Beneath the Tor (22 page)

“Laetitia calls me Grandma. I rather like that. You should do so too.”

“Can I ask you about my mother?”

She sighed, as if that was asking for the world. She took a couple of sips of cooling tea. “Your mother was, I'm afraid, not a perfect person.”

“Who is?”

“There are some things that are expected. Isabel was …” She coughed into her fist. “She was promiscuous.”

“Oh.”

“You do know what that means, I assume?”

“Even thirty years ago … well, it feels an outdated description for a woman.”

“Perhaps.” Lady Dare's lips thinned. “This modern world is not for me.”

My mother hadn't been brought up to be a woman; she'd been brought up to be a lady.

“So that's why you didn't speak to her, ever again?”

“It's not an attractive trait, Sabrina. She was my eldest daughter, and I was fearful that if I gave into her waywardness, Peers might similarly be afflicted.”

I shook my head. I didn't believe that Peers Mitchell would ever be attracted by anything that might afford pleasure, or even a bit of fun.

“I did not give that final ultimatum. I did not say the words ‘never darken our door,' The girls' father was alive at that time, and it would have hurt him deeply. She left of her own free—of her own promiscuous—will.”

“So it was Izzie that decided to break off from her family?”

“Yes. And for Sebastian's sake, I was glad. He was in failing health and he was my primary concern during the years after she left. I felt it was better that he should know as little as possible. And, after he had died … I felt it better that things should continue like that.”

She drained her cup. I lifted my own, leaving the saucer where it was, and drank the tea, trying not to let the cup chime as I put it down. Her words had been carefully chosen. Almost as if she was leaving me to decide what she'd said.

“What was it that my grandfather was better not knowing about?”

“Perhaps you could pass me my pashmina. It's over there, folded onto that chair.”

It was of the softest cashmere in the deepest shade of rose. I longed to put it to my cheek, but I resisted. I opened it wide and she pulled herself forward a little so that I could drape it over her shoulders.

“I still don't understand, Lady Dare.”

“Grandma, please. Or Lady
Savile-Dare
, if you insist.”

“What was it that you didn't tell your husband about? Or Mrs. Mitchell? Or anyone?”

I knew, of course. I'd worked it out from things she hadn't said, and the way her shoulders shook as she didn't say them.

I stepped back, knocking my legs against the carvery chair. “You knew my mother had died, didn't you? You never told your family, but you knew. They always find next of kin and inform. Always. You knew she'd had a child before she died. That's what you didn't tell. You didn't tell about me.”

twenty-one

juke

Somehow, I was in
Bridgwater. I must have driven on autopilot from Zotheroy while my thoughts frothed, as if my grandmother had thrown a sachet of brewer's yeast on them. A lorry hooted as I trailed blindly into the middle of the road and I found it utterly impossible to drive any further. I swung into the next car park, turned off the ignition, but forgot to go into neutral. The car jumped forward as I took my foot off the clutch. I was going to sob. No; I was going to scream.

I'd slipped away from the Hatchings. The thought of clapping eyes on Mrs. Mitchell had made me shake, and Lettice had still been hacking over the hills. If she'd seen the state I was in she'd have gone straight to her grandmother and got our conversation out of her with those beguiling eyes. I didn't want Lettice to know the truth about her family. Even so, leaving without saying goodbye to anyone felt like running away.

How stupid to think that my grandmother might welcome me into the fold. I'd met her daughter—the daughter who had stayed a daughter and taken on the family mantle of indifference to the world. Peers Mitchell should have been a lesson to learn; a shallow, repugnant woman who had never even thought to search for her own sister. Why had I allowed myself to believe for one moment that her mother would be different—in any way nicer?

Six months ago, it had been plain to me. I'd made the decision not to link up with this new family. I'd all but broken Lettice's heart when I'd told her. And I could remember my words, clear as day …
we've been quite happy not knowing each other up to now …

Finally, I gathered myself up and looked out on the day. I was parked on the edge of town, opposite the Angel Shopping Centre. Clouds hung like a bruise. I pulled my shoulders back and took a shuddering breath.

I turned the ignition and the car fired, almost masking the tap that came at my window. A man was standing right outside the car. He tapped again, bending so that I could see his face. He was somewhere between forty and fifty and his pate was almost hairless, just a few brownish curls above each ear. In substitution he wore a mustache that was a slash of brown across his upper lip. He had a squat head, as if someone had taken a cricket bat to it sometime in the past. A cigarette burned between the fingers still resting on the glass.

“Could I have a word?” he mouthed.

I went to wind the window down, but thought better. For no reason I could put my finger on, I didn't like the look of him. I turned off the engine and shoved the keys deep in my coat pocket. Then of course, I couldn't operate the window. Instantly, I felt a fool. All the guy wanted was a word—which would probably be that one of my tyres looked a little soft—something like that.

I opened the door and got out. The man stepped back to let me do so.

His black jeans were low slung and baggy and he wore a black open neck shirt over a black
t-shirt
, the better to display the concentric circles of heavy gold chains wrapped round his neck.

“Yes?”

The guy moved into my personal zone. I shuffled away and my back hit the car door. As our gazes met, his face transformed from living flesh into grey stone.

It was one of my “moments”—I was seeing the man's otherworldly presence—a stone gnome. The bald head was polished granite and the mustache was a line of dark lichen growing beneath the gravelly pits and dents, lumps and bulges, that made up his features.

Gnomes are a part of the Middle Realm of the otherworld. They love working with metal, often draping themselves with the glitter of gold. You never know which way a gnome will jump. Maybe they'll help you on your journey … maybe they'll throw a rock that catches your shin bone and trips you up.

The alteration in the man's features occurred for a few spine-
tingling seconds and in that time, he'd said whatever it was he'd wanted to say. He stood there, expectant, waiting for my reply. I hadn't heard a word.

“… your face?” The stone mouth was transforming into soft flesh. All I could do was gawp.

“Er—what?”

“I recognized your face.” He gestured behind him. “From right over there. You're Sabbie Dare, aren't you?”

“Uh …”

“I knew it was you.”

“I don't think we've ever met.”

“That's right.” His voice had the local growl of West Somerset. “No, you don't know me.”

“Can you tell me what this is about?”

“Heard all about how you're so kindhearted, like.”

I felt behind me for the door handle. He watched the action, his eyes trained. He ground his cigarette out under his foot, like a cue to action, and took my elbow. His grip was hard, stonelike. I shrugged him off and in doing so, moved away from the car door. He eased into my place. Now his back was at my door. “Please move. Move away from my car.”

“Only want to talk. That's all. Little talk.”

I didn't take my eyes off him as I fumbled at my remote key and zapped it from my pocket to lock the car. The lights flashed on, off.

He made towards me. He was almost upon me, about to snatch at me. I swerved out of his path. His stride became wider, breaking into a jog. I could hear him pounding behind as I dodged between cars. I aborted my bright idea—to escape from the stone gnome by heading back to my car—and was running wildly, barely knowing why, taking the exit from the car park and sprinting over the road between traffic. I thought the hammering in my ears was his footsteps, but it was the surge of my own pulse. I glanced behind. He was stuck in the centre of the road, a fresh stream of heavy traffic moving through. He raised his hand as if that would stop me in my tracks.

Nothing was going to stop me. I made it through the doors of the shopping mall long before he'd dodged the vehicles in his path. I ducked into Bon Marché, fleeing to the back of the store, and hiding behind high rails of party frocks. I calmed myself by pretending to flick through the goods. Even a girl in negative financial equity has the right to browse. I separated the dresses on the rails and peered through the gap. The man was standing in the central open space of the mall, turning a full circle. His pebble scalp glowed under the lights.

In the relative calm of the shop, it began to occur to me that maybe I should have asked him what he wanted. What harm could he mean, here in the middle of town? What harm could he do? After what I'd been through at the Hatchings, I was extra receptive to the vibes coming off him. Was that a warning?

My phone beeped a message.

Just wondering about session today? Only …

I heard a humph come out of my mouth. Juke! I'd forgotten his afternoon appointment. The meeting with my grandmother and the stone gnome had robbed me of my usual routine.

I checked the time. Juke's session should start in fifteen minutes. He was probably outside my house, wondering where I was.

He answered directly when I rang him.

“Sabbie,” he began, “I've got a bit of a problem.”

“I've got a bit of a problem too,” I kept my voice light. “I'm not at the house, not right this moment, Juke—” My voice broke as my throat closed over. “I'm kinda trapped. It's stupid, honestly, but there's this guy following me and I … well, I don't like the look of him.”

“What? In what way.”

“Daft ways. Just … intuition. He presented his otherworld face to me. He's a gnome.”

“You're scared. I can tell it in your voice.”

“He's searching for me in the Angel Shopping Centre. He'll give up any moment and go. Can you give me half an hour to get back to my house?”

“Absolutely not. Sounds like you need help.”

“I'm sure I'm not in any sort of danger.”

“What you need is backup. Once this man sees you're not alone, he'll give up.”

I tried to insist that I could cope. He didn't want to hear it. All at once, he was in alpha male mode. “We're on our way. Won't be more than ten minutes. Keep in touch.”

As much as I hated the thought that some random male friend was rushing to my rescue, the knowledge was reassuring. I took another peek through the clothes rail. My follower had disappeared.

I moved to the shop entrance, cautious but in control. No
flat-headed
gnome. I was about to make a run for it when the doors to the lift opened and let him out. He'd done a recon of the
upper-floor
café and not found me there. I peered through layers of Bon Marché plate glass as he got into the queue outside Greggs, waiting to be served a lunchtime pastry. Each time the queue shuffled forwards, he turned and did an appraisal of the mall. I had the blinding flash of a great idea. I should go up to the café. I waited until he was putting his pastry order in and dashed towards the lift. The doors opened, a mother with a buggy stepping out. I shot in and pressed the button. He'd looked upstairs and I hadn't been there. He wouldn't check again.

The café was spaced over the upper floor, which meant even when it was busy there were seats available. It was one of those “tweenie” affairs; perfectly clean and respectable but lacking any imagination. I don't drink coffee, but I suspected theirs wasn't very nice.

There were two women at a table close to the counter, talking furiously. There was family with a baby in a high chair, eating lunch. A gaggle of young girls sprawled over the sofas, but by the time I'd purchased a cup of tea they'd left. I texted Juke …
In Angel
C
afé
. I took the sofa and waited.

You'd've thought I'd've had the sense to sit facing the lift, but I felt secure, now; Juke was on his way and the gnome had given up his search. I took a sip of tea. Weak and not all that hot. I stared at the
wide-rimmed
cup, where a shadow reflected in the thin brew. A scent came into my nostrils; a toadstooly smell of damp, underground places.

“Shouldn't leave your card around. Not if you don't want to be recognized.”

Tea flew from the cup, splashing across the coffee table. A thumping sound came from my mouth, my shriek muted to an
aagh
.

The man walked around the sofa until he was opposite me. At close quarters, I could see that one ear was disarranged into a cauliflower shape, possibly due to the same swing of the bat that gave him his flattened head. His eyes were concealed behind puffy lids, but the pupils penetrated and pierced from their hiding place, like laser gun sights.

“I'm waiting for someone.” I snatched at my phone, which was drenched in tea. “He'll be here any moment.”

I couldn't believe I'd just used the “a burly bloke is on his way” technique. I'd proved time after time I could look after myself. I didn't need to simper and whimper to a guy who did not yet threaten me. The only thing he had against him, apart from improper use of social networks and a taste for Greggs sausage rolls, was that I'd observed his inner, subtle features. Gnomes are not entirely evil, but they're not entirely trustable, either.

“Name, address, phone number …” He was moving my business card between his fingers like a poker ace. “Seen your picture on Facebook. Nice photo.”

“You gave me a fright, chasing me like that.”

“I heard you weren't easily frightened.”

“What … look, I don't know you …
what
?”

He flicked the card onto the table and lifted an unused chair from another table. He wasn't a tall man, but his physique was thick and wide and he dangled the chair by one finger. “Can I sit down?”

“Just tell me what you want then go, please.”

The chair was wrong for the low table between us. His knees stuck up above it. He took a bite of his pastry, half inside its paper bag. “I rang you,” he said through the food. “Some chap fobbed me off. You never rang back.”

Something slotted into place. “You are
Marty-Mac
?”

“That's what they call me.” He finished his food and screwed up the bag, dropping it onto the table. “You're close to him.”

“Close?”

“Rey Buckley.”

“What? I … what?”

“He's your boyfriend, right?”

What had Rey said?
I don't want
Marty-Mac
anywhere near you. Let me deal with it.
“Okay, Marty. I told Rey you phoned. He'll contact you when he's ready.”

“He's never gonna be ready.” He stared at my spill of tea. He put his index finger into the puddle and pulled a trail of milky fluid over the table.

“Why don't you simply walk into the police station and ask to speak to him?”

Marty-Mac
gave me a long stare, at the end of which he barked a single, acerbic laugh.

“Please go, Mr. Mac.”

“I only want you to have a word. He'll listen to you.”

“How would you know that?”

“He told me. Like, he said what you mean to him.”

“He did?”

“Yeah. Everything.”

“Everything?”

“'Cause we're mates. All I want is a message passed.”

I couldn't pretend I wasn't curious. I'm always curious. It was never beneficial, but there it was. And something else—a tang on the air—the way his finger trembled as he played with the puddle of tea.
Marty-Mac
was scared. Not of me or the impending arrival of Juke. Not even of Rey, for it was Rey he needed to sort out the fear eating away at him, which had driven him to seek me out.

“What message?”

“I done him a disservice.”

“What?”

“Everything is down to me. Due to me. And I'm sorry. You tell him that. Say, ‘Marty's sorry, but he's in dead stick.' Dead stick. They're gonna put me down. Lotta time. Rey Buckley has gotta speak up, tell the truth. Well. Not
truth
. It's gonna be complicated.”