The Heights: A dark story of obsession and revenge. Juliet Bell

obscured.

      ‘The old man went to his grave never saying nothing,’ the priest said. ‘Died on the pickets, he did. Police thugs. Maggie did for him same as she did for the pit and for the whole town. I hope she rots in hell for what she did.’

      Lockwood shivered but didn’t reply.

      Without another word, Father Joseph turned away from the grave and set off back up the hill towards his church. Lockwood followed, watching the sodden hem of the priest’s cassock flap around his ankles like the leathery wings of a bat.

      By the time Lockwood got to his car, the rain was falling in earnest. He started the engine and turned the heating up to high. While he waited for the engine to warm up, he rubbed his icy fingers together and stared out over the graveyard to where Luke Earnshaw lay in his unmarked grave. In the rain, the graveyard looked even more bleak than before, if that was possible. Old Mr Earnshaw. Mick. Luke. There had been other graves, too, in that little group by the wall. He wondered if they were also Earnshaws. He would take a look – but not right now. He needed to get warm and dry, and he needed something to eat. He decided to try the pub at the top of the town. It looked the sort to have a fire in the bar. After the chill of the graveyard and the man who cared for it, a cheerful fire would be welcome. He slipped the car into gear.

      He drove up the hill and on an impulse turned left towards the Anglican Church. He pulled up opposite the large, well-kept building. It was a far more modern construction than the Catholic church, no doubt built at the height of the mine’s prosperity. The plaster walls were painted a rich cream and the doors were a dark mahogany colour. Even through the rain, he could see the rich colours of the stained-glass windows.

      The church itself was set close to the road. Here, in the middle of town, there was no vast overgrown graveyard. Instead, elegant marble tombs had been built in a paved area beside the church. Tombs for the wealthy people of the town. The mine managers and owners who had never been forced below ground to feed their families. The Lintons, he knew, were buried here. Their graves were marked by simple, classy, marble slabs.

      Cathy was here with them, buried as a Linton, not an Earnshaw. Would she have liked that? Had it been warmer, Lockwood might have gone to investigate. He was about to drive on when movement caught his eye. He let the car roll forward a couple of feet to get a better view.

      A man was standing by one of the graves. The marker stood out from the plain grey stones around it. Here a sculpted angel with head bowed and wings spread stood sentry over the grave. The man was tall and thin, wearing a black coat, the collar turned up against the weather. Lockwood didn’t need to see his face. He knew in an instant who it was. Heathcliff. The kid with the nail gun. The very first one who’d ever got away. He was staring at the marble slab on the ground in front of him, as if he could see through it to the woman who lay beneath. How long had he been there, Lockwood wondered. And how often had he come here to stand like that and mourn the love he lost so long ago?

      When Heathcliff moved, it was with violence. He slammed his forehead against the angel’s face, not with the gentle touch of sadness but with the savagery of unbearable agony. Again and again Heathcliff smashed his head against the stone. He dropped to his knees and pounded on the marble slab with his fists, and then scraped and dragged at the ground with his bare hands.

      When at last he stopped and slowly stood up, his shoulders heaved. A line of blood ran from his hairline down his brow.

      Lockwood watched as Heathcliff walked through the church’s wrought-iron gates and turned down the street. He was hurrying now. Once he lifted his head and looked upwards towards the blue hills and the moors beyond. Lockwood’s eyes followed his gaze. There was nothing there, nobody calling to Heathcliff from the hills. There was just the graveyard, Heathcliff, and DCI Lockwood looking on.

Chapter Seven

      March, 1984

      Ray Earnshaw walked the long way home, along the pit road onto the estate, rather than cutting by the blue hills and onto the back lane. He needed the thinking time. He’d told himself it weren’t going to happen here. He’d known the younger lads were getting angry, and he’d heard about what was going on at other pits around and about and down by Nottingham, bits on the news about the union, but that was there. They were firebrands over there. Not like Ray.

      Ray had never voted to strike in his life. Just last year, he’d voted against it in the national ballot, and he hadn’t voted to strike this time either. None of them had. Then Maggie had started to talk about pit closures and the walkouts had started. And now Scargill had called everyone out. There was some as said that wasn’t right. That there should have been a vote. Ray agreed, but it were too late now. He’d never crossed a picket line in his life and that wasn’t about to change. Nobody was going to call Ray Earnshaw a scab. He had a reputation round here. The lads knew him. He fancied they respected him. That counted for something, so it was one out, all out. Didn’t matter what you thought yourself. That was how it had always been. That was how it would always be.

      He walked up to his front door and reached for his keys. The first thing that hit him as he opened the door was the sound of shouting from the kitchen. For a heartbeat he thought Shirley might be back. That was the fantasy he had every night as he put the key in the lock. Shirley back and everything as it should be, but the female voice he could hear was his daughter, not his wife.

      He opened the front door and the words became clearer.

      ‘Leave him alone, Mick. You’re a bully.’

      ‘That gyppo bastard doesn’t get to give me cheek.’ Mick’s voice was slightly slurred, leaving Ray to wonder if his son was drunk. ‘If he doesn’t stop staring at me, I’ll punch his lights out. And as for you, going off with him up in the blue hills. People will think you’re a slut.’

      He heard a low growl. Heathcliff, jumping to Cathy’s defence, no doubt, which seemed like his normal way to get himself in trouble.

      ‘That’s enough,’ Ray shouted as he walked through to the kitchen. ‘Shut up the lot of you.’

      The kids did as they were told, probably shocked by the uncharacteristic roughness in his voice. Ray went to the fridge and reached for a can of beer. God knew he needed it.

      ‘Dad,’ Cathy ventured in the voice she used when she was trying to get him on her side in an argument. ‘Mick said…’

      ‘I don’t care what Mick said. Pay attention. All of you. Things are about to change here. We’re on strike. The miners. All of us.’

      Silence fell in the kitchen. Ray checked the clock on the wall and reached for the radio. The smooth voice of the BBC announcer filled the room.

       ‘…Britain’s miners have stopped work in what looks like becoming a long battle against job losses. More than half the country’s 187,000 mineworkers are now on strike. Miners in Yorkshire and…’

      ‘You’re on strike, Dad?’

      ‘Shut up, Mick. Listen…’

       ‘…National Union of Mineworkers president Arthur Scargill is calling on members across the country to join the action.’

      Ray took another swig from his beer. Now the strike was on, no one was going to hear him say a word against Scargill. That was what the union was all about.

       ‘…Violence flared on the picket line at Bilston Glen colliery in Scotland, when miners from the recently closed Polmaise pit tried to stop others going into work…’

      Scabs. There’d been talk of trucking in lads from the other pits to join the picket. There’d be nobody working at Gimmerton. He’d see to that.

      The kitchen became very still, the only sound the voice from the radio. Words seemed to hang in the air, painting a bleak image of a long and bitter time to come.

      ‘It won’t last long, Dad, will it?’ Cathy asked. ‘I mean… without jobs