The Wayward Girls

by Amanda Mason

  ‘Nothing. He wasn’t there. He’s away, working somewhere.’

  ‘So what was it then?’

  ‘This is private, right? Just between us.’

  It had been knocking first. Apparently.

  The girls, who shared a room, had gone up to bed and after a bit the knocking had started. Quite gently at first, they’d said. As if someone was sending them a message.

  ‘Is there anybody there?’ one of them had asked, as a joke, really.

  One tap for yes. Two taps for no.

  Then it had gone quiet. The oldest had got out of bed, put her ear to the wall. ‘Is there anybody there?’ For a laugh. The youngest was in her bed, giggling.

  ‘Is there—’

  The knocking, so loud they thought the wall would crack, nearly deafened the girl. It practically threw her across the room, booming over and over again.

  ‘Kids,’ said Isobel, ‘messing around.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Martin. ‘But eventually, the noise gets so bad that the mother – Cathy – goes upstairs. When she gets there, the room’s in a hell of a state and the girls are huddled in their beds, howling with fear, near enough.’

  Pushing his pint to one side, Martin ran his hand through his hair. ‘So she’s standing there, the mother, trying to calm the youngest girl down, or so she said, when … She’s standing there, and out of nowhere someone throws a marble at her, hard.’

  Isobel wished she’d asked for a proper drink. As far as she could tell, Martin’s big story wasn’t going to be worth two glasses of orange juice and the possibility of an unpleasant tussle when he walked her to her car.

  ‘And she’s about to really let them have it, tell them off for messing her about, when there’s loads of them, heavy glass marbles, falling out of nowhere, smacking down onto the beds, the carpet, the dressing table, her, and the girls. It was like a hailstorm, she said. She had bruises.’

  ‘You’re not telling me—’

  ‘I’m telling you what she told me. There was this … hailstorm—’

  ‘Of marbles.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘She got them out of there, didn’t she? Got them both downstairs.’

  ‘And then rang the police?’

  ‘Not straightaway. She checked on the other kids – the little ones were sleeping through all the commotion, or so she reckoned – then she got the eldest boy to look around outside, but yeah, in the end she rang the station and I was nearby anyway—’

  Isobel had heard more than a few tall tales in her time; perhaps it was something to do with her being young, being a woman. It was definitely to do with having the nerve to come from Cambridge, with sounding posh every time she opened her mouth. And God knows she’d been sent out to take pictures of some very iffy news items because someone – usually a bitter old fart who’d got nothing to look forward to except the pleasure of knowing one day his own obituary would be there in the paper instead of his by-line – had decided she needed bringing down a peg or two. So she knew the signs to look for: the smirk, the smug you-didn’t-fall-for-that-you-silly-cow-did-you look that they all got in the end.

  Only Martin didn’t look smug. He looked uneasy.

  ‘Why did she call the police?’ Isobel asked.

  ‘I don’t know. The husband was away. She said on the phone she thought there was someone outside, an intruder. But when I got there … She said it was upstairs, in the bedroom.’

  ‘It?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did you go upstairs, then?’

  ‘Yeah. There was nothing there – the room was a mess, bedding everywhere, drawers open and clothes scattered about.’

  ‘Marbles?’

  ‘They were there too. Just, you know, kids’ toys.’ Martin took another sip of his beer. There was something else, Isobel could tell.

  ‘What happened next?’ she said.

  ‘I thought she was worried that there was a burglar or something. So I had a look around, the kids’ rooms, the main bedroom, the bathroom. And then I went downstairs. They were in the living room, the youngest girl clinging on to her sister, her eyes the size of saucers, and I was trying to reassure her – the mother, Cathy. I told her there was no one in the house that shouldn’t be, and that the girls should get back to bed. Then the girls sort of looked behind me and pointed. “Look at that,” one of them said, “look there,” and before I could answer … There was an armchair in front of the fireplace.’ He looked at Isobel, then shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was going to say next. ‘It moved, Issy. Swear to God. There was no one near it and the bloody thing moved.’

  ‘Right,’ said Isobel.

  ‘Only you can’t tell anyone, right?’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Isobel, reaching for her glass, ‘tell me everything again.’

  The house looked empty and Isobel took a couple of shots as she leant against the car. They wouldn’t be much use though, she knew that; what she really needed were some pictures of the family, of the girls. If she could get inside, win them over. As a rule, she was given her assignments by Trevor Weatherill, the paper’s senior photographer, and of course she never interviewed anyone; her job was to take the pictures.

  ‘Make sure you get everyone in, and make sure you get all their names right.’ Trevor’s voice ringing in her head, day in, day out, reminding her that she wasn’t actually a journalist.

  But as she’d got Martin to go over everything again, at some point in the retelling she’d known, just known, that this was going to be her story. So instead of going to work at the Gazette offices in town as usual, she’d got up early and driven back to Longdale. And here she was, squinting up at the redbrick house, wondering how to begin. Trying to summon up the nerve. She was still leaning against the car when a figure appeared from the back of the house and walked down the garden path.

  ‘All right?’ he said as he opened the gate.

  One of the kids. Sixteen or seventeen. Long, raggedy hair, like his father. He looked her up and down, and she waited for the inevitable comment, something obvious about red hair and a hot temper, but he surprised her by walking past her down the lane towards the village.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He turned and stood still, the shadows cast by the low morning sun making it hard to read his expression.

  ‘Isobel Bradshaw,’ she said, swinging her camera bag onto her shoulder and extending a hand.

  He waited just a second too long before taking it. ‘Dan Corvino.’

  ‘I’m in the right place then,’ said Issy.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘This is Iron Sike Farm.’

  ‘That’s what it says on the sign.’

  ‘I work for the Gazette. I’m here about the business with the girls,’ she said. He looked away, almost but not quite hiding a half-smile.

  ‘Right, well, I don’t think Cathy will want to talk to the papers, to be honest. Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Cathy?’

  ‘My mother.’

  ‘Yes. Right. Well, could I have a quick word with you?’

  ‘I’m on my way to work.’ His accent was different to the one she was used to hearing around here, a bit like Martin’s, but Dan’s vowels were fuller, stretching out his words.

  ‘Just for a minute, and if you’re worried about being late I can give you a lift.’

  ‘I wasn’t there, you know. I wasn’t actually in the room.’

  ‘Just a couple of questions.’

  ‘All right then,’ he said, moving out of the road, further into the shade, and leaning against the dry stone wall. ‘Ask away.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ She moved into the shadows too, the tall grass cool against her legs. ‘So, where were you when it happened? I mean, you were in the house, right?’ She should have thought to get her notebook out.

  ‘I was upstairs. In my bedroom.’

  ‘Did you hear anything?’

  ‘Not really. I was listening to music.’

  She should h
ave thought out her questions too.

  ‘The first I knew about it was when Loo came and got me. She came running up the stairs going on about the furniture flying around and it hitting a policeman. She was making a hell of a racket and that set Flor off.’

  ‘Flor?’

  ‘My brother. Florian. One of Cathy’s stupider ideas.’

  The brother or the name?

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So we went downstairs and they were in the kitchen, Cathy and Bee and this copper. He was as white as a sheet.’

  ‘What were they doing?’

  ‘Nothing. Just standing there.’ Dan pulled out a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offered Issy one.

  ‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘Did you notice anything else?’

  ‘Not really. They told me what had happened and I went and had a look. The room was a mess and they were all – look, I’ve got to get on, you know?’ He retrieved some matches from his pocket, stood up straighter. He was done and she’d barely started.

  ‘Oh, right. Thanks. Do you need a lift?’

  She could ask more questions in the car.

  ‘No, ta. I’ll be all right.’ He smiled at her. He was a good-looking boy, dark and tanned and confident. She could imagine him breaking a few hearts with that lazy smile.

  ‘Do you believe in all that stuff then?’ he asked, lighting his cigarette.

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘Ghosts and ghouls. Things that go bump in the night.’

  ‘I don’t know. Do you?’

  ‘I didn’t use to,’ he said, exhaling, smoke swirling between them.

  Issy stood back, her eyes smarting.

  ‘Look,’ said Dan, ‘if you want to talk to Cathy it’s no use knocking on the front door, she won’t bother answering. Go round the back to the kitchen.’

  ‘I’ll do that. Thanks.’

  ‘Right. Well. Bye, Isobel.’ He pushed himself off the wall and walked away.

  ‘Goodbye.’

  She got as far as the front gate before she realised she should have asked if there’d been any other disturbances in the house, stuff Martin hadn’t witnessed, stuff that had happened since. She’d let him get away far too easily. Irritated, she glanced back down the lane. Dan was still there. He was standing in the middle of the road, motionless, watching her. A dark shadow sketched into the pale green landscape. He raised a hand in farewell, and she pushed down on the gate’s iron latch.

  The woman who answered the door looked tired. Her hair, a mousy brown, fell in a rough plait over one shoulder and she clearly wasn’t the type to bother much with makeup. She had a large and drowsy child balanced on one hip, and behind her, a little boy, maybe five years old, barefoot in dusty blue shorts and a grubby T-shirt, stared at Isobel with blank dark eyes. Florian, she supposed. The kitchen smelt of burnt toast and wet nappies.

  Issy smiled broadly and extended a hand. ‘Cathy? Hi, I’m Isobel. I’m from the Gazette.’

  The woman didn’t move. She just stood with one hand on the door, the other cradling her child. Braced. Waiting.

  ‘What do you want?’ Her tone wasn’t aggressive, exactly, but she was wary.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about – well, the events you’ve been experiencing. You and your family.’

  ‘I see.’ The woman’s voice was soft, but firm. ‘I don’t think so.’ She began to close the door.

  ‘Only, I was talking to Dan, you see, and he suggested I have a word with you.’

  Which was perfectly truthful, as far as it went.

  ‘And actually, I was wondering if there was anything I could do to help?’

  The woman hesitated. The baby sighed and slumped against her. It looked heavy. ‘Help how?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure.’

  The sun beat down on them both. Behind Cathy the house was gloomy and still. The little boy edged closer to his mother.

  ‘But we could just talk for a bit, if you like. It can’t be much fun for you, coping with all of this on your own.’

  Cathy lifted the child, trying to bump it gently into a more comfortable position.

  ‘The Gazette? Would there be a story? Pictures?’

  ‘Well, yes, possibly.’ She could feel the camera bag hanging from her shoulder, damning her. She should have thought to hide it. ‘It’s interesting, you see. At least, I think it is.’

  ‘Interesting.’ The woman almost smiled at this. ‘That’s one word for it.’

  ‘But it is. People can be so – narrow-minded, can’t they? And then something like this happens and it’s a chance to – I don’t know – to think again, to look at people’s preconceptions, to make a difference.’

  She was pushing too hard, saying too much. Shut up, she thought, shut up.

  ‘You’re not from round here, are you?’ said Cathy.

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Neither are we.’

  ‘I know,’ said Issy. ‘I mean – I heard that.’ The baby, a chubby thing with thick dark curls plastered against its head, began to stir in its mother’s arms. Issy wondered if she should say something pleasant about it, or at least ask its name.

  ‘They never let you forget it, do they?’

  ‘No,’ said Isobel, ‘no, they don’t.’ Certainly no one at the office did, and neither did the people she’d spent the past three years photographing. Issy had the feeling she could spend the rest of her life turning up at football matches and prize-givings, village shows and the Whitby Regatta, taking pictures of locals and their little triumphs, and no matter what she did, she’d always be a visitor, an outsider. She doubted things were any easier for the Corvino family here in Longdale where families had been sticking together for generations.

  ‘Do you like it here?’ asked Cathy.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Issy. ‘It’s – quiet, I suppose.’

  ‘And you’re a journalist?’

  ‘Yes. Well. A photographer.’

  Cathy looked at the camera again, assessing it, and Issy, recalling Martin’s assertion that the father, Joe, was an artist of some sort, decided to take a gamble. ‘It’s a Canon F-1,’ she said. ‘This one’s seen better days, but I like it.’

  ‘It’s a good camera.’

  ‘Yeah, I think so. So, you do a bit, then? Photography, I mean.’

  ‘Not really. I did some at college, as part of my degree. But I haven’t done anything in ages – you know.’ Cathy jiggled the baby gently. ‘I used to do my own developing, though. I used to like that.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, it was – satisfying, you know? Completing the process myself.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Issy, ‘I know what you mean.’

  The conversation died away. Never leave, one of the reporters at the Gazette had once told her over a beer after work, when he’d been trying to impress her with tales of his time on one of the tabloids. Never leave until they tell you to go.

  It was already ridiculously hot, and she wondered if she should ask for a glass of water.

  ‘All right,’ Cathy said, stepping back, ‘come in. Don’t bother to close the door. It’s too dark in here anyway.’

  Once they got inside Cathy settled the baby on the rag rug in front of the Aga and made them some tea. Isobel watched her moving around the room, slow and careful, in the manner of someone who was unwell, or recuperating from an illness, perhaps. She kept glancing anxiously at the baby – maybe that was it, maybe the child had been ill or was teething; it held a wooden brick in its pudgy hand and gnawed at one corner, dribbling.

  Issy took a seat at the table and watched Florian trail around the kitchen after his mother. ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘Say hello, Florian,’ said Cathy. The little boy mumbled something, then scooped up a handful of toy cars from the floor.

  ‘I’m going out to play,’ he said.

  ‘Stay where I can see you, then,’ said Cathy.

  The kitchen was on the small side, a later addition to the Victorian house. An open do
or revealed a dark and shadowy passage: on both sides wooden shelves ran the length of it, at waist height, as far as the front door, and Issy could see these were crammed with books. The walls had paintings on them, although she couldn’t make out the details. Joe’s work, she supposed. Rectangular canvases, no frames – landscapes, perhaps. She tried not to stare and wondered how she might get to see the rest of the house. She rummaged in her bag for her notebook and pen, which she placed neatly on the table, and then picked up her camera, flicking off the lens cap and checking the settings. It was dim in the kitchen, but she could make do.

  Two pots of tea later, Cathy saw her off at the front gate, with Florian hanging on to her skirts as she wrapped Isobel in a clumsy embrace.

  ‘I’ll be back tomorrow,’ Issy said, trying not to breathe in the scent of food and baby and sweat, warm skin and olive oil soap.

  ‘Great.’ Cathy stood on the step watching as Isobel walked down the lane, got into her car and drove up onto the moors road. Prompted by his mother, the little boy waved as she passed the house and Issy waved back, smiling.

  Cold spots in the house.

  Knocking and banging in the walls.

  Things: spoons, pens, bits of jewellery, anything put down for a second or two, going missing.

  Furniture moving.

  She had pages of it.

  Pages.

  She’d got a couple of shots of Cathy too, backlit softly by the kitchen door, the baby grizzling gently on her knee. A modern-day Madonna. As far as she could tell, most of the events, the paranormal activity, centred on the two girls, Lucia, eleven, and Bianca, fourteen.

  ‘Can I speak to them too?’ she’d asked.

  ‘I don’t …’

  On the rug the baby dropped a toy and, reaching for it, fell over and began to howl.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Cathy, standing and picking it up, crooning softly and walking up and down the room. Behind them in the hallway, a floorboard squeaked and something pattered swiftly up the stairs. Camera in hand, Issy went to the doorway and looked into the hall.

  ‘Hello?’

  It was darker in this part of the house. The paintings ranged along the walls were just a little too big for the space, crammed in together awkwardly. She’d been right, they were landscapes: the moors, mostly, purple and black swirls of land pressed down by sullen skies. Impressionistic, bold. She wondered if he managed to sell any.