Beneath the Shadows (2 page)

It waited in the shadows, golden orbs for eyes that burned with hellfire. A continuous low growl hummed in her ears. And then came the snarl and a frenzied flash of fangs.

When she heard the scream, Grace came to with a start. The noise weakened to a wail – a high-pitched cry that sent a shudder through her. She checked the clock – three a.m. – then flung back the bedclothes, jumped up and rushed into the small room next door, swatting the landing light switch as she went, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

Millie stood holding the cot bars with one hand, the other clutching Mr Pink, the small teddy bear Adam had brought to the hospital after she was born. Her eyes were squeezed tight, lashes glistening with unshed tears, while her fine brown hair had risen up in a defiance of curls. She had already worked herself into an exhaustion of gulping sobs and whimpers, and Grace went swiftly towards her and
gathered her up into the safety of her arms. Millie huddled against her mother's breasts, her wet nose and mouth dampening Grace's nightshirt.

‘You're safe now, Mummy's here,' Grace whispered as she rocked her daughter gently, chanting the words over and over, whether to Millie or to herself she wasn't sure. ‘It was just a nightmare.'

Soon, Millie began to quieten, and as her breathing slowed, so did Grace's racing heart. While she cradled her child tightly, she tried to push away her thoughts – but it was no use. She feared it had been a mistake to come back.

 

They had driven to the village that morning through the sodden November countryside, their car sloshing along the winding roads, while Grace's reasons for returning began to look more and more muddied. But through the endless days and restless nights of the last twelve months she had been sure of one thing: she would come back.

It had taken much longer to reach the village than she remembered. Eventually they had crossed a cattle grid at the bottom of a steep hill, then listened to the car's protesting whine as it climbed up the bank in second gear. As they reached the bare brown moor top, Grace's memories began to unfold. The back of her neck prickled as the hill plateaued out and took them gently downwards, and the sensation moved to her throat as she saw the village sign – ‘Roseby' – set into a jagged piece of stone. Then the road dipped abruptly, revealing first of all a brick house, then a neat sloping row of terraced cottages. She drove until she reached the last one,
halfway down the hill, then pulled onto the grass in front of a low stone wall, and switched off the engine. One year ago, Adam had been here with them, parking a large removals van ahead of their car. Grace remembered catching his eye through the windscreen, his grin as he came across to unbuckle Millie from her seat, and the way he had cradled his tiny daughter close, pointing at the cottage and telling her, ‘We're home.'

Now, Grace's hand shook as she pulled the keys from the ignition. She peered over into the back seat, murmuring to her sleeping child, ‘We're here.'

Millie had been reluctant to wake, her head drooping against her mother's chest as Grace struggled with the stiff front door lock, eager to escape the icy wind. Once inside, warmth hit them, taking Grace by surprise. She moved through the small entranceway into the lounge. There was a note on the coffee table: ‘
Have left a few things in the fridge for you. Meredith
.'

Looking around, Grace was touched. She barely knew Meredith. The first time they had met, Grace had been dazed. Police had been bustling in and out, while she stared in bewilderment at Adam's dirty mug on the side, his jumper slung over the kitchen chair, his toolbox left open on the worktop.

Meredith had volunteered to help and made cups of tea for everyone, but Grace would have barely remembered her if she hadn't turned up again a week or so later. This time it was Grace's mother who made Meredith tea, explained that they were taking Grace home with them, and accepted her kind offer of looking after the cottage until Grace decided what to do next.

However, Meredith had gone above and beyond what Grace was expecting. There was no air of neglect to the place: the surfaces were freshly dusted, the radiators were warm, while the air smelled faintly of lavender. It took the edge off Grace's apprehension, and she was overcome with gratitude.

She had put Millie down on the floor with a drink. Then she had walked into the kitchen, to find it waiting neat and expectant, before heading back through the lounge and into the hall, climbing the stairs, tiptoeing like a trespasser.

Her emotions had finally caught up with her as she took her first tentative look into the main bedroom. There was the bed – their bed – made up neatly. She had gone across, turned back the covers, and pressed her face into the pillow on Adam's side, but all she could smell was clean linen.

 

She stood and gently shushed Millie in her arms, using the soft glow of the landing light to watch as Millie slowly succumbed to sleep. After a while, she carefully laid her little girl back down and returned to her own room. A loud, insistent ticking kept time with her footsteps. She had forgotten about the damn grandfather clock. The last time she had been here the ticking and chiming had begun to drive her crazy, though Adam had reassured her that she would get used to it. ‘It's been with the family for generations, it's got to be valuable,' he'd said, opening the oak casing at the front and beginning to wind it. ‘My grandfather used to call it the heartbeat of the cottage.'

Now, Grace attempted to ignore it, as she lay under the
bedclothes and tried to drift off. But suddenly her eyelids were aglow, and the deep crackle of tyres outside made her jump. She padded out of bed again and eased one curtain back a little, resting her hand on the cool windowpane.

A black Land Rover was parked a short distance up the sloping lane, just visible by the faint moonlight that cut through the clouds. It had stopped outside the redbrick house that crested the hill. The Land Rover's headlights were now off and the interior light was on, but Grace was too far away to see anything more than a moving shadow inside. The light disappeared, the driver climbed out into a darkness her vision could not penetrate, she heard the slight creaking of a gate, and then all was silent.

She could feel her heart thudding beneath her nightshirt, but tried to calm herself, realising how silly she was being. It was perfectly reasonable for people to arrive home in the middle of the night. She must stop letting her imagination play games with her.

She settled back into bed again, but sleep wanted nothing to do with her now. She remembered the first night she'd ever spent here, when Adam had pulled her to him and wrapped her tight within his arms. He had been wearing a thick jumper – in fact they'd both been semi-dressed, having under-anticipated the biting cold of the northern winter. She could still feel the fleece soft against her skin, warming the cheek that had lain against it while the rest of her face stung with cold. ‘I'm scared too,' he'd said, holding her close. ‘But I know we've done the right thing, Grace. I promise it will be all right.'

Grace remembered how she had relaxed at his words, so
much so that she had slept soon after. But a week later he had gone out and never come home.

Now, she did her best to ignore the empty space next to her, and wrapped her arms around a pillow, trying to pretend she could bring Adam back for a moment, make believe that he'd kept his promise after all. But sleep kept its distance.

She tossed and turned for a while in an effort to get comfortable, then was disturbed again by what sounded like a bird screeching. Sitting up in frustration, she switched on the bedside lamp. She cast a glance around the room, at the old furniture, the sepia photo of Adam's grandparents on their wedding day, which hung above her half-unpacked case. Then she remembered the small bookshelf on the landing. At least living out here without much else to do would mean plenty of time to read. She threw back the bedclothes and tiptoed across the carpet, hoping she wouldn't wake Millie. The bookshelf was right outside her door, barely visible in the light cast by the bedside lamp, but she could just make out the spines on the top shelf. They were all classics.
Wuthering Heights. The Turn of the Screw. Jane Eyre. Great Expectations
. She'd read a few of them at school. Then her eye fell on a book she had always wanted to read, but never got to.
Rebecca
. She plucked the tattered copy from among the others and took it back to bed with her. She pulled the bedclothes over her, opened it and read the first few lines of a long-ago dream. And soon, her grip loosened on the book, her eyes closed, and she found herself lost amid thick over-growth, gazing towards the mullioned windows of a dark, abandoned house.

When Grace woke again it was to silence. Light had begun to seep through the curtains and saturate the darkness as the day broke. She was grateful, in fact strangely exhilarated, to have got through the first night alone in the cottage, and felt full of energy for the day ahead. She had a chance to have a bath before she even heard Millie stir, then went to get her little girl. Millie was sitting up, playing in her cot, and Grace observed her for a moment without being noticed. Millie was nearly fifteen months old, on the verge of walking, almost unrecognisable from the tiny bundle that Grace and Adam had first brought to the cottage. Adam had missed all the changes, big and small, that had happened over the past year.

Grace closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them again, Millie was holding out her arms, saving Grace from her daydream. Grace was relieved to see that whatever had
terrorised Millie in the night seemed to have been absorbed by the morning's light. ‘We have a visitor coming today,' she told her daughter, smiling at her reassuringly, hoping Millie would smile back. Instead, Millie reached out to touch her mother's mouth, watching her intently all the while, as though checking she was real.

After breakfast, Grace unpacked the rest of their cases while Millie played by her feet. She put away all her clothes except her jeans and thickest jumpers, looking longingly at a pair of high-heeled brown suede boots that she'd worn all the time in London. They were consigned to the bottom of the wardrobe behind the trainers and Wellingtons, which were all she needed right now.

When they returned to the lounge, Grace scanned the area and, satisfied there was nothing too dangerous within reach of little hands, set Millie on the floor to play. Then she picked up the phone and called her parents in France. Her father answered and sounded pleased to hear from her, even if there was a note of concern in his voice. She recalled their last conversation a few days earlier, before she had left for England.

‘What the hell do you want to go and live there again for?' he'd roared when she'd announced her plans.

‘It's only for a short time,' Grace had replied. ‘There are things to sort out, and I think it's time I went and did it. I can't stay here forever.'

‘You can stay here for as long as you like,' her dad had replied, his voice gruff and indignant. ‘You can't fool me, Grace, I know why you're going.'

‘I need to pack up the cottage properly, Dad. There's
nobody else to do that job except me. And it's Millie's inheritance, remember? Everything there is part of her family history.'

Her father made a noise that sounded like
Hmph
, and walked over to his lounge-room window, from where, if you looked between the huddled villas opposite, you could glimpse a patch of sparkling blue sea. Then he turned and glared at her. ‘I'm sure we could find someone there to do that for you.'

Grace had folded her arms, stood her ground and waited, until her father added, shaking a finger at her, ‘Just don't you go chasing shadows, you hear me? Get in, do what you need to, and then go somewhere else – somewhere far away. Your mother and I have no idea why Adam took you there in the first place.'

She'd gone across to him and put her hand on his arm. ‘I'll be fine,' she said softly.

He hadn't met her eyes, simply patted her hand and said, ‘I know you will.'

She and Millie had left the next day.

Now, she was glad to hear their voices, though this time it was her mother who couldn't hide her worry completely.

‘Remember to take any legal documents you find to a solicitor. You need to know where you stand. Your father and I will pay for it.'

‘We know where I stand,' Grace replied miserably. ‘The cottage is in joint names, so I can't sell without Adam.'

‘But there might be a way round it, Grace – you never know. Just get someone local to check out all the facts for you.'

‘I will, Mum,' Grace replied, pulling an exasperated face at Millie. ‘I've only been here a day – give me a chance.'

‘I know, love. We only want to help. Oh, and before I go – James called. He was surprised to hear you'd gone back there, said you hadn't mentioned it to him.'

Grace was riled by her tone. ‘I didn't realise I had to report all my movements to him,' she shot back.

There was silence on the other end of the line, and Grace immediately felt bad. After all, there was one reason she hadn't told her best friend she was coming back: she didn't want to listen to him trying to talk her out of it.

‘Sorry, Mum, I didn't mean to snap.'

‘It's okay, love. I understand. Just remember you can call us any time, Grace – day or night.'

‘I know I can.'

As Grace said goodbye, a wave of nerves threatened to swamp her. The phone call had made her all too aware of the distance between her and those who had bolstered her up over the past year.

She shook off her apprehension as she surveyed the lounge room, knowing she had a lot to do. Adam's grandparents had been dead for over eighteen months, yet as far as the cottage was concerned they could just be out shopping. The fact that the place creaked and groaned unaccountably might well have been due to the weight of everything inside it. A lifetime spent gathering, Grace thought, looking at the books stacked against the walls, magazines piled in corners, the collection of china bird ornaments that crowded together in the low glass cabinet. Many of the surfaces had decorative mats or tablecloths on top of them. On one small side table
there was an enormous vase hand-painted with flowers; on another a brass lamp with a glass shade. Next to that sat a wooden box, which Grace opened to discover a pipe and a pouch of tobacco inside. The smell brought back the memories of her own grandfather, and the past flew into the present for just a second, disappearing as quickly as it came, leaving a bittersweet sense of longing. She put the box down and sighed. Although she was a relative stranger to the old couple, it was entirely up to her now, to go through everything and try to figure out why they had kept these things in the first place, and what the hell she should do with it all. She would be responsible for dismantling the last traces of their lives.

She wished she had more idea of what Adam might have wanted, but they had only had a week together in the cottage before everything fell apart. In those few days she'd noticed that Adam spent most of his time working on odd jobs, putting off anything sentimental. It was clear he was finding it daunting. While he'd been fond of his grandparents he'd had limited contact with them for most of his life – except for a brief spell when he'd stayed with them for a few months after his mother died. Yet their funerals, so close together, had hit him hard. With their passing, he had lost the last family he had.

Grace had only visited the cottage once while Adam's grandparents had been alive. She had instinctively liked them, but they hadn't had enough time to move past polite friendliness. The only other occasion they had met had been at Grace and Adam's wedding, which had gone by in a blur of excitement for Grace. But she did remember them: inseparable,
looking a little nervous and pale on a rare trip to the south, the subdued black and burgundy hues of their Sunday best in stark contrast to Grace's suntanned parents – her father in his morning suit, and her mother's dress of pink and white swirls topped off by a fascinator that sprouted a large fan of pink feathers from one side of her head. However, Bill and Constance Lockwood had smiled proudly at anyone who caught their eye that day, particularly their grandson.

Twelve months later, Bill had been taken into hospital soon after his wife had been found dead at home; and the stress and grief meant the old man had never returned. When Grace and Adam had first arrived, there had been a magazine on the coffee table, open at a short story. Adam had looked at it in silence for a moment, then told Grace that he remembered seeing his grandmother reading the stories aloud to his grandfather. He'd closed it and gone across to the bin, then hesitated and put it on a bookshelf instead.

Grace looked over towards the shelf and saw the magazine straight away, exactly where Adam had left it. She bit her lip and put her hands on her hips, as Millie began pushing clothes pegs underneath the sofa. She barely knew where or how to begin. Just do it methodically, bit by bit, she said to herself. Just make a start, that's all.

She had been putting the kettle on, when she heard a knock on the door. Their visitor was five minutes early.

‘Michael Muir,' said the young blond man waiting outside. ‘Call me Mike.'

He couldn't have been more than thirty, but he had the portly bearing of a man much older, and ruddy cheeks to match. He stuck out a plump hand, which Grace shook
obligingly before stepping back so he could come in.

Grace looked on as he began assessing the small entrance hall. ‘Livin' room this way?' he asked, moving off on her nod. ‘I'll take a good look round, shall I?' he added over his shoulder as she followed, then he began to make notes on a pad as he headed towards the kitchen.

Grace let him get on with his assessment while she warmed up Millie's morning milk and prepared her cereal. She was encouraging Millie to eat when Mike Muir reappeared. ‘Can we go through this now?' he asked, waving his pad.

She indicated the vacant chair across from her, at the tiny dining table that had been squeezed into the space. Mike Muir contorted his ample frame to fit, sat down, and put his notes on the tabletop.

‘Right, then … you say you're lookin' at rentin' rather than sellin'?'

‘Yes,' Grace said, ‘for the time being.'

‘And you're gettin' shot of the furniture?'

‘Well, I could do – but I don't have to.'

Mike Muir looked down at his pad. ‘Well, I can certainly put a rental advert out for you – see how we get on. However … can I give you some advice?' He looked at her hopefully.

‘Go ahead.'

‘Well, as it stands, the place is a bit, er, how shall I put it …?'

‘You can say neglected,' she replied, smiling.

‘Aye,' he agreed uncomfortably, his ruddy cheeks darkening to become burgundy splotches. ‘However, if you made a few renovations … instead of looking at long-term
tenants – which might cause you some bother out here – you could think about letting it out as a holiday rental instead. We look after a property for a family in the next village who've done something similar, and they're making an absolute killin' … It's got to be at least double what you'd get for a long-term rental, all said and done.'

‘Really?' Grace felt her mood rising. ‘So what do I need to do?'

Mike Muir appeared delighted by her enthusiasm. ‘Well, country getaways like these are quite sought-after. But to be canny about it, you need to set it up properly. Keep the best bits of a traditional cottage – your log fires, your wooden beams, and so on – but surround it with modern appliances and some nice furnishin's and you're on to a winner. See, if you took out this wall –' he knocked his knuckles on the wall next to them ‘– make it open-plan down here, you've got a much bigger area. Right now, it's too poky. Put new cupboards in here, like, and redo the living-room fireplace so it's a bit of a feature. There's not too much you can do about upstairs, but you could upgrade windows, make the bathroom en suite, that kind of thing. You could do a miracle makeover on this place, and it'll be cosy and trendy rather than … than …' His face coloured up again.

‘Claustrophobic and drab?' Grace finished for him.

‘Aye!' He beamed at her, seeming pleased at how easy this was proving. ‘And if you do decide to sell down't track, you'll get much more if you've done some work on the place already.'

Grace liked the sound of his suggestions. She was turning things over in her mind when he began to get up. ‘Look,
take my card, and give me a call when you've decided what to do next.'

‘Thanks.' Grace ran a finger over the embossed lettering, her mind swirling with possibilities. ‘You've been great. I'll think it over, and let you know.'

She went to see him out, leaving Millie in her high chair banging her spoon repeatedly against her Weetabix with a dull thwack. At the door, Mike turned and the colour was high in his cheeks again.

‘I remember your Adam,' he said. ‘He played for Skeldale cricket team for a time, he was a crackin' spin bowler. I was right sorry –'

‘Thanks,' Grace cut in, her unease as acute as his. ‘I'll be in touch,' she said, then closed the door smartly to escape her discomfort; but not before she caught one last sight of Mike Muir's forlorn face looking back at her from the doorstep.