Beneath the Shadows (3 page)

There was only one shop in Skeldale, one of the small villages between Roseby and the coast. It was just a terraced house really, no different to its dozen or so neighbours on the narrow lane, except for the sign outside, and notices Blu-Tacked against the glass of the bay windows. No one else was in sight as Grace hovered in the doorway, casting her eye along the advertisements. She couldn't see what she was searching for.

A cowbell clanged loudly as she pushed open the heavy wooden door. Inside it was dingy, the scant space crammed with paraphernalia. Boxes of fruit lined the shelves to one side of her, precarious towers of tins stacked in the gaps. On the other side an eclectic mix of items were piled in disordered groups – among them, stationery, candles, postcards and packet noodles. More boxes spilled their assorted contents onto the uneven stone-flagged floor, and in one corner
were what looked like a group of witches' broomsticks. Grace peered into some plastic pots as she went past, to see they contained honeycombs, oozing golden liquid from their tiny pores.

The countertop was almost hidden by boxes of confectionery, and Millie reached out. Grace pulled her away, as an old woman shuffled into view from a door behind the counter. Her dress strained against its seams, and the loose skin hanging in folds under her chin quivered as she swayed towards the desk. ‘Now then, lass, what can I do for yer?' she rasped.

The shop certainly hadn't been organised with children in mind, and almost everything was within Millie's grasp. The little girl leaned backwards and grabbed a box of matches, which Grace extricated from her and returned to the shelf. The woman watched them impassively.

‘I'm after some milk?' Grace asked, unable to see a fridge anywhere.

The shopkeeper pulled a thick grey cardigan tighter around her and disappeared through the doorway again. Grace struggled to keep Millie's eager fingers away from everything until the woman reappeared, a small carton of full-cream milk in one swollen hand. As she placed it on the counter, Grace wondered about asking for semi-skimmed, but decided it was simplest to hand over a five pound note. The shopkeeper took it, rummaged in a drawer behind her desk, and brought out some change. As she held out the coins, the cowbell chimed again, and the woman glanced over Grace's shoulder. Grace thought she saw recognition in her eyes – suspicion even – but the shopkeeper said nothing.

Grace turned to leave, reminding herself to stock up on her trips to town, so she didn't have to come here too often. As she moved, the man behind her stepped aside to let her pass, and Grace looked up briefly in thanks, registering a face similar in age to her own. She was about to open the door when she remembered her other reason for venturing out. She doubted the woman would be of much help, but since she was here she might as well ask anyway.

‘Excuse me, but I'm thinking about doing some renovations on my cottage. Do you know anyone local who might be interested in that kind of work?'

The shopkeeper considered her, until Grace thought that the very question must have been some kind of faux pas around these parts, but apparently she was deep in thought, as after an extended silence she said, ‘Can't think of anyone offhand, like, but I'll put word out. Where's thou at?'

‘Roseby,' Grace replied after a beat, struggling to decipher the woman's thick accent.

It was as though a key had unlocked the woman's demeanour. Her whole body trembled into alertness as she straightened, and she broke into a grin. ‘Roseby, are yer now? In 'awthorn Cottage for a guess?'

Grace's heart sank, sure that Adam's name was about to come up again, but, thankfully, the woman kept to the subject at hand.

‘Well, like I say, I'll put word out for yer.'

‘Thank you.' Grace smiled courteously. ‘Shall I give you my number?'

‘Don't bother, if I thinks of anyone I'll send 'em round. Yer do right gettin' on with it before the snow comes.'

‘Okay, thanks.' Grace turned to discover the man behind her was studying her. ‘Excuse me,' she said, discomfited by his scrutiny. He said nothing but pulled the door open for her, the bell jangling again at her exit.

There was a low stone wall in front of the shop, and a large black dog lay on the ground in front of it, impervious to the cold, wet pavement. The dog had been resting its head on its paws, but at the sound of Grace's footsteps its ears twitched and its head swung around, two coal-black eyes regarding her solemnly.

Grace usually loved dogs, but this one troubled her, reminding her too much of the black hound of her recent nightmare. Before she could move on, the dog sprang to its feet in excitement and began to nose around her legs, then jumped up to try to sniff Millie's shoes. Grace expected Millie to squirm and turn away, but instead she bent over to peer curiously down at the creature. Grace was trying to ward the dog off with one hand, hissing, ‘No! Down!', when she heard the cowbell ring again.

‘Bess, away!' came a stern male command, and the dog instantly obeyed.

Grace took a deep breath in an attempt to recompose herself. The man from the shop was bending over, picking up the dog's lead, then he straightened. He was tall and lean, with features that were chiselled to the point of hollowed. Grace was sure she had never seen him before in her life – but at the same time there was something slightly familiar about him. As their eyes locked, the intensity of his stare left her unsteady for a moment, and she took a small step backwards to regain her balance. His eyes were a deep brown, a few
tired lines cutting thin grooves from each corner, before they were absorbed into the paleness of his face.

He ran a hand over his short dark hair. ‘You're looking for a handyman?'

Grace almost started. His voice was surprisingly soft and low, with just a hint of a northern accent – a similar cadence to Adam's.

‘I've done quite a bit of that kind of work,' he continued. ‘I might be interested in the job.'

‘Okay,' Grace replied, thinking fast. He had taken her by surprise, but this was too good an opportunity to pass up. ‘Well then … if you're free on Sunday, perhaps you could come over and I'll show you what I'm thinking of, and we can have a chat about it. I'm open to suggestions, to be honest.'

‘Great,' he replied, though his expression remained serious. ‘What time?'

‘Around one?' she asked. ‘Millie takes a nap then,' she indicated her daughter, who had begun to squirm in her arms, ‘so we'll have a proper chance to talk.'

‘Fine. I'm Ben, by the way.' He held out a hand.

‘Grace.' She met his grasp, finding his skin warm despite the chill of the morning. ‘Do you have a number I can call you on if I need to change the time?'

‘Sure.' He watched as she got out her mobile phone, then pulled his own from his pocket. ‘What's your number?' he asked. As she reeled it off, he dialled it, and the little screen on Grace's phone lit up. ‘There you go,' he said.

She stored the number. ‘Thanks.'

‘See you on Sunday then.' He began to turn away.

‘I haven't told you that I'm at Hawthorn Cottage … in Roseby …' she said quickly.

‘So I heard,' he answered, gesturing to the shop. ‘I know where Hawthorn Cottage is. I'll see you then.'

He set off down the lane, the dog trotting behind him. Grace watched them walk away until they reached a battered black Land Rover. The dog jumped in next to its owner, and moments later the vehicle roared by, the rise and fall of the road soon taking it out of sight.

 

The return trip to Roseby took about fifteen minutes. Grace drove cautiously along the empty road, the deserted moors spreading out on either side. Approaching the village from this direction, the journey was a stark contrast to the country lanes they had driven through yesterday. Then, at least there had been trees, and patches of grass, and the occasional farmhouse, but here on the moor top it was flat, brown and barren.

She glanced behind her as she neared the crest of the hill that would take them down into the village. Millie had fallen asleep in her seat, her head lolling awkwardly against her chest. Taking the opportunity of a moment to herself, Grace pulled up at the side of the road and switched off the engine. She looked out across the wild expanse and tried to breathe it in, allow her mind to stop, flex itself, unfurl, rather than chase itself in ever-decreasing circles full of unbidden thoughts.

And yet, she found herself back twelve months, sitting in the cottage answering endless questions about Adam,
probing questions designed to find some explanation of his mental health or his circumstances that might have led him to make an abrupt departure from his life. She told them everything; she had nothing to hide. He was happy to have moved here. He was starting work as a supply teacher the following week. He knew the area, yes, from visits to his grandparents and an extended stay here in his teens after his mother died, but he hadn't lived here for almost fifteen years.

But had he ever wandered off before? they persisted. Did he have any history of mental illness? Depression?

She had tried to explain Adam to them. That he often sang loudly and out-of-tune in the shower. That he was fanatical about cricket. That he could quote his favourite Tarantino movies verbatim. That he was always the one offering support to troubled friends, never the one in crisis himself. But whatever she said, the questions kept on coming. And when they found out he had no family left alive to speak of, their doubts had intensified.

The night Adam had gone, Grace had been surrounded by strangers: police, mostly, along with a few locals wanting to help out. Her parents were on their way from France but wouldn't arrive until the next day. Annabel was getting hold of a car and would be there as soon as she could, but had a five-hour road trip from London ahead of her. There had been a sudden flare of hope that they could find Adam via his mobile signal, until she told them that she had already tried the number, and had found the phone ringing in the pocket of Millie's pram.

When her interrogation had finally ended, Grace had briefly gone out into the pitch-black night and stood with
Millie held tight in her arms, surrounded by strobing torchlights, listening to Adam's name echoing away through different voices, praying that one of them would hear a response. But each call was carried off on the bitter wind to be met with silence. Later she had watched as the search parties returned, shoulders slack, heads bowed. Nothing had explained why Millie had been left alone on the doorstep with no sign of her daddy. Not then, and not since.

Grace's mother and father had arrived twenty-four hours later, pulling their daughter into their arms and letting her sob her helplessness out on them. Grace had seen the horror and confusion on their faces as they watched the police coming in and out of the cottage. But with her family there, Grace had at least felt anchored to the world again. Her parents had stayed by her side throughout the ensuing fortnight as she faced the media, asking for information, then waited for answers that never came. They had helped her search for Adam's passport when the police requested it. To Grace's alarm, none of them could find it, but the police had put out an alert, and there was no record of it being used.

As Christmas grew closer, with no news, Grace's parents had grown more eager to leave every day. They had insisted upon taking Grace and Millie too; under no circumstances would they leave them by themselves in such a remote part of the world, the antithesis of their beloved, bright and sunny South of France. At the time, Grace had been too upset to do anything but acquiesce, and she was thankful for their steady, guiding hands over the last twelve months. But if she was ever going to get on with her life, she had to take those first wobbly steps back out on her own. So here she was.

Grace jumped as a car flew past them, shattering the silence. Her reverie was broken. The moors lay in front of her, bleak and brown under a heavy grey sky. Stop letting your memories run riot, she chided herself. Just keep busy, get things done. She needed distraction, and was glad that Annabel was coming up this weekend, under the pretext of helping out, even though she knew Annabel was likely to prove useless on that score.

She started the engine again. Halfway down the steep hill that led into the village, they passed an imposing two-storey stone house, perched at a point where it could survey the dwellings below, like a patrician parent hovering over its children. After that there was a patch of bare grass, beyond which the remains of a dilapidated row of terraced cottages could be seen in the distance. At the lowest dip in the road stood the whitewashed pub, after which they crossed a small bridge, making their way up the next incline towards Hawthorn Cottage.

She stopped the car outside her gate, observing the Land Rover parked up ahead of them. Then she spotted someone standing at her front door. As she watched, the woman moved to the front window, cupped her hands around her eyes and peered through.

Grace got slowly out of the car, wondering why she should be the one feeling uncomfortable at catching someone else snooping around her home. This woman looked totally out of place in an area where the dress-code was mostly denim, flannel checks and tweed. She wore baggy fisherman's trousers and a shapeless stripy jumper, teamed with a beanie in rainbow colours.

As Grace closed the car door, the woman turned, and with absolutely no embarrassment said, ‘Oh, hello! I thought this place looked occupied.' She noted Grace's confusion and laughed. ‘Sorry, let me introduce myself. I'm Claire, Meredith's daughter.' She pointed back the way Grace had just come, towards the big house sitting on the hillside. ‘Mum saw the car here, and I've been sent round to check it out, make sure you're not a squatter. You must be Grace.'

Grace returned the friendly smile. ‘Yes, I am,' she replied. ‘Pleased to meet you. I didn't know Meredith had a daughter. I'm looking forward to seeing her again – to say thank you. She's done a terrific job of minding the place.'