Severed

by Peter Laws

  As well as a field, he saw a trickle of a stream to the far right and a patch of trees hanging over the water. But at the very end of the dirt road sat a little farmhouse, with white walls and thick, heavy beams. Wow, he thought. Developers must be frothing at the mouth to snap this patch of land up. They could build another Lego-set housing estate up here. Or failing that, rent this place out as a holiday home. True, the house looked tired and in desperate need of a Grand Designs visit. Probably a double episode. But the location was amazing and deceptive too. It was the quietness and rise of the hills that did it. Old Moat Farm felt like it was in the middle of nowhere, a hundred miles from civilisation. Certainly not a mere mile from a bustling little town with a gastro pub and a Tesco Express. Which it was. Yes, Matt thought. If the Amish-style commune project went tits up, they’d at least make a killing turning all this into a trendy glamping site.

  He pulled his car in next to an old metal shed, tyres sliding into a puddle of ex-hail. Then he took a breath and checked his fringe in the mirror (important to get that right, in new situations – God, he really was nervous). He stepped out and immediately almost tripped on a rope. It lay in a thick bundled heap by the shed door. He stepped over it, breathed the air in and listened to the birds. He briefly considered commune life as a potential but serious life choice. Then he walked towards the farmhouse, ready to stick his hands in the air if a gun came pointing out. He shook his head. He’d be fine. He just knew it. He headed up the little path, lovingly lined with pebbles on each side. Each in contrasting colours, dark and light in turn. It must have taken ages to do that. It was all so intricate. He also saw a bunch of bamboo poles sticking out of the ground. For growing some sort of climbing plant, maybe? Or for hanging their tall black hats and buckled shoes?

  Okay. The plan.

  He’d ask for Zara East, straight out. If they said the police had already been, he’d say, ‘Yes, I know. But I have a personal message from her husband … the church isn’t crooked.’ If they got shirty with him, he’d put up his hands, and say ‘Hey, don’t shoot the messenger, and by that of course I really mean don’t shoot the messenger.’ Then he’d chat a little more and ask about their beliefs. He’d act all fascinated. He’d want to hear more. He’d do the starry-eyed look of your classic, spiritual-seeker, and if they told him off for trespassing he’d apologise and say the gate was wide open and he saw no sign. Blame it on those pesky police who popped in earlier.

  He put his foot on the porch step and the wood instantly creaked beneath him. He thought he heard a commotion from inside, though it could have been the breeze against a window shutter. He looked up. The house had no shutters. Heart ticking fast, he tapped a knuckle on the door. He waited. Tried again.

  ‘Hello,’ he called out, in as friendly a voice as he could muster. ‘I just have a message to pass on, then I’ll be on my way.’

  He heard nothing inside. He knocked again.

  ‘I have an important, personal message for Mrs Zara East, which I’m sure she’d be keen to know. I understand she’s staying here?’ He knocked. A little harder, this time. ‘Hello?’

  A noise came through the wood, proving there really were people in there. The whine of a child – a very young one, from the sound of it. The cry started sharp and loud but was quickly lost in a rumbled muffle. The way the sound changed made him picture a hand sliding across a toddler’s mouth.

  ‘I’ll just wait out here till you’re ready to come out. No worries at all. It’s a lovely day.’ He stood at the door, hovering for an entire minute before he prepped his knuckle for one more smack. He paused in mid-air when the locks in the door suddenly rattled and slid on the other side. It slowly creaked open, but only for a hand’s width. A face didn’t appear in the gap, but an ear did. Not an eye, but an ear.

  ‘Hiya,’ Matt said. ‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’

  ‘What do you want?’ A woman’s voice.

  ‘I’m sorry but I can’t quite hear you,’ he lied. ‘If you could just look out of the door?’

  He got the distinct sense of whispering voices, then the face turned a little until half a mouth and half a nose were visible. A single eye looked out now, but it was firmly fixed on his shoes, not his face. She had a scarf tied around her throat. It looked painfully tight. ‘You’ve already been this morning.’

  She thinks I’m with the police, Matt thought. He was in no rush to change that. ‘Yes, but I’d like to speak to Zara.’

  ‘I told you people already. She doesn’t live here any more.’

  ‘Is that so? Since when?’

  ‘Since over a month back.’

  ‘I see. I was told she may be living—’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  Matt pushed a hand against the closing door. ‘Then where is she now?’

  ‘She left us. She didn’t believe any more.’

  ‘Ah, well that’s a real shame, isn’t it? Too many people are losing faith these days.’ Matt pushed the door a little more. ‘You know, I’m fascinated by your beliefs. Would you be willing to tell me—?’

  ‘Please, go.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You’re scaring me.’

  ‘I’m just looking for answers. For guidance.’

  Finally, she looked up and caught his face at last. Which was the strangest moment of all, because when that single eyeball finally rolled up, she gasped with fright and actually stumbled back. ‘Why are you here?’ she said.

  ‘Wait.’ He caught her face, or at least one side of it. ‘You know me?’

  She crunched her eyes shut.

  ‘Hang on a sec …’ He frowned. ‘Haven’t I met you before?’

  The door shoved hard against Matt’s hand, but this time it was way harder than this woman could do alone. Someone else was behind the door, too. His arm snapped back, and the door slammed hard in its frame. He stepped back, looking up at the house, searching for a face in the window. He saw nothing. His mind flipped through the files, trying to place the woman’s face, but he came up with nothing. Maybe she just had one of those generic looks that you see all the time.

  He let out a breath and headed back down the steps to his car, then his shoe left the gravel path and hit wet dirt. It was like pressing a button on the world. A fierce and howling breeze suddenly rolled across the hill. He could see and hear it approach, flattening the sprouts of grass so it could slide a wave up into his body, face and fringe. He considered marching back to the door and demanding they open – then he remembered that stalkers and psychopaths do that sort of thing. Best to leave it for now. But at least he had something here. Something new. These guys were some quirky religious group who didn’t like eye contact, and what’s more they recognised him.

  But how?

  Confused, but relishing the puzzle of it all, he climbed into the car. Then he checked his rear-view mirror for a three-point turn, so he could head back the way he came. He reversed backwards, turned and noticed himself parallel with the metal shed. Which is when he saw it. Something was tucked behind it, out of view from the main track.

  Just behind the shed was a large sheet of dark-green tarpaulin, stretched across something big. It was obvious what it was, too. There was a car under there. He knew it because this sudden, wailing wind was lifting the edge. He could even see what type of car it was. It was a smashed one. There were heavy scrapes down the side, and the front grille and bumper were warped and folded.

  Yet it wasn’t the ruined state of the metal that made Matt get out of his car again. It was what the helpful wind showed him, as it lifted the tarp higher still, just for a split second. Enough to show a strip of a colour that seemed at odds with the white paint of the doors. That’s what made him move. The browny-red streak and splatter that seemed to spill down the driver’s door in long crusty rivers. It made no real sense until he’d grabbed the tarpaulin and lifted it higher.

  What he saw made him drop the tarp instantly.

  ‘Oh …’

  He wasn’t consciously aware he
was staggering backwards until his spine smacked into the door of his car. The tarp was back in place, but it didn’t matter much. What he’d witnessed was now etched in his mind. Another Grand Guignol act to add to the growing cast of his nightmares. He fumbled for the door handle behind him, then sense shocked him into life. He shot his eyes towards the front of the house, and then the back, where a long, empty washing line danced in the whistling breeze. What if they all came running around from both sides, clambering over each other to pull him inside?

  Crap.

  He realised he was pulling at the passenger door. He gulped and rushed around to the driver’s side. He jumped behind the wheel, locking the door behind him. Locked all the doors, in fact. He was so disorientated that it was impossible to avoid wheel-spinning. Chunks of mud churned and sprayed behind him, and for a horrifying second he was both incredibly noisy and horribly stationary. He heard the front door of the house slam open.

  The tyres slipped and slid.

  Shit.

  He heard voices yelling and porch boards rattling.

  Shit.

  The back of the car seemed to swing to the right a little, and he had to look back over his shoulder to see if there were fifty of them, grabbing the car to stop it moving. But the turning tyres had only slipped up and out of the puddle. He got traction suddenly and the whole car lurched forward. He cleared the shed and threw a glance up to the left of the farmhouse where a panicked face stared out through an upstairs window. A terrified child was smacking her palms off the glass.

  Jesus.

  The car skidded up the track as women’s voices hollered and wailed behind him. He only got distracted once: by a small metal hut at the top of a hill. A winding path of stones led up to it. Then he checked his mirror again and saw two figures running behind the car, mud was spattering their long skirts with every step. Then, knowing it was useless, he saw both women drop to their knees and scream at the sky.

  The car bounced hard across the dips and holes, but he saw no other car coming after him. He just knew he had to call the police as soon as possible. They had a petrified little kid in there who looked like she was screaming for her life. He’d left the gate wide open before, just to make it easier when he headed back out. That little move saved him precious seconds, as he ploughed the car through. He felt, and heard, the front bumper scrape against the empty main road, then he was up onto the wonderful Nirvana of tarmac.

  He grabbed his phone. Dammit. Still no signal. He held the phone up, waving it around for some sort of reception. Nothing. Panicked, he looked up and saw the old lady Bessie emerging from her doorway. She was shouting something, between cupped hands.

  He buzzed the window down.

  She shouted, ‘What’s going on?’

  He called out across the road. ‘Bessie, do you have a phone?’

  ‘Course, I have a—’

  He spun his wheels into instant reverse and rolled back off the tarmac. He backed against the gate, clipped the side of it, and heaved the car back until it clamped the gate hard into its frame, probably smashed it too. Either way, it was a nifty move. They’d not get a car out of there in a hurry. He leapt from his seat and sprinted towards her house.

  ‘Young man, this is not Formula One.’

  He looked back and saw nothing, but he heard their distant groans rising on the wind, and the sound made him shiver. They were coming. From the corner of his eye, he was sure he saw something else too, and he gasped. Was that Miriam’s Rover, parked way down the track?

  ‘Get inside. I need your phone,’ he said. ‘And lock the door.’

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Wren stood at the lounge window, watching the sky turn dark. Both hands were wrapped around a coffee, and she sipped at it slowly, listening to the rain crackle against the glass. Her eyes kept moving back and forth between the clock on the wall and the blackness of the clouds. Clock, clouds, clock, clouds. Both were always there. The one other constant was the element that wasn’t there when it should be.

  Matt.

  Lucy was sprawled on the sofa, scrolling through her phone, but she set it aside and propped herself up on her elbow. ‘Mum. Why don’t you just call it off?’

  ‘I can’t. I won’t.’

  ‘But the weather’s getting awful.’

  ‘That’s not stopping you going out …’

  ‘That’s different. That’s the cinema. I’m not going to a crumbly old church. With no heating, I bet.’

  ‘Yeah … well, it’s just rain.’ She turned from the window. ‘Besides … I’ve already booked a babysitter for Amelia.’

  ‘All so my parents can go to a prayer meeting?’ She tapped a finger against her temple. ‘Can you hear that? It’s the sound of my mind, boggling. You’re really going to go?’

  ‘After what she did? Absolutely.’

  ‘But will you actually pray?’

  ‘Dunno,’ she shrugged. ‘Might give it a whirl.’

  ‘Well Dad won’t. He’ll probably burst into flames.’

  Wren smiled at her. How refreshing that she was back calling Matt Dad again. At least for now. ‘Well, I reckon Dad’ll just treat it like a research trip and he’ll cough when he’s supposed to say “Amen” so it doesn’t count.’

  That’s assuming he ever turns up, of course. She grabbed her phone and tried Matt’s number yet again. It went straight to voicemail.

  Hey, this is Professor Matt Hunter, but alas I can’t come to the—

  Pfft. She waited for the answer tone. ‘Matt … hi. Listen, I keep leaving messages because the babysitter’s arriving in a bit and Lucy’s going out soon after. I know you said you’re following up this police thing, but you better be on your way, because we have to make an appearance at Chervil. And Matt … bear in mind that if you don’t call me back … I will shoot you myself.’ She clicked it off.

  ‘Marriage is brutal,’ Lucy said.

  Wren turned back to the window, and the room was silent for a while. Just rain.

  ‘Mum?’ Lucy’s hand touched her shoulder. ‘I bet it’s just the weather holding him up.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said. Or maybe, she thought, my husband is just way more selfish and prejudiced than I ever thought. She stared as the rain raged on and saw her own glum face staring back at her. She saw a silent flash of light in the distance, but though she waited for the sound, it never came.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Matt slammed Bessie’s front door shut, turned, and squinted through the red circle of glass in it. He saw no sign of them. No figures running down the track.

  ‘You need to lock this …’ he said. ‘Bessie? I said you need to lock this.’

  He turned to see her standing in the hallway, panting. One of her hands was splayed against some daffodil wallpaper, the other on her chest.

  ‘Hey. Are you okay?’

  ‘Young man, I’ve barely met you. So if you think I’m locking myself in with—’

  He took another quick look through the window. ‘Then where’s your phone?’

  She jabbed a fat finger at the lounge. ‘But be careful of my ornaments.’

  ‘Keep an eye on the gate and tell me if anybody comes down their track. You’re sure you’re okay?’

  ‘I’m fine. But what’s going on over there?’

  ‘Murder, from the looks of it.’

  Her jaw dropped a little and he actually saw her grey-looking dentures settle into place.

  He left her and scanned the lounge for her phone. It took a split second to picture her sitting in here. The high-backed chair by the crackling fire, the bargain TV and the digital radio. The circular table with a doily and teacup and two Sports biscuits lying on a plate – both were high jump. He never even knew you could still get those. And a large print cowboy novel called Chimaroo, open at the spine.

  One second later, he saw the little grey phone resting in its cradle. It had huge, easy-to-see numbers, and it stunk of perfume. He quickly jabbed Bowland’s number. He waited, hearing the low tick o
f her mantelpiece clock. ‘Bessie?’ he called out. ‘See anything?’

  ‘Just your car blocking their gate in. Bet you’ve buggered their fence up. Oh, and the bumper on your—’

  Bowland’s voice buzzed into his ear. ‘Matthew?’

  ‘Listen to me. You’ve got to get up to Old Moat Farm.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Send police to Old Moat—’

  ‘Calm down, we’ve been there already. Zara left a month ago—’

  ‘Get back here now, there’s a body …’

  A moment of silence. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘There’s a shed near the house—’

  ‘You’re there?’

  ‘Just now. I found a smashed-up car covered in tarpaulin.’

  ‘Why the hell are you there?’

  ‘Listen!’ he shouted. ‘I found a car by the shed, and inside it, I saw a corpse. Do you hear me? There’s a fucking cadaver, Jill. So, no, I won’t calm down.’

  Her breath crackled into the phone, clearly on the move. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I’ve got no idea. A man. Early twenties, maybe.’

  ‘And how do you know he’s actually dead?’

  ‘Cos somebody’s scooped both of his eyeballs out. Is that enough?’ He caught his breath. ‘And get this … there’s at least two women in the house, and I saw a little girl up at the window, looking terrified. All this while a body rots outside. So get here now, all right? Swoop in. Cos those two women are coming for me.’

  ‘Where are you calling from?’

  ‘Mr Hunter?’ Bessie’s voice sounded higher. Panicked.

  ‘Give me your location, Matt.’

  ‘One sec.’ He rushed into the hall to see why she’d called for him, the phone still clamped to his ear. She didn’t need to explain because he saw it over her shoulder, through the red-tinted glass. Two figures were sprinting across the road, towards them. Their dresses were flailing, either from the wind or sheer speed.

  ‘Shit, shit.’ Matt pressed his mouth to the phone. ‘Listen, we’re in a little cottage, across—’