The Dark Water

by Helen Moorhouse

  Claire nodded. “She still comes to the castle at Christmas, you know. Mr Calvert hosts a party every December. She always comes, with that sad look in her eyes. And her husband comes, and their other son . . .”

  Claire was surprised to see a smile cross Martin’s face.

  “She had another boy?” he asked.

  Claire nodded in response, puzzled.

  “What’s he like – the other one?” Martin asked eagerly.

  Claire thought for a moment. “He’s a nice boy. Different from Laurence though. He’s grown up now, of course, but when he was young – when he came for the summer, like Laurence used to, he used to hide in his room and read books, and listen to something called The Smiths . . .”

  Martin grinned, eagerness showing in his face to know more.

  “He hated going out shooting – he’s the complete opposite to Laurence, actually, in that way,” Claire went on. “The first time he shot a deer, Jim – my husband – found him crying behind a tree, although he swore there was just something in his eye. He was a funny wee thing – sharp as a knife. Looked exactly like him too, like Laurence. If you saw him now then you’d be able to see what Laurence would have looked like if he had grown up . . .”

  Martin smiled wistfully. “I’d like that,” he said quietly. “Wish I’d met that lad. What’s his name?”

  “Gabriel,” said Claire with a smile. “There’s a rumour – of all things – that he can talk to the dead. Mr Calvert would dock me pay if he heard me say that to anyone. But maybe it’s true – there’s sometimes a funny look in his eyes.”

  “You mean . . . he’s like one of them mediums, is he?”

  “Something of that sort, yes.”

  “Maybe he can talk to his brother then, eh?” Martin said with a smile. “I like that idea.”

  “I don’t think I do,” said Claire. “He doesn’t come visit now so much any more of course. He joined the army like his dad, but he left – I’m not sure what he does now for a living.”

  Martin stared into space. “Funny to think that a whole lifetime has passed since,” he mused. “That a kid’s been born and grown to be a man all the while my life stood still. But I never forgot you, though, Drum. Or Laurence. And I never forgot that damn castle either. It was home to me. I’d go back now . . . if I could.”

  Claire blinked away fresh tears, taking him in fully – as skinny as ever, although she didn’t know if that were still his shape or the ravages of disease. She breathed in, felt herself choke and a sob rose from deep within her.

  “What are you going to do now?” she asked, her voice a whisper. His future – what little of it there appeared to be, was unimaginable to her. She knew that she’d get the train back to Dubhglas – she’d just leave here and he’d go back to his fuzzy television set and beyond that . . . hospital, ventilators, treatments . . . She looked at him sadly.

  “It’s been too long, Drum,” he replied. “But I’ve been thinking and, like I say, I just want someone to know the truth. Can you tell her for me? Laurence’s mother? Tell her I never hurt her boy?”

  Claire stared at him, the look loaded with sympathy and desperate sorrow. She nodded a yes. It was the least she could do. She saw her tears mirrored in Martin’s eyesthen.

  “Claire – that summer, when you came to Dubhglas, that was the happiest I’d been since I was a kid. Sure, I’d thought I was the big man about town when I lived in London, but I was just a troublemaker. Getting out of London – going to that castle and meeting the Turnbulls and then you was the start of a real life for me, despite everything that Jack Ball did.”

  “Martin, we were very young . . .” began Claire.

  Martin shook his head, cutting her short. “I know that. We was a pair of kids, for heaven’s sake. But it gave me a taste of what life could be like if I stayed on the straight and narrow. Without what you and I had, I’d have had nothing at all, do you understand? It was the only taste of life I’d ever had, and I savoured it every day for all the time since. Now I just want to get my house in order. I just want folk to know that I didn’t do it, Claire. I really and truly didn’t do it. Will you tell them?”

  An image flashed across Claire’s mind of Laurence’s mother, of Violet McKenzie, and the light in her eyes that had been extinguished after her boy had drowned. Claire felt very small all of a sudden. It was as if a camera pulled up, up into the sky and focused back on her, growing fainter and fainter in that chair, till she was little more than a dot. She felt insignificant, but there were all these other lives, all these other people touched by what had happened. And now she had a responsibility to set it straight, to help. Suddenly the camera in her mind rushed back towards her closer and closer and closer until she was somehow inside herself again.

  “I’ll do that, Martin,” she said.

  The shadows of evening were long when she stepped back out of the archway of the Mulberry Estate. What a sweet name, she thought, for such a horrid place. The air was rich with the smell of a hot summer’s evening. More and more people had emerged onto their balconies, some clutching cans of beer. The children were growing irritable as they played in the courtyard and she was glad to leave the place and hail another cab. She was nervous in London, exhausted by the day’s events. By at last truly knowing what had happened. She longed to return to her place of safety, her little house in Dubhglas.

  “Goodbye, Martin,” she whispered as she glanced up toward the top of the tower block where he had returned to solitude, where his life was ending. Claire touched her bag which contained the letter he had given her ­– his testament, the truth – and knew in her heart that it was the last time she would ever see his face.

  CHAPTER 40

  December 1st

  “I could only testify to what I saw,” mused Claire Hibbert, nursing the half-drunk cup of tea. It had seemed to restore her somewhat, made her braver.

  Martha, too, was calmer, more rational. Her head still stung a little but she focused hard on the woman’s story, trying to memorise every last detail.

  “And what I saw was Martin standing there – the oar stained with Jack Ball’s blood at his feet. Martin was just standing there, soaking wet, looking into the lake. I stopped running – I just didn’t know what to do – and then I realised Mr Calvert was behind me, shouting at me to go and get Mr Turnbull to telephone for an ambulance and for the police – I ran back to the house as fast as my legs could carry me and then I just waited with all the rest of the staff as the police came and the ambulance – all those flashing lights outside. We all wanted to see what was happening but Mr Turnbull sent a message that we were to stay indoors. A policeman came to talk to me, of course. And I told him what I saw but nothing more. What I told that policeman was what I repeated on the witness stand.”

  “That you’d seen Martin with the murder weapon at his feet and that he was wet?” asked Martha.

  “That’s all I saw,” repeated Claire with a sigh. “In court, they said such awful things – that Martin had been . . . interfering . . . with Laurence . . . that his interest in him was what they called ‘sinister’ and ‘perverse’, and that Jack Ball had been trying to protect the child from him . . . that Martin had killed Jack and then dragged Laurence into the water and held him under by the throat . . . but it was the other way round . . . it was Laurencewho hit Jack Ball with the oar on the temple . . . and it was Jack who strangled the boy while Martin tried to save him.” She looked directly at Martha. “I saw Martin, you see, when he got out of prison . . . just the once last May . . . soon before he died . . . and he told me what really happened.”

  Claire shifted in her chair and for a split second glanced behind Martha, her eye catching something at the other end of the room before she looked back.

  “Laurence was such a feisty little thing – no one knows what went on between himself and Uncle Jack in the boat, but Laurence might well have proved more than Jack could handle . . . And in the end he showed his mettle and fought back to defend his f
riend Martin. For all the good it did . . .”

  As she told the tale, Claire’s voice grew stronger, more powerful somehow. As if it were a weight lifted off her entire being to tell another person.

  Martha caught her glance yet again behind where she sat.

  “There are so many ‘if only’s’, though,” she continued. If only Martin hadn’t gone down to the lake in the first place, if only Laurence had heeded his warning not to be alone with Jack Ball, if only Martin could have somehow got Ball to release his grip . . .”

  “How ironic that a boy who loved to swim so much should die like that,” observed Martha.

  “When it got to court they wouldn’t let Martin testify. He was never allowed to defend himself on the witness stand. And that lawyer that they got from London – it was like he wanted to lose. Like he didn’t really care about Martin. Like Martin said, there were forces working against him. Martin was sure he’d been what he called ‘fitted up’. I should have done something – said something about his character . . . about how he used to go to Laurence’s room only to tell ghost stories at night . . . about how they were friends . . .”

  Martha leaned forward. “There was nothing more you could have done, Claire,” she said reassuringly. “You were young and afraid – they were clever people. And they wanted it sewn up neatly.”

  “That’s what Martin said,” responded Claire, looking again past Martha and down toward the back of the room.

  Something in the look made Martha take notice. Her heart began to beat quickly as she turned slightly to look in the same direction. Then she stopped herself. Something in her made her think that she didn’t want to look after all as a thought struck her out of the blue.

  “Claire . . .” she said, “when you said Jack was back for Martin . . . what did you mean by that exactly?”

  Claire’s stare didn’t budge from what she saw at the end of the room. That was answer enough for Martha. A chill ran the length of her spine. She stared intently at Claire’s face where a hint of a smile played.

  “I never go back to the lake much now,” Claire said. “But I loved it down there. Loved how we’d hold hands and chat about our plans, or sit on the big rock down on the shore and skim stones. I often went back there over the years, even after I married Jim. Martin’s Place, I’ve always called it. I always think of him when I’m there . . .” Her eyes were still fixed on the back of the room.

  “I knew he was sick . . . when I saw him last May he knew he didn’t have long. He had less than even he thought, as it turned out. And shortly afterwards, things started going missing around the kitchen – pudding bowls, soup ladles – and after a while I’d find them in the most unusual of places. He used to do that to tease me when we were young . . .”

  The chill spread around the whole of Martha’s body and she felt the hairs on her arms begin to prickle as they stood on end.

  “It was when I found the whisk in the pantry that I knew,” Claire said quietly and smiled again, her eyes still focused beyond Martha. “He did that once before . . .”

  Martha felt her heart begin to race, felt a weakness run through her.

  “He’s here, Claire, isn’t he?” she whispered, the question asked against her will.

  The nod was barely perceptible.

  Martha forced herself to turn in the chair, to peer into the gloom of the space behind her, terrified at the prospect of what she might see. There was nothing there of course. At first. But then Martha noticed, for a second, what looked like a mist in the corner. It was barely visible, but when she looked away, and looked back again, she was sure it was there. Her heart gave a great leap and she swung back to look again at Claire, her eyes filled with panic.

  “It’s gone now,” Claire said, still staring at the space. Her gaze returned to Martha’s face. “After that, all the other strange things started happening around here – the smells, Tiger – all the staff were disturbed and then Donald Gifford said he’d sort it and that he’d contacted someone to see if they could help. It’s Gabriel, of course . . . though Donald didn’t say so.”

  Martha leaped in her seat as there was a sudden crash. Then the kitchen door burst open.

  Claire jumped to her feet. “Laura!” she exclaimed, shocked. The figure of a young girl, her hair damp, stood in the kitchen doorway. The sound of the storm grew louder from behind her, where she had left the back door open.

  Martha looked back toward Claire. Wasn’t that the girl she said she’d left with Ruby? Martha suddenly grew numb.

  “The child, Mrs Hibbert . . .” panted Laura.

  “What about her?” gasped Martha, leaping to her feet.

  “The door – she opened the sliding door somehow!” cried Laura. She was soaking wet, her hair limp on her shoulders.

  “Is she okay?” Martha cried, taking a step toward the girl with the petrified eyes. Please, God, no – don’t let her say what I think she’s going to say . . .

  “The door’s open, somehow,” Laura panted. “Mrs Hibbert, she’s gone!”

  It was as if Martha had no control of her own body as she started running, past the girl, out into the passageway and toward the back door. She crossed the courtyard and rushed in through the open door of the cottage. When she burst into the bedroom where last she had seen her child asleep, however, her heart broke through the barrier at the sight of the empty bed, the ruffled covers, the dent in the mattress in the shape of Ruby’s little body, Hugo her bear.

  A matter of minutes and Ruby had been asleep here . . . safe . . . and now the room was freezing cold, the curtains blowing wildly as the storm found its way in. The wind, of course, Martha thought. Somehow the wind had managed to open the lock or break the door or blow something through it – but how? It couldn’t have pulled apart those heavy curtains, nor broken the glass without leaving a trace somewhere in the room. The door was open but there was no damage – no shards of glass on the floor. There was a small crash as she stood there, as the bedside table lamp blew over in a strong gust of wind. All the while the rain beat its persistent tattoo on the windows.

  Claire appeared at the door and behind her the terrified Laura.

  “How did this happen?” yelled Martha, feeling a rage build up inside her.

  “I don’t know – the door is always locked – there’s a small bolt. Always,” panted Claire. “What happened, Laura? Tell me exactly what happened.”

  The girl was shaking as she spoke. “I went into the toilet – I’d only just checked her and she was sound asleep. I didn’t hear anything with the flush of the toilet . . . but then when I came out I felt the cold in the hallway, and I heard how loud the storm sounded. I wondered if maybe a window had somehow opened, or if a branch or something might have broken some glass . . . I never thought for a second . . . I followed the noise of the wind into this room . . . I couldn’t believe it . . . she was just gone . . . I rushed out and searched for her outside but there was no sign of her . . .”

  “Someone at the party must have taken her,” tried Martha. Her head was working overtime – where could she be gone? Someone had to have opened the door. She crossed the room, walking around the beds and stepped over the threshold out onto the patio where she was instantly buffeted with a gust of wind and pelted with ice-cold rain. She didn’t feel it. She was paralysed by the panic that grew within her by the second.

  She went back into the room and demanded of the girl, “Did you hear anything?”

  “Nothing, I swear. But the sound of the storm was so loud I wouldn’t have. For a second I thought I heard a wee bell, like if someone had tassels on their clothes or something but then nothing.”

  Martha caught Claire Hibbert’s eye and every ounce of colour drained from her face. Her body started to tremble uncontrollably. “Get Gabriel!” she hissed at Claire, before she turned and ran out into the night, into the storm, with no idea where she was going.

  She heard Claire’s voice call her back but she couldn’t stay, couldn’t stand still. It was
as if she was pulled out into the night. If he had Ruby . . . if what the girl had said was true . . .

  Martha ran as quickly as she could across the patio at the back of the cottage, dodging fallen flowerpots, and then on, under a trellis shaped like an arch, bare and white against the darkness, like an arc of stripped bones. As she did, the sensor light on the cottage blinked off and she was plunged into complete darkness.

  The dress was sodden now, clung to her body, soaked through in the matter of moments. It felt a ton weight, the wet velvet slowing her down as she ran. Her hair, too, was stuck to her head, to the sides of her face. The drops of rain were like hard pellets of ice hitting her skin. She had to keep running, had to find Ruby . . . but where?

  In an instant she knew. Knew that reason was too much to hope for. Knew that it wasn’t a living soul that had made their way into that room and taken her daughter, or guided her, or forced her. Knew that there was one place that Jack Ball would take a child. The lake.

  Martha ran even faster. She felt the ground grow soft beneath her feet, stumbled time and again as the kitten heels wedged themselves in the soft earth, feeling rage and frustration grow every time she had to pause to pull them out again. For a moment, she contemplated removing them, running barefoot, but her mind was clear enough to reject this as a poor notion. She pelted on, without a clue where she was going – except she knew that the lake was this way.

  She had been running across open ground – soon, however, the space narrowed to a pathway lined on both sides with dark foliage. Martha almost froze with terror as she suddenly felt damp leaves stroke her arms as she ran. For a second, she was full sure that they weren’t leaves – that they were arms, reaching out to her in the dark. The mental image made her run faster, to escape them, to escape her own thoughts.

  Suddenly, through the storm, she was sure that she heard a child’s voice. She stopped dead, her heart pounding against her ribcage with fear and the strenuous exertion. But the wind screamed, leaving only the crying of the gale. With a groan, she picked up the sodden skirts as best she could, and began to run again.