The problem is, it won’t go away, no matter how hard I try to squash it, that memory, her outburst. Mum’s words are there, lodged in my brain, in bold print. A large headline that screams at me. There is already too much going on in my head. I don’t have room for any more. Sleepwalking, family secrets, my philandering, dead husband – they are all more than enough for me to handle. Enough for me to dwell on. Any more will tip me over into a deep well of nothingness and swallow me whole.
After my third cup of coffee, I head out into the garden. It’s overgrown, in dire need of care and attention. Getting in touch with nature may just help me to heal, gluing back together the fractured parts of my life. I have some old gardening tools spread between the garage and the shed. Enough for this job. All I need is some determination and a whole load of energy. It will give me something else to focus on instead of allowing the unthinkable to continue creeping into my thoughts. Keep active, keep busy, that’s the key, the only way to get through this. Even the thought of Gavin coming home isn’t enough to distract me, to lighten the mood that is weighing me down and pushing me closer to the ground.
Mum tried her best to keep things going after Dad died, even employing a gardener, letting him go only when she retired from her job as a dressmaker. Kim and I did what we could to help but with limited time and contact, the garden became tangled and overgrown. Occasionally, Greg and Warren would help out but a plot this size needs a pair of hands on it full time and we were all guilty of letting it slide, our time taken up with work and young families. Kim and Greg with their healthy bank balance, offered to pay for a gardener but Mum was too proud and too stubborn to agree. The jungle I am now faced with is the result of all those things.
I think of Mr Waters’ immaculate cottage garden so close by and feel ashamed. The least I can do is keep this place tidy. I’m not a gardening expert by any stretch of the imagination but I can spruce it up, make it presentable, not leave it as the shambles it currently is.
An hour later and I have pulled away the ivy that had been clinging onto the fence at the bottom of the lawn, and dug out a mountain of weeds. I take the shears and cut at the hedge that runs around the perimeter of the first part of the rectangular lawn. My arms burn, my back aches but I refuse to give up. It takes another hour to even it up and as I take a step back, I feel a certain amount of pride. Already, the whole place is lighter, less oppressive. No towering privets or masses of overgrown foliage blocking out the natural light.
I step through the metal archway to the other end of the garden and heave a sigh. I had forgotten how huge this area is. It goes on and on. It was always too big a space, even for a family of five. Long before Dad died, he split it into two sections, segmenting it with a metal archway and a small hedge with the idea that the rear part would be used to grow vegetables. Like the rest of the garden, once time and finances got the better of us, it became overgrown, Neglected and forgotten. And now nature has done its thing, doing its damnedest to take over completely.
Deciding it is best left to another day, I head back into the main part of the garden, my mind now angled towards clearing the weeds surrounding the shed. Tucked in the corner, the small, wooden structure resembles a decrepit old shack. Gone is the place where Simon and I used to play. Leaning badly to one side, the window covered with grime and foliage wrapped around it as if trying to cover it entirely, it looks close to collapse. I can’t allow that to happen. Too many memories of my early childhood live in that shed to allow it fall apart.
I set to pulling down the many climbing weeds and the dense undergrowth that have surrounded it, taking care to not pull down any of the rotten wooden planks. I want everything to remain as it was. My recollections pre-Simon are locked inside this place. I have to do all I can to preserve it, to keep it intact.
The door opens with a groan. I try to step over the threshold, but something stops me, coming at me unbidden. A shadow of the past, a fleeting thought or notion that I am somehow sullying Simon’s memory. I have no idea what it is but going inside suddenly feels like the wrong thing to do, as if I am trampling over my brother’s soul, walking on hallowed ground. I back out, a silent apology passing my lips.
I stare at the gap between the shed and the fence, a person-sized space that is now a jungle of shrubbery and brambles. Too much work for me. It can wait. Instead, I’ll clear the rest of the exterior. Once the weeds have been pulled, I’ll give the wood a coat of stain, clean the small window. I might even employ a joiner to replace the rotten planks. It will look as good as new once I’m finished.
An hour later, I have cut back the bushes and shrubbery, pulled away and dug up the tangle of brambles and ivy that have taken root. The structure before me transports me back to my childhood days, happier times before everything unspooled and fell apart.
I wish I had been older, my memories of that time sharper, clearer. They are fuzzy, disjointed, the passing of time and immaturity knocking them off kilter. Kim knows more but asking her is futile. She has tucked it away, refusing to bring it back out into the light for closer scrutiny, claiming nothing will be gained from it. Perhaps not for her, but it will allow me some closure on my past. Maybe she is right, and I shouldn’t have bought this place. Maybe I should have allowed it be sold to the highest bidder then stood back and watch them rip the heart and soul out of the place. Strangers who knew nothing of Simon or my father, putting their own stamp on the cottage, obliterating Simon’s existence.
No. Despite the sentiments and fears that swill about inside me, despite the bouts of sleepwalking, I don’t regret moving here. This is my home. It’s where I belong. And soon, Gavin will be here too. With that thought in mind, I finish tidying up and gather up the dead foliage, pushing it into the large wheelie bin next to the old coalhouse. Woodburn Cottage is where I was born and brought up and it is where I shall stay. There is more to keep me here than there is to drive me away.
I can hear them, whoever they are. Their voices are coming from outside the kitchen. I jump from foot to foot, hopping about like I do when me and my friends play leapfrog in the playground. The flagstone floor is cool and hard under my feet, the cold sensation travelling up my legs and into my spine. I shiver, shuffling forward, to find out what’s going on. Because there is something happening. I can just tell. I’m not stupid and I’m not blind. When I woke up, I was standing here in the kitchen in the darkness, my eyes straining to see, my ears tuned in to every little sound. There is nothing happening here in the house. Here, it is silent.
But outside, something is taking place. It’s not too loud. Not enough to wake people who are sleeping, but loud enough for those who are awake to hear it. And now I am awake. I wasn’t a few minutes ago. A few minutes ago, I think I was asleep in my bed but now I am here, yet I don’t remember getting up or even walking downstairs. It’s just blackness in my head, a huge hole where my thoughts should be.
That’s what Kim always says when I tell her that I can’t remember getting up and wandering about at night. She says there is a hole in my memory and not to worry about it. So I won’t. But I am a bit worried about the noises outside. It’s a rustling sound, like somebody creeping through the hedgerows, twigs snapping and leaves crunching. It might be a fox or a wild animal. We get lots of them around here. That’s because we live in a village in the countryside. It’s not a big town or even a city like Sunderland or Middlesbrough or Durham. We’re up on the North York Moors. We have lovely summers where the sun shines endlessly and then bleak winters that bring strong winds that turn the landscape cold and grey. That’s what my mum and dad say anyway. Sometimes, it snows and we get cut off for weeks at a time, but I love it here. I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.
I have a lovely family and lots of friends. Sometimes, my dad is gruff, and he isn’t one for giving out many cuddles but that’s because he works hard and is always tired. My mum is gorgeous. I really love her. She is warm and snuggly and perfect. My older sister goes out sometimes and wears make-up and high heels and my brother Simon is one of my best friends.
I hear a whisper. Not a wild animal outside, then. It’s a person. Or people. One person wouldn’t talk to themselves, would they? Fear creeps under my skin. It feels like a snake slithering around my body, coiling itself into a knot, getting tighter and tighter in my tummy and chest. I feel as if I can’t breathe. I should go back to bed, hide under the covers and wait until it all goes away. Except I don’t. Instead, I open the kitchen door and step outside, my toes curling against the dampness underfoot.
The sound is louder out here, coming from the corner of the garden. Is it somebody crying? My knees shake, trembling and knocking together. It’s cold. I’m frightened but I need to know what is going on.
As quietly as I can, I edge forwards, part of me wondering if I’m actually awake or still asleep. How would I know the difference? Dreams often seem very real. Too real. Mine are sometimes terrifying and sometimes really nice. I often wake up confused, wondering if they are true, if what I dreamed actually happened. Like the time I dreamt we were all going on holiday abroad, that we were going in an aeroplane like my friend Tamsin. I woke up convinced it was real and when I realised it was just a cruel dream, I began to cry. We didn’t have a holiday that year, or the year after. We went to Whitby for the day, shivered against the cold breeze and then went home and that was that.
I keep on walking. Not a walk as such, more of a tiptoe. There is a crunching sound in my ears, like soldiers marching on gravel. I think it’s the sound of my own blood as it rushes through my body really quickly because I’m frightened.
I stop. What am I frightened of? Maybe it’s a burglar. I should really head back inside. This is dangerous. My mum would be so angry and upset if she knew I was out here on my own in the middle of the night. But then I hear it again. That sound. Somebody moving. Somebody crying. A quiet sob. So quiet, I can hardly hear it at all. Why are they crying? It’s so low and soft and muffled I strain to hear it, but it’s definitely there.
Without thinking, I continue walking, my feet taking me forwards when my brain is screaming at me to turn around and go back inside. It’s like I have no control over my own body. It’s instinct. I know what it means, have heard Kim talking about it before. She said that she always knows when something is wrong. It’s her instinct that tells her, like a voice inside your head directing you to do the right thing, she once said to me. This is my instinct forcing me on. Something is happening out here. Something is wrong. I can just feel it and I want to know what it is.
I’m getting closer and closer. Almost there, to the place where I can hear the crying. I stop walking, the air in my throat thick, trapped in place. I feel as if I have swallowed a pebble and it’s lodged there, stopping any air from getting in.
If I squint, I can see somebody, an outline of a figure. They have spotted me and have begun walking my way, getting nearer to where I am standing. I suck in my breath to try to stop the scream from coming out. Above, the clouds shift across the night sky, lighting up a small piece of the garden, allowing me to see who it is that is out here, their figure like a piece of silver, highlighted by the crescent moon. I can see them. I know who it is. But why are they crying?
20
My eyes snap open. I’m standing in the garden. Last night, I slid the bolts across on both doors, hid the keys and yet here I am, outside once again: cold, scared, shocked and bemused by the thoughts churning around inside my head, the images that present more questions than answers. Who was it that I saw that night all those years ago? Because I did see somebody. I know that now.
It’s starting to come back to me, the memory of it, ebbing and flowing in and out of my mind like the drag of the tide, leaving pieces of debris behind for me to sift through. Not enough to immediately understand. Just enough to keep me wondering, keep me guessing as to what took place out here in the silence and the darkness with only the stars for company.
Was it Simon that I saw? I don’t think so. I don’t know how I know that, but my gut tells me it wasn’t him. So who was it? It wasn’t a dangerous criminal. I’m still here. I lived to tell the tale. Had I caught somebody doing something illegal, I’m almost certain they would have turned on me, done something heinous. Something unforgettable, possibly final. Yet they didn’t. So, what did happen that night and was it connected to Simon’s disappearance?
I bring my closed fists up to my temple, press hard, trying to manipulate the memories back into place, to fill the gaping hole in my brain where my childhood recollections should be. They are coming back, slowly. Sluggishly. Snapshots slowly filtering into my brain, fragments of thoughts falling through the sieve, but it’s all so laborious, so painfully disconnected and listless. I don’t know if I will ever piece it all together and the thought of possibly never knowing is driving me insane.
I am so damn weary, my body robbed of normal sleep, the sort of sleep other people take for granted, lying in the same position for hours at a time while their bodies become replenished and restored, their immune systems reset, ready for the following day. I am atilt, everything crooked and out of focus because of this sleepwalking palaver. I want it to stop. It needs to stop. I just don’t know how that is ever going to happen. And if it does stop unexpectedly, will I ever remember what comes next? Do I really want to know what comes next? Maybe I will be better off staying in the dark. I have a horrible feeling that when or if everything does finally come together, I’ll wish that I’d remained in blissful ignorance.
An owl hoots in the distance, its call a lonely reminder of where I am and how I got here. It echoes through the air, the sound, travelling across the darkness, searching for a mate. If I stay out here long enough, it will be replaced by the cooing of the wood pigeons, a comforting sound, reminding me of early spring mornings, summer slowly edging in.
I think back to those heady, halcyon days as a teenager and my early twenty-something years when I could forget everything, was able to bask in the sunshine and the warmth from dawn to dusk, doing little and thinking only of myself and my happiness. Occasionally, it would all come rolling back, Simon’s disappearance, Dad’s untimely death, but then I met Warren, bought a house, got married, had a family of my own and soon enough, my time was taken up with their wants and needs. Simon’s disappearance took a backseat. I have a lot of lost time to make up for.
The next few weeks pass by in a blur of painting the spare room in anticipation of Gavin’s arrival, writing, my usual meet-ups with Kim where we talk about the bland and not the blatantly obvious, and finishing the tidy-up in the garden. I stain the exterior of the shed and by the time I hear Gavin’s voice over the phone telling me they will be arriving at the end of the week, I am too exhausted to think straight. I have sleepwalked as per but managed to remain inside the house and for that I am grateful.
My call to Sergeant Duffield just to touch base, to remind her that I’m still here, awaiting any more news of Simon’s case, was amiable enough. I didn’t want to push it too hard, paint myself in an unfavourable light, but I needed to hear something, even if that something was nothing at all. These things take time. I know that and I don’t want to be viewed as a nuisance, somebody who is asking too much, but it had been weeks since we had spoken and I felt it was time to reconnect. A nudge to remind her I’m still here. Still here and still waiting.
It’s a cold case. No new evidence. That’s what she said. Unless something new crops up then the chances of getting it reopened are slim to non-existent.
‘What about the other boy who disappeared last year?’ I held my breath, prayed for a parallel to Simon’s case to be mentioned, something that links them together no matter how tenuous.
‘Mrs Cooper. Grace. I looked into that case and I can assure there is no connection whatsoever.’
