Authors: Cath Staincliffe
Further on, we climbed up to the site where they lit the beacon to warn of the Armada. I read the plaque out to the children; a ritual of our visits.
Most of the trees were bare, their branches and twigs laced against the pearly grey sky, bird’s nests, tangled balls of twigs clearly visible. Underfoot lay a soft carpet of conifer needles, orange beech leaves and beech nut cases and mud. Here and there a Scot’s pine or a holly tree remained evergreen. A brisk wind shook the trees and blew our hair about, wafted the sharp aroma of leaf mould and crushed vegetation our way.
A couple with a string of dogs passed us. The dogs rooting for scents around the base of trees. We walked on. Maddie and Tom ran ahead to hide.
“Is Stuart coming for Christmas?” Laura asked me.
Ho hum.
“No,” I cleared my throat. “It’s all over.”
“Oh, God, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry. My decision really.”
She sighed. “When was this?”
“Last night.”
“Hence the hangover?”
“Yes.”
“How do you feel?”
“Headache’s gone. Crap really,” I blinked hard.
I felt queasy and tired. As though my blood was too thin and my muscles too weak. And I still felt uneasy about work, anxiety slopping around inside and cloaking my shoulders. Why couldn’t I just shake it off?
“Careful,” I called to Tom who scrambled down the sandstone edge. As we reached it we could see the fields which lay far below; in one, cows the size of paper clips. The further vista beyond the first farm was shrouded in mist. We all followed Tom down onto the cliff-side and along to one of the caves that peppered the hill. The soft walls, striped russet red and golden with the layers of rock, were smothered with carved initials and drawings. This was supposed to be a magical place, wizards and all, and pagans held it sacred. The remnants of a fire and some lager cans lay near the entrance. Maddie refused to go any further in -
there be monsters
- but Tom had no qualms. Giggling with excitement he made growling noises and chattered about bears and dragons. Laura and I followed him. The wall and ceiling narrowed suddenly so we had to go on our hands and knees. The place reeked of damp rock. It was impossible to see further into the small tunnel. We could hear the wind deep in the stones.
“Next time we’ll bring a torch,” I told him. “Then we can go further in.”
We turned and crept back out, Laura and I squatting until it was safe to stand up. Maddie was waiting silhouetted at the mouth of the cave. As I got near to her I could see a woman with a Dalmatian dog descending the path towards us and at the side of the path a man: grey and brown hair, leather jacket, denims, cowboy boots.
“Laura,” I turned to her and spoke urgently, keeping my voice low. Tom was next to Maddie, jumping up and down. “Take the kids, get them an ice-cream. Ring the police.”
“Sal,” she peered at me. Was I serious?
I returned her look, showing that I’d never been more so. I put my hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Tell them I’m being ... someone’s following me. Hurry ...”
“But ...”
“Laura, please.”
She speeded up. Called Tom and Maddie and challenged them to a race up the hill. Off they went; Digger appeared from nowhere loping after them.
I stood in the entrance to the cave. Waited. My mouth dry, my heart flopping around in my chest like a landed fish.
I had acted instinctively. He shouldn’t be here. Things could get unpleasant and my first thought was to get the children clear. Looking back with the benefit of hindsight, I’d probably have been safer sticking with them. But it’s easy to think that now. And I never imagined he would take such breathtaking risks.
“Sal,” he stepped down the ridges made by the tree roots, stood level with me.
“You followed me,” I said. It couldn’t be chance. From home, then. How had he got my address? Oh, God. I remembered; we’d chatted about Withington, I’d signed their petition, home address. Stupid.
“Things to talk about,” he said.
Another family headed for the cave.
“Here?” I tried to convey my incredulity.
“Shall we?” He gestured to a rocky outcrop beside one of the small brooks where we could sit. We walked over there. I could feel tension singing along my limbs, spiralling inside. Give them chance to get back to the car and then I could run for it if I had to. What could he possibly have to say?
He climbed up and sat on one of the boulders, I perched on the one next-door.
“I don’t like being set-up,” he said. His eyes were flinty, the blue flat and artificial even though the lines still wrinkled the edges.
I looked away. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, you know. Snooping around, then you accuse me of lying, next thing you’re in a huddle with the chair of my management committee.”
I tried to laugh. “She has a friend, needs a private eye, a domestic thing.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he was dismissive. “I really don’t understand this vendetta. I bent over backwards to help you and then you start twisting everything. I won’t have you spreading lies about me.” He was icy.
I stood up. I didn’t need to hear this. I could feel his anger simmering, he was fuming. Gone the sharing, caring cowboy.
He moved round quickly and blocked my path.
“Excuse me.”
“You’re making a big mistake,” he said, “I can’t let you do that.”
I wheeled away in the opposite direction off the path and into the trees. I’d circle through the lower woods, climb up to the car park further round. But he came crashing after me. I ran. The ground beneath the tangled undergrowth was soft with mud. I stumbled twice, rolling as I fell to keep my speed up. I pulled off my gloves and threw them away. I couldn’t get a proper hold of anything; the wool was too slippery. I kept moving. There were no paths down here, little chance of meeting dog-walkers or families out for a stroll. I glanced back, the distance between us was increasing. I ran up and over one of the small ridges. He wouldn’t be able to see me now. There were bushes to the left, rhododendrons growing in a gully. I ran round. Further along was an overhang, thick with brambles. I wriggled beneath them, gasping as the thorns tore at my face, curled into a ball. I smelt earth and rotting plants. My breath roared in my ears, I tried to quieten myself. He wouldn’t hear above the rustle of the wind surely. Still I buried my face in my hands trying to sip only a fragment of air, not make the noisy gulps. My heart was burning. I could hear him now. Getting closer. He stopped walking. I could hear him panting. Then another sound, someone moving, light and rapid through the woods. Snuffling, closer. Digger worming his way into my hiding place.
“Go,” I mouthed and shoved at his head. “Get away.” Stupid bloody dog.
It was too late, footsteps my way. I pulled myself out and struggled upright just as Eddie Cliff reached me. He launched himself at me. I ducked and managed to side step him. I ran, he was close on my heels. He caught up again. Knocked me down. I brought my hands up to protect my head. He had his weight on me. He was heavy, solid. I could feel mud beneath one hand, brambles with the other. My face was buried in the leaf mulch, cold and gritty with sand. The miasma filled my nostrils robbing me of breath.
He was panting, harsh and fast. “You had to interfere, didn’t you? Just like ...”
Like Miriam. Who had seen Melody with him. Who knew him for what he was.
He rolled me over and knelt astride me, his hands went round my throat. He began to squeeze, he was incredibly strong. He was choking me. My eyeballs hurt, my vision went. Help. Get off. I lifted my hands up, clawing at the air, his head, his face. He bit my finger, the deep pain made me whimper. Bastard. I was angry. As soon as he released my hand I lunged, found his nose and jabbed my nails into the orbs above. Hard as I could. He howled and released his stranglehold. Pungent air rushed into my windpipe making me splutter and saliva washed into my mouth. It was only a moment but enough for me to roll him partly off me, and begin to wriggle backwards. As soon as I could I kicked at his face and hit his nose. He yelled again. His eye was all bloody and his nose began to bleed too. But he came at me again. I rolled over, kept going, half crawling, half falling down the steep slope. I could taste blood in my mouth. Was it my throat?
He scrabbled after me. “They know I’m here,” I called but my voice was cracked and weak. “The police are coming.” If he heard me he took no notice.
At the bottom of the hill there was a stony path and a barbed wire fence separating the woods from the private farmland. I got to my feet, my knees soft and heavy as sand. I tried to run but it was hard to achieve any speed. He was catching up. My skin was burning with the exertion, my heart thumping. Cramp stabbed through my left calf. Up ahead were more fences, we were nearing the far end of the estate. I began to climb the bank, the sheer gradient made it horribly slow. Up at the top there’d be people. The police would be on the way by now, wouldn’t they? Faster. He was at my heels, his breath ragged. He grabbed my ankle. Please, no. I used the other one to kick down hard, connected with something and his hold slipped. On the skyline among the trees I made out a horse and rider cantering, surreal against the steely light.
I reached a plateau and stumbled across it. In the centre was a large pit, an old quarry. Trees crowded the slope behind it, I’d have to skirt it then keep climbing. I spat blood from my mouth, wiped the string of saliva as I moved. He was on me. His hands grabbing my neck again. No. I collapsed, deliberately, dead weight pulling him over, making him let go of my neck. I scrambled to my feet and took a step away. The quarry behind me. I didn’t have enough air to run any further, not uphill. Both legs were cramped. He stood swaying, blood slicked his face and one eye was swollen shut.
“The police,” I tried to shout but the words were hoarse. “You can’t ...”
“Bitch,” he ran at me again, roaring, arms coming up to push me. For a moment he was slow motion, I watched his arms, getting ready. As he got to me I reached out to grab him, and went into a backward roll using his momentum to guide him over me and on over the rim of the pit. It was clumsy and he banged my head with his knee but it was effective. I heard a thump and the brush of foliage as he landed.
I lay there knowing I had to get up, go, escape. Trying to move, feeling weak and uncoordinated as a new-born. Move. Move. I rolled over and got on my hands and knees. I shuffled forward and looked down, panting. He was looking back at me, with his one eye. A bright blue marble. He kept twitching his arms and legs but he couldn’t get up. I noticed then that one leg was bent strangely, the knee didn’t look right. His face had gone the colour of lard.
I hesitated, wanting to make sure he couldn’t come after me any more. Trying to slow down the breaths that hurt so much. Then I heard a shout, a child. I looked up and saw a man and a small boy slithering down the hillside.
“Help,” I shouted, “help.” My voice croaky.
The man swung his head, caught sight of me. I knelt up. “There’s been an accident. Get an ambulance. And the police.” Shouting made me feel sick. I clamped my mouth shut and tasted the tang of blood.
“Come on, Rory,” he turned and took the boy’s hand, led him up the bank.
Eddie Cliff had stopped twitching. Both eyes closed. He was moaning, a little like the sound a dog makes in pain. I put my legs over the edge of the quarry and went down on my bottom. My hands were freezing and bright red like lobsters, swelling too. I’d torn a thumbnail deep and it hurt as much as my throat. When I got to the quarry floor I walked over to him, my legs trembling. I fell twice; the place was a jungle of fallen trees and brambles hiding uneven rocks. He had fallen onto a rock. He lay across it like a sacrificial victim. He heard me approach and opened his good eye, the other eyelid flickered, looked like cranberry jelly inside.
“I know about Miriam.”
“Suicide.”
“She was scared of heights. Did you know? Did that make it easier? She’d have been frozen, incapable, drowning in fear.” It hurt to talk. I coughed and spat blood. I wiped my face with the palm of my hand.
Beads of sweat stood on his forehead and nose and ran into the lines on his face. All those laughter lines. Ha ha ha.
“Why did she get in the car?”
He didn’t reply.
“She knew what you’d done to Melody, she’d promised to help but Melody begged her not to tell. She was frightened, they both were. Threats. Someone like you, it wouldn’t take much to have someone sectioned, sent to a secure unit. They knew you had the power, people would never doubt anything you said. But Miriam knew she should speak out. She wanted to do the right thing. And you couldn’t rely on her keeping quiet, could you; she wasn’t one of your victims, she was a witness. Was that the first time, eh? Oh, I know it wasn’t the first case of abuse - you’ve been doing that for years, haven’t you? But was it the first time someone actually caught you at it?”
He’d gone paler, his lips tinged with blue. Shock. He moaned. He was going into shock. It can kill. Hypothermia. I could go. Spit on him and walk away. Leave them to find him. I looked at him. It was hard to get my coat off, my hands were stiff and puffy. I draped it over his chest. White foam flecked the corners of his mouth.
He shook and his face spasmed in pain. “Help me,” he said hoarsely.
I bent and whispered in his ear. “Why did Miriam go with you? Why?”
No answer.
I could smell the salt of his skin and the acetate note in his breath.
“Why did she get in the car?” I demanded.
“Help,” he moaned.
“Tell me first.”
He groaned again, his face was waxy, covered with a sheen of sweat.
“Tell me. Why did Miriam go with you?”
He smiled. It looked like a death rictus. “See Melody. Told her ... misunderstanding, sort it out ... told her Melody wanted Miriam there ... support.”
“She believed that?”
“Social worker wants to see us all,” he struggled to speak, I bent close to hear. “Take statements, Melody asking for you, Miriam.”
The bloody liar. Able with his clever words and ready assurances to persuade her to go with him, in spite of everything. Ladling on how much Melody needed her. Miriam confused, appalled at what had happened, frightened but wanting to do the right thing for the young woman. Promises of a civilised meeting, social workers and all.