Black valley farm, p.10
Black Valley Farm, page 10
But he didn’t come up here. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching me while I clawed my way up the three flights. Once I was inside my room, I shut the door and fell straight asleep. Which means he came up after that.
The thought makes my skin go cold. I look down at my body, relieved to see I’m still fully dressed. Jeans, jumper, even my handbag wrapped around my shoulder. When I check the time, it’s eleven thirty. I have no idea what time I got home, or how long I’ve been asleep.
I stand up, slowly because the room starts to spin, and cross to the chest of drawers. I open the bottom drawer where I keep the pretty clothes I’ve managed to collect over the years. I never wear these clothes outside my room, but I like having them. This is also the drawer where I keep my money. One hundred and eighty-five pounds saved up since I moved in with Kath.
It’s obvious right away that someone has been looking through this drawer. I make sure the clothes are always neatly folded and in order – tops on the left, skirts and trousers in the middle, scarves and hats on the right. Tonight, they’re all jumbled up in a big mess.
I dig beneath the mess, breathing a sigh of relief when my fingers touch the envelope at the bottom. And when I check inside it, the newspaper clippings and the necklace are there too. But if Arnie’s been looking through this drawer, which I’m sure he has been, he couldn’t have missed the envelope. I keep my money in there too and I count it quickly, checking it’s all there, even though I know that’s not what Arnie was looking for.
I start to tidy my clothes back into their neatly ordered piles. As I think of Arnie’s fat fingers messing through my stuff, I can feel the fury fizzing up inside me. I hope he’s still here, so I can ask him what the hell he was doing coming into my room and looking through my things.
When everything is back the way I like it, I open the bedroom door and hear their voices downstairs. Arnie and Kath. I picture the two of them, huddled together in the kitchen, drinking red wine and talking about me.
I run down the stairs, almost falling over in my rush to get to the kitchen and confront him. The stink of his cologne is worse down here and I wonder how Kath can bear it. If love is blind, it’s not just her eyes that have a problem. It’s her nose too.
‘Clare.’ Kath jumps up as I push open the door and walks over to me.
She puts her arms out, like she’s about to give me a hug. But she must see something in my face, because her arms drop back down again without touching me.
‘I’m so glad you’re okay,’ she says. ‘Arnie told me what happened, but neither of us can understand why you got into that state in the first place. Do you want to talk about it?’
He’s watching me, but he doesn’t say a word. The anger fizzes and spits inside me.
‘You were in my room,’ I say, staring right back at him. ‘What were you doing there?’
‘I was checking you hadn’t choked on your own puke.’
‘Bullshit.’ I step past Kath, my hands curling into fists. ‘You were looking through my things. And before that, earlier this evening, why were you there outside the pub when I came out? Were you following me, Arnie?’
‘Clare!’ Kath’s voice is sharp and angry.
‘It’s okay,’ Arnie says. ‘Clare’s had a bad experience this evening. It’s no wonder she’s feeling a bit confused.’
‘I’m not confused,’ I shout. ‘Tell me who you are and why you’re here. What do you want from me? Who are you and why are you so interested in me?’
‘That’s enough,’ Kath says. ‘Arnie did you a huge favour tonight, Clare. You were damn lucky he turned up when he did or God only knows what might have happened to you. I’m very grateful to him, and you should be too. Arnie is my friend and I won’t allow you to speak to him like this when he’s done absolutely nothing wrong.’
I barely hear her. All my attention is focused on Arnie and the way he’s looking at me, like I’m a stupid little girl he can do whatever he wants to.
‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ I ask him.
He drains his glass and stands up.
‘I should probably leave,’ he says to Kath. ‘It’s late and Clare clearly doesn’t want me here.’
‘It’s my house, not Clare’s.’ She looks from him to me. ‘Go back to bed, Clare. I’ve had a long day and I don’t want to have to deal with you right now. We’ll talk tomorrow.’
She starts to turn away from me, but I reach out and grab her shoulder.
‘Don’t you dare touch me.’ She swings back to look at me, her face cold and angry. ‘Get out, Clare. Go and sleep off your hangover. If you stay here a moment longer, I can’t guarantee things won’t end very badly for you.’
I want to grab her again and shake her until she listens to me. Make her see that I’m not the person she should be angry with. It’s Arnie. But I know there’s no point. She’s already crossed the kitchen and is sitting down beside him, her head turned away from me like she can’t bear to look at me.
The last thing I see, before I step out of the kitchen and close the door, is Arnie wrapping his arm around Kath’s shoulders and whispering something I can’t hear.
Chapter 22
Alan Wilson is a legend in the world of investigative journalism. He’s an old-school hack, with a dogged reputation. Over the last few years, his career has taken something of a nosedive. He’s fallen out with the new proprietor of the broadsheet newspaper that had been his primary employer for the last twenty-plus years. Since then, he’s apparently struggled to find regular work. With one exception, Nuala hasn’t seen a decent piece by Alan Wilson in recent years. That exception is why she’s here this evening, sitting across a table in a not very pleasant London pub with Wilson, instead of being at home with Josh.
‘You’re the only journalist I can find who’s writing about the Progress Party,’ she tells Alan. ‘Why is that? Andrea Leach makes for a great story. She’s charismatic, she’s attractive, and she’s leading a political party that doesn’t believe in the concept of feminism. The piece you wrote about her is excellent but, from what I can see, you’re a lone voice. Why do you think no one else is interested in her?’
Alan lifts his pint of Guinness and takes a deep drink before replying.
‘Three reasons. One: Roger Constantin’s an influential man. He’s put a lot of work into making sure nobody’s going to write negative pieces about his beloved Andrea. Two: for now, the so-called “party” is a small-scale affair. They haven’t registered with the Electoral Commission, which means they’re not able to stand in elections yet.’
‘But they’re planning to register next year,’ Nuala says. ‘As soon as that happens, surely they’ll come under more scrutiny?’
‘Definitely. Although that won’t change the third reason why no one’s interested in them at the moment, and that’s Andrea herself.’
‘What do you mean?’
While she waits as Alan drinks more Guinness, Nuala takes a sip of her wine and tries not to wince. She should have known the wine in a place like this wouldn’t be up to much. It was Alan who suggested they meet here; a tatty pub on the ground floor of a concrete block of council flats behind King’s Cross station. The sort of place Nuala normally wouldn’t be seen dead in. Although it’s clear from the way the barman greeted Alan earlier that he’s something of a regular. In fact, Alan has the unhealthy aura of a man who spends too many hours a day drinking pints of Guinness in places like this.
‘Most of my colleagues think there’s absolutely nothing interesting about the woman,’ Alan says.
‘Well that’s bullshit.’ Nuala thinks of the moment in the community hall, the way all those people in the room seemed to adore Andrea as she stood before them. Remembering that now, Nuala suddenly feels scared.
‘What about you?’ she asks, when Alan doesn’t speak. ‘What do you think of her?’
Again, she has to wait for his answer until he’s had a drink. When he’s finished, the glass is empty.
‘Let me order another one of these first,’ he says.
‘That’s okay,’ Nuala says, as Alan makes a half-hearted attempt to heave himself out of his chair. ‘I’ll go. You stay there.’
Unsurprisingly, Alan doesn’t protest. Instead, handing Nuala his empty glass, he says she might as well order some crisps at the same time.
‘Cheese and onion, mind. I can’t stand salt and vinegar. And you’d better make it two packs. I skipped lunch today and I’m bloody starving.’
Nuala refrains from saying that with a stomach as big as his, skipping lunch is no bad thing. She takes the glass and hurries to the bar, keen to get back to hear what else Alan’s got to say.
As an Irish person living in London, Nuala knows it’s almost impossible to find a pub that can serve a decent pint of Guinness. It turns out this dump is the exception, and she has to wait for what feels like forever for the pint to settle before the barman tops it up and finally hands it over.
‘Look at that,’ Alan says, as Nuala returns with the fresh pint. ‘Liquid of the gods. Martin there, the guy behind the bar, is second-generation Irish. His dad used to run this place and Martin’s been pulling pints of Guinness since he was a kid.’
‘You were about to tell me what you think of Andrea,’ Nuala reminds him.
‘I think she’s a fraud.’
‘How so?’
Alan frowns. ‘I’m not sure. Haven’t worked it out yet. There’s something off about her. You sense it too, don’t you? It’s why you wanted to see me.’
He’s right. The more time Nuala has spent with Andrea, the more convinced she’s become that Andrea is hiding something.
‘I took this job,’ she says, ‘because I needed the money. I wouldn’t have gone near it otherwise. Everything about the Progress Party is abhorrent, in my opinion. They’re a bunch of racists and homophobes, and when I first met Andrea I expected to hate her.’
‘But you didn’t?’
Nuala shakes her head, remembering that first meeting in the hotel bar.
‘She charmed the shit out of me. And I’m someone who finds ninety per cent of people annoying as hell. But there was something about her that had me acting like a lovesick teenager. I found myself really wanting her to like me.’
‘It’s how people like her work,’ Alan says. ‘They use their charisma to get people to do what they want.’
‘When you say “people like her”, what do you mean exactly?’
‘I’ve spent the last year investigating Andrea Leach,’ Alan says. ‘I’ve seen her giving speeches, so I’ve witnessed her charisma first hand. I’m pretty sure she’s got some sort of personality disorder. She’s a sociopath or a narcissist, maybe. Or some combination of both. Who knows?’
‘She’s a politician,’ Nuala points out. ‘Aren’t most of them sociopaths or narcissists?’
‘True,’ Alan says. ‘But you know what makes Andrea different? Becoming leader of the Progress Party seems to be the single most interesting thing she’s done. You know her better than I do, Nuala. Do you really believe a woman like that has led such an utterly uneventful life until now?’
‘It hasn’t been entirely uneventful,’ Nuala says.
‘Come on,’ Alan says. ‘Her parents died when she was still a teenager, and she left Australia to go travelling. She’s lived abroad ever since. Before she met Roger she was living a hermit-like existence in Santorini. She doesn’t appear to have had any previous relationships, or done anything significant. Do you really believe a woman like that was single her entire life until she met Constantin?
‘I went to Santorini a few months ago, you know. Spoke to some of her neighbours. None of them had anything to say about her – good or bad. She kept to herself, apparently. Why do you think that was, Nuala?’
‘She was hiding from something,’ Nuala says. ‘Or someone. An abusive ex-partner, maybe.’
She thinks of the man who showed up at the community centre that day. The man Andrea claimed she’d never met before, even though Nuala’s certain that’s a lie. Is he the person Andrea’s hiding from? He seems too young to be an ex-partner but it’s not beyond the realms of possibility. A woman as attractive as Andrea would surely have her choice of men, young and old.
‘It’s possible,’ Alan says, ‘but I don’t think that’s it.’
‘What do you think, then?’ Nuala asks.
Alan drinks some Guinness, shrugs.
‘I don’t know, Nuala. But if I was to bet on it, I’d say it’s linked to this documentary she’s got you working on.’
‘I’m not sure I understand,’ Nuala says.
‘She’s told you she wants you to make a warts and all documentary, right? Well we both know that’s bullshit. Andrea Leach is a politician, and there’s not a politician out there who would pay a journalist to dig into every aspect of their private life.’
He’s right, of course. It’s exactly what Nuala had thought the first time she met Andrea.
‘You think I should quit?’ she asks.
‘Hell no. I think you should stick with it. She’ll try to drive the narrative, make sure you only cover areas of her life she’s comfortable with you looking into. Your job is to ignore that, keep digging into her past until you find the truth. Whatever that turns out to be.’
Alan drains his glass and looks hopefully at Nuala.
‘I’ve got to go,’ she says. ‘I promised the babysitter I’d be home in time to put my son to bed.’
She thanks Alan for his time, orders him a final pint at the bar and walks out into the crisp October evening. The conversation has left her with a sense of unease she’s unable to shake off. She’s more certain than ever now that Andrea’s hiding something. It’s also clear that Andrea thinks she’s clever enough to conceal her past from Nuala. But if Andrea believes that, then she has seriously underestimated Nuala. The documentary is meant to be a thorough investigation into the life of Andrea Leach. And that’s exactly what it’s going to be.
Chapter 23
It’s early morning, grey light trickling into my room through the open curtains. I’ve been awake all night, packing my bags and listening again to every episode of Black Valley Farm. Each time I listen to it, there’s a niggle at the back of my mind that’s like an itch I can’t reach so it never goes away.
There were eleven of us living on the farm the night I left. By the following morning, nine of us were dead. Which means two of us are still alive. Me, and the woman Nuala interviewed in the final episode of the podcast.
Last week, something extraordinary happened. I got an email from a woman calling herself Marianne, who claimed she had important information for me. As you can imagine, it’s not that unusual for me to get emails of this nature. Ninety per cent of the time, those emails turn out to be a hoax. Not this one, though. I contacted Marianne and we arranged to meet. After several meetings and conversations, she eventually agreed to be interviewed for this podcast. Here is a recording of that interview.
Nuala and Marianne get their introductions out of the way and Marianne begins speaking about her time at the farm. She starts by explaining how we all ended up living together.
‘People called it a cult, but that’s not what we were. It was a haven for women who needed to escape. Rosemary saved us, and we loved her for it. Those years I spent living on the farm were the happiest I’ve ever been. Trying to rebuild my life after that terrible night hasn’t been easy.’
‘Can you tell me about the night of the fire?’ Nuala asks in a soft voice when Marianne stops speaking.
‘I hadn’t been able to sleep, so I’d got out of bed and gone for a walk. That’s the only reason I didn’t die too. The farm was located in the middle of beautiful countryside with rolling hills in every direction. It was a clear, cloudless night. Out there, in the middle of nowhere, I could see so many stars. Thousands of them twinkling in the dark sky. I remember thinking how beautiful it all was, how peaceful.
‘I was walking through the empty fields when I heard a scream. A few seconds later, there was a loud explosion. The sounds came from the farm and, when I turned around, I could see an orange light in the distance.
‘I ran back as fast as I could, but I wasn’t fast enough. By the time I’d got there, the whole house was on fire. It was obvious whoever was in there had no chance of surviving.’
She stops speaking and Nuala waits a moment before asking her next question.
‘What about the woman who wasn’t inside the house? The woman who’d been stabbed. Did you see her?’
‘Yes, I saw her. It was dear Rosemary, who had saved so many of us. She’d been stabbed in the stomach. I tried to save her. I gave her CPR and mouth to mouth, but nothing worked. She was already dead.’
In my mind, I see her like I’m back there. Rosemary, or Mother as we called her, falling to the ground. The look of shock on her face when she realised what had happened. A shiver runs down my spine and I press pause, not wanting to listen to anymore.
I check the time. Five minutes past six. The first coach to London leaves at six forty-five. I stand up, take a final look around the room. My body feels heavy, weighed down with exhaustion and sadness. Each time I think about never seeing Kath again, no more chats at the end of the day or eating dinner together in her lovely kitchen, I get a hard lump in my chest that won’t go away.
I’m almost at the front door when I notice Kath’s handbag on the hall table. It’s open, with her wallet sticking out. Before I can stop myself, I reach out and take the wallet. There’s cash in there. Twenty-five pounds. And a plastic card like the ones people use to pay in shops and take money out of cash machines. You need a code to take the money out but, like everything else, the numbers for Kath’s card is on a Post-it note stuck to the fridge.
