Kingdom of Shadows (13 page)

‘Ah.’ Geoffrey looked at her thoughtfully. ‘And you don’t want to do that.’

‘No I bloody well don’t! It’s not even as though Pete is away at the moment. He came back later from his beastly meeting and of course we had a row! The trouble is we never go out, Geoff! Even when he is home. It’s all work, work, work!’ She smiled ruefully. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I came to dump all this in your lap. I suppose it was talking to Clare last night. It made me realise how important it is to have something else if your marriage falls apart.’

Geoffrey raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh dear. Don’t tell me that is what is happening to Clare and Paul too?’

‘They’ve found out it is she who can’t have a baby.’

‘Poor Clare. I know how heartbroken she must be, but surely that is not going to destroy their marriage?’

‘It’s helping. She’s discovering fast just how rotten Paul can be.’ Emma shook her head sadly. ‘She has got nothing now. No job. No children. And probably no husband. Poor Clare. All she is left with are her daydreams and her visiting spirits!’

‘Her what?’ Geoffrey looked startled.

‘Oh lord! I’m not supposed to tell anyone.’ Emma put her hand to her mouth. ‘Well, not Paul, anyway. She’s doing some kind of weird meditation and conjuring up the spirits of the dead.’ She paused, then, seeing her brother’s face, she was unable to resist dramatising her statement. ‘With candles and incantations and incense and spells!’

Geoffrey was looking at her closely, unable for a moment to decide whether or not she was joking. It took only a moment to convince him that, in spite of the dramatic whisper, she was not.

Uneasily he rubbed his hands together. ‘I think you’d better tell me all about it,’ he said after a moment. ‘How did she start all this?’

‘She met someone who had been teaching her yoga. It’s all right, Geoff. There is nothing strange about that, at least I don’t think so. Mind you he does sound a bit weird, and I suppose she is exactly the kind of target some of these freaky sinister people look for to exploit.’

‘And you think this man is freaky and sinister?’

Emma shook her head and shrugged. ‘I’ve never seen him, but she seems to think he’s all right. She met him at a party. He’s Californian.’

‘It follows,’ Geoffrey said dryly.

‘And he’s gay, so he’s not after her body, only her mind.’ She laughed.

‘Or her soul.’

There was a pause. Emma eyed her brother uneasily. ‘Don’t take it too seriously, Geoff. Meditation is very trendy still, you know.’

‘Indeed. And so are all kinds of unfortunate cults. You don’t think Paul knows anything about this?’

She shook her head violently. ‘And he mustn’t. She doesn’t need any more hassle from Paul, she really doesn’t.’

‘It isn’t just a question of hassle, Emma. This could be serious. If you are correct, then Clare could be playing with fire. So many people get involved with these things without realising how dangerous they are.’ Geoffrey stood up and walked across the room. Absentmindedly he picked up his pipe from an ashtray and tapped it against the white plaster moulding of the mantelpiece. ‘I really ought to talk to her,’ he went on after a long pause.

Emma watched him uneasily. ‘Geoffrey, I promised I wouldn’t mention it to anyone.’

‘I’m glad you did, though.’ He polished the bowl of the pipe thoughtfully on the front of his sweater. ‘You and Clare get on well together, don’t you?’

‘You know we do.’

‘And you care about her?’

‘Of course!’

He paused. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t this you came to tell me about, Emma? You are worried about her, aren’t you.’

‘I’m worried about myself, Geoff. That is why I came.’

‘Of course.’ He smiled. ‘And we must talk again. Don’t do anything too precipitous, Emma. Peter is a good man. I think you’ll work it out. I think you both still love one another. And as for Clare –’ He hesitated, frowning. ‘I really do feel I must do something for her. Unfortunately I have to go away next week, but in any case I must think about this very carefully, and …’ he hesitated with a quick glance at his sister, ‘I must pray.’

Emma snorted. ‘What else?’ she said. She grinned. ‘Will you pray for me as well? I need it.’ Then her face sobered. ‘Don’t say anything to her, Geoff, please. Whatever it is she’s doing, it matters to her. It is all she’s got at the moment.’

Geoffrey frowned. ‘That is the danger,’ he said. ‘That is exactly the danger. Poor Clare. I feel guilty that I hadn’t noticed that she was so unhappy. But we don’t see her and Paul that often, and when we do she always seems so self-contained. Chloe is very fond of her.’

‘So am I. And I don’t want to see her hurt. Leave it alone, Geoff, please.’

‘I can’t do that, Em. Not until I’ve found out what she really is doing. I have to, don’t you see? And something else. I think I should talk to Paul.’

‘No!’ Emma jumped to her feet. ‘No, you mustn’t. Look, maybe it’s not as bad as I’ve made it sound –’ She stopped as she caught sight of the expression on Geoffrey’s face and she could feel herself blushing. ‘No, I haven’t lied. Don’t look at me like that, but maybe I exaggerated a bit –’

‘Even if you have, Em, I think I should look into it as soon as I come back. I have to make sure she’s not doing something silly and I must make sure that Paul understands the strain she has been under.’

‘Blast you, Geoff! Can’t I make you understand! Leave Paul out of it!’ She put her hands on the edge of the desk. ‘Don’t mention it to Paul. Don’t you know yet what a bastard our brother can be?’

‘Oh, come on, Emma. That’s uncalled for.’

‘Is it?’ Emma slumped back in her chair. ‘I sometimes think you don’t know him at all, Geoff. Not at all.’

‘The idiot wouldn’t listen!’ Emma threw her car keys down on the kitchen table at home. Peter, deep in the weekend section of the
Financial Times
, did not respond.

Emma clenched her fists. ‘Did you hear me, Peter?’

‘What?’ Something in her tone got through to him. He half closed the paper, but only to turn the page; then it was reopened before him, separating them from one another as effectively as a brick wall.

‘I said, Geoffrey wouldn’t listen!’ Emma repeated, her voice tight.

‘About what?’ Behind the paper Peter was obviously still listening, but only just. He had cooled off considerably since their row the night before when he had arrived home after midnight exhausted from his meeting in the City. She had refused to believe that work could have gone on that late, and he had been short-tempered and irritable after an endless evening with a party of Japanese industrialists who had indeed talked nothing but business the entire night. ‘You know, Em, we should try and grow some of these pollution-resistant shrubs. It says here they are –’

He stopped abruptly as she swooped forward and plucked the newspaper out of his hands.

‘If you don’t shut up and listen, I am going to tear this into tiny little pieces and jump up and down on them!’

‘Sorry.’ Peter gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘So, you’ve been over to the Pompous Pontiff for breakfast.’

In spite of herself, Emma giggled. ‘You must not call him that. Especially in front of Julia –’

‘Julia is quite spectacularly not here –’

‘I know that! She’s spending the day with Tamsin. Listen Peter, I told Geoff about Clare. I didn’t mean to, but it sort of slipped out, and now the idiot insists he’s got to tell Paul.’

‘Of course he must. If the whole family is being told, why should Paul be the only one left out?’

‘The whole family isn’t being told!’

‘No?’ Peter looked at her coldly. ‘Geoffrey and Chloe, and no doubt those fearful children know. James knows. I know. No doubt David and Gillian know. If they don’t, someone will tell them at their party tonight.’ He shrugged. ‘Thank God we’re not going to be able to go to that. I can’t stand all that open air and rural gossip.’

‘I would like to have gone.’

‘Rubbish. You’d spend your entire time sending up those terribly boring people David and Gillian know. The
soi-disant grande bourgeoisie
of East Anglia who order their copies of
The
Times
to drain their green wellies on to. I doubt if any of them have ever actually opened a copy in their lives.’ Gently he retrieved his paper from Emma’s hands. ‘So, don’t pretend to be sorry. I bet Clare’s not going.’

‘Well, no.’

‘Exactly. She’s got more sense. And, whatever she’s doing, Em, in future keep out of it.’

Paul had taken Casta for a walk across the fields. The grass was white with dew and a thick mist still clung amongst the trees; it was cold. Hands in pockets, he strode down the lane and up the edge of a field, watching with only half an eye as the dog ran back and forth, plumed tail wagging, flushing rabbits and partridge out of the hedgerow. He was still seething with anger. The drive back to Bucksters, always agonisingly slow on a Friday evening, the realisation that he should have brought Clare back for the party – David and Gillian would raise their eyebrows when he turned up without her – and the continuing nagging worry about the money, all had contributed towards a sleepless night and a king-size headache. He was well aware that he was being unfair to Clare, but he could no longer think about things rationally. He kicked at a stone which lay in his path. Across the fields a tractor was slowly pulling a plough parallel with the hedge away from him, a cloud of gulls following it, hovering excitedly as the dull dead stubble turned methodically into huge scoops of shining clay.

She had to be persuaded to sell; it was imperative that she be made to see the sense of whatever offer was being made.

He drew off his boots in the back porch and walked into the kitchen at Bucksters. Sarah Collins was rolling out some pastry at the table, her hands covered in flour. She glanced up as he walked in.

‘The post and papers have come, Mr Royland. They’re there, on the side.’ She smiled at him distractedly. ‘I’ll make you some coffee, shall I, as soon as this pie is in the oven?’

Paul’s answering nod was automatic as he picked up the two newspapers and the pile of letters before heading for the drawing room.

One of the envelopes was addressed to Clare – typed, with an Edinburgh postmark. Thoughtfully he turned it over, then with sudden attention he ripped it open. He read the contents twice, carefully, standing with his back to the fire, then throwing the letter down on the low coffee table in front of the sofa he went to the french doors to stare across the garden. At last the mist was lifting and the sun was coming out. Slowly Paul smiled.

‘I sure like the house.’ Zak leaned back on the Victorian chair and stretched his long legs out before him.

Clare smiled. ‘Thank you.’ She sat down opposite him. ‘I’m really glad you came.’ Her face was troubled.

Zak gave her a quick appraising glance. ‘Did you speak to your doctor yet, about the results?’

She shook her head. ‘I tried ringing once or twice, then I realised I didn’t want to speak to him. I can’t face it. I just want to put everything out of my mind for a while. I want to know that when I close my eyes at night I can forget about Paul and babies and doctors and tests and just sink into peaceful sleep. Without nightmares. Perhaps I should take sleeping tablets, I don’t know.’

Zak shook his head slowly. ‘That’s not the answer, Clare, and you know it or you wouldn’t have rung me.’ He was studying her face.

‘I’ve been doing the yoga,’ she went on thoughtfully. ‘And that is good. I enjoy it and it makes me feel marvellous. At least it always has until yesterday. But the meditation exercises are different. They are all good for me, I suppose, when I can do them, but some of them are so boring.’ She glanced at him with a half smile. ‘All except the one – the visualisation one.’

He waited, his eyes not moving from her face.

‘It’s the one you told me to do yesterday. The one where I think myself into a special place; where I’m supposed to find myself at peace somewhere I’ve been happy.’ Her voice had dropped so low he had to strain to hear it.

Once more there was a long silence; Zak waited easily, not pushing her.

‘I managed to do it again after I spoke to you, but I don’t think I’m doing it right. Suddenly there is no peace in the scenes I see.’

This time he sat up, straightening slowly in the chair, resting his wrists loosely on his knees. He frowned.

‘Tell me what you see.’

‘Scenes. From the past. Very vivid and sometimes quite horrible.’

‘Scenes?’

‘Scenes; like a film. People come and go; they talk; they fight. They are real.’ She hesitated and then gave an apologetic smile. ‘I told my sister-in-law it was as if I was conjuring up the spirits of the dead.’ She shrugged painfully. ‘That is what it feels like, Zak.’

Zak shook his head slowly. ‘First lesson, Clare, never tell other people what you are doing. So few understand.’ He gave a wistful smile. ‘There may be a thousand books on meditation in the shops, and every newspaper and magazine may recommend it for everything from business stress to shop-lifting, but it still takes courage to admit you take it seriously. Yoga, yes; yoga serves the body beautiful. Meditation, no way.’ He was almost talking to himself. ‘I know a lot of people who won’t accept it or take it seriously. People who should know better.’

Clare caught the sadness of the tone and she remembered suddenly the athletic young man she had met at Zak’s side once in Cambridge. Rude health had oozed from him, but he had not been one who would cultivate the spiritual, that much had been obvious. ‘But is what I am doing right?’ Unobtrusively she brought his attention back to herself. ‘Is that what is supposed to happen?’

He pulled himself together visibly. ‘I’m sorry, Clare. Tell me some more of what happens. Or, better still, why don’t we meditate together? I can see how you prepare and what you do.’

She nodded, doubtfully. ‘I don’t suppose it will work in front of anyone else.’

‘Work?’ He looked puzzled. ‘What’s to work? You mean I might distract you? If that is the case you are not putting your full concentration into it. Come on.’ He stood up. ‘Can we do it here? Are we likely to be interrupted?’