REGINALD HILL
* * *
FELL OF DARK
COPYRIGHT
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper
HarperCollinsPublishers
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers in 1971
Copyright © Reginald Hill 1971
Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007334797
Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2015 ISBN: 9780007389162
Version: 2015-09-16
DEDICATION
For my mother
EPIGRAPH
I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.
What hours, O what black hours we have spent
This night! what sights you, heart, saw.
—G. M. Hopkins
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Keep Reading
About the Author
By Reginald Hill
About the Publisher
ONE
I possess the Englishman’s usual ambivalent attitude to the police. They are at once protectors and persecutors. They tell you the way, but they make you feel guilty for asking.
I watch, or I used to watch, most of the ‘realistic’ TV series based on police-work with that fascinated revulsion which makes them so compelling. But I had often wondered why innocent people allowed themselves so readily to be manipulated by the police, why invitations to proceed to the station were not more frequently refused.
Now I knew. Or at least I knew in my case. From the moment we had been stopped, a terrible passivity had begun to settle on me. It was a feeling that the quickest and surest way of getting back to normal was to sit very quietly and do as I was requested. It was rather like a child with a visit to the dentist in the offing, sitting as small as possible, hoping to be unnoticed, trying desperately not to obtrude.
There hadn’t been any suggestion that we were doing anything but ‘helping with enquiries’. No question of our guilt or innocence seemed to be involved. I didn’t see how it possibly could be involved. But I didn’t feel innocent. And with Peter it was worse. Sitting pushed up against the car door (locked, I suspected), his unseeing gaze fixed on the rain-spattered window-pane, he didn’t even look innocent. I was much more concerned about him than I was about myself.
At least that was what I liked to think. That was what I had been telling myself for a long time now. It was true! I assured myself fiercely. Of course it was true!
If I looked back into the past, I would be able to prove quite convincingly that what had brought me to this police car, boring steadily through the rain up into the Lakeland fells, was a combination of my own altruism and the accidents of fate.
Convincingly to anyone other than Janet, my wife, perhaps. And perhaps the police.
And myself, perhaps.
TWO
Janet disliked Peter from the start. As his interests were in quite other directions, he never really expressed any opinion of her.
I met them both at about the same time, early during my three years at Oxford. Peter attracted my attention instantly. He was charming, witty, entirely unselfconscious, impulsive in his actions, generous in his attitudes. At least he seemed so to some of us. The sight of his slightly-overlong, over-thin figure, hands and arms waving in a graceful semaphore, was enough to make us smile with pleasure.
But to others he seemed like ‘a third rate actor cocking-up the role of Shelley’. I forget whether the words were Janet’s, but the attitude certainly was.
My relationship with Janet took much longer to develop. At first she seemed merely a pleasant enough girl, rather vain, capable of being amusingly bitchy about most of her fellows; a not uncommon type in university life. It was a chance meeting during my first summer vacation that started our relationship. It took place, by one of life’s little ironies, in the town towards which the police-car was now bearing my reluctant body, Keswick.
I had known vaguely that Jan was a Cumbrian. She had often made us all scream with laughter as she enacted in an almost incomprehensibly broad dialect ‘typical’ scenes of rural life, involving incest, witch-burning, or the pursuit of sheep.
Here, far from all the pressure of her position as a college wit, she was very different. I was on holiday, touring with my father for a couple of weeks before going off to France with Peter and some others for the rest of the vacation. She obviously envied my money, or rather my father’s. I gave her a lift home at the end of a very pleasant afternoon. She lived in a tiny village some distance to the north. At first she seemed reluctant to invite me into the small, not very picturesque cottage outside which we stopped. But when her father came to the door and stared at us suspiciously and with open curiosity, she introduced me.
He was a farm labourer, utterly content with his lot, but by no means a stupid or uneducated man. He questioned me closely about myself and my background, demonstrating an acuteness of mind and economy of language which I recognized in a more sophisticated form in his daughter.
Jan, who usually delighted to shock, was obviously very distressed by his uninhibited curiosity. I got up to go.
‘Have you bedded her?’ he asked casually, jerking his head at his daughter.
‘No!’ I denied with undue emphasis.
‘Aye, well,’ he said. ‘She needs it.’
This became a catch-phrase for us later, but then it obviously was not in the least comic to her. This was the source of the tension between them. As far as old Will was concerned, women were created only to look after men. His wife, Mary, was perfect in this role, a bright-eyed determined little woman who watched over the needs of her husband with desperate care. A strong-minded school staff had got Jan to where she was, but her father continued to treat her as he would any woman, that is, he acknowledged domestic and biological needs, but intellectually, spiritually, she hardly began to exist. It was the complete lack of response to her arguments, protests and outbursts that frustrated Jan the most.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said as I got back into the car.
‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘Look, if you ever do need it, come to me first!’
That brought a faint
smile to her face. But it was I who sought her out right at the start of next term. Some seed had been sown during those hours in Keswick and I needed her.
We were married two years later after we had finished with Oxford. Peter was best man. She refused to be married in her parish church. ‘They baptize pigs there if they’re doubtful about their parentage,’ she maintained. So we made do with a registry office. Mary came, but Will didn’t. He sent me a letter, however, neatly penned, cordially phrased, full of advice. I didn’t dare show it to Jan.
After the honeymoon, I started work in Leeds, in the Northern Area office of my father’s business. We deal in stationery and associated products. We were near enough to Cumberland to make visits there fairly easy, but Jan refused. I had practically to drag her home once a year, and we never stayed there overnight.
Peter stayed on at Oxford to do some research and two years later was appointed to a lectureship in the Midlands. I saw him infrequently over the next couple of years and got the impression that he was becoming involved with some rather unsavoury people. But it seemed none of my business at the time. He came to stay with us a couple of times and would obviously have liked to come more often but Jan was still not keen, so I preserved the peace. Then my father died and we moved to London. I was so involved with gathering up the various threads of the business and steering through a series of crises which had arisen partly because of my father’s death and partly coincidentally, that I hardly had any time for Jan, let alone Peter.
The next year was the hardest of my life. For Jan it must have been even harder. She had enjoyed queening it in the provinces as the boss’s son’s wife. Now as the boss’s wife in London she found herself more and more neglected. I had little time for friendships old or new and the kind of people she met through me were business contacts only.
She began to voice her dissatisfactions, mildly enough at first I suppose (I don’t recollect ever noticing) but more and more vociferously after a while. All I wanted was peace and quiet after a long hard day. I never seemed to get it. I started coming home later to avoid the rows. The rows increased proportionately in intensity. She ended up by accusing me of being worse than her father. I ended up by telling her that my sympathies were now entirely with old Will.
When Peter turned up very late one night, haggard, unshaven, with no luggage, he was at first almost a welcome diversion. But not for long.
A scandal had blown up at the University. It involved drugs and homosexuality. We never learned the full details as Peter was never wholly forthcoming about it and no court case was brought. But Peter had been emotionally involved with a young student whose ‘moral tutor’ he was. His parents, people of wealth and influence, had come across some letters Peter had foolishly written – ‘things of charm and beauty, flowerily Elizabethan in style, almost Platonic in tone’, he was able to describe them later – and this had been the first crack which brought the whole edifice tumbling down. Peter, who had been sucked into the group as much as any of the younger members, somehow became labelled the ring-leader. More distressing still, the young man concerned, probably in an effort to divert his father’s wrath, confessed to far more than had ever happened and shifted the blame completely on to Peter, who was too shattered emotionally to be able to deny anything.
Also he had obviously been on some kind of drugs and was still suffering from the effect of these when he came to us, or the effect of being deprived of them.
We put him to bed. He woke up crying in the early hours of the morning. During the day, he said little, but sat staring vacantly at the window, as now he was sitting beside me in the police car. This pattern was repeated for three days, at the end of which Jan told me that either I got him out of our flat, or she went.
On our doctor’s advice, he was moved into a nursing home the next day. As far as Jan was concerned, that was that. I accused her of complete callousness and started visiting Peter more frequently than was strictly necessary, just to rub it in. The thing spiralled, Janet’s protests plus the doctor’s assurance of the beneficial effects of my visits to Peter took me to the Home nearly every night for an hour at least. Some weeks I hardly saw Jan at all. I took to sleeping in the guest room to avoid disturbing her if I arrived home very late. I was not encouraged to move out.
Finally early in the summer after Peter had spent nearly two months in the nursing home, things came to a head. He had made tremendous progress in the last fortnight and the doctor was sure he was ready to be discharged. ‘He’s not coming here,’ said Jan flatly, unemotionally. I didn’t argue.
‘The best thing in the world for him,’ the doctor had told me, ‘would be a holiday. Fresh air. Sunshine. Lots of exercise.’
I felt like a holiday myself. I had worked too hard, too long. I don’t think there was any malice in my choice of the Lake District. It was an area I was fond of, familiar with, and had seen too little of since marrying Jan.
She took it badly. I don’t think she really believed I would go at first. And when I suggested she should come too, she exploded.
‘You go with him,’ she said after a while. ‘You take him off, your precious boy-friend. I’ll make my own arrangements. Don’t send me any cards. I won’t be here to read them.’
Sunshine, fresh air, peace and quiet suddenly seemed best of all things. I left the room without a word.
The following day Peter and I caught the train north.
THREE
The rain was beating down with tremendous violence now. The car’s wipers could hardly cope. The windows steamed up. Nobody spoke. It was hard to believe we were in the same area as we had been for the past few days. Only the ease with which the earth was drinking up the downpour told of the sunshine we had enjoyed since the start of the week.
I had been beset by doubts and guilt feelings throughout the train journey, though Peter’s infectious excitement and delight had helped to convince me I was doing the right thing. But once we started the holiday proper, the perfect weather and the beauty of the landscape made London and Janet seem a thousand miles away.
I had booked rooms in an hotel south of Keswick overlooking Derwentwater. Our plan was to spend a few nights there, then to move on where the fancy took us. We had come equipped for walking and our belongings were all packed into a couple of large knapsacks of rather old-fashioned design. They went well with the walking-sticks and stout brogues we affected as a corrective to the pretensions of the lederhosen-and-climbing-boots brigade.
We quickly established a pattern, walking all day, taking a packed lunch with us, and returning to the hotel for dinner, followed by an hour in the bar. It seemed impossible that anything could interrupt the perfection of the weather or the even tenor of our existence.
Nothing did until our last night at the hotel, and that was more comic than disruptive. At least so it seemed in retrospect.
We got drunk. We had no intention of doing so. It just happened. Perhaps we were getting fitter and no longer felt the need to fall into bed well before ten.
The bar was crowded that night. The hotel itself was packed and there were also some drinkers from the youth hostel about a quarter of a mile down the road. Some of them looked very young to be there. I received a cheery wave from one blond-haired, open-faced lad of about eighteen. I recalled he and his friends had overtaken us coming down off Glaramara that afternoon. We had been resting by the track as the boys strode by, arrogant in their youthful fitness. I had to admit their shorts had certain advantages in this weather. They had obviously found us a little amusing and a line of laughter had drifted back up the fellside. At least they had had the courtesy to contain it till they were almost out of earshot.
I waved back and looked for a seat. A couple of girls stood up nearby, revealing very short shorts and these long, tanned, flawless, and somehow sexless legs that go with them.
‘Are you going?’ I asked politely.
One spoke to the other in a language I did not recognize. The other grinned and they moved awa
y. I sat down and waited for Peter to fight his way from the bar with the drinks.
‘Where tomorrow, b’wana?’ he asked. ‘I rather fancy a bit of the briny. All these mountains can press rather close.’
‘All right,’ I said equably. ‘We’ll trot along to Seathwaite, scramble up Scafell and drop down into Eskdale. There we’ll catch a train to the seaside.’
‘A train?’ queried Peter. ‘In the middle of nowhere? And what about our walking resolution?’
‘This train is just like walking,’ I said firmly. ‘And you’ll have had enough by the time we reach it. Let’s have another drink.’
This time we managed to catch the eye of one of the barwaiters. He was only a youngster. To my surprise, Peter seemed to know him.
‘Hello, Clive,’ he said. ‘Bring us a couple of Scotches, will you? Harry, this is Clive. He’s reading Modern Languages at Bristol.’
‘And when did you strike up that acquaintance?’ I asked after the boy had left us.
‘I have my methods,’ he said, smiling. But I got the impression he was taking careful note of my reactions.
We sat drinking till midnight. It wasn’t till I stood up that I realized how drunk I was. Peter staggered against me and giggled.
‘Shall we dance?’ he said.
I wasn’t that drunk.
‘Let’s go to bed,’ I answered.
‘Don’t rush me,’ he said.
I pushed him out of the door ahead of me.
‘Can I help?’ asked Clive from the bar, a look of concern on his face.
‘No, thanks. My God! What’s that?’
It was the dinner-gong being struck with unprecedented violence. The air seemed to shake against my ear-drums.
‘J. Arthur Rank presents!’ cried Peter, and brought down the hammer once more.
I forget the exact content of our interview with the manager, a small, fleshy-faced man named Stirling. I remember walking side by side with Peter up towards what looked like a great poppy-field of faces, red with indignation, which peered down from the hotel’s two landings.
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