Hanging Hill - Mo Hayder [85]
‘I never noticed this before.’
‘Because I never use it.’ She switched on the light – just a bare bulb in the rafters that did nothing except illuminate the spiders’ webs and fossilized swifts’ nests. There were a few rusty tools that the previous owner had left. Steve walked along the racks, checking them all. He stopped at a chainsaw, took it off its hook and examined it.
‘Steve?’
He looked round at her. ‘Get us a drink.’
‘What would you like?’
‘Something clean. Whisky. Not brandy.’
Inside the cottage smelt of candlewax and the blue hyacinths Millie had potted. They sat on one of the window-sills, drooping. Sally stood for a moment, her head resting against the cool plaster wall, looking at the flowers. After a while she took off her shoes and rested them on a carrier bag in the corridor, then rolled up her coat and pushed it into a bin liner. She walked in her socks to her bedroom with the bag and stripped to her underwear, adding all her blood-soaked clothes to the bin liner. Then she found a T-shirt and a pair of ski pants she’d bought for one of Julian’s business trips to Austria, pulled them on, shoved her feet into trainers, and went back down the corridor, looping her hair into a ponytail. She got towels from the airing cupboard and a pile of tea-towels from the cupboard under the sink. The whisky was at the back of the cupboard, behind all of Millie’s school books. Sally hadn’t touched it since they’d arrived, she only really kept it for visitors. She rested the bottle on the towels, added two glasses to the pile, a plastic bottle of sparkling water, and carried it outside.
The moon had broken through the clouds and as she crossed the lawn the awful beauty of the garden hit her. It had always reflected warmth and health back to her, even in the depth of winter, but now it seemed to be the silvery reflection of something old and sickly. She stopped for a moment and turned her face to the west, thinking she might catch something watching her. The fields on the other side of the hedge, which always seemed friendly, tonight were full of shadows she didn’t recognize.
Steve was standing in the garage with the boot open. In the electric light his face was yellow – hollow under the eyes. She put down the towels and poured two glasses of whisky – not too much – and handed one to him. They stood facing each other, held up their drinks – as if they were toasting something good – and drained the tumblers. She grimaced at the taste of it and took a hurried swig of the water.
‘We’ve got to put him outside. On the grass.’
Sally lowered the water bottle. ‘Why?’
‘Just help me. Get the plastic.’
They put the bottle and the empty tumblers on the window-sill and pulled on their rubber gloves. Together they went to the boot, got hold of each end of the plastic cocoon and pulled. David’s body came rolling forward with one hand up, almost as if he knew he was toppling on to the ground. Steve caught his weight, wincing at the pressure on his wounded hand, then together they lowered the body. Through the plastic David’s face was visible, as though he was pressing it against a window.
‘Jesus.’ Steve wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He looked sick. ‘Jesus.’
Sally stared at him. He couldn’t give in. Not now, after what they’d already done. There was no going back.
‘Steve?’
‘Yeah.’ He wiped his forehead again. Gave himself a shake. ‘OK,’ he said, suddenly sharp. ‘Roll up your end.’
‘Right. Yes. Of course.’
They knotted the ends of the plastic and between them shuffled the body out of the garage on to the driveway. They walked sideways, down the two stone steps that led to the lawn, struggling with the weight.
‘Here,’ Steve said, and they dropped the bundle in the middle of the grass.
He straightened and looked around him. There were no lights as far as the eye could see, only