The Last Winter of Dani Lancing: A Novel (2 page)

“Someone walked over your grave.” That’s what her gran would have said.

The room is too dark, only a little moonlight spills in from the
hallway. She isn’t sure she can stay there. The shadows are alive sometimes.

“Be brave, Dani,” she tells herself. But the old fears are strong. What would Dad do?

She bends down and looks underneath the bed. Cobwebs. No monsters—unless you’re a fly. She smiles a fake smile, even though there’s nobody there to see it, and she feels braver.

“Go on, Dan,” she whispers, and stretches out her fingers to the wardrobe door. It swings open with a little haunted-house creak. The dresses and coats are long gone. It is totally empty. Of course it is. Real monsters don’t hide in wardrobes.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

She cuts him.

His body twists. She tightens her grip on his hand as the pain draws him back from the oblivion of sedation. Eyes flicker. For a second they open: confusion, pain, fear. His palm pools with blood.

“Shh,” she whispers, as if to calm a baby, squeezing his fingers tight.

He struggles one final time, but the tape she’s wrapped around his body holds him securely. He drops back into the darkness.

With an unsteady hand she fumbles in her pocket for the sterile swab.

“Damn,” she spits, frustrated by the delicate touch needed. With a bloodied finger she pokes her glasses, holding them in place so she can peer through the oval at the bottom. His blurred hand sharpens into focus.

She dips the bud into his palm; the cotton bloats, gorges itself. She lets his hand drop—it arcs to the floor and swings, splattering red like a child’s painting, and then comes to rest, weeping onto the carpet. She’s cut far deeper than was needed; bone shows through the deep trench of flesh. She doesn’t care, just runs the swab across the slide, leaving a bloody smear. Done. She feels giddy. Finally she’s done it. Patricia Lancing has her man. She leans forward, her mouth brushing his ear to whisper, “You are a monster.”

“He needs a plaster,” a small voice says.

Patty looks across at Dani, who with a shy smile holds up the toy she’s squirted with ketchup.

“Hoppy Bunny needs a plaster. He’s poorly.”

“Oh dear, let’s get him one. Maybe Doctor Duck should take a look.”

“Oh yes, Mum. I’ll go get him.” Her daughter pads away, the memory fading.

“Danielle,” Patty calls to her five-year-old daughter, but she is gone. Long gone.

She looks back to the man tied to the chair. “Why Danielle?”

The question hangs in the air between them as it has done for over twenty years, poisonous and all consuming.

“Why my daughter?”

There is no sound from him. She looks at her watch. 3:42 a.m.

She takes the slide with his blossom of blood, puts it back in its box and seals it. With reverence she walks it over to the cooler and places it inside. All is done. She hears her husband’s voice slide back to her through the years: “Now what, Patty? Now what will you do?” Jim asks, but she doesn’t know what to say to him, her mind too full of shadows.

She turns back to the man she has abducted. With a finger, she reaches out and tips his head. His skin is waxy, lips flecked with the drool of insensibility. She takes his eyelid and peels it back; there is nothing but a poached-egg smear. He sickens her. She raises the knife and presses it into his soft throat. It would be easy … so … she closes her eyes.

She opens them. The hotel room has gone. She coughs and the shop assistant looks up from what he’s reading.

“Yeah?” He looks fourteen, all spots and surly resentment.

She points behind his head, to the serious hunting knives in the locked cabinet. He grunts, then takes a stubby key from his pocket and slides the glass away. He points to one and she nods. It’s vicious, designed to slice through flesh and muscle, hack through bone. One edge a razor, the other a saw. She’s come all the way across London to this little shop in Wimbledon, somewhere nobody knows her, to buy a specialist hunting knife. She carries no ID, just cash—a cover story all worked out: her husband will be hunting for the first time, big promotion up for grabs and he needs to impress. So she will have to gut, slice and cook whatever he manages to shoot. She’s pleased with her invention and has topped it off with a disguise: waxed jacket and riding boots she bought from Oxfam yesterday. She’s also wearing lots of make-up. Mutton dressed as mutton. She spent all morning in front of a mirror perfecting her cut-glass home-counties accent, reborn as Hilary Clifton-Hastings. Nobody can refuse to sell a hunting knife to a Clifton-Hastings.

“That will do nicely” she says and hands it back. The shop assistant peels the price sticker from the back with a fingernail that is almost pure soil.

“Thirty-five fifty.”

Hilary Clifton-Hastings slides the cash across the counter; he scoops it up and scatters it in the till. No questions, barely a glance from him. She does not need her alter ego. He sizes her up in a microsecond; small, thin, gray woman in her sixties: harmless.

Harmless!

That was two days ago.

She opens her eyes. She’s cold. That afternoon’s snow falls on her once again. The watery sun’s dipped below the horizon and the
light has died. She stands, a statue, alone in the long-stay car park alongside the metal carcasses that poke from the growing carpet of snow. If anyone were watching her, they’d think she was a crazy woman. But nobody is watching, not even on CCTV. Broken yesterday and not repaired, tut-tut.

She hasn’t dressed for the weather. The ferocity of the cold has surprised her: Siberia in southeast England. She knows she should go and sit in her car but everything looks so beautiful in its white coat. All around the ground is pure, unmarked, as if no living thing exists to disturb the peace. It would be terrible if she destroyed it. So she stands still and waits.

She sticks out her tongue and counts … one elephant, two elephants … a swirling snowflake lands and dissolves, wet and slightly metallic. Others fall on her eyelids and trickle away as mock tears, some alight on her skin and nuzzle into her silver hair. Each flake is perfect—an intricate and exquisite ice world—unique. Some see the hand of God in this. Not her.

Fewer and fewer planes have been landing over the last few hours as the snow has got heavier. If she had her phone she could check the weather report, check the plane schedule, but she doesn’t have it. She carries nothing that could identify her if … if things don’t go to plan.

“Shall I just stand here and wait?” she thinks. “But for how long? He’s already hours late, may not come at all.” Does she wait until she freezes?

She watches the snow and listens for the first mutterings of an engine. She feels as if she’s been placed in a magician’s cabinet, waiting to be sawn in half.

Then, in the darkness some way off, she hears the chug of a
motor. She shakes a little, though not her sickness shakes. She doesn’t need her medication—this is first-night nerves.

All is dark. Jim flicks the light on. He stands in the doorway, holding a tea towel where the door should be. “Ladies and gentleman. I now present for your delectation and delight a master of the art of prestidigitation …”

“Dad!” Dani shouts from the hallway. “I’m doing magic.”

“Sorry. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Magic of Madame Danielle Lancing.”

The tea towel is pulled away with a flourish and a six-year-old Dani enters, wearing a black top hat made from an old porridge container and a paper plate. She sports a black cape that was once a towel and waves a cardboard wand that came free in a Rice Krispies packet and has been sat on quite a few times.

“I am Mystical Dani and you will be amazed,” she says in as low a voice as a six-year-old can manage.

She whips the wand into the air.

“Abracadabra!” She pulls off her hat and Hoppy Bunny is on her head, dressed in a tutu.

Jim claps wildly. Dani grins, showing her missing front teeth. She waves her dad over, and once again they whisper.

Patty watches them with pleasure, and perhaps a twinge of jealousy. They’re thick as thieves those two. Always have been, always …

“Now my beautiful assistant will help me,” Dani shouts as if she were in a real theater, and Jim bows and blows kisses to the crowd, “with the Many Knives of Doom illuj-ion.” She waves a plastic knife in the air.

Patty feels the weight of the hunting knife in her own hand, its edge bloody. Her husband and daughter dissolve—smoke and mirrors. They were not real, a thirty-five-year-old memory that rose to the surface; the heft of the blade in her hand is real though. What she must do with it is real. She grips it tight.

Headlights arrive, arresting the freezing flakes in mid-air. It’s too big to be a car, it must be the shuttle. The excitement thaws her toes and fingers; she moves slowly toward the line of cars that will hide her from view. Finally the shuttle reaches the entrance to the car park and turns in. She feels her heart slow as the bus crawls toward her.

“Let him be on it,” she speaks aloud, though the wind rips her words to shreds the moment they emerge from her mouth. The bus skids a little as the driver applies the brakes. Inside it’s dark. There is no movement. She ages and dies many times before the door finally cracks open and the interior is illuminated. The driver hops down the stairs quickly, keen to get this done and get back to the warmth of the terminal. He opens one of the luggage stores under the bus and pulls out a set of golf clubs.