The Moors: Some secrets are better left buried (4 page)

CHAPTER FOUR
Mind Over Matter
Saturday 12
th
February, 1972

A swarm of flies buzzed relentlessly over the mangled corpse of a sheep. Its neck had been snapped and large chunks of its wool and flesh had been torn away, leaving the perfect gateway for the flies to explore the animal’s insides and consider the wounds as a nesting place for their eggs.

Just a few miles away from where the poor animal lay, Amanda stirred, roused by a gentle knock at her bedroom door.

‘Amanda! It’s time to wake up, love,’ sung Margaret with a soft grin as she poked her head round the door. ‘You jump in the shower and I’ll make you some breakfast.’

‘Okay,’ croaked Amanda, who looked at the clock to see an alien formation of numbers staring back at her – 05:58.

She buried her head under the pillows as she momentarily cussed her decision to undertake the story. The regret soon subsided though and upon taking a deep breath she forced herself out of bed.

The bathroom filled with steam as Amanda lathered her body with soap in the shower. She tilted her head back and allowed the hot water to beat off her face. The house itself was quite chilly so she found the heat rather invigorating. She recited her aims for the day: meet all of the children, press Christian when alone and make contact with Tony back at the office. She then turned the water off and pulled back the shower curtain. A young, rather peculiar-looking boy was staring right at her. Once more, she screamed, but the boy did not flinch. She reached for a nearby towel with which to cover her body.

Gordon Jones was ten-years-old and, as Amanda would later learn, was heavily autistic. Sensing that something wasn’t quite right with the boy, Amanda fought hard to calm herself and spoke in a soft, unthreatening manner.

‘You frightened me,’ she admitted, with a light chuckle.

Gordon didn’t respond in any way. He simply continued to watch her. Amanda forced an uncomfortable smile.

‘I’m Amanda,’ was all she could think to say, but as she stepped towards him, he turned and walked casually out of the room.

This is one hell of a mixed bag!
She thought of the home’s residents, as she wondered what other surprises lay in store for the rest of the day.

Margaret worked away at the stove, cracking eggs and nesting them among sizzling rashers of bacon and quarterly cut tomatoes. She insisted Amanda remain at the table as she did so.

‘I can’t wait for this bloody power strike to be over!’ she sighed.

‘It must be a real nuisance out here,’ supported Amanda.

‘It’s gone on far too long. It goes off at two today so any chores needing electricity take priority,’ Margaret stated, carrying a large plate of succulent food over to Amanda. ‘The evenings can be quite testing with no electricity, but I usually pass the time by doing a bit of sewing and knitting.’

It had been only three days since the government had declared a state of emergency due to a miner’s strike. That homes and businesses all over England were only allocated electricity for nine hours a day was something that really took some getting used to, although being that country life was so relaxed, it didn’t cause as much disruption as it did in the city.

Margaret placed the freshly cooked breakfast in front of Amanda, viewing it with pride.

‘This looks great!’ Amanda enthused.

Margaret smiled as she took a seat opposite the young woman. She had no food herself and instead seemed intent on gauging Amanda’s level of enjoyment.

‘Where’s everybody else?’ Amanda asked.

‘Getting the kids ready. It’s been a warm winter so I expect they’d like to play outside. Oh…’ said Margaret, pulling a spare set of keys from her pocket. ‘Before I forget, these are for you. Now, the only rooms that have locks downstairs are Christian’s office and Malcolm’s bedroom. You don’t have a key for the office, but Christian’s usually in there anyway, so if you want to use the phone, just give him a knock.’

‘That’s the only phone in the house?’ Amanda checked, to which Margaret nodded.

That will make it difficult to report back to Tony.

‘All the children’s rooms have locks on them and I’ve numbered them to make it easier for you. I’ll show you around upstairs later.’

Amanda took the keys, numbered 1-5, and studied them as Margaret walked out of the room.

‘Wait! Did you say all their rooms have locks?’ she asked, as though the words had only just sunk in.

Amanda was about to follow her when Christian entered dressed in hunting gear.

‘Did you say something?’ he questioned.

‘Oh! I was just talking to your mother.’

‘That’s good,’ he said, as he opened the fridge and glanced through its contents, pulling out a carton of orange juice. ‘It means I don’t have to!’ he joked.

So far, his boyish, banterish nature did not match Amanda’s perception of the man who had sounded so serious during their telephone interview. He even looked serious most of the time, making everything that came out of his mouth seem slightly ironic. It was a quirkiness that firmly held Amanda’s attention.

‘You’re a hunter?’

‘What gave it away?’ he replied, shooting her a handsome grin as he poured himself a glass of juice and tipped it back his throat.

At that moment, Amanda noticed he wore a necklace with a large claw tied to the end of it.

‘Ah… I have keen powers of observation,’ she said. ‘I guess the question should be,
what
do you hunt?’

‘Oh! Just… predatory animals, you know,’ he shrugged. ‘Foxes scare the kids and crows are never good news.’

‘So you shoot them?’ she asked, a wrinkle of amusement appearing at the corner of her mouth.

‘Don’t think badly of me. It’s better that I scare these animals away,’ he assured her.

‘And the necklace?’ Amanda pressed, her eyes falling back to look at it.

Christian instinctively caressed the claw in his hand.

‘Stupid novelty gift from my mother!’ he replied. ‘If I didn’t put it on when I hunted, I’d never hear the end of it!’

‘I wouldn’t have had you down as a mamma’s boy,’ said Amanda, light-heartedly, as Christian slid the necklace back under his top and out of sight.

‘Oh really? What would you have me down for?’ he asked, his eyes meeting Amanda’s amidst a glimmer of suggestion.

Margaret swirled into the room like a human tornado, carrying a basket full of laundry.

‘Christian! Stop distracting the help, love. We’re incredibly busy!’ she said.

Christian smiled at Amanda in secret.

‘And on that note, I’ll see you later,’ he said, raising his eyebrows before slinking out of the room.

Amanda followed Margaret out into the garden. On a wooden table, Gordon played chess with Georgina under Walter’s supervision. Walter peered up from a newspaper in which he seemed deeply absorbed and smiled at the women as they approached. Amanda hesitated slightly when she saw a whole stack of papers on the floor beside him and felt flustered when he caught her staring at them.

‘You must really like the news!’ she blurted, feeling the need to justify her clear interest in the tabloids.

‘I do-I do. And I’m always interested in how many ways the same story can be told.’

Try as she did, Amanda was unable to pry her eyes away from the pile, wondering if
The Times
lay within the collection. He seemed to have everything else. It dawned on her that an article she’d recently written – a scathing feature on Prime Minister, Edward Heath, and his vocal support of America’s all-out bombing of North Vietnam – was still pending its print date. If it did come out during her stay, she would very much like to see it for reading her work when the content was so significant never failed to make her feel good.

She looked at the paper currently in his hands – a local tabloid named the
Great Western News
. The front cover was riddled with further column inches about the “Exmoor Beast.”

Suddenly, half way down the pile, she saw it.
The Times
! She cleared her throat.

‘Might I read them when you’re done?’ asked Amanda, thinking on her feet.

‘Of course,’ he replied.

She turned her attention towards the chess board where the children sat in total silence – Gordon moving his head back and forth between two particular positions.

‘Would you mind helping me hang the washing up, dear?’ asked Margaret, ever so politely.

‘Of course!’ Amanda agreed, before Margaret noticed her interest in the young boy.

‘Oh, where are my manners? This is Gordon,’ she said, believing the pair hadn’t yet met.

‘Gordon, huh? Another great name!’

Again, he didn’t respond. Amanda leaned towards Margaret and whispered in her ear.

‘What exactly is wrong with him?’ she asked.

‘There’s nothing
wrong
with him, dear,’ said Margaret who, for the first time, seemed a little incensed.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that,’ reeled Amanda.

‘It’s okay,’ Margaret relented. ‘Gordon’s heavily autistic. You met anyone with autism before?’ she asked.

Amanda shook her head.

‘Well… it’s a peculiar thing, but once you get your head around it, you’ll love him. He’s a proper little chatter-box. Doesn’t always make a lot of sense, mind you. Isn’t that right, Gord?’ she asked, suddenly speaking up.

‘Yah!’ he replied, instinctively.

Amanda studied the board, noticing that the children had yet to make a move. She approached the table and spoke gently.

‘Hello, Gordon. I’m Amanda.’

‘Naked lady. Yah! Gordon. My name’s Gordon Jones. But naked lady can call me Gord.’

With Amanda’s cheeks becoming pink and warm, she felt the need to explain.

‘We… overlapped in the bathroom this morning,’ she clarified, bringing a smile to Walter’s face.

‘Oh…’ Margaret chuckled.

At least the fleeting embarrassment marked progress compared to the failed conversation she’d attempted with Gordon earlier that morning.

‘Who’s winning?’ asked Amanda.

‘It’s a draw. Georgina’s move,’ answered Gordon, speaking at the rather manic pace he always seemed to adopt. ‘She hasn’t moved yet, so no-one’s winning. It’s a draw!’

Amanda had read about autism. Doctors had described it as a fascinating mental disease that lasted the duration of one’s life and directly affected the sufferer’s relationships with people – as well as the practicalities of the world – around them. Quite often, what an autistic brain lacked in social development, it more than made up for with strong short and long term memory traits, leading those who were diagnosed with it to become obsessed with numbers, patterns, statistics and routines.

‘How long have you been playing?’ Amanda delved.

‘273 days,’ he replied, instantly

‘I’m sorry. I meant this game,’ Amanda clarified.

‘Yah, 273 days. Started 15
th
May, 1971,’ he confirmed.

‘You started
this
game last May?’ repeated Amanda.

‘Yah. 15
th
May, 1971: 273 days. Georgina’s turn,’ he said.

Amanda’s focus shifted to the girl.

‘Are you going to make a move today, Georgina?’ she asked.

Georgina didn’t reply, which led Walter to glare disapprovingly over the top of his paper.

‘Georgina?’ he said, slowly, menacingly.

Walter lowered his paper entirely and leant forward in his chair, making the old wood creek as he did so.

‘Answer,’ he said, through gritted teeth.

It was the first time Amanda had seen Walter irked and suddenly he gave off the energy of someone who could have a temper.

‘I’m thinking!’ Georgina snapped.

In a slow, calculated manner, Walter leant back in his chair with his eyes still locked on her. His nose twitched before he returned to his paper.

‘H-m,’ he grunted, and that was that.

Margaret nodded further down the garden where a washing line hung across the lawn and together, the women walked away.

‘Sorry, dear. She has good days and bad, that one,’ confirmed Margaret. ‘Yesterday was a particularly good day.’

‘They play chess?’

‘Well “play” is a bit of a loose term for it! You know, it’s the strangest thing. The chess board lay under the stairs and hadn’t been touched for years. One day, out of the blue, they both asked to play it in the garden and they’ve insisted on doing it ever since. I don’t know where they got the idea from. Can’t think they’d even know how to play. I don’t even know! They seem to enjoy it, though. Whatever you do, you mustn’t touch the pieces. I learnt that the hard way!’ she said, rolling her eyes.

As Margaret picked up speed, Amanda glanced back towards the children.

Interesting!

Amanda couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was yet, but something was most definitely amiss. She looked forward to the end of the day, by which time she would have visited each room of the house and stared into the eyes of every child. Once this was done, she would be able to do what she did best – get to the bottom of the story, and generate some theories on what it was that made the residents act so utterly peculiar.