Black thorn, p.10
Black Thorn, page 10
At the back of the house, Christie was fitting the key into the lock. His fingerprints were all over the door frames here, and inside the homes he’d ransacked. A foam dart, a faux diamond – what would the police call that? Petty larceny? If they were lucky.
Odie was scrabbling at the flower beds, soil pattering behind him.
Agnes looped the lead more firmly about her hand. ‘Come on, boy.’ She followed Christie into Redthorn’s kitchen.
This had been Trevor’s place while he was working on-site. Mostly he slept in his campervan, a few miles away. He hated to be tied down, that’s what he said when Dad was selling the houses, ‘Lucky for you, I’m in a minority.’ He’d left empty beer bottles in Redthorn’s sink, a big bag of salted peanuts on the counter. Christie stole a handful of the nuts, tossing them into his mouth.
A single trip, she’d thought eight days ago, to satisfy his curiosity. A salve for his sadness. He was grieving, for those who’d died but also for his home and family. She didn’t know what it would do to Ruth to lose him too. She only knew that in some strange way, Blackthorn Ashes was keeping her brother alive. She followed him through the house, sidestepping the toolkit in the hallway, next to steel-capped work boots. Odie stayed at her heels, tail down, flank pressed against her calf. A shiver passed through him into her. He felt the same way she did, being here. An empty house has echoes. Sometimes it vibrates, as if the family has stepped out for a while and will be back soon. Redthorn had no echoes, nothing to hint at life going on elsewhere.
Christie had left via the front door. She led Odie out the same way, searching for the red of her brother’s backpack against the white of the houses. There. To the south, where Blackthorn stood. He was going home? He never did that. All the other houses were fair game, he said, but not theirs.
‘Come on, boy.’ She let the lead go long but Odie stayed at her side.
Blackthorn Ashes bristled in the sunshine, its windows pale, its roofs dark. She could smell bitumen and rubber but all the cars were gone. Outside Silverthorn, a trailer sat uncoupled, nose bar resting on the tarmac, tarpaulin roped around the husk of an abandoned dinghy. Perhaps Luke couldn’t imagine sailing it again without Emma. Agnes tried not to see the other pictures. Felix on tiptoe, sneaking a peek under the tarpaulin, risking Luke’s wrath until Janis, carrying baby Sasha in her arms, warned him to get back inside the house. Emma standing on Silverthorn’s doorstep in her dressing gown, eyes narrowed against the sun. Tim and Val grey-faced with exhaustion, excusing themselves from the street party. ‘We’re a bit under the weather right now.’
Odie had spied Christie going into Blackthorn. He pulled at the lead, looking up at her. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Come on.’
She didn’t want to be in their old house, had no idea what Christie’s mood would be. In the other houses, he was flushed with the hunt, rummaging for his treasure. Could Agnes make her mother understand that somewhere in the half-emptied sock drawers and on the doors of fridges was what he needed to survive this catastrophe? They all needed something. For Ruth it was work, to pay the bills and keep them fed, but also for herself. So she could leave some of the shame behind and move forward. For Dad it was silence, a place to lie and lick his wounds. For Agnes it was Errol, waiting at the end of each day to make her smile.
Christie had disappeared up the side of the house into the garden. From there he’d open the back door with the key from Dad’s keyring. Ruth had the keys to the front door.
Agnes picked up the pace, letting Odie run ahead of her. By the time they reached Blackthorn’s front door, Christie was inside, holding the door open.
‘He can come in.’ He nodded at Odie. ‘Our house, our rules.’
He was master of the house now. Master of all the houses, their keys jangling in his pocket. He didn’t have to follow Ruth’s rules or anyone else’s. He reached for the lead, crouching to unclip it from Odie’s collar. ‘There you go, boy. All yours.’
Odie stood for a second on the threshold. Then he did an abrupt U-turn, diving between Agnes’s feet and dashing up the curve of road in the direction they’d just come.
‘Shit . . . Odie!’ Her brother slapped the door frame. ‘Come here!’
The dog barked once before disappearing from sight.
‘We’ll have to go and get him. He might go into a field. If a farmer sees him—’
‘Leave him.’ Christie tossed her the lead. ‘He’ll come when he gets hungry.’ It was a phrase he’d heard Barry Mason use about Felix.
‘Bette trusts us to keep him safe!’
‘It’s your fault.’ He threw the accusation over his shoulder. ‘You were supposed to stay with him. Why’d you follow me, anyway?’
‘Mum trusts me to keep you safe.’
‘Sure.’ He laughed. ‘Whatever.’
Then he was gone, too deep inside the house for her to hear whatever else he was saying, perhaps that Mum might as well have put the dog in charge.
Agnes stayed outside, scanning the estate for Odie. The lead was heavy, hanging from her wrist. She’d walk in the direction Odie ran, keeping the house in her sightline in case Christie got into trouble. Odie was scared. Christie’s fear was different; being here made it better, not worse. She crossed to where Luke’s dinghy sat, its tarpaulin puddled with leaves like the pool in Maythorn’s garden. A breeze lifted one edge of the tarpaulin, showing a flash of pink underneath. She’d forgotten the dinghy was pink. Shielding her eyes, she scanned the street. The back of her neck chilled and she turned, seeing her brother’s silhouette at the window of the front bedroom. Their parents’ room. What was he doing in there? Dad didn’t keep much in the bedroom, only clothes. Mum worked there, though, it was her room. Agnes watched Christie’s shadow, telling herself Ruth would have taken anything private and shredded it, she was too smart to leave her secrets lying around. Christie could look all he wanted, there would be nothing to find.
She tapped the lead against her leg, looking for Odie. Afraid to call him, not wanting the sound of her voice thrown back at her. Christie felt powerful here but she felt the opposite, exposed and ineffectual. Every window was an eye, watching. She squeezed her fingers into fists, focusing on breathing until her pulse slowed. Then she shook her fingers loose, relaxing her shoulders. There was nothing and no one here. Not even Trevor today.
Soon it would be time to go back. Her brother would be calm and happy. He’d walk ahead of her while she tried to guess what was inside his backpack. He might talk to her, more than just, ‘Come on.’ The only time he ever talked to her properly was after a visit to Blackthorn Ashes.
She moved away from the house, tapping the lead against her leg again. ‘Odie?’
She passed Maythorn and Hawthorn, thinking of breakfasts and bedtimes, children lolling on beanbags. Dad grilling sausages for the street party, Mum unloading shopping into the fridge. An arch of blue and white balloons. All gone, wiped out by police tape and foil shock blankets, sirens and clouded oxygen masks. No one had happy memories of Blackthorn Ashes. Perhaps that’s what Christie was doing here, paying homage to the happy memories, trying to retrieve something of those lazy summer afternoons when barbecues sizzled and kids splashed in pools while their parents stood in open doorways stunned by sunshine and their own good fortune.
‘I thought you didn’t have a dog?’
A woman stood outside Quickthorn, the sun hiding her face. Odie lay in her arms, unmoving. For one horrible second, Agnes thought he was dead; his fur looked dull and his eye was a flat black disc, unblinking. Then the woman tickled him under his chin and he stirred, lifting his head to lick at her arm. Not dead or hurt, just content in her arms.
‘I found him down by the building site.’ Her voice was familiar. ‘He’s yours, right?’ She came closer, laughing when Odie licked her chin. ‘He’s too cute.’
When she stepped out of the sun, Agnes recognized her. Iris with the bloodstained hands, from the street party.
‘He’s not mine . . .’ She took Odie, setting him down, clipping the lead to his collar. She straightened to see Iris watching her.
‘You don’t remember me.’ She held out a hand. Her fingernails were painted dark blue, no blood on her hands today. ‘I’m Iris. We met at the barbecue.’
‘Of course I remember you.’ She didn’t shake the hand, keeping herself busy with Odie so she wouldn’t look rude. ‘Thanks for finding him. We were walking the cliff path and he ran off through one of the hedges.’ She crouched to pet Odie’s ears.
‘It’s kind of spooky, right? So different to the last time we were here . . .’
Agnes kept her head down, aware of a sharpness in Iris’s voice, curiosity or superstition. At the street party, she’d felt attraction but this was like a cliff edge. She thought: If Christie comes out of the house, if he uses the front door to come out of the house . . . When she straightened, Iris slid her eyes away as if she’d been staring but didn’t want to be caught. What was she doing here? Dust dulled her ankle boots. She wore the snakeskin leggings, a close-fitting vest showing off her strong brown shoulders. The same sunglasses pushed up in an Alice band. A child-sized quilted backpack, neon green, sat snug between her shoulder blades.
‘Don’t you think?’ She tipped the sunglasses into place, their bottle-brown lenses hiding her eyes. ‘Spooky.’
‘I hadn’t thought about it . . .’ Agnes looked about her vaguely as if seeing Blackthorn Ashes for the first time. As if she’d never lived here, or left, or come back.
‘It must’ve been awful for you.’ Iris came closer, putting out a hand for Odie to lick. ‘Terrible.’
Was she a ghoul? Ruth said lots of people were ghoulish. After the story broke and the estate was evacuated, some of those people came to see for themselves, in groups or alone. But even ghouls got bored; she and Christie hadn’t seen anyone here in a long time. Only Trevor. She didn’t want to think Iris might be a ghoul. Whatever she was, Agnes should get her away before Christie came out of the house. ‘I’d better take him home.’
‘He’s Errol’s dog, right? He said he had a dog. Oh, you’re a good boy!’ Odie had his front paws on her shins, fretting up at her. She laughed, reaching to rub behind his ears.
Dogs had good instincts. Odie had been afraid to go into their old house, his tail down as soon as he saw Blackthorn Ashes. But he’d found a friend in Iris.
‘He’s Bette’s dog, really . . .’
The crunch of gravel made them turn. Christie, coming up the path at the side of Blackthorn, stopped short when he saw Iris.
Agnes said loudly, ‘We found him!’ as if Christie had been searching for Odie. She was close enough to feel Iris tense, her interest piqued. ‘My brother. You nearly met him, at the barbecue.’
Christie, acting on her cue, jogged towards them. ‘Odie, you bugger, where were you?’
‘I’m Iris.’ She wiped her hand on her leggings before holding it out. ‘Edison.’ When Christie looked blank, she added, ‘Lightbulb moment?’ Turning the bid at a handshake into jazz hands.
Agnes thought of the street party, the ease with which Iris made herself part of that gathering. Joking with Errol. Flirting with her? She was deploying the same skill now, navigating Christie and Odie, and the whole of this deserted place where disaster struck. Something wasn’t right, something didn’t click. Agnes told herself to be very, very careful around Iris Edison.
‘Hi.’ Christie dropped to his knees to fuss at Odie, and to avoid Iris’s scrutiny, his instincts matching Agnes’s for once.
‘How’s your dad?’ Iris asked. ‘And your mum? Are they okay?’
Agnes’s heart rate slowed to a crawl.
Christie was frozen at her feet, his hands buried in Odie’s fur, his head tucked into his chest.
‘It must be weird being back.’ Iris fine-tuned her smile to suit the stress in the air. ‘But I get why you’d want to. I mean, look at it. It looks so . . . normal.’
Agnes was able to meet her gaze because her brain hadn’t processed the threat, not fully, not yet. This moment would catch up with her tomorrow or the next day. The danger she and Christie had been in as they stood here with Iris, seeing the sky reflected in her sunglasses.
‘We need to get back.’ Christie took Odie’s lead from her slack hand. ‘This isn’t our dog.’
‘He’s Bette’s, I know.’ Iris pushed the sunglasses back up into her hair. ‘How’s Errol?’
Everything she said was a question, Agnes realized, of one kind or another. She’d asked a lot of questions at the street party too. About pets and people and could she use their bathroom and didn’t they get lonely and how did Luke break his foot? She had more questions now. Agnes could guess at some of them. What does your dad think about what happened here? Who’s to blame? How well did you know the people who died, the children and the others?
Christie didn’t like it any more than she did. ‘We’re allowed to come here.’ He squared his jaw at Iris. ‘What’s your excuse?’
‘I don’t think you are,’ she said smoothly. ‘Allowed to come. No one is. I’m trespassing but I do that a lot. For a living, in fact. You two on the other hand . . .’ She shrugged, smiling.
For a living. She wasn’t a delivery driver, or not only that. What was she?
‘We’ve special permission to get essential items from our home.’ Christie was sweating, Agnes could smell it. The back of his neck was spotted with damp. ‘Actually.’
‘So you have a key?’ Her face lit as if he’d shone a torch under her chin. ‘To your house?’
‘It’s none of your business.’ He looped the lead around his wrist. ‘Come on, Odie.’
‘You’re very quiet.’ Iris looked at Agnes. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine. But he’s right. We need to get back. It was nice to meet you again.’
Or for the first time, because you were lying before. Hiding in plain sight like these houses that killed six people.
‘I’m a reporter.’
‘We guessed.’
A flicker of surprise, the first Iris had betrayed. ‘Clever you.’
Agnes kept the smile in place until their backs were turned. She and Christie walked away side by side, Odie going ahead, his lead unreeling with a shush.
‘I’d like to talk to you!’ Iris called after them. ‘I can pay cash!’
‘Bitch,’ Christie said under his breath.
‘It’s okay.’ The tarmac was rubbery, a shock absorber under her feet. ‘Let’s get back, like you said.’
To Indigo Park, to Bette and Errol, and their parents.
‘Did she see me in the house?’ Christie demanded.
‘She didn’t see anything.’
‘If Mum finds out we talked to a reporter . . .’ He was thrumming with stress.
‘We didn’t. We talked to a stranger. As soon as she told us she was a reporter, we shut up.’
He squinted at her. ‘How’re you not freaking out?’
‘You know me. I’ll be a mess tomorrow . . . Odie liked her.’
‘He’s a little shitbag.’ But Christie sounded less panicked.
It was better now they were walking away, leaving Iris behind. They couldn’t cut through the hedge, in case she was watching. She wasn’t following which seemed odd, unless she was trained not to pursue. Or unless she knew they’d be back. Had she guessed they couldn’t stay away? Seen them here before? It would explain the skin-pricking sensation Agnes so often had, that sense of being watched. She could picture Iris staying out of sight, spying on them as they went from house to house. What did she want, really? Any reporter would be interested in the nightmare story of Blackthorn Ashes. But Iris was here before the real nightmare began. At the barbecue, asking about pets and housekeepers and Luke . . .
Agnes felt a tick of true panic in her chest.
Behind her, the houses bristled like a forest, a place of thorns and danger. Iris was alone there, standing with her sharp eyes, waiting for their return.
A solitary car was parked in the space outside the main entrance. Nondescript silver, new enough to be a hire car. Empty coffee cup on the dashboard, satnav suctioned to the windscreen, yellow rain jacket on the backseat next to an overnight bag; Iris wasn’t going away. A mountain bike was strapped to the rear bumper. Agnes could picture her cycling, ponytail horizontal, ankle boots on the pedals; she had that outdoor colour, the strength which’d first attracted her at the street party. How long had she been watching them? When Trevor stopped her outside Whitethorn, was Iris watching then? Agnes hadn’t seen a phone but of course Iris had one, tucked into her quilted backpack. A phone with pictures of Agnes on it, Agnes and Trevor. A recording – had she got close enough for that? Laura’s voice told her to keep it together, ‘Stay in the moment. Don’t spiral.’ Agnes had spiralled in London. If she spiralled here, her family would pay for it.
‘D’you think she knows?’ Christie was staring at the hire car.
Agnes was thirsty suddenly. So thirsty she couldn’t answer, tasting dust and smoke, ashes.
‘Do you?’ Christie tugged on the lead, pulling Odie away from the tyres. ‘Think she knows we keep coming here?’
‘I’m not sure.’ She knows. ‘But she was trespassing too, remember?’
‘She’s a ghoul.’ Using Ruth’s word.
‘It’s her job . . . Forget her. Come on. I’ll manage Odie, you go ahead.’
She wanted him to run off steam. The backpack was slack against his spine but there was something new inside. Thin and square. A book, or papers of some kind.
‘You were weird with her.’ He gave her a sideways look through his fringe. ‘Like you knew her or something. You’re not like that with strangers usually.’
Tim and Val, he meant. Luke and Emma. Often Agnes would blank strangers, even people she’d met, struggling to place them out of context. Perhaps she’d blank Iris the next time they saw one another. No, Iris was too vivid. Not someone you could forget.
