Single Mother

by Samantha Hayes

By the time they enter Halebury, Mel’s heart is thumping and her palms are sweating. She can’t possibly go straight back to the hotel. If it is Billy, there’s no way she’s about to lead him to where they live. So instead, she weaves a confusing path through the narrow streets of the village – some of which are one-way. The van follows her to a point, but at a distance, and it’s only when she turns down a particularly narrow lane, with bollards at the entrance so only the smallest of cars can fit down, that she loses sight of whoever was following her.

  Supposedly following me, she thinks, breathing out through a relieved sigh, trying to be rational about it. On top of everything else, she’s not sure if she can cope with Billy closing in on her. She prays it was just her overwrought mind playing tricks.

  ‘How many red vans do you think there are in the country, darling?’ Michael says, after Mel explains what had happened.

  ‘How on earth do I know?’ she says, affronted. ‘I’m only bothered about one. And this one was old and beat-up and had that same faded red paintwork I saw on the van outside Kate’s old school. I don’t think it’s coincidence, Micky.’

  ‘Well, I do,’ he says. But Mel knows by the tone of his voice that he’s only trying to placate her, knowing how anxious she gets. ‘How on earth would he know where you are?’ he adds. ‘It’s not as if you’ve moved just down the road from your old flat and he might have spotted you by chance. You’ve moved a three-hour drive to the South Coast, for heaven’s sake. It’s not going to be high on Billy’s list of likely guesses as to where you’ve gone now, is it?’

  ‘No,’ Mel says quietly, sipping the large gin and tonic she poured for herself when they got back. She was pleased to see half a dozen or more people in the bar, some of them having a meal. But she didn’t stop to chat to Nikki, who was serving. She retreated to her room with her drink for some privacy while she called Michael.

  ‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘while it’s a worry, it’s only one of a few things that have been going on. You couldn’t bloody make it up, Micky,’ Mel says, relaxing back onto her pillow, feeling soothed by his voice.

  ‘Good things or bad?’

  ‘Depends if you think finding human remains in the footings of my new extension and some guy tipping up here claiming to be my brother are good things or not. Oh, and Tom – who, for the record, I was actually starting to like and felt as though, you know, there might be a little spark with – well, I thoroughly put him off when he saw me and my supposed brother, that he didn’t know was my brother, in a tight embrace. Not to mention that I had a meltdown and hit him.’ Mel takes a large sip of her G&T. ‘Like I said, you couldn’t make it up.’

  ‘I bloomin’ well leave you alone for ten minutes…’ Michael says with a laugh.

  ‘Not funny.’

  ‘Let’s backtrack a second, darling,’ Michael says. ‘Human remains? I mean… are you sure? Whose, how and why?’

  Mel recounts the story of how the bones were discovered, the police investigation, the building works being on hold, and finishes up by telling him that Kate hasn’t spoken a word since.

  ‘That’s certainly not like Katie,’ Michael says, concerned. ‘The poor kid must be traumatised. Give her time.’

  ‘I agree to a point, but it smacks a little too much of the woman in room twelve for my liking. Almost as if she’s learnt it from her.’

  ‘Possibly,’ Michael says. ‘But what’s confusing me more than anything is that you just told me you have a brother. Explain yourself, woman.’

  ‘Trust me, weird is the new normal around here, Micky. If aliens landed in the back yard this evening it wouldn’t surprise me. But yes, some guy booked into one of my rooms a couple of days ago. Then I caught him snooping in my office, and now he’s confessed to being my brother. I have no reason to disbelieve him, and none to believe him either, yet his story is remarkably similar to mine. And there’s… well, I suppose there is a passing resemblance between us. But then we got interrupted by Tom, and I don’t know much more.’

  ‘A brother,’ Michael says again. Mel hears him blow a breath through the gap between his top teeth. ‘As in, a real DNA-in-common type of brother…?’

  ‘Apparently,’ Mel replies, sounding as bemused as Michael.

  ‘Well, I certainly never saw that one coming,’ he adds. ‘Not in a million years.’ He makes a thoughtful sound, leaving Mel hanging, expecting more. But then there’s just silence.

  ‘What do you mean, you never saw that one coming? Were you expecting something then?’

  ‘No, no, of course not. And if Tom saw you in an embrace with your… with this supposed brother of yours, then just explain to him what happened.’

  ‘It’s a mess,’ Mel says. ‘It looked way more than an innocent hug if you didn’t know the context.’

  ‘So you like him then, Tom? Tom who will have to pass muster with me, I might add.’

  From some deep reserves, Mel lets out a dry laugh.

  ‘Yeah, stupidly, I do. He made this really romantic meal in the garden with candles and fairy lights and wine, and he cooked—’

  ‘Then go and tell him,’ Michael says matter-of-factly. ‘Make him a nice meal, a cake – whatever – and surprise him. Explain everything, just like you have to me, and go get the man, Melanie Isobel Douglas.’

  Mel laughs again, wondering how a few minutes of Michael always manages to bring her back down to earth. ‘Maybe,’ she says.

  ‘But don’t—’

  And then there’s silence on the line as they’re cut off. Mel tries to call back but it goes straight to voicemail. Ten minutes later, she gets a text from Michael telling her his battery died, and that he’ll call her tomorrow as his new date is about to arrive. A few moments later, Mel receives another text.

  And be wary of this person. Brother, really? Let’s talk soon xx

  Thirty-Eight

  The next day, with the building work outside stalled, Mel decides to put up some more of the curtains in the newly painted bedrooms. She wants to keep busy, knowing that if she stops, she’ll overthink and worry about everything.

  As she carries the new curtains upstairs, she runs over all the outstanding jobs in her head – the finishing touches she needs to make to get the next two bedrooms ready for business. A couple of soft sheepskin rugs, she thinks, and fresh white cotton linen on the bed will really stand out against the striking fern-green accent wall around the old fireplace in room ten. She painted that one herself and is particularly pleased with the effect.

  But she’s still puzzled by what she saw on her laptop earlier, mulling over what it could mean. The government wills and probate website was easy enough to navigate – enter the deceased’s name and year of death to apply for a copy of the will – but what confused Mel was that there was simply no record of a Joyce Lawrence on the database in this or any of the surrounding areas. Almost as if she hadn’t even died. Mel had snapped her laptop lid shut in frustration. It didn’t make sense, and certainly didn’t tally with Joyce being the original benefactor. She was no further forward.

  Grappling with the heavy curtains, Mel opens the door and goes in, dumping them on the bed. The room is bright and airy now – with sparkling windows, stripped floorboards and lovely views over the fields opposite.

  Mel turns – then stops. Her hands come up over her mouth in shock, not able to take in what she’s seeing right away. She closes her eyes for a moment, hoping it will be gone when she opens them. But it’s not.

  Someone has daubed HATE in huge, blood-red letters above the fireplace – the wall she recently painted herself.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she whispers, unable to take her eyes off the dripping letters. ‘Who would do that?’ she says, slowly walking up to it. She touches the H, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together. The paint feels as if it’s still slightly damp, as if it was done in the last few hours, and the E looks as though someone has been rubbing at it. Then she notices the floor – the splotches of red paint spilled on the sanded boards, the trail
leading to the door.

  Mel covers her face and lets out a frustrated growl and scream, only stopping when her throat begins to hurt. Angry as hell, she turns on her heels to find out who has been in today and, more importantly, why someone would do such an evil thing.

  It’s as she’s striding along the corridor that she sees the detective who was here on Saturday morning coming up the stairs. She clears her throat, trying to compose herself quickly.

  ‘Oh… hello, Detective,’ Mel says, wondering if she should mention what she’s just discovered, or if someone has already reported it and that’s why he’s here.

  ‘The young lass downstairs let me in and said you were up here,’ he says. ‘Hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ Mel says.

  ‘The place is looking very different already,’ he says with a small smile – one that doesn’t alter the plain landscape of his face. ‘I used to drink in here, back in the day when I lived in Halebury.’ A scant smattering of stubble, partly grey, partly a nondescript colour, sits beneath doughy cheeks and grey eyes. His hair, again of no discernible colour, is swept to one side over the crown of his head. Not quite a comb-over, but on the way.

  ‘Oh, really?’ Mel says, wondering if he knows anything about Joyce and her partner. ‘And thanks,’ Mel says. ‘It’s coming along. Shall we go downstairs?’

  He nods and follows Mel into her office.

  ‘If it’s about the graffiti,’ she says, offering him a seat, ‘I don’t think it happened very long ago. Or if it’s Kate you want to speak to, then you’re out of luck. She’s not said a word since Friday night. She’s really upset by what happened.’

  ‘Graffiti?’ the detective says, frowning and shaking his head. ‘I don’t know anything about that, I’m afraid. And I’m sorry to hear about your daughter,’ he adds, sitting down and adjusting his dark brown trousers. ‘But it’s not her I’ve come to see. I’m here to oversee the two experts from the university while they remove the remains. Apologies for the weekend intrusion, but they’re off on a field trip tomorrow and this investigation can’t wait. They’ll be done today.’

  Relieved that he doesn’t want to speak to Kate, who’s in her bedroom on her computer, she opens her mouth, about to ask when building works can resume. But she catches sight of Miss Sarah through the open door, coming down the stairs and passing through reception. Like some kind of Brontë-esque ghost, Mel can’t help thinking.

  She leans forward across the desk. ‘It might be worth having a word with… well, with my rather unusual lodger,’ she says instead, in a low voice. ‘Though you’ll be doing better than me if you get a word out of her. She’s been part of the furniture for years and never speaks. But… well, the weird thing is, I swear I overheard her talking to my daughter the other day. And Chloe, Kate’s friend, has since confirmed this.’

  ‘She has indeed been here for as long as anyone can remember,’ the detective says with an amused expression. ‘A bit of an oddity. I don’t think anyone’s ever heard her speak, so don’t take it personally. It was kind of a joke back then. When Joyce had the pool table and dart board, me and the lads used to come up here after college for a few pints. I’m ashamed to say, we used to wind her up something rotten. Misspent youth and all that.’ He grins. ‘But while I’m here, it can’t hurt to have a word with her,’ he continues, easing himself up out of the wooden chair. ‘Or at least try.’

  Mel leads the way, finding Miss Sarah in the restaurant area, at her usual table as expected, with a book set out in front of her.

  ‘Miss Sarah,’ Mel says, as she stands next to her, the plain-clothes officer at her side, ‘this is DI Armitage. He’d like a word with you.’ Mel doesn’t feel good about making Miss Sarah think she’s followed through with her threat of legal action. But if it gets her to speak, then it’s worth it. ‘Good luck,’ she mouths at the detective, making an exasperated face.

  ‘Hello, Miss Sarah,’ he says, sitting down. ‘It’s been a while.’ He clears his throat. ‘Maybe you don’t remember me, but I have a couple of questions, if you wouldn’t mind, regarding a matter I’m investigating.’

  Silence. Miss Sarah stares at her book, though from behind the bar, Mel can tell her eyes aren’t directly focused on it.

  ‘How long have you lived at Moreton Inn now?’ she hears the DI ask.

  Miss Sarah says nothing. Just the shallow rise and fall of her chest beneath her cream cardigan as she sits perfectly still.

  ‘I remember you from when I was about seventeen or eighteen. Thirty-one years ago, can you believe?’ DI Armitage pauses, in case she replies. But she doesn’t. ‘I’m up for retirement next year. The big five-oh.’

  Another pause.

  ‘Joyce’s lass, aren’t you? I was sorry to hear about your mother’s passing last year.’

  Mel grips the bar, tea towel in hand. So Miss Sarah is Joyce’s daughter as Tom had assumed. It makes perfect sense, she supposes. But it could also suggest that Joyce didn’t own Moreton Inn, she ponders, pretending to be busy behind the bar. If she owned it, then surely she’d have left it to Miss Sarah, who seems determined never to leave.

  ‘As you may know,’ the detective continues, ‘some human bones were uncovered during the building works here.’ He clears his throat again when there’s no reaction from her. ‘Naturally, we’re keen for any information on how they came to be there. A first assessment likely dates them within living memory.’

  Miss Sarah sits quite still, although Mel notices that she briefly scratches her head – a bony finger playing with her scalp for a moment, adjusting some hair. Then her hand returns to her lap.

  ‘When did Joyce take over Moreton Inn, Sarah, can you recall? You must have been early twenties when me and my mates used to come in, right?’ The detective gives a warm smile. ‘Self-declared pool champion of 1989.’ He laughs. ‘Billy Joel on the jukebox and a pint or three of Strongbow, and I was a happy lad.’

  Mel admires the detective’s attempt at drawing something out of Miss Sarah through nostalgia – but it seems she has none of her own to share. She remains perfectly still and perfectly silent.

  ‘Kate?’ Mel says, tapping on her daughter’s bedroom door. ‘Are you OK, love?’ She goes in to find Kate sitting at her computer, headphones on, with her right hand on her mouse and her left hand furiously tapping the keyboard. Some kind of chase is taking place on her screen.

  Kate visibly startles when Mel appears at her side.

  ‘There’s some food for you downstairs, love,’ Mel says when Kate removes her headphones. ‘You must be starving. You didn’t eat lunch.’

  Kate sips from a glass of water on her desk, and Mel thinks she gives the briefest of nods, acknowledging what she said.

  ‘I’ll see you in the kitchen then. Rose made lamb curry.’ She decides to leave her to it, hoping that hunger will drive her downstairs.

  On the way through reception, Mel spots several copies of the local weekly paper that had been delivered yesterday evening. She grabs them, knowing a couple of the regulars like to read them over a pint, and is about to put them out on the end of the bar when one slides from her grasp, falling open on the floor.

  And that’s when she sees the headline of a story on page two.

  Skeletons in the closet at Moreton Inn

  Mel freezes, hardly daring to pick it up. ‘The scoundrel,’ she whispers, knowing even without reading it that the journalist’s piece isn’t going to be about a fresh start for the hotel, the renovated bedrooms or the delicious new menu. He had it in for her from the start, intent on getting the story in print the same day.

  Dropping the other newspapers onto the bar, she heads out to the back hallway to read it, chewing on a nail as her eyes scan the piece.

  At first glance, an Instagram post by local school girl, Chloe Wright, looks like any other young girl having fun: a harmless fossil hunt in the garden. But closer examination reveals a much grislier discovery. Adding hashtags #bones #body #shallowgrave and
#Halebury to her post, Chloe reveals that she and her best friend, Kate Douglas of Moreton Inn, found more than they bargained for.

  Human remains, allegedly those of an infant, were discovered by the pair of schoolgirls in the grounds of the hotel as it undergoes extensive renovation. Experts have been called to the scene and the police, who refused to comment, have cordoned off the area pending an investigation. One source believes that the remains were possibly buried within the last fifty years, which could lead to a murder enquiry being opened.

  The new owner of Moreton Inn, thirty-nine-year-old Melanie Douglas, also refused to comment, being more concerned with the delay to the hotel’s building works than a potential crime. ‘A dash of modern while still retaining the old charm,’ Miss Douglas stated gleefully when asked about her vision.

  But even with a new menu, refurbished bedrooms and plans to host weddings, Miss Douglas has an even greater task ahead of her than simply countering the many one-star TripAdvisor reviews – namely, winning over the locals, generations of whom have enjoyed a pint at Moreton Inn when it was under the care of long-time local, the late Joyce Lawrence.

  And with my own wedding set for next year, I for one will not be celebrating on the site of a potential murder scene and will be giving Moreton Inn, and its skeletons, a wide berth.

  Jacob Ingram, Evening Post

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ Mel says, louder than she’d intended. She hurls the newspaper across the hallway, hitting a plant on the windowsill and sending it tumbling to the tiled floor. The pot smashes, spraying shards of china and soil everywhere. Mel growls in frustration and kicks at the mess, swearing to herself as she clutches her head.

  ‘How could he?’ she yells. ‘What a complete bastard!’ She paces about, raging and cussing to herself, completely unaware that Rose has come through the double doors of the kitchen, hearing the commotion.

  ‘I give up! I swear to God, I damn well give up. I may as well go back to Birmingham and get back with Billy. At least Kate would be happy to see her dad and… and…’ She trails off, realising that hot, fat tears are streaming down her cheeks. She covers her face with her hands, letting out sobs that have been stored up for a long time.