And finally, there’d been the weird offer of two grand to go public on her rape. Who on earth had that come from? That accentless voice, although definitely female, could have been anyone. However, as Lucy drove at speed back to Rhayader, she cast her mind back to that June evening in Covent Garden. Who had seen her slip away upstairs with the author? Most of Hellebore, if she wanted to be really paranoid. And wouldn’t that explain the post-party, newly-cool Manda who’d kept her at more than arm’s length? Was this to be her parting shot for whatever reason? Had Benn messed with her too?
But wasn’t she forgetting something? Elizabeth Benn. Of course. How could she ever forget the weird way those sharp blue eyes had stared at her while her wine had lain untouched in her glass? Had she actually followed her and Benn to the lift? Listened in the corridor? If so, maybe this kind of revenge was all she could manage. Did the woman really hate him that much? Lucy had only skimmed the biography with gritted teeth, but it seemed to be one long mutual admiration society. A cloying kind of symbiosis . . .
Nevertheless, whoever had made her this offer, it wasn’t enough. Nothing was. Things had changed since that recent afternoon when both Benns had visited the Hellebore office. She now had too much to lose. Not least her mother – the only parent she had left.
At seven o’clock on the dot, as the caller had promised, her mobile rang. This time she calmly said no and clicked END. Then, after organising the Choose to Refuse option of barring the unknown number, felt her lighter heart quicken as she approached Rhayader’s Clock Tower.
Thursday. Six hours less.
She switched on the radio for company, only to hear more news of sheep culling on the Brecon Beacons. More tales of woe to match her mood. Like she’d told that recent caller, she’d had enough for one day. As she left the town behind, even the sun had vanished behind the forestry and in the losing light, a white vaporous veil was already rising from the Wye.
What a birthday, she mused. On the one hand she’d met Paul Furniss, a man she couldn’t wait to see again; on the other there’d been that disturbing afternoon with the prospect of yet more misunderstandings and strained silences at Ravenstone Hall. However, she wasn’t going to lose sight of why she’d left The Larches prematurely. She was going to give Wern Goch one last chance. ‘I’d go for it,’ was what Rhiannon George had said unequivocably. Hadn’t she? Hadn’t she . . .?
Lucy switched on her headlights and fog lamp because when her turning came it was practically invisible. The day had begun and ended in a shroud as if hidden forces were trying to disorientate her; turn her mind away from that one goal of discovering the truth, clearing the way for some chance of happiness. She gripped the steering wheel with renewed determination, because no way was she giving up now. She’d already come too far.
Ever since leaving Crossgates, she’d regularly checked her rearview mirror and been reassured, but now she suddenly drew in her breath. This time there definitely were vehicle lights behind her. She clicked off the radio. The DEFRA countdown to further slaughter wasn’t what she needed to hear just then. Her first thought was that Bryn Evans or that little squirt Hughes were up to their tricks again, but if so, why were they keeping so far back, letting the lights fade and reappear at random?
She drove faster. Despite the mist she knew the lane well enough know, and with the following vehicle temporarily out of sight she swung the Rav up the track towards the Hall.
Bang.
All at once she was flung forwards, her belt taut across her chest as the car came to a halt. She could hear the clunk of metal against the front bumper and realised with numb fear that there was no way forward.
Jesus Christ . . .
She clicked central locking and for a moment gathered her racing thoughts. The first one being had either Mark or Hector deliberately blocked her way back? If so, this was a pretty drastic move, considering she’d still got all her gear in the bedroom there. Maybe the preacher was retaliating after Hector’s visit. Or had something genuinely shed its load? What to do? Get out and investigate, or phone the Hall? This last option was surely the only safe one.
She picked up her mobile only to see ZONE UNAVAILABLE appear loud and clear on the little screen. What zone, for Christ’s sake? This was Radnorshire not Venus. She slapped the thing against her thigh. It was useless. Time to get a new one when her money came through on Monday.
Damn Damn Damn . . .
She told herself not to panic, but to wait until that following vehicle had passed by as surely it would. There was nowhere else for it to go. Unless . . . Supposing it came up behind, trapping her? Then like the snaking mist, the possibility dawned on her that whoever had been snooping around the smallholding earlier on might have tailed her here. After all, the main roads had been busy. Plenty of big stuff to obscure anything with that in mind. But, if so, why choose her?
Why write YOU’RE NEXT? Next for what exactly?
She had no answers. Just a vision of the warring Morrigan lurking behind the mist somewhere, biding her time. But neither the salting slab nor the cauldron had been chucked out. She had done nothing wrong and yet, stuck in this silent world with fear instead of blood in her veins she felt singled out for blame. Half an hour passed too slowly and cold moisture began seeping into the car. She switched on the engine for some warmth and waited another five minutes, rubbing her cold fingers together.
She took a deep breath, opened her door and slipped out into the gloom.
‘What the hell?’ she gasped, because there, in front of her Rav lay a stack of old sheep hurdles. The lane to the Hall was totally blocked. She looked around, but there was nothing and no one. Just her thudding heart. The silence more than silence, just as near Gellionnen. It was as if she’d chanced upon the Underworld itself, half expecting to see Mark’s dead, clever raven come wafting by . . .
Mark . . .
The bread knife. Those morsels. She shivered, in that instant wishing she was back in her comfortable room in The Larches. Suddenly she heard footsteps approaching, but from which direction she couldn’t tell.
‘Who’s that?’ she yelled.
‘Me. Mark. What the fuck’s going on here?’
She recognised his familiar figure as he began picking up the hurdles one by one and stacking them to one side along the hedge. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I am, but the car may not. I’d call the police but my phone’s playing up.’
She heard him take a sudden breath.
‘We don’t need to involve those cretins. Let’s take a look.’
He squatted down and ran his hands over the radiator and front bumper, checking both lights. It was then she noticed the blue shirt under his usual old leather jacket. The same colour as those bits from the chimney.
‘Fucking Evans,’ he said. ‘I need to sort him out once and for all.’ He turned to her. ‘Just some minor scratches as far as I can tell,’ he straightened, smiling his relief. His teeth impossibly white against his skin. ‘You were lucky.’
‘I know, but tell me,’ she began, still wary, still curious as to where that other mysterious car had gone. ‘Is this the only turning off the lane round here?’
‘Why do you want to know that?’
‘Just curious.’
However, he didn’t seem convinced.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Well, there is an opening for the baler to access our land. It’s pretty overgrown now, mind. You wouldn’t notice it.’
I’m not thinking about me . . .
‘I sometimes cut through there to the Hall,’ he elaborated, drawing closer towards her. His warmth palpable. Equally the faint smell of spirits and aftershave as his eyes fixed on hers. Then he made his move and before she could resist, had enclosed her in his arms.
‘You don’t honestly believe what my dad said this morning, do you?’ The question burned on the skin of her neck. ‘Please say you don’t. Please. He does stuff like that all the time. Goes way over the
top. Says things he doesn’t mean . . .’
‘We all do that, but I’m just an outsider here, and . . .’ she hesitated, aware of that strong primal rhythm of his heart on hers. ‘I’m only trying to find out the truth.’
‘And I’m telling it.’
‘Only the part you want me to hear. Something’s missing. I know it. And what about this junk dumped here? The feeling that I’m being followed everywhere.’ She felt anger rising despite Mark’s mouth pressed on her hair. ‘I’d come back tonight thinking yes. Let’s get on with it. I’m not going to find anywhere with three acres for the price. And what happens? All this.’
She could have told him what she’d found in his room, her encounter with the dishy mineralogist, her hour at Gellionnen, but not here. Not now. His heart was one thing, his fragility another.
‘It’ll be alright. I promise, and you’ve got to believe me.’ his breath hot against her skin. ‘I’ve been worried about you all bloody day. We both have. I couldn’t bear it if you left here now. I’d burn the place down. I wouldn’t care. Can’t you see, Lucy Mitchell,’ before his lips found her mouth. ‘I love you. I’ve been dying to tell you that all day.’
Her resistance began to ebb away. Her body pressed closer to his like an iron filing to a magnet.
‘Even though I kicked your ankle?’ she murmured.
‘I deserved it. I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have had a go at you like that.’
‘And I shouldn’t have been nosing around.’
‘I love your nose. In fact, every little bit of you.’
His kisses became rough, urgent, as if all his loss, his unhappiness had suddenly found release. But this huge need, this devouring power wasn’t enough to drive Paul Furniss from her mind and, if she closed her eyes, could imagine it was his hands gripping her waist, moving down over her hips . . . And there were still four days to go.
*
The reek of gloss paint eked out into the misty evening from the Hall’s open front door. Hector Jones smiled down at them both from his step ladder. She wondered if her mouth looked bruised, if he could tell what they’d been doing, but his gaze was one of simple benevolence. The same as Jon’s father whenever she’d turned up at the house in Stanmore.
No walking stick, she noticed. No unsteadiness. Even the nasty bruise seemed less obvious now. Was this the same man she’d first met a week ago? she thought, dropping her bags by the stairs. Had that bitter and terrible statement he’d uttered about his son been a kind of exorcism? It certainly looked like it.
‘My penance,’ he said. ‘For spoiling your birthday.’
‘It’s alright,’ as she forced a smile. ‘Families.’
‘I don’t know why I said what I did,’ he set his brush down across the top of his paint tin. ‘I suppose it’s years of heartache. Trying to cope. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone . . .’
‘I understand. Really.’ She detected a tremble in his bottom lip, a slight glazing-over of his eyes. ‘By the way, this yellow you’ve chosen is my favourite colour. It reminds me of sunflowers.’
‘Not many of those round here, I’m afraid,’ Hector resumed his hearty brushstrokes. ‘Still, you never know. You might fancy growing a few.’
‘I might indeed.’ She caught Mark looking at her with those awesome eyes, and she felt her neck begin to colour. So far he’d not mentioned the dumped hurdles. They were clearly his business not Hector’s, she thought, noticing several rust stains scored against his blue shirted chest. Just then her eyelids felt leaden. Her head began to ache. The day had been too long already.
She parked herself on the bottom stair, her eyes following his painting. It was a way of keeping awake. Then she realised she’d not gone to New Radnor again, as originally planned.
‘Look, if you can’t make it over to the waterfall on Monday, I’ll get the police to take a look,’ she said suddenly.
Hector wobbled on his step and gripped the picture rail above to steady himself.
‘I never break my promises,’ he replied in such a strange way that she glanced at Mark who merely shrugged and raised his eyebrows.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘There’s a pizza waiting for us.’
‘And a bottle of St. Emilion,’ added Hector, working skilfully around the umbrella stand.
‘You shouldn’t have,’ she said.
‘We wanted to. Reckon it’s just about ready.’
Mark led the way into the kitchen and when the door was closed behind them whispered, ‘by the way, I’ll get the exact match for those scratches on your car. No one’ll notice any different once I’ve sprayed them over.’
‘Thanks.’
‘The old man doesn’t need to know anything, okay? I’m sorting this one.’
‘Fine.’
She slumped down on the most solid looking chair, every bone in her body giving up the ghost. She noticed the lilies had opened even more since the morning but their sickly funereal smell made her push the vase further away to the far side of the table. Her cards were also still there, arranged to form a frieze of colour on the white formica. In this setting, Anna’s seemed too large, too loud next to the raven drawing, so she moved it behind Hector’s.
‘And I meant what I said out there just now.’ Mark opened the red wine, filled her glass and brought over another for himself.
‘You barely know me. I might be a raving psychopath whose been in the slammer. I might be gay, for God’s sake.’
‘Shh.’ He planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘I know you, and so does Cerridwen. She sends you warmest greetings.’ He clicked his glass against hers.
‘Not the Morrigan, then?’
‘Hell, no.’
‘Well, that’s alright then.’
Next, having missed her sarcasm, he announced his intention to take her to Elan tomorrow morning. There were places to go, people to see. Besides, he needed a witness. He drained his glass in one go, refilled it and held it aloft. ‘Here’s to success.’
But she felt piqued. And why? Because Paul had also chosen that very same beauty spot. It was going to be their special place, not somewhere to have a blistering fight, and for one reckless moment she was tempted to say so. Instead of raising her glass too, she picked at her pizza. ‘But your father’s already been there, done that, and got a whacking great bruise and a bad leg.’ She said. ‘Besides, surely Evans and Hughes won’t be there again. There’s Chapel for a start. He’s on twice a day, according to his mother.’
His face looked as if a sudden dark cloud had crossed it. Then he smiled, swiftly resuming his role as host.
‘You’ll see,’ he refilled her glass until she covered it with her hand. ‘All will be revealed.’
‘I can’t wait.’
Her eyes felt heavy. Her strict temperance upbringing had a lot to answer for, because where drink was concerned she was poles apart from Anna who was a veritable sponge. Probably born with the stuff in her veins, she’d often marvelled during their nights out together in London. Now, after a total of five glasses that day she felt sleepy and relaxed to the point of subtle inebriation. Mark settled next to her, his long jeans-clad thigh almost touching hers. On Thursday, she told herself, it would be Paul’s. Then her gaze strayed to his left hand, where a small pitted blemish she’d not noticed before, lay between his second and third fingers. That compass stabbing must have caused a painful injury for a young lad, she mused and this prompted her to ask as casually as possible, if he’d known Rhiannon George at the Grammar School.
Mark smiled again, this time to himself, but it seemed forced. For her benefit perhaps?
‘Yeah. Skinny little thing,’ he said. ‘She’d do anything for a packet of M&M’s, that one. And I mean anything. How come you’ve heard of her?’
‘We collided in a shop in Llandrindod . . .’
‘What were you doing there? His tone caught her off guard and she had to think quickly. Think up another lie, she told herself, but he beat her to it. ‘Oh shit. Sorry,’ he slapped a hand against his for
ehead. ‘I didn’t mean to sound like an Inquisitor. It’s just that I’d planned to take you lunch at the Metropole today.’
The awkward pause which followed was an opportunity for her to back off. But no. There were decisions to make. Friday was the finishing line.
‘We could still do that sometime. Thanks. That’s really sweet of you.’ She reached out and touched his other hand. ‘Anyway, back to Ms George. She had two little boys with her.’
‘Sure there were only two?’ He took another drink and Lucy went on.
‘We got chatting as one does . . .’
‘What about? Tell me.’
‘Mainly about my plans for here . . .’
‘Mainly?’ Mark set down his glass, his dark eyes seeming to turn even darker.
‘OK, she mentioned Richard. And the fact she’d been mad about him. She seemed scared too. Apparently some guy had just turned up her at the farm asking to see the kids for some reason, and was still hanging around.’
Mark’s facial muscles had frozen. But why? What was Rhiannon George to him? According to her, she’d barely known him. He pushed back his chair and got up to leave. Moments later she heard him exchange a few words with his father, then angry boots on the stairs and a door closing.
Through the open doorway she saw Hector climb down his ladder and dunk his brush in a jam jar of turps. He too seemed pre-occupied and went straight into his study while she busied herself by the sink wishing now that she’d told Mark the truth about her eventful afternoon. About the note left on her windscreen, and how fearful Rhiannon George had seemed.
While she dried the plates and glasses, she puzzled yet again about this mysterious brother who, if Rhiannon was to be believed, had not only some pretty odd hang-ups, but also exerted a powerful effect upon Mark and his father. A brother who, by his continued absence, seemed to becoming more significant in the scheme of things. As long as lips remained sealed on the matter of his whereabouts, so would her imagination attempt to fill the silence.
She reached the landing and chose to shower and wash her hair then rather than in the morning when both men would be around. Hector had plans for a second bathroom to be plumbed in, while Wern Goch was being connected to the mains but in the meantime, during that uneasy stillness, there was no alternative.
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