The Evil Within

by S M Hardy

  I was so wound up I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep and, as the only drink I had left in the cottage was coffee or alcohol, I made do with a glass of water instead of being complicit to my own sleep deprivation. As it happened this is a waste of time: I’m never going to drift off was my last thought as I fidgeted myself down under my duvet and instantly fell asleep.

  It was coming up to noon when I eventually woke from a surprisingly dreamless slumber and the stain I’d thought had been indelibly marked on my psyche from my frenzied journey through ‘the man’s’ gallery of insanity had faded to a mere smudge.

  The notepad was downstairs on the kitchen table where I’d left it when Jed and I had stumbled in earlier that morning. I knew I should read through its pages and try and glean as much as I could from my scrawled notes, but having slept so well and the images of the night before having almost faded away, I didn’t want to deliberately put myself back inside ‘the man’s’ head. I didn’t want his wet dreams to become my nightmares.

  I ate my lunch staring out through the kitchen window at the beautiful day outside, pointedly ignoring the notebook, although it was as if I could hear it calling to me. It started as a whisper and with each passing minute its grumbling grew and grew until, by the time I’d washed my plate and left it to drain in the dish rack, it was practically screaming I let you have your restful night, now READ ME!

  I still chose to ignore it. I mean, what was I thinking? It was a notebook, for Christ’s sake. I stalked out of the kitchen into the hall, grabbed my keys off the table and, not bothering with a jacket, went outside, slamming the front door behind me.

  I would go for a drive to clear my head. Great idea. I set off with no thought as to where I was going, I didn’t really care. At this point anywhere but the cottage was a good place to be.

  I drove around aimlessly, first heading inland into the countryside, along winding lanes bordered by green rolling fields inhabited by white fluffy sheep and some that were a curious rusty red. At first, I thought their fleeces had been stained by the red clay soil, but when I saw others of a similar colour with the same puffball coats in other fields, I realised they must be of a specific breed.

  After about an hour I found myself driving back towards the coast and along a road from which I could get an occasional glimpse of the sea as it dipped and climbed and curled its way back towards Slyford.

  My good spirits had returned, and I resolved to put the notebook away in a drawer somewhere – out of sight and out of mind. Writing it all down had unwittingly helped to cleanse my soul. I remembered enough of the relevant stuff for it to be helpful − I didn’t need reminders of ‘the man’s’ atrocities. They were helpful to no one, least alone me.

  An image flicked into my head. A baby … I slammed my foot on the brake. I sat there for a moment sucking in air. I glanced in the rear-view mirror and thanked God the road behind me was clear. I switched on the radio, turned it up loud and, as soon as my shattered nerves would let me, continued driving.

  I sang along with the radio. I supposed it was my version of sticking my fingers in my ears and whistling so I didn’t have to hear, or in my case see, what I didn’t want to. It appeared to work.

  It wasn’t long before I was driving along a road I thought I recognised. I was definitely on my way back to Slyford. I reached a crossroads – yes, I did remember this – and drove straight across. The road narrowed and high green hedgerows rose up flanking me on either side, then a turning and a sign for Goldsmere House.

  I found myself swinging the car into the lane and I had no idea why. Shit! From memory there was nowhere to turn around until I reached the care home and the end of the lane. There were a couple of passing points, but even then the lane was far too narrow to manage a five-point let alone a three-point turn.

  When I reached the turning circle I swung the car around, my intention being to keep on driving, but as I drew parallel with the heavy, ornate steel gates my right foot hit the brake and I jerked to a stop.

  ‘What the—?’

  I put the car into neutral and sat there staring at the steering wheel for a few seconds. What the hell was wrong with me? A strange mechanical noise and the sound of tyres on gravel made me glance to the left across the passenger seat. The gate was opening as a car approached from along the drive.

  ‘Hell,’ I muttered and edged the car around so I was out of the way of the oncoming vehicle. It made sense to let it go first. I had nowhere else to be and hadn’t the faintest idea where I was going anyway.

  I glanced out the window expecting a gesture of thanks from the driver for moving out of their way as the car drifted by almost as though it was in slow motion, although from the sound of the engine I was sure it had in fact sped up.

  There was no gesture. I suspected from her grim expression she was so wrapped up in her own little world that she hadn’t noticed me. It was probably as well. I suspected Goldsmere House was the last place Darcy Garvin would have wanted to be seen, but it did beg the question – who on earth was she visiting?

  I turned the radio down a tad for the rest of the journey, my mind occupied by the Garvin sisters and why one of them would be spending a late September afternoon at what the old guy – Cedric – had called a ‘loony bin’. Not politically correct, but, judging by the security, it did make me wonder.

  I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was after three, but I was pretty sure the Sly served food all day and I was getting hungry. A little voice in my head whispered that it was more likely gossip I was hungry for and it was probably right, though, from what Jed and Emma had said about the Garvin sisters, I doubted George knew very much about them as they had probably never set foot in his establishment.

  I dropped the car off at the cottage, knowing I would have at least one pint and a drink-driving conviction was definitely one problem I could well do without. Not that I’d ever seen a policeman of any description patrolling or even driving through our little village.

  If I’d hoped to have gleaned any information from any of the Sly’s patrons I was out of luck. It was empty apart from Old Ginge curled up on a stool and George sitting behind the bar and reading the newspaper. He looked up as I walked in and was pouring me a pint before I reached him.

  ‘Any chance of something to eat?’

  ‘Anything you want except for the mussels and dressed crab.’

  I took a quick look at one of the menus lying on the bar. ‘Cod and chips would be good.’

  ‘You won’t be disappointed,’ he said with a grin. ‘Do you want peas or salad with that?’ He leant across the bar and whispered, ‘My girl makes a mean honey and mustard salad dressing.’

  I took the hint. ‘Salad, thanks.’

  ‘Good choice,’ he said over his shoulder as he went out back.

  I made myself comfortable on the bar stool next to the cat and took a mouthful of beer. It looked as though George was doing the crossword – badly. Several answers had been crossed out or inked over and there was a whole list of words in the margin that had been slashed through. I never understood the appeal; I was more of a Sudoku man.

  ‘So, what have you been doing with yourself?’ George asked, taking his place back at the bar.

  ‘Not much. Slept late, went for a drive, came here.’

  ‘Late night?’

  ‘Early morning,’ I told him.

  ‘Not drinking with Jed?’

  I nodded. ‘And Emma.’

  ‘Nice lady.’

  ‘Yeah, she is.’

  ‘I’m surprised she’s never remarried, but then from what I hear, Reggie Mortimer was a hard act to follow.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Hmm, he’d been gone about five years before I came to Slyford, but to this day everyone speaks highly of him.’

  ‘You said he and Jed were military intelligence.’

  George shrugged. ‘That’s what the rumourmongers say.’ He paused for a moment, then moved a little closer to me. ‘I don’t know about
Reggie, but here’s the thing − I wouldn’t at all be surprised if it was true of Jed. He’s very tight-lipped about what he got up to while he was in the army.’

  ‘A lot of soldiers who’ve seen action are,’ I said. ‘My grandfather, for one. It wasn’t until he was dying that he ever spoke about what had happened to him during the war.’

  George thought about it and nodded. ‘Yeah, I guess you’re right. The real war heroes never do.’ He picked up his pen with a sigh.

  I took another mouthful of beer and nodded towards the newspaper. ‘Stuck?’

  He grimaced. ‘I don’t know why I bother.’ He picked up his pen and poked it at a clue. ‘Do you know what this even means? Leave after faulty rivet becomes source of imbalance?’

  To me it sounded like utter nonsense.

  ‘Vertigo,’ Lucy said, squeezing past him to put my meal on the bar.

  ‘Really?’ He frowned down at the paper.

  ‘Dad, you’re reading the cryptic clues. You know you can never work them out. It’s these ones you want,’ she told him, pointing at a column on the other side of the crossword grid.

  He scowled at the paper and then flapped it shut, folded it and shoved it along the bar away from him. ‘Bloody thing.’

  ‘Hi, Jim,’ Lucy said to me as she put napkin-wrapped cutlery next to my plate. ‘Can I get you anything to go with that? Tartar sauce, vinegar, mayo?’

  ‘Mayo, please.’

  ‘A man after my own heart,’ she said and disappeared around the back to return a few moments later with a small earthenware pot piled high with the white, creamy condiment. ‘Enjoy.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m sure I will.’ And I did. George was right about the salad dressing. It made what I would usually consider rabbit food actually surprisingly edible. Not as good as the batter-basted chips, but good nevertheless. At this rate I was going to have to start doing a whole lot more walking as, between Emma’s cooking and the pub, I was going to start piling on the pounds.

  ‘Another pint?’ George asked.

  ‘Better not,’ I said, albeit reluctantly; this was another bad habit I shouldn’t be getting into. Better than drinking alone, my inner voice told me, but I ignored it. It was probably better that I didn’t drink at all.

  I heard a phone ring from out back, muttered conversation and Lucy popped her head through the door. ‘It’s the brewery.’

  George gave a grunt. ‘Look after Jim, will yer,’ he said and lumbered off, leaving his daughter smiling after him.

  ‘He’s not always such an old grump,’ she said.

  ‘He’s always been friendly enough to me.’

  ‘So he should. Mind you, as this is the only pub in the village, he can get away with being an old curmudgeon.’

  ‘Does it ever get busy?’

  ‘Weekends mostly, but we do all right. There’s usually at least one customer in at any one time throughout the day and there’s the regular evening crowd.’

  ‘You know Jed?’

  She laughed. ‘Everyone knows Jed. Dad said he’d taken you under his wing.’

  ‘He looks after the cottage where I’m staying.’

  Her smile slipped a bit. ‘The Morgans’ old place.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It was a real shame about them. Nice people.’

  ‘I heard.’

  She gave a little shiver. ‘I still can’t believe it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Their little girl. She was such a sweetheart.’

  ‘You knew them?’

  ‘A bit. I used to see them around, you know.’

  ‘How about the Garvin sisters?’

  She wrinkled her nose.

  ‘You don’t like them?’

  ‘There’s something off about them,’ she said, then blinked as though she was surprised she’d said it out loud.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t really know. It’s just – Darcy’s a bit prim, but she’s all right. What you see is what you get, but Miriam’ − she gave a little shiver − ‘there’s something about her that makes me feel downright uncomfortable. Like all her motherly bluster is a veneer and beneath it is something really …’ She gave a small laugh. ‘Sorry, I’m talking utter rubbish. Forget I ever said anything,’ and went to move away.

  ‘No, don’t go,’ I said.

  She hesitated, then gave me a smile that made my heart give a little flip. ‘All right – just a minute until Dad finishes on the phone. I can’t have you getting lonely out here all on your own.’

  ‘No,’ I agreed, ‘that would never do.’

  She sat on her father’s stool. ‘So, Jim Hawkes, how long do you intend to stay in Slyford?’

  ‘Not sure. I’ve rented the cottage until mid October, but they said I could stay for longer if I wanted. The Morgans apparently would prefer longer-term lets.’

  ‘I guess they’re hoping someone will fall in love with the place and make them an offer.’

  ‘Jed said as much. He doubted they’d ever come back.’

  ‘Would you want to if you were them?’

  ‘No. Too many memories that’s why …’ and realising what I was about to say I stopped.

  ‘That’s why …?’

  Then I thought, what did it matter? She’d no doubt find out eventually anyway, either from me or from someone else once I’d gone. ‘I lost someone about two years ago and it’s the memories that make it so hard. That’s why I had to get away. It was getting to me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘How terrible for you.’

  I forced myself to smile. ‘How about you? Do you work here full-time?’

  ‘Hell, no! Dad, Mum and me together twenty-four seven would be a right recipe for disaster. We’d end up killing each other,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I’m just here for a break.’

  ‘You don’t live in Slyford?’

  ‘Not at the moment,’ she said as George appeared beside her. ‘But never say never,’ and she gave me a wink before disappearing through the door out back.

  I paid George and left the pub in a bit of a stupor. What had the wink meant? Did she like me? I thought maybe she did and I’m pretty sure if I could have seen my own face it would have a stupid smile plastered right across it. Then the image of Kat, dripping wet and sitting at the kitchen table, flashed into my head and I immediately felt guilty.

  It’s been two years, Jim – you have to move on.

  Can I, Kat? Can I really?

  You have to.

  Yeah, I guess I did. That had been my whole problem and why I’d chucked in my job and left the city.

  When I reached the rectory, I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead. I couldn’t be doing with any more of that weirdness, though at some time, as much as I didn’t want to, I’d have to come back to return the registry that I’d left at Emma’s. At the end of the lane leading to the cottage I slowed down. The churchyard and rectory were no stranger than the very place I lived.

  As I approached the front gate I glanced at my car, and it was oh so tempting to just get into it and drive away. But I couldn’t. I’d let Kat down and I wasn’t going to do the same to Krystal. Maybe that was why I was here. Maybe this was my chance for absolution.

  Absolution? I paused as I put the key in the lock. That was a peculiar word to describe it. Next I’d be thinking along the lines that what was happening to me now was my penance. The idea made me shiver and not for the first time I wondered what the hell was going on inside my head.

  I threw my keys on the hall table and went straight up the stairs to the bathroom. As I washed my hands, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and it was like looking at a me from some alternative universe. It was me, I knew it was, but I looked so … different.

  My hair needed cutting. It was well down over my collar and had become shaggy and wild. Despite my thinking I’d be soon in need of going on a diet, my face appeared less soft and rounded and I had a tan. If I’d been wearing a thick woolly jumper, I could have mistaken myself for a
local fisherman.

  I stared at my reflection for a few seconds and actually, even though it wasn’t my usual clean-cut, city-slicker look, I liked what I saw. And it crossed my mind that Kat would have probably liked the new me too.

  I went into the bedroom, sitting down on the bed to take off my shoes and socks and slip on my deck shoes. Maybe not so much a fisherman as a beach bum. The idea wasn’t so bad and made me chuckle, my spirits lifting.

  I bounced down the stairs to the kitchen. I’d make myself a coffee and go and sit outside in the garden to make the most of the sunshine while we still had some. We were almost into October, before long it would be winter and, as I walked into the kitchen, I wondered whether, when it did come, I would still be here in Slyford.

  Nah, why would I be? I’d be back in the city. I’d be … I reached for the kettle and froze. No, no, no, no, no, no, no! This couldn’t be happening. I was tempted to close my eyes and feel my way out of the kitchen like I’d been struck blind, but I knew I wouldn’t, couldn’t. I slowly turned around.

  The carnation was still in the glass on the table, but it was sitting on the right-hand page of the open notebook. The notebook I had abandoned on the table last night and not opened since.

  It had called to you and you ignored it – ignoring it now?

  I guessed not. Though I wanted to.

  I put the kettle on and set about making a coffee, delaying the inevitable, I suppose. I opened the back door and put my coffee mug outside on the doorstep, and then with a heavy heart went back to the kitchen table to collect the book. If I was to read it, I was going to do it outside in the sunshine, maybe then it wouldn’t seem so bad, maybe then I wouldn’t feel so cold.

  It was open at the last page of my notes. I took the glass containing the carnation off the page and sat it down back in the middle of the table. A pen was lying in the spine of the notebook. Not Emma’s pen, I’d left it behind at her place, the pen I used for making a list of things I needed to buy. It had black ink; Emma’s had been blue. The last words I’d written were: Someone pushed ‘the man’ off the cliff. Someone had tried to kill the killer. The word ‘someone’ had been underlined each time it had been used in black ink. Not just once but with several angry slashes so hard it had scored through the paper.