Hadley-Pryce Lie of the Land

1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-78463-332-5
Verlag: Salt
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 176 Seiten

Lie of the Land is a dark, domestic literary thriller set in the Black Country in the Midlands, UK. When Rory and Jemma meet, Rory already has a girlfriend, but that doesn't stop them getting together and, much sooner than Jemma would like, they're buying their first house together in the heart of the grimy Midlands. 'The Rocks' is a run-down, 'doer-upper' and right from the off, Jemma is reluctant and unhappy, far from ready for commitment. But there is something about the house that is both compelling and sinister, and the situation takes a darker turn when a terrible accident happens involving their new next door neighbours, forcing both Jemma and Rory to tackle their inner demons. Themes of toxic relationships, secrets and deceit are intensified by a judgmental narrative voice which propels the plot to its even darker resolution.

Kerry Hadley-Pryce lives and writes in the Black Country, UK. She has a PhD in creative writing and teaches creative and professional writing at the University of Wolverhampton. She co-edited Writing Under Fire: Poetry and Prose from Ukraine & the Black Country, and has short stories published in Best British Short Stories 2023, Takahe Magazine, Fictive Dream and The Incubator. She has had three novels published by Salt Publishing: The Black Country, Gamble, and God's Country. Lie of the Land is her fourth novel.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Hadley-Pryce, Kerry

Leseproben

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There is, she’ll say, a certain type of bird – she’s not sure which – nesting in the oak tree in the garden. It keeps repeating the same three notes. It must do this, this repetition, hundreds of times a day. Maybe it’s a blackbird, or a fieldfare, it’s that kind of shrill, persistent sound. She’ll admit she’s haunted by it, the sound of it. She hears it coming, the sound – she feels it coming – and it’s like a torture, and she’s formed the habit of stroking the palm of her right hand, stroking the broken life-line there, for comfort. There are eyes everywhere – to her, there is – and she’ll tell how she’s taken to standing in the new conservatory, the one they had built, looking out over the back garden. She’ll concede that Rory did a competent job of making it good, the garden. The plants have taken rooted well; there’s clematis starting to creep up the wall and wisteria against the fence, and the new turf is bedding in. She’ll say she can smell it, all that greenery. The concrete, the rocks, the mess, they’ve all gone. All cleaned up. But the secrets aren’t buried, she’ll say she knows this, they’re still there, somewhere. The oak tree, they thought about removing, is a feature now, and anyway, it seems there might be a family of those birds in there, and everyone, everything needs a home. Standing there, looking out, even with the feverish, constant three-note chorus going on and on, she’ll say she’s not sure she could bear to take the tree down now, not with the nest in there. She’ll say she’s not sure she could bear to destroy it. She’ll say this now.

But, see, people are strange, they’re capable of surprising us. And we’re talking about Jemma Crawford here. And we all know she’s destroyed enough already.

It was Rory, it was all Rory. This is what she’ll say

‘The Rocks’ was, according to the estate agents, ‘in need of loving restoration’. A deceased estate, Victorian, a three-bed semi, but in the best side of town, close to road-and-rail links that lead you out of the Black Country and away.

The electricity had been cut off when they viewed it and some of the windows were boarded up so they’d used their phones to light up the dark corners. Jemma will say now that it felt like they were inspecting a crime scene.

‘Look at the size of the rooms,’ Rory said. ‘And the ceilings. Look at the height. Just look at them.’

She’ll say she’d never seen him this animated about anything.

‘Look at that,’ Rory said. He was shining the light from his phone at the ceiling, catching the glint of the broken light fitting.

‘Disgusting,’ Jemma said. There were spiders and mice – rats, probably – she’ll say she was sure of it.

‘What?’ Rory said. ‘No. Look at the cornice, all that original plasterwork.’

She’ll say his voice was trimmed with a kind of glee she’d never heard from him before, and she felt the need to temper that.

‘It has a roof, I’ll give you that,’ she said. ‘And a front door, by the looks, and that’s about it.’

She’ll tell how she heard him sigh, and felt him put his arm round her waist.

‘Misery.’ He whispered it. There was coffee on his breath and she’ll tell how she felt a wave of nausea and turned away.

From somewhere, the estate agent said they ought to go and have a look at the back garden.

‘It’s all about the potential,’ he said. ‘This place, in this location, it’s a gold mine.’

‘Built on a coal mine, more like,’ Jemma said, and she tightened her scarf round her neck against the cold.

Rory, she heard laugh, but she’ll say she wasn’t joking.

There was a long hallway with a cracked, tiled floor, and a greyish light spilling in from the kitchen window. The estate agent shouldered a side door and walked out into the garden.

‘Potential,’ Rory whispered.

Outside, there was hardly any sun and the place seemed filtered with sepia. There was cracked concrete paving, a patch of weeds that might, last century, have been a vegetable garden, and something that looked like it might have once been a pond stained with rain water, ochre-red, like blood. Ivy, or some such creeper, crept up the house and a couple of silent grey birds perched on the broken larchlap fencing. Looking back, Jemma will tell how the giant hogweed, having dried on the stem, had formed a border between the house and its semi-detached neighbour. She’ll talk about the deadly nightshade, still in berry, shaded by the oak tree and the way the tree looked diseased like bones of a man. The red beads of Lords & Ladies still lurked in the damp soil, and there were fly agarics like something out of a fairy tale. Jemma will say that there was a powerful smell of something, perhaps a drain. And amongst the weeds, an upturned, rusty pushchair.

She’ll tell how she remembers Rory saying, ‘What’s this?’ And he was looking at a blocked-off path that led beyond the oak tree.

‘Ah, yes,’ the estate agent said. ‘A rockery, I think. Probably where the name of the house comes from, those rocks.’

Jemma will say she watched Rory, she observed him in a way she hadn’t since they’d first met. He was wearing his work suit, and it looked too big, he’d taken his tie off, and she’ll say, she noticed for the first time, flecks of silver in his hair, like threads of metal. It had been his thick, dark hair that she’d noticed about him in the first place, apart from that, she’ll say he wasn’t even really her type. Now, watching him enthusing over a pile of rocks, seeing him stoop down and pull a handful of weeds, and smooth his hand across the surface of what? – clumps of cement? – she’ll say she could imagine the tendons of his feet, knees and hips giving in, it was as if, in that place there just then, he was ageing before her very eyes.

‘Limestone,’ the estate agent said.

‘And red sandstone,’ Rory said. ‘Local geology, that. What this place is made of.’

And Jemma will tell how he looked at her, or perhaps looked for her, for her approval, for her admiration. She’ll say she suddenly felt like she needed a drink. Not her usual wine, something much stronger.

‘I have to go,’ she called. ‘I have a client at half two.’

Rory, she’ll say, navigated round a crock of windblown litter: beer cans and other debris.

‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Jemma, hang on a minute.’

‘We said we’d just have a very quick lunchtime viewing.’ She was half way down the hall, fumbling for her phone to light the way.

‘This is an absolute bargain,’ Rory said, catching up with her. ‘We could get it for a song.’

‘I have to get back to work,’ she said.

The front door caught as she opened it, and even though it was nearly to winter, the air felt warmer outside.

‘Look,’ Rory said, and he had hold of her arm. ‘Can we at least, you know, talk about it? Later?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Jemma said. ‘Okay, right. Later. Yes. Maybe. I have to be somewhere.’

She’ll say he kissed her and his lips felt like a brief, icy cold, and as she got into her car, she’ll tell how she heard Rory call something that sounded like, ‘Have you’ or ‘Love you,’ and she’ll say she only felt the final filaments of discomfort vanish after she’d finished a gin and tonic, sitting alone in the corner of the pub, watching the lunchtime crowd disperse.

It was a Saturday night when they first met. Ask her and she’ll tell you, Jemma will, that she’d seen him, standing in the corner. She’ll say, she’ll describe, how he was then: a lurching body, trying to dance, slightly out of time. He was with friends, but looked out of place, a pint of something in his hand, not really drinking, and his hair was dark and too long to be fashionable. She was with her friends, too, so she’ll say. Workmates, really. That’s the only type she has. Had. She’ll admit to being a bit tipsy. Drunk, almost. Too much wine had pretty much removed her inhibitions. Saturday night in Birmingham with a bunch of female lawyers needs quite a lot of alcohol.

Go on. Ask her some more about how they met. She’ll tell how she remembers the way he was moving, not so much like a human, more like a machine, out of time, moving to a totally different piece of music, so it seemed. And the lighting was such...