by Gary Fry
“I know this is probably impolitic,” she said as Anthony steered their ageing hatchback through glorious rolling hills, “but have you heard anything about the will yet?”
“The solicitor’s going to phone me in the next day or so,” her husband replied, keeping his eyes fixed firmly ahead. “But it’s no secret that they…well, that they left everything to me.”
Melanie had always been able to talk to Anthony openly and honestly; their marriage was based on trust. Nevertheless, he could sometimes become introverted, and although people had described her as a good judge of character, she often found him difficult to read on such occasions. She knew he’d had a brother who’d disappeared when he was very young, and despite sympathising on these grounds, she wished he’d talk more about it…
But now he had this to cope with.
Melanie had taken the call from the Deepvale police a week ago. One of the neighbours had found the family dog whimpering on Dawn and Mick’s doorstep, and after a brief search of the area, officers had located their bodies. The poor couple had been found dead in the clay banking of a lake near their home. Melanie had dreaded telling Anthony the news, mainly because he’d had a complicated relationship with his parents—something else he’d rarely talked to her about.
Mindful of her husband’s feelings, Melanie turned in her seat to address their son sitting in the rear. He was clutching a copy of the Narnia book she’d recently introduced him to, but currently seemed to be enjoying the views. That was hardly surprising; having spent his life in a city, all this greenery would be a delight.
“Hi, Carl. You’re quiet. Are you looking forward to seeing the nice doggie again?”
“Lucy!” the boy replied, looking heartbreakingly vulnerable in his small black suit. Melanie didn’t think it was essential or even healthy to keep the idea of death from children, but her son looked tiny and fragile in the backseat, especially in the context of so much sweeping territory.
“That’s right: Lucy,” Anthony said, and Melanie was glad her husband hadn’t slipped into another of his dark moods. She took his hand between gear changes, observing him in her peripheral vision, as well as Carl in the sun-visor’s mirror.
In companionable silence, they travelled on.
They’d visited Anthony’s parents no more than thirty times since their son had been born: Christmas meals, birthday parties, and the odd informal social gathering. As Leeds was only forty miles south, this wasn’t much contact, but Melanie imagined there were reasons for that. Each visit had involved a perceptible awkwardness between Anthony and his parents, perhaps accounting for the lack of communication.
This was a shame, especially as Melanie would have appreciated some help bringing up Carl in the early years. Her own mum and dad lived too far away in her native Birmingham for regular babysitting, which had left just Anthony’s parents. His mum had been sweet and vulnerable, his dad sullen and robust; both obviously nursed unpleasant memories. As far as Melanie had ascertained, they’d been decent people who certainly hadn’t deserved what had happened.
Emerging from reflection, Melanie glanced up. Deepvale had appeared up ahead, creeping out of a valley studded with rocks and sporadic trees. The ancient land out here was arresting, as if the modern city she and her family had fled that morning was just an uneasy dream, or maybe even a gritty nightmare. Melanie didn’t hate her home environment, but knew it was unable to match the splendour of this region. As Anthony steered tautly along the high street, she noticed small, quaint buildings nestled against larger, elegant properties. All the architecture was unaffected by time and changing fashions, shops and other outlets retaining the place’s grandeur, with window-mounted signs and promotional material kept to a minimum. And now here was the church.
Melanie had just spotted a lake glittering to her left—if people had stood around it, as she’d first imagined, it must have been sunlight bouncing off the water that lent them such a dark, ill-defined appearance—when her husband parked in the lane alongside a large graveyard and said, “Okay, we’re here.”
He’d sounded anxious, an attitude Carl immediately picked up on.
“I don’t like it,” the boy said, and in the sun-visor’s mirror Melanie noticed her son shiver.
He’d meant the sight of all the tombstones, of course, despite appearing to look across the moors, beyond the graveyard. Once they’d all climbed outside, however, Melanie took the boy’s hand for reassurance. She’d work on their son during the next few days, and also encourage Anthony to think about moving here. They couldn’t live in that cramped city apartment forever.
The funeral had been organised by a couple called the Robinsons, both of whom Melanie had met at a barbecue last year hosted by Anthony’s parents. They all quickly became reacquainted, the older woman pinching Carl’s face and saying how big he’d grown since they’d last seen him. This comment clearly upset Anthony, who shook the older man’s hand with an aloof bearing. Her husband’s reticence was understandable in the circumstances, Melanie supposed, but she couldn’t help feeling embarrassed. But after exchanging strained pleasantries with several other people to whom they’d been introduced in the past—two other couples called the Smiths and the Jenkinses chief among them—they advanced into the church to endure the kind of religious service neither Melanie nor her husband really subscribed to.
Later, the coffins were taken outside and fed into holes in the ground. Melanie clutched Carl as a few sobs became audible among family members who’d made the journey today: a moribund uncle whom Anthony hadn’t seen in years, and a sullen cousin bearing tattoos and the telltale bulge of a hipflask in one breast pocket. Nevertheless, the most noteworthy event as soil started tumbling into holes in the ground with a dispiriting thud was her husband’s implacable demeanour.
Melanie looked beyond Anthony, at a figure that had just appeared from behind a headstone farther up the graveyard. It was a child—a short boy, possibly Carl’s age—and he seemed simultaneously sheepish and full of devilment. He might be a local lad, perhaps even related to the hooligans who’d done such a terrible thing to the poor couple now being interred. The boy had a large mole on his upper lip, and so perhaps his disrespectful behaviour could be excused. Melanie imagined him being picked on at school on account of this blemish.
Moments later, he vanished as quickly as he’d appeared, presumably because Anthony had turned to see what Melanie was looking at. Maybe the boy was fearful of discipline, surely a good sign. If she and her family decided to move here, Melanie didn’t want their son fraternising with irredeemable ruffians.
After the ceremony, the group departed—some in cars, others walking—to her in-laws’ bungalow where Mrs. Robinson had prepared a buffet. The village felt heavy with grief, or maybe this was just the weird atmosphere evoked by all the brooding moorland. As Anthony guided the car towards the grove, Melanie noticed a large house standing at its junction. She hadn’t paid much attention to this property during previous visits; it was as if the place was more visible on this occasion.
The building looked deserted, its gable ends crumbling, fungi growing in guttering, birds’ nests crammed under the eaves. In the afternoon dullness, its windows appeared dark, and where a door should stand, there was only shadowy cavity resembling a mouth devouring less than the place hungered for…It was certainly a creepy property. Among all the charming houses Melanie had admired in the village, this one seemed like a blot on the landscape, not unlike the mole on the face of the boy she’d noticed earlier.
Perhaps a vicissitude of memory led Melanie to see this boy again, standing in the building’s dim front garden amid an army of black shrubs. She looked more carefully, but that was when her husband barrelled on, unnecessarily fast along the cul-de-sac grove. Surely he hadn’t seen her examining the house and responded aggressively to the fact—that didn’t make sense. But when he eventually parked in front of his parents’ former home, Melanie said nothing about the episode.
Other cars fol
lowed, and even the vicar who’d conducted the funeral showed up, despite repeatedly glancing at his watch as if he was eager to leave. Melanie did her best as an impromptu hostess, overhearing snatches of conversation while plying everyone with drinks and making sure they were fed from a table full of sandwiches and other comestibles in the lounge. The bungalow was a smart, compact building, and she’d always admired it; she imagined herself studying here, working for her own PhD once Anthony had secured his and was in employment. That had been the deal they’d struck several years earlier, and she’d been happy with it, even though the demands of motherhood had been greater than she’d expected.
She caught up with Carl sitting in the kitchen, patting the small mongrel that had greeted everyone upon entry. Her son had always been fond of animals, maybe because Melanie had often talked to him about vegetarianism. He was like his dad and liked burgers and bacon sandwiches too much to forsake meat, but perhaps she’d convert him one day.
Stooping to the boy’s side, she noticed a framed photograph on the windowsill whose curtains were still parted. Surrounded by darkness outside, the picture looked isolated and forlorn. It was a rare shot of Dawn and Mick, holidaying somewhere remote and barren—Scotland, possibly. Melanie knew they’d loved the peace and solitude up there.
“Are you going to miss your grandma and granddad, Carl?”
Her son screwed up his face while stroking the dog. “Weeell,” he replied with a lengthy exhalation, “I didn’t really know them. But I always liked coming here. There are so many hills to climb.”
Despite the sadness induced by his first comment, his second caused Melanie’s heart to swell. Then in a quiet voice she asked, “And what would you say about…living here forever?”
“Could we keep Lucy?”
“I don’t see why not. There’d be plenty of room.”
“Yeah, our ’partment is too crowded, isn’t it?”
Melanie experienced a number of emotions: regret because they hadn’t brought the boy to visit his grandparents more often; pride in his growing vocabulary and amusement because he sometimes mispronounced words; but most powerfully of all, love—simple, earnest love.
She kissed him on one cheek. “Don’t mention this to Daddy yet, will you? It’ll be our little secret.”
“Okay, Mummy,” Carl replied, but then held up a lead the dog had been holding in its mouth earlier. “On one condition…”
She laughed. “Oh yeah, Mr. Businessman? And what might that be?”
“…that I can take Lucy out for a walk.” He hesitated, but then finished resolutely, “I know it’s supposed a sad day, but I’m really bored.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Anthony, sneaking in behind them. The slur in his voice made it clear he’d been drinking.
Melanie stood.
“There’s no need to snap,” she said, feeling guilty after plotting behind her husband’s back.
He looked at her for several seconds, but then his gaze faltered. He glanced down at the floor, possibly to conceal moisture in his eyes, and then held out his arms.
“I’m sorry. Hey, come here, the pair of you.”
They moved towards him to accept his embrace, listening to subdued chatter from the rest of the bungalow. After breaking from the hug, Carl assumed his most winning expression and asked in a plaintive voice, “Please can I take Lucy for a walkie?”
“Only to the end of the street and back,” Melanie replied, and thought Anthony was about to overrule her until she caught his gaze with an expression firm enough to make him back down.
“Stay within sight,” he said, a little too strictly. The alcohol must be affecting his mood. He’d never been a drinker, not even as an undergraduate, when life had been relatively straightforward…But Melanie suspected that for Anthony it never had been, and that their summers of love together had been just respite from issues that burned holes in him. Maybe they should talk during their stay here; there were clearly many issues to address.
Their son attached the lead to dog’s collar and promised not to stray from the pavement. Anthony said he’d watch him all the way, and really meant it, because once the boy had stepped outside, his dad reentered the lounge and took a seat in the bay window. Melanie realised her husband would be concerned about the bastards who’d done such a horrible thing to his parents, but wondered why he was less vigilant with Carl in the city. Regardless of who’d recently visited the village with evil in mind, the boy surely had as much chance of being harmed in Leeds.
Melanie soon found herself fielding a number of questions, which she eventually encouraged her husband to help out with. Yes, she and her family were very happy together, and no, they didn’t plan on having another child yet. Yes, she intended to pursue her studies further—in fact, she had in mind a project about fictional representations of history and the way they shaped public understandings of the past. Once she’d finished explaining, the mourners’ scrutiny switched to Anthony and she left them all to it, gazing on at a distance while mulling over other matters.
The Robinsons, the Jenkinses and the Smiths were clearly fond of her husband, and in turn asked whether he’d heard lately from some people called Paul, Lisa and Andy. As he shook his head and again glanced out of the window, Melanie looked elsewhere, suspecting that the vicar had less enthusiasm for Anthony, especially after he took his first opportunity to leave. He might have been involved in the tragedy suffered by the Mallinsons many years ago…but if that was true, why would he still have an issue with her husband? Melanie was a good judge of character and simply knew this was the case.
Taking her first real drink of the day, she wondered what had once happened here, in this deceptively quiet village. She decided that she and Anthony would talk during their stay in the Yorkshire Dales, about many things.
FOUR
The party had gone on forever and Carl had grown bored halfway through. The only good part of the day had been seeing Lucy again. He’d enjoyed playing with the dog the few times they’d come to see Grandma and Granddad in the past. During these visits, Daddy had always made a fuss about Carl going outside, and he’d even moaned this time. But Mummy had sorted him out. She was good at dealing with Daddy when he was in one of his moods.
Even now, as Carl led the dog along the pavement, Daddy watched from the big window at the front of the house. Why couldn’t he treat Carl as older now? He wasn’t little anymore. He was allowed to play out in Leeds, and so why not here? Okay, it was true that after arriving earlier, Carl had felt uncomfortable, especially near the church; the hills around the village had seemed too large, and he’d felt cramped in the car. But after climbing outside, he’d been able to breathe more easily and had remembered how exciting the place was.
Mummy said they were going to live here, and that would be great. If they could keep Lucy as well, everything would be perfect. Carl didn’t like the city school he attended. There were too many children there, and he often felt anonymous (a big word Mummy had taught him). He sometimes enjoyed playing with friends, but not as much as reading books, even though a lot of boys in his class made fun of that. And so moving elsewhere could only be good for him, couldn’t it?
The dog was sniffing the base of a lamppost three doors along from his grandparents’ house. Carl stopped and waited for Lucy to be satisfied. He snuck a quick glance back at the bungalow and noticed his daddy had finally moved away from the window. He must trust Carl now. After all, what could happen out here? There were no fast cars passing, no strangers with bags of sweets, or weirdoes hanging around on street corners.
Nevertheless, Carl knew someone had killed his grandparents.
He’d understood this since the day it had happened, even though neither Mummy nor Daddy had told him directly. He’d overheard them talking in the flat when they thought he was asleep. The knowledge had scared him, despite realising that bad things happened in life, like events in Narnia after the children had passed through the wardrobe. For two nights run
ning, Carl had felt frightened of his own wardrobe, imagining nasty men coming out to yank him out of bed…Men were always to blame for horrible crimes; Carl had learnt this from television news.
Lucy had finished sniffing the lamppost and now had her nose in the garden of the next house. And as Carl tugged her lead to take along the street, someone started talking to him.
“Hello,” said the speaker from behind a bush to his left.
“Er…hello,” Carl replied, his hands shaking, despite feeling reassured that it was a child’s voice he’d heard.
Then a figure appeared from behind the bush.
It was a boy, perhaps his own age and size, but with a black spot on his upper lip. Although the moon was masked by clouds the boy’s face glowed with pale light. Perhaps he didn’t tan easily. Daddy didn’t like the sun much either; it made him go all blotchy. Now that Carl considered the issue, the boy in the garden looked a bit like Daddy. He had the same narrow face and dark hair. But of course there must be at least twenty years between the two.
Perhaps Carl should say something else; the way the boy stared had grown spooky. “What are you doing in that garden? Is this where you live?”
“No, not here,” the boy replied, switching his gaze to the end of the grove, where a large house appeared to creak and flash.
He surely couldn’t live there; it looked abandoned. In any case, Carl was about to ask why the boy was trespassing on someone else’s property when he was asked a question.
“What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?” Carl snapped back, tugging the dog’s lead because Lucy had started growling, as if she didn’t like the boy one bit. Maybe the boy had tormented her when Carl’s grandma and granddad had still been alive.
“I asked you first. You’ve got to answer,” the boy said calmly.
That sounded fair, even though the boy’s expression grew darker and more intense.