by A J Waines
It was hard going at first, ploughing against the snowdrifts; awkward mounds had swollen in our path like carbuncles. We took it in turns to push the wheelbarrow, then tried for a bit with a handle each.
I knew straight away where we were going. It was the obvious place. With every minute that passed, the mist grew thinner and before long we could see for miles. Thankfully, the clouds remained and the sun didn’t break through, as we trundled with our burden through stretches of wasteland. It was wild and hostile – everything I was feeling inside at the disgrace of this terrible wrongdoing.
The path opened out and we had to cross the corner of a field to get down to the water’s edge. Overnight, the loch had been transformed, giving the false appearance of a steaming cauldron. I could barely see the water; I tried to locate landmarks on the horizon, but could only guess at the expanse of it. At this spot, the temperature seemed to dip below freezing and wasn’t about to get any warmer. Flecks of snow were turning my cheeks to ice.
We stood back on the bank with Charlie in front of us like a child in a pram.
‘Now what?’ I said.
Karen was searching along the water’s edge. Of course; the boats – Karen had told us that at least one was always left on each side. We both scoured the shore, batting away the reeds with our gloved hands. Then I spotted one, half-hidden, wrapped up in the curling mist like an Impressionist painting. It appeared to be floating away, but I soon realised the boat was still and it was the mist that was moving.
We dragged it onto the bank and, after several ugly attempts, managed to tip Charlie inside. Karen got into the boat while I followed her instructions and found rocks for his pockets. I dropped them into the boat and got in.
We took an oar each, although it was clear early on that Karen was stronger. She kept tutting and waiting for me to straighten the boat up. We kept going until we could see the far side of the lake with the same degree of haziness as we could see the place we’d come from.
‘This is probably about the middle,’ she said. ‘Start filling every pocket you can find.’
I’d forgotten we’d have to touch him like this. She started with his jacket pockets and I couldn’t help turning away. She nudged my elbow and pushed a stone into my hand. Silent tears came as I made myself press it into the back of his jeans. Then another. She tucked in his t-shirt and dropped a bundle down the front and back, against his torso. I was glad of the tears; they turned his limbs before me into indeterminate blobs.
I couldn’t believe Karen was being so matter of fact about it. She tugged him across the edge of the boat so his head was almost touching the water.
‘Wait,’ I said, outrage catching my throat. ‘Shouldn’t we say something – a prayer or something?’
‘Do what you like – I’m getting him in.’
She huffed and puffed and managed to tip his whole body overboard without my help. The splash sounded loud and lasted too long in my ears. I looked up, scanning the horizon. We were exposed in the boat. If the mist cleared, as it was doing in patches, we’d be spotted straight away.
‘Right,’ said Karen. ‘Row with all you’ve got, back the way we came. We need to mess up our tracks.’
We sploshed and splashed furiously in an attempt to turn the boat and get back to the bank as quickly as possible. I was nearly sick with fatigue, my head on fire, by the time we reached the shore.
‘There will be DNA in the boat,’ I said, staring into its shell.
‘Let’s smash it up and sink it,’ she said, grabbing a sharp boulder from the edge of the water. I looked up – knowing we were going to be making a noise. I saw movement to my right.
‘There’s someone there,’ I said in a loud whisper, my breath in snatches. ‘We’ve been seen.’
I felt sweat prickle under my arms. I was starting to feel trapped. Everything was collapsing. What we were doing was terribly wrong. It had been wrong from the start. If only Karen had been able to get through to the police when she’d made that first call. If only there had been a landline in the cottage.
Karen brought the rock down on to the ribs of the boat. ‘Just get on with it,’ she said. ‘Anyone will think the noise is someone chopping firewood.’
We battered the boat with all the energy we had left and gradually it splintered and several planks gave way. We set it off into the water with a brusque shove and then threw more stones at it, willing it to sink. It rocked and floated, rocked and still floated.
‘Nothing’s happening,’ I wailed. It was too late to reach out for it, the rope had sunk and the boat itself was too far away, bobbing innocently on the surface.
We stared at it and slowly the boat listed to one side, then steadily – barely perceptibly – it tipped all the way in.
I’d been holding my breath. I let it out in one grateful sigh. Thank God.
Still – our job was far from finished. Karen snapped off branches and fronds of ferns and we swished at all our footprints and, more particularly, the line the wheel of the barrow had made in the snow.
We carried the barrow between us, so it wouldn’t leave a trail, using the branches to brush snow over our footsteps. Our tracks wouldn’t be fully covered, but they’d be transformed into smudges by the time we got back to the cottage.
It was snowing more heavily now. I looked up at the sky and thanked it for aiding and abetting us.
Chapter 29
I kept a lookout while Karen built a fire in the metal cage near the byre. She dropped in all the contents of Charlie’s backpack – his passport, the woolly hat, the book, maps – the wallet from his pockets, then the rucksack itself. We watched it shrivel and buck in the heat, like it was alive.
‘Get the rug from the lean-to,’ Karen instructed. ‘It’s evidence, even though you’ve washed it.’ It smoked with the damp at first, but gradually disintegrated.
She used a garden fork to shift the remains around so the flames ate up every inch, turning every bit to grey cinders. The fire died down and there was nothing left, apart from the charred buckle of a belt. Karen raked it out, tossed it into the snow to cool it down and put it in a plastic bag. She raked out all the ash too and tipped it in a bag. She always wore gloves and seemed a real expert when it came to covering our tracks.
We were just about to set off back, when my phone rang. It was a shock as we’d all been having such difficulty with the signal. Karen headed off to the back door and left me outside on the track, where I could keep the connection.
It was Stuart. ‘Hi – I’m outside – you were lucky to catch me.’ I tried to sound light and airy.
‘Sorry I had to rush off yesterday. Glad I caught you. Are you free this evening for a drink?’
I hesitated, thinking about what Mark and Jodie had said about spotting him in the pub. He spoke again, his tone conspiratorial. ‘Listen…are you alone?’
I looked up and saw Karen entering the cottage. ‘Yes, why?’
‘I don’t want to worry you, but how well do you know Karen?’
‘Karen? Like I told you – we were friends at Leeds about six years ago, we lost touch but this holiday is a kind of reunion.’
‘It’s just – I’ll come straight to the point – I’ve been thinking about it and her description of her time in Hollywood doesn’t ring true.’
‘Stuart – what is this? Are you a private detective?’
He laughed. ‘No. I’m not…’ He laughed again. He seemed to find the idea extremely amusing.
‘What’s going on?’ I said, wishing he was there in front of me so I could read his face.
‘I think you should be careful. I’m not sure she’s been telling you the truth.’
‘Just because she was a bit vague about LA? It’s over a year since she was there.’
‘But she said she was there for nearly five years. She must have got to know the area – the road names, the Metro lines – pretty well in that time.’
‘Yeah – I suppose.’
‘And yet – she got so
mething totally wrong.’
‘What?’
‘The Hollywood-Highland Metro line – the closest one to where she was living – on all the maps it’s coloured red, not orange.’
‘You were trying to catch her out?’
‘She agreed it was orange. It’s a big mistake to make – that’s all. It’s like living in London for five years and calling the Central Line the blue one.’
‘Maybe she didn’t use the Metro that much.’
‘In five years?’ He expelled a loud breath. ‘It’s the only line that serves that district – you can’t confuse it with any other.’
‘You know the area better than you let me believe.’
‘Sorry, I don’t mean to make trouble.’
‘No. You’re right. It’s odd. The whole thing is odd –Karen being an au pair for five years… it doesn’t fit with her at all.’
‘You think she’s making it up?’
‘Why would she?’
I thought about the handful of photographs we’d looked at earlier. ‘Actually there was something else…’ I said. He waited and I started walking around to keep warm. ‘There was a photo of her with the youngest child she was looking after and she said the girl was four, but the picture was only taken two years ago. That must have been towards the end of her stay…’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Well – she said the child was there when she got arrived – but the dates don’t add up, if she was only four, she wouldn’t have been born when Karen started with them.’
‘Ah…’ he said. ‘You see?’
‘Mmm…’ I murmured. ‘It could explain why she’s been so unforthcoming about it all.’
‘Can you get hold of those photos so I can have a look at them? I’ll collect you later.’
I was taken aback. ‘Why? Why are you so interested in her?’
His voice dropped to a hush. ‘I can’t say right now. I don’t want to frighten you – but I think you should be very careful.’
‘Around Karen?’
‘Yes,’ he said emphatically. ‘She’s not what she seems.’
Chapter 30
Major panic about Charlie has taken over everything, but I think I’ve managed to get it under control. Still…snags seem to be cropping up all over the place. I’m going to struggle to hold it all together. It’s awful having no one here I can talk to about it – I’ve got so much bottled up inside.
It’s Alice I’m worried about now. I’ve changed my mind about her, but it’s too bloody late! She’s more sure of herself, more independent in her thinking – so different. I can’t afford for her to be like this. She needs to be my acolyte, to back up everything I say and do. My plan depends on it. Why else would I have asked her?!
Alice used to be simple, straightforward and naïve – everyone trusted her. She wasn’t practised at spotting lies, either, she used to go along with everything. Now I’m not so sure. I don’t want her thinking too much, putting the pieces together and complicating things.
I can’t believe I might actually be the cause of this – it’s probably my fault that she’s punching above her weight! I taught her to come out of herself, to spread her wings and cherish her strengths. Now, she’s read self-help books, been to assertiveness classes, even had life-coaching, The result is she’s not as pliable as she once was. I’m worried now. I’m not sure I can trust her to keep in line anymore.
Chapter 31
Karen was in the bath when I got back indoors. I, too, wanted nothing more than to scrub away the thick layers of shame after what we’d done, but I knew no matter how hard I scoured my body, I’d never scrub out the disgust buried beneath my skin.
Now I had something else to worry about. More and more, Karen seemed to be turning into the enemy, snapping and being short with me. I didn’t dare imagine what was going on inside her head, but an increasingly terrified part of me wanted to be anywhere, but here.
I made myself a coffee while I waited to use the bathroom and Jodie joined me by the stove, unexpectedly. She was huddled over in her bathrobe, her long hair screwed up as if the contents of a mangled knitting basket had been tipped over her head.
‘It’s early for you,’ I remarked.
‘Tell me about it – Mark wants a coffee,’ she groaned, reaching for the kettle.
‘It’s just boiled,’ I said.
She held onto the edge of the draining board as if she might collapse without its support. I stood behind her, wondering if she knew anything about the ten thousand pounds I’d found in Mark’s bag. I cringed at the thought of it.
She shuffled out without another word.
Chapter 32
I rinsed my mug and went upstairs. Karen was still in the bath; I could hear more running water. Jodie had disappeared and Mel was whining in Karen’s room.
If I was quick, I might be able to do it in time.
I slipped inside; the curtains were still drawn so I flicked on the bedside light, hoping not to startle Mel. She looked over. She was standing in her cot, holding on to the side, looking rather lost.
‘Hello, sweetheart…’ I said. I went over to her and stroked her hair. She was in shadow, but nevertheless I was able to see the purple patches under her eyes. Her cheeks were puffy like she’d had no sleep at all and there was a rash near her ears.
‘Mama,’ she said and her face crumpled.
‘Mummy won’t be long, darling – she’ll be here in a minute.’
Mel banged the side of the cot with her fist and, losing her balance, flopped down on her backside. That set off a new round of blubbing.
‘Shush, now,’ I said. I was torn about picking her up. I wanted to soothe her, but I didn’t want to get caught in Karen’s room.
I scanned the surfaces, looking for the yellow envelope with the photos from LA. I couldn’t see it, so I checked the suitcase on the floor and a plastic bag near the bed. It was full of dirty washing. I opened the bedside cabinet, looked on the floor. Then her handbag. Yes – I found them.
‘What are you doing?’ said Karen.
I had my back to the door and hurriedly shoved the photographs up my jumper.
‘Mel was upset,’ I said. ‘I wanted to give her a cuddle.’
She pushed past me, her hair sopping wet and reached down for the child. Mel clawed at her face. ‘Mama…’ she cried, again, babbling other sounds that weren’t real words. ‘Gaba…nada…waah…’
‘Did you know she’s got a rash? I wasn’t sure if—’
‘Thank you, Alice. She’s fine,’ Karen said abruptly, and I backed out of the door.
Later that morning, I went along the lane to find a signal and rang Nina.
‘I hoped you’d call,’ she said. ‘Malcolm is out painting as usual. It’s a fabulous day. D’you fancy a stroll?’
I’d barely registered that following the misty start, the sun had finally broken through and blessed the day with light, a vestige of warmth and, best of all, the promise of a thaw.
‘I’d love to,’ I replied.
‘I’ll pick you up,’ she said. ‘Malcolm went off on foot today.’
She collected me from the end of the track shortly afterwards, a map on her knees.
‘Where do you want to go?’ she asked. ‘Mountains, valleys, lochs?’
‘Anywhere away from here,’ I said, before I’d been able to filter my response. I qualified it. ‘With the boy – and everything.’
‘Let’s head for Stonaton,’ she said. ‘There’s a lovely pub that overlooks the river. We can get lunch there.’
We wound along narrow country lanes, leaving the cursed cottage, the byre, the loch far behind.
The sun was bright and it was wonderful to be forced to half-close my eyes as we drove into it. We stopped in a car park on the edge of a hamlet and set off towards the river, passing a small Norman church and adjoining graveyard. We skirted a tiny village green surrounded by a white picket fence with an old red telephone box on the corner. It felt idyllic; peace
ful and untouched, with chocolate-box charm.
We followed the path down to the river, clambering over rocks and through sheets of ice and slushy mud until we arrived at a magnificent waterfall. It was around ten metres high, hollering with a great thudding noise as tons of water came tumbling over the top.
Nina had to shout so I could hear her. ‘Isn’t it spectacular?’ she said, beckoning me closer. I nodded, but stayed where I was, not wanting her to see the tears in my eyes. I felt unable to move, transfixed by the turbulent power of it, wanting to be consumed by it; to let the thunder deafen me so I’d no longer have to listen to the perpetual round of questions and fears that batted around inside my head.
For a moment, I wished I could die right there and then, swept up inside the cleansing command of the water, pummelled by the crushing weight of it. Then I’d be washed away like a broken twig. I took half a step forward.
Suddenly Nina’s arm was around me. She didn’t say anything; she just wanted me to know she was there.
A couple of boys ran screaming on to the bank at the far side, throwing stones at chunks of ice and broke the spell.
We walked on, her arm linked into mine until the narrowing path forced us into single file. I followed behind until we reached the Old Forge Inn. Painted white, with black window frames, it stood next to a humpback bridge.
We settled near the fire, with two halves of real ale and a plate each of fish and chips. I asked how Malcolm was getting on with his pictures.
‘Three finished and one on its way,’ she said. ‘A guest in one of the holiday cottages wants to buy one of them.’
‘Already?’
‘It happens every time. It’s such a novel idea to take an original watercolour home with you, instead of a few snaps on your smartphone – if you had a jolly time, that is.’ We shared a knowing look. ‘You heard any more about the missing boy?’ she asked, collecting the empty sachets of sauce and salt we’d used and leaving them on her empty plate.