The Yeare's Midnight

by Ed O'Connor

  The cold air and stillness of Afton station was a huge relief: like diving into an ice-cold swimming pool on a stifling day. After the cramped tin-can suffocation of the train, even the inside of her Audi felt like a luxury leather armchair. She flicked the ignition and before driving off chose some music: Miserere mei, Deus by Allegri. She closed her eyes for a second as the piece started, still the most beautiful choral arrangement she had ever heard. She secured her seat belt and reversed out of the parking space. It was a shame that she had not been able to see Stiggy, she mused as she pulled away: his work on the genetic inheritance of the characteristics leading to obesity had influenced much of her own thinking. She turned left out of the car park. Twenty yards behind her, Crowan Frayne switched on his headlights.

  Drury’s Audi sped out of Afton village. Frayne’s Escort van had trouble keeping up. He didn’t want to get too close but he had to stay in visual contact since he had no idea where Drury lived. The roads narrowed as the two cars headed out into the countryside. Blindman’s Lane twisted and rose across farmland. The ploughed fields on either side looked like bottomless black pools to Frayne but he knew that they were alive with the intermingled dead of a thousand generations. He kept about a quarter-mile behind Drury: his eyes fixed on the rear lights of her Audi in the near distance. Suddenly, they disappeared around a bend in the road. Frayne accelerated: he didn’t want to lose her in the maze of lanes. He was already uncertain of his bearings.

  As he rounded the bend he saw the Audi turn down a narrow driveway off to the right and approach a large house that stood incongruously in the open country around it. It was almost certainly a converted farmhouse. He drove past and parked up a farm track at the entrance to a field about half a mile along the lane. The van was out of sight of the main road: he took a calculated risk that nobody was likely to come out to the field at that time of night. He strained his eyes, peering into the darkness ahead of him: no cattle or sheep, just a barren field.

  He was uncomfortable. He had found the house but knew nothing about it. A house that size, so isolated would almost certainly have a burglar alarm: probably a very good one. He knew for sure that Drury had plenty of money. Frayne decided to take a closer look at the buildings before he made his final approach. He could double back to Drury’s house along the edge of the fields. He didn’t want to risk being caught in the headlights of an oncoming car on the road. There were patches of hedging he could use for cover where the field met the lane. He needn’t have worried. Blindman’s Lane was seldom used for anything other than farm traffic and he made it to Drury’s driveway without encountering any cars.

  He found the darkness comforting: it penetrated him, empowered him. He was the darkness: the blind, encompassing night. It was cloudy and he could not make out any of the constellations he knew so well. He could hear them, though: muffled and obscured by the tumbling grey clouds but unmistakably beautiful. His gaze focused on the house. He could make out the downstairs lights clearly. There was a gate leading onto the gravel driveway. Drury must have closed it after he had driven past. A large open lawn stretched in front of the house. There were clumps of trees at the back of the buildings that might have provided useful concealment but to get there he would either have to cross the lawn or pick his way across the adjoining field. The ground looked as if it had been recently ploughed and Frayne rejected the idea of stumbling blindly across the heavy mud, carrying his equipment. More promising were the two large beech trees on the left-hand side of the driveway. There was also a line of hedgerow behind them. If he moved carefully, he would be virtually invisible against it and could rest at the foot of each of the beeches if necessary.

  Frayne crossed the road and clambered over the wooden gate. Keeping to the left, he moved quickly towards the house, hugging the rustling black wall of privet. He could see the house more clearly now. It was large, square with high sash windows and a heavy wooden door. Drury’s car was parked at the front of the house about twenty yards from the doorway. He crouched at the foot of the first beech to consider his options. He ground the violet petals in his left hand and held his palm to his face, breathing in the thick musty scent. The situation didn’t look promising: the house seemed very secure. There was a security-alarm box above the front door. He moved closer, wanting to get a more detailed look: he knew that some people put dummy boxes outside their houses to deter burglars, thinking that the implied presence of an alarm system would be enough. He had reached the second beech tree and could still not make out the box clearly.

  Crowan Frayne sat back on his haunches. He had been caught out trying to cut security-system wires before. Many of the modern alarms incorporated fail-safe systems that went off immediately if tampered with. It was a huge risk. He needed to be certain. He moved from behind the tree and stepped forward. He was suddenly illuminated in brilliant white light. He jumped, dived down to the gravel and crawled to the side of Elizabeth Drury’s Audi. Security lights. He cursed his stupidity: he should have expected this. Still, the car hid him from the sight of anyone in the house. He waited.

  Elizabeth Drury looked briefly out of her living-room window at her driveway bathed in light. She was used to the security lights now. Her cats frequently triggered the system when they played outside at night, as did the local foxes who regularly raided her rubbish bins. She saw nothing and returned to her book.

  After what seemed an age the lights blinked off. Crowan Frayne relaxed and allowed himself a closer look at the house through the car windows. He could see the alarm box and noticed immediately that it was wired. He just stopped himself from swearing aloud, afraid his rising breath would betray him. Breaking in through a door or a window would be extremely dangerous: Drury might even have a system that contained a silent trigger to the local police station. There had to be another way. He looked again at the front of the house through the expensive prism of the Audi. His gaze hunted frantically for weaknesses and found none. Then something on the side window of the car caught his eye. It was a sticker.

  Satisfied that he had not been detected, Frayne hurried back to the relative safety of the fence and considered his options. There was a way to do this but it would take time and a degree of risk. It was now well after nine o’clock. He decided to return at midnight. He believed that Dr Drury was an early riser; given the length of her daily commute. He flitted along the edge of the driveway and was quickly over the road, through the hedgerow and retracing his steps back to his car.

  There were only two pubs in Afton village and Katie Hunt was under age. Steve Riley was just eighteen. They had spent an hour together in The Farmer’s Boy before they had both grown tired of Coca-Cola. Steve suggested they should go for a drive to find somewhere more private. He was excited at his own boldness: it was only their second date. They had kissed in the car park of the pub, then again inside the car. She tasted of lemon. Steve realized that she had been sucking the lemon slices in her drink.

  As they drove out of the village into the darkness, Steve’s mind raced through the alternatives. It was difficult to concentrate with Katie’s hand on his thigh but he tried hard. At the junction of Afton High Street and Blindman’s Lane he paused for a moment. Then he had a flash of inspiration and turned left out of the village.

  From some distance Crowan Frayne saw the car coming: its headlights cast a short, uncertain beam out into the sprawling darkness. He crouched against a hedge and waited. He heard the car’s engine getting louder, the noise growling through the air. His mind worked through the alternatives: other than Drury’s house there was nowhere obvious to stop on this road. If Drury had been expecting visitors she would have left the gate open. No. It had to be through traffic. He waited for it to pass. Two minutes later, Steve Riley’s Fiesta flashed past the spot where Crowan Frayne was hiding, its occupants seeing nothing unusual through the wall of darkness that stared back at them. Frayne was rising to his feet again when he heard the car slowing down.

  Steve Riley turned along the farm track.
The soft ground seemed to squish under the car. Katie giggled as they bounced on the lumpy turf. Steve slowed and peered out through the windscreen: his headlights picked out the back doors of Crowan Frayne’s white Escort van.

  ‘Looks like someone’s got the same idea as us,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe it’s broken down.’

  Steve stopped a few feet short of the Escort and climbed out. He walked up behind the van, following the trajectory cast by his own headlights, and looked through the back windows. There was no one inside. He could make out a couple of wooden boxes in the back section but there were no signs of life. He turned back to face his own car and shrugged: Katie shrugged too, although he couldn’t see her. Steve walked back and jumped back inside.

  ‘There’s no one there. Must belong to some farmworker. I think there’s tools in the back,’ he said. ‘Do you want to find somewhere else?’

  ‘This is fine.’ Katie leaned forward and kissed him again. Lemons. Steve put his hand onto her jumper, quickly working his way round to cup one of her breasts. There was no point wasting time.

  Ten yards away Crowan Frayne, a hole in the night, watched them. He was uncertain how to proceed. He was tempted to leave them. But if they remembered his van, they might remember the number of his licence plate and Frayne wasn’t ready for the police yet. Did he dare let them go? ‘Shit.’ He hadn’t planned the Drury woman carefully enough. He had chosen an unsafe place to prepare and now he had scuppered himself. He had two options: abort the Drury woman completely, wait for the couple to leave and drive quietly home. Or he could act now.

  Steve Riley had his hand down the front of Katie’s jeans. There wasn’t much room to manoeuvre in the car but he was pleased with the way things were going. Her mouth was alive and willing as he kissed her hard and long. He had fancied her for months and had imagined this moment a thousand times already. He knew exactly what he was going to do next, though he thought he might have to push her seat right back to manage it. He reached across her, trying to find the seat-release lever. She took his hand and pushed him back gently.

  ‘Steve.’ She was giggling again – he liked that. ‘I need to pee.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘I’m sorry. But I’ve really got to go.’

  ‘Where? We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere.’ He couldn’t conceal his disappointment. He hadn’t imagined this.

  ‘I’ll find a bush. I’ve got to go.’ Katie clicked open the car door, did up her jeans and swung her legs out into the cold. She stepped tentatively into the dark, squinting. There was a flat plateau of grass about ten metres away: behind the car, off to the left. She didn’t want Steve to see her. The ground was hard to negotiate and uneven. Katie stumbled forward. Finally she reached the raised bump of grass she had chosen and unbuttoned her jeans. Before she could crouch, Crowan Frayne stepped from the darkness and struck the back of her head a terrific blow. She saw an explosion of light, then fell to the ground without a sound. Her body twitched in shock as life began to ebb out of her. Frayne kneeled over her and struck her hard again. Twice.

  A minute passed. Steve Riley was getting impatient. He wiped condensation off the rear-view mirror and tried to see out of the back window. He couldn’t see Katie. Suddenly he felt sorry for her; she was alone in the darkness. He was being selfish. He opened his car door and stepped outside.

  ‘Katie? Are you all right?’ he called into the void.

  ‘Katie’s fine now,’ said a soft voice behind him.

  Steve turned towards the noise. Something struck him, a glancing blow to the forehead. He reeled against the side of the car, falling backwards, his feet slipping on the mud. He could make out the shape of a man in front of him. He knew that if he went down he was dead. Something flashed above him and smashed into his face, breaking his cheekbone. He felt his teeth splinter and blood rush across the unfamiliar sharpness in his mouth. The impact sent Steve Riley toppling into the mud. As he tried to lift himself the third blow came. This time he didn’t move.

  Crowan Frayne dragged Steve Riley’s dead weight back to the Fiesta and hauled the body onto the back seat. There would be blood everywhere. He was pleased that he couldn’t see anything. He was panting. The effort had drained him. This was ugliness. This was not poetry. He opened the door of his own car and took out a torch. He hurried back to the spot where he had put the girl down. Crouching, he rolled the woman onto her back and shone the torch into her face. Her eyes were wide open in shock. They were brown. He cursed his bad luck and dragged the dead girl back to the car. With an effort, he placed her inside and found the keys in the ignition. It was important that he got rid of the bodies quickly. He started the engine and reversed down the track.

  28

  Underwood sat in the wreckage of his life. On the bed that was his everywhere, he sat as nothing. Julia’s note had hammered what he already knew like a rusty nail between his eyes and into his soul.

  John: It is obvious to me that our marriage is over. It would be obvious to you too if you cared to look. I have tried to call you, tried to speak to you but you have refused to let me. This is the only way.

  I will be staying with my mother for a couple of weeks. I will contact you after that to discuss arrangements. I have a solicitor; I recommend you get one as well. It will make things easier.

  I never wanted this, John. But my life has been empty for some time. I could cope with you, with the uncertainty and the stress of your job if you made an effort to connect with me. You are not the only person who feels. You seem to have given up on both of us. I am not prepared to give up on myself yet. I have met someone else.

  Please see a doctor.

  Julia

  So there it was: the final proof of his failure. Infallible eyewitness testimony. The written word was cruel and unforgiving: it found you like a bright light would. Underwood’s head boiled and throbbed. He felt it might implode. He had become a tiny slick of pain in a vast pointless universe. John Underwood slumped on the floor, his back to the bed. ‘I have met someone else.’ The epitaph to eighteen years of marriage; twenty-two since they had first started dating. ‘I have met someone else.’ Simple and effective – like a gunshot.

  His gaze fixed on Julia’s dressing gown, still hanging on the wardrobe door: maybe she thought she didn’t need one any more, maybe this Heyer fuck had bought her a new one. He got up and opened the wardrobe: a line of Julia’s dresses still hung inside, a neat battalion of her shoes at the bottom. Her underwear still lay in the top drawer of the dresser: bitch probably didn’t need it any more. Underwood fetched a suitcase from their spare room and started piling her clothes in. It took five minutes and the bulging case didn’t shut properly. He dragged it downstairs and slammed it into the boot of his car.

  5 November 1975. The date he knew he loved her. He had known her for a year. She was in the class below him at school. Clever girl, university bound. Straight black hair to her shoulders, big serious eyes. She was the star of the school play and he used to watch her rehearse, pretending he was helping out with the set or the lighting. Julia had to sing ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’. She had a beautiful voice: it rose and fell effortlessly. John Underwood sat in the lighting gantry and watched her unseen, gobsmacked with awe. He resolved to ask her out.

  5 November 1975. School Bonfire Night. They had built a huge pyre on the unused sports pitch behind the gymnasium. It was always a big event: parents and children together. There was even a guy that the art department had painted to look like the headmaster. Julia Cooper went with her parents. John went alone. He had bought a hot dog and gone hunting for her in the firelight flickering across a crowd of chattering faces. He had found her by the bonfire: staring into the flames with those big green serious eyes, the warmth of the fire on her face. Her parents were talking to the headmaster and his wife: probably about Cambridge University admissions policy. Julia stood alone. He threw his hot dog into the fire and approached her, wiping the grease from his chin. She was holding a
paper cup of tomato soup: it steamed pleasantly in her mittened hands.

  ‘All right, Julia?’

  ‘Hello. It’s John, isn’t it?’ Her brow furrowed slightly. Was she intrigued or embarrassed?

  ‘Good fire.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘They’ve got some good fireworks later. They’ve spent three hundred pounds this year.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to that.’

  ‘That’s Mr Hodges, isn’t it?’ He pointed at the lopsided flaming effigy that was causing much amusement.

  ‘It’s really funny. It looks just like him. Except it’s not so fat.’ She laughed, looking straight into his eyes, and he was lost.

  A cheap firework phutted and whizzed overhead. People began to move away from the fire to get a closer look. Julia looked awkward suddenly.

  ‘Better go, I suppose,’ she said.

  ‘Oh yeah. You don’t want to miss anything.’ He had to move quickly, think of something. ‘I liked your singing today. You’ve got a really good voice.’

  ‘Thank you. Will you be at rehearsal tomorrow?’ She didn’t seem embarrassed at all.

  ‘Yeah. See you there.’

  ‘See you there.’

  John hadn’t bothered watching the fireworks. He walked home feeling that God had lit the touch paper to his soul. The following day he found out that Julia Cooper had snogged Danny Lynch after the fireworks. It was the big gossip of the school. The bottom fell out of John Underwood’s universe. He cried for her in the school toilets. But he was a lost cause. He wouldn’t give up. A month later, on the last night of the school play, he asked her out.