The Language of Spells (4 page)

Her eye was caught by a notebook. It was spiral-bound and had a plain cover. She flipped it open and was confronted with tightly packed writing in black Biro. Iris’s writing sloped violently to the right and she seemed to have little regard for the spaces between words. Gwen pulled out the chair and read a page at random.

M D came again today. I knew she would’ve been drinking to get up the courage and by the smell of her it was sweet German wine. Not surprising that she has the palate of an illiterate eight-year-old. I gave her the usual prep (2 x WB, 1 x F, 1 x LLB)
.

Okay. So Great-Aunt Iris had an acerbic streak. She flipped to another page.

That bloody woman was sniffing around again. There’s nothing worse than a frustrated witch.

Witch. Gwen felt sick. If the cat’s black, she thought, I’m out of here.

That night, Gwen didn’t even pretend to consider sleeping in Nanette. Yes, she didn’t want to be in Pendleford or inside End House, but it was forecast minus six and too late to drive very far. Gwen knew she could be irrational, but she wasn’t about to sleep in her van when she owned a perfectly good, warm bed. And food. She poured the soup from the flask into a pan to heat it. Rich smells of leek, garlic and chicken rose up. Gwen got down a bowl and cut a thick slice of the fresh bread. She managed a couple of mouthfuls, but tiredness mugged her and she put the spoon down. She trailed upstairs to the master bedroom and the enormous bed. Her mind and heart were trying to reconcile the coldness from Cam. Coldness that she’d expected. It was exactly what had stopped her from picking up the phone so many times over the last thirteen years. She’d heard that the anticipation of pain was usually worse than the pain itself. Well, not in this case. Gwen couldn’t believe how much it hurt to look into Cam’s face and see nothing. Nothing but a chilly disdain. She closed her eyes and a spiral of colour twisted in the darkness. She watched it turn and writhe until sleep took her.

Gwen opened her eyes. The darkness pressed against them as she struggled to wake up. She’d been dreaming about the river. Black water, icy-cold. Stephen Knight’s pale face emerging from the thick depths as if he were floating in oil, not water. His eyes open and accusing. His mouth opening, filling with the black liquid.

Scritch, scratch. There it was again, the sound that had woken her up. Gwen forced herself properly awake. She ignored the window that had inexplicably opened and tiptoed onto the landing. She peered over the banister and there, sitting squarely in a patch of moonlight on the hall floor, was the skinniest cat she had ever seen. She crept down the first couple of stairs, watching carefully to see if the cat would bolt. It stayed motionless, watching her with unblinking eyes that were nothing more than reflections in the half light. Gwen looked casually away and then back, showing that she wasn’t a threat. The cat hadn’t moved and it looked reasonably relaxed. In fact, it looked like it was waiting for her, so she tried a couple more stairs. Then it meowed. Instinctively, Gwen put her hands over her ears. The noise that split the air wasn’t feline. It was like a rusty saw being dragged over corrugated iron. ‘Jesus!’

The cat regarded her with disgust. Perhaps it didn’t like blasphemy. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘You startled me.’

The cat got up and walked into the kitchen, its bottle brush tail high in the air.

Gwen followed obediently and then realised there wasn’t any cat food in the house. She took down a tin of tuna and mashed up a little on a plate, while the cat wound its wiry body round and round her legs. ‘You’re going to trip me over,’ she said.

The cat screeched.

‘All right, all right.’ Gwen put the plate down in front of it.

While the cat made short work of the tuna, she filled a saucer with some watered-down milk. ‘You shouldn’t really have dairy, but you look like you need the extra calories.’
I’m talking to a cat. God help me.

The cat sniffed the liquid, then lapped. Gwen felt a ridiculous sense of achievement.

She fetched one of the sad-looking cushions from the living room and put it on the floor of the kitchen. ‘You can sleep in here tonight.’ Then, shutting the kitchen door, she went upstairs. She went to the bathroom and washed her hands. There was no knowing what the animal had. Worms or fleas or, quite possibly, scurvy. She would need a litter tray, food, a new cat bed, and to get it checked by a vet.

Gwen paused on the landing, looking at the moonlight on the hallway tiles and listening to the night-time sounds of the house.

The cat was curled up on the foot of the bed. Gwen looked at it for a long moment. The cat looked steadily back at her. Then she got into bed.

Gwen opened her eyes. Two yellow ones hovered about an inch from her nose. She stifled a scream and blinked. The cat stretched lazily and jumped off the bed, landing with a thud. ‘I thought cats were light-footed.’ The cat paused, looking at her with an expression of disgust. In the daylight, Gwen could see that it was most definitely not a black cat. It had a mix of markings, not tortoiseshell or black and white or marmalade, but all of them. Like several cats had been put in a blender. Which was a horrible image and one Gwen instantly tried to whitewash over. The cat regarded her sternly as if mind-reading. ‘Sorry,’ she said, and then felt ridiculous.

She fed the cat some more tuna, bulked out with bread soaked in water. Then she remembered the leftover soup. She took it out of the fridge and sniffed it. Chicken. The cat started to wind around her legs, crying out and purring. ‘Smells good, huh?’ She poured a tiny bit into a saucer and put it on the floor. The cat dived for the dish, then stopped. His hackles rose and his fur stood on end. He hissed at the dish, then disappeared through the door, a streak of fur and fury.

Gwen picked up the saucer and sniffed it again. Maybe the cat objected to herbs. She began clearing up.

The back door, that Gwen would’ve sworn blind was locked, swung open. ‘Knock, knock. Only me.’

Lily Thomas smiled, her tiny teeth sparkling. ‘Soup for breakfast?’

Gwen realised she was still holding the Thermos in one hand. ‘Just washing up.’ She plunged it into the sink full of soapy water. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Just come to pick up my dishes.’

‘Of course.’ Gwen finished rinsing the flask and dried it on a checked tea towel. Then she fetched the ceramic casserole and handed them over. ‘Do you know the name of Iris’s cat?’

Lily frowned. ‘Iris didn’t have a cat.’

Gwen decided not to mention the cat bed in the outbuilding. It would be like directly calling Lily a liar, which probably wasn’t the way to be a friendly neighbour. Besides, there was something snake-like about Lily’s eyes. She kept her voice mild: ‘Well, I’ve got one now. He seems pretty at home.’

‘Must be a stray. Don’t feed it or you’ll never get rid of it.’ Lily paused. ‘Have you had a chance to check that list yet?’

‘Kind of. Yes.’

‘Did it mention a notebook?’ Everything about Lily was casual – her stance, leaning against the kitchen counter, her voice, her open expression – but Gwen could feel the tension thrumming in the air.

She shook her head. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s completely fine. Just a little thing. Silly, really, but I was so fond of Iris and it would be something to remember her by.’ Lily wiped delicately at her dry eyes.

‘A notebook?’

‘With recipes,’ Lily said quickly. ‘I always admired Iris’s tomato chutney and she promised to leave me the secret.’

Gwen frowned. ‘Why didn’t she just give it to you?’

Lily laughed. ‘I keep forgetting that you didn’t know your auntie at all, did you? She was very protective of her recipes. Adamant that they should be passed down through family —’ She broke off, perhaps realising what she’d said, then continued smoothly, ‘And she always said I was her closest family, that I was like a granddaughter to her.’

‘Well, as soon as I find the recipe I’ll pass it on.’

Lily smiled properly, her face lighting up and becoming pretty. ‘Thank you. I’d appreciate it.’

Gwen drove to the big supermarket on the outskirts of town and stocked up; she couldn’t rely on handouts from the neighbours for ever. She picked up cat food and a red velvet collar and put the receipt into her bag without looking at it. She was close to the limit on her emergency credit card and hoped, fervently, that the cat didn’t eat very much.

Back at End House, she set up her iPod dock and put on Johnny Cash at full volume. She stacked tins and packets and jars, filling the kitchen cupboards, then cleaned through the house, swiping away dust and cobwebs and muddy paw prints.

The cat appeared and pronounced the cat food a success. ‘Don’t get too used to that stuff. It’ll be value tins next time.’

The cat tilted his head and regarded her disdainfully.

‘And then I’ll have to re-home you, I suppose.’

The cat blinked slowly.

‘Unless I stay here. And adopt you.’

The cat began licking itself.

‘Great,’ Gwen said. ‘Is that supposed to be a sign?’

The sun had disappeared by four o’clock, making Gwen think about an early dinner. She pulled out pans and knives and started cooking. It was such a treat to have a kitchen again. And no annoying housemates to share it with. A spark of happiness flared as she followed the ritual of making pasta sauce. The movements were soothing. They calmed the feelings stirred up by the shock of seeing Cameron Laing.

Gwen chopped a handful of fresh basil, almost cutting off the tip of her pinky in the process. ‘Damn it.’ She ran her finger under the cold tap and told herself off for thinking about Cam while in possession of a sharp object. She threw the basil into the tomato sauce simmering on the stove and tried not to think about him in his dark suit. Cam in a suit was weird. When they’d been together, she would’ve sworn his Ramones T-shirt was surgically attached to his body. Except when he was peeling it over his head that time on the beach. She shivered, remembering the way his eyes had turned black, holding her like he was a drowning man. It had always been like that. Something wild and desperate and, with hindsight, probably not all that skilful. She closed her eyes and imagined what Cam might’ve learned in thirteen years. She leaned against the worktop, breathing in garlic-and-wine-scented steam and feeling the pressure against her suddenly thrumming and alive body. Her eyes flew open. Someone was knocking on the back door.

Gwen knew her face was flushed, but figured she could blame it on cooking. She wrenched open the door, ready to tell Lily Thomas politely but firmly to sod off, only to find a woman she didn’t recognise peering at her anxiously in the dusk. She was wearing a navy trouser suit and carrying a matching handbag, but she still looked a little ragged around the edges. Her skin was pale and there were dark circles around her eyes.

‘You’ve got to help me,’ the woman said and pushed past Gwen into the kitchen and sat in the biggest chair.

‘I’m sorry?’ Gwen managed.

‘You’re Gwen Harper, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ Gwen tried to smooth out her frown. Manners cost nothing, after all. ‘Do you live next door?’

‘Of course not. I’m Marilyn Dixon.’

‘Right,’ Gwen said. It was official; the people in this town were insane. She gestured to the stove. ‘I was just about to eat. Are you hungry?’

Marilyn opened her eyes wide. ‘Will that help?’

Gwen gave up on reason and took the chair opposite. ‘Can we back up a bit? Speak slowly; I feel like I missed a memo or something.’

Marilyn’s fingers gripped her handbag on her lap, her knuckles bright white. ‘You are Iris Harper’s granddaughter, aren’t you?’

‘I’m her great-niece.’

‘Oh.’ Marilyn looked ridiculously disappointed. Her bottom lip stuck out like a toddler. There was a short silence, broken only by the soft popping of the simmering sauce.

‘Did you know my great-aunt well?’ Gwen tried for some polite chit-chat.

‘Not really. She kept herself private. Not a mixer.’

‘Right.’

‘But she always helped.’ Marilyn sniffed. ‘Wasn’t very nice about it, but she helped.’

‘I thought she was quite infirm herself.’ Gwen couldn’t imagine what Iris had been doing for Marilyn Dixon. Marilyn was no spring chicken, but she was easily thirty years younger than Iris.

‘Ha!’ Marilyn said and Gwen jumped a little. ‘She was as strong as a horse. Healthy as anything. Never got ill. Well…’ Marilyn paused and Gwen could almost hear her thinking ‘…until she died, of course.’ Another pause. ‘God rest her soul.’

Gwen frowned.

‘I’m sorry. Should it be goddess rest her soul? I was never really sure on that,’ Marilyn said.

‘I’m still confused.’ Gwen shook her head to clear the fog. It didn’t help. ‘Can we start with the basics? Who are you and why are you here?’

Colour flushed up Marilyn’s neck. ‘Your great-aunt was known for helping people. She said you were going to move in after she was gone.’

Gwen frowned. That made no sense. ‘The last time I saw my great-aunt I was thirteen and she said no such thing.’

‘Don’t shoot the messenger,’ Marilyn snapped. ‘And besides, I would’ve thought you’d be a little more grateful.’ She waved a hand. ‘She left you her
house
.’

‘Does everybody know my business?’

Marilyn looked at her in surprise. ‘In Pendleford? Of course.’

‘God help me.’ Gwen raised her eyes skyward.

‘Well, I can see I’m not wanted.’ Marilyn began to rise.

‘Don’t go. I’m sorry if I was rude. I’m just a little confused.’
And frightened
. Gwen took a deep breath. ‘Can you talk me through the kind of help my great-aunt dished out?’

Marilyn sat back down. Her face softened in sympathy. ‘You really don’t know?’

‘I really don’t know,’ Gwen said, although she was starting to suspect. The secret room full of jars. The weird noises. The cat. Great-Aunt Iris had been a bit eccentric. And it seemed that the Harper family reputation for ‘weird’ was alive and kicking.

‘She was magic.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Gwen hoped she’d misheard.

‘She could help with stuff.’ Marilyn shrugged. ‘Like if your hens stop laying or you’ve got a cold that won’t go away. She’s got a brilliant medicine for that.’