by Ben Cheetham
DAY 2
9.21 A.M.
Tom flinched at the ringtone like someone jerked out of a trance. He pressed his phone to his ear. ‘What is it, Eddie?’
‘Amanda just left the hospital with her parents. From the direction they went in, I’d say they’re taking her to their house. Graham’s still in the cop shop. And if you ask me he’d be better off staying there. This place is crawling with journos.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
Tom hung up and shoved his foot down on the accelerator. Ritton Hall was on the south side of town, closer to the station than him. But if he moved fast he might just beat them there. Some five minutes later he pulled up at the gates and swore to himself. Henry’s Range Rover was already in the drive. He pressed the intercom button. Henry’s voice came over the line. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Tom. I want to speak to Amanda.’
‘She’s not here.’
The lie didn’t surprise Tom one bit. Henry and Cathy had been waiting for this chance for years. ‘Bullshit. Put her on.’
‘She’s not here,’ repeated Henry, his voice hard and final. ‘And even if she was, I don’t think she’d want to speak to you.’
‘I couldn’t give a toss whether or not she wants to speak to me. I think I’ve earned the right to ask her a few questions, don’t you?’
Tom waited for a reply, but the intercom was silent. Fury pounded in his face. If Amanda thought she could simply remove him from her life like a pet she’d grown bored of, she was very wrong. He reversed a few feet then accelerated into the gates. They clanged and vibrated, but held firm. He reversed again and accelerated harder. The left-hand gate bowed inwards. Ritton Hall’s front door flew open and Henry came running out, purpling at the sight of the damaged gates.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing!’ he yelled.
‘Either you let me talk to Amanda or I’m going to batter your gates down,’ retorted Tom.
Cathy emerged from the house and called to her husband. ‘Shall I phone the police?’
Henry held up a staying hand. ‘You’ve got a choice,’ he said to Tom. ‘You can either leave or I can have you slung in jail.’
Tom smiled disdainfully. He didn’t believe for one second that Henry would follow through on his threat. The whiff of scandal swirling around his family was already strong enough. He revved his engine and charged again, tearing the left-hand gate off its lower hinge. The driver-side airbag exploded into his face. Thrusting it aside, he saw a gap between the gates large enough to squeeze through. He got out, crunching shards of shattered headlight underfoot.
‘You’re out of your mind,’ roared Henry. ‘Do you know what? It wouldn’t surprise me one little bit if you had something to do with Erin’s disappearance.’
Tom’s eyes swelled like storm clouds. He thrust himself between the gates and advanced on Henry, fists clenched.
Henry retreated several quick steps, his well-padded cheeks quivering. ‘Call them, Cathy!’
‘No.’ Amanda thrust her head out of an upstairs window. ‘I want to talk to him.’
She threw Tom a look that stopped him dead. He uncurled his fists, blinking away from her. Those green eyes always had a way of making him feel guilty, regardless of whether or not he was. From the first moment he’d looked into them, they’d made him feel all sorts of things – desire, nervousness, elation, love. But most of all they’d made him want to rise above who he was, become a better man, husband and father. Even now, with their marriage as broken as the gates, the thought ran through his mind, Can I get us through this? Can I fix it somehow, if only for the kids?
As they waited for Amanda to make her way downstairs, Cathy said haughtily to Tom, ‘You should consider yourself lucky. You’ve had some of the best years of my daughter’s life. But now it’s over.’
Tom bit down on a retort. One thing was over for sure – his relationship with Henry and Cathy. No matter how things turned out, he was finished with them.
Amanda emerged from the house, looking as if she’d just stopped crying. ‘I’d like to talk to my husband alone.’
‘I really don’t think you should be alone with this man,’ said Henry.
‘I’ve been married to this man for sixteen years, Dad. I think I’m a better judge than you as to whether it’s safe for me to be alone with him.’
Henry’s narrowed gaze returned to Tom. ‘If you lay a single finger on my—’
‘Dad,’ Amanda broke in exasperatedly. ‘Just go inside will you.’
Henry put his arm around Cathy and they went into the house. Amanda motioned for Tom to follow her. They crossed the lawn to a bench encircled by rose bushes. Amanda sat down. Tom remained standing.
‘What do you want, Tom?’ There was a contradictory mixture of shame and challenge in Amanda’s eyes.
As he looked at her, one image twisted like a knife in his brain – an image of her and Graham thrusting against each other, slick with strawberry lube. ‘How long has it been going on?’
‘Not long. It started in January and I ended it a few weeks ago.’
‘So the kids are mine.’
‘Of course they’re yours. If you don’t believe me, we can do a DNA test or whatever to prove it.’
‘The police are already doing one.’
Tom scoured Amanda’s face for signs of intensified anxiety, but she merely heaved a sigh. ‘Good.’
He knew then that she wasn’t lying. Tom and Erin were his children. He might have wept with relief if there hadn’t been another question clamouring to be asked. ‘Why did you do this?’
Amanda struggled to maintain eye contact. ‘What do you want me to say? I was lonely. I wanted to feel—’
‘That’s not what I’m asking. What I want to know is why it had to be with my fucking brother!’ Tom snatched out Graham’s photos and hurled them at Amanda’s feet. Her eyes flashed with embarrassment.
‘This is pointless. Nothing I can say is going to make you feel any better.’
‘Maybe, but try anyway.’
‘No. I don’t think I want to.’ There was a trace of her mother’s haughtiness in Amanda’s voice. ‘I think it would be best for both of us if we just went our separate ways.’
She started to rise, but Tom caught hold of her arm. ‘You don’t get off that easy.’
The embarrassment transformed in a blink to anger. She spoke slowly through her teeth. ‘Let go.’
‘Or what? What could you possibly do that would hurt me any more than you already have.’
‘I could tell you the truth about why I did what I did. Is that what you really want?’
Tom hesitated to reply. Did he really want to have to live with that particular truth? Maybe it would be better to say no. He knew, though, that if he did he would always be stuck in this moment. ‘Yes.’
‘The truth is I wanted to hurt you as badly as possible for turning out to be just another little man. You may hate my father, but you and he are the same. All you care about is getting what you want. That’s why he made sure you got planning permission. He knew the quarry would bring us nothing but grief.’
Tom’s face wrinkled doubtfully. He found it difficult to believe even Henry was that cynical.
Amanda continued with a despairing edge, ‘You just can’t see it, can you? Your brother does. He may not have your ambition, but he knows what’s really important. He’d never treat someone like a trophy to be put in a cabinet and only brought out when you need something to show off.’
‘Neither would I.’
Amanda arched an eyebrow. ‘I’m being truthful here, Tom. It’s about time you did the same.’
‘I fell in love with you before I knew who your father was. Remember?’
‘Yes, but you’ve always used me to remind yourself how far you’ve come and to push yourself to go further. At least with Graham I’m a . . .’ Amanda sought for the right words, ‘a real person. Not a symbol.’
‘Then why did you break it off with him?’
‘Because I don’t love him. I love you.’ Amanda shook her head sardonically. ‘What does that say about me, eh?’
They stared at each other for a long moment. Oh, Christ, those eyes, thought Tom. He could hardly bear to look into them, but neither could he bring himself to look away. The emerald irises were suddenly glistening with tears. Amanda yanked her arm free and turned away, saying, ‘Anyway, none of this really matters right now, does it? The only thing that matters is finding Erin.’
‘Maybe Graham can help with that.’
‘He’s your brother. You can’t possibly think he’s capable of hurting Erin.’
‘It seems I don’t know what either of you are capable of.’
Amanda darted Tom a horrified look. ‘Are you insinuating I’ve got something to do with Erin’s disappearance?’
‘No, of course not,’ he said quickly. ‘Not directly.’ All the what ifs forced their way up his throat again. ‘But what if Erin cottoned on to what you’ve been up to and ran away because of it? Or what if Graham’s using her to get back at you?’
Amanda came back at him with one of her own. ‘What if we were right about Carl Wright? What if this is indirectly your fault?’
The what ifs hung between them like accusing fingers. ‘It’s impossible to know what to think,’ conceded Tom. What I do know is that yesterday morning I had a wife and a family and today—’ Emotions strangled his words. Now it was his turn to look away and hide his tears.
‘You still do have a family.’ There was a pained tenderness in Amanda’s voice. ‘No matter what happens between us, I’d never take the kids away from you. You’ll always be able to see them whenever you want.’
Tom jerked his unshaven chin at the house. ‘Not if they have their way.’
‘That’s not going to happen, because the kids aren’t going to be brought up here.’ Amanda made a sweeping motion. ‘This isn’t what I want for them. I know that’s as difficult for you to understand as it is for my parents.’
Tom took in the sprawling gardens and imposing house. He thought of everything he’d had and everything he’d lost. ‘No, it’s not.’ His voice was thick with regret. ‘Not any more.’ Without letting his eyes return to Amanda, he started towards the gates.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Back to the forest. Where else is there for me to go?’
‘Tom.’
Something in her voice – something almost pleading – made him look over his shoulder.
‘I know I have no right to ask, but do you still love me?’
A silence passed. Then Tom said, ‘Yes’, and continued walking, his pace quickening, his face creased with confusion as if he wasn’t sure whether he was hurrying towards or away from something.
DAY 2
9.57 A.M.
So how do you want to do this?’ asked Lauren.
‘I’ll knock,’ said Jake. ‘You stay here and keep lookout.’
‘See you in a minute. Unless she turns you into a toad or something.’
Jake frowned at Lauren and she wiggled her eyebrows provocatively.
The neighbouring bungalow was screened from sight by overgrown buddleias that made Jake think of the Ingham house. His gaze fell to a crude little gate of sticks tied together with frayed string and wire. He had to admit there was definitely something witchy about it. He opened the gate and furtively approached the back door. Soft rustlings came from the bushes. Peering into them, he glimpsed slanted luminous eyes staring back. He recalled something he’d read about witches. How some had the power to change into animal form and others could see through the eyes of their familiars. Screw all that bullshit, he thought. Mary was simply a messed-up little girl who’d grown into a messed-up woman. The question was – how messed up?
He pulled back a branch from the windows. Faded curtains were drawn across them. The black cat eyeballed him from the flat roof that sheltered the back door. Half expecting the cat to pounce on him, he hammered on the back door. He sprinted for the gate and ducked down beside Lauren.
‘So what do you reckon?’ he asked after a minute or so.
‘She’s either not in or she’s not answering her door.’
‘Do you think we should try again?’
‘What for? If she doesn’t want to answer the door, it won’t matter how hard you knock. There’s only one way we’re going to find out what’s in there.’
‘If we get caught we’ll be in deep shit. I think you should stay out here.’
Lauren’s eyebrows angled into a V. ‘We’re best mates, right?’
‘Yeah, so?’
‘So best mates always have each other’s back. No way am I letting you go in there alone. Besides, you haven’t got a clue how to break into somewhere.’
‘Neither have you.’
‘Yeah, I do. The first thing you need is one of these.’ Lauren produced a screwdriver from her pocket.
Jake couldn’t help but smile. He felt a flicker of guilt at how harsh he’d been about the diary.
‘Wipe that dopey look off your face and let’s go see what we can see,’ she said.
They slunk to the back door. Lauren wiggled her hand at the cat, palm down, little finger and index finger extended like horns, the other fingers folded under her thumb – a gesture Jake knew was supposed to ward off the evil eye. The cat slitted its eyes at them, seemingly unconcerned.
Lauren turned her attention to the door. ‘It said online that it’s easier to remove a window than break a lock.’ She pushed the tip of the screwdriver into the flaking putty at the bottom of the window pane. ‘Now you just jimmy it around until the glass comes loose.’
She waggled the screwdriver up and down, shimmying it along the pane.
‘It’s working,’ said Jake.
‘Don’t sound so surprised.’
A diagonal crack suddenly appeared in the pane. A triangle of glass toppled loose, pushing aside the newspaper and shattering on the floor inside the door. The cat darted nimbly away across the roof. Jake and Lauren listened for any indication that anyone else had heard the glass break. ‘Whoops,’ Lauren whispered after several breathless seconds. ‘That wasn’t supposed to happen.’
‘No way is Mary in,’ said Jake. ‘Unless she’s deaf.’
Lauren reached through the broken pane. There was the click of a key turning in a lock. With a triumphant glance at Jake, she opened the door.
Their noses ruckled at the fishy stench that wafted out to greet them. ‘Urgh,’ said Lauren, ‘it smells worse than my nan’s knickers.’
Jake would have laughed if his heart hadn’t been beating so fast. Raising a finger to his lips, he padded into a small gloomy kitchen. Every available surface was stacked high with tinned cat food. Wherever there was a gap in the ranks of tins, it was filled by plates glistening with little mounds of jellied meat. Flies buzzed around the cat turds strewn over everything.
They picked their way to a dingy hallway carpeted with cat hair. More jumbles of tins climbed the dirty white walls. A path as thin as an animal track led to three doors. The nearest opened into a bathroom whose toilet was brown with welded-on shit. In place of loo roll, strips of torn newspaper were piled on the cistern. The bath was full of tatty towels and bundles of twigs. An ancient-looking cat was nested among them, pawing at a dead mouse.
‘I’d rather sleep in the woods than live like this,’ remarked Lauren.
‘At least she doesn’t have mice,’ said Jake, turning to the next door. Beyond it was a room that stretched from the front to the back of the bungalow. The glow given off by embers in the fireplace revealed more of the same – cat food, cat hair, cat turds, furry forms sleeping and stalking in the shadows. The only furniture was an armchair that looked as if it had been dragged out of a skip. A dog-eared photo of the Ingham family was propped on the dusty mantelpiece – the same photo Jake had seen on the website of the Northumberland Society for Paranormal Investigation.
He pictured Mary Ingham sitting in the armchair
night after night, staring at the photo of her family. The thought gave him a sad ache in his heart.
‘Let’s check out that other door,’ said Lauren.
‘Mary’s Room. NO CATS ALLOWED!’ warned spidery letters on the door. His nerves doing a jig, Jake opened it. The room was too dark to see more than a shadowy suggestion of its contents. A smell like musty cloth tickled their nostrils. He flipped a light switch. They were both silent for several stunned breaths. Then Lauren murmured, ‘Fuck me, the whole town’s here.’
An iron-framed single bed was made up with a lacy duvet and pillow, grey with age. Next to it was a table with an electric sewing machine on it. Sewing tools were neatly laid out on a cutting mat. Rolls of different coloured fabric were stacked beneath the table. Apart from the space it and the bed occupied, every bit of wall was covered with shelves of dolls. A few of the dolls had wide-eyed, rosebud-mouthed china faces, soft-pink and baby-blue frilly lace dresses and bonnets. They looked like the kind of thing you might see in an antique store or a wealthy child’s nursery. The rest of the dolls – of which there must have been hundreds – were definitely not collectors’ items. Like the effigy of Erin, they had stuffed bodies and oversized heads. There was a vicar and a postwoman. There were policemen, firemen, nurses and doctors. In addition to the uniformed dolls, there was a vast cast of characters in run-of-the-mill clothing of every kind. Their faces were even more detailed than their outfits. Mary Ingham – assuming she was their maker – had recreated with uncanny accuracy everything from her subjects’ hair and eye colour, right down to birthmarks, blemishes, scars and dimples. Their features were exaggerated, but not to the point of caricature. It was more reminiscent of the work of a talented portrait painter. They ranged in age from babies to pensioners.
‘Look, there’s Mr Turnbull, the butcher.’ Jake pointed to a stout doll in a red-and-white-striped pinafore. ‘And that’s definitely Zoe Parr from Year Ten. And isn’t that Mrs Wardle, the geography teacher?’
‘It’s like a screwed up episode of Postman Pat.’ Lauren looked at a little wooden table surrounded by six toddler-sized chairs. A doll was sitting on each of the chairs in front of a china tea cup and saucer. In the centre of the table was a teapot and a plate piled with plastic cupcakes. ‘Do they remind you of anyone?’