BENEATH THE WATERY MOON a psychological thriller with a stunning twist Page 6

  It was dawn and sun was beginning its climb in the sky. I found a spot on the pavement, fifty yards down the road, and sat down cross-legged, aware I wasn’t properly dressed.

  I concentrated on the dew, sprinkled like strewn crystals in the park. Taking a number of deep breaths, I managed to slow my heartbeat from its furious thud and stop myself from shaking. I could feel a wave of feeling working its way up from my chest to my throat. An emotional explosion was due, but I controlled it, allowing only one tear to fall. I had sat on the cold hard ground trying to calm myself for at least twenty minutes. I spotted a scruffy-looking man lying wrapped in a dirty old blanket on a bench. I watched him for a little while, shivering and half muttering to himself in his sleep.

  I don’t know why it happened or what it was that struck me but staring at him helped me find some clarity. I wiped my eyes and with purpose marched back into the house. I remembered how I’d managed to start to turn my life around when I had first moved to Newcastle and realized I needed to find that feeling again. I didn’t want to end up cold, sad and lonely on a bench. Instead a few weeks later I would end up sitting beneath a clothes rail in John Lewis terrified and about to be sectioned.

  I remembered walking up the path that led to the lecturer’s office, a printed-out half-finished version of an essay gripped beneath one arm. I cut through an immaculate green lawn, which a small notice told us not to walk on. The sound of my footsteps echoed off the beautiful, creamy, stone walls around the garden courtyard. I felt the history of the place come alive around me. I imagined the thousands of students who had trodden that same path over the last hundred years. I passed two lecturers, deep in discussion, who would not have looked out of place a hundred years ago.

  The nerves had bubbled inside me with each step I took closer. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of a large black crow sitting hunchbacked, watching me from one of the slate roofs. It didn’t blink or move. It looked like a gargoyle on a cathedral. I could see its dark shining eyes watching me and I felt like prey. Taking it as a bad omen, I knocked quietly on the heavy oak door of the office.

  My lecturer’s office always smelled strongly of lilies. That day was no different. There, in a cream vase, was a bunch that had seen better days. Their scent filled the air, disguising the smell of dusty books, which neatly lined the shelves. I would forever associate that smell with my teacher and that place. I always longed to explore the book collection in her study. In those days my idea of bliss was spending an uninterrupted afternoon in a bookshop.

  The leather-bound volumes took up an entire wall of her office. Some of them must have been worth a fortune. They looked as old as the university itself. She barely noticed me as I put my essay on her desk. Immersed in a book, she only glanced up for a second, just long enough to glare at me. I left the office knowing all I could do was hope and wait for my results. As highly as I rated education, I remembered a quote from Oscar Wilde, ‘Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.’ It comforted me as I prepared for failure.

  I was studying English literature at University. My A-level results had been impressive and my teachers told me I had a bright future ahead. I enjoyed learning when I was well. It helped to keep my mind busy. Up until the point I began to get ill, my lecturers thought I was on course to get a First. If I loved something, I was good at it. It’s true for most people; we rarely strive to do well at something we detest.

  When I dropped out of my degree, I resented failing my education more than anything. It pained me that it was something else I’d had to give up along with the prospects of a normal life. That feeling still haunts me.

  Now I was determined never to go back to being that person again.

  * * *

  When I got back from Christie Hall, I stood outside our house for a while trying to find that feeling of home. It eluded me, but just as uncertainty began to get a grip, I spotted the face of my beloved Wookie in the window. His ecstatic wag made me feel better. I opened the front door and went in. Sitting down on the wooden floor, I let Wookie jump all over me. I stroked his soft brown coat and spoke to him in a bizarre voice I was sure he understood. For a minute or two I felt like a child again.

  I woke up at home one morning in a strange mood. My head was spinning with questions about what I really sought from life. I knew I wanted adventure and excitement. Most of all I wanted freedom. My self-indulgent dream was to be able to do as I wished, without having to answer to anyone. I wanted love in my life, but never to be married, and was undecided whether I wanted children. It wasn’t that I didn’t like kids or that I had an issue with the institution of marriage, I was just terrified I would end up settling for the sake of it, the way so many people did. I figured that children were something I could have much later in life, if at all and only after I’d walked the earth for a while.

  I got up and slid over to my computer. With a few clicks on the mouse I accessed my online bank account. I clicked on the sterling icon that was marked savings. A white screen popped up and a small box in the middle showed the amount I had saved. There was a total of £4.87. I slumped down into my chair. I was sick of the restraints money, or lack thereof, put on my life.

  Despite the dismal contents of my account, I was pleased that at last I had a plan. I knew there was a better world waiting for me and I knew where I wanted to be. I longed to get back to Christie Hall and make it my home. Now all I had to do was convince my family to let me go, and hope Jude and his family would welcome me into the fold permanently.

  * * *

  A few slow weeks had passed since the party. Winter had a firm grip on the land and money was devoured by heating bills. The world was dark, and I was lucky to see two hours of light each day. My insomnia was raging again, and I finally got some fitful sleep by three in the morning, waking again when my alarm buzzed through me telling me to start my ‘working’ day. I lay in bed for hours while my mind whirled around, jumping from thought to thought like an indecisive butterfly. Ideas zipped through me, none of which materialized. I couldn’t settle on one long enough to put it into practice . The winter gloom outside was of little consequence.

  I hadn’t had much contact with Jude or any of the Christie clan and was beginning to think perhaps they didn’t like me. Jude, who had been so kind and interested, was now an elusive memory. I was haunted by recollections. I pictured them sat round the vast fireplace, laughing and joking, singing and telling stories. I longed to be there.

  As I struggled to hold onto my sanity and remain positive, I found a part of myself I had long since forgotten. I started writing poetry again. It had been something I’d done as a teenager, going through the usual angst. I’d used it as a way to work through my father leaving and my delayed grief over Lucy’s death.

  Now I spent the dark hours sitting at a desk in my room, writing page after page. The words poured out of me. Images became language and feelings fuelled my creativity. I put down all my dark thoughts on paper and found a way to channel my insecurities and fears. It was nice to have some tangible evidence of my turmoil, and I had Jude to thank for it. The weekend of the party had reawakened my love of words. Jude told me he could see that ‘it was in my soul’.

  It was one in the morning and I had been huddled over the desk since ten o’clock. I was beginning to lose all hope of Jude when a message came through:

  This weekend. Winter solstice celebration. Bring festive offerings. Jude.

  Overcome with relief, I burst into tears. I wrote back immediately and accepted the invitation. This was what I had been waiting for, an opportunity to return to Christie Hall to see if they might accept me as a permanent member of their family.

  * * *

  Arriving in Southwold, I was greeted by miserable winter weather. A grey fog covered everything and my headlights fought to find the road. I crawled along, with the Christmas crackers I had made lying on the passenger seat next to me. As I wound
my way along the coastal road, the waves clawed at the beach, angrily crashing down onto the sand. The sea bubbled and spat with fury. Nature was on the warpath. And then I finally sighted my destination.

  Christie Hall stood proudly on a gentle hill. Lights were on in the windows, and the house looked inviting and warm. It had changed from my last visit, the trees along the driveway were now naked and stark, but despite its vast size the house remained inviting. I felt I had come home.

  Joanie opened the door and helped me in as I shook the raindrops off my nose. I’d met her on my previous visit and she seemed great. She was in her early thirties and pregnant. She had a long neck and dark hair that hung low down her back. She moved with elegance and grace and I felt intimidated by her quiet beauty. She wore a long white skirt and a loose brown sweater, which clung to her bump. I wondered who the child’s father was but I didn’t deem it my business to ask.

  The kitchen was a hive of activity. It smelled of Christmas spices and sweet fruit. Maggie was at her usual spot standing over the Aga. Sophie, Fran, and Ella were seated round the big farmhouse table, peeling, chopping and kneading. They each welcomed me back with warm hugs before returning to their tasks. I put my offering of Christmas crackers on one of the cluttered work surfaces and asked the whereabouts of the other residents. Fran said that Jude had gone to slaughter one of the pigs for the feast. I think my face must have revealed my horror, since she looked at me quizzically. Ella explained that Celeste and Charlie were out foraging. Before I could offer to help in the kitchen, Joanie slipped a long slender arm around my shoulders and guided me up to the bedrooms.

  Expecting to be sharing a room with Ella again, I was surprised when I was shown into a small room of my own.

  ‘This is the Bluebell room,’ Joanie said, stroking her pregnant belly. ‘You should be quite cosy in here.’

  The room looked like something out of a magazine. The wallpaper was embossed with little posies of blue flowers. A cast iron fireplace faced the small double bed. A gilt mirror hung above the hearth and a threadbare Persian rug covered the old smooth floorboards. The room had a distinctly Victorian feel. On a small dressing table stood a jug and washbasin. Cornflower-blue velvet curtains hung in the tall window that looked out over the garden. In the distance I could see the sea.

  ‘This is really pretty,’ I told her, putting my bag down at the foot of the bed. ‘I’m unsure exactly what the plans are for this weekend but I’d like to do something to help.’

  ‘How sweet of you,’ she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. ‘Jude told me to get you settled in first. He has something planned for you when he gets back.’ Joanie turned and glided towards the door before turning to say, ‘Make yourself comfortable. Jude will fetch you soon. I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.’

  After she had closed the door, I stood motionless in the room for a while, looking out of the window. Despite the abysmal wetness and the heavy slate sky, the view was beautiful. It was so unspoiled by anything modern. The people who had lived in the house hundreds of years ago would have gazed over the same scene. It was a nice thought that left me in a daydream until Jude came striding into the room.

  ‘Here she is!’ He marched over and embraced me. I held onto him for a moment longer than was necessary and inhaled his scent. He smelled of the elements and his closeness was soothing.

  ‘I am ridiculously happy to be back,’ I beamed.

  ‘Back where you belong.’ He held my chin in his hand for a moment before letting go and making his way towards the door. I didn’t move.

  ‘Are you coming?’ There was now a significant space between our bodies. I nodded enthusiastically and followed him down the vast old staircase as he whistled a tune.

  ‘Do you like your room?’ He came to such an abrupt stop on a stair that I almost walked into him.

  ‘It’s lovely. Like a princess’s chamber little girls dream of.’

  He seemed pleased by this as he sauntered on down the stairs. I wondered what he had in store for me.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ I asked, sensing a task ahead. He put his finger up to his lips and silently led the way. The mystery that surrounded this man fascinated me.

  We went into the sitting room where Celeste and Charlie stood over a vast pile of ivy, holly, and mistletoe. The girls waited for Jude to speak.

  ‘Get decorating!’ he said and clapped his hands together. Celeste broke into a smile and skipped over to the gramophone where she put on a Miles Davis record. The music soared around the room as we began sorting through the jumble of sprigs.

  ‘Very good,’ Jude murmured to himself as he went through into the dining room, before pausing to say, ‘Meet me in front of the pig shed in an hour, Annabel.’

  I gave him the thumbs up and returned to my sorting.

  We made real progress in decorating the room. Celeste cleverly plaited the ivy together and hung it across the tops of the windows, while Charlie tied the mistletoe to the huge candelabra and twisted it around the tall iron candlesticks placed around the room. I was left to deal with the holly and suggested we decorated the mantelpiece.

  It was nice spending time with the two people I knew the least. Celeste was a gentle, mild mannered girl, probably about my age. She had mousey brown hair and small eyes that peered through round glasses. She was friendly but shy.

  Charlie was a different kettle of fish altogether. She was direct and self-confident. She had short cropped hair, dyed vivid pink. I learnt two things about her that afternoon. Firstly, she was an old friend of Jude’s and one of the first residents of Christie Hall, and she informed me she was bisexual. I didn’t flinch, as I suspected she thought I might. She seemed satisfied by my lack of reaction, and I felt I had passed the test.

  After finishing indoors, I stepped out into the drizzle and pulled my sweater up over my head as I made my way towards the pig shed. A gale was blowing in off the ocean, shaking the naked branches of the trees and threatening to blow me over. By the time I got over to the shed, I was drenched through.

  It wasn’t really a shed. It was a dilapidated barn that made a great home for the pigs. As I walked in, I was hit by the smell; a mixture of dung and something else I couldn’t put my finger on. Jude was sitting on a hay bale, waiting for me. He looked with amusement at my drenched state. A large pig came wandering over, its tail wagging and ears twitching.

  ‘She thinks you’ve come to feed her,’ said Jude looking at the sow with fondness.

  I stroked the end of her hairy snout and her tail wagged faster.

  ‘She’s lovely.’

  ‘She is indeed. She’s a happy old girl. We’ve had lots of litters from her. She’s a wonderful mother. It’s lovely to share one’s existence with the animals. We provide for them and in turn they provide for us. It’s the circle of life.’ His tone grew sombre, ‘I want to show you something.’

  We went through a very rickety door, which squeaked on its rusty hinges, and into a room that appeared to be a sort of store cupboard. The mystery smell was revealed. Lying on a big workbench was the carcass of a pig. Its throat had been cut and fresh blood pooled on the table and floor below. The gaping wound went from ear to ear. I recoiled in horror and stumbled backwards.

  ‘That’s revolting,’ I said, putting my hand over my mouth and coughing. He went over to the carcass and gently stroked the lifeless head.

  ‘I wanted you to appreciate what we are going to feast on. This pig gave its life so that we can eat.’

  ‘I know that.’ I felt patronized.

  ‘No, no, you don’t understand. We are having this pig as an offering. We kill one when someone new joins the group. This pig is an invitation to you. That is why I showed her to you. It is part of the ritual. You are invited to come into our family. There is a place for you here. If you want it, then the Bluebell room is yours. You need not decide now, but I’d like an answer before the weekend is up. In the meantime I have a task for you. Write something about this pig and what he
r death means to you. You can read it at the feast tomorrow.’

  Jude walked over and placed a dark green leather-bound notebook in my hand. ‘Write it in here.’

  I took the book and held it to my heart.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘you must be hungry. There’s vegetable soup for lunch. Go and join the others. I’ll see you in there shortly.’

  The next morning, I woke up feeling fresh and invigorated. It was the best night’s sleep I’d had in some time. Through a gap in the curtains the winter sun shone. I heard voices down the corridor and the cockerel’s morning call outside. I checked the time and saw it was half past eight. I had gone to my room early, the night before, to try to write my poem for the pig. I lay in bed re-reading the words that covered the page. It needed a bit more work, but I thought I was on the right track and I felt proud of myself, something I’d been convinced I’d never feel again. I had Jude and Christie Hall to thank for fixing another part of me.

  I snuggled down under the patchwork quilt and enjoyed the safety of the bed. Moments later there was a knock at the door. I told whoever it was to enter and sat up in bed. Fran came in. She was wearing faded jeans and a big orange woollen sweater. She asked how I’d slept as she drew back the curtains. I felt as if I was at home with my mother. Fran and I hadn’t talked much, but it seemed that she was the designated matriarch, even though Maggie was probably older. It was clear that each of the family had their own place and role to play. Nobody stepped out of line or appeared to question their position. Jude was the top dog, followed by Fran, and then Charlie, Joanie, and Maggie. Wally, Sophie, and Celeste didn’t really seem to have a position. Wally was Jude’s henchman, and although I am describing a hierarchy, it was a free, loving set up.

  Jude was the boss but didn’t use his self-appointed power to be cruel or dictatorial. Rather, he took charge of arranging what needed to be done and who did it. It seemed to make perfect sense, since it was originally his house.