‘Just imagine, you could strip off those thick tights and find the wonders beneath,’ he’d say, and put on a high-pitched, old-lady voice in the throes of passion. ‘Oh Melissa! Melissa! Go down on me!’ Melissa had ended up squealing in horror and chasing him around the kitchen, slapping him with a tea towel.
But despite what Mark says, Melissa believes this assessment of Hester was off the mark. She is essentially a bit of a lonely, odd old fish and she genuinely likes to be helpful. If there had been something a little cloying and unwelcome about her constant offers to help, maybe that was Melissa’s fault.
Yet she is a strange little woman. A bag of nerves about driving on a motorway, but she can walk into a room and see a man with his skull caved in before calmly emptying her freezer of cool packs to keep him fresh. Horror rises in Melissa’s chest again. She longs for coffee. She longs for it to be over.
The silence hangs between them as the road widens again. They pass fields of rapeseed flowers that blaze violent-yellow in the dishwater light. Another sign directs them to ‘The House’ and ‘RIVER’. As they drive down a rutted road that causes the van’s suspension to groan and protest, she believes she can almost feel the thump and slide of Jamie’s wrapped body moving around in the back.
Soon they reach a small, picturesque gatehouse with turrets and leaded windows that seem to eye them beadily. Engine humming, they sit in silence and look at the tall wrought-iron gates next to the gatehouse, which bar the entrance to a gravel driveway sweeping into the distance. It curves through some trees and the house can just be seen: a pale stone mansion criss-crossed with scaffolding. It looks oddly cowed and lonely despite obvious recent attempts at repair.
‘Did your husband ever say how he got to where that picture was taken?’ says Melissa now. Her mouth is dry and her tongue clicks unpleasantly against the roof of her mouth.
Hester shakes her head.
Panic begins to hum inside Melissa again. Something is very wrong about all this.
The Forgotten Dorset website had given the strong impression that this place was a ruin. There was no mention of scaffolding, which suggests people are doing the place up. There was no mention of fucking gates.
‘Oh dear, I think we had better move on!’ says Hester now.
‘What? Why?’ Melissa looks wildly around.
‘Is that a security camera up there?’
Melissa’s gaze jerks up to where Hester is pointing a shaky finger. The all-seeing, anonymous eye mounted on the top of the gatepost does a small shift towards them.
‘Let’s go!’
She slams her hand on the dashboard and Hester gasps before pulling slowly into the lane again.
They drive along in silence for a few minutes before Hester clears her throat again. It is obvious she is trying to appear strong but her voice seems unnaturally high when she speaks.
‘Maybe it’s only the River that is open to the public?’ she says. ‘We should keep looking because the well might be entirely separate from the house. A leftover from another time, perhaps.’
Melissa says nothing but she is a little comforted by these words. Less than a minute later she sits up straighter in her seat.
‘Hester, look! I think that’s it!’
She slaps the wheel in the flush of exhilarated relief. There is a pale stone well, covered in a filigree of green moss, with a rotted wooden top coming up ahead on the right.
‘Yes, yes, I think you’re right!’ trills Hester, giddy too.
The van comes to a stop on the opposite side of the road, next to a patch of woodland. A small neat car park is empty. Sparse silver birch trees shine in the gloom.
Then Melissa sees something that makes her cry out.
‘Shit! Look! There’s someone camping over there!’
Sure enough, a battered old tent sits only feet away, its shabby khaki almost camouflaged among the woodland palette.
Hester doesn’t attempt to move on. Instead she begins to climb out of the van.
‘Hester! What the hell are you—?’
The back of the van opens with a dull thunk, cutting off her question. Melissa breathes in sharply. The door closes again and she sees Hester scurry over to the well with a black wrapped package. Her stomach shivers. The pestle.
Hester drops it inside and turns with a triumphant expression before hurrying back to the car.
‘Thank you,’ says Melissa quietly, as she climbs back inside and starts the engine again.
Soon, they come to a clearing. The silvery expanse of river can be seen just beyond the fringe of trees ahead. Melissa turns off the engine. They sit in silence for a few moments, listening to the cooling tick of the engine and the grim tattoo of rain hitting the roof. It’s like the very soundtrack of hopelessness. Despair seeps through Melissa along with the sleepless night chill.
‘What are we going to do, Hester?’ She badly wants someone to take over now, to tell her what to do.
‘Well,’ says Hester, carefully, ‘there is a very deep river here. I think we’re going to have to find a good spot and use the resources we have available. It’s not ideal, but there we have it.’
Melissa darts a surprised look at the other woman. As usual, there is something very slightly off about her choice of words. It’s as though she never really learned the exact rules of conversation, Melissa thinks, but she is too desperate and tired to analyse this any further. She would accept just about any instruction at this moment.
They get out of the van. Melissa pulls her hood up in an attempt to ward off the damp fingers of early morning air that creep around her neck. Bringing an actual coat seemed like an impossible feat of organization at midnight. How she wishes now she had thought about it properly.
The dog jumps out and starts sniffing around excitedly near the van before circling and lowering its back end to the ground. The resulting smell makes Melissa step back and cover her face with her hand.
‘Oh poor Bertie,’ coos Hester. ‘His bowels aren’t what they used to be.’
Melissa says, ‘You know it can’t come with us?’
Hester doesn’t reply. Face tight, she roots in her handbag and pulls out a black, bulging rectangle. Of course Hester would have remembered a raincoat, Melissa thinks bitterly.
‘I’m quite aware of that,’ Hester finally replies. ‘And he is a he.’ She pats the seat. ‘Come, Bertie.’
The dog returns to the van, lowered head and drooping tail beaming resentment as it jumps onto the seat.
Melissa stares at the small, bustling woman in her Pac-a-Mac as she closes the door of the van and looks around, mouth primly pursed.
‘Hester?’ she says, unable to stop the words from rising up.
‘Yes?’ Hester’s small chin tilts. Her dark brown eyes are wary.
‘Why are you helping me?’ says Melissa. ‘What’s going on here? You didn’t have to get involved in any of this. Why?’
Hester’s eyes flare bright like a cornered animal’s as she stares back at Melissa.
A wood pigeon in the trees gives a lonesome coo.
This could all come crashing down now, thinks Melissa. She’s going to back out.
Her hand moves instinctively towards the phone in her pocket. End it. It can only get worse. End it.
Then Hester gives a short, surprising laugh. ‘Because we are old friends, aren’t we?’ she says slowly, enunciating each word carefully. ‘And you need me. You couldn’t have done this without me. Isn’t that what friends are for?’
There is nothing wrong with the ordinary words yet everything is wrong with them. Hester’s smile, so triumphant, seems almost vulpine and Melissa has a bizarre mental flash of Hester coming close and then, of all things, actually licking her face. It’s ridiculous and surreal and she starts to laugh. She knows this is an inappropriate response and it’s making her urge to pee even worse.
She’s plainly going crazy. None of this is Hester’s fault. All she has done is to help her.
‘Are you all right?’ Hester eyes her, sharp now.
Melissa wipes her face with her hand. ‘I’m sorry. Yes, I’ll be fine. Let’s go, shall we?’