Random Acts of Unkindness

by Jacqueline Ward

  There was nodding and it seemed most people had, at some time. Jenny Coombes, whose fifteen-year-old son had gone missing four years ago, spoke up.

  ‘I have. I went to see a reader and she read my cards, then did a session. She told me he was buried in Gloucestershire.’

  I gulped.

  ‘Really? Did you believe her?’

  ‘Well, it’s a possibility. But I don’t know. It was all a bit weird, but she did seem to know a lot about me and my family.’

  I thought for a bit, then the conversation moved on to decomposed bodies. We’d booked a speaker who would tell us at what stages in time bodies decompose. Many of the people in the group felt that they needed to know this so that they would know, if their loved one was dead, what state their bodies would be in at any given time.

  I wasn’t really interested in that, and decided to use that time to go and see a psychic instead. At the end of the session, Billy Moore, whose sixteen-year-old son had been missing for twelve years now (Billy always wore a T-shirt with his sixteen-year-old face peering out) handed me a business card. It was neat, white and gold, and tasteful, which reassured me. I didn’t want any funny business.

  ‘Psychic and Clairvoyant. Let me help you. Sarah Edwards, MSc.’

  The card looked authentic and when I looked at the address, on the A635, I realised that I’d driven past her home many times.

  ‘Have you been, Billy?’

  He nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘Yeah. She was very good. Told me a lot about what I was going through and about where to look and that. Very good. I went to see her twice. She charges fifty quid an hour, and you book half a day. Might be even better for you because of where she is, you know, with her being up there and all that.’

  I went home clutching the card, driving with it on the dashboard, I kept looking at it. This could be where I found my answers. I rang her as soon as I got home and booked a half-day session with her for a week on Tuesday.

  As usual, life stood still apart from routine, a strange calmness that gathered around major events, and on that Tuesday morning I actually felt a little excitement. I gathered up all the reports I had, just in case she wanted to see the background, although if she was psychic, wouldn’t she know?

  I had no idea how it worked, except that she would be a go-between for me and people who were dead. I smiled a little and wondered what would happen if I got Colin? He’d be pleased, and I’d be able to tell him me and Lizzie had made friends. He’d like that. Not my mam and dad. Didn’t want them. Or Colin’s mother. Or her. Not her. I’d have to tell the psychic that.

  I drove up there and parked up on some spare ground opposite. It was the other side of the moor to where I was used to, and it looked different from here, a sea of purple heather sloping down, then upward.

  Now and again, I’d realise how desperate I was, and this was one of those times. I went through all the things I’d done, all the places I had been over the years to try to find Thomas, but this beat the lot. Everything else had been in the real, solid world, even the pining and the walking over the moor. I’d been to those places because I was not sure and

  I wanted answers, I wasn’t sure if he was dead or alive and I was waiting for some confirmation.

  Even on the moor, I sat and waited for an assurance, a feeling that he was there, something that had not arrived so far. Now, this seems like I’m admitting he’s dead. How would this psychic woman get in touch with him otherwise? I was a bit shocked at this at first, and I stood and checked myself in case I definitely had come to this conclusion, without realising. I hadn’t.

  There was no surety, no definite decision. I was still as numb and cold as I had been for the past however many years it had been. My shell was intact, and nothing had punctured it, giving me a little piece of mind.

  I stood at the wall for ages, leaning against the brambles and wondering how they could have done it. The house across the way was empty and I thought about buying it, just to be near. It was too big for me; I’d be rattling in it. Eventually I went over and knocked on the door. I’d been expecting something out of Arabian Nights, and her to be a bit exotic, but she wasn’t. And you know, she was quite plain, but pleasant.

  She asked me in and the house was done out in reds and creams and it was very nice. Her carpet was like a doormat all the way though, sort of woven and rough.

  I looked around to see if there was any evidence of a family, but there wasn’t one photograph. She had a lot of plants inside and out, and there seemed to be a lot of bees.

  Little birds chirped away and hovered near the open windows and I felt a little bit more at home when I saw them. There was a huge red sofa in the lounge and she waved for me to sit on it. It looked like she was very successful at what she did, and it made me feel a bit more confident about what I was doing.

  We sat down and she took my hand straight away.

  ‘Right, Bessy, you don’t mind if I call you Bessy? You know how I asked you to bring something of Thomas’s?’

  I handed her his Manchester United pendant, the one handed to him by one of the players in 1960. His prized possession.

  ‘That was his. From his room. I’ve kept it all the same.’

  She was looking at me and nodding. She actually looked interested, not like the people who I usually talked to, waiting to get to another client or just not interested because it isn’t them. A sense of relief came over me, something I hadn’t felt for a while. I wouldn’t have to watch what I said to her, she understood.

  ‘Really? Tell me a little bit more about Thomas and what happened to him?’

  I told her what I’d told you here and she never took her eyes off me. She’d squeeze my hand at the hard parts, and she nodded sadly when I told her Colin was dead. I didn’t tell her about the babies. I’m not sure why, except I thought she might call the police. Her expression changed only once, when I told her that I didn’t want any contact from her.

  After an hour of talking, she led me to a large oak table in the dining room. I went to the loo, and when I came down she’d made tea and there was a cloth over the table, dark blue.

  She shuffled some cards and did a tarot reading, which I didn’t understand. She was hell bent on telling me what would happen in my future and it struck me than that if she were genuine, she would know the plans that were beginning to crystallise in my mind.

  I let her carry on until she had told me about my house and my friends and my car, then she stopped. Her face went funny and she put her hands face down on the table.

  ‘I’m getting something, Bessy, I’m feeling something.’

  There was more nodding and frowning and exaggerated hand movements, then she went rigid. It made me jump a bit.

  ‘I’ve got Colin here for you. Colin, what do you want to tell Bessy. Mmm. Mmm. You’re happy where you are. It’s warm and nice.’

  I sat up straight.

  ‘Can you tell him that me and Lizzie are friends now?’

  She told him and she appeared to be listening to something else.

  ‘He says, that’s good, love. That’s good. Look after each other.’ I couldn’t really see Colin saying that, he wasn’t that sort, but he might have changed.

  ‘Can you ask him if he’s seen our Thomas?’

  She didn’t flinch, and she asked him.

  ‘He says he’s here, love. He’s here with him.’

  I was crying and saying, ‘Is he really, is he? Colin, is he all right? How do I know? How can I find out?’

  She pulled out a big drawing pad.

  ‘Thomas is asking me to draw it for him. He says he’s safe now, Mum, and it’s all over. He’s been seeing how you were going on and loves you. And thanks for looking for him. But he’s been here all the time.’

  ‘Where? Where is he?’

  ‘I’m here with my dad, Mum. But I’ll show you where I am on the earthly plane, by getting Sarah to draw it.’

  I sobbed.

  ‘I’m sorry, love, I�
�m sorry for not looking after you better. I’ve done everything I could to make things right.’

  She scribbled on the paper with pencils, drawing a map.

  ‘It’s all right, Mum. I’m fine, it’s nice here and I’m happy. Now you be happy as well. I’ve got to go now, but I’ll be with you all the time. Love you, Mum.’

  Sarah sat at the table with the map in front of her.

  ‘Well. How was that, Bessy? Thomas and Colin both there for you?’

  She beamed brightly. I didn’t really expect her to understand how this would affect me, but I was totally elated. The joy and upset at the same time flowed through my tears and it took me an hour to calm down. I’d been there five hours by the time she handed me a marked-up ordnance survey map of the moor, with a red dot where Thomas’s body was.

  ‘So what do I do with this now? Take it to the police?’

  ‘You can do. But they don’t usually do anything. Really, it’s just so that you know for sure. You do believe Thomas and Colin, don’t you? It’s for your peace of mind.’ She put her arm around me and walked me to the door. Her head tilted to one side and her mouth pursed. ‘You can rest easy now. Bessy, dear. Come back any time. Any time.’

  I handed her a cheque for three hundred pounds and went back to my car, clutching the map. I tossed my papers in the back, but rested the precious maps on the front seat.

  When I got home, I looked in some reference books I had for the coordinates, and some public reports about where the bodies were found, and the spot on the map was just around a rock outcrop from where the bodies had been found. My stomach lurched and I was sick again.

  I sat there all night, planning how I would go there tomorrow, and walk to the spot where Thomas was buried, finding out the exact position before I went to the police station. It all made sense now; I’d been right all along. I was pleased and kept telling myself it was the best three hundred pounds I had ever spent.

  I’d sat on the back step until it was dusk and the birds had stopped singing. I got changed and lay in bed until I couldn’t stand it anymore. I went to the outhouse, where the old toilet used to be, and I rummaged through Colin’s tools that he’d left.

  His small shovel was there, still strong, and I took it into the house, along with my walking books. I pulled them on over my fleecy pyjama bottoms and put a waterproof coat on over my nightie. I went round and got the car from the side of the terrace and put the shovel and the map on the backseat.

  The drive up to the moor was busy, with people out and about in the towns, until I got onto the A635. I decided to go the other way to the moor, over the reservoir, because I knew that path better.

  I left my car and stepped into the darkness, carrying the shovel and the map. It was a fairly long walk, but I knew every step. The ground was squelchy and I knew that, in daylight, there was cow and sheep muck everywhere.

  It didn’t matter, because for once I had a purpose. Most of the time I was wandering around aimlessly, from one nightmare to another, but today had been a treat. I hadn’t felt so strong for ages, carrying the shovel and my bag.

  I knew my way, all right, it was almost second nature. Until I got to the gate. It was quite dark but the moon was almost full and lit the moor brightly. There was no light pollution here and I could see the stars twinkling. I looked up as I walked and I could see the swirls of the Milky Way.

  My feet caught on the jagged rocks and I could feel the bruises through my wellies. I knew there was a path somewhere, and when the heather started to brush my knees, I bore left until it was shorter and more trodden down.

  Now and again I’d hear a rustle in the scrub, an animal startled, or a grouse making a dash for it, and usually I’d stop to look, to see if I could get a good view. Not tonight—I had a mission. I was quite cold by now, but in a frenzy to get there. Soon, I came to the rock outcrop and the spot on the map.

  I switched my torch on and circled the ground, wondering what to do next. It was in this second that I realised that I didn’t have a plan. Almost everything else in my life so far had been carefully planned.

  I’d taken my eye off things once before and look what had happened. Now, there was no room for chance, everything was preplanned, a prearranged routine. For a second I wondered what I would do if I found Thomas’s body here? Call the police? Or did I just want to know for myself?

  I stood there, imagining the glory of being right after all those years, of holding up Thomas’s remains like some morbid proof of my sanity. I’d be recognised, and counted in as one of the other mothers, part of the club that had formed, through no fault of their own. People would start to care, and believe me. They’d finally start to listen to what I’d gone through, my pain and heartbreak.

  I flashed the torch around and rested it on a mound. Then picked it up and rested it on a high rock and started digging. The spade cut through the moss and heather and into the dark peat. There was an earthy smell, and I dug a little bit more. I was too warm now so I sat down, but immediately felt cold. It was just peat.

  So I turned round and dug in a spot opposite. I dug quite deep, until my back hurt, then started to dig sideways. The dirt was everywhere and I was covered from head to toe. I knew what peat looked like, but I had no idea it was so wet and dirty. There were a lot of roots and bits of wood, and eventually my spade hit something hard.

  The shock went through my body and I scrambled into the hole and bent to touch the object. It was a glass bottle, an old style glass bottle with a stopper. I sat in the hole and wondered how it had got there.

  I felt a little bit sleepy and my mind wandered to a programme I’d seen on the telly last week, about some engineers who had been digging hundreds of feet under the ground to build a new tube line under Istanbul.

  They’d drilled and dug and done lots of work, and they deeper they got, the more things they found. Eventually, they found thirty-six ships, preserved in the ground since the 1800s. I didn’t believe it at first, but it was online as well, and the people who discovered them reckoned they’d been in a port that had been destroyed by an earthquake or a landslide, and the port had fallen into the sea.

  Someone else thought that it was to do with rising or falling sea levels. I don’t think any of them knew, and it didn’t really matter, but it did make me think. As I lay there in that hole, I wondered if the earth was getting bigger, closer to the moon, because of all the rubbish we’re covering it with. If those ships were hundreds of feet down, how deep would this moor be buried in another two hundred years?

  Happen someone dropped this bottle a hundred years ago and then there was a bad storm, and since then it’s been churned up in the earth, until I dug deep enough. Thirty-six ships! I remember laughing and falling asleep, but waking up a bit later on and feeling a bit woozy. I got up and walked up and down, but I felt a pain behind my eyes and a bit bilious. I carried on digging to keep me warm, but I was slower now.

  After about half an hour I sat down again. I was tired now and I decided to see if I could feel Thomas here, feel his presence, like I had tried to at the houses and at Daisy Nook, and in the market. I tried to focus, but I was so tired I couldn’t. I was falling asleep and I remember thinking it wouldn’t matter if I had a little kip.

  I also remember thinking that Thomas wasn’t here. I couldn’t feel him. As I drifted off I remember wondering what Sarah Edwards really was? Who would be cruel enough to send me on this journey?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I snap the book shut. Unbelievable. That poor woman, digging up the moor in the middle of the night. And that Sarah woman. How could that be allowed, making money out of other peoples’ misery?

  Bessy was braver than me. All her commitment, all her heartbreak. But she never gave up. I feel physical pain when I think of Aiden as a child now, of winter days and my pulling on his hat, of his squealing with delight as I chased him. Our regular visits to the passport photograph booth—I kept all the photos.

  They were once a treasure, the start of
something big; a relationship that would last for life. But now they’re just more painful reminders. Yet I can’t put them away. I have to leave everything as it is.

  I gather all my belongings. It’s chilly and my feet are numb. I want to carry on reading but I can’t stay here any longer, I have to go home and deal with things. The first thing I’ll do is send the WPCs on their way. Their forced encampment has made the house change, whether it wanted to or not. I wonder if they’ll take the cushions?

  My next thought is about the Gables and my urgent need to tell someone about the photograph and how he disposed of his victims. The net closes tight around Connelly and his vile doings, while another one unravels around me, the story I’ve guarded so closely, so silently, the one that started with Bessy, pokes through the holes and struggles to get out.

  I’ll have to tell Stewart where I got the photograph. And why. I know I’ll have to. So I’ll go home and make sure the house is locked up tight, just in case I’m arrested straightaway. I think about Bessy again, and how she left the back door open for Thomas, which was how I got in there in the first place.

  I consider doing that, just in case Aiden comes home one night, cold and wet looking for his mum. Ironic, isn’t it, that I was only trying to find him, only trying to do the right thing, but somehow it’s twisted my thinking and I ended up stealing from a dead woman?

  It’s over now, and although there’s always another Connelly to step into his shoes, that’s if they’ve even found him to arrest him, I expect his cronies will lie low for a while now. Besides, I might not be around long enough to need anyone to guard me. As I start up my bike, I think about the possibility of admitting everything, and the possible sentence I will get. Thrown out of the force, probably prison.

  As I speed home my ears are ringing with the sounds of last night, the retching of grown men and the horror in Mike’s eyes. Then my elation, my joy at not seeing Aiden’s face. Pictures of Bessy, digging in her nightclothes, finally falling asleep on the moor, and Sarah counting her money.