Magpie: The gripping psychological suspense with a twist Read online

  ‘Then how about a day trip somewhere, with Alex and me?’ Becky breaks into my thoughts. ‘I was thinking, in this weather, a trip to Nottingham, maybe a look at the shops and some lunch?’

  ‘Oh … I …’ I try not to let my voice sound wary.

  I picture myself telling Joe about my plans. Tonight – no, I can’t do that. Tomorrow morning, then. Or only once I have the keys? How late can I leave it? I can’t do this – go out with Becky, never mind the stuff I have to do. If she sees me today, the state I’m in, she’s very quickly going to figure out that something’s up. I wrack my brains. I promised Duncan I’d go with him to an event tonight. Bloody hell. I have to keep up this façade of our life just a little longer. That is if he remembers and actually comes home.

  ‘I’m sorry, Becks, but I don’t think I can. Duncan and I are going to an exhibition in Belston tonight and Joe’s not really himself right now … I’m not sure I can fit it all in. It’s just not a good day.’

  I feel my eyes scrunch up with pain, cringing at my shame. It’s as well Becky can’t see my face. It’s a half-truth, but I can’t think of what else to say.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Becky,’ I add. ‘That’s a lovely suggestion. Thank you, anyway.’

  There’s a slight hesitation.

  ‘That’s okay, love. I understand.’ And then, more warmly, ‘Hope he cheers up.’

  ‘Thanks, me too – speak soon.’

  I give a nervous laugh and end the call quickly after that before I say anything else that will give me away. I keep the phone clutched in my hand as if somehow that redeems me.

  I move to stand at the patio doors, staring outside. It’s sleeting now, clumps of soft ice landing in splats against the glass. All the windows were triple glazed by a Norwegian firm, giving insulation worthy of a Scandinavian winter. It was ferociously expensive, but Duncan said the architect insisted. More like he did. Inside, the glass is warm to the touch. Outside, it must be almost freezing. The sleet is driven onto the glass at a slant, slowly melting as it converges to a point. All things, I think, must come to the same point. Joe and Duncan and me.

  Becky has always had broad shoulders as far as Joe is concerned, listening to me pouring out my heart about his behaviour and problems. She’d listen as willingly about anything else and it’s not that I don’t trust her because she’s Duncan’s sister. Maybe I don’t trust myself. My feelings run too deep for me to trust myself. Once the doors are open, I don’t think I could stop.

  That’s what I tell myself as I brood by the window.

  Poor Alex, with all his complicated medical problems. He was born with a genetic condition – Angelman, it’s called. His back was bent and his head too small. Becky and her then husband knew that something was wrong. Alex was over a year old when they finally got a clear diagnosis. He had seizures, he couldn’t talk, his arms flapped like wings and the twisted back was the result of severe scoliosis. By the time he was old enough to go to school he was in a wheelchair.

  When I think of all the battles that Becky has had to fight on her son’s behalf, to get the support they both needed … It had been a nightmare trying to navigate schools, hospitals, social workers, funding, let alone the practical aspects of caring for a growing disabled boy. All without a partner. Becky’s husband had left her by the time Alex was two. Couldn’t hack it, Becky once said. She seems philosophical about it now. I suppose I should be grateful that at least Duncan didn’t do that to me. I grit my teeth – I’m not grateful at all.

  I’ve seen Becky’s ups and downs, the impact it’s had on her health, her wellbeing – we’re none of us saints. When Alex got to ten years old, she almost gave up. The daily grind of caring for him was too much. I’d come round to help after dropping Joe off at school to find her in a heap at the kitchen table, sobbing as if her whole world had collapsed. She’d been told that her regular social worker was being replaced by a new one.

  In the greater scheme of things, it wasn’t such a big deal, but she got on really well with the old one and it pushed her over the edge, the idea of having to start again, building up a new relationship of trust and understanding. Suddenly, she’d come to realise she couldn’t carry on as she had been, juggling caring for Alex with work and school and appointments and weekends and … I helped as and when I could, but she’d had to concede that she needed some time to herself, a few days when he could be elsewhere on a regular basis. Respite care, they called it.

  Care for the carer, that’s the first rule of looking after someone, she later told me. You have to be well yourself to look after someone else. It took us both a while to realise that.

  She’s shared with me all the joy of her son too – his quirky big-faced smiles, his first broken, tortured speech, the way his painful body kept on growing, from small child to young adult, folded into his wheelchair ever more like a broken bird. The day his hand squeezed hers, a small, rare gesture of affection, had meant everything to Becky. It was Alex’s way of telling her, in a manner that his damaged voice could not, how very much he loved and appreciated her. She was in floods of tears after that.

  AngelMan and my boy, StickMan. They were a pair, Alex and Joe, our superheroes. Becky and I were too. If she could do it, against such obstacles, then surely so could I. Her strength, her love inspired me to carry on.

  CHAPTER 32

  CLAIRE – AFTER

  I sleep from sheer exhaustion. A deep, embalming sleep that blocks out daylight, moonlight, all thoughts, all pain … but it’s only a temporary reprieve. I wake too early and now that I’m awake, it’s all coming back. Joe’s excitement about the coin, Joe’s fear of his metal detecting friends, that story he’d told me about the Tutbury Hoard rolling around and around in my head – has he found something more? And is it them, those other metal detectorists? Have they hurt Joe in some way, to get at what he’s found? I bury my head in the pillow, trying to understand.

  I should go and see where Joe was digging. Maybe that will help. But I haven’t gone in that direction before, across the dam to the north side of the reservoir. What if Duncan sees me? The thought consumes me as I get dressed. It’s still dark. He’ll be in his bed. It’ll be difficult to see properly, but then that’s why it will be okay. Now I see the irony of it – me doing exactly as Joe did, scouring the valley under cover of darkness. I’m filled with doubt – the same doubt that Joe had: what if there are night hawkers, what if I give the game away, what if I inadvertently show them exactly what Joe has been seeking to hide?

  I drive slowly down the hill. It’s the quiet hour before the countryside wakes, with that half-light that marks the cusp between night and day. A faint blush of rose pink stains the clouds and the crescent moon lingers low in the sky. I descend into the village and take the road that follows the reservoir the other way, towards the dam and the road on the Barn side of the water. I’ve left Arthur behind because that way I can be more discreet. Through the open car window, the air is sweetly damp and a stretch of white mist floats across the central span of the reservoir, hugging the bottom of the valley.

  The car crosses the dam. The road drops again. I reach the stretch of road right next to the water, downhill of the Barn. I refuse to look up at it. I drive cautiously. The mist is thicker here, the wheels of my car crushing the fresh twigs blown down overnight. My mind is full of scattered thoughts. I don’t even know where to look. Joe never told me exactly where he was working. Or maybe he did and I hadn’t listened properly. I feel the guilt of my inattention to his chatter sink into the pit of my belly, like a piece of meat that’s gone off.

  I remember our first house, before Duncan and Joe and I moved into the Barn. It was on a hill in Matlock – I always did like a view. It had a narrow front garden, an iron gate and black and red tiles leading to the front door. Inside were high ceilings and plastered cornices thick with too many layers of paint. In the centre of the sitting room hung a cheap paper globe light, the kind you get in student digs, and the carpet was strewn with toys, mess
y with kids’ stuff, exactly how I liked it.

  I think of a day when I was sat on the sofa, squashed and hollow under my hips. It was the kind of sofa you can’t easily get out of. The TV was on, flashing cartoon images. Bright primary colours jarred one against the other until my eyes flinched and my ears burnt from the unnaturally loud laughter. Joe was snuggled on my lap, his cheeks flushed from crying. Both his hands held my thumb tight against his chest. I loved the fact that he wouldn’t let go, that he had to be close, that he needed me. It didn’t last, it wasn’t like that later. I remember the tune I sang to him then. I sing it now as I slowly drive the car:

  I had a little nut tree, nothing would it bear,

  But a silver nutmeg, and a golden pear.

  Gold and silver – the two things that fascinated Joe as he grew older.

  The mist swells above the water. Tenuous strands unravel like a skein of carded wool. A curl of apprehension creeps across my skin. It’s proper fog now. The days often start with fog down here in the bottom of the valley, but today is worse than normal. It stretches across the road, obscuring the way. My lips move silently, a mantra to bolster my courage, and the words are a physical memory teasing against my lips:

  The King of Spain’s daughter, came to visit me,

  All on account of my little nut tree.

  The skeletal shapes of trees drift in and out of sight. Visibility drops down to zero, only to open up again: a tantalising glimpse of reflections in the water, a brief shimmer of leaves suspended over the bank. I am distracted again, clinging to the sensation of Joe sleeping on my lap. All I want to do is close my eyes and remember.

  The car swerves and I clench my hands around the steering wheel. I’m awake, fully in control of my driving again. A wash of white rolls against the windscreen.

  I should go home; the fog has grown too thick. I have no idea what I’m looking for. This was such a bad idea and there’s no point in stopping the car and getting out, not in this. I lean closer to the windscreen to see better. I hear but cannot see the lumbering movement of cows. It can’t be far to the main road. I can take a short cut there and drive home the other side of the water.

  I pick up speed, pushing back against my seat. The fog is too dense. I close the window, still singing to myself quietly to help myself stay awake. My car headlights pick out the very droplets of moisture in the air.

  An arc of light spans the width of the road.

  It’s another set of headlamps. Too fast. Too bright. My eyes are blinded.

  I hear the screech of brakes, the squeal of tyres and I pull on the steering wheel. My foot slams on the brake pedal. The car lurches to one side. My body is thrown forwards. I brace my arms, grip the steering wheel and still my head almost hits the glass.

  The car comes to a juddering halt.

  The seat belt strap burns against my shoulder. I lift my body, holding my arms straight against the wheel. I sit there, frozen to my seat. My heart thundering against my ribs.

  In front of me, the other car lies slewed across the road. It’s half-buried in the fog. I can’t make out the driver. Only that they’re sitting too, in the exact same pose. A man, I think, though I’m not sure. His head is turned towards me and we stare at one another.

  The face is obscured. A blank silhouette. The clothes, the hair, are colourless, achromatic, like a paper cut-out folded into place. I can’t blink, my eyes fixed open, a taste of blood upon my lips. All I see are the eyes blazing from his face. A fierce yellow, like a fox caught unawares in the night. It’s like another of my nightmares.

  Slowly, my hands peel from the steering wheel. I reach out to snap the lock down on the car door. The clunk jars me from my fixation and I grasp the gear stick, fumbling to push it into reverse then back into first, readying myself. I hear the gears of the other car crunch in reply. It moves back, straightening as it does. Then it stops, poised to drive, waiting again, but for what?

  I hold still, as if to even breathe would provoke the other driver into action.

  His car engine revs. It roars into life. It’s speeding towards me, head-on. The mist is sucked away between us, a silver bonnet bursting into view. At the last minute, the car swerves to one side, scraping within an inch of my own and the hedge. It accelerates with a rumbling snarl. I twist round, breath held tight. I see the red glow of its rear fog lights and a cloud of black fumes unfurling in the mist.

  The car is gone.

  My hands push back from the steering wheel, my arms once again rigid. I can’t believe that he did that. Whoever it was.

  He almost drove right into me. Deliberately.

  CHAPTER 33

  CLAIRE – BEFORE

  Something moves by the hedge at the end of the garden. A shape, blurred by the water droplets smothering the window. I step up to the glass and hold myself still. It’s a man. He’s standing in front of the hedge that marks the first of our fields at the foot of the garden – this side of the hedge.

  He’s maybe a few years older than me, with a wiry, seen-it-all, don’t-mess-with-me kind of look. He wears a wax jacket and black knee-high country boots, the uniform around here, and one of those country hats with a wide brim. Water pools on the edge of his hat and drips onto his coat. His legs are slightly apart and both of his hands are in his pockets, elbows out, giving him an oddly aggressive stance. Through the alternating rain and sleet, he doesn’t move at all. He just stands, watching and waiting.

  I think of the phone call before Becky’s. The one where no one answered. The crackling on the line had freaked me out a little, but it could have been the rain. The weather here often affects the telephone line. There’s always a reason behind anything that seems a bit freakish. He’s just a man, isn’t he? On our property, where he doesn’t belong.

  I run to the utility room and shove my feet into a pair of green-buckled wellies. I grab my coat and pull at the back door, pushing my arms into the sleeves as I run across the lawn. He can see me running towards him, but he doesn’t move.

  I stop a few feet from the hedge. My breath comes in short, sharp gulps and the sleet is cold against my face.

  ‘What are you doing on my land? Who are you?’

  My land – not our land or Duncan’s land, my land – because it sounds more assertive.

  ‘Mrs Henderson, is it?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  He relaxes his stance and holds out one hand.

  ‘Hello, there. My name is Ray Turner.’

  I refuse to take his hand.

  ‘I repeat, Mr Turner, what are you doing on my land? Did you try to ring me earlier?’

  He contemplates me, ignoring my last question.

  ‘I’m a friend of your son’s, Mrs Henderson. I represent a few people who’d love to have permission to search your fields with metal detectors.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come to the door?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Henderson. I was about to approach the front door, but you saw me first.’

  He smiles, but it’s unconvincing. The apology feels like anything but.

  ‘And who are these people you represent?’

  ‘A group of us, metal detecting enthusiasts. It’s a hobby. We search the odd field here and there for anything of historical interest. Whatever we find is split fifty-fifty with the landowner.’

  He makes it sound so casual and perfectly legit. Except when I remember Joe’s anxiety, I feel uneasy.

  ‘What makes you think it’s worth your time searching in these fields?’

  I’m not sure I should have put it quite like that. It’s too suggestive that I know something. He brings one hand to the brim of his hat, wiping it clear of water.

  ‘Nothing in particular. We work across the area, as and when we have the time and opportunity. Joe said he thought you wouldn’t mind.’

  Now I know he’s lying. Joe would never have said that. I make a brief pretence of thinking about it, then deftly shake my head.

  ‘No,’ I say. My voice is overly forceful. ‘Thank
you very much, but no, we’re not interested.’

  I step away from him.

  ‘It would be to your advantage, Mrs Henderson. And to your husband.’

  I don’t like the reference to my husband. As if this man is subtly implying it’s Duncan’s decision, not mine. His tone has turned deeper and more precise. It makes me feel worse, as if to say no to him will have consequences.

  I turn back, eyes glittering.

  ‘I don’t like you being on my land without permission – most people would come to the front door, not stand at the bottom of my garden.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Henderson, but I was only walking across the field – my car’s parked down there by the reservoir.’

  He gives a nod towards the road that runs alongside the water at the bottom of the hill. There is, indeed, a car parked in a passing place by the shore. He makes it sound so reasonable.

  ‘That’s our land too, and it’s private, as you’ve just indicated you know. There’s no public right of way.’

  That’s not strictly how it is – the road itself belongs to the estate, not us – but the bit about public access is still true. We had to make sure it was in the deeds that we could access our own property. I push my chin out.

  ‘Then I must apologise,’ he says. ‘I really didn’t intend to cause offence.’

  There’s a pause as I try to figure out my reply.

  He must have taken it as the end of our conversation. He’s hoisted himself over the five-bar gate and now he’s striding across the field. Presumably to return to his car. Except he could have chosen to make his way along the lane, avoiding the repeated trespass of our land. He moves with a deliberate slow stride, turning to take one more look over his shoulder towards the Barn. I feel my jaw tighten. He’s not looking at me. I follow his gaze.