The Man on Hackpen Hill Read online

  THE

  MAN

  ON

  HACKPEN

  HILL

  ALSO BY J.S. MONROE

  Find Me

  Forget My Name

  The Other You

  THE

  MAN

  ON

  HACKPEN

  HILL

  JS MONROE

  www.headofzeus.com

  First published in the UK in 2021 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © J.S. Monroe, 2021

  The moral right of J.S. Monroe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (HB): 9781789541717

  ISBN (XTPB): 9781789541724

  ISBN (E): 9781789541700

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

  In memory of Stewart McLennan

  He who marches out of step hears another drum

  —Ken Kesey

  Contents

  Also by J.S. Monroe

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Erin

  1. Bella

  2. Silas

  3. Bella

  4. Silas

  5. Bella

  6. Silas

  7. Bella

  8. Silas

  9. Bella

  10. Silas

  11. Bella

  12. Silas

  13. Bella

  14. Silas

  15. Bella

  16. Silas

  17. Bella

  18. Silas

  19. Bella

  20. Silas

  21. Bella

  22. Silas

  23. Bella

  24. Silas

  25. Bella

  26. Silas

  27. Bella

  28. Silas

  29. Bella

  30. Silas

  31. Jim

  32. Silas

  33. Jim

  34. Bella

  35. Silas

  36. Jim

  37. Bella

  38. Silas

  39. Bella

  40. Silas

  41. Bella

  42. Silas

  43. Jim

  44. Bella

  45. Jim

  46. Bella

  47. Silas

  48. Jim

  49. Bella

  50. Silas

  51. Jim

  52. Bella

  53. Silas

  54. Bella

  55. Silas

  56. Bella

  57. Silas

  58. Bella

  59. Silas

  60. Jim

  61. Silas

  62. Bella

  63. Silas

  64. Bella

  65. Silas

  66. Bella

  67. Jim

  68. Silas

  69. Bella

  70. Silas

  71. Bella

  72. Silas

  73. Bella

  74. Silas

  75. Bella

  76. Jim

  77. Silas

  78. Bella

  79. Silas

  80. Jim

  81. Silas

  82. Bella

  83. Silas

  84. Bella

  85. Silas

  86. Bella

  87. Silas

  88. Bella

  89. Silas

  90. Bella

  91. Jim

  92. Silas

  93. Jim

  94. Silas

  95. Jim

  96. Silas

  97. Jim

  98. Bella

  99. Jim

  100. Bella

  101. Silas

  102. Bella

  103. Silas

  104. Bella

  105. Bella

  106. Jim

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Erin

  I blame the rooks. For weeks they’ve been urging me to fly, hurling insults, calling me names. Corvid the coward! Featherless fucktard! Even worse, chicken thighs! Bella’s right. I’ve been on it a lot lately. Anything to silence the birds in my head. Stop the heckling. The taunts. And now my best friend has left. The only person who understood, gave me time. Respect. Good luck to Bella. She’s going to need it.

  Haslam’s still out front, talking to a couple of prospective parents, lying his skinny arse off. They have no idea what really goes on here. The pressures, the price young people pay.

  A quick check up and down the corridor. Deserted. No surprise there. Picking open the buttons, I take off my shirt, followed by my jeans and underwear, folding them in a neat pile beneath the window. Another check and I’m up on the banister, steadying myself against the newel post. Bella and her mam had met here earlier, down on the polished wooden floor below.

  My legs start to spasm and for a second I think I’m going to fall. But then I’m standing, both arms stretched above me in triumph. A naked fledgling about to fly the nest. I look up at my outspread wings. There must be an open window somewhere. My feathers are shimmering, ruffled by a warm summer breeze. And they are ready to carry me down to the hall below and out into the gardens, free at last.

  I curl my toes over the banister, cock my head from side to side, and blink like a bird. I am a bird.

  ‘Erin, come down from there.’

  It’s Haslam, standing by the front door. Calm, controlling. Not this time, pal.

  ‘Erin, we can talk about this,’ he says, his voice more urgent now.

  I throw back my head and cry out like the rooks I will soon be among, high up in the sycamores where Haslam can’t reach me.

  ‘You don’t have to do this,’ the little bird behind my ear says.

  Confused, I hesitate, keeping my balance on the banister. My whole life has been leading up to today. I’ve thought about it for months, planned it, dreamt how it will feel.

  ‘I don’t?’ I ask, my voice barely a whisper. A tiny bud of relief unfurls inside me like a spring fern.

  If the little bird answers, I can’t hear it. The air all around me is torn apart by a hideous cacophony of rooks.

  ‘Yes she does!’ they cry as one. ‘Yes she feckin’ does!’

  I look down at Haslam, racing up the staircase towards me, and then back at the rooks, who have darkened the sky as they swarm and squawk, mobbing the mullion windows.

  ‘Erin!’ Haslam shouts, nearly at the top now, raw panic in his voice. The sound of people behind me, running down the corridor.

  I close my eyes, flap my wings – and fly.

  1

  Bella

  Bella turns around to take one last look at the college as her mum drives away through the gates. A porter nods at them from the lodge. For the past three years, Bella’s been studying at one of Oxford’s smaller colleges, tucked away on the outskirts of the city. An oasis of Victorian brickwork in a sea of manicured lawns and sycamores. At least, that’s how she described the place in an article for the college mag.

  Her
mum doesn’t speak at first, which suits Bella fine. It’s a bright June day and the outside world is overwhelming, as if the volume’s been turned up too loud.

  ‘You’re looking so well,’ her mum says, as they leave Oxford behind. She glances across at Bella, shaking her head in disbelief.

  ‘You mean I’m not so fat,’ Bella says, smiling.

  In the past couple of months, she’s shed all the weight she put on during her three years at uni. The pounds just seemed to fall away. She steals another look in the mirror. Erin trimmed her fringe last night, said she looked edgy with it shorter, but that was without her glasses. She takes them off, pushing back her long black hair, and leans into the mirror. She doesn’t feel very edgy. In Freshers’ Week, someone had called her a ‘lanky librarian’ and she’s never forgotten it, even when she put on weight.

  ‘Your skin also seems so… young.’

  ‘Yours too, Mum.’

  Bella peers over the top of her glasses. Her mum’s skin is a delicious olive colour from her years of living and working abroad. Her eyes are tired, though; etched with grief. At least she’s wearing a pretty bohemian dress, making an effort.

  ‘And I like your hair,’ Bella adds. It used to be ash brown but she’s let it age naturally.

  ‘Silver, not grey, OK?’ her mum says, flicking it back.

  ‘Got it,’ Bella says, nodding. ‘Can I put the radio on?’

  ‘Sure,’ her mum says.

  It will be good to spend time together, help around the house and at work. During the week, her mum runs a local migrant centre near their home in Homerton, east London. At weekends she tries to stave off empty nest syndrome. Bella’s elder sister, Helen, really did fly away – to live in Australia.

  ‘Ready?’ Bella asks, finger hovering over the radio.

  Her mum glances across at Bella, her mouth creasing into a smile. Who can name the artist first? It’s a game the family used to play when she was younger, driving down to Studland Bay. And Helen – happy, party-loving Helen – always knew the song, leaving Bella to sulk with a book.

  ‘Jackie Wilson!’ her mum shouts as the music comes on, joining in with the chorus. Bella sings along too, watching the Oxfordshire countryside slide by. No more sulks. It’s a while before she realises her mum’s crying.

  ‘What’s wrong, Mum?’ she asks, turning down the radio and putting a hand on her shoulder. She knows the answer. It’s been three years since Helen left for Australia and she’s yet to return home for a visit.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ her mum says, sniffing. ‘I’m just so happy to have you back.’

  ‘You make it sound like I’m the one who’s been living abroad.’

  Bella notices her mum’s hands tense on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. The car suddenly feels hot and airless. Bella should have come home more, taken care of her mum. It must have hurt, having both daughters push her away. But it wasn’t easy at Oxford. So much academic pressure, so little time to think of others.

  ‘There’s something you need to try to understand,’ her mum says, setting her jaw. Her tone is unnatural, almost lecturing, which has never been her style as a mother.

  ‘You fancy Dr Haslam,’ Bella says, putting a plimsolled foot up on the dashboard. She’s keen to keep things light, amicable. Dr Haslam was Bella’s English tutor. Brain the size of the Bodleian and a PhD in Wordsworth and melancholia. Head of pastoral care too. And not for the first time there was an air of conspiracy between him and her mum when he came out to say goodbye today. Whispered asides.

  ‘Please, he’s nearly half my age,’ her mum says, smudging away a tear with the palm of her hand. She glances at Bella’s foot.

  ‘That wasn’t quite a “no”, Mum,’ Bella says, sitting up, rubbing a mark off the dashboard. She doesn’t like this car – it’s too small for her legs and so not electric – but her mum’s driven a long way today. And Bella’s promised herself to be less judgemental. Try not to point out how many lights her mum leaves on around the house, or dwell on the 2.5 tonnes of CO2 generated by Helen’s one-way flight to Sydney.

  Her mum faces forward, concentrating on the road. Bella can picture Dr Haslam, running a hand through his long, swept-back hair as he takes her mum aside in his trademark skinny jeans and corduroy jacket, patched at the elbows.

  ‘What is it, then?’ Bella asks. ‘We’re driving straight to Studland for a weekend away?’

  Bella regrets her words at once. She’s done that a lot in recent months, said the first thing that’s popped into her head, enjoying the speed with which her brain has started to make connections. It was after the last disastrous family holiday at Studland Bay that Helen decided to emigrate with her Australian boyfriend.

  ‘You OK?’ Bella asks, glancing at her mum again.

  Something’s very wrong. She knew things were too good between them to last. The next moment they veer off the road. Her mum jams on the brakes, bringing them to a shuddering halt in a dusty bus stop. They both sit in stunned silence, the car swaying like an unsteady drunk as a lorry thunders past.

  ‘The f—?’ Bella begins.

  ‘Please. Just listen to me,’ her mum interrupts, holding up a hand to prevent Bella from speaking. Her voice is loud and she’s breathing hard. They both are.

  ‘OK,’ Bella says sarcastically, arms folded, staring out the window like she used to do as a child. ‘I’m sorry. I’m listening.’ It was tactless to mention Studland and maybe she went on a bit about Dr Haslam and she shouldn’t put her feet up on the dashboard, but she can’t help feeling her mum’s overreacting.

  ‘About your time at Oxford,’ her mum continues, struggling to find the right words.

  ‘It’s over now,’ Bella interrupts. ‘And I apologise if I haven’t been a very good daughter recently. I should have come back more often and—’

  ‘Bella, it wasn’t…’ She hesitates.

  ‘Wasn’t what?’ Bella prompts.

  ‘It wasn’t real life.’

  Bella closes her eyes, breathing a sigh of relief that it’s nothing more serious. Her mum’s obsessed with the unreality of Oxford, always has been, ever since Bella was offered a place to read English. Its detachment from the rest of society, the isolation, the challenge of reintegrating into the normal world afterwards. The sheer elitism of the place. None of which is true of her own college, an establishment that prides itself on a high percentage of students from low-income families. It’s anything but a bastion of privilege – just ask Erin.

  Bella bites her lip, filled with a sudden, overwhelming sense that she might never see her best friend again.

  ‘I’m well aware of that, Mum,’ she manages to say. They’d hugged goodbye at the top of the stairs. At least, Bella had hugged Erin before she could recoil. Her friend’s been in a bad way recently. Too many drugs and endless, all-night benders.

  ‘You are?’ her mum says, turning to Bella.

  She nods, regaining her composure. ‘Sure. We discussed it a lot. With Dr Haslam. It’s OK, I get it. Honestly. Real life starts now. That’s what he said. And at twenty-one, I’ve got it all to play for. “Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive. But to be young was very heaven!” He used to quote that kind of cool shit – stuff – all the time. If it wasn’t Wordsworth, it was Keats. And I’m ready to move on, I know where I’m going. What I want to do with my life.’

  Unlike Erin. No one came to pick her up today.

  ‘Can we drive on now?’ Bella asks.

  ‘Sure, I’m sorry.’ Her mum checks the wing mirror, swallows hard and pulls out. ‘Let’s get you home.’

  ‘Give me a month – OK, maybe three months – and you’ll be reading my byline in the papers,’ Bella continues.

  She’ll call Erin when she gets home. Check she’s OK.

  ‘You’ll see it one day. I promise,’ she adds.

  ‘OK, sweetie,’ her mum whispers, her voice so quiet that Bella can hardly hear her. ‘Whatever you say.’

  2

  Silas

 
Two months later

  DI Silas Hart doesn’t feel comfortable being away from the office on a Thursday morning. He doesn’t feel comfortable doing the cobra either – his lower back’s killing him – but that’s what the yoga teacher has asked him to focus on while the rest of the class, including his wife, Mel, do the bow pose, which is quite beyond him. As head of Swindon CID, he should be at his desk in Gablecross police station.

  ‘You’re doing great,’ Mel whispers. She’s lying face down on the mat next to him, still holding both ankles behind her back. How does she do that?

  ‘I don’t feel great,’ he says. This is for her, one of the shared activities that the marriage counsellor suggested. Being his normal scratchy self would defeat the object of the exercise so he manages a smile. ‘I’m glad we’re here though,’ he adds.

  ‘Shhhh,’ Mel says, still smiling.

  ‘I feel more in touch – with myself, with us.’

  ‘We’ll have you touching your toes before you know it,’ the instructor says, adjusting his posture.

  ‘Didn’t know I had any – been so long since I saw them,’ he says, his hands beginning to shake on the mat under the weight of his body.

  ‘You can lower yourself down gently now,’ she says to him. ‘Exhale with the movement.’

  He blows out his cheeks like a steam train as his chest drops to the mat. Mel is still a picture of calm, poised in all her flexible glory.

  ‘You look beautiful like that,’ he whispers, breathing hard, face squashed against the mat. ‘Sexy.’

  ‘Shhhhh,’ she says again. ‘That’s not what this is about.’

  He means it, though. Mel’s a new woman, retraining as a florist and relishing the challenge of a second career. They met twenty-five years ago when she was a nurse, a job she loved and loathed in equal measure, the long hours eventually outweighing the satisfaction of saving lives. The two of them are back living together full-time after a rocky few years.

  Maybe it’s a coincidence, but their twenty-three-year-old son, Conor, is a new man too, addressing his own psychological issues. The skunk-induced psychotic episodes, his disappearance for six weeks, the brief stint as a county lines drugs runner – they all seem distant memories now. Thank God. They are a happy, normal family again. If only Silas could shift the amount of weight that Mel’s lost in recent months. He’s not sure the yoga’s going to do it.