by M B Vincent
‘It was a rubbish party. I was only there ’cos Granddad used to work as Mr Blake’s handyman. Mrs Blake didn’t want me there.’
‘Mrs Blake was a right old cow.’ The truth was exhilarating. Jess could easily imagine Gavin’s pretentious mother rubbing the scruffy kid’s nose in it, implying he was lucky to be invited. ‘Your granddad carved that lovely sign for the pool, didn’t he?’
‘Mr Blake didn’t understand what granddad did. He didn’t even know the lady on the sign was Hecate.’
Here I am again, whispered the goddess.
The oblivious Blakes with their new cars and their new pool and their new values had no notion of what Granddad Semple had made for them. ‘Hecate’s a powerful protectress.’
‘Don’t get on the wrong side of her, though.’
‘She’ll be out there tonight,’ said Jess. ‘As it’s Deiphon.’
When Neil lied it was obvious. ‘What’s that?’ he said. A handful of tics gave him away.
‘I bet your granddad knows. How’s he keeping these days?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry, Neil.’
He looked insulted. As if everybody should know. ‘Look.’ He took down an obituary torn from the Kidbury Echo. ‘He passed over last January.’
A scowling photograph above a paragraph or two. Jess read out his name. ‘Eric Yeats Ernest Semple.’
Her backbone shivered like mercury. E. Y. E. S.
The box was being frank the whole time. Hiding the truth in plain sight.
She forgot to be subtle. ‘Where do you keep your van, Neil? I didn’t see it out front.’
‘Don’t have one.’ He slammed his fist against his forehead.
Jess jumped back.
‘Water,’ he said. ‘You wanted water.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Things like that do matter. I’ll get you a glass of water.’ He added, ‘On a tray, and everything,’ as the murk of the kitchenette claimed him.
There was much banging of cupboards. ‘Will a cup do?’
Jess was on her feet, flying around the room. Prying. ‘Yeah, ’course.’ She was looking for something. Anything. She darted looks at the kitchen as she took in a small delicate chisel lying on a mouldy Mills and Boon. Somebody had drawn a moustache on the swooning heroine. A tattered teddy bear sat on a ream of photocopier paper. A vase held plastic flowers, their colour long leached away. A blister pack of antihistamines leant on a ball of twine.
‘Must get lonely out here on your own,’ she called. If he spoke she could gauge where he was. Finish her snooping before he returned. ‘Do you miss your grandparents?’
‘I talk to them all the time.’ Neil ran a tap.
‘That’s sweet.’ It wasn’t. Jess opened a drawer. Found only ballpoint pens and receipts.
‘I look after the house for them.’ A crack. A cup dropping and breaking. A smothered curse. ‘They love this place.’
‘Hmm.’ A naked doll stared at Jess from inside a Tesco bag.
‘That’s why they’re buried here.’
‘Do you visit them in the churchyard?’
‘No. They’re buried here.’ In the kitchen, Neil stamped his foot.
Jess looked down at the floorboards.
‘Under . . .? Don’t you need special permission for something like that?’
‘It was Granddad’s idea. When he knew he was going, like.’ Neil was almost – almost – bright as he sought out another cup; Jess heard him scrabbling in a cupboard. ‘He told me to bury a coffin-load of bricks in the graveyard, but to put him and Nana under the house. So I did. I always do what they tell me.’
‘May they rest in peace.’ Jess couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t end in a scream, so she reached for a handy platitude. She turned her attention to a dusty sewing box. Needles. Pinking shears.
‘You won’t snitch on me, will you?’
‘ ’Course not.’ Jess imagined them, decaying, ghost-white and miserable as sin, below her Doc Martens.
Neil returned with a tray. He looked at the chair, seeming puzzled that it didn’t contain Jess, then found her. ‘What you doing?’
She’d stopped, unable to move on. Transfixed by what she had found below a tangle of embroidery silks in the sewing box.
‘You looking at my photos?’ Neil put down the tray. The cup fell over. ‘Them’s private.’
Jess was red-handed. Red-faced.
Neil came over, took the Polaroids out of her hands. ‘Have you had sex?’ he said.
Jess didn’t answer for a moment. Too busy panicking. ‘You shouldn’t really ask people that.’
‘That means you haven’t. I have. Loads.’ He waved the snaps. The glossy squares were a discordant modern note in the primitive room. ‘See?’
On closer inspection, the abstract swirl of colour coalesced into pornography. Close-ups of interlocking genitals. Like a manual, a how-to. Not sexy. Repulsive.
‘These are private, Neil. I don’t want to look at them.’
‘Sex is holy.’
‘Maybe. But these pictures aren’t.’ Jess grimaced, and she saw him flinch. His face hardened. Not a Dickensian urchin anymore; more a Dickensian thug.
‘Hieros gamos,’ he said. He was insistent. His sap was rising. ‘Look. Look at me.’
She took the Polaroids. She had to. The naked flesh looked like a butcher’s window. She saw glistening pubic hair. A mauve blur of genitals. A scar. A curved scar near the groin that smiled at her.
‘I really should get back,’ Jess said. ‘DS Eden’s expecting a call from me.’
He was unreadable. Neil might have believed her. Does it make any difference when his blood’s up and Hecate is about and his itch needs scratching?
She left the house. He left with her. Matching her step for step. They passed the shed. They reached her car. She got in. Every movement deliberate. Tensed for him to shape-shift.
Please please start first time. The aqua-blue Morris Traveller behaved impeccably.
Neil knocked on the window. Jess rolled it down.
‘Goodbye,’ he said, like a good boy. ‘Thanks for coming.’
She drove. The wheels moved. The lane met the road. She picked up speed.
Behind her, headlights.
A large vehicle in her rear mirror. Gaining on her.
She put her foot down. The speed limit was irrelevant.
The van could outpace the old car.
It came upon her like a dragon. Neil’s face in her mirror.
He overtook.
He sped away.
Jess grappled with her phone. One hand on the wheel. She was going too fast. ‘Rupert!’ she shouted when his voicemail kicked in. ‘I know you’re annoyed with me but pick up. I worked it all out. The dream kept poking me. It’s obvious. It’s all about the pool.’
The road curved. She threw down the phone. Fought to keep control of the car.
The curved scar, like a mouth, had spoken to her.
There would be blood spilled for Hecate tonight.
Chapter 31
CHIVALRY IS NOT DEAD
Still Thursday 2nd June
Karen Knott was sleepy. She worried about her mother, and her mother’s legs. Karen spent little time at home since the Rustic Ripper started his nonsense. ‘It’s quiet out there, guv,’ she said, peeking through the slatted blind.
‘Good,’ said Eden. He was photocopying pages of close type. Karen’s job, really.
‘Not a soul about. Except for that daft woman at the bus stop.’
‘On her own? During a curfew?’
‘Asking for trouble, boss.’ Karen squinted. ‘It’s that Theresa.’
‘She shouldn’t be out alone. Not now our man’s developed a taste for women. Nip out and tell her so, Knott. Bring her in here and we’ll organise a car for her.’
‘I’ll give her a piece of my mind while I’m at it, sir.’
‘Actually, Knott, I’ll do it.’
; Eden’s mobile rang the moment he left. Karen answered it. She was distracted, watching her superior jog along Margaret Thatcher Way. ‘Eden’s phone.’
‘Karen? It’s Jess Castle. Put Eden on. It’s urgent.’
‘You’re breaking up. Who is this?’
‘Jess! It’s Jess! Eden, please. Now.’
‘He’s otherwise engaged.’
Across the road, Theresa was shaking her head. Pointing to the bus timetable. Wrenching away her arm when Eden tried to take it. ‘Little madam,’ murmured Karen. ‘What hunch are you working on now, Jess?’
‘It’s not a hunch. Neil Semple is the killer.’
‘What? You’re breaking up.’ Karen breathed on the window and drew her initials on it.
‘He’s in his van. He’s going to kill someone tonight. Take down this number plate.’
‘Say again?’
‘B D five O K H.’
‘You don’t have to ring in just to say you’re okay.’
‘Tell Eden!’
‘Somebody’s very bossy tonight. Don’t you worry, Jess. We’re looking after Castle Kidbury as per. Eden’s checking that Theresa’s safe. Oh, hang on. Aw, isn’t that lovely? Chivalry isn’t dead. That daft Neil Semple’s pulled up and given her a lift.’
The line cut out.
In her layby, Jess screamed at her phone.
Foot down, she flew into town.
She got lost. In her home town. She wouldn’t have believed it possible, but a new development of mews houses between Gold Hill and the Keep had sprung up in her absence.
A pretty green and pink card was propped up on the dashboard. It was creased after a long sojourn at the bottom of Jess’s bag.
She found the cul-de-sac she wanted. A van tore out of it, passing her at speed. Jess had a glimpse of Neil in the cab.
Her newfound certainty faltered. She hadn’t expected to see the death vehicle there.
On foot, she sped past double-locked doors and windows that showed only slits of light through drawn curtains. The residents of this new street of narrow houses imagined themselves safe.
The lantern above number eight, the end house, was dead. Jess rang the bell before realising the front door was open.
‘Hello?’ Jess had watched countless detectives do this on television. She’d always hissed, Don’t go in, you idiot! She understood now. Faced with an unlocked door and a dark house, there is only one way to proceed.
Nerves screeching, Jess nosed through the dark kitchen. It was at the front, in the modern style. Her eyes got with the programme and blobs firmed up into objects. Everything in its place. Kettle. Toaster. A dining table for two that pierced her heart.
‘Anyone home?’
The sitting room answered her question. A lamp was shattered on the cream carpet. A cup lay on its side beneath a caved-in coffee table. Framed photographs and ornaments had leapt to their deaths from a shelving unit.
A wrecking ball had bounced through the room. Nothing was in the right place. Disorder ruled.
The lady of the house had been taken. One low-heeled shoe dropped in the struggle. Blood had been spilled on the rug. Jess stumbled in her haste to get out of there, to get after Neil’s van. The crunch of glass beneath her feet disguised the gentle thunk of her phone landing on the floor.
A framed photograph lay under her foot.
A line of children along the side of an indoor pool. Different ages, but none more than eight. Some tiddlers in the front row.
Squinting in the sunshine. Gappy teeth.
There’s me, thought Jess. Long hair. Scowl. Itchy bikini.
And Gavin, already handsome. Theresa next to him. Still freckled, and possibly already in love. Caroline in heart-shaped sunglasses. All of them blemish-free, almost new.
At the back, Neil was a scruffy outsider with knock knees. He didn’t look evil. He looked sad.
‘Hello Becky.’ The smallest of them all. Only four. The black and white photo rendered her swimsuit grey, but Jess knew it was yellow.
Everybody alive. Everybody more or less okay. As soon as the photo was taken, Gavin’s mother had grabbed the nearest kid to her.
Me.
Jess remembers it with the seven-year-old viewpoint of her dream. She feels the grip on her arm. Slightly too tight. She looks up at Mrs Blake. She wonders why the lady is speaking funny. Kind of loose. Her lipstick’s smeared.
She’s saying something about the lifeguard having to go away for a minute. ‘Look after the little ones for a while, love.’
Jess is annoyed. Her fun is spoiled. There is no sense of responsibility in this memory. The little ones are fine. Playing boring baby games in the their smaller, shallow, circular pool.
There’s a scream. A loud splash at the deep end. A girl has slipped on a piece of glass.
‘Urgh! Blood!’ shouts Gavin. He points at the red smoky shape in the pool. The girl is crying, doggy-paddling.
Jess panics. Is she supposed to do something? Is she in charge of the older children as well as the smaller ones? She lowers herself into the water.
Adults appear. The water froths as they jump in. Shouting. Screaming. Caroline is crying, but that’s nothing new.
Jess is in the thick of it. She was told to keep an eye. She shunts the bleeding girl onto the tiles.
She feels pretty good. She’s a bit of a heroine. She can feel the relief all around her.
The drama subsides until there’s another scream and they’re all looking at the small body in a yellow swimsuit. Face down. In the big pool.
Jess looked at what must be the last photo ever taken of Becky. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
Jess had been feeding her subconscious and now it roared. She listened. Obeyed. She turned and tripped, entangled in the spilled innards of an ironing basket.
On the other side of the room, her phone buzzed unheard. Rupert’s caller ID.
Jess scrambled to her feet. A jumper had its woolly arms around her ankles. A penny finally dropped. ‘Dry-clean only,’ she shouted to the empty house. ‘No bleach!’
Another photograph hung by the front door. Becky, her face close to her mother’s. Jess made it a promise.
‘I’m coming to get you, Helena.’
Everything was moving so fast. Small suns flew at him in the dark.
He tasted the salt on his lips and was ashamed. Tears were for babies.
It had gone too far. He could see that now. It had made such beautiful sense at first.
He couldn’t think straight with all those lights.
He had let down the dead.
He had let down the goddess.
Chapter 32
WHAT WE DO IN THE DARK
Still Thursday 2 June
Jess parked by the high wall that separated the Blakes’ house from the road.
Not one car had passed her on the way. The omnipresent media shone their light elsewhere, and the old adage about there never being a policeman around when you needed one proved to be true.
Night had crept into Jess’s car. She saw the plaque, by the wooden door that stood ajar. The family had finally moved out, after two tragedies. That door should be locked.
Shit, she thought. I’m right.
Time to put her money where her mouth was.
Panic had bit when she couldn’t find her phone. There would be no cavalry for Jess. I’m Helena’s cavalry, she thought, and stepped out of the car.
It was deathly quiet. As still as a snapshot. The house, its sloping roof just visible above the wall, stood by the meeting of three roads.
Not a traditional crossroads, but the rarer three-way crossing, as preferred by Hecate. The meeting of the roads was where the goddess appeared at Deiphon, to collect her ritual meal.
Jess pretended to be brave, and it got her across the road. Under a signpost that pointed back to town, she could see a dim white circle. It was a paper plate. Jess stole closer. She saw a bulb of garlic and an egg still in its shell.
Myths had stayed on the pag
e before now. Jess was looking at a ritual offering to the saffron-cloaked empress. Neil was celebrating Deiphon.
Jess hurried towards the door in the wall. She knew the story. She knew that if you looked back at the meal, Hecate became visible. Her followers, the vengeful dead, would swarm from her side and claim you as their own.
As a twenty-first-century academic, Jess studied superstition; she didn’t believe it. She had to turn around and look at the plate.
Jess turned her neck. Her shoulder followed suit. But only so far.
She couldn’t turn around.
The Morris Traveller waited. Jess decided to speed back to the cop shop and return mob-handed.
She heard a scream. Muffled. Female. She was through the door in the wall like a shadow.
The lawn tilted. The house was impressive. Many chimneys. Bristling with mod cons.
Beyond the house, the pool was housed in a glass box that had seemed immense to Jess as a child. A spectral half-light seeped from within. Jess climbed the lawn in a crouch.
The silence had reasserted itself, but Jess filled it with imagined kiddie shrieks and splashes. All her senses told her to run. Her feet ignored the advice. She was drawn to the glass house by duty. Compassion. A need to confront her own ghosts.
The eerie light had a banal explanation. The underwater lights were on in the pool. Jess bent lower still. She couldn’t see anybody around the pool, but she clung to the safety of the shadows. This side of the glass structure included a seamless sliding door that was pulled open a few feet.
Jess scrambled sideways on the grass, so that she could squat opposite that gap and think. A tree reared out of the darkness. Jess knocked into it so hard she fell back. Her shoulder was sore. She looked up and saw no branches. It was a crucifix.
The cross’s arms reached out. They were empty. Jess’s heart began to salsa.
She saw figures in the pool house.
A woman lay in a puddle of water, as if she’d been dunked like a witch. It could only be Helena. Theresa knelt over her, hair falling over her face.
Above them stood Neil. Legs apart, he looked almost heroic. Then he aimed a glancing kick, as if trying to score a goal. The football was Helena’s head.
Jess dashed through the glass gap, slithered on the slick floor and shouted the first thing that came into her head.