Now all that remained were a few splintered planks of wood scattered on the unmown grass, while the once glistening pond bore a skin of green algae. Elizabeth forced herself to recall that July evening three years after Katherine had died and James had come home for his last leave. There’d been too much drink at the Manor House, too much careless dancing on the uneven brick terrace just yards away from the water. Yes, she knew all about newts too. Hadn’t they slithered between her breasts inside her cocktail dress after she’d hit the pond’s murky depths? And then, just before her near-death experience hadn’t he been the first to plunge in and keep her face clear of the water? To ring for an ambulance because she hadn’t seemed able to move? Major James Benn, brave and loving for all the world to see.
And then, there’d been Hellebore and the biography. All 530 pages of it dedicated To Elizabeth, My Darling Wife, complete with a dark core of monochrome photographs from herself as bonneted baby to consenting adult with her eyes ever watchful and wary. Strange how this particular feature never seems to alter with age, she thought, looking at Katherine again and wondering for the millionth time what the rest of her would look like now as an adult . . .
Suddenly she flinched as a phone began to ring somewhere in the house, followed by another, and another. To alleviate the pain of her stiffening joints, she tried to imagine who was calling. Not Manda Jeffrey, because she’d already rung yesterday. Besides she and the ex-Major were probably busy fucking in between photo shoots. Nor could it be the publisher again, for The Reptile, as she called him, had already made contact at midday and his glowing longlist news had turned James’s hateful face the colour of a red pepper. After all, Tribe had been given the biggest print run and the most publicity that year, so the mutual backslapping she overheard was predictably, and to her mind, obscenely over the top.
She strained to hear if any messages were being left, but all she could discern was her husband’s answerphone voice. Abrupt as always.
So now here she was. Like those other times when she’d upset him. A prisoner in the very house bought and paid for with her late parents’ inheritance. A house worth over a million, the only real equity she possessed, and while Katherine was alive, lovingly nurtured. Every room a delight with her glossy-leaved plants, and Amelia Bowerley’s charming watercolours. Things which had sustained her during her daughter’s last illness. And which even now, gave her some comfort.
She should have outwitted him with that little knife. Kept it hidden until he was vulnerable, but hindsight is a wonderful thing, she thought, aware of her bladder now beginning to ache. Next time, if there was a next time, she’d find a less obvious weapon. A bodkin, perhaps or a fine-pointed bradawl which could be tucked away up her cardigan sleeve.
Whatever. Being secretive and careful was the only recourse she had. Hence her call to Miss Mitchell just before James had played his usual game by tying her up and leaving the house. She’d been given the young woman’s mobile number by yet another new temp at Hellebore’s front desk and had explained that as the author’s wife, she wanted to thank the assistant editor personally for all her help with her husband’s books. Clearly regulations on confidentiality hadn’t been drummed in there because the temp had also let slip that Miss Mitchell had left work last Tuesday and couldn’t be traced.
Still, at least she, Elizabeth, had her number and could keep in touch. Luck at last. And that luck held out while James was busy showering before driving to the station for the London train.
His Conquests 2001 list had lain snug in his wallet between his Coutts Bank card and a recent receipt from a visit to The Ivy. Such carelessness. Such arrogance, she thought, but those two female names and two work numbers had been all she needed. Last year’s soiled goods, the three Filipino girls hadn’t wanted to hear her proposition. Jobs at the Embassy were hard to get and hard to keep, they’d said, so she’d not pursued it.
But things had proved more fruitful with Kingsdown Travel in Shaftesbury and, having dialled 141 beforehand, Elizabeth was able to anonymously probe young Sarah Dyson who worked there as a booking clerk as to what exactly had happened to her on New Year’s Day eight months before. Fortunately the office was quiet and she was temporarily in sole charge while her boss had gone to the bank next door, so that having listened to Elizabeth’s accurate description of her assailant, Sarah had whimpered then begun to cry as she recalled the ordeal. No, none of her family or friends knew anything about the rape in that frosty field after work when she’d had a lift home in the N reg black Fiesta. Elizabeth’s car before her pond “accident”.
Nobody knew that Sarah had been made pregnant and undergone an abortion. She’d been dumb enough to trust the smooth talker, she’d sobbed. It had been all her fault. However, when Elizabeth had gently informed her that her attacker had been none other than famous author James Benn, then asked if she’d be interested in £2,000 cash to tell the newspapers all about it, the girl had brightened. She was planning to move from the area anyhow, get a better job and buy a place of her own. Besides, her parents were going through a shitty divorce so they’d got enough to think about. Yes, Sarah Dyson had told her. She was very interested indeed.
Elizabeth smiled again despite feeling warm urine drizzle from between her legs and dampen her grey pleated skirt and the bedspread beneath her. She would play fair with both young women. That identical carrot would be offered to Miss Mitchell as well, provided she showed the same spirit as Miss Dyson. Provided she was prepared to knock yet another hefty nail into James Benn’s coffin.
She felt dirty. Could smell her pee more distinctly now as the afternoon progressed. Wetting herself had been a childhood thing, hardly befitting a normally fastidious fifty-eight year old. But it was thirst which concerned her most. When she’d given in to this pathetic little ploy of his, she’d not taken into account the air’s dryness. The sun’s warmth still heating her bedroom’s west-facing wall. She spread what little saliva there was around inside her mouth. Her breath felt stale, her lips like old leaves. She must keep control and not let her imagination run away with her. She must be stronger than she’d ever been in her life.
He wasn’t planning on staying in London overnight – she’d overheard that much, so it was a question of waiting as calmly as possible, flexing her mind and planning her next move once he’d returned.
She heard the kitchen phone ring again and for some reason found herself thinking back to that June reception for the biography. How James had proudly introduced her to the Hellebore big-wigs. How he’d spooned the succulent little canapés into her mouth as if she couldn’t feed herself. She winced at the recollection. But how convincing he’d been. Every movement, each expression of concern on his flushed face a bravura performance.
And the Haydn, her favourite. He’d even chosen that for her, however, as the piano trio had reached its climax, she’d suddenly spotted him in close conversation with Hellebore’s blonde assistant editor wearing a natty little black dress and peep-toe shoes.
She’d looked like that once, in the days when she’d been Lance Hewitt’s secretary at Balliol, moving amongst the cream of academe, until her one big mistake which was imagining he’d loved her. Just then, in the Chandos Hotel, she’d stared as if at herself all those years ago. The intimacy of James’s hand on the girl’s arm, the eye to eye contact which never wavered.
Once the Haydn had ended to sporadic applause, and Elizabeth had been briefly side-tracked by some feminist literary critic, she’d realised that both James and the girl had disappeared. While the musicians were taking a break, she’d moved as best she could towards the lift sited outside the reception room. It had taken what seemed like an eternity to come down to her level and when its doors had finally slid open, a young Italian waiter attempted to push past her and out on to the marble landing. Although clearly in a hurry, he’d paused when she’d asked him if he’d seen James Benn anywhere.
‘Si, Signora. Third floor. Room 16. I’ve just taken up some champagne.’
‘Was he with anyone or on his own?’
The young man had smiled knowingly at her, then hurried away.
‘Grazie,’ she’d mumbled, unsure what to do next. Supposing James were to catch sight of her hanging around listening? For that’s what she’d intended to do. Supposing another guest raised the alarm about a stray middle-aged woman loitering with intent?
Instead, she’d rejoined the reception where already a sizeable queue waited by the signing table for the handsome flourish of his gold-sheathed pen.
‘Such an honour for you,’ someone had said.
‘What a writer he is . . .’
‘This book will give people hope. It’s so inspiring.’
‘Indeed.’ Elizabeth had gracefully acknowledged them all then noticed The Reptile nearby impatiently downing yet another glass of red and plainly annoyed at having to fob the punters off with excuses about the men’s room and non-existent crucial phone calls.
‘Where’s our man, then?’ he’d barked to the room in general.
‘I’ll get a Desk message out,’ someone said. ‘I’m sure that’ll do the trick.’
‘And I’m sure he’ll be along once he’s finished consulting with Miss Mitchell,’ she’d added, savouring the moment. ‘I believe it was an urgent matter.’
She now smiled again to herself as the rest of that eventful evening had unravelled in her mind. The clatter of the young woman’s heels on the stairs up to the street. James’s creased white suit and ugly flush to his cheeks as he’d rejoined the throng . . .
The day seemed to be darkening behind the blinds, and was it rain she could hear against the window glass? Her hands and feet felt quite numb now; her circulation had never been good and she remembered how, in those married days after Paphos, he used to massage her toes, her fingers. Would kiss her knees, her thighs and then . . .
‘Heavens above!’
The alarm clock suddenly shrieked its wake-up call, and she turned her head to watch its red light pulsing, pulsing . . . Another of his pathetic little games, she thought bitterly. If his hordes of mostly women fans only knew. If those devotees of his prose who clogged up his website guest book could see her now.
Well, one day, she told herself, she’d enlighten them all. And him, of course. When the time was right. When she was ready.
Chapter Thirteen
The ravens answer to my call,
They imitate and read my mind,
My brothers all in black so fine,
Are never cruel, always kind.
MJJ 1990
Once Bryn Evans’s Defender had scorched away from Ravenstone’s drive leaving foul blue diesel fumes hanging in the air, Lucy returned to her car with a major headache in the offing.
She’d left Mark to cool down in Wern Goch, but what the Deacon farmer had said to him still gnawed like a death watch beetle at her curiosity. Nevertheless, she had two calls to make. One to Hellebore’s MD to complain, the other to Manda Jeffery herself. But what was the point? she thought, stuffing her mobile back in her bag. What the hell did any of it matter now?
She got out of the Rav, slammed its door and made her way out to what would shortly be one of her fields. Here the ground was at least firm enough to walk on but she could see that between the reeds, the grass blades were rust-coloured near their roots. Silt was clearly not very far away.
Suddenly she spotted Mark emerging from the old barn laden with two armfuls of wooden stakes. She froze, uncertain whether to acknowledge him or pretend not to notice. She’d wanted some time on her own just to take a look round and to ponder on what she’d just heard during the two men’s recent altercation. What had Bryn Evans meant by saying the family would always be a curse on the land? And what exactly had happened to Mark’s mother?
‘Just going to peg out your boundaries. OK?’ He shouted, heading down towards the river with that loping stride of his.
‘Fine. Thanks.’ But although she decided to follow him, she kept a few paces behind. Her trust had just taken a fresh beating and was still in Intensive Care, for the forestry worker’s mask had slipped to reveal a side dark as the inside of that cauldron in Wern Goch. Dark as, she imagined, it was humanly possible to be. Before any signing of contracts, some questions needed to be answered.
‘So, where’s this brother of yours, then?’ she asked as casually as she could as he began laying out the stakes on the ground in regular intervals. If this query disturbed him, he showed no sign of it. Instead, he pulled a claw hammer from his back pocket and knocked the first stake into place. The noise caused those ewes grazing nearby to scatter in terror and a clutch of previously hidden crows to hit the sky.
‘That Evans is a retard and his mother’s no better.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Inbreeding,’ without looking up. ‘She’s been in and out of Parc-y-Nant’s rubber rooms all her life. It’s common knowledge round here.’ He picked up another stake and took six paces between them.
Bang bang bang.
He placed each blow with consummate skill, but whether it was because the sliding sun had momentarily passed behind a purple cloud or because she could all too easily imagine that same claw hammer landing on her skull, she shivered audibly as he selected another stake.
When that too had gone in the ground, Mark Jones turned round, his face suddenly different out of the sun’s light.
‘Look, Miss Mitchell, you’ll thank me one day. I’ve just dug you out of a huge fucking hole, excuse my language. Bryn Evans is best kept at arm’s length and that’s how it’s always been here. There are rumours he’s fiddling the F&M compensation and my mates down the forestry reckon he was bribed with a diseased ewe’s tail to infect his latest flock.’
For a moment she couldn’t speak. There’d been months of heartbreaking pictures of tiny lambs crammed into pens waiting for slaughter and mountains of poor beasts on fire. How could someone even think of doing that? she asked herself.
‘So, it suited us to have the land grazed, but now things are different. You’ve made it different . . .’
‘Me?’ She blinked in surprise at this sudden compliment.
‘Yes. Him and his mother should have kept their gobs shut.’
She watched as he returned to his task, observing how his arm muscles below his rolled-up shirt sleeves were like carved and burnished wood. How his sleek black hair shifted with each stroke. Put him on a London pavement, she thought, and he wouldn’t be a single for long. But still other less savoury thoughts added to her creeping headache. Who was lying and why? Was a man of the church and his fussing mother any less honest than an intense and clever sawyer? And if there had been or was still a brother called Richard, wasn’t it odd that even Hector Jones hadn’t mentioned the fact?
She recalled the ex-copper’s lie about the Birmingham house-hunters. That had come easily enough, so what else was being kept secret? She frowned, knowing she’d have to keep probing, but hadn’t her mother and subsequent school teachers always picked on her for asking too many questions? Warned her that this habit of hers would inevitably lead to trouble? Nevertheless, she moved closer to Mark and took a deep breath.
‘You’ve just said Mrs Evans was mad. If so, how come she used to babysit up here when you two were small?’
Mark slowed up. The hammer in his right hand poised to strike at what, she didn’t give herself time to find out. The silence between them felt deadly. Anything could happen out here and she knew for a fact that with the Hall being some distance away, no one would hear her scream . . .
She began to run.
‘Hey! Come back!’ he yelled as she made for the track, but suddenly grass had become like moss sucking at her feet. It was as if she was being pulled to the bottom of the world.
‘Oh my God . . .’ She was sinking fast with nothing to hold on to. Her hands flayed around pointlessly, because there was nothing. Only the mental picture of her mum and dad in Llanberis. Smiling at each other . . .
&nb
sp; ‘Don’t move! I’m coming!’
She stared in shock as he drew closer, hammer still in hand, while overhead a mass of ravens had gathered, blocking off the last of the dying sun.
He croaked three times, then he shouted ‘Now!’
She instinctively shut her eyes, thinking about Irmgard Muller’s fate. Even as a kid she’d never hung around the local pet shop’s parrots and budgerigars. Instead she’d dragged her dad towards the rabbits. Soft, warm and comforting. And hadn’t Cicero been forewarned of his own death by the fluttering of these same birds?
She felt the collar of her denim jacket being dragged upwards. Then both sleeves as the flapping wings generated an overpoweringly oily smell in their effort to keep her upright.
‘Grab this,’ Mark nudged her with the longest stake and she obeyed. Then, inch by inch, helped by this and the effort from above, she found one foothold then another until she was safe again. ‘Brilliant.’ He dropped the stake and pulled her towards him. Immediately the ravens relinquished their grip on her jacket, then touched his hair with their thick beaks as a parting gesture, before heading east for the hills.
She heard him breathe a deep sigh of relief as he watched them go. Then he turned to her. ‘You were lucky. Even the sheep never go near that spot.’
‘Why not?’ Her teeth still chattered. She felt as limp and useless as a rag doll, but without the energy or desire to pull away from him.
‘It’s an old well. And before that . . .’ Here he stopped.
‘Go on, seeing as it’s my money paying for it.’
A Night With No Stars Page 9