‘What’s that?’
‘We’re exchanging contracts next Friday. Mr Harries just phoned but you were in the shower. You happy with that?’
‘Fine.’
However, Mark saw her mouth tense up as his own pulse quickened. After then she’d be legally bound to proceed. Halfway to being there every day, every night. Like he’d said, his one star in the sky. He watched her study the cards’ postmarks as if glad for a diversion, before opening each in turn. She had the most perfect profile he’d ever seen. Everything in proportion. Just like the rest of her . . .
‘That’s from me,’ Hector proudly as she pulled a vivid Matisse image from its red envelope. ‘Thought some sea would make a change from all the fields here.’
‘View from Collioure,’ she read then looked up. ‘It’s lovely. Thanks.’
Well, she would say that, wouldn’t she? But look what was coming next . . .
Mark held his breath as her finger slid under the flap of the homemade envelope and he saw her eyes widen as she withdrew his pen-and-ink drawing of a raven. Its feathers had taken him hours to complete and now he devoured every moment of her appreciation. ‘Rhaca, by Mark John Jones,’ she read then looked up at him with those big blue eyes. ‘August 25th, 2001. Hey,’ she got up to place her hand over his for a brief but soaring moment. ‘I’d no idea you could draw like this. And a poet too.’
‘I wanted to go to Art College, remember?’ He death-stared his father as she perused the detail in close-up. ‘But guess who said that was only for ponces and poufs?’
‘Not now, eh?’ Hector admonished, stirring his tea. ‘It’s Lucy’s day.’
Anyone’s but mine. Yeah. Sure. Whatever you say . . .
‘You still could give it a try,’ Lucy said. Those eyes again, not picking up on his boiling resentment. ‘Go to College, I mean. They much prefer mature students. My best mate Anna did her degree when she was twenty-five. After that she just got lucky being in the right place at the right time . . .’
He shook his head. That hadn’t been the only dream of his all those years ago. May 1st 1987 hadn’t just brought one death to Ravenstone.
‘Now then, what else have you got?’ The ex-copper’s fork poised over his burnt sausage.
‘Please start both of you,’ Lucy said to him. ‘After all the trouble you’ve gone to.’
And they did, while Mark saw how her expression immediately changed the minute she picked up the Manchester envelope.
‘My mother,’ she informed them both, examining the £50 cheque which had been enclosed with the card. Then she stopped herself in time from reading out the handwritten message inside it, and he knew why. Because she still had a mother.
Mark leaned over and sneaked a look.
25th Aug 2001 Happy Birthday to a Special Daughter,
Much Love,
Mum. XXXX
Am so relieved you got in touch. Jon sends his love and I know your Dad does too.
‘Who’s Jon?’ he asked as that old familiar jealousy returned to linger like the smoke from a dying fire . . .
Lucy hid his name with her arm. So, now we know thought Mark. Someone else is sniffing round her.
‘My ex, if you must know.’
‘Since when?’ He couldn’t help himself.
‘Last Whitsun. OK? Inquisition over?’
‘No.’
‘Well, tough,’ she smiled.
But Hector’s laugh was the last straw for him as she slotted the £50 cheque into her jeans pocket. She dabbed her eyes with a tissue and just then, but for quite a different reason, Mark felt his own begin to sting.
‘At least she knows where you are,’ his father said just to change the subject and Mark watched the food churn round in that same mouth which had once, unbelievably, kissed his mother before the separate bedrooms, the endless silences. ‘But does Mrs Mitchell know the company you’re keeping? That’s the thing, isn’t it?’
Mark saw Lucy smile. If she was any slower, he’d be after her grub as well, and sure enough, she let him take the last piece of her bacon.
Hector tutted in mock annoyance. ‘Now what would Mrs Mitchell say to that, eh?’ He took his empty plate to the sink and began running a tap into the washing up bowl. The tension was broken, but not for long. There was one unopened envelope left. She examined the postmark.
‘Lambourn, Berkshire.’ Lucy then pulled out the card from inside, clearly not very impressed and just as quickly stuffed the thing back in its envelope. But not before he’d noticed it too.
SMARTIE TART!
Now you’ve caught up with me!
See you very soon,
Hugs,
Anna
xxxxxxxx
‘That looks fun.’ Hector dried his hands on his apron and took a closer look, while Mark puzzled over that choice of card for the most untarty girl he’d ever seen. Why that degrading title? That grungy image of a young woman? He couldn’t see why people thought that sort of thing was funny and hoped the card said more about the sender than its recipient.
Hector returned to his chores. ‘Anyone for toast? When you’ve finished, of course,’ he turned to smile at her. ‘Come on now. Get some weight on those bones.’
Bones and blood. Bones and blood . . .
‘You’ve still not squealed about last night,’ Mark reminded him tersely. ‘Where exactly did you go?’
‘By Caban Coch. Nice and cosy.’
Lucy looked up. ‘That’s in the Elan Valley,’ she said. ‘I went there once.’
‘Come on, Dad,’ he urged his father. He could see Lucy was waiting for news.
‘Let’s just say I caught them at it.’
‘At it? Those two? No way. That’s gross.’ She stopped eating.
‘If Hughes was underage,’ Hector went on, ‘Evans’s career as a preacher would be over. Still,’ he added smugly, ‘knowing that I know should keep ’em in check for a while.’ He began stacking wet cutlery on the draining board. ‘But it wasn’t a pretty sight, I can tell you. And I don’t think much of the company they keep.’
‘Do you mean Druids?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Or Dagdans to be more accurate. Like I said. Not very savoury.’
‘What were they doing? What were they wearing?’
‘What they always do.’
‘Surely not?’ She looked at Hector then him. He left it to his dad, who nodded. But she didn’t seem convinced.
‘Hang on,’ she began. ‘His mother told me he didn’t go along with any of that stuff. In fact he called her a Heathen for believing it.’
Mark suppressed a scowl. She was getting just a little too clued up. Asking too many questions. It was time to get the old scumbag spieling the spiel so that life could go on as normal.
‘Look Dad. Stop talking in riddles. You saw Evans and Hughes and you told them to lay off, okay?’
His father nodded.
‘And the others – you asked them about May ’87?’
Hector tipped out the dirty water and refilled the bowl.
‘Course I did. And I got this as well for my trouble.’ He rolled up his right trouser leg.
The shin he revealed was darkened by dried blood.
‘Christ.’
Mark watched Lucy move in for a closer look.
‘That needs a proper dressing,’ she said. ‘Is there any First Aid stuff in the house?’
‘Only you,’ Hector patted her shoulder and Mark wanted to slap him away. ‘It’s nothing. Looks worse than it is. Anyhow, what else did I expect?’ He covered up his injury and resumed washing up. ‘They’re probably out and about today again – the caring Deacon, the hard-working farmer – probably planning some new harm or other . . .’ His voice weakened and Mark watched with growing alarm as with wet hands dripping across the tiles, his father found an empty chair and slumped down in it.
His own head begin to heat up like an electric element, reddening, reddening . . . What was the old git playing at? He knew what he had to say. He knew
it, off by fucking heart . . . Everything in the kitchen began to blur. The shelves, the tiles the man at the sink. The lilies, her flesh, her smooth, smooth flesh . . . He snatched the bread knife from the table. A gasp from somewhere then the man standing up, untying his apron and placing it over the back of his chair.
The knife felt good in his left hand, restoring something to him which he’d lost a long time ago. Power, control. The ex-copper came closer as if daring him to use it.
‘Come on then, son,’ he goaded. ‘What’s holding you back?’
His whole body began to shake, but the blade stayed pointing at the man’s shirt front.
He heard a woman scream. Like a hundred times before. Then footsteps fading . . .
The man’s gut now touched the tip of the blade. One tiny move, he thought. That’s all it would take. And then in that instant, something inside him snapped. Nothing you could see, of course. But that mental fuse wire – so taut and brittle – which had connected him and his father together all this time, finally broke. Its after-shock made him blink. Made him waver . . .
‘You’re right, son,’ came the man’s voice in his ear, calm and even as the water in Caban Coch itself. ‘As Lucy here’s a witness. It was you who killed my wife. And I sent the wrong one away.’
Chapter Twenty
Dark seed that made me,
Ripened not by the sun
But shrunk by the shade,
While my one Light’s fading . . .
See now the roses
Twine round that heart,
Fold tight her breasts
Too damp for burning . . .
MJJ 25/8/01
I sent the wrong one away drummed in Lucy’s mind as her wobbly legs bore her up the stairs. She felt sick. She’d heard enough. Seen enough. It was time to exit, to do some hard thinking about this predicament she was in, because if she made the wrong decision about Wern Goch, there’d be her blood too on that salting slab. Friday was looming and still she was lost in a maze of tensions, of seemingly unfinished business. But from now on she would make it her business to find out what had really happened that grim year when that Zeebrugge ferry had already taken too many other souls to a watery oblivion. When the hurricane had done its worst.
However, before going to her room to gather up her belongings, she stalled by Mark’s bedroom door. Raised voices were still coming from the kitchen down below, giving her time to act, because she had to find whatever she could, including those burnt fragments which had so mysteriously dropped from the chimney yesterday. No wonder he wanted them kept secret. She’d been a fool to believe all his grief, all his false sentimentality.
Now then. Be quick, she told herself, forgetting to breathe, turning the cold raven’s head handle. The door was unlocked and made a slight groaning noise as she eased it open just enough for her to slip through.
Mist.
It had insinuated itself through the half-open window and lay like a shroud over the disorder of clothes, books and bedding which was his domain.
She shivered, not knowing where to start, yet trying to think logically. What if she was hiding something crucial? That grubby bundle Mark had made in Wern Goch would be too bulky for an average-sized pocket, so she tried the plain brown wardrobe which was oddly empty. Then his parka hanging behind the door. She burrowed into each of its sawdusty depths and, finding nothing there, moved on to his other outdoor gear, the bed, the pillows which still smelt of him. The mattress.
She lifted one of its heavy corners then paused at what lay pressed underneath. OK, so he was into porn. Everybody was. Yet from what little she knew of him, it seemed odd somehow to find stuff like that here. Then she remembered being at the convent school and hiding a rude joke about one of the nuns under the insole in her shoe.
Shoes.
There were wellingtons, jungle boots, trainers reeking of stale sweat, all stained by that same red-brown mud, which she was now beginning to hate. But hang on. Here was an oblong cardboard box with Size 10. Onyx. written on it. She opened the lid on to some best black shoes. Almost new. The kind seen at weddings and funerals. After all, hadn’t the Hall once been an undertakers?
Then her pulse quickened, because tucked inside the left shoe was a tightly bound Spar bag containing two more of the same. However the faintly nauseating smell which snaked out from the final one as she opened it was nothing to do with any Pass the Parcel party game.
She wrinkled her nose in disgust as she stared at the collection of brown morsels, some of which had stuck together at the bottom of the bag. No way were they dog chews, smelling like that, nor some childhood leftovers of a meal. These were surely the remains of old flesh.
Repressing the need to heave, she stuffed the bags and their contents back into the shoe and closed up the box and ran towards the door.
Damn . . .
Someone else had been there too. It was locked.
She shoved her shoulder against the wood, once twice, three times, but that just hurt. Then she started to kick it. She’d always been nifty at hockey, and now those hours on the Convent’s fields were paying off. The noise alone made her feel better.
Bang bang bang . . .
‘Hector?’ she yelled at the top of her voice. ‘Let me out!’ But just then after her next and strongest kick, the door opened inwards, almost toppling her over. Mark’s body took up the whole space, blocking out the light from the landing. His eyes seemed darker still, like she’d seen in that cauldron and her scream died in her throat.
He suddenly gripped her shoulders, his fingers pressing deep into muscle. His strength not something she could deal with. This was like James Benn all over again, but she willed herself to wait. To bide her time.
‘What the fuck are you doing in my room?’ he asked.
‘I thought it was mine. I forgot. Sorry.’
‘Another liar. My God,’ his grip tightened. ‘Is there no escape?’
‘From you there is.’ She kicked out once more, this time catching his ankle.
‘Goddamn you, that hurt.’ He buckled in pain and in that precious moment, she dived along the landing, into her room and, as if the end of the world was imminent, snatched up her bag and jacket then somehow reached the bottom of the stairs before he recovered. Her heart trampolining in her chest, her mouth dry, she made for the kitchen. All her cards and the lilies were there. But not the man who’d put them there.
‘Hector?’
No reply.
What was going on?
Without even trying his study or anywhere else, she was out of the front door within seconds and into the mist. Having fumbled for what seemed like a century for her car keys, she was in and starting the engine. She revved away down the drive, then glanced back in her mirror and saw not only Hector’s old truck missing, but a murderer standing on the steps staring after her until he was out of sight.
Where to go? She asked herself, out of breath. Anywhere. Somewhere busy, normal. Lots of people yet amongst that, a private space of her own to think. She pumped the screen wash and switched on her fog lamp, staying in third gear all the way along the lane for fear of damaging the car. She also wondered where Hector had gone to and why.
Nothing made sense any more except that the dependable dumped Jon was growing more appealing by the minute and her mother’s kitchen in Rusholme, her homemade cushions and loo-roll doll which Lucy had always despised, now represented the epitome of a safe secure life. She made up her mind to phone her the minute she could reasonably drive with one hand.
The lane seemed to take for ever but thankfully there were no obstructions, and once she’d joined the A44 she pulled into the first layby picked out of the gloom. She then dialled Manchester and waited as six rings came and went.
‘Yes? Who’s calling?’ Barbara Mitchell’s voice one of many. It was as if she was in the middle of a football crowd.
‘Thanks for my card and my cheque,’ Lucy shouted. ‘You shouldn’t have. It’s me who should be getting you somethi
ng, and I will after Monday.’
‘No, you mustn’t. I forbid it. Anyway, Happy Birthday. I can’t believe it was thirty years ago that I was lying there in the Maternity Ward convinced I was going to die. You were ready for your school uniform the nurses said. And you were ravenous straight away.’
‘Ten pounds three ounces?’
‘That’s right. A big strong girl . . .’
Normally Lucy would have laughed but she was in reality close to tears. Big and strong was the last thing she felt like now.
‘Are you shopping or what?’ she managed to ask, yet it was precisely the buzz of other people which was making her feel more alone and vulnerable than ever.
‘I’m in Deansgate. It’s absolutely crazy here. I’m just trying to get a couple of new skirts for school.’
How normal, thought Lucy as some huge transporter brushed by, making the Rav rock in its wake. For a moment a shaming envy consumed her.
‘Anyway, is everything going to plan down there?’ her mother asked.
‘Yep. Fine. I’m sorting out a water supply in the next few days . . .’ Just saying that sounded surreal. As if it wasn’t her at all.
‘Sounds like fun, but tell me,’ Barbara Mitchell continued as the noise around her increased,’ are those people at the Hall trustworthy? I mean, this is a huge commitment for you. Your bag needs to be safe. Especially once your money comes through . . .’
She’d not thought of that one. Her bag. Such irony.
‘Of course they are. And helpful too. Like I told you, Mr Jones used to be a copper. I mean, policeman. Anyway,’ she’d noticed with alarm that the mist was thickening to fog. ‘I’d better be going. Got loads to do.’
‘I’m sure you have. Now look,’ her mother paused and Lucy wondered what was coming next. ‘I start back on the 5th of September if you’d like me to come down before then. I can always bring Jon. He does keep asking about you.’
She hesitated.
‘How is he?’
‘Still working too hard. Still missing you.’
Lucy bit her lip. Those tears weren’t going away.
‘Tell him I’ll be in touch when things are more sorted here. OK?’
A Night With No Stars Page 16