Haverscroft

by S. A. Harris

  I stop in the lane where it meets the path running past the church to the river. The fog is thick, our familiar walk strangely silent and disorientating. Riley doesn’t seem the least bit bothered so I let him off his lead and pull my mobile from my pocket.

  Let me know you got back okay? A real pea-souper here. Hope London’s clearer. Kx.

  The phone screen is bright in my hand. Mark would usually have let me know he got back safely, but there’s been nothing, not even a short text. I read, re-read the message and press send. He left without a word this morning. Yesterday afternoon and evening had been spent avoiding each other. He ate dinner whilst working in our bedroom, claiming to be too busy to join us. This morning the kitchen was empty, no scribbled message, not a single Post-it note.

  I shove the mobile in my jeans pocket, shift the cake tin under my arm and follow Riley down the narrow path. If Mark replies the phone will vibrate in my pocket, but at 14:42 he’ll be in court, a client conference, or working with Stephen and the team on the Southampton trial. From Mark’s perspective, this whole thing must seem crazy. But if the tables were turned, wouldn’t I listen, at least try to understand him? It’s not as though it’s only me. He saw how shocked George Cooper was, how skittish and nervous Shirley and the children are in the house.

  ‘Riley?’

  The fog is thickening as the path slopes to the river. If I lose the dog I’ve no chance of finding him in this. A short yap, scuffling somewhere up ahead. He’s been good over half-term, coming when the twins and I call him. The lych gate is a dark mass, growing sharper as I pick my way across puddles and potholes. Heavy, rhythmic footsteps pound the ground behind me. I glance over my shoulder and pull off the path into the shelter of the gate. A jogger, hoody pulled up, a scarf across his mouth, splashes past. I’m gripping the cake tin so tightly it’s digging into my hip bone. Familiar things are strange today. Even the dull drip, drip, drip from branches sounds eerie. I step back onto the path and pick up my pace. The towpath is another hundred metres or so, the boathouse only a few minutes from here.

  Mark rarely mentions Mum’s illness, we don’t discuss it. Google will have told him about symptoms, treatments, the hereditary stuff, anything he wants to know. If he didn’t check it out after we met he will have before the children were born. Anyone would. So why throw it in my face now? If he’s planning to leave me and take the twins, he’ll know how difficult it will be for me if he brings all that up. It could be an explanation why he’s so keen I take my medication, clear proof I’m not fully recovered. However hard I try, whatever I or the doctors say, doubt will linger. Is she okay, will she relapse, are the children really safe with her? Once doubt is established, any judge will err on the side of caution, order the children to live with the parent who poses no risk at all. I should speak to Amy again, fill her in about Mum. See if that alters her advice.

  I reach the end of the path, fog wraps around me, the air still, heavy and cold. Everything is wet. The towpath is busy, dark shapes randomly loom at me, joggers and fellow dog walkers keen to get home before it gets dark.

  ‘Riley?’

  We need to take a left here towards the village. I can’t make out the boathouse yet, but it’s only a few metres further along the towpath. I hear Riley before I see him. I clip on his lead and we set off together towards the village. It feels better with the dog pulling me forwards.

  The boathouse is tucked tight into the riverbank, its squat tin chimney spiralling wood smoke into the fog. Across the small deck, a cabin door is hooked open, the interior of the boat in darkness.

  ‘Hello?’

  There’s no bell to ring. I rap my fist against the side of the boat, unsure how else to make myself known.

  ‘Mr Denning? It’s Kate, Kate Keeling.’

  My voice sounds disembodied in the silence. Riley tugs the lead, eager to be on his way. I stand beside the boat, not knowing what to do. There’s no sign of Richard Denning. Do we wait here a while? We hadn’t agreed a time to meet, just Monday afternoon. He’s almost certainly nipped out on an errand and will be back shortly. I head for the bench a little further along the river.

  I rest Shirley’s cake tin on the bench and my bag on my knees. I can watch the boathouse from here, see him easily if he returns. He can’t have gone far with the cabin open in this weather. I let Riley off the lead again. The dog stays close, snuffling beneath the hedge behind where I sit. The bench, like everything else, is wet, damp seeps into my jeans. I rummage in my bag and pull out my sketch pad, rummage some more and find a pencil. I quickly fill the page with an outline but it’s cold, the light too poor to draw, what am I think of? I stuff the paper and pencil back into the bag, take my phone from my pocket. 14:49. Nothing from Mark. I drop the mobile back into my windcheater. I’ll wait a few more minutes.

  If there’s any chance of saving our marriage, the last thing to do right now is move out of our home. But we just can’t stay. It’s a massive relief to be out of the place, to be able to stay with Shirley. Too much has gone on at Haverscroft. I can’t ignore it or put it down to nerves, mine or the children’s. We’re not safe there, I’m sure of it. Mrs Havers can’t or won’t help, that much is clear. Richard Denning knows something. Shirley thinks he has information beyond common gossip and rumour. She’s usually right about these things. If he can explain what is there, what it is we are faced with, perhaps Alan Wynn will know what to do. How, or if, this thing can be sorted.

  A few days at Shirley’s will let me relax. Stress caused the breakdown. It still stops me thinking clearly now. It scares me, all this stuff about the house, with Mark, all whizzing round in my head getting nowhere. I can’t be ill, not again, not now. Maybe when I know more I can understand it. Maybe then I can explain it to Mark, if he’s prepared to listen.

  I stare across the path to the still and silent boathouse. Somehow it’s changed. Mist still presses at the low, dark windows. Nothing moves. It bothers me, the cabin door left open in such damp weather. I check my phone, nothing from Mark. I’ve been here far longer than I intended. My feet are numb with cold, my jeans cling to my skin. Riley pushes a damp nose into my hand. He’s cold and wet too, I should get him to Shirley’s. I look back at the boat. The thin spire of wood smoke no longer churns from the tin chimney. Perhaps I misunderstood our arrangement, maybe Richard Denning has gone to Haverscroft?

  My legs are stiff as I stand and I realise just how cold I am. I drop my phone into my jeans pocket, pull my coat closer and my scarf tighter. I’ll leave the cake tin on deck with a note and my mobile number. The surface of the towpath is like soup, puddles interspersed with islands of squelching mud. Tom said wellingtons were a ‘no-brainer’ this morning, I’m grateful for them now. Riley follows at my heel, his coat hanging in wet ribbons under his belly and legs. I glance along the riverbank. Visibility for fifteen, maybe twenty metres at most. No one to be seen.

  I reach the side of the boathouse.

  ‘Hello?’

  My voice rings with uncertainty in the stillness. No one responds. I hammer my fist against the side of the boat and wait. Nothing. I step closer, grab the wooden handrail and lean over it trying to get a better view across the deck and into the cabin. The varnished rail is wet, my hand skids beneath my weight. I stumble, put out both hands to break my fall.

  ‘Shit!’

  The cake tin clatters and skids across the deck and thunks into the far corner. Riley shoots past my legs, claws scrabbling against the boards. He vanishes through the open cabin door.

  ‘Riley! Here, boy!’

  Muddy paw prints smear the deck. For a second, maybe two, I hear nothing.

  ‘Riley!’

  The dog growls, a low sound growing in volume, breaking into non-stop barking. I glance along the towpath, no one in sight. What the hell is he barking about? Has he hurt himself, fallen down the cabin steps?

  ‘Riley! Get out here, now!’


  The barking continues, a relentless rhythmic sound. I’ll have to climb aboard and see what the problem is. What can be in there to make him bark like this?

  ‘Riley!’

  I swing my bag over the handrail onto the deck. I can leave the cake in the cabin with a note to say we’re staying at Shirley’s. My wellingtons are filthy, slippery with mud, perhaps I should take them off? I crouch in front of the cabin door and peer inside the dark interior. A brown tweed jacket hangs on top of a pile of coats near the door, a chequered cap on top. My eyes slowly adjust.

  ‘Riley! Come here!’

  The dog’s barking is like nothing I’ve heard from him before. The constant noise is making me anxious, my heart racing, my breath coming in short sharp puffs. A long narrow space emerges from the gloom. Nearest the door is a kitchenette, a dumpy silver kettle, a whistle on its spout. A Pyrex jug has pale yellow mixture in it, scrambled eggs maybe, the fork resting against the glass side.

  The second cabin door is closed. I pull it toward me, it opens easily, the catch rattling loose against the varnished wood. More light spills down the narrow slatted-steps into the galley. No-one would leave a boat open, even for a short time, with it being so damp today.

  The interior of the boat comes into focus, my eyes scan the space. At the far end is a closed door, a bedroom or washroom. Immediately in front of it is a sitting area, bench-style seating attached to the wall piled with mismatched and beaten-up cushions. A large old-fashioned chrome angle lamp must have stood on the table but now lies across the narrow walkway, broken. Splinters of glass from the bulb glint, catching the light that streams in from where I crouch at the top of the steps. I hope Riley hasn’t smashed it bounding around in such a confined space.

  Something about the smell in here is familiar, constricts my chest, a cold sweat beading my forehead and prickling my underarms. Riley is the only thing that moves as he barks and yowls, his eyes trained on my face. I feel the scream rising in my throat as my hand flies to cover my mouth. I don’t look directly at the bulky shape the dog stands next to, I don’t need to, I know what it is.

  The bloodless grey pallor of the skin on a hand, nut brown when it hauled me from the pond. Where does that colour go? I don’t look at the unseeing green eyes or the black shape crawling from beneath the back of his skull. Even though I don’t look, not directly, I know beyond any doubt, as my screaming and screaming and screaming cuts through the fog, he is dead.

  Chapter 27

  Monday evening, 1st November

  ‘You’re sure you want a solicitor?’

  I follow the DCI down the length of a grey corridor, black windows glare strip-lighting back at me.

  ‘I just want to get home to my children, it’s getting late.’

  ‘A man is dead, Mrs Keeling. We must have some answers from you.’

  I follow him into a waiting room, no windows, a row of battered plastic chairs bolted to the wall. He puts a white polystyrene cup of coffee and a pre-packed sandwich of grated cheese on white sliced on a low table piled with tatty magazines. He straightens and looks me full in the face. ‘Some proper answers.’

  He knows I lied, so stupid to do that. He’s staring at me, I’ve missed something, zoned out.

  ‘Your children are perfectly safe as we’ve already told you, Mrs Keeling. Can I get you anything else?’ I shake my head. ‘We’ve called the duty solicitor for you. There’ll be a bit of a wait, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Actually, I’ll be fine without a solicitor, really, there’s no need for one. Let’s just get on with it.’

  I thought the little white lie would get me out of here quickly, before the school pick-up, it must be way past that now. No watch, phone, bag and no clocks about this bloody station either. The DCI is still staring at me. A WPC stands in the doorway.

  ‘I’d rather speak to you when you have a solicitor, all things considered.’

  The shock of seeing him there, what was I thinking? I blurted out the first stupid thing that sprang into my head. The lie’s made it all so much worse.

  ‘Take a seat, Mrs Keeling.’

  He glances at the woman then back to me.

  ‘Have a bite to eat and something to drink, hopefully the solicitor won’t be too long.’

  I can’t explain why the children shouldn’t be left with Mark at Haverscroft, it sounds too crazy. Shirley will have the twins, Mark delayed as usual getting out of London. They’ll be asleep in bed at Shirley’s cottage, not at the house. The two police officers are watching, concentrate. They think I’m deranged, who can blame them the way I’ve been behaving over the last couple of hours. The good thing about being mentally deficient is no one expects anything of you, so I say nothing. I’ve said too much already. I sit down with a thunk on an orange plastic chair and pull a calm expression onto my face. I smile at them both.

  ‘Anything you need, just ask the WPC.’

  ‘Can I have my sketch pad and pencils? They were in my bag.’

  The expression in his eyes frightens me, like Mark’s and the twins. A clue that what I’ve said isn’t quite expected, not right in some way. I need to get my act together if I’m getting out of here anytime soon.

  The WPC comes with my sketch pad and pencils, takes away the cold coffee, sandwich and comes back with a mug of tea. White with two sugars, she says, you’ll feel better for it. She’s right about that.

  The sketch I started this morning by the river isn’t so bad. If I draw for a while I’ll calm down, think clearly. The pencil is light, easy, more of you spills quickly onto the page. The pills must still be in my bag. It’s so long since I’ve taken any I can’t be sure. I can’t unravel after all these weeks, not now. And I am unravelling. I know I am, but how do I stop it?

  Think, Katie. Take a breath. Concentrate.

  I watch the pencil, the lines spreading, moving across the white space. Exactly what happened today?

  I don’t know if I’ve taken a tablet. Did the police let me take one before they took away all my things? I think they did. The nurse gave me one while I waited for Tom in A&E. It helped, calmed me down, let me think straight. The police suggested I take one as we drove away from the river. I’m sure they did.

  The police know if someone is lying and mine’s so easy to check out, so why, when the DCI asked if I knew the dead man, did I say no? Panic and desperation to get back to the twins, to make sure they’re not at Haverscroft. I’m sure they won’t be there.

  When the DCI asked if I needed to see a doctor, that was a bit of a clue I wasn’t quite right. I lift the pencil from the paper, hold the sketch pad a little up and away from me, your smile is just as I remember. When you lied to me, I so wanted to believe you. The first time they took you away seems like a lifetime ago. I sat on your sofa and waited, you wouldn’t be gone long, they said. We’d never been apart before, no one else, no auntie or uncle, no grandparents to stand in your place, just you and me.

  I glance up, the WPC stands at the door, her eyes on the sketch pad. She looks at me and smiles. ‘It’s so life-like.’

  I return her smile. Normal, calm behaviour will see me out of here sooner than anything else.

  ‘Thanks. I don’t usually draw people. Do you know what time it is?’

  ‘Just after midnight. Easy to lose track in here, isn’t it?’

  I nod. The pills don’t help either, time becomes so elastic. The twins will be in bed, Mark will leave them at Shirley’s for tonight. It should be okay if I’m back home first thing. I look back at the page, start to draw.

  After that first time, you often went away. A few days, sometimes months at a time. Easier when I was older, A-levels, university and law school. I looked after you, and you were better, didn’t go away as you once had. Go live your life, Katie, you’d said, everything’s fine. So I did.

  My eyes are tired, eyelids gritty with each blink. I put down the penci
l and lay the sketch pad in my lap.

  ‘How much longer do you think the solicitor will be?’

  The WPC’s looking at me, weighing up how I am. I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. I look at her and smile.

  ‘I’ll find out for you.’

  Her shoes squeak along the corridor like the matron’s at Fairfield. I look back at the page. I found an old man this morning, he reminded me of you. That day at the flat, the air was cold, the place strangely quiet. You always had the radio on, silence was so scary, you said. I stepped into the sitting room and knew something wasn’t right, the sofa, empty. You sat in a chair by the window, I’d never seen you sit there before. Visitors, newspapers or books sometimes occupied the space, never you.

  ‘Mrs Keeling?’

  The WPC is beside me, nudging my arm, I haven’t heard her come back into the room.

  ‘The solicitor’s on his way and won’t be more than a few minutes now.’

  ‘Thanks. What is the time anyway?’

  ‘Nearly 1am.’ She’s looking at the page as she speaks. ‘Is it you?’

  I smile, shake my head. ‘No, not me.’

  ‘Well, whoever she is, she has a beautiful smile.’

  She goes back to her place beside the door. I look at the sketch, she’s right, the curve of your lips plumps your cheeks, crinkles the skin at the corner of your eyes. I don’t know how long you’d sat there, why I didn’t pick up the signs. You cancelled one or two trips to the cinema and for coffee. Let your hair grow out of its usual neat style. I should’ve called sooner. By the time I got there, your wrists had long since drained out, the light gone from your eyes. I was angry with you for so long, for leaving me, for letting me find you like that.

  The WPC stands very still by the door. I wonder if she too has children asleep in their beds waiting for her at home. I take a breath. Smile at her and hope the solicitor’s here soon.

  The sketch is done, nothing more my memory can churn out. We’re not the same, you and I. I know that now. Deep down, I’ve always known. You were the best parent you could have been. I must be the same. I must move on, for all our sakes, especially for the twins’. You would expect that much of me, Mum, I know. Footsteps ring along the corridor, getting louder, coming this way.