Alison Littlewood

by A Cold Season

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Ben sat in front of the screen, staring at the game. The intensity had drained out of him and his body was loose, slumped.

  Cass brushed back her hair, thinking of the way Remick had touched it, like something possessed and cast off. You’ll come to me. She shuddered. And those things Ben had said; she wished she could keep him inside, playing his game, never letting him see those other boys, or Sally or Mr Remick, if that was what made him say such things. Maybe she should keep him away from school tomorrow.

  A headache was starting behind her eyes. She frowned. If she did keep him at home tomorrow, there would still be the next day, and the day after that. And Ben liked his teacher.

  Cass suddenly wished Bert was there to ask about everything, or Lucy. She should have tried harder to meet some of the other mothers, but she had only really spoken to Lucy, and now she was out of reach. And Bert might have known what the cross on the door meant, the circle of bones on the riverbank, the doll, its body crusting with bloody yolk. Had Bert seen the mark on the mill door? Is that why he had warned her to be careful?

  This made her think of the empty apartment. Even now someone might be down there, looking up at the ceiling. Cass shuddered. She watched her son. The curve at the nape of his neck, frosted with pale hair, looked innocent, vulnerable. He was sitting perfectly still.

  Cass looked at the door. The key was in the lock. She wouldn’t be gone long; she could lock him in, make sure he was safe. ‘Ben,’ she called, ‘I’m going out for ten minutes. I’m just popping downstairs, okay?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Ben?’

  A slight turn of his head, a shrug of a shoulder. It would have to be enough. Cass went into the kitchen and grabbed a torch from the cupboard. When she checked on Ben he hadn’t moved. She went out and closed the door softly, locking it behind her. She jumped when the lights flickered on and hurried down the hall towards the stairs.

  Her footsteps rang out on the flagstones then were silent on the ground floor’s crimson carpet. The door to Apartment 6 was closed. Had she done that? She couldn’t remember. She only remembered the feeling of revulsion when she touched the dusty surface of the doll, felt the viscous fluid spill over her.

  The same feeling she’d had with Theo Remick.

  She put her hand on the door handle. Someone could be in there now, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt empty, like the rest of the mill. The way even their apartment felt.

  Cass opened the door and saw the skeleton of a home and the gleam of moonlight on the snow outside. She didn’t know what she’d expected to find. The place was empty. Dust blanketed the floorboards, scuffed here and there with her own footprints or Ben’s and the grey shuffling of rats. There was no sign that anyone else had been here. Even the rats were gone.

  Perhaps no one had called them.

  Cass blinked, pointed the torch and pushed the switch.

  The doll lay where she had thrown it. Half the body was missing, gnawed away, frayed threads like hair poking from the hole in its chest. The boy doll was half-buried in the dust. Cass bent, saw it was coated in rat droppings and straightened without touching it.

  She didn’t know why she had come. There was nothing here, probably never had been, only kids messing about, and that could have been long past – back when there were builders on the site or even before that.

  Yet it felt as though there was something she was supposed to know, something she was supposed to see. Cass went to the window, cold air on her face like wintry breath, and shone the torch out. A cone of light appeared on the snow. Somewhere an owl hooted. Hunting rats maybe. Cass silently wished it luck.

  As she turned, the torchlight fell on a pale triangle almost hidden by the dust. Cass bent closer, shining the light onto it. It was a piece of paper. She picked it up, shook the dust from it. One edge was ragged where it had been chewed.

  Cass, got your files. Looks rather better. We launch in a few days. I need changes as per the attached. Do I need to get someone else on this? Call me urgently – maybe we can sort something out.

  Cass stared at the printout. It wasn’t signed; that’s what she thought about as she stood there blinking. The email wasn’t signed. All the work she’d done, and her client was so angry he hadn’t even typed his name. And she had no way to reach him. Not unless she got out, out of Darnshaw, away from here. Instead she had let everything close in, not just the snow but Remick, everything.

  Cass was dimly aware that she was only thinking these things to delay the real questions, the ones gnawing at the edges of her mind. How had the email got here? Had Lucy brought it to her, come to help Cass in spite of what Ben had done to Jess? Or had someone else left it? And, most importantly, if Lucy had come to see Cass, what had happened to her?

  The attached, she thought.

  She shone the light around until she saw another piece of paper. It had been screwed up and pushed into the wooden studwork that would some day be a wall, a part of someone’s home. It was almost hidden behind dangling wiring.

  Cass fumbled with it and heard it tear as she pulled it free. She flattened it out. It wasn’t the attachment her client had mentioned; it looked like a photocopy of an article from an old newspaper. At the top was a picture of women in caps and children wearing rough smocks. They stood outside Foxdene Mill.

  There was nothing to explain why it should be here, and yet Cass could hear Lucy’s words as though she stood next to her: I’d love to see it. I’m something of a history buff, and I never have been inside. Silly really. I drive past it all the time.

  All the time. And Lucy had driven to Foxdene Mill, bringing this with her. Cass held it in front of her face, the torch picking out the smudged headline: MISSING CHILD FOUND AT FOXDENE MILL.

  She scanned down the page. ‘One of the less savoury aspects of Darnshaw history … ’ It was a modern account then, not contemporary with the picture.

  ‘A child was found, the victim of a ritual killing. A girl of six or seven years old, her throat cut and other marks left upon her body.’ Other marks. A cut across the palm of her hand, perhaps? It didn’t say.

  ‘Her body was left on the ground floor, hidden by abandoned machinery. It was some time before she was found, and the body had been visited by animal life, causing some difficulty over the identification.’ Animal life. Cass looked around her, seeing everywhere the imprints of rat claws in the dust. Her fist clamped tight on the torch. She bent and vomited, clutching the paper to her chest, heaving until her stomach was empty. When she could bring up nothing more she looked around, half-expecting someone to have heard.

  The mill had fallen into disuse some years before, at least by the owners. However, signs showed it had become the focus of activity some said to be witchcraft, others demon possession. It is suspected that many of the villagers were aware of this, since superstition abounded about the mill and its environs.

  Among the sacrilegious symbols found, some at least appeared to attempt to reclaim the mill, or at least protect it, for Christian crosses were also inscribed upon the door.

  Cass’ mouth opened and closed. The sour tang of vomit was on her lips. She leaned over and spat, imagined a rat lapping at the spittle and choked back her nausea.

  A cross on the door: not sinister graffiti but a sign of protection. In front of her eyes Cass saw a peeling black door, another cross etched into the wood and painted over. Bert, walking past the mill every day. She had thought it was teenagers, but she had only ever seen Bert wandering around the mill.

  She shook her head. Ridiculous. Bert was too old for graffiti.

  The Bible lying on his dresser. The cross carved into his door.

  And here, in the mill, a living, breathing child had had her lifeblood spilled. For what? Cass looked down at the floor. It was here; she knew it had been here, she could feel it. She could almost see the spray of golden hair, dulled by dust and time. No one had seen her and no one would have found her – if it weren’t for t
he rats. The child had been alone. That was the thing that burned most of all: they had taken the girl’s life and left her alone, in the dark, in this empty place, perhaps even where Cass was standing. She edged back, staring into the shadows, half-expecting a small childlike shape to push itself up and reach out its arms, needing someone to hold her one last time.

  And what had Lucy said about children doing the sacrificing? Cass closed her eyes, almost thought she could hear the step of someone coming closer. She started, and thought of Ben, alone upstairs. How long had she been down here? Her son was alone. He might be looking for her, might be frightened.

  The night outside had grown darker, the room narrowed to a beam of light on a smudged piece of paper. When Cass looked at the window, snow flurried through the air. Coldness oozed into the mill and lay close against her skin.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Cass woke, opening her eyes wide. The darkness in the room had a strange quality. She couldn’t work out what it was. She got up and padded across to the window.

  Snow danced in the air, pushed this way and that by the wind. It fell thickly, fat flakes against the blackness, and settled, new softness covering the crisp white. It was burying everything, smothering everything.

  Cass caught her breath. A figure stood on the slope outside. Flakes fell and melted upon arms and face and chest, which was bared; dark smudges underlined each rib. She knew this body, had run her hands over it, clutched it to her. Cried out his name in the night: Theodore Remick.

  As she watched, he raised his hands to the sky, threw back his head and swallowed it in, the snow, the night air, everything. His eyes were a white gleam.

  He turned to Cass’ window; his mouth opened and she recognised his grin, the flash of teeth. She caught her breath and spun away; covered her face with her hands.

  When she looked out again, Remick had gone. Cass looked for his tracks in the snow, but there was nothing. Her mind registered only confusion, and an odd thing that Bert had said to her: It allus comes in like this, when he wants it.

  At the time she’d thought he meant God. It had just sounded like something an old person might say, something her father might have said, but now she wasn’t so sure. She wasn’t so sure of anything.

  In time Cass slept once more. She wasn’t sure if the things she saw were dreams.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The next morning Cass wrapped Ben’s coat around his body and held his collar while she knelt in front of him. ‘Ben,’ she said, ‘we have to talk about something.’

  His eyes were clearer than yesterday. He seemed less upset, less angry. He looked at her, her little boy. Cass paused. Was he really all right? She couldn’t be sure of anything any more. Last night she thought she’d seen Theo Remick outside her window, half-naked in the snow. It hadn’t been real, of course, but it hadn’t quite felt like a dream either.

  Without thinking she took Ben’s hand in hers and turned it over. The skin was clear, smooth, not a mark on it.

  ‘Ben, do you know how the other boys cut their hands?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Some of them have a mark, don’t they. Do you know how they came by it?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Did they do it on purpose?’

  He pulled his hand away.

  ‘Okay, Ben, listen to me: there’s something very important I have to say. Do you remember when we went for a walk, just the two of us, out of the village?’

  He shuffled his feet.

  ‘Well, we need to go again. I think it would be the best thing for us to leave here for a while. Do you understand?’

  He started to shake his head.

  ‘Ben, we need to stay together.’

  Ben whipped around, turning away.

  ‘We can go right over the moors.’

  ‘You can.’

  ‘We need to go together.’

  Ben didn’t turn. His shoulders were a wall. Cass remembered the way he’d sat with his back to the witch stones, refusing to move. He had been too heavy for her to carry.

  I don’t suppose the lad’ll leave now.

  Cass sighed. ‘All right, Ben. But I have to go, love. I have to make some calls for work, and maybe see some people. I won’t be gone for long.’

  He was motionless.

  ‘If I set off as soon as I’ve dropped you at school, I should be back in time to pick you up. I’ll ask Sally to look after you, just in case I’m late.’

  She pushed the thought of Damon out of her mind. Ben would only be with the older boy for a short time; what more harm could it do? She took a breath. ‘And Ben, I know you like Mr Remick, but for now it might be a good idea to keep away from him. I’m going to ask Sally to keep an eye on you at school too.’

  He scowled. ‘I like him.’

  ‘I know you do. And he likes you too, Ben, but I’m not so sure he likes me any more.’

  You’ll come to me, Remick had said.

  ‘I want him to be my daddy. Like the other children.’

  ‘Sweetie, we’ll talk some more about this later, okay? But Mr Remick isn’t those boys’ daddy.’

  ‘He is. Damon says.’

  ‘Well, sometimes, people make things up. Perhaps you shouldn’t listen to what Damon says.’

  He met her eye. ‘I can’t help it if you leave me with Mrs Spencer.’

  Cass’ mouth opened, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. Of course Ben looked up to his friend; if Damon had latched on to Remick, Ben would want to copy him. But she only had to leave Ben with Damon for one more night. After that …

  She ruffled Ben’s hair, planted a kiss on his cheek.

  ‘Come on then. Sorry I might be late tonight. But I need to go, okay? I’ll miss you.’

  Ben’s expression didn’t change, not when she kissed him, not when she spoke. She put on her own coat and grabbed the rucksack she’d packed and left ready by the door. Lucy’s printout was tucked into its pocket. She wasn’t sure yet who she would show it to or what she might say; first she would find Bert; then she’d know what to do.

  Ben stared at her, waiting. She opened the door, ushered him out and locked it again behind them.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Cass had dreaded dropping Ben off at school, but as it turned out she managed to speak to Sally without seeing Remick. Sally had arrived at the same time as Cass, waved her whole arm in the air and shouted ‘Yoo-hoo!’ as she came down the road. Damon followed with a gang of other boys. When she saw them all laughing together, Cass knew she was never going to stay in Darnshaw. These were the friends her son wanted to mix with, and she didn’t want to see her boy become like them, with their pale faces and sly expressions.

  She didn’t think this but felt it, in the same way her skin had recoiled from Remick: it was not a mental but a physical knowledge, soul knowledge.

  She forced a smile as Sally approached. ‘Sally,’ she said, ‘nice to see you. Listen, I know I’ve trespassed on your goodwill lately, but I wondered—’

  ‘Not at all, not at all.’ Sally beamed at Ben. ‘Such a nice boy. Quite one of the gang.’

  Not for long.

  ‘I need to go over to Moorfoot today.’

  ‘No problem, I hope?’

  ‘Not at all, not at all.’ Cass echoed Sally’s words without thinking. ‘It’s something for work – a bit of a drag, to be honest. I need to phone a few people, then I’m coming straight back.’

  For now. For as long as it takes for the snow to melt and to pack our things.

  Cass found herself grinning, her eyes staring fixedly at Ben’s head. She stirred. ‘I shouldn’t be late, but with the snow and everything … ’

  ‘I can take him. It’d be a pleasure,’ said Sally at once.

  ‘That’s so kind. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘He could stay the night – save you coming to collect him.’

  ‘No, that’s fine. I might even make it for the end of school. But if I don’t, I’ll come to your place as soon as I do get back. And Sall
y—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He’s been a bit out of sorts lately. Not ill, just— I don’t know. Not himself. Have you noticed anything?’

  ‘No, no, but I don’t know him as well as you, of course.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. But would you mind keeping an eye on him today?’

  ‘Of course. No trouble.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Cass put out a hand and touched Sally’s shoulder. ‘You really are kind.’

  ‘What are neighbours for? But you know, you shouldn’t go in this weather. It’s a bad idea, Cassandra. The drifts can be eight, nine feet deep up there. Better to stay here. I’m sure we can help with your problem, whatever it is.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ Cass said it firmly. ‘It won’t take long.’ How many times had she said that? As though she were trying to convince herself. She bent and kissed Ben’s head, rested her hand on his hair. ‘Bye, Ben. I’ll see you soon.’

  He slipped out from under Cass’ hand and ran to Damon.

  ‘See you later, then,’ she called.

  He waved over his shoulder without turning and was gone, and her heart ached for him.

  The road to the moor was empty. The sound of Cass’ feet crunching through snow was loud in her ears and there was no other sound: no distant whine of traffic, no bird-song. It seemed odd not to have Ben’s footsteps at her side, wrong, as if she were even now abandoning him to strangers. But he’d be fine; he’d have a much better time than Cass. Already the cold was biting through her coat and making her shiver. Each step was an effort. It’d be easier once she reached the top; then it would be downhill all the way into Moorfoot, and she could buy hot food, find Bert. He’d surely know of an easier way back. She wouldn’t have to walk like this, with each step sinking into freezing snow.

  She turned into the Broaths’ farm. This time no dog barked. There was steam, though, emerging from the vent on the wall. She didn’t stop. The rough track threatened to turn her ankles but she was careful, putting her weight slowly onto each step. Her trousers weren’t waterproof and a dark ring formed around the top of her boots.