Veil of Darkness (36 page)

But she turns it all off when she gets home; she rarely picks up a book, she would rather watch the soaps on TV, particularly
Brookside
. But what is this? She has just settled down to an evening’s viewing when the doorbell jarringly interrupts. A kindly neighbour has taken in her parcel and now rings and deposits it on the step. It looks suspiciously like work to Candice. Some blasted client has had the nerve to post this directly to her home hoping for priority treatment. She will put it at the bottom of the pile, and why must authors use so much parcel tape? She knows these parcels are precious, many of them come recorded, but they don’t give a thought to the unfortunate receiver who has to battle with scissors and fingers to wrench the contents from the damn Jiffy bag.

The stale smell of age that seeps from this half-opened parcel is pungent in her modern home, dominated by computers, faxes, shiny new paper and print. Candice delves further and brings out a rust-coloured book with the title stamped simply on the front. ‘
Magdalene
by Ellen Kirkwood.’ The fatal title leaps out at her and her eyes narrow suspiciously. And the date inside—she hardly dares open it with these trembling fingers—is 1913. Published by Bryant, a publishing house she vaguely remembers, which disappeared decades ago.

She grabs the parcel and squints at the postmark. This was posted in Plymouth yesterday, first class, but why here, why her? She has never heard of Ellen Kirkwood and there’s nothing here about the author; the fly leaf has been left blank. Tentatively, forgetting to breathe, she opens the first page and reads fast. Is this it? The book that is about to make Coburn and Watts the laughing stock of the literary world? She thinks ruefully of the hyped-up blurb used by the excitable newspapers: ‘masterpiece for the new millennium’, ‘predicted bestseller of all time’, ‘read it next February and be changed for life’.

But it
is
the same. Shit. In the false manuscript these lovely descriptions had been cut short, but other than that it’s mostly the same. Candice flicks to the last few pages and reads them avidly. The characters are the same. The plot is identical. The beautiful style is a replica. My God, she cannot believe her eyes. So Rory’s revelations were true and she holds the original in her hands. So weird that nobody’s heard of it, a true literary masterpiece, a novel to equal any of the greatest and most revered classics.

1913. An unusual book for that era. Would the public have accepted a book as black and complicated as
Magdalene
back then? Weren’t they a protected bunch, cosied by heavy censorship? But no, this was a time, according to the young Bertrand Russell, when, ‘the barbaric substratum of human nature was being tapped’. People were in shock, their confidence low. The
Titanic
had sunk one year before, suffragettes were smashing shop windows and dying under the hooves of horses, the kaiser was rattling his bayonet, Kitchener was ready to point his finger; in other words, as usual, the country was in crisis.

Just ripe for a book like
Magdalene
.

Now she knows the name of the author perhaps she can salvage something from the ashes. It must be out of copyright. Maybe she can trace Kirkwood’s descendants and find out more about her, mollify the publishers, cash in on the wretched publicity. After all, there’s no real need for Candice to go under with Coburn and Watts. She wasn’t paid enough anyway. Candice will use her initiative. Anything to fill in time before the hideous truth comes out.

Who is Ellen Kirkwood? What sort of life did this genius lead? And why does nobody know her name?

How can Kirsty leave the area?

She hasn’t finished with Trevor yet.

No, not by a long chalk.

The messenger came with the bad news, a policewoman with her hat off, looking doleful.

‘I’m sorry to inform you of this, Mrs Hoskins, I can’t tell you how upset I am, but your husband’s hire car has been found on the cliffs at Pengellis Rock. We have only just traced the driver.’

‘Oh no!’ Kirsty said. ‘Don’t tell me!’

‘We don’t know for certain, of course, but we’ve been searching for his body and it honestly doesn’t look too good, if, as you say, you two had an argument on the day he came to see you.’

‘Poor Trevor,’ said Kirsty, wiping an eye. ‘He wasn’t always a good man, but I was used to him. Poor Trevor.’

Today, after she’s waved the children to school and dropped Avril at Safeways with a comprehensive list, she pops over to the Burleston with a packet of Jaffa cakes and a large bottle of Highland Spring water. Also in her bag are the ultra-sharp dressmaking scissors she removed from Avril’s knitting bag.

Glancing to her right and left, although this part of the gardens is rarely used, she lets herself into the cottage that was once to be her home. She and Avril are due to look round a little old three-bedroomed cottage tomorrow; they haven’t told the children yet in case they get too excited, but Jake and Gemma seem thrilled to bits with their new caravan home.

They don’t mention Trev any more.

Nobody mentions Trevor.

‘Trevor,’ Kirsty calls, ‘it’s me.’

There is a small rustle from the hole, nothing more.

‘I’ve brought you more water and something to eat. I expect you could do with something, after all, it’s been a long time.’

Four days.

Kirsty kneels where the lino slopes to the edge of nowhere.

‘But before I lower these down, Trev, I want you to do something for me.’ The smile on her face is a grim one, and her dulled eyes show little emotion. ‘Can you hear me, Trev? Are you going to do what I want?’

A throaty grunt is her only answer.

She ties the scissors to the rope and starts lowering them down. ‘Remember strip poker, Trev, and the way there was always a forfeit? That was the fun of the game, wasn’t it, having to carry out the forfeit? Well, I’ve got a forfeit for you because we want to make this fun. I’m not a miserable person with no sense of humour, as you used to describe me, and I’m going to prove that to you now.’

There is still no definite response from the semi-darkness of the hole.

‘In a minute these scissors will reach you. When you undo the knot I want you to cut off your left ear lobe, just the little fat bit at the bottom—it’s OK it’s mostly gristle; there aren’t a lot of nerves there—and wrap it in the bit of gauze you will find attached and then send it all back up to me.’

There is a terrible moaning sound. Kirsty edges forward to look. He seems to be squatting down in the sludge, his back against the wall. The golf club is leaning against it, too. He looks like a gnome with a fishing rod, and she is tempted to laugh hysterically. But the stench is overpowering; she has to move back slightly and cover her nose and mouth with a tissue.

‘Kirsty.’ Trev says her name gingerly, like someone who’s just found his memory.

‘Don’t bother to talk, Trevor, I know how hard that must be for you. Even painful. Just do as I say and I’ll send you the water straight after, I promise.’

The rope hangs limp for a while, a good two minutes but Kirsty’s got all the time in the world—before there’s a gentle twiddling on the end and she knows Trevor is unwrapping the scissors.

‘That’s it, Trevor. It’s probably easier if you do it quickly, don’t think about what you’re doing too much. In fact, think about something else completely; it works sometimes, I used to do it. I used to imagine all sorts of things while you were torturing me, you know. I used to pretend I was somebody else: Allis, or Melody out of my book, being wined and dined, or lying beside some lagoon with a cocktail and parrots flying overhead, monkeys gibbering in the trees, a gentle, handsome man at my side with eyes full of love for me.’

Still no reply from the sulking Trevor.

‘I don’t want to hurry you, that’s the last thing I want to do, but I have to get back to Safeways by eleven. I’m having lunch in town with my friend Avril and I daren’t be late.’

It sounds as if he’s getting up. That must be a good sign. If he has the strength to get up he has the strength to cut off his ear lobe.

‘I’ll do it with you if it would help,’ says Kirsty, ‘you know, like you pull a plaster off a child’s knee—one, two, three—it works better if you do it together. Come on, Trev, here we go—one, two… three.’

Kirsty leans forward again and listens.

‘Don’t be such a coward. People say they get shot and don’t feel the pain until later. And remember, you’ll be enjoying your water and your biscuits so much you probably won’t have any reaction.’

A muffled scream comes from below, raw with agony. Kirsty closes her eyes until it fades into silence again. Then, very slowly, the thin rope begins to sway and she knows Trevor is attaching something. She won’t make it worse by congratulating him, she won’t add insult to injury.

She stifles a laugh and bares her teeth. She waits a few minutes before she starts to pull. Good. Trevor has done what she told him. The piece of flesh is wrapped in gauze, but already blood is dripping through because the ear is a tender part and bleeds profusely. Hardly able to look at the gore, let alone touch it, she removes the scissors and proceeds to cut one foot off the rope and the soggy mess comes off with it. She slips it into a small Spar bag and ties up the end with a shudder.

Laughter wells up in her throat again and she has to swallow it down; it’s not decent, not at a time like this. She coils the fresh end of rope round the bottled water and the Jaffa cakes, ties it and slowly lets them down. Let him think she is relenting; how many times has he done that to her just when she thought the worst was over he would put the mat on the kitchen floor and push her head into a basin of slops. ‘Bitch. Know your place. You don’t eat with me at the bleeding table.’

And she can’t overcome the awful horror that, even now, weak and wounded though he is, Trev might manage to drag himself out.

The hole is a jagged one, three feet across at the widest part, so if Kirsty is going to cover it over she needs a good-sized slab of wood, and the scarred and mouldering kitchen table looks as if it might do the job.

First she throws down his clothes. In a few more minutes he’s not going to care whether he is naked or not. He might even think she is going to release him. Then, after covering her face with both hands to protect it from the dust, she kicks down the surrounding rubble, her housewifely heart gladdened by the way this neatens the kitchen. Weak groanings come from below. Kirsty smiles; Magdalene is with her, her hero shadows each move like a haunting. Next, like a woman possessed, Kirsty gathers up every household appliance: pots, pans, an iron, a bucket, ashtrays and two electric fires, the trappings of life, the accumulation of rubbish that kept her Trev’s prisoner for eight hideous years. She rips the curtains from the pelmets and drags the blankets from the mouldy beds. She flings all these down the gap in the floor, using the floor mop as a plunger to force them further and tighter, down, down, into the grave.

‘DIE. DIE. DIE.’

‘
God moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform
.’

Her strength is formidable. She is filled with a calm resolve. Nothing seems too heavy, too awkward. When she is satisfied that she can’t cram any more in, she drags the table across to the shaft, turns it on to its back and manoeuvres it carefully so it covers up all signs of disturbance.

Kirsty would rather move into the farmhouse before Avril faces the inquest. That experience will be traumatic. Even though she is innocent, much better to have a warm house to come home to, a bath she can relax in, proper hot water, a decent cooker, a comfortable bed instead of a shelf with a hard foam slither of a mattress.

Publication date—6 February.

When the proofs arrived from the publisher Kirsty had burst with enormous pride as she’d held
Magdalene
to her with all the gentleness of a newborn child. It was like getting your dream at Christmas, the wish you had sent up the chimney with the smoke: the new bike, the pram, the Barbie palace all lit up. So often the toy meant everything because Christmas itself was always sad with Dad trying to do his best and her brother, Ralph, going off to friends. If she’d had a mother it might have been different, but she never blamed her mother for dying. Dad gave her the love he could, but a child is no company for a man; he would rather have gone to the pub to play darts and Kirsty always knew that. They mostly ended up watching sport on the box, he on the lager and she on the Coke.

She drew in the newly printed aura of
Magdalene
with a sigh of ecstatic satisfaction—how much improved this new copy was compared to the musty pages of the original. There were only two copies in the package, one for her and another for Avril, so she couldn’t do what she’d promised and give a copy to Mrs Stokes. But she showed her the book all the same, and, for the first time ever, Mrs Stokes looked impressed.

‘I never thought this would really happen. I thought it was all a flash in the pan.’

‘So did I,’ said Kirsty.

At the new and impressive British Library Candice Love does her research.

Wherever she looks, on computer or within reference book, she cannot find a mention of the author Ellen Kirkwood, which is strange and unlikely bearing in mind the novelist’s genius. Has someone, for some nefarious reason, deleted all reference to it? Hardly conceivable given the amount of data there is. Is it remotely possible that some joker has had this old copy printed and professionally aged like the Hitler diaries? But forgery seems rather extreme; her imagination is playing tricks.

There must be a mention somewhere.

It’s only a simple question of looking in the right place.

But there’s no mention of Ellen Kirkwood in any biographical dictionary, nor in the annals of previous authors stretching back through the centuries.

Because the Jiffy bag was posted in Plymouth, Candice moves over to local periodicals. It is remotely possible that the book was limited to local distribution, although why a novel of such giant stature should be treated in this way is a puzzle she cannot solve.

Tired and bewildered, but totally determined to discover the credentials of this missing person for reasons of her own, she is eventually forced to resort to checking births, marriages and deaths. The fact that Kirkwood only wrote one book unfortunately means nothing. Some authors have only one book in them, particularly in those days when it wasn’t expected that they should bang out so many. There was silly money around even then; long before Kirkwood’s time Dickens was paid £7,500 for
The Mystery of Edwin Drood
, and George Eliot got £10,000 for
Romola
, a fortune in those days.