The Heights: A dark story of obsession and revenge

There was a murmur of agreement from the nearby men. Sure, they thought his dad was great. They didn’t have to live with him.

As Mick turned away, he heard his father’s voice. ‘He’s always in trouble that one. Time he got a job. There’s nowt for him here.’

‘Me brother works in Manchester. Building trade,’ Mick heard someone say. ‘I can get him to ask around.’

Now that would be the thing, Mick thought as he trudged home. Get out of this bloody dead-end town. There was no way he was ever going down that pit. He wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life covered in sweat and black filth. He was going to make something of himself.

He let the front door bang shut behind him. He thought about going up to his room and forgetting to tell his mother about the food. Serve his dad right to go hungry. But Mick was hungry too, so he sauntered through into the kitchen.

It was empty.

‘Mum!’ he called loudly. Maybe she was in the loo.

He shrugged and opened the bread bin. It was empty. Damn it. His stomach rumbled loudly. The fridge was pretty much empty too. Maybe that’s where his mother was – out getting food. There was one of his dad’s precious cans of Stella in the fridge. Despite what he said in front of the men, his dad always seemed to be able to afford beer. Mick grabbed it and ripped the top off. He took a deep swig, and them almost coughed it all back up again. Rubbing his sleeve across his mouth, he sipped it a bit more slowly as he headed upstairs.

The door to his parents’ room was open. He could see the room was a mess. That was strange. His mum wasn’t the world’s greatest housekeeper, but she was better than that.

‘Mum?’ he called. ‘You there?’

When there was still no answer, he walked into the room and looked around. It was empty. The door of the tatty wooden wardrobe was open, and it was empty. It wasn’t just that his mother wasn’t there; none of her stuff was either. A few wire hangers hung from the rail. Most of the drawers were open too, with nothing inside. Mick swallowed hard. Had they been robbed? Even as he thought it, he knew it didn’t make sense. Burglars didn’t carefully select women’s clothes and leave everything else behind.

He saw something he recognised in an otherwise empty drawer. He pulled it out. It was a scarf – the one he had given his mother for Christmas a couple of years ago. He had saved for weeks to get it for her, and she’d said she loved it. It was bright-red and she’d smiled when she opened the gift, saying it made the place more cheerful.

She was gone. Mick knew it. She’d left him. And she had left his scarf behind.

Clutching the scarf, he left the room and headed into his own bedroom. He wasn’t going to cry. He started to shove the scarf into his bottom drawer, the place where he hid his fags and the dirty magazines Davo stole off his dad. As he did, he happened to glance at the small bundle of belongings on the truckle bed. In the corner of the room. Bloody Heathcliff. Everything had gone to shit since that brat arrived. His mum and dad had barely spoken to each other, and now she was gone. And she’d left Mick behind… Biting back the lump in his throat, he grabbed the sorry bundle of clothes and opened the door. There was no way that little shit was going to sleep here any more. Not after driving his mother away.

He flung Heathcliff’s belongings into the small recessed corner at the top of the stairs. The bed followed. Then Mick walked back into his room and slammed the door. Hard.

‘We’re going to be in trouble,’ Heathcliff declared as they walked back down the path from the blue hills.

‘Nah,’ Cathy said. ‘There’s more trouble down the pit. Always is. Dad spends more time there than at home. And Mum doesn’t care any more. She won’t say anything. She’ll just make us do what the nurse said.’

‘Were they always like that?’

Cathy bit her lips as she tried to remember. There must have been some better times. Maybe before things went bad at the mine. And in the house. She seemed to remember hearing her parents laugh. But not recently.

‘I guess…’ she said hesitantly. ‘What about yours?’

‘There was only ever me and me mam,’ Heathcliff said. ‘And she never laughed much.’

They reached the fence behind their house, and slipped through the back gate. The first thing Cathy saw was Mick, standing in the yard, a fag dangling from his fingers. It was too late to avoid him. Mick’s arm shot out and grabbed Heathcliff. Cathy dropped her bag to pull Heathcliff out of her brother’s grasp. Her school stuff tumbled across the yard. Mick bent down and picked up the bottle. ‘What’s this?’

Cathy folded her arms across her body. ‘It’s nit stuff,’ she mumbled. ‘We’ve got to put in in our hair. All of us.’

‘Nits? That filthy gyppo brat’s got nits? Get him away from me.’ He shoved Heathcliff so hard, he almost fell over.

‘Stop it!’ Cathy jumped between them. ‘It’s me that’s got the nits, not him. Leave him alone.’

Mick stepped away. ‘Well, I ain’t gonna put that stuff in my hair. It stinks.’

‘You have to,’ Cathy said. ‘The nurse said so. Mum’ll make you do it.’

‘No, she won’t. She won’t make me do anything ever again.’ Mick spun away, kicked open the gate and walked out.

Cathy frowned. What did he mean by that? She looked towards the house. There was no light in the kitchen. Her mum should be cooking dinner by now. There was a light upstairs in Mick’s room, but it was the only one.

She was a little bit scared as she opened the back door.

The house was in total silence. She turned on the kitchen light and almost screamed when she saw her father sitting at the table. There was a beer can in his hand and two others lay on the table. That was wrong too. Her dad only ever drank one beer each night.

‘Dad?’

He looked up at her, and blinked a few times, as if he was struggling to remember who she was.

‘Ah. Cathy.’ His eyes moved past her. ‘And Heathcliff too. Um…’

Cathy glanced sideways at Heathcliff. He looked as frightened as she felt. She darted forward to stand at her father’s knee.

‘Daddy?’ she asked in a tiny, tiny voice.

‘Are you hungry, sweetheart?’ he asked. ‘I guess you both must be. I don’t think… I sent Mick here to ask your mum to get some food together. But he didn’t come back. I thought… But when I got here…’

‘Where’s Mummy?’

Her father put a hand on her head to comfort her, but it slipped away as if he didn’t have the strength to hold it there.

‘Your mother’s gone, Cathy.’

Cathy frowned. ‘What do you mean gone?’

‘She’s left. Gone away to live with someone… somewhere else.’

‘But she can’t just leave. She’s got to put stuff in our hair. Hers too. We’ve got to do what the nit nurse said.’ She was close to tears.

Her father shook his head slowly, as if he hadn’t really heard her. ‘It’s just us now.’ He ruffled her hair. ‘Cathy, you’re the woman of the house now. You have to do what’s needed. For all of us. You and me. Heathcliff too.’ He didn’t ruffle the boy’s hair, but he did try to smile at him.

‘And Mick too?’ Cathy said slowly.

‘Yes. Mick too.’ Her father didn’t sound so sure. ‘We’ll be fine, just us,’ he said. ‘Now, I need you to give me a few minutes, then we’ll think about dinner. Maybe get some fish and chips. Give me a few minutes…’

They left him there, sitting in the kitchen, which now seemed even emptier than before. Cathy didn’t think there would be any fish and chips. But that was all right. She had some chocolate bars stashed in her room.

At the top of the stairs, she was stopped by the sight of Heathcliff’s things, heaped at the back of the landing.

They stood side by side and stared for a few seconds.

‘I guess Mick won’t let me sleep in his room any more,’ Heathcliff said.

‘You can sleep in my room,’ Cathy declared.

‘Your dad won’t let me.’

‘He doesn’t have to know. Come on.’

Under Cathy’s direction, they set up the camp bed in the small space at the back of the landing. They put Heathcliff’s clothes in the bag he’d had with him the day he arrived and slid that under the bed.

‘See. Dad will think you’re sleeping there. Now, come with me,’

She took Heathcliff’s hand and led him through into her room. They sat on the bed together, while she doled out a supper of Mars bars. They didn’t say much, but when they had finished eating, they lay down side by side on the bed. Cathy’s hand found Heathcliff’s and their fingers entwined.

‘Everything will be all right,’ she said in a firm voice that might make it true. ‘Nothing will hurt us as long as we’re together.’

Chapter Six

2008

Even after all these years, the stone church was familiar. Lockwood had never been inside, but the police van had driven past it every day during the strike – taking Lockwood and his fellow officers to the mine head and the picket lines. He’d never paid it much attention. Looking at it now, he could see the rough texture of the stone, stained with generations of grime from the now-silent pit on the other side of the valley. St Mary’s was neither large nor impressive. Not even well-kept, it was a poor cousin to the clean, bright, Protestant church near the top of the town. This church, with its narrow windows and a roof sadly in need of repair, had served the miners since the young Queen Victoria sat on the throne. The rituals and sermons, the fire and brimstone, had been as much a part of their lives as the fire of the ironworks and the smell of gas in the dark and dangerous tunnels.

Lockwood had a more recent memory of the church. He’d seen a photo in the library archive yesterday. Not much happened in Gimmerton, so this particular funeral had been enough to capture the attention of the local newspaper. This funeral had been special. The deceased was a teenager. A seventeen-year-old boy. He’d been to the funerals of kids before. Standing discreetly outside or at the back of the church, looking to see who came, who was acting out of character. It was part of the job. Lockwood shook his head. He’d been a copper too long. Every case now seemed to remind him of the one before.

He dragged his thoughts back to the here and now. You couldn’t get the result you wanted every time. Nobody did, but he had a second chance with this one. He stared at the church, thinking back on the pictures of that funeral. Normally such a tragedy would be expected to bring a crowd of mourners to a church. Parents and grandparents. Schoolfriends and teachers. Maybe members of some sporting team.

There had been so few people in that photo. A priest and four anonymous pallbearers carrying a cheap coffin. As for the boy’s family, there had been just four of them, each standing slightly apart from the others. Not a family so much as a group of people whose lives had somehow all been linked through that dead boy. And the one furthest from the grave – that had been his father – Heathcliff.

Lockwood leaned on the rusty iron gate that looked across the churchyard and the ranks of graves, becoming ever more overgrown and neglected as they marched down the hillside. Were the answers to some of his questions to be found out there?

The gate creaked as he opened it.

The lawn nearest the church was mown, not neatly, but better than nothing. There were two recent graves, one with a little flash of colour still showing in the withered flowers that rested on them. He glanced at the headstones, but these were not the graves that had brought him here.

A very light rain was starting to fall. More mist than rain, it obscured Lockwood’s view of the older sections of the graveyard. He turned up his coat collar against the damp and decided he would come again tomorrow.

‘How can I help you, my son?’

The voice was rough, the accent thick. Lockwood turned slowly. The priest was old, his face lined with hard use. His eyes, though, were bright and a dark steely grey that spoke of long, passionate sermons about sin and guilt. This was an old-style priest of the fire-and-brimstone variety. He was wearing a cassock and dog collar. Despite the cold, he wasn’t wearing a coat.

‘Hello, Father…?’ The face was familiar, but the name eluded Lockwood.

‘Father Joseph.’

He remembered now. Father Joseph. The priest had been on the picket lines as often as the miners themselves. Lockwood could remember the anger on the priest’s face as he exhorted others to violence from the back of the crowd. They hadn’t arrested him. He was too much of a coward to throw a punch himself, and the Inspector had thought arresting the priest would have only made matters worse. He might have been right.

Lockwood could see the priest didn’t recognise him. And why should he? Most of the time they had faced each other, a riot helmet and shield had obscured Lockwood’s identity.

‘Were you looking for someone?’ The suspicion was evident in the priest’s face. The two words Lockwood had spoken would have been enough to show him for what he was. A stranger. An interloper. And from the south. Even now, distrust of southerners ran deep among the people who had lived through the strike.

‘The boy who died just before Christmas. Luke Earnshaw.’

‘What about him?’

‘I wanted to visit his grave.’

Father Joseph wanted to say no. Lockwood could see it in his eyes. But his curiosity was stronger than his distrust. Instead, he grunted and started walking down the hillside towards a remote and overgrown section of the graveyard.

As they walked along a narrow and barely visible path, the graves became increasingly neglected. Brambles grew wild, their long tendrils sharp with thorns, covering the carved stones. In places, the deep-red berries stood out in sharp relief, blood-red against pale stone. Lockwood’s trousers and feet grew cold and wet as he pushed his way through the long grass, following the stiff-backed priest. They were approaching an ancient section of the graveyard, near the stone wall that separated hallowed ground from the wilderness of the moors. In the distance, Lockwood could see the rusting gantries of the mine head. Most of those buried here lay beneath plain slabs, carved with little more than a name and a date.

‘Here he is.’

The grave still looked freshly dug. The earth was bare. It was too cold now for the grass to cover it. There was no headstone. There was nothing to remind the world of the boy who lay there.

‘Why’s he right back here?’

The priest stared at the ground. ‘Most families prefer plots nearer the path. This one’s folks didn’t really care.’

Lockwood stared at the plain carved stone. ‘Luke Earnshaw.’ He whispered the words into the breeze.

‘Yes. May God grant him mercy.’

The underlying emotion in the priest’s voice surprised Lockwood. ‘You knew him?’

‘No. No one did. He was barely seen in the town after his father brought him home.’

‘His father…’

Heathcliff Earnshaw.’

That was the opening Lockwood had been waiting for. And the contempt dripping from the priest’s voice left him in no doubt that it would lead him somewhere he wanted to go.

‘The Earnshaws were a mining family, weren’t they?’

‘They were,’ the priest said. ‘There’s many around here were that, before the pit closed. But Heathcliff wasn’t from around here.’

‘No?’ Lockwood feigned surprise.

‘No. The old man brought him here as a brat. All wild and wilful. A gypsy brat, some said. The bastard of some Irish tart. There were them that said he was Earnshaw’s kid.’

‘And was he?’

‘That’s something only the good Lord knows. I’m sure he regretted bringing him here, whatever the reason.’

‘Why is that?’

‘The boy had an evil heart. Even then. Tore that family apart. Running wild with the girl. Fighting with the son. Sinful. And Ray Earnshaw never lifted a hand against him.’

‘What about his wife?’

‘She was no better than she should be either.’ Father Joseph passed judgement. ‘She wanted no truck with Heathcliff. Or the others for that matter. Social services were always up there at the Heights. Finally, she up and left with some fancy man. A travelling salesman or some such. That’s when the rumours started about Mick. The son.’

‘Rumours?’

‘That he wasn’t really Earnshaw’s son. That she had been sinning too.’

Lockwood hid his surprise.

‘And was he… Earnshaw’s son?’

‘Only the good Lord knows.’ Father Joseph wasn’t going to let a question distract him from his story. He nodded towards another grave. This one was much older. The brambles had almost covered the tall cross, and the name written on it was 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.