by C. J. Tudor
She grins.
“But, as a mum,” I continue, “my job is to try and keep you safe.”
“I am safe. I know you want to look out for me, but you have to trust my judgment, too.”
“It’s just, sometimes, you make friends and they get you into trouble.”
A raised eyebrow. “Wrigley didn’t get me into trouble. I got myself into trouble and he helped me out.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“I am. Please, Mum. I don’t want us to keep arguing about this.”
Neither do I. But I can’t tell her why the thought of her and boys fills me with dread. How there are predatory males everywhere. How it doesn’t matter if you are clever, eloquent, kind, talented—a man can still use his physical strength to take all of that from you, degrade you, abuse you and turn you into a victim.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll try to make an effort with Wrigley, okay?”
“Good.” She sits up. “Because he’s asked me to go to the youth club with him tonight.”
And there it is.
“A youth club?”
“Yes.”
“With Wrigley?”
“Yes.”
“When did he ask you?”
“He called round earlier.”
“He did what?”
“He came to bring me a phone to replace mine. That’s kind.”
But he also came around here when I was out. I try to rein in my annoyance.
“Where is this youth club?”
“Henfield.”
“How are you planning to get there?”
“Bus.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Mum? Please?”
I don’t want her to go. But neither do I want to give her something else to kick back against.
I say: “You can go, on one condition.”
“What?”
“I want to clear it with his mum.”
“Not treating me like a kid didn’t last long.”
“Well, until you’re sixteen, legally, you are.”
She gives me a look that could pierce steel. I stare back steadily. “Message him and get his mum’s number.”
“Jeeessus.”
But she picks up her phone and taps out a message.
I walk into the hall and kick off my boots. Flo’s phone pings.
“AirDropping it to you,” she says.
I take out my phone and accept the WhatsApp link. The tiny picture in the corner shows a woman in a large sunhat holding up a cocktail of some sort. I can’t really make out her face.
Flo smiles sweetly. “Happy now?”
No, but it’s a start. I tap out a message.
“Hi, I’m Jack Brooks, Florence’s mum. As Flo and Lucas seem to have made friends, I thought it might be nice to get to know each other. Maybe a coffee sometime? Also, just wanted to check that you’re okay with the pair of them going to the youth club tonight?”
It pings almost immediately with a reply. I pick it up.
“Hi, Jack, thanks for your message. Yes, I was thinking exactly the same thing. Lucas mentioned the youth club. I’m sure they’ll have a lovely time. Would you like me to pick them up later?”
I feel my worry ease a little. I type back:
“If you don’t mind?”
“No trouble! xx.”
“So?” Flo is regarding me sulkily.
“Wrigley’s mum says she’ll pick you up afterward.”
“I can go?”
“I suppose so.”
Her face lights up and my heart gives. “Thanks, Mum.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to drop you?”
“No, it’s fine. Have a bath or something this evening. Chill.”
Fat chance.
“I’ll try.”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” she says. “Something weird happened this afternoon—”
“Weird? How?”
“There was this man hanging around.”
I stare at her. “A man. What sort of man?”
“Like a homeless man.”
“What did he look like?”
“Scruffy, dark hair.”
My nerves jangle. It could be Jacob. But then, it could be anyone. And how would he find me here?
“Did he talk to you?”
“No. He was just hanging around in the graveyard, and then he disappeared.”
I’m probably being paranoid. On the other hand, he found me last time.
“Have you seen him before?”
“No!”
I try to batten down my panic. “I just don’t like the thought of strange men hanging around.”
“Maybe he wanted to get into the church, but it was locked.”
“Maybe.”
She gives me a worried look. “I can still go tonight, can’t I? You’re not going to go all weird about this?”
I don’t like it, but it would be unfair to go back on what I’ve said.
“You can still go but, please, be careful.”
Her face relaxes. “I will. Thanks, Mum.”
I stand. “I need a coffee and then I’ll make some dinner. Chili okay?”
“Yeah. And then I have to get ready if I’m going to catch the bus.”
“Okay.”
I walk into the kitchen and take two mugs out of the cupboard. I’m trembling with adrenaline. A man. A strange man. As I reach to put the mugs on the counter, one slips from my fingers and smashes, jagged pieces of pottery flying across the worn linoleum.
“What was that?” Flo calls from the living room.
“Just dropped a mug. No worries.”
I breathe heavily, staring at the bits of broken mug, imagining for a moment jumping up and down barefoot on the razor-sharp shards. Then I fetch the dustpan and brush. Chill.
* * *
—
Flo saunters down the pathway and along the road toward the bus stop. She looks beautiful in skinny jeans, purple Docs and a baggy vest top. She would look beautiful in a sack. My heart aches. Wrigley isn’t good enough for her. No one is good enough for her. Least of all me.
I slowly close the door, fighting the urge to follow her and make sure she gets on the bus safely. I’m worried about the man she saw. Even if it’s not Jacob, any strange man hanging around is a potential threat. I try to tell myself that it’s still light outside. The bus stop is right outside a house. She’ll be back by ten at the latest. She’s only going to a youth club. Not a nightclub. Or a pub. And Flo knows how to defend herself. She’ll be fine.
But I can’t shift the lump of unease in my stomach. Was she a bit too keen to refuse a lift? Or am I just being overly suspicious? There will be other teenagers at the youth club. Other adults. And Wrigley’s mum is picking them up. Isn’t she? I didn’t actually speak to her. What if it wasn’t her messaging?
Oh, for goodness’ sake, Jack. Get a grip.
Or rather, don’t. Teenagers are like sand. The tighter you try and hold on to them, the more they slip through your fingers. I have to give her her freedom. Let her choose her own friends, and boyfriends. But does it have to be Wrigley?
I walk into the kitchen and pick up a bottle of red wine from the counter. I don’t drink much at home, but this evening, I could do with it. I open the bottle and pour out half a glass.
My voice of reason tries to tell me that there are only a couple of weeks of the summer holidays left. Once Flo starts school, she’ll make new friends. Hanging out with Wrigley might not seem so cool. Unfortunately, I also know my daughter. She’s loyal and, like me, she has a thing for underdogs.
Speaking of which, my mind drifts back to Aaron. Did his father hide Grady’s body? It seems the most likely scenario. Marsh had access. He knew about the va
ult. And if he thought he was protecting someone, then there’s motive. He was also best placed to cover up Grady’s sudden disappearance. But there’s still something about it that doesn’t quite gel. I just can’t think what.
And what of Reverend Fletcher? A man haunted in more ways than one. An illicit relationship, blackmailed by Harper, conflicted by his faith. Perhaps his death had nothing to do with the discovery in the vault.
I take my wine over to the kitchen table and sit down. There is still one person I haven’t spoken to who might be able to shed some light on things. The elusive Saffron Winter.
I open up my ancient laptop. Internet, at last. “At last” being the operative term, as it is still painfully slow. But beggars, choosers, et cetera. I google Saffron’s name. Fletcher supposedly confided in her, but I still don’t know anything much about the reclusive author.
The picture on the website is a larger version of the photo from the back of her books. There is a short bio, telling me not very much about her at all, and a link to her titles. Five YA novels about a school for witches. There’s also an email link, and I send a quick message, explaining who I am and asking if she has time for a chat. Just on the off chance, I search for her name on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram. Nothing. No social media, which is unusual, and especially so for a writer.
I stare at my laptop thoughtfully. I’m pretty sure Joan will know where Saffron lives, but although I am making my peace with this whole “turning up on people’s doorsteps unannounced” way of life in the country, I’m getting the impression that Saffron Winter is a private person. Which is fair enough. Although, in that case, moving to the country was a bad idea.
In fiction, if people want to hide out, they always move to a small village somewhere. Big mistake. One thing you can count on in a small village is that everyone will want to know your business. If you want anonymity, live in a big city. In a city, you can lose the old you like loose change down a drain. Change your name, change your clothes. Reappear as a different person. If you want to.
I close my laptop. What to do now? TV? A film? Maybe I should actually take Flo’s advice and have a long bath and chill. I’ve done precious little of that since getting here. I make my way up the narrow stairs and push open the bathroom door.
“Ah.”
Now I remember that Flo has been using the bathroom as a darkroom again. I had to move some of the equipment when I nipped up to use the loo before dinner. She’s cleared some of it away, but that has really just involved dumping it in the bath. There are also two stacks of photos piled on top of the loo.
I pick up the first stack. These are the ones she took of the chapel and the graveyard. No sign of the burning girl. I place them to one side and reach for the second stack. My heart tumbles down the hill.
The first photo shows a derelict-looking building. The empty windows gaze out darkly, the roof is pitted with holes. You can tell, just from the pictures, this is a bad place. When did Flo take these? It must have been when she said that she and Wrigley were in the woods.
I start to work my way through the photos, from the exterior of the house to some obviously taken inside. I stare at the ruined rooms, the smashed-up furniture. Walls covered with graffiti. Pagan symbols. Evil eyes. Signs of Satanic worship.
I sit down heavily on the closed loo seat. What was Flo thinking, creeping around some deserted old building? I know what teenagers are like, but still, I’m angry. With Flo. With myself. I brought her here. This is on me too.
I flick through the rest of the photos. About halfway through, it looks like the negatives must have been exposed to the light. The photos are partially bleached out. The final picture is almost abstract. I can tell it has been taken from inside, looking out of an upstairs window. The woods are a dark ink blot. The fields a grey mass. At the edge is a slightly more distinct white streak. I squint at it. Something unfurls in my stomach.
I take the photo into my bedroom and grab my glasses from the bedside table. I slip them on and peer at it more closely. Not a trick of the light. A figure, standing between the woods and the house’s boundary wall. Almost spectral. But this figure isn’t a ghost. This person is very much alive.
And I know them.
The sky is tracing-paper grey. It won’t get dark for another couple of hours. But the forest is already in night-time mode. The trees’ overhanging branches block out the light like a large leafy blanket. Flo flicks on the iPhone’s flashlight as she walks along the narrow path and wonders again just how sensible—or stupid—this is.
Of course, she tries to tell herself, she was probably in far more danger walking through Nottingham city center than she is walking through the woods here. Potential rapists, murderers or muggers were more likely to be found in bustling metropolitan streets than in a field in the middle of nowhere, and yet, still…just because a place is pretty and quaint doesn’t mean that bad stuff doesn’t happen.
She thinks about the man at the window. Could he still be around, somewhere? No. He was probably just some chancer, checking for empty houses and unlocked doors, on the lookout for something to steal. And the picture? She had left it in the graveyard eventually, telling herself it was just a freaky coincidence. A vague similarity. Her mind was making too much of it. This goddamn place was making everything seem weird and creepy.
She reaches the wooden bridge over the small stream, crosses it and is halfway over the stile when she pauses. She thought she heard something. Movement ahead. More rustling. A deer bursts out of the undergrowth and stops, startled.
“Hey there.”
The deer stares at her with wide, glowing eyes and then, with a flick of its tail, it’s off, bounding away through the fields. She waits and, sure enough, another three or four follow, fast, light hooves barely touching the ground.
She wonders what’s scared them. And then realizes it’s probably her. Sometimes you’re the predator. Sometimes the prey. Just depends on the perspective.
She hitches her other leg over the stile and looks around. The fields appear deserted, but she gets the feeling she’s not alone. Animals hide in the undergrowth. Hidden eyes peer from the leafy trees.
She shivers a little, wishing she’d worn her hoodie now, and traipses through the long grass toward the old house. The empty windows glower darkly. Except, in one upstairs window, lights flicker. She picks up her pace, jumping over the broken-down wall, holding out her phone to illuminate the old well, and skirting around it. She jogs up the stairs and reaches the master bedroom.
“Wrigley?”
Through the half-open door she can see flames flickering off the walls. Oh God. Surely, he hasn’t?
She bursts into the bedroom…and then she stops.
An array of candles has been arranged around the room. Wedged into old bottles and cans. Wrigley sits on a blanket spread out on the dirty floor. He’s laid out crisps, chocolate, a bottle of wine and two plastic cups.
He spreads his arms wide and she can sense the effort he is making in controlling the shaking.
“Welcome!”
“Wow! What romantic teen shit have you been watching?”
“Glad to see you’re impressed.”
“I am. It’s just—”
“Too much?”
“A bit.”
“Right.”
He lowers his head.
She says hastily: “But I like it. I mean, no one has ever burned a house down for me—” She catches herself. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I know.”
She plonks herself down next to him. “So, are you going to pour me a drink?”
He tips some wine into one of the plastic cups and hands it to her.
She takes a swig. It’s bitter and warm, but she feels a slow heat spread through her. She takes another swig.
“Don’t go mad.”
She wipes her
mouth. “I’m fine.”
He pours a cup and takes a smaller sip himself. He pulls a face. “Not sure why people drink this stuff.”
“To get drunk, usually.”
He smiles. “Yeah.” The silver flecks in his eyes glint. He tips his cup up again, but a spasm jerks his hand, spilling wine down his chin and hoodie.
“Shit!” He wipes at it with his sleeve. “Fucking spasms. What a joke.”
“Hey, it’s okay.”
“No. It’s not. I wanted this to be right, and—”
She leans forward and presses her lips to his. He tastes of salt and sour wine. He hesitates and then he kisses her back hungrily, wrapping a hand around her neck, catching her hair. And this is different from before, in the bathroom. Or with other boys at parties, where it was all vodka and beer and spit. This feels real and urgent and, for the first time, she feels something other than a mild revulsion. Desire.
She lets him push her down on the blanket and, fleetingly, she thinks that her mum would kill her and are they going to go all the way, and did he have any protection? His hands run over her breasts, pushing up her vest top. She reaches down to fumble with his jeans. And then she hears a noise from downstairs. She sits up and pushes him away.
“What’s that?”
“What?”
It comes again. A thud. Like a door being shoved open. They look at each other.
“Is someone else here?”
“I don’t know. Hang on.”
He stands, shoving his hair out of his eyes. “I’ll go and check.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, you stay here.”
She wants to point out that she’s the one who knows self-defense and that she totally kicked his arse. But she doesn’t want to humiliate him. Let him go. She can follow. It’s probably nothing, anyway. The wind. Birds. Animals.
He looks around then snatches a candle out of one of the empty wine bottles. He blows out the flame and drops it to the ground. Then he holds up the bottle by the neck. “Just in case.”
She nods and watches him tiptoe out on to the landing. She strains her ears. Was that a creak? A voice? She stands, starting to feel a little nervous. Not that she actually thinks some crazed Texas Chainsaw–style serial killer is lurking outside, or a nutter in a Scream mask, or zombies, or…Christ, just stop it.