by Syd Moore
‘You missed my story,’ Starla went on in low tones. ‘It’s got Persephone in it.’ She nodded at my salad. ‘You know – pomegranate seeds.’
I forked one and popped it in my mouth. ‘What about them?’
‘The myth,’ she said. ‘The abduction of Persephone by Hades, the god of the underworld. I suppose, thinking about him now, he’s probably a bit like that Cernunnos Sam was talking about. The horned one.’
‘What’s this got to do with my salad?’ I asked, though Laura was frowning at us for talking.
‘I’m getting to it. Surprised you don’t know, Rosie. Weren’t you taught Greek myths at school?’
I wrinkled my nose. ‘Can’t remember. There’s all sorts of stuff I can’t recall from back then.’ I pulled my chair in so that Cullen could squeeze round the back to his seat.
I watched him slide into his chair. He had an air of satisfaction about him. Must certainly have been a rewarding session in the lavatory.
‘The story has got supernatural tones, you know,’ Starla went on. ‘And it’s entirely sexist, of course.’
I snorted. ‘Quelle surprise.’
Laura glared at us.
Robin flapped his arms like a chicken and started whinnying. His eyelids were doing that fluttering thing again. ‘Be gone, thou Terrorfly,’ he proclaimed.
Then everybody gave him a round of applause and started talking, which gave Starla the time to fill me in properly.
‘Well,’ she brought her head down to mine. I could smell lasagne on her breath. There were red stains in the corners of her mouth. ‘Hades bursts through a cleft in the earth and grabs beautiful Persephone, taking her down to the underworld to be his bride. When her mother, Demeter, finds out she searches all over the earth for her vanished daughter, with Hecate’s torches lighting her way.’
A mental image of our museum cat walking on her hind legs and carrying torches in each paw caused me to smile. Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past that one.
‘Demeter was so upset that she forbade the earth to produce anything. So, the world was plunged into despair and nothing grew. Prompted by the cries of the hungry people Hades was forced to return Persephone. However, the dark god tricked her, giving her some pomegranate seeds to eat. Because she had eaten six seeds Hades told her she would spend six months of the year down there, in the earthy tomb of the afterlife. And that, of course, is when we have winter.’
I nodded and bit down on a seed. This one was bitter. Outside the grey was lightening.
‘My story,’ continued Starla, ‘is about a woman whose husband develops photophobia and can’t bear light. She spends six months outside with her children having a normal life then six months in the dark with him. In her dark world she finds herself becoming cold, deadened and stone-hearted, longing to feel sunshine and joy again, to feel wonder. She weeps.’
That’s me, I thought and an internal voice said, ‘Since summer passed I have been low in the underworld, becoming dead and cold like Persephone. When will I be able to feel joy again?’ Then I caught myself and thought blimey, where the heck did that come from? These writers and their purpling prose were clearly contagious.
Chris Devlin was calling my name, ‘… joining us. What’s your greatest fear then, Rosie?’
I pushed my plate across the table and folded my arms. ‘It’s already happened.’
He smiled, then frowned. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m not telling you,’ I said.
Nicholas tutted and threw the remains of a shot down his throat, adding the empty to several on the table.
Devlin could tell from the look on my face that I wasn’t going to budge because he turned to the young nutter up the end of the row and said, ‘Yours then, Cullen? Be a gentleman and share.’
All heads turned and looked upon Mr Sutcliffe with interest.
‘Nothing much frightens me,’ he said to Devlin’s dismay. ‘Except,’ he went on, ‘I spent the first three years of my life in Australia. I know,’ he said to Nicholas’s raised eyebrows, ‘no accent. But it did leave me with something more than a healthy respect for snakes.’ He shuddered. ‘I can’t bear them.’
Over the other side of the table, Laura began nodding. ‘Me too,’ she said. ‘I can’t even watch them on television.’
‘I read your story about the man with a phobia about them,’ said Jocelyn. ‘It was great.’
Laura nodded, pleased. ‘Thank you. Yes, in a cathartic way, I did enjoy writing The Eden Tree.’
‘So,’ said Chris. ‘You put your fear into it, didn’t you?’
L.D. Taylor-Jacobs nodded. ‘That’s right. Thank you for your endorsement Chris. It sold well.’
‘It’s a really scary story,’ said Jocelyn. ‘I read in your Author’s Note you used your own phobia of snakes to ramp up the tension. And all that stuff about snakes, serpents and Satan …’
Laura couldn’t help but smile. ‘Yes, well the symbolism was too good to omit – snakes are often identified with evil, chaos, the underworld.’
‘And here we are back with the Devil again,’ I said from my corner.
Everyone turned to me and waited, but just then Imogen let out a rather awful moan, which was rather uncharacteristic, what with her being seemingly devoid of emotion.
She shuddered in agreement. ‘Not sure I would be able to read that. I’m not fond of snakes either.’
Nicholas looked up, engaged at last, and grinned. ‘Well I guess none of you have heard the news about the local zoo?’ he said. ‘One of their Royal Pythons is missing.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Nicholas’s announcement had, as I imagined he intended, a radical effect on all of us gathered there. We collectively started. Starla and I, sitting next to each other, both went, ‘Oh,’ and synchronised a sudden intake of breath.
Cullen visibly blanched. I thought for a moment he was going to gag.
‘Nicholas, you’d better be joking,’ Laura thundered.
The fop giggled, looking suddenly like a little imp, with red skin and mischief in his heart. ‘Not at all,’ he said with reckless bravado.
Laura’s sense of humour had evidently evaporated because she muttered, ‘Twat,’ and then pouted at him.
Colonel Mustard however had blunted his faculties somewhat and continued, oblivious to the change of mood in the snug. Or more likely he was just enjoying the stir. He hicced then held up his phone. ‘BBC news alert. Came up this morning.’
Jocelyn grabbed it off him, scrutinised the screen then nodded glumly. ‘He’s right. Posted this morning.’
At which point Devlin clapped his hands. ‘Excellent. We can all use that. Right I want you three to sum up the way you are feeling in three adverbs or adjectives.’
Laura side-eyed Nicholas. ‘Heightened. Punchy. Violent.’
Imogen cocked her head to one side. ‘Uneasy, er, wanton, physical.’
Devlin grimaced, took his gaze off her and pointed to Cullen. ‘And you, my man – three words?’
Cullen crossed his arms and muttered, ‘Very pissed off.’
Everyone laughed and tittered. Except Devlin, who sighed.
Then Jocelyn piped up. ‘A lot of people are frightened of the unknown. What they imagine is the supernatural.’
‘Good,’ said Devlin and gleamed at her.
‘Graham was,’ said Nicholas. ‘You could tell the way he reacted to your recital in the church.’ He turned to Starla. His words were laced with mocking accusation. ‘It’s almost as if you knew exactly what you were doing Ms Ocean – frightening him. And you didn’t leave it at the church either, did you? You carried on till his heart gave out.’
‘Oh Nicholas, shut up.’ This time it was Tabby who voiced what the others were thinking. ‘You can’t think Starla’s hopeless mumbling had anything to do with Graham’s death.’
Starla wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or offended.
Tabby continued to tut. ‘Such hocus pocus can’t raise the dead. Or else we’d all be at it. The
re’d be a “Necromancers R Us” in every soulless retail park.’
‘But what I’m saying,’ he carried on, a pronounced slur to his words. ‘Is that Starla’s “hocus pocus”, for all its worth, might not have raised the dead. But it did send Graham closer to the grave. Her incantation increased his sense of fear. And thus, like it or not, contributed to his heart attack. How do we know that Starla didn’t do that on purpose?’ He looked around the table and shrugged. ‘We don’t. None of us know anything about each other.’
‘Me?’ said Starla, now definitely outraged. ‘But why would I want to cause Graham’s death?’
Nicholas scoffed. ‘Perhaps you knew him before coming here? Maybe you flirted with him and he turned you down? Maybe you wanted revenge for that!’
‘That’s certainly a motive.’ This from Cullen. ‘Sex and scorn are often stimuli.’ As Nicholas’s fiery gaze clapped onto him he shut his mouth.
But it was too late – young Cullen had raised his head above the parapet and now was going to pay the price.
‘Oh yes, well you know all about motives don’t you Cullen. Because you can get “inside the mind of a killer”,’ Nicholas said and tapped his own head, aggressively. ‘You total utter psycho.’
‘Nicholas, shut up,’ said Jocelyn for probably the thirteenth time that day.
‘We’re all writing crime,’ said Cullen. A note of pleading had crept into his voice. ‘We can all imagine what that’s like.’
He looked like he was going to remain quiet, rather sensibly, but then Nicholas said, ‘Yes, but you do it with so much conviction.’
At that point Cullen’s eyes darkened. His mouth formed into a snarl. While the muscles in his cheeks flexed he said, slowly with measured deliberation, ‘And you’re always so angry. Can I remind you what Laura told us: “Murder is an extension of anger.”’
I’d never heard that before. It was an interesting comment though, and a previous experience would certainly bear that theory out.
There was a crack on the table as Nicholas whipped round and faced the female crime writer, knocking over a glass on the table in his haste. Jocelyn started dabbing at the spilled wine.
‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘And there you have it. Our criminal mastermind. Yet no one’s pointing the finger at Laura are they? But she knew Graham was here. She has admitted she spoke to him on the phone, that she talked about her ideas. Certainly, she introduced the story to him.’
Chris stood up and began waving his hands in front of Nicholas. ‘Sir, I admire your passion but you have made your point. Please let others speak.’
But Nicholas didn’t care. ‘And let’s not forget – the famous Eden Tree.’ He held up his phone and stabbed at the screen while he swayed. ‘Ah here we have it. “L.D. Taylor-Jacobs has murder in her heart – the best criminal mind published of late. The Eden Tree is a testament to the cunning and brutality of contemporary life”,’ he said as if he were quoting a review. ‘You wrote that Mr Devlin.’
Chris’s eyebrows remained unmoved (Botox probably) but his mouth dropped open.
‘So I believe you, Mr Devlin, superstar crime writer, you must be regarding Laura with no small amount of suspicion too,’ Nicholas went on. ‘Yet, you’re just as bad, aren’t you? How many people have you both murdered? In fiction. Allegedly.’
‘Okay,’ said Laura. She bent her head towards the table and put her hands on it, like a judge calling the courtroom to order. ‘Enough. We still don’t know what the coroner has to say about Graham’s unfortunate accident. But I think I can speak for the group when I say we’ve had our fill of your theories now, thank you Master Mustard.’
‘Methinks the man doth protest too much,’ said Imogen eyeing Nicholas with disdain.
Devlin also got to his feet. ‘Let’s call it a day, folks. I, for one, am going to have a pint.’ He squeezed round the table. As he lurched through the arch he called over his shoulder. ‘If anyone wants to chat informally, you’re welcome to join me.’
‘Ooh,’ said Margot, clutching the pendant at her neck. ‘I think I could do with something stronger after that.’ She sent Nicholas a rueful glance.
Laura sighed. ‘The rest of you can have some free time to write. I’m heading back to the Hall.’
The atmosphere in the snug wasn’t exactly conducive to delicate questioning, so in the end I joined Laura and Imogen on their return walk to the Hall.
As we left the pub we saw Jocelyn ahead of us, pulling Nicholas up the road.
‘Sorry,’ she yelled from the other side. ‘He’s drunk. I’m going to take him to the tea rooms to sober him up.’
We watched Nicholas stumble across the pavement and round the corner out of view.
‘That woman is a saint,’ said Laura.
I nodded. ‘No doubt about it, Nicholas is a wild card.’
Laura grunted.
‘The thing is,’ said Imogen, who was in between us. ‘I think he’s right about Cullen. There is something, er, unusual about his character. The way he stares at you. And he seems to pop up in the shadows, lurking, just when I think I’m on my own.’
I thought back to earlier. Why had he been talking to those men at the bar? Was it really for directions?
Though hadn’t one of them said, when we walked into The Griffin. ‘You back again?’ Yet, everyone on the course had promised they’d never been here before. Apart from Laura.
I looked at her fiddling with her satchel, closing the lock on the front. She was personable, fairly erudite, sharp, seemingly successful. Was it possible she was behind all the trouble at Ratchette Hall? Certainly, she’d been the catalyst with her choice of story and venue, that much was true. But the killer?
And although there was something off about Cullen I couldn’t really see, right now, why someone like him might have anything to do with the mild-mannered caretaker of the Essex Writers Retreat.
‘But why would Cullen be involved with Graham?’ I said out loud, as we walked.
Imogen raised her bulb-head to me. ‘I wouldn’t put it past that boy to do something like that as an experiment. To see if he could scare someone to death, then write about it. He’s very hungry for a traditional publishing deal. Desperate for validation.’
‘Really?’ I said. Seemed a bit far-fetched.
‘Well,’ Imogen continued, ‘I was thinking about it yesterday afternoon. He was the one who found him, which means he could easily have placed the finger in Graham’s hand. To make it look like the story and throw off any suspicion. It’s an interesting proposition.’
I nodded. ‘He did find Graham, you’re right.’ I mused silently – would someone really murder another human being for a book deal? Especially when, if you were found out, the stakes were so high – you’d probably go away for a long, long time. No. That was too deranged. But then again – Cullen. ‘It’s something to think about,’ I concluded.
Laura slung her bag over her shoulder. ‘I’m not sure. Think about the one stirring up everything, pointing the finger at others. Nicholas certainly likes a bit of drama.’
‘Huh,’ said Imogen and raised her big face to where he had disappeared with Jocelyn. ‘That boy is an arsehole.’
I don’t know why, but it amused me heartily to hear that pop out of Imogen’s mouth.
I started to snigger, but before I knew it, my mouth had opened and turned into a laugh which then became rather an enormous guffaw that shook my chest and made me gasp for breath. The other two had to stop walking as I leant my back against the tall garden wall of a row of cottages. Imogen had begun to giggle too. As she did her face became brighter, and for a moment I saw her eyes flicker with uncharacteristic mischief.
The laughter, being one of the more pleasant infections of the human condition, sprang from Imogen to Laura and soon the three of us were standing there huffing and puffing until someone banged on the cottage window and made a hand and finger gesture that symbolised he wasn’t keen on us loitering in front of his home.
I finally manag
ed to get myself under control and we were able to calm down a bit and recommence our walk.
‘Oh ho,’ said Laura in a wheezy, sing-songy way. ‘He’s not that bad, Imogen, though I appreciate your candour. He’s just young.’
‘And scared,’ I added.
Laura looked at me with eyebrows raised. ‘You have amazing depths of insight for …’ then she stopped herself.
My humour immediately evaporated. ‘For what? An Essex Girl?’
She dropped her eyes and said, ‘Of course not. I was going to say, “for a Benefit Fraud inspector” but I realised how many assumptions I was making.’
I grunted and began walking faster in semi-abandoned fury.
They both increased their speed.
‘You are bright,’ said Imogen. ‘Laura’s right. Did you go to University?’
God why did everyone equate intelligence with academia. ‘Actually I did,’ I told them with triumph. ‘But I dropped out.’
‘Why was that?’ asked Laura.
‘Because it wasn’t what I expected. There wasn’t much teaching. It didn’t really satisfy me. I thought it would be better than that.’
‘What did you read?’ asked Imogen.
‘English and Psychology,’ I said.
‘Ah,’ said Imogen as if she was solving a conundrum. ‘Thus the vocab.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘It is possible to be working class and articulate you know––’
Laura cut me off. ‘I did my MA in English.’ She seemed keen to avoid any further outburst. ‘Actually, I was thinking about it earlier. Our “arsehole”, Nicholas, reminds me of someone I studied with. An old boyfriend. He was young, handsome and passionate too,’ she said wistfully. ‘Though he was nowhere near as vicious as Nick. Only with himself. So sad,’ she said and looked away.
Imogen grunted. We were approaching the top of the hill. ‘Where was that Laura? Would you recommend it?’
‘Leeds,’ she said. ‘But it was back in the nineties, so I doubt any of the tutors would still be there. Anyway, if I were you, Imogen, I’d think about doing a Creative Writing MA. But be careful about which one you choose. They all look at different aspects.’