Midnight is a Lonely Place (24 page)

HATE

ANGER

FEAR

FURY

The emotions sweeping through him obliterated every other thought in his head. They swirled round him, shimmering with colour: Red! Black! A vicious violent orange! He was spitting, shouting, tearing at the air, aware in some distant part of himself that there was foam at the corners of his mouth, hearing howls of anguish in his ears and realising they were his own.

Then, as suddenly as they had come, the noise and the colour and the pain were gone and he was conscious of a sudden total silence around him.

Christ, had that been him? Had he really screamed out loud, or had it all been inside his head? The tape in the booth had reached its end and was silent for a few minutes before it marshalled itself for yet another enactment of the conversation between two Romans as the hordes closed in. The hall echoed with silence and cold.

The quick, anxious tap of heels on the floor did not intrude on his shock and terror until he felt a timid hand on his arm. ‘Are you all right? Would you like me to fetch someone?’ The woman who had been watching him was staring anxiously into his face. ‘I saw you staggering about. I thought perhaps –’ She faltered as he stared at her, blankly. ‘I don’t know, but I wondered if you were epileptic or something …?’ Her anxiety petered out and she blushed crimson. ‘I’m so sorry.’

He gazed at her vaguely. ‘I’m all right. Thanks. It must be the heat in here.’ He stared round, confused. The hall was cold. Very, very cold.

Slowly she was backing away. She would hurry as soon as she was out of sight and run downstairs and perhaps send up one of the attendants. Well, when they came, whoever they were, they would find that he wasn’t pissed. In fact he had never been more sober.

He reached out a hand towards the glass case and then withdrew it quickly as though it had stung him. Whatever had attacked him, overwhelming him with its vile emotions, had come from behind that glass.

XXVII

There was no escort, no guard to watch over him. They trusted him
absolutely. The gods had spoken; there was no question but that he
would obey. Last minute private farewells were common; what more
natural than that a man should say goodbye to the world
.

‘NO!’

Her scream of agony echoed across the dunes and marshes, the sound
rising and falling across the land and the sea until it was lost in the
clouds beyond the horizon
.

‘Claudia – my love – ’

‘No! I won’t let them! What kind of barbaric gods do you worship that
they can do this? You can’t go back to them. You can’t! You can’t …’ She
burst into tears
.

‘Claudia. I have to. The gods have chosen me.’ His voice was firm, his
strength surprising, even to himself
.

‘I hate your gods!’

‘You mustn’t. You must honour them as I do. And obey. To be chosen
for the Great Sacrifice is the highest honour possible.’

‘Honour! I thought your people sacrificed their prisoners! Their slaves!
What kind of honour is it to die like them?’ The tears were running
down her face, streaking the saffron eyeshadow she had so cheerfully
applied before she left home
.

‘The greatest. The gods have demanded the blood of a prince.’ He
spoke calmly, his need to reassure her in some strange way giving him
courage. ‘Maybe we offended them, my dearest, with our love,’ he said
gently, touching her face with the tip of his finger as though trying to
memorise the position of her nose, her mouth, her eyes for all eternity.
‘Perhaps it is best like this. Your gods too, I hope, will be appeased and
honoured by my death.’

‘No.’ She shook her head blindly. ‘No. I worship Fortuna. She does
not demand the death of her followers. She wants them to live, and be
happy. No, I won’t let you die. If you die I want to die too.’

‘No!’ He took her shoulders and shook her gently. ‘Claudia, you must
live. For your son’s sake. You can’t leave him. And for my sake. To carry
my memory in your heart. You must be strong. You are a daughter of
Rome, remember?’ It was something she took such pride in, her noble
breeding. As he hoped, the words reached he
r.

She straightened her shoulders a little and raised her head, though
tears still streamed down her face. ‘You’re not afraid?’

‘Of course I’m not afraid.’ He smiled sternly. ‘I am a prince and I am
a priest. Why should I be afraid to meet my gods?’ He reached up to the
heavy silver brooch which fastened his cloak. ‘I want you to have this.
Wear it for me and don’t grieve too much.’

She took it with a shaking hand and pressed it to her lips. ‘When …
when will it happen?’

‘At dawn. As the sun shows over the eastern edge of the world.’

‘Where –?’ It was barely a whisper
.

‘At the sacred marsh.’ He smiled sadly. ‘On the land that belonged to
my fathers and my fathers’ fathers. In the place where the gods congregate
and this world and the next run side by side.’ He took a deep breath.
‘You must go now.’

‘Not yet.’ Her voice slid up in agony
.

‘Please, Claudia Honorata. I wish to bid you farewell without tears. I
want you to be as full of honour and courage and pride as you would
have been had you been my wife.’ His voice was stern
.

She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. ‘If that is your wish, husband of my heart.’ She forced a tight, meaningless smile and, raising her face, she kissed him on the cheek. He took her hands and pressed them to his lips, then, unable to trust himself further he turned away and ran towards his chariot
.

The phone was still not working. Three times she dialled, her hand sweating, slipping on the receiver, and three times she was greeted with the strange echoing silence, the conviction that at the other end someone was listening to her heavy breathing.

‘What’s wrong?’ Alison was shaking visibly.

‘The phone doesn’t seem to be working.’

‘You mean we’re cut off?’ The girl’s voice slid into a squeak.

‘It’s all right, Allie. It doesn’t matter. You’re safe here. Safe and warm.’ Kate forced herself to smile reassuringly. ‘I’ll make that hot drink now. What would you like?’ She glanced at Alison, who shrugged.

Picking up the kettle Kate walked across to the sink to fill it, staring out of the window as she did so. The trees in the wood, only just visible through the streaming sleet, were bent double before the force of the wind. There was a strange darkness in the sky which was heavy with brownish cloud. Snow. It was snow cloud.

She turned on the tap. There was sand in the sink. Sand and peat and – with a shudder she snatched the kettle away, letting the stream of water swish round the sink to wash the maggots and soil away. She glanced at Allie, hoping she had noticed nothing. The girl’s eyes were closed and she was swaying slightly on her stool.

With a grimace Kate filled the kettle and went to plug it in. ‘Do you want to go back by the fire next door?’ she asked gently. ‘You can lie on the sofa and have a snooze.’

‘No.’ Allie shook her head. ‘I want to stay with you.’

‘OK.’ Kate reached down two mugs. Her hand hovered over the coffee jar then moved on to an unopened tin of drinking chocolate. Diana must have put it there when she stocked up the cottage with groceries. Chocolate was rich, soothing, comforting. It would do them both good. She levered off the lid with a spoon and tore back the paper seal. The tin was full of earth. A fat white maggot wriggled indignantly at the sudden light. With a scream Kate hurled the tin across the room and it hit the wall with a crash.

Alison jerked upright. ‘What is it?’ She stared at the red tin which had rolled into the corner leaving a trail of powdered chocolate across the floor.

Kate rubbed her eyes. She was shaking like a leaf. ‘I’m sorry. It slipped out of my hand. How silly …’

Somehow she forced herself to pick it up. She sniffed the remaining contents cautiously. It smelt good; rich, sweet and clean. ‘Luckily there’s enough left to make us a drink.’ She was imagining things. Stupid. She had to be calm and strong for Alison’s sake. She took a deep breath. ‘Allie, who is Claudia?’

‘Claudia?’ Alison turned towards her. The colour had returned to the girl’s face a little now and she seemed more alert but there was a strange blankness somewhere behind her eyes which made Kate uneasy. ‘I don’t know anyone called Claudia. Why?’

‘I thought you said –’ She stopped with a sigh. ‘No. Perhaps I heard you wrong. It doesn’t matter. Look, the drink is ready. Let’s both go next door and sit by the stove.’

The sleet was lashing the panes and she could see the puddle on the sill was larger now. It had begun to drip onto the floor. Putting down the chocolate she went back into the kitchen for a cloth. Alison was still perched on her stool. ‘Come on. I’ll put some more logs on. Do you want me to help you?’

Alison shook her head. ‘Is it … is it all right in there?’

‘Of course it’s all right. The window is leaking a bit that’s all.’ She reached for the cloth. ‘I’ll mop it up and then I’ll stoke up the stove.’

She approached the window cautiously, peering at the sill. There were still flecks of soil floating in the water, but the maggots had disappeared. With a sigh of relief she mopped up the water and wedged a clean drying-up cloth into the angle between the sill and the window frame to catch the melted sleet as it seeped through, then she turned to the stove. There were only three logs left in the box. She opened the door and wedged one of them into the stove, and opening the dampers roared it up a little, then she plumped up the cushions on the sofa. Behind her Alison had shuffled as far as the doorway. She was peering into the room.

‘Has she gone?’ she said.

‘Who?’ Kate swung round.

‘ –’ Alison’s deep breath was cut off short and her shoulders slumped. ‘I don’t know. There was someone here … or was she on the beach …?’

Kate walked over to her and put her arm round her shoulders. ‘There’s no one here, Allie,’ she said softly. ‘And there’s nothing to be afraid of. You got very cold on the beach and I think you’ve had a touch of hypothermia. That sometimes makes people imagine things. Come and sit down and put your feet up then have a drink. You’ll feel better soon, I promise.’ She would not look at the corner where she had seen the figure of the woman. That, too, was imagination. ‘I’ll tell you what, why don’t we have some music.’ She went to her pile of cassettes and shuffled through them with a small half-smile at the thought of what Alison was going to think of Vaughan Williams or Sibelius or Bach when her tastes were so demonstrably different. Her hand hovered over the tapes. Fauré’s Requiem. How had that got there? It was Jon’s. She stared at it for a moment, then she opened its box and took it out. Was it some atavistic need for prayer that made her choose it? Whatever it was it would do no harm. As she slotted it into the cassette player her eye was caught by the pile of typescript on her desk. She shrugged. Now was not the time to worry about work. Perhaps if Alison fell asleep she would be able to do some writing. It was obvious at the moment that the girl could not walk anywhere, so there was nothing she could do but keep her warm and wait. But later, when Alison was better, should they try and walk back to the farmhouse, or should they wait for Roger and Diana to miss the girl and come looking for her? She felt so alone without a telephone; so thrown back on her own resources.

As the ethereal strains of the
Introit
and
Kyrie
filled the room Alison sank back without protest and closed her eyes. Kate watched her surreptitiously from the chair opposite. The log was burning well. Soon she would have to put on another. Then there would be only one left. Her gaze turned to the window sill. The tea towel was still dry and there was no sign of any movement there.

The tentative knock on the front door was almost lost in the strains of music but at the sound of it a shot of adrenalin propelled Kate out of her chair in a panic, every nerve stretched. She looked at Alison, but the girl didn’t seem to have heard it.

Patrick stood on the doorstep, a yellow cycling mac over his thick jacket, his hair plastered to his head, his cheeks pink with the effort of bicycling down the wet muddy track.