Cath Staincliffe - Bleed Like Me

Rachel heard a splash by the bank, but no other noises followed. She swung her torch over the water but could barely make out the surface through the fog, let alone see anything else.

She retraced her line of thought. Alive equalled contained because you couldn’t just leave little kids somewhere; they’d wander off. That’s why people had playpens, used reins. So they had to be inside somewhere, shut in, or tied up. Another car perhaps, or an abandoned building: an outhouse, or a shed or a garage. Farms, like the ones on the map, would have loads of hiding places. Rachel thought back to Grainger, the geese, his miserable bugger-off attitude.

She imagined most of the landowners in the area would have made a search of any obvious places after the first appeal to do that was made. But since? Would they have repeated that search? Because there was every chance that Cottam had found somewhere to conceal the kids in the meantime. If Mark Tovey did agree to work up a strategy for this area, Rachel would chuck that in. Make sure that any appeals stressed the need for people to look again.

Light began to spread over the land and the fog seemed to rise from the ground in ragged shreds like some special effect from a horror movie, though it stayed hovering close to the water. Soon she could switch off her torch.

A row of houses on the opposite bank had gardens that reached the water’s edge, but there was no towpath on that side so they wouldn’t be easy to access for a stranger. That made her wonder how far he could walk with the children. A fair way, she assumed. He was a strong man; with one on piggyback and one in his arms he’d not be particularly hampered. Though he would be conspicuous and that might limit how far he’d travel on foot.

She decided to continue to the next bridge, which she could just make out, a smudge on the horizon, and then retrace her steps to the rendezvous with Mark. The world was beginning to stir, traffic zipping intermittently along the narrow road over the Dobrun Lane bridge behind her. The side of the path was thick with brambles and tall weeds, gone to seed most of them, dried out now, shrivelled and wispy. It wouldn’t be hard to conceal bodies in there. Though dogs being walked along the canal would soon sniff them out. But if they were right about his motivation, Owen Cottam wasn’t a murderer who wanted to escape detection and run free. All he’d wanted in his manoeuvres over these last days was to buy himself time to complete his plan – the mortal destruction of his family and himself.

Rachel carried on, walking more briskly now she could see the way. A pair of ducks at the far side of the water made quacking sounds and drifted in and out of the mist, dipping their heads down now and again. She looked ahead to the bridge. There’d been less traffic crossing this one, only a couple of cars. Betty Lane the road was called, according to the map, one of a warren of small lanes that ran by the farms and up to the B road.

Beyond the humped shape of the bridge, she could see some low-lying structure: huge horizontal bars, black and white, and railings. She glanced down at the map: a lock. The canal was littered with them. She walked under the bridge where it was dank and smelled of earth and the stones glistened wet, and up to the lock.

Here the canal banks widened a little then narrowed again for the lock itself. The black and white paddles, a pair at either end, were attached to the great lock gates. The paddles were used to swing back the wooden gates. She’d a dim memory of doing it in primary school. Sections of the canals had been built at different levels, and the locks were the way of transporting boats from one stretch to the next. The boat would enter through the first set of gates, which would be closed behind them, and then underwater sluices would be opened to allow water to flow in, or out, and raise or lower the craft. When it reached the correct level the second set of gates would be opened and the boat would be able to resume its journey.

At the edge of the lock she stared down into the chamber. The walls were covered in green mould and streaks of orange. With the huge gates at either end they formed a great box, water in the bottom. A long drop. The notion hit her like a punch, made her guts burn. The rope. To hang himself. She looked at the backs of her hands, at the biggest blister where the blue plastic had fused to her skin. He’d need a long drop to do it. Somewhere like this would work just as well as the woods, better really, since you’d not have to scale a tree. All sorts of places to attach the rope to, here. Okay, he might not be completely free hanging, might hit the walls, feet scrabbling for purchase, but most hangings it was the drop that killed you, the sudden wrench as you reached the end of the rope, which broke your neck and severed your spinal cord. When it went wrong, when the body was too light or the drop not far enough, quick enough, then the person strangled slowly.

Rachel’s heart was hammering in her chest, racing, and there was a buzzing in her ears. She scanned the land beyond the verge: no dwellings close by. Looking ahead, further down the canal, just before a bend, she made out an old barge, the first she’d seen.

Boats. Somewhere else to search along with the farms and sheds. Another angle to cover. Unless Cottam opened up to Janet and saved them all the aggro. Rachel wondered if there were more boats parked further round the corner. Parked wasn’t right. Moored, that’s what they called it. There was still a pall of fog suspended over the water as she went on to look.

A ripple of dark shadow on the path ahead brought her up short. A rat, sleek and silent, slid over the edge of the bank and disappeared. Rachel swallowed and walked on. Something dark and fearful growing inside her. Just a rat, she told herself, millions of them all around, everywhere. Knowing that the fear wasn’t from the rat. She saw the lock gates, she saw Owen Cottam and his rope. And the bin bags. Why the bin bags?

By the time she reached the barge, she could see round the bend. There were no other boats there. Just this one. Ancient by the looks of it. Rotting into the water.

A car slowed and stopped in the distance; perhaps Mark Tovey arriving for the meeting? Above her there was a strange sound which had her ducking instinctively. Making her temples thud with pain. A cormorant, large and black, soared overhead, the beat of wings loud and powerful in the still air.

The barge was desiccated. It had once been black but most of the paint had peeled away and bare wood showed through silvery grey. Fragments of pink and green lettering decorated the prow. Some sort of fungus, a canker, sprouted lumps of ginger here and there. The cabin was partly covered by an old tarpaulin, faded and ripped in parts. The roof, splashed with bird-shit, dipped in the centre where a mush of skeletal leaves was trapped. Shuttered windows were thick with cobwebs. No flowers or fancy watering cans or signs of habitation. At the back, where the door was, lay a number of old plastic containers, cracked and dappled green with mould. Rachel looked at the door, rickety as everything else, crumbling. An old padlock hasp secured with-

Gorge rose in her throat and her knees went weak. There. A scrap of black cord. A shoelace.

The world shrank around her. The canal, the farms beyond, the lock and the road bridge faded as she focused on the boat, the door.

The boat rocked alarmingly when Rachel clambered on board. Water pooled on the deck underfoot. With trembling fingers she worked at the knot, her nails slipping and the scars on her fingertips starting to bleed. Finally it came loose and she pulled the shoelace free and opened the narrow double doors, which made a squealing sound.

The interior was pitch dark, only the small flight of steps leading down into the cabin illuminated by the daylight. She could barely see a thing,