Stephen Booth - Dying to Sin

She didn’t question what he meant. Sometimes it was better not to ask, because the answers only left her more baffled than ever.

‘The demolition teams can’t get on site until after Christmas, of course. But it won’t take them long to bring this lot down, once they get started. I’m amazed some of these walls haven’t fallen down already.’

‘What about the construction crew?’

‘They’ve all packed up and left. They’ve got an extended break over Christmas, then their agency is sending them off to another job in Stockport. Except for Jamie Ward. I think he’s lost his taste for building work.’

‘I suggested he give my brother a call,’ said Cooper. ‘Matt will be able to find him some work for a couple of weeks until he goes back to university. Jamie has worked on a farm before, so he’ll be OK with that.’

Fry checked the back door of the farmhouse to make sure it was locked. She wasn’t sure whether she was responding to a concern about vandals breaking in, or an inexplicable instinct to prevent anything getting out.

‘Has your brother ever thought about diversification?’ she asked.

Cooper laughed. ‘Yes, he’s thought about it. He thinks about it the way a turkey thinks about Christmas. It’s going to come, but that doesn’t mean you have to like it.’

A piece of glass crunched under Fry’s foot. She jumped, imagining the poisons that contaminated parts of Pity Wood. Battery acid and anti-freeze, iodine and drain cleaner. A toxic mix that had contaminated the farm beyond salvation.

‘Ben, we shouldn’t be here at all,’ she said. ‘It’s much too dangerous.’

‘There’s just one thing, Diane.’

‘What are you looking for?’

‘I think I saw it around here somewhere.’

‘You should be wearing gloves and a mask.’

‘I’ll be careful.’

‘Famous last words,’ she said, watching him anxiously, but trying not to sound like his mother.

Cooper was poking about in some of the rubbish that had been discarded when the skip had been searched. Finally, he dragged out a long pole, with a rusted metal plate attached to the top.

‘What now?’ asked Fry, as he scraped away at the metal. She could see the remains of some white enamel and black lettering, perhaps even a crude picture.

‘The old Pity Wood Farm sign. I wondered where it had gone,’ said Cooper.

Fry peered more closely. ‘What’s that animal? It has horns. Not more witchcraft?’

‘It was never witchcraft, Diane. Only superstition.’

‘What, then?’

‘This is the last remnant of the Suttons’ herd of pedigree Ayrshires, I believe. It must have been a very sad day when they took the sign down.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Not for the first time that week, Fry sensed she was in unknown territory. What significance could there be in an old sign? It was a bit of advertising, that was all. And it had served its purpose, so it had been thrown away. End of story, surely?

But she could tell from Cooper’s tone that there was some deeper meaning. She didn’t ask him to explain it, and of course he didn’t try. He’d given up hope on her, she supposed — and for a moment, she regretted that. There were times when she would have liked to be able to understand, to share the feelings suggested by the softness in his voice, by the way his fingers traced the rusty lettering, as if he was communicating with some other world that she just couldn’t see.

Fry knew she would forever be on the outside at these times, always the uncomprehending stranger who didn’t fit in. Her lack of understanding was deep and incurable, and it made her an unwelcome intruder into other people’s lives.

The truth was, she could walk away from Pity Wood Farm now, step across the muddy track and disappear into those dank woods. No one would come looking for her, the way Mikulas Halak had come looking for his sister. She wouldn’t be missed by the Ben Coopers of this world.

Fry drew her coat tighter round her shoulders and wiped the rain from her face. She didn’t belong here, and she never would. End of story.