambled in ten minutes late snarked.

  ‘Jase!’ Alice warned. Jase opened his mouth and raised his hands in a ‘who, me?’ gesture. Despite the straggly nondescript hair and slouchy tracksuit bottoms, he oozed the kind of cocky charm that some women seem to find irresistible, and I could understand why Alice had been drawn to him.