Midnight is a Lonely Place (14 page)

‘Have you found anything?’

Her voice behind him in the doorway made him jump guiltily.

‘Nothing. Both doors were open. Nothing seems to have fallen over. The windows are closed.’

‘Could it have been outside?’

‘The chimney, you mean?’ He smiled. ‘I think we would have noticed if it had fallen through the roof.’

‘What was it then?’ Her voice betrayed her irritation. From the landing she had seen him studying her things. His interest made her feel vulnerable and angry.

‘Perhaps it was the ghost of Marcus. I’ve often heard things here.’ When she did not rise to the remark, he headed back towards the stairs, glancing at his watch. ‘Look, Kate, I should be going back. There’s nothing here. Nothing to worry about. I’ll take a look at the roof as I leave, and get a few more logs in for you. It was probably out in the trees – a branch coming off or something. Acoustics are often unaccountable.’ He descended the stairs ahead of her. ‘If you’re worried, give us a ring and Dad or I will come back and check things for you.’

‘There won’t be any need. I shall be all right.’

Marcus

She shivered at the name which had floated unbidden into her head, watching as Greg pushed his feet into his boots and reached for his jacket. Half of her wanted him to go. He had been perfectly polite, but she could sense his dislike. The other half was afraid. She did not relish the idea of being alone.

Which was crazy. She had rented the cottage for six months and she wasn’t planning to have any lodgers. She had to get used to being alone, and get used to whatever funny noises the countryside had to throw at her. As if to test her resolution the sharp scream of a vixen rang out as he opened the front door. He turned and studied her face. ‘You know what that is, I suppose.’

The bastard! He expected her to be frightened. ‘I know,’ she said. She managed a smile. ‘I’ve lived most of my life in the country, Greg. Because I have, or had,’ she corrected herself as she remembered yet again the full implications concomitant with moving out of Jon’s flat, ‘a London address, it does not make me a townie.’

She thought he had the grace to look slightly shamefaced as, with a bow and a mock touch to his forelock, he headed for the Land Rover. She did not hear his parting comment as he hauled himself behind the wheel: ‘And fuck you too, Lady Muck!’

It was only after she had watched the tail lights disappear into the trees that she realised he had neither given the roof a glance as he left, nor fetched her in the promised extra logs.

‘Bastard.’ She said it out loud this time. She glanced at the log box. There were still a few there but not enough after the blaze he had initiated, for the night. She would have to go out again into the dark.

The torch was sitting where she had left it on the counter in the kitchen. Next to the dagger. She looked at her jacket hanging on the back of the door and she reached a decision. When the fire died she would have a bath – heated by electricity – and she would go to bed. Nothing and no one was going to get her out of the front door again until it was daylight.

With an immense feeling of relief she shot the bolt on the door and walked back into the living room. She made sure the damper was closed – make the wretched thing last as long as possible – put on an Elgar tape – the Enigma Variations – loud – and then she poured herself another whisky.

She had worked for another couple of hours on the book, and was printing up a rough copy for herself when she remembered the silver polish she had stashed away in the cupboard under the sink. Switching off the computer with a sigh of relief she stacked the pages neatly away and went to the drawer. The torc looked greenish-black as she lifted it out and examined it again in the bright kitchen light. Shaking the bottle of polish she smeared some of the mixture cautiously onto the metal and began to rub it gently with the corner of a duster. Ten minutes later she gave up. Her more and more energetic rubbing had had no effect whatsoever. Disappointed, she laid duster and metal on the counter when the phone rang.

‘Hi, Kate.’ Jon’s voice was so strong it sounded as though he was in the next room. ‘I’m in Boston. How is Lord George?’

‘Going well.’ She found she was smiling. ‘What about your tour?’

‘OK. A bit tiring. Nearly over now, thank God. I’m taking five at the hotel. English tea and muffins before I get ready to go out this evening. What are you up to?’

‘I’m cleaning an ancient British torc with modern British silver polish and its having no effect whatsoever.’ Leaning against the counter, the phone comfortably tucked against her ear she turned and surveyed her handiwork.

‘Sounds fun.’ The response from across the Atlantic was muted. ‘May I ask where you got an ancient British torc?’

‘It was lying on the beach.’

‘I see.’ She could tell he didn’t believe her. ‘There isn’t an ancient Briton wearing it, I suppose?’

‘Not at the moment, no.’ She smiled to herself again. ‘You’d love it, here, Jon.’ It was a tentative feeler; a peace offering.

‘The parties are good are they?’ The irony in his tone reminded her that they were no longer supposed to be friends. Or lovers.

So, why had he rung her again?

She knew better than to ask.

‘There’s no one to party with, here. Just the birds and I believe there are seals round in the bay.’

‘And the occasional ancient Brit.’

‘You got it.’ She mimicked what she hoped was an American insouciance. ‘Actually the ghost is Roman.’

There was a moment’s silence.

‘You sounded almost serious,’ Jon said cautiously.

‘Did I?’ She reminded herself how quick he was to pick up nuances; his sensitivity was one of the things she loved – had loved, she corrected herself sharply – about him. It made his actions over the last few weeks harder to bear.

She laughed lightly. ‘How silly. Only joking.’

‘I see.’ He was still thoughtful. ‘You are all right?’

‘Yes. Fine.’

‘OK. Well, enjoy yourself kiddo. I’ll give you a ring in a day or two.’

For the second time he had not given her time to say goodbye. The line had gone dead and she was left staring at the receiver once again. Replacing it slowly she went thoughtfully back to the table and picked up her duster.

The blast of cold air behind her, smelling heavily of wet earth, took her completely by surprise. She whirled round. The front door must have blown open in spite of her care in locking and bolting it. She peered out into the hall. The door was as she had left it. The hall was dark and deserted.

Come on, Kennedy. Either a window has come open or the wind has blown back down the chimney. She found she was whispering to herself as she looked into the warm, dimly-lit living room. There was still a faint glow coming from the stove, though the log box was empty. The room was cooling, but the scent of earth was not coming from there. It was coming from upstairs.

Her bedroom window must be open. She frowned. She had opened it earlier to stare out at the sea, watching the mist drifting in across the still, grey water as night came in from the east. Obviously she had not latched it properly. Her hand on the stair rail she began to climb.

Both doors at the top were open. Both rooms were in darkness. Reaching the top she clicked on the light. The window in her bedroom was shut as she had known in her heart it would be, and the curtains were tightly drawn across. She sniffed. There must be a patch of damp in the house which the rain had activated somehow. Ducking out of the room she peered into the other across the landing. The smell was stronger there and the air was cold. Bitterly cold. The room had a north-facing window, she reminded herself as she went to examine it. It was closed and judging by the cobwebs welded over the catch, had not been opened for a long time.

Slowly she surveyed the walls, looking for the telltale signs of discolouration on the wallpaper. Tiny lemon yellow flowers on brown green stems romped across the uneven walls and between the oak beams without a sign of damp.

Switching off the lights she walked downstairs again, sniffing. The smell was still strong. A sweet, cold smell like a newly-turned flower bed after rain. With a shrug she walked back into the living room and turning over the tape, threw herself down in the armchair nearest the fire.

When she awoke ‘In the South’ had finished, the fire was out and the room was ice cold. Her head ached and for a moment she was too stiff to move. Forcing herself to her feet she groaned and reached for the switch on the table lamp. Turning it off she made her way to the door. A warm bed and a heap of soft pillows to cuddle into, that was what she wanted. In the doorway she turned and surveyed the room before flicking off the light switch on the wall and plunging the room into darkness. It was as she made her way into the bathroom and reached for her toothbrush that she realised she had not had any supper. Two whiskies was not exactly a nutritious way to end the evening. Perhaps that accounted for her splitting headache. She frowned. She was beginning to drink too much. She contemplated getting herself something to eat and realised that she wasn’t hungry. She also realised that she had not switched on the immersion heater so there was not enough hot water for a bath. With a sigh she bent over the basin and splashed some tepid water into her face. All she wanted was sleep. Food and bath could wait until morning. That was one of the joys of living on your own, she recognised suddenly. You could please yourself. Cook or not cook. Wash or not wash. Sleep when you wanted. And just at this moment that was all she wanted.

It was as she put her foot on the bottom step of the staircase that she saw the movement upstairs. She froze, ‘Is there anyone there?’ Her voice sounded thin and frightened in the silence.

There was no answer.

‘Who is it?’ She called again. Her desire for sleep had vanished.

She was answered by the rattle of rain on the windows as a squall of wind hurtled in from the sea.

‘Christ, I’m seeing things now,’ she muttered to herself. Tired eyes. Too much computer, that was the problem. It was the logical explanation but it still took an enormous effort of willpower to force her up the stairs, throwing on all the lights when she reached the top. The place was empty, the windows closed against the storm. She sniffed hard. The scent of wet earth seemed to have disappeared, though when she pushed back the curtains and stared out at the blackness she could see the rain coursing down the panes of glass.

Undressing as fast as she could she slipped between the sheets, leaving the light on the landing switched on against the dark. She lay, wide awake, clutching one of her pillows to her chest, her eyes straining out through the door to the small expanse of wall – painted a dark Suffolk pink and bisected by one pale oak beam – which she could see from the bed. And she listened to the rain.

XVII

‘Are you awake, Sue?’ Alison stared through the darkness of her friend’s bedroom towards the bed by the far wall.

‘Yes.’

They had been whispering and giggling for the last two hours. Twice Sue Farnborough’s mother, Cissy, had come in and shushed them wearily and told them to go to sleep; now she had gone to bed herself and the house was in darkness. For the last twenty minutes or so the silences between the two girls had been growing longer and longer.

‘Do you think I should tell them at home?’

‘About what happened at the grave?’

‘Of course, about what happened at the grave.’

‘No. They’ll interfere. Parents always do. Are you going to go back?’

Alison hesitated for only a second. ‘Of course I’m going to go back. I’m going to finish the excavation.’

‘By yourself?’

‘You could come with me.’ Alison sounded almost eager.

‘No way. That’s not my scene.’ Sue was adamant.

‘Oh, come on. You’d enjoy it. It’s fun.’

‘It doesn’t sound fun to me.’ Sue grinned maliciously in the darkness. ‘You were so scared you nearly wet yourself. You told me as much.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘You did. And why else did you come here? Running all the way through the woods instead of staying at home and waiting for your mum to get back from Colchester. You were really chicken.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘You were. Are you going to school tomorrow?’

‘No. I’m still not feeling well.’

‘You’re skiving off, you mean. Well, I’m going, so shut up, Allie. I want to get some sleep.’ Sue reached in the darkness for the headphones of her Walkman and switched on the little machine beneath her pillow. The blast of Sisters of Mercy at full volume in her ears seemed an unlikely lullaby but within minutes she was asleep.

Across the room Alison lay awake, staring towards the curtained windows, listening to the rain. Beneath the borrowed duvet she had begun to shiver again.

XVIII 

There was a scattering of wet, sandy earth on the kitchen table. Kate stared at it. The torc lay where she had left it, next to the duster and the jar of silver polish. She touched the soil with her finger. It was wet and cold. She sniffed. The smell was there but very faint now – the smell of a newly-turned garden.