Crone Page 5
If Ivy considered me stupid, she was too professional to show it. “I don’t think there’s a link between the two accidents, and certainly not between those and the walker’s death,” she said, not unreasonably. “After all, this latest was a hit and run.”
“Officially?”
“Officially.”
“And unofficially?”
Ivy remained guarded. “Unofficially I can’t comment, you know that.”
I nodded. “Ok. But …” I tapped my fingers on the table as I considered my next question. “What about that stretch of road? What makes it so dangerous? I mean, six deaths in a matter of weeks?”
Ivy stretched and rubbed her lower back. I was sorry to harangue her. I hoped she didn’t consider me an angry mum with too little in my life to distract me, obsessing about the death of my only son.
“When Max was killed, they said the accident was caused by driver error. James’s fault.”
“Yes. That’s what the coroner ruled,” Ivy said carefully.
“But there was nothing to indicate that James was intoxicated. No alcohol or drugs in his blood.”
“No.”
“And on the night in question, the roads were quiet. The weather was okay. Cold, some patches of mist. No rain.”
“That’s right.”
“And he wasn’t driving excessively fast for the conditions.”
“No, a little over thirty miles per hour, within the forty speed limit, but it would be very difficult to build up much speed on that stretch of the Elbury Road.”
“So it was down to James.”
“We know from the directional marks that he swerved slightly. He must have been trying to avoid something. A badger or another animal in the road possibly. There was no evidence he hit anything besides the tree. No other vehicle involved.”
I knew all of this. I wasn’t about to argue that James wasn’t a careless driver, that he wouldn’t have been driving too fast or taken any risks, because what did I know? James had been eighteen years old. He had held a driving licence for less than three months. All of the statistics show that young teenage males are the most at risk of dying in road accidents.
“And what about the latest accident?”
“Pretty similar,” Ivy concurred. “The car was travelling much faster but it didn’t brake at all. The weather conditions were good.”
“It didn’t brake at all?” My insides quaked at the thought. I thought of the two occupants who had been flung through the windscreen.
Ivy reached across and squeezed my hand. “Have you been to the site?” She knew I was a frequent visitor to lay flowers for Max. I nodded grimly. “It amazes me that that old tree is still standing. It’s a solid beast that one.”
That damn tree. I pictured it there, standing like some kind of sentinel on Elbury Road. Dwarfing the other trees around it. The scars on its trunk, the decaying flowers scattered around its roots. It would outlive me and everyone I knew.
Ivy slurped her milkshake. “Driver error. In both cases. With speed as a factor in the latest incident. It was just a coincidence that this latest accident occurred in the same place.”
“And the hiker?”
“Coincidence,” she repeated. We studied each other in silence. Ivy really believed there was nothing more than that to these occurrences. The case was closed. I admitted defeat and smiled ruefully.
“When are you starting maternity leave?” I asked instead and Ivy grinned. For the next thirty minutes or so we chatted about her baby and all of her preparations and I tried not to feel anything but pleasure in her obvious joy for her firstborn. But my firstborn had been reduced to bone and dust by now and my happiness for Ivy was entirely bittersweet.
*
Once home I tried to attend to various household chores to distract myself from the frustration building inside me. Pip followed me around, stuck to my legs like a limpet. Sometimes he needed lots of fuss and attention, and today because I’d been out and about I suppose he just wanted to feel loved and grounded.
I decided to tackle the kitchen worktops. I had a terrible tendency to pile everything up and leave it lying there. When I subsequently sorted through the piles I would invariably find birthday cards that I had bought and written and never posted, unopened bank statements, newspapers that had been half read, along with appointment slips for the GP, the dentists, and hairdressers. Of course I could never find anything when I actually tried to. My organisational skills were a nightmare.
I hadn’t always been that way. But nowadays I placed one foot in front of the other and carried on. I wouldn’t call it living so much as surviving with disinterest.
I sifted the first pile. There were newspapers folded to articles about the car accident on Elbury Road, plus obituary notices for Mikey. My thoughts turned to Fraser and the mystery woman in the pub. Had the police found her, I wondered, or had Fraser been drunk or hallucinating? I hadn’t heard any more about Mikey. I ought to touch base with his Mum Sarah to see how she was faring.
I scanned the reports in the paper, but quickly stopped myself. I would only end up feeling maudlin. That was no good. It took a supreme effort of will, but I threw the papers into the bin and started sorting through another pile.
Once I could see my worktops I felt a great sense of accomplishment. I was considering having a cup of tea before tackling the contents of the fridge when the phone rang. I checked the time. It was 5.50 pm. I had been away with the fairies.
I picked up the phone and was surprised to hear Ivy. We exchanged pleasantries before she cut to the reason she had called.
“I’ve been thinking about our conversation. I know you’re still hurting and … I’m worried you’re beginning to look for conspiracy theories.” I tried to interrupt but she cut me off. “You asked me about that road and what has made it so dangerous. Well, that’s the thing.”
“What? That it’s suddenly dangerous?”
“No. Quite the reverse. It hasn’t become more dangerous recently. It’s always been a black stretch of road.”
“How so?”
“What I mean is that there have been accidents and unexplained deaths on that road since … well … forever.”
“Have there? I didn’t know that.”
“No. Time passes and people forget. The thing is, when I joined the service, twelve years ago, I served with a guy named Brendan Chadwick and he had twenty plus years on the force at that time. He’s retired now. He told me about an accident that happened when he was a young constable—and this would be in the days before seatbelts I guess—when some kid flew out of his car and ended up suspended in the oak tree. That’s the same oak tree.”
“Jeez,” I said.
“In the ’90s, I understand the council considered widening the road, or putting measures in place to slow the traffic but they didn’t have the money and to be fair, none of the accidents have been proven to be speed related.”
“I see.” Silence. I didn’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Ivy said softly. “I don’t have the answer as to why Max died.”
“No.”
When we hung up, I lay my head against the smooth, cool surface of my kitchen table. I stayed that way for some time, pondering, until without really understanding why, I returned to the bin and retrieved the newspapers I’d thrown away earlier. I shook them off and smoothed them out and started looking for the Elbury Road stories.
six
The Professor
The lecture theatre was warm and stuffy, and I feared I’d fall asleep. Against my better judgement, I’d agreed to attend an open lecture at the University of Exeter with my friend, Mel. Mel fancied herself a little bit alternative, a bit new age, a tad fae. She believed in an ancient goddess and wore her spirituality like a patchouli-scented, rainbow-coloured cloak. I figured most of her beliefs were total and utter poppycock, but Mel was a good friend and a kind person, so I let her be who she wanted to be, and she ignored the fact that I was a miserable curmudgeon.
Mel had wooed me to the lecture with a promise of coffee and cake at her favourite vegan café afterwards. She had also claimed that the professor leading the lecture was, in her words, a ‘real hottie’. This opposed my image of a ‘professor’ as an absent-minded, greying, bearded male, wearing brown cord trousers and a smoking jacket of some description who would routinely drop papers everywhere.
It was therefore a pleasant surprise to clap eyes on Professor Trenton Redburn for the first time. He was average height with clean, dark hair that flopped over his forehead. He had a sporty build and obviously worked out, his shirt was snug against his chest and his shoulders were broad. Best of all he was late thirties and free of any distracting facial hair. He was wearing suit trousers, a pink shirt with rolled up sleeves and a brightly coloured tie, casual but smart. On this occasion I found myself agreeing wholeheartedly with Mel’s judgement and sat up straighter when he walked onto the podium. Professor Redburn was obviously of the Brian Cox school of lust worthy academia.
The title of the lecture was ‘The Wisdom of the Ancients and the Natural World’. I observed Professor Redburn for a while, he was an animated speaker and his slides came quickly, but really I wasn’t following what the man said at all. His slides contained images of demons and flowers and fruit and all manner of oddities, but after a while, the warmth of the lecture hall, the brightness of the sun, and his soothing voice made me a little dozy. The lack of engagement with the audience reminded me of my own short-lived University days.
I hadn’t lasted long at University; I’d found myself pregnant before the beginning of the second year and had remained at home to have Max without telling the father. He didn’t know about Max’s death either, because he had never known his son existed. How strange that Max, who had been a part of that man, had never existed in his world.
I distracted myself from my sad thoughts by observing the audience. In front of me floated an ocean of frizzy hair in varying shades. I tried to guess how old people were on the basis of the backs of their heads. It was inappropriate behaviour, but it kept me amused for a while.
Yawning widely, aware of a pressing need to pee, I turned my attention to the lecture once more. Professor Redburn flipped the slide, and I stared at a huge photograph of a giant oak tree. For a moment I saw Max’s tree and my breath caught in my throat. It wasn’t his of course. It was some tree in America. I tuned back into the content of the lecture. The professor was addressing the notion that in myth and folklore, many communities of ancient people had believed that trees were inhabited by spirits. Some saw trees as centres of healing energy, full of love and light. That was right up Mel’s street. Other trees were just the opposite, full of dark unpleasantness.
Time froze as I processed what the professor was saying. He made a joke about tree-huggers and the audience laughed. I forgot my need to visit the bathroom, my mind working overtime. I was considering Max’s tree. Surely if ever a tree was ill fated, this one was. All those accidents that Ivy had told me about. It was a magnet for death and disaster.
And what of Claire and her mother and grandmother? Were they really witches? Why did they live in such close proximity to the tree? Were they linked to it in some way?
“Jesus. It’s the tree,” I exclaimed. The woman sitting directly in front of me turned around and shushed me. Mel regarded me oddly. I sank back into my seat, waiting impatiently for the lecture to finish.
As soon as the lecture was over I scrambled down the stairs, pushing past Mel hurriedly, and barging against other people in my rush to get to the lectern. The professor was gathering up his papers, and this part of my stereotypical preconception was correct. The man had armfuls of paper and files to carry, along with what appeared to be an old school satchel, bursting at the seams. He flung the satchel over his shoulder and hefted several supermarket bags full of student marking in one hand.
“Excuse me?” I lay my hand on his arm urgently, and he turned towards me and smiled. He had a gentle, handsome face. I flushed, instantly tongue tied, fearful of coming across like a complete fool.
He observed me kindly, perhaps sensing my distress and unease. “Did you have a question?” he asked. “Only I have a taxi coming.”
I was flustered. I needed to talk to this man and it was vital that he didn’t think I was a total nutcase. I wanted to ask him about the oak tree, maybe he could explain Max’s death to me, but I wasn’t at all sure how to phrase what was on my mind.
I didn’t have much time. “Tell me more about the trees!” I blurted the words out. He looked slightly taken aback. “I mean ... How can I know? How can I know that a tree has a spirit? Or that it’s a bad tree?”
Bonkers, I thought. He’ll think I’m totally bonkers.
“Ah!” he breathed, looking oddly pleased. “Walk with me?” he led me out of the lecture theatre and into the corridor beyond.
“As I said in the lecture, certain cultures have a belief that some trees house spirits.” I nodded. “These cultures have provided anecdotal evidence that tree spirits keep themselves to themselves nowadays, fearing extinction.” He glanced at me and my face must clearly have been asking, Do you believe that bullshit? because he laughed out loud at my expression. “They say, you can only tell if a tree has a ‘bad spirit’ as you put it, if it deigns to show you.” I blinked at him nervously. He increased his pace, and I practically had to run to keep up with him. He was smiling, mocking me perhaps. But suddenly he pulled up short. I almost ran into him. He studied me curiously. “Why do you ask?”
I frowned, confused by my own thoughts. Was I so desperate for answers to Max’s death that I was going to listen to the claptrap this guy was preaching? Dear God. I was turning into a fruit loop.
“Ah well,” I stuttered. “I don’t rightly know.”
“I see.” He seemed disappointed and slightly bemused. “Perhaps we can keep in touch and if you do come across something interesting, it would be great for my research. In fact, give me your email address so I can send you some more reading.”
I nodded. “Ok.” I scrabbled in my bag for a biro and then scrawled my email address on the top file in his arms. He nodded at me and headed for the waiting taxi. I followed him a little way behind. “Professor,” I said as he moved to shut the door. “Do you believe in witches?”
He regarded me oddly. “Yes. Some of my best friends are witches.”
I thought of Claire and how she was adamant that our paths would cross again. “Oh,” I replied.
*
Two days later I hadn’t heard from Professor Redburn, and I had decided he wasn’t the complete ticket. How could a tree have a spirit? And did he really believe in witches too? He and Mel were made for each other. How could people be hoodwinked by his daft lectures? His line of study was ridiculous.
I checked my email for about the nine hundredth time that day, just as a missive flew in from T J Redburn from a University address.
He had kindly sent through a variety of links, scanned documents, and photographs for me to look at. I spent well over an hour printing everything out and collating it, neatly stapling sections together. Flicking through them I found that for the most part, the documents were far too academic for me but I took them up to bed anyway and tried to decipher the content. Needless to say, I slept well.
Fortunately, in amongst the academia, there were a few newspaper and magazine articles that were more accessible for the lay reader. One contained a story regarding a huge cypress tree in Mexico that had a reputation for attracting bad fortune. The news report suggested that, in the previous thirty years alone, the tree had claimed over eighty lives, from car crashes and pedestrian accidents and even a number of suicides. The latest was the hanging of a young itinerant.
In another article, a tree in Norway was chopped down after seven traffic collisions in two years. In both Mexico and Norway, the locals were convinced that the trees were evil, living entities attracting death and misfortune. In the case of the Mexican tree, legend had it that the tree was inhabited by the spirit of a bandit who had been strung up on one of the higher branches by a vigilante in the 1930s. The locals were now too scared to chop it down so they brought offerings of bowls of food and sacrificed chickens at the roots of the tree in an attempt to ward off evil and keep their families safe.
I sifted through all the material, not sure of what exactly I was looking for, or what I expected to find. What was I trying to prove? In among the articles and documents were photo print outs of trees shaped like people or parts of people. There were trees with carved heads and bodies and some beautiful artwork. None of this meant anything. My tree looked like a tree.
I riffled through the images. Dozens of them. Finally, my eye fell on an early black and white newspaper photo of a huge oak tree, standing tall and haughty, skeletal of frame and denuded of all its leaves. The quality was poor and there was no story with it. I placed it on the slush pile but before turning to the next image I returned to it. In front of the tree was a man with an axe. To the left of the tree across the road was the top half of a cottage. Several women, dressed in black clothing and shawls, posed with folded arms outside the cottage looking at the man with the axe. The photo wasn’t clear enough to make out the facial features of the people depicted, but the stance of the women suggested that they were disapproving of whatever they were observing.
I scanned the cottage and then the tree. The cottage appeared familiar. I compared them again. Cottage and tree. Again. Tree and cottage. There was no doubt: this was Max’s tree and Claire’s cottage.
My hands were shaking as I reached down and retrieved the picture from the pile. Judging by the clothes I guessed that this had been taken in the early part of the twentieth century, or late nineteenth. Why had the man with the axe wanted to chop the tree down? He obviously hadn’t succeeded, so what or whom, had prevented him? These women? Where was the story that went with the photo? Frustrated, I shuffled the papers once more, but couldn’t see a lone piece that matched the image.