The Mill House (34 page)

'How long have you had it?'

'Terry and I aren't as well off as you and Josh ...'

'How long?'

'About six years, why?'

'Is it your only car?'

'What is this?'

'Nothing. I'll let you get back to whatever you were doing now. Sorry to have taken up your time.'

After ringing off she returned to the bed and sat down heavily. She was trying to reach into the darkness beyond her memories, seeking a place where all the bad things lurked, and all the pain was stored, but she could find no way through. Had she blocked whatever had happened so completely that nothing could release it? Had it been trodden, compacted, buried like a corpse for all these years? But even a corpse couldn't vanish completely, there was always something there to exhume, a tangible fragment, a scrap of reality, that would prove it had once existed. She considered the analogy and was unnerved by its similarity to the quip Gwen's cousin had repeated at the funeral, about her father telling him where the bodies were buried. Was her mind merely echoing Albie's words, or was some horrific memory stirring in her

deepest subconscious? With a shivering apprehension she thought of the way she'd been with Josh this past year. Was that proof she was hiding something from herself? Was her sudden coldness when making love the sign of a damaged and unhealed mind, and even body?

Looking down as the phone rang in her hand she clicked on without thinking and said, 'Hello?'

'Hi, its Fen. Have you managed to speak to your sister yet?'

'Yes. Just. It wasn't her who came to see him.' 'Did she have any idea who it might have been?'

'I don't think so.' 'You sound upset.' 'A bit. It wasn't a pleasant call.' 'What are you doing now?' 'I was about to start sorting through the boxes in the attic.' She glanced up at the open trap door and felt a reluctance to go up there now. 'I keep thinking I'll lift a lid and a flurry of memories will come out to tell me everything I need to know,' she said, but I only want to see them if they're going to make everything all right again.'

There was a smile in Fen's voice as she said, 'There's always a chance they will.'

Julia's eyes were still on the open hatch, but even as she realised how little enthusiasm she had now for going any further, she accepted she had to, not only for her own sake, and possibly Josh's, but for her father's too. If he was the man she'd always believed him to be, that was how he deserved to be remembered. And if he wasn't, well, Pam was right, it was high time she made

herself face it. So, as soon as she'd rung off from Fen, she ensured the ladder was safe, and started to climb.

Alice Hope's expression was pale and uncertain as she listened to the sounds of Rene saying goodbye to Pam at the front door. Her normal, implacable composure had been badly shaken by Pam's news, leaving her feeling raw and defenceless as the past continued its inexorable journey into the present.

George was standing with his back to the empty fireplace, his eyes dark hollows of intensity, his jowls quivering with unspoken words. He restrained himself until Rene came back into the room and closed the door.

'I've tried to resist bringing this up,' he said, his gaze sweeping from one to the other of them like a malevolent wind, 'indeed I had hoped that Julia would come to her senses by now, and leave well alone. From what Pam has just told us that clearly hasn't happened, so let's begin at the beginning, shall we? Someone gave Douglas those photographs, and I don't find it unreasonable to assume it was the same person who paid him a visit six weeks ago. Very possibly, both events occurred at the same time. So, what I need to know is, which of you was it?'

Alice's hands were clasped tightly in her lap, her face showing a trace of anger, but most of all unease. 'You know very well it wouldn't have been me,' she replied tautly.

His eyes held hers, then moved to his wife.

Rene appeared more composed, though she too

was nervous. 'It wasn't me,' she assured him in a voice that rang with sincerity.

His head went down. 'Then how, ladies, do you suppose he got them?' he enquired, looking up again.

Neither of them answered.

He inhaled deeply and turned round to face his reflection in the mirror over the mantel. His cheeks were mottled, his eyes shone like bullets. 'I want the truth, and one of you has it,' he said, in a voice of quiet deliberation.

Again neither of them responded.

He nodded. 'Rene, fetch the number we have for Julia,' he said.

Obediently she rose to her feet and left the room. Silence prevailed until she came back, and put a small scrap of paper next to the phone.

After she'd returned to her chair he continued to stare into the fireplace, his hands stuffed inside his trouser pockets, his large frame rocking back and forth on his slippered feet.

Alice remained very still, saying nothing.

'For the last time, Alice,' he said, still with his back to her, 'was it you who visited Douglas and gave him the photographs?'

'No, George, it wasn't,' she replied.

Very slowly he turned to face her. She looked at his hands, then away again. Her own were clenched so hard they were white.

'Dial the number,' he said.

She pressed it into the phone and without checking if it had connected, handed it to him.

"Go to your room now,' he said, taking it, 'and select your prayers from the penitential devotions.

I will deal with Julia so you can put her out of your mind.'

Julia was sitting on a beam in the attic, the musty smell of old papers thickening the air, while the sound of rain pattered on the rafters that formed a tent around her. There was a large open box at her feet, its contents spread out across other boxes and over the floor. Though the light wasn't good, it was easy enough to recognise what she was looking at, because everything, without exception, belonged to her: an old Brownie card containing her attendance record and the motto long forgotten; a scruffy book of poems all written by her, aged eight; birthday cards she'd received over the years; her junior swimmer badge; old school reports; photographs from holidays and trips to the zoo; her old teddy with one eye and a missing leg; a broken record player that she remembered her father trying to mend; some of the records that had gone with it - Tina Charles, Abba, the Boomtown Rats; ribbons; hairslides; so much, right down to the first tooth she'd left for the fairies when she was five, to the glasses she'd had to wear until she was ten. There was even an old book of astrology that she remembered them consulting together to find out if she was compatible with David Bowie, her heartthrob at the time. It was all junk really, bric-a-brac, but to her - and it would appear to him too - they were treasures from her first sixteen years; one memento after another, after another, all stored in this big cardboard box, that, judging by the dust, hadn't been opened in years.

She wondered how he'd got it, if he'd taken it at the time he left, or if someone had collected it all up and given it to him later. She had no way of knowing, but what really mattered was the fact that he had it at all. If she believed what her mother and Pam wanted her to, this could chill her to the bone, but she was feeling only sadness and nostalgia, and less fear now at the prospect of knowing more.

Reaching out for a yellowing envelope, she folded back the flap and pulled out a small wad of stiff and crinkled sheets that turned out to be cheques. She frowned and looked more closely. The handwriting was blunt and style-less, making it easy to read. Then, realising what she was seeing, her heart slowed to an unsteady beat. Each cheque was made out to her father and signed by her uncle, and all were for the same amount: twenty- five thousand pounds.

Her head started to spin. The attic suddenly seemed airless and cramped. She gazed into the cobwebby shadows and tried to make some sense of it. Maybe her uncle had paid her father to stay away from her, but if he had, her father clearly hadn't taken the money, for none of the cheques had been cashed. So had her father been blackmailing her uncle, promising to stay away if he was paid enough? If so, then why not bank the money? She dug into the envelope again, hoping to find something that might explain the puzzle, but it was empty.

The phone was ringing down in the bedroom again, the third time in the past few minutes. The sound seemed to be coming from another world,

another dimension, close to this one, but not quite attached. She ignored it. She was only interested in why her uncle would be writing cheques to her father for twenty-five thousand pounds. There were six of them, totalling one hundred and fifty thousand - a goodly sum today, back then, in the early Eighties, a staggering amount. She looked at the dates more closely. Each was six months apart, starting in July of 1982 - two years after he'd left - and ending in January of 1985. She racked her brains for some significance to the dates, but could find none. But they did tell her that there had been some contact with her father at a time when her mother had sworn she had no idea where he was. Then she realised it must have been around '85 that Gwen had come into his life, so did that have any relevance to why the cheques had stopped?

The phone started again. Obviously someone was keen to get hold of her. In case it was Shannon or Dan, she set everything aside and started carefully back down the ladder, reminding herself that one of the rungs near the bottom would rotate underfoot if she didn't hit it right.

The phone was still on the bed, where she'd left it after speaking to Pam.

'Ah, at last,' a gruff voice barked down the line when she answered. 'I thought you might be there.'

'Uncle George,' she said, feeling as disturbed by the timing as she was by the fact it was him. However, seizing the moment, she said, 'Actually you're just the person. Would you mind telling me why you sent my father six cheques for twenty- five thousand pounds back in the Eighties?'

Just as she'd expected, her request stopped him dead in his tracks.

'Are you still there?' she prompted, knowing he was.

There was a small growl that turned into, 'I want you to listen to me now, Julia, and I want you to listen well. You know that the bible teaches us to honour our mothers and fathers. Your father is dead, so it is your duty to honour your mother. She wants you to stop what you are doing, to burn all the papers you have there, and sell the house. Do you hear me? That is her wish, and it is my command. You will stop this nonsense now, or the consequences will be paid, most of all by you.'

The tone of his voice was reminding her of his ugly temper, but it was the threat at the end that almost took her breath away. 'You can't speak to me like that,' she responded, sounding much shakier than she'd like. 'I'm a grown

woman now...'

'Julia, are you listening to me?' he said darkly. 'I want you to get down on your hands and knees and ask God to forgive you for your sins. I can do this with you on the phone. I can lead you in prayer. Are you kneeling, Julia? Are you down on your knees?'

She could hardly believe what she was hearing. He had to be insane if he thought she was going to obey him.

'Oh Lord Jesus Christ,' he chanted, 'pattern of humility, Who didst empty Thyself of Thy glory, and take upon Thee the form of a servant, root out of us all pride and swelling of heart...' Julia was stupefied. He was quoting from his

Treasury of Devotion, the little black book she'd hoped never to see or hear of again in her life.

'We have tried to protect you, Julia,' he was saying. 'We have done everything in our power to do so, and still we try, but you are filled with the evils of pride and defiance. Now obey your mother. Let me hear meekness in your tone as you swear before Almighty God that you will honour your mother, who gave you life. Subjugate yourself before the Lord, and implore Him to forgive you.'

'Have you completely lost your mind?' she cried.

'Julia! Go down on your knees before God.'

Her head was spinning with memories of the only other time he'd ranted at her like this. It was over twenty years ago, but even so she could hear the whistle of leather in the air, the smack of it on her bare skin and her screams as he beat her. Nausea rose up in her, and anger such as she'd never known since came spouting from her lips.

'You are a sick, crazy old man,' she hissed, 'you should be locked away, and I'm going to see that you are,' and before he could respond she slammed down the phone and stood shaking, almost uncontrollably, with fury and shame. How could he seriously have thought she'd obey him? Just what kind of power did he believe he had over her? And what was all that rubbish about protecting her? He truly was deranged, and she could only thank God that she'd left home when she had, for she didn't even want to think about what might have happened if she hadn't.

She started to pace the floor, one hand clamped

about her waist, the other to her mouth. She would never forgive her mother for letting him do what he had to her that day. Alice had heard her cries, had seen the welts on her buttocks and legs afterwards, but had never uttered a word of comfort, or reproach. She'd merely shaken her head, as though Julia had received no more than she'd deserved, and carried on with whatever she'd been doing at the time.

So sickened by the call, and the way his ravings had reawakened that ugly memory, she decided to abandon her search for the moment and took herself downstairs to use the other phone. She found herself wondering what he was doing now, in the name of his god, but didn't really want to know. She was going to think only of the things that were beautiful and pure in her life, like Shannon and Dan, her new friendship with Fen, this house and all the years of happiness her father must have known here - and all those he'd shared with her before he'd left. If anyone was evil and twisted it was her uncle, not her father, who'd never laid one finger on her in violence, or any other deviant or obscene way. How dare her uncle start spouting off about protecting her, when she had far more to fear from him, than she'd ever had from someone as gentle and caring as her father?