The Mercer's House (Northern Gothic Book 1) (20 page)

Except the sweet, soft one. I like that one. It gives me comfort. Today it came after the gun episode and started again. It would be so easy, it said, to pack up and leave—leave all this behind me. Soft words, like candy floss. They wrap themselves around me in a cocoon, and make me feel warm and safe. I can’t resist this voice. I have to do what it tells me.

I can hear the bad voices all around me now, taunting me, torturing me. They threaten to do dreadful, horrible things to Rowan, until I can’t stand it any more and I want to scream. But I can’t, or people will find out what’s been going on. All I can do is rush upstairs and bury my face in a pillow until the sounds subside temporarily. And I can’t bear to look at Will any more. How could I ever have believed he was a normal child, just like any other? Whatever’s inside him has taken over him completely, and I have to harden my heart against him, because I know the outer appearance hides something that’s pure evil, that won’t rest until we’re dead.

This is why we have to go—run away, before he can do us real harm. If I had anywhere else to turn I wouldn’t have to do this, but my past counts against me, and I know nobody will believe me if I try and tell them what’s happening. I’ll write a note to Alex. But what shall I say? I don’t want him to suspect anything. My head is confused, and I can’t think about it right now, and besides, the soft voice, my friend, is telling me to go and pack. I’ll just take a few things. I don’t want to go forever. Perhaps a few weeks away will break the curse, and then I can come back and we can all be happy again. Oh, my darling Alex. I’m so sorry to do this to you. I hope so much that we’ll see each other again soon. I don’t know when it will be. I hope I won’t be away for long.

T
HE NEXT week was a bad one for Zanna. To start with, she arrived home to find a letter from the bank saying she was overdrawn. She hadn’t opened her bank statements in months, and when she forced herself finally to sit down and look at her finances, she discovered she’d been spending money much faster than she thought. Her father had left her some money that he had meant her to use as a deposit on a flat, but since she’d lost her job she’d had to use it for living expenses instead. The trip to Elsbury hadn’t been cheap, and here was yet another reason why it had been a mistake. If she didn’t find another job soon, she’d be in big trouble. In addition, there was a notice from her landlord to say that he was putting the rent up from November—one more financial blow she didn’t need. Then there was a sarcastic note from her flatmate, complaining about the mess Zanna had left when she went away. And on top of all that, London was gloomy and grey and rainy, which, after the heatwave of last week, when it had been warm enough to swim in the sea, came as a shock to the system and depressed her mood even further.

The next few days were spent calling contacts and speaking to people about teaching jobs, although there didn’t seem to be much about. She heard about an adult education college which was looking for an art teacher one night a week for six weeks, but it was on the other side of London, and would be a three-hour round trip. The transport costs would eat up half the money, but it was better than nothing, she supposed. In the meantime she called some job agencies and asked if they had any daytime temporary work. All the while, she was waiting to hear from Will or Lou about whether they were interested in selling her work, but they seemed in no hurry to get in touch. She knew she should keep producing more paintings, but the equipment costs were a bit too steep in her current straits, and in any case she didn’t feel up to it. The events of the past couple of weeks had thrown her, and she was worried that her recovery had gone off-course, just when things had been going so well. Painting was always the first thing to go whenever her spirits sagged, and circumstances were doing nothing to help. An agency sent her for an interview in the city, but she overslept and was late, earning herself a bad-tempered call from the agent, who was not impressed. Needless to say, she didn’t get the job. Then the college told her they’d found someone else. Term was already under way, and even if any vacancies had been available, nobody wanted to take on an art teacher with a reputation for unreliability.

And still she’d heard nothing from Will. The rational part of her wanted to consider that a good thing; he was dour and reserved, and quite possibly damaged since childhood—so damaged, perhaps, as to have played hateful tricks on her which had made her doubt her own sanity. And even if he hadn’t been responsible for them, she would never know where she stood with him. But despite everything, she couldn’t stop thinking about him—his steady, watchful gaze, so often directed at her, his sudden unexpected smile that set off sparks inside her, his comforting calmness, his dry humour. Had they met at any other time or under any other circumstances she wouldn’t have hesitated, but as it was, she couldn’t trust him or herself enough to think about him seriously. Perhaps he’d had the same thought. Perhaps that was why she hadn’t heard from him or Lou. He must have decided she was more trouble than she was worth, while Lou was wary of representing an artist who lived so far away.

She was beginning to feel that familiar apathy she’d been struggling to shake off for months, so she arranged to meet some friends in the hope that an evening out would help her snap out of it before it took hold. But one friend, not noted for her sensitivity, had been to visit Adam and Ellie the previous weekend, and she was full of news about the pregnancy, and the happy couple’s joy at the impending arrival, which did nothing to improve Zanna’s state of mind. Although she’d moved on from it all now, and wouldn’t have taken Adam back even if he’d asked, the memory was still fresh, and she still cringed at the thought of how she’d crumbled when it first happened. What she really wanted to do after this week was to crawl into bed and hide from the world for a while, but she resisted the temptation. She hadn’t spent all those months battling to build up her spirits only to sink back down as soon as she had a setback. She would struggle through it.

She was sitting one day, about ten days after her return from Elsbury, watching daytime TV and morosely eating dry cornflakes from the box, when her phone rang. She looked at the screen and saw it was Will, and was immediately flurried and nervous, as a rush of conflicting emotions swept over her. She took a deep breath and tried to answer, but accidentally disconnected the call. She redialled, but it was engaged. At last she got a ringing tone and waited for him to pick up. She was swearing to herself when he answered abruptly and heard her.

‘What was that?’ he said, sounding surprised.

‘Oops, sorry,’ she said, flustered. ‘I was swearing at the phone, not you. I accidentally disconnected.’

‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘So you are still alive, then. I was beginning to wonder.’

‘Of course I’m still alive.’

‘But you’re not answering your emails.’

‘What emails?’

‘The emails from me and Lou,’ he said patiently. ‘We’ve sent you about three.’

‘Are you sure? I didn’t see them,’ she said. ‘I have been checking, honestly.’

‘Have a look in your spam folder. Maybe they went there.’

‘I’ll probably cut you off again if I do that now. I’ll have a look afterwards. What did they say?’

‘Only that we wanted to offer you representation.’

‘Really?’ she said.

‘You sound surprised.’

‘I suppose I am. I haven’t had much luck with selling my stuff up to now, and after a while you start doubting yourself.’

‘You shouldn’t doubt yourself. I don’t see why your paintings shouldn’t sell. Lou has lots of contacts in the corporate world, and she’s really good at shifting several paintings at a time by the same artist. The big banks here in Edinburgh like to buy Real Art and hang it in their boardrooms, and if they like you you could find yourself with quite a few commissions. Do you have much new stuff?’

‘Nothing very recent. Just the one I did on the beach, but I gave that to Joe and Ewan before I went.’

‘You’re too generous. They’d have paid you for that. It’s a business expense. Tax deductible.’

‘Not one of my better works, though. It only took me half an hour, but Ewan said so many nice things about it that I couldn’t resist.’

‘Artists are useless business people,’ he said. ‘This is why you need representation. But if we’re going to take you on you’ll need to start working again. Do you have a studio?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ she said. ‘I rent the whole top floor of the Royal Academy. Twenty thousand square feet.’

‘I take it that’s a no.’

‘I’m unemployed and living in Hackney,’ she said.

‘That doesn’t sound like much fun,’ he said.

‘No.’

‘Well, check your spam and let me know what you think of the terms, and let’s see what we can do.’

‘OK,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’

She rang off and immediately went to check her email, but there was nothing in her inbox or her spam folder. Perhaps there was a problem with that address. She thought for a minute, then texted Will and asked him to send the email again to an old address she never used now. ‘OK, sent,’ came the reply, and after a few minutes she checked and found that this time it had arrived. There was a contract attached, and she read through it quickly, although without having much idea of whether the terms were good or bad. She had some artist friends who would be able to advise her on whether it was a fair agreement or not, but in the meantime at least it was a start.

T
HAT EVENING she went out with Garrett. He had been away in Wales pursuing a story, and came back full of his success at having unearthed some scandal in Welsh education. She would rather not have met him, but he was his usual persuasive self and as always she ended up giving in.

‘Let’s go somewhere nice,’ he said when they met. ‘I’m feeling pleased with myself and I want to drink some wine that actually has a name on the bottle.’

It was Thursday night, and finding a place with room to sit down was easier said than done. Once they were seated in a little wine bar near Covent Garden with their drinks, he said:

‘Listen, I’ve been doing a bit more digging, and I’ve come up with one or two things.’

‘Oh yes?’ said Zanna.

‘Yes. First, I’ve managed to find another sample of Helen’s handwriting.’

‘How did you do that? And what did you want it for?’

‘I got it from a form she filled in years ago when she signed Rowan up to the local doctor’s surgery. I wanted to compare it with her goodbye note, to find out whether she really did write it, or whether it was forged by someone else. You know, the shovel-head interface scenario. You’re beautiful when you’re grossed out, did you know that?’

‘And did she write it?’ said Zanna, ignoring the remark.

‘It looks like it,’ he said. ‘The handwriting’s quite distinctive. So yes, she left a note for her husband then packed a bag and left with her son.’

‘I knew you were talking rubbish,’ said Zanna. ‘Like I said, people
don’t
just go around killing each other.’

‘And yet I can give you at least four recent stories off the top of my head that say you’re wrong. Anyway, never mind that. We’ve established that Helen went away of her own free will, so now we need to find out where. Which is where my second point comes in. I know there was all this talk about her going to Canada, but we don’t actually know she went there, and I didn’t fancy spending ages trying to prise info out of the Canadian authorities only to find she didn’t, so I decided to take the easy route and look again on Facebook. We never contacted all those Rowan Devereuxes and Chamberses we found in Canada, and there are a couple in Australia and New Zealand too, so last night I messaged the most likely looking ones. No replies yet, though.’

‘Do you mean you haven’t already hacked into their accounts and found out everything about them?’

‘Strangely enough, not everybody puts their entire life history online,’ he said. ‘Believe it or not, there are people who don’t even use social media, so it’s entirely possible that Helen and Rowan are living blamelessly in Saskatoon or somewhere and we’ll never find them because they’re not online. Unless we go to Saskatoon, of course.’