The Deserter's Daughter

by Susanna Bavin

‘Armstrong! What the devil’s taking you so long?’

  Mr Larter. Carrie’s instincts screamed at her to hide, but that would be pointless once Mr Larter found Ralph. Heat coursed through her veins. She had to stop Mr Larter finding Ralph, not to mention the open safe.

  She raced along the landing, pulling the sitting-room door to, just as Mr Larter appeared.

  ‘Ah – Mrs Armstrong. Sorry to barge in.’ He walked along the landing, making a nonsense of the apology. ‘Is Armstrong here? We’re meant to be looking at the stock over the road and he’s kept me waiting.’

  ‘He was here a minute ago. You must have missed one another crossing the road in the fog.’

  Carrie could have sworn something rippled beneath the puckered flesh of his scar. ‘I think not.’ His voice was silky smooth. ‘We came across the road together and I’ve been waiting in the shop.’ He took a step closer. ‘Why are you lying to me … again?’

  She swallowed. A sound – a groan, cut off, followed by another longer groan – made them both swing round. As Mr Larter covered the distance to the sitting room in two strides, Carrie backed away, trying to creep downstairs at a run. Would he be all concern for Ralph or would the open cupboard catch his eye, leading him to the safe?

  Her answer came a moment later.

  ‘You bitch, what have you found?’

  Carrie fled.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Wrenching the door open, sending the bell jingling madly, Carrie ran into a world of yellowy-grey cotton wool. She stopped and the air enveloped her, gluey and stale. Careful not to move her feet, because they were pointing in the right direction, she looked over her shoulder. Already, from just a few steps away, the shop had been swallowed by the fog. Edging forward, sliding her feet along the ground, she found the kerb and stepped into the road.

  She heard Mr Larter come bursting out of the shop – footfalls – an exclamation. He had evidently found the kerb the hard way. She hurried forward, trying to hold a straight line. It was like walking through cake mixture. Stubbing her toe on the opposite kerb, she winced but smothered a gasp.

  ‘Mrs Armstrong? I know you’re here. Come back inside. This deuced fog is dangerous.’

  From somewhere over to her left came a thump. Had he bumped into the cabbies’ hut? With one foot on the kerb and the other in the gutter, she headed for the corner. Behind her, muffled by great lumps of fog, she heard voices, men’s voices, begging one another’s pardon. Carrie strained her ears, realising Mr Larter had found the front steps of the Lloyds. Please let him search for her inside. She followed the curve of the corner and headed down the gently sloping road. From somewhere – impossible to tell how far away – came the voice of a woman reassuring a child.

  By the time the kerb turned at the next corner, her teeth were chattering. She rubbed her hands briskly up and down her arms, for all the good it did. Stretching her hands out again, she watched them disappear into the pulp before she braved the road, anxious for the moment when she would stub her toes and be safe from being run over. Then she would use the kerb to guide her as far as the Green and that was more than halfway to Brookburn.

  An obstacle – she cried out … stumbled … felt herself pulled up. Then she and the man – his face loomed out of the blur – did an awkward little dance as they righted themselves.

  ‘Sorry, love. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Let go. I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘Oh, hey, I were only trying to help.’

  ‘Have you got my wife there?’ Mr Larter! ‘Hold on to her, there’s a good chap.’

  ‘Righto,’ the stranger agreed cheerfully.

  Carrie tried to pull away. ‘Let me go!’

  ‘Now then, love.’ The man’s voice was reassuring, but the strength of his grip filled Carrie with panic. She wriggled like a mad thing and kicked out. ‘Hey there! Well, bugger me—’

  She wrenched herself free and darted into the blankness, then stopped. Through the clotted air came men’s voices.

  ‘Why did you let her go? I specifically said—’

  ‘I’m surprised you want her back, mate, a vixen like that.’

  She edged away, though in this curdled atmosphere it was hard to tell where they were and that brought her to a standstill. With a collapsing heart, she accepted she had lost her bearings. Footsteps crunched – she whirled round, but no one grabbed her. Think, think. She couldn’t have run back into the road or she would have come a cropper on the kerb; and she wasn’t on the cinder path of the pavement; so she must be on the plot of ground where Father Kelly wanted to build the new church.

  ‘Spare a minute to help me find her. She’s terrified of the fog, poor thing.’

  ‘Well, just a minute, guv, then I must get on.’

  Think, think. This plot occupied one entire end of the block, bordered on one side by fences and on the other three by pavement and road. At the far end of the block lay Chorlton Green, so all she need do was find a kerb and follow it.

  Her flesh prickled, covering her in pinpricks of dread. The dense mass in front of her seemed to shift, like a curtain about to be pulled back to reveal—Carrie dodged away, then tripped and squealed as she measured her length on the ground. She didn’t waste time getting up, just scrambled away on all fours, hoping she was leaving the exclamations of ‘Over here!’ behind her.

  Pulling herself to her feet, she walked blindly into grey treacle. When her hands found the fence, she clung to it. Should she climb over and knock at one of the cottages? Impossible to do so in silence and if Mr Larter caught up, no one would believe her over a gentleman like him, especially if he had the other fellow in tow, blathering on about this daft female reduced to hysterics by the fog.

  Find Adam. It was the only way.

  Hugging the fence, knowing she had to trust it and not care about the grey scum she was plunging into, Carrie hurried as best she could to the far end, then slid her feet until she found the kerb, whereupon she resumed her awkward one foot up, one foot down gait, panting her way down the road to the Green.

  At the corner, she halted. The muscles in her calves and thighs were screaming. Hovering at the kerb was like being on the edge of a precipice. The kerb had kept her safe, told her where she was. Now she must plunge into the gunk and pray to keep a straight line.

  She knew when she had reached the Green, because her feet sank into cold soggy grass and she uttered a soft ‘Uff!’ as her fingers scraped on tree bark. Holding on to the tree, she moved around it; she must keep her straight line. Arms outstretched, she slid onwards, gasping as her knees banged into something and she nearly pitched forwards.

  Grasping blindly, she made out a bench. She edged past and continued. Was there another bench? She couldn’t remember. She walked with one hand stretched out at normal height, the other waving around lower down. Even so, her knee found the bench first. She barely had time to register the sharp pain in her kneecap before her hand landed on something at once firm and soft – something that moved.

  A hand seized her arm and she screamed.

  ‘Eh now, don’t fret, lass,’ came a woman’s voice.

  ‘Sorry, sorry.’

  ‘I’m just resting me bunions before I get on home. It’s a reet so-and-so, in’t it, this blessed fog?’

  Carrie didn’t answer, just stumbled away, and not a moment too soon. An indignant squawk behind her almost made her swing round, but she caught herself in time. Straight line. She must keep to her straight line.

  ‘Oy! What d’you think you’re up to, laying hands on me?’

  ‘I beg your pardon. I thought you were someone else.’

  ‘Oh aye, and she doesn’t mind being made free with, I tek it?’

  Heart thumping, Carrie stumbled on through the murk.

  ‘I know you’re here. Stand still. I only want to talk to you.’

  The wet ground sucked at her slippers as she pressed on. She could hear him behind her – no, over to the side. Then something – sound, instinct – told
her he was close, and perhaps that same something told him she was too, because as she hurled herself sideways, there was a surge of movement in the gloom, followed by a clatter and a yell. What on earth—? The memorial. Oh Pa, please help me.

  A hand snaked out just above ground level and all but ensnared her ankle, only she stamped and wriggled and hauled herself away, taking off at a run. One foot landing on the cinder path gave her the half-second’s warning that saved her from turning her ankle on the kerb. She sprinted across the road, tripped over the kerb and slammed into a wall. A chest-high wall – otherwise she would have mashed her face into it. The graveyard.

  Around the wall she went, clinging to it, grazes tearing palms and fingers, creating a background stinging sensation. Her wet slippers slop-slopped. At the far end of the wall, she kept going, hands out in front, knowing that she might or might not walk bang into the Bowling Green pub. If she did, should she knock on the door, on the windows, yell for help? Pointless question, since she must by now have walked right past it.

  Brookburn next. She had to find the wall. She veered left, arms outstretched, hands lost in the clammy depths. The wall would lead her to the gates, then there was the crunchy drive, and then Adam and safety. Her hands hit the wall. She staggered along, hugging so close to it that with every step she scraped and bumped herself.

  When the wall ended, she patted her way to the gate’s tall metal bars. Thank goodness the gates were standing open. Another step and the familiar crunch underfoot made her freeze. She couldn’t afford to make even the tiniest sound, but if she left the drive, she might blunder around in circles for hours in the grounds. No, she must keep to the drive.

  The gravel felt like needles pricking through the soles of her slippers as she edged forwards, working her way hand over hand along the bars of the gate. When her fingers found the wide bar at the end, she instinctively braced herself to step out with nothing to hang on to. She let go, took a step, then was seized from behind by swift, silent hands, her scream cut off by a hand snapping down to cover her mouth, giving her a taste of leather glove. The arm encircling her waist jerked, expelling the breath from her body in a single expert move. She sagged, but he hauled her upright.

  ‘Keep still,’ Mr Larter hissed. ‘You’ve saved me some trouble. If I hadn’t gone careering into that memorial, I’d have throttled you on the Green and then had to carry you here to throw you in the brook. As it is, all I need do is snap your neck and in you go. A tragic accident, such a pity, but these things happen in the fog.’

  He released her mouth and Carrie said in the most determined voice she could muster, ‘Adam will know it’s no accident. He told me all about you.’

  His hand moved to her neck and throat. This was really happening. He was going to kill her.

  She wrapped chilled hands round his fingers and tugged with all her might, appalled by his strength. She sucked in a breath, her stomach executing a somersault at the bilge-water of the fog, but her attempt at a cry for help was cut off by a vicious shake that reduced it to a gurgle.

  ‘Carrie! Carrie!’

  Ralph! Mr Larter’s fingers, instead of releasing her, were locking into position, selecting particular bones in her neck, pressing into her throat, shutting off her windpipe. With one final effort, she flung out her arm and banged the gate, catching her funny bone and gasping as pain jangled up and down her arm. It took her a moment to separate the pain from the clattering sound that was oddly hollow and short-lived in the fog.

  ‘Carrie! Is that you? I knew you’d come here.’

  The crunch of footsteps, another dull clatter, and Ralph loomed out of the murk. He looked ghastly. Carrie thought it was the fog leeching the colour from his face, then she saw his skin was grey, his eyes blurred and slow. It took him a moment to react to Mr Larter’s presence.

  ‘Larter! Why are you here? Good grief, man, what are you doing?’

  ‘Dealing with the immediate problem.’

  ‘You can’t mean—my God, you wouldn’t. Let her go.’

  Carrie sensed Ralph’s lunge before it happened and then found herself on the ground, gravel biting her hands and knees, as Mr Larter hurled her aside to block Ralph’s assault. She scrambled away, stopping only when she reached grass. Behind her, instead of the sounds of a punch-up, she heard Mr Larter’s voice.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Armstrong. You’re in no fit state. I’m surprised you’re on your feet after that bashing you took.’

  Carrie waited. Then Ralph spoke, slurring a little. ‘My head … is pounding, I must admit. Feel rather woozy. I’ve thrown up a couple of times.’

  ‘Charming. That’ll be concussion. She fetched you one hell of a crack.’

  Another pause. ‘She?’

  ‘Your wife.’

  Carrie clutched at the grass. Don’t let him realise.

  ‘No … no, it wasn’t Carrie.’

  ‘You aren’t thinking straight. Face it: the little woman has taken sides against you, which is why we have to find her.’

  ‘It wasn’t Carrie, I tell you. She was right in front of me when—Christ, who could it have been?’

  ‘Your brother?’

  ‘Adam? Are you crazy?’

  ‘Well, who else knows about the safe?’

  ‘Christ!’ Then came a small sound, part grunt, part sigh, as if the exclamation had hurt his head.

  ‘First things first. We’ve got to find her and stop her.’

  ‘If you lay one finger—’

  ‘And when I’ve stopped her, I’ll stop you too, if needs be. I don’t intend to lose everything, up to and including life and liberty, just because you baulk at what needs doing.’

  Muffled sounds squeezed through the gummy layers of fog. A momentary scuffle – a dull clang – a groan.

  ‘Carrie!’ Ralph’s voice sounded choked. ‘Run!’

  She stumbled a few steps, then picked up pace.

  Get on the drive and go hell for leather to the house. Don’t think. Just do it.

  With one toe, she found the gravel. She stepped onto it and ran through the mushy air. But the crunching ceased beneath her feet and she skidded to a halt. She had run the wrong way. Instead of heading up the drive to the house, she had run back to the road. Instinctively, she twisted round but tripped and fell hard, the impact singing through her.

  No time to recover. As she got to her feet, her knees wobbled and she had to scoop herself up before she fell again, but in so doing, she turned partway round. Which way was she now facing? Towards Brookburn? Or in the other direction, towards Ees House, the posh place where the Kimbers lived?

  Indistinct sounds came weaving through the fog. She screwed up her face, trying to hear. She couldn’t risk another go at Brookburn’s drive, not with both men roaming the grounds. But if she could find the gates, they would be her starting point for heading back the way she had come. She only had to get to the pub and hammer on the doors.

  Waving her hands about in front of her like a child playing at ghosts, she plunged into the fog. When her feet found the gravel again, she turned and almost immediately banged into a gate. She turned to her left and struck out along the road, her right hand trailing along the wall, picking up grazes. When the wall ended and she had nothing to guide her, she took heart, knowing the pub lay ahead; but she couldn’t find it.

  Clamping down hard on a surge of panic, she veered sharply right, hands lost to sight as they groped in the murk until – not a wall, but a fence. A fence? Yes, and bushes. Her mouth went dry. The gate she had found hadn’t been one of Brookburn’s. It had been one of the Ees House gates opposite … and that meant she was heading the wrong way.

  This fence belonged to Brookburn Farm. Go back or go on? A faint noise put her on the alert. She clutched the fence.

  ‘I know you’re there,’ said Mr Larter. ‘I’ve been following the sounds. Do you imagine you’re safe if you stand still?’

  Loosely clasping the top of the fence, she rushed on, nearly falling over her feet when th
e fence turned the corner. She stumbled to a halt. Was she skirting a field or had she found the track to the farmhouse? She stepped away from the fence with its narrow verge of overgrown grass. Beneath her feet, the ground was compacted earth and her heart pitter-pattered in relief. This must be the way to the farmhouse.

  She pressed on through the fumey blankness, stumbling as she found a pothole. Except that it wasn’t a pothole, she realised, it was the track sloping downwards, and it was nothing to do with the farm. It was the beginning of the lane leading on to the meadows.

  Carrie stood still. She couldn’t go back and she couldn’t leave the lane, so she must go forwards towards – yes, she could be at Jackson’s Boat in minutes, and over the other side was the Bridge pub.

  The lane shrank to a slender path, one-person-wide, overhung here and there by trees and bushes, their leafy branches slapping her face and draping damply over her arms.

  At last, the path widened and she groped about. If she was where she thought she was, then the path would divide and close by would be the steps up to Jackson’s Boat. She cast her hands about, but it was her foot that found one of the rocks near the steps.

  A hand grabbed her arm and yanked her back, making her cry out, a cry that was cut off by a clout across her face. Coming on top of where Ralph had landed her one, it was almost enough to make her swoon, but knowing that just a step or two away were the rocks, she pulled forwards. The instant her leg grazed rock, she sidestepped. Mr Larter stumbled against the rock and staggered, letting go. She tried to run, then collapsed as he flung himself on top of her. She lay flattened by his weight, then he shifted, but instead of dragging her up, he pinned her down with one knee in her back and felt for her neck.

  A thud. The knee vanished from her spine as Mr Larter went flying, followed by the heavy weight of another body that ended up sprawled across her, winding her all over again. Mr Larter hauled Ralph up, one of them stepping on her.

  ‘You bloody fool,’ growled Mr Larter.

  ‘Leave … my wife … alone.’

  She heard the thud of a fist, followed by grunts and pummelling. She heaved herself to her feet, tottering on the sloping riverbank. With a yell, the punch-up burst out of the fog, clipping her and sending her spinning down the bank. At the bottom of this slope was a sharp descent into the river and, a lesson drummed into her years ago by Pa, she dropped to the ground to stop herself tumbling further.