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

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      Mick couldn’t bring himself to ask the question, to hear her confirm what he thought he already knew. He let her wrap an arm around his waist and sink her face into his shoulder. Normally she didn’t like to hug him until he’d washed and changed. Now she pressed herself against his dust and grime. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

      ‘Something’s going on.’

      Heathcliff was right. Something was wrong. Why else would there be so much activity in Moor Lane? There were people standing around in the street, talking. There were two police cars. And they were parked outside the last house in the street.

      Their house.

      Cathy tightened her grip on Heathcliff’s hand. ‘I don’t like the look of this. Let’s stay away.’

      The two of them had been coming home, after a day spent on the blue hills. They had walked through the heather. Lain on their backs and watched the clouds scudding past. It was cold, but not wet, and for February that was a rare joy. Cathy loved days like those, up in the hills with Heathcliff. Sometimes they talked. Other times they didn’t. They didn’t have to. It was too cold now to swim in the lake up behind the pit, but they could watch the birds riding the updrafts of air as they searched for prey. They could pretend there was no strike. There was no school. There was nothing but the two of them.

      Cathy was the one who always turned for home first. She had to get dinner on before her father got home. She wished she didn’t have to, but wishing didn’t change things. Just as staying out all night wouldn’t change whatever was waiting for them below.

      ‘I’m frightened, Heathcliff.’

      His arms went around her, pulling her close. ‘Don’t be frightened. I’m here. Nothing can touch us when we’re together.’

      She led the way out of the hills and across the wasteland at the end of the road. As they got closer to the house, another car pulled up, and a woman got out.