Hope to Die

As for Puttergill, he didn’t know people even had septic tanks in this day and age, especially this close to a town. He’s certainly never seen one before. He wrinkles his nose. ‘So is it, you know, actual shit down there?’

The driver glances up from the other side of the hole. ‘It’s a tad more sophisticated than that, son, but yeah, there’ll be plenty of faecal sludge at the bottom if you get down far enough.’

Puttergill looks alarmed. He can’t seriously be suggesting –

Barnetson gives a hard laugh. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not looking for a volunteer. I’m sure Mr –’

‘Tull,’ says the driver. ‘Dennis Tull.’

‘I’m sure Mr Tull knows exactly what to do.’

But Puttergill doesn’t reply. He’s staring up towards the house. Barnetson turns to look and sees at once what’s distracted him. There’s a figure at the upstairs window. A pale face, a hand pressed against the glass.

Richard Swann.

Barnetson’s mouth sets in a grim line. ‘They must have thought they’d got away with it.’

* * *

23 December 1997, 3.50 p.m.

A417, Gloucestershire

She remembers thinking that Rowan knew where she was going – that she must have been there before. But she didn’t realize what that meant. Not then.

At the time, it was all she could do to keep up with the car in front, which barely slows, even after they leave the main road. It’s as if there’s a task to do and not much time to do it in. That’s something else she remembers, later.

Alison had only been to Cirencester once before, and that was the quaintsy tea-shop chocolate-box bit, certainly not this colourless every-town-has-one area of warehouses and industrial buildings. She couldn’t think of a single good reason why a woman who’d only just given birth could possibly want to come here. There were bad ones, yes – desperately bad ones – but at the time her mind simply didn’t allow those to gather into words. Not yet.

A left turn, a right, another left. They’d passed two cars on the way in, but now, nothing. It was starting to get dark and there was no one around; the day before Christmas Eve, of course there was no one around.

When the car in front finally slowed, turned into a car park and disappeared out of sight, Alison pulled over and switched off her engine. She never could explain why she held back – it must have been pure instinct, nothing more. Because everything would have been different if she’d followed her in there – if there’d been a confrontation, if she’d demanded an explanation, offered help –

But she didn’t. She just sat in her cold car, her hands sweating against the steering wheel, until the Golf appeared again, picking up speed, passing her –

Gone.

* * *

AF: Do you know where this place was? Would you remember it again?

AT: It’s hard to forget.

AF: All the same, such a long time ago –

AT: That’s not what I meant. The road was called Love Lane. Love Lane. You don’t forget something like that. Not in those circumstances.

TH: So what did you do next?

AT: I got out of the car. I wasn’t sure what to think – I just couldn’t work out what she was doing there –

TH: And then?

AT: I walked over to the car park.

TH: What did you see?

AT: Nothing. It was completely deserted. Just a cat somewhere. Yowling.

[silence]

* * *

23 December 1997, 4.05 p.m.

Love Lane industrial estate, Cirencester

It wasn’t a cat.

Some part of her knew that. She’d had cats, growing up. None of them sounded like that.

But she still wanted to believe that’s what it was, even when she realized where the sound was coming from. The big green dumpster by the wire fence on the far side, half hidden by a pile of old tyres.

Some bastard abandoning kittens – shits like that deserved dumping themselves –

Even now, she still doesn’t remember walking over, or struggling to get the lid open, or whether there were sounds from inside as she did.

Just the rush of sour sweet odour – warm and fetid and unmistakable.

* * *

AF: The baby.

AT: [nods]

The baby.

AF: You could see that – straight away?

AT: [swallows]

No. She’d – she’d put rubbish over it. Him. Plywood, broken tiles. Builders’ stuff.

TH: She’d put it on top of the baby?

AT: [nods]

I know – I felt sick, just seeing it. But it wasn’t just that. When I dragged it all off and found him – he was in a plastic bag. A bin liner. She must have brought it with her – she’d planned it – all of it –

[becoming distressed]

No one would have realized – the bin men – not after – not once he was –

[weeping now]

AF: Take your time, Ms Toms. I know this must be distressing.

AT: I’m sorry – it’s just that all this time, I’ve tried not to think about it.

AF: What did you do next?

AT: I took him back to the car. He still had his blanket and I had some wet wipes so I could clean him up a bit.