Jim nodded. ‘It is,’ he said a little more enthusiastically. A lock of silver hair bounced up and down over his eye. He blinked and pushed it away.

  ‘Well,’ I said, tucking the letter away once again. ‘I’ll probably see a fair amount of you in here. Lily serves a damn good pint.’

  I gave them both a polite nod and started to walk away. I could feel Mary’s eyes boring into me and felt sure she and Jim were talking about me as I strode towards the exit. They were all apprehensive of outsiders and anybody different. I puffed out my cheeks. It was all so silly and pointless. Such behaviour was archaic, harking back to times when people lived by tribal rules and everyone was viewed with suspicion, as some sort of threat to their status quo. Nonetheless, I turned and gave them a polite wave, knowing I would bump into them again at some point in the near future. Jim smiled back and nudged his wife, who did nothing except keep her expression rigid and glare at me until I disappeared out of sight.

  8

  ME

  I feel that since I have given you an insight into to what drives me – what kind of person I am – I should lead you through my life up to the present. That is the best way. You will get to walk in my shoes, to see everything through my eyes. Then you might understand.

  Although I mentioned that I might be narcissistic or a psychopath, there are reasons why I do what I do. Of course, there are those times when things in life happen randomly. But not in my life. I won’t allow it. I like order. I like to be in control and when things get out of control, then so do I. I work hard to put them back to how I want them, and if that means hurting people, then so be it.

  I started school on a warm day in September. The memory of it is clear to me, the hurt of being left there sharp and raw. It had not been explained to me what was going to happen and so the resentment built in my brain, festering and growing until eventually, it all came pouring out. Isn’t that what happens with all children, I hear you ask? Don’t they all have to be left at school and simply get on with it? Indeed, that is undoubtedly the case. And I was surrounded by my peers, many of whom were as distressed as I was at being left for an entire day with complete strangers. But this is where my differences emerge. It’s only when I recall memories such as this one that I know for certain – I am not like other people. One boy cried all day. Another girl wet herself. I watched, fascinated, as warm urine trickled down her legs and pooled in an amber puddle at her feet. Me? I found a drawing pin on the floor and jammed it into the teacher’s leg as she leaned over to ask me why I looked so sad. Before she even had chance to do anything, to admonish me or cry out, I took my finger and jabbed it hard in her eye. It wasn’t her fault that it happened, that I had been left in her company and was feeling furious because of it. But it wasn’t mine either. I was unhappy and I wanted to lash out, so I did.

  I remember the look of horror on my mother’s face later that day as she spoke to another member of staff. I sat beside her, staring up at her contorted features, at her shiny eyes, wet from weeping. I listened to her words of sorrow and to her stream of apologies. I wasn’t sorry. She had abandoned me, left me with a team of strangers. I was a child and needed protecting. She had done me wrong and I was angry. I felt justified in my actions. I was far too young to understand what was going on and had no means of escape. Lashing out was the only tool I had. And it wasn’t the first time she had wronged me. I was simply paying her back for the previous hurt. It all made sense in my childish, undeveloped mind. My unsophisticated sense of reasoning told me what I had done was perfectly acceptable. I still think that to this day.

  Once we got home, everything began to go terribly awry. My actions would have to be questioned, analysed. There would be consequences.

  Which came first – the chicken or the egg? Did my parents begin to punish me because I was bad or am I bad because they punished me? It’s a difficult one to work out, isn’t it? Such a tricky conundrum. The old nature versus nurture debate. The punishments that I remember are unforgettable but for all I know, they may have started earlier than I recall. Perhaps I was a difficult baby and therefore reprimanded accordingly. Who knows what I was subjected to before my mind was able to comprehend what was happening to me? We’ll never know, will we? I once read that a baby’s brain is like putty, ready to be moulded into whatever you want it to be. Give it love and you get love back. Subject a child to hatred and guess what…?

  But I digress. My parents, exasperated at my behaviour, tried to speak with me. I recall vividly their wide eyes and flaring nostrils as they tried to reason with me. They wanted answers. They would have a long wait. I was nothing if not tenacious.

  We sat for what felt like an age, in complete silence, as they waited for me to talk. Their staring features didn’t frighten me. I had reasons for doing what I did. Surely they could see that? People in their position should have known that deserting their only child was unacceptable. So rather than sit any longer and watch their simmering anger or listen to their endless probing questions, I got up and walked away. This seemed to set off a determined rage in my father, who grabbed my arm and dragged me back to my seat. I didn’t shout out. I didn’t do anything at all except sit and watch him. This obviously deepened his rage, unleashing something inside him, something monstrous that lay hidden deep inside his blackened soul. He brought his hand back and slapped me hard across my face. It stung. Of course it did. He was a grown man and I was a small child. But I didn’t cry. Whether or not my lack of emotion made things worse, I will never know, but my dry eyes caused my mother to get involved, to be drawn into the whole sorry melee. Her expression crumpled and darkened, and she stood over me, her shadow formidable and menacing to my childlike eyes. She hauled me off my chair and took me up to my bedroom, throwing me on the bed, hollering at me that I wouldn’t get any supper. Still, I didn’t cry. Even my empty stomach wasn’t enough to allow the tears to fall.

  I wasn’t normal. My reactions weren’t normal. She told me so. Screamed it at me, telling me I had brought shame upon the family and that this would be the last time something like this would happen. They would make sure of it. They had a reputation to preserve. People looked up to them, thought of them as a good family, pillars of the community. They wouldn’t allow my behaviour to drag them down into the gutter. They would change me, make sure I met all their expectations. They would do whatever it took to correct my behaviour.

  And that’s when things got a whole lot worse…

  9

  I awoke early with a sense of foreboding that I couldn’t seem to shake. No matter how hard I tried to shrug it off, a heavy veil of gloom descended and stayed with me. There were lots of things I could be getting on with to help clear my mind: there was a garden to be tidied, boxes still waiting to be unpacked. I couldn’t face doing any of them. Instead, I spent the day driving around Whitchurch and its surrounding areas, working out the best routes in and out of the village and finding out where I could go for supplies. Once I had done that and parked up, I pulled on my hiking boots and set off with a sense of purpose in my stride.

  The weather was balmy as I ambled along, taking in the scenery and thinking how quiet it was as I headed off through the main street of Whitchurch. And it was quiet, eerily so. No children about – just me and my thoughts.

  I strode down Church Lane, a shiver running down my spine as I stared up at the spire of St Oswald’s. In the distance, I heard the cries of excited children. They emanated from the field behind the old rectory. I guessed that must be where all the local kids played, away from the prying eyes of their families. Couldn’t say I blamed them. Who’d want parents watching, breathing down their necks every time they fell over or kicked a ball too high or did anything that remotely resembled having fun?

  The shadow of the church stretched over the graveyard, reaching the pavement where I stood. One day soon, I would take a walk around, have a look at some of the headstones, maybe even step inside the building itself. I wasn’t a man given to religious tendencies but was interested in the history of the place, in the architectural beauty of it. But not today. Today, I would walk and try to shake off the niggling feelings of doubt that nipped at me. I silently chastised myself. This wasn’t like me. I wasn’t usually given to such sentiments. I must be going soft.

  I continued walking, moving to the end of the lane and past the field where the shrieks of playing children swam around me, carried along on the thermals like invisible strands of happiness billowing in the soft, summer air.

  At the end of the gravel track, I climbed over a stile and found myself in a wide clearing with the sun beating down on my back. I decided I would follow the well-worn rut that dissected the field, and take the circular route that would lead me out of the village, along the foot of the hills and past the disused quarry, then past the golf club and back into Whitchurch. All in all, I figured it would take me just over an hour, possibly longer if the heat slowed me down. Not the longest of strolls but just long enough for me to free up my thinking and clear my head.

  I stared up at the cloudless sky and ran the back of my hand across my forehead, beads of sweat trickling over my hot skin. I was out of shape, sweating before I had even begun the walk properly. It was a good time to get myself fit again. There was nobody at home to take into consideration, no one complaining when I visited the gym or went for a run. No whining and moaning. No Samantha. The perfect conditions for it.

  Taking a swig of water, I set off at a good pace, promising myself I would keep it going but knowing deep down that I probably wouldn’t.

  The heat was relentless, stopping me every ten minutes or so, forcing me to slow my speed, the power of its rays biting at my exposed flesh. It didn’t stop me completely, however. I wouldn’t give up. This was a beginner’s walk, not a long trek up the hills or over rough terrain. I turned and stared back in the direction I had come from. Whitchurch was far behind me like a distant memory. I thought of all the activity going on there, and everyone getting up and going about their business – people setting off for work, retirees tending to their gardens – while I stood out here watching them like some sort of voyeur. A small frisson of excitement bolted through me. It felt good to be away from the place, if only for a short while. Perhaps the gloom I felt was no more than a residual feeling of separation after leaving Birmingham so quickly, or maybe it was the cold reception I had received from the locals that was getting to me and dragging me down. Either way, I had to move on, shake it off and forget about it. I took a long drink and set off at a lick.

  Only when I reached the quarry did I take a proper break. It had taken me over forty-five minutes to get there and I was feeling hot and weary. My back was wet with perspiration and I felt a raging thirst clawing at my dry throat. Lowering my backside onto a small rock, I gulped at my water and ate a cereal bar, my eyes travelling along the edge of the precipice just feet away from where I was perched. I sat there for a while, getting my breath back before standing up and moving forward. The drop was immense, much deeper than it appeared to be from a distance. I edged further forward, fascinated by its sheer magnificence. It looked like a huge claw had dragged the earth up, leaving a yawning wound where nothing would grow, just a gaping slab of dead, cavernous earth beneath my feet. The bottom of it was as dry as stone. During the cold months, it would likely fill up with rain, but the long, hot summer had left it barren and lifeless. On a whim, I shouted out, smiling at the echo of my own voice as it rang around the deserted area. I was willing to bet that very few people came this close to the edge. The ground was unstable, small stones slipping and moving underfoot as I stepped along the rim of the drop. Heights didn’t scare me – never had. I was fortunate in that respect. I managed to keep any fears I had in check unlike many people who let theirs control their lives. Some people simply couldn’t keep their demons at bay.

  I walked around the perimeter of the quarry, peering down into its vast depths while finishing my snack. Only once did I experience a feeling of dizziness. Disappointed at my lack of self-control, I stepped back and dropped onto my haunches, dabbing at my face with an old handkerchief I had found scrunched up deep in my pocket. I looked up at the cobalt sky, squinting against the glare. The heat was unremitting and there was no shade. I stepped away from the edge and lowered myself onto the floor. I was hot and needed to rest for a little while longer before continuing my walk.

  Giving myself a few more minutes to catch my breath and rehydrate, I waited, my eyes fixed on the distant horizon, on the ridge of hills that curved and sloped underneath the clear, burning sky. It was an awe-inspiring sight, good for the soul. Despite the gaping manmade hole beneath me, nature continued. It evolved and worked its way around our ruthless interventions, our ruinous attempts at utilising the minerals and natural resources we stand on, to make money and keep our society civilised.

  I stood up and peered over the edge again. I supposed that even the quarry, a jagged, manmade hole in the earth, had its own unique beauty. Everything had a reason for being here – from the leaves on the trees to the tiniest insects. Even us. We all had reasons for our actions, whether they be conscious or subconscious. This quarry would serve a purpose for something. At some point, this unused, forgotten cavity would come into its own, nature melding into something that man had started and then abandoned, forgetting that it ever existed.

  I stretched and set off again, my head clearer than earlier that morning, my thoughts more precise. I felt renewed, with a clear sense of purpose. My life in Birmingham was behind me. I had plenty to look forward to. Nobody else to think or worry about. Just me and my own needs. I could do this.

  The building of the local golf club appeared like a mirage as I walked with the sun on my back. The putting green sat ahead of me, a sprawl of lush, emerald grass with curved edges and strategically placed trees. It was aesthetically pleasing, I could see that, but I preferred the rugged beauty of the landscape I had left behind, the organic quality that it offered. Even the quarry had its own particular dark appeal, an exquisiteness that had captivated me, punching a huge hole in my heart.

  I took the route that ran around the edge of the green, preferring to fight my way through the unkempt path and dense undergrowth, and slowed my pace. I was close to the village now. No need to rush. No need to overexert myself. I could take my time, appreciate the rural surroundings. No blaring sirens, no traffic. No Samantha.

  I smiled and closed my eyes briefly, inhaling the heady scent of the towering Himalayan balsam plant that covered every inch of ground, its pink flowers providing a carpet of pollen for the hovering bees.

  The walk back into Whitchurch didn’t take long. The path that ran alongside the golf course was overgrown but flatter and less craggy than the one I had navigated to get to the quarry. The church spire soon appeared above the canopy of trees, its lofty and austere appearance dampening my recently elevated spirits. The grey stone was an incompatible sight against the cool greens and wild splash of pinks and yellows from the spread of flowers and shrubbery around me.

  I stepped into the shadows cast by the high building and felt the cold on my skin, a reptilian chill that wrapped itself around me in spite of the fact I had been walking for many miles. The sliver of ice that crept under my flesh was almost instant.

  I broke into a slight run to move out of its dark presence, feeling as if somebody was watching me. It was ridiculous. There was nobody around – just me and my overactive imagination. In spite of my own reassurances, I began to walk faster, the sound of my footsteps echoing down the lane. This whole road was shrouded in darkness, the church and the wide spread of trees hemming it in, making it feel cold and claustrophobic.

  I glanced over at the churchyard, at the rows of headstones, and shivered. The sooner I was back in the warmth of the sun and away from the darkness of the graveyard, the better.

  10

  The sound of the fractious chatter hit my ears as I rounded the corner onto the main road that ran through the village. Gathered by the roadside, on the grass verge, stood a small group of people. I moved closer and counted five of them, their arms raised in what appeared to be anger. As I neared the group, I was able to pick up their conversation and felt my skin prickle at their words.

  ‘Enough is enough! I don’t care what you say, we should call the police.’

  ‘And tell them what? That some lowlife has smeared dog dirt on a few cars? Like they would ever come out for that.’

  I stopped a few feet away from where they were standing, my ears attuned to their every word. Before I could change my mind, I marched up to the angry-looking throng and cleared my throat. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear what you were saying. I’ve just moved into the village. Over there at number twenty-six,’ I said, pointing towards my humble abode. ‘Is there something going on?’

  An immediate silence descended. I watched as their eyes narrowed at my uninvited presence. One of the older ladies broke the awkward moment, her voice thin and reedy as she spoke to me, her words careful and precise. ‘We’ve had a slight incident. Nothing to get too upset about. This is a lovely village, it really is.’

  I knew then that something was wrong. Every time a resident insisted Whitchurch was a lovely place to live, the undercurrent in their meaning was patently obvious, so desperate were they to defend their little hamlet.

  I nodded and tried to look concerned, thinking that would be it, an end to my involvement in the conversation. I made to walk away but a grey-haired man spoke just as I turned from them. ‘Sorry, young fella. We’re all a bit shook up about it. It’s a nasty business, isn’t it? I mean, who would do such a thing?’

  I wanted to say bored teenagers would be the most likely culprits for such a puerile pastime, which was what I’d suggested in the pub when the letters were received, but I remained silent. I was sure they wouldn’t want my comments interfering with their already half-formed ideas. So instead, I asked questions, keen to appear thoughtful and empathetic, concerned by their current dilemma.