Cold Remains

by Spedding, Sally;

  Damn.

  The screen remained blank. “It’s not working. Look.” He angled the phone towards her.

  “I need to concentrate, OK?’

  Just then, as he fiddled with Options and Film menus, the whole street scene reverted to its former bustle. “Bloody gizmos,” he muttered. “They never work when you want them to.”

  “Just take a photo, then.”

  “Can’t. It’s too late. Everything’s changed back.”

  He replaced his crap phone with Evil Eyes, still feeling unnerved. Could he really have imagined all that, or was it the pills? At least a book was reliable. Tangible. He found the page he’d been reading before sneaking another look at the grim last page.

  “That looks like fun,” she observed drily, before overtaking an open truck full of white goats.

  “It is.”

  “Afraid we can’t compete with that here. The worst we get is sheep rustling or some old codger in the backwoods doing it with his dogs.”

  Normally, he’d have laughed, but not now, despite the town’s sudden return to its normal bustle. “Tell me more about these lead mines near Heron House,” he said, to take his mind off it.

  She sighed. “There were two. Nantybai near the church and the river Towy, and Nantymwyn higher up. They’d been around since Roman times. Apparently, both were closed in the late-1930s, putting hundreds of folk out of work. Why when war came many of the local men, including farmers, signed up.”

  “My best mate Archie did that. Jobless for a year, so he went for it. Kabul, if you please.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Don’t really want to talk about it, if that’s OK.”

  She shrugged. Put her foot down as the A40 opened out, and they continued in silence past large farms whose cattle slurry trailed across the road, splattering her windscreen. To the right, he saw beyond the grazed hills lay darker, sharper escarpments of what he guessed were part of the Brecon Beacons. He sat transfixed, comparing this naturally unfolding panorama with Hounslow. Yes, the Thames wasn’t so far from its clogged-up streets, but here, between fields, the Towy flowed by without a single rowing fanatic or noisy cruise boat to break its reflection of passing clouds. Smooth, grassy banks lay on either side instead of overused pathways full of litter, dog shit and used syringes. Yet this was the very world that must feed the book he was about to start writing. A polluted, corrupt world, forever on the move.

  “So why come to Heron House?” she quizzed, while they passed over an elaborate iron bridge into a town called Llandovery. That same River Towy now beneath them. He turned to her, but how to explain that his heart, which only yesterday had filled to bursting with ideas, was deflating like some kid’s balloon. His main characters, Carl Spooner, a vicious pusher from Kennington and his sidekick, whose speciality was dousing his victims with petrol and watching them fry, were fading with every mile that passed.

  He closed Evil Eyes and placed it on the floor between his feet. “To start a gangland thriller. Mr Flynn thought it was a cool idea and was keen to see a first chapter this weekend. Even checked I took a good pic for inside the back cover.”

  Suddenly, the Ignis lurched towards the nearside hedge. She quickly righted it, but not before he’d seen her expression.

  “What’s wrong with that?” he challenged. “What’s wrong with him rooting for me? Best seller, he said, if you can see it through. And I bloody am.”

  Silence.

  ***

  The road that apparently led towards Heron House, took her full attention, not only because of its narrowness, but also what else happened to be sharing it. A fox hunt in full swing, complete with huge, pale hounds veering from verge to verge, noses down. Small made-up girls on half-clipped ponies; horseboxes parked up nose to tail, plus a posse of quad bikes taking up what little space was left. Welcome to the countryside, he thought.

  Half an hour later, with the commotion vanished up wet, stony tracks leading from the road, and a sign for Rhandirmwyn with its enticing-looking pub just a memory, gentle bends became the hairpin variety. Soft fields were now giant fir-clad peaks where small settlements nestled between their folds. More Alpine than anything thought Jason, aware of being sucked into a world as different as could be from the Essex marshes on which he’d grown up. Here a trickle of white smoke rising, there a black swarm of birds cruising low over the land.

  Rooks?

  He glanced at Helen Jenkins’ freckled face fixed on the way ahead. Her long pale eyelashes and her small nose weathered red on its bridge.

  “So tell me about your rook pies,” he said. “Mr Flynn was raving about them.”

  “Ha. He’s a liar. I should have snatched the phone off him when you first called Heron House. He’s also a lush. Big time. And as for the cordon bleu crap, forget it.” She slowed down; her left indicator light flashing on and off while a bright blush burned on each cheek. “Look, I can easily turn round and take you back to Swansea. Trains to Paddington run till late. He’d understand. Whatever else, he’s no fool.”

  Jason flicked off the switch, his stomach spinning like it had when he’d woken up in his brother’s flat on his last morning there. “Just keep going.”

  “But you’ll be paying good money. For what?” Indignation had lit up her blue-green eyes. Her chin stuck out. “You must be desperate. That’s all I can say.”

  “Too right I am.”

  ***

  They didn’t speak again until the unnamed turning became a cinder track pitted by water-filled holes and the uphill gradient levelled for half a mile to reveal a large, moss-covered roof and two tall, but unmatched chimneys.

  “Here we are,” she said, dropping into first gear despite the grumbling clutch. “Not exactly in the hub of things.”

  You could say that again.

  Heron House, ten times the size of his mother’s cottage, and clearly from a much earlier era, lay in its own leafy grounds beneath a dark swathe of a forestry plantation. Beyond this, the land rearing up against the sky, seemed shorn of grass, dotted with the odd windblown tree. Survivors, like he must be. He took in the house’s three gabled upper windows jutting out like mean little eyes, then the heron-shaped weather vane, spinning on its perch. Next, his eye travelled down over the dense, dark ivy smothering most of the front wall, to the recessed front door whose steps lay strewn with dead leaves and other debris.

  He’d missed the unusual gateposts.

  “Who made those?” he finally pointed at the two stone pillars each supporting identical wrought-iron sculptures. Herons again. Beaks open, wings outspread as if for battle. Quite different from the weather vane. Their message seemed to be ‘Keep out.’

  “From melted-down cannons, so I heard.”

  Tentative connections began to form in his mind. Cannons and lead, rocks and caves. And when he glanced again at that same front door, almost hidden beyond its gloomy archway, he suddenly glimpsed three figures, again in sepia tones, who’d materialised from nowhere, standing below the steps. A family perhaps, made up of a woman who seemed to be pregnant, a stout man of indeterminate age, and in between them, a young, black-haired girl carrying a basket of cut roses. The two females wore what Jason recognised as traditional Welsh costume, while the man balanced a long fishing rod on his shoulder whose dangling hook bore what appeared to be a dead mouse.

  Then, as quickly as the strange picture had appeared, it vanished.

  What is it about this place? he asked himself as Helen Jenkins followed the curved driveway around an under-planted central island, where just one rose bush swayed back and forth in the wind. Perhaps he’d give his next dose of Citalopram a miss.

  She pulled up next to a grey Volvo saloon in front of the first of three lock-up garages, which, like most of the house, were smothered in ivy. Broken branches and other detritus lay drifted against their tatty-looking doors. He watched her climb out. Neat butt, nice legs, he thought. Then reprimanded himself. He was here to write, not catch up on a non-existen
t love life, since Gina Colburn, who’d worked in the videos section of the Hounslow store, had dumped him last summer. “So this is Heron House,” he said, dragging his venerable suitcase from the boot. “I’ve been on tenterhooks since I saw that advert.”

  “Where?”

  He hesitated. Mrs Davies’ reaction had been bad enough. “The Lady. What’s wrong with that?”

  Her laugh caught him unawares. Deeper than he’d expected. “You’re kidding?”

  “In the doctor’s surgery it was. Perhaps your Mr Flynn was hoping to attract females rather than some geezer who’s just lost his job and got nowhere to live.”

  Surprise wasn’t the word for it.

  “You?”

  Just then, she turned towards the house as the front door opened, as if, it seemed, by itself.

  7.

  Friday 3rd April 2009 – 8 p.m.

  Gwenno Davies stood aside, almost reluctantly, to allow them both access to the cavernous reception hall where the log fire was busily spitting out green flames reflecting on the unfashionably papered walls. This time, her riding crop quivered in her right hand as she looked the new arrival up and down.

  Jason stared back at her with undisguised puzzlement. One day, Helen promised herself, she’d make a painting of that woman’s face and throw it into the fire to watch it burn, bit by bit. But that wouldn’t be enough to shift someone who was clearly ensconced here for life. Part of the fabric were she and her husband. Like fag burns and other dodgy stains. At least the other old loony acknowledged her, despite the fact she couldn’t converse in Welsh. At least he kept out of the way from dawn to dusk, pick-picking old leaves off whatever tree or bush he could reach, yet deliberately letting the swimming pool’s contents grow thicker and blacker with them and any fallen ones as the months went by.

  “Mr Flynn will be down now,” snapped her enemy. “He said for you to wait.”

  Her little bit of power. Saddo.

  “No worries,” said Jason breezily. Although he’d turned down the chance of a lift back to Swansea, by the end of the evening, he could still change his mind.

  Next came the soft, regular tread of suede on carpet. Thank God those legs now clad in dark blue trousers still seemed steady, and Monty Flynn’s pock-marked skin not quite so pink as when he’d first arrived back from the pub. His odd socks, however, were still the same but the maroon velvet smoking jacket was new.

  The moment he spotted Jason, his smile widened. The same smile that had brought her here too far inland from the sea country that she loved. He turned to her; his irregular teeth still on show. “I’m sure, Helen, that Mr Robbins could do with a nice strong cup of tea.”

  Mr Flynn laid a long-fingered hand on her shoulder. “Off you go.”

  Helen obeyed, picking up her bag, wondering if Jason, in her shoes, would be treated any differently.

  Someone had got to the kitchen first, for the kettle was beginning to boil, letting out its usual thin scream. Then came The Rat’s voice as she beat Helen to the mugs. “I don’t much care for that young man out there,” she said. “Fit he is, that’s for sure. I can tell by his eyes, see? The way he looked me up and down as if I was one of them killing ewes at the mart.”

  Killing ewes?

  Helen flinched.

  “If that’s not proper manners, I don’t know what is,” the woman went on, now in full spate, while Helen appropriated the tea-bag tin and dropped a tea bag into one of the mugs. “And the Lord knows who else’ll be turning up next Thursday. They could be criminals come for a nosey round, for all I know.” Her deep sigh also delivered what Helen hoped was the start of a death rattle. “You being a girl on your own here – think about it. I know Mr Davies is of the same mind.”

  The sudden reference to that wrinkly in a filthy old boiler suit, made Helen add too much hot water. Her onlooker tutted while fetching milk from the fridge. Beyond the locked windows, dusk had deepened too suddenly. So had Helen’s sense of claustrophobia.

  “I went to see Aunty Betsan yesterday, for some decent recipes,” she volunteered as casually as she could. A deliberate change of subject while putting her shopping in the fridge. She was up for a fight, if need be, adding, “so you won’t be able to complain about my catering any more.”

  Immediately, the temperature inside the already cool room seemed to drop. The Rat set down the milk then pushed her forefinger’s knobbly middle knuckle into Helen’s breastbone. “How long is it you’ve bin here?”

  “You should know. A month. Why?”

  “And how often have you called on her?”

  “Only twice.” Which was the truth. “Why?”

  “And has she bewitched you yet? Given you fresh-baked Welsh cakes as a parting gift? Tell me.” The woman prodded even harder until Helen grabbed the finger and prised it away.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not.”

  “Well, let me tell you, my girl, she hides potions and poisons and uses them as punishment.”

  “Punishment? What for?”

  Gwenno Davies drew closer, keeping her hands to herself, but her dry, thin lips almost brushed Helen’s cheek. Meanwhile, laughter eked out from the reception area. Monty Flynn on top form, enjoying himself with his new recruit. Helen felt an all-too-familiar pang of jealousy.

  “Why Betsan’s suspicious of anyone who treads the path to her door. I should know. But I’m not alone thinking this. Oh, no. Not saying. Except those who’ve had food there, or walked away with something she’s made, come to no good,” Gwenno said.

  Helen tried to rekindle the image of the woman who’d been so eager to help. No way was this horrible accusation tying up. Instead, “She’s done me too much harm. Her and her mouth,” came immediately to mind.

  “Surely the police would have investigated her by now, if that had been true,” Helen said.

  “Oh, they have, but Betsan charms them, doesn’t she? Nothing ever proved, see.” The Rat backed away to listen in on the other conversation. “Travellers go on, eat other food from elsewhere. Think of it. How easy…”

  “Stop!” Helen set the full mug on to a little plastic tray and added milk, sugar and a stray cup cake. “This is crazy, and I’m fed up with all the gossip round here. Why can’t everyone just get on with their lives? You’d think people would be grateful to live in an area like this. Ever been to Salford? My cousin took a job there last year. Knifed in the back, he was and lucky to survive.”

  “Ask Mr Davies if you don’t believe me,” she countered, deliberately closing the door so Helen trying to balance the little tray, couldn’t pass through. “And you can be sure that when these so-called writers turn up, I’ll be putting them straight.”

  “I’m sure you will. Now please open this thing. I’ve supper to get, as well you know.”

  Grudgingly, the woman obliged, letting tea be delivered to the Londoner now relaxed in one of the two deep-buttoned chairs by the fire. Mr Flynn’s smile was in overdrive. “Helen, in case you don’t know it, I swear to God you’re looking at the next Max Byers. Jason’s got this great idea for a début thriller.” He enthusiastically slapped both arms of his chair. “It’s got the lot. And he’s just agreed to count me in when the squillions come rolling into his bank account. Just wish he’d sent me something to read beforehand.”

  Another pang of jealousy hit Helen’s heart. The Irishman had never shown any interest in her preparatory sketches for paintings. She then told herself to get over it. What did it matter what he thought?

  Meanwhile, the budding author’s cheeks had reddened with excitement, and she felt mean to deny his moment in the sun. However, at uni, she’d spent three weeks learning about being a freelance. How a properly drawn-up contract between patron and client was considered paramount. Perhaps in private, she should warn Jason of the dangers of such a loose arrangement, especially after what he’d admitted in the car. Homeless and redundant, he was vulnerable. But was he also just plain unlucky?

  “Well, I’d better get out of my funera
l suit and start making that spag bol to celebrate,” Helen said instead.

  “Ah, the angel of Heron House has spoken,” chuckled her boss. And as he did so, leant forwards to pick up the Metro that Jason had left on the coffee table between them. “Life in The Big Smoke, eh?” He skimmed through its well-thumbed pages. “You won’t get me in any big city even if this place went up in flames and I was left standing in my pyjamas.” Then all at once he stopped. Peered at the last-but-one page, his fingers stiffening as he did so.

  “What’s up?” Helen asked, used to his mood changes, but not this sudden. “Is it something you’ve just read?”

  Without answering, Monty Flynn slapped the pages together, folded them tight and stuffed the bundle into his smoking-jacket pocket.

  “I’m not to be disturbed. Understood?” he snapped, before springing from his armchair and striding towards the archway leading to the stairs.

  8.

  Friday 3rd April 2009 – 8.15 p.m.

  Having placed the heron-decorated fireguard in front of the dwindling fire, Jason carried his empty mug into the kitchen. Helen was busy tipping bright red mince into a frying pan; no sign of that strange old girl hanging around either, which made it easier for him to ask, “what’s got into Monty Flynn, I wonder?”

  “You tell me. You’ve obviously read that paper too, judging by the state of it.”

  “Is he connected to London in some way? Family, friends, etcetera?”

  She paused before adding salt and pepper. The smell of the sizzling raw meat made him catch his breath. “Not that I know of.”

  “Or more specifically, Islington?”

  Flushed and frowning, she refocussed on sealing the beef strands with the hot oil. “No. And why’s it so important all of a sudden?”

  “Charles Pitt-Rose – whoever he is – is dead. Found hanged, apparently.” And in the next moment was aware of someone’s shadow creeping along the adjoining scullery wall.

  ***

  “Nosy old bat,” muttered Helen ladling the Bolognaise sauce on top of his pasta and bringing it over. “She’s always around. You watch her. And Idris her husband out there. They’re seriously odd.” She gestured towards the darkly waving trees beyond the window. “They live in, see. Up with the dawn and down at midnight. Mind you, there’s an old Hillman Hunter in the second lock-up which she uses once a week. He never goes out, though. At least, not since I’ve been here.”