Pat almost didn’t see the gateway.
He’d been driving along a country lane bordered by hawthorn hedges when he saw the gap. He swerved to a stop and switched off his lights, but not before they illuminated the building squatting on the other side of the field. For a moment it was dark. Then headlights from a car passing on the motorway above swept the area.
He was in the countryside a few miles outside Highford, the rural quiet broken only by the slow click of his engine as it cooled and the smooth hum of traffic. The nearest village was a couple of miles away.
As he stared ahead, the half-moon came out from behind a cloud and gave him a clearer view of the field he would have to cross. It was damp and rutted, large tufts of grass hiding whatever would make a mess of his shoes.
His breath misted before him as he put on coat, scarf and gloves. He felt the cold more than he used to, as if his whole being was becoming thinner.
His feet crunched on gravel. He opened the boot to take out the spade that he’d picked up from the garage before he’d left the house.
Pat pushed the metal gate, and it creaked open on rusted hinges. He trudged across the field, the grass trailing against his trousers.
There was a canal on the other side of the field, a long slow curve as it made its way through the sheep farms that occupied the land between Highford and Whitton. The field rose steadily, so that his breath became laboured as he walked, his hand clutching his chest. The air he sucked in chilled him, but he could see what he was aiming for: a small stone structure, a ruined cottage, its outline visible against the distant sweep of headlights. The orange glow of the next village along was in the distance, but it served merely to highlight how isolated he was. The motorway blocked the view ahead and behind him was just a line of dark hills.
He gasped as he pushed on and the field got more uneven as he got closer to the water. The further away he got from his car, the more alone he felt.
As he reached the edge of the canal, he stopped. He bent over, his hands on his legs, as he struggled to breathe. He’d taken the easiest route across the field, and the disused building was further along, but he felt like he’d been for a long hike.
The derelict cottage looked more ominous as he got closer. He’d driven past it countless times and never thought anything of it, but in his book Sean had written how he and Trudy used to love cruising along the canal and picnicking on the bank, fantasising about buying an old cottage and bringing it back to life. It was the postscript to the story that sealed it, because in it Sean described how progress had ruined their dream by running a motorway past it, taking away the tranquillity.
Sean’s taunt during the celebratory party had come back to him, where he’d leaned in, sweat on his upper lip, and hissed, ‘By the western corner, just under the surface, below the mason’s mark – an itch you can’t scratch.’
A mason’s mark. Somewhere old. It made so much sense. He didn’t know whether Dan would be able to use whatever he found, or even if he’d find anything, but his quest had become more important than that somehow. It had become about his own mental peace, as if he was the one needing redemption. He needed to know.
The ground became more uneven, and he almost tripped over a rock embedded in the ground. That forced him to go slower. He couldn’t afford to injure himself and be left out in the field all night. Spring had arrived but the nights were still cold, particularly away from the warmth of the town and in the path of the winds that rolled over the hilltops. He was determined to keep going though.
He stopped when he got to the cottage and pressed his hands against the stone. It had long since fallen into disrepair and nature was slowly taking it over. The roof had gone, slate thieves wouldn’t leave the tiles there for too long, along with all the pipes and guttering.
He hadn’t brought a torch, and he cursed himself for that.
He glanced into the house through the shell of a window. The inside was swallowed up by darkness. It looked like it might have been a kitchen, as he could just make out the edge of a cupboard, but beyond that it was all black.
For a moment, a headlight from the motorway made the walls and doorways inside bend and move.
Pat stepped away, his heart beating fast, his chest aching.
He was scared. He should go back to his car and go home, where Eileen would pour him a whiskey and he could seek solace in the glow of the fire. He could tell Dan about his suspicions in the morning.
But it seemed stupid not to look now he was here. He couldn’t just leave, not when it was the question that had haunted him ever since Sean’s release party. He thought about his phone and whether he could use the screen as a light, but then he remembered that he hadn’t brought it with him. It had been part of his promise to Eileen, that he wouldn’t be wedded to it like he had been before, always waiting for a call from a police station. It was turned off and in his study.
He peered again at the cottage. He tried to work out which corner of the cottage was the most westerly and went to it. The moon wasn’t strong enough to allow him to see properly, so he felt along the stones with his hands. But then another set of headlights swept the cottage and he saw it – scratches embedded in a cornerstone, a mason’s mark, an inverted triangle on top of another triangle, making a shape like an egg-timer.
He grinned, despite the cold and the ache in his chest. This was the place, right where he was standing.
The ground was overgrown with weeds and nettles that spread right into the wall. He pulled those away first, pausing to take ragged breaths. Once he’d cleared that, he dragged his spade along the ground, feeling for a slight bump or indentation. After a few metres, he stopped and sighed. He was wasting his time; the whole area was uneven.
He was about to give in when he had another thought. If he could just remove the turf, it might reveal something.
He took a deep breath and thrust the spade into the ground, the soil soft and moist and heavy. Pat strained as he removed the first large clod and then went along the ground with his spade, marking out a straight line, the house in front of him. He started to remove turf along the line, digging methodically.
It was warm work. He took off his coat, the night air turning his sweat-soaked shirt into a cold rag.
It took him an hour to cut away a large square of turf running up to the western corner, the grass often tangled with weeds, the sound of his breaths loud. Once he finished, he got on his knees, his gloves off, and started feeling the ground again.
He stopped.
There’d been a noise. There’d been a steady hum of cars in the distance, but this seemed different. Closer, slower.
He straightened and looked across the field behind him, and cursed again his lack of a torch. All he could see was a dark and empty field. He went back to running his hand over the ground, trying to ignore the feeling that he was being watched. It was his nerves playing tricks in the dark.
He was almost by the corner of the house when he felt it. A rustle of plastic, like the top of a knotted bag but thick. He got to his feet and went for his spade, excited now.
He was about to start digging when he heard the noise again. It was closer this time. Someone moving through the long grass.
‘Hello?’
His voice was timid.
There was no reply.