Roots of Evil (5 page)

But Mother had made that other promise as well – the promise that one day they would escape from Pedlar’s Yard, just the two of them.

‘You do mean it, don’t you? We’ll really go there one day? To the house with the lady from the stories?’

‘Yes. Yes, one day we really will go there.’

But Mother had hesitated – she had quite definitely hesitated, before replying, and a new fear presented itself. ‘She is real, isn’t she, that lady? I mean…you didn’t make her up?’ Mother was good at telling stories; once she had said she might have written books if she had not got married.

But it was all right. She was smiling, and saying, ‘No, I didn’t make her up, I promise. She’s real, and she lives exactly where I told you. Look, I’ll show you—’

‘What?
What?
’ It might be a photograph, which would be just about the most brilliant thing in the world.

But it was not a photograph, it was a letter, just very short, just saying here was a cheque.

‘But there’s the address at the top. You see? The Priest’s House, Mowbray Fen. That’s a real address.’

‘She sent a cheque?’ Cheques represented money in some complex, barely understood grown-up way.

‘Yes, she does it quite often. Does that convince you that she’s real?’

‘I think so. Yes. Only real people can send cheques, can’t they?’

‘Of course.’

So that was all right. The lady was real and the house was real, and one day they would make a proper plan and escape.

It had been too late to escape on the night that
he
erupted into the house, his eyes fiery with drink. He was not an especially big man, although he was quite tall, but he seemed to fill up the house with his presence on these nights.

There had not been a chance to make for one of the safer hiding places – the old wash-house or even the cupboard under the stairs – so there were only the sheets and the thin coverlet for protection. Sometimes, though, it was possible to force your mind away from the shabby bedroom and away from Pedlar’s Yard, and to delve down and down into the layers of memories and dreams…Like summoning a spell, a charm, that took you along a narrow unwinding ribbon of road, studded with trees and lined with hedgerows, and through the little villages with the Hobbit-like names that were strung out along the road like beads on a necklace…Far, far away, until you reached the house on the marshes, where the will o’ the wisps danced.

But tonight the charm did not work. Tonight something was happening downstairs that made that dreamlike road unreachable. Something was happening in the little sitting-room at the back of the house that was making Mother cry out and say, ‘No – please not—’

There was the sickening sound of a fist thudding flesh, and a gasp of pain, instantly cut off. Oh God, oh God, it was going to be one of the nights when he was hitting her: one of the nights when the neighbours would listen through the wall, and tell each other that one night that cruel monster would kill that poor woman, and someone ought to do something.

One night he would kill her. What if this was the night? What if Mother died, down there on the sitting-room floor? The horror of this very real possibility rose up chokingly. Someone ought to do something…

I can’t. I
can’t
. He’d kill me.

But what if he kills her?

There were ten stairs down to the sitting-room and they creaked a bit, but it was possible to jump over the third and then the seventh stair so that they did not creak at all. It was important to jump over those stairs tonight, and it was important to go stealthily down the little passage from the front of the house to the back, not noticing how cold the floor was against bare feet. It was important to open the door very quietly and peer inside without being heard. Because someone ought to do something, and there was no one else…

The room was filled with the tinny firelight from the electric fire, and shadows moved in an incomprehensible rhythm across the walls. They were huge shadows and it took a moment to sort them out because at first it seemed as if there was one monstrous creature, sprawling across the little gateleg table under the window…There was harsh rasping breathing in the room as well, like
someone running very fast, or like someone sobbing and struggling…

The shadows moved again, and it was not one person, but two: two people fastened together, the larger shadow almost swallowing the thin frail one.

Mother was half-lying on the small sofa, her hair tumbled about her face – she had nice hair, dark and smooth – and her skirt pushed up to her waist. Her legs were bare and
he
was standing right up against her, pushing his body into her – pushing it in and then out and then in and then out, over and over, the muscles of his thighs and buttocks clenching and unclenching, his face twisted with concentration and with savage pleasure.

You did not grow up in Pedlar’s Yard and not know what men did to women in bed – or what they did in the backs of cars and vans, or up against the walls of the alleyways. This, then, was what the playground sniggers were about: it was what some of the older children at school whispered and giggled over, and boasted of having done, or having nearly done.

Neither of them had heard the door pushed open, so it would be possible to creep back upstairs unheard. But Mother was gasping with pain, and her mouth was swollen and bruised, and bleeding from a cut on one side, and what if this really was the night he killed her? The firelight was showing up angry red marks across her face from where she had been hit – they would turn blue tomorrow, those marks, and she would not go out of the house until they faded so that no one would know. (But what if she was no longer alive tomorrow to go anywhere?)

He
had moved back now, swearing at Mother, calling her useless, and shouting that she could not even give a man a hard-on these days. He was not shouting; he was speaking in a cold hating voice, and his eyes were cold and hating as well, the way they always were on these nights, and he was nearly, but not quite, ridiculous, with his trousers discarded and the shirt flapping around his thighs.

‘That’s because you’re too pissed to fuck anything tonight!’ Mother’s voice was thick with crying and anger, but it was stronger and shriller than it had ever been before, and there was a stab of shock at hearing her use words like
fuck
and
pissed
, even though they were words people did use in Pedlar’s Yard. For a truly dreadful moment, Mother was no longer the quiet familiar person who spun stories and talked about one day escaping. She was a screaming red-eyed animal – a rat, no, a shrew, like in the play at school! – and she was clawing and yelling at Father for all she was worth, and she was ugly –
ugly!
– and as well as that she was also suddenly and confusingly frightening…

‘Get off me, you useless bastard,’ she screamed. ‘Get off me and let me get out of this place for good and all!’

She pushed him away so that he stumbled back and that was when he saw the half-open door. Before there was time to dodge into the little hall, he had already crossed the room and he was reaching out. His hands were rough and there were callouses on them because he worked all day shifting loads on to lorries in the yards. He hated his work – in some incomprehensible way he was bitter about having to work at all.

He was saying that snooping children had to be taught lessons – they had to be taught not to snoop – and then there was the feeling of his hands – hard and strong – and he was reaching for the leather belt with the buckle…

That was when Mother moved across the room, one hand raised above her head, the light turning her eyes to red like a rat’s. But she’s not a rat, she’s not…Yes, she is, because I can see her claws…

They were not really claws but they were glittering points of something hard and cruel, turned to red by the fire…

Scissors from the sewing basket by the hearth.

The points flashed down and
he
threw up his hands to protect himself, but it was too late, because Mother was too quick.

The scissors came glinting down and where his eyes had been were the steel circles of the scissors’ handles.

The points of the scissors had punctured both his eyes.

Incredibly, it did not kill him. He stumbled backwards with a bellow of pain, the handles of the scissors still sticking out of his face. Blood ran down his cheeks, a thick dark dribble, mingling with a watery fluid where his eyes had burst and were leaking all down his face. The sickness came rushing back at the sight of it.

He was trying to pluck the scissors out – one hand was already feeling for them – and then he found them and with a terrible animal grunt he pulled them out. There was a wet sucking sound – dreadful! – and then another of the cries of pain, but the blades came out, and more blood welled up and spilled over.

Mother had backed away to the wall. There was blood on her knuckles from where she had driven the scissors home, but she was watching the blind, blood-smeared face and it was impossible to know if she was horrified or frightened, or what she was feeling at all.

The mutilated head was turning from side to side – after what had been done to him, was it possible he could still
see
? No, of course he could not. He was going by sound, by smell, by instinct. He knew Mother was still in the room, and he was going to smell her out like dogs did. Could humans do that? Oh God, yes, he’s starting to move across the room, and he’s holding the scissors over his head, and I must do something,
I must do something
…

But it was like being inside a nightmare. It was impossible to move, and it was impossible to call out a warning because the words would not come out, just as words would sometimes not come out in a nightmare, no matter how hard you tried.

And now he had reached Mother and he was grabbing her arm, lifting the dripping scissors over his head with his other hand. Curses streamed from his mouth – you could almost see the words coming out, wet with the blood and the eye-fluid…Kill you, kill you, bitch, murdering bitch-cunt, and then kill the child as well, kill both of you…

She was fighting him off, clawing at his face – yes, her hands
were
like claws! – but he had too strong a grip. The two of them fought and struggled, and just when it seemed that Mother was about to push him away, he brought the scissors flashing down, stabbing them deep into her neck. The blood spurted out at once, like a tap turned full on, splashing the floor and the walls, and Mother was crumpling to the floor, a look of surprise on her face.

Time seemed to run down and stop completely, so
that it might have been hours or only minutes before there was a wet rattling sound in Mother’s throat, and she fell forward. Dead? Yes, of course she was dead, it did not need a second look to know it. Like a light going out. Like something collapsing deep inside.

The man standing over her remained absolutely still: it was impossible to know if he was recovering his strength or fighting his own pain. Then the terrible
listening
movement came back. He turned his head from side to side, and the dreadful face with the two wet, bloodied sockets seemed to search the room. He’s still holding the scissors! He pulled them out of her neck, and he’s
still holding them
! And now that he’s killed her, he’s searching for
me
!

The realization brought a fresh wash of terror. He’s mad with pain, but he’s still as cunning and as brutal as ever. And he’s searching for me because I saw what he did. If he can get me, he’ll kill me so that I can’t tell people he’s a murderer.

There was surely nothing easier than escaping from the murderous hands of a man whose eyes had been destroyed. It was the kind of thing people made jokes about: a blind man on a galloping horse would never see that, they said. Or they said that something was about as much use as a blind man in a coal-hole on a dark night.

But when you are eight years old, and when the two outside doors of your house are locked, the escape tips over into a macabre cat-and-mouse game. It begins with the need to move silently across the room, trying not to
make any sound at all – quenching a shudder when you step in a slippery patch of blood – and then slipping out into the dark little hall beyond. Had he heard that? Had he sensed the movement – perhaps felt the cold breath of air from the opening of the door? Yes, he was following – there he was, horridly silhouetted against the red glow from the electric fire, already starting to feel his way along the passage to the stairs. He knows the hiding places, of course. He knows about the cupboard under the stairs, and he knows about the little space between the kitchen and the old washhouse…

But he can’t see them any longer. And he must be in agony – surely he won’t be able to search for very long? So where would be safest to hide? The stairs – yes, the cramped cupboard under the stairs with the smothering smell of old raincoats…I can close the door tightly and fold up into a tiny creature, as if I’m not really there at all…He’ll go past the door because he won’t know exactly where it is, so I’ll be perfectly safe. He’ll grope his way into the kitchen and once he’s done that I can be down the hall and I can unlock the front door and be outside…

The front door. It would be locked and the keys would be upstairs, on the chest of drawers in the front bedroom, where they were always kept. Then I’ve got to get upstairs and get them, and come back down and unlock the door. Panic rose up, because it surely could not be done without being caught.

The door of the stair-cupboard was jerked back, and the blinded face appeared in the opening. The blood was still wet on the cheeks, but a crust had started to form
over both eyes, and it was still a nightmare thing, that head, it was still something to shrink from and scream, only a scream must not happen because it would give the hiding place away.
I’m-not-here, I’m-not-here
…

A hand came reaching out, groping in the little space, so that it was necessary to shrink right back against the wall and to stop breathing so that he would not hear…Please don’t let him find me. Please don’t let him know I’m here…

The raincoats swished around and the world shrank to the tiny damp-smelling cupboard, and to the nightmare face. And then – oh, thank you God, thank you! – the head moved back and the cupboard door swung in again, and the shuffling footsteps went stumbling down the two stone steps into the kitchen. I ought to feel sorry for him, but I don’t, I
don’t
! And if I can get upstairs and snatch up the keys, I can be out of the door and away. Yes, but where to? Where is ‘away’?

Again there was the rush of panic, and then, like the unfolding of a secret, like the soft, silken drawing back of a curtain, the answer came, and with it a deep delight.

‘She lives in a place called Mowbray Fen,’
Mother had said. ‘
It’s a tiny village on the edge of Lincolnshire. You have to go through Rockingham Forest, and along by Thorney and Witchford until you come within sight of Wicken Fen
…
’.

Thorney and Witchford and Rockingham Forest. The litany came as easily and as smoothly as ever it had done. The house on the marshes. The house called the Priest’s House, whose owners had helped to smuggle priests out of England hundreds of years ago. Could it be found? Would the lady from the stories still be there? How long
ago had that letter with the cheque been sent? Months? Years?

At eight years of age there are times when the mind can move with nearly adult precision and clarity, and the instinct for self-preservation is inborn rather than instilled – as strong in a child as it is in an adult. Later, there would be grief for Mother, who ought not to have died, but for now there was only the recognition that to stay here – to summon help from neighbours or from the phone-box at the corner of the street – would mean doctors and policemen and hours upon hours of questions. The truth might be believed, or it might not –
he
might very well manage to shift the blame. But whichever way it went there would either be an order for a care home or a remand home or young offenders’ hostel. Children in Pedlar’s Yard knew about being taken into care, and they knew about remand homes and hostels as well. And if any of those things happen, I shall never see the marsh house, I shall never see the lady of the stories…

Decision made – in fact, there was no decision to make. He’s blundering around in the kitchen, and if ever there was a moment to make the attempt, this is it.
Now.
Into the hall, along to the stairs, and straight up them. Remember the two stairs that creak and avoid them…Good. Now into
their
bedroom, snatch up the keys. Good again. What about money? To travel anywhere you need money. Would it be stealing to open the tin money-box kept in the chest of drawers, and take whatever was in there? If it is stealing I can’t help it. And he’s still crashing around downstairs, so there’s time.

The money-box held thirty pounds. Was that enough for the journey? It would have to be. And now school satchel from my own bedroom to carry things, and a thick coat and woollen gloves. Toothbrush and comb from the bathroom, but get them quietly – Is that him coming upstairs? No, I’m still safe. Anything else? The money-box was still open on the top of the chest of drawers, and inside it was a brown envelope. Mother had kept important things there. Documents. Birth certificate? You had to show your birth certificate sometimes. Better take it.

The birth certificate was inside the envelope; it was simple enough to fold it carefully, and tuck it into the side of the satchel. Anything else in there? What about the letter with the address of the Priest’s House on it? I ought to take that if it’s here. Then she – the lady – will know I’m really who I say I am.

The letter was in the envelope, folded up, a bit creased, but readable. Also in the envelope was a photograph – a small snapshot of Mother and Father together, both of them smiling straight into the camera. There was a moment of doubt about taking it – I don’t ever want to see him again! – but almost instantly came the knowledge that to take the photograph would be like taking a tiny fragment of Mother. And she looks happy – I’d be able to look at her and think of her being happy. The photograph went into the satchel with the birth certificate. And now I’m ready.

The front door had to be unlocked very stealthily indeed, but the key turned quietly enough, and it did so with a soft whisper of sound that said, ‘You’ve escaped!’

At this time of night there was no one about, and it was easy to run to the phone-box. It smelt disgusting, but at least it had not been vandalized like a lot of phone-boxes these days. Dial 999, and ask for an ambulance. And don’t worry about sounding panicky – they’d expect a child to sound panicky.

The call was answered at once. ‘Emergency – which service do you require?’

‘Ambulance, please.’

The space of four heartbeats, and then a different voice. ‘Ambulance service.’

‘Please – someone’s dreadfully hurt. My – father. He’s been stabbed – I don’t know what to do—’

‘What’s your name? And your address?’

Pretend not to have heard the first question. Cry a bit. You’re allowed to be frightened and confused, remember? ‘This is my address.’ It came out clearly. ‘Please come quickly.’ And replace the receiver. Enough? Yes, they would not dare ignore it; ambulance people did not even ignore obvious hoax calls, everyone said so. And the person at the other end had seemed to accept the information as genuine.

So now I’m ready and now I’ve done everything, and now I’m leaving Pedlar’s Yard – horrid, hateful place – for ever. I’m leaving all the bad memories. Later on I’ll be sad about Mother, but I can’t think about that yet.

Thirty pounds. Enough for a train journey? Would the railway station sell a ticket to a child? Why not? And if a train did not go all the way to Mowbray Fen, there would be buses for the last miles; buses were usually very cheap.

And from now on I am nothing to do with Pedlar’s Yard, and I am nothing to do with North London. I am somebody who has a normal life and a normal family, and I’m going to visit my grandmother.

The prospect was exciting and terrifying. It was an adventure like children had in books. It was the four Pevensie children going through the wardrobe into Narnia. Hadn’t they eaten apples to survive on one of their adventures? I’ll buy apples and eat them like they did. Or I’ll buy hamburgers and chips. Nobody looks twice at a child buying chips. And orange juice to drink.

Surely the journey could be managed, and at the other end of it, beyond all those villages with their ancient English names, would be the house surrounded by the will o’ the wisp lights that could give you your heart’s desire.

And the lady from all the stories would be there.

‘I don’t know if this will be of any help,’ said Edmund on the phone. ‘But I rather think I’ve got permission for you to actually go inside Ashwood Studios.’

Trixie Smith sounded as brisk and down-to-earth on the phone as she had face to face. ‘Very good of you,’ she said. ‘Lot of trouble for you as well, especially after your aunt’s death. Always a lot to do after a death, I know that. How did you manage it? I was going to see if I could trace the owners, but I didn’t know how to go about it.’

‘I haven’t actually traced the owners, but I have contacted a solicitor who holds the keys,’ said Edmund
who had, in fact, done this by the simple process of consulting an Ordnance Survey map and then ringing Ashwood’s appropriate local council. ‘He acts as a kind of agent for the site, and he’s just phoned me to say you can have access to the place for a couple of hours.’

‘When?’

‘Well, that’s the thing,’ said Edmund slowly. ‘The solicitor wants me to be there with you. As a kind of surety for you, I suppose.’

‘In case I’m a sensation-seeker, likely to hold a seance on a wet afternoon, or a potential arsonist with a grudge against film studios in general?’

‘Your words, not mine, Ms Smith.’ Edmund pretended to consult a diary. ‘I think I might manage Monday afternoon,’ he said, with a take-it-or-leave-it air. ‘I could probably get there around four – it’s a couple of hours’ drive from here, I should think. But nearly all motorway, so it would be straightforward. You said you lived in North London, so you’re fairly near the place anyway. Would Monday suit you?’