Ann Cleeves - Burial of Ghosts

‘Lizzie? Are you there, Lizzie? I want to talk to you. Don’t phone back here. That wouldn’t work. Can you come tomorrow evening? Not to the house. The wood by the old track into the estate. Dusk. I want to show you the badgers.’

I replayed it several times but I couldn’t learn any more from it. I couldn’t get a clearer idea about whether he was scared or anxious, or just excited about showing me the badgers. I couldn’t get excited about them myself. They’re big and black, aren’t they? Like cows and electric fences, they’re best avoided. I blamed myself for not having been in when he phoned. Those thoughts and recriminations kept me awake until dawn.

Although by now I should have known my way round Wintrylaw, I stumbled onto the entrance to the wood when I’d almost given up hope of finding it. I was even considering going to the front door and asking for Dickon there. I’d been driving around the lanes, as I had that first time with Ray, and suddenly the approach was familiar: a little humpbacked bridge over a burn, wild overgrown verges, a hawthorn hedge and the wood rising up on one side. Then the stone pillars, covered with lichen and moss so they blended in with the trees, and the grassy track which led through the wood and eventually to the grand house.

I sat in the car, wishing that Dickon had given me a proper time for the meeting. When was dusk, for Christ’s sake? I’d stayed in Sea View all day in case he phoned, but there’d been no other messages. For someone who admitted to a hangover and said she felt like death, Jess had been annoyingly happy. She buzzed around the house with a duster, singing and humming. By early evening I’d been glad to get out, though it wasn’t dusk, nowhere near.

I’d parked the car in exactly the same place as Ray had dropped me on the day of the funeral. There was a passing place cut out of the verge and I pulled in there so close to the hedge that a passenger would have been trapped. The car was almost hidden by cow parsley and that tall weed with the little pink flower I’ve always called ragged robin. Philip would have known its proper name. I’d brought a book and started to read, but I must have dozed. When I woke the light was starting to go and I thought it must be almost time.

I walked between the pillars and into the wood. There was a wind, a warm, dry wind, which made the branches creak and the leaves above me murmur. I thought they sounded like a crowd of old ladies gossiping or maybe the sea, and I told myself I’d have to remember that to tell Dickon. Inside the wood it seemed much darker because the canopy blocked out what light was left. That made me jittery. I’ve never liked the dark and since Nicky took me hostage I can’t even sleep without a light. Of course, I hadn’t thought to bring a torch, or a flask of coffee, or a rug to sit on. I’d thought Dickon would be there waiting for me and I’d never been in the Girl Guides. I stumbled up the track in the gloom. It forked and I didn’t know which way to take. I’d lost all sense of direction. I tried to listen out for cars along the lane, at least to fix that in my mental map, but either there was no traffic or the sound of the wind in the trees hid it. I didn’t want to shout out for Dickon. I knew enough to realize that you had to be quiet if you wanted to see animals in the wild, and I didn’t want him to be cross with me, or think I wasn’t worth bothering with. That was illogical, of course, because my stumbling through the undergrowth would have scared off any animal in the place. It was more about knowing I’d feel really foolish, standing there and yelling, not wanting to make an exhibition of myself.

Then I saw the torch flashing in my direction, a signal. The light was subdued and orange. Dickon must have covered the lens with coloured cellophane as he’d described. It was a relief. I’d been starting to think this was another wild-goose chase. I made my way towards the light. Occasionally the wind blew a gap in the foliage and I had a glimpse of the sky, and brown clouds blowing across a shadowy moon, and the floor of the wood was lit up. Then the gust would drop, so everything seemed darker than ever, and I had to focus hard to see the pinprick of torchlight.

He was crouched on a bank. Earlier in the year it had been covered with bluebells, but now only the fleshy, spear-like leaves were left. I couldn’t see them at first, because I was blinded by the orange light which was directed in my face, as if he wanted to be sure it was me and not some stranger. I saw them when I looked down to protect my eyes.

‘Lizzie Bartholomew,’ he said. It wasn’t Dickon. It was an adult voice, gentle, halting. Ronnie Laing.

‘Where’s Dickon?’

‘Joanna wouldn’t let him out in the end. He picked up a chill. You know how it is with kids.’

‘Tell him I hope he’s better soon.’ I realized even then that Dickon had been used to set me up.

‘Don’t you want to see the badgers, Lizzie?’ His voice was really something, you know? The slowness which overcame the stutter was seductive, soft.

‘No thanks.’

‘Sit down, Lizzie.’ Still slow, but not an invitation this time. More like an order. Obedience has never been my thing.

‘Piss off.’

‘Sit down.’ He sounded apologetic as he held out the knife, almost as if it was some kind of peace offering. At that moment the wind blew the branch above us, letting in the moonlight, which shone on the blade.

I looked at him. I knew if I ran he’d catch me. He was fitter than I was and he knew the wood. If I caught him off guard, maybe I could get the knife off him. That thought really came into my head. Talk about self-delusion. One term of lessons in women’s self-defence and I thought I could take on a mercenary. But I sat. I didn’t think I had a choice. And at least at that point I was still thinking.

‘Did Howdon set you up to this?’ I asked.

He didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the knife blade. He tilted it, backwards and forwards, so the reflected torchlight moved. He seemed mesmerized, as if this were a strange form of self-hypnosis. I was mesmerized too, but I continued to talk.

‘Howdon must be behind all this. He forged the papers for me to sign. But why did he want Thomas dead? Why did he let me think Philip was the boy’s natural father?’

I was talking to fight off the panic, the old helplessness which had started to insinuate itself into my brain as soon as I sat down. I was a hostage again, squatting on the floor, held at knifepoint by a lunatic I’d thought I understood, I’d felt some sympathy for. I imagined Jess raising her eyes to the ceiling. Don’t you ever learn, Lizzie Bartholomew? Won’t you ever look after yourself?

Nicky moves me to the floor when they gather outside his door. They talk to him all night. They’ve cleared the other kids off the corridor and they negotiate with him to open the door, just a crack.

Their voices are soft and reassuring, but I can’t take in the words, and I don’t think Nicky’s listening either. He’s still whispering, saying where he’s going to cut me, how he’s going to hurt me. Then he says, ‘They can kill me, but I’ll take you with me. Are you ready to die, Miss?’ That’s when I wet myself.

Occasionally he shouts back to them, but it’s never anything that makes sense. It’s not like he’s having a real conversation with them.

I don’t know how long I’ve been there. It could be days.

Suddenly my eyes are seared by a bright light. Phosphorescent white. Brighter than anything I’ve ever known. A voice commands, ‘Run, Lizzie, run.’ But I don’t run. My brain’s too sluggish. The message gets slowly to my legs and I stagger to my feet. Nicky’s responses are quicker. He lifts the knife above his head. I see it through eyes half shut against the light and wait for it to strike.