The Immaculate (24 page)

For a few moments he simply stood, not knowing what to do. He did not want to go back into the house alone, but what was the alternative? Drive to his aunt's and ask to stay there? Find a B and B in one of the nearby villages? What he really wanted to do was go back to London and stuff this whole fucking business. He sighed and rubbed a hand across his temple as if it might help soothe his thoughts.

He looked at his watch and was amazed to discover it was not yet ten o'clock; it felt like the early hours of the morning. The moon slithered from behind a bank of spongy cloud, bathing the land in light once again. Four hundred yards away the cluster of buildings that comprised the Butterworths' farm resembled gigantic blocks of ice. Suddenly decisive, Jack hobbled toward his car.

He got in, started the engine, executed a shaky three-point turn, and drove back along Daisy Lane. He cruised to a halt in front of the Butterworths' farm, got out of the car and pushed open a metal three-barred gate. This led into a yard with worn cobbles that peeped above a layer of mud like the slick grey heads of frogs. Jack began to tiptoe through the mud toward the farmhouse, muttering, “Wonderful,” when it oozed up over his black suede shoes. Soft light glowed from behind orange curtains, making him think of Halloween. His knock was followed by surprised voices from inside, the scrape of furniture. The door opened and a plump dark-haired woman said, “Yes?”

“Er . . .” Jack was thrown; he hadn't expected a woman. He tried to remember the name of one of the Butterworth brothers. He had reeled them off to his aunt in the car that afternoon, two of them at least; he could never remember what the youngest was called.

The woman's eyes were narrowing suspiciously. “Is . . . er . . .” Jack thought he was going to have to admit defeat—then suddenly he remembered. “Is Martin in?” he blurted. “Martin Butterworth? Or one of the other brothers?”

The woman's expression became more, rather than less, suspicious. “Who wants them?” she asked curtly. Then a hand with the thickest, reddest fingers Jack had ever seen appeared above the plump woman's head, curled around the door and pulled it all the way open.

Jack felt like a character in a cartoon, rocking back on his heels and gaping up with awe at the man-mountain who had just appeared. The guy was vast, at least six foot eight, and he must have weighed all of twenty-five stone. His pale blue and black lumberjack shirt stretched over a belly that looked as though it were pregnant with quints. The sleeves of the shirt were rolled up, revealing arms covered with a fine downy blond hair that any adult male gorilla would have been proud of. Despite the awesome bulk, however, the man's face—smooth and red and topped with a straw-blond thatch—held an expression of inquisitive geniality. “ 'Ello, Mister,” he said, nodding. “What can we do for you then?”

“He asked for Martin,” the plump woman said before Jack could reply.

The man-mountain appeared to consider this sombrely for a moment and then said, “Our Martin don't live 'ere any more. Hasn't done now for about ten year. 'E's got a place over in Mirfield. If you want to come in a minute or two, Mister, I can write y'out some directions.”

He began to turn away, but Jack said, “No,” a little more sharply than he intended. The man-mountain's eyebrows raised a notch in surprise. “It wasn't Martin specifically that I wanted,” Jack explained. “You'll do fine. What I mean is, my name's Jack Stone. I'm staying in the house just up the road. I'm Terry Stone's son. I've come from London for his funeral. I used to live here in Beckford.”

The man-mountain blinked rapidly a few times as though digesting the information, then a wide and delighted grin seeped across his face. “I remember you,” he said. “You went off an' become a writer. You're pretty famous, aren't yer? Yer dad always used t' tell us how you was doin'.”

“Did he?” said Jack, surprised. Then: “Yes, that's right.”

“Come in, old son,” exclaimed the man-mountain effusively. “Barbara, put t' kettle on. We've got a celebrity come t' visit.”

Barbara ducked under her husband's arm to do as she'd been asked, but Jack held up a hand. “No, please,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I didn't come over just to say hello. I . . . er . . . I've got a bit of a problem. I wondered whether you could help me out.”

The man-mountain's face creased in concern and he bowed his head as if to impart or receive secrets. “Oh, aye?” he said. “What's up?”

Jack told him about coming back from the pub and hearing noises upstairs; he omitted the part about the bikers and the phone call, and about seeing his father standing by his car. “I wondered whether you and your brothers could pop back to the house with me and check it out,” he said lamely. “I mean, I wasn't sure how many intruders there might be. I didn't think it would be a good idea to try and handle it myself.”

Butterworth (Jack was still not sure which of the brothers this was) nodded sagely and said he'd be glad to. “There's only me 'ere now, though,” he said. “Well, me an' t' missis. Our Ed's got a place in Sheffield and, like I said, our Martin's in Mirfield. Me old dad died about six year ago. 'Ad an 'eart attack in t' pigsty.” He seemed about to say more on this subject, then shrugged. Instead he said, “But I'll come back wi' yer if yer think the two of us can 'andle it?”

“Oh, yes,” said Jack. “I don't think there were many of them, two at the most. They'll probably be long gone anyway by the time we get back.”

Butterworth called his wife from the kitchen and told her what was going on. In the course of the conversation she called him by name—Gerard—and immediately Jack realised this was the youngest of the Butterworths. Nevertheless, he must have been ten years older than Jack, which would put him in his early forties. It was only when Jack led him out to the car that he realised the Mini Cooper and the big man were not exactly compatible. Butterworth somehow managed to squeeze inside, though. Jack half-expected the seat to groan and collapse, the bodywork to bulge, rivets to spring from their sockets. Butterworth looked both comical and uncomfortable, like Desperate Dan in a kiddie-car. Suppressing a smile, Jack clambered into the driver's seat.

When they reached the house, Gerard commented on the open front door, from which light blazed. Jack muttered that he mustn't have closed it properly. Gerard surmised that perhaps it was the intruders who'd left it open after their departure. Jack said nothing. Because he hadn't told Gerard about his father's voice on the telephone, the admission that he'd left the door open after fleeing the house would seem like an overreaction.

They got out of the car, Gerard with difficulty, and approached the house. Butterworth showed no trepidation whatsoever. Followed by Jack, he marched into the hallway, checked both kitchen and lounge, and then retraced his steps to the foot of the stairs. There were no sounds now, and indeed the house proved to be empty. Gerard paused outside each door for a couple of seconds to listen before ramming them open and leaping inside, but all he disturbed was air.

“Nothin' 'ere now,” he said unnecessarily when he and Jack were standing in the hallway again.

“No,” said Jack with a shrug. “Thanks a lot, Gerard. I'm sorry to have interrupted your evening.”

The big man seemed embarrassed by the apology. “No problem,” he murmured. “No problem at all. Always glad to 'elp.” He clumped to the door and stepped outside. Before walking away he turned back and shyly offered Jack a few words of advice. “I'd 'ave a wander about if I were you an' see if there's anythin' missin', then you'd be best callin' the police and lettin' 'em know someone's been 'ere. It's probably nowt, just kids who'd heard about the old . . . yer dad, and thought the 'ouse'd be empty. But it's always best to let the police know. We're a bit isolated out 'ere.” He raised an arm and began to walk away. “Aye, well, it's been nice seein' yer. You'll pop round again before yer go back, I 'ope.”

“Yes,” said Jack, doubting that he would. “Good night, Gerard. And thanks again. I really appreciate your help.”

He waited until Gerard was a vast lumbering silhouette before he closed the door. Too late, he thought about asking the big man for his phone number, and pulled the door open again, but Gerard had been swallowed by the darkness. Sighing, Jack pushed the door closed and, after a moment's hesitation, locked it. He stood for a moment in the hallway, listening, but apart from the distant moan of the wind the house was silent.

He picked up the telephone receiver and tentatively placed it to his ear. All he heard was the idiot
burr
of the dial tone. He dialed Gail's number and waited, half-expecting the connection to be broken at any moment, his father's rasping voice to reach for him across the emptiness. But the phone simply trilled softly like before, on and on. No answering machine. No reply.

Where was she? She'd said she was going to be in tonight. He hoped she was okay. He made more tea and carried it through to the sitting room. If he didn't feel so on edge, if this house didn't have such bad associations for him, this room would have been cosy, despite the death of the fire. Jack wondered whether to build another, but decided to leave it for the moment. There was enough residual warmth in the room, and besides, he was feeling pretty beat—hardly surprising after all that had happened. He put the telly on, turned up the volume, then flopped onto the settee. He sat there for a long time, drinking tea and staring at the telly, watching whatever was on. The loudest programmes were the best—a quick-moving comedy with canned laughter, a debate about the social service's handling of child abuse cases—for they allowed no other sounds to breach their voluble defences. So reluctant was Jack to move that he ignored the urge to pee for as long as possible. At last, though, heart beating quickly, he ventured upstairs, locking the bathroom door as he emptied his bladder. Downstairs again, he built himself a fire and stretched out on the settee to watch a late film starring Harrison Ford. Somewhere in the middle his eyes began to close. When he opened them again it was morning.

He felt cold, stiff and disoriented. Dawn was bleeding the curtains of colour, diluting the hard yellow glow of the table lamps with its own insipid light. Last night, despite his tiredness, he wouldn't have thought he could have slept, or at least not deeply. However, the fact that he had managed a solid six hours seemed to have done him little good. He felt groggy and ponderous, his head ached, his limbs were sluggish. Sleep was a vampire that continued to cling to him and wouldn't let go. He felt enervated rather than refreshed by it.

At least the daylight took the edge off his fear. The house was bearable with sunshine pouring through the window, especially if he filled the silence with music. Jack realised his hair was still matted with dried mud; there were flakes of it all over the settee. He dragged himself into the bathroom and ran himself a hot bath. He stripped off and sank into the steaming water, groaning at the sheer pleasure of it.

Almost immediately, his eyelids drooped closed. When he next woke the water was still warm, but only just. As though moving in slow motion, he leaned across and twisted the hot water tap. The water was cold at first; he tugged out the plug with his feet, allowing some of it to drain away. When he found his optimum temperature he washed his hair, then soaped himself slowly. After his bath he went into his bedroom and changed into fresh clothes, then went back downstairs. Despite his efforts to wake he still felt muffled, inert, as though trying to shake off the effects of an anaesthetic. He built a fire, smoked a cigarette in front of it as he listened to the birds. Anywhere else, he thought again, and this would be idyllic—the dawn light sharpening and brightening as it filtered through the window; the land awakening; the start of a new day, full of promise.

For breakfast he ate cornflakes, toast with honey, and drank two cups of tea. He remembered the vow he'd made yesterday to go for a run this morning. The way he felt now, it seemed like a bad joke. Nevertheless, the breaking of his promise to himself niggled him. He decided to compromise; he'd go for a stroll, acquaint himself with nature. After last night it was just what he needed. He pulled on his leather jacket and let himself out of the house at 7:45
A.M.
He thought of everything he had to do before the end of the day—solicitor, registrar, undertaker. Even without last night's events he needed a few lungfuls of fresh air before dealing with that little lot.

The air was more than fresh, it was fragrant. The sky was so clear that he was filled with a delicious sense of insignificance, of his problems receding into its vastness. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs. He smiled; already he could feel his fear melting away.

He turned right outside the gate, towards the woods where he had played as a child. Patty Bates had soured the sanctity of this place for him, yet Jack could now sense its innate benevolence, its recuperative qualities. It was only the black souls of human beings that stained this place, and then only temporarily—their actions were petty and quickly consumed. When Jack turned off Daisy Lane into the woods, about a mile further on, he was immediately embraced by its calmness, the smell of its life, its verdancy.

The ground was lush, springy beneath his feet. Sunlight slanted through gaps in the trees, dappling the ground. Jack wondered how he would describe such an effect, how such beauty could be captured by the written word. Like interchanging coins of shimmering gold, he thought, and then shook his head; no, too clichéd. The textures were richer, more vibrant, the light was tenuous and yet, simultaneously, almost palpable, like honey. It was as though the trees had somehow distilled the light, drawn its essence down through their leaves in strands that pooled on the grass. Words, images, crowded Jack's mind, all of which sold their subject woefully short. How, he wondered, do you describe the immaculate? There were no words, or combinations of words, that would suffice.