Kitabı oku: «Magpie», sayfa 2

CHAPTER 3
DUNCAN – SIX WEEKS AFTER

Duncan’s gloved hands were stained with blood. The dog’s skin was peeled back, revealing the bloodied bone and yellow subcutaneous fat. The radio played softly in the background and the monitors beeped with a reassuring regularity as he dabbed at the opening with a swab.

There were three of them: Duncan and Paula, the newest vet at the practice, and Frances, the senior nurse. Their legs and hips were pressed against the operating table and the light blazed a harsh white over their heads, picking up a glint of red hair from beneath Paula’s surgical cap.

‘Okay,’ said Duncan. ‘Let’s get this little chap put together again.’

He tugged gently on the flaps of skin, pulling them towards each other. It was a struggle; the dog was barely a year old and the metal pins holding the leg bones left little space for the original skin to meet. Duncan shifted the skin a little higher.

‘Frances – can you hold it there?’

She took the clamps into her hands.

‘Left a bit. Hold it … wait …’

Duncan pursed his lips and pulled again, reaching in with a suture needle, feeding the thread between his gloved fingers to make the first stitch.

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘And another. Paula, can you clean around here?’

They worked together in silence. Ten minutes later, the opening had been closed. Frances gave a relieved smile and Duncan took a step back.

‘That’s it. Thank you, both. I’m glad to see that one done.’

‘She’s looking good,’ Frances replied. ‘You should go and ring the owner. You’ve earned that. We’ll finish off and resuscitate. I’ll see this one to the ward.’

Frances smiled again. She was older than Duncan, her darker skin and years of experience warming her features, the lines around her eyes creasing above her mask.

Duncan pulled the gloves from his hands, dropping them into the refuse bucket. He tugged the mask from his face and left the room, pushing the door with his shoulder and reaching up to rub his neck. Three hours on one dog – the smaller animals were often the most difficult. But it had been a success. He headed for his consulting room to make the call.

‘Duncan!’

It was Sally on reception. Her usually straight blonde hair was falling unkempt about her shoulders. A collection of dirty coffee mugs stood by the phone and the printer was spewing out blank sheets of paper. As ever, the room was busy with people and animals. Duncan nodded briskly at the man who lifted one hand in greeting.

‘Yes?’ Duncan responded to Sally.

‘Call for you – urgent, they said. I’ll put it through.’

He mouthed a question and Sally shrugged her shoulders. Her lips said police. He glared at her and she jabbed one finger towards his consulting room.

‘Okay,’ he said, biting down his emotions.

‘Duncan Henderson, here.’

He sank into his chair and swung round to face the window.

‘Duncan, it’s Martin. Very sorry to disturb you at work. I’m afraid I have to ask you to come back to your house.’

One phone call, that’s all it took to hijack all those appointments. Duncan turned his car up the drive to his house. The constant slash of rain against the windscreen had left him with a painful furrow of concentration on his forehead and a thick spray of black mud on the paintwork of his car. The vehicle slowed on the deep gravel, cruising between the pink cherry trees that lined the drive. Spring had been interrupted by a blast of cold, stormy weather, and wet leaves and translucent blossom clung like damp butterflies to the big sheet window. The barn glowed a peachy flushed red.

Duncan felt his heart contract, his jaw tighten. There were cars and vans slewed every which way they could, blocking his usual turning circle. Beyond the perimeter fencing, where the fields tipped towards the silver bowl of the reservoir, already a double line of blue-and-white plastic tape rippled down the slope.

He squeezed his car into a gap, in the corner where Claire used to park. He got out. The grumbling blast of a generator assailed his ears. A pair of uniformed officers stood by the top gate, stiff and upright like tin soldiers. By the garage, a tent had been pitched up, and in the distance, at the bottom, were more tents, slick with wet. Grey sheets of rain blustered across the valley and figures in white hooded overalls ran across the scrub. The whole scene had the surreal air of an alien landing site.

Duncan approached his front door.

‘Excuse me, sir. Can I see some ID?’ An officer appeared at his shoulder.

Duncan swung round to face him.

‘I live here,’ he snapped.

‘Even so, if you don’t mind.’

Duncan scowled and fished out his driving licence. There was an awkward pause as the officer scanned the photograph.

‘Mr Henderson, thank you. The boss said to have a word with you as soon as you arrived.’ The man gestured towards the first tent. ‘If you don’t mind.’

The boss. DCI Martin White. They’d known each other since their first day at school.

‘This way, please, sir.’

The tent opening thrashed in the wind. Inside a huddle of officers stood around a table with several computers, and their papers scattered upwards as the flap fell back into place.

‘Duncan?’

A man looked up, his hands holding down the papers. He wore a green waxed jacket, his grey suit loosely buttoned underneath. His hair was cut close to his head, black peppered with white, and a broad platinum wedding ring glinted from the back of his hand.

‘Martin.’

Duncan wiped the rain from his forehead. The police team wasn’t huge for the area, it was inevitable that Martin would be in charge. Duncan had a brief image of Martin standing by his side in the registry office at Claire and Duncan’s wedding, leaning forwards in his shoes, discreetly scanning the room like some kind of security officer.

‘Thank you for coming back,’ said Martin. Their eyes met. ‘I expect this is a shock.’

Duncan didn’t reply and Martin dipped his head in acknowledgement.

‘I’m sorry to be here in these circumstances. And I apologise for the disruption. But I’m sure you understand why this is necessary.’

Duncan’s eyes were drawn to the table. There was a shallow crate covered in a cloth.

He felt his body sway, unaccountably off balance. He clenched his hands and pushed them down his side, forcing himself to stay upright.

‘Cup of tea, sir?’ A younger man stepped forwards, offering Duncan a mug.

‘Do you think I want a fucking cup of tea?’ Duncan turned on the man, eyes flaring.

A blue light flickered from one of the computer screens and the wind sucked at the canvas over their heads. Silence had fallen on the tent.

‘I’m sorry. I …’ Duncan pushed his hand across his head, rubbing the bare skin, then smoothing down to the closely cropped hair at the back of his neck. His jaw moved and his eyes closed momentarily.

‘It’s alright, Duncan.’ Martin followed his friend’s gaze. He gestured to a chair. ‘Everyone here understands. Why don’t we sit down?’

Duncan shook his head. He stood still, his arms held stiffly by his side.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want …’ Duncan’s breath heaved in and out and his eyes were pulled once again to that crate.

Martin took a step closer.

‘Duncan, look at me. It’s okay. Look at me!’

Duncan lifted his eyes to Martin. It seemed to him there were just the two of them then, in that tent, all sense of the outside, the weather, the people, the cars on his drive, banished to the edges of his mind.

Then he took control of himself, responding to Martin’s unspoken signal.

‘What exactly have you found?’ He pushed the words out between his lips.

‘Human remains. A body has been found by the shore at the bottom of your land.’

Martin paused, as if unwilling to broach what came next.

‘What kind of body?’ Duncan said.

There was another pause.

‘Come on, man, you can’t not tell me!’

‘We’re not sure yet. I’m sorry, Duncan, that’s all I can tell you right now.’

Duncan made himself move, reaching out one hand to clutch the table, forcing himself to stay focused.

‘I don’t understand … I …’ His body swayed.

‘Duncan, are you alright?’

Martin took a step forwards.

‘Duncan—’

CHAPTER 4
CLAIRE – BEFORE

‘Hey, Becky. How are you this morning?’

I can hear a voice in the background, the clunk of crockery and a tray being set down on a table.

‘Are you up to a visitor around twelve?’ I ask.

‘Yes, please,’ says Becky.

She sounds happy. One of the things I’ve always loved about Becky is her cheeriness. Upbeat and optimistic, despite her circumstances.

‘Great. I’m in town anyway this morning to do some jobs. I’ll bring us some lunch, shall I? Fish from the chippie sound okay?’

‘Sounds perfect,’ she says. ‘It’ll just be me. See you then.’

The phone clicks and she’s gone.

Town is busy. It’s market day and the car park on the small square has been taken over by stalls and vans. Every street is filled with parked cars and the cobbles judder under my wheels then disappear as I turn into the customer car park of the veterinary surgery. I ease the car into a spot furthest away from the front door. One of the advantages of being the boss’s wife is I get to park for free whenever I need to. Through the glass doors I can see the reception desk, the familiar head of Sally bent over the screen. I walk out of the car park, dodging the bus shelter to head towards the main precinct and the estate agents behind the town hall.

‘Hi,’ I say to the young man leaning back on his chair behind the desk nearest to the door. ‘I have an appointment. Claire Henderson.’

My head swings over my shoulder, scanning the street outside. I will the man to speed up and he senses my agitation.

‘Sure. Hold on a minute,’ he says.

He tips forwards and pushes away, standing up to disappear into a conference room. When he comes back, I think how he doesn’t look much older than my Joe, a narrow blue tie swinging against his crisp white shirt. Except these days you’d never catch Joe in a white shirt, let alone a tie.

‘This way,’ he says.

I move too fast into the conference room.

‘Hello, there. Do sit down.’

This agent is older than the lad by the front door. Hungry-looking, like one of those midsized birds of prey hovering over a small animal by the roadside. He’s assessing me.

‘Mrs Henderson, how are you?’ He doesn’t stand up but reaches out a cold hand.

It’s one of those questions you’re not supposed to answer. I contemplate actually telling him. Do you really want to know? says the voice in my head.

‘I think I’ve found the perfect place for you,’ he says. ‘Not too far, like you asked. Though perhaps a little closer than you wanted, but there’s not a lot out there on the market at the moment. It’s near the reservoir with a bit of character and a fantastic view.’

He pulls out a one-page leaflet with a small flourish, pushing it under my nose. My eyes scan the paper and I have a brief impression of a rambling old cottage with a defunct hanging basket blocking the back door and a roof that sags in the middle. Character – that’s one way of putting it. Agent-speak for a house that’s small and run-down and probably expensive to heat. He taps on the rent.

‘It’s four hundred pounds a month.’

That is cheap for round here. The location is doable. It’s on the other side of the dam, so there would be a wall of concrete between me and Duncan. How appropriate, I think. I glance up at the agent’s face.

‘Can I view it?’

‘Of course you can.’ He smiles. ‘Let me check the diary.’

He snaps back to his PC, scrolling down the screen.

‘How about on Thursday, eleven am? My colleague, John Hardcastle, will show you around.’

I nod. He starts to type.

‘Can you remind me of your current address, Mrs Henderson?’

‘Brereton Barn, Hob Lane.’

‘Ah! Yes, of course, lovely spot.’

He doesn’t ask why I’m looking for a place to rent. Or why I don’t want to buy. And he doesn’t ask about my financial circumstances. He knows of my husband, the town supervet, with his shiny new practice and growing reputation, living in one of the poshest houses in the district. Why else would his wife be searching for a new home? Instead, the agent looks me briefly up and down, as if speculating if Duncan knows yet. Everyone knows everything about your business in this town. It won’t be long before the gossip spreads.

Which means, now I’ve started this, I’m already running out of time.

‘Ooh, that smells amazing!’

Becky pokes her face into the greasy papers and takes a good long whiff. Her short hair is fluffed up and she gives me one of her big open smiles, freckles creasing on her cheeks. I’ve always envied her that smile – it lights up the room. Duncan has the same smile, when he chooses to use it, it’s one of the things I loved about him when we first met, but that’s where their sibling likeness stops.

‘Sinful, but who cares!’ she says. She grins again and places the package on the table.

‘Where’s Alex?’ I ask, referring to her son.

Becky swings back to the cupboard to pluck out a cheap carton of salt and some vinegar.

‘He’s at the day care centre. Dropped him off earlier. We’ve got a couple of hours.’ She turns back with a plate in each hand and slides onto a chair. ‘Grab us some cutlery, will you?’

I rummage in the drawer behind me and Becky tips the food onto our plates. There’s a moment of silence as we both dive in with the same hungry enthusiasm as Arthur after a long walk.

‘Mmm, this is good. So …’ Becky catches my eye. ‘How was your appointment?’

Appointment? I feel a prickle of alarm; I hadn’t told her I had an appointment. I haven’t told her anything yet. How can I? She’s Duncan’s sister for all she’s my best friend and I don’t know where to begin to explain that I’m about to leave her brother. Besides, I need to finalise things and tell Joe before I tell anyone else. Let alone Duncan. I owe him that at least.

‘It was okay.’ I force myself to relax. Becky’s just interpreting the ‘jobs’ I mentioned on the phone. ‘Boring stuff with the bank.’ I scatter salt on my chips. ‘I had to sign accounts and stuff, what with technically being a director of the business.’

How easily the lie slips from my tongue. Not that my story means very much. Yes, I’m listed as a director of the surgery, but Duncan’s always been fiercely protective of his business. He doesn’t let me see anything.

‘You should make him let you work there. Alongside him as a partner.’

‘Oh, God, no. I mean, I like the medical stuff, and the research especially, but the business side of things? We’d only argue. We have quite different ideas about how to manage things. No, I could never work alongside him. Besides, it’s been such a long time since I was in the profession …’

‘Come on, Claire. Joe’s eighteen now. You’d pick it up again. I know you, you’ve kept up to date with all the science and I bet you’ve been hankering to go back to work for years. And you’re darn clever, every bit as much as Duncan. I know you’ve had Joe to deal with, but he’s settling down a bit, isn’t he? Not like before.’

Not like before. All those years of Joe screaming at the teachers. Joe digging his heels in and refusing to go to school. Joe disappearing for days on end and driving me frantic. I bite my lip. The last time Joe went missing for over a week, it was just before his A-level exam results. Perfect timing. But who am I to complain about my son? Becky has far more to deal with than I. She puts me to shame. My son is hale and hearty. Her son, Alex, is confined to a wheelchair, profoundly physically disabled.

‘It’s true,’ I say. ‘I’d like to go back to work. I have thought about it, but I’m not sure.’

It’s half a truth, isn’t it? I have every intention of going back to work. I’m going to have to, we’ll need the money, Joe and I. But not with Duncan, and probably not even here in Belston. Derby, perhaps – or further afield, if I have to go that far to find the right thing.

Whether or not Joe will stomach it. After.

CHAPTER 5
CLAIRE – AFTER

The horse moves with a fast, rhythmic pace, its broad back swaying beneath its rider’s legs. I watch them pass the giant shrubs of rhododendron that block out the light. Their buds are almost pink and the leaves are almost black, gleaming in the cold, steady rain.

They ride on, beyond the gardens. Into the woods. The mist hangs low over the canopy of trees, lingering with the reluctance of the newly deceased floating over a still warm bed.

The reservoir is visible now. Not far. I hear the water lapping and the ducks calling to each other in the reeds. A pheasant hurtles from the banks, a flash of red, shrieking, guttering, the sound bouncing along the shore like stones skipping across the water.

The young man’s head scrapes across the ground, the weight of it dragging on his neck. I can almost feel the pain that must be spreading across his body, his shoulder blades and back. Each thump and drag of his head erupting like fireworks behind his eyes. I feel it as he feels it, as the rider slows the horse to a walk. The lad tries to lift his head, only for it to fall. His body lurches into movement as the horse moves on, pulling upon the rope.

He is like a stick floating on a stream, stones and earth, the lumps in the ground forcing his skull up and down, buffeting him this way and that. Black mud is smeared on his face and his wet clothes cling to his body, sucked in against his frame so that the bones are clearly visible. I see him try to lift one arm – his arms are free, but not his legs. They are tied. The rope red around his bare ankles. The rider shifts his grip, nudging the horse with the heels of his boots again, urging her to move faster along the path beside the reservoir.

The view opens up. The full expanse of water is revealed. A glint of metal pierces the surface not far from the shore. The slender shape is half tipped, draped with soft black weed, as if poised between two realms. It hasn’t appeared for a hundred years, not since the summer of 1918. The last year of the Great War. One cross in a field of crosses, marking the growing dead. That’s what they’d said in the village then, as the women grieved for their men.

The cross is taller than before. A spindle, sharp enough to prick a finger.

My gaze returns to the boy. I see the debris brushing against his cheek, how the clagging scent of the forest makes him want to retch. He tries to cough but the angle is all wrong. His chest must be burning from the effort to breathe, his tongue swollen, his airways blocked, his flesh bloated like rehydrated seaweed. They’re right on the shore, riding over stony mud, and it drags against his flesh. The speed at which they’re moving and the grogginess of his brain means that all he can do is flap his arms uselessly like a drunken swimmer until they fall back above his head and the ground beats and pounds his skull and he’s near faint with the pain of it.

I am consumed by nausea. I feel it as he feels it, everything blackness and confusion. His brain – my brain – stuck inside my skull like the tiny building in a glass globe. Snowflakes, I see thousands of snowflakes fluttering into life, my head fixed but everything else loose and drifting.

The horse’s hooves sink into the mud. Water swirls about the rider’s boots and the boy floats. The rider tugs on the rope and his hair blows across his face and the metal cross shines, dazzling his eyes as he waits for the geese to pass, for the mist to draw breath. For the spire to sink from sight and the sun to rise unseen and the breeze and the birds to settle.

There’s a voice in my head. ‘It shouldn’t have been like this,’ it says. ‘If only the boy had accepted his fate and stayed upon the island. They wouldn’t have had to do this.’

The rain has turned to snow, the snow has turned to hail and stones of ice pitch down against the water. The rider spurs his horse again and again, and she plunges forwards into the lake, deeper. As their bodies begin to disappear, the rider’s face turns back towards the shore. His lips move and I hear his voice, even though he does not speak.

‘Hasn’t it always been like this, Claire? Especially with the young ones.’

Our eyes meet.

‘They just don’t want to die.’

I let out a soft moan and my head rolls to one side. The mattress heaves beneath my body and beads of damp trickle down my skin. The air in the room sweeps cool across my face and I slowly open my eyes, blinking once.

Then I remember.

Joe, my son, has gone.