by Jen Williams
And he saw it.
He saw that she was a small pitiful thing, a broken shape on the landscape of his rage.
“That’s it, my lad. That’s it. When you are the wolf, the likes of her are just meat. Bad meat.”
CHAPTER
13
IF HEATHER HAD one good habit, it was that she was early to everything. Arriving at Belmarsh a good hour before she was needed, she had taken root in a greasy spoon in Thamesmead. Heather had a begrudging sort of affection for Thamesmead; like Balesford, it clung to the bottom of London like a sort of crusted canker, but it at least had the good sense to be cluttered with lots of brutalist architecture—looming gray concrete wherever you happened to look, and that vague sense that once this urban landscape had existed only on the design sheets of an extremely optimistic architect.
She ordered a bacon and egg sandwich and a cup of tea, and sat near the window, looking out at a high street crammed with betting shops and fried chicken places. Eventually, she pulled out a folder of scanned letters. Ben Parker had given her a few copies of the letters her mother had sent, and these she had already read feverishly, rigid with indignation, but ultimately, they hadn’t told her much at all. Mostly the letters were short and polite, talking about inconsequential things like the changing of the seasons, the weather, or her dinner plans. Heather couldn’t make head or tail of them; you would never guess that the woman was writing to a convicted serial killer. Every now and then they would drift slightly, mentioning a place she had visited in her youth, but always her mother brought things back on track quickly. Heather had asked Parker why she couldn’t see all the letters, and he’d reluctantly explained that even murderers had rights—although Reave’s mail was monitored, they only made copies when they felt the letter contained something that might be useful. Mostly they didn’t. That could change as the investigation progressed, but for now, they wanted Reave on side.
Inevitably, Heather found herself turning back to the letters of Michael Reave himself, the ones apparently so precious to her mother she had hidden them carefully away in the attic.
… I know you couldnt be with me Colleen. I am happyer here under the sky. Would be happyer with you, but I cant have everything. Ive always known that …
… in all my life Ive never been close to anyone but you …
Heather put the letter down. The foundations of her life seemed weak and ghostly, something that could vanish entirely in just the right shade of moonlight. She thought again of the bird that had managed to trap itself in her bathroom. Even in a busy café, smelling of bacon and coffee, it was hard not to think of that as an omen … At that moment, the woman arrived with her sandwich and tea, and she seized on this normal interaction desperately, nodding and smiling at the woman so much that she looked quite put out. When the waitress had retreated back to the safety of the counter, Heather returned to the letters.
… Ive never seen a storm like it. They said on the television that it would pass over without damage, but they couldnt have been more wrong. You should have been out here Colleen where it gets really dark. The howling of the wind was so loud it was like a voice. And so many trees down. It hurts me to see the woods so broken …
… Theyre selling the big house at Fiddlers Mill. Its going to be a retreat for the rich can you believe it? Men and women who want to get out of the city and be in the green but don’t understand why, so they wear dressing gowns and get massarges …
Heather put the letters down and pulled her laptop from her bag. There was, unsurprisingly, no wi-fi in the café so she piggybacked off her phone again. A quick bit of googling told her several things: that a big stretch of land known as Fiddler’s Mill had indeed been the location of a commune in the 1970s, outstaying its welcome slightly but still supposedly dedicated to the ideals of peace, free love, and copious drug use. Now the big house known as Fiddler’s Mill was partly home to a fancy spa complex, which had been in existence since the early ’90s. The land and the spa were partly owned by an environmental charity called Oak Leaf, and indeed the emphasis was on the environment, healthy living, detoxes, and other things Heather was naturally repelled by. It looked, to a woman recently booted out of a modest salaried journalism job, mind-bogglingly expensive.
She opened a new page and delved a little deeper into the old Fiddler’s Mill, the one that existed before the fancy spa. Very quickly she found herself down a rabbit hole crammed with erratically written blogs and ugly webpages awkwardly chucked together by people too old to be comfortable online but too keen to share their memories to give up. At first it seemed fairly innocuous, with most recalling a lot of music, a lot of drink, a lot of young people having a good time. There were a few photographs scattered about, showing people with long hair and a relaxed attitude to grooming, more acoustic guitars than Heather thought was healthy, and a lot of food being cooked outdoors. There was the central building, a reasonably impressive eighteenth-century house and its grounds, and a number of tents and caravans, a few temporary shed-like things thrown up, and lots of cars.
There was an edge to it all, though. Perhaps it was because they had left the ’60s behind and were ensconced in the grottiness of the ’70s, but in the photographs Heather saw a lot of hard eyes, a lot of people who were thinner than they should have been. She saw one photo of a pregnant woman sitting by a campfire, one hand resting on her distended belly; far from glowing with maternal satisfaction, her face was hard and distant, as if carved from flint. Heather wondered, looking at the photographs, if weed was the only drug of choice at Fiddler’s Mill—she doubted it. And in the blogs and diaries and articles, she unearthed a line of discontent that spoke of poor facilities, abuse, and even fraud.
“My mum was here,” she muttered to herself. Saying it out loud seemed to edge it closer to reality. “My mum. She must have been very different back then.”
Following back some of the more outraged accounts, she found a handful of posts by a woman calling herself whytewitch59 who seemed to be claiming that all sorts of shadowy things went on at Fiddler’s Mill in the ’70s and even the ’80s, although she never quite managed to name them. There was a picture of the woman in the top right-hand corner of her webpage, revealing a ratty face topped with a woolly hat that had to be home made. Heather combed through these accounts, looking for the sorts of details that a story could be built on, but ultimately came away with the impression that the woman had probably been looking for a place to find connections, and instead had done a lot of drugs, only to end up lonelier than before.
Her pictures, though, were something else. Clicking on a “gallery” tab at the top pulled up a long page of photographs and paintings, all of which appeared to be of the countryside and, specifically in some cases, Fiddler’s Mill. Heather recognized the looming eighteenth-century house in some of them, either dominating the frame or appearing as a blocky shape in the distance. All of the photographs were in black and white, lending them a gloomy air, and there was something unnerving about them. Fields of wheat under a blank, blind-looking sky, and close-ups of grass, focused on stones and sticks placed in odd, concentric patterns. There were lots of photographs of trees, too, many of them dark and deeply shadowed, as though taken at the very tail end of the day, as twilight soaked up through the ground, or in the middle of a very dense forest. There was something claustrophobic about those photos, and Heather found herself frowning as she looked at them.
There were paintings, too, in a similarly limited palette of blacks and grays, greens and yellows. Trees like grasping fingers tore at a jaundiced sky, shadowy white figures moved through a field lit from within with green lights. In one of the paintings, Heather recognized the solid shape of Fiddler’s Mill House crouched alone at the top of a hill, and far to the right, emerging from the woods, a figure dressed in a shapeless red garment. This last painting Heather looked at for some time, until the café woman came and took her empty plate away. Her tea had gone cold.
Heather put whytewitch59’s we
bpage into her favorites, for no other reason than the sense she would want to look at the pictures again. Impulsively, she went to the “contact me” page and sent whytewitch a quick message—“Hi, my name is Heather Evans, how are you? I really love your work and would love to chat about it and your time at Fiddler’s Mill. I’m happy to talk online, or if you’re London based, maybe we could grab a coffee—on me.” She added her email address and clicked submit.
When she’d done that, another thought occurred to her. Taking out an old USB stick from her handbag, she spent some time saving a few of the photographs and paintings on to it. There was a small Internet café, a few doors down, that offered printing—she’d seen it as she’d wandered up the road. Perhaps Reave would be more willing to talk about Fiddler’s Mill if he could see it.
* * *
HMP Belmarsh looked more like an industrial estate from the outside, but up close it was an impressive monstrosity of brown brick. DI Parker wasn’t there to meet her this time; instead she was greeted by a short man with an overly orange tan who introduced himself as DC Turner, giving her approximately three seconds of his attention before turning back to his phone. Parker, he explained with an absent expression, was up north again. Heather was surprised by the genuine pang of disappointment she felt.
“What’s happened? Has there been another murder?”
He jerked his head up and stared at her, as if only just realizing she was with him at all.
“I can’t really comment on that, love.”
“Okay then. Don’t call me love, yeah? Thanks.”
He turned away from her with a long-suffering sigh, and she knew immediately that she would never form a long and lasting friendship with DC Turner. In truth, she generally didn’t mind people calling her love, or honey, or even treacle, if they didn’t look like a miserable piss-pot dickhead with a tanning bed fixation. DI Parker, with your charmingly messy hair and hazel eyes, come back, all is forgiven.
“Anything you want me to try and get him to talk about?”
They were outside the small interview room, and Heather could see Michael Reave already, sitting with his hands clasped in front of him on the table. DC Turner raised his eyebrows at her.
“Just do what you can.” He opened his mouth, and she could feel the “love” dangling there, half formed. “… Miss Evans.”
This time when they entered, Michael Reave lifted his head and watched her sit down. There was a plastic cup of water in front of him, and his hair had been carefully brushed back from his forehead. He had also shaved, but Reave appeared to be one of those men whose five o’clock shadow could only be chased away by the razor briefly. He wore a long-sleeved navy jumper, and he leaned forward as she sat, his elbows on the table.
“Hello, Mr. Reave.”
He smiled lopsidedly. “What do I have to do to get you to call me Michael?”
“Not have murdered a load of women?” The answer was out before she could stop herself, but to her surprise his smile turned into a grin—it was brief and then gone, an oddly boyish expression.
“I didn’t, but I can hardly blame you for thinking that.” He tipped his head to take in the tiny room, the chains at his wrists, the burly guards behind him. “They’re letting us have another chat, lass. You must have impressed them.”
Heather shrugged. “I reckon you did that, Mr. Reave. What would you like to talk about today?”
“I thought of another story to tell you. It’s another one your mother liked. Would you like to hear it?”
Heather paused. “I do want to talk about my mother. And Fiddler’s Mill. I’d love to know what she was like when she was there—and what the commune was like, too.”
Reave looked away, staring at the door. His hands, she noticed, were covered in little white scars; the hands of someone who worked outdoors, who worked with knives.
“I’ll tell you a little about that place,” he said eventually. “If you listen to my story.”
“All right then.” DC Turner hadn’t offered her a cup of tea, or anything to drink, and she felt she had nowhere to put her hands. Self-consciously she rested them on the table. “Tell me a story.”
“Once upon a time,” there was a flash of that boyish grin again, “there was a king, who had a beautiful daughter. The princess sought a husband, but she insisted that any man who married her must love her so much that on the event of her death, he must agree to be buried alive in her tomb—”
“They told these stories to kids?”
Reave was still smiling, but there was a coldness to his eyes, and she suspected he did not appreciate being interrupted.
“These stories were told around the fire, at night. They told people how to live right, how to see the dangers in the forest.” He sat up a little straighter and continued. “The king was rich, and the princess was beautiful, but all her suitors had been scared off by the terms of the marriage. Eventually though, a young soldier in the King’s army, known for his bravery and strength, met the princess and fell deeply in love. He declared that he was not afraid of her conditions, and they married. For a while, they were very happy. The whole kingdom was happy.”
“Well, that’s good. I don’t suppose they all lived happily ever after?”
“After a few years, the princess grew gravely ill, and after lingering a while, she died. The soldier, now a prince, remembered with horror what he had agreed to and thought of fleeing the castle, but the king put guards on every door and window, and had the soldier watched every moment of every day. When the day of the funeral came, the soldier could do nothing but be marched to the princess’s tomb, and he was sealed in there with her corpse.”
“So, the princess is a loon, clearly, but it sounds to me as if the whole family was nuts. Surely the sensible thing to do would have been for the king to say, all right, she had her funny ways, we will miss her terribly, and now let’s never speak of it again.” Heather watched his face closely, interested to see if she could provoke a reaction—a man who cut women into pieces would surely have a temper, she reasoned—but Michael Reave just nodded slightly, as if he agreed with her, and carried on.
“They had given him candles, so he lit one and waited for death, watching the body of his beloved. There were flowers entwined in her hands, dog violets they were, and they matched the color of her lips. Soon he grew hungry, and thirsty, but there was nothing he could do. Eventually, a little snake crawled out of a hole in the wall—small and green and quick. Thinking it meant to bite the dead princess, the soldier leapt up and cut the snake into three pieces, killing it dead.”
Reave paused, brushing his fingers against his lips as if remembering something.
“A little while later, another snake slithered out of the hole, and seeing its dead brother, immediately retreated. However, it soon returned carrying three leaves in its mouth. These it placed over the severed pieces of the other snake’s body, and in moments, the dead snake was alive again. They disappeared back into the wall together, leaving the snake-leaves behind. The soldier, barely hoping to believe it could be true, retrieved the leaves and placed them on the eyes and mouth of the princess, and in half a breath the blood flowed again to her blue lips, and she leapt up, full of life. Together they banged on the tomb doors until the guards came and let them out. The soldier and the king were both so happy, and the kingdom rejoiced for seven days and seven nights.”
“Does this have a point, Reave?” broke in DC Turner. “We didn’t bring this woman all the way here for creepy story time.”
“I brought myself, actually, and I want to hear the end.”
If Reave appreciated her support, he didn’t show it. Instead he carried on as if neither of them had spoken. “But the princess had come back changed. With her new blood red lips came a new power, and new appetites. She would haunt the kitchens, stealing pieces of raw meat and eating them. The castle’s dogs and cats began to go missing, and then, the beggars that waited by the back gate found their numbers lessening. There are gi
fts, and then there are prices that must be paid. There is a becoming, we …”
He stopped, and met her eyes again. “One day, the princess went to the armory and dressed herself for war, and she went directly to the king’s chambers, and killed him. She did not kill the soldier, but kept him obedient in her room, and ruled over the kingdom herself for the rest of her days.”
An uneasy silence seeped into the room, while DC Turner coughed and sighed behind her. Heather thought it likely that this story had been given a new ending, too, just as the story of the brother and sister had—surely even the unpleasantness of the Grimm’s stories could not end with so much implied strangeness.
“I’m not sure if that’s a happy ending or not.”
Michael Reave shrugged. “Colleen … I mean, your mum, enjoyed that one. The roles of women in these stories were interesting to her. They were witches, and people hated them, but they had power.”
“Did she talk about these stories at Fiddler’s Mill?”
He looked up at her almost admonishingly, seeing through her ploy easily enough. “Aye.”
“And is that where you met? How old were you when you were there?”
Reave lowered his chin to his chest, letting out a slow breath.
“My family lived nearby there, and I just … drifted to the place as I got older. I did odd jobs for the man who owned it—tidying the place up, mending things. It became my home. Colleen turned up there in … the spring of 1977 I think it was.”
“In 1977, my mum would have been fifteen … She was just wandering around the countryside? She was a kid. What about school?” She stopped, realizing she sounded like an outraged aunt and Michael Reave was laughing at her.
He shrugged. “Things were different then. Colleen, she was wild, she didn’t get on with her dad, she didn’t get on with school … It was easier for kids to just get up and leave. No cameras watching, still wild places to hide. And the man who owned the land, he was good at making problems go away.”