“Go on, then.” He gestures toward the ground. “Take a look.”
We’re standing on an uneven patch of ground covered with dead leaves and flattened grass, earth so rich it is almost black. Tangled deadfall and knotted roots. Around us, tall firs and pines stand like ancient, tongueless sentinels. Andrew’s face is flushed with exertion, lips torn apart in what appears to be a smile.
“What am I meant to be looking at, Andrew?”
The wind blows in then, a silvery, whispering ghost. The leaves scatter, and I take another look at those dark patches of earth in front of me. A fine, spidery sensation creeps up my spine. Someone has dug here. You can see it in the variation of the sunken soil, how fine and dark it is in these patches here, here—and here. Oh God.
My knees unlock and I sink slowly to the ground, barely aware that I am doing it. It’s a graceful movement, fluid and silent. Andrew lets go of the tubing and it slithers out of his hand. I think he can see, for the moment, that I am not going anywhere.
He points. “There’s two here, side by side. They’re some of the oldest. I thought I’d put ’em down deep enough, but the animals came and dug them out, so I had to make ’em deeper. ’Nother one over there. Right by that rock. That’s the markers, see? The rocks.”
Of course, I think, lightheaded with shock. Grave markers. How else would he find them otherwise? The rocks are gray and ordinary, the largest about the size of a basketball. There is no writing on them, no epitaph. Not even the initials of whoever is buried down there. I think of that name scratched into the cellar window.Are you here, Diana?I think.Did he drag you here with a hood over your head and a loop round your neck? Did he show you the place you’d be buried?
“People think you can just put a body in the ground and nature’ll do its thing, but let me tell you, it’s hard work.” Andrew is still talking in his thoughtful, deep monotone. “It’s a lot of heavy lifting. You need a layer of rocks, you need tarp. You need quicklime,and that stuff isn’t something you just mess around with. If you’re handling quicklime, then you need gloves and you need a mask, unless you want to spend the day picking burning boogers out your nose.” He hawks phlegm into his mouth and spits. “I’m not keen to go through all that again, Hazel. You understand? I need you to work with me.”
The damp earth is soaking through the knees of my jeans. There are beetles scurrying across the tilled soil, roots tangled through it like wires. Moss clings to the trunks of the trees.
My voice is quiet, but he hears me just fine. “Who were they?”
“They were women, just like you.”
“And why—” I’m trying to hold my nerve, but it’s sohard. “Why did you kill them?”
“I was trying to save them, Hazel,” he tells me as if it were the simplest thing, as if he is explaining it to a child. “But the devils in their heads had already got a hold of them. In the end, it was a mercy killing. They’d thank me, if they could.”
I stare at the graves. The dark earth bristles with a good crop of inky-black mushrooms.Coprinopsis, I think. I wonder how long these poor women lasted, trapped in the old Bray Farm with the ghosts and Andrew and his big, clumping feet, the way his eyes pass over you like a stone skimmed over a lake, never quite touching the surface. What did he mean bywomen just like you? The phrase nags at me, an answer to a question I can’t quite reach.
Andrew leans back on his heels and looks up at the sky. “We should head back. It looks like it’s going to rain. You don’t want to be sat in that cellar in wet clothes. You’ll catch your death.”
“You know people will be looking for me, don’t you? My parents, my sister. My husband, Joe. He’s expecting to hear from me any minute now.”
He considers me with a level, steady gaze. “Now, come on. You and I both know that isn’t true. It was one of the things I liked best about you, Hazel. You have no one to miss you.”
I stare at him, all my fears compounded. He’s right. But how does he know that about me?How?
15
The downpour starts just as we’re getting back to the farmhouse. Sheets of silvery needles fall from the sky, making the ground soft and treacherous. Despite my protests, Andrew insists I wear the pillowcase over my head as we walk back, and I wonder what it is he is so keen to hide from me. The rain sticks the cotton hood to my skin, turning it into a cold membrane.
It’s cold in the cellar. Damp and cloying. Andrew removes the hood in silence, his face so close to mine that we could lean in and kiss. His teeth are yellowing, but small and evenly spaced except for that gap at the front. He looks weary, and I wonder if he is sick. I hope so. I hope he drops dead right in front of me.
“I’ve put some more food in your bag. If you eat it all at once, you’ll go hungry, so space it out. I’ll empty the bucket before I go. Keep the towel on it or you’ll draw flies. That bedding is anti-ligature, so if you try anything stupid, you’ll just hurt yourself.”
“When will you be back?”
He ignores me. His cold fingers against my neck as he works to free the tubing looped there. My eyes are helplessly drawn back to those desperate scratches on the window—Diana, leaving her mark on the world. I can’t get the image of those graves out of myhead. Dark earth knotted with roots and mycelia, fine as lacework. The gray, anonymous boulders that marked their dirt beds. I try to imagine Diana, a womanjust like me. Short and dark haired with a set, serious face. A small silver stud high in her ear. Etching her name so that she is remembered, so that the next woman down here cansee. Is someone out there missing her? I hope so.
“Weather looks bad these next few days.” He pulls a wool hat over his head. “I brought as many of your clothes as I could carry, so put ’em on if the temperature drops.”
Dark hair clings wetly to the nape of his neck. The twists and curls of it are strange sigils against his pale skin. Andrew nods and walks away, round the corner and out of sight.Thud, thud.His footsteps move slowly, keys jingling. I hear the clunk of the lock, the rattle of a padlock. A bolt sliding. The floorboards creak as he crosses overhead. Then he is gone, and I am alone.
I hope.
Rain patters against the window. The voice of the wind sounds almost tidal. I feel my stiff muscles soften, little by little. I don’t relax, not completely, but I manage to sift through the holdall Andrew has brought, pulling out the thick woolen jumper Joe bought in Cornwall two winters ago. As I unfold it, I notice a stiffness to the fabric, as if something is caught inside. I reach in and find a wire coat hanger tangled in the wool. Andrew must have just grabbed handfuls of stuff from my wardrobe and shoved it into the bag without noticing.
Immediately my mind goes back to the house on Beeker Street, Abigail bent down by the front door, with a bent bobby pin in her hands. I’d been posted as lookout at the end of the path in case someone happened to walk by and see us breaking in. My heart had been running like an engine.
“You nearly done?”