Blacklands (11 page)

“Just a letter.”

“Who from?”

Steven writhed under her stare.

“Give it here.”

She held out her hand.

Steven didn’t move but when Lettie reached down and took the letter from him, he didn’t have the guts to actively resist her.

Lettie unfolded the letter and read it. She was quiet for a lot longer than it could possibly have taken to read it, and Steven looked up at her apprehensively. Lettie was staring at the letter as if it contained hidden instructions on how she should react. She turned it over briefly and Steven thanked god that AA had not scored a map into the reverse.

After what seemed like aeons, Lettie suddenly handed it back to him.

“Come down right now.”

Steven was stunned. He followed her down the stairs and into the kitchen, where a bowl of Cheerios softened in the milk.

Nan folded her arms and glared at him.

“Where was he, then?”

“In the loo.”

Nan snorted as if she knew what boys his age did in the loo and it had very little to do with what any decent person would be doing in there. Steven started to redden at the mere thought and Nan snorted again—her lowest expectations confirmed.

“Oh, leave him alone, Mum.”

Steven was so surprised that he bit down painfully on the bowl of his spoon. Davey looked up from his cereal, but was immediately intimidated back to it by Nan’s furious glare.

Breakfast passed in silence. Steven washed up his bowl and spoon and left for school with the killer’s letter in his pocket.

The hoodies caught him at the school gates. They came out of nowhere, twisting his arms up behind his back and pushing his head down so that he stumbled and nearly fell. Vaguely he heard Chantelle Cox say, “Leave him alone,” compounding the humiliation of the assault.

“Get his lunch money.”

“I don’t have lunch money. I bring sandwiches.”

“What, Snuffles?” Someone pulled his head up by the hair so they could hear him, another was patting him down like a police academy graduate.

“I bring sandwiches.”

The boy holding his hair shook him; Steven gritted his teeth. He felt his backpack being unzipped and was tugged off balance as they rummaged inside. He felt like an antelope brought down by wild dogs, feeling the pack starting to eat him alive. Books, papers, pens—all scattered at his feet as they tore at this thing still attached to him—still
part
of him. He felt sick.

Suddenly his lunch box was under his chin, the lid peeled back. He could smell the fish paste and his eyes pricked with humiliation.

“No
cake?”

They all laughed. Steven said nothing.

“Hungry?”

“No.”

“He’s hungry.”

A grimy hand picked up a sandwich and rammed it at his mouth. He tried to twist away from them and keep his mouth shut, but a sharp pain in his leg made him cry out, and the sandwich filled his mouth like a fish-flavored sponge, expanding, choking.

Steven coughed.

“
Fucking
hell!!” The boy with the grimy hands wiped wet bread off his face while his mates laughed at him.

“It’s not fucking funny!” He ground the lunch box into Steven’s face—the apple hitting him in the eye, the other fish paste sandwich forcing its way up his nose and crushing his lip, with the fake-Tupperware edges a surprisingly painful follow-up.

And suddenly the box clattered to the ground and they were gone, melting into the stream of children in their black and red jumpers as the vague figure of a teacher moved towards Steven.

He winced as the blood rushed back into his arms.

“Are you all right?”

Blood leaked saltily into Steven’s mouth from his broken lip.

“Yes, miss.”

Mrs. O’Leary regarded Steven. She knew he was in one of her classes, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember his name. The boy looked like a fool. He was red in the face, with deep purple marks squared on his skin by the lunch box. Half a sandwich stuck to his forehead and his cheeks were smeared with butter. He had a black eye coming and smelled of fish. It was this that made the connection for her. This was the boy who smelled like mildew. Any sympathy she’d had for him was now replaced by slight distaste. Mildew and fish. She became brusque.

“Pick your things up, then, Simon. The bell’s gone.”

“Yes, miss.”

She didn’t know him.

It cut him to the core.

He was the boy who wrote authentic letters!
My grandmother choked on your fillit! The Nintendo you sent was the best present ever! I won a trophy for being the most curteus soccer player!

Steven wondered fleetingly whether Mrs. O’Leary would remember him if he told her that he’d written to a serial killer for help in finding the corpse of his dead child-uncle. He swallowed the words miserably. She’d only remember him then as a liar—a macabre fantasist. Or worse, she’d believe him and call a halt to his correspondence. It was a no-win situation.

“Hurry now, the bell’s gone.”

“Yes, miss.”

She stood over him impatiently while he picked his books and papers off the dirty wet tarmac. He was pleased to see his sandwiches had all but disintegrated, saving him the embarrassment of picking them up. His apple, having blacked his eye, had rolled into the gutter, where he left it to rot.

It took him a couple of minutes to find the lid of his lunch box under a car. He stood up again, his knees muddied, to see Mrs. O’Leary holding the letter from Arnold Avery. He went cold.

“
Thank you for Your Great letter.”

Steven said nothing. What could he say? He watched her face scan the scrap of wet paper, a little frown line appearing between her eyes.

Mrs. O’Leary’s mind turned slowly like the barrels on a rusty combination lock, and finally clicked into place. She looked at him and Steven felt his stomach drop.

“So you write great letters in your spare time too?”

For a split second he thought he’d misheard. But he hadn’t. He felt the heat rising from his collar and creeping up his face.

“Yes, miss.”

She smiled, relieved to be able to muster some interest in the boy; she needed these little reminders that she had not wasted her life going into teaching. She held out the letter and he took it tentatively.

“Run now, Simon!”

“Yes, miss.”

Steven ran.

Geography.

Steven traced a map of South Africa. He transferred it to his exercise book and started to fill in the mineral wealth. Gold. Diamonds. Platinum. Such exotica. He snorted quietly as he thought of his home country’s mineral wealth: tin, clay, and coal were the only things that had ever been worth digging for on this tiny peak of sea-mountain called Britain.

Tin, clay, coal—and bodies. Bodies buried in the dirt, in the soil, in the turf. Bodies that had fallen asleep and quietly died, bodies of butchered Picts and Celts and Saxons and Romans; Royalists and Roundheads put to the sword in the sweet English grass. And as the coal and the tin and the clay industries died, so the industry of bodies had taken hold. Now the bones of Saxon peasants were pored over on prime-time TV as they emerged in careful relief from the earth. A rude awakening from centuries of hidden rest.

Bodies were as much a mineral wealth of Britain as gold was in Africa. The declined empire, shrunk to tiny pink pinpricks, had become withdrawn and introspective—tired and surrendered in conquest, now discovering itself like an old man who sits alone in a crumbling mansion and starts to call numbers in a tattered address book, his thoughts turning from a short future to a long and neglected past.

Britain was built on those bodies of the conquered and the conquerors. Steven could feel them right now in the earth beneath the foundations beneath the school beneath the classroom floor, beneath his chair legs and the rubber soles of his trainers.

So many bodies, and he only wanted one. It didn’t seem a lot to ask.

As he carefully pressed the graphite into the clean page, Steven wondered how many of those ancient bones were in the ground because of serial killers. When Channel 4’s Time Team prized femurs and broken skulls from the holding planet, were they contaminating a two-thousand-year-old crime scene? Was the Saxon boy or the Tudor girl a victim? One of many? Would archaeologists a hundred years from now be able to link six, eight, ten victims and say for sure that they were murdered? And murdered by one hand?

Arnold Avery had been convicted of six murders. Plus Uncle Billy. Plus … who knew how many? How many lay undiscovered in shallow graves? How many through the whole of history? Did he crush their bones underfoot as he walked home? Did their eyeless skulls peer down at him when he explored the old mines at Brendon Hills? Steven shivered and prodded the map out of alignment. As he carefully covered Johannesburg with Johannesburg again …

“Oh!”

Kids around him sniggered and Mrs. James looked up from marking papers.

“Something you want to share, Steven?”

But Steven had used the last of his breath to push out the exclamation, and had not yet been able to draw another.

The line Steven copied was even more crooked than it should have been. His hands shook; his whole body fluttered in a mixture of excitement and fear.

He pushed the
AA Road Atlas
away from him so hard that it slid off the old Formica kitchen table and broke its spine as it landed open on the floor. Steven didn’t even notice. This was not the first time he’d used the atlas. Then he’d copied the outline of Exmoor onto a sheet of artist’s paper to send to Arnold Avery. This time he’d captured it on tracing paper. The border was marked again, and Shipcott.

The TV was on in the front room but Steven still looked suspiciously down the hallway before unfolding Avery’s letter and smoothing it down on the table. He placed the tracing paper over the letter, with the “S” and “L” of “SincereLy” over the dot that was Shipcott. His heart thumped in his ears; “Your Great,” YG, and “TiDe,” TD, were both northeast of Shipcott towards Dunkery Beacon.

Avery was showing him the graves of Yasmin Gregory and Toby Dunstan.

He’d cracked the code.

Chapter 14

L
ETTIE LAMB CLEANED THE BIG HOUSE AND THOUGHT ABOUT HER
elder son for the first time in a long time.

Of course, she thought about him every day. Why wasn’t he up? Had he done his homework? Where was his tie? But it had been days, weeks—maybe even months, she thought with niggling shame—since she’d thought about
him
.

And almost as soon as she’d had the thought, she tried to wrestle it into submission. She couldn’t think of Steven without thinking of Davey, and she couldn’t think of Davey without the guilt of knowing that he was her favorite, and she could never feel that guilt without thinking of her mother—Poor Mrs. Peters—and of how she’d loved Billy best.

This was a well-worn path—a wormhole linking time and people—so that when she thought of Steven, she thought of Billy. The two were so closely connected by her practiced brain that they were almost the same person. Steven and Billy. Billy and Steven. The fact that Steven was so close to the age that Billy had been when he disappeared only served to compound his sins. And although she loved Steven, she had to remind herself of that fact constantly when her resentment and guilt over Billy was so symbiotically tied to her own son.

Lettie rubbed at a water ring on the hall table. She tutted as if it were
her
precious mahogany.

It wasn’t her fault. Everyone had a favorite, didn’t they? It was only natural. And Davey would be anyone’s favorite. He was so cute and chirpy and said funny things without meaning to. Why should she feel bad about that? How could she help it? Steven didn’t help himself, with his isolated nature and that permanent little frown marking the middle of his smooth forehead. He always looked worried. As if he had anything to worry about!

Lettie felt that familiar flicker of anger at Steven. He always looked as if he had the woes of the world on his shoulders—cheeky little shit! She was the one who had to keep them all together; she was the one who scrubbed other women’s floors so Steven could get batter bits at the Blue Dolphin; she was the one who’d been left to bring up two children alone, wasn’t she? Not him! These were the happiest days of his life, for god’s sake!

The ring wouldn’t come out. Honestly, the more people had, the less they cared. She went into the kitchen and opened the larder. It was packed with the kind of impossibly exotic food that was beyond Lettie. All from Marks & Spencer. She barely even recognized it as food—there was no connection in her mind between what the Harrisons kept in their larder and the cheap, monotonous meals that appeared on Lettie’s table.

Help yourself, Mrs. Harrison always said. Of course, she didn’t mean to the wild-mushroom tartlets or the chicken in crème fraîche with baby corn and sugar snap peas. She meant to the snacks and biscuits she kept in what she called “the children’s cupboard.” Lettie had spent long minutes looking for something to eat in that cupboard but had never summoned up the courage to tear into the gift-wrapped chocolate biscuits, or to sully the foil on a pack of mature-cheddar and cracked-pepper savouries. Instead she took custard creams with her and ate them over the sink so as not to leave crumbs.