White Crow (9 page)

Of course, no one thinks he actually killed the girl. Well, no one sane, anyway. But how did the report put it? ‘
Severe negligence on the part of Detective Inspector John Case that can only have contributed to the girl’s death.
’

The girl. No one even knows her name, not while it’s still under appeal. Of course all the newspapers and the TV people know, but until he’s had his chance to appeal they have to keep quiet about it.

Becky’s father doesn’t have that anonymity though, and now everyone knows who he is and why he’s ‘after a quieter life’ in the countryside.

Poor Becky.

She and her dad didn’t come out for days after that thing with the car. They ordered lots of pizza and a van came with food from the supermarket, or that’s what they said in the pub, anyway.

Must be tough living with something like that hanging over you. But not as tough as being the parents of the dead girl, I guess.

You wonder how someone copes with that. I suppose if you believe in these things, you can think, little Tracey, or whatever her name is, little Tracey’s in Heaven now. And that must make you feel better.

But supposing little Tracey was an absolute pig. I know it’s not nice to speak ill of the dead, but it’s possible, for the sake of argument, that even though she was only fifteen that she was a violent, thieving, lying, nasty piece of work. And in that case, has little Tracey gone to Heaven, or is she down below, toasting slowly on a big pitchfork while the Devil and some of his mates laugh about it all?

But anyway, assuming little Tracey was an angel on earth, then she’s an angel now, floating on a cloud somewhere I suppose, or riding an invisible pony, and it must make her parents feel better to think that. Better to think that than to think she’s gone forever, and they can remember her, and think of her and sing songs for her. Songs for dead children.

And if that’s where she is, then there’s even the chance that she might contact her parents, with a sign, or a haunting, or a visitation. Or even a postcard. I don’t know, but all I’m saying, is that if she did, then she’d be the white crow.

And it only takes one.

T
he week passes like an agony for Rebecca. A slow and painful torment. Her father has shut down, barely speaks to her, drags himself out of bed and out of the door, drags himself back home again.

He stares at the TV every evening, a fast food box or a ready meal on his lap, and a can of beer in his hand. It’s as though he’s switched off, just like that, like a light going out. Suddenly, Rebecca realises, he’s not there for her any more.

For the first time, as she understands this, she understands too that maybe it’s not all his fault. That maybe she’s let her father down too, treating him as if he’s as guilty as they say he is.

She feels desperate, switching between pity and anger on an hourly basis. Then she thinks about calling
him
, not even bringing herself to think his name for fear of it hurting too much. Then she realises how stupid it is to want to call someone who she can’t even bear to think of, but though she knows it’s stupid, and that it hurts, she brings Adam’s number up on her phone, and stares at it, feeling it, as though she’s twisting the knife a bit more, wondering how much it can possibly hurt.

She stares at her phone, her thumb hovering over the call button, and somehow she manages to talk herself out of it every time.

 

She stares at the ceiling of her bedroom, she stares out of her window at the sea, at the beautiful scenery and the sunshine which should make her feel happy to be alive, but which only reinforces how miserable she is. She’s kept Adam’s crucifix round her neck, but now something snaps in her and almost without looking at it she takes it off. Her hand hovers over the wastebin, but in the end she drops it into her dressing table drawer.

As she does, she sees her jewellery box, and lifts it out. Feeling very young and with a tinge of sadness, she feels something inside the box almost call out to her. She opens it, lifts her father’s heart pendant out, and holds it in her hand for a long time, wondering whether to put it back on again, and what it will mean if she does. If anything.

T
he next day, she finds herself standing at the bar of

The Angel and The Devil at eleven o’clock in the morning, speaking to a man who must be the landlord of the pub.

‘Yes, Miss?’ he asks, friendly enough, though there’s the slight mistrust in his eyes that everyone seems to wear in Winterfold. He keeps on wiping glasses with a ragged tea towel as he speaks to her.

‘I just wanted to know something,’ Rebecca says, and shifts her weight from one foot to the other, ‘and I thought you might know. In here.’

She looks around, even hoping to speak to the dreadful Melanie rather than this old guy.

‘Well?’

‘Well,’ Rebecca says, ‘I was wondering if you know where Ferelith lives. Do you know Ferelith? The girl I was here with the other day. I know she lives in Long Lane, but…’

‘Yes,’ the landlord says. His voice has changed. ‘Yes, I know where Ferelith lives. Why do you want to know?’

‘I just wanted to visit her. That’s all.’

The landlord considers this for long time. He stops wiping glasses, and puts the tea towel down on the bar. He leans towards her.

‘She lives in the Old Rectory,’ he says at last, ‘but I wouldn’t go there if I were you.’

Rebecca feels a bit weirded out all of a sudden, as if she’s in some cheesy Vampire movie.

‘Thanks for the advice,’ she says, turning to go.

‘Your funeral,’ the landlord adds as she goes.

Give me a break, thinks Rebecca, now having the distinct feeling that she’s heading off to visit Dracula’s castle. She’s had the warning from the spooky innkeeper, now all she needs is a black coach and four to stop by and pick her up.

She even looks up The Street waiting for the clipclopping of hooves on the tarmac.

‘Thank Goodness I have my father’s love to protect me,’ she jokes to herself, fingering the little silver heart at her neck.

It’s ironic, she thinks. The crucifix that Adam gave her would have been better protection against vampires.

 

She finds The Old Rectory easily enough, and is surprised. It’s the big house with the high wall that she heard the loud music coming from on her first trip round the village.

She stands at the entrance to the drive, a pair of large iron gates stuck permanently open, overgrown by bindweed and ground elder. The gravel drive is a lovely, sweeping semi circle, but like everything else about the place it could do with some attention.

The house itself is big, very big, with a crazy mix of architecture, pointed Victorian gables on the front, giving way to an older stone building at the back.

Once again feeling as if she’s in a lite-bite movie, she hesitates at the threshold of Ferelith’s world. Maybe she’s not in, maybe she’s busy, maybe she’s got friends, maybe she doesn’t want Rebecca to call anyway.

‘What’s the worst that can happen?’ Rebecca says out loud and, feeling nervous, though without knowing why, she crunches across the weed strewn gravel and gives the doorbell a long push.

Nothing happens for a while, but she can hear sounds inside, so she tries again and eventually the door opens.

It’s not Ferelith, but a young guy, maybe twenty-something. The first thing Rebecca notices is that he smells. His hair is long, dreads reach down his back. He’s unshaven and dressed as if he’s going to work in the garden, even though he clearly isn’t. He’s just woken up.

He stands and stares at Rebecca, and straightens his back; she tends to have that effect on most males.

‘Er . . . Hi. Is Ferelith in?’ she asks.

The young man nods, and turns, heading off into the gloom. Inside the house it’s surprisingly dark given the bright sunlight outside.

‘Where is she?’ Rebecca calls after the disappearing figure.

‘In her room.’

‘Which is?’ she says, starting to feel a little frustrated.

He points up the stairs.

‘Keep right, head to the back of the house. Big black door.’

He goes into the kitchen, the door of which swings shut behind him, and Rebecca’s left alone in the hall.

She looks about, and can’t quite work out what’s going on. She’s never been in an English country rectory before. There’s an old umbrella stand by the front door, with three battered umbrellas in it; there’s a mirrored hall table, and various old paintings of quaint rural scenes. But then there are other unexpected paintings, disturbing abstracts and even more disturbing figures. Bodies.

And there’s the sound of music coming from somewhere upstairs, but it’s not Chopin or Brahms, it’s some weird noise with shifting beats and detuned guitars.

And rather than burnt toast and marmalade coming from the kitchen, it’s the smell of dope.

Rebecca heads upstairs, and follows the directions the hippy guy gave her.

In front of her is a big black door, just as he said.

From behind it comes more music, which again Rebecca can’t place.

She approaches, and knocks on the door, twice, hard.

It opens, and Ferelith is standing there. Somehow Rebecca is not surprised that Ferelith can even do goth in her sleep-wear, but she can. She’s wearing loose dark grey cotton shorts down to her knees, and a baggy black T-shirt. She looks deadly somehow.

For a second Rebecca thinks she might be angry, but then realises that she’s just thrown.

Ferelith smiles.

‘So,’ she says, resting her weight on one hip. ‘You came.’