Page 2 of The Cut
‘What do you think?’
She hesitated, then smiled. ‘I’ll pick up something, or we can Deliveroo?’
‘Again!’
A pair of glossy lips pouted into the frame as Dani multitasked her way out of the house, grabbing her bag and closing the door with her foot. ‘Don’t forget Nathan has Kidsmet tonight.’ She slammed the front door and headed to the car. ‘Can you pick him up from there on your way over, love?’ Dani had taken charge of the kids’ social calendars. She had taken charge of a lot of things.
Kidsmet was Nathan’s beloved after-school drama group. Ben’s older child, Lily, was turning into the star footballer that Ben had always aspired to be. She was a good player, spurred on by the success of the Lionesses, and he was enormously proud of her. Nathan, on the other hand, took after his mum; he was more of an introvert, more artistic. Ben’s first wife, Ellie, had wanted their kids to follow their passions rather than be bogged down by academic career choices. But Ben knew that the luxury they lived in hadn’t come from a pipe dream about scoring goals for Nottingham Forest, it had come from a laborious physics degree and a seven-year master’s in architecture.
‘How did it go in Stockholm? Are they going to restart your St Petersburg Project?’
Ben fixed a smile and turned to the camera. ‘Not sure. There are still some financial hurdles to leap over. The toxicology ground report was a dud, but you know me, I’m like a dog with a bone. I just hope …’
Dani wasn’t listening. She was ‘yep yep yepping’ in all the wrong places as she threw her bag into the back of her Jaguar11E-PACE and slid into the driver’s seat. Big car, small woman. ‘Fill me in later, love, I’ve got to get going, see you at the footie.’ Dani smiled, touching her manicured nail extensions to her lips. And with that, she killed the call.
Ben floored the accelerator and raced up the A1 towards Grantham. He drove in silence for a while. Somewhere in a dark corner of his mind, an alarm was sounding, like the nagging blip of a distant heart-rate monitor. He flicked a button on the wheel and turned up the volume on the radio.
‘Protests outside the Crown Court this afternoon descended into violence, as residents of Barton Mallet forcibly objected to the release of the notorious murderer known as “The Mill Killer”. The ruling made by the parole board yesterday has been met with hostility—’
Ben’s thumb hit the button, killing the bulletin. He turned off at Harlaxton. His foot pressed hard into the pedal as he tore down the country road, breaking the limit like a man with a death wish. He dropped the window an inch and breathed in cold air.
A lump had started to form in Ben’s throat as he drew closer to home, a huge wave of emotion building, lapping at the edge of his composure. His old friend Stress could usually be tempered with a few large glasses of whisky, but this felt different. He’d always known this day was coming. That bastard was about to be released. For the last thirty years he had been safely locked away in HMP Gartree, but now he was going to be free and who knew what he was capable of? Ben’s chest tightened as he gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. A pain grabbed at his chest, like fingers twisting his heart until he couldn’t breathe.
He indicated and pulled into a lay-by, sat still for a second, then opened the door and stepped out into the evening air. The12surrounding fields stretched out for miles, that patchwork quilt of English countryside gently rolling into the distance, carved up by hedgerows and barbed wire on wood. Decades had passed since he had gone ‘bleggin’, picking blackberries, in a place just like this. As kids, they’d hunted for conkers, built bivouacs in ditches, and got into all kinds of trouble.
On this winding road that led into the village of Barton Mallet, there was a large rock protruding from the verge, around which the road had been awkwardly redirected. A notoriously sharp bend that circumvented a ‘death trap’ on the site of an ancient Hanging Tree. Thirty years ago, the tree had been struck by lightning, and over time that burned-out husk had slowly disintegrated back into the earth, along with the terrible memories of that night. A gentle breeze blew around Ben and he took a deep breath. He watched as a single magpie landed on the jagged granite rock.
People don’t forget when children are murdered. It is seared into the heart of a place, etched into the very foundation of the community. Ben stared at the lonely black and white bird, then glanced around, looking for its mate. The magpie balanced on the sharp tip of the granite rock, staring him down. Neither of them moved, frozen in time. Ben slowly brought his hand up to his temple and saluted the captain.
‘One for sorrow.’
13
2
SEPTEMBER 1993
There is a bench on the corner by St James’s church that sits on a little triangle of grass. On the wooden back slats is a small engraved brass plaque dedicated to Marian Knot, 1944–91. The bench is the morning meeting place reserved for the Year 11 girls of Barton Mallet Secondary School. The boys, on the other hand, have their own little hangout: a red-brick electricity substation with two huge metal doors of peeling grey paint. They climb up on the roof, like dumb chickens instinctively trying to find the highest perch. A row of sports bags sit like soldiers, lined up against the coping stone next to the little triangle of green grass, worn brown by football feet. The queue of bags allows the boys to mess around before the bus arrives, without having to stand in an actual queue.
Annabel Maddock is perched on the back of the bench, fingering the brass plaque, passing a half-smoked Benson and Hedges to her friend Amy Hartshorn. She never inhales; she just sucks in once and blows it out. It gives her a headache. She grabs a Polo from her bag and watches the boys. He’s not here yet, he’s always late, but the bag queue doesn’t apply to him. He’s Top Dog so it goes without saying that he’ll be getting on the bus first. Mr Popular is a few inches taller than everyone else, he’s got hair on his chest now and under his arms. His hair is golden – her sister Catherine calls it strawberry blond – and it shines in the sun like a crown. They’re doing the Plantagenets in history: the Wars of the Roses. Mr Ashton says Ben takes after Edward IV,14who was tall and blond apparently, but Annie thinks he looks more like the cute one from Take That.
Catherine Maddock nudges her older sister and giggles as they watch the boys play a ridiculous fainting game. It never works, but they live in hope of at least one of them hitting the deck.
‘Hey, Annie, Mark’s up next, look.’ Cat grips her leg nervously.
Cat and Mark Cherry are best friends; they play music together. She’s brilliant on the clarinet and Mark plays the cello so obsessively that they call him Mark Cello, or Marcello for short. In fact, right now his cello is propped up on the bench, with Cat silently guarding it.
The girls watch Mark puffing in and out to the countdown from the circle of lads, gathering pace.
‘Four, three, two … blow!’ The chant is led by Lynette Davis. She’s not quite one of the lads but wants to be and is just one initiation away from being ‘allowed in’. Mark has his fist to his mouth, his cheeks red and bloated as he blows into his thumb. For a second, everyone stands and watches in silence.
‘Oh shit!’ Cat is up on her feet as Mark sways unsteadily and then collapses to the ground, hitting his head on the kerb. ‘Mark, are you all right?’
‘Gaylord’s down!’ The boys are raucous, whooping and jumping off the substation, gathering round to look. Mark Cherry is out cold. Cat is gently tapping his cheek.
‘Mark? Mark, are you OK?’ His eyes flutter. Cat grabs her bag and pulls out a Kia-Ora juice drink. She pops the straw into the little hole and tries to put it into Mark’s mouth as Annie cradles his head.
‘He looks really pale … Mark?’ Nurse Cat’s voice is frantic as she tries to loosen his school tie. It’s been cut short and is frayed at the bottom, the knot yanked tight into a ‘peanut’; another of15the boys’ silly rituals. She leans in slowly, almost close enough for a kiss, but Mark suddenly revives with a huge grin on his face and quaffs a mouthful from the straw.
