The Heights: A dark story of obsession and revenge

He flung Heathcliff’s belongings into the small recessed corner at the top of the stairs. The bed followed. Then Mick walked back into his room and slammed the door. Hard.

‘We’re going to be in trouble,’ Heathcliff declared as they walked back down the path from the blue hills.

‘Nah,’ Cathy said. ‘There’s more trouble down the pit. Always is. Dad spends more time there than at home. And Mum doesn’t care any more. She won’t say anything. She’ll just make us do what the nurse said.’

‘Were they always like that?’

Cathy bit her lips as she tried to remember. There must have been some better times. Maybe before things went bad at the mine. And in the house. She seemed to remember hearing her parents laugh. But not recently.

‘I guess…’ she said hesitantly. ‘What about yours?’

‘There was only ever me and me mam,’ Heathcliff said. ‘And she never laughed much.’

They reached the fence behind their house, and slipped through the back gate. The first thing Cathy saw was Mick, standing in the yard, a fag dangling from his fingers. It was too late to avoid him. Mick’s arm shot out and grabbed Heathcliff. Cathy dropped her bag to pull Heathcliff out of her brother’s grasp. Her school stuff tumbled across the yard. Mick bent down and picked up the bottle. ‘What’s this?’

Cathy folded her arms across her body. ‘It’s nit stuff,’ she mumbled. ‘We’ve got to put in in our hair. All of us.’

‘Nits? That filthy gyppo brat’s got nits? Get him away from me.’ He shoved Heathcliff so hard, he almost fell over.

‘Stop it!’ Cathy jumped between them. ‘It’s me that’s got the nits, not him. Leave him alone.’

Mick stepped away. ‘Well, I ain’t gonna put that stuff in my hair. It stinks.’

‘You have to,’ Cathy said. ‘The nurse said so. Mum’ll make you do it.’

‘No, she won’t. She won’t make me do anything ever again.’ Mick spun away, kicked open the gate and walked out.

Cathy frowned. What did he mean by that? She looked towards the house. There was no light in the kitchen. Her mum should be cooking dinner by now. There was a light upstairs in Mick’s room, but it was the only one.

She was a little bit scared as she opened the back door.

The house was in total silence. She turned on the kitchen light and almost screamed when she saw her father sitting at the table. There was a beer can in his hand and two others lay on the table. That was wrong too. Her dad only ever drank one beer each night.

‘Dad?’

He looked up at her, and blinked a few times, as if he was struggling to remember who she was.

‘Ah. Cathy.’ His eyes moved past her. ‘And Heathcliff too. Um…’

Cathy glanced sideways at Heathcliff. He looked as frightened as she felt. She darted forward to stand at her father’s knee.

‘Daddy?’ she asked in a tiny, tiny voice.

‘Are you hungry, sweetheart?’ he asked. ‘I guess you both must be. I don’t think… I sent Mick here to ask your mum to get some food together. But he didn’t come back. I thought… But when I got here…’

‘Where’s Mummy?’

Her father put a hand on her head to comfort her, but it slipped away as if he didn’t have the strength to hold it there.

‘Your mother’s gone, Cathy.’

Cathy frowned. ‘What do you mean gone?’

‘She’s left. Gone away to live with someone… somewhere else.’

‘But she can’t just leave. She’s got to put stuff in our hair. Hers too. We’ve got to do what the nit nurse said.’ She was close to tears.

Her father shook his head slowly, as if he hadn’t really heard her. ‘It’s just us now.’ He ruffled her hair. ‘Cathy, you’re the woman of the house now. You have to do what’s needed. For all of us. You and me. Heathcliff too.’ He didn’t ruffle the boy’s hair, but he did try to smile at him.

‘And Mick too?’ Cathy said slowly.

‘Yes. Mick too.’ Her father didn’t sound so sure. ‘We’ll be fine, just us,’ he said. ‘Now, I need you to give me a few minutes, then we’ll think about dinner. Maybe get some fish and chips. Give me a few minutes…’

They left him there, sitting in the kitchen, which now seemed even emptier than before. Cathy didn’t think there would be any fish and chips. But that was all right. She had some chocolate bars stashed in her room.

At the top of the stairs, she was stopped by the sight of Heathcliff’s things, heaped at the back of the landing.

They stood side by side and stared for a few seconds.

‘I guess Mick won’t let me sleep in his room any more,’ Heathcliff said.

‘You can sleep in my room,’ Cathy declared.

‘Your dad won’t let me.’

‘He doesn’t have to know. Come on.’

Under Cathy’s direction, they set up the camp bed in the small space at the back of the landing. They put Heathcliff’s clothes in the bag he’d had with him the day he arrived and slid that under the bed.

‘See. Dad will think you’re sleeping there. Now, come with me,’

She took Heathcliff’s hand and led him through into her room. They sat on the bed together, while she doled out a supper of Mars bars. They didn’t say much, but when they had finished eating, they lay down side by side on the bed. Cathy’s hand found Heathcliff’s and their fingers entwined.

‘Everything will be all right,’ she said in a firm voice that might make it true. ‘Nothing will hurt us as long as we’re together.’

Chapter Six (#ulink_0093b8cb-c686-5d2f-9d28-503d41d42ebe)

2008

Even after all these years, the stone church was familiar. Lockwood had never been inside, but the police van had driven past it every day during the strike – taking Lockwood and his fellow officers to the mine head and the picket lines. He’d never paid it much attention. Looking at it now, he could see the rough texture of the stone, stained with generations of grime from the now-silent pit on the other side of the valley. St Mary’s was neither large nor impressive. Not even well-kept, it was a poor cousin to the clean, bright, Protestant church near the top of the town. This church, with its narrow windows and a roof sadly in need of repair, had served the miners since the young Queen Victoria sat on the throne. The rituals and sermons, the fire and brimstone, had been as much a part of their lives as the fire of the ironworks and the smell of gas in the dark and dangerous tunnels.

Lockwood had a more recent memory of the church. He’d seen a photo in the library archive yesterday. Not much happened in Gimmerton, so this particular funeral had been enough to capture the attention of the local newspaper. This funeral had been special. The deceased was a teenager. A seventeen-year-old boy. He’d been to the funerals of kids before. Standing discreetly outside or at the back of the church, looking to see who came, who was acting out of character. It was part of the job. Lockwood shook his head. He’d been a copper too long. Every case now seemed to remind him of the one before.

He dragged his thoughts back to the here and now. You couldn’t get the result you wanted every time. Nobody did, but he had a second chance with this one. He stared at the church, thinking back on the pictures of that funeral. Normally such a tragedy would be expected to bring a crowd of mourners to a church. Parents and grandparents. Schoolfriends and teachers. Maybe members of some sporting team.

There had been so few people in that photo. A priest and four anonymous pallbearers carrying a cheap coffin. As for the boy’s family, there had been just four of them, each standing slightly apart from the others. Not a family so much as a group of people whose lives had somehow all been linked through that dead boy. And the one furthest from the grave – that had been his father – Heathcliff.

Lockwood leaned on the rusty iron gate that looked across the churchyard and the ranks of graves, becoming ever more overgrown and neglected as they marched down the hillside. Were the answers to some of his questions to be found out there?