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‘It’s a project, like I said.’ He croons like a jazz singer. ‘It means you’ve got the freedom to decorate exactly as you please. The view is particularly striking from the master bedroom.’
Master bedroom. As if. Judging from the floor plan on the details there’s barely enough space for one double bed and a small cabinet. I contemplate the flaking wooden windows. There’s a second bedroom under the eaves. I might have to take that one, given how tall Joe is. A ‘doer-upper’, cloistered in a long-forgotten valley, the lush slopes the select preserve of one family, a couple of farmers and a handful of rich, obsolete businessmen.
I squeeze past the buddleia bush leaning out across the doorway and duck underneath a hanging basket that trails dead leaves over my head. I eye the drunken shape of the roof, its missing tiles and the grime-encrusted, cracked panes of glass in the door. As I step inside, I see peeling wallpaper and a mustard-yellow 1950s kitchen. This place, I realise, hasn’t been touched for decades. I feel my excitement bubble.
I move into the room and then I spot the ancient red enamelled range. It’s been pushed into an old inglenook fireplace with a blackened beam above, pitted and scorched with age. I run my fingers over the grooves in the wood, peering more closely. There are markings that seem familiar, circles within circles and letters too, a W and AM, carved with a crisp precision that have nothing to do with the natural cracks from the heat. I feel myself falling even deeper in love.
‘What are these?’ I say, fingering the marks.
I know the answer, but it’s something to say. The agent leans forwards.
‘Oh, those are witches’ marks, carvings from long ago, probably from when the house was first built. People did that stuff then to ward off evil spirits. It’s quite common in this part of the county. So you’ll be quite safe here.’
He grins in a rather wolfish way for an older man. Creep, I think. Then he turns towards the back door, pulling out his mobile phone.
‘I’ll let you look around on your own.’
He’s already lost interest, swiping at the screen.
I scan the ceiling. The brochure hadn’t mentioned that the roof leaked or that there was no central heating. I can see pipes running from the side of the range to the sink, then along the wall again and up into the corner through the ceiling. I’m guessing the fire heats the hot water. I daydream of waking early in the morning, heading down the stairs in the freezing cold to stoke the ashes from the night before, piling on the logs to relight the fire in the range and generate some heat. I could put an armchair right in front of it, with that old rag rug Duncan thought I’d thrown away. It would be perfect there under my feet. Flagstones, I see proper giant slabs of flagstone. I’ve always loved the idea of having those.
I wonder if I might even be able to buy the place if and when the family decide to let it go and my divorce comes through.
I feel my anticipation grow. A new routine to take over from the old routines of my life as it was before. I’ve been with Duncan for so long, ever since we were students together at the veterinary school in Nottingham. It’s hard to conceive of a life on my own.
Though, not quite on my own.
Joe has to come with me. I can’t go without Joe.
And Arthur, of course.
It’ll be Duncan left on his own.
CHAPTER 7 (#ulink_02ebe3ab-f2e1-5e83-87c0-f70e39603b69)
CLAIRE – AFTER (#ulink_02ebe3ab-f2e1-5e83-87c0-f70e39603b69)
I wake. The bedroom is deathly quiet. The kind of silence that plucks the air from your lungs, eyes wide open listening for a creak in the walls, the flutter of birds in the trees, the switch of illicit shoes climbing the stairs.
It’s dark, the air cold upon my skin. I lie on the bed frozen to the mattress, legs bent, one arm under my head, eyelashes brushing against the pillow. I listen, hardly realising that I’m holding my breath until I let it go. My ribs move and I force myself to wriggle my fingers and pull one leg free from under the covers.
I have woken too early, too tense, the nightmare still filling my head. Fear pumps through my veins like a drug. It’s as if the bed, the whole room will implode, swallowing me up, dragging me down into a narrow chimney of thick stone and earth, falling, falling, scrabbling for roots and clumps of soil but unable to grab hold, water gushing through the gaps. I am Alice in her Wonderland, too big for the space, too small to fight back, too disbelieving of my fate, as I’m sucked down into a vortex of my own making.
I gasp and sit up, pulling myself out but into yet another new nightmare.
Joe?
I’m panting, dragging great lungfuls of air into my chest. I reach for the bedside lamp, pick up the clock and cast my eyes around the room. I see the spill of daylight growing through the gap in the curtains. For a moment it all seems strange, an alien place I’ve never seen before. The clock has a new face, the curtains a different pattern. Even the fragile dawn is a strange colour, sharper, cleaner, more luminescent than before.
I exhale and place the clock back on its table. I let the brightness bring me slowly back to life. That’s when the memory taunts me. The memory of my son.
I remember the sweaty, musky scent of him that clings to his unwashed clothes, the way his hair falls in lush waves across his cheeks. I hear his music, the thudding beat asserting his presence in the Barn. I smell the cold air on his coat, the dead leaves under his feet, the ice upon his skin. And something else – a damp, earthy, rotting kind of smell, like mushrooms spawning in the dirt.
I am awake. I must let it go, whatever it is that still pulls me to that dream. I will myself not to think of Joe like that. Instead, I think of the scent of him when he was newborn. That sweet Joe smell, my Joe – no one else’s Joe – nestled in the crook of my arm. His fingernails are soft and peeling at their tips, his knees folded to his chest. His skin is pink and white and blue, the strands of black hair on his skull slick with the soft grease of birthing. That smell.
I squeeze my eyes shut and push the memories away. Are they memories or dreams? I’m not sure. I have a fierce headache that won’t go away. They told me I will have to get used to it, that it’s to be expected after what’s happened. But as I lie here, I can’t even remember who said that or where it was. Only that he’s gone. My Joe.
He didn’t come with me.
I open my eyes, listening for his footsteps just in case.
I betrayed him. I left him behind. It overwhelms me, how I could do that. I can’t let myself think about it, my head hurts trying.
But now I hear something. There are footsteps, after all. I’m sure it must be him. I’ve been texting him all this time, making sure he knows where to go. At last, he’s come home! To our new home. The cottage. I hear a steady, cautious creak upon the stairs. My bedroom door swings open and a shadow reaches out across the floor.
It’s Arthur. The dog. His black head is up, sniffing the air. He pauses as if to check that it’s okay to come in.
He moves again, his three good legs bearing the bulk of his weight as he limps uncertainly towards my bed.
CHAPTER 8 (#ulink_807a62a2-19ff-55fa-869c-0f8479033c56)
DUNCAN – AFTER (#ulink_807a62a2-19ff-55fa-869c-0f8479033c56)
A hand lightly touched his shoulder. Duncan started and the hot coffee burnt his fingers. It was Martin, his face grey and strained, the elasticated plastic hood of his forensic suit pulled down from his head.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Martin. ‘I didn’t mean to make you jump, but you didn’t answer the front doorbell.’
‘I … It’s okay, what did you want?’
‘I wanted to see how you are.’ Martin gestured through the window.
Down by the water, someone had drawn back the door of the main tent. Even at this distance, in the fading light, Duncan could see a glimpse of bare earth, cut away into different layers and trenches. It was a pitted labyrinth of mud and water, flags and poles numbered and labelled to match the records in the control tent.
‘Thank you for your patience with all this, especially in the circumstances.’
Especially in the circumstances. As if Duncan had any choice other than to tolerate the noise and disruption, the complete invasion of his privacy. In a bizarre way, he was almost grateful for that. The Barn felt empty without his family in it. His eyes slid back to the window, to the scene at the bottom of the field laid out like the trenches of the Somme. He nodded, only half aware of what he was doing.
‘Have you eaten?’ Martin said.
Duncan swung back to his friend’s face. With the hood down, he could see Martin’s damp wiry hair, speckled white at the temples, and his eyes, sharp and observant. Even with his obvious fatigue, Martin had the edginess of intellect and experience. Duncan had always respected that, but it also made him wary.
‘No,’ Duncan replied, his stomach rumbling.
Martin produced a couple of plump brown paper bags.
‘From the mess van,’ he said, nodding to the white van outside, with a generator of its own and a stench of fried chips. ‘They do a mean bacon cob.’
Already, Martin was pulling back the flaps of brown paper, tearing open a catering sachet of brown sauce and squeezing it over his food.
Bacon – there was something so vibrant about bacon. The smell of it, the taste of it, the sizzling as it cooks. Claire had been vegetarian. Duncan, too, when they were students. To Claire’s fury, it had been bacon that had broken his resolve, despite all his scruples.
‘Sure,’ said Duncan, giving in to his hunger and moving to join Martin. The two of them sat side by side on the kitchen sofa.
‘I never thanked you properly for looking after our cat,’ said Martin. ‘He’s doing well.’
Martin’s cat had been run over two months ago. Duncan had managed to save it, after wiring the jaw and removing one eye.
‘You’re welcome,’ he said. ‘He was lucky.’
The density of cat casualties never failed to enrage him – a quarter of a million of them each year in the UK, mostly people driving too fast, not caring at all.
‘Well, the wife was hugely relieved. He stays inside now.’
The one eye didn’t leave them with much choice. Duncan didn’t hold with keeping cats inside, but in this case, he’d had to make it absolutely clear.
‘Good,’ he said. The monosyllabic answer was all that he could manage. He took a bite of his cob.
Martin cast his eyes around the room. The heavy swathes of curtain fabric at the full-length windows by the sofa, the matching oversized lamps on the side tables on either end. The designer scented candles had not yet been burnt. It was Claire who was into burning candles. Duncan could see Martin assessing his taste, his wealth. Martin’s family still lived in a three-bed semi on a modern estate the other side of Derby. Some vets earned more than doctors, which spoke volumes for how people valued their pets.
‘You didn’t say much, yesterday.’ It was a question, not a statement. Martin squinted over his roll. ‘I know it was a lot to take in. Bit of a shock, especially … there’s not a huge amount I can tell you at this point, but is there anything you wanted to ask?’
Duncan folded the paper round his roll, tucking it neatly underneath. His eyes half-closed as he thought about it.
‘How was it found?’ he said.
‘Bob Shardlow found the remains, or rather his dog did. They were walking along the shore. It was half-submerged in the mud.’
‘What was Bob doing there? That’s my land on either side of the road, right up to the water. He’s got no business walking his dog there.’
Duncan knew that his annoyance might be seen as unreasonable in the circumstances, but he didn’t care. It seemed to him as if he shouldn’t care. About anything. That way was so much easier.
‘The path on the south side of the reservoir dam is blocked at the moment because of the high water levels and Shardlow had to find an alternative route.’
Duncan didn’t respond. He carried on eating, not looking up. Until:
‘Can you tell me anything about it?’
The body – they were talking about the body.
‘I can’t tell you that, I’m sorry, mate.’ Martin let his words fade away, using the excuse of the food to fall silent.
Duncan nodded – they both ate. For a moment, it was no different to the two of them sitting on the wall outside the school, or lying back against the grass on the slopes behind the swimming baths. It had been six weeks – he still felt numb. This new development was surreal. Duncan let it flow over him. He was aware of Martin watching him from the corner of his eye.
‘I’m okay, really I am.’
Duncan pushed the last of his bacon roll into his mouth and scrunched the paper bag in his fist. He kept his face studiously indifferent.
‘They’re good at their jobs, you know.’ Martin spoke gently. ‘We’ll do our best to keep this as quick and efficient as possible. But we don’t have much choice.’
‘I know.’ Duncan sat with the paper bag still in his fist.
‘I’ll keep an eye on things, I promise.’
‘Thanks.’ Duncan stood up to place the bag in the kitchen bin. His voice lifted. ‘I appreciate that. When do you think you’ll know more?’
‘Hard to tell at this stage. I’ll get an initial report from Forensics tomorrow. We’ll talk to you as soon as we can.’
There was another silence. Duncan moved to the sink. The cold-water tap gushed as he filled a glass, water frothing up and spilling out over the rim.
‘Right, I’m off now.’ Martin slapped Duncan on the back. ‘But I’ll be here again in the morning. You need anything, Duncan, anything at all, or anyone bothers you, you let me know, eh?’
‘Thank you, mate. I appreciate it. And thanks for the food. Have a good evening.’
Duncan turned to lean back against the sink, watching and sipping his drink as Martin left the house. When Martin had gone, he cast his eyes around the room, everything put away in its place, not a speck or a crumb in sight. He’d even had the granite work surfaces repolished. Already. He smoothed his hand across the top of the kitchen island. Claire would have hated it like this, too clinical – like a room at the surgery, that’s what she’d once said. But Duncan could do what he liked now, couldn’t he?
Now that she had gone.
CHAPTER 9 (#ulink_51a6161f-79bc-5b4a-803b-5f00c469a80d)
CLAIRE – BEFORE (#ulink_51a6161f-79bc-5b4a-803b-5f00c469a80d)
I’ve been sorting through my clothes all day today. One pile for the bin, another to give to charity. My arms ache from lugging stuff up and down the stairs, making the most of the time that Duncan’s out. He’s working late today, operating on the spine of a big dog. It could be a very late night, he’d said, don’t bother to cook for me. My head throbs. I’ve been fighting it all day, resisting the need for painkillers. I give in and head to the kitchen, rifling through a drawer for some pills.
I hear a bang. It’s a door upstairs. There’s the thunder of feet running down the stairs and Joe appears in the kitchen. He’s changed into jeans and a khaki-green jumper – the one his dad bought for his last birthday. The sleeves are already too short, but Joe still wears it, the sleeves rolled up irrespective of the cold so that no one will notice. He slams his body down on a chair, folding one leg over his knee so that he can put his trainers on.
‘Where are you going?’ I say. As if I didn’t know.
He lifts his head, defiance pulling his lips tight.
‘Out.’
He nods towards the metal detector leaning by the back door.
‘Please, Joe, not tonight. It’ll be dark soon. Why do you have to do this at night, for goodness’ sake?’
He stands up. My hand reaches across my chest for the soft spot in the hollow of my shoulder. I rub it as if it hurts. Joe balances on one foot and lifts his other leg, jamming the second trainer on, struggling to get his big fingers round the laces.
‘I told you – if the other guys see me, they’ll get there first, take whatever there is – we can’t let them do that.’
The ‘other guys’ – he means the metal detectorists. Treasure hunters. There’s a whole community of them, apparently; though I gather most of them are a lot older than Joe. It worries me, because it seems to me that my son doesn’t belong in such a group, not at this stage in his life. He should be out with people the same age as him, clubbing, drinking, meeting girls and boys and having fun. Not glued to online chat sites, poring over photographs of ancient treasure, participating in endless conversations about gold and silver coins, artefacts of the long dead, chasing stuff – stuff. It’s just a vain dream.
He stands upright and walks down the kitchen, opening and closing cupboard doors as he looks for food he can take with him.
‘No,’ I say, my voice firmer. ‘Not today, not tonight. I don’t want you going tonight.’
I stand with my legs apart, willing myself to look taller.
‘You listen to your mother, Joe. You’re not going out tonight.’
