Midnight is a Lonely Place (18 page)

The peat. The peat strata in the dune. The words floated into her mind as she stared down at the paté on her plate. The peat was newly exposed, only the edge was crumbling, smelling of sweet garden earth …

She dropped her fork. The others were looking at her. ‘I’m sorry.’ She smiled, scrabbling for it. ‘It’s all this talk of ghosts. I think you are at last making me nervous.’

‘And that is unforgivable,’ Diana put in firmly. ‘I’ll have no more of this nonsense. I have known that cottage for most of my life. It is not haunted. It has never been haunted and we will not discuss it any more.’

Kate stole a glance at Greg. He had meekly turned his attention to his plate.

At the end of the meal as the others made their way back to the fire Diana put a hand on Kate’s arm. ‘Stay and help me make the coffee. I haven’t had the chance to talk to you properly yet.’ She smiled as she lifted the kettle from the hob and carried it to the sink. Neither woman spoke as the water ran into the kettle, then with a glance over her shoulder Diana beckoned Kate nearer to the stove. There was a hiss of steam as she put the dripping kettle onto the hot plate. ‘I think you have gathered that Greg is trying to scare you away from Redall Cottage, she said quietly. ‘I am so sorry he has decided to be childish like this. He can’t forgive me for making him move out. It’s got nothing to do with you. It is me he is angry with.’

Kate turned to the table and began to stack the plates. She glanced at the far end of the room where Roger was choosing a CD from the pile on the stereo. Greg was bending over the fire, coaxing some fresh logs into a blaze.

‘I had guessed that was what was going on,’ she said after a moment. ‘He and Alison are both in it, I think. Don’t worry, I can handle it.’

‘You’re sure?’ Diana frowned. ‘It seems so feeble to say I can’t do anything about it, but whatever I say to them, they will go on if they think it’s working.’ She banged two of her dishes together crossly and carried them over to the sink. ‘I hate to think of you out there on your own. It’s so far from anywhere.’

‘You don’t think they would harm me?’ Kate looked at her in astonishment.

‘No. No. Of course I don’t think that. Neither of them would hurt a fly. But they might think it amusing to frighten you.’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, my dear, I am so sorry. I feel dreadful about this. Greg is not an easy person …’ Her voice trailed away helplessly.

Kate felt a surge of anger. Impulsively she put her hand on Diana’s arm. ‘Please, don’t upset yourself. I told you, I can cope.’ She grinned. ‘It was real ghosts I wasn’t sure about. I can deal with imposters. I expect I can play them at their own game.’ Diana looked at her gratefully and Kate smiled again. ‘Just so long as I know it’s them. And just so long as I know you and Roger are there – a touch of sanity at the end of the phone.’

‘You can be sure of that.’

‘Then there’s no problem.’ She picked up the coffee jug and carrying it to the sink ran some hot water into it to warm it. Greg and his father were sitting down now, one of either side of the inglenook. The two younger Lindseys had vanished. Quietly, the sound of music floated through the long, low-ceilinged room.

It was nearly midnight when reluctantly Kate climbed to her feet and announced that she ought to go home. Roger had been asleep in his chair for the last twenty minutes and Diana, for all her animated conversation, looked exhausted.

Greg stood up immediately. ‘I’ll drive you back. You don’t want to walk up through those woods on your own at this time of night.’ He grinned.

Kate glanced at Diana and she smiled. The implication was clear. More ghosts. ‘Thanks. I wouldn’t say no to a lift. It’s surprising how long that path can be when you’re tired.’

The sky had cleared. It blazed with stars and there was a fine layer of frost on the windscreen. Greg opened the door for her then he fumbled about under the driver’s seat for a scraper. ‘It won’t take a moment. Did you leave the stove banked up?’

She smiled. ‘I think I’m getting the hang of that beast at last. It’s voracious in its appetite for attention, isn’t it?’

‘It is indeed.’ A small circle cleared in the frost – apparently all he required to see the narrow track – he climbed in beside her and slammed the door. The engine started reluctantly, revving deafeningly in the silent darkness. Shoving the gearstick forward Greg turned the vehicle around and headed for the trees. A sheen of frost lay on the damp ground and the spinning wheels shattered crazy patterns into the thin veneer of ice on the puddles between the ruts.

Kate hung on grimly as the Land Rover slithered around.

‘The friend you mentioned in the States,’ Greg said suddenly, out of the silence. ‘Your boyfriend?’

‘He was.’

‘What happened?’ He hauled at the gear lever as the tyres spun.

‘People grow apart.’

‘But you keep in touch.’

She looked sideways at the handsome profile, trying to interpret the cryptic tone and she felt a small shiver of excitement. ‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘We keep in touch.’

To her surprise he did not speak again until they arrived. Jumping down from the high seat she leaned in to thank him, but he was already climbing out.

‘You’d better let me check everything is all right,’ he said. ‘The least I can do.’

‘There’s no need. I’m sure the ghosts have gone.’ She smiled at him, but she gave him her key. Buoyed up with the knowledge that Diana and Roger were on her side she was curious to know what he would do next.

The lamp in the living room was still alight as they went in, and so, to Kate’s relief, was the woodburner. Greg glanced at it almost approvingly and she saw him take note of the huge pile of logs next to it. If he was amused by her foresight he gave no sign. ‘It all looks OK to me. Do you want me to check upstairs?’

‘No need. Thanks, but I’ll be fine. I’m not afraid.’ She hadn’t taken off her coat, waiting pointedly by the door. He gave a final glance around. ‘OK then. I’ll see you around.’

‘Thanks for bringing me home. And thank your parents again for me, for a lovely evening. I really enjoyed it.’

‘Good.’ For a moment he paused, looking at her. It was there again, the humour, just behind the sober, almost stern exterior and for a moment she thought he was going to stoop and kiss her cheek as his father had done. If he was, he changed his mind. He gave a curt half-bow – the Englishman’s salute – and turned away.

For a moment she stood watching as he climbed back into his vehicle and, flooding the darkness again with the arcing headlights, turned it and headed back into the trees. Closing the door she gave a sigh of relief. The cottage was warm and safe. The fire was lit, the water hot – she had left the immersion heater on to be sure – the door was locked, and she had allies. Marcus was a trick. A figment of someone else’s imagination.

XX 

Switching out the lamp she turned towards the kitchen. A cloud of angry flies rose and buzzed around the light, hitting the ceiling, banging against the walls as she stared at them in disgust. Where were they coming from? She glanced round. She had left no food out, nothing to tempt them. Besides, it was winter. She walked over to the dresser, and then she stopped. A trail of wet peat lay over the pale wood surface. There was more on the floor in front of the cupboards and more again in the sink. She stared down into the stainless steel bowl and felt her stomach lurch as she saw maggots in the filth that lay there. The room, she realised suddenly, was once again full of that sweet, intense odour of rich earth. A smell which she had not noticed at all as she opened the door.

She clenched her fists. Greg. This was something to do with Greg. Somehow he had arranged all this while she was out. One of his friends must have come to the cottage, using his key, while they knew she was safely at the farmhouse and had had all the time in the world to prepare a little surprise for her.

Furious, she turned both taps on full, watching the black soil and maggots swirl away down the drain. Then she set about clearing up the rest of the mess. About the flies she could do nothing. Several energetic minutes with a rolled up newspaper only bagged a couple. Tomorrow she would buy a spray.

Turning off the light at last and closing the door firmly behind her she paused at the foot of the stairs, looking up. Her mouth had suddenly gone dry. What had they done up there? Cross and very tired she walked firmly up, and turning on the light in her bedroom she stood in the doorway and stared round, holding her breath. As far as she could see there was nothing wrong. With a sigh of relief she went in and going to the bed she pulled back the lace cover. The sheets were undisturbed. Relieved that they had not succumbed to a childish urge to defile her bed in some way she looked round carefully, searching for any signs of intruders, but there were none. The room was as she had left it. The only smell in there was from the sweet-scented stems of daphne in the glass on the table by the window. Walking over to the window she drew back the curtain, and opening it she leaned out. The night was clear as crystal. The starlight was so bright she could see every detail of the garden and the hedge and across the dunes towards the sea which lay luminous and still, the movement of the waves on the beach dulled into a slow, heavy, rhythmic beat like the steady breath of a sleeping animal. She stood for a long time, her elbows on the ice-cold sill, then at last, shivering, she closed the window and turned back towards the bed.

The creak of the door on the landing made her jump out of her skin. She spun to face it, her heart thundering beneath her ribs. There was someone there; someone hiding in the spare room. Taking a deep breath she glanced round for some kind of a weapon to defend herself with. There was nothing that she could see save a wire coat hanger lying on the chair. Picking it up she held it out in front of her as, white knuckled, she tiptoed to the door. She had not quite shut it and it was easy to creep into position behind it and from there peer round onto the dark landing. She frowned. In the narrow stream of light which fell from her bedroom across the rush mat and up onto the wall on the far side, she could see the door of the other room was still open. The room beyond it lay in darkness. For a moment she was tempted to slam her own door closed and jump into her bed, putting her head under the pillow and praying that whoever it was would go away. But that was impossible.

‘Greg?’ Her voice came out as a squeak. She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘Greg? Come on. I know there’s someone there.’ Flinging her own door back against the wall she walked openly onto the landing and pushed open the door opposite. ‘For God’s sake, stop messing about. It’s one o’clock in the morning. Come on. The joke’s over!’ She flicked on the light and peered round. For a moment she was too horrified by what she saw to react.

Her boxes and cases had been strewn all over the place; Greg’s pictures had been thrown over, the stretchers broken, the canvas slashed and all round the room was a dusting of black earth. The smell of it was overpowering, sweet, rich, cloying. Clutching the door, leaning against it for support she found she had begun to shake; her knees were on the point of giving way. She could feel the bile rising in her throat. Whoever had done this, whoever had been there had wrecked everything in the room. Her eyes strayed to her locked suitcase. It had been torn apart at the hinges. The duster in which the torc had been wrapped was shredded and the pieces lay scattered across the floor. As far as she could see the torc itself had gone.

‘Oh God!’ Her lips were dry, her palms wet.

Turning, she peered down into the darkness of the stairwell.

‘Where the hell are you?’ she screamed. She ran down the stairs and flung on the lights in the hall. ‘Where are you?’ The front door was still locked and bolted as she had left it – the key lying in the dish on the hall table. She ran into the living room. It, too was as she had left it, the windows closed. The kitchen was deserted too, save for a cloud of bluebottles which rose as she turned on the light and homed in at once in their endless circling of the ceiling.

She picked up the phone. It rang for a long time before Diana answered, her voice muzzy with sleep.

‘Diana, I’m sorry to ring so late.’ Kate was unaware of how her voice shook. ‘Can I speak to Greg. You warned me. You warned me and I thought I could cope but this is too much. He’s got to come and clear all this up now!’

‘Kate, what’s happened?’ Diana, sitting up in bed at the farmhouse reached for the bedside light. Beside her Roger groaned and opened his eyes.

‘The place has been smashed up. My cases – his pictures – his own pictures – have been shredded!’ Kate swallowed hard, trying to make herself breathe more slowly; trying to regain a little calm. ‘Please, just tell him to get here!’ She slammed down the phone and turned to survey the kitchen. At first she had thought it was all right – clean – but now she could see that she had missed a patch of earth on the dresser behind a pile of oddments – a kitchen timer, a couple of books, a pen. She stared. A maggot was wriggling across a shopping receipt she had tossed down when she came back from Colchester, its white gelatinous body dotted with grains of fibrous peat. For a moment she thought she was going to vomit where she stood. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the chill of sweat on her face. Slowly she backed away from the dresser. Slamming the door on the kitchen she went to open the stove. She stood over it, holding out her hands, waiting for the sound of the Land Rover. It was a full twenty minutes before she heard the engine and saw the reflection of the headlights through the curtains.