by Mark Edwards
Lily opened the book and immediately recoiled from a gruesome drawing of a werewolf munching on a sheep’s belly. She snapped it shut. Next to her, Megan leafed through hers, exclaiming ‘Awesome!’ and ‘Oh my God!’
Lily looked up and saw Mr Collins watching her in the rear-view mirror. A shiver ran from her toes to the hair on her head and she closed her eyes.
She kept them shut all the way home.
Chapter 24
The next morning, I worked on my novel for a couple of hours, although I found it hard to concentrate. I spent more time staring out the window than I did looking at the screen. My mind kept returning to what I’d seen at Megan’s house. Her brother, Jake, pointing towards the woods, the same woods I was staring at now.
Widow.
My mind flashed back to the time I’d explored the woods and found that strange little hut.
There had been a soft toy inside, hadn’t there? At the time I hadn’t even known about Lily’s disappearance, so hadn’t thought anything of it. I knew now that Lily’s soft toy, Big Cat, had been found in the river. But had someone abducted her, kept her there in that hut and given her a toy to pacify her? It didn’t quite add up, because surely the police must have checked that hut, but I could no longer work. I was compelled to go and have another look.
It took thirty minutes to retrace my steps and locate the clearing and the stone hut. A group of magpies hopped about in the long, damp grass, chattering to one another. A light drizzle soaked my clothes and face, the weather so dismal it was actually a relief to take shelter in the grim, litter-strewn interior of the hut.
I had forgotten how dilapidated it was. The door was rotten and the windows smashed. Not a great place to keep a child prisoner, although the abductor could have tied or chained her up. I could imagine local teenagers coming here to take drugs or have sex, or both, although the creepiness of the place might deter them. The image of a little girl sitting here, shivering with fear and cold, played out in my mind.
The soft toy was nowhere to be seen. I poked at the litter with my shoe. I was sure it had been in this spot beside the bench.
Had someone been back and taken it?
If someone had abducted Lily and kept her in this hut, surely they wouldn’t have been foolish enough to leave a toy here in the first place? The likelihood was that it had been here for many years. Perhaps a visiting teenager had taken it, or chucked it outside. Maybe a dog had been in and carried it off. There were multiple possible explanations, all of which had nothing to do with Lily.
Disappointed, I left the hut – and glimpsed a figure on the far side of the field, directly opposite the spot where I’d entered the clearing. Beyond this field was another part of the woods. The person vanished into the trees.
They had been wearing a red coat.
Ursula? What was she doing out here?
I hurried across the field, scaring the magpies, which scattered and flew towards high branches. I counted them. Seven. How did the rhyme go? Seven for a secret never to be told.
Not the most auspicious sign.
I reached the spot where I’d seen Ursula vanish into the trees. She was probably just out for a walk, exploring the area. Or maybe, I thought sarcastically, her spirit guide was leading her. It still seemed odd, though, that she would come out here in the drizzle, so far from the house. I couldn’t resist the urge to follow and see what she was up to. I headed into the woods after her.
I could see her in her red coat just up ahead, walking unhurriedly along the path. She had her back to me and hadn’t seen me, as far as I could tell. She had her hood up to protect her from the rain, and she held out a hand, touching the trunks of trees as she passed. Perhaps she was communing with them.
The path forked ahead of her and she swerved left. I followed, but found myself confronted by a huge puddle of black mud. I skirted around it. As I trod back onto the path, I realised I’d lost sight of her. I increased my pace and turned left at the fork. There she was, heading into a thick tangle of vegetation, pushing through sideways, away from the path. That seemed like a strange thing to do. Had she spotted something on the other side? The bushes obscured her and I hung back for a second before following. Brambles clawed at my coat and a wren popped out of the bushes, startling me. I made an aah! sound, my voice shattering the peace of the woods. Ursula must have heard me, but she didn’t stop moving.
I hurried to catch up, wondering why she didn’t stop to wait for me. It was as if she were trying to get away. I glimpsed her red coat through the trees ahead, then she disappeared behind another wall of vegetation. I jogged along the path to the spot where I’d last seen her.
She had vanished.
I walked quickly up the path, which branched off in three directions, checking the ground for footprints, but found nothing. The ground was harder and drier here, beneath the canopy formed by the trees. I chose the middle path and walked for another few minutes. There was no sound except birdsong. And now I was at a dead end formed of impassable blackberry bushes.
I swore out loud.
I’d lost her.
Chapter 25
On my way back to Nyth Bran, I thought more about our visit to Megan’s house, and what Jake had been trying to tell us. I needed to talk to him, and had an idea about how this could be achieved. Remembering the route Julia had taken to his house, I changed direction and followed the road towards the estate where Jake and Megan lived.
I hoped Jake’s mum, Wendy, would be amenable. Julia had told me that after her divorce, Wendy had started using her maiden name, Collins, again. She had a new partner now, and the kids’ dad lived in another part of the country.
‘It was a painful divorce,’ Julia had said. ‘He was a bastard. I think he used to hit her. I heard that Glynn found out and threatened him, told him if he wanted to keep possession of his balls he had better leave town.’
‘Glynn’s a hard man?’
‘Yeah. Plus he knows a lot of people.’
After that first visit to the Collins house, I’d looked Glynn up on Google.
He matched Zara’s description of the man she’d met at the chess club, the one who’d made her – and Malcolm Jones – so uneasy. Of course, there were plenty of men around with bald heads and bad teeth, but I had a strong feeling it was him, and thought it shouldn’t be hard to confirm. I just needed to check if he was a member of the chess club.
There was very little information about him online. There was an article from the local newspaper about how he and a group of handymen had rebuilt a widow’s cottage after it suffered heavy storm damage. Another news story told how he had helped raise money for the local historical society, along with one Malcolm Jones. There had been talk of opening a museum to teach visitors about the disused mine, but nothing had come of it. And there was an old story about how he had coached the local girls’ football team and got them to the final of a regional competition. There he was, in black and white, holding his runner-up medal, surrounded by grinning, muddy girls who would be grown up now.
As Julia had said, Glynn Collins was a pillar of the community. I had only encountered him briefly, but in some ways he reminded me of my dad. A typical bluff Welsh bloke. A man’s man, good with his hands, keen on sport and tradition.
I was hoping he wouldn’t be at his daughter’s house now – but as soon as I turned the corner onto the estate, I saw him. He was standing in the front garden, smoking. I hesitated, wondering if I should come back another time, but it was too late. He had spotted me.
I crossed the road, watching as he discarded his cigarette and folded his arms, doing a good impression of a nightclub bouncer protecting his door.
‘Mr Collins,’ I said. ‘We met yesterday.’
He nodded.
‘I was hoping . . .’ The way he was looking at me, like I was a rat that had strayed onto his property, made me lose the thread of what I was trying to say. ‘I wanted to have a little chat with Jake.’
He took a step towards
me. It was a classic intimidating manoeuvre. But I wasn’t scared of him. He was, what, twenty-five years older than me, maybe more?
‘You’re David’s son,’ he said.
I was momentarily taken aback, but it made sense. Glynn knew everybody in Beddmawr, past and present. He must have been asking around about me, which was interesting. Who had he spoken to? Shirley at the Apple Tree B & B?
‘That’s right,’ I said, expecting him to ask after my dad, bracing myself to deliver the news I hated saying.
But instead Glynn said, ‘What do you want with Jake?’
‘I’m writing a book,’ I said, ‘in which some of the characters are teenagers. I need to talk to a couple of teenagers about the language they use, the slang and so on.’
This was the line I’d planned to use on Wendy.
‘Jake’s not an ordinary teenager,’ Glynn said.
‘I know that, but—’
‘The answer’s no.’
‘Mr Collins, please.’
I caught a movement above us and looked up. Jake was at his window again, staring down at his grandad and me with saucer eyes. Glynn saw and flapped a meaty hand at his grandson, telling him to get back. Jake gawped at me one last time, then retreated into the shadows.
‘Like teenage boys, do you?’ Glynn said.
His question was so unexpected that I didn’t know what to say for a few seconds. ‘What? Of course not.’
‘Maybe the papers would like to hear about it, how a famous writer has been harassing a young boy with learning difficulties.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘You just asked me if you could sneak up to his bedroom.’
I stared at him. There was no use arguing. ‘Fine. I’ll find some other teenagers to talk to for my book.’ I turned away.
‘You do that.’ He raised his voice as I walked back across the road, just as a middle-aged couple came out of the nearest house. Glynn shouted, ‘Stay away from my grandchildren, pervert!’
The couple’s eyes almost popped out of their heads as I hurried away, burning with anger and embarrassment.
Back in my room at Nyth Bran, I finally calmed down enough to think about my encounter with Glynn rationally. Was he simply being protective of his family? No, I was sure there was more to it. I remembered how on edge Zara had seemed after her encounter with him. Maybe it was just that he was an unpleasant arsehole.
But I wanted to know more about him.
I opened Skype and called my mum.
She answered straight away.
‘Darling! How lovely to hear from you. Twice in one month!’
‘I’ve got another question for you about the old days,’ I said. ‘Do you remember a guy called Glynn Collins?’
‘Oh. Yes.’ All the warmth left her voice. ‘Why are you asking about him?’
‘I met him recently. It sounds like you don’t think much of him.’
She moved her head and sunshine flooded the screen. It was raining again here, in Wales, and the temptation to fly out to Spain and join her fluttered through my mind.
‘No,’ Mum said, her voice clipped. ‘I was never very keen on him.’
‘Why not?’ It was always a struggle to get my mother to say a bad word about anyone. ‘Did he do something to you?’
‘Oh no, he never did anything to me. Not directly anyway. He’s just . . . well, we used to call them male chauvinist pigs in my day. He was proud of it. He was awful to his wife, Nerys, God rest her soul. He was cruel too. Hard.’
‘He seems to dote on his grandchildren,’ I said. ‘And he looks after Wendy, his daughter.’
‘Maybe he’s softened with age. But forty years ago, if someone in town had a litter of kittens they didn’t want, they’d bring them to Glynn Collins. He was always happy to drown them.’
‘Lovely. What did Dad think of him?’
She frowned. ‘He was friendly with him. They were part of the Beddmawr Historical Society.’ She snorted. ‘Just a bunch of blokes meeting in the pub and talking about the good old days, as far as I could tell.’
‘Was Malcolm Jones part of the Historical Society too?’
‘Yes. He was the chairman, although I was never sure why such a small group needed a chairman!’
‘Did you hear that he died?’
On-screen, my mum’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh no! How did that happen? When?’
‘A heart attack, just over a week ago.’
‘Oh dear, how dreadful. This is going to start happening more and more as I get older . . .’
I remembered someone else I’d encountered recently. ‘Sorry, one more person. Shirley . . . Damn, I don’t know her surname. She runs a B & B. The Apple Tree.’
‘Shirley Roberts?’ She grimaced.
‘Didn’t you like her either?’
Mum ignored the question, probably because she didn’t want to admit it. ‘How on earth did you meet her?’
‘It’s a long story. But was she part of this Historical Society?’
‘Oh, goodness, no. Glynn wouldn’t let any women join. I told you, he was a chauvinist pig. I think he got her to do some secretarial work, though. In fact, there were rumours he was bonking her behind his wife’s back.’ She wiped a bead of sweat from her brow. ‘Goodness me, Lucas, this was all a long time ago.’
She went quiet for a minute, and I hoped I wasn’t bringing back painful memories.
‘There was another guy who was part of that group. What was his name?’ She tapped the side of her head. ‘Albert, that was it. Albert Patterson. Oh!’
‘What is it?’
‘Albert lived in the house where you’re staying. Nyth Bran.’
‘Really? Hang on, Mum. Wait there.’
I left the room and ran down the stairs and into the Thomas Room. I scoured the bookcase and found what I was looking for: the battered edition of ‘The Owl and the Pussycat’. I pulled out the Polaroid showing the American Gothic-style couple and ran back upstairs. I held the photo up to the camera.
‘Is this Albert?’
Mum went off to fetch her glasses and peered at the screen. ‘Yes, that’s him. He was a nice chap. I never understood why he hung around with Glynn Collins. He and Bethan were a sweet couple. They were older than us, no kids. I was always envious of them for living in such a lovely big house and having all that freedom. I wonder what happened to them.’
Julia had told me she had bought the house from a children’s charity. I guessed Albert and his wife must have died and, having no family, left the place to charity.
‘I feel very sad about Malcolm,’ my mum said. ‘I wonder if they’ve had the funeral yet? I must send flowers.’
‘Hang on.’
I went on to the local newspaper website, the same one I’d been reading about Glynn Collins on, and clicked through to the Births, Marriages and Deaths section. There it was, the death announcement for Malcolm Jones, beloved father of Olly.
‘It’s today,’ I said. ‘This afternoon.’
‘I’ve left it too late.’
‘Maybe I could take some flowers along on your behalf.’
‘Would you? That would be very kind.’
‘No problem.’
I said goodbye and ended the call.
I had an ulterior motive for going, of course. I was quite sure Glynn Collins would be there. It would give me another chance to get a good look at him, because the more I heard about him, the more convinced I became that he was hiding something.
Chapter 26
The funeral was at St Mary’s Church near the centre of town, close to the chess club and the library. I hadn’t brought any smart clothes with me, not imagining I’d need them, so I popped into one of the few men’s clothes shops in Beddmawr and bought a black suit off the peg. It wasn’t exactly stylish but it would do. Next, I bought some flowers from the florist next door and wrote a message from my mum and myself. Malcolm’s family weren’t to know I’d never met him.
Noticing a phone shop across th
e street, I went in and bought a new iPhone, activating it straight away and then logging in to my Apple account to sync my contacts, emails, etc.
Ten minutes later, I shook off my umbrella and crept into the church, laying the flowers with the others. I sat in a pew near the back. Nobody noticed me; well over a hundred people had turned up, many of them Malcolm’s age but quite a few younger people too. I guessed they had once been schoolchildren who he’d inspired through his job as a librarian. I couldn’t see Glynn Collins. He was probably near the front.
The service started, the pallbearers carrying the coffin down the aisle. There was Olly Jones, Malcolm’s taxi-driving son, sitting next to his girlfriend Heledd. Her mother, Shirley, was just behind them. When I’d met Heledd at the B & B I had been struck by her good looks. Now, seeing her and Olly together, I realised what a mismatched couple they were. He was punching well above his weight, which made me think about that limited dating pool again. In a larger town or city, Heledd wouldn’t be going out with an ordinary-looking taxi driver, she would be . . .
I stopped myself. Why was I being so uncharitable? Olly must have hidden depths, a spark I hadn’t witnessed yet. And the poor sod had just lost his dad.
It was an emotional ceremony. The vicar spoke warmly about Malcolm and his contribution to the community. Olly got up and read out a eulogy, stopping every few sentences to take a deep, shuddering breath. Afterwards, Heledd leaned her head on his shoulder. I learned from the lady sitting beside me that, after this service, the coffin was being taken to the crematorium.
‘He wanted his ashes to be scattered in his garden,’ she said. ‘Among the daffs and crocuses.’
The service ended. I made my way outside and was pleased to find the rain had stopped. I wasn’t sure what to do, but the lady I’d sat next to told me I should come to the wake, which was taking place at Olly’s house. ‘All are welcome,’ she said.
An hour and a half later I found myself among a crowd of people, explaining who I was and why I was at the funeral. Malcolm’s wife had died a few years before but most of the older people remembered my parents and were touched that I’d come along to represent them. Most of them were fascinated to hear about their move to Spain and to learn that I was a novelist, and I found myself chatting to a group of retired women who wanted to know where I got my ideas from.