Except for the little stream that runs busily along, Steeple Lane looks much like all the other lanes around here. The lane itself is narrow and dark, the hedges thick with branches. It’s like travelling down an artery. The road opens up after a mile or so, wide enough for two cars to pass, slowly, side by side.
A little wooden sign in the hedge reads ‘Warning, deep ditch’. On my left there’s an ancient-looking farmhouse, black beams criss-crossing the house, contrasting with white walls, a couple of scraggly trees in the garden. A sign outside says ‘Steeple Farm’. I remember that Charlotte said Jonny rents one of the farm cottages. I keep going. I don’t want to look too closely; he could be there now. I keep going for another mile or so, eventually crossing over the little stream, until the road starts to narrow again and I see a sign on my right: Steeple Cottage. I’m here. This was Cassie and Jack’s home.
I can’t see the cottage at the end of the drive from here; I have to park my car somewhere on the lane. I pull in close to the side of the lane and tell myself I’ll just have a quick look. I just want to see it for a moment, that’s all. I wind the window down for Bob and ignore his outraged bark as I lock the door behind me.
The drive to the cottage is surrounded by trees; it’s gravelled and bends sharply to the left, before opening up in a small circle in front of a light-coloured stone cottage. I called the hospital on the drive. Jack, I know, is with Cassie, but I still don’t want to be out in the open, so I lean my back against one of the trees that seems to huddle around the cottage as if trying to keep it away from the world.
The cottage is older than I’d imagined and perfectly symmetrical. Two large rectangular windows dominate the ground floor, either side of the stone porch. Two more windows are directly above, where I imagine the bedrooms must be. At the top of the cottage, a round window peers out of the attic, like a Cyclops. Delicate daffodils prettily punctuate the front flower beds, I picture Cassie on her knees planting the bulbs, her hands in the earth. I don’t know why, but the image makes me feel lonely for her.
Angry clouds gather overhead, sucking away the light. Sparrows dip and soar and a lone bat dive-bombs for invisible insects. I move towards the house; moss under my feet muffles my steps until I get to the path. Immediately, a security light flashes on and I’m bathed in brightness. Blinded, I forget I’m not doing anything wrong. Suddenly I’m an intruder. The house doesn’t want me here. It’s spotted me, and its warmth has cooled. I turn away from it, back down the path, my feet too loud on the gravel. The security light is strong on my back, like the presence of the cottage behind me, pushing me away. The trees have changed too, almost black in the approaching night. Their branches look painful, like arthritic hands. Their leaves, disturbed by wind, shake the gossip of my visit to each other. A rabbit leaps across the path a few feet in front of me, flushed out of its hiding place. It looks startled, and I think I do too. I want to run but I’m worried running would expose my fear, and that’d make it worse. I round the end of the cottage path towards my car.
It’s not until the car door has clicked shut that I breathe out. Bob’s crept onto the passenger seat, and his tail wags. I feel my heart pecking inside my chest; I’m safe now. I pull Bob closer towards me, kiss his head and laugh a little at myself. I’ve always been good at freaking myself out As a girl I’d imagine sharks in a swimming pool or zombies in the wardrobe. Thank God David and I didn’t move out here; I’d hear the wind calling my name in no time. I wonder if Cassie ever thought she heard hers whispered through the silver birch trees, if she ever felt loneliness cover her like a cold blanket. I look in my rear-view mirror. The cottage is still lit up, like searchlights in a prison. How long do the security lights stay on? Surely they must click off soon.
Bob whines next to me and presses his paws up and down on the front seat, reminding me I promised him a walk. I put the keys in the ignition and drive slowly up the lane, away from the cottage. I pull in after a few hundred yards. It’s started to rain a little. I remember the weather forecast said it’d only get worse towards dusk. I’ll let Bob out now, just for a quick run, and then dash home to get to Kate’s for my shift. Bob bounds straight over me, and leaps down onto the lane as I open my door. I think of Maisie running away and call his name to keep him close but he ignores me. I follow him and call his name again, picking up my pace as I turn a corner.
Bob’s spotted someone. He’s trotting towards a man in a dark waxy-looking jacket, standing on his own by the side of the lane, next to a small mound of what looks like rubbish. The man turns towards Bob as Bob parks himself, sitting on his hind legs right in front of the man, chest puffed like a centurion, his tail wiping back and forth against the tarmac. He’s straining towards the man, sniffing, led by his nose.
‘Oh god! Sorry,’ I exclaim, breaking into a slow jog to pull Bob away. ‘Bob!’
But the man’s smiling down at him. He’s got longish white hair poking out from under his hat, and the nurse in me spots a failing hip in the way he favours his left side. I’ve seen him before. He was the man who caught my eye in the car park. Then he turns his face towards me and I stop, my stomach lurching, because the man is Marcus Garrett and he’s smiling at me. He has no idea who I am, and why should he? He strokes Bob’s silky head.
‘I think he can smell the pastry I got in the village.’ He chuckles, pointing towards a brown paper bag that pokes out of one of his large pockets.
I stare at him, and Marcus looks up at me again, brow raised, waiting for my answer. I walk closer and grab Bob’s collar with one hand, and clear my throat to try and shake the surprise from my voice.
‘Oh, pastries are his favourite. My husband and I have a joke that Bob’s more pig than dog, don’t we, Bobby?’ Bob doesn’t take his eyes off Marcus’s hand as it goes towards the bag in his pocket, breaking off and taking out what looks like half the pastry.
‘Mind if I give him a bit?’ Marcus asks.
I shake my head and let go of Bob’s collar and he lunges greedily, as though he’s never been fed, towards the sizeable chunk of beige, glistening pastry.
Marcus keeps smiling as he bends to pat Bob’s shoulder, saying, ‘There’s a good lad.’
I see that what I thought was rubbish is actually a small shrine by the side of the road, this unremarkable little patch of lane, with the stream gurgling and hissing like something injured. This is where she fell. The flowers aren’t flowers any more; most have turned to soggy brown mulch. I imagine no one has the heart to put them in the bin. Marcus follows my gaze and I realise that I’m not in my uniform. To Marcus I’m just a woman walking her dog. I’m free to ask things I normally couldn’t.
‘That’s why you found me here, I’m afraid,’ he says heavily as though the words themselves have weight as he nods towards the pile of dying flowers.
I steel myself; I can do this. I remind myself I’m lying for Cassie’s sake, not for my own benefit.