Jon McGregor - Reservoir 13

Richard Clark came home for Christmas. As he drove through the village he saw Cathy outside the post office, and stopped to ask if she wouldn’t come round for a cup of tea. She was surprised but said yes, and climbed into the hire car for the short drive. His mother’s front door was unlocked and they walked in together. His mother was lying on the kitchen floor. She smiled up at them both, and asked if he’d had a good journey. It took the two of them to pick her up and get her into a chair. You needn’t look so worried, she said. I would have got myself up in a moment, only I heard you coming in through the door. Thought I’d save myself the effort. Richard asked if this had happened before and she told him to put the kettle on. You’ll stay for a tea, Cathy? Cathy had backed away a little, towards the door, as though not wanting to intrude. Her hand was hovering over the zip of her coat. I will, Mrs Clark. That would be nice. It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Richard’s mother said. It has, Cathy agreed, and Richard heard the rustle of her coat being slipped from her shoulders. It was daft but something stirred in him. A fog came in and lay heavy for a week and even at noon the only colour in the street was the buttery light spilling from house windows, held behind curtains that people kept closed. These weren’t days for working outdoors if it could be helped. The sloe gin from the year before was sampled. The allotments were bare but for the odd row of kale or leek. There was carol singing in the church with candles and the familiar smells of cut yew and polish and damp coats. The numbers were down but the sound still rang out against the cold stone.

Jane Hughes held a service at the church to mark five years since the girl had gone missing, and this time the mother managed to attend. Care was taken not to call it a memorial service, although there were few in the village who thought she could still be alive. It was announced as a Service of Prayer for Rebecca Shaw and her family, and that seemed to be open enough. There were reports in the newspapers that both parents had gone back to work, and her mother certainly had more colour than the last time she’d been seen. But she didn’t speak during the service, and when people came up to her afterwards she only shook their hands briefly, and said thank you for their concern. The girl’s father was seen walking up the hill behind the visitor centre, heading towards Black Bull Rocks. Cathy Harris asked Richard to call round in the morning before he left for the airport. He’d only been back for a few days, and had barely left his mother’s house. Come round for a coffee or something, she’d said, standing on his mother’s doorstep, zipping up her coat. We should talk. He wondered if she wanted to make him feel guilty about his mother, or if she might find some other reason to persuade him to stay. He loaded up the hire car and drove down her lane before the sun was up. He could see her in the kitchen as he parked the car, standing over the table while her sons ate breakfast. The room was a bright square against the dark silhouette of the house. He watched her lean across them to take a piece of toast. He watched the relentless way the boys were eating, talking and laughing while they crammed food into their mouths. He looked at their broad shoulders, their expansive gestures. They made the room look full. Complete. He saw Cathy shush the boys, and turn up the volume on the radio. They were probably listening to the news. He turned it on in the car. He watched Cathy, with her back to him, lift her hair in both hands and twist it into a knot. He remembered her doing the same thing years ago. He tried not to think about it. That was a long time ago. Her marriage had been a happy one, he assumed, and he’d had some good relationships himself. He wanted to tell her this: that there had been relationships, that he hadn’t been lonely. Perhaps she knew, or assumed. Perhaps it didn’t need saying. When she turned to the window there was a hairband pinched between her lips, as he’d known there would be. On the radio they were talking about the girl. The police were appealing for further information. There were no new leads. The investigation remained open, despite the passage of time.

At midnight when the year turned there were fireworks going up all across the village but from the hill they looked faint and the sound failed to carry. James and Lynsey had walked up earlier in the night with blankets and torches and a bottle of vodka and by now they’d run out of things to say. Each of them was already worried that it was getting more serious between them than they’d expected, but neither of them knew how to bring it up. It wasn’t that she wanted it to stop, Lynsey had said to Sophie, it was only that she hadn’t wanted anything so serious this time. James hadn’t talked to anyone, but was carrying some kind of confusion around. He felt bad about Rohan. But he liked the things they were doing together and he thought that should be enough. When the fireworks were done they turned to each other and kissed without indecision, and James tried not to think about Becky Shaw. She could have walked high over the moor and stumbled into a flooded clough. She could have fallen anywhere and be lying there still. In the beech wood the foxes were ready to mate. There had been scent-marking and fighting and now the pairs were established. The dogs followed their vixens around for days. When the coupling came it was joyous and loud. Les Thompson’s sister died and there was a funeral. It was the first funeral Jane Hughes had taken where the burial was in the churchyard outside. Mostly these days it was crematoria. Thompson’s sister hadn’t lived in the area for years so there weren’t many people at the service; a dozen at most pressed around the grave afterwards while the undertaker’s men lowered the coffin into the ground. Les Thompson was a man of few words at the best of times but today he was completely silent. He’d been into town for a new suit, and had found one that fitted beautifully, given his proportions. He carried himself slowly. He nodded when people spoke to him, and his handshakes were heavy and warm. The snowdrops were up and the crows flew overhead and the wind moved through the trees. Jane had to keep herself from smiling.

The winds changed and came from the north, pulling a bog-sweet smell of damp down from the hills. After dark two of the older badgers snuck out of the sett at the top end of the beech wood, sniffing at the air before foraging across the wet soil around the edge of the abandoned lead pits, looking for the earthworms that had always been there. Will and Claire came back from hospital with a baby daughter, and went straight to the Jackson house to introduce her to Tom. They were calling her Molly, and when they laid her on Tom’s lap he looked terrified. Will’s brothers laughed, and Jackson was able to smile. On the television there were pictures of an earthquake’s aftermath; people walking down a road covered in dust, collapsed bridges, rescuers kneeling in the rubble to reach down into dark spaces. In the evening on Valentine’s Day Ruth drove over from Harefield to find Martin and return the card he’d sent. He looked at her holding it out but he didn’t take it back. I didn’t send that, he said. Martin, she said. This has to stop now. I’m not here to be won back. He was shaking his head. I’m telling you, he said, I didn’t send that. There was a softening in his expression. He felt as though he had the upper hand for once. She looked at him and she didn’t know what to believe. They were standing outside the Gladstone, and again she held out the card. The streetlights were on already. They both looked at it. The handwriting inside was obviously disguised. She looked around, feeling suddenly watched. I didn’t send it, he said again, and he seemed proud of the fact. He turned and went back into the pub, and there was a sway of warm chatter as the door swung closed behind him. She got back into the car. She felt the world expand around her. In the distance by the motorway the lights on the television masts blinked red.