Shadows

by Thorne Moore

  Suffocating fear. I couldn’t escape it. Frenzy, panic and furious snarling animal anger, yes I could recognise all those. And something else, something overwhelming in its fierceness and I had no idea what it was, only that it was turning everything upside down.

  I swallowed. For a moment I blanked out. When I refocused, there was Al ahead of me, deep in conversation with Sylvia on the subject of comfrey poultices.

  Unaware. Totally unaware.

  He felt nothing. In the old hall, it must have been my very stillness that prompted him to claim he detected something. He’d felt something among the standing stones, because Sylvia told him I’d done so. He was a charlatan, that was all there was to it. Just another fake.

  No. I was unfair. It wasn’t trickery on his part. It was wishful thinking. He wanted to feel. He wanted to believe there was something under the drab surface of life. Could I blame him, when he couldn’t begin to understand what a curse it was?

  ‘Watch out, Kate.’ His voice was coming from another world. ‘The track’s slippery here. Do you want a hand?’

  ‘Thanks.’ I reached out, and he clasped my hand, supporting me as I clambered over the mossy rocks, away from that horror.

  ‘Just down here,’ he said. ‘Not far now.’

  I could smell wood smoke drifting up. Dissipating into nothingness, like my hope of finding a kindred spirit.

  Some way below, a plank, carved with Celtic swirls and the word “Annwfyn,” had been hammered onto a post, and beyond it stood the yurt, round-bellied and maternal, squatting among the gnarled and spindly trees, like a fat lady trying to look inconspicuous in a crowd of anorexic teenagers. In the clearing beside it, shreds of smoke rose from a stone hearth. A few yards away, the stream gurgled innocently over a dam of rocks, constructed so recently that the shallow pool forming behind them was still murky with disturbed mud. I shuddered, thinking of its birth in that dark hollow.

  We were ushered into a patchouli-scented interior of oriental carpets and wickerwork. The men were labouring down at the lodge, but earth-mother Molly was brewing herb tea. Sylvia, already enthroned among cushions on a camp bed, beamed around, admiring everything.

  ‘It’s wonderful. Wouldn’t you just love to live like this, Kate?’

  ‘If you tell me there’s a Jacuzzi tucked behind that curtain.’

  ‘We have a stream,’ said Molly. ‘Everything natural. Welcome to Annwfyn.’ She offered me a plate of suspiciously wholesome cakes.

  Kim rose from a pile of rugs, where she’d been darning a jumper, and sidled towards the door.

  ‘Going?’ asked Al, quietly.

  She shrugged. ‘Might as well.’

  He didn’t argue but gave her a one-armed hug and a quick kiss on the forehead.

  A mere gesture. It could mean nothing—it could mean everything. An hour before, I would have cared deeply; I would have been seething with jealous intrigue. But now, I knew Al wasn’t the kindred spirit I craved. Could I cope with anything less?

  Chapter 6

  ‘Sorry, no cake.’ I shielded a mug of tea against the dust of the dining room, while Al righted himself. He was on his back, prodding soft mortar with an old screwdriver, while his team was tidying up at the lodge.

  He sat up, his Byronesque locks scraped back into a workmanlike ponytail. ‘Not good enough. Got to keep the Proletariat happy.’

  ‘There’s gingerbread somewhere, but I’ve no idea where Sylvia put it. She’s shopping.’ I gritted my teeth. ‘Sacrificing the fatted calf. We’re expecting her son, Christian, so the whole world grinds to a halt.’

  ‘Oh?’ Al took the mug from me.

  ‘Two in the morning, he rang!’ My irritation boiled over. ‘Just to tell us, casually, that he was on his way. Now, Sylvia will fill the pantries, exhaust herself preparing for him and then the little bugger probably won’t turn up.’

  ‘Undependable?’

  ‘I wish! You can always depend on Chris to cause Sylvia grief, one way or another. He’ll have her in tears before the day’s out, whether he comes or not. And our first guests are arriving in three days. It is so typical of him to choose this moment to throw a spanner in the works!’

  Al’s eyebrows shot up at my vehemence. ‘So what’s with Sylvia and her son? Too much love or too little?’

  I thought about it. ‘Both? It’s complicated. Christian’s his father’s son. No, that makes it sound like a simple tug of love. Sylvia’s ex, Ken, is a text-book spiv. Calls himself an entrepreneur. He’s a shitty husband and a lousy father; gets his secretary to buy his kids expensive presents, but never turns up for their birthdays. He was just a big sugar daddy with his girls, but Christian—’

  ‘Son and heir?’

  ‘Precisely. You can’t blame the boy for playing along, I suppose. The schoolyard bully, Ken bailing him out of every scrap. Chris learned to despise Sylvia, which I can’t forgive. She’d insist it was only boys being boys, but it made me want to…’ I laughed ruefully.

  ‘Clip him round the ear?’

  ‘Yes! The divorce – Sylvia got custody, so, of course, Chris wanted to be with his dad. My God, Ken enjoyed having Chris as a fifth column in Sylvia’s camp. She thought she could win the boy round with motherly love, but that just made him think she was weak. And Christian devours the weak.’

  ‘I’m wildly guessing here – you really don’t like him, do you?’

  ‘The worst thing is the drugs. When Sylvia heard Chris was messing with them at school, she panicked. You know, innocent victim led astray by evil pushers at the gates. She refused to see he was the evil pusher, running the bloody school mafia. Just like Ken, eye for the main chance. His father encouraged him to quit college, supposedly to set up some internet business, the next Facebook or Ebay or something; there was a lot of talking the talk but it’s the only one of his fairy tales that never fooled Sylvia. She was convinced drugs were involved and her poor boy was heading for an overdose in a gutter.’ I glanced despairingly at Al and he nodded brooding understanding.

  ‘She was desperate, tried everything to rescue him from himself – bribery, counselling, doctors. In the end she shopped him to the police.’

  That brought Al’s head up sharply.

  ‘She had this idea a prison sentence might actually help, he’d get treatment, sort himself out. I don’t know if it ever really works like that, but of course Ken was there to screw things up. Brought in some hot-shot lawyer to prove it was all down to a vindictive mother, trying to get at her ex. Christian had a few nights in custody, then a suspended sentence. Certainly no treatment. And he’s been making her pay ever since.’

  ‘A mess.’ Al put his mug down, examining his palm for splinters. ‘Kim had a problem.’ His confidences in exchange for mine. ‘Heroin. She’s clean now but I keep an eye out for her. She’s off busking most days, so it can be hard to keep track of her.’ He added, as if he had seen my ears pricking and my nose twitching, ‘She’s my baby sister.’

  ‘Ah.’ A sister, of course. ‘So you understand what Sylvia was going through. But you never went to the lengths of handing her to the police?’

  ‘No way!’ He gave a short bark of indignation, then remembered himself. ‘I can see why Sylvia thought it the best thing. She probably regards the fuzz as officers and gentlemen.’

  ‘She’ll never do it again. Trouble is, there’s nothing else left to try, and she’s so crucified with guilt, she lets Chris walk over her.’

  I glanced around the derelict room, two floorboards raised, plaster in piles. If only it were always possible to take things apart and put them right. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you about Chris. Too biased. Last time we met, I caught him stealing his mother’s credit cards. We got a little heated. He scratched obscenities on my car and I threw a Pyrex bowl at him. Full of hot soup.’

  ‘Can’t picture you losing your rag.’ Al paused, seeing me wince. ‘Wrong thing to say?’

  I smiled. ‘An inability to lose my rag has always been my problem. Maybe I should try
it more often. Ironic that Chris, of all people, made me do it. Remind me to thank him.’

  *

  I doubted I would need the reminder, because I was convinced Christian wouldn’t turn up.

  It was a conviction Sylvia refused to share. She returned, laden with exotic goodies. ‘He’s not here yet then? But it’s still early, isn’t it? I’ve got vodka. He likes that. Fabulous cheeses from the Italian – is that the meat? I got a leg of lamb, this season’s, and I thought we could start tonight with the trout – locally smoked, and—’

  ‘Sylvia, how long is Christian staying?’

  ‘Oh Lord, I don’t know.’ She released a punnet of strawberries and looked at me anxiously. ‘You won’t mind, will you, Kate? I know, last time, things got a bit awkward. He wasn’t really trying to steal it, you know. He did explain, he was only…’

  ‘Syl, don’t worry. It’s just that you’ve bought enough to feast an army for a month.’

  Sylvia gazed guiltily at the mountain of bags still littering the table, the dresser and the floor. ‘I have overdone it a bit, haven’t I? I just wanted to celebrate. I hardly ever get to see him these days.’

  ‘It all looks gorgeous,’ I said. Christian was going to crush her spirits without any help from me.

  The afternoon passed in preparation. Over the last month I’d helped Sylvia patch and decorate another guest bedroom – the Guinevere room, she called it – overlooking the rhododendrons, with lancet windows, stained glass and a pair of gargoyles by the canopied fireplace. My idea of a nightmare, and it would be even more so if she found the Elizabethan four-poster she was looking for. She aired the best linen and dragged up extra furniture, dusting and polishing as if we were expecting royalty. Then down to the kitchen to whip up cakes and puddings, as if a flood of tasty delicacies could wring some love out of him. Every few minutes, she rushed to the window in search of an approaching car.

  Nothing.

  Michael came in from his workshop at seven, exchanged kisses with Sylvia and a grimace of irritated despair with me.

  ‘He’s not going to come,’ I said, as Sylvia dashed from the kitchen to check the phone for messages. No chance of calling him. Christian changed his number so often, she had no idea what it was.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Michael considered the pots and pans on the range. ‘We’ll probably be eating late. Are you hungry? I could make us some sandwiches.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. Oh dear. Sylvia.’

  Sylvia returned, looking stressed. ‘Where could he have got to?’

  ‘Now, now.’ Michael gave her a hug. ‘We don’t even know where he was starting from. Could be Aberdeen. And he’s never an early riser, is he?’

  ‘No, that’s true. Oh God, has that sauce spoiled?’

  ‘I’ve taken it off. Come and sit down, out of the kitchen. Just relax for a bit.’

  We retreated to the lounge. Michael drew the curtains and lit the oil lamp and the candles, so Sylvia wouldn’t have her eyes fixed on the slow dipping of the sun. Then he poured us drinks and set out to divert Sylvia with one of her favourite films. I was convinced his efforts were wasted, she was so on edge, twitching back the curtains, straining for the sound of a motor, but somehow, in the final drama of Casablanca, we all missed the tell-tale crunch of the gravel, the amplified sound of an engine passing under the arch into the courtyard.

  We did hear the final rev, the slam of a car door. Sylvia leapt up, her whisky flying, and ran out, into the kitchen, to fling the outer door open just as the knock came.

  Following, we saw, over her shoulder, a short wiry figure, with a weather-beaten face under a cloth cap.

  ‘Shwmae,’ he said, raising a finger to his cap. A cock-eared, black and white sheep dog stood alert at his side, fixing us with a basilisk stare, poised for the command to round us up.

  Sylvia said nothing, frozen to the spot.

  ‘Evening, Dewi,’ said Michael, gently easing her to one side. ‘Come in.’ His glance invited me to take charge of my cousin, while he dealt with our guest.

  ‘Oh no, won’t come in. Boots.’ Our neighbour indicated his mud-caked Wellingtons. ‘Murk! Lawr! Came to say I’ll be moving the cattle—’

  ‘Come on, Syl.’ I put my arm round her, steering her away.

  At the door she attempted to rally. ‘Sorry, Dewi, I don’t know what I—’

  ‘Go and sit down,’ ordered Michael. He explained to Dewi. ‘A headache.’

  ‘Oh, well I won’t be staying. Just came to say I’ll be moving the cows tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks for letting us know.’ Michael stepped outside to talk in the courtyard and I led Sylvia out of the kitchen. As soon as we were in the hall, she put her face in her hands and burst into tears.

  ‘Oh Kate. I know I’m stupid; it’s silly, crying. Why am I making such a fuss? It’s just that I’m so desperate for things to be right again, but nothing I say or do seems to work. Why do I always make it worse? Why can’t I let it be?’

  ‘Shh.’ I hugged her back to the comfort of the sofa, where she curled up, sobbing into the cushions. I could only stand over her, cursing her son who could, with one off-hand phone call, reduce her to this.

  At last she sat up, wiping her eyes. ‘He’s not going to come, is he?’

  ‘No, I think probably not.’

  She sniffed. ‘I’m wet.’

  ‘Wet?’

  She shifted her weight. ‘The sofa’s wet.’

  I sniffed in turn. ‘It’s the whisky.’

  ‘Oh God, I spilt it, didn’t I? I’ll have to get the covers off.’ She started heaving cushions, groping for zips.

  ‘Leave it, Syl—’

  ‘No, no, it will stain if I don’t get it out.’ She wouldn’t normally care about whisky stains on the sofa, but the physical onslaught was a therapeutic outlet for her misery and frustration. Better than wrestling with the truth.

  The next morning, while I tried not to rejoice too openly at Christian’s absence, Sylvia retreated to her pottery, to thump clay. I assuaged my guilt by clearing up all vestiges of the largely uneaten feast, still congealing in the kitchen, and doing the dutiful builders’ tea duty. The lodge was finally finished, in readiness for its first visitors, so the entire gang was now at work on the big house.

  It took only a few moments to deliver tea and gingerbread to the crew, busy on the exterior wall of the dining room. A couple more to exchange a few nothings with Al. I returned, heading through the drawing room for the office.

  Christian was sprawled on the chaise longue.

  Sylvia’s bleach-blond Adonis. Twenty-three and already going to seed. The smirking idol of a host of teenage girls had begun to look jaded, designer jeans and t-shirt unwashed and slept in. His face was pasty. Christian was a nocturnal animal, blinking now in daylight, as he flicked his cigarette ash on the carpet.

  ‘Well, well. Cousin Kate.’

  I would be good, for Sylvia’s sake. ‘Christian! What a lovely surprise. We heard you might be dropping by, sometime this summer.’

  ‘Moved in with Titania and Doc Crippen then? Who’d have thought the old goat had it in him.’

  ‘Sylvia, Michael and I are in partnership.’ I was determined not be riled.

  He grinned. ‘Sure. So how’s the Mater taking the competition?’ His public school drawl had begun to alternate with unconvincing Cockney. ‘Still squawking like a headless chicken, is she?’

  ‘I’ll tell her you’re here.’ I headed for the door, thankful that I had no hot soup within reach. ‘And please put your cigarette out. We don’t smoke.’

  His drawl followed me. ‘So he hasn’t murdered her in her bed yet?’

  ‘Surprisingly, no.’

  ‘She takes up with a wife-killer, you have to wonder.’

  I turned back, exasperated. ‘That’s a pretty sick joke, Chris.’

  ‘Michael Bradley topped his wife, didn’t you know?’ Christian watched me through the haze. He laughed. ‘Ever asked why his kids cold-shoulder him? He g
ot bored with her, wanted to move on to silly Syl, but wifey wouldn’t divorce him. Catholic, that crap. So he slipped her a little overdose in her cocoa. Everyone knows; that’s why he lost his job. It was just never proven.’

  ‘That is complete garbage and you know it.’

  ‘And now you’re here, maybe it’s Mumsy’s turn for the chop.’

  ‘Chris, I know rattlesnakes less poisonous than you.’ I had to get out. Fast.

  Sylvia was in the pottery, smocked and clay-splattered, looking unusually pugnacious, while Michael, taking a break from his own work, was trying to chivvy her into a good mood.

  ‘He’s here,’ I said and watched Sylvia’s jaw tremble.

  ‘Oh he’s here! I knew he’d come!’ She ripped off her smock and was running before I could say another word.

  Michael gave me a wry smile as we followed. I smiled back. Of course Michael hadn’t murdered his wife. How preposterous. Anyway, Sylvia hadn’t even met him until… Stop! Chris’s slanders weren’t worth rational argument.

  ‘But darling, we thought you were coming yesterday!’ Sylvia had her arms round her son, who hadn’t stirred from the chaise longue. ‘We were all so desperately worried about you.’

  Christian shot me a triumphant look, and hooked his arm round his mother’s neck. It could have been a gesture of affection, or of possession. ‘Thought I’d do a bit of business on the way.’

  ‘Christian.’ Michael seized his hand in a manly shake, which coincidentally released Christian’s neck lock. ‘Good of you to come. Your mother looks forward to your visits, and we all want to see Sylvia happy.’