Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Five

Rideten, Five Years Before

The Rideten School of Art was set in what must have been one of the original estates of Rideten, a mansion set well back from the road, with an expanse of green lawn, ornamental wrought iron fencing, and truly massive, ancient fig trees separating it from the road. The gates were open when they arrived, and they followed the long drive to a carpark. The original building was used for the school, and a series of outbuildings, barns and coach houses had been converted into accommodation for students.

Aislen was allocated to a room in the groundskeeper’s cottage, a quaint little house with low lintels and tiny, wood-smoke-stained rooms. The front door, which was unlocked, opened into a small snug, dominated by a chalk board that declared: “Artists contained within. May Bite. Enter at your own risk!"

"Well, that explains a lot," Patrick observed dryly.

“Oh,” a young girl poked her head into the room. “Are you the new girl?”

“Hi,” Aislen said warily. “I’m Aislen.”

“Helena,” she sized Aislen up. “You’re in with Bianca. I’ll show you up.”

“Okay…” Patrick surrendered the suitcases to Aislen. “I guess this is where I get off.”

“Yeah,” Aislen’s eyes flicked to Helena. As angry as she was with Patrick, he was her dad, and her last connection to the safety of “home.” She stepped into him and put her arms around him, hugging him tightly. “I’m sorry dad,” she whispered. “And thanks for driving me here.”

He gripped her tightly before releasing her, sniffing, his eyes suspiciously shiny. “Have fun. Let us know when you’ll be able to make the trip home, eh? Your mum will leave your room ready for you. Enjoy yourself, Aislen,” he hesitated. “But be smart, okay?”

“Okay,” she flushed.

“I’ll take one,” Helena took one of the suitcases. “This way.”

They left Patrick standing indecisively in the front room, watching them leave with a woebegone expression on his face, and so many words unsaid between them. As Aislen started up the stairs, she glanced behind and saw him leave, his shoulders hunched, and his head bowed.

For a moment, she wanted to call out after him, to call him back, but she had no idea what she would say to him. Parting, however, seemed so final, and so unhappy. She steeled herself and followed Helena up the low and narrow staircase.

“There’s a bathroom up and down,” Helena said over her shoulder. “Both run off the same water heater, so both can’t be used at the same time. We have a schedule as to when who can shower, and as the newcomer, you’re in the earliest morning slot that no-one else wants, sorry about that.”

“Okay,” Aislen didn’t care.

“But you have one of the better rooms,” Helena opened a door into an airy room. “It’s the biggest.”

There were screens dividing the room into two, and a single bed set to either side. Each had under-the-bed storage drawers, as well as open hanging space. There was a desk on each side, and a mirror.

“It’s great,” Aislen said, insincerely. It was tiny, and shared with a stranger, with only the most basic of screening between them. But she told herself, it was what it was, and she would have to work with it. “Where are the bathrooms?”

They left the suitcases on the bed and Helena showed her the two bathrooms and the shared kitchen/dining area, as well as a little back patio where there was a table and ashtray set.

“So, where are you from?” Helena wondered.

“Havermouth, most recently.”

“Havermouth,” Helena repeated. “That’s actually a place, not an urban legend?”

“How is it an urban legend?” Aislen was surprised.

“Well, a ghost story, mainly,” Helena amended, embarrassed, with a shrug. “It’s like the place where weird shit happens. People driving through go missing. White women are spotted on the road in and out. They say there’s a man-eating wolf pack in the woods there…”

Aislen laughed without humour. “Sounds right,” she replied. “It’s a f-ked up place. How far is it to the shops around here? What’s within walking distance? Do I need to like check in at the main building, or what?”

“You’re a few days earlier than they said you’d be, which has really pissed Bianca off, by the way, so…” She pulled a face. “Anyway, if you go in tomorrow, should be early enough to get your class schedule and supply list. There’re shops just down the main road, which is to the left of the main entrance, within five minutes walking distance. We don’t do group meals or anything, as everyone has their own diet and schedule, so there’s a shelf in the fridge for you, and a shelf in the pantry. Clean the kitchen when you’re done, and we’ll all get along.”

“Great, thanks,” Aislen wondered when the money from the scholarship would clear. In the interim, she’d have to use her own funds, she thought. “I’d better go to the shops and get some food, then.”

She took her phone and purse with her and, despite her determination not to, dialled the Edison house again, arguing with herself as she heard the other end ring. She knew, she told herself, that if Cameron was at the river house, he wouldn’t have gone home yet, might not for several nights if it didn’t suit him, it wasn’t odd at all that in the couple of hours in between, he hadn’t called her…

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Edison,” Aislen said.

Mrs. Edison heaved a sigh. “Cameron hasn’t been home yet.”

“I know. If you’d give me his number…” Aislen pleaded. “I could call him myself, and not bother you again. It’s sort of urgent.”

“Look, I will let him know that you called…” Mrs. Edison hung up.

“Fuck you,” Aislen snarled into her phone, although she knew there was no one else to hear. “You’re going to fucking die a terrible death.”

She stomped off to the left in pursuit of the shops and found a grocery store. She bought bread, coffee, and a microwavable meal, before stuffing a pregnancy test and a packet of tampons into the basket.

The clerk was edging towards eighty and raised her eyebrows as she scanned the last two items. “Jesus weeps for the sinners,” she pronounced, as she bagged Aislen’s goods.

“He’s crying a fucking hailstorm for me, then,” Aislen snarled back as she snatched up the bag. “At least I’m not one hundred fucking years old and dry as a desert because no man has gone near me in over half a century. It must fucking chafe to walk, or does the dust work like talcum, Shirley?”

“You are an evil, evil child,” the woman replied on an inhalation.

“Absolutely fucking likely,” Aislen replied.

Fifteen minutes later, she stared at the pregnancy test in the upstairs bathroom of the groundskeeper’s cottage, unwilling to accept the truth that she had already known. “Fuck…” she groaned, resting her forehead on the palm of her hand. “FUCK!”