property well, but then the squatters arrived and some of its parts needed replacing. Jen didn’t need to read the remaining pages; she could see it for herself.
Upstairs, her mother’s bedroom door was closed. Jen decided to leave it that way and entered her old bedroom. The smell of urine was stronger here, with an odour akin to sour milk sitting thick above it. The dampness would get to you after a while; even the squatters had moved on. Her eyes drank in the forgotten familiarity, eventually settling on a small black air vent in the wall next to where her bed used to be. Seeing it, cracked and dusty like the old garden sign, transported her back in time again.
She recalled how her mother’s familiar sobs would drift from that vent at night and how disappointed she felt to hear them. No matter how much she tried to keep her mother’s mood buoyant, some days there was no avoiding the decline. When jobs were done and friends drifted away, when the dying embers of the fire gave up hope, the night tightened its suffocating grip on Veronica Logan. Lying in bed, Jen would hear her muffled sorrow and try to pick out words or phrases in the darkness, attempting to learn the shape of her mother’s grief. Occasionally the sounds would sharpen into something recognisable.
‘I told you not to go.’
And then her father’s name repeated over and over.
‘ Jacob, oh Jacob. Not you. Why you?’
Once, Jen overheard her mother confiding in a friend. She had described the darkness as all consuming , explaining how it was worse living out here now that people had left for the cities. The fields, the space, the peaceful garden – it had suited them once. The three of them. Her father, splitting his time between London and Cheltenham, was always home at weekends. Somehow, throughout all the troubles, the epidemics, the rationing and the hardship, their family life contained much happiness and love.
His death changed all of that. Life was never the same again. How could it be? Jen prayed that her mother’s grief might eventually subside, but it wasn’t to be. Instead, it settled on her, spreading like a dark stain on her heart. Jen had stopped going to her, learning from experience that any offer of comfort would be unwelcome, that her mother could no longer accept love even if she wanted to. Instead Jen would lie in the darkness and cover her ears, and in the muffled silence, watch the shadows of trees swaying and dancing across the ceiling, waiting for sleep to take her away.
The sound of scratching in the loft space sent the past drifting away like smoke pulled through a fan. Older, but just as alone, she was left feeling vulnerable and empty, second-guessing her decision to come home.
No more looking back, Jen. Time to move on.
She walked to the gable window, dodging animal droppings on the bare floorboards, and looked out. Below her she could see the wild garden and driveway, beyond that more buildings in a similar state. Her eyes drifted up and there, dark against the horizon, she saw it. The church steeple.
Her father had buried something there, something he wanted her to forget, something they wanted back. And tonight she was going to find out what.
Tonight she was going to dig.
Chapter 21
Nathan O’Brien raised the tranquillizer gun, took a deep breath and fired. This time his target stumbled, managed a weak groan and hit the ground hard. The man was Matthew Anderson, a news reporter for a London-based network, lured here on the promise of some dirt on a local politician. He was also the last person to see Nathan’s wife alive.
Nathan looked around nervously. It was early evening and the London street was quiet, a murky half-light rendering them almost invisible even to the commuters on the overpass. Good. He ran and crouched next to the reporter, checking for a pulse, relieved to feel it banging against his fingers. He hadn’t overcooked the dose after all.
‘Please don’t kill me,’ Anderson pleaded,
Upstairs, her mother’s bedroom door was closed. Jen decided to leave it that way and entered her old bedroom. The smell of urine was stronger here, with an odour akin to sour milk sitting thick above it. The dampness would get to you after a while; even the squatters had moved on. Her eyes drank in the forgotten familiarity, eventually settling on a small black air vent in the wall next to where her bed used to be. Seeing it, cracked and dusty like the old garden sign, transported her back in time again.
She recalled how her mother’s familiar sobs would drift from that vent at night and how disappointed she felt to hear them. No matter how much she tried to keep her mother’s mood buoyant, some days there was no avoiding the decline. When jobs were done and friends drifted away, when the dying embers of the fire gave up hope, the night tightened its suffocating grip on Veronica Logan. Lying in bed, Jen would hear her muffled sorrow and try to pick out words or phrases in the darkness, attempting to learn the shape of her mother’s grief. Occasionally the sounds would sharpen into something recognisable.
‘I told you not to go.’
And then her father’s name repeated over and over.
‘ Jacob, oh Jacob. Not you. Why you?’
Once, Jen overheard her mother confiding in a friend. She had described the darkness as all consuming , explaining how it was worse living out here now that people had left for the cities. The fields, the space, the peaceful garden – it had suited them once. The three of them. Her father, splitting his time between London and Cheltenham, was always home at weekends. Somehow, throughout all the troubles, the epidemics, the rationing and the hardship, their family life contained much happiness and love.
His death changed all of that. Life was never the same again. How could it be? Jen prayed that her mother’s grief might eventually subside, but it wasn’t to be. Instead, it settled on her, spreading like a dark stain on her heart. Jen had stopped going to her, learning from experience that any offer of comfort would be unwelcome, that her mother could no longer accept love even if she wanted to. Instead Jen would lie in the darkness and cover her ears, and in the muffled silence, watch the shadows of trees swaying and dancing across the ceiling, waiting for sleep to take her away.
The sound of scratching in the loft space sent the past drifting away like smoke pulled through a fan. Older, but just as alone, she was left feeling vulnerable and empty, second-guessing her decision to come home.
No more looking back, Jen. Time to move on.
She walked to the gable window, dodging animal droppings on the bare floorboards, and looked out. Below her she could see the wild garden and driveway, beyond that more buildings in a similar state. Her eyes drifted up and there, dark against the horizon, she saw it. The church steeple.
Her father had buried something there, something he wanted her to forget, something they wanted back. And tonight she was going to find out what.
Tonight she was going to dig.
Chapter 21
Nathan O’Brien raised the tranquillizer gun, took a deep breath and fired. This time his target stumbled, managed a weak groan and hit the ground hard. The man was Matthew Anderson, a news reporter for a London-based network, lured here on the promise of some dirt on a local politician. He was also the last person to see Nathan’s wife alive.
Nathan looked around nervously. It was early evening and the London street was quiet, a murky half-light rendering them almost invisible even to the commuters on the overpass. Good. He ran and crouched next to the reporter, checking for a pulse, relieved to feel it banging against his fingers. He hadn’t overcooked the dose after all.
‘Please don’t kill me,’ Anderson pleaded,
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