She stared into it, reaching out without touching it. They were all in her mind: her father, Pete, Remick, and she didn’t know who she was reaching for, only that they were gone, and that somewhere behind her, her son was crying.
The ice vibrated under her as though someone had struck it with their hand.
The surface erupted and a pale shape burst from it, like destruction, like birth. Ice-water raked Cass’ face, but this time she did not pull back. There was something dead in the water; she recognised the bloated shape of Mrs Cambrey, her praying hands. Her eyes bulged at Cass.
Other shapes rose to the surface, their limbs stiffened by ice and time. They surged and the water roiled as something pushed them aside, something with hands that flailed and clawed. A head broke the surface; Cass couldn’t see whose. It would be Remick, she knew it was Remick, and warmth spread unbidden through her stomach.
It was not Remick. Water streamed from the figure, revealing pale hair plastered over a strongly formed skull, broad hands reaching for her: a soldier’s hands. It was her husband. Pete’s arms were wreathed with blue and grey and hindered by damp tendrils. Cass reached out and felt sodden wool beneath her fingers. It clung to him, tangling his limbs. Cass clawed at it, almost lost it; then she had it. As she started pulling, hard, she felt herself slip closer to the water.
Pete’s hand came up, waving in front of her face, and he grabbed at the ice. Cass slithered towards him but still she kept pulling, fighting the urge to let his weight take her down too, deep down to where she wouldn’t have to remember, wouldn’t have to think.
Then his leg hooked onto the ice and Pete climbed out, his body shaking violently.
Cass looked down. She was holding Remick’s scarf. Her fingers closed tightly over it. She heard Ben cry out, and turned to see Sally bent over her son, holding him fast, whispering in his ear. She held Jess with her other hand. Damon stood watching.
Cass pushed herself to her feet and threw the scarf back into the water. It hung on the surface as the dark seeped into it before it sank from sight.
Cass strode towards Sally. As she drew close she realised the woman’s face was drained, her eyes unfocused with shock, but she did not pause until she had her hand on her son. ‘Let him go,’ she ordered. ‘Let them both go.’
Sally’s mouth twitched and her gaze flicked down to Cass’ feet and up again.
Cass put her hand on Sally’s, the one holding Ben. ‘I said let go.’
Sally’s lips twisted into a contemptuous smile. ‘You were never worthy,’ she said. ‘I told him you were never worthy.’
Cass’ eyes narrowed. ‘He chose me over you, you bitch.’ She said it low, under her breath. ‘Now take your hand off my son before I make you.’
Sally’s smile never faltered as she pulled Ben back to her. Cass heard her child’s breath catch in his throat and she let go of him and caught Sally round the neck. She felt cartilage under her hands and she gripped tight until Sally jerked away, her breath rasping; but still she held onto Ben.
Jessica pulled away, and Damon stepped towards them.
Sally bent low over Ben, shielding him with her shoulder as Cass grabbed hold of her again: a loving family sharing an embrace. Ben gave a muffled cry and Sally muttered something; Cass heard, ‘He’s mine.’
Cass let go of Sally’s sleeve and instead grabbed her hair; Sally’s head whipped round. Cass gathered herself, threw her head forward and down and felt Sally’s nose smash against her skull. Pain shot through the top of her head, migraine-bright, and she slipped and almost went down. Hair blinded her and she tossed it back to find herself still standing and Ben, free now, clinging to her.
Sally was on the ground, her bloody nose and lips bright against the snow. She wiped at it, smearing it across her face. She started to push herself up, saw Cass’ expression and stopped.
Cass turned to Damon. The boy’s eyes were inscrutable. He was ignoring Jess now, instead moving to stand behind her son, and as she watched he reached into his pocket and drew out a switchblade. The knife shot out with a metallic snick that carried across the hillside.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and Pete was there, bent over and breathing hard. Then he straightened. ‘Do you want to try that on a trained soldier, kid?’ His voice was laced with amusement, but his eyes were steel.
They waited. Wind soughed across the ice.
Pete let out a low snort and took his eyes from Damon. He shielded them and glanced at his watch. ‘Come on, son,’ he said. ‘Time we were gone.’ His shoulders shook, but it was from cold, not fear. His voice never faltered.
In a second Ben had slipped his hand into Cass’. She squeezed it.
Damon let the hand holding the knife fall to his side. His arm twitched, the point of the blade plucking at his trousers. He too looked away. He saw his mother lying on the ground, her face blood-smeared, and the contempt he had for her was clear in his eyes.
For a fleeting second Cass felt pity for her; then it was gone. ‘Come on, Jess,’ she said, holding out a hand. ‘Quickly, Ben. We need to get warm. We’re going home.’
‘No,’ said Pete, and now his voice quavered and his teeth chattered. ‘We’ll go to the mill first, Cass, get your things, and then we’ll go home.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
They stopped only once after Pete had showered, staying a long time under the hot water, and they had packed their things and loaded them into her father’s 4x4. They talked about Jessica; they couldn’t take her home, but when Cass asked the child if she wanted to go with them, she looked alarmed and said, ‘Auntie Winthrop – I want Auntie Winthrop,’ and she pointed towards the road.
Winthrop – the village butchers. Remick told her the Winthrops were a waste of time, and Cass remembered the look on his face as he’d said it – so that meant they were safe.
The shop was closed, but Jessica directed them to one of the cottages near the school, and her aunt welcomed Jess inside, exclaiming not in relief but surprise. Cass realised she hadn’t known Jessica was missing – didn’t realise Lucy was missing either – and she felt a pang for her friend.
Mrs Winthrop looked up at Cass, her eyes full of confusion.
‘I think she’s hungry,’ Cass said, ‘and cold, too.’
And with that the child was bustled inside.
Cass walked away. Later there would be questions, the police, certainly. Jessica might tell them about the witch stones and the people who fell in the water and the boy with the knife, but she probably wouldn’t be coherent. Cass inwardly kicked herself for hoping she wouldn’t be. As long as Jessica and Ben were safe, it didn’t matter what came after. She hoped the girl hadn’t seen the bodies that had risen from the black water, nor recognised the mutilated thing that had once been her mother.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Pete drove them away, nosing the car carefully around the bends that wound up the hillside. Cass looked back to see Darnshaw dropping behind them, too slowly. She opened her mouth to offer directions and found herself remembering another journey on another day, Sally prompting her to turn here and watch for this corner. She bit the words back.
She didn’t see when they passed the Broaths’ farm and the stile leading onto the hillside path; she didn’t look up again until they were on the road that crossed the moor, high above the village.
He’ll take Ben from you.
It was as though Remick was whispering the words in her ear.
You’re gone, Cass thought, and yet her skin had that shrinking, creeping feeling she had felt after he had touched her, after he had slipped his tongue into her, explored her, possessed her. She looked down and the scar across her palm throbbed. She opened and closed her hand. The red line appeared, was hidden, appeared once more.
‘You all right, love?’
Fuck you: you’re gone, and your book with you.
She could still hear Remick’s voice at her ear, feel his name written on her heart.
Ben stirred and she heard his sigh from
the back, the soft thumping as he drummed his heels against his seat.
I don’t suppose the lad’ll leave now.
Cass straightened. She could see the witch stones inside her mind, there to keep bad spirits out – or keep them in; she was no longer sure which. She only knew she had tried to go past them twice. Twice. She had sat with the stones at her back, leaning against them with the sun in her eyes, and she hadn’t got out of Darnshaw. But now she was leaving, and there was nothing to stop her.
He’ll take Ben from you.
No, she was leaving with her husband, taking her son. This was where she belonged. Here, in this car, heading down the road and away—
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
She opened her eyes and found Pete looking at her. He had stopped the car at the side of the road, and Cass didn’t need to look to know where they were. Her hand went to the car door and she pulled the handle and then she was out in the clean air, looking down at the witch stones.
It seemed so long since she’d last been in this place. She felt sure this was where Sally had stumbled out of the fog, waving for help, not far from where the road itself had tried to repel them from what lay ahead in Darnshaw.
The thaw had set in. On the moor she could see patches of tawny bracken and the green-black of wet heather. From this vantage point Cass could see it clearly for the first time. Her skin had that feeling she’d once known, after Remick touched her. The fires that ran along her nerves, the chill as he reached inside and touched her heart. She shuddered. The scar across her palm throbbed. She closed it into a fist and clenched it so tight she expected blood to squeeze out and drip onto the wet grass.
You’re gone, and your book with you.
The witch stones had lost their presence. Now they blended into the hillside beside a lake that was clearly outlined by lingering ice, a flat white area with a hole in it as grey as the sky. Cass wondered if it would keep its secrets. Her father was down there, in the cold dark. She wondered if his eyes were open.
She felt Pete’s hand on her shoulder.
He was always bad for you.
She shook him off.
‘Cass?’ His voice came from a long way away.
Her father had been right. Her father was always right. He had been about to save her, to offer himself in her place, and Pete had stopped him.
‘Cass?’
She turned her hand over, looked once more at the palm. The scar was already paler than it had been, merging with the lines and whorls in her skin. ‘I don’t know if he’s gone,’ she said. ‘I don’t feel like he is.’
Pete put his hand on the back of her neck. ‘I’m so sorry, Cass. Your father was a good man. I’m sorry he’s gone. It’ll get easier, in time.’
Cass turned to face him and tried to hide the contempt in her eyes. Had he really thought she was talking about her father? He didn’t understand – he could never understand, not without the years of words in his ears, the imprecations, the lessons, Bible readings, Sundays spent with his back resting against a hard pew.
The heavy hand pressing down on her forehead, all of her life.
‘Do you think I’m free?’ she asked, and her voice was loud. ‘Do you think my soul is free, Pete?’
It was only half meant as a question, but he licked his lips and answered, ‘He’s dead, Cass. Him and his book, they’re gone. Whatever it is you think you did, whatever you gave him, it doesn’t matter.’
Whatever you gave him. There was an undertone in Pete’s voice when he said that, and Cass knew what he was referring to. The pain in her husband’s eyes was jealousy. He was already starting to remember all the wrong things for all the wrong reasons.
He’ll take Ben from you.
Her father had been right: Pete was bad for her. Her father had always been right, except about one thing. Cass turned her palm, watching the scar twist, remembering her father leaning over her filthy dress, weighing her in the balance. She always believed she had fallen short in his eyes, and the truth was that she should have. But he had trusted her then. He had thought she would be strong enough.
‘Come on,’ she said, touching Pete’s arm. ‘Let’s go.’
He’s dead. It doesn’t matter now.
Pete gunned the engine, eased them back onto the road. Soon they would be in another town, another place. Ben would have other friends to play with. He would forget. Maybe he should forget.
Or maybe Cass should make him remember, so that should Remick ever come back, her son would be ready. She glanced at Pete. His jaw was set, though he still had that sadness in his eyes. And she had put it there.
But she couldn’t think about him; she could only think about herself and Ben.
Pete turned to meet her gaze and his eyes clouded. Cass forced herself to smile. He mustn’t know what she was thinking. He might try to change her, try to stop her.
He’ll take Ben from you.
No. No, he would not.
Cass knew that he could not; whatever happened, they were going to be a family again. She smoothed her top down over her stomach, moving the seatbelt a little to the side, and thought about her and Pete, and Ben in the back, and their luggage, all being pulled together over the moors, the way they had come. She thought about the thing that rested on top of her clothes in the holdall she had carefully placed on top of their bags. The thing she had found on their return to Foxdene Mill.
Pete had been in the shower, trying to warm up. Ben had been packing his things. So Cass was alone when she entered her bedroom and saw it lying on her bed. She went to it without switching on the light and picked it up.
It was a doll, but not chewed and filthy and marked as the other had been; this was a new doll, made of pale cotton, with clean yellow wool for hair. Its eyes were buttons, the same clear blue as the sky. The loose-fitting dress was patterned with the buds of little flowers; it fastened with clips at the shoulders and finished at the knees. In the middle it pushed outwards in a rounded bulge.
Cass ran her fingertip over the mound, felt the warmth that nestled there. She did not need to lift the dress to see the blue-grey egg within.
This time she had not thrown it away or smashed it. Instead she filled a bag with her softest, warmest clothes and set the doll on top. She watched it while they packed the car and carried it herself, a precious load, packed it on top of everything else so that it would have a safe journey.
It was hers, and no one could take it away from her; not Pete, not Remick.
Cass had no doubt that one day Remick would come back to her, his lips, so cruel yet so sweet, stretched in a smile. His hands, which knew her every curve, spread in welcome, fingers that knew how she liked to be touched. Her skin warmed at the thought of him. She was no longer repulsed: she belonged to him, and in that there was freedom, of a kind.
Cass shook herself, sat up straighter; smiled when Pete glanced at her, his eyes so hurt and so stupid.
She could fight Remick. This child was a gift, something to bargain with, to buy back her soul, if she could. Remick would come to find Cass, only to discover Gloria waiting for him.
Weariness overcame her. A child is not a bargaining tool, she thought. A father is not a sacrifice. And you can only ever offer yourself. She belonged to him. She knew it now, could feel it rising within her, and knew she could never go back. Her body still craved him, would never respond as it once had to the stranger who sat beside her.
Remick had asked Pete if he could trust Cass to take care of her son. And he could, just not in the way he thought, or that Cass’ father had before him. No one could be looked after for ever; there would come a time when everyone had to make their own choice.
Cass would just have to help Ben to make the right one, to make sure that he was ready when the head of the family came home. Because he would come home, one day.
And they would be together.
In the meantime there was his gift. Cass smoothed a hand over her stomach, as though she could already feel it
stretching and changing to accommodate the one within; her skin growing round and pale like a smooth, unblemished egg.
Cass rested her head back, smiled, and with one hand still on the warmth of her belly, turned her head and watched the moorland slip by.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Heartfelt thanks to Jo Fletcher, to Nicola Budd and the whole team at Jo Fletcher Books and Quercus, for making this book a reality.
Also, special thanks to the team at Black Static magazine: Andy Cox, Peter Tennant, and Roy Gray – for making the introduction to Jo.
I would also like to thank everyone who has helped me along the way, by publishing my short stories or otherwise encouraging me onward (with apologies to anyone I’ve left out!) – in particular David McWilliam and Glyn Morgan of Twisted Tales Events, Simon Marshall-Jones of Spectral Press, Michael Kelly, Claire Massey, Stephen Theaker, Allyson Bird, Joel Lane, Marie O’Regan, Paul Kane, Simon Bestwick, Gary McMahon, Stephen Volk, Rob Shearman, Ellen Datlow, Steve Upham, David Tallerman, John Benson, Stephen Clark, Sharon Ring, Gary Fry, Graham Joyce and Stephen Firth. Thanks also to web guru Wayne McManus.
Last but not least, I would like to thank my Mum, Dad, Ian, and of course Fergus – for everything.
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Alison Littlewood Page 25