by Mark White
For the most part, the housewarming parties had not involved the existing inhabitants of Shepherd’s Cross, or ‘The Cross’ as they called it, although open invitations had been displayed in the Post Office window. The locals’ poor attendance was not necessarily as a result of a collective, malicious refusal to welcome the newcomers, but rather that their curiosity had been outweighed by their initial timidity in extending the hand of friendship to such a large number of outsiders. After all, Rowan Lane had been the village’s first housing development of any kind for nearly thirty years.
Over time, however, the efforts of both sides to get to know each other had paid off. True, there remained stark divisions, particularly amongst some of the old-timers, whose tolerance of change was at best limited and at worst non-existent. There was also an inevitable degree of jealousy towards the people who had moved into homes that were well beyond the reach of the average rural wage. But wealthy people with little spare time had a habit of spending money; they needed gardeners, decorators, babysitters and cleaners. They liked dining out and having boxes of organic vegetables delivered to their doors. The lure of hard cash was enough to endear them to a whole manner of folk, who in return were only too willing to offer their services.
If he could have afforded it, Ben would have sold up and moved back to the city months ago. There was no reason for him being here anymore, and the large, empty house served only to reinforce the loneliness and futility of his situation. His one saving grace was the custody he’d been granted to look after Chloe every second and fourth weekend of the month. It wasn’t much, but he lived for those Friday afternoons when he would collect her from school and drive her back to The Cross for the weekend, stopping off for an ice cream en-route. Those weekends were always special. He hadn’t missed one in the whole time since the divorce – nothing took priority over Chloe. He would be collecting her tomorrow, as always.
Climbing out of his car and approaching the house, Ben stopped at the bottom of the steps. Out of the corner of his eye, he could have sworn that the curtains in one of the upstairs bedrooms had twitched. Just a little, but enough to cause him to stop in his tracks and look up. What puzzled him most was that it was his daughter’s room – nobody had been in that room for two weeks, not even Rosie, his cleaner. Surely he must have been imagining things; there couldn’t possibly be anybody else in the house. But he was almost certain that the curtain had moved. Either way, the only way to put his mind at rest was to go inside and find out.
Reaching into his coat pocket, he retrieved his keys and tentatively inserted the one that opened the front door. ‘You’re paranoid,’ he said aloud in an effort to calm himself, turning the handle and slowly pushing the door inwards. Even so, he proceeded to enter the house with caution, turning on the hallway light for reassurance; like a frightened child who would only go to sleep if his mother left the bedroom light on. ‘Hello?’ he said, immediately realising how pathetically he was acting, but playing the part nonetheless. ‘Anybody there?’ Silence. Growing increasingly confident that he must have made a mistake, he relaxed and took off his coat, placing his keys and phone onto the sideboard. It was only when he passed the foot of the stairs on the way to the kitchen that he heard a gentle ‘thump’ on the floorboards of Chloe’s room above him. He looked up, his breath becoming shallower and the hairs on his arms standing to attention like soldiers on parade. His eyes hadn’t deceived him - there was someone upstairs.
His defensive instinct led him straight to the kitchen, whereby he removed the largest of the three cook’s knives that clung to the magnetic strip attached to the tiled wall by the sink. Returning to the hallway, he stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up into the darkness and trying to rationalise what the noise could be. Maybe it was just a rat that had found its way in from the loft. There’d been numerous sightings of rats ever since his neighbours had decided to leave out scraps for the birds over Christmas. Country rats were particularly fond of such treats, given the usual slim pickings that were on offer to them compared to their well-healed relations in town, who could take their pick from the overturned bins and restaurant leftovers that lay strewn across back alleys. The more likely explanation, however, was the ridiculous hours he’d been putting in at work. Long days spent chasing unachievable sales targets, coupled with the after-effects of the festive party season, had led to a persistent state of fatigue that was starting to get the better of him. He desperately needed a good night’s sleep; a much-needed tonic that was unlikely to be swallowed tonight given the circumstances upstairs.
As he climbed the stairs, knife held firmly in his right hand, it struck him how ludicrous the situation was. Why in the world would there be somebody hiding in his daughter’s room? And how would they have got in? The cold weather meant all the windows were closed. There was no evidence of a break-in. And you could guarantee that if there had been a burglar on the prowl, he would not have lasted five minutes in a place like this. Christ, you only had to fart in The Cross and the whole village would know what you’d eaten for dinner. With his newfound confidence, he flicked the landing-light switch and quickened his pace along the corridor. The door to Chloe’s room was closed. He gripped the handle and gently pushed it open. Not for the first time that evening, Ben’s pulse raced as he peered into the shadows of the room.
It was the stench that hit him first; a rancid, putrefying stink that spilled out of the room and into the corridor. An overwhelming blend of ammonia and rotten flesh filled Ben’s lungs and crowded out any fresh air that got in its way. It took all of his resolve to keep himself from vomiting, his shirt acting as a makeshift filter as he pulled it up and pressed it to his nose. Steeling himself, he felt around the side of the door and found the light-switch.
Staring straight back at him was a large, black cat with the most mesmerising copper eyes he’d ever seen. But only the eyes seemed alive; its body was twisted and misshapen like road-kill, its fur matted against its skin in thick, wet patches. It was sitting nonchalantly on a chair by the window in the far corner of the room, clearly unperturbed by the sight of Ben standing at the door, his knife glistening in the hallway light. As if to demonstrate its aloofness, it broke its gaze from him and began licking its left paw; oblivious or indifferent to the turmoil it had put him through for the previous five minutes. Translucent pus oozed from its paw onto the chair, but despite its infected wounds and distorted appearance, the cat didn’t appear to be in any pain; on the contrary, it seemed perfectly at ease with the state it was in. When it looked up again, its eyes held Ben with such force that he was unable to move. There was something unnatural behind those eyes, something malevolent.
‘How…how did you get in here?’ stuttered Ben, slightly relieved not to have been confronted with anything more threatening, but stunned by the creature staring back at him. Relaxing only a fraction, he took a step towards the cat; immediately regretting his decision as it leapt at him with a high-pitched shriek, its claws slicing a deep cut across his face and causing him to scream and lash out blindly in self-defence. Blood gushed from a cut above his left eye. He instinctively placed his hand over the wound to stem the flow, cursing the wretched beast as he stumbled to the floor.
Now in the hall and limping towards the stairs, the cat looked over its shoulder and stared back at Ben, its eyes burning like hot coals on a fire. Its mouth appeared to distort itself into a grimacing smile, revealing filthy, disfigured teeth. For what could have only been a few seconds, the combination of its unholy eyes and contorted face seemed to transform it into a repulsive half-feline / half-human mutant entity, as if it were the botched result of a genetic experiment to combine the two species. Ben cowered away in the corner of the hallway, his knife resting impotently in his hand. As the cat turned to leave, it gave him one final stare; and with an almost preternatural smile, it twisted its tongue and hissed at him with all the bitter venom of the possessed.
Part 2: Friday
Chapter 1
9.30am: Sh
epherd’s Cross Post Office, along with The Fallen Angel Inn and Turner’s convenience store, was a central part of community life. For over a quarter of a century it had been under the meticulous stewardship of Emily Mitford, a lady whose energy and attention to detail belied her seventy-six years of age. Born in the nearby town of Cornforth, she had met her husband, Claude, at a young farmer’s dance where she had been working as a waitress. They had married, and Emily had moved from a life in the town to take up her duties on Longhirst Farm. It wasn’t that she particularly disliked being a farmer’s wife, but following Claude’s death she had soon become lonely and isolated. When the Post Office had come up for sale, she’d had no hesitation in selling up and committing herself to a more sociable means of employment. In doing so, she had quickly established herself as an important pillar of the community, being respected and liked in equal measure.
The Post Office was situated on the corner of a row of terraced houses, overlooking the village green at the heart of Shepherd’s Cross. While not particularly spacious inside, its flagged stone floor was large enough to accommodate four or five people at any one time. As such, over the years it had played host to some interesting gossip; not to mention the occasional heated argument. Births, deaths, marriages and affairs, Emily had heard it all and probably knew more about the intricacies of life in The Cross than anyone else. It wasn’t that she went looking for gossip; it was an inescapable part of the job. Betty Aintree, who sometimes helped Emily out during busier periods or when she needed a break, would often joke that they should secretly record some of what was said and blackmail people out of a fortune.
And so it was on a cold January morning that business was proceeding as usual. The shop had only been open for half an hour, but there’d already been at least half a dozen people through the door. Betty didn’t usually come in on a Friday, so it was up to Emily to manage by herself. She had the kind of pleasant disposition that belonged to somebody who genuinely enjoyed what they did for a living. Indeed, it was fair to say that she enjoyed the social aspects of her job every bit as much as the meagre income that the shop brought in. People warmed to her, and consequently felt at ease in pouring out whatever was on their minds, important or otherwise.
There had only been one topic of conversation since the Post Office doors had opened that morning – Ben Price.
The rumours continued with the entrance of Charlotte Bainbridge and Olivia Falconer, two of Ben’s neighbours, whose bulging bank balances were outweighed only by the amount of time in between school runs that they managed to indulge in bitching about other people. God help anyone who committed a crime as grave as wearing the wrong colour scarf for their jacket, or a top that revealed an inch too much of cleavage; Charlotte and Olivia would have them hung, drawn and quartered before they’d taken a sip of the day’s first cappuccino.
‘I can’t believe you didn’t hear him,’ said Charlotte, who lived two doors down from Ben. ‘I’d just tucked Henry in for the night and was on my way downstairs. Honestly, Olivia, it was like something out of a horror film.’
‘You poor thing,’ said Olivia, feigning concern. ‘What on earth did you do?’
‘I didn’t know what to do. I phoned Edward, but he was no use. He told me that I was being melodramatic; that someone most likely had stubbed their toe on a table leg. He can be so inconsiderate sometimes. Anyway, I could hardly hear him for all the background noise. He was in some bar, as usual.’ Charlotte’s husband, Edward, spent Monday to Friday in their apartment in Newcastle, only returning to Shepherd’s Cross at weekends. They’d met five years earlier; she’d been employed as a legal secretary for the law firm where he worked. Having not taken her long to realise that he was well on his way to becoming one of the firm’s youngest partners, she had hatched a plan to secure his affection. Admittedly, the plan had not been particularly complex in its design, involving nothing more than short skirts, revealing blouses and shameless flirting. It may have been a direct approach, but Charlotte knew from experience that few men, married or otherwise, could resist an ego-pandering, sexually available woman. And once she’d trapped him in her web, she’d devoured him whole.
‘Maybe he did just stub his toe,’ Olivia said as they reached the counter. ‘What else could have made him scream?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve hardly ever seen Ben since Jane left him. He spends all of his time at work, and he never brings Chloe to see Henry anymore. He’s crawled right into his shell since the divorce.’
‘Didn’t you check on him?’ asked Olivia, knowing all too well the answer to her question.
‘How could I? I couldn’t leave Henry alone upstairs. Besides, what if it had been serious? What if someone had been attacking him or something?’
‘I doubt that, dear,’ said Emily, who had been listening long enough to realise what the discussion related to. She’d already heard about last night’s incident from at least three of her previous customers. The two women paused and looked at her.
‘You doubt what?’ asked Charlotte. Those who didn’t know her could be forgiven for interpreting her direct manner as rather rude, but Emily was fully aware that Charlotte spoke condescendingly to everybody, so she didn’t take her tone of voice personally.
‘I mean,’ continued Emily, ‘that I doubt he came to any harm. Yvonne Turner came in earlier; she told me that her son Liam was delivering newspapers early this morning and had seen Ben setting off to work. He looked fine, apparently.’
‘That’s a relief,’ said Charlotte. ‘At least it couldn’t have been anything serious then.’
‘I don’t think so. Yvonne told me that she spoke to Sergeant Jennings around an hour ago. He said he’d follow it up later today.’
‘Good,’ replied Charlotte, sliding a ten pound note under the glass hatch to pay for a book of stamps. ‘This place can get awfully spooky at night. The last thing we need is a murderer on the prowl.’
‘Charlotte!’ said Olivia. ‘There’s no need to frighten us like that.’
‘I’m only joking, darling,’ laughed Charlotte. ‘You are so serious sometimes. I hardly think that a murderer would be interested in this boring little village. Nothing ever happens here.’
‘I wouldn’t be quite so sure,’ said Emily. ‘There’s more to this place than meets the eye. You’d be rather surprised if you knew the kind of things that have taken place here over the years.’
‘What kind of things?’ they asked together, their attention now wholly focussed on Emily.
‘You aren’t aware of the history of Shepherd’s Cross?’ asked Emily. They stared at her like two fascinated schoolchildren; their blank expressions telling her that they had absolutely no idea what she was referring to.
The bell above the door tinkled to signal the arrival of a new customer. As keen as Charlotte and Olivia were for Emily to proceed with her history lesson, now was neither the time nor the place. Emily smiled at them both. ‘I tell you what. Why don’t you come back at lunchtime when the shop’s shut? If you have an hour to spare, I would be only too happy to continue our conversation. I find the stories of this place fascinating, and I dare say you will too, if you would like to?’
The two women looked at each other and nodded keenly. Time was a commodity they both had in abundance, especially when it could be spent gossiping. Besides, it would make a change to the usual monotony of daytime television and internet shopping. ‘We’d love to,’ replied Olivia.
‘Great,’ said Emily. ‘See you at 12.30. I’ll have the kettle on ready. But I should warn you; you may not be expecting what I have to tell you.’
With that closing remark, she averted her eyes to the lady behind them and smiled. ‘Hello, Elsie dear, how are you this morning? I hear we’re in for snow tonight.’
Chapter 2
10.00 am: On approaching Banktop Farm, it soon became evident that nobody was home. Wilf Blackett’s battered old Land Rover wasn’t parked in its usual spot in front of the house, and the lack of chimney smoke
indicated that the fire wasn’t lit.
‘Maybe he’s popped into town,’ said Cara. ‘He shouldn’t be long. He knew we were coming this morning.’
‘We’ll give him ten minutes. Let’s wait here in the car. Pass the flask – we’ll have a brew.’
Cara smiled: have a brew – her boss’s answer to everything. He unscrewed the lid off the flask and poured them both a cup. He took a sip, careful not to burn his mouth, and sat back in his seat with the relieved expression of an addict satisfying his craving. ‘I’m parched,’ he said. ‘I ended up having one too many at The Fallen Angel last night. You missed a good evening. Once again, Trivial Pursuit saved the day.’
‘Any gossip?’ she asked, conscious of the fact that she hardly ever went out anymore.
‘Nothing to write home about. Frank Gowland was drunker than usual. He was slurring on about a couple of out-of-towners he’d spotted earlier that day walking into Ted Wilson’s office. Pulled up in a black Range Rover, apparently. They emerged not long after, Ted as well. Drove off up the lake road. Most likely wealthy city folk wanting to buy up land for some sort of tax dodge.’
‘Hmmm…the chance would be a fine thing. They could push some of their cash my way – Christmas has well and truly done me in.’
‘Do you need a few quid to see you through?’ Jennings asked. He was aware of her occasional cash flow problems and didn’t like to see her struggling to make ends meet. He wasn’t exactly flush himself, but the full pension coming his way would be enough to see him through. Besides, he didn’t have anyone else to fuss over. He’d never married or fathered any children. He’d always wanted to; but as the years had passed, he’d become too set in his ways and unwilling to compromise; growing comfortable with the kind of selfish idiosyncrasies that only a single man is allowed to get away with.