Midnight is a Lonely Place (28 page)

‘They will not want to know. Anyway, by the time they get here there will be nothing to see. I expect the sea will have done all the excavating for you.’ He drained his cup, watching as she tramped methodically over the carpet to make sure she had extinguished the last spark. She turned towards the door.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To phone.’

‘Now?’ He sat up.

‘Yes, now.’

‘Allie, you mustn’t.’

‘Why not?’ She swung round to face him, her hair hanging in curtains across her face. ‘Just why are you so against it?’

‘Because I think it will only cause more trouble.’

‘What kind of trouble?’ She raised her chin slightly in the defiance which was more natural to her than this haggard exhaustion.

He stood up. ‘Leave it alone, Allie. Please. Look let’s wait at least until Monday. With the weather like this they won’t be able to get here anyway. Even better, leave it until the spring. Then they can come and see if it’s still here.’

‘That’s the whole point.’ She stamped her foot. ‘Don’t you see? They must get to it before it is washed away. They have to find out who is buried there, and why.’

‘No.’ His face had closed, his voice was harsh. ‘No. No one must ever find out.’

‘Why on earth not?’ She stared at him in astonishment and was frightened to see the implacable rage in her brother’s face. ‘Greg, what is it? I don’t understand.’ His eyes were hard, the pupils contracted to tiny pinpoints although the light in the room was low. Behind him the two cats leaped from the sofa of one accord and vanished behind the Aga.

‘Greg?’ Her voice was pleading. ‘What is it? You’re frightening me.’

For a moment he went on staring at her, as though his hatred of her were too great to contain, then visibly he seemed to shake himself free of whatever strange emotion had gripped him. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong. I don’t give a screw what you do about your stupid grave, Allie. Do what you like.’

He was shaken. It had happened again, the strange feeling that there was some kind of alien being inside his head, battering at his skull – an alien with terrible, raging emotions. Leaning back against the cushion with a groan he put his hand over his eyes.

With a nervous glance at him Alison escaped thankfully into her father’s study. The telephone books were piled on the floor by his desk. She pulled up the swivelling chair and sat down, reaching for the local directory. All round her her brother’s paintings were stacked against the walls, and on the easel. The room smelt strange, its own comfortable familiar smell eclipsed by oil and turpentine and wonderful arcane scents of varnish and paint and linseed. She flipped open the book and began to look for the number under Archaeology. There was nothing there. She tried again under Colchester. It was several moments before she found it. Holding her finger under the number she reached for the phone, aware that Greg had come into the room and was standing in the doorway watching her.

Her fingers tightened on the receiver. Ignoring him she began to dial. She listened for several minutes, frowning, then she jiggled the rest and dialled again.

‘What is it. Is something wrong?’ Greg’s voice from the doorway was almost mocking.

‘I can’t get a dialling noise.’ She shook the receiver and tried again. ‘It sounds as if there is a crossed line. As if someone is listening on the other end.’

He smiled. ‘Perhaps they are,’ he said quietly.

XXXIII

Bill leaned forward and stared through the windscreen. He was bitterly regretting having set out for the cottage. Just as he was leaving the office the afternoon before, someone had come in and talked to him for hours. By the time they had gone it was getting dark and he had decided to postpone his decision until the morning.

A desultory sun was shining when he woke up at nine. He stared thoughtfully out of the window at the distant view of Hampstead Heath and then back at his bedroom which was untidy and smelled frowsty. He glared at the socks he had taken off the night before and thrown into the corner. Perhaps a weekend in the clean, bracing East-Anglian air would do him good.

The sun had disappeared almost as soon as he had joined the A1. By the time he was on the M25 the sky was overcast, deep, brown-bellied clouds massing overhead. When he got to Chelmsford it began to snow. Wet, sleety snow which swished beneath the tyres and clogged the windscreen wipers. The traffic was slow – not because there was a lot of it; unusually for a Saturday morning it was light, but because the visibility was appalling. Silently Bill cursed himself for his stupidity in setting out at all. He leaned forward and pressed a cassette into the deck, not taking his eye off the sleety road. He would drive as far as Colchester, park the car, give himself a drink and a meal at The George and then make the decision whether to go on or go back.

XXXIV

Kate dreamt again that night. In the midnight shadows on the beach something threatening stalked the darkness. She ran, glancing behind her over her shoulder, aware that the threat was growing closer and closer all the time. She could hear herself sobbing out loud as she tried to draw breath, pushing herself with the last of her strength as she felt the sand slip and lurch beneath her shoes. She was going to make it. She stretched out her hand, hearing the footsteps pounding ever closer behind her on the sand. She was home.

She reached out to the door and became aware suddenly that someone was standing in the doorway, holding out his hand to her. It was Jon. She saw his smile, saw his hand, felt the brush of his fingertips and then she stumbled. Her hand grasped at the thin air and the door began to close, with her still outside in the darkness, alone …

Kate awoke with a groan, her face wet with tears. Her head was hammering like a water pipe and her mouth was dry. She tried to sit up, groaned again and lay back on the pillow wishing she were dead. She lay still for several minutes then she realised she was going to have to get up to go and have a pee. Staggering a little, she managed to grope her way downstairs. The chill in the cottage told her at once that she had forgotten to stoke up the woodburner. Her face washed, her teeth brushed, and her hair combed, she felt only marginally better. She put the kettle on and then went through into the living room. Drawing back the curtains she found it was daylight outside – but only just. The sleet which sheeted down out of the east was backdropped by clouds the colour of pewter; she could feel the beat and push of the wind against the cold windowpane. She glanced down at the sill. The surface was quite dry. There was no sign of anything untoward lurking there.

Back in the kitchen she made herself a cup of black coffee. As she sipped it she lifted the phone and listened. Still no dialling tone. Still nothing but the strange interplanetary echo. Slamming it down, she winced slightly as the crash reverberated up her arm and through her skull.

She forced herself to get dressed, donning a shirt and thick sweater over trousers and two pairs of socks. Then she dragged on her jacket, scarf and gloves. Her boots were by the front door. Before she left she relit the stove and left it burning nicely in the hope of having a warm cottage to come back to. With a bit of luck someone would give her a lift back from the farmhouse.

Patrick opened the door to her. ‘Hi.’ He smiled, his face lighting up at the sight of her. ‘Come in.’

The thought that he was pleased to see her warmed her. ‘How’s Allie?’ She followed him into the hall and pulled off her boots.

‘She’s all right. A bit weird, but she’ll live.’

For a moment she wondered whether to ask him to expand on this rather cryptic reply but she thought better of it. ‘Patrick, could I possibly use your phone? Mine has gone on the blink again.’

‘Sure. There’s one in the study.’ He indicated the door on his right. ‘Phone away then come into the kitchen. The others are there. I’ll tell them to pour you a coffee.’

With a grateful smile at him she opened the door into Roger’s study. The phone was on the desk. Shaking her head free of her woollen scarf she made for it.

‘Can I help you?’ The quiet voice nearly scared her out of her wits. She swung round. ‘Greg! I’m sorry. I didn’t realise that there was anyone here.’

‘So I gather.’ He was sitting on the arm of a comfortable, shabby old armchair near the window, a sketchpad in one hand, a pencil in the other, the pale paper illuminated by one of the shaded wall lights. She couldn’t see his face in the shadow.

‘I wanted to borrow the phone.’

‘So. You don’t trust us, eh? Going to ring the museum yourself, were you?’ His voice was harshly sarcastic.

‘No, I wasn’t.’ Indignantly she glared at him. ‘I said I would do nothing until we had discussed it further, and I meant it. Besides, if I was going to phone someone about the grave I would hardly walk all the way over here through this foul weather in order to do so. I have in fact come to report my phone out of order again.’

‘I see.’ He gave her an amicable grin. ‘Well, I’m afraid you are out of luck. This one is kaput also.’

She was astonished at the sudden wave of fear which swept through her. For a moment she thought her legs were going to give way. She leaned on the desk. ‘Are you sure?’

‘See for yourself.’ He half turned away from her, going back to his drawing.

She picked up the receiver and listened. The sound was the same. That strange echoing silence which seemed to connect to distant spheres. Putting it down she found the palm of her hand was slick with icy sweat. ‘Have you reported it?’

‘I believe Dad is driving up to the village later. He will no doubt do so then.’ He glanced up. Her face, which had been pink and shiny from the wind and rain had gone white. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘It worries you that much? Not having a phone?’

‘Yes.’ She forced herself to smile.

‘You’re scared, out there on your own, aren’t you?’ His voice was very soft.

‘No. Not scared.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But I am inconvenienced. I need the phone for my work. I need to speak to my editor; and I need it for research.’

‘Busy lady.’ He put down the sketchpad and stood up slowly. ‘And of course you want to phone the man in America. Well, I’m sure it will be mended soon. The wiring is old. They are always having trouble with phones round here. Next year, I gather, our exchange will be updated to the space age. Heaven knows what will happen then. If they keep the same old telegraph posts and fraying wires it will still go off if it rains.’ He paused, eyeing her thoughtfully. ‘So, how is your book progressing?’

‘Do you really want to know?’

‘I would not waste time asking unless I wanted to know.’ He shaded in part of his drawing, the strokes of his pencil sure and firm.

‘Then thank you. The book is going well.’

‘Good.’ He glanced up. ‘Kate. You saw Allie, yesterday. You know the state she was in. Please use your influence to dissuade her from going on with this archaeological plan of hers. It’s upsetting her too much. She’s having nightmares – all kinds of horrors. She’s imagining god-knows-what monsters climbing out of the grave. You must see how bad it is for her. It’s like some awful horror movie.’

Thoughtfully Kate moved round the desk and took Roger’s chair. She leaned forward, her chin on her elbows. ‘It’s not knowing what’s there that is worrying her, Greg. If you cover it up and bulldoze it all into the sea the effect will be the same. It, whatever “it” is, will still be there because it’s inside her head. It would be much better to get some professionals in to look at it. They may say “Look this is all nonsense. This is no more than a spoil pit. There was no grave here,” or they may say, “Yes, this was a grave, an Iron Age cremation perhaps. Look. It’s all gone. There’s nothing left except a few shards and some metalwork”. Her worst fears would be laid to rest. And I am sure they would enlist her help. Help her with her project. Encourage her. Talk about it. That’s the best course of action, I really do believe it. The worst thing you could do is pretend that there is nothing there.’

‘Quite the psychologist, aren’t we.’

She refused to let herself be roused by his deliberately mocking tone. ‘No. I think it’s common sense.’ She stood up. ‘Patrick said there would be some coffee in the kitchen. Are you coming through to get some?’

He shook his head, not raising his eyes from his sketchpad.

‘Then, if you’ll excuse me, I think I will. It was a long walk through the woods and I’m very chilled – ’

‘Kate.’ He had put down his pad. ‘Tell me something. Do you think it’s all her imagination?’

She held his gaze for a full half-minute. ‘Not completely. No.’

‘That’s a little ambiguous, if I may say so. Do I gather you still suspect me?’

‘There is a particularly irritating phrase which is in this case I think suitable. If the cap fits.’

‘Obviously you think it does.’

Walking towards the door she shrugged. ‘I find it hard to make up my mind, Greg. Put it this way. If it isn’t you, then I think that maybe we should all be worrying with Allie.’

‘Let me show you something before you go and get your coffee.’ Greg stood up. He went across to the desk and rummaged in the bottom drawer under a pile of notebooks of his father’s. Bringing out a photograph wallet he laid it on the desk. ‘I had your pictures developed at Boots.’