Chapter 26

Monday afternoon, 1st November

‘This’d be a lot easier if George helped out,’ says Shirley as she flops down on Mum’s sofa.

I sit beside her, Riley at my feet.

‘We’re most of the way there now,’ I say, looking over my shoulder across the hall to the kitchen door. ‘Well, halfway.’

Shirley laughs and shakes her head.

‘I’ve missed it. There’s nowhere comfy in the kitchen without it,’ I say.

‘You’re right about that, love.’

‘George isn’t coming back, is he?’

‘Shook him up good and proper, it did. Said he heard something.’

I shiver, not just the door sticking then. Shirley pats my knee.

‘For goodness sake, tell me, nothing about this hideous house will shock me now.’

‘He wouldn’t say much,’ Shirley says.

‘What did he say?’

‘He asked me if I’d heard anyone laughing.’ Shirley tugs her pale blue scarf, pulls it tighter. ‘He thinks he’s losing his marbles. He said it all seemed a bit daft once he got home, had a hot shower and something to eat. I thought you might have something else to say about it, love.’

I don’t know what to say. The twins tried to explain this morning on the way to school what happened at the pond. Tom’s ‘scary thing’ and Sophie’s ‘shouty man’ leave me no clearer about any of it, just more determined not to stay here a moment longer.

‘George isn’t one to let you down and there’s nothing needs doing in that spare room now, is there?’

No point mentioning Jennifer’s concerns about the balcony. If the spare room stays locked, the French windows aren’t an issue.

‘The roof’s the most urgent thing. It’s impossible to heat the place.’

‘If you’re staying with me, it won’t bother you, not for now. You’re all right, are you, love?’

‘Me?’

‘I didn’t like to call round, what with your husband and his mother staying. It got Mrs Havers over here right sharp though, didn’t it, that funny turn of yours in the spare room.’

I had wondered, as Riley and I walked home from school earlier, what to tell Shirley, where to start. In the four days since I’d last seen her, so much had happened. The Weldon grapevine had done it all for me though. I swear it’s impossible to ever tell her a fresh piece of news.

We look at the landing, Riley runs to the bottom stair and barks. Was there a movement, a sound that caught our attention? Shirley’s body tenses beside me and my heart quickens. Fog presses at the windows, no scudding clouds throwing light and shade across the room. Other than Riley’s incessant barking, there’s nothing, the hall, silent and still.

‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s get this sofa shifted.’

We start huffing the heavy piece of furniture across the hall.

‘Riley, that’s enough!’ I shout as we reach the kitchen door. The dog stops barking, scampers beneath the sofa and into the kitchen.

‘I’ll pack the rest of our stuff while you finish up, Shirley. It won’t take much longer. Then I’ll head over to Richard Denning’s.’

We edge the sofa through the door frame, Shirley backing into the kitchen.

‘Don’t forget to take his fruit cake, will you?’

A door slams upstairs. Riley shoots between our feet, claws clattering across the hall. He stops at the foot of the stairs barking non-stop. Shirley’s expression is frozen, her eyes wide with concern.

‘The sooner we’re out of here, Shirley, the better.’

 

I stop in the lane where it meets the path running past the church to the river. The fog is thick, our familiar walk strangely silent and disorientating. Riley doesn’t seem the least bit bothered so I let him off his lead and pull my mobile from my pocket.

 

Let me know you got back okay? A real pea-souper here. Hope London’s clearer. Kx.

 

The phone screen is bright in my hand. Mark would usually have let me know he got back safely, but there’s been nothing, not even a short text. I read, re-read the message and press send. He left without a word this morning. Yesterday afternoon and evening had been spent avoiding each other. He ate dinner whilst working in our bedroom, claiming to be too busy to join us. This morning the kitchen was empty, no scribbled message, not a single Post-it note.

I shove the mobile in my jeans pocket, shift the cake tin under my arm and follow Riley down the narrow path. If Mark replies the phone will vibrate in my pocket, but at 14:42 he’ll be in court, a client conference, or working with Stephen and the team on the Southampton trial. From Mark’s perspective, this whole thing must seem crazy. But if the tables were turned, wouldn’t I listen, at least try to understand him? It’s not as though it’s only me. He saw how shocked George Cooper was, how skittish and nervous Shirley and the children are in the house.

‘Riley?’

The fog is thickening as the path slopes to the river. If I lose the dog I’ve no chance of finding him in this. A short yap, scuffling somewhere up ahead. He’s been good over half-term, coming when the twins and I call him. The lych gate is a dark mass, growing sharper as I pick my way across puddles and potholes. Heavy, rhythmic footsteps pound the ground behind me. I glance over my shoulder and pull off the path into the shelter of the gate. A jogger, hoody pulled up, a scarf across his mouth, splashes past. I’m gripping the cake tin so tightly it’s digging into my hip bone. Familiar things are strange today. Even the dull drip, drip, drip from branches sounds eerie. I step back onto the path and pick up my pace. The towpath is another hundred metres or so, the boathouse only a few minutes from here.

Mark rarely mentions Mum’s illness, we don’t discuss it. Google will have told him about symptoms, treatments, the hereditary stuff, anything he wants to know. If he didn’t check it out after we met he will have before the children were born. Anyone would. So why throw it in my face now? If he’s planning to leave me and take the twins, he’ll know how difficult it will be for me if he brings all that up. It could be an explanation why he’s so keen I take my medication, clear proof I’m not fully recovered. However hard I try, whatever I or the doctors say, doubt will linger. Is she okay, will she relapse, are the children really safe with her? Once doubt is established, any judge will err on the side of caution, order the children to live with the parent who poses no risk at all. I should speak to Amy again, fill her in about Mum. See if that alters her advice.

I reach the end of the path, fog wraps around me, the air still, heavy and cold. Everything is wet. The towpath is busy, dark shapes randomly loom at me, joggers and fellow dog walkers keen to get home before it gets dark.

‘Riley?’

We need to take a left here towards the village. I can’t make out the boathouse yet, but it’s only a few metres further along the towpath. I hear Riley before I see him. I clip on his lead and we set off together towards the village. It feels better with the dog pulling me forwards.

The boathouse is tucked tight into the riverbank, its squat tin chimney spiralling wood smoke into the fog. Across the small deck, a cabin door is hooked open, the interior of the boat in darkness.

‘Hello?’

There’s no bell to ring. I rap my fist against the side of the boat, unsure how else to make myself known.

‘Mr Denning? It’s Kate, Kate Keeling.’

My voice sounds disembodied in the silence. Riley tugs the lead, eager to be on his way. I stand beside the boat, not knowing what to do. There’s no sign of Richard Denning. Do we wait here a while? We hadn’t agreed a time to meet, just Monday afternoon. He’s almost certainly nipped out on an errand and will be back shortly. I head for the bench a little further along the river.

I rest Shirley’s cake tin on the bench and my bag on my knees. I can watch the boathouse from here, see him easily if he returns. He can’t have gone far with the cabin open in this weather. I let Riley off the lead again. The dog stays close, snuffling beneath the hedge behind where I sit. The bench, like everything else, is wet, damp seeps into my jeans. I rummage in my bag and pull out my sketch pad, rummage some more and find a pencil. I quickly fill the page with an outline but it’s cold, the light too poor to draw, what am I think of? I stuff the paper and pencil back into the bag, take my phone from my pocket. 14:49. Nothing from Mark. I drop the mobile back into my windcheater. I’ll wait a few more minutes.

If there’s any chance of saving our marriage, the last thing to do right now is move out of our home. But we just can’t stay. It’s a massive relief to be out of the place, to be able to stay with Shirley. Too much has gone on at Haverscroft. I can’t ignore it or put it down to nerves, mine or the children’s. We’re not safe there, I’m sure of it. Mrs Havers can’t or won’t help, that much is clear. Richard Denning knows something. Shirley thinks he has information beyond common gossip and rumour. She’s usually right about these things. If he can explain what is there, what it is we are faced with, perhaps Alan Wynn will know what to do. How, or if, this thing can be sorted.

A few days at Shirley’s will let me relax. Stress caused the breakdown. It still stops me thinking clearly now. It scares me, all this stuff about the house, with Mark, all whizzing round in my head getting nowhere. I can’t be ill, not again, not now. Maybe when I know more I can understand it. Maybe then I can explain it to Mark, if he’s prepared to listen.

I stare across the path to the still and silent boathouse. Somehow it’s changed. Mist still presses at the low, dark windows. Nothing moves. It bothers me, the cabin door left open in such damp weather. I check my phone, nothing from Mark. I’ve been here far longer than I intended. My feet are numb with cold, my jeans cling to my skin. Riley pushes a damp nose into my hand. He’s cold and wet too, I should get him to Shirley’s. I look back at the boat. The thin spire of wood smoke no longer churns from the tin chimney. Perhaps I misunderstood our arrangement, maybe Richard Denning has gone to Haverscroft?

My legs are stiff as I stand and I realise just how cold I am. I drop my phone into my jeans pocket, pull my coat closer and my scarf tighter. I’ll leave the cake tin on deck with a note and my mobile number. The surface of the towpath is like soup, puddles interspersed with islands of squelching mud. Tom said wellingtons were a ‘no-brainer’ this morning, I’m grateful for them now. Riley follows at my heel, his coat hanging in wet ribbons under his belly and legs. I glance along the riverbank. Visibility for fifteen, maybe twenty metres at most. No one to be seen.

I reach the side of the boathouse.

‘Hello?’

My voice rings with uncertainty in the stillness. No one responds. I hammer my fist against the side of the boat and wait. Nothing. I step closer, grab the wooden handrail and lean over it trying to get a better view across the deck and into the cabin. The varnished rail is wet, my hand skids beneath my weight. I stumble, put out both hands to break my fall.

‘Shit!’

The cake tin clatters and skids across the deck and thunks into the far corner. Riley shoots past my legs, claws scrabbling against the boards. He vanishes through the open cabin door.

‘Riley! Here, boy!’

Muddy paw prints smear the deck. For a second, maybe two, I hear nothing.

‘Riley!’

The dog growls, a low sound growing in volume, breaking into non-stop barking. I glance along the towpath, no one in sight. What the hell is he barking about? Has he hurt himself, fallen down the cabin steps?

‘Riley! Get out here, now!’

The barking continues, a relentless rhythmic sound. I’ll have to climb aboard and see what the problem is. What can be in there to make him bark like this?

‘Riley!’

I swing my bag over the handrail onto the deck. I can leave the cake in the cabin with a note to say we’re staying at Shirley’s. My wellingtons are filthy, slippery with mud, perhaps I should take them off? I crouch in front of the cabin door and peer inside the dark interior. A brown tweed jacket hangs on top of a pile of coats near the door, a chequered cap on top. My eyes slowly adjust.

‘Riley! Come here!’

The dog’s barking is like nothing I’ve heard from him before. The constant noise is making me anxious, my heart racing, my breath coming in short sharp puffs. A long narrow space emerges from the gloom. Nearest the door is a kitchenette, a dumpy silver kettle, a whistle on its spout. A Pyrex jug has pale yellow mixture in it, scrambled eggs maybe, the fork resting against the glass side.

The second cabin door is closed. I pull it toward me, it opens easily, the catch rattling loose against the varnished wood. More light spills down the narrow slatted-steps into the galley. No-one would leave a boat open, even for a short time, with it being so damp today.

The interior of the boat comes into focus, my eyes scan the space. At the far end is a closed door, a bedroom or washroom. Immediately in front of it is a sitting area, bench-style seating attached to the wall piled with mismatched and beaten-up cushions. A large old-fashioned chrome angle lamp must have stood on the table but now lies across the narrow walkway, broken. Splinters of glass from the bulb glint, catching the light that streams in from where I crouch at the top of the steps. I hope Riley hasn’t smashed it bounding around in such a confined space.

Something about the smell in here is familiar, constricts my chest, a cold sweat beading my forehead and prickling my underarms. Riley is the only thing that moves as he barks and yowls, his eyes trained on my face. I feel the scream rising in my throat as my hand flies to cover my mouth. I don’t look directly at the bulky shape the dog stands next to, I don’t need to, I know what it is.

The bloodless grey pallor of the skin on a hand, nut brown when it hauled me from the pond. Where does that colour go? I don’t look at the unseeing green eyes or the black shape crawling from beneath the back of his skull. Even though I don’t look, not directly, I know beyond any doubt, as my screaming and screaming and screaming cuts through the fog, he is dead.