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A tense tale of murder, betrayal, sexual abuse and revenge, and the corruption at the heart of the respectable establishment.
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SAM MILLAR
THE DARKNESS OF BONES
I dedicate The Darkness of Bones to the Millen family: Margaret, Marcella and Paul
A person could not ask for better friends.
Contents
PART ONE
WINTER: DARKNESS UNDER WHITENED SURFACE
“… the very dead of winter.”
T.S. Eliot, ‘Journey of the Magi’
Chapter One
“The hand of the LORD was upon me, and he brought me out by the Spirit of the LORD and set me in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. He led me back and forth among them, and I saw a great many bones on the floor of the valley, bones that were very dry. He asked me, ‘Son of man, can these bones live?’”
Ezekiel 37:1–14
ADRIAN CALVERT DISCOVERED the gruesome object less than a mile from his home, in Barton’s Forest, on the outskirts of Belfast, where snow-covered trees knitted together in infinite numbers, their immensity stretching beyond the ceiling of clouds.
He should have been at school on the morning of the find, studying for an important science test, but he had taken Friday off—without permission—and had ventured into the snowy woodland because it was conveniently close to home, and could camouflage him from the prying eyes of nosy neighbours. That’s all he needed: one of them squealing on him, telling his father.
Not that his father seemed to care much, these days …
The object protruding from the frost-covered ground resembled a grubby finger, beckoning him towards it. A beard of iced leaves hung from an old tree gone to rot, shading it from a saucer of winter sun.
Thinking at first that is was nothing more than a piece of tree root, he ignored it. But succumbing to his curiosity, he bent to inspect it further and was both startled and fascinated as he realised what it truly could be.
“A bone …?”
With his fingers making contact, a spidery feeling touched his spine, alerting him to something wonderfully dark. He hoped it was some sort of fossil, but realistically believed it to be from the local butcher’s, left by some scraggy mutt from town. Adrian could picture the dog digging, digging, digging, its hairy neck craning suspiciously all about as it deposited the bone in the dirty hole of earth. It probably pissed on the ground afterwards, marking its territory, fending off inquisitive, hungry adversaries.
With the heel of his shoe, he hacked determinedly at the frosted ground, fragmenting the hardened soil until the clay loosened into puckered mounds. A few minutes later, the ground grudgingly released the bone into his custody, and where the bone had rested there was now a small hollow in the earth, gaping outwards like an empty eye socket.
Studying the clay-encased bone, Adrian could see hardened blood and bluish spots of decayed meat hugging the dull paleness. “So much for you being a fossil. Probably a cow’s bone.” His lips curled with distaste, but still his fingers clung to the bone, resisting the urge to drop it.
Tapping it firmly against a tree, he managed to loosen as much of the stubborn clay as possible. Finally, unzipping himself, he pissed all over it, like a fireman dousing a flame, watching as his steaming urine splattered then held course, removing the last remnants of clay, blood and decomposed meat, all the while congratulating himself on his aim.
No sooner had he zipped himself up than—without warning—something hit him full force on the side of the face, knocking him off balance, forcing him to stagger, slightly.
A large crow, black and slick as oil, landed on the snowy ground beside him, thrashing its great wings, flopping on its belly. It couldn’t stand and Adrian saw, for the first time, that it had only one leg. The other was gone, newly ripped from its place, possibly by a predator, leaving a mess of wet redness attached to its feathered stomach. The wetness was the only colour the bird possessed.
Instinctively raising his hand, Adrian gingerly touched his face. It was wet. Blood. Some of the crow’s blood had entered his mouth. It tasted like iron on his tongue. He spat on the whitened ground, causing an inkblot of blood to discolour it a pinkish black.
Adrian wondered if the crow had been feasting on the bone, only to be ambushed by a fox. Crows were intelligent, but intelligence always paled against cunning. What if the bone was the crow’s missing leg? Once again, his lips curled with distaste, yet his fingers still grasped the bone, refusing to let go.
Shaken by the eerie bird’s intrusion, he shouted angrily, hoping to chase it away. “Get! Go on!” He made a movement with his hands, but the bird managed to hobble only a few inches, its energy sapped from trying to fly back to the tree for safety, its beak opening pathetically slowly, desperate for an intake of air.
“Wings are busted …” Remorse quickly replaced anger. Adrian considered capturing the wounded bird to bring it back home and call the animal shelter. But that would lead to questions, and he didn’t need that. He wondered what his father would do in this situation. Probably put the bird out of its misery by wringing its neck.
That particular thought was unappealing—though had he brought one of his father’s guns, he would have had no qualms about shooting the unfortunate creature.
Approaching the bird cautiously, Adrian tried coaxing it with his words. “It’s okay; I’m not going to hurt you.”
The bird remained motionless. Only when he gently touched it with his boot did he understand that it was now dying, its last effort—to seek safety—too big a strain on its heart.
Stooping slightly, he reached to roll the crow over, but its ribcage collapsed, shifting the bones grotesquely. The bird’s head went lax, melting back into its feathered body.
Adrian now felt loneliness engulfing the forest. He could hear other crows cawing, nesting in the gnarled boughs of trees; he could hear the hardened snow cracking from its seams.
To his left, a small thorn tree was partially visible beneath the fattening snow. Tunnelling an opening with his hands, he placed the dying bird in, remembering how his mother always said that every creature deserved a decent burial.
Hoping that the crow’s death wasn’t an omen, Adrian bent and retrieved a solo black feather resting on the page of snow like an exclamation mark.
“You’re a beauty. Not a blemish, despite the wound.” It awed him, the feather’s power and grace, its gift of flight to birds and Greek heroes. A person would sell his soul to the devil, for such …
A movement to his left distracted him from his thoughts. It was white—as white as the snow thickly falling all about him. Rubbing snow from his eyes, he blinked. Nothing. He glanced in every direction. Nothing, only the sly wind sounding, gathering momentum. He listened intently to the wind soughing through the trees, convinced it was whispering a name.
Michael? Michaellllll …?
“Spook yourself, you idiot, why don’t you?” he said out loud, the sound of his voice giving him some comfort.
Quickly pocketing the feather, Adrian returned to the task of the bone, drying it with withered leaves, rubbing it almost lovingly, as if calling a sleeping genie from a magic lamp.
Satisfied, he held the bone up to the splintered light slicing through the trees, inspecting it before placing a hollow part to his ear, listening intently to the hum it made. The sound forced the hairs on his neck to prickle, and his spine to cat-scratch. He could hear the bone hiss, like a seashell; thought he could hear the sea echoing in it. Thought he could hear something else, like a sweet voice whispering dark words he couldn’t understand.
Chapter Two
“Of a thousand shavers, two do not shave so much alike as not to be distinguished.”
Samuel Johnson, Boswell’s Life of Samuel Johnson, Vol. 3
“THAT’S HER, ISN’T it?” asked Joe Harris, the local barber, holding a cut-throat razor in one hand and a copy of Friday’s Belfast Telegraph in the other. “That’s Nancy McTier, the little girl who’d come in here, every now and again with her grandfather. Isn’t it?” Harris mumbled the questions to himself, nudging his glasses with a knuckle to peer at the little girl’s photograph stationed in the centre of the page. She was smiling and wearing a billowy dress. Ribbons rested in her hair. A toy of some sort—possibly a doll—dangled from her hand.
While studying the article, Harris neglected his third customer of the day, who sat, looking ridiculous, with only the upper lip of his face shaven.
Three years since Nancy’s disappearance. No arrests. No clues. No suspects, read the tiny headline, right below the little girl’s image. The article was on page thirteen of the newspaper. Three years ago, it had made page two, but time had lessened its importance. Three years from now, it probably wouldn’t warrant a line.
Despite the waiting customer, it was near impossible for Harris to resist looking at the remaining random blurbs inked on the paper.
… walked from her home in Lancaster Street … the mother had given her money to buy something nice, in one of the shops in York Street … last seen in North Queen Street …
Using the endless angles afforded in the barber’s shop’s mirrors, the customer watched Harris, slightly concerned about the quality of the shave. But he kept quiet—for now—as if sensing the importance of the newspaper in the barber’s hand.
Delving deeper into his memories of the girl, Harris conjured up sporadic images. She sometimes wore a bright yellow dress, when she came into the shop. Red butterflies attached themselves to it. The painted insects looked so real you expected them to fly away. It was a nice change, a girl, because mostly boys and men came in.
As Harris continued scanning the article, he felt the weight of the razor in his hand alerting him to his unfinished task and knew, for business’ sake, he’d need to do a good job. Another one of those unisex places had recently opened a few streets away, and even though the barber’s shop still managed to retain most of its loyal customers, at the back of Harris’ mind was always the question as to how long they would remain loyal. Belfast was quickly becoming as bad as Dublin and London: a scarcity of traditional barbers.
The unisex shop was closed for a death in the family—hence the extra customers—and it was now up to the traditional barber’s shop to take advantage of this unfortunate event.
“Sorry, sir, about that,” Harris said, nodding at the article. “I remember that little girl. Terrible.” He tapped the newspaper with his razor.
“I really am in a hurry,” said the man, becoming slightly agitated, his partly shaven face resembling a soapy horseshoe.
Across from Harris stood Jeremiah Grazier, the other barber and owner of the shop. Grazier glared at Harris to get on with the job, satisfy the customer, and stop distracting himself with newspapers.
Grazier’s body was thin and withered with time, prematurely bowed by the burden of a face deemed repulsive. He had entered this world screaming when the midwife—slightly intoxicated and inexperienced—accidentally stuck the forceps in his right eye, blinding it. The doctor casually informed Jeremiah’s mother that he was lucky he hadn’t lost sight in both, and recommended the placement of a glass eye, once adulthood was reached. Sometimes, when his skin got irritated, Jeremiah would be forced to wear a patch over the glass eye—though he tried to make sure this was done after working hours, kids being kids.
Grazier was preparing the hairy head of a customer, his long bony fingers massaging tonic into the hair, softening it for the scissors. The customer—a teenager—was describing the cut he wanted. Jeremiah ignored the words. There was only one hairstyle in the shop for children. If they wanted something fancy, they’d better go to one of those fancy salons with their fancy prices and fancy hairstylists.
Yet, despite their reluctance to change, the barbers tried as best they could to cater for all ages, and the proof was there for all to witness: homemade sweets—wrapped in a spirally red barber-pole design—were harboured in jars lining the shelves; towers of comic books were piled haphazardly, waiting to collapse; shrunken, rubber heads—meant to fascinate the younger clientele—dangled ghoulishly from the nicotined ceiling; while religious paraphernalia, consisting of old Bibles from Grazier’s colporteur days, sat incongruously with magazines of half-naked women, decapitated corpses and Mafia rub-outs—appropriately enough—in barber chairs.
But if the sweets and comics were an enticement for the younger clientele, a balanced deterrent attached itself to the far wall in the curved shape of an old cane. “This Cane is Able”, proclaimed the maxim beneath it, a warning to would-be trouble makers—those youngsters with the audacity to complain about the passé haircut carved on their hairy, reluctant heads.
It wasn’t unusual to see Grazier chase an ungrateful boy out of the shop, the thin cane narrowly missing the head of the intended target, all the while quotes from the Bible trafficking from his aging mouth. “He that spareth the rod hateth his son! Proverbs 13–24.”
If the fact of their sons’ being chased by a Bible-quoting barber with a swinging cane offended the parents, they did not complain. Secretly, some of them were grateful for the old man’s avenging discipline upon unruly sons—sons whom most of them found increasingly difficult to control.
“It could do with a bit more off the top, sir,” said the teenager to Grazier, with respect that contradicted the barber’s opinion of youth.
“Next!” shouted Grazier, ignoring the teenager’s honest words.
Slithering from the chair, the teenager gingerly handed payment to the barber. In exchange, Grazier placed a perfectly wrapped sweet into the young customer’s empty hand, while his words pushed him out of the shop. “Shut that door behind you, gently. Keep the heat in.”
It was nearing one o’clock when the last customer finally left, granting the barbers a chance to close shop, have lunch and then clean up, ready for the two o’clock opening.
“You remember her, Jeremiah?” asked Harris, easing into one of the big fat chairs, accompanied by his newspaper, getting slowly comfortable.
“Remember who?” asked Grazier, scraping particles of hair from his clipper blades, meticulously flossing their metal teeth with his fingernails.
“That little girl—the one who disappeared? Nancy McTier. Doctor McTier’s granddaughter. I know you have the worst memory in the world, but surely you remember her?”
Grazier continued his flossing, almost as if he hadn’t heard Harris.
“Don’t you remember her?” persisted Harris.
“Can’t you see I’m busy trying to get everything in order for the two o’clock opening?” replied Grazier, sounding slightly annoyed.
Never one to listen, Harris tapped the newspaper with his finger before leaning towards the other barber. “Take a look.”
Reluctantly, Grazier removed the newspaper from Harris’ fingers before reading the tabloid with his good eye, like a jeweller studying the perfection of a gem.
His eye scanned the monochrome photo of the little girl before studying the words; but no matter how he tried, the photo pulled the eye back towards it, magnetically.
“Here,” said Grazier, handing the newspaper back to Harris. “Disgusting stories. Don’t know why you buy such trash. They only report death and destruction, making tidy profits from it, into the bargain.”
Harris, well used to Grazier’s sullen mood swings, simply grinned. “I remember the time when you used to go door to door with your soap, Bibles and quotes. Clean the body as well as the soul! Hallelujah! The Lord and Lard. Remember? Death and destruction? That was all I heard from you, Jeremiah. And even then you were talking about prophets.” Harris couldn’t help but grin at the watered pun. “The sweetest-smelling Bibles known to man or woman, you used to tell all those old spinsters, you sly fox. Sold quite a few, too, didn’t you?” Harris winked.
Grazier ignored the remarks, allowing Harris to return to his newspaper, while he went to the sink, eager to scrub the newspaper ink staining his skin. It made him feel strangely unclean.
Scrubbing thoroughly, he almost wounded his skin raw.
“Damn!”
“What? What’s wrong, Jeremiah? Don’t tell me you went and nicked yourself, an old pro like you?” joked Harris, never taking his eyes from the newspaper, scanning the betting pages for his daily fix from the horses. “Here’s a superstitious bet, if ever I saw one. Close Shave, running at Beechmount. Seven to one. What do you think, Jeremiah? Can I entice you?”
Damn! The ink was barely fading, resisting all his efforts. He could still make out the tiny newspaper blurbs in the palm of his hand.
An insistent tapping sound from the outside window caught both Grazier’s and Harris’ attention, simultaneously.
“Can’t they read the ‘Closed for Lunch’ sign? They must think we’re robots,” said Harris, easing from the chair.
Grazier moved quickly to intercept him.
“It’s okay, Joe. You go back to your reading. I’ll see who it is.”
Shrugging his shoulders, Harris slipped back into his chair and returned to his newspaper.
Peeping through a side curtain, Grazier could see a young man, his face badly scarred with acne. The young man peered back, and then winked.
Reluctantly opening the door, slightly, Jeremiah hissed, “What are you doing here, in broad daylight? You were instructed to always come at night. What if someone saw you, informed the police?”
“Keep your knickers on, grandda. Just doing my job. I’m away for a couple of weeks. Your missus ordered this, yesterday. You don’t want her not getting her medicine, do you?” His outstretched hand contained a small brown package.
An angry blood-rush pounded Jeremiah’s skull. A vision entered his head, of scissors embedded in the sneering young man’s mouth.
“You don’t look too good, grandda. Perhaps you haven’t been taking your medicine, lately?”
“Don’t ever come to the shop at this time again,” warned Jeremiah.
“Whatever you say, grandda. Just make sure you tell your missus that. See what she says. We all know who wears the trousers in your house.” The sneer became thinner, sharper.
Speedily, Grazier took the package, squirreling it away immediately in his overcoat hanging near the entrance to the shop.
“For heaven’s sake, Jeremiah. Anyone would think that was a bomb you’re hiding,” laughed Harris, climbing back into the comfort of the chair. “One of these days, I’m going to open that wee mystery package, Jeremiah, uncover your secret.”
Without answering, Grazier stared icily at Harris. The stare was disconcerting, even to Harris.
“Joke,” said Harris, quickly. “It was a joke. What’s wrong with you, this weather, Jeremiah?”
For a few seconds more, Grazier continued staring before speaking. “I don’t like jokes. You more than anyone should know that.”
He went back to cleaning his hands.
Chapter Three
“Something dead was in each of us, and what was dead was hope.”
Oscar Wilde, ‘The Ballad of Reading Gaol’
EASING THROUGH THE back door of the house, Adrian made his way to the scullery. The place stank of stale smoke and decaying potatoes. Unwashed pots formed a metallic pyramid in the sink. A block of butter, touched by heat, had turned to mush.
Leaving the scullery, he turned directly left, stopping outside the large studio. Normally out of bounds for Adrian, the studio was used by his father for all the paintings he worked on, mostly of naked women—models, his father called them. Initially embarrassed and slightly uncomfortable, Adrian soon succumbed to the smiling females’ charm and beauty—especially the ones who remembered his name, as they passed him in the hallway or side entrance to the house.
The red “Do Not Enter. Painting in Progress” sign was on, but pressing his ear to the door, Adrian could detect no sound.
“Dad?” Adrian’s eyes squinted as they tried to focus in the darkness. “Dad? Are you in here?”
The curtains remained closed from this morning, and the light from the faded afternoon dripped through, bleaching the colours from everything in the room. Only when his eyes adjusted to the dullness did Adrian notice the lump centred on the carpet.
“Dad …?” Quickly pulling the curtains open, Adrian allowed the remainder of the evening to enter.
Amidst the detritus of dirty clothing looming suspiciously in corners, old newspapers—crinkled and beige from being left in the sun—carpeted the floor. Tiny mountains of clay took up a good three-quarters of sought-after space, while incomplete busts and torsos mobbed the remainder of the floor, haphazardly, as if an axe-murderer had recently paid a visit. A gang of meat hooks dangled ghoulishly from the ceiling like medieval torture devices, their question-mark shadows touching framed pictures of nudes.
The hum of paint was overpowering, yet Adrian could distinguish two other smells far stronger—more menacing—than the paint: stale booze and fresh gun oil.
His father’s body was stiff, but there was breathing. He’s out cold, that’s all, thought Adrian, relieved.
With effort, Adrian bent, attempting to pull the body from the floor, but the deadweight was too much.
“Dad? You’ve got to get up. C’mon!” There was annoyance in his voice. He tried again; and once again he failed to move the basking bulk. Defeated, he stood over the body. “If Mum could see you now, she’d be so ashamed. You’ve got to get up!”
Seconds later, the body moaned. “What … is it … what do … what do you want?” His father’s voice was hoarse, uncertain.
“C’mon, Dad. Up to bed,” said Adrian, pulling at his father’s arm. “It’s me, Adrian.”
“Adrian?” There was bewilderment in the question, followed by revelation. “Oh! Adrian! Good old Adrian … let’s have a drink to good old Adrian.” The skin of his father’s face was crisscrossed with carpet creases and red blotches. The face was all sharp angles and lines and, at first glance, one might have mistaken the lines for sternness.
Slowly, he moved, pushing himself up, guided by his son’s pull.
“C’mon, Dad. I’ll help you up the stairs.”
For the first time, Adrian noticed the cherished framed photo of his mother resting on the ground, black lightning jagged across the glass, splitting her smiling face in two.
“You’ve busted Mum’s picture,” accused Adrian as he tried to suppress the bubble of anger forming in his stomach. He wanted to say drunken bastard, but something held his lips tight.
Swooning slightly, his father slowly steadied.
“You’re a good son. The best son Jack Calvert could ever want,” he said, patting Adrian on the cheek.
“I know. The best in the world. Now, let’s be having you, Dad. You’ll feel a lot better in the morning.”
“A whiskey. I need a whiskey, Adrian. That’ll make me feel a lot better—a whole lot better. Get me a bottle from the cupboard, will you? Just to dampen my thirst. The last few I had have all died on me.” Jack winked.
“Later. Not now …” Not ever, he wanted to say.
Jack allowed his bodyweight to plop itself on to the old battered sofa. Closing his eyes for a few seconds, he gradually opened them before speaking. “For heaven’s sake, Adrian, would you cheer up? It’s Friday night. Everyone loves Friday.” Then, as if a great revelation had finally revealed itself, Jack said: “Oh, now I get it. I forgot to give you your pocket money, didn’t I? Get my wallet, and we’ll quickly sort that out.”
“Do you believe in ghosts, Dad?” asked Adrian, staring directly into his father’s eyes.
Momentarily, Jack looked taken aback. Then his eyes tightened, filling with suspicion.
“I … that’s a strange question. Why? Why … do you ask?”
“I think I saw Mum, out at the lake.”
Silence suffocated the room. Adrian’s words seemed to catch Jack in the throat, sobering him even further.
“Don’t talk like that. Understand?” Jack’s face reddened. “There are no ghosts. Mum is dead—something we both have to come to terms with.”
“I saw her. She isn’t dead,” whispered Adrian, undeterred by his father’s words. “She wouldn’t do that to us. She wouldn’t die, leave us all alone.”
“Mum didn’t do anything, Adrian. It was the drunken driver who did it. Remember? Not Mum; not you.” Jack leaned towards Adrian. “When did you … when did you think you saw Mum?”
Remembering that he shouldn’t have been in the woods that morning, Adrian carefully sidestepped the question, but accidentally revealed more about himself than he had intended. “I’m glad the drunk died, Dad. Know that? I hope he’s in hell, burning. I hate him. I hope he’s suffering.”
Jack’s face turned ashen. “It’s okay to hate, son; but not forever. It only poisons, destroys. You wouldn’t want Mum to see you like this. Would you?”
Releasing the tense air pocketed in his lungs, Adrian tried to sound calm, forgiving.
“No, I suppose not. I know that I shouldn’t be talking like some stupid kid, but I can’t help that. It’s hurting me, Mum not being here.”
Easing himself from the sofa, Jack gently touched Adrian’s head. “You know, all the big things hurt, the things you remember. If it doesn’t hurt, it’s not important. Do you understand?”
Reluctantly, Adrian nodded.
Standing shakily, Jack manoeuvred towards the door. “We’ll talk later, son. Okay? But for now, I’m going to take your advice and go to bed.”
Less than a minute later, Adrian heard his father’s body collapse on the bed above, heard the protestations from the metal springs.
Despite his efforts to ignore his hunger, Adrian’s stomach rumbled loudly. He thought about going to the fridge to grab a bite, but something drew his eyes to the side of the old sofa. An object, black and lumpy. He knew what it was, even before he retrieved it: his father’s revolver.
Something wasn’t right. His father was strict when it came to guns, instilling in Adrian a healthy respect for them: take care of guns, and they’ll take care of you.
The smell of oil on the freshly cleaned gun settled inside Adrian’s nose and on the back of his throat in a clinging layer. He could taste it. He could also tell that the gun had been fired recently, could smell the burnt powder mingling with the oil.
Cautiously, holding the weapon away from his face, Adrian touched the release button, allowing the bulbous gun’s stomach to reveal its gut, exposing the chambers.
Shocked at what the chamber held, Adrian tilted the gun, and a family of bullets fell harmlessly into the meat of his palm. “What are you playing at, Dad? A loaded weapon …?” Unpleasant thoughts entered his head, thoughts of his father doing something dark, something sinister; but these were quickly erased when he noticed the rip in the old armchair stationed beside the portable TV.
The rip—thumb-wide and finger-deep—left Adrian in no doubt of a slug housed inside the armchair.
Deciding that it was better to err on the side of caution, Adrian thought he should hide the gun. His father would need it, once he got himself back on track. Later. Certainly not now.
Climbing the stairs, he stopped outside his father’s bedroom. Snores were buzzing rhythmically.
A few seconds later, he entered his own room and selected a wooden box from beneath his bed. Opening it, he deposited the gun along with the feather and bone before collapsing unceremoniously on to the bed, mentally exhausted.
His belly rumbled again, and he thought about journeying back down the stairs, grabbing a snack. Instead, he remembered the sweet, thrust into his hand by the ignorant old barber, and quickly unwrapped it before popping it in his mouth, loving the rush of sugar it sent through his body.
The winter wind was squeezing into the leaks of the old house, making him shudder as he pulled a blanket up to his chin. He felt his eyelids becoming heavier and heavier, knowing he could sleep forever, given the chance.
Eventually, he did sleep, but nightmares came rushing at him like pursuing ghosts—nightmares of all things dark and wicked: of dead mothers and dead crows; of dead bones …
Chapter Four
“O to be a dragon, a symbol of the power of Heaven – of silkworm size or immense; at times invisible. Felicitous phenomenon!”
Marianne Moore, O To Be a Dragon
ARRIVING HOME FROM work, Jeremiah fixed the key inside the lock, clicking himself into the darkness of the back kitchen. An attempted pot of stew had hardened on the stove, and the greasy aroma rushed to greet his hairy nostrils. It wasn’t appetising, but Jeremiah hoped the contents would be filling.
Leaving the kitchen, a few minutes later, he went straight to the large living room, clutching the package given to him earlier that day by Harris. Glancing nervously about, he quickly placed the package behind the bookshelf, making sure that the line of books fitted back evenly.
After washing his hands, he made his way out of the house, on to the vast parcel of land.
“Judith?” he called into the darkness, knowing his wife was probably in one of the many huge sheds castled on their land. Walking down the serpentine path, he headed for the wooden buildings, passing the three scarecrows stationed together in the neglected apple-tree yard.
Some of the sheds were Aladdin’s caves of discovery, filled with diverse collections of items accrued over the years; others were deserted, mere empty husks and skeleton frames of leprosy wood.
“Judith?” He opened the door of a shed, the one lodging old household utensils. Nothing. Not a sound. Then he remembered: Friday. She’d be in the clothing shed, sorting out the second-hand stuff for tomorrow’s market at Smithfield. Two or more traders would call tomorrow, inspecting the goods, bartering for the best deal possible—bartering with things other than money.
The clothing shed stood head and shoulders above the cluster of other sheds, towering like a chaperone in the midst of children. But even during the day there was something unwelcoming about it.
Turning the handle of the door until it gave way, Jeremiah stepped into the large, wooden structure, dull nightlight following directly behind him.
“Judith?” he called, edging forward, cautiously. A faded orange glow emanated from a single, naked light bulb suspended from the rafters. How his wife could see in such dreadful light was beyond him. But that was how she preferred things: semi-darkness. Even the light in the house was toned down to mere shadows—shadows to help accommodate her needs. A childhood ailment was all she was willing to say, when he first met her. It had taken years for her to confide in him, reveal the real truth.
“Jud—”
“Yessssss? What is it?” hissed a harsh, annoyed voice, lurking somewhere in the semi-darkness.
“I just got in, a few minutes ago. Do … would you like me to put some coffee on? I brought some buns in from McKenna’s Bakery.”
Nothing, only a soft whispery squeal coming from the back of the shed.
“Right, then,” said Jeremiah. “I’ll heat the water. See you shortly?”
He left, knowing there would be no reply.
The coffee had practically turned to varnish by the time Jeremiah heard the back door creak open then shut. He could hear Judith move about restlessly, searching for something, slamming cupboards, making the cups rattle in their shelves. He knew what she was seeking, but hoped she wouldn’t find it.
Less than a minute later, she appeared at the parlour door, her pale face illuminated like a ghost from the light’s fading haze.
She wore a dove-grey apron over a flowery gypsy dress. The apron was speckled with large blotches the colour of parched clay, and smaller ones gleaming with new wetness. The clothes draped around her as if her bones were cradled in the very fabric, her frame emaciated with flesh barely drawing substance. Her age was half that of her husband.
