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

      The boy was now a middle-aged man, but Lockwood knew him in an instant.

      ‘Heathcliff,’ he breathed.

      Time had not been good to him. His dark hair was still worn long and untidy, but now it was heavily threaded with grey. Where once he’d been muscular and lean, he was now painfully thin. His face was gaunt and lined and his eyes were sunken dark holes. He looked wildly around.

      ‘Cathy? Are you there?’ Heathcliff called in a voice shaking with emotion.

      No answer came from the silent night.

      Lockwood didn’t dare move. Heathcliff waited, staring out into the blackness and muttering something Lockwood couldn’t hear.

      Something moved in the corner of Lockwood’s vision. He turned his head, but there was nothing or no one there. A heartbeat later, a soft white flake drifted to the ground. Followed by another. And another. Within a minute, heavy snowflakes obscured his vision and he began to shiver and the temperature dropped even further. Still, Heathcliff didn’t move. Just as the cold was about to drive Lockwood to revealing himself, a shout from inside the house caused Heathcliff to stir. Muttering loudly, he turned away and retreated inside the house, slamming the door behind him.

      Lockwood waited no more than a few seconds before slowly getting to his feet. He risked another look over the fence, but there was no sign of the girl with the icy hands.

      Cathy?

      His mind conjured up a picture of a dark-haired girl with wild hair. She hadn’t been beautiful. Not really. But something about her had been strangely compelling. She had been Heathcliff’s constant companion, matching his every wildness. But then, something had happened to drive them apart. He knew that much.

      Hers was one of the deaths that had brought him back.

      Catherine Linton. Catherine Earnshaw.

      Heathcliff’s beloved Cathy.

Chapter Two

      March, 1978

      ‘Is he for me?’ Cathy peered at the scratchy-haired, dark-eyed boy standing behind her daddy in the hallway. ‘You said you’d bring me back a present. Is he my present?’

      ‘No, dear.’ Her father set his bags down next to the front door. He didn’t hug her the way he normally did after being away. But Cathy didn’t mind too much. She was far too interested in the boy, with his tatty clothes and hunched shoulders. ‘This is your new brother. His name is Heathcliff and he’s going to stay with us for a while.’

      Cathy’s mother bustled out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. She stopped in mid-stride and looked down at the boy. Her eyes narrowed and her lips almost vanished as she frowned. Cathy knew that look too well.

      ‘What is that?’ Her voice was hard, the words clipped.

      Her daddy shifted from foot to foot. ‘Cathy, why don’t you take Heathcliff upstairs?’

      That always happened. Every time there was anything interesting, Cathy got sent upstairs. It wasn’t fair. Mick didn’t get sent upstairs. Mick got to go out round the village with his mates. Mick had even had a ride in a police car. He’d come into her bedroom and shown her the bright-red mark across his cheek where he reckoned a policeman had clipped him round the head. Mick got to have all the adventures.

      But not this time. Mick wasn’t here. Getting a new brother was almost as exciting as riding with the police. Maybe more exciting, especially if Mummy and Daddy were going to row about it. And for now it was all hers. Being sent upstairs was not fair at all, but she knew how to deal with that.

      ‘Come on,’ she said.

      The boy followed.

      She stopped on the tiny landing. ‘So my room’s down there. That’s Mick’s. Mummy and Daddy sleep in there. Bathroom’s downstairs through the kitchen.’ She looked around. ‘Where are you going to sleep?’

      ‘Dunno.’

      ‘Is your name really Heathcliff?’

      The boy shrugged. ‘Yeah.’

      Cathy wrinkled her nose. ‘That’s not a name. Names are things like Gary or David. Have you got a last name?’

      Heathcliff shrugged again.

      Cathy sat down on the top step.

      Heathcliff hesitated for a few seconds then sat down next to her, squashing himself against the wall, as far away from her as he could get. She sniffed. Did he think she had something catching?

      ‘What are we doing?’

      ‘Listening.’ This was Cathy’s secret listening spot. From here you could hear people perfectly if they left the door at the bottom of the stairs open. This time they hadn’t. She had to strain to make out bits. It sounded like her mummy was doing most of the talking. And when she yelled, it was easy to hear her.

      ‘What were you thinking?’

      ‘What about his mother?’ Mummy got louder.

      ‘Did you really think you could just bring him here? That I would cook for him and wash his filthy clothes and treat him like my own children?”

      ‘Well, I put up with Mick…’ That was Daddy. He was getting angry now too.

      ‘That’s different. It were for ever ago.’

      ‘Was it?’

      Cathy blew the air out of her mouth so that her lips tingled. Everyone had to put up with Mick. She didn’t want to listen to her parents talking about Mick.

      Cathy heard the kitchen door slam. That was it then. Her mother would hide in the kitchen and sulk while her daddy sat in the back room and read the newspaper. There was nothing more to hear.

      She turned her attention back to the new boy. ‘Do you play with Sindys?’

      He shook his head.

      ‘Well, what do you do?’

      He shrugged.

      ‘You don’t say much, do you?’

      ‘Dunno what to say.’

      Cathy didn’t know either. ‘You talk funny.’

      ‘I talk like me mam. You’re the one who talks funny.’

      She didn’t. She talked normal. ‘Come on. I’ll show you how to play Sindys.’

      Mick Earnshaw strode up the hill towards home. This winter was turning into a pain in the arse. His dad reckoned they were going to bring back the three-day week. That was the last thing he needed – his dad hanging round the house the whole time, winding his mum up even more than she already was. His dad had been away this week, some union thing in Liverpool. He always came back from union meetings ranting and raving about what a waste of space Callaghan was. Mick didn’t care. He probably would when he finished school and got a job. Until then, he had his mates. And as long as the lasses kept looking at him the way they did, he was happy.

      He reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of fags. He lit one and took a deep drag, then stretched out his hand. The scabs across his knuckles had gone now, but he liked to picture the blood, and the bruising, and the looks on his mates’ faces when he’d rammed his hand into the police car. The buggers had all run away after that. They hadn’t seen the copper clip him over the head. Shame, but he’d told them all about it. He’d seen the respect in their faces. That was the important thing.

      Mick grinned as he got to the top of the Heights estate. Theirs was the last house in the row. The end of the terrace. Mum reckoned that meant you could call it a semi-detached. Mum needed her head looking at.

      He flicked his fag end away, stuck his key in the Yale and opened the door. They didn’t