At the edge of the clearing, a twist of darkness takes shape. Even in the swirl of her delirium, she identifies it as a yew tree, its circumference vast, its branches splayed out like the fingers of an upturned hand. There are great scars in the trunk; the bark ripped away and the wood exposed. She finds her vision blurring as she gazes into the face of the ancient tree. Sees knot-holes become eyes, a porcine snout, a hanging mouth of obsidian black.
“She’s here! Christ, Derrick, she’s here!”
She spins at the sound of the new voice. Slashes upwards with the hard metal skewer she holds in her right fist. It rips through the flesh of Eve Cater’s gut as easily as a spoon through ripe melon.
Through the disarray of her thoughts, she becomes aware of the sound of footsteps. She can make out the sound of small, running feet – a haphazard scuttling noise, as if the clearing has suddenly come alive with children. She realises she is on her belly, on the ground, and that the small cop who came looking for is trying to stuff her guts back in; blinking and pale, telling her it will be okay, that help is coming – that they’ll get him for this.
Something seems to vibrate beneath her. She hears chattering, high and childlike, then peals of bright laughter. It seems to come from all sides. She pulls her arms in to her waist. Woodlice scamper across her exposed face; bristly, multi-legged creatures criss-cross her skin, trailing webs; as if lacing her into a corset. She tries to raise her head but some sinewy root has wound itself into her hair and as she pulls herself upright it holds her fast.
She glimpses bone. The yellow-white of a leathery skull, all bristles and tusks, the insinuation of matted hair over bare, brick-red skin. She opens her mouth as the walls of the grave begin to close around her; a toothless maw engulfing her in one slow, slithering swallow. She feels roots tangle about her limbs; tiny, wriggling things climbing into her hair, the weight of cold earth pressing upon her like tombstones. She cannot breathe. Cannot see. Cannot hear the voice. Darkness takes her, nightmarish visions dancing just out of reach. The last thing she feels is a distant sense of pain, some vague apprehension that her skin is beginning to sizzle and blister; that the leather shroud around her skin is evaporating into the earth, leaving her body to be devoured and digested by the hungry soil beneath the ancient tree.
She wakes to darkness; to the stench of the tent; the burnt-sage reek of the sacred space she had sought in a desperate quest for answers. She tries to move but her limbs refuse her commands. Her eyes bulge in their sockets as she tries to see the thing that stands beside and above her, looking down, pig-faced and hideous.
Freya leans down, leather and sweat and rotten meat. Her words are muffled by the mask. They echo, inhuman, inside her skull.
“You wanted to remember, Violet. This is what you wanted. So I’m going to help you. I’m going to take you through the veil. Take you to the other place, again and again and again. And every time I come back, there will be a little less of you. I’m bringing him back in pieces, do you understand. Bringing back the one who understood. He’s there, waiting for us both. I can feel him. I would never have understood if you hadn’t tracked me down. You opened my eyes. You showed me what I had been. All those years, wasted on lies. All I had to do was find you. Find that silly girl Catherine. You were the ones who left him there. Ended him. Abandoned him to that place. It will take time, but together we will bring him back.”
Violet feels as though a hole has been torn in reality. She sees the darkness tear itself into the shape of a yawning, hungry mouth.
It closes
41
Rowan squints out through the window. It’s cold and black and the rain comes in handfuls. He should probably have walked Snowdrop home, he realises. Should have put on his coat and acted like a grown-up….
He opens a cupboard and roots around for something drinkable. There’s a sloe-and-damson gin that looks as though it might be good for his chest pains. He’d like to roll a joint but isn’t sure his fingers can manage it. He curses as the phone begins to trill. He stomps back to the sofa. Looks at the number and curses. It’s Serendipity again – no doubt planning on delivering another saccharine homily about his failings as a grown-up and the importance of trying harder. He can’t face it. He knows he’s done wrong but he can’t imagine himself suddenly starting to get things right any time soon. An apology would be fatuous. How could he apologise for misdeeds that he knows he is destined to repeat? He’d rather wait until Death is knocking at the door then repent for his entire life in one go.
The ringing stops and immediately starts again. It’s a withheld number this time. He shakes himself, screwing up his eyes, intent on sounding sober.
“Rowan Blake …,”
Nobody speaks. He can hear breathing, the slightest hint of a painful exhalation; a bronchial rattle to the outbreath.
“Hello? It’s a bad line. This is Rowan Blake – I can’t hear you.” He listens again, his patience dissolving. “You’re welcome to call back on a different line. Or email me. I’m available.”
He hangs up, his head thumping. He feels as though he should drink a big glass of water but his body is craving something he can turn into the right kind of fuel. He knows he’s nearly there – that the pieces are all laid out in front of him and all he has to do to complete the jigsaw is to chew one or two errant edges into a more pleasing shape. He wonders if he should call Matti. Maybe it would be better to go straight to Aubrey. He can picture her at some book launch, a glass of white wine in one hand and a tote bag full of paperback samplers in the other, toasting the launch of some hot new thing destined to set the publishing world alight. He’d like to remind her that she’s already got a bona fide A-plus true crime writer on her books. He thinks of Sumaira, suddenly. He’s no doubt that when it comes to taking his findings to the police, she’ll be the friendly face best suited to the task. Just as quickly, his mind fills with the mingled faces of Violet and Catherine. Of two women who spent a weekend being tormented by a sadist and have spent the last 30 years trying to be something other than victims. He shakes his head, angry at himself for considering it. Screws up his hands, painfully, as the thought trails another… where is Violet now? He suddenly come to the inescapable conclusion that the right thing to do would be to report his findings to the police and insist they begin treating her as an active missing person. All that is stopping him is the thought of the story leaking out to a competitor before he’s able to make it truly his own. And he isn’t sure that he really believes that’s a good enough reason to stay quiet.
He crosses to the sink. Turns on the taps pushes his face under the stream, enjoying the sensation of sudden icy cold on skin turned soft and pink by the scorching heat of the fire. It wakes him like a slap. He straightens up, hair dripping onto his bare shoulders and chest, dribbling down to soak the waist of his trousers.
He presses his forehead to the glass. Feels the chill upon his skin. Stares into his own eyes and tries to focus on the view beyond. He can’t seem to make anything out. The darkness is oily and absolute, an iridescent shade of gleaming black that makes him think of raven wings. He crosses to the little lamp by the chair and flicks it off. Crosses back to the window in the dark. Resumes his position, leaning against the cold glass, eyes shut.
Counts down in his head.
Three
Two
One