A Cold Season (9 page)

Cass turned, her mouth falling open, and they burst into laughter.

Lucy turned the car onto the lane and braked at the top of it. The mill was golden against its black and white backdrop. The sun had gained a little height and its rays struck the stone, turning it the colour of the desert. It was silent and still and peaceful. There was barely another house to be seen looking down the valley. Lucy caught her breath. ‘It really is beautiful. You lucky thing.’

Cass found herself smiling. ‘I suppose I am,’ she said. How many people lived in a building like this, in countryside like this? Not many.

Then she remembered the silent halls, the sense of emptiness pressing in. ‘It’s very quiet,’ she said. ‘I think there’s only us living there – except that someone’s been getting the papers delivered. I don’t suppose you know who else might have taken an apartment?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t. You’re the first I’ve heard of. I dare say a few more will be snapped up once the roads clear. Then the builders will finish it, I suppose.’

‘I hope so. That might clear the mice.’
Rats
, Ben had said.

‘Mice? Oh no! Well, I suppose it is a big empty building.’

‘As long as they don’t nick the bread.’ They were laughing again as they jumped out of the car and ploughed their way to the front door. Cass’ own car was buried in the snow, only a band of metal visible along the side. Everything was colourless except the stone of the mill and the scarred red door.

‘Look at that,’ Lucy exclaimed as they drew near. She went to the door and put out her hand towards the thing scratched into the wood, but drew back without touching it.

‘I know,’ said Cass, ‘it’s such a mess. I don’t suppose it’ll be painted over in a hurry either.’

Lucy bit her lip. ‘Vandals, I suppose.’ She was leaning in, staring at the mark.

‘What is it?’

Finally Lucy did touch it, slipping her glove from her hand and running her fingertips along the length of the cross. ‘It’s strange,’ she said. ‘Who would use a cross in graffiti? If it was a cross of confusion, or inverted … but a normal cross? It doesn’t exactly spell rebellion.’

Cass nodded. ‘I thought it must be random, or … I don’t know, part of a band logo or something.’ She paused. ‘What’s a cross of confusion?’

‘It’s a cross that curves – here – into a question mark.
A sign of rebellion against authority – any authority, earthly or heavenly, or so it’s believed.’ She grinned at Cass. ‘I really do like history. Well, the cross of confusion was used as a symbol in Darnshaw to gather witches together – under its banner, so to speak. Darnshaw was something of a centre for it.’

‘Witchcraft?’ Cass was incredulous. She had heard no such stories when she’d lived here as a child – but perhaps they weren’t the kind of stories to tell children.

‘I’m afraid so. They say the mill-workers were among the most dedicated followers. It’s a bit nasty, actually: not just black candles and dancing-round-the-campfire sort of stuff, but blood rituals and sacrifice – even children.’

‘They sacrificed
children
?’

Lucy looked away. ‘I did hear of one case … But it was more a matter of the children doing the sacrificing.’ She paused. ‘It was adults who planned it all, of course. They believed that the loss of innocence, by a child committing some terrible act – well, they thought it gave them power. Nasty stuff. Of course it was years ago.’ She turned back to the cross. ‘I’m sure this is just kids messing about.’

‘It was here? In the mill?’

‘God, no – I’m sorry, Cass, I didn’t mean to scare you. There was nothing in the mill itself, at least, not that I know of.’ She frowned. ‘It was all down by the river, I think, or out on the moor. And in the church.’

‘The church?’ Cass’ eyes widened.

‘Apparently so. Christianity took over all sorts of old signs and symbols. You can still see pagan symbols in the
building if you look. But it was used for worse things too, unfortunately.’

All Cass could see was her father, bending towards her in his black robes, pressing dry bread onto her tongue.
This is love.
The commitment he’d shown, the zeal of a convert – had he known about the church’s history here?

‘It’ll be kids,’ Lucy said, ‘messing about. Like you said, it’s probably random.’

‘Just kids,’ Cass repeated under her breath.
Children, doing the sacrificing.
She shivered, and looked up at the mill once more. It would be easy to let her imagination run wild, being out here alone. Too easy.

‘Teenagers with nothing to do.’ Lucy tossed her hair back. ‘They’re too cool for sledging these days, aren’t they?’

Cass tapped the entry code into the keypad, showed Lucy inside and made coffee, trying not to think about witches hiding around every corner.

While they chatted Cass fired up her computer, already composing the message to her client in her mind. She transferred the files onto a disk and explained to Lucy what she’d done.

‘I’ll let you know later if he answers,’ Lucy said. She sat back, taking in the high vaulted ceiling, the tall windows. ‘This is a great building. However did you find it? Where did you say you were from?’

‘All over, really.’ Cass paused. ‘My husband was in the Army. We moved around a lot – it was hard on Ben.’

‘That’s rough.’

‘This was meant to be a permanent base, somewhere nice for him to grow up.’

‘It is a lovely place.’

‘That’s what I thought. A good school too.’

‘You said it
was
meant to be a permanent base. Aren’t you sure any more?’

Cass hadn’t been aware she’d said it. ‘I don’t know. It’s not like I remembered.’

‘You’re from Darnshaw then?’ Lucy sounded surprised.

‘Not originally. I lived here for a while when I was young.’

‘Well, you’ve not had the best welcome, with the snow and all. But it is a good place to raise a family. It’s lovely, really.’

Cass looked out of the window again and saw that yes, it was. The hillside blazed with light, glowing against the crisp blue sky, which deepened in colour at its zenith. She had a sudden image of Pete. In his hands he held the blue stones. They were the colour of sky, and his lips were moving, but she couldn’t hear the words.

‘Cass, are you okay?’

‘I’m sorry. I was woolgathering.’ Cass brushed it off, but felt tears pricking at her eyes anyway. ‘You’re right: Darnshaw’s exactly what we need – what
Ben
needs. It’s just … I miss Pete so much. We both do.’ She paused. ‘He was lost in Afghanistan.’

‘God, Cass, I’m so sorry.’

‘No, no, it’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have said anything. We both need to move on. I shouldn’t even keep saying he’s lost. They said he’s never coming back.
Lost,
I keep saying, and then I expect Ben to understand that he’s not coming home.’

Lucy was silent.

‘I’m sorry, going on like that. I didn’t know that was coming.’

They sat for a while, not saying anything. Then Lucy straightened up and rose, and Cass thought she would probably never come back, but at the bottom of the stairs she turned and looked at Cass. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘if you ever want to talk, it’s fine. It’s nice to meet someone who doesn’t want to go on about the best recipe for strawberry jam, or play the “my-kid’s-better-than-yours” game.’

Cass thought,
You’d rather talk about dead husbands?
But she smiled.

‘Any time,’ Lucy said. ‘I’ll see you later. I’ll let you know how I get on with the email.’

She means it
, thought Cass.
She’s not just trying to get away.
‘I’ll look forward to it. And no tears, I promise.’ They laughed once more, and Cass waved her off. The Land Rover went steadily up the hill, leaving Cass alone at the scarred red door.

She started to go inside, then stopped and ran her fingers over the splintered wood. When she turned and looked towards the village, she could see the church spire rising blackly over the valley. Pagan signs, Lucy had said. Had her father ever mentioned such things? Cass couldn’t remember.

A short while later she walked up the hill towards the church. This was where her father had spent so many days when she was a child, almost as though the church had been his home and Cass and her mother the distractions.
He had been drawn to it, circling it first, then drawing closer and closer, until he became that black creature, the one who put a dry wafer into her mouth and called it love. She closed her eyes.
Dad
, she thought.

And then,
Ben
. Oh God, Ben.

How had she not seen it before? Ben, crying for his dad, and Cass trying to show her son how to move on, trying to convince him that Pete wasn’t coming back, to give up his father. And all the time in some way she’d been searching for her own father; following his traces to Darnshaw, the last place her own family had been complete, back when she was a child.

She shook her head, forcing herself to remember the good school, the healthy rural life, the way Ben was already fitting in. He would be happy here; she had done the right thing.

The church seemed to grow taller as she approached, and its stone looked blacker than ever as it rose against the sky. The promise of more snow was in the bitter air. Cass put her hand to the door and was surprised to find it wasn’t locked. It swung in until it caught on the flags beneath and when she looked down she could see the stone bore deep scratches, etched by years of scraping. She tried to remember if it had been that way when she was a child and found she could not. She stepped inside, and it was as though she could smell the past, the tang of ancient stone and cold earth. It was tasteless.
This is love
.

At first everything inside the church was colourless. There were dark pews and a dark altar, and grey passages
of light fell between them, thick with dust. Then Cass looked up and saw the splendour of the windows, almost dazzling: red, yellow, brilliant blue.

Cass walked across the stone floor. As she trailed a hand across the back of the pews she remembered the feel of them digging into her spine, the way she had kicked her feet, watching them bob in front of her, up, down, in buckled leather sandals.
White socks. The foamy froth of her dress
. She had looked up at her father, standing in front of everyone, so important. She hadn’t known this place would take him away from them, that this was his family now, this dark church with its dry old smell. That he belonged to God.

She hadn’t understood why God would want to take him from them – he didn’t have to leave them behind; surely he could have kept them with him? She remembered her mother screaming that at him while Cass listened from her hiding place on the stairs. But her father was adamant once he had decided something, and in the end it was her mother and Cass who’d been the ones to leave.

Her mother had said
It was never a battle I could win.
At the time Cass hadn’t understood what her mother had meant, but here, now, she almost thought she did.

Cass had been jealous, and the feeling flooded back into her mouth like bile. She was jealous of the God who had taken her father from them. And isn’t that what they called him? A jealous God. She had imagined them, Cass and God on opposite sides of the room, being jealous of each other over this man.

He was mine first
, she thought, closing her eyes. When she opened them, the colours mocked her.

All this time she had seen Darnshaw as a place for family, somewhere to build a home, and she had forgotten it was in Darnshaw that she had lost her own family – lost her father.

Cass sank into a pew, looking up through the layers of light. The high vaulted ceiling was studded with wooden bosses. A face peered down at her through a spray of leaves: a green man. A pagan emblem, just as Lucy had said. This one had its tongue sticking out in mockery.

The next boss looked like a mermaid, its long tail twisted around a young man she had saved or stolen, it wasn’t clear which; then there was a reptile with its tongue lolling from its mouth. Cass leaned back. Next was a hairless man with a snake writhing about his head and caught between his teeth. Then a stag with human arms, and a sheep biting into the head of a wolf.

There are signs. Even in the church.

It wasn’t so unusual; Lucy was right: lots of churches had been built on the holy sites of older religions and subsumed or fed upon them, taking their signs and symbols and making them into something new. Some even had ancient dolmen set into the walls or turned into gravestones, stone altars torn from their original places of worship.

Cass stood and walked to the front of the church, not liking the way the colours from the windows fell over her feet, her clothes; she could almost feel them on her skin.

The altar was heavy, a single stone slab, irregular and worn.

Cass reached out and put her hand on it, wondering what she had expected to find. The surface was partly covered by a narrow white cloth running down the centre. A silver crucifix stood upon that. A tiny Jesus stared back at Cass, his face twisted in agony.

Cass ran her hand over the cold stone. It was uneven, possibly still bearing the marks of ancient tools. As she ran her palms across the surface, her fingers found a neat groove nestled into it. She stroked the smooth runnel. Then she looked down and saw that the groove ran the length of the altar.
For drainage
, she thought, and pulled her hand away.

Rituals. Blood rituals, right from ancient times.

It didn’t mean anything. The church had taken these old things long ago, made them part of the new religion. And this stone had been the right size and shape for its altar, that was all.

It was interesting, but it didn’t mean anything.

ELEVEN

Cass walked back through the village. Everything was quiet. She saw a woman in the distance, brushing snow from her step with a dustpan and brush, but she straightened and went inside before Cass got close enough to say hello. The school was silent, although Cass thought she saw a figure pacing back and forth behind one of the windows. The next road down the hill ended in the park, and Cass turned that way. By the motionless swings was the gap in the bushes that led to the riverside path, where she’d first seen Bert and his dog.