The Silent Hills
Derek Thompson
Harlton nestles in a hidden valley, largely untouched by the fearsome pace of progress. There's no internet café and, since the railway station was downgraded, precious little contact with the outside world. It's a place of farming and village buses, where the slow, relentless days flow into seasons like spilled paints in a paint box.
I came to Harlton by chance – a complicated little story. I needed to move on quickly and Harlton received the pin on the map, so it became my new home. I adapt easily. I learned years ago to draw a line under the past and I've been drawing them ever since; family, friends, lovers - all distanced by lines as thick as railway sleepers.
The locals knew me as Peter - as good a name as any, plucked from a headstone where I once slept for the night. Peter Marlow. Something wonderfully Dickensian about it, don't you think?
I spent my first three weeks lodging at the Railway Inn. More public house than five-star accommodation, it suited my needs well enough and left my options open. I arrived like a refugee, with few possessions to my name and fewer explanations. I was 'on a walking holiday' while looking for business opportunities, though I stopped short of declaring what my line of business was. Let's just say that I'm a prospector of sorts. I have never cheated anyone who did not ask to be cheated, never conned anyone who did not delight in thinking that they were conning me. In Harlton I sought a life that was, if not entirely honest, then anonymous.
Money was not an issue since my departure from Bristol had inadvertently made ample provision for the future. I should tell you now that I didn't choose to become a thief. It was a quirk of fate that my last day at the Solicitor's office also happened to be the day that old Mr Crowley chose to loot the safe. My only crime, was to empty out one of his bags before leaving. I'd intended to relieve him of his diary and keys, inconvenience the old blusterer a little as payback for his spitefulness.
But life is seldom a straightforward affair and opportunity always deserves attention. I left him enough, mind; I'm not a greedy man. Next day, so I read in the papers, there had been a burglary and a mysterious fire. As I say, I was already going, and fires are not my style.
I idled away my first two weeks like a tourist, filling the time with long walks and shopping trips to nearby Selsley. It's a bustling market town that had evidently eclipsed its neighbour at some key point in history. It boasts a cinema; the obligatory banks, building societies and estate agents; a smart parade of shops and a supermarket.
I had no plan at all, other than to lie low. But over time Harlton began to grow on me. The landscape seemed to mould my mood, drawing on my thirst for solitude on those grey, desolate days when the cattle seemed to moan with despair.
I must have walked for miles before arriving at the lake that first time. I was surprised to see a solitary car, parked up by the water. I kept a safe distance but I was close enough to make out the warring couple. I could see by their gestures that the pressure was building, rising to a fever pitch where violence was inevitable. But when he struck her full across the face, I flinched. I am not given to violence – ironically, the army trained that out of me – but I felt my fists curling. I made a note of the make and number of the car and left them to their quarrel. I make it a rule never to interfere in the lives of others if I can avoid it.
I thought nothing more of the incident until I saw her a day or so later in the village, her face a mosaic of magenta and purple. It was, even in defeat, a beautiful face and I fought hard not to stare. Our eyes met as she headed towards me.
"Thank you for being there," she said, as if I'd made a difference.
"Your husband needs taming," I replied, flushed with embarrassment.
She didn't answer. I knew when I heard the roar of the car that it was the husband so I dived into the nearest shop and watched the drama play out from the window. The car skidded to the kerb and he ordered her in like a dog.
"Dan Fletcher's nothing but a drunken bastard!"
I turned, finding myself in Mrs Jarrowby's Provisions Store.
"Someone should have sorted him out years ago. Sally'll get no peace until he's cold in the ground, you mark my words."
I read the fire in her eyes and found myself nodding. I picked some goods, paid for them and left, Sally Fletcher's name upon my lips.
The landlady at the Railway Inn and I had found an agreeable distance. Mostly it was cold pleasantries but occasionally she would share snatches of local history. She was village stock, born and bred, content to live within the bounds of the valley with no thoughts of wanderlust. I admired that; a disposition so different to my own.
"What's the story with Sally Fletcher?" I asked as we sat in an all but empty bar.
"There's a tale," she sighed, reaching for empty glasses. "Poor Sally; married at seventeen. Family all gone now, god bless 'em. And him, that piece of work; no family, no job and no shame! Lives by his own rules, does Dan. Don't see her for days sometimes, then she comes to the village, looking like she's been in the wars."
I repeated what Mrs Jarrowby had said and she nodded darkly.
I didn't see Sally or her excuse of a husband for a whole week but I thought about her often. I made two trips into Selsley to check on my investments and visited the lake as often as discretion allowed. My patience was finally rewarded, though rewarded is hardly the word. I lay there, watching through binoculars, little realising what would transpire. Dan Fletcher seemed to get his kicks from mauling his wife in the car. She was less inclined to his attentions, hence his propensity for physical persuasion. I retreated again, furious and helpless.
I came downstairs one afternoon and heard the landlady talking to Dan Fletcher. I ducked out unobserved and scoured the village. I had almost given up hope when I saw Mrs Jarrowby standing by the shop door.
"Why, Mr Marlow; how lovely to see you!" Her voice was emphatic, drawing me across the street. I soon saw why. Sally was in the shop, weeping like a child.
"Come through and have some tea," Mrs Jarrowby fussed over her, opening the door behind the counter. "Perhaps Mr Marlow would like to join us?"
"Peter," I said, alarmed by the sudden welcome.
Mrs Jarrowby's back room looked untouched by the last fifty years. For a while the three of us sat there, listening to the slow ticking of a grandfather clock.
"Well, help yourselves, I'll just fetch an extra cup and see to the till." Mrs Jarrowby declared, standing abruptly and making for the door.
I felt trapped, though happily so.
"Legend has it that knights are buried by the lake," Sally sniffed back the last of her tears. "Folk used to say that a woman in distress could call them back to life."
It was a strange, incongruous start to our friendship. I knew about the Iron Age remains up there, but no gallant knights, however much Sally seemed to need them. We chatted on for ten minutes, barely touching Mrs Jarrowby's – Evelyn's cakes and crockery.
Evelyn stuck her head around the door. "He's out the pub. Best have you off now, dear."
There was a brisk optimism in her voice, as if the world were suddenly aright. Sally and I shook hands awkwardly and I watched her go with a strange sense of longing. Evelyn was in no hurry to see me leave.
"Mr Marlow," she buttonholed me. "I'm looking for a reliable lodger. I don't offer much in the way of luxuries and I may need the odd job done around the place. But I don't ask questions."
I stared at her a full thirty seconds, marvelling at her gaze. "I'll take it," I said, without asking the rent. I felt I'd outstayed my welcome at the Railway Inn and besides, I could come and go more easily with only one pair of eyes to worry about.
Evelyn Jarrowby quickly became the closest thing I'd had to a friend in a long time. In an unspoken pact, I found myself helping out in the store on occasion. And I always kept Thursday afternoons free because Sally often called in.
One time, when Sally had left in tears again, I drew Evelyn aside. "Why are you doing this? Why are you throwing us together?"
"It was that day in the shop, when you were watching her. I saw something in you, felt something. You're a special kind of person, Peter Marlow." She sounded out my name as if she quite didn't believe it.
I looked away and changed the subject. "Why doesn't she leave, get away from here?"
"Why should she?" Evelyn railed. "This place is her home; her dear mother and father were laid to rest not ten miles from here. She belongs here. And anyway, what makes you think she hasn't tried before. You've seen what he's capable of."
I cleared away the cups and unpacked the last deliveries. In the evening, Evelyn and I often watched television, or else I strolled up the road to the inn for an hour. I was certainly wealthy enough to buy a television for my room but I enjoyed Evelyn's company. That night she re-told the legend of the silent hills, and of the old fort that overlooked the lake. But this time, it had a different ending.
"A man could drown in that lake and never be found; it's that deep," she said calmly as she stirred her cocoa.
A few days later, Evelyn and I closed the shop for the afternoon and went in to Selsley. True to her word, she waited outside the bank to afford me some privacy but I could see that her curiosity was piqued. As we shared tea in a café, she came round to inquiring after my business interests. Another ritual was born.
Evelyn took to share dealing with relish, happy to open a separate account in her name at another bank to spread the profits on my capital. She was no fool and tempered her selections with research and decisiveness. We actually started to do rather well. She took to reading the Sunday business pages and we swapped her old TV set for one with teletext, to watch the companies' fortunes rise and fall by the hour. Our Selsley trips became a secret shared.
On one occasion we returned home to find a simple note pushed through the letterbox. Missed you both, love Sally x. It seemed at once, endearing and pitiful.
Evelyn was characteristically blunt as we watched the TV. "We'd never tell, you know."
"Never tell what?" I wanted to draw it out of her, make her say the words once and for all.
"Never tell if Dan Fletcher was to disappear."
"You're not serious?" I said, searching her face for a hint of reservation and finding none.
"My Reggie was a soldier, just like you. He did what he had to do…"
"Like me?" My head was spinning; surely I'd been more careful than that.
"It's in your bearing, just like Reggie." She said proudly. "He was someone who did what had to be done."
I felt exposed and manipulated. "What exactly are you suggesting?"
"I'm not sure, exactly," she replied. "All I know is this: Sally is very fond of you – she's said as much to me. And I know you're taken with her too. Seems to me that Dan Fletcher is making both your lives a misery."
"You're talking about murder!"
She didn't blink. "Don't you think he's murdering her slowly? How long before his fists do some permanent damage? Are you going to stand by and let that happen?"
"And when did this become my sole responsibility?"
"It isn't easy, Peter. Growing up and staying in one place. Every village has its bad apples but the Fletcher men have always been trouble. Dan's father was the same. People here still remember Terry Benning but you'll never hear his name mentioned. One night he went up to the farm to have it out with Dan's father. He was never seen again. Old Fletcher got drunk once and said he'd fed Terry to his pigs and scattered what was left on the hills. Might be true, might not be, but the fear remains. Takes an outsider to break a hold like that."
So there it was. "And what about you, Evelyn?"
"I do what I can."
I didn't sleep well that night. A dancing cavalcade of memories returned to haunt me. Next morning, I was sombre at the breakfast table and Evelyn gave me a wide berth. It was as if we'd both said too much. I took sanctuary in the habits of old, walking up by the fort. I'm not one for superstition but I felt a presence on those hills. I knew they'd be there, Sally and her thug of a husband. This time I kept on walking; I don't know why I did it but I went right up to the car. He was bent over her, grappling with her arms and cursing. She looked at me and froze. He turned around suddenly and we just stared at one another.
"What are you looking at?" He snarled but I just kept staring straight at him, studying his face, burning it into memory.
He was about my size but clearly in no mood for a fight. He clambered off Sally and started the car up. I stood, watching and my decision was made. I didn't get back to Evelyn's until late that evening; I had a lot to think about. For the first time that I could remember, someone wanted my help – needed my help. I have told you little about my past but I will tell you this now. I have killed before; willingly but not gladly, in the service of my country. This was different though. I had looked him in the eye and I knew. There was only one way that Sally would ever be free.
Evelyn had laid on a meal fit for a conqueror, or an executioner. She sat and watched me eat, with a strange look of contentment on her face.
"How do we proceed?" I asked with a heavy heart, for killing should never be enjoyed.
"I still have Reggie's old service revolver," she said quietly.
I considered that for a second. "Too obvious. It needs to look like an accident."
"Not if he went missing – in the lake."
She lifted my plate away with the calm demeanour of a woman for whom the years had eradicated fear. If I could have chosen a mother, it would have been one such as Evelyn. She told me right away that Sally had said she loved me. I know how ridiculous that must sound when we had not known love as the modern world portrays it. But I had spent the years writhing through a string of meaningless encounters and how many of those passing strangers could claim to know me? So no, I wasn't shocked or even flattered; it was merely a statement of the way things were. Of course, it could have been a ruse to sway me but there was little point; I had already given my word to the deed.
Fortune is a fickle muse, whose gifts are best discerned with hindsight. On my next visit to Selsley I learned that my bank was closing. I liquidated my assets there and did not look for an alternative. Moving on seemed the only logical course, once I had despatched Dan Fletcher. Any investigation – even one without a body – would inevitably focus on Sally. This way, there would be genuine cause elsewhere; and moving on is one thing I'm good at.
We three had not discussed the matter together but I surmised that Evelyn had brought Sally up to speed with developments. Sally seemed to smile more and her eyes shone with a resilience I had not previously witnessed. Left alone together, she reached for my hand suddenly and held it. We kissed; a gentle intimacy, which bore no sense of deception.
Evelyn returned. Sally blushed a little but her hand stayed fiercely fastened to mine. Evelyn merely smiled. "You won't have to go through this alone," Evelyn said, though she could have been speaking to either of us.
When Sally left, Evelyn warned me: "We must prepare ourselves for the first opportunity."
The walks across those hills became a macabre pastime. I've never killed with my bare hands and the prospect was not one that I relished. Evelyn had taken to accompanying me in those forays from the village, when the light was receding and the hills turned through shades of grey. She walked beside me in grim silence on our pilgrimages to the lake and back, never knowing whether the time had come.
On Christmas Eve, Evelyn closed the shop early. We wrapped up warm and made off, oblivious to the festivities that surrounded us. I suppose we knew the car would be there; certainly Evelyn indicated as much before we rounded the last hill. We could see the sickly glow from the car's interior light as we approached. We walked at a measured pace, shoulder to shoulder like comrades in arms. I could see Sally's prone body beneath him, still and unyielding, while he fumbled about like the wretch that he was.
I grabbed at the car door and dragged him off her. Evelyn stood beside me in Reggie's old cape like a harbinger of doom, or deliverance. At first he was shocked, cursing at us while he flailed about, trying to get his balance. I watched him, searching for an ounce of humanity. Evelyn was wiser and she produced Reggie's revolver.
"On your knees," she hissed, levelling the barrel. He didn't plead; he just scowled at her.
Sally emerged from the other door, dishevelled but unafraid. She crept behind her husband and lifted her hand. Then, with a resounding whack, she brought a rock down on the back of his head. He sank forward with a whimper.
Evelyn put her gun away and prised the rock from Sally's rigid grasp. "Terry Benning," she said, as if she was passing sentence.
There was a flicker of recognition from Dan Fletcher then Evelyn swung savagely – another crack then blood oozed from his skull as he lay there. Evelyn held out the rock. "Peter?"
I took the rock without hesitation and carried out my duty. It was an act of mercy, like putting an animal out of its misery.
"We'll take him up the hill." Evelyn instructed and we dragged the body behind us, uncertain whether he was still breathing. And, it must be said, unperturbed.
It was difficult to see in the fading light but we levered him into position, up on the rocky outcrop overlooking the lake. Evelyn urged us to gather up stones and she thrust them into his pockets. The final send off was an unceremonious affair; no prayer and no commending of his soul, if indeed he had one. The body seemed to taunt gravity but we waited till the bitter end, watching as Sally's tormentor sank to his watery grave.
I assumed that Sally would drive home but it turned out that she couldn't drive – Dan had forbidden her from learning. I took the wheel, intending to drop Sally at the farmhouse then make my way home on foot.
Evelyn had other ideas. We first went back to the shop and she brought out a box of provisions and some spare clothes for both of us (all of my clothes, in fact). It was late when we reached the farmhouse but Evelyn insisted on preparing dinner as Sally and I sat by the fire.
It was a good meal, arguably one of Evelyn's finest. She opened a bottle of port and filled three glasses, raising an unexpected toast. "May we all rest in peace – especially Terry."
We echoed her words. As the bottle emptied, Evelyn told us about her husband. It turned out that dear old Reggie was an army deserter. He had done his stint at the front and grown weary of the carnage. So he'd disappeared among the lost and the dead, submerged beneath the chaos and the killing, re-inventing himself as Reggie Jarrowby. Evelyn never found out his real name and didn't care to know. Difficult times, she said – holding my gaze across the table – required extraordinary things of everyone.
It snowed on Christmas morning. I thought I had never seen anything so beautiful, the world remade. I woke by the embers of the fire, Sally asleep in my arms. We lay there, wrapped in blankets. Evelyn was already up and in the kitchen. We were lost, out of time, out of step with the rest of the world. Until Sally invited it back in.
"I want to go back to the lake," she said.
It was still early and I was thankful for that. Being seen with Dan's car would have been a dead give-away, in every sense. We parked up and surveyed the lake from the car, waiting while Sally decided what she wanted to do. She gazed out at the water for some time.
"You'd think that I'd feel sorry or guilty, but I don't; not a bit of it. I keep wanting to pinch myself; just to make sure that I'm not dreaming. It's like it's the first time I can breathe. And I'm glad it was ended here. It first happened when I was sixteen. I was walking by, one evening, down by the lake. And he was waiting." Her voice trailed off and her hand reached over to mine.
When we returned to the farmhouse, I saw how the ravages of neglect and decay had left their mark. We embarked on a campaign of restoration and repair. I set about finding as many serviceable tools as I could, while Evelyn and Sally amassed Dan's clothes and consigned them to a bonfire, along with any photos they could find; I assumed that the official story would be that Dan had left her. I fixed the gate and set about other tasks that Dan had long since forsaken for the bottle.
On Boxing Day afternoon Evelyn announced that she'd like to go home, adding – before I could deliberate – that I should stay with Sally. I drove her back when it was dark. The streets were deserted and we reached the village quickly. I was sorry to say goodbye.
"Remember, you're not in this alone," Evelyn assured me as she got out of the car.
Sally and I spent the next few days in isolation. It was, for both of us, the happiest time we had ever known. There were no assumptions, no expectations, but we made the transition from accomplices to lovers gladly.
There was an old telephone, which Sally used to order provisions ahead. Evelyn was thrilled to hear from us and insisted we come down to the village for New Year. I was nervous about it but she convinced me it would be good for Sally's wellbeing.
Evelyn had left a note on the shop door, saying that we were to meet her in the Railway Inn. My hand trembled as I pushed the bar door, Sally steadying me with her arm. It was surreal. The whole village had turned out – adults and children – and they were all of them were looking at me. I sought the safety of the bar with Sally trailing behind me.
"On the house!" The landlady proclaimed, increasing my discomfort.
Then the whole bar raised their glasses. I went up to the bar for a second round, more accustomed now to the nods and good wishes. I ordered the drinks and dug into my jacket pocket, retrieving a rag tag collection of notes and coins but no driving licence. I brought the drinks back, ashen-faced, and whispered to Evelyn.
"You can't leave now," she said, pointing at the clock.
Only half an hour to go. I watched those minutes tick by, desperate to escape. The pealing chant 'Should old acquaintance be forgot' bore an eerie ring to it as I stood among the villagers, arms entwined.
When we brought Evelyn back to the farmhouse I was quiet in the car and suspicious. Could I really have been so careless by the lake? Neither Sally nor Evelyn showed any concern, which worried me all the more. My instincts were to get away – as far and as soon as possible. But I'd grown fond of Peter Marlow and his life. Besides, I told myself, I wouldn't know for sure until the snow had thawed.
The next few days passed agonisingly slowly. Evelyn remained at the shop while I stayed up at the farmhouse with Sally, praying for the weather to break. A week went by then the rains came, relentlessly turning the lanes to mud and the hills to a place of foreboding.
Evelyn promised to search for me once the weather had dried. It was an ill-conceived pact; it rained for three solid weeks. I tried to put my fears beyond me and lose myself in the newness of Sally, showing her how to drive the car in the fields, unconsciously preparing her for my departure.
Evelyn's call came late one evening. "A body's been found in the lake. You'd better come down here."
I made the journey like a condemned man, my pounding heartbeat the executioner's drum. A police car was outside the Railway Inn and we passed Evelyn's shop with no sign of her. I could have made a run for it but what of Sally and Evelyn? Believe or not, I consider myself an honourable man.
I pushed the door with Sally clinging to my arm like last time. The police sergeant held the room. "The body has been in the lake for weeks." He explained, pausing to sip at his drink.
We entered the bar and the room fell deafly silent. "This is the Fletchers, sergeant," Evelyn announced. "Down from the farmhouse at the top-end fields, beyond the village."
"Evening Dan; what'll it be?" The landlady asked warmly. A chorus of 'Evening Dan's' reverberated into my brain. Sally stayed close like a devoted wife – like my devoted wife.
The sergeant continued, oblivious. "The suicide was one Peter Marlow. We got a positive identification from the driving licence in his jacket. Just as well, t'weren't much else to recognise him by." He patted the back of his own head and grimaced. "I gather he stayed here for a time?"
The landlady topped up his glass. "Yes, but then he just upped and disappeared. I always make 'em pay in advance!" The landlady and Evelyn then painted as bleak a picture of Mr Marlow as any man I ever hope to encounter.
"H…how do you know it was suicide?" Sally asked, crushing my hand.
"Well Mrs Fletcher; he doesn't seem to have left a note. But there was quite a bit of cash in his jacket so it wasn't robbery. And from what you folks have told me, Mr Marlow seemed like a troubled soul who was just passing through. He even cleaned out his bank account."
Money in his pocket – our money. She was a wily old bird, that Evelyn.
I suppose you'd like me to say I have the occasional twinge of conscience – murder is murder after all. I don't though. I sleep peacefully. And so does Sally.
No one has ever asked about how Dan ended up in the lake with my driving licence. Perhaps they all think it was a suicide because he'd discovered an affair; perhaps they're more comfortable believing that. In the end, it's all about making peace with the past.
We sold the farmhouse within a year and moved in with Evelyn to run the shop. That spring, we returned to the lake, to find a fresh cairn of stones on the hill, above the water. The three of us paid our respects: Sally Fletcher, Dan Fletcher and Evelyn Jarrowby, nee Benning.
Derek Thompson
