Midnight is a Lonely Place (32 page)

She had never tried to find the pulse in anyone’s neck before, but she didn’t really expect to find it. The total emptiness in the room told her that he was dead. Turning away she sat on the floor in front of the fire and wrapped her arms around her knees, as the tears poured down her cheeks.

XXXIX

He had been hiding in the reeds, lying on his stomach where he had a
good view of the proceedings, close enough to see the rivulet of drugged
mead running down the man’s chin, dropping into the hollow of his
collar bone and on down his chest. As the garotte tightened, he stood up,
slowly, in full view, his hands on his hips. He saw Nion’s eyes open; he
saw the realisation dawn, saw the man’s hands flail towards his throat
as he tried to tear away the ligature and he began to laugh. ‘It was not
the gods who ordered your death, Nion, prince of the Trinovantes!’ he
shouted into the sunrise. ‘I arranged it all, I and the priests I bribed.
You die to avenge my honour at the expense of your own.’ He could see
the flesh bulging on either side of the knotted cord around the young
man’s throat. He could see the trickle of blood as his struggles grew more
frantic. ‘No man lies with my wife and lives. Not prince, not druid, not
Briton, not Roman! And no god will greet you and lead you across the
Styx. You die dishonoured.’

‘
Marcus!
’

The scream from the far side of the sacrificial site sounded like that
of a wild bird. He swung round, numb with shock, as behind him the
priest plunged the knife into Nion’s back. For a second his wife’s beauty
stunned him, illumined as she was by the rose gold rays of the rising
sun, then the hatred congealed again in his breast and he stared at her
with cold loathing as she gazed wildly past him, towards Nion
.

For a moment the young man straightened, his dying gaze fixed on
the sun. His hands dropped away from the garotte around his throat. As
the light died from his eyes his knees buckled and he fell forward into
the waiting mud
.

She was standing knee deep in the rushes, her blue gown wet, clinging
to her body, her hair unbraided, loose on her shoulders, her face crazed
as she ran towards him, her arms upraised, her nails clawed like those
of an animal
.

‘May the gods of all eternity curse you, Marcus Severus, and bring
your putrid body and your rotten soul to judgement for what you have
done here this day!’

As her cry echoed across the marshes a flight of duck rose from the reeds, soaring above their heads and setting off towards the rising sun, a vee of glittering green and gold as they rose into the fresh light of the new morning
.

Greg was running. His breath was catching in his chest, rasping in his throat as he propelled his feet forward through the soft sand, the weakening torchbeam moving wildly back and forth in front of his pounding feet.

‘Allie!’ His cries were almost inaudible. His throat was dry and there was no breath left for shouting. ‘Allie, for the love of Christ, where are you?’

The sea was coming closer. His feet were wet. There was a trail of seaweed clinging to his shoe. He splashed on, feeling the icy water immerse him to the knees, then draw back, leaving the cold against his flesh under the wet cloth like a burn. ‘Allie!’ He veered away from the sea, feeling his feet on firmer sand now, pounding up the beach. ‘Allie!’

The man had gone again. Twice he had glimpsed him, a shadow in the greater darkness, and each time the torch had picked out the blade of the knife.

Stumbling to a standstill he stared round, his chest heaving, feeling the ice in the hail rasp against the delicate linings of his nostrils. His face felt raw, as though it had been flayed of several layers of skin. He bent forward, switching off the torch for a moment as he rested his forearms against his thighs, his whole body heaving with the effort of drawing in those painful, shuddering breaths. Beside him another wave toppled onto the beach, racing towards him, stopping just short of his feet, showering him with spray. He straightened, his ribs a straight-jacket of pain, and stared round. Without the narrowing, confining point of light from the torch, the horizon had suddenly enlarged. The darkness was no longer so absolute. He could see the tangled luminous lace of the white water on the heaving darkness of the sea; he could see the glint of the wet sand, the heavy umber of the clouds bellying over the water. His head throbbed and spun and he staggered as his eyes focussed in horror on the man who had appeared again only a few feet from him now. He could see him clearly. The strong, patrician face, the hair plastered to his forehead by the rain, the heavy, sodden garment clinging to his body, the forearm naked beneath a swathe of darker material with the raised dagger clutched in his fist.

ANGER

HATE

Probing, thrusting, expanding, rage whirled within the confines of Greg’s brain. The torch fell from his fingers as he raised his hands to his head and tore at his flesh, trying to free himself from the pain. He stepped backwards. His foot, tangled in a lump of gelatinous weed, slid and turned over. The sudden shaft of agony in his ankle forced him down abruptly onto one knee and he felt his arms flail sideways.

The figure was suddenly closer. It was smiling and the deep-set cavernous eye sockets, which for a fraction of a second had seemed empty, blazed with light.

Greg felt all the air wrenched out of him. He could feel the suspension of his lungs – rigid, straining to take in another breath which would not come. His head was whirling. His eyes were growing dim. The white had gone from the sea. All he could feel was the cold. A strange, all-encompassing cold which came from deep inside him and was working its way, layer by layer through his body towards the surface. When it reached his brain he would die. He knew it clearly. And, just as clearly, he knew that this was what had happened to Alison and to Bill. He would die here on the beach of hypothermia and no one would ever find him because the tide was coming in. He raised his eyes to the face of the man who stood over him but the figure had gone. The night was empty. High above the bulbous obscenity of cloud a waxing moon sucked at the sea and spewed the tide ever higher across the land.

XL

With shaky determination Kate reached for her scarf and wound it around her head. She grabbed her thick jacket and her gloves, and with a last desolate look at Bill, she picked up her torch and opened the front door. She had to find Greg.

She stopped for a moment at the corner of the cottage, gathering her strength, then, not giving herself any more time to think, she launched herself down the track towards the dunes into the teeth of the gale.

The excavation was deserted. She stood at the edge of it staring down, her eyes narrowed against the cold, her back to the wind, feeling the damp seeping through the shoulders of her jacket. The wall of sand opposite her had fallen away at one point, and in the torchlight she could see huge patches of discolouration in the exposed strata. She stared at it blankly. The outline of the body was quite clear in the torchlight. It was crouching in the foetal position, exposed in the sand and peat where the wall of the excavation had fallen. She stared at it. For a moment she was too shocked to react. The torch in her hand was wet between her gloved fingers. She steadied it desperately. Had Alison seen this? Was this what had tipped her over the edge into a madness that had driven her to attack and kill a man? She swung the beam round frantically, turning into the wind again, searching for Greg, but she could see nothing in the streaming darkness. Beneath her feet the ground shuddered as the waves crashed onto the beach. The tide was high, within yards of where she stood. She could feel the spray soaking her back as each new wave thundered up the sand and shingle. She had never felt so alone.

‘Greg!’

Her tears were scalding her icy cheeks; she dashed them out of her eyes with the back of her arm. Where was he? She didn’t have the first idea where to look. The dunes and beach and marshes stretched for miles in both directions. Had he walked along the sea’s edge looking for Allie, or had he turned back inland towards the cottage, or even back into the woods?

She swung the beam back towards the dune face. It was still there, the body, crouched in silhouette in the wet peat. Beneath it the first trickles of frothy water, thick with weed were seeping into the hollow. Unless the tide turned now the dune would be lost. She turned away. She didn’t care. It would be a good thing if it were never seen again as far as she was concerned. Defiantly she began to walk along the edge of the tide, turning northwards, keeping an unsteady parallel course to the sea. If she walked north for fifteen minutes, then inland a hundred yards or so and back, still parallel to the sea, she wouldn’t get lost. That would be better than wandering aimlessly amongst the dunes. Shutting off her torch, she rammed it into her pocket. The sea had a strangely luminous quality about it and she found she could see quite easily as she walked. Better to save the torch until she needed it. She did not specify to herself what such a need might be.

There was a movement in the darkness ahead of her. She stopped, squinting into the wind. Alison? It wasn’t Greg, of that she was sure. She could feel her breath quickening in her throat. Alison was still out here in the dark. Alison, who had killed a man. Her hand closed over the body of the torch, but she didn’t switch it on. Slowly she moved closer to the spot where she had caught a glimpse of movement.

The figure had moved. She was slightly to Kate’s left now, almost behind her. And she was beckoning. Beckoning back towards the grave. It wasn’t Allie. This woman was taller, slimmer and she was wearing some sort of blowing, willowy garment – a skirt in spite of the weather, and it looked like a long skirt. Kate’s mouth had gone dry. She found her breath was coming in small, tight gasps. Was this the woman Bill had seen with Allie – the woman who had watched the girl attack him and not lifted a finger to help?

‘Claudia?’

It was a whisper. Please God, don’t let this be happening. Don’t let her be real. Kate took a few steps backwards. The woman seemed to follow her. Adjusting her fingers carefully along the body of the torch until her thumb found the switch, Kate drew it out of her pocket. Sliding the switch across she lifted the torch in one quick movement and shone it straight into the woman’s face. She did not react. The beam went straight through her. Kate could see the streaming grasses and the blowing sand behind her as if her figure was made of glass.

‘Help!’ The voice was distant, almost obliterated by the wind. ‘Help me, someone! Kate!’

Keeping her eye on the woman, Kate backed away. The woman seemed to follow her. Her face was clearly visible. It was a youngish face, pale in the torchlight, the cheekbones high, the hair unravelled, whipping around it. She could see the colours clearly for all their transparency. The bright blue of the gown with the stains upon the front, the redness of her hair, the strange golden eyeshadow on the deepset eyes.

‘What is it? What do you want?’ Kate’s voice was shaking. She was vividly conscious of the cry from behind her but she did not dare to turn her back on the figure. It didn’t seem to threaten her in any way but her own terror was so great she was incapable of doing anything other than backing slowly away from it. Slowly, the figure was holding out its hands, but at the same time it was fading. The background behind it was growing stronger. It was her torchbeam, she realised suddenly. It was weakening. ‘Oh no. Please don’t run out.’ She switched off the beam and switched it on again, keeping it directed desperately at the figure. But the woman had gone. She directed the beam up and down, seeing it waver as her hands shook. There was nothing there. Nothing but the violence of the night. She swung round and began to run towards the place from where the voice had seemed to come, the torchbeam swinging violently up and down as she moved and then she saw him. Greg. He was sitting on the edge of the sand, almost in the water.

‘Greg. Oh Greg, thank God!’ She flung herself down beside him, almost knocking him backwards on the sand, tears streaming down her face. ‘Greg. Greg.’ She couldn’t do anything but repeat his name over and over again as she clutched at his jacket.

His arm went round her and he pulled her against him. ‘It’s OK, Kate. It’s OK. Calm down.’

‘I saw her. I saw the ghost. Claudia. She was standing by the grave. And there’s a body there, Greg. A body.’ Sobbing, she pushed her face against his sleeve. His jacket was wet and cold, and she could feel him shivering through it. ‘Greg. Bill’s dead.’ The words were muffled through the green waxed material, but he heard them clearly enough.

‘Oh sweet Christ.’ He hugged her closer against him. ‘Listen, Kate. You have to help me. Strange though it may seem I’m not sitting here with my feet in the sea for fun. Something has happened to my ankle. I’ve got it caught in something. Have a look, there’s a love. Each time I try and lean forward to free myself I go all peculiar.’