The Burying Ground Read online

  He laughed at that. Taken aback, I suppose. He’d never heard me ask him for anything. All that I had, he had offered without demand.

  ‘Are you a little short?’ he asked. ‘I can wire the post office a money order for whatever you need. Are you getting the parcels?’

  I closed my eyes. I felt sick. Hated being this pitiful, kept thing.

  ‘Cranham, your department has good ties with the police, yes? That comes under your umbrella?’

  He paused. I could hear him trying to work out where I might be heading.

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ I said, brightly. ‘I’m just a bit concerned about somebody. I made a friend, you see. A nice lady who lives in the village. She’s been very helpful and I rather want to do something nice for her. She rents out a room at her house and a few months back a man came to stay. He went out walking. Birdwatching, so she thinks. He didn’t come back. I’m sure he just got called away but she’s been worried ever since and the people up here are a bit reluctant to make things official so I thought that perhaps you could see if there was anything suspicious about it? Perhaps a business that reported an employee missing?’

  I could hear him frowning. ‘I’m not sure I can involve myself …’

  ‘She’s been such a help. I really would like to take the weight off her mind.’

  ‘Does she have a name for him?’

  ‘That’s the thing – she’s not kept very good records. She just knows that he was a middle-aged chap with a foreign accent. Maybe Swiss or German or French. And it was some time this year.’

  ‘That’s very vague,’ he tutted. ‘You must get a lot of people passing through. For the air base. For the spa. I can’t imagine that any of my contacts will be able to help.’

  I rather enjoyed the lying. It was good to feel as though I was doing something I was good at. I hadn’t even planned the story when I made the call – I just knew my tongue would come up with something.

  ‘It’s lonely here, Cranham. You do so much for me and I’ll always be grateful but sometimes I need somebody to talk to. And I’m so out of practice I might say all the wrong things. All sorts of stuff might come spilling out …’

  He cleared his throat. He understood.

  ‘I’ll certainly try, my love.’

  I heard the clinking of glasses behind him. He was in a bar. People were listening. He was trying to make it sound like we were a real couple. It sounded as false as the way he spoke his vows or the kiss he gave my damp cheek when the vicar said I was his.

  ‘I think I’ll head back down to the village,’ I said, breezily. ‘I’ve been in and out a lot these past few days. I’m starting to get to know a few people. They’re saying kind things about Stefan. Asking after you …’

  ‘How lovely. Now, I suppose I must get on.’

  ‘Of course. How long should I give you?’

  ‘Oh, you just do as you will and leave it all to me.’

  I think I hung up before saying goodbye. I feared that if I opened my mouth I would tell him what a patronising bastard he was, though with the wisdom of the passing years I will admit that he was not such a bad stick. It wasn’t his fault. None of it was. He liked men, that was the thing. And he needed to look respectable while he enjoyed their attentions and built his career. It had all worked out rather well, truth be told. Stefan’s father could never acknowledge Stefan was his – he had too much to lose. But when I told him I was pregnant he did what he was so very good at and solved the problem. Found a junior civil servant with a secret he wished to hide and arranged for us to be introduced and wed. Then he funded my disappearance to the country. He sent flowers when Stefan died. I still have them, pressed into the pages of a poetry book I had sent him when I was still a student and which he had in turn returned to me, stating that the gesture had been inappropriate. It wasn’t his fault that he fathered a child. Not really. He just wasn’t strong enough to keep saying no. And my goodness he said it plenty before I got him into bed. I love hard, that’s what Flick says. I fall for people like they’re going to fill some great gap in me. I grow consumed by the thought that if they could just become mine, my life would fit the shape it should always have fitted. And when they let me down – when they fail to be what I need them to – that love turns into a bitter, acid thing.

  I pulled on my woollen hat and stepped into the evening air. It was a little after seven. The clouds had cleared just enough to give me a glimpse of the promised moon amid a sugar-sprinkling of stars. The moon looked like an orange split in two. I had never seen its craters and patterns so pronounced. It was the kind of moon that I could imagine prehistoric people worshipping with fire and sacrifice and it would not have surprised me if I were to hear chanting or saw a procession of flickering torches heading towards some forest clearing where a virgin in a white dress was staked to a tree.

  I lost myself in daydream for a while, trying to keep my feet steady on the slippery path down to the river. The moon gave me a decent amount of light to see by and as I made my way towards the river I noticed that winter was beginning to steal across the woods. It was a sensation more than anything – an intuition that the trees were preparing for change. I caught it in the whispers of the softly moving branches; a crispness, a rustling, the way old people’s voices can take on a new, more mortal timbre, in their final years. It was as if I could smell the coming of the end; the transformation and death of the remaining leaves which were already turning to mulch and decay beneath my boots.

  I heard the river before I saw it. It didn’t roar but it had raised its voice in recent days and the stones that were usually visible from the bridge were now more deeply submerged. I wondered about the Popping Stone. The Kissing Bush. I wanted to shake my head dismissively at such superstitious nonsense but I’d altered in some inexplicable way over the past couple of days and I suddenly felt less inclined to dismiss such things as the preserve of the uneducated. I found myself willing to listen. To open my mind a little. I wish I’d done so before. The hope of Heaven would have been comforting when Stefan died.

  There was a light on the far side of the river. I glimpsed it through the trees and stopped where I stood. It was a soft kind of radiance; little more than a flash of colour amid the khaki and black but it was enough to catch my eye and cause me a moment’s pause. I strained my hearing, listening for voices, but could make nothing out. Where was the light coming from? I tried to get my bearings. The bridge would take me to the footpath that would lead up the slope to the spa. The light was coming from a little further away, downriver, in the part of the forest that I had rarely investigated. There had been houses there, at one time. Little cottages, inhabited by the artisans who made money from the tourists, selling their wares from carts and barrows along the footpath. What was the name? Green something. Green Grove, that was it. The authorities had started dismantling the little cottages a decade back and only a couple remained; blocky, miserable affairs covered in ivy and littered with mud and leaves.

  Quietly, my feet making no noise on the wooden planks of the bridge, I crossed the river and headed away from the footpath. Cautiously, I made my way through the trees towards the light.

  I heard the voices before the shapes came into proper focus. One voice raised in temper – the other soft and low, like the confident growling of a dog that knows it rarely needs to go to the trouble of biting anybody.

  ‘Yer don’t understand! I just need to talk to him! We’re pals. It’s none of yer worry.’

  ‘I’m not worried. But you’d be as well to move on.’

  ‘Hiding between your legs, is he? Little shite. Led me a fucking merry dance up and down the bloody ridge. But yer not as clever as ye think yez are, ye little bastard. Found ye, didn’t I!’

  ‘No, you didn’t. Because he’s not here. I’ve told you that. The only thing here for you is trouble and I’m too tired to dish it out. But if you’re going to push …’

  ‘I’ll blow yer bloody face off.’

  ‘Yes, Pi
ke, you’ll huff and you’ll puff and you’ll piss off. You’re no big bad wolf.’

  I stayed where I was, pressed against the damp trunk of a slender tree. The man I knew as Heron was leaning in the open doorway of one of the abandoned cottages. In front of him, propped up on a branch that he had sunk into the floor, hung an old oil lamp. It gave off just enough light to see his backpack and a wooden crate. Craning my neck I could make out the contents. Detergent. Milk. Bread. Tins of food. Matches. Whisky. Home-made jam. I recognized the contents at once. Such gifts had been arriving on my doorstep ever since moving in. Did we have the same benefactor? I frowned, unsure what to make of it. Then a thought occurred. Had Heron been providing me with the helpful parcels? And if so, what on earth for? I thought of the boot prints by the bed and stared at his big, brooding silhouette. I suddenly wished I could better see his face.

  ‘Ye’ve never scared me, Heron.’

  ‘I know that, lad. That’s what baffles me.’

  ‘I could come down here any night. Could stick a knife in yer guts while ye were sleeping and decorate the trees with yer insides.’

  ‘Aye, you could. Tell you what, I’ll go get some shut-eye now and you just let me know when you’re ready.’

  I found myself grinning. Heron’s voice barely rose above a whisper. There was no fear in him. In contrast, Pike sounded like an angry adolescent.

  ‘He’s got something I need,’ whined Pike.

  ‘He’s just a boy. And he belongs to John and Felicity. They’re all right. They don’t deserve you.’

  ‘But Fairfax …’ shrieked Pike. ‘The tooth …’

  ‘Fairfax is gone, lad. And I know you don’t know how to deal with what you’re feeling. So I’m being kind. I’m keeping it gentle. But if you’re not on your way you’re going down the fucking well.’

  For a moment there was complete silence. I held my breath, wondering which of Felicity’s sons had fallen foul of Pike and what any of it had to do with Fairfax and the dead man. I knew at once it would be Brian. He had that badness to him. I recognized it as soon as I saw it. The sisters at my school would have called him wicked.

  ‘You can’t protect him forever,’ threatened Pike.

  ‘No. But if I hit you hard enough you’ll forget why you’re after him.’

  I shrank into the darkness of the tree as Pike stomped past me. He had a shotgun in his hand and I could make out mud upon his face. I waited until he was out of sight before I let myself breathe out properly. Then I smelled cigarette smoke. Close, beside my left ear.

  ‘Hello, Miss,’ said a voice, so close to me that I could feel warm breath upon my skin. I jumped the way Felicity would have; the way a silly girl would have. I laughed and it came out reedy and frightened.

  ‘I wasn’t spying,’ I said, before I could work out what else to say. ‘I’m sorry, I heard voices …’

  ‘I don’t like you being out in the woods in the dark,’ he said. ‘There are poachers. Traps.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I protested, instinctively, but stopped when I sensed him moving. He appeared in front of me as if he had been made from shadows and trees. He had a square, handsome face with thick lips and two days’ growth of black beard upon his cheeks. His hair was a tangle of black curls and he wore a dirty white scarf tied around his neck. He was dressed in a black bomber jacket and army trousers that disappeared into tall, lace-up black boots.

  ‘I’ll bring you your food by in the morning if that’s all right,’ he said, and his voice was melodic, as though it was used to telling campfire tales and singing old folk songs.

  ‘It is you who’s been bringing them …?’ I began.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked, unable to help it.

  He gave a half-smile and his cigarette rose an inch. ‘Saw you and your boy not long after you moved in. Liked how you were together. Figured you might need a hand. Hope it wasn’t a liberty.’

  I wasn’t sure how to appear. Was there any reason to be displeased? I had never met a man who gave something away without expecting payment and I think my doubts showed in my gaze.

  ‘I’ll leave off, then,’ he said, shrugging. ‘No bother if it’s a worry. I’m the same myself.’

  ‘The same?’

  ‘Independent. Don’t much care for other people’s help. They always seem to want something in return.’

  We shared a smile. I found myself liking him. Then a thought occurred.

  ‘You just helped Felicity. Was that Brian that Pike was after?’

  He nodded. ‘Pike’s all bluster. Never had a dad. Just needs a couple of reminders what’s OK and what’s not.’

  ‘And that’s where you come in?’ I asked, looking sceptical. ‘Why?’

  ‘Who else? Every bugger else is scared of him.’

  Behind him I heard a sudden rustle and an instant later Heron’s hand was across my mouth. He pressed himself close to me and I was suddenly overwhelmed by his nearness. I could smell the fire and the gunpowder and the paraffin upon his fingers and with my face pressed into his jacket I got the whiff of the skin beneath the mingled scents: an earthy, woodland smell, like dew the night after a bonfire. My eyes widened at the suddenness of it and then his face was a shade from mine – his blue eyes growing bigger and smaller and blurring as I tried to make sense of it. He jerked his eyes right and I followed his gaze. There were six of them. One great, majestic stag with antlers like hawthorn trees. Two smaller does. Three youngsters. They moved through the trees like liquid.

  ‘Don’t speak,’ breathed Heron. ‘They can’t smell you. You smell of me right now. And they know me.’

  I found myself suddenly aware of myself and where I was – pressed against a tree and pinned beneath this strong, mysterious man as these forest creatures slunk between pockets of shadow. I felt him relax his grip and I gave a tiny nod, promising not to make a sound.

  ‘There’s two rich bastards from the castle been tracking that king for weeks.’

  ‘King?’ I whispered.

  ‘The buck. King of the woods.’

  There was no mirth in his voice as he said it. He meant every word.

  ‘You were a gamekeeper once, so I heard,’ I said, under my breath.

  ‘I were all sorts. And none sat well. Now I keep them safe.’

  ‘The animals?’

  ‘Those I can.’

  We watched the family of roe deer flit past the abandoned cottage and after a moment I let out a breath. ‘Thank you,’ I said, and it may have been the first sincere one of my life.

  ‘Not a bother,’ he said, shrugging. ‘I’ll walk you up the spa path, if you like.’

  I was going to tell him not to worry about it and reassure him I would be fine on my own. But I also wanted to enjoy an extra moment in his company. Under that moon, on that night, there was something ethereal and otherworldly about him. It would not have surprised me to look down and see that he had furry legs and cloven hooves.

  ‘That would be nice,’ I said.

  He nodded and we set off back towards the path. He looked for a moment as though he was going to offer me his hand as we crossed a particularly slippery area but he did not. He walked in silence and I followed behind.

  ‘Is Brian all right?’ I asked, as we reached the path.

  ‘Can’t say,’ said Heron, shrugging. ‘He’s nowt to fear from Pike. It’s just piss and wind.’

  ‘But he had a gun …’

  ‘Everybody has a gun. Difference is, most of us know how to use them. Pike’s a boy. He plays at being something else but he’s got a scared soul.’

  ‘Why did he want Brian?’

  ‘He said Brian had something that belonged to him.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Didn’t matter to me,’ said Heron. ‘Brian gave him the slip a dozen times but Pike saw his footprints by the bridge. Caught up with him near the grove. It’s as well I was home.’

  I smiled, enjoying the idea of the ramshackle cottage being ‘home’.

 
; ‘So where’s Brian now?’

  ‘Slipped out the back while Pike and me were having a chat. Can you smell the sulphur water? You’re not far from the true well.’

  ‘The true well?’

  ‘Not the one where the tourists drink. I mean the true spring, straight out of the earth. Stinks like gunpowder and rotten eggs and looks like day-old coffee but it’s the reason for this whole place existing. Romans blessed it, did you know that? And there hasn’t been a religious movement that hasn’t come up with some ritual or another based on the importance of the waters.’

  ‘You’re from here?’ I asked. ‘You seem to know a lot about the history.’

  ‘I were friends with Fairfax,’ said Heron, without looking at me. ‘Told me a lot.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks. Sorry for your sadness, too.’

  We walked on in silence and it was with some disappointment that I saw the great white shape of the spa appear out of the woods. Two vans were standing in the car park and a sleek dark vehicle was parked in the shadow of the furthest trees. There were lights on at the spa but I couldn’t hear a sound.

  ‘Be a nice hotel,’ said Heron, nodding at it. ‘Be good for more people to see this place before it goes.’

  ‘Before what goes?’

  ‘Gilsland. The river. The way things were.’ He said it without sentiment and it seemed wrong to press him. I thought he would leave it there but abruptly he spoke again. ‘Things change and they stay the same. Fairfax said he’d found that out. That’s why he wrote our stories down, you know? Wanted a record of this place and this time. He knew better than anybody what this little part of the world has seen. All the blood and bones beneath our feet. But happiness too. Laughter. Think of all the love that’s sunk into the ground and you can almost trust it to stop the hate. We’re built on more than our dead. He told me that. He missed his son. That’s all there is to say on that. But he loved Gilsland and its people. It were a sadness for him to die like that. Seems wrong to think of him laying in a drawer somewhere, cut up and lonely. Wish I could lay him in the ground and pull the earth over him like a blanket. That’s what he’d want. Took death serious did Fairfax. Knew where we belong and where we go.’