Magpie: The gripping psychological suspense with a twist Page 4

  I gasp and sit up, pulling myself out but into yet another new nightmare.

  Joe?

  I’m panting, dragging great lungfuls of air into my chest. I reach for the bedside lamp, pick up the clock and cast my eyes around the room. I see the spill of daylight growing through the gap in the curtains. For a moment it all seems strange, an alien place I’ve never seen before. The clock has a new face, the curtains a different pattern. Even the fragile dawn is a strange colour, sharper, cleaner, more luminescent than before.

  I exhale and place the clock back on its table. I let the brightness bring me slowly back to life. That’s when the memory taunts me. The memory of my son.

  I remember the sweaty, musky scent of him that clings to his unwashed clothes, the way his hair falls in lush waves across his cheeks. I hear his music, the thudding beat asserting his presence in the Barn. I smell the cold air on his coat, the dead leaves under his feet, the ice upon his skin. And something else – a damp, earthy, rotting kind of smell, like mushrooms spawning in the dirt.

  I am awake. I must let it go, whatever it is that still pulls me to that dream. I will myself not to think of Joe like that. Instead, I think of the scent of him when he was newborn. That sweet Joe smell, my Joe – no one else’s Joe – nestled in the crook of my arm. His fingernails are soft and peeling at their tips, his knees folded to his chest. His skin is pink and white and blue, the strands of black hair on his skull slick with the soft grease of birthing. That smell.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and push the memories away. Are they memories or dreams? I’m not sure. I have a fierce headache that won’t go away. They told me I will have to get used to it, that it’s to be expected after what’s happened. But as I lie here, I can’t even remember who said that or where it was. Only that he’s gone. My Joe.

  He didn’t come with me.

  I open my eyes, listening for his footsteps just in case.

  I betrayed him. I left him behind. It overwhelms me, how I could do that. I can’t let myself think about it, my head hurts trying.

  But now I hear something. There are footsteps, after all. I’m sure it must be him. I’ve been texting him all this time, making sure he knows where to go. At last, he’s come home! To our new home. The cottage. I hear a steady, cautious creak upon the stairs. My bedroom door swings open and a shadow reaches out across the floor.

  It’s Arthur. The dog. His black head is up, sniffing the air. He pauses as if to check that it’s okay to come in.

  He moves again, his three good legs bearing the bulk of his weight as he limps uncertainly towards my bed.

  CHAPTER 8

  DUNCAN – AFTER

  A hand lightly touched his shoulder. Duncan started and the hot coffee burnt his fingers. It was Martin, his face grey and strained, the elasticated plastic hood of his forensic suit pulled down from his head.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Martin. ‘I didn’t mean to make you jump, but you didn’t answer the front doorbell.’

  ‘I … It’s okay, what did you want?’

  ‘I wanted to see how you are.’ Martin gestured through the window.

  Down by the water, someone had drawn back the door of the main tent. Even at this distance, in the fading light, Duncan could see a glimpse of bare earth, cut away into different layers and trenches. It was a pitted labyrinth of mud and water, flags and poles numbered and labelled to match the records in the control tent.

  ‘Thank you for your patience with all this, especially in the circumstances.’

  Especially in the circumstances. As if Duncan had any choice other than to tolerate the noise and disruption, the complete invasion of his privacy. In a bizarre way, he was almost grateful for that. The Barn felt empty without his family in it. His eyes slid back to the window, to the scene at the bottom of the field laid out like the trenches of the Somme. He nodded, only half aware of what he was doing.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ Martin said.

  Duncan swung back to his friend’s face. With the hood down, he could see Martin’s damp wiry hair, speckled white at the temples, and his eyes, sharp and observant. Even with his obvious fatigue, Martin had the edginess of intellect and experience. Duncan had always respected that, but it also made him wary.

  ‘No,’ Duncan replied, his stomach rumbling.

  Martin produced a couple of plump brown paper bags.

  ‘From the mess van,’ he said, nodding to the white van outside, with a generator of its own and a stench of fried chips. ‘They do a mean bacon cob.’

  Already, Martin was pulling back the flaps of brown paper, tearing open a catering sachet of brown sauce and squeezing it over his food.

  Bacon – there was something so vibrant about bacon. The smell of it, the taste of it, the sizzling as it cooks. Claire had been vegetarian. Duncan, too, when they were students. To Claire’s fury, it had been bacon that had broken his resolve, despite all his scruples.

  ‘Sure,’ said Duncan, giving in to his hunger and moving to join Martin. The two of them sat side by side on the kitchen sofa.

  ‘I never thanked you properly for looking after our cat,’ said Martin. ‘He’s doing well.’

  Martin’s cat had been run over two months ago. Duncan had managed to save it, after wiring the jaw and removing one eye.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he said. ‘He was lucky.’

  The density of cat casualties never failed to enrage him – a quarter of a million of them each year in the UK, mostly people driving too fast, not caring at all.

  ‘Well, the wife was hugely relieved. He stays inside now.’

  The one eye didn’t leave them with much choice. Duncan didn’t hold with keeping cats inside, but in this case, he’d had to make it absolutely clear.

  ‘Good,’ he said. The monosyllabic answer was all that he could manage. He took a bite of his cob.

  Martin cast his eyes around the room. The heavy swathes of curtain fabric at the full-length windows by the sofa, the matching oversized lamps on the side tables on either end. The designer scented candles had not yet been burnt. It was Claire who was into burning candles. Duncan could see Martin assessing his taste, his wealth. Martin’s family still lived in a three-bed semi on a modern estate the other side of Derby. Some vets earned more than doctors, which spoke volumes for how people valued their pets.

  ‘You didn’t say much, yesterday.’ It was a question, not a statement. Martin squinted over his roll. ‘I know it was a lot to take in. Bit of a shock, especially … there’s not a huge amount I can tell you at this point, but is there anything you wanted to ask?’

  Duncan folded the paper round his roll, tucking it neatly underneath. His eyes half-closed as he thought about it.

  ‘How was it found?’ he said.

  ‘Bob Shardlow found the remains, or rather his dog did. They were walking along the shore. It was half-submerged in the mud.’

  ‘What was Bob doing there? That’s my land on either side of the road, right up to the water. He’s got no business walking his dog there.’

  Duncan knew that his annoyance might be seen as unreasonable in the circumstances, but he didn’t care. It seemed to him as if he shouldn’t care. About anything. That way was so much easier.

  ‘The path on the south side of the reservoir dam is blocked at the moment because of the high water levels and Shardlow had to find an alternative route.’

  Duncan didn’t respond. He carried on eating, not looking up. Until:

  ‘Can you tell me anything about it?’

  The body – they were talking about the body.

  ‘I can’t tell you that, I’m sorry, mate.’ Martin let his words fade away, using the excuse of the food to fall silent.

  Duncan nodded – they both ate. For a moment, it was no different to the two of them sitting on the wall outside the school, or lying back against the grass on the slopes behind the swimming baths. It had been six weeks – he still felt numb. This new development was surreal. Duncan let it flow over him. He was aware of Martin watc
hing him from the corner of his eye.

  ‘I’m okay, really I am.’

  Duncan pushed the last of his bacon roll into his mouth and scrunched the paper bag in his fist. He kept his face studiously indifferent.

  ‘They’re good at their jobs, you know.’ Martin spoke gently. ‘We’ll do our best to keep this as quick and efficient as possible. But we don’t have much choice.’

  ‘I know.’ Duncan sat with the paper bag still in his fist.

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on things, I promise.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Duncan stood up to place the bag in the kitchen bin. His voice lifted. ‘I appreciate that. When do you think you’ll know more?’

  ‘Hard to tell at this stage. I’ll get an initial report from Forensics tomorrow. We’ll talk to you as soon as we can.’

  There was another silence. Duncan moved to the sink. The cold-water tap gushed as he filled a glass, water frothing up and spilling out over the rim.

  ‘Right, I’m off now.’ Martin slapped Duncan on the back. ‘But I’ll be here again in the morning. You need anything, Duncan, anything at all, or anyone bothers you, you let me know, eh?’

  ‘Thank you, mate. I appreciate it. And thanks for the food. Have a good evening.’

  Duncan turned to lean back against the sink, watching and sipping his drink as Martin left the house. When Martin had gone, he cast his eyes around the room, everything put away in its place, not a speck or a crumb in sight. He’d even had the granite work surfaces repolished. Already. He smoothed his hand across the top of the kitchen island. Claire would have hated it like this, too clinical – like a room at the surgery, that’s what she’d once said. But Duncan could do what he liked now, couldn’t he?

  Now that she had gone.

  CHAPTER 9

  CLAIRE – BEFORE

  I’ve been sorting through my clothes all day today. One pile for the bin, another to give to charity. My arms ache from lugging stuff up and down the stairs, making the most of the time that Duncan’s out. He’s working late today, operating on the spine of a big dog. It could be a very late night, he’d said, don’t bother to cook for me. My head throbs. I’ve been fighting it all day, resisting the need for painkillers. I give in and head to the kitchen, rifling through a drawer for some pills.

  I hear a bang. It’s a door upstairs. There’s the thunder of feet running down the stairs and Joe appears in the kitchen. He’s changed into jeans and a khaki-green jumper – the one his dad bought for his last birthday. The sleeves are already too short, but Joe still wears it, the sleeves rolled up irrespective of the cold so that no one will notice. He slams his body down on a chair, folding one leg over his knee so that he can put his trainers on.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I say. As if I didn’t know.

  He lifts his head, defiance pulling his lips tight.

  ‘Out.’

  He nods towards the metal detector leaning by the back door.

  ‘Please, Joe, not tonight. It’ll be dark soon. Why do you have to do this at night, for goodness’ sake?’

  He stands up. My hand reaches across my chest for the soft spot in the hollow of my shoulder. I rub it as if it hurts. Joe balances on one foot and lifts his other leg, jamming the second trainer on, struggling to get his big fingers round the laces.

  ‘I told you – if the other guys see me, they’ll get there first, take whatever there is – we can’t let them do that.’

  The ‘other guys’ – he means the metal detectorists. Treasure hunters. There’s a whole community of them, apparently; though I gather most of them are a lot older than Joe. It worries me, because it seems to me that my son doesn’t belong in such a group, not at this stage in his life. He should be out with people the same age as him, clubbing, drinking, meeting girls and boys and having fun. Not glued to online chat sites, poring over photographs of ancient treasure, participating in endless conversations about gold and silver coins, artefacts of the long dead, chasing stuff – stuff. It’s just a vain dream.

  He stands upright and walks down the kitchen, opening and closing cupboard doors as he looks for food he can take with him.

  ‘No,’ I say, my voice firmer. ‘Not today, not tonight. I don’t want you going tonight.’

  I stand with my legs apart, willing myself to look taller.

  ‘You listen to your mother, Joe. You’re not going out tonight.’

  I swing round. It’s Duncan.

  He’s come in from the hall and I stare at him in surprise. He’s home early. The operation either went really well or really badly. Or his latest girlfriend has blown him out and cancelled their plans for tonight. Our eyes meet briefly. It’s like this game between us – the texting and calls, all those late nights and excuses. He must realise I know he’s having a full-blown affair by now, even if I don’t know who. He’s been very careful about that.

  He likes hurting me, letting me know in subtle ways how little he thinks of me, how meaningless our marriage has become. But never anything in public. He expects me to carry on, always has, because of Joe. He doesn’t know that I’m planning to leave, that I’ve been carefully saving, waiting, biding my time …

  ‘Joe! Did you hear me?’ repeats Duncan.

  He’s in a foul mood. I can hear it in his voice. I flinch in spite of myself. He doesn’t care about Joe going out, he’s looking for another argument.

  Joe acts as if he hasn’t heard either of us, still banging the cupboard doors like a drummer crashing on cymbals.

  ‘Joe! Stop that!’ Duncan’s voice fills the kitchen.

  Joe stops and turns to face his father.

  ‘Why?’ he says. ‘Why shouldn’t I go out?’

  ‘You heard what your mother said. It’s almost night. It’s not sensible to go out in the fields at night. How can you possibly even see properly? Never mind this fantasy you’ve got of finding some kind of treasure hoard.’ Duncan stresses the word fantasy. ‘Enough’s enough, boy.’ Duncan’s voice deepens. ‘Your mother said no.’

  Blaming me. As always, Duncan somehow makes me out to be the bad guy.

  Joe riles at the word boy.

  ‘Fuck you!’ he shouts, stepping forwards to push past Duncan into the utility room.

  ‘Don’t you swear at me!’ says Duncan, bristling.

  He moves to block Joe’s way, filling the door frame, holding one arm against the architrave. I see Joe’s eyes move to the metal detector propped up in the corner by the back door and my hand moves to my throat.

  ‘Please, Joe, let’s not do this tonight.’ I throw a warning look at Duncan. ‘Why … why don’t we go out for a meal instead? The three of us – pizza in Belston. You’d like that.’

  He used to, when he was little. It’s been a long time since I went out for a meal with Duncan, let alone with Joe as well. Duncan looks at me, surprised at the suggestion, and Joe looks from one to the other of us, disbelieving.

  ‘What and watch the two of you fighting?’ he says.

  I see the bitterness in his eyes. He bends down to duck under Duncan’s arm, but Duncan moves again, stepping forwards to meet him, one hand pushing against Joe’s chest. Suddenly, this whole thing has escalated to a physical confrontation. Joe bats his father’s arm away and I can see the indecision fly across Duncan’s face. Fight or let him go. There’s no winning that.

  Instead, Duncan spins round and strides across the utility room to grab the metal detector before our son can get there. He snatches the battery pack that powers the thing.

  ‘I’ve had enough of all this. There’ll be no metal detecting for you tonight, Joe. It’s time you lived in the real world.’

  Joe stands there, his face pale and stark. Like he can’t believe his father just said that, undermining the very thing that means so much to him.

  Duncan marches into the hall. He exits the front door and it swings shut with a muted clunk. I hear the car door slam and the engine fire up. Joe is galvanised into action, growling almost like an animal.

  ‘Joe! He didn’
t mean it!’

  He ignores me. He takes the stairs two at a time. Moments later he comes down again, another battery pack in his hands. My eyes widen. I’d laugh if it wasn’t so upsetting.

  ‘Joe! You can’t!’

  But it’s too late. He loops past me in the kitchen and grabs hold of the metal detector, fixing the new battery pack into place. He snatches at the back door. Arthur slips through the open gap to follow Joe. And this door slams with a proper satisfying thunk.

  Joe has gone. Duncan, too. And I’m left standing on my own in the kitchen.

  CHAPTER 10

  CLAIRE – BEFORE

  I’m done with my sorting for a while. It’s frustrating, because I can’t pack properly till the very last day. Dusk has fallen early, the way it does in winter, and there’s a chill to the Barn despite our expensive underfloor heating. I decide to have a long, warm bath.

  I head for the master en suite – it’s my bathroom now. There’s a freestanding contemporary bathtub in Apollo Arctic White that Duncan had placed right in front of the low window to make the most of the view. I run the tap for a while, strip off and lower myself into the water until it reaches my chin. The water is hot, turning my skin pink. Steam rises from my body, making me feel like one of those snow monkeys bathing in the hot springs of Japan.

  The bath is huge. I slip further into it, until my head disappears beneath the water and I lie there, hair drifting to the surface, eyes wide open, staring up at the ceiling. I feel the warm clean bathwater lap against my knees. The future, Joe, my new home, that has to be my priority now. The thought of it rolls around in my head.

  I let the heat seep into my bones, until my blood sings and my teeth part and I open and close my mouth, rising slowly up and down like a fish to breathe. Relax, Claire, relax. I finally let my thoughts drift.

  Joe will come with me, I know he will – if he’s forced to choose, he’d rather be with me than Duncan. I hate that he’ll have to choose, but we’re not going far. I won’t deprive Duncan of his son, or Joe his father. Joe needs him, now more than ever. I’m hoping that afterwards, Duncan will make more of an effort, find a way to reach out and understand his son. A little distance can be a good thing, making you work harder.