BENEATH THE WATERY MOON a psychological thriller with a stunning twist Page 7

  Fran advised me to get up and have some breakfast before joining the entire group on a long walk around the grounds. Once she had left, I dressed in a hurry and went down to join them for breakfast. Maggie had prepared a large amount of scrambled eggs, and a basket of toast was on the table. We ate, without saying much, enjoying the food.

  After breakfast, we put on our boots and coats and went out into the frosty sunshine. It was the first time I’d seen the group do something together, besides preparing for a social event. It felt good, wandering with them all across the land. On the walk I discovered that Christie Hall had sixty acres. Maggie told me it had once possessed three hundred, but Jude decided to sell the rest off to fund the community who lived in the house. That had been five years ago, and now they were more or less self-sufficient and able to make a steady living off the land that remained.

  Before long we came to a large copse of conifers. Wally started sawing down one of the largest. Its shiny green needles shook with every push of the saw. Bursts of sawdust puffed up into the air and blew into his eyes with the breeze. It wasn’t long before we were told to step back as the tree came crashing down.

  ‘Good job, Wal,’ said Jude, ‘This is going in the dining room.’ We all clapped and each of us took hold of a branch. We carried the tree back to the house, singing festive songs as the frosty grass crunched beneath our boots.

  ‘Who’s going to decorate it?’ I asked anyone who was listening.

  ‘You can, love,’ said Fran. ‘Choose two of the girls to help you.’

  ‘Well if Charlie and Celeste would do it . . . I think we’d make a pretty good team.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ She switched the hand that she was carrying the tree with.

  When we got back to the house, Charlie showed me into a room I hadn’t seen before, while the others fought to secure the tree in an upright position by the long banqueting table. The room was like a cross between a gardener’s shed, an arts and crafts shop, and a classroom. She explained this was where they recycled bits and pieces, made their clothes, did arts and crafts, and fixed things. Charlie told me that they aimed not to waste anything. She showed me a vast number of boxes which contained all kinds of stuff, from foil bottle tops to pebbles and conkers.

  We found a few bits we thought would make good decorations, and got to work. Celeste fetched us some sandwiches, while Charlie and I painted, strung, and glued our odds and ends together.

  At two o’clock we stood back to admire our handiwork. The tree stood proudly dressed in her jewels. Celeste turned some old tins into tea light holders. She pierced holes in them for the flames to shine through. I told her I admired her creativity and she blushed.

  Charlie went to fetch the others for the unveiling of our finished masterpiece. Maggie said it was the loveliest tree she’d ever seen and gave us each a congratulatory hug. Jude, who had a large joint dangling from his mouth, just smiled. He slid his arm around Joanie’s shoulders, playing with her hair between his fingers. I felt a twinge of jealousy rise up.

  Then we went up to our rooms to change and get ready for the guests, who were due to arrive shortly. I’d been told about thirty or so were expected. I brushed my hair and applied some mascara and rouge, before slipping into a long blue dress and a deep purple cardigan. I felt attractive but nervous as I folded up the poem I’d written and slid it into my cardigan pocket, ready for the reading later.

  As I walked down the grand staircase, my stomach knotted and my hands trembled. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe, and my temples began to throb. The room started to spin, and I thought I was going to faint. My brow was sweaty, and I was sure my legs were going to give way. I lurched towards the front door and made it outside onto the driveway, just in time to throw up on the gravel. I spat the remaining vomit out and looked up to discover Jude standing in the doorway behind me. My hands were still shaking.

  ‘Don’t be nervous,’ he said, taking my hand in his. ‘You will do just fine.’

  He removed a lavender Michaelmas daisy from the lapel of his corduroy jacket and tucked it behind my ear. ‘For luck,’ he whispered before planting a small kiss on my cheek. Again my stomach churned but this time in a good way.

  ‘I accept your offer!’ I blurted out. ‘I really want to stay here.’

  I touched the flower in my hair. ‘I have to go home for Christmas. It would kill my mother if I just upped and left. She’d probably think I was losing the plot again and have me sectioned. There are things I need to clear up at home before I move out for good, but I will come back as soon as I can.’

  His mouth curled into a Mona Lisa smile. ‘Whenever you’re ready, we will be here.’ He led me back indoors.

  My nerves were left out in the cold along with the contents of my stomach.

  Pig

  Blood on the clean ground

  Came cutting through

  Sliding towards me

  Leaving the body of you.

  The closer you get

  Red is flooding my way

  And you have gone

  So that we may feast today.

  Chapter 7

  Christmas was just around the corner. I suggested to Mum that we break with tradition and that I prepare the turkey. It would be the first Christmas meal I’d ever cooked. One of the few things I shared with my mother was a love of the season. We always decorated the house together, and this year was no different. I began by hanging a wreath on our front door. I’d made it myself out of ivy and holly gathered in the woods nearby. I completed my creation with a red satin ribbon, weaved in and out, and tied in a large bow. Mum wrapped gold tinsel around the banisters. I cut snowflakes out of paper and taped them to the windows. Then I decorated our fireplace, modest in comparison with the one at Christie Hall, with a green plastic garland and miniature felt stockings. Earlier that day, Mum hung a huge bunch of mistletoe on a hook, put there years before for just that purpose. We then went into the kitchen to make some mince pies.

  Later, we all climbed into Mum’s estate car and made our way to a garden centre on the outskirts of town. The sky was a thick blue-black. Drizzle covered the windscreen as we wiggled along the road out of the village. The lights were blurred and twinkling, Mum and I sang along to Christmas tunes on the radio. We were like small children. Will sat in the back, texting on his phone, pretending not to know the words to the songs. My breath clouded in front of me as I belted out the lyrics. Mum sang and tapped the steering wheel in time to Slade.

  When we arrived at the garden centre, rows upon rows of sparkling fairy lights and large glowing festive decorations greeted us. It seemed everyone else had had the same idea. They filtered in and out of the entrance, some with bulky trees balanced on their shoulders. Children played hide and seek in the forest of cut trees.

  Death of a spruce

  A decorated corpse stands in the corner.

  Rigor mortis branches shelter

  The brightly coloured presents.

  The tree wears its seasonal costume

  Like an old soldier presenting medals.

  Rich green needles fade gradually

  With the passing of each day –

  A slow death for nature’s gift.

  Waiting for the end to come,

  Lights permanently turned off.

  Destiny is predetermined

  Before murdered crackers are binned.

  The final moment arrives.

  Carried out into the eternal frost –

  Not receiving a civilized burial.

  We piled out of the car into the thick cold night and searched for the perfect tree. Will was surprisingly tolerant while we examined each and every specimen, dismissing those that looked shabby or misshapen. Eventually we found the ideal spruce. It stood proud at eight foot high in among the less noble, shorter trees. It cost nearly sixty pounds but perfection was worth the money. I wanted this Christmas to be a good one. Two men struggled to hoist the mighty tree onto the roof of our car and secure it with rope.

&nb
sp; On our way home the mood was quieter. We didn’t play loud music or chat much. Each of us had retreated into ourselves. The tree got me thinking about Christmases past and it seemed to have a similar effect on the others. Reminiscence hung in the air as strongly as the scent of pine. I remembered a time when my family had consisted five members. Determined not to spoil what had been fun, I speculated about the chances of a white Christmas. Will took the bait, but Mum concentrated silently on the road ahead.

  We got home and found two Christmas cards on the doormat. One was for me, the other for Will. Neither had our address or a stamp on them, they had been hand delivered. We recognized the handwriting immediately. They were from our father. Every year since he’d left, he did the same thing, posted our presents through the door. I didn’t have to open it to know there was a cheque inside for two hundred pounds. I threw mine into the bin. Will pocketed his and said he thought Dad owed us. It was the same as always. My mother bit her lip, doing her best to hide her anger. I gave her arm a squeeze. She gave me a little smile of reassurance before retreating into the kitchen.

  The only decent thing my father did since he left us was continue his financial support. Mum hadn’t needed to work, and we’d never gone without. The private education and middle class lifestyle we had grown up with was never threatened. But the three of us didn’t acknowledge his act of decency. The family had been destroyed by Lucy’s death, but his career had blossomed. He used work as a distraction. We lost our family but the house remained ours. It was the very least he could have done.

  Will lugged the tree in and it shed needles all over the floor. Then he scooted upstairs to lose himself in his music. I sat alone, in a pensive mood. The card, with a stupid bloody robin on it, had stirred up the past, and I hated my father for that. Did he really think a measly cheque would make up for not being there? I got up and removed the card from the bin. I went over to the log-burning stove and dropped it in. Then I pulled a lighter out of my pocket and lit it. Flames burst into life, quickly eating away at the card. The bright orange and blue licks of fire curled over it, reducing the money to ash. I watched, hypnotized, until nothing remained and the fire died out. I heard my mother clear her throat and I turned to find her standing in the doorway, watching me.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Not really,’ I replied, ‘But I will be.’

  She pursed her lips and gave a small nod before wiping her hands on her apron and returning to her chores.

  Those who have left

  In the light of my eyes

  There is your reflection.

  Standing by the empty window

  I stare at a hollow horizon;

  Your daughter.

  The card in my hand

  I only have what you left behind.

  You are the sound –

  Listen,

  My heart continues to beat.

  A memory dances over me

  Like flames eating coal

  And I reflect the passing

  In my liquid eyes.

  * * *

  Christmas day came and went. My Aunt Fiona, Uncle Mike and cousins came to stay, as they did every year. It was enjoyable enough. We ate well and managed to have some fun. Uncle Mike drank far too much as usual, and my mother got irritated. No one mentioned any of the elephants in the room: my father, my dead sister, or my detention in a loony bin. All the elements of our lives that made us real to one another were swept under my mother’s perfectly vacuumed rug.

  I tried hard to jolly everyone along and keep it light. It was the least I could do before dropping the bombshell of my move to Christie Hall. The dread of telling my mother was matched only by the excitement I had about the future. In between helping cook, clean, and entertain, I spent time in my room, going through my belongings and deciding what to take with me and what to bin. Everyone was so distracted by Christmas that my behaviour, thankfully, went unnoticed. I concluded it would be best if I upped and left very soon after making the announcement. I didn’t like the idea of giving my mother too much time to think about it. I had decided that I wanted to move into Christie Hall before New Year’s Eve. It seemed fitting to start my new life by welcoming in a new year.

  I went through the contents of my bedroom, taking a tour of my past. I discovered old photo albums and long-forgotten diaries. In a small, dusty box beneath my bed were ticket stubs from cinema dates with my first boyfriend, and a necklace of Lucy’s that I’d been given. I rubbed the silver locket between my fingers and gave it a small kiss before putting it in my pocket. I replaced the rest of the stuff in the box and put it back where I’d found it. I wouldn’t be taking it with me. It was then that Will came into my room.

  ‘Whatcha doing?’ he said moving a pile of clothes off my bed and sitting down.

  ‘Just going through some old things.’

  ‘Your room’s a tip.’

  ‘Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.’ I pretended to take a swipe at his face.

  ‘Do you want a hand?’ he asked.

  ‘Are you feeling alright?’ I joked.

  ‘Just bored as fuck. Uncle Mike is snoring on the sofa, the twins are playing Trivial Pursuit, and Mum and Fiona are drinking Baileys in the kitchen and cackling like a pair of old witches. I need somewhere to hide.’

  I looked at my little brother with great affection and told him he could stay in my room as long as he didn’t mess with my piles.

  ‘Fine,’ he said, ‘but what are you actually doing?’

  I didn’t want to lie to him, so I sat down next to him on the bed and told him the truth.

  ‘I’m moving out,’ I said.

  ‘Where to?’ He sounded bewildered.

  I told him all about my visit to Southwold, the chance meeting with Jude, Christie Hall, and the people who lived there. I explained that I needed a change; something new and somewhere where I could forget about the shit that had followed me around for the last few years. He listened silently, and I could see him wondering if I was having another breakdown.

  Finally, he said, ‘Have you spoken to Mum or your doctor?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. Not yet. I’m going to tell her as soon as everyone’s left. I’m moving out on the thirtieth.’

  ‘Fucking hell, that’s soon.’

  ‘I know but once I’ve made my mind up . . .’ My words trailed off.

  I could see real sadness in his face and I suddenly felt guilty.

  ‘You’ll still see me all the time, you know. I won’t be that far away. You can visit whenever you like. Bring your friends if you want. It’s a cool place, you’ll like it. The people are great. It’s going to be just what I need.’

  ‘Well it sounds like you’ve decided,’ he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Good luck telling Mum. You know the shit is really going to hit the fan.’

  ‘I’d like your support.’

  ‘What for? You’re going. I’ll look after Mum and we’ll be fine. Don’t worry about us. You just fuck off into the sunset. It’s not like we aren’t used to losing people in this family.’ He kicked a pile of my books over.

  ‘Will, for God’s sake!’ I tried not to raise my voice. ‘I need to do this. Don’t you understand? There are too many ghosts here, too many painful memories. I’ll never get well if I stay.’

  ‘Fine! You run away then, just like Dad did.‘

  ‘That’s not fair,’ I said. ‘I’m not abandoning you. For fuck’s sake, I’m not your parent. I can’t stay here forever. I’m twenty-three and I need to stand on my own two feet. If you’d ever visited me in Redwood, you might have an idea why I have to get the hell away from here.’

  Will was about to say something but changed his mind. He let out a loud sigh and left the room. I heard his bedroom door slam shut. I sat down on my bed and cried. I’d been so busy worrying about telling my mother that I hadn’t considered Will. We had always looked out for each other. Now he thought I was deserting him. I
couldn’t leave things the way they were. I needed to clear the air. I wiped my eyes and went and knocked on his door.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  He was sitting in a chair at his desk. His room was unusually quiet. I went over and crouched down on my heels.

  ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry you feel like that. I didn’t mean to be a bitch. I’m not doing this to get away from you. Just try and understand that in order to get better I have to make some changes. You’ll still be my little brother. We’ll still see each other and speak on the phone.’

  His face softened. He put his arm on my shoulder.

  ‘It’s ok, I get it. I don’t deal well with change. Guess I might miss you, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ll miss you too, shit head.’ I put a hand on his knee and squeezed. ‘Oh and by the way, I thought you’d like to know, there are some pretty nice-looking women I’m going to be living with. Play your cards right and I’ll put in a good word.’

  ‘Now you’re talking,’ he laughed. His music came back on as I pulled the door shut behind me.

  * * *

  Sharing my plans with my mother went as I had expected. She thought I had imagined Christie Hall, that it was one of my delusions. I showed her photos on my phone that convinced her otherwise. She didn’t think I was well enough to move out on my own yet. I reminded her I would not be alone; there were eight other people in the house. She voiced concerns about how I would pay the rent. I explained that there was no rent and that my contribution would be helping out on the grounds, cooking, cleaning, and being a part of the group. She thought it was all too rushed. I was leaving too soon. I assured her I could look after myself. She was sceptical but eventually agreed. What other choice did she have?

  I only gave her twenty-four hours warning. After a lengthy discussion, she gave in.

  That was until she made the link between where I was going and the news stories about the murdered women. She came bursting into my room waving the newspaper. She accused me of being mad for wanting to live near a serial killer. She cried and shouted. She believed I was putting myself in danger. I gave her a hug. She was just doing her job as a parent, I understood that. At least one of my folks was looking out for me.