The House of Secrets Read online

Joe discovered metal detecting online. Whilst most boys were either obsessed with football or hunched over their computers playing games, at fifteen, Joe was bashing away at his keyboard discussing early Roman coin types on the metal detecting chat sites.

  When he was fourteen, I took him for a long weekend to Northumbria. It was a treat, just for him and me, to make up for the trouble he’d been having in class. I had this idea that if I could tap into his historical curiosity, he’d want to study instead of always feeling forced to comply with school.

  Joe hated secondary school, at least in the last few years; the whole uniform and rules thing, the stink of the boys’ toilets, the getting up too early in the morning and forcing himself either to go in with me or catch the bus – he was always half asleep. The studying, exams and books and teachers on his back, day in, day out, essays¸ extracts, questions, long feet stuck out from under his desk, long enough to trip up a teacher. And the girls gossiping in the corridors with skirts that skimmed their thighs and sugar-pink lipstick, tapping on their phones to slag Joe off on Facebook. At least if you believe Joe, that’s what it was like.

  They always laughed at him, he’d been convinced of that. Too tall like a stick man, they’d said. Stick Man. Stick Boy. Anything to get a reaction. When he wasn’t sleeping, all he wanted to do was go outside metal detecting, the fresh air banishing his thoughts, the absorbed concentration drowning out his emotions. I’d hated school too, for different reasons, so what could I say?

  He’d loved Roman mythology as a small boy, gods and monsters battling for the heavens, or Roman armies marching into war. I thought, what if I took him to Vindolanda, one of the best-preserved Roman forts in the country? It was right on Hadrian’s Wall near the border with Scotland.

  It was a huge success. It filled his head with stories of the Roman infantry, military tactics and soldiers guarding against the Picts on the northern reaches of the empire. He pored over the cabinet displays and dragged me from one object to another, fascinated by the layout of the buildings, the sculptures and tablets, the scraps of preserved leather, pottery and metal brooches. Clues to another time, another life.

  But it was the coins that had him transfixed. There was a whole wall dedicated to the various coins found on the site. Gold and silver glittering on a white background, lit up by a row of narrow spotlights. He was full of it on the way home, the patterns and designs, the different metal components, the names of the emperors whose heads were engraved on the back.

  ‘There’s this one coin type, Mum, an aureus. It’s a gold coin from the time of Emperor Nero. He went mad – did you know that? He became emperor when he was only sixteen.’

  I laughed at that. ‘Fancy yourself as an emperor, do you, Joe?’

  ‘Course not,’ he said. He always took me seriously. Then he looked at me. ‘I’m not mad, you know, Mum.’

  ‘I know that, Joe,’ I said, my gaze turning briefly from my focus on the road.

  I flashed a smile at him. He seemed satisfied.

  ‘He was a treasure hunter. He sent his men into Africa looking for gold. He killed people, though. Murdered Britannicus, his stepbrother, and then his own mother, Agrippina.’ Joe frowned. ‘And his wife. She was called P-p … Pop … Poppaea Sabina.’ He’d hardly paused to catch his breath.

  All those names tumbling from his lips. The museum had really captured his interest. I was euphoric. Finally, he was motivated. Finally, you could see how bright he was. I could never remember all that stuff. Back home, even his teachers commented on his sudden interest in ancient history. Trouble was, not much of it actually featured on the school curriculum.

  That’s when he started researching online, devouring data and statistics about coins. He must have stumbled on the metal detecting websites and begun asking and answering questions. Before long he was pretty knowledgeable, with a host of new internet friends. Ironically, he used StickMan as his online name.

  By fifteen he’d bought his first metal detector. There was a local group near Matlock and he joined up, spending his weekends tagging along, learning from them. I was glad. I’d decided it was good for him. He thrived on their acceptance, being part of a group. That was important to him. He’d never found acceptance at school. Or home.

  The morning doesn’t come. At least that’s how it feels. I look out of the big window and there’s fog right up against the glass. I can’t see a thing.

  I stand on my tiptoes, as if that would help. It’s like the Barn is suspended in the air, travelling at more than thirty thousand feet. I feel disorientated, Dorothy in her tiny shack, spinning through the sky towards the Land of Oz. The glass is cold beneath my fingers, and the swirls of fog float and curl like blooms of white ink in water. I’m not sure that white ink is even a thing.

  I’m tired from the night before. I’ve hardly slept a wink. Duncan hasn’t come back, not that it surprises me. Joe hasn’t come home either. Must be the fog – he’d easily get spooked in that. I hate to think of him out there, in the cold. If he’s got any sense, he’ll have taken refuge somewhere, waiting it out. The fog moves again, drifting apart and back again, heaving like a giant’s breath. Duncan will have gone to work by now, rolling out of whatever or whoever’s bed he’s slept in.

  I fantasise about Duncan never coming back. How much easier that would be, if he suddenly disappeared from the face of the earth. Walked out and never came back. No messy divorce, no emotional meltdown, no arguments over money. He won’t like being forced to sell the Barn. I smile at that, sweet revenge for all those years of neglect.

  What if he died? The thought comes to me from nowhere. I’d inherit everything. I could sell up and do whatever I liked.

  The very idea, however, fills me with horror. I think of his body mangled in the mud, his legs bent the wrong way, his head twisted to one side, eyes wide and staring. Her too, whilst we’re at it. Whoever she is, her long hair splayed on a dashboard – it’s got to be long hair, it’s far more visual, crimson blood trickling down her head. Oh, God, what am I thinking?

  I don’t want that. How could I want that? This was never what I wanted. For a moment I ask myself if I can really do it, leave Duncan, leave everything we’ve built up between us. The comforts of our life, the home we have, even if I don’t particularly like it. I know I’m damned lucky compared to most people – ungrateful, that’s what my mother would have said. Just as well she’s no longer here to see me. She died five years ago, my father two years before that. Mum always approved of Duncan – she thought he could do no wrong. A handsome man with his sleeves rolled up, saving doggy lives … what’s not to like?

  Duncan and I have been together for ever, since we were both eighteen – the same age that Joe is now. I’ve hardly known anything else. Have I really stopped loving him? I think of Duncan when we were newly married. His warm body pressing down on mine, his breath teasing at my ear. His energy and wit. I adored him then. If I didn’t love him still, then it wouldn’t hurt like this, would it?

  I sigh and the fog sighs with me, rolling back to reveal a glimpse of the outside. There must be a breeze, there always is, up here on the hill. But the trees are unmoving. I see the horizontal lines of the five-bar gate, the darker shapes of the hedgerow in the fields, the uneven turf. Under all that grass, there are dips and hollows and holes dug out by rabbits and moles and foxes … I feel the touch of cool air on the back of my neck, almost as if I’m out there not inside. Then the fog lifts, uncertainly, like a grey sheet flapping in the wind. I can see through to the far slopes of the valley on the other side of the water. There are figures. Dark, black figures. People.

  I lean in. There are four of them, I think.

  Moments later, the fog sinks down again and I can’t see them anymore. Then the fog rolls back and now there are only two. I’m not sure if what I’m seeing are real people, wearing coats and hats and earphones, holding those stupid sticks. Or if they’re animals, cows or even sheep in the distance. It plays tricks on you, the fog, especially here in
the valley, something about the light being distorted by the shadow of the hills. Or maybe I need a pair of glasses. I watch as the fog closes in again, thick and solid against the window, like the safety curtain on a stage. I can’t see them anymore. I can’t see a thing. I wait and watch and moments later, when the fog shifts and the view opens up, the men, or whatever I saw, are gone.

  A short while later, there’s the scrabble of a hand on the back door and the sound of Arthur’s wet paws clattering on the tiles. A cold draught gusts across the kitchen.

  ‘Mum?’

  It’s Joe. He’s back.

  ‘Mum – are you there? You won’t believe what I’ve found!’

  CHAPTER 14

  CLAIRE – BEFORE

  ‘Look, Mum! Did you ever see anything so beautiful?’

  I look at the tiny disc in his hand. It seems little more than a clump of dirt to me. But I can make out that it’s a coin. Albeit of the chewed, dull and damaged sort.

  The edges aren’t quite circular and the disc is slightly bent from its years under the ground. Perhaps it’s got crushed by farming equipment, or simply warped through the process of time. The metal is heavily tarnished, soil still clinging to the surface. Joe turns it over in his hand and there’s definitely some kind of pattern on each side. One is more obscured than the other, but the reverse has the clear shape of a head, crowned with a laurel wreath.

  ‘It needs cleaning,’ Joe says. ‘But wow! Look at it!’

  ‘That’s amazing, Joe. Very nice.’

  I’m not sure what else to say. Nice – what an awful word that is, but so convenient. I lean forwards, trying to show more interest.

  ‘Where did you find it?’ I ask.

  ‘In the bottom field. I’ve been working that rough ground beside the reservoir near the road. On my own. I’ve not told any of the other guys what I’m doing as it’s our land. They’re out there today, further up the valley, so I had to come in. I found this last night only a few inches down in the earth. I’ve not found a coin as old as this before!’

  His fingers hold the coin as if it’s the most precious thing in the world. He folds his fingers around it and I can’t see it anymore. He kicks off his shoes, leaving them abandoned on the floor. Then he reaches up into one of the cupboards, grabs a bowl with his free hand and exits the kitchen, climbing the stairs. I hear the usual bang of his bedroom door and then silence. No music, not this time.

  That coin, I guess, will keep him occupied for hours.

  I pick up the shoes, tucking them out of sight, and unlatch the power pack from the metal detector – Duncan will have a fit if he knows Joe has a second one. I take it up to Joe’s room and knock on the door. He doesn’t answer.

  I nudge open the door and it swings back on its hinge.

  ‘Joe?’

  He’s not there. The door to his en suite is closed. I hear the sound of the shower running on the other side. His bed is strewn with dirty clothes, and a week’s worth of socks and pants lie scattered on the floor. There are deconstructed bits of bike and a deflated inner bicycle tube curling like an abandoned snake skin on the carpet. His desk isn’t much better: littered with half-eaten crisp packets and an empty bottle of Coke. I hate that – I’ve had a running battle with him about fizzy drinks ever since he was old enough to spend his own pocket money.

  The bowl he took up is there on his bedside cabinet. My eyes flicker across to the coin that rests inside. I place the power pack on Joe’s bed, scoop up some dirty laundry and back out before Joe’s even aware that I’ve come in.

  He’s been in his room for hours. I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. By lunchtime, I make a sandwich and climb the stairs again to knock on his door. Any excuse to see what he’s up to. I hear music, ambient high-tech, sci-fi kind of music. Duncan would approve.

  ‘Come in,’ calls Joe.

  He sounds tired but happy.

  ‘How’s it going?’ I ask, smiling.

  I perch on his bed. He’s sat at the desk. The bowl is there now with a shallow layer of sudsy water and a toothbrush balanced on the rim. He’s loaded his laptop and I can see he’s been searching pictures of different coins. They fill the screen with profiled Roman noses of various degrees of imperious pointedness.

  He swivels round on his seat. His hair is too long, hanging in loose black curls that any girl would die for. His face is pale and waxy from lack of sleep, but his eyes shine big and bright.

  ‘Come and see,’ he says.

  I stand up and walk across to his desk. I don’t normally get invited to look. The coin itself is lying on a flat pile of neatly folded toilet paper. Some of the dirt is gone – not all, but enough to see the pattern more clearly. I lean forwards, not really paying attention.

  ‘Oh, wow, Joe. That’s amazing. You’ve done a good job of cleaning it up.’

  Joe frowns.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘but you have to be careful. Too much cleaning and it might get damaged. Still, it’s better than it was.’

  He gingerly picks up the coin and holds it end on between finger and thumb. Then lays it back down on the paper.

  ‘Take a closer look.’

  I peer over his shoulder, guilty at my own disinterest. He needs me to take more interest. I squeeze my eyes and give a little gasp.

  The figurehead is clearer. He looks Roman, or some version of that, with that wreath about his head. There’s the usual long, straight nose and a stylised beard with elaborate curls that match the individual leaves on the wreath. But there, where you’d expect an eye to be, is what looks like an arrowhead poking down through the man’s eye socket.

  I stare at it, silent.

  Eventually, I feel compelled to speak.

  ‘What is that?’ I say.

  My voice is quiet. This isn’t just another coin. It’s like none of the coins we saw in Vindolanda, or anything that Joe has found before. That arrowhead in the socket is cruel. And unique. He doesn’t know – how could he know?

  I’ve seen it before.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ says Joe. ‘I’ve never come across anything like this.’ He slowly touches the arrowhead. Joe’s hands are surprisingly long and elegant. ‘You don’t get that on normal Roman coins. Or anything medieval. Weird, isn’t it?’

  The fingers of his other hand move to tap the surface of the desk. He’s impatient to get back to his PC.

  ‘It’s even more interesting on the other side.’

  He tips the coin over gently, setting it back on the tissue so I can look.

  On this side is a man riding a horse. The figure looks almost comical, cartoonlike. The arms of the man and the legs of the horse are exactly the same, straight and narrow and knobbly. Bones, not flesh. Underneath the horse is another shape, three adjoining swirls, a kind of spinning skeletal disc. Like the symbol for the Isle of Man. I glance up at the screen on Joe’s laptop. He’s been googling it: Isle of Man flag. Yes, there it is, similar but different – three spiralling armour-clad legs bent at the knee, the triskele or triskelion.

  He follows my gaze.

  ‘I’ve been trying to work it out. I knew the shape was familiar. I’ve found this story about the Celtic god of the sea, Manannan. He was a wizard and the first ruler of the Isle of Man. He cloaked the island in mist whenever his enemies approached and turned himself into a spinning wheel of legs to roll down the mountain.’

  Very handy, I think. Joe loves this stuff. I’m still unable to quite take it in.

  ‘He had a horse, too – Enbarr of the Flowing Mane – who rode on water. I was thinking maybe the rider on this side of the coin is Manannan.’

  ‘You think the coin is from the Isle of Man?’ I find myself wanting to ask questions, to distract Joe from my reaction.

  ‘I did. I wasn’t sure.’

  He goes back to the coin, pointing to it.

  ‘But I don’t think that now. Look at the rest of it – there are more shapes both above and below the horse.’

  He’s right – above the rider are seven do
ts, linked together by more lines. Stylistically, they’re exactly like the joints of the rider’s arms.

  ‘They’re star constellations,’ says Joe. ‘I’m sure of it. See that one? It’s the shape of the Plough, it’s unmistakable – the constellation of Ursa Major.’

  It’s not the star constellation that draws my eye. It’s the rider’s hand – it doesn’t look human with the usual four fingers and a thumb. Instead, it’s like a lobster claw, one half thicker than the other. It’s surreal, like the arrow pointing down from the eye socket on the head on the other side. The coin feels foreign now, not in a geographical way, but in an alien, not-of-this-earth kind of way. It doesn’t belong. Not here. I feel the weight of my own head, wooziness making me reach out for the edge of Joe’s desk.

  ‘I see what you mean. How intriguing.’ My voice fades away. There’s a noise rushing in my ears.

  Joe wriggles in his seat.

  ‘I think I’ve figured out what it is,’ he says suddenly.

  I stare at him blankly.

  ‘Look!’

  He moves the mouse on his laptop, jumping to another screen. The website is headed Journal of Archaeological Studies in Eastern Europe and Asia Minor. An article is highlighted in pale grey:

  This particular coin is one of the most enigmatic of the late Iron Age coinage, dating back to the early third century bc. It shows a male laureate head on the obverse, his eye replaced by an arrowhead.

  ‘See?’

  Joe flips the coin again, pointing out the arrow jutting from the emperor’s eye. Then he turns it back over and slowly scrolls down the page on his screen so that I can read:

  The reverse side of the coin shows a rider astride his horse, but only the upper body of the horseman is depicted. The triskele is shown below, a symbol common to Celtic culture. Most coin finds featuring these images are centred in the area around Hungary, Austria, Serbia and Croatia, which is consistent with the distribution of Eastern European Celtic tribes at that time.

  Joe is virtually bouncing on his seat.

  ‘It’s called a puppetrider!’