The Night Book

by Richard Madeley

  She smiled at him. ‘Gosh, I feel better already.’

  Seb returned her smile. ‘I must say, you look it. You have done since I got back from Keswick just now. Well . . . I suppose I won’t see you until much later tonight, then. I’m rostered on the late production shift preparing tomorrow’s breakfast show. I’ll likely be heading in to the studios around the same time as you’re coming back.’

  ‘Probably. Anyway, I’ll have some supper ready for when you get home.’

  ‘And I’ll clear this lot away.’ He suddenly burst out laughing. ‘Christ, just look at the two of us, Meriel. We’ve turned into bloody Darby and Joan already, haven’t we?’

  She’d been gone for less than an hour when the lights fused. Seb had just finished uncertainly loading the dishwasher – it was the first dishwasher he’d ever seen – but when he switched it on there was a bang and a blue flash from somewhere and the concealed lighting above the kitchen units simultaneously went out.

  He jiggled a couple of wall switches. Nothing. It was the same out in the hall. Power to the entire house seemed to be out.

  Seb chewed his bottom lip. God knows where the fuse box was. He’d have to find it and change whichever fuse had shorted before Meriel got back. He couldn’t leave her to sit all alone in the dark. Of course it was possible that she knew how to fix it but he couldn’t count on that.

  Fifteen minutes later he was no closer to finding the box. He’d looked in all the likely places on the ground floor – kitchen, cloakroom, downstairs toilet, utility room. That meant the damn thing had to be in the cellar, and that meant finding a torch.

  Eventually he discovered one under Meriel’s side of the bed and made his way back downstairs to a latched door set at a right-angle to the back kitchen door. He suspected it would open onto the cellar steps.

  He pushed the door back on its hinges and peered in. Yup; it was the cellar, all right. Things looked in pretty good order, though; the wooden stairs were free of dust and the stairwell itself had been neatly whitewashed.

  Seb kept a firm grip on the narrow handrail as he went carefully down the steps, holding the torch out in front of him. When he got to the bottom he swept the arc of light slowly from left to right. He could see cardboard boxes stacked on top of each other, a couple of old bicycles with completely flat tyres and, incongruously, what looked like most of a car’s engine, mounted on thick wooden blocks.

  It took him a minute or two to find the fuse box but yes, there it was, a big square wooden cupboard bolted to the back wall of the cellar. He could see thick electrical cables running down into it from the ceiling above.

  A shorter man would have needed a stepladder to comfortably open the box but Seb was easily tall enough to do it. Once he’d pulled the little hinged door open he reached inside and began patiently removing the old-fashioned Bakelite fuses one by one from their slots, carefully examining the exposed wire on their undersides.

  At the fifth attempt he found the culprit; the little strand of metal inside had completely melted away.

  Assorted flat cardboard packets of fuse wire were stacked on a wide shelf above the box, along with pliers and a screwdriver. There was even a little torch, which worked. All very organised.

  He found the correct gauge and quickly replaced the fuse, sliding it back into its holder when he’d finished. Immediately, electric light filtered down from the utility room above and he heard the faint noise of the fridge suddenly start to hum. Good.

  It was as he was returning the tools and packets of wire to their shelf that he felt it. Something right at the back, pushed hard up against the wall. His fingers explored for a moment, and then he firmly gripped whatever it was and pulled it out.

  A thin cardboard tube, like the ones left behind when rolls of kitchen paper had been used up. Except this one felt oddly heavy.

  There must be something inside.

  Seb turned the tube around so one open end was pointing towards him, and shone his torch directly into it.

  It was full of paper. Tightly furled sheets of paper.

  He grunted. Probably a wiring diagram of the house – that would certainly fit with everything else he’d found down here in this boy scout cellar: be prepared, and all that. He might as well take a look to familiarise himself in case the electrics blew again.

  He stuck his middle finger inside the tube and worked it back and forth until the roll of papers gradually began to emerge. He pinched its leading edge between forefinger and thumb and carefully drew the whole thing out.

  It wasn’t an electrical circuit plan; he could see that straight away. The outside page seemed to be covered in lines of handwriting, as were presumably all the sheets furled inside it. Was it a letter? Some sort of essay? Whatever it was, what was it doing hidden down here in the dark?

  With growing curiosity, Seb decided to take the documents upstairs where he could examine them in daylight. Who knew; maybe he’d stumbled across some kind of story.

  He snapped the fuse box closed, and turned back towards the cellar stairs.

  The Night Book.

  It was definitely her handwriting, there on the first page. Meriel wrote in what used to be known as copperplate, a style based on elegant engravings. She always used a fountain pen when she made her diary entries and the overall effect was old-fashioned and formal.

  Seb had unrolled the papers and placed four heavy mugs on each corner to stop them curling back in on themselves. He was intrigued. It looked to him as if Meriel had been secretly writing a novel, and had made photocopies for security. But why hide them away down in the cellar? A bit extreme, wasn’t it?

  He felt slightly guilty that he was about to read what she’d written. She obviously didn’t want anyone else to see these pages. But he was deeply curious. The Night Book. What could it be about?

  He carefully removed the first few folios from the pile and took them into the garden where Meriel and he had breakfasted together. He sat down in one of the wicker chairs and began to read. Seb noticed at once that although the pages were undated, they seemed to be copies of some sort of diary.

  Three minutes later he placed the sheets of paper very gently on the table in front of him and stared, unseeing, across the shining lake.

  His voice, when it eventually came, was fluted and strange.

  ‘Sweet Jesus.’

  And then . . .

  ‘Oh, holy fuck.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  This is going to be tricky. It’s important that I use the minimum force required. Too much and I kill him before I’m ready. Or I put him into a coma, which amounts to the same thing. He must be fully conscious throughout it all.

  The coal hammer probably weighs at least six pounds. I suppose the thick, flat head is made of solid iron judging by its rusted, pitted surface. I doubt I’ll need to use much muscle-power when I bring it down on his skull; the latent weight, combined with gravity, should be enough.

  Cameron is sitting in his favourite armchair in front of the television, watching an unspeakably boring business programme he’s meant to be appearing on. He won’t take his eyes from the screen in case he misses the chance to watch his own precious self, pontificating about some controversial investment scheme or other.

  I decide to wait until his moment arrives. How delicious to commemorate Cameron’s self-worship by, quite literally, giving him a swollen head. I almost giggle at the thought. Shhh, Meriel. You don’t want him turning around. Not now. Not now you are barely three feet behind him, gripping the hammer in both hands and awaiting your moment.

  It arrives. There he is on the screen, smirking in self-satisfaction as he tells the world what a genius he is, how he always knew that this particular speculative wheeler-dealer project was a scam. I hear him chuckling to himself as he watches. What’s that expression about he who laughs last? This is certainly the last time Cameron Bruton will be making happy noises. Although he most certainly will be making noises, I can guarantee that.

  I raise
the hammer high above us both, and then swing it down in a steep arc, allowing gravity to do most of the work for me.

  There is a loud crunch – not a sickening one, but a deeply satisfying one – and his shoulders rise high on both sides of his head, just like poor President Kennedy when he was shot. Then my dear husband topples sideways over the arm of the chair. He is still breathing and after a few moments begins to mutter something. Good. I managed not to hit him too hard.

  But I have no idea how long he will be unconscious for. I must move quickly. I open the top drawer of the Welsh dresser behind me and pull out the long yellow nylon ropes I bought from the mountaineering shop last week. They’re thin but strong.

  Three minutes later he is neatly trussed to the chair. His wrists are tightly bound to its arms, and his ankles to the bases of both front legs. I don’t care if the bonds are too tight; in due course it won’t matter a jot if his circulation is cut off. Cameron won’t be needing his hands or feet again. Ever.

  He shows no signs of coming round so I go into the kitchen and fetch some bleach. I stand behind him holding the uncapped plastic bottle just under his nose, and squeeze slightly, so that the caustic fumes are forced into his airway.

  Cameron responds at once, twisting his head away and moaning. A few moments later he opens his eyes and looks around him. He coughs and immediately groans with the pain that this must have caused him, and then he licks his lips.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on? Meriel? Where are you?’

  I’ve done it. I hit him just hard enough. I don’t care if he’s slowly haemorrhaging under his stupid skull; he only needs to be alive and sentient for a few minutes while I get to work on him.

  ‘Meriel? MERIEL? Jesus, what is this? What are you doing? Where are you? MERIEL!!!’

  I step around him and into his field of vision. From the front, he looks pretty bad. Blood is still streaming down his temple and across one cheek, dripping in a sticky pool in his lap. But although down, my darling husband isn’t out. At least he thinks he isn’t.

  ‘Untie me, you bitch! Now! Or I’m calling the police. What the fuck d’you think you’re playing at? You’re in big trouble, Meriel, so the quicker you untie me, the better things will be for you. Do it now!’

  They say actions speak louder than words so I don’t utter a sound. I just go back to the dresser and open one of the smaller drawers near the top. Cameron follows me with his eyes.

  I pull out the little kitchen blowtorch. I last used it to caramelise the tops of some crème brûlées I’d made.

  I twist the control ring around to full and press the ignition button. A fierce jet of blue flame immediately erupts from the nozzle.

  I turn back to Cameron, and slowly advance. Only now do I speak to him.

  ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, Cameron, but I’m going to have to rip that nice shirt off you. I can’t be bothered fiddling around with the buttons.

  ‘You see, I’m going to start with your nipples.’

  Seb couldn’t read any more. Not for the moment. He stood up, swaying slightly, and walked unsteadily back into the house. He needed water, he needed the lavatory – urgently – and he needed time to think.

  But five minutes later he was back outside. He was horribly drawn to the breakfast table with its innocent-looking pile of paper, still weighed down on each corner by the jolly tea mugs.

  Meriel had written this. His Meriel. And what he had just read was only a tiny fraction of the whole. What other nightmarish, quasi-pornographic fantasies were scrawled across all the other repulsive pages?

  Breathing deeply, he picked up the dozen or so photocopies from the table. Thus far he had looked at about half of them.

  He realised he simply couldn’t bring himself to read the rest. With deep reluctance, Seb slid the very last page from the bottom of the pile, and sank back in the chair with it.

  . . . is now completely incoherent. The pleading and begging have stopped and he’s now making strange, animal sounds. I don’t know how long it will take to sever his penis with the jet of flame but I hope there is enough gas left in the blowtorch. Before he dies, I really want to—

  Good Christ. Enough. Enough. Seb groaned aloud and threw the page onto the table in front of him.

  What did this mean? What did it say about the woman he loved; her marriage; her mental state . . . and what had happened that day out on the boat?

  More to the point, what the hell was he going to do now?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Seb sat there for a long time, staring out at the lake. He felt paralysed, mentally and physically. Once or twice he tried to stand up but the effort was simply too much for him.

  He almost felt bereaved, as if he’d just received the stunning, crushing news of Meriel’s death.

  Meriel, capable of writing the sickest material he’d ever seen. He simply couldn’t take it in. Was she mentally ill, he wondered, did she suffer from some form of schizophrenia? If so, it was deeply buried. Seb trusted his instincts with people and he’d never sensed the presence of such darkness in Meriel. He loved her, for God’s sake – or he had done. Now he didn’t know what he felt, other than this horrible tight band of pain around his chest.

  It was no good. His thoughts were ricocheting around inside his head like a savagely struck billiard ball. He had to focus, work out what to do for the best.

  It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps he should try and treat it like a breaking news story. Distil everything down to the essentials; make a conscious attempt to distance himself from this nightmare. Maybe then he could see his way forward.

  At last he managed to stand, and walked slowly to his car where it was parked at the front of Cathedral Crag. He fetched his reporter’s notebook from the glove box, pulled a cheap ballpoint out of the ring-binder at the top, and went back to the breakfast table. He drew a deep breath. He had to force himself to be logical, methodical, inquiring. It was a story, remember?

  ‘Except I’m a part of it,’ he muttered. Suddenly, without warning, a sob shuddered through his body and he dropped his head into his hands, tears spilling from his eyes.

  He’d never felt so disoriented, never felt such heartache.

  Eventually Seb brought himself under control. He took his notebook from the table and flipped open the pad’s shiny cover. The first thing to greet his gaze were his scrawled notes from two days earlier: Cameron Bruton’s inquest. He flicked through them impatiently until he found a clean page. After a moment’s thought, he quickly scribbled down a series of questions.

  Why make photocopies?

  Why hide them?

  Why hide them in the fuse box?

  Where is original manuscript now?

  Does M have specific fantasy about C drowning? (Must read ALL pages to check for this)

  M almost certainly lying re C’s watch for some reason. Why? Is there link to ‘night book’ maybe?

  He closed the pad.

  This was no news story. This was his life, his love, his heart, his flesh and bones intertwined with another’s. His Meriel. Their story.

  He closed his eyes.

  And it had just turned into a nightmare.

  ‘Bob Merryman.’

  Seb paused. He didn’t have to do this. He could just hang up. Now.

  When he spoke, he was surprised by how normal his voice sounded.

  ‘Hi Bob,’ he said, ‘it’s me, Seb. Sorry to bother you in the middle of a sunny Sunday afternoon.’

  The news editor groaned.

  ‘You’re not bothering me, you’re rescuing me. We’re having a barbecue. My sister and her husband, David bloody perfect, have been banging on and on about Maggie Thatcher since I put the fucking sausages on. She loves her, he hates her. He says if she’s the next prime minister he’s emigrating. I’ll tell you what, that guarantees Maggie my vote and I’ve been Labour all my life. David is such a prick. Anyway, what can I do you for, Sebbie old chap?’

  Seb smiled faintly. Merryman always grounded him.


  ‘Just a sniff of your contacts book, Bob. D’you happen to have the address – that is, the private address – of the county coroner?’

  ‘Timmy Young? Sure. He lives up at Bassenthwaite, doesn’t he? Hang on.’

  Seb heard his boss’s phone banging against the wall as Merryman went in search of his contacts book, an ancient Moleskine, battered and torn and much-repaired with Sellotape, and stuffed full of twenty years’ worth of phone numbers and addresses.

  A minute later he was back.

  ‘Yeah, here we are. I thought so. Dr Timothy Young: The Grove, Mirehouse-under-Bassenthwaite. Nice place. It’s about halfway down the A591, up into the fells below Skiddaw. You’ll want the phone number too?’

  ‘Please.’

  When Merryman had dictated it, slowly repeating himself to be certain, he chuckled.

  ‘All right. Come on then, Seb. Why couldn’t this wait until tomorrow? What’s going on?’

  His reporter was prepared for this.

  ‘It’s nothing really, Bob. It’s just that I’ve been reading through the Sundays and I started to wonder if there might be a feature in the coroner’s angle: what it’s like to preside over all these drowning inquests, especially a high-profile one like Cameron Bruton’s. I’ve got nothing better to do this afternoon so I thought I’d—’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Bollocks. You’re up to something.’

  ‘Bob, I’m only—’

  ‘By all means talk to the coroner, Seb. About whatever this is really about.

  ‘And then, dear boy, you can talk to me.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Meriel,

  I won’t be back here tonight – turns out the breakfast show producer has flu so I’ve got to do the early shift as well as the late one. I’ll probably only get three or four hours’ sleep so I’ll crash out at my flat in Carlisle. See you tomorrow. Love, S. xx

  He stared at the note he’d just written. He did love her, still, didn’t he? He hated lying to her like this.