Snow Fallen Read online

  SNOW FALLEN

  Alex Walters

  Also by Alex Walters:

  Trust No One

  Nowhere to Hide

  Late Checkout

  Murrain's Truth (short stories)

  Dark Corners

  Candles and Roses

  Death Parts Us

  Their Final Act

  Alex Walters writing as Michael Walters:

  The Shadow Walker

  The Adversary

  The Outcast

  SNOW FALLEN

  Copyright © Michael Walters 2018

  Michael Walters has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes.

  Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions or locales is completely coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  How long since he'd last been here?

  Twenty years, he thought, or even more.

  For many of those years, he'd accepted he was unlikely ever to return. Why would he? There was nothing for him here, and nobody wanted him, even if he'd had a choice in the matter.

  Yet here he was. He still didn't even quite know why. His first instinct had been to ignore the letter. He had no intention of accepting the invitation, after all. But it had been a prompt to take the step he'd been considering for so long.

  He'd arrived by train earlier that afternoon, travelling first to Piccadilly and then catching the local service out here. He'd had all that carefully planned, checking the timetables in advance to ensure he could make the connections.

  But his train to Manchester had been delayed by some signalling problems south of Stoke, so he'd missed the local train. He'd had to wait forty minutes for the next service, whiling the time away over a stewed tea in an over-priced sandwich bar just down from the station. Perhaps it had been a sign, he thought. A last opportunity for him to change his mind. But he knew now it was already too late.

  So he'd arrived later than he'd intended, and the walk from the local station had been further than the map had suggested. By the time he'd found the footpath and begun the slow trek up the hillside, the sun was already setting. When he reached his destination, the night would have long fallen.

  That wasn't a problem. He'd never wanted to arrive in daylight. His only concern was whether he'd be able to navigate the final stretch of the journey in darkness, rather than in the twilight he'd expected. Even after all these years, though, he was sure he could find his way.

  As he reached the top of the line of trees, he turned to look at the landscape behind. From these lower slopes, the land fell away sharply towards the Mersey valley and the wide Cheshire plain. It was a clear, cold day, and in the late afternoon the view was as spectacular as he remembered. Past the dark cluster of houses below, the countryside opened up once more. In the distance, he could see the squat towers of Manchester, and to its left the railway viaduct through Stockport. Otherwise the landscape was largely green pastureland stretching into the distance, the Welsh hills a faint dark haze on the horizon. The sun was poised above the horizon, half lost in strands of crimson cloud.

  It was the last time he would see this vista and he allowed himself a few moment's respite, watching as the sun slowly dipped below the circle of the earth. Then he turned abruptly and resumed his journey, not pausing to look back a second time.

  It was another thirty minutes, the twilight thickening, before he finally recognised the landscape. The footpath had joined a narrow metalled road. This was the route he'd generally have taken in the old days. He had rarely used the footpath, except for the occasional weekend stroll. He'd take the main road up from the town and turn off towards the village , finally ending up on this narrow track that led to the house.

  The road was barely wide enough to accommodate two lanes, although in those days the chances of encountering other traffic up here were low. He wondered whether that had changed over the years, whether there was more housing up here now. New builds for families seeking to escape the urban sprawl. Somehow he doubted it.

  By the time he reached the first house the darkness had fallen completely. The place looked largely unchanged from his time here. It could hardly even be called a village. It was little more than a cluster of houses surrounding the tiny church. It had been a much larger community once, farm buildings and workers' cottages serving the local farms and the long abandoned cotton mill down in the valley. Some of the houses had fallen into ruin, now barely discernible in the surrounding landscape. The few remaining cottages had gradually been renovated over the years, often being combined to create larger buildings. Some were now weekend or holiday homes, with a few occupied by couples and families commuting into Manchester or Stockport.

  He could understand why. The views up here were spectacular, and the sense of remoteness belied the proximity to the suburban housing a mile or so below. That had been what had brought the family up here when the children were small. All of that, though, was something that had happened to another man. A man he no longer knew or understood.

  The house itself seemed as unaltered as everything else. The road behind had been unlit, but by the houses and church there was a scattering of streetlights. As he passed, he could see that the front garden was overgrown, the paintwork needed attention. They'd been proud of the place when they'd first moved in, spending weekends decorating, working on the garden. Creating a family home. They were still a family, he supposed, those that remained.

  He paused for a moment as he passed, making sure he stayed in the shadows. There were lights showing in a couple of the windows but no other signs of life. He imagined they were all in there, but would never know for sure.

  Finally, he continued past the house to the gateway to the churchyard. When he'd first moved here, the church had already felt half-abandoned, with services held only once a month and on church holidays, the vicar traipsing up here from the larger church in the valley.

  He'd half expected that by now the church would have been deconsecrated, sold off, perhaps turned into another gentrified residence. But he'd checked before setting off and discovered that this was unchanged too. A different vicar, but the same monthly services, presumably attended by the same or a similar handful of people.

  He turned for one last look at the view. It was fully dark now, the final dregs of crimson drained from the western sky. Manchester was a haze of light, the relative dark of the Cheshire plain stretching away to the south. As the forecast had predicted, clouds were moving in from the west, obscuring the few visible stars.

  It took him only a few moments, searching in the darkness, to find the grave. The church was no longer used for burials, and this had been one of the last bodies interred here at the far end of the graveyard, along with two or three others from the same year.

  He read the inscription on the black marble. Just the name and the brief years of life. Nothing about the person. Nothing about the death or what had followed. He looked around for any other signs, but the overgrown churchyard was giving nothing away. This was as close as he could get.

  This end of the churchyard was at the edge of the moorland, more exposed to the elements. He could feel the wind rising as the clouds thickened in the sky, a new dampness in the air.

  He had almost nothing with him. He'd spent the last of his cash on the train ticket, scraping together a few remaining coins to buy the tea at Piccadilly. He had brought no credit cards, no wallet, no other documentation. It didn't matter. They would soon know who he was.

  He pulled the small metal fla
sk from his pocket, then removed his thin waterproof jacket and spread it across the grave. He lay down, facing upwards. The clouds were heavy now, the weather beginning to turn. The earth was cold.

  Closing his eyes, he unscrewed the top of the flask and poured the cold liquid into his mouth. It would not be pleasant but he hoped it would work.

  In those last few minutes, as he lay there, the first flakes of snow began to fall. By the morning, his body would be lost in a thickening blanket of white.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Murrain woke once in the night, his usually sound sleep disturbed by a dream he couldn't at first recall.

  He lay in the darkness, listening to Eloise's rhythmic breathing. After a few moments, he eased himself from under the duvet, taking care not to wake her. He knew he'd get no thanks if he disturbed her at this time of the night. There was enough light through the curtains from the streetlight outside for him to slip on his dressing gown and find his way across the room. He silently stepped out on to the landing.

  It was a cold night, the heating long turned off. He pulled his dressing gown tightly around him and made his way downstairs.

  The dream had left him troubled, its forgotten content still resonating in his mind like the echoes of an unheard sound. In the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of water and stood sipping it, staring out of the kitchen window into the darkness of the back garden.

  The predicted change in the weather had arrived. The last few days had been clear, bright and cold, but Murrain had already been tasting snow in the air. Now it had come, thick flakes billowing down. The garden was already under a thick white covering.

  He sat at the kitchen table and closed his eyes. There was no point in forcing it. If he tried to remember, his mind would most likely remain blank. Instead, he sat silently, trying to think of nothing, hoping the memories would return.

  It had been as if he'd been inside another man's head. Seeing through another man's eyes. Thinking, if that were possible, another man's thoughts.

  Somehow, though he could recall few details, he was sure it had been a man. Not a woman. A man trudging up a seemingly endless hillside, wind and empty spaces at his back. A man with a destination. A man with a goal.

  Had that been it? Had that been what he had dreamed? As soon as he tried to rationalise it, the memories fled away, scattered like the snowflakes tossed against the window.

  He had been walking and walking. Then, finally, he'd reached his objective. There was—what? A house that looked like a child's drawing of a house. Four windows, a pitched roof. Smoke curling from a single chimney. Three faces in those four windows, staring back out at him. At the man.

  Why three faces? Why had there been that one empty window?

  Then he—the man—had passed by the house. His destination lay elsewhere. There was a church, Murrain thought. Again, a church from a child's drawing, with a steeple and arched windows. There's the church, and there's the steeple. Open the doors and there are the people.

  Except there were no people. The man was alone. He had walked into the churchyard and there, as if waiting for him, had been an open grave. A blank dark space, perhaps empty, perhaps not.

  Murrain opened his eyes, blinking at the bright kitchen lights.

  The dream was already fading again. A man. A house. An open grave. Murrain hung on to those three images. A man. A house. Three faces. And an open grave.

  He could recall nothing more. He rose and fumbled in one of the kitchen drawers for the pad and pen they used for making shopping lists. Carefully, in block letters, he wrote out the words.

  A man. Walking. A house. Three faces. An open waiting grave.

  Almost certainly it didn't matter. Almost certainly it could be forgotten. Even for Murrain, sometimes dreams were nothing more than dreams.

  But there had been an intensity to this that had left him troubled. The sense of being in another man's mind. The details were now lost to him, but he had felt a depth of emotion that still clouded his mind like a slowly clearing mist. He couldn't have begun to describe that emotion—sorrow, anger, despair?—but it had been sufficient to rob him of sleep and drive him to try to capture at least something of the experience.

  He was unlikely to sleep again that night. He rose to fill the kettle. Coffee, a book. Something to calm his mind as he waited for the night to pass. Tomorrow would no doubt reveal whether the dream was something or nothing at all.

  As he stood by the kitchen window waiting for the kettle to boil, he watched the snowflakes endlessly tumbling in the darkness.

  The snow had been a surprise. These days, she always retired early. Mainly, she thought, because there was little else to do. Even in the old days, they hadn't had much to say to each other. Now, of course, there was just silence. She wasn't keen on the television. Sometimes she listened to the radio, but mostly she simply sat reading until she decided it was time for bed. Then she had to go through all the usual routine before she could retire to bed herself, to continue reading, more comfortably and alone.

  The others didn't wake particularly early, generally sleeping till after nine. Anne had always been an early riser. It had been one of the things—one of the many things—that had made her feel different from her sisters. As a child, she'd generally been up before the rest of the family, even before her father. When she was older she'd sometimes prepare breakfast for him – just toast or cereal – before he went off to work. She'd already be washed and dressed. After he'd gone, she'd sit reading by herself in what became an increasingly precious hour of solitude before school.

  When she was grown up and living by herself, her sleeping patterns had barely changed. She'd be up before six, eating her meagre breakfast of toast and jam, the time stretching out until it was time for her to go to work. That was one reason she'd bought Dougie. Partly for company but partly to give herself something to do in those dead early morning hours. If she'd gone out walking by herself at that time of day, the neighbours would have thought her even odder than they did already. But nobody thought it strange to take a dog for a walk.

  Her sisters had never wanted a dog, even a well-behaved labrador like Dougie. That had nearly been a sticking point when she'd moved back in here. But in the end they'd accepted Dougie's presence as long as he was excluded from the kitchen and the main living room. That suited Anne perfectly well. It gave her an excuse to seek Dougie's company on those evenings when she found the silence of the living room more oppressive than companionable. Now, of course, she could do what she liked.

  That morning, she'd woken even earlier than usual, though still tired after a restless night. She'd felt the cold as soon as she'd pulled back the sheets. The central heating would not yet have come on, and her bedroom always seemed chillier than the rest of the house. She imagined this was why the room had been allocated to her in the first place. She could move now if she chose, but there seemed little point.

  Despite the cold, the snow was unexpected, though she'd guessed as soon as she'd climbed out of bed. The room seemed brighter than usual in the first light creeping through the thin curtains. She'd felt a girlish thrill as she gazed out at the unsullied white blanket across the garden. Middle-aged as she might be, the sight of the snow took her straight back to childhood in this same place. Sledging down the hill opposite the house. Snowball fights with her sisters, always slightly more vehement than she would have liked. Returning home, soaked and chilled, trying to make herself warm as they all crowded round the tiny front room fire.

  And, just sometimes, their father there, watching them indulgently, one of the few real memories she had of him from those days. The days before everything changed.

  It seemed a world away now, all of that, to the point where she scarcely knew if the memories were real or imagined. It felt as if all childhood winters had been like that, snow-filled and joyous. But that couldn't have been the case. Even up here, even then, snow had been relatively uncommon, typically falling no more than once or twice each winter and then lyi
ng only for a day or so before melting into grey slush, lingering only in the darker corners further up the hillsides.

  There must have been many darker days, when their mother was first gone, when their father had vented his anger on them. Even sometimes on her. All that seemed even more remote, like a story she had read rather than anything that had happened to her. It was as if she had buried the reality somewhere in the furthest recesses of her mind, never wanting to dredge any of it back up in the light.

  She dressed quickly and made her way downstairs. She'd grab a shower later once she'd completed the morning routine. In the kitchen, Dougie greeted her as enthusiastically as ever, keen to be outside. She spooned some food into his bowl and topped up his water, while she went to pull on her heavy walking boots and waterproof.

  The snow was already thicker than she'd expected. Perhaps nothing would happen today then, she thought. No visitor after all. That didn't trouble her. She hadn't really expected he would come. Despite the letters and the calls. Despite the supposed desperation. She'd called his bluff, knowing it would resolve things one way or another. Most probably, she'd hear nothing more.

  Outside, Dougie responded to his first encounter with snow much as she'd expected. She was amused by his evident bafflement at the changed landscape, the way he tentatively placed one paw into the drift piled by the door and then hastily withdrew it. Within minutes, though, he had reconciled himself to the new world and was eagerly pulling her out into the garden.

  She allowed him to tug her along the path and out into the street. Her usual routine was to take one of the footpaths down the hillside and then follow a looping route that eventually brought her back to the road a half mile or so from the house.

  Today, she expected that the steep slope of the footpath would be treacherous and, if the snow had drifted, perhaps impassable in places. Dougie was normally keen to head into the woodland in search of non-existent rabbits, but today was too fascinated by the snow to care much about that. She decided to take a shorter and simpler walk around the perimeter of the churchyard. If Dougie was still restless after that, they could walk further up the road. But by then the dog might have tired of the damp and cold.