Belinda Bauer - Blacklands

Belinda Bauer

Simon & Schuster

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New York, NY 10020
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2010 by Belinda Bauer

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Simon & Schuster Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition January 2010

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Designed by C. Linda Dingler

Manufactured in the United States of America

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Bauer, Belinda, 1962-Blacklands: a novel / Belinda Bauer.1st Simon & Schuster hardcover ed.
p. cm.

1. BoysEnglandFiction. 2. Missing personsEnglandFiction. 3. Exmoor (England)Fiction. 4. MurderInvestigationEnglandFiction. 5. Serial murderersFiction. 6. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

PR6102.A796B57 2010

823.92dc22 2009008548

ISBN 978-1-4391-4944-7

ISBN 978-1-4391-5759-6 (ebook)

To my mother,
who gave us everything and never thought it was enough

E XMOOR DRIPPED WITH DIRTY BRACKEN, ROUGH, COLORLESS grass, prickly gorse, and last years heather, so black it looked as if wet fire had swept across the landscape, taking the trees with it and leaving the moor cold and exposed to face the winter unprotected. Drizzle dissolved the close horizons and blurred heaven and earth into a grey cocoon around the only visible landmarka twelve-year-old boy in slick black waterproof trousers but no hat, alone with a spade.

It had rained for three days, but the roots of grass and heather and gorse twisting through the soil still resisted the spades intrusion. Stevens expression did not change; he dug the blade in again, feeling a satisfying little impact all the way up to his armpits. This time he made a marka thin human mark in the great swathe of nature around him.

Before Steven could make the next mark, the first narrow stripe had filled with water and disappeared.

Three boys slouched through the Shipcott rain, their hands deep in their pockets, their hoodies over their faces, their shoulders hunched as if they couldnt wait to get out of the rain. But they had nowhere to hurry to, so they meandered and bumped along and laughed and swore too loudly at nothing at all, just to let the world know they were there and still had expectations.

The street was narrow and winding and, in summer, passing tourists smiled at the seaside-painted terraces with their doors opening right onto the pavement and their quaint shutters. But the rain made the yellow and pink and sky blue houses a faded reminder of sunshine, and a refuge only for those too young, too old, or too poor to leave.

Stevens nan looked out of the window with a steady gaze.

She had started life as Gloria Manners. Then she became Ron Peterss wife. After that, she was Letties mum, then Lettie and Billys mum. Then for a long time she was Poor Mrs. Peters. Now she was Stevens nan. But underneath she would always be Poor Mrs. Peters; nothing could change that, not even her grandsons.

Above the half-nets, the front window was spotted with rain. The people over the road already had their lights on. The roofs were as different as the walls. Some still wore their old pottery tiles, rough with moss. Others, flat grey slate that reflected the watery sky. Above the roofs, the top of the moor was just visible through the mista gentle, rounded thing from this distance. From the warmth of a front room with central heating and the kettle starting to whistle in the kitchen, it even looked innocent.

The shortest of the boys struck the window with the flat of his palm and Stevens nan recoiled in fright.

The boys laughed and ran although no one was chasing them and they knew no one was likely to. Nosey old bag! one of them shouted back, although it was hard to see which, with their hoods so low on their faces.

Lettie hurried in, breathless and alarmed. What was that?

But Stevens nan was back in the window. She didnt look round at her daughter. Is tea ready? she said.

Steven walked off the moor with his anorak slung over one shoulder and his T-shirt soaked and steaming with recent effort. The track carved through the heather by generations of walkers was thick with mud. He stoppedhis rusty spade slung over his other shoulder like a rifleand looked down at the village. The streetlamps were already on and Steven felt like an angel or an alien, observing the darkening dwellings from on high, detached from the tiny lives being lived below. He ducked instinctively as he saw the three hoodies run down the wet road.

He hid the spade behind a rock near the slippery stile. It was rusty but, still, someone might take it, and he couldnt carry it home with him; that might lead to questions he could notor dared notanswer.

He walked down the narrow passage beside the house. He was cooling now, and shivered as he took off his trainers to run them under the garden tap. Theyd been white once, with blue flashes. His mum would go mad if she saw them like this. He rubbed them with his thumbs and squeezed the mud out of them until they were only dirty, then shook them hard. Muddy water sprayed up the side of the house, but rain washed it quickly away. His grey school socks were heavy and sodden; he peeled them off, his feet a shocking cold white.

Youre soaking. His mother peered from the back door, her face pinched and her dark blue eyes as dull as a northern sea. Rain spattered the straw hair that was dragged back into a small, functional ponytail. She jerked her head back inside to keep it dry.

I got caught in it.

Where were you?

With Lewis.

This was not strictly a lie. He had been with Lewis immediately after school.

What were you doing?

Nothing. Just. You know.

From the kitchen he heard his nan say, He should come straight home from school!

Stevens mother glared at his wetness. Those trainers were only new at Christmas.

Sorry, Mum. He looked crestfallen; it often worked.

She sighed. Teas ready.

Steven ate as fast as he dared and as much as he could. Lettie stood at the sink and smoked and dropped her ash down the plughole. At the old housebefore they came to live with Nanhis mum used to sit at the table with him and Davey. She used to eat. She used to talk to him. Now her mouth was always shut tight, even when it held a cigarette.

Davey sucked the ketchup off his chips then carefully pushed each one to the side of his plate.

Nan cut little pieces off her breaded fish, inspecting each with a suspicious look before eating it.

Something wrong with it, Mum? Lettie flicked her ash with undue vigor. Steven looked at her nervously.

Bones.

Its a fillet. Says so on the box. Plaice fillet.

They always miss some. You cant be too careful.

There was a long silence in which Steven listened to the sound of his own food inside his head.

Eat your chips, Davey.

Davey screwed up his face. Theyre all wet.