The House of Secrets

by Sophie Draper

  The name has a ring to it. And it’s appropriate. I look at the man on the horse again and yes, he is a puppet rider. His body is cut off at the waist with no legs, no feet, and he has the bony body parts of a skeleton. Even the horse’s head and limbs look like the bony arms of the man, this time pointing downwards. There’s no attempt at realism. The rider is a half skeleton astride his horse, a living corpse that floats on the animal’s back as if held in balance by some invisible force. A celestial puppet with no strings.

  ‘And look here!’ Joe dabs at the screen again with his fingers.

  The puppetrider is one of the rarest, most distinctive of a range of early Eastern European coins. Only a handful have ever been found in the UK. In every case, they have been part of significantly valuable coin hoards.

  He doesn’t know. How could he know? It’s part of a secret that’s been buried since before he was born. I close my eyes. Oh, God, I think. Has he found any other items?

  He can’t have, since he’s not mentioned anything else. I try to imagine the coin frozen in a line of cement, or buried in the mud. Or drifting free in a current of water. It can’t be possible. Of all the things to turn up out of the blue, for Joe, my own son, to find …

  That coin belongs underground. Deep beneath where no one can find her.

  It belongs to something that Duncan and I haven’t spoken of once, not since before Joe was born.

  It belongs to her.

  Evangeline.

  CHAPTER 15

  CLAIRE – AFTER

  I can’t face the morning. Nor do I like the night. It’s when the cottage feels too small and empty. The roof contracts and the walls flex and the windows shiver in their frames as the wind sweeps over the brow of the hill.

  It’s not the silence that gets to me – there is no silence, there’s always some kind of low-grade noise somewhere in the cottage – it’s the lack of human company. I go downstairs, padding across the kitchen in my pyjamas. Arthur is stretched out in front of the range and I’m grateful for his presence. I kneel on the floor and stroke him in that soft spot he likes under his chin.

  From here I can see all the spiderwebs in the room, glistening in the low light. There are bits of dreck that fill the cracks between the floorboards and dead flies that line up along the skirting board under the window. So much dust and dirt has accumulated whilst the cottage was empty, and I’m not sure how long there’s been between the previous tenant and me. I didn’t think to ask the estate agent; it must have been a fair length of time. I’m going to be busy cleaning, if I can bring myself to do anything at all.

  I stand up and sit in the armchair. Arthur picks himself up awkwardly and moves a little closer, depositing his warm body on my feet. I retrieve the remote control for the TV from the gap between the cushion and the armrest and press the button.

  Light and noise fill the room. Faces I don’t recognise flash across the screen, voices jangling one over the other, so many I can’t hear the words, louder and louder … I jab at the remote, banging the thing against the side of my chair until the volume rises even more rapidly. Arthur lifts his ears. The button must have got jammed. I panic and punch the thing again. Silence. I let a sigh shudder from between my lips. The screen still fizzes with tiny white fireworks darting in all directions. I clench my teeth – doesn’t anything work in this house?

  Nothing ever goes to plan. Not Duncan, not Joe, not even my move to this cottage.

  Joe was supposed to come with me. But he didn’t.

  Instead, he went AWOL again. I was afraid of this. The last time he did that – went off and didn’t come back – was in August, just before his A-level results were due. He must have been worried about it all summer. He was gone for over two weeks. I was frantic then. It had always been no more than a few days before; though his absences had been getting longer. I’m frantic now – it’s been way longer than that. As each day goes by, I’ve grown more and more anxious. It doesn’t help that Duncan and I aren’t speaking. Not even for Joe’s sake. I’ve not had one phone call from Duncan, not one. But then, I haven’t rung him, either. How could I? Instead, I’ve blocked his number.

  Those early days were a blur. My nights have been full of nightmares, my days are … I don’t know, unreal. I’ve been in shock, I guess. It didn’t exactly go to plan. Duncan? My hands clutch the arms of my chair.

  I got here a physical and emotional mess, and to find myself here at the cottage after all my careful planning, in the state I was – am – in … I wake up each day gasping for breath. Everything hurts – my head, my body, my brain … even now.

  I had to go without Joe. It hurts just thinking about it. That I left Joe behind.

  I’m almost glad he’s gone AWOL. It means he’s not with Duncan. My first thought was that Joe had gone back to the Barn, after I’d gone. But I know he wouldn’t do that. He was so upset with his father that last day. I was almost on the verge of calling the police, then I got one text:

  Mum – I’m okay. Don’t come looking for me. Goodbye.

  I texted him back. Ring me, I said. He never rang. I rang him, again and again, but he didn’t pick up. Still doesn’t pick up. And that text just sits there, blazing from my screen. Don’t come looking for me. He hasn’t texted me again. As if that’s it, that’s your lot, Mum. I don’t need you anymore.

  Oh, God, it hurts so much. I’m stuck here on my own and I can’t bear it. I hang on thinking, just one more day and I’ll get another message. I’ve even told him exactly where I am. He’ll come to me, of his own accord, I know he will. If I wait here long enough.

  I bitterly regret choosing this cottage. It’s too close to the Barn. Why on earth did I think this was a good idea? I convinced myself it was in Joe’s best interests, that we could do this like adults, Duncan and me. And now I’m terrified. Hiding, almost. I can’t go anywhere near the Barn, or the north side of the reservoir, the other side of the dam. Or anywhere else. Not Belston, not Derby – not anywhere I might be seen. I can’t bear for anyone I know to see me like this, to ask questions.

  And Joe is still missing. It’s been over six weeks and Joe is still missing.

  I’ve worried about Joe ever since he was born. I knew something was wrong right from the start. I could never quite put my finger on it. He cried and cried and cried as a baby. Nothing settled him unless I held him close. I was exhausted, terrified, tired all the time. I needed to put him down, to look after myself, to do basic stuff like go to the bathroom, eat, sleep. Then one day, I threw him down – he literally bounced in his cot. He screamed like hell then.

  I was full of remorse – what if I’d hurt him? What if I’d thrown him against a hard surface and not his soft bed? I was a monster! Why wouldn’t anyone help me? Couldn’t they see the state I was in? Didn’t Duncan, my brother, Ian, even his wife, Moira, understand?

  No, apparently, they did not. Duncan assumed looking after Joe was my job and everyone else assumed that Duncan was looking after me. Such a great guy, my brother had said – You’ve done well, Claire. If only he knew.

  Secrets, shame, families are full of them.

  Every time Joe screamed, I was sure it was my fault – something I’d done or not done in the pregnancy, brain damage or something he’d inherited. I’ve alternated between fear and pain and guilt. And anger. In those last few days, it was anger. That Joe would choose to go missing again right then, right when I was finally leaving Duncan. I’d waited eighteen years, putting my whole life on hold for him, banking on the fact that once he was an adult, he’d be sorted, that I could step back from looking after him and take my turn. Well, he must have decided that he’s old enough, too. He’s upped and gone.

  But what if he hasn’t? I look at Arthur. Joe should be here. With me. With Arthur.

  I feel the fear wash over me. I jump up from my chair. I can’t think like this, it does my head in. He’s fine. He must be. He said he was. And I’d know if he wasn’t. Arthur watches me uncertainly, struggling to his feet, wonder
ing if I’m about to take him for a walk. I shake my head.

  ‘No, Arthur, I’m sorry.’

  He collapses back to the ground.

  I think of that coin Joe found, right before I left. My fingers mentally trace the pattern and I feel such sadness. I would have brought it with me if I could, but Joe must have had it with him – it wasn’t in his room when I was packing all of his other things. I remember it clearly. I’ve held it that many times before it ever passed into Joe’s hands, albeit a long time ago. I shake my head. I can’t bear to think of that coin anymore.

  I think of Joe’s excitement. Maybe he’s out there searching for more. Maybe he’s given up on all that metal detecting stuff and moved in with one of his mates and not bothered to tell me. Part of me almost believes he would do that. Communication was never his strong point. Perhaps the shock of what happened and me leaving has jolted him out of his obsessions. Is he angry with me?

  I hold my head as if it’ll stop my thoughts from spinning. Maybe something has happened. Perhaps he’s banged his head and forgotten about his family. You hear stories like that, where amnesia means the person can’t remember the life they had before. I have to remind myself, he did send me that one text.

  But it’s torture not knowing where he is. I have to believe that he’s okay, that someone has taken him in and perhaps even now he’s crashed out on their floor, stirring only to drink another can of lager and shovel cornflakes down his throat. Someone else’s cornflakes.

  I pace the room, moving to the hall. I tear at the peeling wallpaper, even though I’m still in my pyjamas. I pull at the wall, arm over arm, fingernails filling up with bits of paper and old glue. Anyone looking in from outside would think that I’m mad, trashing my own home. Anything to block out the one thought I don’t want to voice in my head.

  That this time, maybe, Joe’s not coming back.

  CHAPTER 16

  DUNCAN – AFTER

  ‘Duncan, is that you?’ It was Martin on the phone.

  ‘Hi, Martin, yes, it’s me. Any news?’

  There was a hesitation.

  ‘Yes and no. The body we found is historic.’

  ‘What? I don’t understand,’ said Duncan. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Forensics reckon it’s at least a hundred and fifty years old.’

  ‘A hundred and fifty …’ Duncan fell silent.

  ‘Duncan, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here. My goodness. How can that be so?’

  ‘Well, we’ve yet to verify exactly under what circumstances. But it looks like there’s more than one.’

  ‘What? Did you say more than one body?’

  ‘That’s right. We believe we’ve found the remains of several skeletons. All of them old. In fact, it looks like we’ve hit upon a possible burial ground.’

  Duncan fell silent again, taking it all in.

  ‘Duncan—’

  ‘But that doesn’t make sense,’ Duncan interrupted. ‘Why would there be a burial ground in that spot? Where there’s no church and it’s more than a mile to the nearest village.’

  Brereton Edge. He was talking about Brereton Edge, the old estate village not far from his property, albeit long since abandoned.

  ‘I know. It is a bit strange. But the proximity of the reservoir is probably no coincidence. I’ve been doing some research and there was a church in the valley before it was flooded to make way for the reservoir. It’s quite possible the graves in the cemetery were exhumed and relocated to dry land. We think that’s what we’ve found.’

  Duncan looked it up later when he got in. He was gazing out over to the big window of the sitting room from his desk on the mezzanine. He could see a woman was talking to one of the officers on the drive outside, too tall, too thin, not his type, at least. But her hands were animated, her face alive with whatever she was saying – not one of the usual police CSI types. Someone from the university?

  His computer beeped with an incoming email and Duncan turned back to the screen. He stared at it blankly, unable to concentrate. It said something about medical supplies for the surgery. He clicked out of his emails and typed smartly into the search box: Belston Reservoir. A mix of images and headings popped up. Duncan chose what looked like the most sensible one:

  Belston Reservoir is the eighth largest reservoir in England with a capacity of 31,869 megalitres. Located five miles south of the market town of Belston, it was formed by flooding the valley between Belston Heights and Brereton Hill. A relatively deep stretch of water and once the site of extensive waterworks, the reservoir is long and narrow, known for its variety of wildlife and …

  It carried on, listing native species and technical statistics. Duncan’s eyes scanned the screen then he reverted to the search page, adding the word ‘church’. Belston Reservoir Church. There it was. A grainy black-and-white photograph of a church steeple half risen from the water. It looked a bit weird like that, as if it had been flooded.

  Several buildings were submerged in the creation of the reservoir, most notably the church of St Bertram’s. It caused a considerable stir when it reappeared in 1918 as the result of an unusually severe drought. The whole project had taken over fifteen years to complete at the turn of the century, and was later redesigned to serve the growing populations of Manchester, Derby and Nottingham. When the drought hit, the church temporarily re-emerged. A host of visitors were attracted to the site, marvelling at the building, which had remained intact all that time under the water.

  There was no mention of a graveyard, but he supposed Martin’s theory made sense. He leaned back in his chair, contemplating the photograph. Then googled a photographic map of the surrounding area. He could see the long kidney shape of the reservoir and the main road at one end that ran between Belston and Derby. He zoomed in, tracking the pattern of fields, including those on the slope down from his house. A smaller road led all around the edge of the water, past his land, past the dam and back around the far side of the reservoir, where eventually it popped out again further along the main road. It was almost a full circle.

  Beyond the dam, another lane turned up into the hills, leading to a cluster of buildings denoting the old estate village of Brereton Edge and the Hall. A few minor tracks disappeared in odd directions, but all of them were dead ends. The valley was to all intents and purposes cut off, owned entirely by the estate, the family who had once lived in the Hall. Except for the reservoir itself and the few fields attached to the Barn. The land attached to the Barn, Duncan knew, had been an historical anomaly. A son-in-law had been allocated a smallholding in the nineteenth century, apparently to keep a favourite daughter close to her family. Around the edges of the reservoir, several streams leached out across the valley, shining like blue capillaries under a green, earthly skin.

  Duncan let his fingers hover on the mouse, then zoomed again, clicking between the map and aerial photography, scanning the woods and paths and the open fields at the bottom of his land. Then his fingers snapped on the mouse and the screen went blank.

  He pushed his chair away from the desk and spun round to face the window. He stared sightlessly at the view of the fields and the silver-blue expanse of water in the distance.

  CHAPTER 17

  CLAIRE – BEFORE

  Things got slightly better with Joe as a small child, once he could walk and explore. Before he went to school. After being a screaming, restless baby, he was a quiet toddler, utterly absorbed in whatever caught his attention. He’d play at my feet for hours without much fuss, as long as he could see me. He’d kick off if he couldn’t see me. At the preschool where I helped out, he occupied himself well, finding a corner with bricks or digging in the soil in the garden – never the sandpit, that would have been too sociable. Bit of a loner, they said, that’s all. I didn’t let on he couldn’t bear to lose me from his sight.

  Starting proper school, however, was tough. That first day, he stood beside me at the school gate. He was reluctant to walk away but unwilling to speak
or even look at me. We stood there, the pair of us, on the edge of the playground watching everyone else. Him, the other kids, me, the other new mothers, both of us assessing the staff. His hand stayed in mine, his tiny fingers warm in my palm, until eventually a teacher tugged him free.

  ‘Come on, Joe, it’s time to be a big boy, like the others,’ she’d said.

  With his face screwed up tight, he’d screamed.

  He screamed and screamed that first week, and the next, and the next one after that. Eventually, he calmed down. A bit intense, they said. Very focused on his tasks. That was a good thing, wasn’t it? But it was only in play, the stuff he chose to do. He wasn’t so focused on his learning. And he wasn’t much cop with the teachers who didn’t like questions – backchat, they called it. You’d think they’d appreciate his questions. At least he was trying.

  By the time he got to secondary school, it was another story. He hated all the rules, the vast size of the place and all those different people. They had expectations of him. He was truanting every week. I’d drop him off at one gate and he’d go in only to scoot round the other side and out from another. I spent half my time searching the streets for him then bringing him back to school. It ruined any chance of me going to work.

  As he grew up, I was told he was bright but antisocial, physically a young man but immature. ‘Unable to focus.’ That phrase kept coming back at me. That’s a laugh! I never knew a boy who could focus half as much as Joe. It just had to be something on his terms. When he found a project he really liked, he was obsessed. Like the metal detecting.

  Since he’s officially left school, he’s been out there metal detecting almost every night. He started work somewhere in the bottom field near the scrubland by the water. He’s said there are bumps in the ground that aren’t normal and he’s absolutely convinced there’s something there. When he gets his teeth into something, that’s it, he’s off. That’s my Joe.