HOPE . . . because that's all there ever is. Read online

  ‘You know a lot.’

  ‘I know your mother hurts.’

  ‘She sometimes has . . .’ bad bricks. ‘She’s sometimes sad. I try to make her happy.’

  ‘Peter will make her cry.’

  Peter is still at the balcony. Staring. Why hasn’t he waved? Beth almost waves. ‘Cry?’ She turns to look at the girl and their eyes meet. The girl’s hand is in hers. It’s warm and soft.

  ‘I sent you your dress. I knew you’d like it.’

  ‘I found it in the playbox, in the cabin.’

  ‘Where I left it for you.’

  A smile fills Beth’s face. ‘When I saw yours, I thought every cabin must have a yellow dress in its playbox.’

  The girl’s hand squeezes hers. ‘I like you, Bethany.’

  She knows my name. ‘I like you, Elizabeth.’ I know hers.

  ‘I have a gift for you.’ The girl looks over Beth’s shoulder, towards the clearing.

  Beth turns to look and their hands part. There’s a basket on the picnic table. ‘I forgot my basket!’ She turns back to the girl but the girl has gone. Beth walks up the jetty on light legs. The basket is piled high with huge mushrooms. She picks one up, smells its meaty smell and sees Dad in her mind licking his lips and tucking in and his bricks are yellow and buoyant. This wood spirit is truly a curiosity. Beth looks around the clearing for her, then hurries back to the jetty. But there is no sight of her. ‘Oh, dear Elizabeth,’ she says with a hand on her heart.

  7

  Cabin 1 sits at the bottom of the hill and is the only one of the old cabins Pete has not fixed up. The steps up to the deck are split and broken, the window frames buckled and the sills sagging. Three minor leaks inside have been left to drip into pots, and spider webs, ratshit and batshit remain as well. Pete only uses the main room at the front. It’s big, and has a window almost the size of the wall; the view across the loch and the light that comes in are perfect for painting. The room holds one tall stool, a cart on wheels for the paints and brushes, two easels, and, along the back wall, an intricate racking system of pulleys and wires Pete knocked up while dabbing at the whizz bag.

  Deciding on what shade the wash should be is usually an instant thing, something Pete will naturally see without thinking, and now is no different. He makes up a pale-yellow wash and sponges it across the paper. The girl in the yellow dress had not waved at him. He’d been staring at the jetty for a long time. Felt like he had to. Like it was important. He dips a brush into grey and the form that takes place is the girl on the jetty. A pearl of sweat rolls down Pete’s nose. He imagines the brambles and sets to work with sweeping arcs of grey until the girl is obliterated. He starts again, yellow wash, yellow dress, big smile. But the eyes are too small. Again, yellow wash. But still something isn’t right. Again, again, again.

  1

  The idea of hitting the winding roads of the Scottish Borders sprouted from a dream Rose Narran had six months ago on Good Friday, the night she had given a talk on creating endearing characters to the Friends of Easley Women’s Institute writing group.

  No one could bullshit Roseanne Narran, she had bullshit detectors the size of Wales yet the God-bothering hat-wearing imbeciles always gave it their best shot. Rose had imagined snatching their silly hats and throwing them like Frisbees, had imagined slapping each and every small-minded one of them. She couldn’t, of course, those imbeciles were her bread and butter; they bought the books and swooned over them.

  Mrs Ophelia Thomason-Jones – the one with grapes on her hat – had congratulated Roseanne on her realistic characters-we-all-love-to-hate, like the spiteful old bag in the post office in Courses for Horses or Helena the pompous vicar’s wife in Midnight Rain. Oh, what a talented writer she was. Such depth of character was not to everyone’s taste, of course, wha-wha, chortled Mrs Ophelia Thomason-Jones. Some people preferred easier reading but not the Friends of Easley ladies. Roseanne had thanked Mrs Ophelia Thomason-Jones, and would have loved nothing more than to walk right on up to her and twist her pretentious nose, and Mrs Ophelia Thomason-Jones had given Rose a golden opportunity: If one may query, do you know that the idiom you have used for your book’s title is the wrong way around?

  Mrs Ophelia Thomason-Jones had smugness pulsing in her cheeks. The thirty or so WI ladies fell silent. Roseanne used this silence to form her reply. She could be clever, she could embarrass Mrs Ophelia Thomason-Jones, she could laugh at her and have the room laughing with her. Or she could explain that horses for courses was the well-known version of the idiom, that the lesser known courses for horses was used when referring to a person attempting something not suited to them; someone like a God-botherer with grapes in her hat who should stick to reading porn on her Kindle when no one’s looking.

  But Rose had explained quietly and quickly, and then moved on to the next question, knowing Mrs Ophelia Thomason-Jones, whose cheeks now burned merrily, would be in her next novel. And it was those grapes that Roseanne had dreamt about: vines and trails and tendrils, laden with plump ripe fruit, the tendrils weaving into a distance of hills and valleys, where God-bothering nutjobs were denied entry. In the dream, she’d travelled the tendrils, plucking grapes to quench her thirst as the hot sun beat down and the winding roads brought peace and quiet and inspiration.

  The morning after this vivid dream she caught a program on TV about sheep farming in the Scottish Borders and she was captivated. Not by the sheep but the scenery beyond: green hills and winding roads and, with Mrs Ophelia Thomason-Jones’ burning cheeks rich in her memory, Rose resolved that this year’s holiday would be an adventure north to Scotland, where her next novel idea would be found and Mrs Ophelia Thomason-Jones would surely end up pulverised. Maybe she’d choke on her own silly hat.

  One suitcase on wheels, blue, one backpack, also blue, stood empty by Rose’s bed. Spread across the duvet were enough clothes and vitals to see her through at least three weeks, possibly four, five at a push. The good weather was set to continue, so Rose had chosen her clothes accordingly: five dresses, three cardigans, four light blouses and one in denim, two pairs of jeans, three jumpers. Three unopened five-packs of M&S knickers, three unopened four-packs of thick socks. Two roll-on deodorants, two tubes of toothpaste, two toothbrushes, two razors, shampoo, soap, baby-wipes, two body sprays, two hairbrushes, one comb, a sewing kit, a small first-aid kit, a dozen packets of extra strong mints, a thick roll of cash (in tens and twenties and pushed into a sock), a spare purse crammed with loose change, debit card, credit card, mobile phone, laptop, chargers, digital voice recorder, compass, a six-inch knife, three packets of Valdoxan tablets for the depression she no longer suffered, three lighters, cosmetics bag, 200 Silk Cut, ten packs of cigarette papers, a portable ashtray and an ounce of weed divided into eight small Ziploc bags.

  Finally, she pulled open the bottom drawer of the bedside cabinet and considered the two mastectomy bras that had lain there for the past year and a bit. Vanity did not raise its ugly smile inside her head, so the bras would stay put. Hidden beneath the bras was a six-inch silver vibrator. That could stay put too.

  She checked each item off the list on her notepad and packed carefully before carrying everything into the garage and filling the boot of her silver Corsa. To the back seat she added six cases of bottled water (tap water in foreign lands never agreed with her), two blankets, a sleeping bag, spare shoes, walking boots, and a one-man tent in case there was no room at the inn. Not that she’d ever been turned away. That was the beauty of travelling in November. Most places closed for the season but would often welcome a paying guest and happily make up a fresh bed and provide a decent breakfast.

  Rose made up a hefty joint, opened a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape and enjoyed both from her bed whilst looking out over the marshes of Hanley Nature Reserve, thinking about what wonders she might encounter over the next few weeks to bolster her writer’s armoury. When the joint was half smoked she tapped it out in the ashtray on the windowsill and took another drink of wine, appreciat
ing that her legs seemed to have melted together beneath the cosy duvet. Thoughts came of herself as a mermaid in yellow waters, then as a dying old woman slipping into death itself as it consumed her from the toes up, her skin turning pallid, her heartbeat slowing to a dull thud, and the idea came tumbling forth for a romance in a funeral parlour. This made her smile. Danni, her agent, had suggested bringing darkness to her next book. Darkness sells, Roseanne, it really does, and we need to keep on top of the game. She’d pooh-poohed the idea. There was enough bloodlust on the shelves without her adding more crud to the shit-pile. Danni also suggested a series of poetry books. Easy to rattle off and your fans will snatch them up, Rosie, snatch them up! Rose had pooh-poohed that idea too, but she made notes in her pad.

  The Dark Side: death, decay.

  Blood

  Lust

  Sex

  The Dark SLIDE

  This was amusing.

  The writer killer – she wrote next, followed by – The killer writer

  Dark. Destroy. Death. Demise. Deceased. Decompose. Decay.

  Then she crossed the lot out, made a new list:

  PROMPTS FOR THE MUSE

  Romance – funeral parlour (poet) and his hideously . . . OBESE mistress

  Different – death, necromancer

  Death – necrophilia (clown loves cadavers)

  The pencil hesitated before the next word came,

  . . . Yellow . . . ?

  Sleep came quickly. Her last thoughts were of squeezing every grape on Mrs Ophelia Thomason-Jones’ silly hat.

  2

  It’s dark when Pete steps out of cabin 1 with his final effort flapping in his hand. He slams the door and heads up the hill. Back in his cabin he throws the painting face-down on the kitchen table and draws a glass of water. He takes the bag of speed from the biscuit tin, tips some into the water, drinks it down, collects the tripod and telescope from by the door, and goes to the rocker on the balcony.

  With the tripod between his legs and an eye to the glass, he thinks of Mr Wood tracing Mir, looks for detail, asks for answers, which he knows, thanks to the good ol’ whizz, can come in many guises. It doesn’t take long. At the tail of the Plough, stars beyond stars are forming into white mist and the mist becomes the faint outline of a face and the face grows eyes, a nose, and then a mouth, and the face looks down on Pete and the vision speaks: Are you a homo, son? Pete smiles back at the man in space. Well? asks Mr Wood in a voice more pronounced than Pete is used to. The yellow digger fills Pete’s mind with a judder and Pete starts as the vibration rings through him. When he looks back to the Plough, Mr Wood has gone.

  The bucket had hit something, an old stump. That girl. Bethany Black. Watching. Pete realises his breathing is heavy, can feel his heart thumping. He imagines chaining the stump to the digger’s bucket and promises himself he’ll get the bastard out in the morning. He takes a breath and returns his eye to the telescope. The stars once again spread into white mist. One eye forms, then . . . nothing, only one eye. It’s still Mr Wood, same blue-grey stare, same crow’s feet. The eye grows until it fills the Plough’s pan. Pete stares at the eye and the eye in space stares back. Pete thinks: I’m not a fucking homo. The eye mists over and vanishes.

  Pete sits back in the rocker with a lump in his throat and an overwhelming sense of loneliness. His dad died of a heart attack when Pete was nineteen, dropped to his knees at Pete’s feet in the kitchen and croaked it. Nothing Pete could do. His mother went the same way a few years later. Died in her sleep. Pete found her on his return from a two-week camping trip, helping the local scout group. She had flies crawling in her nose. Pauline, his older sister, married a lorry driver from Kent and fucked off to Australia. No one to talk to, no cat to stroke or dog to pet – or wife to fuck. Getting a dog might be an idea. Jim the shepherd’s two collies and spaniel adore Pete. Pete’s crying now. He gets to his feet and hears his bones turn in their sockets – or was it the rocker creaking? He takes a last look at the night sky then goes inside.

  The painting is there, face down on the table. He places his hands on its edges, fingers spread, and stares at the back of it. The eye in the sky forms in his mind and with it comes inspiration. He turns the painting over. Arcs of spiked bramble form an archway; the spikes are like sharks’ teeth. They give the arch the look of a medieval torture device, about to snap shut on the girl in the yellow dress who stands within it. Now Pete knows what’s wrong with the painting. After splashing his face with water, Pete takes up the painting, collects one of the six torches he keeps by the door, and goes down the hill to cabin 1.

  Pete’s skill as an artist suited his dumbfuck personality. Mr Wood had told him this one night in his mind as they painted together. Pete’s face warms at the memory. Mr Wood had squeezed his shoulder and patted his back after. Pete’s brushes are all as thick as Pete. That was another one. Pete isn’t really thick, or a dumbfuck, he just thinks lots of thoughts at once and sometimes forgets what he’s meant to be doing, that’s all. When you live alone with no one else to please, being disorganised isn’t a problem. He always gets lots done, just not always in the best order. He clips fresh paper to the easel and washes it yellow. Bethany Black takes shape once more, no brambles this time, just the girl. He leaves the eyes until last and remembers to make them bigger. This is better, but still not right. He starts again and makes the eyes bigger still. Again, and then again, and then . . . of course.

  He clips new paper, washes it yellow and paints only the eyes, big on the paper. But he’s rushed it. It looks like something a toddler would paint. He clips new paper, starts again, taking time to create softer strokes, ensuring the eyes are big and bright. He takes a step back. Better, but still not right. Then a sledgehammer hits him in the face and Mr Wood is holding his balls, a heartbeat, new paper, yellow wash, one eye – one fucking eye – one dumbfuck eye.

  Pete’s shriek of joy echoes round the cabin and out into the night. The eye is simply beautiful.

  He sits down on the stool he backed into and wipes sweat from his brow. The eye stares at him, the curl of its lashes scarily lifelike. Then it blinks. Pete grins at the beauty of the whizz and waits for another blink. At the corner of his eye he sees movement in the darkness outside the big window: a shadow flitting between shadows. It’s the middle of the night, any movement outside will likely be a deer, but it gives Pete the shivers all the same.

  A soft breath whispers at Pete’s ear, a breath so feminine that it drifts on the air around his head. When the words come, the voice is enthralling,

  I know. . . I know you’re coming.

  Movement again outside the big window, a fleeting glimpse of pale against dark.

  Pete goes to the door.

  3

  Rose woke far too early: 02.22 joked the bedside clock. She tried getting back off, tried counting sheep – imagined them morphing into corpses as they jumped a fence, landing on the other side with a clatter of bones – tried going through the morning’s routine in her head; something she nearly always did, because vision-thinking brought improvements and better use of her time. She got as far as imagining grilling the last two slices of bacon from the almost-empty fridge, when the munchies forced her from her bed. She slipped her Kindle into the bedside drawer. Rose never took reading matter on her jaunts, the idea being to find something old or obscure as she travelled. Last year she’d picked up a Victorian tome on dentistry that contained many gruesome illustrations and practices, only 20p from a charity shop in Newcastle; not fiction, granted, but the gruesome drawings and torturous methods brought ideas for her latest novel White Pain where a three-dentist love triangle gets out of hand. Revenge is certainly sweet, this is going to outsell all your others, I just know it, oh, I do like these hints of your dark side, I really do, but you should do more, Danni had babbled. Rose took what was left of the joint from the ashtray, and headed downstairs.

  Bacon sizzled under the grill. Coffee bubbled in the pot. Rose was at the kitchen table enjoying the last of t
he joint. After the bacon sandwich and two cups of coffee, whilst smoking a Silk Cut – so weak you need a Band-Aid on your arsehole to get a drag (Danni), Rose walked the house checking windows and setting two light-timers; one in the living room, one in her bedroom. She washed up, showered, and by the time she was dressed the weedy high had reduced to a pleasant mellow and the clock said 04.35. A little earlier than planned, but it was time to go exploring.

  The SatNav app on Rose’s phone was never used. Rose preferred intuition and road signs and the road atlas in the pocket behind the Corsa’s passenger seat. If you were dumb enough to need a robot telling you what to do via an eye in the sky, then perhaps you shouldn’t be allowed behind a wheel.

  Apart from the occasional truck, the M6 was void of traffic and the great northern skies lay ahead, the clouds lightening the further north she got. The feeling of emptiness was vast. This was going to be a good holiday. A red neon sign ahead warned of fog ahead and told her to slow down to 40. Despite the empty lanes behind her, Rose allowed the Corsa to drop to 50 and soon she was driving into fog. Headlights glared in the rearview mirror, two vehicles approaching fast. Thinking they might be cops, Rose took her foot off the accelerator and allowed the Corsa to slow to 40 before resuming.

  The first car passed in the outside lane, a BMW, black, one of those big beasts mindless Tories drive. Must have been doing 90. The second vehicle, a lighter-coloured 4x4 came straight after. Rose noted, as both cars vanished into the fog, that neither driver had switched on their fog lights. She promptly pressed the button on the dash to engage hers, and drove on at not much over 40.

  The only planned stop was the services at Carlisle. She had a Costa coffee, one of their delicious lemon tarts (and bought another for later), a smoke outside, then took the Corsa to the pumps to top-up before hitting the B-roads.