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Authors: Susan Hill
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bridge, which was the short cut, but sticking to the main route. Abi said the only thing to worry about on the towpath was if it was muddy and you slipped, or if you met Beanie Man, but it bothered Marie. She would walk the long way, round by the Hill. A car slowed beside her but she kept her head down and the collar of her anorak up and walked faster. The car drove off. She’d had enough tonight. But then, she’d always had enough. Which one of them hadn’t? But which of them could get out, even Abi and her great ideas?
It was as she crossed over to the road that ran alongside the Hill that Marie heard something behind her. She looked round quickly, thought she saw something, a shadow or a movement, but when she stood still, there was nothing. Moonlight and an empty road. Someone went by on a scooter, buzzing like a gnat.
She walked on fast. But then it was a definite sound, footsteps, someone running to catch her up, and as she glanced over her shoulder again and saw a figure, she remembered where she was. The Hill. People had been caught and murdered on the Hill, a serial killer had made it a place of danger for months until he was tracked down, and then he had come to the Hill and found a tree on which to hang himself. It had all happened before she came to Lafferton but she’d heard about it often enough and now the thought of it made her blood freeze. She didn’t know why. She told herself it was not only ages ago but the man was dead – not even in jail and alive somewhere, stone-cold dead. He couldn’t hurt her or anyone else.
But the person following her could. He had not overtaken her, he was not someone making quickly for home, with no interest in her. He was there, keeping behind, and nobody else was in sight or earshot. To her left reared up the dark outline of the Hill; to her right, the railings of the park. Houses were on the far side of that – she could not even see any lights, people had gone to bed by now.
She prayed for someone to drive by, for the gnat whine of the scooter, a late-night van, even a police patrol, even just one person walking a dog last thing.
But there was no one, except whoever was now a couple of yards behind her and closing in. She could hear breathing, a soft pant, in and out, in and out. Quiet footsteps. Marie broke into a run. The footsteps behind her quickened too.
But then a car came, from the opposite direction, its headlights picking her up in a wide and welcoming arc of brightness.
In the caravan, Jonty Lewis found a single can of cider, drank it standing up, then smashed the can against the wall. He felt strung up, he was sweating and his stomach churned. The television picture changed from a row of faces to fizzing snow again. He thumped it and the snow went black. There was no food, nothing left in the milk carton, no coffee in the jar.
He lay down on the bench but he didn’t sleep, there was too much going on inside his head and jangling in all the nerves of his body. He ached and sweated and sweated and ached his way through what felt like a lifetime of darkness until the moon swung in through the window above the sink.
Marie should be here and she wasn’t. When she did turn up, he was going to kill her. He lay, seething, waiting, being leered at by the moon with mould and pockmarks all over its face.
Twelve
‘Just to recap, then, before we close. The next meeting is on Thursday 24th of October, and we’ll be here again because the building work on the Deanery still won’t be finished.’
‘If you’d rather not host two book club meetings in a row, I’m happy to do it next time.’
‘Thanks, but it’s fine. I’m in New Zealand during November anyway, so it’ll be you to host it then. Our book for October is Learning to Dance by Michael Mayne and I have two copies so if anyone would like this spare … ? Cat?’ Ilona held out the paperback.
‘So – that’s it.’
‘And I propose the thanks to you, Ilona, from all of
It was as she crossed over to the road that ran alongside the Hill that Marie heard something behind her. She looked round quickly, thought she saw something, a shadow or a movement, but when she stood still, there was nothing. Moonlight and an empty road. Someone went by on a scooter, buzzing like a gnat.
She walked on fast. But then it was a definite sound, footsteps, someone running to catch her up, and as she glanced over her shoulder again and saw a figure, she remembered where she was. The Hill. People had been caught and murdered on the Hill, a serial killer had made it a place of danger for months until he was tracked down, and then he had come to the Hill and found a tree on which to hang himself. It had all happened before she came to Lafferton but she’d heard about it often enough and now the thought of it made her blood freeze. She didn’t know why. She told herself it was not only ages ago but the man was dead – not even in jail and alive somewhere, stone-cold dead. He couldn’t hurt her or anyone else.
But the person following her could. He had not overtaken her, he was not someone making quickly for home, with no interest in her. He was there, keeping behind, and nobody else was in sight or earshot. To her left reared up the dark outline of the Hill; to her right, the railings of the park. Houses were on the far side of that – she could not even see any lights, people had gone to bed by now.
She prayed for someone to drive by, for the gnat whine of the scooter, a late-night van, even a police patrol, even just one person walking a dog last thing.
But there was no one, except whoever was now a couple of yards behind her and closing in. She could hear breathing, a soft pant, in and out, in and out. Quiet footsteps. Marie broke into a run. The footsteps behind her quickened too.
But then a car came, from the opposite direction, its headlights picking her up in a wide and welcoming arc of brightness.
In the caravan, Jonty Lewis found a single can of cider, drank it standing up, then smashed the can against the wall. He felt strung up, he was sweating and his stomach churned. The television picture changed from a row of faces to fizzing snow again. He thumped it and the snow went black. There was no food, nothing left in the milk carton, no coffee in the jar.
He lay down on the bench but he didn’t sleep, there was too much going on inside his head and jangling in all the nerves of his body. He ached and sweated and sweated and ached his way through what felt like a lifetime of darkness until the moon swung in through the window above the sink.
Marie should be here and she wasn’t. When she did turn up, he was going to kill her. He lay, seething, waiting, being leered at by the moon with mould and pockmarks all over its face.
Twelve
‘Just to recap, then, before we close. The next meeting is on Thursday 24th of October, and we’ll be here again because the building work on the Deanery still won’t be finished.’
‘If you’d rather not host two book club meetings in a row, I’m happy to do it next time.’
‘Thanks, but it’s fine. I’m in New Zealand during November anyway, so it’ll be you to host it then. Our book for October is Learning to Dance by Michael Mayne and I have two copies so if anyone would like this spare … ? Cat?’ Ilona held out the paperback.
‘So – that’s it.’
‘And I propose the thanks to you, Ilona, from all of
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