The Hollow Tree, page 30
His fingers were around her throat. Shona shook. Her eyes flared. From somewhere hidden, somewhere deep and hard and lonely, she found the strength to respond.
“Fuck you,” Shona said, pushing her voice past his hand. “I’ll write what I fucking want. You cannot stop me.”
Terry took photographs of the two. The flash snapped like lightning. His fingers loosened.
Knott was now at the door, his eyes wide, his mouth open. Watson let Shona go with a sudden violent shrug. She rocked backwards, and fell.
“Right enough,” he said. He wiped his face with open hands.
Shona righted herself on the floor, her heart pounding like the waterfall.
“Right enough,” Watson repeated, quietly. He turned on his polished heels, and left with quick steps. Knott, eyes closed, shut the door behind him.
Shona slumped onto the soft carpeted floor.
Terry was beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. She knelt and looked into Shona’s eyes.
“My God,” Terry said. Her eyes were wild and wide. “My God,” she said again.
“Don’t worry. I’m absolutely fine,” Shona said firmly. She reached for her phone, which she had dropped. It had been recording, unnoticed.
“Got it all on tape,” she said. “Twat.”
“Got what?” Terry said. Her eyes were bright with angry tears.
“Got the fucking story, didn’t we?” Shona said.
32.
It was dark, but not silent. The waterfall thundered nearby. Behind the trees, behind the wall of night.
That had been the message from Raymond. He’d read it, and it had disappeared.
Watson was alone. Knott had gone—after the interview debrief, he had resigned on the spot, and gone to London. Alyce, shaking her head, not touching him or looking at him, had also resigned. And Bax had not yet come back. No word from him, no sign of him. As if he had never existed.
The campaign event in Bishop Auckland had been cancelled. The diary had been cleared. Knott, before he had left, had told the campaign team to knock off, go home. The phone had not yet rung: the press office in central London had been informed of the incident, but the reporter had not yet called for comment. But she had enough to run a story. He had attacked her. In front of the photographer. That was enough. No need for reactive lines. No need for briefing. No use for balancing quotes. The police had not yet been in touch. But they would be, he knew. His father and Sergeant John Harmire were no longer around to make things go away.
He was still in the hotel room. Bare-chested, wearing only his suit trousers.
“Fuck them,” he said out loud, to no one. He held in his hand a heavy square glass. Whisky filled it to the brim.
“Fuck it.”
Out, he looked. Into the darkened woods, into the landscape swallowed by the night, except for the nearby line of old trees, lit in strips by the electric hotel light.
He had lain on the bed, the empty glass on his chest. But it had not moved. He had called, and spoken. He had asked, and pleaded. But it had not moved. Sorley had not come. He had taken a break, had a drink—had a few—and tried again. But it had not moved.
He had taken paper, and written it all out, laid it down on the table, waiting, patiently, conventionally, for the glass to move. Nothing. Sorley had not come. Sorley was not there. Sorley, dead, was dead. The dead had died and only the living were left.
How had the reporter gotten his government mobile number? He did not know. Sorley had asked for it once. But it wasn’t from Sorley—that reporter wouldn’t have known a thing about it. She must have gotten it another way.
The football shirt was another thing entirely.
He looked out to the woods. The Great Fosse thundering, somewhere, beyond. The road outside lit by the hotel light. A string of puddles glinting beside the road, and a path to the great falls. The endless mapless darkness.
He reached inside his suit jacket for the plastic bag of cocaine. A toot of the white stuff. He tipped it out on the table, and scraped it to and fro, with his credit card. He stopped, and looked at the tiny landscape of powder on the tabletop. Crumbs cast thin shadows.
Nothing to fuck tonight—apart from himself, he thought. He snorted it all up, then swallowed some pills.
He looked at his shaking hands. They were dark, wet with his blood. Sliced finely by edges of the penknife. Slippery with strands of cum. His soaked jeans, covered in mud, splattered with blood. His necklace, ripped and broken, a string around his neck, beads scattered like tiny pale eyes in the muddy earth. In the dark woods. In the hot summer night.
No. He shook his head.
No: his hands were fine. His clothes were fine. That was not there. His hands were clean, pink, slightly swollen, dusted with talc. A forty-nine-year-old’s hands. Clean, almost. Clean, for years. Nothing on them. Nothing to see. Nothing was ever there.
His head was heavy, swimming. Down by the path, there was a shape. There was a distant figure. Was it Alyce? Tall, pale, elegant. With a white shirt, with—was that a dark skirt, or dark trousers? The figure was on her phone, her face, turned away, partially lit. A ghost light on the edge of the forest. He banged the window. She did not look up. Just stood, in light, at the edge of the trees. He moved to his phone, and called Knott. But there was nothing. He called Bax—again, nothing. He called Alyce—it was engaged.
He pulled on a shirt, buttoned a couple of buttons, and left the hotel room, padding down the corridors. He recoiled from the cold as he left the lobby. His campaign posters were still up. They would be taken down in the morning.
He stepped uneasily across the car park in the frigid air. There, at the roadside, was the glow, which turned, and moved into the woods, along the path to the falls.
He could hear the Great Fosse, thundering beyond the pines. The constant roar of it, grinding and booming. The path was dark, but for the light from the mobile phone, like a blue candle.
He paused to look back at the hotel. He looked up, but the moon was obscured by cloud. The sky was empty; there were no stars. He looked back, once more, and then he plunged into the forest.
The light had gone, but the path was long and winding, doubling back on itself, climbing up and down steps, as it moved towards the Great Fosse. The roar was louder now, as he moved along the path, using his own phone as a light. Its tiny beacon flashed on bark, and board, on fencepost, and into the blackened tangle of the undergrowth. He moved on, peering along the path to where Alyce could be, but he could not see her. It was cold. He pushed back a shiver.
There was a rope-lined bridge over a sudden black crevasse, and he crossed it slowly, and reached the other side. He stopped.
Maybe Alyce had not been there at all. He had been drinking. He was wired and buzzing. He looked at his phone. He called Bax: there was nothing. Just a quick fall of bleeps. No even a voice message. The same for Knott.
“Cunts,” he said, and spat.
He stood for a moment in the dark, out of sight of the waterfall, but hearing its thunder. The rocks around were high, and jagged. In the flickering light of his phone, they cast sharp shadows, coiled into odd shapes. He moved the beam about, and a rock became a face—a bearded man with coins on his eyes. He moved it again—a building crowned with battlements, and beside it, a ribbed rock which looked like a field of fingers. He flashed it around him—there was a plane of grinning mouths and blinded eyes, multiplied and magnified in the sharp beam. A tongue, lolling from a fat mouth in a green face full of leaves and vines.
And in the dark beyond the precipice, he saw another shape—the black shadowy resonance of a vast tree. It was monstrous, a giant. It was dark, even against the darkness. It rose to a height above the others, set back in its own glade, an aura of lightless space. Its trunk was more than one body, it was multiform, its branches high and wide, tangled at their tips, and it had a rent in its side, like a tear in a curtain. It stood, vast, and Watson stared into it and saw nothing inside its depth. The light from his phone could not reach it. The light within it was extinguished.
He knew the hollow tree, the great Coine Tree. But it was not here. It was deeper down the dale. It could not be here. Trees don’t move. Hollow trees don’t walk.
Then, in a blur of movement to the side of his eyes—there was a flicker. He saw, again, in the corner of his sight, a shimmer of light on the trees up ahead. A definite glow. An aura. A tickling radius of light and movement, like someone walking, with an open phone, or a lantern, or a candle.
“Hello?” he called out, although his voice melted into the noise of the falls.
He walked on, his feet slipping now on the wet board, and as he turned a smooth corner, past boulders and huge trees, the volume of the waterfall increased suddenly.
There in the darkness was the Great Fosse, where the Tyr, fresh from the moors and emboldened by tributaries slicing down steep ravines, fell smooth-faced to a constant hammering demolition of foam and cloud.
He could see the viewing platform, some telescopes on metal posts, and a steep stone path down to the edge of the rushing water.
There was no one here. He was alone. There was no Alyce. The spray from the falls settled on his hair and smooth face.
He sat down on a bench, and with water soaking into his suit pants and his back, he stared into the darkness. Until he saw a figure again, below on the narrow stone path. A face, pale, lit by the mobile phone. In amongst the rocks, a billowing shirt. It could be Alyce. But it could be a man.
Something in the bearing of the shoulders. Something in the limbs, the head. It seemed familiar.
“Alyce?” he called into the tumult, into the night. “Bax?”
He moved, as if in a dream now, as if frictionless, in one movement to the steep rock steps. He flashed his phone light again, and its brightness slapped on the descending stair of wet rock. There was a ladder of slanted steps, and at their bottom, the fiercely running water, and the constant cloud of spray. He could hear nothing but the roar of the falls, and the timpani roll of their violent resolution on the jagged rocks, hundreds of feet below.
“Bax? Knott?” he called again. “Alyce?”
Down there, by the riverside, the light glowed. A definite glow. The sub-sea iridescence of a mobile. She was down there.
And if it wasn’t her, it was someone. Someone was down there. Did someone call him? Was that a voice? The past, inside the present.
He moved to the tight line of stone steps and began his quick descent. It began to rain. Water on his shaven skin.
As he stumbled down the wet steps, his mind began to detonate with light.
33.
Shona was waiting for the train north.
They had driven from Tyrdale to Darlington quietly. The rise out of the valley and onto the main road had been in faltering sun, and a darkening sky. As they left, Shona had glanced behind, at the valley of the Tyr. She knew she would not see it again. Its silent beauty, its wordless perpetuity, stood, and would always stand, until there were no human eyes left to see it.
Terry had put some jaunty disco music on, and Shona, after a time, had smiled. She didn’t like the music, but didn’t feel the need to comment anymore. Shona had rung her father several times. But the phone rang out. She left messages. A tightening was drawing together in her chest, and around her heart.
Now they were at the cold echoing space of the Victorian station and suspended in waiting. They sat together in the grimly lit café, their cups empty. Terry was quietly skimming through the images of the events in Watson’s hotel room.
Shona checked her phone again. Nothing.
“So,” Terry said, at last. “I guess you’ll be on your way.”
“Yep,” Shona said. She looked at Terry briefly, and then up at the monitor high on the oxblood brick wall. A cool wind was blowing through the iron arches of the old station. It was getting dark. An arm of dark clouds was moving slowly across the vast sky. She wondered what the clouds had seen on their journey over the land.
“You all right there?” Terry asked, softly.
“Aye.” Shona nodded, but put a hand to her throat. It was sore.
They had considered calling the police. But Shona wanted to hold off, for a time. She wanted the story to herself—and Terry had the pictures. Shona had wondered why Knott had not tried to seize the camera. She had seen that happen before. But Watson’s entourage had just disappeared.
“I’ve had worse,” she said.
“Of course you have,” Terry said. “But that was rough—are you sure you are all right?”
Shona nodded. She stared at the black square of her phone. She was exhausted.
“Right, well. I am not one for emotional goodbyes,” Terry suddenly said, and stood up.
Shona stood, slowly, too. The darkening light cast a dusty drift of gloom over the photographer’s fine features.
“Look, we’ll talk about your pictures, the images, when I’m back, after I’ve written all this up,” Shona said. “Ranald will want to see them. Package them up. Fuck knows how I’ll piece all the words together.”
“You’ve got a hell of a story, you know that?”
“Yes, I have. I know that. I’m not sure how to write it yet.”
“Just start at the end. Or the very beginning. ”
“That’s a very good place to start.” Shona nodded and smiled.
“You just need to begin with: Why did Daniel Merrygill kill himself at the Scottish wedding, right?” Terry said.
Shona looked to the station, empty in the early afternoon. The tracks like iron spines.
“I know. And we can only guess,” she said, as if pacing out the words she was soon going to type. “But we know, now, he thought he was doing it for a reason. There was a method and a rationale. And it was, definitely, with no doubt, linked to the disappearance of Andrew Banks, all those years ago. He was pointing to it. In a strange and unusual way.”
“And his dad was strange.”
“His dad is a mad hermit and thinks when we die we go into the stones,” Shona agreed. “Maybe Daniel believed him. We’ll never know for sure—how could we? But we have enough. And we have enough to fuck Gary Watson, that’s for sure.”
“Exactly. You’ve got it,” Terry said. “You said you’d need to contact the police down here?”
“I’ll have to. I’ll go to the Durham police. I don’t trust the Ullathorne lot. I have a contact in Police Scotland, who I know will be interested. Ranald will need it legalled. It will be legalled to kingdom come. But I need to write it first.”
“Just start typing,” Terry said, softly. “It’ll come. How many stories have you written? Thousands?”
Shona grinned, her stick loose in her hand. Terry’s eyes glittered.
“Thank you, Theresa Green,” she said, and moved towards Terry. Terry moved quicker, and they hugged. Terry smelled of light sweat and coffee. A faint perfume, and warmth.
They held each other for a while.
“I’m not quite sure what to say,” Shona said, resting her head on the photographer’s shoulder.
“What cannot be said, will be wept,” Terry said quietly.
Shona gave her a squeeze.
“Right,” Terry said, suddenly pulling back. “Have a rest on the train. Don’t get into any more fights. Hope your old man is all right—and let’s talk next week about pictures.”
“That would be good,” Shona said, gripping her stick hard.
A train thundered through the station, its lights ablaze. It felt like a mountain was rolling through. Then it was gone. Shona looked closely at Terry’s face as light moved across her cheeks and the soft glistening in her pale eyes.
“Do you still have pals in Edinburgh, from art school?” Shona said.
Terry blinked and tilted her head. “Aye, a couple of reprobates. Wait, are you asking me if I ever visit Edinburgh?”
“I didn’t, no,” Shona said. “I asked . . .”
“You’ve got my number,” Terry said, grinning.
“I’ve got your number,” Shona said, looking down at her bag.
Her train arrived, pulling into the station with noise and movement.
“All right, snapper—see you around,” Shona said. Terry nodded.
Shona took up her bag and stick and looked for her carriage. She stepped on board.
It was raining now, outside the station. A sheet of rain fell from the pitched roof. Shona watched as Terry stood, half turned. Then she waved, ran a hand through her hair, seemed to laugh, and then turned away and slumped back to her car for her journey back to the hills.
Shona found a seat and sat heavily. The train moved on, and the grey roofs of Darlington faded away into the brown rain. She rubbed her damp eyes for a moment, and then called her father again. No reply. She looked down at her trainers—they were spattered with mud from Tyrdale. Grains of sand from the riverbank. A tiny green curled leaf, plastered to the side of her shoe.
Her phone buzzed—it was a text from Bernie.
Got your message—can you come straight to the allotment as soon as you get back. Your father needs your help. B x
Shona texted back: I’ll be there—is everything OK? Have you called the doctor? I’m on the train. I’ll be there in 2 hours.
She shook her head. Outside, the passing fields were soaked with rain.
She called Ranald.
“Good afternoon, scoop,” he said cheerily. “How is it going?”
“Heading back to Scotland—so, I think I may have something for you. Probably a news feature.”
“Marvellous. Can it make three to four thousand words? We can sell that. Should I approach the weekend magazines? Email me a synopsis and we shall go from there.”
“Fuck, yeah. Three thousand won’t be enough, though. How about thirty thousand?”
“Jeez, Shona, what is this—Watergate?”
“Similar.”
“Tell me more?”
The train sped north. The sky looked clear ahead at the border.
“It might be the big one,” she said.
