by Jen Williams
CHAPTER
34
BEFORE
COLLEEN’S CAMPERVAN WAS set back from the main crowd of tents and vans, and as Michael drove toward it, he noted that the windows were all filled with brittle yellow light—she wasn’t alone tonight. Getting out of his van, he quickly looked himself over in the wing mirror, pushing his hair out of his face impatiently. The shower at the B&B had been cramped and tiny, and he had worn the soap down to a nub. He was more careful than he’d ever been these days, but it never hurt to check again—flecks of blood had a habit of finding the places that you missed with the flannel.
Satisfied, he went up to the campervan, opening the door onto their small, patchouli smelling living space. Three women looked up at him, clearly startled; there was Colleen, wearing a long, slightly threadbare maxi dress and a pink flower in her hair—a dog rose, he thought—and there was another woman he only vaguely knew, sprawled in the corner seat he liked to take for himself. She was heavily pregnant, her vastly swollen belly pushing against a yellow t-shirt that was much too small for her, and she peered up at him through a haze of tobacco smoke. The third woman was one of the Bickerstaff sisters; Michael wasn’t sure which one. In comparison to the pregnant woman, she looked too alert, and she raised her eyebrows at him archly.
“Look at what the cat dragged in,” she said.
Michael closed the door behind him, caught for a long second between two images: the girl he had left in a field outside Eccleston, her jumper soaked red and her mouth full of pansies, and the three women in the campervan, as they appeared to him then—Colleen the maiden, biting her pink lower lip, the unknown pregnant woman on the cusp of motherhood, and the Bickerstaff sister, her face young and unlined yet as knowing as any crone. The girl’s heart was in the wood now at least. He reminded himself of that, and it calmed him.
“Mike, I didn’t think you were coming back tonight.” Colleen stood and came over to him awkwardly, slipping her arms around his waist and squeezing him. “We were just having a girl’s night in.”
“How nice.” It was difficult to speak, the words lodged and dry in his throat. It always was after he had returned someone to the woods, as though part of him had gone back to the cupboard, to the time when he did not utter any words.
“Have you seen the news?” The Bickerstaff woman—her name was Lizbet or Beryl—slid a folded newspaper toward him. It was one of the red tops, the headline screaming “FIFTH SUSPECTED VICTIM OF THE RED WOLF” and underneath it was a fuzzy photograph of a stocky woman with thick, curly hair. The photo had been taken at a wedding, and she was dressed in a particularly unflattering peach-colored bridesmaid dress. She hadn’t been wearing that when Michael saw her last. Lizbet or Beryl turned her lips down at the corners. “Nasty stuff, isn’t it? What a monster he must be. What do you think, Janie?”
She elbowed the pregnant woman next to her, who took a good three seconds to react. Her head wobbled up, and she struggled to focus on the newsprint. Michael watched her trying to figure it out, and eventually she shrugged and turned away, stubbing out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. Drugs.
“It’s scary,” said Colleen, with feeling. “I wish they wouldn’t use these names for them, it just makes it all seem, I don’t know, glamorous or something.”
“The Red Wolf,” repeated the Bickerstaff woman. Then she grinned, and leaning over suddenly, rubbed at the pregnant woman’s distended belly. “No big bad wolves in your bedtime stories, little one?”
This seemed to wake the girl in the yellow t-shirt up a little. “Do you have anything for me, Beryl?”
“Beryl and Lizbet are nurses,” said Colleen. She looked up at Michael, as though trying to convince him of something. “They’re keeping a special eye on Janie.”
“A natural birth,” said Beryl, gazing fondly at Janie. “A child born under the stars. Won’t that be something?”
Michael shrugged. He knew already that the Bickerstaffs were providing the contraceptive pill to many women in the commune, knew that Colleen was diligently taking it. He didn’t ask what other drugs the Bickerstaff sisters were doling out, or why the pregnant Janie was clearly chain-smoking her way through packets of Lambert and Butler. Instead he gently unhooked Colleen’s arms from his waist and stepped back toward the flimsy door.
“Don’t go,” said Colleen quickly. “We were just …”
“I’ll be back in a little bit, I just need some more fresh air.” He didn’t miss the look Beryl Bickerstaff gave him as he stepped out—flat and calculating, like a cat trying to decide if a mouse was worth the effort.
After just a few minutes inside the smoky campervan the night air tasted sweet and welcoming, and he walked back toward the house gratefully even as he felt a pang of regret at leaving Colleen behind. She did not like the big house, wouldn’t stay in it overnight, although she’d never been especially clear on why—it was an attitude that mystified Michael. After all, it wasn’t a run-down farmhouse surrounded by bleak fields, it wasn’t a suffocating cupboard. Halfway up the hill he came across the man coming down. The dog was nowhere to be seen.
“Good night, lad?” It was too dark to see his face clearly, but Michael heard the grin in his voice all the same.
“The Bickerstaff sisters. What do they know?”
The man turned away, and a slither of moonlight picked out his features in beaten silver; the big nose, an old man’s expansive ears, the dull sheen of his false eye. He was still grinning.
“They’re useful,” was all he said.
Michael nodded, although he didn’t agree. After a moment he said, “I wish you hadn’t made me leave that note.”
“Why not? Why shouldn’t they know your name?”
“The Red Wolf.” Speaking it aloud was thrilling, but it also gave him a deeper, unhappier ache that he couldn’t explain. It was coming too close to talking about the things they never talked about, and once they named it, he felt certain everything would vanish, like a soap bubble. “The papers have taken it. And they don’t understand. Not really.”
The man snorted. “That’s our burden, lad. To never be understood.”
For some time, Michael didn’t move or speak. He could hear voices laughing and talking some distance away, and there were points of orange light from campfires away to his right, but up here on the hill it was cold, and the darkness of Fiddler’s Woods seemed to tug at him eagerly. He longed to go there with the images that were still fresh in his head, visit the hearts that beat under the earth for him, but the thought of Colleen held him back.
“What are you doing here? With them?” He gestured down the hill even as he regretted the question.
But the man didn’t seem concerned. He bared his long teeth in a grin, looking eerily like his own dog.
“The things I do for you, lad. For my little barghest. I’ve always looked after you, haven’t I? Always provided for you?”
Michael nodded. He couldn’t argue with that.
“Then trust me.”
The man left, jogging lightly down the hill like a man much younger than his years. Michael watched him go, breathing in the dark scent of the night.
CHAPTER
35
THE MORNING WAS bright and cold, a sheer blue sheet for a sky with only a few wispy hints of clouds to the east. Heather and Nikki came out of the cottage slowly, full of the natural caution of city people suddenly faced with a great deal of quiet. Nikki was carrying a glossy map of the grounds, which had also been left on the table for them.
“You know, this place is huge, and really spread out. The nearest cottage is miles away.”
The wind picked up, chasing old dead leaves across the small drive. Heather sniffed, and fiddled with the collar of her jacket. For the first time in weeks, she had slept the whole night through, and the hot shower had been powerful enough that she felt like she’d already had a massage. This is better, she thought, glancing around at the grass and trees. I should have known staying in that house would
make me unwell. She looked at the map Nikki was brandishing at her and raised her eyebrows.
“Countryside people,” she said eventually, “are really keen on walking, aren’t they?”
“Good news is, although we’re not guests of the spa, we can go up to their restaurant and have breakfast. What do you reckon?”
They got back in the car and followed the smooth roads back up toward the main entrance. It was a reasonably long way, Heather noted—walking would have to take at least an hour. Eventually the main building of Fiddler’s Mill loomed into sight, looking very much like all the paintings and photographs Heather had seen at whytewitch’s flat. It had been given new, energy saving windows and a new gravel drive, but the dark stones of the House itself, looking like a rainy afternoon given weight and heft, were still intact. In the sprawling carpark to one side were only a handful of cars, and the big central doors were closed.
Nikki parked and they got out, standing for a moment looking down the hill. Back past the way they had come was a thick band of woods, looking impenetrable at this distance. Heather couldn’t see anyone else about.
“I guess it’s a bit late in the year for this, really,” she said. “Anyone with any sense and this much money has buggered off abroad for the winter.”
“Come on, let’s get inside.”
The reception area was spacious and tasteful and somewhat ruined by a series of tall white signs detailing all the spa treatments available within Fiddler’s Mill House. A young orange woman with yellow hair beamed at them from behind a desk.
“Can I help you?”
“We’d like to have breakfast please,” said Nikki. “Is your restaurant open?”
“Yes of course.” The young woman slid a pamphlet across the counter to them. It had a picture of an avocado on the front and not, as Heather might have hoped, bacon and eggs. “Here is the menu. The restaurant is just through the arch to your right. Have a lovely day.”
“Could I ask you a couple of questions?”’ Heather leaned on the counter top, folding her arms.
“Of course,” the receptionist dialed down the smile from satisfied customer to query incoming.
“Do you know anything about the history of this place? Specifically about the commune that was on the site during the ’70s and ’80s?’
The woman nodded carefully and retrieved another pamphlet from a drawer on the desk. This one had a black and white photo of the House on the front. “There you go. Fiddler’s Mill was built in the late 1700s, and has had an interesting history since then. The main points are highlighted in the pamphlet there.”
“Interesting history.” Heather nodded slowly, looking at the leaflet. “What about the rumors that the Red Wolf used to live around here? Do you know anything about that? About Michael Reave?”
The smile vanished. “What?”
“I have it on good authority he was a part of the commune here from the ’70s onwards …”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Are you sure? Because —”
“No seriously, I don’t.” The woman leaned forward. “They tell us to play down the commune stuff, because of all the drug taking and that,” she glanced around briefly, as if her manager might be looming, “but I’ve never heard anything about the Red Wolf. Are you serious?”
“Is there much left on the grounds from that time? Could you tell me that?”
The woman grimaced and leaned back. Now, as she glanced around the reception, it was clear she was seeking someone else to deal with them. Heather lowered her voice. She could feel Nikki’s discomfort next to her.
“I just want to know about the stuff that dates from then. How many people do you have staying here at the moment? Not many, I suppose, but there are cars in the car park—do you think they’d want to know about the history of this house? That the Red Wolf spent time in these fields in between dismembering bodies? Now, there are people that would be over the moon to hear that, but I doubt it’s the same people who would pay eight hundred quid a night for peace and quiet and hot stone treatments. Especially not when a particular fan of the Red Wolf is apparently causing trouble again.”
The receptionist took a slow breath, then picked up another pamphlet off the desk. This one was the same as the one Nikki already had. She picked up a ballpoint pen and began to make hurried additions to the map.
“Look, there’s not much left on the grounds from that time, save for the House itself, and a few private properties in the northwest of the estate. A few old houses that are falling to pieces, a strip of land with a caravan on it—they are mostly still occupied.” She made a couple more marks and then handed the map over, her mouth pursed. “I only know about it because I was here when they were building the new roads—they had to get agreements from the residents still living on the larger properties.”
“Thank you.” Heather took the pamphlet and tucked it away in her pocket. “Who owns it, anyway? This spa?”
“Can’t you bloody google that?” The receptionist shook her head slightly, visibly retrieving her customer service skills. “It’s part of a chain of spas, which are partly owned by a private individual and partly by an environmental charity.”
“Oak Leaf,” Heather remembered the acorn logo on the welcome sign.
Nikki frowned. “A green charity? Why would they own a spa?”
“It’s a good way to keep the land from being built on,” said Heather, stepping back from the counter. “Otherwise I imagine it would all get sold up in bits and pieces and made into several shopping centers.” She smiled warmly at the receptionist. “Thank you, we’ll go and have our breakfast now, I promise.”
* * *
“Can you believe,” said Heather, around half an hour later, “that they didn’t even have any sausages?”
“They did,” said Nikki, mildly. “They had vegan sausages.”
“That is not a sausage, it is a tube of sadness and regret.”
They were making their way down the hill, having left Nikki’s car in the car park. According to the newly scribbled-on map, some of the private properties were only accessible by foot, or if you had the sort of four-wheel drive vehicle that positively embraces mud.
“What do you want to do?” asked Nikki as they continued to trudge down the hill. It was still a bright morning, but the wind was picking up.
“I just want to have a look around. Get a feel for the place. And it would be interesting to see if we can find some of the places our white witch painted.” Inside her bag were copies of most of Pamela Whittakers’ paintings and photos—the photo that featured her mother, she had hidden deep in her bag. “Or even find the locations of her photographs. It would be interesting to know exactly where this commune was set up.”
“Well if we encounter any “get off my land” types, I will let you deal with them. You were fairly mean to that receptionist, you know.”
Heather gave Nikki a look. “Fair enough.”
They walked on, both lapsing into silence. The quiet was oppressive, so full of the whistle of the wind and the quiet music of birdsong it felt like a physical weight. Heather found herself reluctant to speak, as though to do so would be to expose herself; although to what, she did not know. Eventually they passed over the neatly kept grasses and roads and came to a strip of trees, a single rough path leading through them. Despite the bright morning, the trees were a solid clump of darkness, seeming to hold their own shadows close around their trunks and branches. On the edge of it, Nikki hesitated.
“Are you sure this is the right way?”
“I am,” Heather indicated the map. “See? And this bit doesn’t last for long, there’s a clearing beyond, and the first of the old houses. This is just a small branch of the larger Fiddler’s Wood.”
Nikki turned and looked back up the hill, where the House was now a squat gray box. More people were arriving in the car park.
“Let’s get it over with.”
Under the trees, winter felt oddly close
, with a dampness in the air that spoke of frosts and late-night mists. The dirt track they followed was riddled with muddy puddles, and Heather found herself concentrating so hard on walking on the drier areas that it was a surprise when they emerged out under the sky again. The grass was thick and overgrown, quickly turning the cuffs of Heather’s jeans dark with moisture. As they approached the trees on the far side, they saw that the woods were much thicker and darker, the path a little more overgrown. All of which made it something of a surprise, ten minutes later, to emerge onto a neatly manicured lawn with a well-maintained house sitting at the heart of it. More trees curled around the back of the house, which was built with dark stone similar to that of Fiddler’s Mill House itself, and on the gravel drive out front stood a sturdy looking green Landrover, mud on its wheels. Next to it was a smaller, more modern car, and as they watched, the front door of the house opened and an older woman emerged dressed in a dark green raincoat, a large carry-all clutched in both hands. She looked straight at them, clearly startled, and then leaned back in the door. They heard her speak, but did not catch what she said, and then the woman climbed into the smaller yellow car and drove away—there was a proper paved road on the far side of the grounds, disappearing into more trees.
“We’ve been spotted,” said Heather, unnecessarily.
As they walked toward the house, a shadow appeared at the door, not quite emerging into the light. When they were on the gravel drive, Heather could see it was a hunched old man, much older than the woman who had disappeared in the yellow car. He was watching them come, while leaning on a walking stick. There was a linoleum floor in the hallway; a green vine pattern against a sickly yellow background.
“Good morning!” She lifted her hand in greeting, but the man’s only response was to tip his head slightly to one side. Next to her, Nikki leaned in close and murmured in her ear.
“Let’s just keep walking and go up that road. I don’t think they like strangers round here.”