Darker (25 page)

We went bowling yesterday evening, then sloped off to McDonalds for a quick gut-rotting quarter-pounder. No doubt Nathan will have something to say, but we both needed the comfort food. Today it’s raining again so we’re tucked up indoors with our violins and a chess set, alternating between the two. For a little girl, Rosie is very good company for a geeky oddball like me. And Nathan is due back in three and a bit hours—only a hundred and eighty-nine minutes to go.

I hear my phone trilling away under a cushion on Nathan’s big squashy sofa in the lounge, which we have commandeered as our practice studio. After some digging around I manage to extricate it and press the reply button, expecting to hear my mother’s voice. She’s become most insistent of late that I explain properly and fully just what I’m doing here in Yorkshire, exactly where and exactly with whom. I’m taking her calls, but no way am I telling her about Nathan.

But it’s not her. It’s Nathan. And the news is bad, bad,
bad
.

“Sweetheart, I’ve got to go to Ankara. Tonight. I’m on a flight from Manchester at eight forty this evening and I’m on my way to the airport now.”

“What? Why?”

“Remember your dear friend Ahmet?”

I have to think for a moment. “Ahmet, right…”

“He fell from some scaffolding. About four storeys, apparently. He’s in a bad way and the authorities there suspect it wasn’t an accident. Apparently he made himself very unpopular insisting on high spec materials and such like—remember the row you got involved in that day you came into my office? Anyway the word is one of the disgruntled suppliers arranged for him to take a little fall.”

“Bloody hell. Poor Ahmet. Will he be okay?”

“Not sure. But the least I can do is get out there and visit him, and his family. And take charge at the site until we can get another foreman who’s not corrupt or incompetent. I’m hoping to be back by the middle of next week. Will you be okay?”

“Me? Yes, of course I will. I’ll miss you and so will Rosie. But we’re okay. Just you take care of yourself, though. What if they have a go at you?”

“I don’t scramble up scaffolding as a rule, love. But I know what you mean and I’ll be on the lookout. I’ll phone you when I get there. Let you know how Ahmet is.”

“Tell him I’m rooting for him. He sounded so nice.”

“I’ll tell him. Will you explain to Rosie and Grace?”

“Yes. Nathan…”

“What is it?”

“I… I’ll miss you. Please hurry back.”

“I’ll miss you too, Eva.”

There are a few moments of awkward silence as we both seem to be fumbling around for the words we need. Eventually Nathan breaks the deadlock.

“Bye, love. See you soon.” And with a click he is gone.

* * * *

It’s been five days and Nathan is still stuck in downtown Ankara. He’s been on the phone every evening and it seems Ahmet is likely to be okay, eventually, sort of. He has a broken collarbone, several broken ribs and a smashed wrist. It’ll be a while before he’s fit for a building site again, if ever, and Nathan thinks he might not be able to work in construction anymore. I gather it’s not all bad, though—apparently Ahmet’s brother-in-law grows tomatoes in a poly-tunnel somewhere down on the Mediterranean coast and he’s been nagging Ahmet to consider a career change. Strange how life turns out sometimes.

Nathan is supervising the construction for the time being, and has ordered a full inspection of all work completed to date to make sure it complies with his specifications. It’s a slow job it seems and there is no immediate prospect of him being able to get home.

Rosie and me both miss him, but we’re having a decent time together. We went along to the Oakworth Fair to cheer Mrs Richardson on in the Great Cake Challenge. She came second, an improvement of seven places from her position last year. She seemed delighted.

And I won the ‘Guess How Many Smarties In The Jar’ prize. I suppose there are some who’d say I cheated, or at least didn’t properly enter into the spirit of the game. I invested a quid in a tube of Smarties at the sweet stall, worked out how much volume twenty of them took up and the rest was simple mental arithmetic. I got the answer right to within two Smarties. Not much point being a mathematical wizard if you can’t use your talent to win a year’s supply of Smarties, in my book. And Rosie was over the moon.

We’ve done our fair share of moors walking, and even went out for a moonlit hike on Sunday evening. We lay on our backs in the bracken, staring up at the night sky, and I pointed out some more of its wonders to Rosie. We spotted one particularly bright star, which we agreed must be her mummy. Rosie told me she remembers her mummy a little bit, but only ever as being ill. She doesn’t remember much at all before she went to live with Nathan. She was sad when her mummy died, but not frightened because she had a daddy by then. She told me the best thing ever to happen in her whole life was the day she was a bridesmaid when her daddy married her mummy. The next best thing was the day they went to the dog’s home and found Barney. And the next best thing was me coming to teach her violin. God, what an accolade! I could hardly speak for the lump in my throat.

We’ve been swimming—well, me splashing around in the shallow end with Rosie really—but we had fun. And all three of us went to the cinema and then to Nando’s for supper. And today Rosie and I nipped down into Keighley in Mrs Richardson’s car to buy a birthday card and present for a friend’s party Rosie is going to next weekend. She’s so excited, chattering away about the party, the horse riding Barbie we’ve bought as a present, her new teacher at school, violin concerts we could perform for her daddy, the chicks she’s hoping might emerge soon from under Tracey or Beaker, her pet chickens. My thoughts have, I admit, wandered to my own more private version of performing for her daddy, and I’m listening somewhat selectively to the constant stream of little girl consciousness as we let ourselves in through the back door expecting to be greeted by the sweet aroma of Mrs Richardson’s lamb hotpot.

Alas, no. We look at each other in unspoken puzzlement. No simmering dish of juicy hotpot awaits us on the Aga. Indeed, there’s no sign of Mrs Richardson, or our lunch at all. What there is, however, is a very agitated Barney, pacing around the room and whining.

Ignoring the dog, Rosie is more worried about her stomach. “She’s gone out…” she announces matter-of-factly. “What’ll we have for our dinner? I’m so hungry…”

Somewhat puzzled by Barney’s antics but still pretty famished myself I’m already peering optimistically into the fridge—well, you never know, there might be a hotpot in there waiting for us to warm it up. Perhaps we misunderstood what Mrs Richardson said as we were leaving this morning. It occurs to me that she can’t have gone very far—we borrowed her car. Rosie heads off up to her room to compare horsey Barbie to her own not inconsiderable collection of anorexic but remarkably busty plastic lovelies before wrapping it up. As soon as she opens the door to the hallway Barney is through and shooting upstairs, his huge paws pounding along the landing overhead. I feel the first stirring of alarm as I’m debating between attempting to conjure up cheese toasties or cracking open a tin of tomato soup—my culinary skills are not impressive, I think we’ve all recognised that, when I hear a gut-wrenching shriek from upstairs. Rosie’s voice, shrill with panic and terror, bouncing off the walls.

“Eva!
Eva
! Come quick. Nana’s dead!”

Coming soon from Total-E-Bound Publishing:

The Dark Side: Darkest

Ashe Barker

Released 18
th
October 2013

Excerpt

Chapter One

“What the fuck…?” I’m running for the stairs, then take them three at a time—I can definitely shift a bit when the situation calls for it. I charge down the landing towards Rosie who is standing at the open door to Nathan’s room. Her fingers are pressed into her ashen cheeks, her continuous screaming just getting louder and louder. Reaching her, I grab the tiny figure by the shoulders, spinning her away from the door. I can feel the small body shaking under my hands as, with Rosie’s face pressed into my stomach, I stroke the dark hair in an instinctive attempt to calm her. I look over her head, dreading what sight awaits me. Blood-curdling murder? Horrific gory accident?

None of that. Mrs Richardson is there all right, on the floor, her legs tangled in the rather fetching navy and black duvet that has slid off Nathan’s bed. She looks to be asleep. I hug Rosie tighter, tell her—somewhat more optimistically than is perhaps justified—that it’s okay, and to wait for me where she is. Her screams have subsided into gulping sobs so I step into the room, and approach the still figure on the floor.

“Mrs Richardson? Grace? Are you okay?”
Stupid question.

Nervous, I kneel beside her and stretch out my hand. I half expect her to leap up with a shout of ‘Boo!’ I think it’s fair to say I would have made a disgusting mess on the inch-deep shag pile if she had. But she’s motionless, no response. My hands hovering, I’m not sure if, where to touch and desperately try to think what to do, how to find out if she’s alive.

“Is she breathing? Oh, Eva, is she dead? She can’t be dead. Please. Please don’t let her be dead…”

“Shhh, sweetheart, let me have a look.”
Breathing
, there’s a thought. Carefully watching her chest I see a faint quiver of movement there. Thank God! Encouraged, I at last take hold of her hand—it’s warm—and I feel for a pulse. It’s there. Faint, thready, but definitely there.

“Rosie, she’s alive but we need an ambulance. Run down to the kitchen for my phone. It’s in my bag, on the table. Hurry, please.”

As Rosie turns to scamper off, her wits now fully about her again, I lean down close, desperately scanning Mrs Richardson’s still face for any sign of consciousness.

“Grace? Grace, can you hear me?” I want to pick her up, shake her shoulders, but I’m scared of hurting her. I settle for leaning into her face, calling her name. Rosie comes skidding back seconds later, my phone in her hand. She thrusts it at me and I stand, pressing nine-nine-nine. The efficient disembodied voice responds, politely asking me which service I require.

“Hello, yes, ambulance please. Our housekeeper has had an accident.”

The next voice I hear is the ambulance service, asking me what the problem is.

“Our housekeeper’s had an accident. She’s unconscious.”

The calm female voice asks me if I know what happened.

God knows.
“A fall, perhaps. She’s unconscious.”

“How long has she been unconscious?”

Christ, why can’t they just send a bloody ambulance?
“I don’t know. We just arrived home and found her like this. No, she’s not talking. Yes, she’s breathing.”

At last the ambulance lady seems to get the message and starts asking for the location. I realise I don’t even know the postcode. I look helplessly at Rosie, who rattles it off. Bless her, and bless Nathan and Grace for drilling it into her. Gathering my own wits now, I realise we’re due a good wait as the nearest ambulance must be half an hour away. That’s assuming they can even find this place. I give directions as best I can while Rosie disappears back out onto the landing.

At last the ambulance control room assures me that help is on the way and I hang up. I stand in the middle of the room, looking helplessly down at Mrs Richardson who has shown no sign of stirring. For the first time I look around, trying to imagine what on earth could have happened. At a loss, I kneel beside her again, taking her hand, stroking it. “It’s okay, Grace, an ambulance will be here soon. You’ll be okay. Please, please be okay.”

I hear Rosie come back in, stand behind me. Her little hand is on my shoulder. “Uncle Tom’s coming. He’ll be here in five minutes.”

“What? Who—”

“I phoned Uncle Tom from the downstairs phone. He’s in the top meadow but he’s on his quad and he’ll be here in five minutes.” At my incredulous look she goes on to explain. “It’s a long way round by road, but only a few minutes across the fields. He’ll be here soon.”

I hug her for the clever, resourceful little wonder that she is. I never thought to call Tom, but of course he’s our nearest neighbour. He knows the area. He can direct the ambulance crew. I start to feel a sense of relief—this bloody catastrophe might just turn out all right after all.

A faint rustle and moan behind me has me swirling around and once more leaning over Mrs Richardson, looking for some sign that she might be coming round. Her eyelids flutter, a brief flash of slate grey as she opens them a crack then lies still, silent again. Rosie is kneeling on her other side, we each have one of her hands in ours and Rosie is talking softly to her, tears once more rolling down her cheeks although the earlier panic has now gone. “Nana, please wake up, Nana.”

Nana?

I feel the hand pressed between my palms flex slightly. I squeeze back to show I’ve felt the touch. “Can you hear us, Grace. It’s Rosie and Eva. Can you hear us? Please, open your eyes…” I glance across at Rosie, her little face trembling, and I reach over to stroke her wet cheek.

“She’ll be okay, love. We’ll look after her.” I hope I’m not making promises I can’t keep.

“Who’ll look after us? Who’ll look after me? I’m scared…” The whisper is faint, fearful, conveying the agony of doubt faced by a child whose world is about to shatter. And not for the first time.

“Your daddy will. And until he gets home we’ll look after each other. And Mrs Richardson. I promise.”

Rosie looks at me, our gazes lock over the inert, unconscious body of the woman she clearly thinks of as her grandma, and the promise is sealed, shared.

The clatter of a door crashing downstairs and the pounding of footsteps coming up and along the landing heralds Tom’s arrival, in less than the promised five minutes, it seems to me.