Unsettled Ground Claire Fuller (grave mercy TXT) 📖

our father, and it wasn’t true. Dad made the hitch pins, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Bridget says, her eyes on the road. “He did.”

Jeanie sighs. “None of them are the people we thought they were. Not Mum, not Dad, and not Rawson.”

When Bridget turns the car west along the A4, Jeanie says, “The police told me there’s a warden at the council who deals with stray dogs. I was thinking they might have found Maude. Can I call them tomorrow morning on your mobile? I think the police must have Julius’s. Or your home phone if that’s easier.”

Bridget pitches the end of her cigarette out of the window and closes it. Jeanie sees, in the car’s poorly lit interior, that Bridget has become suddenly rigid, embarrassed. “Of course you can. But I’ve been thinking about you staying with me and Stu tonight. I know you can’t go back to the caravan, but you’ll have to sleep on the sofa, if that’s all right. It’s just that Nath’s come home. We brought him back with us when we went to see him. He’s in his old room. I think it’ll be good for him to be with us, spend some time with Stu. Sort himself out.”

Jeanie feels unexpectedly unmoored, shaken with the realization that Julius isn’t here to fix things and there is no plan to get them out of trouble, however crazy. “No problem,” she says, knowing that Bridget doesn’t really want her on the sofa even if she feels she must offer it. “That’s great—that Nathan’s home. It must be a relief. Actually, I was thinking I could stay with Saffron. The woman I’m gardening for. I’m sure she won’t mind.”

“No,” Bridget says. “You should stay with us.”

“Really, Saffron won’t mind.”

“Without any warning?”

“She’s very relaxed. She has a nose piercing. It’ll be fine.” They are being so polite with each other. “Could you drop me there? She lives on Cutter Hill. Near the old phone box. She’s the one who keeps it stocked with books.”

“Are you sure she won’t mind? I’m not working tomorrow, so I can pick you up in the morning and take you back to the hospital.”

“I can get the bus,” Jeanie says, although she has no idea if she can afford a ticket.

“Don’t be silly. I’ll take you. A bus to Oxford would probably be about three changes and you’ll be on it for hours. All round the houses. You know what they’re like. I’ll pick you up outside Saffron’s at eight thirty. How does that sound. Where is it exactly?” They are already on Cutter Hill.

“Up here, on the left,” Jeanie says.

Bridget pulls the car up to the driveway entrance and lets the engine idle.

“Will she be able to give you something to eat? I can call her now. Is she even in?” They peer through the windscreen. Jeanie hasn’t thought about food since the biscuit she was made to eat after she fainted. “Perhaps you should come back with me. Nath can sleep on the sofa.”

“Look, there are lights on,” Jeanie says. “It’ll be fine.” She pulls on the car door handle. “If you’re sure you can take me tomorrow? Can you pick me up from the village? I’ve got to see Max, have a word with him about deliveries. Eight thirty, then.” Jeanie has one foot out of the car.

“If you’re sure,” Bridget says.

“Of course,” Jeanie says, and she’s out, the door closed. As the car pulls away, Jeanie puts a hand on the gate and with the other, she waves.

∙

Police tape is strung from orange cones placed at intervals across the lay-by. But there is no police car parked there, no officer standing in the night, guarding the spinney and ready to stop her entering, or to lift the tape for her to duck under. She takes the path that the paramedics and police took before her—grass flattened, the moonlight showing white residue in tyre and boot prints. The place doesn’t scare her, its familiar shapes and sounds are a comfort, like coming home, but it feels as though she has been away for months. Only the out-of-place shadow near the scorched circle brings her hand to her mouth until she recognizes its boxy shape and sharp angles as the toppled piano.

The caravan door is closed but police tape has also been attached here, and ripped off, and when Jeanie opens the door, nothing inside is as she left it. The cupboard doors are open, the contents strewn across the floor, trampled clothing, Julius’s phone charger, their sleeping bags and pillows. Immediately she thinks of Tom, but he has been taken in by the police, and Nathan is at Bridget’s. It must have been Lewis, although he won’t have done this on his own; or perhaps it was Ed. Maybe one of them told someone about the place: probably unlocked and vacant apart from a non-existent stash of money. She steps inside. The plastic bag she’s been using to carry her things and her little bit of cash around is in the sink, and when she lifts it up, she sees that it has been emptied. The photograph of her parents is on the floor, the glass smashed, the handle is broken off the Toby jug, and Angel’s painting of Maude is torn. She wonders if the police have Julius’s wallet as well as his phone and clothes, and how much money is in it. The lids of the bench seats either side of the table are open and what was inside is topsy-turvy, and when she checks, Julius’s gun has gone—most likely taken by the police—but also the fiddle and banjo cases. It’s then that finally she shouts and kicks at the stuff on the floor—the dog’s water dish, the washing-up bowl, a frying pan—and slams her palms against the caravan walls, making all of it shake, making something else fall from a cupboard. Yelling incoherently, she sweeps the detritus off from Julius’s couch, raises the lid, and there, unexpectedly, is her