A Cold Season (25 page)

Captain’s belly had been torn out. The edges were rough and his twining intestines spilled out of him, solid clumps and knots and ropes that vanished into the snow under Cass’ feet. She was standing on them. She shuffled backwards and looked at the dog’s face, the way the ridges of his lips were drawn back over his teeth.

He was alive
. When they did this to him the dog had been
alive
. She didn’t know how she knew that, but she did.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, turning to take in the three of them.

She stumbled away, and something caught her foot under the layers of snow and she went down. There was something else under there. Cass turned to meet Lucy’s
eyes and saw only stones staring back. She had to know.

She dug into the snow beneath her feet, burrowing down with her chapped red hands. They were so numb she could barely feel them, but this time when she pushed down she met resistance, and her fingers found something that wasn’t snow.

A sound echoed around her, a groaning, wailing sound; then it was gone. Cass bit her lip, looked at the witch stones—

It was the wind, that was all, exploring their black shapes.

She looked back at her hands, still buried, and scooped more snow out of the hole.

There were fingers under her own – not small, delicate fingers but fat, white, bloated things that looked like maggots. Cass peered in and gagged. One of them was pinched in the middle, making her think of a string of sausages. The flesh had split there, forming dark crevices. The finger had swollen around a plain gold ring.

Despite the swelling, Cass could see signs of age, so not a child’s hands; this was an older woman. Her hands were pressed together as though she were praying … as if pleading for mercy.

They had stayed that way, even while they buried her.

Cass sat back on her heels, her mind blank. She knew of no one else missing from the village, and all she could think of was that someone new had come: Theodore Remick.

We’ve been praying for someone like him
.

Mr Remick, with his air of authority, sitting behind the desk with the little sign, picking it up and dropping it into a drawer.
MRS CAMBREY
. Making it disappear, just like that. Mrs Cambrey, whose disappearance had cleared the way for Mr Remick.

They had killed her before he even came, before the snow came. Someone had killed her and brought her up here. Cass bowed her head and wept for this woman she had never known. Then she sat back on her heels. ‘It wasn’t him,’ she whispered to the sky. ‘It was never him.’

She remembered driving over the moors in the fog, unable to see left or right until a face came stumbling out of the whiteness and into her path. She mouthed the name:
Sally
.

Sally, who was looking after Ben. Sally, whom she had asked to take special care of her son.

Ben had seen it better than Cass.
I don’t like it
, he’d said.
The lady smelled. She smelled bad and I hate it here
.

‘Oh God,’ Cass cried, staggering back, her feet pedalling at the snow. She had to get back to Darnshaw. She scrambled to her feet and heard that strange groaning sound again; looked around. It hadn’t been in her mind after all. It was coming from beneath her.

She stepped forward, and underfoot it creaked, long and slow, a straining, complaining noise.

‘Oh, God,’ she whispered, ‘
no …
’

She looked all around and realised the snow was flat, stretching away in an even white layer.

She heard Bert’s voice as though he stood at her elbow:
‘Watch out for the lake. It’ll be iced ower. Up by the stones. You might not see it
.’

She stared down at the snow. She wasn’t standing on the ground at all. She was standing upon a frozen lake.

Mrs Cambrey’s fingers had been bloated, swollen by the water until the ice caught and held her.

Cass took another step and heard a crack. Her knees almost gave. She crouched, trying to keep her centre of gravity low, and took another. The wind blew, chill in her face, taunting her. The breeze was from another world, from the long walk up the hillside before she had come here and seen the things she had seen. She felt the figures at her back, their blank stares. She couldn’t turn.

As the wind lifted a swathe of powdered snow and carried it across the flat surface there came a long, pained moan from beneath.

One more step. Just one
.

Ahead was a ridge, then the slope began again. The witch stones were waiting, and beyond that was the moor. When she was a few strides away Cass threw herself forward, forgetting to keep low, to spread her weight. She ran, and flung herself onto the bank, crawling forward through the drifts. She was soaked, but she was off the lake.

She looked back and saw the snow figures leering, their pink flesh obscene scars against the ice. She looked at them for a long time.

When she finally stood up again she realised that she could keep going: cross the moor and never come back.
She could send someone for her son, for them all; she could tell the police, send help – they would have to help her after this, bring helicopters, even, and at that she imagined flying in with them, landing in the park, and everyone coming out of their homes and staring.

But she knew she could not.

Ben was in Darnshaw, and Sally was with him. She had to get to her son.

Cass scrambled down the hillside, out of control, her feet twisting, never stopping to see if the hurt would flare into something worse. When she fell she pushed herself back to her feet and pressed on. Cold numbed her face and she couldn’t feel anything any more, only the time passing, both slower and faster than she would have liked. She didn’t look back.

Ben
. She imagined him small and pale, spitting into her face, and his words of hate:
You’re his whore
.

Cass stumbled to a halt.

They were trying to take him from her.

That was it: the visits to Sally’s, the circle of boys with their blank, cold eyes, sitting in a half-circle and staring up at her.
We shared
.

What
did they share? Did they tell him things,
lies
, about her, about Pete? She closed her eyes.

I want him back. How’s he going to find us now? He won’t know where to look
.

What had they
said
to him?

It didn’t matter. Whatever they’d said, she could undo
it, once they were away from here. Once she had him safe. Cass made her legs take another step, and another, before her muscles loosened up and she was once again careering down the hillside.

TWENTY-NINE

The school was locked. Cass stared at the door, rattled the handle, kicked it until it creaked on its hinges. Then she stood back – and that was when she saw the notice taped to the glass:
CLOSED
, it said,
HEATING BROKEN
. That was all, no message for her, nothing to say where Ben had gone. Her throat hurt. Her heart hurt. Cass sagged and leaned against the door, put her cheek to the cold glass.

When she turned she noticed the quiet that had spread like a tangible thing through the schoolyard and into the lane. There was no one here.

She had asked Sally to watch Ben.

Cass hurried back to the road and through the village. For the first time she noticed places where the snow had thinned, revealing dark shadows of the tarmac beneath. The snow was melting. At last the snow was melting, but it was too late; Sally had her son – Sally, who had maybe killed Lucy, Bert, Mrs Cambrey.

But Sally hadn’t touched Jess – or had she? Cass swallowed, hard chips of ice tearing her throat, and went on.

WILLOWBANK CRESCENT
. The sign was half-swathed in snow. Ordinary houses, built of brick, not stone, with their doors painted red or green or white. A bird trilled as though to underline the normality of the day. Cass stopped at the gate. The day
was
normal; she only had to look at the place. It was Cass who was out of touch with reality. She had had some sort of turn, had seen things that couldn’t be there.

But this woman had her son. Cass reminded herself of the way Ben had reacted when he first met Sally:
The lady smelled. She smelled bad and I hate it here
.

Cass threw open the gate. Sally’s curtains were drawn – why was that? It was still bright daylight.

Cass knocked on the door, paused only a moment and hammered again. She tried to call her son’s name –
Ben
– but it came out as a whisper. Her stomach roiled.

The door clicked and scraped and opened. Sally peered out, her eyes pouchy, hair damp. Her skin was shiny with face-cream. ‘You’re back,’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect you so soon. They’re in the lounge.’ Her face withdrew; the door closed and opened again, wider this time. Sally clutched a dressing gown around herself. ‘I was just having a shower. Ben’s fine, he’s with Damon. Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a—’

Cass pushed past, calling her son’s name.

The lounge was dark. A curious half-light played on the seated figures.

‘Ben?’

Faces turned towards her. She couldn’t see which one of them was her son.

‘Cassandra, are you all right?’

‘I’m taking him.’ Cass looked around the circle and expressionless eyes looked back. Then she saw Ben’s pale hair. His hands were folded around something in his lap. Cass strode to the window, pulling back the curtains, letting in the view of the ordinary street.

‘I must say—’

‘I’ve seen them. I know what you did.’

‘I don’t know what—’

‘Ben.’ Cass bent and grabbed his arm, hauling him to his feet. Ben’s eyes were shadowed. He dropped the thing he held. Cass looked down and saw a games controller. There was movement in the corner of her eye. Damon, shifting on his haunches, picking up the console and cradling it.

‘We’re going, Ben. Now.’

Ben still didn’t speak. Cass’ fingers dug into his arm; she knew she was doing it but couldn’t stop, and he didn’t pull away. She looked down at him. His eyes were blank.

‘Ben,’ she repeated.

Slowly he turned to face her and his mouth twisted, with hatred, not anger or fear. His face was dead-white.

‘I think he might prefer to stay here,’ said Sally, ‘until you calm down, perhaps. Has something happened? Are you ill, Cassandra?’

‘Don’t call me that. I saw what you did to her.’ Cass remembered Lucy’s broken features, the rock forced into her flesh. She fought back a choking sound.

‘Ben, I think your mother’s ill,’ said Sally. ‘Remember, you can come here any time. We’re your family.’

Cass froze.

‘We
share
, remember? We share everything. We don’t hide from our family, do we? We don’t stop them coming to us when they need us most.’

Cass looked down at him to see a tear tracking down her son’s cheek. Cass’ grip on his arm was the only solid thing in the room.

‘Don’t you speak to my son,’ she said, and marched him out.

‘She’s gone a little crazy.’ Sally followed them just as though she was showing a guest from the house, but her voice was too loud. ‘She’s gone a bit mad, Ben. Don’t forget, you can always come to me.’

Ben hung back, a reluctant weight, and Cass’ fingers clutched harder. Behind her she heard the
tap-crunch
of footsteps, but she ignored them and dragged Ben along, fumbled with the gate, pushed him through it. When she looked back there were four of them, Sally and three boys; their dark eyes were fixed on her.

‘A bit crazy.’ Sally’s voice was laced with amusement. ‘Come back soon, Ben. We’ll miss you. Come back soon.’

Cass’ eyes went from one stony, unblinking face to the next, and they all met her look.

From the corner of her eye she caught sight of something moving in the window above their heads. It was a wide window with a white frame. A hand pressed against a pane and was gone.

Cass’ breath was trapped in the back of her throat. She tried to swallow. Ben squirmed in her grip, but she didn’t
let him go as she took a step back towards the house. ‘You’ve got Jessica,’ she said.

Sally flicked damp hair over her shoulder, raised her hands to smooth it down. Her expression was solemn as she met Cass’ eyes. ‘You’re the maddest bitch I’ve ever known,’ she said.

Damon’s mouth twitched. He folded his arms. Another boy grinned and nudged his friend.

‘I’m going to get her back,’ Cass said. ‘You’re not going to hurt her. I’ll see to it.’

Damon spluttered derisively, raised his hand in a mock wave, displaying the red line bisecting his palm. The boys were laughing openly now, and another waved, showing a matching line across his hand.

Cass took hold of Ben’s shoulder. ‘Come on. We’re going.’ She pushed him ahead of her and he took automaton steps down the road, not hanging back, not going on ahead. Her hand fell from his shoulder, but he didn’t slow down or stop. Her fingers were shaking and her knees felt weak, and the feeling was spreading throughout her body. She began to shiver. She leaned against a wall and called, ‘Ben, wait for me. Wait a minute.’

His footsteps ceased, but he didn’t turn.

‘Ben, please. Come—’ Her voice faltered. She couldn’t explain, couldn’t tell him what she had seen on the moor.

He dragged himself back, scraping his shoes on the pavement, but he did not step into Cass’ outstretched arms. She realised he hadn’t spoken since they left Sally’s house.

‘Sweetheart, please,’ she whispered, and he came to
her then, burying his face in her chest. She wrapped her arms around him and held him there, feeling his shoulders shake. ‘It’s all right, sweetheart. I’m here,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll look after you.’

He pulled back suddenly, the crown of his head bumping her chin, and Cass’ teeth knocked together. He held out his hand:
Stop
.

‘Ben, Sally and Damon are not your family.
I
’m your family, not them. They did something bad, so we need to go and tell someone, as soon as we can.’ Cass had a sudden hope that maybe the telephones were back on, that she could call someone.