Clare Houston - An Unquiet Place

‘Put caller ID on again, like the cops told you to do before.’

Alistair tugged on the hair gripped in his fist. ‘It’ll be the same. A private number. Untraceable. And we know who it is, don’t we?’

‘But we can’t prove it.’

‘No, we can’t. Come, Dad, let’s go eat.’

The table at the cottage was laid and Sarah ladled thick stew into bowls. Her crusty bread sat on a board, cut into thick slices for dipping into the stew. They sat and Neil said grace, Alistair taking comfort in the routine he had known his whole life. When they began to eat, Neil put his utensils down and looked across at Sarah, concern etched on his face. ‘Alistair had a call tonight, like before.’

Sarah took a moment to understand, and then stared wide-eyed at Alistair. ‘After all these years? Why would she start again?’

Alistair covered her hand with his large one. ‘Esme is unhinged, Mum. The day Marilie died, something clicked out of place. Hoping she’d get over her daughter’s death might have been too much to ask.’

‘No, you never recover from losing a child, but clinging on to the idea that you killed Marilie is insane!’

‘Exactly,’ said Alistair. ‘And the least I can do is weather a few phone calls. I might not have killed Marilie, but I was responsible for her. Esme expected me – as I did – to protect her daughter. I failed in the worst possible way.’

Neil slammed his hand on the table, making Sarah jump in her seat. ‘Rubbish!’ he said. ‘You cannot protect anyone from harm in this world. Bad stuff happens in spite of you. There are no guarantees. We go by the grace of God, all of us! To think you can protect yourself, your wife, or your children is beyond arrogance – it’s blasphemy.’ After a moment, Neil collected himself. He picked up his fork and began to eat again. Alistair and Sarah followed, but the chink of utensils on bowls was loud in the silence which hung over the table.

‘Well, Alistair,’ Sarah said, trying hard to restore the balance between them, ‘how was your day at Surrender Hill?’

‘Good,’ he said softly. ‘The story came back to me easily, which was a relief. It’s been so many years since I told it to people. It reminded me how much I loved doing it.’

‘Maybe we should look at those plans again,’ said Neil. ‘It was a sound concept for a business.’

Alistair looked across the table at his father. ‘What about the guest house?’

‘Building is a pain in the arse, but we can do it. The books look good this year, don’t they? We could hire a manager when it’s done. Leliehoek is growing its tourism industry – maybe we should think about taking a piece of that pie.’

‘There’s a lot going on right now, Neil,’ said Sarah. ‘Let’s see how this camp investigation turns out first. It might be a boon for a guest house, or it might not get off the ground at all.’ She turned to Alistair. ‘What’s the news of Hannah’s brother?’

‘He’s here in Leliehoek. We’re meeting to talk about a way forward.’

‘Remember your sister arrives this weekend.’

Neil took another slice of bread and reached for the butter. Alistair watched him change his mind at Sarah’s fierce glare and dunk the bread, unbuttered, into his stew. ‘Suzanne would also be interested in the camp story – maybe she should tag along.’

Alistair didn’t like the thought of Suzanne being anywhere near Joseph. ‘Let me handle the meeting first, see where it’s going.’ He collected the plates and stood, pushing his chair back to take the dishes to the kitchen.

His mother called from behind him. ‘There’s a rhubarb crumble on the table and a jug of custard. Please bring them through.’

Alistair smiled at the thought of his father. Sarah made the crumble for Alistair because she knew how much he loved it. She deliberately ignored her husband’s grimacing face across the table. Alistair loved that their relationship exhibited these small wars; loved even more that Neil submitted to her with good humour, allowing the small victories which made Sarah feel she was in charge.

Alistair knew that his father’s strength, when you met it, was ironclad. That, when it came down to the line, Neil was the backbone of the family. He had seen it on the day Marilie was killed. His father, sitting in the driveway, holding Alistair’s face together while he quietly organised the scene. Staff were sent running to call emergency services and bring blankets for Alistair. Sarah was made busy packing a hospital bag for Alistair, grooms dispatched to catch the horse and restore order in the stable. Neil had held Alistair in his arms on the driveway for the whole time it took the ambulance to arrive, allowing him to keep hold of Marilie’s body for as long as possible.

When her parents had arrived at the hospital, Neil had shielded Alistair from their grief and their rage. Alistair knew he would not have come through the trauma without his father carrying him. He owed him his life.

He had said as much one day in the shed while they were working on a tractor. Neil had simply looked at him and said, ‘You are my son, whom I love.’ Alistair had choked on the thick tears which had risen with those words, and Neil had squeezed his shoulder, then bent down to continue working.

Now, Alistair returned to the dining room, touching his dad’s shoulder as he passed. Neil looked up and grimaced at the sight of the desert. ‘My most favourite pudding, Sarah, you shouldn’t have. You really shouldn’t have.’

Sarah tapped him on the hand with her serving spoon. ‘This house does not revolve around you, Neil.’

But everyone, except perhaps Neil himself, knew it did.

Hannah and Joseph were met by Alistair’s dogs in full force on Monday morning. Their barking and jostling had Hannah hanging onto her car’s wing mirror for balance. Joseph knelt down to put his arms around the two Labradors and was knocked flat onto his bottom by Grant. Laughing, Hannah watched as he attempted to bat the dog’s profuse licking away with his hands, but it was only Alistair’s stern command which had the dogs sitting obediently next to Joseph. Alistair couldn’t help grinning at Joseph and the three dogs lined up in the dirt. He offered Joseph a hand up and pulled him to his feet.

Joseph dusted himself off and held out his hand again to Alistair. ‘We haven’t met properly. I’m Joseph Harrison.’

As Alistair gripped his hand, Hannah could see him assess her brother. She hoped he would see Joseph like she did, completely secure in himself and completely likeable. What some might consider arrogance was actually self-assurance and good humour. In allowing himself to gambol about with three exuberant dogs, Joseph couldn’t have endeared himself to Alistair in a better way.

‘Come in,’ said Alistair, gesturing to the front steps, and following Hannah and Joseph inside. ‘Go straight into the kitchen – we can sit there.’

Hannah passed what she glimpsed was a lounge, then entered a room which had been remodelled as an open-plan kitchen-dining room. It had been decorated in formal greys and blacks, a modern minimalist style. The windows were empty of blinds or curtains, the walls blank, apart from the odd starkly painted canvas, unframed. Hannah wasn’t convinced the style suited the old house or Alistair at all. The black granite kitchen counters were clear, no piles of papers or smudged recipe books, no dumped handbags. Empty.

‘Wow,’ said Joseph, coming into the room. ‘Who tidies for you? I could do with someone like that in my house.’

‘You don’t have a house,’ said Hannah.