He leaned on the staff like an old friend, so much more a soulmate than the harsh, rattling metal crutches he’d left lying in the bedroom. Relishing the support and wishing it could also lend him stamina, he marvelled at how unfit it was possible to get in the space of a few short weeks. He paused for breath on the crest of a rise and saw Alderleat small below him. The car was just leaving. He wished Elin hadn’t let him drive her away. He wanted her help to untangle the muddle of his thoughts, needed her to make him feel right, like the stick made him feel right, like being here immersed in the whispering of the evening breeze through the ragged grass made him feel right. To wrap him up and comfort him with her lies.
That was where it led to; was he only learning now? The kind of wisdom that came with life, not a venerable saint’s name. They all came at you with secrets, lies and deceit, ready to well up and overwhelm you like the waters of the river suddenly rose up in spate, to carry you along and dash you against some obstacle. You had to prepare your defences. Just as the flood brought new silt and fertility, the lies and deceit brought renewed strength. Flush it out, wash it away, start anew.
Dusk was beginning to gather with the clouds but it would be a while before the lights of Foxover and the villages beyond came on to spread their fire across the valley floor and the hillside, like the flames of the woodburner that had removed all trace of Joe, giving no answers but burning away all desire for them. Who needed to know? Not him, not any more.
The car, so small, slowed for the Holtwood corner before heading for the bridge. Let her go. Let her wonder where he was. The wind was his companion tonight, the wind that could whip up a storm or fan a blaze, tugging at his coat, making a streaming pennant of his hair, filling his ears and his thoughts like the distant river. The meaning borne by the water and the wind still lay just out of reach, but it was beautiful, like a haunting song sung in a foreign language. Who needed words? The feeling was there, its precision just beyond his grasp – but if he didn’t fully understand, then it couldn’t lie.
Yesterday had been a tentative experiment. He’d walked as far as Holtwood and been pleased with how well his leg could carry him. Tonight he had a sense of purpose and he could stay out all night if he had to. That wouldn’t be wise – and wasn’t he beginning to know wisdom now; the wisdom of trusting no one but himself – but he could if he had to. Freedom.
The wind, prickly with a hint of rain, stirred the grass around him like the ever-widening circles of freedom. His eye drawn to the rippling green and yellow waves, he only just managed to stop himself from calling out to Kip.
Elin was comforted by playing her guitar. She shouldn’t have left it so long. Her fingers found their patterns, frustrated and halting at first, then settling and soothing. She played her river song, the one she loved, Bede loved, the one that seemed to strike such a chord at the Horseshoes music nights. She faltered, her thoughts wandering. All Bede’s talk of change and time to move on. Surely he couldn’t really be suggesting they left Alderleat? If even the smallest part of the recent chain of events had been down to Philip Northcote, there was no way they could give in and let the man win. Even this gulf between them was conceding a kind of victory to him. She stared across at the black-and-white photos of the nature reserve on the walls, sighed and began to play again.
She woke in the night. It was as though something at the edge of her consciousness had stirred her. Maybe from outside, maybe from within a dream.
The window in the gable of the two-room flat above the bunk barn was deeply recessed and she could see surprisingly little. The Foxover Fields building stood on a rise on the edge of the village, out of reach of the highest-ever floods. Her eye was drawn to a redness on the edge of her vision, but she couldn’t see more without going downstairs and outside. Her sleep-fogged mind told her it was simply the orange glow-fires of the street lamps that Bede talked about sometimes – simple light pollution picked out and swollen by changeable weather and river mist.
Still the same hands
Rain pattered in trickling waves on the window as he woke and reached for the painkillers. The inevitable headache had become routine, but he felt invigorated this morning. With the special quality of the outside night air still close, as though he could reach out and hold it to him, he got up early, feeling more himself than he had for ages. There was some way still to go, but it was a green lane he was travelling instead of sitting staring at a map without his glasses.
After a shower, he made his way downstairs. As he sat at the table with a mug of coffee and bowl of muesli, he picked up his glasses from next to the phone and told himself to stop feeling relieved whenever things were as they should be. To feel such relief was to acknowledge that things still weren’t truly normal, and he wanted the crutch of normality. He reached for the note Elin left last night. Her writing tugged at his heart – Love, Elin – but he breathed deeply and put it to one side, face down. He unfolded the other paper she’d given him, the one with the details, and set it out in front of him, noting that the writing was the same as the Return to Sender on Niall’s birthday card envelope.
A glance at his watch, quarter to seven, told him it was too early. He put the paper and the phone next to each other in readiness and grabbed the crutches. A twinge of wrongness nagged him at the feel of cold metal and plastic, but they were to hand and he had things on his mind other than trying to remember where he’d left his walking stick. He crossed the rain-soaked yard to spend an hour or two in the workshop.
At half past eight he considered it reasonable to make the call. Without putting the kettle on, without washing up his breakfast things, without doing anything that would dilute his resolve, he sat down at the kitchen table, picked the phone up and dialled.
A self-assured woman’s voice answered.
‘Suzanne?’ He introduced himself.
‘I’d almost given up on you,’ she said coldly. ‘I was thinking of trying again myself. Didn’t your wife pass the message on?’
‘Not straight away. Anyway, she has now and there are things I’d like to talk to you about.’ He hesitated.
‘Sure. Would you like to meet later this week? Tomorrow, even?’
‘No, no. I mean now. On the phone.’
‘I’d prefer to meet,’ she insisted. ‘I want to see the papers before agreeing to anything.’
‘What papers?’
‘Joe’s will, for a start.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. Yeah, all right. We can meet up about that. Though it’s been…a difficult time. We haven’t had much chance to think about it or consult anyone. I’ve also got something else I should let you have. A bit late,’ he laughed drily, ‘but better late than never, hey? An eighteenth birthday card for Niall. From Dad. I was going to put it on the fire, but…I didn’t. So you might as well have it to pass on to him.’
‘What do you know about him?’ She sounded worried, the first hint of emotion he’d detected in her voice. ‘Have you seen him?’
‘Never clapped eyes on him. I know sweet FA about him, sorry. But I thought you might like the card. I’ve had enough of burning stuff. Overrated. Now, there are things I’d like to ask you, too. And, unlike me, I think you do know the answers.’
He tensed, steeling himself.
‘I can guess what you’re referring to. I’m sorry, I said more than I should have to your wife. I’d rather talk to you in person – with her, maybe? It’s not the kind of thing I’d be comfortable telling you over the phone.’
Not this woman as well. Silence, lies, conspiracy. His hand tightened into a fist. ‘Why not?’
‘I’m only thinking it might be better for you—’
‘Listen!’ He banged his fist down on the table. ‘You don’t know me, you don’t know what my feelings are or how to fucking spare them!’
‘Don’t you shout at me.’
‘I’m not f— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… Will you just tell me why Joe left?’
‘Nothing like getting straight to the
point.’
‘Please. Suzanne. Aunt Suzanne!’
There was a long silence. His index finger was entangled in a strand of hair, winding it round and round, like the old-fashioned telephone cord the first time he’d phoned Joe. And later, Elin. A nervous wreck then, too.
‘Oh, what the heck. Don’t blame me if you don’t like what you hear. Very well, I told your uncle, my husband, never to darken our door again because I couldn’t trust him. Because he confessed to me that he…he’d murdered a man. And from the state of him, he was obviously telling the truth.’
‘Murdered?’ He blinked at the unexpected.
‘Yes, murdered. Thinking about it later I understood he was seriously provoked – but he had a temper, as you probably know, and I couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t resort to violence again.’
‘What happened?’ Bede stared at the hair wound round his finger like a hangman’s noose.
‘He…he must have been really close to his sister. Your mother. Though you’d probably find that hard to believe. I don’t think they saw each other after—’
‘Not that I knew of.’ He tapped the phone handset impatiently. ‘Go on.’
‘She…she was raped when she was seventeen. After a disco, party, whatever. It seems she knew the bastard by sight. So did Joe. When he found out, he lost it. Tracked him down, and… Maybe he only intended to beat him up, teach him a lesson, who knows? When the lad’s body was found in the river – drowned, bloated, barely identifiable – they put it down to a mugging, never found the culprit. Joe said that Lydia knew, of course, but whatever else, she wasn’t going to see her brother tried and banged up for murder.’
Bede closed his eyes, enveloping himself in the swirling, mottled semi-darkness of his eyelids.
‘And before you ask, no, Joe didn’t tell me who it was. It wasn’t important to me. I’d never even met his sister. What mattered to me was I didn’t want that man near me. Didn’t want him having anything to do with my kids. He’d been a good enough father, though he was prone to the occasional outburst, but after he confessed, I was scared. What might provoke him to do it again? He wasn’t the man I’d known. Can you understand that?’
He nodded, opening his eyes. He yanked his finger roughly from the tangle of hair to make himself feel.
‘Hello? Are you still there? I’m sorry, I didn’t want to tell you like that. You’re right, I don’t know you, but no one deserves—’
‘It’s OK.’
‘I’m sure you could find out about your father properly if you wanted. It would have been in the local paper at the time, you can search the archives. He might turn out to have been a decent enough young man in other respects. Made a mistake, may have regretted it. Then again—’
‘I said it’s OK!’
He imagined her taking a step back, relieved she hadn’t done this face-to-face after all.
‘Yes, well. I know it must be hard. I’ll leave you in peace. Just…can you remember Joe saying anything about Niall? Our son?’
‘Nothing. Only the stupid card.’
‘I haven’t heard from him for over three years. Reported him missing, but there’s been no trace. I was worried about our Niall before, but… If Joe contacted him…’
‘He obviously didn’t. The envelope was with it. Returned unopened. As you know.’
‘That wasn’t the only time he tried. Please let me know if you hear anything.’
He heard himself saying he was sure there was nothing to worry about, coming out with some platitude about unpredictable young lads. After he put the phone down without properly thanking her, without properly saying goodbye, he realised they’d never arranged to meet up after all.
His hands lay in front of him on the table. Rapist. Murderer. They were still the same hands. Why were people so afraid of telling? Why the secrets and lies? Still the same hands. A huge wave of love washed over him for his mum, who’d kept him with her – let him live, if he thought about it – and loved him despite who he was, what he represented.
He got up to go to the workshop, immerse himself in activity. Remembering the drenching he’d got earlier, merely crossing the yard, he grabbed his coat. It smelled strongly of smoke. He paused with it half-on, and realised it wasn’t his usual jacket. This one was irredeemably worn out, saved to wear for the dirtiest of jobs; he’d forgotten it was still there. One pocket felt slightly heavy; he thrust his hand in and felt something metallic. He frowned and replaced the key on its designated hook, then hung the tattered old coat back on its proper peg. As he tugged on his summer-weight waterproof, hood up against the rain, he hoped fervently that he’d soon conquer this fog of absent-mindedness.
Carole came into the shop, flapping her umbrella open and shut in the doorway to shake off the raindrops. Elin was glad of the way the rota had fallen. It was hard to keep a cheerful face on things, and it would be good to have her friend around. She might even steel herself to talk things through.
‘Sorry I’m late.’ Carole walked briskly to the counter. ‘Isn’t it awful?’
‘What?’ Elin wasn’t sure if she could face more bad news.
‘Haven’t you heard? Oh, I forgot you’re still staying at Foxover Fields.’ A mixture of pity and reproach flitted across her face. ‘You wouldn’t have come in past Bridge Farm, would you? There’s been a fire. Pretty bad, as far as I could see. It’s cordoned off of course, but I spoke to one of the fire crew.’
‘Oh.’ Elin gripped the edge of the counter. ‘Was anyone hurt?’
‘I’m afraid Marjorie’s been taken to hospital. The effects of smoke. I heard she may have had a stroke. Philip wasn’t there, lucky bastard – he was at Kate’s last night, as far as I know.’ She smiled grimly. ‘The village’s worst-kept secret definitely a secret no more. Though I doubt they’ll mind under the circumstances. God, Elin, the place looks awful.’
‘I can’t believe it. You know, I think I saw something in the middle of the night. I was half-asleep.’
‘They’re not committing themselves yet, but I heard it started with an explosion in an old central heating boiler.’
‘We’ve been trying for ages to get her to replace it.’
‘There’s a rumour it was tampered with. Arson. It’s amazing how they know. Mind you, the firemen and police have been combing the place since the small hours.’
The bell over the door went.
‘You go and put the kettle on,’ Carole said quietly, as if sensing that Elin couldn’t face talking to anyone.
She made their coffees in a daze, vaguely aware of a number of people coming and going. Nothing like a crisis to create a hum of activity.
‘Here she is now,’ she heard Carole saying as she took the mugs through.
Elin recognised the detective who’d led the investigation into Bede’s accident. Hughes, wasn’t it? He shook her hand. She beckoned him through to the staff room, throwing Carole an apologetic glance as she went.
‘I understand Mrs Denman’s told you about the fire,’ he began.
Elin asked him about Marjorie. He knew no more than Carole had told her, but said he’d keep this as brief as possible so she could phone the hospital and find out. He asked if she’d seen anything and she mentioned the glimpse she’d had when she woke briefly.
‘You weren’t at home last night?’
She felt he was watching her intently as she muttered something about having work to catch up on at the Foxover Fields office and staying over as it got so late.
‘How’s your husband doing after that accident? Last time I saw you, you were worried about leaving him. He must be recovering well.’
‘Oh yes, he’s been quite capable of looking after himself for a while now. He’s still using crutches, though.’ She stopped short of as far as I know; the distance between them was still something she hated to admit. ‘But the cast’s off his leg and he’s more mobile every day.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He sat back with a frown. ‘Mr Northcote tells me your husband was a
t his mother’s house a few weeks ago. Repairing the boiler where it’s believed the fire started. Mr Northcote also believes you hold a key to her house.’
There was no denying either claim. ‘We… Marjorie gave us a spare key long before Philip came back to live in Foxover. In case anything happened…’
She was beginning to wish they’d given it back.
The knocking was loud, almost hammering.
‘Come in.’
Bede remembered he’d locked the door. Cursing the interruption, he reached for the crutches and went to open up. He vaguely recognised the man in the doorway.
Detective Inspector Hughes introduced himself. Ah yes, the guy who’d got nowhere tracing the cause of his accident. Hughes peered into the workshop, but Bede stayed resolutely on the threshold, his weight on his right leg, stepping back only enough to allow the man to shelter from the worst of the rain. Never let it be said he was entirely inconsiderate.
‘I’m investigating the fire at Bridge Farm, Mr Sherwell. Can I ask you a few questions?’
Bede frowned. ‘Bridge Farm? What kind of fire?’ The detective looked at him as if to say, the hot kind, with flames and smoke. ‘I mean, what’s happened?’
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