The Couple at No. 9
Claire Douglas
For Elizabeth Lane, Rhoda Douglas and June Kennedy
Part One
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1
Saffy
April 2018
I’m in the front garden, pulling at weeds that spill out from the borders of the driveway, like gigantic spiders, when I hear yells. Deep and guttural. The builders are in the rear garden with the mechanical digger. All morning, as I was pruning the rose bush under the living-room window, I could hear the thrum of it on the breeze, like a nagging headache. But now it’s stopped. It’s enough to make my heart pound and Snowy – Gran’s little Westie who’s lying beside me – prick up his ears. I turn towards the cottage, a film of sweat breaking out between my shoulder-blades. Has something happened? I imagine severed joints and gushing blood – at odds with the blue skies and the dazzling sunshine – and my stomach heaves. I’ve never had a strong gut at the best of times but being fourteen weeks pregnant I’m still experiencing morning sickness – well, morning, noon and night sickness.
I stand up, mud stains on the knees of my jeans, still my usual size, although the waistband is snugger. I deliberate, chewing the inside of my cheek, inwardly berating myself for being so indecisive. Snowy stands up too, his ears pricked, and he emits one solitary bark as a builder – Jonty, the young good-looking one – suddenly appears from around the side of the house. He’s running towards me, damp circles under the armpits of his T-shirt as he waves his cap in the air to get my attention, his sandy curls bouncing with each step.
Shit, he’s going to tell me there’s been an accident. I fight the urge to run in the opposite direction, instead shielding my eyes from the sun that beats down onto the thatched roof. Jonty doesn’t appear injured but as he gets closer I can see shock on his freckled face.
‘Is someone hurt?’ I call, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. Oh, God, I’m going to have to ring for an ambulance. I’ve never phoned 999 in my life. And I’m not good with blood. I wanted to be a nurse when I was younger, until I fainted when my best friend fell off her bike and gashed her knee open.
‘No. Sorry to disturb you but,’ he sounds out of breath and his words tumble out in a rush, ‘we’ve found something. You’d better come. Quick!’
I drop my gardening gloves onto the grass and follow him around the side of the cottage, Snowy at my heels, wondering what it could be. Treasure, perhaps? Some relic from the past that could be exhibited in a museum? But the yells. They weren’t of joy at the discovery of something precious. They were laced with fear.
I wish Tom was here. I don’t feel comfortable dealing with the builders while he’s at work: they constantly ask questions, expecting me to make decisions I’m worried will be wrong, and I’ve never been very authoritarian. At twenty-four Tom and I are only three years out of university. All of this – the move from the flat in Croydon to Beggars Nook, a quaint village in the Cotswolds, and the cottage with views of the woods – has been so unexpected. A surprise gift.
Jonty leads me to the back garden. Before the builders came it had looked idyllic with the mature shrubbery, the honeysuckle snaked around the trellises and the rockery in the corner filled with velvety pansies in a burst of pinks and lilacs. Now there is an ugly orange digger surrounded by a huge mound of unearthed soil. The other two builders – Darren, mid-thirties with a hipster beard, who, by his confident stance, is the boss, and Karl, around my age and as stocky as a rugby player – stare down at the hole they’ve made in the ground, hands on hips, their heavy boots sinking into the soil. They whip their heads up in perfect synchrony when I approach. They’re wearing matching shocked expressions, but Karl’s eyes are flashing with something akin to excitement. I follow his gaze and notice a glint of ivory among the soil, protruding like broken china. Instinctively I reach down and grab hold of Snowy’s collar to prevent him from darting into the hole.
‘While we were digging we found … something,’ says Darren, folding his arms across his dirt-streaked T-shirt.
‘What is it?’ Snowy strains against my hand and I tighten my grip.
‘Remains.’ Darren’s expression is grim.
‘Like … an animal?’ I ask. Darren and the others exchange a look.
Karl steps forwards confidently, almost gleefully, kicking up dust from the ground as he does so. ‘It looks like a hand …’
I step back in horror. ‘So you’re saying … they’re human?’
Darren regards me with sympathy. ‘I think so. You’d better call the police.’
2
By the time Tom arrives home two hours later I’m pacing our tiny kitchen. It looks like a relic from the 1980s with its farmhouse units and the scenes of fat-cheeked pigs and sheep on the wall tiles. We’ve managed to squeeze in our oak table from the flat, although we can pull out only two of the four chairs. Not long after we moved in, in February, we’d sat with the architect, a short balding man in his sixties called Clive with a good local reputation, planning the back of the house: the kitchen would be extended and span the width of the cottage, with Crittal doors leading out into the large garden. And, to be honest, it’s taken my mind off my pregnancy, which I still feel jittery about even though I’ve had the twelve-week scan and everything looks okay. But I’m blighted with what-ifs. What if I miscarry the baby? What if it doesn’t grow properly, or comes too early, or I have a stillbirth? What if I can’t cope when the baby is born or suffer post-natal depression?