We present an extract from The Desire Line, the new psychological thriller by former broadcaster, recording artist and folk singer, producer and now crime writer Jane Cassidy.
Discharged from a psychiatric ward after an apparent murder-suicide perpetrated by her partner Malachy, feared drowned, Helena is driven to the beautiful peninsula of Islandmagee, north of Belfast, by new friends Jer and Nora McCabe. There she finds the house she shared with Malachy has been cleared off the face of the earth... or so she claims. Maverick TV producer and investigative journalist Jer wonders whether Helena is victim or villain, but tries to help for the sake of his vulnerable wife who has befriended this unsettling woman. Amid echoes of the infamous Islandmagee witch trial, Jer and his family are drawn into a disturbing chain of events...
Nora got back into the car and, as Jer closed the door safely on her, he looked up to see a front of pewter-coloured cloud advancing from the west, trailing a curtain of paler grey which he knew was heavy rain. How long till it reached them, he wondered.
Helena had now disappeared. Grasping the cold bars of the gate, he was assailed by a childhood memory of being warned about catching lockjaw from old gates. He climbed awkwardly over the barrier and felt his shoes sink into the glar of cow-manure and muddy water on the other side. He gave Nora a reassuring wave then tramped in the direction Helena had taken. Was there a track? He found it hard to tell, since the land was churned up by the cattle grazing nearby, a few of which eyed him suspiciously. He walked up an incline to a ridge from where he was able to survey the hillside beyond.
From where he stood, the land sloped away to a small, wooded area which lay between him and what he guessed were sea-cliffs. He caught sight of a flutter of pale cloth between the trees and set off in that direction. Passing through the copse, he saw that it had probably lain undisturbed for centuries. The trees were gnarled and stunted by the salty, onshore wind and the large, glacial boulders were velveted with moss. The branches were almost bare, with only a few flame-coloured leaves still clinging to the lower limbs. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and looked over his shoulder, uneasy at leaving Nora alone, then plunged on, emerging from the trees to see Helena some distance away, sitting in a crumpled heap on the muddy ground. He straightened his shoulders and approached her.
"I know you'll think I’m mad, but our house was here," she said hoarsely, making a sweeping gesture. "Everything’s gone!" Her face was chalky-white and her eyes wide with shock.
Baffled, he scanned the empty space, seeing no sign of a house. He squatted beside her. "Helena, is it possible we’ve – taken the wrong turning?"
He watched doubt flood her face. She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, letting it out in a shuddering sigh. He stood up to ease his aching thighs and stretched out his hand which she grasped to pull herself up, then neglected to relinquish. She looked around frantically, as if trying to get her bearings. The area where they were standing was bordered on three sides by trees and brambles, and on the other gave way to a meadow which ran down to a wide bank of gorse. Beyond that were cliffs and the sea. A wonderful site for a house, he thought, gently pulling his hand away, causing Helena to sway and almost fall.
She took a few unsteady steps away from him, the wind tugging at her clothes, hair blowing around her head. Suddenly she howled like an animal in pain and started to sob. He felt a surge of panic. How was he ever to get this distraught woman back to the car without help? He considered ringing an ambulance but what could he possibly say to summon medics to this isolated spot? He needed to get a grip.
She sank down on her hunkers, careless of her pale skirt, and dug her fingers into the mud as if she might be able to unearth the house she had expected to find there.
Was it possible there’d been a house in this place? He thought of the old folksong 'The May Morning Dew’ and the line about the singer’s childhood home being but a stone on a stone. Here there wasn’t even a stone on a stone, just mud, grass and a bitter wind. At that moment the sun seemed to lose patience with them and closed its eye, stealing all colour from the scene.
He felt a spit sting his face. He glanced up at the leaden sky and back at Helena who had risen and was using the hem of her skirt to wipe the dirt off something she’d found in the mud which she now held out to him. He kept his hands in his pockets and noted that she seemed disappointed that he was unwilling to take the object from her. To placate her, he frowned in concentration and bent down, pretending to puzzle over what appeared to be a fragment of blue-and-yellow pottery.
"It’s from one of my Italian bowls." She stroked its muddy surface with her index finger. He straightened up and the incredulity she saw in his face made the light in hers flicker and die. "I know it must be hard to believe," she said despairingly, "but our house was here. I can see you don’t believe me." Her voice broke.
"I’m just worried about Nora," he said, relieved to see that this registered with her.
She nodded, letting him take her arm and shepherd her back towards the trees. Before they reached them, she broke away from him and made off to the right and he realised she was intent on skirting around the wood. Reluctantly he followed through long, wet grass. She stopped, turned and looked back, her eyes ranging to and fro.
"The house was there," she said. "I sat at this very spot and painted it many times. Can’t you see the way the trees sheltered it? I know the shape of every one of those branches."
He looked back and saw that the trees did seem to be leaning towards the empty space but thought it might have more to do with the prevailing wind than any human intervention. He had a strong visual imagination but was wary of the power of suggestion.
Strands of hair were blowing across Helena’s face and her teeth were bared. She returned his stare and he shivered, seeing madness there as well as grief.
The Desire Line is published by Poolbeg Press
