Midnight is a Lonely Place (52 page)

‘If we are assuming Marcus possessed Alison,’ Kate interposed. ‘But surely it’s the other way round. He was feeding her with his own strength. That is the point. She could never have done what she did on her own.’

‘Does it matter how she did it?’ Patrick put in suddenly. ‘What matters is how to stop it happening again, and to make Marcus go away.’

‘You’re right, Paddy.’ Anne drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them, gazing into the fire.

There was a long silence.

‘So?’ Greg said at last. ‘How do we do it?’

Anne shrugged. ‘I wish I knew. If we had a priest we could try bell, book and candle. Holy water. That kind of thing.’

‘We haven’t got a priest.’ There was irritation in Greg’s voice. ‘Even if we believed in all that mumbo jumbo. We have got a psychologist – someone who understands the human mind. So, why don’t we assume that Alison is behind all this – that somehow she has attracted this ghost – and approach the problem through her.’

Kate glanced at her sister, and then at him. ‘He had a go at you, Greg, didn’t he? You said you felt him trying to take you over.’

Anne shot him a quick look. ‘Why didn’t you say before?’

‘Because I’m still not sure it wasn’t my imagination, that’s why.’

‘Tell me how it felt.’

Greg frowned. ‘It felt like someone going ten rounds with boxing gloves on inside my head. It felt unspeakably frightening. I was overwhelmed with rage and hatred which weren’t mine.’ He stared thoughtfully at the burning logs. ‘The first time it happened someone came up to me and he left; the second time I fought him off. I wondered if I was going out of my mind.’

‘And Allie couldn’t fight him. She didn’t know how to start,’ Kate put in quietly.

‘He used her until he had drained her energy,’ Greg went on thoughtfully. ‘So, how do we fight him?’ He looked at Anne.

Anne closed her eyes. ‘The trouble is I’m not a clinical psychologist. I’m not a psychotherapist. I’m particularly not a parapsychologist. I’m not sure that I know where to start.’

‘Start by talking to Allie.’

She shook her head. ‘That’s easy to say, but heavy-footed probing can be terribly dangerous.’

Paddy got up. He wandered restlessly over into the kitchen and picking up the kettle, he carried it across to the sink and began to fill it. ‘You said we shouldn’t go to sleep. You think Marcus might possess one of us?’ He was trying not to let his fear creep into his voice.

‘I think it unlikely, but I think we should be on our guard.’

‘What about the others upstairs? They are all totally unprotected.’

Kate bit her lip. ‘Shouldn’t we go and wake them?’

Anne shrugged. ‘Your father and mother didn’t seem worried about the risk. Nor Joe. They are older, of course. Maybe they don’t have any energy to spare. Susie and Cissy –’ She frowned. ‘It may be that their experiences have already depleted their energies so much that they would be no use to him anyway.’

‘I’ll go and look at them all again.’ Kate climbed to her feet.

The staircase was cold and dark as she stood looking up, the candle in her hand. She shaded the flame as it flickered and put her foot on the bottom step. Behind her, through the open door, she could see Paddy filling the teapot. By the fire, Anne and Greg stared morosely into the flames.

She took another step and then another, staring up ahead of her. The landing smelt as it usually did, clean and slightly mothbally – from the linen cupboard she guessed. She stood, waiting for the candlelight to steady, watching the shadows running along the pink walls. From behind the closed door to Greg’s room, she could hear a steady, throaty snore. Joe. Taking a deep breath, she put her hand on the latch and gently pushed the door open a fraction. The room was pitch dark, but the sound of the snore, suddenly loud in her ears, was reassuringly steady. She pulled the door closed and turned to the end of the passage. The master bedroom. All was silent. She hesitated. It seemed a terrible intrusion to look into Diana and Roger’s room, but she knew she must. None of them could rest until they were sure all was well. Steadying her shaking hands as best she could, she pulled down the latch and pushed the door open. A small nightlight burned on the bedside table. By the light of its flame she was just able to see the two heads on the pillow. All seemed quiet. That left Alison and Susie. For the second time in an hour she opened their door and looked in, walking right into the room and holding her candle near the bed to see the two sleeping faces. Both were peaceful, their cheeks slightly flushed, their faces poignantly young and vulnerable as they slept. Tiptoeing out of the room, she glanced behind her at the dark square which was Patrick’s door. Cissy.

The room was still a mess. Paddy had taken one look at his tumbled books and had turned and walked out of the room. He had not, as far as she knew, been back. She could see the hunched form of the woman in his bed. She was moving restlessly, and as Kate watched, she began to murmur. Kate froze. Her hand was shaking violently as she held the candle and she saw the shadows leap and dance across the walls. The temperature had dropped several degrees.

Who are you?

The words hovered on her lips, but she said nothing out loud. Secretly glad no one could see her, she made the sign of the cross over Cissy’s head and closed her eyes for a moment in prayer. When she opened them again the room seemed to be warmer. Backing out, she closed the door silently and left Cissy to it.

Putting the tray of mugs down on the hearth in front of the fire, Paddy threw himself down in a chair. His face was grey with fatigue as he glanced at his brother. ‘It’s going to be all right, isn’t it, Greg?’ His voice wavered for a moment.

Greg studied the boy and his expression softened. ‘’Course it is.’

‘Try and get some sleep, Paddy.’ Kate slipped into the room, closing the staircase door behind her. Reaching for one of the mugs, she cradled it against her chest, hoping they would not notice her shaking hands.

The boy nodded. Leaning back in his chair he closed his eyes.

Silence fell over the room. Greg too could feel his lids drooping. He glanced from Anne to Kate and back. There was a strong family resemblance between them. Their colouring and build were similar as was, at this moment, their look of total exhaustion. He sighed. Sleep. That was what they all needed. Sleep and tomorrow to awake and to find it had all been a ghastly nightmare.

LX

Jon woke with a start. He stared round, trying to locate the sound that had startled him; the phone, the quick, imperious tone of an English telephone, so different from the depressing monotone of the American. With a groan he dragged himself to his feet and pulled on his robe. Christ, what time was it? He stumbled across the bedroom and reached for the light switch as he made his way into the living room.

‘Jon? My dear, I’m so sorry to wake you at this hour.’

So it really was the middle of the night. For a moment he couldn’t place the voice, then it dawned. Kate’s mother. ‘Hello Anthea. How are you?’ He tried to keep the weariness and jet lag out of his voice.

‘I’m well, dear. Forgive me for ringing you so early but I’m so worried.’

‘About Kate?’ Hadn’t she told her parents that they had split up?

‘About both of them. Anne was supposed to be flying down to stay with Kate in this cottage she’s rented. I can’t get in touch with either of them and apparently the weather is appalling over there on the east coast.’

Jon leaned across and lifted the curtain with a cautious finger. The street light outside showed thick snow drifting down; it was settling. He frowned. If it was as bad as that in London, what on earth would it be like in deep country? ‘I’m sorry, Anthea. I only got back from the States yesterday. I haven’t been able to contact them either. The phone down there is out of order.’ He tucked the receiver under his ear and reaching out for the whisky bottle unscrewed it deftly. ‘I’m sure they’re all right.’

‘You really think so?’ There was a slight quiver in the woman’s voice. ‘I’ve had this bad feeling. I can’t explain it, but I’m sure something’s wrong.’

He poured a double into the unwashed glass left on the tray from the night before. Then he put it down untouched. ‘Anthea. Did Kate say anything to you about what’s been happening out there? Anything to worry you particularly?’ Would she have mentioned the burglary? Knowing Kate, probably not, if it would worry her mother, but then he hadn’t spoken to her for several days. Supposing something else had happened?

‘She rang me a couple of times. She said she was very happy, but I could tell she was keeping something back.’

Jon smiled grimly. So much for hiding things from one’s parents. He could still remember the unerring way his mother unearthed his misdeeds when he was a boy, homing in on them like a bloodhound.

‘Jon, dear. I know you and Kate weren’t getting on very well. She told me she was probably not going to move back to your flat. Is that still true?’

‘I don’t know, Anthea.’ He raised the glass to his lips at last. ‘I was hoping I could talk her into changing her mind.’

‘You know there’s a man down there.’

‘A man?’ The tone of her voice had implied volumes. He found his body was reverberating suddenly with shock.

‘An artist. Anne thinks she’s fallen for him. Jon, I spoke to Anne yesterday before she flew south. She was very worried about Kate. She said all kinds of awful things had been happening. She said Kate sounded upset and frightened. She said someone had broken into her cottage and smashed it up. Apparently she was talking about ghosts and evil spirits and things – ’

‘Hey, slow down.’ Jon frowned. Anne obviously did not share her sister’s compunction about frightening her mother. ‘I’m sure she was exaggerating. Kate told me about the break-in. It wasn’t that bad. Kids, the police thought.’

‘Evil spirits. Anne said evil spirits. Jon, please. You have to go there and see everything’s all right. Please.’

Jon glanced at the window. ‘The weather is appalling, Anthea. I doubt if I’d make it. They were telling people to stay off the roads – ’

‘Please, Jon. I know you’re worried too.’

He thought for a moment. ‘As you said, Kate and I aren’t together any more.’

‘I see.’ Her voice was very small. Disheartened. ‘So you don’t care – ’

‘Oh, come on, Anthea. Of course I care.’ It was true. He finally acknowledged the truth of the statement. He did care, very much indeed. ‘Look, I’ll tell you what. I’ll ring the station and see if the trains are still getting through. If they are, I’ll see how near I can get, and see if I can find someone locally who can get me out there. But I can’t promise.’

‘Snow doesn’t last very long at this time of year, Jon. It’s too early. The ground isn’t cold enough. It’ll all be gone by tomorrow.’

Jon gave a wry smile. ‘Not quite tomorrow, Anthea. Look, I will do my best.’

The trains were running. Just. But it was afternoon before he eventually reached Colchester and there the train stopped, disgorging dozens of disgruntled passengers into the snow. By the time Jon reached the front of the queue there were no taxis to be seen. He shivered, humping his canvas carryall higher onto his shoulder, and looked round. If he found a taxi at all he was going to need one with the courage of a madman to take him out to the coast. He glanced at the payphone. Should he ring Anthea and tell her he had got this far? One look at the queue of disconsolate people waiting for the phone made his mind up. He would call her tomorrow.

The taxi driver who eventually picked him up was more help than he had dared hope. After studying Jon’s map with him, he looked up and smiled. ‘They’ve got the main roads cleared, mate. I can get you pretty close.’ He glanced down over the back of the seat at Jon’s shoes. ‘Do you want to stop off and get some rubber boots before we start?’

Jon grinned. ‘Sounds like good advice.’

He bought boots, a torch, a half-bottle of whisky and a long woollen scarf whilst his driver waited unrepentantly on the yellow lines (‘Can’t see ’em, mate, with all this snow.’), then he climbed in beside him, loaded with shopping bags.

‘Scott of the Antarctic.’ The man grinned again.

Jon laughed. ‘I just got back from the States. It was pretty bad there too.’

‘But they can manage, right?’ The driver pulled away from the kerb. ‘Here the whole bloomin’ country grinds to a halt after an hour’s snow. And me. I reckon I’ll pack it in after I get you there.’

‘If you get me there.’

‘I’ll get you as far as The Black Swan on the main road. It’s as good a place as any to give up if you’re going to. You might hitch a lift with a farmer. Their tractors can get through anything.’

It was a comforting thought as the car slithered its way east, the windscreen wipers pushing laboriously at the wedges of caked snow which clogged the glass. Jon shivered. He was tempted to broach his whisky, but it seemed unfair to drink alone and he wasn’t about to offer it to his driver, not while he was still driving at any rate.

Every now and then a pair of headlights, dim against the white-out ahead, approached them, passed and disappeared into the murk. The driver was sitting forward, leaning over his wheel, staring ahead.

‘It’s getting bad, isn’t it?’ Jon voiced his worry at last.