A Night With No Stars Read online

  ‘I think she knows already that it’s mine.’ Mark’s dark eyes met hers. ‘So why don’t we see if we can come to some arrangement?’

  ‘What?’ Hector looked nonplussed. But I thought you didn’t want me to sell . . .’

  ‘What can you offer the grasping old git, eh?’ Mark turned to her, still ignoring him. ‘Thirty, thirty-five . . .?’

  ‘There’s already been an offer for fifty,’ said Lucy, ‘so that’s me out of the frame.’

  ‘Who said?’

  ‘Your father. Just now.’

  Mark advanced towards him and grasped the lapels of his old donkey jacket in both hands.

  Hector’s face ballooned above his grip. Incoherent with surprise and rage.

  ‘You liar,’ snarled the forestry worker. ‘She’s the first to view Wern Goch and there’s been no fucking offer.’ He let go of his father and began striding away through the wet and into his domain. ‘Just get something right in the whole of your rotten life, eh?’

  Both she and Hector stared after him, but neither moved as the scullery door was dragged open, squealing against the old flags, and with that dark oblong of the tiny room behind him, Mark Jones stood waiting for both a man he despised more than any other, and a total stranger, to decide his future.

  Within just a few moments that implosion of sunlight had shrunk between the clouds once more and it was as if some grimly downturned mouth now inhabited the sky overhead. More and more was that decorative world of her picture book being eroded by a different reality, by undertones she couldn’t ignore, and the more Lucy stared at those celestial white-blonde lips as she accompanied Hector Jones back to the Hall, the more confused she became.

  She knew the ex-copper was expecting her to make an offer and so too, in a strange way, was that son of his. But the few pleasurable sensations such as watching the sheep, imagining a restored and cosy Wern Goch, were drowned – yes, drowned was the word, by a definite atmosphere. This wasn’t simply to do with the alarming amount of water everywhere, nor the presence of so many ravens. No. It was an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. Of lives blighted by a deep and secret sadness. Was this what she wanted to take on? Did she really have the will to turn things around and make this little corner of the world a better more productive place? She didn’t know, because there were still too many unanswered questions of both a practical and personal nature.

  She was just about to broach the first of many, when all at once her ears picked up an eerie wail which seemed at first to originate from the direction of Wern Goch. Whether animal or human she wasn’t sure, but when she spun round she saw a shadow of ravens silently circling the one chimney. Were those the same ones that she’d seen earlier? She couldn’t tell, but she did notice that the scullery doorway was now empty, yet that same chilling sound was still audible.

  ‘What on earth’s that?’ she caught up with Hector and tapped the back of his old donkey jacket. ‘Listen.’

  ‘Someone getting the sheep in, most likely,’ he grunted without stopping. His head and stick stuck out as if he was aiming for some imagined winning tape, except that here, she thought, glancing round again, there were only losers.

  ‘It was a scream, I’m telling you. And I can’t see anyone moving any sheep.’

  ‘Not here you won’t. Up at Bwlch Ddu it is. The next farm. They use a whistle, see.’

  But she wasn’t convinced by this explanation and when they both reached the drive once more, she positioned herself in front of him, trying to ignore the sudden appearance of wetness around his eyes.

  ‘It was from the house,’ she insisted. ‘I don’t imagine things.’

  ‘Look, young lady. Let’s be honest. This isn’t the kind of place you’re used to, coming from London. I mean, here is full of mystery. It’s Pagan, for a start. Always has been. Which is why you’ll not find many churches round here.’

  ‘Pagan? You mean Druids?’ Her eyes widened. She saw that the hand resting on his stick was trembling.

  ‘Possibly. Now then,’ his tone lightened. ‘Mr Griffiths at Llandrindod told me quite a lot about your big dream for Wern Goch. And which of us hasn’t lived on dreams, eh? Who doesn’t need some kind of future to look forward to?’ His damp eyes took on the colour of the darkening sky as he angled his stick at the Hall’s forbidding shape, its black curtainless windows. ‘The truth is, I can’t afford to go on living here and subsidising Mark, without some reserves in the bank. Selling the little house and a bit of land is my only option. But I still need to have the place near. To still see it from time to time. D’you understand?’

  She nodded, but that was the easy part.

  ‘Doesn’t Mark work at all, then?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh yes. He’s a sawyer over in the forestry, but his wage packet’s not nearly enough. I mean, what if he had a family, not just me?’ He blinked back tears the same time as big raindrops began to fall from above. She didn’t push it. Clearly Wern Goch was more than just a pile of old bricks and a ragged roof to these Joneses and she resolved one day to find out why. For now, she must weigh everything up and make a decision because by this time tomorrow Hector Jones could be shaking hands on it with someone else. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves.

  ‘I’ll give you thirty-two,’ she announced, avoiding eye contact. ‘I know it’s not forty, but so much needs doing, I won’t have enough left over for anything else.’

  ‘Thirty-four.’

  Lucy paused, wishing with all her heart that her own dad was there to advise her. Hector Jones’s rough cheeks were now glistening with unchecked tears. He was a wreck, all washed up. In many ways, just like her. But right now, she’d never had so much power in her whole life. Not even with those slush-pile authors at Hellebore. And it was his obvious desperation for a reasonable sale which weakened her resolve.

  ‘OK. Thirty-four it is.’ In retrospect, those words had fallen like stones from her mouth as Hector’s free hand gripped hers and his first smile appeared.

  ‘Let’s drink to that, eh? Come on, Miss Mitchell. This way. I’ve not had anything to celebrate for years.’

  Chapter Eight

  Eighty nights have I lived since then, the blue, the red

  The moment when . . . And how this yellow earth

  Burns my skin, my blood, my tongue turned mute

  But not my mind, still sharp, astute, while

  Future Death awaits . . .

  RFB 1987

  So far, so good, Robert conceded to himself as he sprinkled two sachets of sweeteners into his coffee at The Blackamoor just off the A40 near Ross-on-Wye. A classy pub, this, which matched his newly-acquired Maverick, now full of walking and camping gear, instead of his earlier more formal luggage. The handsome 4WD dominated the car park. The name of his wheels too, was pretty neat, considering.

  He was taking his time. Doing things in stages, and after his stay at the Novotel it was as if one night had folded into another in a kind of molten blur. Just like when he’d been at Uni in Sydney and used his study time to hang around Potts Point and Garden Island in a kind of amnesiac dreaming . . .

  So, yes, apart from some cretin cutting him up near Cirencester on his journey west, it would seem that things were generally looking up. Not that everything could be achieved at the drop of a hat, mind. Far from it, and his search for the more profound meanings of life – his life – was like crossing one of the many streams in the Botanical Gardens back in Oz. Each stepping stone different from the last, sometimes tilting underfoot, yet still taking his weight, furthering his purpose . . .

  He looked out through the pub’s leaded window at a hill where sheep toiled along its green flank, silhouetted against the afternoon sky. He felt a sudden pang of longing. For green and more green. The sound of rain on the bedroom window, the scent of a certain woman’s skin . . .

  Suddenly the pub door opened and six middle-aged men wearing cycling gear and each clutching a melon-shaped yellow crash helmet, hovered for a moment, then ignoring his
death-stare chose the closest table to him. He eyed them in turn as he downed the last of his coffee. What a load of fucking whackers, he thought. Besides, they made the place smell like a dunny. At one point, a gnarled knee actually prodded his thigh.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ the guy said, but Robert knew he didn’t give a monkeys.

  ‘Plenty of space over there,’ he said pointedly, gesturing towards a deserted area beyond a brick archway.

  ‘Dinners only,’ the man said. ‘We just want a snack.’

  Just then a mini-skirted girl whom he he’d not noticed before, came over from the bar to take the cyclists’ orders. She wrinkled her nose before rattling off the bar snacks menu, then jotting down that they all wanted tuna and coleslaw jacket potatoes. Finally she turned her attention to him and he blinked in disbelief.

  Her musky scent, the way she stood in that ridiculous skirt. Jesus Christ, she was Liza Docherty all over again. Bondi’s cheapest, stupidest piece of meat. He gulped inwardly, tempted to leave, but knew he couldn’t without drawing attention to himself. Was it possible that the fashion student from Paddington had an identical twin sister who’d emigrated, just like him?

  ‘Would you like another coffee?’ the girl asked.

  He felt her saucer-like eyes fixed on him expectantly.

  ‘Yeah.’ He tried to pull himself together. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Espresso or Cappuccino?’ She shifted her weight on to her other leg and Robert spotted a couple of the cyclists eyeing her butt. He also saw an engagement ring on her finger and found himself wondering on a scale of one to ten what kind of wife and mother she’d make. His own experience told him zero.

  ‘Espresso. Thanks.’

  She strutted away, and with each step her buttocks pressed in turn against the black fabric wound tight round her hips. Liza had done exactly the same after he’d picked her up. Flaunting her sex, bringing him to that same old cul de sac. Except, on that sunset evening with the College barbecues being lit further down the beach, she’d humiliated him. Said he’d ‘got no toothpaste in the tube,’ and then begun to get dressed without a care in the world, until he’d pulled her down into the sand . . .

  No one had seen anything. Why should they? They’d just been passing strangers with too much sun on the brain. One minute she’d been there, straddling him, goading him, the next, she was down with the other buried rubbish and bits of broken shells which are no use to anyone.

  ‘Thanks,’ he acknowledged the girl’s return with his fresh coffee then quizzed her as he slipped his tanned fingers round the cup’s handle. ‘Who’s the lucky guy? Or is that too personal?’

  ‘Hey, course not.’ She flashed him a smile then put out her hand for him to inspect her trophy more closely. ‘It’s a Topaz. Nice innit? My birthstone. And his name’s Darren.’

  Pity for Darren, then . . .

  ‘So, when’s the big day?’

  ‘Next June. Got to save up first.’

  ‘Right.’

  She moved on to the cyclists who by now were silently disembowelling their potatoes as if they’d not eaten for a year. The odour of oily fish reached his nose – Farm Cove on a hot day – while strands of coleslaw dangled from their lips and in that moment, in that overcrowded place in an overcrowded country, he had to get out.

  In the car park, the midday sun caught the chained-up cycles, the open-topped BMW and a silver Mégane, and to his relief, showed up every vital dust mote on his four-wheel-drive. Even the cleared arc of glass in the rear window made this look like a country vehicle, not some prissy school run job. Exactly the effect he wanted. Perfect, in fact. Until he saw the mud.

  He used the Gents and topped up with petrol in a one-horse place south of Hereford. So far the weather had been on his side and with the onset of evening beginning to change the light he knew that in an hour’s time he’d be back at the planned B&B in time for a shower and a wander round the handily placed town of Hay.

  ‘Smart wheels, sir,’ the guy said, handing over his change and two plastic coins for the jet wash. ‘Odd it’s so mucky, that. Black usually keeps pretty pukka.’

  ‘Why I chose it,’ Robert gripped the discs between his teeth then dropped the last of his loose change into a nearby chilled drinks dispenser and seconds later pulled out a can of Coke.

  ‘Yours then?’ asked the man.

  ‘Sure.’ He’d picked up on this particular piece of pond life’s envy and, to quell any more questions, pinged back the Coke can’s lid. ‘Just had a bonus from work if that’s okay with you.’

  ‘No tax disc, I see.’

  ‘My boss has got it.’

  ‘Pity if you got stopped.’

  ‘Yeah. But it’ll be on there in half an hour.’

  ‘Half an hour’s a long time round here.’

  ‘I guess.’

  He selected Power Shampoo then Laser Rinse, but afterwards not only was this mud resolutely clinging to the Maverick’s sills but was also drying like old blood in unsightly patches on his jeans. A moment’s panic. Spit wouldn’t be enough to shift it and a trip to the Gents would mean going past his inquisitor again.

  However the cashier had left his post and was approaching at speed as if he had something important to add, but Robert was already in the driver’s seat and had fastened his belt just as those unwashed fingers rapped on his closed window.

  ‘I’ve had a thought,’ the man mouthed, and Robert noticed the wet flesh inside his bottom lip. He wanted to drive off but the fucker’s hand was still on the car’s hood. ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘Sure.’ His window opened enough to let a previously unseen line of jet wash foam slide down the glass. His engine idled silently.

  ‘Why not get some valeters on the job? They’d clean inside an’ all, and give a turtle wax. My brother’d do it cut price for you. He’s only a mile away at King’s Thorn.’

  Robert shook his head, his normally equable features tightening. ‘Sorry mate. No offence, but I’ll decide what I do with my wheels.’ He then heeled the throttle and, deliberately exceeding the 10 mph speed limit of the forecourt, left the dill standing in a pall of exhaust, and headed west for the second time that week.

  Chapter Nine

  Sacred land, Sidh of my soul, with its silver oaks

  At moonlight, whose waters return the stars’ gaze,

  Whose sprits rise to stir the sleep of the Damned

  That they too may know Death . . .

  MJJ (with a little help)

  At five o’clock, with the taste of Hector Jones’s almost neat gin still in her mouth, Lucy sat in the front parlour of Horeb House B&B in Rhayader’s West Street, with a so far untouched milky cup of tea on a chipped occasional table next to her armchair.

  She felt drained, so tired she could sleep for ever and, if there hadn’t been that Vacancy notice in the front bay window, would have probably kipped in the car. But she’d been lucky. The landlady, Mrs Evans had just received a cancellation which meant that the tiny back bedroom overlooking a neglected vegetable garden and further on a Griffiths & Sons Meat Processing plant, was all hers for the next fortnight.

  Was everyone round here related? She’d asked herself, once the woman had finally bustled away with a deposit of £50 in her pocket, clearly miffed by her guest’s reticence as to her life history. Were Jones, Griffiths and Evans the only names to be had? Normally, that quaint notion would have made Lucy smile, but not now. For too much at Ravenstone Hall was still unexplained and too little volunteered. What was that weird scream all about and why had Hector Jones’s eyes filled with tears upon hearing it? Why was Mark still hanging around? What exactly was holding him there amongst those random water springs, the spongy saturated land? Maybe she would never know. Maybe she wouldn’t want to know . . .

  But she couldn’t help thinking about him all the same. His toned body, his skin which all weathers had turned the colour of dark oak. Those eyes which to her seemed as bottomless as a still lake at night and which sometimes caught her unawares. By
comparison, Jon looked as if he came from a totally different planet. Pale from an indoor City job, a body which hadn’t seen the inside of a gym or played any sport since Uni. Yet a man who, she had to admit, had been as steadfast as the rising and setting of the sun. Until she’d turned him away without any explanation when he’d phoned as she’d left her flat. Maybe he was chatting up someone from work by now. How could she blame him? Maybe they’d already made it to a bed, and that imagined scenario sent more than a prick of jealousy through her system. In fact, it felt more like an electric shock. But she’d needed time to heal, to cope with Benn’s violation on her own, because even now it was like an open wound, too easily damaged, still hurting too much. One day, if there was a one day she’d tell him and perhaps he’d understand.

  Perhaps . . .

  ‘Will you be needing food?’ Mrs Evans’ dyed black head had popped round the parlour door. ‘You never said.’

  ‘Yes please. I’m starving,’ was her automatic reply.

  ‘Half an hour then. It’s lamb chops.’

  The woman disappeared attended by the distinctive smell of sprouts. Lucy’s appetite suddenly waned and she found herself wondering if Rhayader did take-aways or pizzas. She stared at the glass-fronted display cabinet filled with fancy porcelain from another age. Hideous mostly, but there was something touching about the pride in which these particular heirlooms had been preserved and displayed. How in this one room with its sepia studies of haymaking at Pontsian, or fishing on the Afon Gwy, the past seamlessly interlocked with the present. The same for Wern Goch, and the contrast between the day’s discoveries and Hellebore’s slick surroundings couldn’t be greater.

  As if to reassure herself that what she was doing was right, Lucy dug out her wallet from her shoulder bag and found yet another little piece of her own past kept next to her driving licence in its own windowed pocket. A photo of her mum and dad which she’d taken on that last on holiday as a family near Caernarfon. Another place he’d loved. Yet she didn’t really need to see it again for, like Magical Tales, each tiny detail was ineradicably imprinted in her mind. Their hair interlocked in the breeze; their eyes only for each other while William Mitchell rested his weary doctor’s hands on his wife’s shoulders. The isle of Ynys Mon sleeping in the sea where his ashes had briefly lightened the waves then disappeared . . .