Bethany had been eight years old when he left, a living, breathing wraith, the silence that so restricted her the very thing that terrified him so much.
Who ever knew what went on behind those eyes? Who knew what she saw, what she thought of everything? He had spent many a night lying awake in horror as he listened to her feet softly padding up and down the landing outside. What she did and where she went was a mystery, but he could be certain that something functioned behind those terrifying, all–seeing eyes.
If he were honest, he hadn’t been sad to leave at all.
Grateful, in fact. At last he could sleep properly, though even now, years later, that ghostly little girl occasionally haunted his dreams.
He sighed, bored, and scratched idly at the tatty varnish on the back of the pew in front
of him, wanting to get on with it.
The sooner the service finished, the sooner they could get up to the old chapel and see Bethany off at last.
It was only a dirt trail, over thick surface roots and slippery humus earth, hardly accessible for the sixty or seventy mourners he estimated to be present. At least half were what Matt classed as “doddery”: septuagenarians and better, incapable of making their seats without assistance. No, after this ceremony was over they would slowly hobble up towards his father’s house for the reception, and later this afternoon there would be a small, private ceremony up at the old chapel, for Bethany to be laid to rest.
Just himself, his father, and Red.
Matt could hardly wait.
He assumed the gravediggers must be up there now, preparing the grave for Bethany’s body.
He shivered. It chilled his heart to think of it, so close to his mother.
A woman Matt recognised as Mrs. Baxter, Bethany’s old sign–language teacher, now stooped and graying rather than the straight–backed prude he remembered, had stood up and
begun to say a few words. She had failed completely, Matt remembered, in her attempt to help Bethany to communicate. In three years all she had achieved was to get Bethany to sign right back at her, duplicate her teacher’s actions as though she were looking into a mirror at a much younger version of herself.
Bethany, yes, despite her unfortunate disability,
had so much going for her, Mrs. Baxter was saying. And such beauty, such precious beauty.
Matt dug at a spot along the edge of his jaw.
Come on get it over with. I want to be out of here.
If he didn’t get too drunk at the reception afterwards, he would be gone by tonight.
He had managed to drive while intoxicated before, though of course he never told Rachel. It was easy really, if you could keep your vision and the majority of your balance, and although he was reluctant, tonight he would make an exception. The problem was the half bottle of whiskey on his bedside table that would tease him and tempt him as he tried to pack away his things. He could already see himself sitting down, picking it up, feeling the comforting burn of the liquid as it coursed down his throat.
When it came down to it, he would probably find himself leaving it until morning before driving back.
It was easier to focus in the mornings, anyhow.
Once upon a time, he had done the majority of
his work in the mornings. They had always brought the best out of him: the most inventive characters, the cleverest storylines, the most inspired plot twists. Not anymore. In reality, Matt felt like he had run out of best bits about four years ago, and it depressed him to think that his editor probably felt the same.
People had begun to stand up and file out.
He had been so lost in a private reverie that he barely noticed until they were walking past him, the children with their heads lowered, the elderly leaning on each other for support. A couple of older ladies flashed him regretful smiles, one even patted him on the shoulder. After the amount he had drunk that morning, he must look terrible. They had obviously mistaken sickness for sadness.
Oh well, let them think what they like.
Matt made his way out with the other mourners and waited in the churchyard for his father.
Many of the mourners were gathered around in small groups, talking in hushed tones. No one made a move to come over and talk to him so Matt wandered off, following a gravel path around the side of the church, then out across the grass and through the gravestones towards the far side of the churchyard. A grey sky watched him, but so far had kept its own tears to itself.
Father’s for a bit, then we’ll put Beth in the ground.
Then I’m gone, and thank fuck for that.
God, he needed a drink.
He heard a door thud closed from around the front of the church. The last of the mourners must be out, so Matt started to head back to find his father, stepping between the graves, careful not to tread on any of the mounds of earth.
He looked up as he reached the
front corner of the church, and stopped in surprise. A distant figure, standing quite still beneath the eaves of a two storey house across the road from the churchyard, was watching him.
He stopped, squinting his eyes to see clearly, still feeling the last effects of the whiskey.
A woman. He knew instinctively that she didn’t live there, that she wasn’t just watching the proceedings from afar, too busy to attend the funeral herself. No, she was standing there to keep out of sight. Keep out of sight while she watched
him
.
It was one of
them
, he knew. The Meredith sisters. Which one, he couldn’t tell from this distance, didn’t even know if it was the same one from last night. He had only ever seen them clearly once, and although from up close he had noticed the slight difference in the curve of their chins, the angle of their cheekbones, the terrible hardness in the eyes of one, and the soft compassion in the eyes of the other, from a distance they were identical.
Why she
was watching him, he didn’t know. Did she even remember him?
Unnerved, he stepped backwards, away from her, but a piece of cracked paving stone caught his foot, and he stumbled.
Normally he would have righted himself easily enough, but the whiskey had left his balance unsteady and he fell to the ground, his knees and fingers sinking into grassy earth, damp and mushy after so much rain. He cursed and pushed himself back to his feet, looking for the Meredith woman.
She was gone.
He cursed again, and headed back around the church to join his father, eyes searching every face for one of
them
, hiding there, eyes casting him with their judgment.
###
Bethany’s Diary,
February 28th, 1985
It’s been such nasty weather. Tonight I sneaked out, for the first time in ages sure I wouldn’t catch cold, and went down into the forest, following the path. I wanted to know what Daddy was doing that night. For some reason I keep thinking about it, as though it’s important. I don’t know. I went up to the old church place. I looked for Daddy, but Daddy wasn’t there this time, not with his gun, I was glad. I looked at the stone sticking out of the earth, and wondered what it was. I sat against it for a while and thought about it. It reminded me a little of the ones down in the village. I’ve seen them out of the car window when Daddy’s been driving me places. They’re gravestones, but they have writing on them, not like this one. And I don’t know who would be buried up here anyway.
I don’t know of anyone who’s dead.
18
In the kitchen, lounge and study, groups of people hung around talking in hushed tones, drinking wine and eating buffet food Matthew’s father had ordered from a restaurant in the village and lain out on the big dining table. The gentle tones of a Marvin Gaye compilation played in the background. It was apparently one of Bethany’s favorites, though Matt could never remember her listening to anything, least of all music. Painted over everything like a coat of mildew was the smell of age; of old buildings, old people – now that most of the children had been dispersed back to the village – and old memories.
Just what did these people remember of Bethany
? Clearly so much more than he did. Eight years old when he left, she was now a twenty–two-year-old woman lying cold and lifeless in a coffin. More than half her life had passed since he had last seen her. Matt knew there was a possibility she had even begun to talk, perhaps go to school and youth clubs, have sleepovers with her friends. Maybe she had even got herself a job. It didn’t seem likely though, and his father would surely have said.
She had taken her own life with sleeping pills.
Swallowed an entire packet, his father had told him, and then lain down to rest for the last time. Even now, after it had had time to sink in, it sounded ridiculous. It was far too clinical for a girl who had always seemed away from her mind, drifting somewhere else perhaps, among the trees in the forest.
Earlier,
Mrs. Carter had approached him to whisper a few brief condolences, but she seemed the only person unaware of his newfound hated–celebrity status, for most of the others present treated him like a leper, eyeing him warily and turning away whenever he came near. It made him angry. Anyone would think this whole sorry mess was his fault.
H
e had struggled too, with so much drink on offer. Uncle Red had pulled him aside and warned him again to keep his drinking beast locked away, and although Matthew had been loath to listen to him, he had tried hard just in case Red had been serious about his threats.
For a while he had done okay.
Eventually the bars of his resolve had cracked and the beast had broken free. Inside his jacket he had stashed a quart of brandy stolen from his father’s cabinet. As he slipped up the stairs towards the upper levels of the house, feigning the desire for a little privacy, he felt it pressing against his chest like a pacemaker. Just the thing for a little quiet introspection.
He made his way up to the third floor.
The second level seemed to be where his father lived now, having moved down from the fourth in the years since Matt left. From the foot of the staircase leading up to the third he could smell dust, feel it fall around his shoulders like a veil, its dryness almost choking him. The upper floors felt untouched for years, and he made his way up there for that very reason. Once, he and Bethany had lived on the third floor, amongst a jumble of unused bedrooms and function rooms, most stinking of dust and disuse even in those days.
The house had always spooked him, even before his sister did.
Four of them until his mother’s death, then four again at times when Uncle Red stayed, could not bring life to a house which contained at least twelve bedrooms, though Matt wasn’t sure exactly how many because he had always preferred his explorations to take place outside the house. Bethany had ruled in here, despite rarely leaving her rooms –
except at night; Jesus, why always at night?
– with her very presence alone.
So many rooms remained untouched.
He slipped in through the door of what had once been his bedroom, already pulling the brandy out of his coat.
He stared.
Disbelieving.
It hadn’t changed in the years since he had been away.
His bed, though made up and cleaned, still had the same bedclothes, the same green patchwork design he had made his favorite as a child. His books still lined the shelves, albeit with a sheen of dust, his posters, now fading, still faced him along the walls. Gary Numan, The Clash, The Damned, Blondie – boy, he had had a real thing for Debbie Harry – ABC, one of The Ramones with the blonde one from ABBA poking out from behind (after Debbie, Anita had ruled his fantasies, but that was as far as it went – Matt thought their music had
sucked
),
Taxi Driver
,
Star Wars
, one of Ursula Andress in
Dr No
.
He gulped from the bottle as memories swamped him.
So many days sat in here alone, reading books, listening to the records still stacked in one corner, writing love letters to girls at school on the desk by the window. He even remembered a couple of times when he had sneaked a girl in and smiled coyly, though his vision rapidly soured as he remembered how Rebecca Crowley, the sixth–former wh
o
had promised him
oblivion
in exchange for two Stranglers records, had freaked out and ran when she’d looked up from her “business”
to find Bethany standing in the doorway.
Matthew’s mood abruptly darkened.
What was he doing back here? He had no place here now. His life existed on a whole different plane, in a whole different world to this. This was nothing but a bad dream.
He went to the window and peered out.
His father’s truck sat in the driveway, now accompanied by a clutch of other vehicles. And by the top of the drive, parked tight under the trees, in a way that could either have been to allow others to pass or to conceal it, was a big black car. Matt frowned, remembering the car from yesterday, and the one he had seen driving down the lane to the Meredith sisters’ cottage. The same one? He couldn’t tell because the rain had begun to fall, getting heavier as the minutes passed. Matt groaned. Trust his father to pick a day like this for a fucking funeral.