Chapter 17

Tuesday, 26th October

‘Let’s try and call Dad before we head home. I’m not sure where he is today, but a voicemail will be better than nothing.’

We walk to the turn in the high street and sit on the bench outside the solicitor’s office. Sophie dials Mark’s number. I expect her to splutter a message to voicemail so I’m surprised when Mark answers and has time to talk.

The twins tell him about half-term, the rowdy Halloween morning at the church hall, Alan Wynn’s plans to trick-or-treat, the new vegetable patch in Haverscroft’s rear garden. They couldn’t have made it sound more idyllic if they’d tried. I watch Mr Lyle talking at Mr Whittle on the pavement opposite as the twins chatter on. The estate agent pulls a white handkerchief from his pocket and pats his brow. He glances around the busy street, takes a step back from Lyle.

‘Sounds like fun,’ Mark says, when the mobile eventually gets to me.

‘This morning’s been great: Halloween stuff in the church hall and kids their own age.’

Last weekend was good, the morning room finished, a fire lit, no weirdness in the house. We’ve all settled down. I haven’t mentioned the solicitor’s email. After a string of sleepless nights I decided to let it ride for now. It’s months old, why would Mark move to Weldon if he was thinking of divorcing me? If he knows I’ve seen the email he hasn’t mentioned it. All I can do is carry on and hope things work out.

‘You, okay?’

Always the same questions: Am I alright? Am I coping? At least no question about taking the medication.

‘Just fine. The weather’s so warm in the middle of the day we’re picnicking in the back garden for lunch, then finishing the twins’ veggie patches if we get time. It’s getting dark early now.’

Mr Lyle crosses the road, dashing behind an estate car as it crawls up the high street. Tall and thin, his body is all sharp angles, his dark suit ill-fitting. He sees the three of us sitting on the bench as he steps up onto the pavement, no glimmer of recognition in his hollow features. Mr Whittle wipes his brow and stuffs the handkerchief into this pocket. He’s staring across the road, I raise my hand, but he turns away and hurries off along the street.

‘Two things: the phone company are coming on Tuesday morning to fix the landline and sort out an internet connection. Can you be home?’ Mark asks.

‘You bet I can!’

He’s laughing, his easy low chuckle.

‘And the second?’

‘My trial’s gone short so I’ll be back Thursday evening. We can go out somewhere, take the kids to the coast maybe on Friday.’

‘Great idea!’ He’ll be working too, immersed in the Southampton case, but at least he’ll be here. He’s making an effort. I’m more than willing to reciprocate.

‘I’ll be back around seven with a bottle of wine and reinforcements.’

 

We turn off the high street into the lane. Sophie holds my hand, hers tacky from too many sweets. Tom strides ahead whipping the weeds in the verge with a stick, Riley springing around his ankles and knees. Mark was right about the dog, is he right about Haverscroft, all just moving-in jitters? If he is, perhaps he’s right when he says Mrs Havers can’t be believed, that she’s just a demented old lady. Even Shirley seems better. But my unease hasn’t completely dissolved. I’m reluctant to even raise the subject with Sophie, but I need to be sure.

‘Mummy?’

Sophie’s tugging my arm and staring up at me, her eyes searching my face.

‘Are you listening, Mummy? They’ve gone away, haven’t they? That’s good, isn’t it?’

‘Who’s gone?’

‘The shouty man and lady. And the dog, cos I haven’t heard them, have you? It will be okay now, won’t it?’

I squeeze Sophie’s hand as we walk past the church. She’s looking up at me, her eyes huge in her face. Funny how we’ve been thinking about the same thing.

‘So you won’t be ill again and we won’t have Nanna Jen make us eat vegetables.’

I laugh.

‘I won’t be ill and we’ll only eat Mrs Cooper’s cakes from now on. Will that be okay?’

Sophie smiles and nods.

‘If you get the picnic rugs out you might find the water guns tucked behind the lawn mower,’ I say, squeezing her hand again. ‘I’ll fill some rolls for lunch.’

Sophie drops my hand and runs to catch her brother.

‘Dad’s put the water guns in the shed! Come on!’

They hurtle down the drive, Tom shouting to his sister to keep up.

Haverscroft seems a little sorry for itself. Sunken into the hollow at the end of the driveway, it’s as if it’s hiding from view, a child sulking over a grazed knee. Green tarpaulin ripples across a section of roof. Once it’s repaired, peeling paintwork and wonky guttering all sorted, Haverscroft will be beautifully elegant against its backdrop of dark yew and beech. A dream home. Inexplicably though, as I reach the front steps, cold unease creeps into my chest and tightens, fixing itself there, exactly the same as that first day we came.

Sunday’s blazing fire has eased the front door, a sharp kick to the bottom corner has it closed at my back. Perhaps I’m finally getting the knack Shirley refers too. I’ll clear the ash from the grate, relay and light another fire tonight. It transformed the house at the weekend, chased the shadows away, the house lively and warm.

I head into the morning room, fresh paint and wood smoke. I open the French windows, a creaking crackle of new paint. Sunlight skitters through the trees, mellow rays streaming across the clipped lawn. The twins chase Riley around plastic white goal posts, a game of tag and water guns, Tom’s coat, Sophie’s gilet and hat litter the grass. I step across the terrace and lean my elbows on top of the wall. Sophie’s screams might shatter glass, but no one will hear. No need to hush them or worry about neighbours. So much space. We could be happy here.

‘Come and play!’ Tom beckons me to join them.

‘I’ll make lunch first. You go and get the blanket and the plastic liner from the gardener’s shed, the grass is wet.’

The twins race off, shouting to one another, Riley at their heels. Richard Denning’s made a start with the rope-and-post fence. Mark’s right though, the twins don’t hang around the pond, I’m being paranoid as usual. I step back into the morning room. The wallpaper dried well, the pattern perfect at the corners. A beautiful bright room. I look at the ceiling. Perhaps decorate the spare room next, chase away the ridiculous notions for good.

I cross the hall towards the kitchen and catch my knee against the heap of oddments from the office stacked one side of the hall hearth. George Cooper left it here for me to sort though, mostly stuff from our London home. The smashed computer monitor, books and dirty old folders are likely to be good for the skip. I pick up a folder, Mark’s handwriting on the front – Bills/Receipts. I flip back the cover. Not the old paperwork I was expecting but pages printed off the internet. Old newspaper stories about Haverscroft.

I carry the folder into the kitchen and sit down on Mum’s sofa. Mark’s made notes of dates and events. I shuffle newspaper reports, nothing’s in any sort of order: Edward Havers’ cricket outing for Weldon, their youngest son, Andrew’s christening, and an earlier story, headlining for several weeks. The date at the top of these sheets shows when Mark printed the pages in the weeks before we moved here.

Riley barks and the twins’ laughter echoes from the garden. My heart races as I scan the pages. The woman in my sketch, the face in the dressing-table mirror, stares at me from an ancient copy of the East Anglian Daily Times. Helena Havers smiles at the camera, a family snap taken only weeks before she died, her arms about a young fair-haired boy and a scruffy white dog, the man accused of her murder beside them. The coroner’s comments about head trauma, that she was likely to have been conscious and aware of her injuries for the few minutes before she died, turn my stomach. Why had Mark never mentioned this?

A rattle, vibration, growing louder, coming from the hall. I jump to my feet, sheets of paper, the folder, shoot across the floor. For an instant I’m frozen to the spot as if my brain can’t take in what my ears are hearing. A bang, tinkling. I stare into the hall, my heart thudding against my ribcage. Glass shattering. Have the kids put a ball, a stone, through a window?

I run into the hall and cross into the morning room. The French windows stand open, a mess of fallen leaves and rose petals scatter the terrace. Something glitters amongst the petals. The roses finished before we moved in here, the blossoms long gone. The window to my left catches in the breeze and bumps my elbow. I stare at it as if I’ve never seen it before. But I know its every surface, hours spent prepping, sanding, painting. All of the glass, each and every pane, is smashed, barely a shard remains.

A scream pierces the silence, the barking howl of a dog. Low sun blazes, I raise my hand to shield my eyes and squint into the glare. Shafts of light wink off the wet grass. No sign of the twins.

‘Tom! Sophie!’

Sophie’s purple gilet lies on the grass beside a goal post, just beyond it something moves. Not quite a shadow, a dense darkness seeps into the bank of willow. The sky is cloudless, the garden glimmering in the early afternoon sunlight. Terror creeps through my flesh, raises the hairs on the back of my neck and arms.

Where are my children?

A second scream, the sound longer, louder and full of terror. Frantic, terrified, it goes on and on, filling the stagnant air. The garden is deserted, the scream, a child’s, high-pitched and filled with panic. Despite the distortion in its tone, the voice is unmistakable. I would know it anywhere, know it comes from my daughter.

‘Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!’

I’m shaking violently, the fear is paralysing. I have to get to her.

Glass crunches beneath my boots as I run across the terrace to the steps, sprint down them and onto wet springy grass. I race towards the willows. Nothing here but the languid sweep of foliage on a lawn smattered with fallen, rotting leaves and dappled shade from sunlight between bare branches. Michaelmas daisies crowd and bully russet-red dahlias. The football abandoned, caught in the planting at the front of the border. Hot, dry breath catches in my throat. The world slow-motions, every leaf and blade of grass harshly bright, the buzz of insects unnaturally loud.

I snatch willow branches aside and screw my eyes to peer into the gloom. Sophie kneels at the water’s edge, her back to me, still screaming, her voice rasping. On the ground beside her lies her acid-pink water gun. She leans forward, one hand stretched out into the weeds at the pond’s margin. Her other hand is braced against the ground. She doesn’t move.

“Sophie!’

Momentarily the barking stops as Riley sees me, runs to my feet, then back towards Sophie’s side, his green lead dragging behind him. The barking resumes, I follow the dog. Tom’s lurid-green water gun floats on the pond’s surface, drifting towards the mass of black water lilies on the far side. Sophie is hanging onto something. Something small and grimy. The muddy slime-covered thing is a hand. Tom’s hand.

My knees buckle and I land heavily beside Sophie.

‘I can’t hold him. Mummy, I can’t hold him!’

Sophie’s eyes never leave the water’s surface. Her cheeks are tracked where tears run through dirt. I grab Tom’s wrist and pull. His head tilts backwards, face turned up towards the sunlight. His eyes are staring balls of terror, his mouth open to the water washing across his features. We both pull, his face just clears the surface. Choking, filthy water spurts over my arms, face and neck. I have him but can’t pull him free. Something anchors my son so firmly that my efforts barely move him towards us at all. Tom is as heavy and immovable as a block of concrete. His face slides back beneath the bubbling surface.

‘Pull, Sophie, hard as you can.’

We heave with all of our strength, getting nowhere. All the while my son’s face, yellowed by the dirty water, stares back at me, his mouth open, lips moving frantically. His arm is slippery with mud and weed, I can’t get a good grip. I edge into the pond, my boots find water and sludge, nothing firm or solid. Mr Whittle’s words fill my ears: A natural pond, very deep I understand . . .

Tom isn’t coughing this time as his face breaks the surface for an instant.

‘He’s drowning, Mummy!’

‘Keep pulling, Sophie. If we keep pulling he must come free.’

We’re hardly moving Tom. Terror’s left his eyes. Vacant and unfocused, he’s no longer fighting. No longer with us.

My grip on my son’s arm slips. Tom’s face slides deeper into the churning filthy pond until all I see is blond hair swishing with the motion of the water.

‘No!’

If I jump in there’s no way out.

‘Hold on to him, Sophie.’

I let go of Tom’s wrist, grab the weed at the pond’s margin, slide into black silt and mud as close to my son’s body as I can manage. My feet find no purchase, nothing to take my weight. I gasp as water covers my face. Sophie screams, holds Tom’s hand. Blond hair washes like weed beneath the surface. I grab the bank, slithery mud squelches through my fingers, but I steady myself. Tom’s legs tangle mine as I hook under his armpits, haul him towards the surface.

‘Grab his coat, Sophie!’ Water spits from my mouth as I shout at my daughter. She has hold of his arm, his jacket as I push Tom upwards.

‘Pull, Sophie!’

I push my son’s back, grab his jeans belt, shove him up onto the bank. Sophie struggles, her heels digging into the soft ground. She drags Tom up and away from cloying black mud and weed.

‘Is he, okay?’ Sour water fills my mouth, my nose. I don’t hear Sophie’s words, just her voice, her high-pitched scream. My son’s dead. Too late. We are too late.

My boots are like lead weights, my legs stiff, immovable in my tight jeans. I should’ve taken them off, my jacket too, before I went in. No time, though. I scrabble and claw at the bank, weed comes away in my hands. No way out.

Pain in one wrist, then the other, makes me gasp and choke. I look up into a sun-darkened face, bright green eyes. He pulls, the toes of my boots dig into soft mud, the top half of me clears the water’s surface. Sophie has one arm, Richard Denning the back of my coat. I lie gasping for breath on the bank.

We pull Tom a few feet from the pond edge before we let him go. He lies motionless, face half buried in willow debris. Sophie kneels beside her brother. Her skinny body shivers, her hands clenched over her mouth as though the screaming will escape again if she pulls them away. Tears run down her cheeks and through her filthy fingers.

‘Tom?’ Sophie’s voice cracks, is practically a whisper, it sounds unnaturally loud as the three of us bend our heads close to peer at her brother. I hear only our panting breath and Riley’s whining as he licks mud from between lifeless fingers. My son’s face looks unreal, someone I don’t know, just an ashen-coloured mask discarded by its owner.

‘Go call Doctor Langdon. He’ll be here long before an ambulance.’

Richard Denning’s voice is deep and steady, head lowered so I only see the top of his cap, fawn and grey weave. I can’t see his face at all. He turns Tom’s head sideways resting his cheek in the dead leaves and begins pummelling my son’s narrow back. Brown-green pond water spews out of Tom’s mouth and nose with each effort.

‘He won’t die, will he?’ Sophie asks as I push myself to my feet.

‘Stay with him, Sophie. I’ll run and get the doctor.’