Midnight is a Lonely Place (42 page)

‘Allie –’ She gasped. ‘Please.’

Alison laughed. A deep throaty laugh. Twisting her arm effortlessly beneath Kate’s grasping fingers she snatched the knife up and turning, lunged at her mother. She missed and for a moment she was off balance. Seizing his chance Patrick threw himself at her and they fell to the floor, wrestling.

‘Paddy –’ Diana’s scream rang across the room as the blade caught his forearm and a splash of blood flew across the rush matting, but he did not let go. They fought on furiously, Patrick kicking and struggling as Alison began surely and steadily to overpower him. ‘Roger, do something!’ Forgetting her husband’s weakness Diana screamed again but it was Kate who snatched up the folded tablecloth from the dresser and flung it over Alison’s head. At the same moment Patrick wriggled free of his sister’s arm lock and put his foot on her wrist, pinning it to the floor while he snatched the knife from her. It was only then that they realised that Greg was in the room, hobbling on a walking stick, his face white with pain.

‘Here.’ He handed something to his mother. ‘Quickly. It’s Dad’s sedative.’ Her hands shaking visibly, Diana opened the box he had given her and took out a syringe. She glanced at Roger, then filling it she approached her writhing daughter and, pulling the night shirt up, planted the needle in the girl’s buttock. Alison let out a scream of rage, only half muffled by the tablecloth Kate was holding round her head. It was followed by a stream of abuse which only very slowly subsided into silence. It was several minutes before her clenched fists relaxed and she slumped to the floor. Cautiously Kate removed the tablecloth and looked down. Alison’s face, flushed from the struggle was relaxed at last; she was breathing quickly and lightly, her hair spread across the floor. Slowly Patrick stooped and pulled his sister’s nightshirt down to cover her bottom, then he turned and picking up a drying up cloth from the draining board he staunched the blood flowing from his arm.

‘Don’t, Patrick. That’s germy,’ Diana’s comment was automatic; her eyes had not left Alison’s face.

‘Did you hear what she was screaming?’ Greg lowered himself into a chair, his head swimming from the effort of dragging himself from the study.

‘It was some foreign language,’ Roger said after a moment’s hesitation.

‘Not just any foreign language.’ Greg looked at Kate. ‘Go on. Tell them. What was it?’

Kate shook her head. ‘I’m not sure – ’

‘Of course you’re sure. You heard what she said. It was some sort of Latin. Go on admit it. You heard her.’ He stared round at them all. ‘You all heard her. It was Latin!’

Patrick bent down to pick up the knife. He stared at it for a moment as though he couldn’t believe he held it in his hands. ‘Allie would never have done that; she couldn’t have done that. No girl could be that strong.’

Diana picked up the broken belt. It had snapped in two places. They all stared at it. ‘How long will that injection last?’ Roger asked softly. He glanced up at his wife. The sedative had been left by the doctor for him.

‘Not long. I didn’t expect it to work so quickly. She was looking down at Alison’s slumped body. ‘I only used a tiny dose. Oh, Roger, what are we going to do with her?’ Her voice shook with tears.

Roger moved to put his arm around her shoulders. ‘I don’t know.’ His whole body was slumped with defeat.

‘There is something you should know.’ Greg looked from one to the other and then at Kate. His face was full of compassion. ‘Before he died Bill told us that it was Alison who had attacked him.’

‘No!’ Diana’s protest was half a scream, half a moan.

‘I’m afraid that is what he said,’ Kate added. ‘But it wasn’t Alison, was it? We all know that. Those eyes weren’t Alison’s.’

‘What are you saying?’ Diana rounded on her.

‘You know what she’s saying,’ Greg said. He stared down at his sister’s recumbent form. ‘She’s possessed.’

‘No.’

‘What do you call it then?’ He reached across towards her but she drew back. He shrugged. ‘That was not Alison speaking; they are not Alison’s actions. Kate’s right. They are not even her eyes.’

Diana burst into tears. ‘What are we going to do?’

Greg looked at Kate and then at his father, who had sunk into the chair at the head of the table, his face grey with fatigue. ‘We have to find a doctor.’

‘No!’ Diana turned on him. ‘We are not getting a doctor, or the police. I am not having Allie taken away from here – ’

‘What about my foot?’ Greg’s voice was mild. ‘And Dad. I think the doc should look at him.’ He paused. ‘Allie needs help. Badly. You know she does.’

‘No.’ Diana shook her head. Tears were pouring down her cheeks. ‘No, we’ll sort this all out ourselves. It will be all right. Allie will be fine when she’s had a sleep. Your foot will be all right, Greg. It’s better already, you said so yourself and your father only needs to rest – ’

‘Di.’ Roger looked up. He rubbed his hands wearily across his cheeks and they all heard the rasping sound of his palms on the twenty-four-hour beard. ‘We can’t handle this ourselves. You know that better than I do. There is a dead man out there in the cottage. A dead man, Di. He’s not imaginary. He’s not going to sort himself out.’

‘Allie didn’t move the car, Ma,’ Patrick put in suddenly. ‘There must be someone else out there.’

‘Patrick and I will go and phone from the Farnboroughs’.’ Kate stood up. ‘I think we should go now.’

‘Take the gun, Paddy.’ Roger nodded. ‘Greg and I can take care of things here.’

Patrick looked from one parent’s face to the other, uncertainly, then he turned to Kate. ‘OK?’ he whispered.

XLVIII

The kitchen was spotless, the joint in the oven, the potatoes roasting slowly beneath it. Cissy looked round with a pleased smile. Even Joe’s Sunday papers had been marshalled into a more-or-less tidy heap at the far end of the kitchen table. There would be nothing now to jog her conscience if she and Sue drove down to Redall Farmhouse and had a cup of Diana’s wonderful specially ground coffee from the shop in Ipswich, by her untidy, ash-spattered inglenook.

She often wondered why she liked Diana’s house so much; the living room at Redall was just that – a room for living, always knee-deep in newspapers and sewing and cats, with Greg’s paints and Patrick’s books lying around in heaps. The untidy and often dusty surfaces were always filled with fresh flowers, though; even in the depths of winter Diana managed to find something in the woods and the house always smelled of coffee and home-baked bread and drying herbs, and even if there was the occasional whiff of cat, it was all wonderful.

She sighed, looking round her own kitchen. However hard she tried she could not be comfortable with Diana’s mess. Not in her own house. She had tried to dry flowers, but they dropped shrivelled little petals all over the floor; she tried to bake bread, but the sight of the cloth-draped pans of dough rising on the side irritated her; and the results, though smelling good, were as heavy as lead.

‘Sue!’ She stood at the foot of the stairs and called up. ‘Do you want to come down to Redall?’

‘Coming.’ For once Sue was in contact, the Walkman for some reason (no batteries, her mother concluded) abandoned on her bedside table. Available for human communication, Sue appeared. ‘Great. Are they coming back for lunch?’

‘I hope so. Get your gloves darling.’ Cissy looked critically at her daughter’s attire – black leggings, black tee shirt, black jumper which came to her knees in front and only just covered her bottom behind, black scarf knotted around her head and black eye liner – and she sighed. When she had got up that morning the child had looked like a pretty teenager. Now she looked like a zombie from the swamp.

With an exasperated sigh Cissy collected the keys of the Range Rover from the hall table and led the way outside. It was a cold, damp morning, the sky heavily overcast; any moment the snow would start again. They climbed into the Range Rover and Cissy started the engine, letting it run for a few moments as she switched on the windscreen wipers to clear the screen, and rubbed at the condensation with a duster.

‘I hate this weather.’ Sue leaned forward to turn on the radio, flicking through the stations.

Her mother winced as Radio One blasted into the quiet cold. ‘Must you?’

‘Oh come on, Mum. You’ll be telling me you want to hear the birds next.’

‘Why not?’ Cissy shrugged, unequal to the argument. With a sigh she released the handbrake and swung the heavy vehicle out of the yard and onto the road. The sanders had been down in the night and the two-lane road was slushy with yellow mud; there were no other cars in sight as she drove cautiously the couple of miles to the turning which marked Redall Lane. ‘I hope their track is not too bad,’ she murmured as she turned in. ‘I can’t think why Roger doesn’t get it tarmacked. Anyone would think they wanted to get cut off from the world, down here.’

‘They haven’t got enough money for things like that,’ Sue put in. She crossed her ankle across her knee, leaning against the door, trying to be casual and comfortable as the car lurched over the potholes. ‘If Dad was any kind of a neighbour he would do it for them. It wouldn’t cost him anything – he’s always doing the farm roads and it would make no end of difference to the Lindseys.’

Cissy caught her breath, about to retort that things didn’t work like that – Joe would never do it, and Roger would never accept anyway – when she thought better of it. The young sometimes saw with shining clarity what needed to be done, and often they did it. It was adults who loused things up with their dithering and self-imposed rules. She bit her lip at the choice of words which had spilt into her mind. A fuck up. It described so much of her life; and Joe’s. A fuck up from beginning to end. Well, why shouldn’t they help someone else for a change? Joe could easily say he had over-ordered gravel or tarmac or whatever they used to make roads; a white lie to save Roger’s pride.

‘What are you smiling at?’ Sue was staring at her, defying her to tell her to sit in a ladylike fashion. Sue smiled even more broadly. Well, fuck that too. The child could sit how she liked. It was her life.

The Range Rover slithered round the first of the steep corners without mishap and moved steadily towards the next. Daringly, Cissy accelerated a little, longing to be there. Overhead the trees arched beneath a fine mist of snow, their leaves crumpled and stripped to skeletons by the frost. The wet ruts gleamed darkly, reflecting no light from the sky, She flicked on the headlights with an irritated exclamation. The next moment she let out a scream as the arcing flash of the lights illuminated a figure in front of them on the track. Jamming on the brakes she wrestled frantically with the wheel as the heavy Range Rover began to slide.

‘Oh God!’

Desperately she fought for control, conscious of Sue being flung sideways against the window with a resounding crack.

‘Oh God!’ her voice rose to a scream again as the figure seemed to fill her vision, his hands raised, then the car swung sideways over the edge of the track and spun into the ditch, slamming Cissie’s head against the steering column as the engine stalled.

In the silence that followed the voice of Bruce Springsteen floated suddenly from the radio over the sound of the ticking engine and the hiss of steam from the shattered radiator.

XLIX

Patrick was clutching the gun under his arm. He was breaking all the rules; it was loaded and it was unbroken, but Kate had not commented on the fact as she followed him out of the door and they heard Diana bolt it behind them.

‘Shall we go and look at the car?’ Patrick turned to her questioningly. His face was pinched and white and she was astonished to feel a wave of something which she suspected was quite maternal. For all his attempts at being grown up he was still a little boy in some ways and he was looking to her to be the adult. Great. She wanted someone’s hand to hold too.

She stopped and listened. The air was raw and cold; it smelt of damp pine trees and mud, catching in her throat, clammy against her face.

‘We might as well,’ she said slowly. ‘It will only take a few minutes.’ She was not anxious to set off up the dark track any more than he was.

They made their way across the rough grass to the sandy strip of ground which bordered their garden and the marsh and stood for a moment looking out across the mudflats. ‘The tide is out far enough. I’ll go and look.’ Patrick handed her the gun. ‘Will you wait here?’

She nodded. The gun was surprisingly heavy; she doubted if she could raise it to her shoulder and hold it steady even if she had to, but it felt reassuring in her gloved hands. Watching steadily, she narrowed her eyes against the wind as Patrick, protected by long boots, leaped from tussock to tussock, making his way out onto the mud, splashing every now and then through narrowing streams of water, scrambling up sandy, muddy dunes which rose out of the sea like little islands. He reached the car and she saw him peer in through the windows, circling it cautiously. He groped in his pocket and, producing the key, he unlocked the passenger door, easing himself inside. She held her breath, watching. Behind her the garden was totally silent. She imagined Diana and Greg watching from the kitchen window and the thought comforted her.

Only seconds later Patrick was climbing out of the car again. Carefully he relocked the door – something which struck her incongruously as being immensely funny, and began to make his way back towards her. He was muddy and out of breath when at last he stood beside her again.