Helen waited until it was well after midnight before she began her escape. Her bag was packed, just a few things, and Moppet was sleeping on the end of her bed. The little dog looked up at her as she dressed, head tipped to one side, aware something was out of the ordinary. Helen knew she couldn’t leave Moppet behind.
“You must be very quiet,” she murmured against his warm body.
Her horse was waiting and quickly she readied the saddle and tied on her bag. Moppet was at her feet and she tucked the little dog under her arm. A moment later she was riding out into the starlit night, moving towards an uncertain future.
Claire climbed out of bed in the darkness, wondering whether her job was really worth it. She slipped into jeans and a loose, long-sleeved shirt. Her camera bag was ready, and she opened the door and was outside before she knew it. The world was silent, black and empty, and as she looked down on what was now a valley of baked bare earth, Claire experienced a shiver of unease.
Quashing it, she pulled on her gumboots — there were still muddy patches and debris to negotiate — and found her flashlight. Pointing the circle of bright light before her, Claire walked more jauntily down the gentle slope than she felt. The sun wasn’t up yet, but the scene was certainly creepy enough. It would make the perfect set for a horror movie.
The idea slid through her mind and away again. She let it go. No point in frightening herself any more than she had already. She slung her camera bag more securely over her shoulder and began to pick her way out towards the homestead.
The few patches of water between her and her destination were shallow, but there were obstacles like the old fence posts. She trudged towards the rise where the homestead stood. From her window each morning, the building had appeared small, a doll’s house. Now, the closer she got the larger it seemed. The more real.
Several times she stopped and took some photos, but the silence and sense of isolation compelled her to keep moving. She glanced over her shoulder, towards the light left on in her home, as if to remind herself she wasn’t so very far from safety. There was another flicker of light, further down the valley, where the spillway had been built. Startled, Claire stopped, staring towards it.
Someone is watching me.
Just for a moment her heart began to beat hard, and then she told herself not to be stupid. It could be anyone — a maintenance crew at the spillway, or Merv, her neighbour.
She walked on, her steps ever more reluctant, until eventually she had to stop. The puddles around the homestead were still too deep to walk through, forming that strange circular moat. As if Niall McEwen was protecting his property from trespass, even beyond death. Claire stood, surveying the glint of water, and knew she couldn’t risk it, didn’t want to. Give the drought another week, she decided, and the water would be gone. Then there’d be nothing between her and the homestead.
From where she stood now she could see the gaps of the windows and a doorway, no glass or door, of course. All the fittings were gone. Nothing left but a shell, and even that appeared twisted and warped. One wall was leaning far more dangerously than she had realized. Could be, she thought, as she moved slightly nearer, that the homestead would not be around much longer. Best take the photos while it was still standing.
As Claire lifted the camera to her face she could hear the faint drip, drip of water.
The body of Niall’s wife Helen was never found. Was it still somewhere under the mud beneath her feet?
The nasty thought entered her head like a sly whisper and she lowered the camera. Her heart was pounding and she didn’t like that; she didn’t like not being able to hear. But what was there to listen to, apart from the dripping water?
Once again, Claire lifted the camera and this time took a series of shots looking down the valley towards the spillway, capturing the old verandah in part of the frame. She adjusted the lens and stepped back, preparing for the next shot. But her heel landed in a deep hole in the mud and her knee buckled. Off balance, she tried to save herself, and then realized there was nothing she could do — she was going to fall. The camera! She held it against herself protectively as her side hit the ground. Mud squished beneath her hip and shoulder, but although soft the ground still managed to jar her unpleasantly. Her breath came out in a whoosh.
She saw stars, or at least she thought she did. For a moment the sky danced around her, and then a shadow moved over her and a man’s voice said, “Helen?”
And then she was up on her feet again. Rigid. Staring at the empty old house and listening to nothing at all.
Claire got her photos. The sun came up eventually, and she took several from further along the valley. But she did not go back to the homestead. The moment when she had fallen was as clear in her mind as the memories she no longer had, but she did not want to think about it. She could not think about it.
But as she trudged home, ignoring the prickling urge to glance over her shoulder, that voice reverberated in her head. Deep, hoarse and despairing.
Helen.
Someone was following her. She was hardly beyond the gate when she sensed she was not alone after all. Moppet struggled and began to bark and she was forced to set the dog down. It ran back the way they’d come, barking steadily.
Helen didn’t know whether to go on, and while she hesitated, torn at the prospect of leaving her pet behind her, he came out of the darkness.
“Where are you going?”
There was no point in lying. He would know.
“I’m leaving.”
He steadied his horse, blocking her path, body tense and ready if she tried to sidestep him. “I don’t think so. That was never part of the bargain, Helen. ‘Till death us do part’, isn’t that what the vicar said?”
“I made a mistake.”
“I knew you were up to something. You’re not very good at lying.”
“And you’re an expert.”
“You’re not leaving.” His face was implacable.
She knew then, even as she tried to ride past him. Even as he caught her reins and grabbed her arm, hauling her from her saddle. She knew he was going to hurt her.
The following morning Gabe and Claire met as usual in the cafe to discuss upcoming stories for the Bugle.
As soon as she sat down Claire became aware of the weariness in her body, and at the edges of her mind. She hadn’t slept well. There had been the usual nightmares, of course. The faceless stranger watching her. An endless fall into darkness.
Perhaps the nightmare was symbolic of her coma, or perhaps it really had happened, perhaps someone had hurt her deliberately and left her for dead. The police had said her head injuries could have been sustained in a fall, and there were other bruises, old and new. But they couldn’t tell her for certain and she could not remember, so how could she ever really know?
As well as lack of sleep from the nightmares, Claire now found herself replaying in her head, over and over again, the moment out in the reservoir when she had slipped and fallen. It was like a clip from a bizarre movie, only this wasn’t a movie. Real or fantasy? A figment of her imagination or an actual happening? No wonder she was tired.
They had gotten quiet, Gabe reading and Claire eating her breakfast. She didn’t know she was going to ask the question until the words came out.
“Tell me what you know about Niall McEwen?”