Short Lived by Shortlived
Impossible shook his head, almost knowingly, and sniggered at Alice’s ridiculous shortcomings.
They sipped their coffee and Impossible told her about stars. How he watched them with his telescope and his local stargazing group. He thought the distant stars were more interesting; the ones nobody knew anything about yet. He grinned and said he gave them names himself.
Alice was fascinated by Impossible, but she could tell that Impossible was far more fascinated by her. Strange. She imagined he wouldn’t be so if he knew about her guilty pleasure of eating Ben and Jerry’s ice cream while watching The Great British Bake off, or her tendency to stay up until the wee hours on the internet; entirely avoiding doing things of note.
When the coffees had turned tepid and cold from Alice and Impossible’s constant chatter, they stood up together and shook hands. It had been a pleasant day, and suddenly the clouds were bursting to reveal final flecks of sunlight.
The bus rolled up to its stop as Alice stepped up to it, and to her amazement, waited as she said her goodbyes to Impossible.
‘Watch out for puddles, or falling leaves, or raindrops, or anything that might sully your day,’ he said with a smirk, ruffling his hair idly with one hand.
‘Keep an eye on those stars,’ Alice laughed in return, meeting Impossible’s grey eyes with her brown. He grinned at her, and leaned in to gently kiss her cheek. ‘I will.’
His lips felt as though they lingered there, well after Alice had watched him disappear into city life, back into the dull charcoal of high rise offices and flats. Her cheek tingled on the bus ride all the way home.
Not once did Alice think to ask his name. It seemed that Impossible simply walked in and out of her life one day, and that was that. It was enough.
In retrospect, Alice could wonder why she hadn’t done those things, but she never did. She barely remembered. After that day, though, the impossible seemed more believable. The coffee never spilled, the umbrella was never forgotten, and the bus was rarely missed. The days were brighter.
It was safe to say that Alice was lucky.
See No Evil, Hear No Evil
They had been warned about the path when they first moved in; little more than a strip of stone-peppered dirt that branched off from a nearby forgotten field. The conifers at the rear of the garden, overgrown and thistle-twined, banked one side of the track for quite some way and a rickety fence lined the other. Only a few weather-worn walkers ever sought it out, and the locals, despite knowing vaguely of its existence, had no real reason to use it.
None, at least, that Anna Camm could think of. And, as a novelist, thinking of motives and stories was most definitely her forte.
It was a Tuesday afternoon in the first strains of March; spring had arrived early, without warning, like an eccentric great-aunt on the doorstep. The sun had begun to shine with greater clarity, illuminating each day with dappled beams that filtered through the mellowing fingers of the tree branches; a crisp wind tinted with warmth rustled through the hedgerows. The countryside was slowly greening over, bringing with it the promise of change and renewal, a preparation of sorts, for something larger and more intense.
Anna had known for some time that spring was journeying towards their neck of the woods, ready to throw off the blanket of frosty winter slushed over everything. She had always prided herself on being intuitive. It was in her nature; as she so often declared, it was only a question of listening and observing – she wouldn’t be such a successful author if she didn’t possess the skills required to conjure life accurately across the page.
It was this sense of spring singing in the air that had Anna out gardening on this particular Tuesday afternoon – well, gardening after a fashion. Managing to hobble outside on her crutches, plastered ankle now awkwardly stretched out beside the flowerbed, she was actually somewhat glad of the chore. Since she had slipped on black-ice three weeks ago, time had lengthened into endless days trapped indoors, slowly drowning in a sea of murder mysteries and day-time TV...
But now, sitting outside with a bin-bag of weeds trailing the ground in an earthy train a few feet away, Anna felt buoyed up by the fresh air and the bright view around her. Their house, their garden – all of it really was beautiful, in an old-fashioned sort of way. Perhaps she’d simply been watching much more daytime TV than she’d realised, but Anna thought their new home resembled something straight out of an Agatha Christie novel: ‘The Hollow’, perhaps, or ‘The Mysterious Affair at Styles’.
Not that there would be any mysterious affairs here – she and Peter were far too busy finally, successfully, living their dreams. Churning the ground to uproot weeds in a dull monotony, the light wind humming a lullaby, Anna’s mind buzzed in a synaptic frenzy of abstract thoughts: her storylines, her prospects, her life... everything – quite literally – under the sun.
When they had first moved to the small village of Harthill back in October, after discovering their dream house right in the middle of the quaintly rolling English countryside, the garden had been a tangled mess of summer’s decadent excess. Leaves blanketed the overgrown grass, bushes shot out distorted limbs to snag anything that passed, whilst rose petals and laburnum chandeliers withered into soup. Ivy clung to the back of the house and the deck was a sea of littered fragments of nature.
But Anna could only ever see other worlds; ones that she and their future children – the twins with green eyes and her copper bright hair, and a boy with Peter’s passion and Peter’s smile – would play in for hours. The deck would be the pirate ship, the overhanging willow near the pond their mermaid’s lagoon; fairies really would live at the bottom of the garden, and they would hear the Hound of the Baskervilles baying away in the countryside around them, as they solved murders aplenty...
Anna stretched carefully, twitching her plastered ankle, full of imaginings; her fingers itched to scribble them down, but she determined to finish clearing this bed of weeds before calling it a day. Diagnosis Murder would be starting soon too. Her partially written seventh chapter still stoically headed her mental to-do list as well.
Yes, everything about their house - and, of course, their beautiful garden - fired Anna’s imagination, which was as strong as a raging inferno even when she wasn’t trying. But when she’d had her little accident, it was almost as if, by breaking her leg, she had fractured something else too – her concentration? Her focus? Without the guidance of the outside world, her imagination had begun to run untamed; now it was almost too far out of reach to lasso back into submission...
She sighed, stabbing harder at a particularly stubborn weed.
Sudden footsteps a little way off jolted her out of her daydreams and Anna dropped the trowel with a start. Was Peter home already? Voices drifted across to her and she exhaled the unwarranted tension, smiling as she realised.
The path.
Of course; she’d forgotten all about it. That muddy trail that ran patchily behind the tall conifer bushes at the very end of their garden, the ones she was sat in front of now. The conifers were so thick and wild that, coupled with the sparseness of the rest of the countryside and the fact that their house was actually a few hundred yards away, those ramblers who did traverse the path were often led to believe that they were a lot more isolated than they actually were.
Anna retrieved her trowel, waiting disinterestedly for the footsteps to resume pace; they seemed to have paused for the moment, voices still discussing something earnestly. She had heard noises from the path only a couple of times before now; once when the weather had still been quite dry in late October and she had been traversing the odd layout of their rolling expanse of garden with Peter, taking a break from unpacking – the crunch of boots on the dry leaves had made them jump, she recalled, keeping them on tenterhooks for strange animals or a shifty visitor, until Peter had remembered.
The other time had been during snow in early February – only a few weeks before her fall – when they had been drifted in; braving the
The footsteps were striding forward once more, the voices now silent; probably contemplating their picturesque surroundings and the views that would await them ahead, Anna surmised, levering the trowel beneath another weed, before realising that she would need to dig down even deeper. The ramblers’ progress abruptly cracked to another halt.
‘Alright, this is the spot - let’s get this done.’ The voice was loud and close, suddenly so, and Anna jumped showering herself with dirt. Get a grip; rolling her eyes, she patted down her shirt and face.
‘Why’d you want to meet here?’ The first voice was matched by a second, which had waited, inexplicably, a few moments before replying. It was woman, dusky in a youthful way.
Anna, still concentrating mainly on the weed, vaguely wondered at the sense in that remark – their footsteps had been coming down the lane together, they had been talking with one another only thirty seconds or so before, so why ask about meeting now? The weed gave and she bore it aloft triumphantly; the first voice, male, came again.
‘Because I didn’t want us to be seen together – or overheard...’
Anna looked up, frowning. What?
‘But I hate this secrecy –’ The woman began; the man interrupted her.
‘Would you rather we were caught?’
Ah. Anna struggled to one knee, plaster cast awkwardly splayed before her, tossing the limp, straggling weed aside; it landed soundlessly with dead, flailing limbs beside the bin-bag that held its brethren. A burning flush fired Anna’s cheeks as she fumbled for her crutches. Was she inadvertently listening to a secret lovers’ rendezvous? Time to get a cup of tea and –
The next words were so enigmatic, so laced with deeper meaning, that they cut across all coherent thought, rooting her to the spot.
‘So it’s done?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s gone?’
‘Yes!’ The word snapped out loudly, like crackling frost over a fire. Anna, nonplussed now, felt a sinister prickle across the back of her neck. There came a rustling, shuffling movement; the woman spoke again, tone forcibly tight.
‘So what next?’
‘We cover our tracks.’
Anna reeled back, mind whirling. What was this? Because it sounded like... No. Was she, Anna Camm, listening to the secret discussion of a crime?
Forget Diagnosis Murder! What the hell should she do?
The woman was speaking again, voice lilting quickly; she sounded nervous.
‘Are you sure it’s finished? That he’s really...’
‘Of course I’m sure! He’s not coming back.’
Oh God. Anna ran her hands desperately over the back of her neck, mind racing. They had killed someone; it was all there in their words – this man on the other side of her hedge was a murderer! What should she do?
No.
Wait a second...
The normality of a sudden, chirruping birdsong slammed Anna back to reality. How likely was it, really, that these were criminals who had murdered someone in or around Harthill, one of the most quintessentially English towns ever imagined? Unless she had been transported into a Miss Marple novel, this sort of thing just didn’t happen. Besides, no one had actually mentioned death or killing specifically – they probably were just a couple carrying on an affair as she’d first thought, and her husband had probably simply discovered them -
‘Oh, God, Johnny – we’ve really done it. He’s actually dead...’
Then again, Miss Marple must have been based on something factual.
Anna drew in a sharp breath, leaning closer to the bushes, injury forgotten. There were footsteps, the whisper of fabrics brushing against one another, and then this Johnny speaking firmly.
‘No one saw me, Lily. We’ve just got to be smart.’
‘Smart? Miller’s dead, Johnny! How did we ever think we could do this? I’m twenty-two, I can’t be arrested…’
‘No one’s going to be arrested –’
‘No one’s going to go to jail.’ Anna jerked backwards. There was a third person? Someone else was in on it – this murder of “Miller”! Anna filed the name away, along with Johnny and Lily’s. What should she do?
‘Right, yeah.’ Johnny’s voice was weary. Anna sensed friction between this new voice and him – maybe the new person had something on this Johnny? Maybe he and Lily weren’t the brains behind this murder. If only she could see what was going on! Johnny’s previous tone resumed, slightly stilted. ‘No one’s going to go to jail, Lily! No one knows, no one saw... And if they did, well – then we’ll have to deal with them too.’
Anna clapped her hands to her mouth, muffling a fearful whimper at the malevolence in his tone. She staggered back, horror overpowering her aching leg, aiming to run to the house and call the police – but what would she say?
They’d think she was crazy...
Maybe she could ring Peter. But what if they left before he got here? Besides, he might not believe her – saying, amusedly, that it was just her imagination... Anna knew the tone – she’d heard it several times before, usually affectionate, but there were times when affection mutated into annoyance: for God’s sake, Anna, you get so carried away...
No.
Not this time, they’d just said – !
A branch cracked beneath her left foot, loud as a gunshot in a still night, causing the tension that had previously been so palpable to splinter into sparking, explosive shards. Anna froze, her heart palpitating against her ribcage like a netted sparrow. There was silence on the other side of the hedgerow, razor sharp, as she hovered with baited breath.
Swift footsteps strode closer to the conifers; the newcomer’s voice sounded spooked.
‘What was that?’ A plastically metallic crackle, like that of a moveable piece of machinery – or a weapon? – undercut the more disturbing noise of the conifer branches rustling and snapping as someone attempted to peer through. Afraid to even breathe lest this band of killers should hear her, Anna clung to the hedge desperately.
Another few seconds of sporadic movement, and then:
‘Probably just a cat or something...’
Grunting murmurs of agreement swam through to ease her bones; her pulse felt heavy and painful, thudding in her ears.
‘So what now?’ Johnny’s voice.
‘We go over the next bit,’ the newcomer replied; paper rustled. Anna could only too well imagine what he was referring to: the next stage of their homicidal plan – how to avoid being caught.
Anna closed her eyes, petrified. She was no longer the star of a charming Agatha Christie; instead she was descending rapidly and unwillingly into a Henning Mankell...
‘Well, can we hurry up?’ Lily sounded anxious, on-edge – tired. ‘I don’t want to have to do this again.’
‘Just remember your positions, yeah?’ The third voice distanced itself from the others, as though moving away; his tone definitely reverberated control.
‘Look, Rick –’ Johnny started; another important name for Anna to file away. Rick cut across him though, dismissively sharp.
‘Come on, man – this has to be done by today; we really need to get the bloody thing shifted.’
Bloody? The colour drained from Anna’s face. They were disposing of the body? Right there, behind her hedge? And less than an hour ago, she’d been imagining joyful pursuits of cops and robbers with her future children. Anna could feel hysteria mounting. Her thin frame trembled fearfully as she leant ever closer.
Lily let out a low despairing groan; Johnny’s voice was tight.
‘But Richard... All the bits –’
Anna’s last fraught nerve snapped; bits? Oh God, they were butchers! And she had seen enough CSI reruns to know that it never ended well for those unfortunate enough to stumble acros
Unable to shake the terror of ruthless, unseen eyes at her back.
On the other side of the conifers, the three Drama and Film students exchanged wary looks, the echo of the shriek carrying on the breeze eerily. Richard, camera-man and director, paused by the tripod uncertainly.
‘... Probably just a cat, yeah?’
His fellow actors nodded hesitantly; maybe they should have used the college campus after all – it certainly was isolated round here. Anything could happen and you’d be miles from help... The dark backs of the conifer trees seemed to grow taller for a moment, overshadowing the trio.
Forget deadlines; that fading scream was too unnerving for words. What if this place were haunted.
Richard shivered.
‘Okay – let’s call that a wrap?’
The Hidden Dove on Hood Street
Magic Show Tonight
Hood St
10pm
£5 entry
At first there appeared to be no words on the flyer, but when tipped in the sunlight, letters shone like lost contact lenses in a torch beam. Harvey spared a reluctant glance to his friend.
‘People still do magic shows, then.’
Nick snatched the paper and studied it with a smirk as they walked.
‘Never heard of Hood Street. Maybe we should go. Could be funny,’ he folded the paper into a triangle, and obviously concealed it into his shirt sleeve. ‘Abra Kadabra!’
Harvey quirked an eyebrow, but the spark in Nick’s eyes were enough to make him reconsider. A few drinks, some tacky card tricks? It made a change from the Student Union. Could be an interesting night.