Shadows

by Thorne Moore

  ‘Fine. You can get rid of me any time you like. Just give me my share of this crap, and you can write me out of your life. Till then, I’m going to be waiting round every corner.’

  ‘No, you will leave this district, and stay away.’ Michael appeared at the door. ‘The key is in the ignition of your car. Get in it and go.’ His voice was cold and expressionless. ‘If I find, tomorrow, that you are still in the vicinity, still in the county, I will personally see to it the police charge you with arson, attempted murder, drug dealing, criminal damage, cruelty to animals and anything else they can think of.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Christian’s laughter dried, as he looked at his mother and realised that this time she wouldn’t lift a finger to protect him.

  ‘Yes.’ Michael held up a toilet bag, full to bursting. ‘I’ve taken this from your car if they want physical evidence.’

  ‘Give that—’ He lunged but Michael whisked it away, as Al caught Christian’s collar.

  ‘The police aren’t going to find talcum powder and aspirin, are they?’

  ‘You fucking bastard, I’m gonna—’

  ‘Go,’ repeated Michael, icily.

  ‘Don’t think you shits can get rid of me that easily.’ Snarling, Christian pushed past Michael and on through the kitchen. In silence we watched him kick open the outer door, and lope across the stygian shadows of the courtyard. The car door slammed, the engine roared into tormented life. The begrimed red Lotus screeched suicidally down the rutted drive. God help any kitten or small child rash enough to linger on the road.

  For a moment none of us moved. A sound broke the pall of silence. An unearthly wail that gathered, mounting into agonised, suffocating sobs as Sylvia howled her anguish. Ashen-faced, Michael drew her to him. Tamsin too began to cry.

  In the West, above the valley brim, the evening sky was ablaze, livid streaks, sickly yellow, crimson flames, as the darkness welled up around us.

  *

  ‘There’s no serious damage.’ Al appraised the drawing room. ‘Nothing that can’t be put right easily enough. A lick of paint mostly.’ He lowered his voice. Michael and Tamsin had taken Sylvia upstairs, out of earshot, but somehow it seemed as if the house were in mourning.

  I felt ill. ‘We could all have been killed.’

  ‘But we weren’t.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘All in all, one shit of a day.’

  I realised he was absently cradling one hand in the other. ‘Are you hurt? You’re burned!’

  He waved away my concern. ‘It’s nothing. A couple of blisters, that’s all. At least you can all relax, now he’s gone.’

  ‘Unless he keeps his promise and comes back to burn us in our beds.’

  ‘Yes. There is that. Maybe none of us are going to get much sleep.’

  ‘Will you stay? Stay the night. I need you.’

  I watched the conflict in his face. ‘Kate—’

  ‘You want to get back, find out what’s happened to Kim.’

  He shrugged, apologetically. ‘The possessive brother habit is hard to break. You could come up to Annwfyn with me? Get out of this place.’

  ‘I can’t leave Sylvia.’

  ‘She has Michael and Taz.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘The possessive cousin habit?’

  I managed a smile. ‘You know how it is.’ I watched him go, then trailed up to my room, anger and anxiety fighting within me. A miasma of dark, conflicting emotions filled the house. Sometimes it subsided to a throbbing undertone, sometimes it burst out afresh. Christian could have killed us. He hated his mother that much. He’d spat at her, for God’s sake. He had gone, but for how long? Sylvia’s love had been tested to breaking point, but it would repair itself, as it always did, and he’d be back, again and again and again. Why couldn’t he just die? He was driving in such a state, why couldn’t he just hit a tree and set us all free?

  I lay awake, listening for the growl of the Lotus returning. Was that it? An engine. Definitely an engine’s growl, but not the Lotus. Al’s Land Rover. Going out, looking for Kim. Leaving us that little bit more defenceless. Silence. Too deep a silence. I began fancying I heard a crunch of gravel, the creak of a door. I breathed slowly, waiting for the whiff of smoke.

  The unmistakable sound of a door, when it came, was so close it shot through me like gunfire, though it was careful, quiet. Soft footsteps in the corridor, on the stairs. I sat up, taking deep breaths. It was Michael, going down.

  I should have felt relief, but instead a sense of dread tugged at me. I got up, reached for my dressing gown and followed him. It was pitch dark, past midnight.

  Michael was already in the kitchen, his coat on, searching for keys in a drawer.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I whispered.

  He glanced up, too preoccupied to be properly startled. He looked terrible. ‘Kate. Did I wake you?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t sleep. Where are you going?’

  ‘Um.’ He rubbed his brow, car keys in his hand. ‘I have to see if I can find him.’

  ‘Why? Let him go! It’s too late, Michael, he’s been gone hours.’

  ‘It can’t be too late. I’ve got to try. For Sylvia. I can’t let everything be destroyed.’

  I could feel his urgent need to be out there, even if he accomplished nothing by it. He needed activity to sooth the torment. I watched him start the Volvo and ease it quietly out of the courtyard, into the darkness.

  My anger against Christian only increased. It wasn’t enough to wound his mother in every way he could. He had to tear Michael apart too, a good man who deserved better than to be forced, like cannon fodder, between Sylvia and her son.

  Just die, Christian.

  I was never going to sleep. Too much adrenalin in my system. Al was gone, Michael was gone; I should be retreating indoors, drawing the bolts, keeping us safe, but I didn’t want to be locked in. I wanted to be out, confronting demons. I stepped out into the cool air, listening to the night wind in the trees, the rustling of nocturnal creatures. With bare feet I skirted the house, crossed the terrace, down into the meadow. The grass had grown since the Fayre. It was long and cold and damp around my ankles. The moon was up, casting the shadow of the house, black on grey, across the meadow, and I waded out to be free of it.

  I couldn’t escape the shadow of Christian though.

  Maybe I should do as Michael had done, get in my car and drive away from this place, so that I wouldn’t be in this unforgiveable situation, sitting at Sylvia’s table and wishing her son dead.

  But no, there was Sylvia, probably weeping in her sleep. I couldn’t leave her. I turned and padded back to the house, climbed to my room, listening for her sobs, but all was silent. I towelled my feet dry, forced myself to lie down—

  —and felt it.

  Unmistakable. The maelstrom revolution of self-pity and self-loathing, and a growing paralysis of fear before the slow, darkening slide into oblivion.

  My head swam. The bile rose; I dragged myself to the bathroom and heaved.

  What had I done? I had killed him. I had killed Christian.

  I didn’t know how or where, but as cold and harsh as I had ever done, I felt death.

  I felt death.

  Chapter 21

  Five o’clock. The sun not yet over the horizon but the sky unforgivingly bright. Somehow, the damage looked worse by daylight. The furniture in the drawing room was scattered, cushions tossed, carpets rucked and rolled, the sooty scorch marks wider, more ominous in the cold light of the morning. The place still stank, despite the open windows.

  Michael was standing on the terrace, his phone to his ear. I’d heard him return from his nocturnal expedition after a couple of hours, creeping into the house, after which we had both lain silent and sleepless, till the first glimmer of dawn. He turned at the sound of my feet on the gravel and if he’d looked terrible in the night, he looked worse now.

  ‘Good morning, Kate. Come to inspect the mayhem?’

  Christian’s mayhem, or mine? Killer Queen
. Death’s summoner. I wanted to confess my guilt, but Michael looked so ill, I couldn’t burden him. I couldn’t burden anyone, not until concrete news reached us. Instead, I stared at the fire damage, and cleared my throat. ‘Al says it’s all superficial. Are you phoning the insurers?’

  He looked at his phone. ‘Christian. He’s not answering. I’ve tried his flat.’

  I looked at him, appalled. Of course there would be no answer. ‘Michael, please don’t—’

  ‘I know, I know.’ He flipped his phone shut and thrust it in his pocket. ‘I need to be thinking about this place. Should I ring the insurers, do you think? It’s not good, is it? But better than blackened beams and a scorched shell. We’ll need to get it cleaned up. I don’t want Sylvia having to look at it.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘She’s – over the shock. Just needs picking up.’ His voice trailed away, his gaze settling on the rooks in the distant, misted tree tops.

  ‘I’ll take her out,’ I volunteered, as if tending to Sylvia would somehow make amends for what I had done. ‘Down to the sea.’

  ‘Good idea.’ He pulled himself together. ‘I’m sure Tammy and the boys will give me a hand while you’re out.’

  Sylvia was in the kitchen, holding the kettle. If she had intended to fill it, she seemed to have forgotten. Like Michael, she’d grown old. The glow had gone, her face was heavy, her eyes red.

  ‘Come on.’ I took the kettle from her. ‘Tea can wait. You and I are going down to the sea.’

  ‘Oh.’ She looked round listlessly. ‘No, I really should—’

  ‘Dr Bradley’s orders. The place will get crowded, so let’s go while the morning’s cool and we have it all to ourselves.’

  She meekly followed, lacking the energy to fight, and sat listlessly for the short journey, saying nothing but heaving the occasional sigh. No traffic yet on the roads. We reached the beach and found it empty, all ours, the vast expanse of dark, glistening sand, the tide far out, curls of white foam where the distant ripples were breaking in a faint shsh. Across the bay, harbour houses glowed like dull gems, still slumbering. Gulls were the only voices. The cliff tops and distant hills wore a milky haze. The day, as yet, was so innocent. I took Sylvia’s hand, leading her down the beach, towards the cleansing lap of the waves, and she walked as if asleep.

  ‘Take your shoes off. Get the sea on your toes.’ I set the example, wishing that it could really wash me clean, as we paddled, jeans rolled up, the water sharp and clean and icy round our ankles. It helped Sylvia at least. She began to look around, seeing the present, not the past. Just please, I prayed, don’t start seeing the future.

  ‘Look at that shell.’ She stooped and held out a pastel glinting cup, a glimmer of her natural delight returning to her eyes. ‘So beautiful when they’re wet. I was forever collecting them as a girl, then I was always disappointed when I took them home and they dried out.’

  I was determined to reinforce her resurgence. ‘Maybe we could have a shell grotto at Llys y Garn. They’d keep glistening with water running over them.’

  ‘Of course!’ She seized on the suggestion, while we walked and talked, filling our pockets with shells as we splashed along, and once or twice she almost laughed.

  Neither of us mentioned Christian.

  ‘You know what I fancy?’ said Sylvia. ‘Bacon and eggs.’

  My stomach revolted at the thought. ‘Nothing like it after a walk on the beach.’ So we returned to the car and drove home, damp sand gritty between our toes.

  The drawing room was not quite back to normal, but Michael had worked wonders with the help of Tamsin, Al and Pryderi. The room had been swept clean, the furniture beaten, singed cushions removed. The soot had been washed off; damaged wallpaper stripped, the walls hastily repainted. The rugs, freshly shampooed, were out to dry on the parapet.

  ‘Oh, thank you all!’ Sylvia smiled, so broadly I could barely see the effort it cost her. ‘Now I’m going to make bacon and eggs for everyone.’

  So we all ate, pretending there was nothing better in the world than a full English on a sunny terrace.

  ‘Kim did return?’ I asked Al.

  He gave a bruised smile. ‘Finally.’

  ‘You were out searching, weren’t you? I heard you go.’

  ‘You didn’t sleep?’

  ‘No.’ I stared at the smears of egg yolk on my plate, thinking back to that terrible moment of annihilation, and my breakfast prepared a volcanic return to the surface. I swallowed. ‘She was all right?’

  ‘Apart from being furious with me, yes. What about you, Kate? Are you okay? You look terrible.’

  ‘Thanks! None of us look entirely bonny, this morning.’

  It was true. Even Tamsin looked bleary-eyed, though her first thought was for her mother, and Sylvia in turn worried over her. It gave them both occupation.

  After breakfast we made a show of returning to our normal tasks. When Tamsin took tea to the hall, I took a mug along to Michael in his workshop. Sylvia had expressed a desire for carvings in the upper chamber of the hall, and Al had produced designs for the green man, a head wreathed in oak leaves, which Michael had promised he would do something with. He had blocks of wood ready, but they were untouched. I found him staring out of the window, juggling coins in his pocket.

  ‘A nice cup of tea,’ I said. ‘The great British cure-all. Apparently, it’s guaranteed to make everything right.’

  He looked at me, bleakly, as if seeing right into the blackness of my guilt. ‘Thank you.’ He sipped, then looked away. Telling me that nothing would make right what I had done.

  I studied the sinister face in the drawings. A devil’s face. ‘Anyway.’ I pulled another piece of paper across it. ‘Sylvia needs you back at the house, Mike. Why don’t you take a break? You’re too tired to work safely.’

  He sipped his tea, his knuckles tight on the mug. ‘I don’t know how to pick up the pieces, Kate. Last night—’

  ‘Last night can’t be undone,’ I said, then bit back the words, terrified he would ask me to explain. But we all wanted the previous night undone, as his despairing face showed. It was so cruel for him to blame himself for anything, when all the guilt belonged to Christian, and to me. ‘Come back to the house, please.’

  To my surprise, he meekly agreed, and Sylvia greeted him with a hug.

  They were still sitting companionably in the kitchen, an hour later, when Ronnie arrived, knocking tentatively on the kitchen door this time.

  I’d seen him coming from upstairs, so I’d hurried down. If he insisted on the promised discussion about Christian and the drugs, all the grief would start up again. To my relief, the elderly Vicky was with him and I could surely rely on her pleasant sanity to keep things level.

  ‘Ah. Good morning,’ Ronnie was saying. ‘I am sorry to be disturbing you, yet again. I do so apologise for the little, er – I trust our visit last night didn’t spoil your evening too much. Miss Quigley is, alas, a somewhat difficult personality.’

  He’d heard nothing of the fire and its aftermath, and no one chose to enlighten him, so we murmured demurral.

  ‘Come in and sit down,’ said Sylvia, making resolute conversation.

  ‘Well, er, thank you, but we have really only come to, er—’

  ‘We were wondering,’ said Vicky, ‘if you’ve seen anything of Hannah this morning.’

  Innocently asked, but the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not since she left us, yesterday evening.’

  ‘Just so,’ said Ronnie. ‘As I supposed. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

  ‘She’s disappeared,’ explained Vicky. ‘She came back to the camp last night, terribly upset. Of course, you saw her for yourself. We were discussing calling a doctor but things, well, blew up. Hannah just exploded with the girl she was sharing a tent with and she stormed out before we could stop her. She said she was going to find bed and breakfast in the village.’

  I could see guilt in Vicky’s eyes that she hadn’t b
een more forceful in resolving Hannah’s difficulties, instead of letting Ronnie prevaricate. Guilt seemed to be the universal emotion at the moment.

  ‘I don’t think the Cemaes has any rooms free,’ said Sylvia. ‘But a lot of the local farms do B&B. I’m sure she’ll have found something.’

  ‘Oh I’m sure,’ agreed Ronnie eagerly, longing only for calm waters. But Hannah could raise a storm, even by her absence.

  ‘You see, we’re a bit worried about her,’ explained Vicky. ‘Poor girl, she’s obviously having some sort of breakdown. She took a few things, her handbag, you know, but she left most of her luggage. She was on foot, after all, and very upset. I know she’s an adult and we’re not strictly responsible…’ Her sidelong glance at Ronnie spoke volumes. ‘But I think we ought at least to find out what’s happened to her.’

  Sylvia was immediately with her. ‘Have you phoned the Cemaes? We’ll try the farms. I’ve got some of their phone numbers. Let’s see. Oh and Emmy at the post office – she always knows what’s going on.’

  ‘I really don’t want to bother you,’ insisted Ronnie, but the ladies were already in the hall, leafing through phone books.

  Michael stood up, his chair scraping on the tiles. ‘I’ll drive into the village, look around.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s no need,’ said the professor.

  ‘The girl is clearly ill.’ Michael was set. He needed to be doing something.

  ‘You’d better get back to your students,’ I suggested to Ronnie. ‘Nothing more you can do for now. She could turn up at any moment.’

  With visible relief, he followed my advice.

  Sylvia and Vicky worked their way through a dozen phone numbers. No one in the vicinity had offered shelter to Hannah Quigley. Most significantly, the lady in the cottage two doors down from the post office hadn’t seen her, even though she had a ‘vacancies’ sign in her window. Hannah would have seen that, surely.

  How far could she have walked?

  ‘She was talking about going to the police,’ said Vicky tentatively. ‘All wild stuff, I know, but I wonder if she could have gone to them?’

  ‘Where’s the nearest police station, Sylvia?’ I asked.