The Water Tower - Books 1-3 E-Book

Chris Vobe

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The first three books in Chris Vobe's 'The Water Tower', a spellbinding series of literary fiction, now available in one volume!

Reunion: When journalist Adam Chapman returns to the village of his childhood, what he finds at first is an English idyll, untouched and unspoiled. But when plans to demolish the old Water Tower are announced, the perfect world of Little Bassington is fractured. Battle lines are drawn and long-buried secrets are on the cusp of being unearthed. As Adam struggles to navigate his own past, he finds himself drawn into an unexpected circle of acquaintances – including a woman from the Library to whom each of them will becoming inextricably linked. In the captivating first volume of the series, facets of love and loss intertwine, resulting in a raw and uncompromising tale that throws a spotlight on the complex dynamics of a community grappling with profound change.

Remembrance: Election fever has gripped the village of Little Bassington and the race for the Town Hall has intensified – with the fate of the Water Tower at stake. Long-buried feelings are rising to the surface, painful heartaches and disquieting realities look set to endure… and a decades-old secret, forgotten and left to gather dust, is discovered at Orchard House. As journalist Adam Chapman strikes a deal with the devil, librarian Victoria Kendall discovers that some choices remain inescapable. Steeped in themes of loyalty and allegiance, the second book in Chris Vobe’s gripping five-volume epic serves as a candidate exploration of the way we live with grief.

Revelation: As dark clouds loom over the village of Little Bassington, the secrets of one woman's hidden past are finally laid bare – propelling journalist Adam Chapman towards a watershed moment in his life. With the community left reeling, more than one resident finds themselves out in the cold. Elsewhere, Victoria Kendall is forced to navigate a high-stakes political game of cat-and-mouse as the sinister figure of Robert Grainger stands poised to play his hand. For those embroiled in the fight to save the Water Tower, destiny is calling. Packed with unexpected, immersive twists, the thrilling third instalment of ‘The Water Tower’ offers an emotional examination of redemption and the enduring power of love.

Leseprobe

THE WATER TOWER

Books 1-3

CHRIS VOBE

Contents

Reunion

Definitions

Prologue

I. Now

May

Chapter 1

II. Then

June

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

The First Obituary

Chapter 4

Extract from the Bassington Post #1

Chapter 5

Extract from the Bassington Post #2

Chapter 6

Extract from the Bassington Post #3

Extract from the Bassington Post #4

July

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Extract from the Bassington Post #5

Chapter 9

Extract from the Little Bassington Community Forum #1

Extract from the Little Bassington Parish Newsletter

Chapter 10

Interlude #1

August

Chapter 11

Extract from the Bassington Post #6

Chapter 12

Extract from the Little Bassington Community Forum #2

Extract from the Bassington Post #7

Chapter 13

September

Extract from the Bassington Post #8

Extract from the Bassington Post #9

Chapter 14

Remembrance

September

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Extract from the Bassington Post #10

Extract from the Bassington Post #11

October

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Polling Day

Chapter 19

The Transcript

Chapter 20

Extract from the Bassington Post #12

Extract from the Bassington Post #13

November

Chapter 21

December

Chapter 22

Love

Chapter 23

Interlude #2

December

Chapter 24

Revelation

The Last Day

December

The Longest Night

Chapter 25

The Morning Light

Little Bassington

Rushleigh Hall

Extract from the Bassington Post #14

Christmas

Christmas Eve

Christmas Day

Past Life

Perfect Blue

The First Letter

The Eve of New Year’s Eve

January

Chapter 26

Extract from the Bassington Post #15

Extract from the Bassington Post #16

Songs the Darkness Sings

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Building Preservation Notice

Chapter 30

Extract from the Bassington Post #17

Extract from the Bassington Post #18

Best Intentions

February

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Extract from the Bassington Post #19

Crazy Love

The Last Day

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Extract from the Little Bassington Community Forum #3

Extract from the Bassington Post #20

Entr’acte

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2023 Chris Vobe

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Lordan June Pinote

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Reunion

THE WATER TOWER BOOK 1

First Dedication

For Jade, Paul and Casper,

with love

In Memoriam

In loving memory of my grandparents

and my friend Steve Roberts –

after whom I named a character

(because I know he would have found it hilarious);

and who was never awarded an MBE,

but absolutely should have been!

“Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.”

(Romans 12:2, English Standard Version)

* * *

“Welcome to Little Bassington,

Twinned with Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, France

Home of the Bassington Farmers Market

Please drive carefully through the village.”

(Bassington District Council)

local government, noun

The administration of a particular county or district, with representatives elected by those who live there.

(Source: Oxford Languages)

* * *

District councils

In 2-tier areas, each county council area is subdivided into districts, for which there is an independent district council. There are 192 district councils. District councils are responsible for local services such as rubbish collection, housing and planning applications.

(Source: GOV.UK – Local Government Structure and Elections)

* * *

Town and parish councils

There are also approximately 9,000 town or parish councils in England. These operate at a level below district councils and unitary authorities. They are often responsible for smaller local services such as allotments, parks and community centres. They may provide other services with the agreement of the county or district council.

(Source: GOV.UK – Local Government Structure and Elections)

* * *

councillor, noun.

An elected member of a local government.

(Source: Cambridge English Dictionary)

* * *

ego,noun.

A person's sense of self-esteem or self-importance.

(Source: Oxford English Dictionary)

(1)

Who was the last person to tell you they loved you?

Prologue

A PERFECT WORLD

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to live in a perfect world?

Imagine, if you will, a snow globe resting on a mantelpiece or a windowsill, in the corner of a quiet sitting room; it must be somewhere unremarkable, a non-descript home on a forgettable street will serve you best. Look inside the snow globe. Picture it in your mind’s eye. Two ornamental figures are standing there, facing the window. They seem comfortable, content; neither one of them ever appears despondent or hopeless.

Some of us are raised in our own private snow globes; where an indiscernible shield is cast around us to protect us from the inadequacies that thrive outside our lovely, little domain.

The world we inhabit is such a bleak place, after all. We all breathe imperfect air, we tread imperfect footsteps, and we dwell in imperfect moments.

As for love – love is the greatest imperfection of them all. Indelibly fragile, lastingly delicate, we place love on a platter and allow it be cross-examined, studied and interrogated. It is commented and remarked upon, analysed and dissected. It makes imperfect men and women of us all.

So, just for a moment, allow all of that to be pushed to one side and return to the snow globe. Imagine you are inside it.

What, in your mind’s eye, does your perfect world look like? Perfection is in the gift of the beholder, after all. A perfect song, a perfect letter, a perfect symphony; all of these are just concepts that we pursue within the framework of our own ideals.

There are those for whom perfection could only take shape with money, or inconceivable wealth; with others, it comes from a type of intangible happiness that they have sought for as long as they are able to recall. For many, a perfect world exists only in those small, indiscernible moments between breaths when they lie contentedly in the arms of another, a spread of stars casting their pearl-white light down from the balconies of heaven. For a select few, their perfect world is made real in the instant that they break away from everything that has come before; when suddenly, unexpectedly, they are wonderfully, breathtakingly, mesmerizingly free.

Perhaps, for you, it lies in words on a page, in the fictions we create for one another, where the imperfections of our hearts can be washed away like blemishes with blotting paper? In the perfect worlds we craft in storybooks, no one has to die, no one has to lose, and no one has to make impossible choices that ferment the fires of separation and division. Happy endings abound – if there ever has to be an ending at all.

But perhaps there is another answer to this question.

Perhaps there is no such thing as a perfect world.

Perhaps there are only the two ornamental figures, inside a snow globe, watching the window, where the light from across the street has been smudged by the rain.

PARTI

Now

“And though I walk through the valley

of the shadow of death

I shall fear no evil, for you are with me”

(Psalm 23: Dominus reget me et nihil mihi deerit)

May

Chapter1

“Set me as a seal upon your heart,

as a seal upon your arm,

for love is strong as death…”

(Song of Solomon 8:6, English Standard Version)

* * *

(i)

It was on the day she died that they finally pulled down the Water Tower.

The final demise of the Tower, which had stood for so long as a mainstay of Little Bassington’s post-industrial heritage, came not with a tumultuous roar that signified its collapse in a moment of heart-stopping suddenness, nor in a breath-taking spectacle of intensifying destruction; instead it had happened gradually, minute by minute, hour by hour, almost in slow motion. When it ended, finally – the scaffolding, wrecking balls and cranes all having been weaponised as tools in its unravelling – it did so with an eerie stillness that signified the moment’s conclusiveness; a moment punctuated only by the grit that salted the air and the final rush of dust that was carried on the wind. Tiny particles of history settled unobtrusively over the Village Green, on the rooftops of the nearby cottages, scattering themselves along the surrounding cobbled streets. As the footnotes of the past came to rest, and the watching eyes readjusted, the landscape that greeted those observing appeared suddenly different – altered – as if it had been warped somehow by unseeing, uncaring hands; remoulded into an image not of their choosing.

And the Tower was gone.

The winter that year had been endless, the days filled with bitter winds and rain clouds that had dominated the sky wherever they’d turned. The chill had been broken only by the onset of heavy, relentless downpours which had drowned Little Bassington’s customary colour in perpetual dreariness from sunrise until sunset. When the showers had lifted, and the temperature had crawled above the intolerable lows they had been forced to endure, the trees which lined the pedestrianised thoroughfare leading to the Water Tower cast no shadows. Their branches seemed brittle, bent by the unyielding force of the winter weather that had pummelled them over the preceding months. Few buds had unfurled; none of the lush green leaves that stood out so remarkably in familiar paintings of the scenery around the Tower were in evidence now. It was like a barren landscape, one which retained just enough remnants of its past to remind onlookers of what had come before, yet coyly avoided any hint of what was still to come.

When he was younger, he and his friends would meet in the grounds of the Water Tower. In those days, when the summers had seemed endless, and the hours had stretched out before them with an inviting earnestness, he would climb over the walls which shielded the Water Tower from the Parade and Market Square, grazing his knuckles occasionally as he clamoured for purchase, and hoist himself over the dusty, uneven brickwork before allowing himself to drop easily onto the safety of the other side. The ground had invariably been wet beneath his feet; the leaves that had fallen from the canopy of decades-old trees around the perimeter wasting into a sodden mulch which had coated the concrete below. The turrets of the Water Tower cast long shadows across its boundary, the arch of the trees meeting them at the midpoint and diminishing the impact of the sun’s heat. The damp lime scale on the bricks only added to the sense of antiquity; although, as teenagers, they’d had had little to no appreciation of the Tower’s place in Little Bassington’s history. To them, it was the same as it always had been. They would sit there, within the walls their own private fortress; the place in which each of them had laughed with innocence, planned with simplicity, loved with inexperience, and dreamt with naivety.

We never imagined our days would be any different…

The future had arrived with alarming speed. There had been nothing more profoundly sobering to him than the day he’d realised that the years he’d once thought endless had passed him by unaware. There had been so much time – and then there had been no time at all. It was in the intensity of that realisation, when he had looked back over the span of moments unspooled behind him, that he had come to realise nothing was eternal. The young man felt that same sensation again, as he watched the Water Tower fall; as it was lost to that irretrievable pocket of place we call the past. Months of debate about its future, arguments and counter-arguments, indictments and accusations, placards, and metaphorical lines in the sand had all come down to that afternoon, as the dust settled and the wind tore through the open space that had once been denied to it by the inflexible walls of Little Bassington’s most defining structure. A Water Tower that existed only in paintings now, in photographs and memories; its architecture consigned to a wistful recollection of what had once been.

Eventually, as the years determined, there would be no one left alive who remembered it standing. The young man wondered how the defining days of his life would be looked back upon in years to come. Would future generations understand why there had been such furore over the Tower? Would they feel a scrap of sympathy for the way in which dividing lines had been drawn on both sides of the debate by people who’d believed themselves equally right? Perhaps, occasionally, a solitary figure turning the pages of a photograph album or admiring the work of a long-dead artist would casually remark that there used to be a Water Tower overlooking Market Square. They might never know the seeds of separation that had been sewn the day Little Bassington had learned of the Tower’s fate, or understand the means by which the future had been written; in the slipstream of a choice made by one person, one unremarkable day. They would never guess the flurry of conversation that had followed, or be able to deduce where the path of those heated words had eventually led. The Tower would become just another facet of days gone by; partitioned into a listless category of mildly interesting nostalgia, whose entries were scattered like breadcrumbs around the village’s gossip circles. Like the story of the sweet shop that was now the Pharmacy, or the tale of Mr Fielding who’d clutched his chest behind the counter of the Post Office one Wednesday afternoon, closed his eyes and never opened them again.

Change is nothing new. It’s always been there, flooding our lives.

The young man advanced towards the demolition site, his shoes scuffing the thin layer of brick dust now coating the cobbles at the edge of the Square. His eyes were still red from the tears he’d spilled after her passing; the memory of her sweet, beautiful face still radiant in his mind. As he raised his hand to flick a speck of dusty residue from his cheek, something flickered across his senses. Just for a moment, he could have sworn that he was back there, with her; that he could feel himself gracing a strand of hair that had fallen across her forehead. As if she were standing just in front of him. So close…

But the recollection slipped away, and she was gone. Like the Tower, her presence evaporated from his life, changed his landscape, twisted his perceptions, warped his outlook, and tested his willingness to go on. The dull grey scaffolding loomed large up ahead; signs in bright reds and yellows declared warnings to keep out, to stay away, cautioning trespassers of the dangers within. He watched as some of the demolition crew traipsed back to their vehicles, collecting their equipment, slowly removing their hard hats and discarding their gaudy, high-vis jackets.

Vaguely, he thought about calling his friend, but he realised that he didn’t have the first idea what he’d say. He knew that he’d tell her first, out of all of them, but the prospect of talking about the Tower – of having to face the fact that the Tower was gone – felt like too much of a burden, on top of everything else. He fished his phone out of his pocket and scrolled for her number anyway, realising as he went to press Call that he was holding his breath. Releasing it with a deep exhale that resonated sharply through his chest, the young man stopped to contemplate once more. He wasn’t ready to air the agony of the afternoon to anyone yet; wasn’t ready to face up to the bitter, heart-breaking reality of his new life. He switched off his phone and slid it back into his coat, watching as a steady trickle of demolition workers left the site. The wind skittered lightly over the silence, and he felt the dust scratching at his skin. He remembered something he’d been told once; something about ashes and bones that he’d confined to his subconscious. The words marched to the forefront of his mind now like the echo of a cannon shell reverberating.

He’d slowly become aware of his own heartbeat. After he’d left the house and started his walk – after he’d allowed his lungs to collect those first pockets of late afternoon air – its rhythmic, steady beat had gradually increased. By the time he’d reached Market Square, the calm pattern of his pulse had given way to what felt like a militaristic drumbeat inside his chest. Now, his thought train pushed the drumbeat to its crescendo. He was drowning; awash in a fusion of unbearable sadness. A sense of emptiness that defied words. There was a longing somewhere inside him that he couldn’t articulate; a need that he couldn’t visualise; a hollow space that had once been occupied by his sense of purpose. His mind flitted between the here and now, and the envelope of his past. Where he’d felt safe, content, anchored and accepted. Where the exalted triumphs that had united them, the whispered truths they’d shared, and even the things they’d left unsaid, had all played out in the theatre of her eyes.

But she wasn’t there anymore. She’d gone, like a light that had faded with the strength of the afternoon sun. The moments that had once seemed so real, so powerful, so present, felt as if they had slipped quickly and irretrievably through his fingers.

She was gone…

Like the Water Tower.

A hum rose somewhere behind him. The doors to the Bricklayers Arms opened and a handful of patrons filed out. A sliver of noise escaped into the late afternoon breeze, before they closed and muffled the conversation again. Inside, he knew, life would be carrying on as normal: Ray and Anthea would be serving the tables; a couple would be shuffling closer to one another along the benches by the window; and the same familiar faces would be ordering a pint of bitter from draught, just as they’d always done. Beyond those doors, nothing had changed. He could almost hear Anthea laughing now. It was just the world outside that had shifted on its axis.

The group who’d exited moments earlier stood a few steps away from the entrance, gazing out towards the demolition site. The man at the front, wearing a blue woollen hat and untidy jeans, was pointing to the empty space that had, until minutes earlier, been occupied by the Tower. The woman behind him – her blonde hair slightly dishevelled, a slim handbag tucked beneath her arm – followed his eyeline. So did the man a step behind her; her husband, perhaps, or maybe her brother. The young man watched them as the first embers of conversation were lit. He didn’t need to hear what they were saying; he could guess.

“So they’ve finally brought it down, then.” — “It’s gone, has it?” — “That’s that, then.” They weren’t the only ones who’d be watching. It would be the same all over. A dog walker on the Village Green would have stopped by the telephone box, pausing – just for a moment – to take it all in. Shopkeepers along the Parade would have interrupted their customers, tilting their heads towards the windows to try and get a better view. He supposed they might even have stopped playing bowls on the Green; his lip curled slightly at the realisation that the final fall of the Tower might have been the only thing significant enough to halt a game.

The sky was already tinged with the first hints of evening; scattered smears of a ruddy composition were painting the clouds with an undercoat of red. The young man stood at the edge of the cordon, collecting his thoughts, slowing his breathing, and pushing away a mountain of memories as if with the palm of his hand. He tried to suppress the competing ideas in his mind that were wrestling with one another over what to do next. He was ready to turn and walk back the way he’d come, release the clenched fists he hadn’t realised he’d balled, and wind his way back to the house. He had known he wouldn’t be able to embrace the silence for long; there were still things that needed to be done, and the thought of a familiar environment suddenly seemed more appealing.

He gathered himself, watching the man with the blue woollen hat call out a final goodbye to the young couple, as they parted on the corner of the Square and went their separate ways. The couple held hands – not her brother, then, he noted – as the last question he’d been asked replayed itself in his mind.

“Who was the last person to tell you they loved you?”

He could hear her saying it; her voice melodic and light, a wind chime coloured with a playful edge. Then he imagined the question written on a sheet of paper, his answer crossed out with marker pen, hastily removed and awaiting its successor. There was enough blank space to insert dozens of other replies. He wondered how many he’d write there in the years to come, on that paper in his imagination.

The couple turned the corner out of sight. The man with the woollen hat and untidy jeans walked towards a car parked in one of the bays facing the Square. He climbed inside and started the ignition. As he drove away, the young man turned his head to scan the Parade. His eyes skimmed the familiar shop frontages, with their neat, inviting windows, and their immaculately painted doors.

No one ever got round to opening that bookshop, he thought. Missed opportunity.

Those that weren’t already closed soon would be, before the early evening folded into night. The patient hours would tick along, waiting for the sun to rise again, and the doors to be unlocked. Somehow, almost by reflex, his eyes fell on the one shop whose door he knew would never open again – at least, not as he remembered it. The one that would remain cloaked in its own history, quietly letting the storm of memories wash over it until a new owner came along.

He expected to see nothing but darkness. The inside of the shop was bare; it had already been stripped of its once inviting furnishings. The space formerly occupied by window dressings was shrouded in a gloomy mystery. That’s how it should have been.

Except… there was something…

His eyes narrowed as he focused on the shop front. The young man edged forward, as if making for the door.

It was then that he saw the light.

* * *

(ii)

The Water Tower had been built in 1824 by an Italian architect, according to the history books. It had been situated to the north of the old Market Square, accessed by the pedestrianised walkway, which was lined with well-manicured shrubs that rested in ceramic planters between processions of trees. Once, when the industrial revolution had raged, the subsidiary buildings had housed an industrial school. By the time the young man first arrived in Little Bassington, the entire site had long been emptied and abandoned. The Tower itself had been lifeless and crumbling, its pipes corroded, the metal frames and girders of its interior already having succumbed to rust and decay.

The green shoots of weeds that had grown from the creases and folds of its roof space had added a layer of mystery to the place; the way the clicks and clacks of a haunted house tease their trespassers with the hint of something unseen. The Tower’s low walls had been the only boundary between the walkway that led from the Square and the confines of its grounds. The original tall, wrought-iron gates still sat proudly within their arched frame but, for a long time, they had been fused shut and impassable.

Nearly fifty years before the day of the demolition, the Tower had been granted a temporary reprieve from the deterioration it had been enduring even then; the grounds had been renovated, the old chipped concrete raised and laid afresh. The first of the shrubs which now bordered the walkway had been planted, as part of a project which sought to preserve the Tower as a site of historical interest. It was always assumed that more would be done once the initial renovation had been completed. But the project had fallen by the wayside, the money well had run dry, interest had been lost, and other, more pressing concerns had captured the attention of whoever had held in their hands the power to decide its future.

Little Bassington’s past had once unfolded its wings within the sanctuary of that place; yet the Water Tower itself had been left strangely unmarked, save for the wear and tear that had naturally discoloured the brickwork across the intervening years. Beside an empty metal frame within the grounds, where a steel staircase had once provided access and egress to the second storey of one of the domicile buildings, someone had tried to graffiti the words “Sal’s a slag” in hawkish blue on the wall. Their efforts had gone largely unnoticed, and the rain had soon washed away the remnants of their bitterness.

The Tower had stood like a monument over the quiet, unassuming idyll of Little Bassington. It wasn’t hard to see why the site had so frequently been recreated by members of the local Art Group. As a child, the young man had often hoped to find a way to climb to the very top and sit on the Tower’s roof, or look out over the village from the highest window. It was impossible, though; the interior had deteriorated to such an extent by then as to make the journey unmanageable. He and his friends had even thought to try and scale the side of the building itself somehow, but they had only succeeded in reaching the roof of what had once been the industrial school before a loose slate resulted in Nathan Walker suffering a broken ankle. They’d never tried again.

Once, when he was very young, not long after he had first come to the village, the young man had dreamed that the Tower had a soul; a conscience made manifest by all-seeing and all-knowing eyes that watched the population going about their lives. If only it had, he’d thought later, imagine the secrets that it would have known. From its tallest point, the whole, wide landscape of Little Bassington would have stretched out before the Tower’s gaze; everything from the Square directly below to the distant hills and fields that separated the village from the adjacent town. Love and loss, secrets and surprises, births, marriages and deaths; they would all have been incidents within the circle of its sight. He was certain that if its walls had had ears, it would have heard the confessions of those who’d gathered in its grounds. If it had had a heart, perhaps it would have learned to love them. If it had drawn breath, its lungs would certainly have creaked with the weariness of age.

He’d wanted to be a writer for as long as he could remember. When he was old enough to venture out alone during the summer holidays, he’d sat in the grounds of the Water Tower and dreamt up characters that might once have inhabited the place. Dusty, grime-coated, flat-capped workers, mixing with miscreants and malefactors who would otherwise have been sent to borstal. Now and again, he had let his imagination run wild; he’d even written the story of an angel who lived inside the Tower. An angel who only showed itself at night, to him alone.

When he’d been a little older, the young man had incorporated his parents into the story. He’d imagined them living in one of the cottages that lined the road just beyond the Square, where the Water Tower and its angel stood guard over them. In reality, it had taken him more years than he’d cared to admit before he’d come to the realisation that it was better to see the world as it was, not as any of us would like it to be. There was to have been no happy ever after for his parents. No angel stood guard over their fate. And the Tower may have had heart, but it had no soul.

But if the Tower had been the herald of impossible dreams, then the village itself had been the willing recipient of that spark of lustful imagination. For years, the populace had treated the site as hallowed ground; it was both a staple and an icon on the vista of Little Bassington, situated as it had been on the boundary of the fields which divided the village from the Whitechapel estate.

It had been, to some people’s way of thinking, a “guardian”; not one akin to the angel of the young man’s childhood fantasies, but one who’d ensured that the respectable, idyllic and peaceful environment of the much sought-after properties in Little Bassington remained separated from the far less salubrious – and undeniably distinct – streets of Whitechapel, whose dark corners and labyrinthine alleyways that ran between the grey, uninviting blocks of former council housing were as notorious as the people who lived there. Yet the residents of Whitechapel had gazed up at the Water Tower in much the same way as the people of Little Bassington had; casting their eyes up, almost daily, towards that which had dominated the skyline immediately outside their homes.

The paintings that had been crafted over the years were plentiful. Every scenescape imaginable had been rendered, painting the Tower in whatever light the artist chose. In one, it had been a monument to industrialisation; resting like a nemesis beneath a dark, foreboding sky. In another, it was a unique and splendid construction to be venerated, soaking up the sunlight that poured across the glory of a summer’s day. The Tower had lent itself to interpretation, becoming synonymous with Little Bassington itself. The defining feature of the locale; every painting, watercolour or pencil sketch testament to its long history and its legacy. Little Bassington, and its famous Water Tower.

Now it had fallen. Now, there would be no more paintings, no icon on the landscape, no ideal focus amidst the scenery to inspire the next generation of brushstrokes. Without it, there were only the fields – and a direct view from Little Bassington across to Whitechapel. The barriers had been broken down, and would never be rebuilt. The guardian had left its post, and would not return. The angel had flown away. There was just the wind now, swirling through the empty space, the close proximity of the two communities sharply emphasised without the Tower there to separate them.

Only recollections and remembrances thrive in a vacuum, after all, when there is nothing left to shut them out.

* * *

(iii)

The light wasn’t flickering. It was the first thing the young man noticed, although he couldn’t quite fathom why he’d expected it to. Perhaps he’d imagined it was just a fault with the electrics; a surge in the circuit, or a fuse that had tripped. Something that could be accounted for by way of a rational explanation. But the light was steady, unrepentant; shining at the back of the shop with stability as it illuminated the room behind the counter.

Or rather, where the counter used to be, he corrected himself. It was only an empty shell now. With most of the fixtures and fittings having been wrenched out of place, the room was almost entirely devoid of character or personality, all of its familiar trappings stripped away and confined to the darkness which he himself had helped to spread. He noticed that one of the glass panels in the door was smudged with something; the result, perhaps, of an unexpected downpour or the sudden redirection of standing water from a shaken umbrella or a passing car. She used to wipe the glass down every morning, he mused. She would never have let it stay like that. She’d have said that it let the place down.

The young man moved to the left hand side of the door and tried to better gauge whether there was any sign of movement inside. His fingertips came to rest on the glass. His breath momentarily misted the pane, but the cloud dissipated almost as quickly as it had formed. He narrowed his eyes, but all he could see was the steady light in the back room. There was no indication of activity, no hint that anything untoward had happened there. Briefly, he considered the possibility that someone had broken in, but there was nothing to suggest forced entry – and, besides, there was nothing left to steal. Nothing but the scant few items that still remained in storage, waiting for their new home, and he couldn’t imagine a burglar rushing to load those into the back of a getaway van.

A few envelopes lay scattered on the coir mat; uncollected post that had been delivered since the shop had closed. A small pile had begun to accumulate, but he could tell the envelopes had been dispersed slightly, as if something had forced them out of their natural resting place. The brass numbers on the door still gleamed; he caught a small whisper of light in their reflection as, behind him, the sun began its descent below the horizon.

Cautiously, his fingers came to rest on the door handle. He hesitated, but he had no idea why. Was it something instinctive? Or had the culmination of the day’s events instilled a sense of security within him, hardwiring a need for safety somewhere deep inside that suppressed any of his former confidence? His hand remained there, for what felt like a long time. His face, now pressed against the glass, rotated slightly, his eyes taking in every corner of the empty shop floor. His vision wandered from the corners of the room to the handful of dusty shelves that still remained, across the empty window ledges, until finally they swept over the wide, open space where a beating, thriving business had once sustained itself. It was gone now, snuffed out of existence almost overnight. And all that was left was a steady light – not over bright, but certainly not dim – emanating from a room that should have been left to sleep in silence.

He pushed down on the handle and was surprised to find that the door swung easily open. It did so with hardly any sound; just the brush of wood against the coir mat, the slight yawn of the timbre, and the rush of stale air that rose to greet him. He stood on the lip of the entrance, a place he’d stood countless times before – from his childhood, through his adolescence, and into adulthood. It was the same spot, but it felt different this time. Nothing seemed familiar, aside from the reality of place.

Everything was still; not so much as a sound came from inside the shop. There was only the light in the back room, beckoning him forward, egging him on; calling to him somehow. But it was tinged with warning, and the uncertainty of what he might find.

The young man’s fingers slipped easily from the handle. The door creaked open as far as its hinges would allow. It should have been locked, and he found himself pushing aside the questions that began clawing at his thoughts.

Maybe she’s been here. To pick something up, or to check on the place, he rationalised. Maybe she just forgot to lock up when she left.

But he knew that wasn’t true. There was nothing to check, there was nothing to pick up, and she was too meticulous not to have locked the door after herself. Nor was there anything that would ever have invited her back. Just a mounting pile of junk mail on the mat, ready to be discarded by the new owners; the slight chips in the paintwork that would be decorated over; and the memories that hung like ghosts in the dusk. A dusk that would soon be airbrushed with a new broom.

Before long, the windows would be full again. There would be a new counter in the corner. The lights would be switched on. And some new face would stand there, greeting whoever walked through the door; smiling and welcoming, full of hope and opportunity, a curtain long since drawn on everything that had come before.

But if it wasn’t her, then…

He didn’t complete the thought. Maybe, somewhere deep in the tunnels of his mind, he knew what he’d find when he walked towards the light. Or perhaps, later, he would reconcile himself to the fact that there was no way he could have known; that no arrangement of his conscious thoughts could ever have resulted in his guessing correctly. In the moment though, he didn’t speculate; the idea didn’t even occur to him. He only knew what it wasn’t, not what it was. He tried to switch off the steadily rising voice of resistance in his subconscious and push on.

The young man stepped over the threshold of the familiar shopfront, just as he’d done a thousand times before. The shop that should have been cloaked in darkness, but wasn’t. The shop with the door that should have been locked, but wasn’t. The shop that should have been clear of anyone and anything, but wasn’t.

Empty of thought, empty of predictions, empty of purpose, he walked numbly towards the light. The thin, steady reed of light that was shining from the back room.

And the world shifted on its axis again.

PARTII

Then

“There are no secrets

except the secrets that keep themselves.”

(George Bernard Shaw)

June

THE PREVIOUS YEAR

“For the word of God is living and active,

sharper than any two-edged sword,

piercing to the division of soul and of spirit,

of joints and of marrow,

and discerning the thoughts and intentions

of the heart.”

(Hebrews 4:12, English Standard Version)

Chapter2

“The night racks my bones,

and the pain that gnaws me takes no rest.”

(Job 30:17, English Standard Version)

* * *

“A live debate on Britain's future in the European Union, which will form part of a special edition of BBC's Question Time, is scheduled to take place next week at London’s Wembley Arena. Panellists include the former Mayor of London Boris Johnson, representing the Leave campaign, and Labour’s Sadiq Khan who will speak on behalf of Remain.

“Sir Elton John has paid tribute to the victims of the Orlando shooting at his concert in Liverpool's Echo Arena this evening. The gunman, who opened fire in a gay nightclub, killed 49 people and injured 53 others.

“In sport, UEFA have threatened to disqualify England from the Euro 2016 tournament after what they describe as "totally unacceptable" incidents of violence between fans at the England v Russia game earlier this month.

“The news headlines at ten o'clock.”

* * *

(i)

Madison Carter shivered with the rapture of release as she carefully drew the shard of glass across her uncovered, lily-white skin. Relief washed over her as blood seeped from the trench that she’d dug in her own flesh. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to revel in the moment, blotting out the sharp sting of the cut and feeling only a familiar sense of casual ecstasy that she had never properly been able to define. She couldn’t articulate why it felt this way, why she craved the sensation still. The scars on her arms were a testament to the number of times she’d been here, replaying this moment, this abhorrence, over and over again. She tilted her head back and let out a gasp as the blood dripped from her arm onto the towel that lay like a safety net, ready to catch the drops, beneath her.

She was resting against the side of the bed, her head inclined towards the window, where the sunlight filtered through in streams of iridescence that curled around her half-drawn curtains. Her legs were folded beneath her on the carpet; a bowl of hot water with a threadbare flannel draped across its lip lay just out of arm’s reach. Later, when she had finished cutting herself, she would douse the flannel in the lukewarm water and soothe her skin, the way she’d always done, to stem the flow from the ragged channels she had engraved in herself, before relaxing back into what passed for normality and stability.

She could feel her pulse throbbing beneath her wrist, beads of sweat beginning to glisten into existence as they trickled from the pores on her forehead. The unkempt, greasy black hair which reached her shoulders was already matted and damp. She raised her other arm to brush away the strands that had fallen across her eyeline and then cast her gaze downward, to stare at her own reflection in the shard of glass she held, its jagged edge poised over her wrist now like a jaguar’s tooth.

But she didn’t want to die. Not yet. She just wanted to feel.

The mirror from which the shard had come had originally been her Mum’s, given to her as a gift when she was a teenager. She remembered the morning she’d smashed it, consumed with a rage unlike any she’d previously exhibited during one of her customary busts of anger to which she’d always been prone. They’d had their share of screaming matches before, her and Mum. Mostly, she couldn’t remember what the rows had been about; maybe she hadn’t eaten properly, or hadn’t washed, or maybe sometimes her Mum had just felt like waging war and any excuse would do. There had even been days when tensions would just erupt out of the blue, when her Mum had come round for one of her peace-making visits and found Alice crying in the cot because she hadn’t been fed yet. But the morning she’d smashed the mirror had been something else.

By the time that day had arrived, she’d long since numbed herself to her Mum’s criticisms; no longer feeling the need to consciously listen as she’d reeled off the ever-growing list of her daughter’s failings. Madison knew every word by rote, and could easily recall the way the condemnations had escalated as the years had slipped by: she was “a let-down”, then “a disappointment”, “a failure of a daughter”, and eventually “a bad mother”. The truth was, she had been numb to everything after Alice was born. She could barely look after herself properly back then, let alone retain enough focus to look after her daughter. The facts of her life had been driven home when her Mum had called round unannounced one day and found her slumped on a chair in the sitting room, passed out from the vodka she’d drowned her sense of unending dread in, a second empty bottle lying discarded at her feet, where it had fallen unceremoniously.

That was an age ago now. It felt almost like another life. The drink had been the reason she hadn’t been able to breastfeed, of course. The grey miasma inside her head that still made it a chore to pull herself out of bed most mornings meant that she hadn’t cared enough about eating either. She’d lost weight. Right now, her arms were red raw from her exercise in self-inflicted pain, the colour broken only by pressure circles of milky white where she’d pinched her flesh before the glass had pierced it. But when she wasn’t cutting, when her sleeves were rolled down and she went out to face the world, her arms were still the colour of chalk beneath her hoodie. Her face was gaunt, although less so than it had been; her cheeks remained hollow, but they were gradually starting to fill out again.

That’s why the cutting was such a comfort blanket. It was somewhere she could retreat to, as if she were concealed beneath her own, private cowl, where no one could touch her, and no one could interfere.

The steady stream of sunlight was lightening her mood a little too. She remembered that her social worker had seemed surprisingly optimistic the last time she’d visited. Cathy Fucking Hale, normally so judgmental, without a scrap of sympathy to offer, had found herself pleasantly surprised by what she’d found. Fuck her, Madison thought. She’s looked down her nose at me every time she’s fucking come here. Never had to struggle, has she? Don’t really care if anyone else has, either. All she needs is to tick her fucking boxes in that fucking file she’s always writing in. Wiped the smile off the cunt’s face last time she came, though, didn’t I? Seeing Cathy lose the smug expression that so often dominated the social worker’s face had been worth every last scrap of effort.

It had been, for Madison, immensely satisfying to see her would-be adversary’s expectations turned on their head. There was no drink in the house anymore; apparently that was “progress”. She was eating three meals a day now so, despite her pale skin still sagging and the curves beneath her eyes still gauged with crow’s feet, she had put on weight and looked healthier than in months gone by. That was “more progress”. She’d told Cathy that she was finding it a little easier to get out of bed this last couple of months, and she’d spent far fewer mornings with the duvet thrown over her head and her eyes closed to the world. The medication had helped with that. That was “tangible progress”.

Together, these were all “steps in the right direction”. She’d cleaned the house. That had taken her a whole fucking weekend; making sure every last corner was spotless, as she wiped away the spills, the grime and the filth that had accumulated after months spent just not caring. Her Mum had helped, which was probably the most useful thing she’d done lately. She’d smartened herself up, too; today was an exception because the heat was making her lethargic, but she was generally sticking to her new-found routine of washing every morning and every night. Even Cathy Fucking Hale had to admit that the case file said exactly what she’d hoped it would: that, for all the mountains she still had to climb, Madison Rae Carter was on the mend.

Except there’s one thing missing, isn’t there?

She’d staring shooting herself up when she was 14. If anyone ever asked, her Mum would always blame Kelly Horrocks for introducing her to it and for giving her that first taste, but they both knew she hadn’t exactly resisted. Gary Henshaw’s older brother Vince had been doing the stuff too. He’d been there that night, when they’d all been standing around the Water Tower smoking cigarettes and sharing some cheap tins, boasting loudly in that arrogant, cocksure way he did sometimes, grinning from ear to ear about some “red headed Brummie” that he’d shagged the week before. He’d taken some then too, apparently, as a post-coital pick-me-up at her flat over in town.

But it was Kelly who’d first suggested she try it. She’d seen Vince eyeing her curiously as she drank in the brash recital of his exploits, but he was never going to have been the one to ask. They both knew that he’d thought she was too young to be hanging around with the older kids anyway. He’d rather have sent her away, but Gaz wouldn’t have it. Gaz always stuck up for her, always kept an eye on her. Always tried to keep her on the straight and narrow.

But Gaz wasn’t there that night. He’d gone into town to help a mate, and that had left her with Vince, Kelly and the others, chucking stones through the Tower windows that weren’t already broken and watching the older lads trying to climb the drainpipes. They’d smoked cigarettes together and talked about Brummies with red hair; Brummies who’d let Vince Henshaw into their bed for a one-night stand, wondering if it meant something, only to find they’d never see him again.

Kelly hadn’t expected her to say yes. She could tell Vince had been surprised too. But she’d held her nerve; she’d looked the older kids straight in the eye and thought about what her Mum would say if she’d known. In her own way, she’d felt like she was teaching them all a lesson. Her Mum, her Dad (she’d never known him, he was just a face on some blurry old photos that her Mum kept locked away; a shadow from the past that they didn’t really talk about), her Uncle Sean, her teachers, and even that cow at the Job Centre with the stupid hoop earrings who’d sorted her Mum out with that cleaning contract, her face pasted with an expression that implied they should both have been swept up or flushed away too. The junk had been her way of fucking them all over.

So she’d taken it. She’d inhaled the first time, and that had been slower, but Vince had soon put her in touch with Danny Barton and she’d started injecting after that. Just once a week at first, when she met up with Danny and the lads by the Bay Leaf in town, after hours. Then twice a week. Then a little more, just so she could take the edge off. Mum had screamed the house down the day she’d found the Jack Daniels tin with the needles in under her bed. Danny had increased the price around then, so she’d started taking from her Mum’s purse. That had caused another epic shouting match.

Gaz had tried to warn her off; he’d always looked out for her in a way no one else did, even then. They’d spent more time than usual together in the months after she’d started using. He used to buy her lunch with his wages from the garage, put an arm round her when she was cold, and made sure she drank something to keep herself hydrated. She could always rest her head on Gaz’s shoulder, talk to him, tell him anything. He said he’d kill Vince for introducing her to the junk. She hadn’t been surprised when he’d finally kissed her.

Then she’d got pregnant. It had been the expression on the doctor’s face that got to her the most. She still remembered it now. She knew what they all thought of her. 15-year-old Madison Carter, knocked up and taking junk. Her Mum’s “disappointment” wasn’t going to cover it. They’d told her all about the risks to the baby if she kept on using; the baby could become dependent, it could be born prematurely, it could arrive stillborn. Her Mum hadn’t wanted her to have it, anyway, but she’d been determined. It hadn’t just been another act of defiance on her part either, another way of fucking them all over; it had been something she’d wanted, she just hadn’t known how to tell them.

So they’d put her on the methadone programme. Slowly and steadily, it had worked. She’d been 16 when Alice was born. A few weeks early, but she’d been healthy, if a little underweight. The drinking had become a problem – more so in the last few weeks of the pregnancy, they’d said – but, in reality, it had always been there in the background. The booze had just been another way to escape, after all, once she’d weaned herself off the junk for Alice’s sake. She’d sworn from the moment that she first saw Alice’s face that she’d never let her down. She’d do everything right, make everything right.

Well, she’d royally fucked that up, hadn’t she?

Gaz had gotten his fair share of the blame in the meantime; her Mum had used every name under the sun for him, even going as far as to call him out in the street, telling him he should have kept it in his trousers and reminding him how ashamed he should be for not putting his hand in his pocket when Alice was born. But Madison didn’t blame Gaz for anything that had happened. He’d looked after her the best he could – he still did, with the wages he took from the garage, working for that that sleazy fucker with the skinny blonde wife. No, what happened next was on her.

She’d applied to the Council for her own place. Gaz had helped her with the form. She’d been on a waiting list initially, but someone must have realised that her Mum’s place wasn’t big enough once Uncle Sean had moved in. She’d got lucky, Cathy Hale had told her; “something suitable” had come up just a few streets away, on the other side of the estate. She’d moved in, her and Alice; into their little house on the corner of Meredith Court, with its front windows that gave them a near-perfect view of the Water Tower.

She’d thought she’d be able to cope, but she’d spiralled. The drinking got heavier. Alice was always crying. She’d spent a whole afternoon covering her ears once, a pillow pressed against her head in the hope that the world would just disappear for five fucking minutes. The money she got in benefits, coupled with Gaz’s semi-regular handouts, had been stretched to breaking point. She’d felt like the mounting pressure was going to crush her. So she’d relapsed. She’d rung Danny Barton, begged him to come round; told him she couldn’t give him much, but she needed something. What he’d given her had been pitiful, but she’d taken it. Then she’d done it again. And again. She’d started using cash that she would have otherwise spent on food to pay Danny.

The social had noticed, of course. Those visits from Cathy Fucking Hale became more and more frequent. “We just want to check on you both, it’s our job,” she’d said, in that patronising voice Madison was sure she reserved just for her. “We just want to make sure that you’re coping.”

They’d known she wasn’t fucking coping. But they hadn’t cared. Not really.

So much of her memory was a haze; the result of an almost toxic combination of drink and months spent shooting herself up. But she remembered with stark clarity the day that they’d come to take Alice away.

The irony of her Mum being there when it finally happened wasn’t lost on her. Mum had never needed an excuse to tell her how much of a failure she was but, that day, she’d had the chance to actually watch her daughter’s life collapse with her own eyes. The day that Cathy Fucking Hale had come to take Alice into care was largely lost to a fog of blind fury, tears and recriminations. But she remembered her Mum. The “I-told-you-so, I-knew-this-would-happen” expression she’d worn. The shake of the head and the fold of the arms. The accusations. Somehow she’d tried to work Gaz into the long list of people she’d blamed. It was his fault, her Mum had said. His, and Kelly Horrocks.

But she’d been the one using again. She’d been the one who’d left Alice in her pram in the hall overnight, sleeping in her own filth, while she’d thrown herself into the armchair, filled her veins with junk and then pissed the night away. She’d woken up to the sound of Alice crying, somehow staggered to the door where she’d tried to lift her out of the pram. She’d still been drunk when her Mum had arrived. Cathy Fucking Hale hadn’t been far behind. Her Mum had brought breakfast, probably in a bid to make sure she actually ate a decent meal. (Shame she never bothered when I was a kid, always had to fend for myself while she was busy shagging Uncle Sean). Cathy had brought a Care Order and two women in suits whose names she hadn’t heard because she’d been crying so hard.

She remembered screaming, remembered trying to lash out only to find herself flailing, remembered trying to scratch that bitch’s face with her torn and ragged fingernails. She remembered the sound of someone soothing Alice, murmuring hush-a-byes in her ear and promising that everything would be alright. Then she remembered turning her anger on the nearest thing she could find – the mirror her Mum had given her. She’d thrown it against the kitchen door, smashed it, wishing she could will it back together so that she could smash it all over again. Then she remembered slumping to the floor, a sobbing, pitiful wreck who’d grabbed onto her Mum’s leg and used it for purchase, hoping she’d never have to let go. She remembered her shoulders shaking as she’d sat there sobbing, her tears just a gateway to her deeper notes of despair.

I promised I’d never let her down, was all she’d been able to think. I promised I’d make everything right.

In the end, she had let go. Months and months had gone by. Gaz had helped. She’d stopped using. She was eating again. She’d cleaned herself and the house up. She’d stopped drinking. She hadn’t so much as seen Danny Barton for weeks, let alone rung him. Someone on the estate had told her that the police had picked him up, but she couldn’t have cared less. Cathy Fucking Hale kept on visiting but, slowly and steadily, things had seemed a little less bleak. They wouldn’t talk to her about Alice coming home, of course. That was still a bridge too far. Plans needed to be put in place; she needed to be much further down the road they called “the straight and narrow”. They needed to be sure. She was getting her housing benefit now, too. She’d even done a few afternoons with Hilda, on the promise of some proper income, although they didn’t seem to do much work. They just talked. Sometimes it even helped.

The last time they’d seen each other, Hilda had told her that her face was filling out again. Then she’d pressed a hand against Madison’s cheek and smiled that watercolour smile she saved only for a chosen few.

Still none of them knew about the cutting. If she couldn’t have the drink, if she couldn’t use, then she needed something. A place she could retreat to, in her own mind at least, if not physically. She’d always known the inside of her own head better than any of them. Better than her Mum. Better than Uncle Sean. Better than Cathy Fucking Hale. Better than the doctors, and the teachers, and the woman from the Job Centre with the hoop earrings. Better than Gaz, even, although he tried.