Shepherd's Cross (2 page)

7.30pm:
Ben Price pulled up to the drive of his house on Rowan Lane and killed the
engine. He remained sitting in his car for several minutes, winding down the
window to breathe in the cold, refreshing January air. His tired eyes studied
the last of his neighbour’s fallen silver birch leaves as they danced in unison
across his front garden in the evening breeze. His two hour commute from work
in Newcastle had never troubled him when his family had been there to welcome
him, but coming home to an empty house was scant reward for a day spent
negotiating the rat race of financial sales. He increasingly resented the
drive, but with his house now worth fifty grand less than when he’d purchased
it at the top of the market, and with crippling monthly maintenance payments
going to his estranged family, there was little he could do at the present time
to improve his situation.

In the early days, when he and Jane had first
moved to Shepherd’s Cross, he would always look forward to heading home after
work, occasionally stopping on the way to buy a bottle of wine to have with
their evening meal or a chocolate treat for Chloe, his six-year-old daughter.
It didn’t matter what kind of day he’d had in the office, home was his safe
haven; a place where he could hide from the world, at least until the next
morning when it all began again.

It was different now. He no longer felt
the same sense of anticipation of walking up the steps to his front door,
listening out for the familiar sound of conversation or the television blaring
out some children’s programme. He was alone, with nobody waiting for him; nobody
caring if he was ten minutes later than he said he’d be. He couldn’t remember
when he’d last enjoyed a proper night’s sleep.

They had moved to Shepherd’s Cross three
years earlier, buying one of thirteen new ‘executive-style’ houses that had
been built on both sides of a narrow road called Rowan Lane. The majority of
their neighbours had moved in around the same time. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it
had been an exciting time, with numerous house parties taking place as the
adult newcomers got to know each other; their children finding out who they
were likely to spend the next few years getting up to mischief with.

Most of the new arrivals were engaged in
some form of professional employment in Newcastle or Durham, willing to trade a
lengthy commute for the perceived benefits of spending their hard-earned
weekends breathing in fresh country air and quaffing warm Shiraz in front of a
log fire. At half a million pounds each, the development had not been built
with the local villagers in mind, most of whom could not even begin to imagine
how anyone could afford to spend such exorbitant sums of money on a house; even
if they
had
mortgaged themselves to the hilt in order to buy their tiny
share of idyllic rural life.

For the most part, the housewarming
parties had not involved the existing inhabitants of Shepherd’s Cross, or ‘The
Cross’ as they called it, although open invitations had been displayed in the
Post Office window. The locals’ poor attendance was not necessarily as a result
of a collective, malicious refusal to welcome the newcomers, but rather that
their curiosity had been outweighed by their initial timidity in extending the
hand of friendship to such a large number of outsiders. After all, Rowan Lane
had been the village’s first housing development of any kind for nearly thirty
years.

Over time, however, the efforts of both
sides to get to know each other had paid off. True, there remained stark
divisions, particularly amongst some of the old-timers, whose tolerance of
change was at best limited and at worst non-existent. There was also an
inevitable degree of jealousy towards the people who had moved into homes that
were well beyond the reach of the average rural wage. But wealthy people with
little spare time had a habit of spending money; they needed gardeners,
decorators, babysitters and cleaners. They liked dining out and having boxes of
organic vegetables delivered to their doors. The lure of hard cash was enough
to endear them to a whole manner of folk, who in return were only too willing
to offer their services.

If he could have afforded it, Ben would
have sold up and moved back to the city months ago. There was no reason for him
being here anymore, and the large, empty house served only to reinforce the
loneliness and futility of his situation. His one saving grace was the custody
he’d been granted to look after Chloe every second and fourth weekend of the
month. It wasn’t much, but he lived for those Friday afternoons when he would
collect her from school and drive her back to The Cross for the weekend,
stopping off for an ice cream en-route. Those weekends were always special. He
hadn’t missed one in the whole time since the divorce – nothing took priority
over Chloe. He would be collecting her tomorrow, as always.

Climbing out of his car and approaching
the house, Ben stopped at the bottom of the steps. Out of the corner of his
eye, he could have sworn that the curtains in one of the upstairs bedrooms had
twitched. Just a little, but enough to cause him to stop in his tracks and look
up. What puzzled him most was that it was his daughter’s room – nobody had been
in that room for two weeks, not even Rosie, his cleaner. Surely he must have
been imagining things; there couldn’t possibly be anybody else in the house.
But he was almost certain that the curtain had moved. Either way, the only way
to put his mind at rest was to go inside and find out.

Reaching into his coat pocket, he retrieved
his keys and tentatively inserted the one that opened the front door. ‘You’re
paranoid,’ he said aloud in an effort to calm himself, turning the handle and
slowly pushing the door inwards. Even so, he proceeded to enter the house with
caution, turning on the hallway light for reassurance; like a frightened child
who would only go to sleep if his mother left the bedroom light on. ‘Hello?’ he
said, immediately realising how pathetically he was acting, but playing the
part nonetheless. ‘Anybody there?’ Silence. Growing increasingly confident that
he must have made a mistake, he relaxed and took off his coat, placing his keys
and phone onto the sideboard. It was only when he passed the foot of the stairs
on the way to the kitchen that he heard a gentle ‘thump’ on the floorboards of
Chloe’s room above him. He looked up, his breath becoming shallower and the
hairs on his arms standing to attention like soldiers on parade. His eyes
hadn’t
deceived him - there
was
someone upstairs.

His defensive instinct led him straight
to the kitchen, whereby he removed the largest of the three cook’s knives that
clung to the magnetic strip attached to the tiled wall by the sink. Returning
to the hallway, he stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up into the
darkness and trying to rationalise what the noise could be. Maybe it was just a
rat that had found its way in from the loft. There’d been numerous sightings of
rats ever since his neighbours had decided to leave out scraps for the birds
over Christmas. Country rats were particularly fond of such treats, given the
usual slim pickings that were on offer to them compared to their well-healed
relations in town, who could take their pick from the overturned bins and
restaurant leftovers that lay strewn across back alleys. The more likely
explanation, however, was the ridiculous hours he’d been putting in at work.
Long days spent chasing unachievable sales targets, coupled with the
after-effects of the festive party season, had led to a persistent state of
fatigue that was starting to get the better of him. He desperately needed a
good night’s sleep; a much-needed tonic that was unlikely to be swallowed
tonight given the circumstances upstairs.

As he climbed the stairs, knife held
firmly in his right hand, it struck him how ludicrous the situation was. Why in
the world would there be somebody hiding in his daughter’s room? And how would
they have got in? The cold weather meant all the windows were closed. There was
no evidence of a break-in. And you could guarantee that if there
had
been a burglar on the prowl, he would not have lasted five minutes in a place
like this. Christ, you only had to fart in The Cross and the whole village
would know what you’d eaten for dinner. With his newfound confidence, he
flicked the landing-light switch and quickened his pace along the corridor. The
door to Chloe’s room was closed. He gripped the handle and gently pushed it
open. Not for the first time that evening, Ben’s pulse raced as he peered into
the shadows of the room.

It was the stench that hit him first; a
rancid, putrefying stink that spilled out of the room and into the corridor. An
overwhelming blend of ammonia and rotten flesh filled Ben’s lungs and crowded
out any fresh air that got in its way. It took all of his resolve to keep himself
from vomiting, his shirt acting as a makeshift filter as he pulled it up and
pressed it to his nose.  Steeling himself, he felt around the side of the door
and found the light-switch.

Staring straight back at him was a large,
black cat with the most mesmerising copper eyes he’d ever seen. But only the
eyes seemed alive; its body was twisted and misshapen like road-kill, its fur
matted against its skin in thick, wet patches. It was sitting nonchalantly on a
chair by the window in the far corner of the room, clearly unperturbed by the
sight of Ben standing at the door, his knife glistening in the hallway light.
As if to demonstrate its aloofness, it broke its gaze from him and began
licking its left paw; oblivious or indifferent to the turmoil it had put him
through for the previous five minutes. Translucent pus oozed from its paw onto
the chair, but despite its infected wounds and distorted appearance, the cat
didn’t appear to be in any pain; on the contrary, it seemed perfectly at ease
with the state it was in. When it looked up again, its eyes held Ben with such
force that he was unable to move. There was something unnatural behind those
eyes, something malevolent.

‘How…how did you get in here?’ stuttered
Ben, slightly relieved not to have been confronted with anything more
threatening, but stunned by the creature staring back at him. Relaxing only a
fraction, he took a step towards the cat; immediately regretting his decision as
it leapt at him with a high-pitched shriek, its claws slicing a deep cut across
his face and causing him to scream and lash out blindly in self-defence. Blood
gushed from a cut above his left eye. He instinctively placed his hand over the
wound to stem the flow, cursing the wretched beast as he stumbled to the floor.

Now in the hall and limping towards the
stairs, the cat looked over its shoulder and stared back at Ben, its eyes burning
like hot coals on a fire. Its mouth appeared to distort itself into a grimacing
smile, revealing filthy, disfigured teeth. For what could have only been a few
seconds, the combination of its unholy eyes and contorted face seemed to
transform it into a repulsive half-feline / half-human mutant entity, as if it
were the botched result of a genetic experiment to combine the two species. Ben
cowered away in the corner of the hallway, his knife resting impotently in his
hand. As the cat turned to leave, it gave him one final stare; and with an
almost preternatural smile, it twisted its tongue and hissed at him with all
the bitter venom of the possessed.

9.30am:
Shepherd’s Cross Post Office, along with The Fallen Angel Inn and Turner’s
convenience store, was a central part of community life. For over a quarter of
a century it had been under the meticulous stewardship of Emily Mitford, a lady
whose energy and attention to detail belied her seventy-six years of age. Born
in the nearby town of Cornforth, she had met her husband, Claude, at a young
farmer’s dance where she had been working as a waitress. They had married, and
Emily had moved from a life in the town to take up her duties on Longhirst
Farm. It wasn’t that she particularly disliked being a farmer’s wife, but
following Claude’s death she had soon become lonely and isolated. When the Post
Office had come up for sale, she’d had no hesitation in selling up and
committing herself to a more sociable means of employment. In doing so, she had
quickly established herself as an important pillar of the community, being
respected and liked in equal measure.

The Post Office was situated on the
corner of a row of terraced houses, overlooking the village green at the heart
of Shepherd’s Cross. While not particularly spacious inside, its flagged stone
floor was large enough to accommodate four or five people at any one time. As
such, over the years it had played host to some interesting gossip; not to
mention the occasional heated argument. Births, deaths, marriages and affairs,
Emily had heard it all and probably knew more about the intricacies of life in
The Cross than anyone else. It wasn’t that she went looking for gossip; it was
an inescapable part of the job. Betty Aintree, who sometimes helped Emily out
during busier periods or when she needed a break, would often joke that they
should secretly record some of what was said and blackmail people out of a
fortune.

And so it was on a cold January morning
that business was proceeding as usual. The shop had only been open for half an
hour, but there’d already been at least half a dozen people through the door.
Betty didn’t usually come in on a Friday, so it was up to Emily to manage by
herself. She had the kind of pleasant disposition that belonged to somebody who
genuinely enjoyed what they did for a living. Indeed, it was fair to say that
she enjoyed the social aspects of her job every bit as much as the meagre income
that the shop brought in. People warmed to her, and consequently felt at ease
in pouring out whatever was on their minds, important or otherwise.

There had only been one topic of
conversation since the Post Office doors had opened that morning – Ben Price.

The rumours continued with the entrance
of Charlotte Bainbridge and Olivia Falconer, two of Ben’s neighbours, whose
bulging bank balances were outweighed only by the amount of time in between
school runs that they managed to indulge in bitching about other people. God
help anyone who committed a crime as grave as wearing the wrong colour scarf
for their jacket, or a top that revealed an inch too much of cleavage;
Charlotte and Olivia would have them hung, drawn and quartered before they’d
taken a sip of the day’s first cappuccino.

‘I can’t believe you didn’t hear him,’
said Charlotte, who lived two doors down from Ben. ‘I’d just tucked Henry in
for the night and was on my way downstairs. Honestly, Olivia, it was like
something out of a horror film.’

‘You poor thing,’ said Olivia, feigning
concern. ‘What on earth did you do?’

‘I didn’t know
what
to do. I
phoned Edward, but he was no use. He told me that I was being melodramatic;
that someone most likely had stubbed their toe on a table leg. He can be so
inconsiderate sometimes. Anyway, I could hardly hear him for all the background
noise. He was in some bar, as usual.’ Charlotte’s husband, Edward, spent Monday
to Friday in their apartment in Newcastle, only returning to Shepherd’s Cross
at weekends. They’d met five years earlier; she’d been employed as a legal
secretary for the law firm where he worked. Having not taken her long to
realise that he was well on his way to becoming one of the firm’s youngest
partners, she had hatched a plan to secure his affection. Admittedly, the plan
had not been particularly complex in its design, involving nothing more than
short skirts, revealing blouses and shameless flirting. It may have been a
direct approach, but Charlotte knew from experience that few men, married or
otherwise, could resist an ego-pandering, sexually available woman. And once
she’d trapped him in her web, she’d devoured him whole.

‘Maybe he did just stub his toe,’ Olivia
said as they reached the counter. ‘What else could have made him scream?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve hardly ever seen
Ben since Jane left him. He spends all of his time at work, and he never brings
Chloe to see Henry anymore. He’s crawled right into his shell since the
divorce.’

‘Didn’t you check on him?’ asked Olivia,
knowing all too well the answer to her question.

‘How could I? I couldn’t leave Henry
alone upstairs. Besides, what if it
had
been serious? What if someone
had been attacking him or something?’

‘I doubt that, dear,’ said Emily, who
had been listening long enough to realise what the discussion related to. She’d
already heard about last night’s incident from at least three of her previous
customers. The two women paused and looked at her.

‘You doubt what?’ asked Charlotte. Those
who didn’t know her could be forgiven for interpreting her direct manner as
rather rude, but Emily was fully aware that Charlotte spoke condescendingly to
everybody, so she didn’t take her tone of voice personally.

‘I mean,’ continued Emily, ‘that I doubt
he came to any harm. Yvonne Turner came in earlier; she told me that her son
Liam was delivering newspapers early this morning and had seen Ben setting off
to work. He looked fine, apparently.’

‘That’s a relief,’ said Charlotte. ‘At
least it couldn’t have been anything serious then.’

‘I don’t think so. Yvonne told me that
she spoke to Sergeant Jennings around an hour ago. He said he’d follow it up
later today.’

‘Good,’ replied Charlotte, sliding a ten
pound note under the glass hatch to pay for a book of stamps. ‘This place can
get awfully spooky at night. The last thing we need is a murderer on the prowl.’

‘Charlotte!’ said Olivia. ‘There’s no
need to frighten us like that.’

‘I’m only joking, darling,’ laughed
Charlotte. ‘You are so serious sometimes. I hardly think that a murderer would
be interested in this boring little village. Nothing ever happens here.’

‘I wouldn’t be quite so sure,’ said
Emily. ‘There’s more to this place than meets the eye. You’d be rather
surprised if you knew the kind of things that have taken place here over the
years.’

‘What kind of things?’ they asked
together, their attention now wholly focussed on Emily.

‘You aren’t aware of the history of
Shepherd’s Cross?’ asked Emily. They stared at her like two fascinated
schoolchildren; their blank expressions telling her that they had absolutely no
idea what she was referring to.

The bell above the door tinkled to
signal the arrival of a new customer. As keen as Charlotte and Olivia were for
Emily to proceed with her history lesson, now was neither the time nor the
place. Emily smiled at them both. ‘I tell you what. Why don’t you come back at
lunchtime when the shop’s shut? If you have an hour to spare, I would be only too
happy to continue our conversation. I find the stories of this place
fascinating, and I dare say you will too, if you would like to?’

The two women looked at each other and
nodded keenly. Time was a commodity they both had in abundance, especially when
it could be spent gossiping. Besides, it would make a change to the usual
monotony of daytime television and internet shopping. ‘We’d love to,’ replied
Olivia.

‘Great,’ said Emily. ‘See you at 12.30.
I’ll have the kettle on ready. But I should warn you; you may not be expecting
what I have to tell you.’

With that closing remark, she averted
her eyes to the lady behind them and smiled. ‘Hello, Elsie dear, how are you
this morning? I hear we’re in for snow tonight.’