The Grave (8 page)

He had been gone a long time, the light was fading and the
rain was heavier now. She had thought he would be away just a few hours, back long
ago and felt sharp regret at the decision to wait at the house. A thrill of
fear shot through her, what if he’d left her, abandoned to whatever came and
even now was boarding the ferry to Holland or driving through the night to some
other salvation than this. 

Her head and her heart had argued all day, she wanted to
flee, just go and find somewhere to rest and recover, to be alone and find some
quiet. A greater part of her, wanted to stay and wait for him.  More than
anything else she wanted to be with Samuel. The need to speak to him was a
physical ache, there was a desperate wish to ask him to explain, if he would,
and her hopeful spirit held to the belief that there would be an explanation. 

The nursery, the beautiful woman in the photograph, she
could deal with those of course.  It was just grist to the mill in these days
of serial monogamy and transient relationships. The bag of money was more
worrying, but wasn’t it the reason she had approached him in the first place? 

She had heard stories in the town; they said he was a rich
recluse.  It was common knowledge he always had money in his pocket and paid
for everything in cash.  In this day of plastic payment it was odd and coupled
with his rough appearance and solitary nature it singled him out and so the
rumours began. The girl in the supermarket mentioned it to her boyfriend, the
owner of the builder’s yard told his buddies while they drank tea together and
watched him choose his wire and fence posts, and so it grew.

None of it seemed important now, more than anything else she
simply wanted his arms around her, his body warm against her skin and the
comfort of his physical presence. She paced the floor, tried to peer out into
the dark garden from her post in the centre of the room.  He had told her to
keep away from the windows and switching on the lights was out of the
question.  The shadows grew and the rain threw itself against the glass.  Closing
around her the night compounded her isolation. The world was filled with
foreign noise, every slap and rattle made her jump.  She wanted a drink but
didn’t want to make one, the noise of the kettle would be too loud and would
mask the other noises that she didn’t want to hear but couldn’t bear to miss.

When the need to pee became undeniable she crept up the
stairs.  She was tentative and nervous and leaving the dark bathroom half fell
back down the open staircase clinging to the banister to steady her panicked
stumbling.  If she had made a bid for freedom earlier in the day, which had
been her first instinct, she would be in a place of light and movement by now,
maybe on a warm bus with a cup of harsh coffee and the company of strangers. 
Tears filled her eyes; she hated to be afraid, acknowledged how she had wound
herself up into this panic but couldn’t shake it and so curled into a ball on
the couch, coiled under the wool throw and she gave herself up to misery and
loneliness.

Despite the tension she did drift into a restless sleep,
jerking awake with a painful suddenness in response to yet another clatter or
creak. Eventually, her head fell back into the upholstered corner and her lips
gaped a little as her breathing slowed and deepened, sleep held and soothed her
for two short hours…

Her lids shot open, her heart was pounding and every nerve
ending was tingling.  It took a moment for her brain to catch up with her
instincts but she was alive with tension.  She dropped from the settee and
scuttled on all fours into the corner.  A faint click from the rear of the room
caught her full attention now and she peered towards it.  She could see nothing
through the window save silver threads of rain lit by the moon.  The bulk of
the fell behind the house was a darker shadow against the night and the kitchen
itself was a mass of shapes and silhouettes.  Her ears stretched to listen and now
picked up a gentle rattle.  Wrapping her arms around her knees, squeezing into a
tight ball she tried to melt into the darkness, her eyes darted back and forth,
forced to look but afraid to see, afraid even to breathe.

The handle on the back door moved slowly downwards, smooth
and quiet, the wood shifted inwards letting in the noise of the night and the
chill and damp.  A bulky shape formed, like a great dog, or a bear crawling
forward on all fours, into her space, filling her eyes. 

“Sylvie.”

The relief was dizzying, for a moment logical thought became
impossible all she was aware of was emotion, relief, joy and disbelief. 

“Sylvie, is that you?”

“Yes, what are you doing?  What’s wrong?”

“Quiet, keep quiet.  Stay down.  We need to get out.  Can
you crawl over here?”

In response she shuffled crabwise towards him.

“Samuel, what’s going on?”

“Sshhh.  We have to get away, I’ve been seen.  I can’t
stay.  The car is hidden, we need to grab what we can and go.  I have to bring
things from upstairs.”

“Stay here, don’t stand up.  I’m going upstairs and bring
our things.”

He crawled away leaving Sylvie more panicked than before. 
His voice was tight with stress and urgency.  Sliding across the floor he
reached the bottom of the stairs and was now crouched low, running up the
wooden steps.  

Sylvie scanned the front windows but could see nothing, he
had left the back door ajar and the sound of the teaming rain filled the room. 
Her hands shook and her stomach clenched with fear.  She took a deep breath, it
was time to throw aside this continual submission to the horror of what was
happening and to take some control and at least think for herself. 

Since Phil’s murder she had been suspended, operating on a
lower level than normal for her.  Now, this surreal scene, Samuel disappearing
in a frantic scuttle up the stairs, the dark house and the palpable air of
danger jolted her into action.

She slithered across the smooth boards and followed up to
the landing.  Together they dashed into the bedroom, he signalled for her to grab
her bag.  With a jolt of shock she now remembered the tidying and sorting earlier
in the day.  She hissed at him. 

“Samuel, I hung my clothes up.” 

He froze for a moment, then turned to her.

“Shit, why the hell…”

He shook his head then, reached across and squeezed her
fingers. 

“Can you reach them?”

“I’ll try.”

She rolled to the wall and pushed herself into a sitting
position and then buttock walked to the corner of the room, where the small
closet was located.  She reached up and grabbed the knob, swinging the door
open only enough to allow her access. Now she rolled her whole body into the
tiny built-in cupboard and in the darkness dragged the clothes downwards.  The
wooden hangers clattered and rattled causing a hiss of alarm from Samuel who
was dragging his own luggage towards the bedroom door.  As carefully as she
could now she slid the remaining jeans and tops from the hangers dropping them
to the floor.  She crawled back across the bedroom, the pile of clothes bundled
in front of her.  She snatched her bag and dragged it nearer.  In great
handfuls she pushed and poked at the stuff forcing the zipper to close on the
turmoil. 

Though this aspect of the house could only be seen from the
fell he dragged her low beside him.  They made their way back along the landing
pushing and pulling at the bags. Samuel, crouching over bent knees struggled
down the stairs juggling with the bulky holdalls.  Sylvie followed, sitting on
the steps and, childlike, sliding on her backside from one to the next until,
nearly at the bottom, she launched herself forward then dropped to her knees to
crawl across the floor.

“We can’t clear up the kitchen, there’s no way we can get
the other stuff, we’ll have to leave it. There’s no time and I don’t want us
standing up, above the level of the windows. Bugger, bugger” he snorted with
anger and frustration.  “Sod it we can’t carry the stuff anyway.”

“Is this my fault, Samuel, have I done this?”

“No, no.  I’ve been followed, I was seen, or they traced my
‘phone God knows how.  I think I gave them the slip but they could well be out
there now, we can’t risk it.  It’s not you though, they’re not after you.”

“Is it the police?”

“No, God, I wish it was, that’d be easy.  I’ll explain
later.  Look it’s happened, there’s no point moaning and the main thing now is
to get away. Keep low and go out of the back door, stick by the house wall and
turn left through the gate and right up the path onto the fell.  The car is up
there, it’s not far but it’s wet and muddy, don’t slip.  Go, go now.  Quick as
you can and don’t wait, the key is in the car if I get stopped keep going and
get away, as far as you can, as quick as you can, don’t look back and don’t
wait.  Now – go”  

Her heart pounded, the muscles in her throat were tight with
terror.  Twice she lost her footing on the path which was slick and slimed with
running mud.  She reached out with her free hand tearing the skin on sharp
gravel. The bag was unbelievably heavy and clumsy and the backpack, slung on
one shoulder, slid forward banging against her side and the top of her thigh.
Limping and lurching she kept on, desperate to look back but afraid of what she
might see, she had to simply believe he was still there, tight behind her. Legs
screaming with effort, gasping for breath she was aware only of the battle
against the night, the slope of the hill and the gushing rain.

At last she had reached the beginning of the fell, the path
flattened slightly before the climb proper, was this where he’d left the car,
he hadn’t told her.  Which way should she go now in the rainswept darkness? 
Desperately she spun on the soaking grass her head flicking back and forth, she
couldn’t see more than a few yards ahead.  Should she carry on upward or turn and
run along the more level ground in the hope that she would see the bulk of the
Land Rover.  Surely, he couldn’t have taken the car up onto the fell but was it
left or right now.

As she spun, peering into the darkness she felt the arms
around her, she jerked spasmodically pushing backwards, squirming, raising her
free hand to strike.

“It’s okay, it’s okay it’s me.”

He grabbed her arm and dragged her with him, struggling with
two great bags in one hand, the weight dragging him sideways, his feet slipped
and skidded on the uneven surface.  Sylvie reached out to steady him and like a
great crippled beast they pushed and pulled at each other staggering and
lurching round the edge of the hill to where the car sat on a piece of flat
ground, tight in against the slope.  He dragged open the door, flung his things
in and then turned to snatch her bags.  He clambered up and across to the
driver’s seat.  Before she had even closed the door the engine roared into life
and on sidelights alone he moved across the broken, muddied surface, faster and
faster over the grass and rock.  She prayed he knew where he was going, that
they wouldn’t plummet now into a gulley or career down the sheer side of the
fell.  She gripped the hand holds and jolting against the seat belts she clung
on, gritted her teeth and prayed.

The Land Rover slipped and slithered over the humps and
rocks, even the four wheel drive wasn’t enough on this surface to make the ride
secure.  Sylvie clung to the strap above the door with one hand while the other
braced against the dash board.  The headlights flared on wet grass one moment,
the tunnel of brightness startling against the dark, and then as the car was
launched from a bump or boulder the beams would swing upward illuminating nothing
but a sparkling curtain of slanting rain. 

Samuel was tight with tension beside her, his hands locked
around the wheel the muscles of his neck and jaw knotted with stress and his eyes
peering through the streaming windscreen...

When the willow fell it swept to the surface of the engorged
torrent in a graceful swoon.  The roots wrenched from the ground flinging mud,
pebbles, small boulders and the moss and grass of the bank skywards.  The
whipping branches flew across the water to be grabbed and hurled downstream
till their anchorage on the great trunk stayed them.  They streamed in the
flood great ribbons squirming and writhing in the dark water.

The river gushed into the hollow, washing away loose earth
and debris and engulfing the tarpaulin and the body within.  The recently
loosened soil of the deep pit Samuel had dug swept away into the stream and the
package moved and shifted, floating now, knocking against the sides of the
grave.  This rain had been heavier than for more than a century, ground water
from the hills and uplands gushed towards the coast raising the levels to
beyond any in living memory. Eventually the ghastly parcel floated free of its
berth, turned into the surge and bobbing and weaving on the currents it headed
seaward with the rest of the debris…

The car raced over the grass and gravel until they connected
with a narrow dirt road, with his intimate knowledge of the area Samuel was
able to drive on sidelights, hurtling through the storm.  He glanced into the
rear view mirror repeatedly and Sylvie swung round in the seat whenever the
lurching ride allowed but neither saw any sign of a following vehicle. 

After ten minutes they had reached a smooth metalled road,
it was narrow and slippery in the wet but the driving was easier and the fear
inside the little cab eased. Sylvie’s hands dropped to her lap and she leaned
back against the seat.  Samuel rotated his neck and shoulders easing his muscles
and they glanced at each other and grinned, it was close to hysteria but it
felt like a victory. 

“We need to get away and I think the best thing would be to
go somewhere with plenty of people.  I’m heading for Liverpool.  It’s about two
hours we’ll use the motorway.  The main thing now is to stay in the open.”

“But what about the police, I thought we were trying to keep
away from public places.?”

“The game changed Sylvie.  The police have probably no
reason to even be looking for us yet.  I had hoped we could get out of the
country before Phil was missed but this is a different thing.  This is me and
what’s happened to me.” 

He turned to look at her; his face was drawn and though the
tension of a few minutes ago had eased, his eyes were tortured.  She clenched
her fists; she would ease this for him, open things up and straighten the
tortured pathway.

“While you were out I looked around the house Samuel.  I
didn’t mean to pry but I was bored.  Anyway, whatever, I found the room, the
nursery and a picture.”

He drew in a quick breath, letting it go again as a sharp
exhalation, she saw him swallow. 

“I found a picture, you and a woman, a lovely woman.
Pregnant I think.”

“Marie.”

The name crept from his lips, like a prayer or an
invocation, barely heard above the rumble of the engine and the shush of the
tyres on the wet surface. Sylvie reached across and touched his leg.  He nodded
briefly, just one small incline of his head.  The door was open; it was time to
examine the truth.