The Fabric of Sin

Oh no. It had to happen, didn’t it? This was where the guy in whatever vehicle had nearly rear-ended them would come leaping down, total road-rage situation, bawling her out.

‘It’s all right.’ Mrs Morningwood looking over a shoulder. ‘He hasn’t hit us. And he isn’t getting out. Just carry on.’

Jane turned the key and the engine coughed and …

‘Oh sh—’

… Died.

‘Try again.’

Mrs Morningwood still looking over her shoulder and her voice was lower and toneless, like with tension, like she was controlling something.

‘What’s wrong?’

No sound from the vehicle behind. Looked like a Land Rover. No blasts on the horn, just its headlights on full beam so you couldn’t look in the rear-view mirror and keep your sight.

‘Try again.’

The engine fired. Jane went carefully into first gear, let out the clutch, crawled away, looking for the entrance to the track.

‘Keep driving, Jane.’

‘I thought you said—’

‘Go! Keep on. I’ll direct you.’

‘But the track—’

‘Forget the bloody track.’

‘OK … whatever.’

Jane speeded up, put the headlights on full beam, the hedge springing up all white like a mesh of tangled bones.

‘OK, what’s the matter?’

‘Carry on to the bottom,’ Mrs Morningwood said. ‘Then go right.’

‘Is there something wrong?’

When they reached the bottom of the road there were no headlights in the mirror.

‘Was that somebody you know?’

‘We’ll go to my house,’ Mrs Morningwood said.

It was like there was a ritual maze all around Garway Hill, marked out in lanes worn into the landscape over centuries. The rule was: high hedges low ground, low hedges or barbed wire meant that you were climbing. But it was impossible to tell one way or the other at nightfall in the mist. How many years did you have to live here before you knew where the hell you were?

‘Left,’ Mrs Morningwood said.

‘Here?’

‘This, Jane, is where I live.’

‘We just did a complete circuit? I thought we’d be halfway to Monmouth by now.’

‘Stop here. Anywhere.’

The mist had thinned quite a bit. Jane saw a row of low houses without lights. They looked unnatural, all the windows black.

When they got out of the Volvo, Mrs Morningwood put up a hand and laughed.

‘Wind from the White Rocks.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘Blown a tunnel through the mist.’

That made sense?

Mrs Morningwood went to the front door but didn’t open it, just shook the handle.

‘Now we’ll go round the back.’

They followed Roscoe along the path at the side of the house. You could see the hulks of chicken sheds to the side, and a fence.

‘Where do you grow the herbs, Mrs Morningwood?’

‘Garden at the back, where the chickens can’t get in. Pick quite a lot from the wild. Keep your voice down.’

They came to a glassed-in porch, and Mrs Morningwood squeezed past Jane and went inside, picking up a torch. The beam showed that the back door inside the porch was already open, Roscoe surging through the gap as Jane said something stupid.

‘Do you, like, usually keep it open?’

‘He’s been in.’

‘The door’s been forced?’

‘Spare key in one of the chicken houses,’ Mrs Morningwood said. ‘Nobody would know that, unless they’d been watching me for quite some time. He’s telling me he could come back any time. Whenever he likes.’

She went in briskly, but breathing hard, flicking switches, rooms springing out at Jane as the lights came on. She looked at Mrs Morningwood, her cracked Barbour and her cracked face, and knew that, for her, this wasn’t like coming home any more.

‘This is where you were attacked, isn’t it? This is where it happened. That’s why Mum brought you—’

‘Yes, Jane.’

‘Was it someone you know?’

‘Didn’t then.’

Jane looked down at Roscoe who was prowling, sniffing in corners, his tail well down.

‘And he’s been back,’ Mrs Morningwood said. ‘Bastard’s been back. Wants me to know.’

They were in the kitchen. There were some jars on a dresser. They had screw tops. The tops had been taken off and laid next to the jars. Mrs Morningwood stood and looked at the jars but didn’t touch them. Jane felt a stirring of fear.

‘He’s not—?’

‘He’s not here now. Dog would know. Besides …’

‘I thought you had people looking after the house.’

‘Dawn and dusk. See to the chickens.’

‘What … what are you going to do?’

‘Going to get all the rest of the herbs in the house, all the preparations, put them all in a bag, take them away and get rid of them, bottles, everything.’

‘You think they’ve been tampered with?’

Mrs Morningwood turned, took Jane by both arms, looked into her eyes.

‘Go home, Jane.’

‘Now?’

‘Shouldn’t’ve done this. Big mistake. Get in your car, go home. Give your mother my apologies. Drive carefully.’

‘What about you?’

‘Got my Jeep.’

‘But I can’t—’

‘Go.’

‘Mrs Morningwood, what’s going on here?’

‘Be careful at the entrance to the track. Visibility’s not good at the best of times.’

‘You’re coming back, though? To Ledwardine?’

Mrs Morningwood didn’t reply, following Jane along the path to the Volvo, wet mist shivering in the lights from the house, and Jane knew she ought to ask her to give back the key to the Master House.

‘Tell you what?’ Mrs Morningwood said. ‘Take the dog.’

She opened one of the rear side doors, pointing. Roscoe looked at her and growled.

‘In,’ Mrs Morningwood said. ‘You too, Jane.’

Jane got in and started the engine, watching Mrs Morningwood walk back to the house, not turning around,