Midnight is a Lonely Place (57 page)

Pete, like the others, was staring at Anne. His gaze left her face at last and slid down to Alison’s restless form. His mouth had gone dry. He probably looked as bad as the others. They were all white-faced, cold. He cleared his throat. ‘This kid should be in hospital, Anne,’ he said at last. ‘Where will we find the nearest phone?’

Kate shook her head. ‘The phones aren’t working.’ Was it her imagination or was Alison calmer now? She stared down, terrified, at the girl’s tortured face.

Shadows.

Whirling shadows filled with hate.

Inside her head Allie stared into the darkness helplessly and saw the three prowling, amorphous figures. She could feel someone’s hands ice cold on hers, hear a voice shouting her name, but she could not react. They were like lions circling their prey: the woman, the two men, hungry in their hatred for living energy to sustain them.

Why me?

Did she cry out loud? She didn’t know, but as her mind rebelled the figures drew back.

FIGHT

A voice reached her out of the stormy roar of hatred, a woman’s voice.
FIGHT ALISON, USE YOUR BRAIN
.

Too tired. She was too tired to fight. She was empty. They had sucked her dry.

In the dark the shadowy figures had begun to fade. Their concentration had left her. They were turning elsewhere; questing, hungry. Others must be found, and soon, to feed their lust for hate.

‘We’ll need to get back to the car.’ Jon went back to the window. Anything to get away even for a moment from the torment of the girl on the bed. He took a deep breath and stared out. He found he was shaking. ‘The snow is settling very thickly.’ He glanced back at Pete. ‘Take a look. Do you reckon the roads will still be passable?’

Pete joined him, staring down into the murky light. After a moment he rubbed his eyes. ‘Tell me my eyes are going, mate,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘But is that the sea down there?’

In a low-lying corner of the garden, below the dunes, a line of dark water had appeared. As Jon watched it broadened slightly, strewn with ripples, lapping at the snowy grass. He craned his neck sideways, narrowing his eyes as a fresh flurry of snow hit the window. Beyond the belt of trees he could see the broad, icy spread of the estuary, the mud and dunes smothered in a uniform blanket of snow. The water was lapping higher, free of the ice, creeping round the back of the cottage as the wind drove the sea inland.

He turned to the bed. ‘Patrick. Come and look at this.’

The boy came. He stared out into the garden. ‘Oh shit!’

‘Are we going to be cut off?’

Patrick nodded. ‘Once it’s here there’s nothing to stop it. It must have gone over the sea wall at Redall Point.’

‘Right.’ Pete looked at Jon. ‘That settles it. We all have to leave. Fast. We’ll make a stretcher to carry the kid.’

‘What about Bill?’ Kate looked from Jon to Pete and back.

‘We’ll have to leave him, Kate.’ Jon put his arms around her and held her close. ‘He won’t know, love. Or if he does, he’ll understand. We can’t take him with us.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Our lives are in danger. That water is coming in very fast. We have to get Alison away.’

They built a stretcher using a rake and a broom handle from the log shed, winding sheets around them to make a hammock and padding it with blankets. Pete carried Alison down the stairs and laid her down on it outside the front door. They wrapped two more blankets around her, then Jon and Pete picked her up. ‘It works,’ Jon grinned at Kate.

She was about to close the door when a thought struck her. She hesitated for a moment outside the door of the living room. Bill was there. But so were her notes for the book. She couldn’t leave them to the floods. Bill would understand. Screwing up her courage she pushed open the door and peered round it. Nothing had changed in the room. The smell of vomit was all pervasive. As quickly as she could, she ran to the desk. Picking up her notebook, backup disks and her volume of poetry she rammed them into the inner pockets of her waterproof. One last look round and she turned back towards the door. By the sofa she stopped. ‘’Bye Bill. God bless.’ Her voice sounded strange in the silent room.

Whirling round she ran out, closing the door behind her. Slamming the front door she ran after the others who were already disappearing into the wood. Inside the cottage the silence was suddenly intense.

Slowly the scent of jasmine drifted down the stairs and through the empty rooms.

LXVIII

‘Ma, go and take a break. I’ll sit with him.’ Greg put his hand on his mother’s shoulder. Roger was asleep, his breath coming in harsh rasping gasps.

Diana shook her head. ‘I’ll stay, Greg.’ She looked up at him through her tears. ‘It could happen at any time now.’

Greg bit his lip. Silently he knelt beside her, ignoring the pain which shot from his foot through every nerve in his body. ‘It’s what he wanted. To be at home,’ he repeated softly.

‘I know.’ She laid her head for a moment on her husband’s chest.

Roger opened his eyes. ‘Not gone yet,’ he whispered. ‘I’m trying to think –’ he paused, barely able to speak. ‘Famous last words – ’

‘How about Sod you, Marcus, I’m coming to get you,’ Greg said bitterly.

‘Greg!’ Diana was horrified.

‘No. He’s right,’ Roger whispered. ‘It gives me – a goal.’ His eyes closed and for several seconds he struggled for breath.

‘Hush now, love.’ Diana put her hand on his forehead. ‘Save your strength.’

‘What for?’ The grim humour kept on coming. ‘I won’t need strength – where I’m going.’ He managed a faint smile.

‘That’s right. Sock it to him, Dad.’ Greg had a tight hold of his father’s hand.

Around them the room was growing colder. Diana shivered. The candle burning low on the table beside the bed flickered violently.

‘Greg.’ Roger opened his eyes again. ‘Get the archaeological boys in. Get them to turn over that grave. Every inch. Find out what it is that bastard is trying to hide and tell the world.’

Another gust of wind seemed to blow through the room. The candle flared again and then went out, trailing smoke.

Diana let out a small cry of distress.

‘He doesn’t like it!’ Roger gave a croaky laugh. ‘He wants to keep that grave a secret. It’s up to you, Greg. Everything is up to you now –’ His voice trailed away. In the faint light flickering through the window the room was all shadows.

For a moment the silence was so profound Greg stared round, afraid. It was as though he were seeing the room through a sheet of glass. Uncomprehending, he kept on clutching his father’s hand, then suddenly he realised where the silence came from. Roger’s harsh breathing had stopped. Blinking back his tears he bent and kissed the cold hand in his. ‘Ma – ’

‘I know.’ She was sobbing quietly. ‘He’s gone. Oh, Greg – ’

Neither moved for a long time, then slowly and painfully, Greg climbed to his feet. He put his arm round Diana’s shoulders. ‘Come through to the warm. I’ll make you some tea.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to leave him – ’

‘He’ll be all right. You must come. It’s so cold in here – ’

Somehow he managed to help her up. For a moment they both stood looking down at his father’s face, relaxed now, looking younger and happier than it had for a long time, then suddenly Diana tore herself away from Greg’s arm.

‘All right, you bastard!’ She screamed into the room. ‘Are you satisfied now? You’ve killed another man. But he’s better than you. A good man, and he’ll hunt you down. He’ll follow you to hell and back if he has to!’ She burst into tears again. ‘Now get out of my house! Get out and don’t come near any of us again!’

‘Ma.’ Greg caught her hand. ‘Ma, come away. This isn’t doing any good.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Through her tears she turned on him like a spitting cat. ‘Well it’s doing me some good! I want that bastard Roman out of here for ever. He’s not taking my house. He’s not taking my children! We’ll tell the world about him. We’ll tell the world he’s a murderer and a liar and a cheat. He killed that poor woman. He killed Bill. And now he’s killed my Roger –’ She broke down in sobs.

Somehow Greg managed to pull her away. In the sitting room Cissy had managed to get to her feet, her face white. ‘Diana –?’

‘Dad’s dead.’ Greg steered his mother towards the sofa and pushed her down. ‘Please, Cissy, put on the kettle. She needs some tea. And some brandy.’

‘Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.’ Cissy touched Diana on the shoulder, then she limped across the room to the Aga. She was shaking violently. Her arm, roughly bandaged and in a sling, hurt like hell, but she ignored it as she manoeuvred the kettle onto the hotplate. As she did so, there was a deafening bang from upstairs. She spun round. ‘What was that?’

Greg was standing over his mother. At the sound he had turned. In two painful strides he was at the door.

Behind him Susie curled up on her chair and buried her face in a cushion. Cissy ran to her and put a protective arm around her.

Diana’s face was white, her eyes glassy. ‘It’s begun,’ she whispered.

‘What has?’ Greg opened the door and peered up the stairs.

‘Your father and Marcus.’

Greg swung round. ‘You don’t believe that – ’

‘Your father is trying to protect us.’

Greg stared at her for a moment. Then he turned, and hauling himself with difficulty up the banisters, he disappeared upstairs. There was a long silence. Three pairs of eyes were fixed on the door. Then they heard him coming back. He appeared and closed the door behind him. He was shaking with the effort of negotiating the stairs on his injured foot. ‘Nothing,’ he said. The words were no sooner out of his mouth when there was another bang, louder than the first.

Diana let out a sob. ‘Roger. Be careful.’

‘Ma –’ Greg went and sat down beside her. Putting his arm around her he pulled her against him tightly. ‘It’s probably the house timbers expanding or contracting in the cold. It’s not Dad – ’ He glanced at Cissy. ‘The brandy.’

Cissy, her face white, nodded. She collected bottle and glasses from the dresser and brought them back to the fire. Her hand shook so much as she poured it that the liquid spilled on the hearth. She handed Diana half a tumblerful. Not noticing, Diana took a sip. She coughed violently and handed the glass to Greg who drank in turn. They were all waiting, ears straining for another bang.

The silence lengthened. It was several minutes before they realised that the familiar smell of woodsmoke and polish in the room had been replaced by the scent of jasmine.

LXIX

He saw her often in his dreams, the wife who had betrayed him. He saw
her laughing. He saw her in her lover’s arms. He saw her again and
again in her blue gown, the splash of scarlet dripping down her skirts,
her eyes open in wild agony and hate. And again and again he heard
her curse him. A woman’s curse. A dying curse, made before the gods
themselves. He would awaken shivering, sweat sheening his body and if
Augusta woke, he would claim it was a touch of the marsh fever. He was
scared of dying. While he was alive she could not touch him, but in death
they would be equals. And the priest. Her lover. What of him? Was he
there too, waiting? Waiting to avenge the greatest betrayal of all, a false
message from the gods. He stared into the darkness and he was afraid.

The second time they stopped to rest Kate felt for Alison’s pulse. The girl was getting weaker all the time, her life force draining visibly as they watched. She glanced at Anne. ‘What can we do?’

Anne shrugged miserably. She felt helpless. All her knowledge of the human mind had deserted her. She had no basis to work from. This was not covered by any category she had read about. This was no chemical imbalance of the brain; it was not multiple personality disorder; it was not schizophrenia; it was not any kind of manic state. Marcus was an external force, a parasite implanted inside the girl’s head and she had no parameters within which to work. ‘I wish I was religious. I feel a priest would be more help than anything else,’ she said slowly. ‘Or a medium of some sort as a go-between. Our culture doesn’t give us weapons to fight this any more. I don’t know what to do.’ She looked at Jon and then at Pete, kneeling in the snow. The sleet, driving into their faces had turned without their realising it to rain. The wind, stronger than ever, had a warmer feel now. Behind them, like an ever-present enemy, the water lapped higher, flowing in amongst the trees, stealing imperceptibly through the undergrowth.

‘Is he still there?’ Kate murmured to her sister. ‘Is he still inside her?’

Anne shrugged. ‘I don’t think so. She’s calm; her strength has gone.’

‘Then where is he?’ Kate looked up into Jon’s eyes as he bent over her to look at Alison.

Jon gave a wan smile. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

Anne stood up, stiffly. The woods were very silent; the trees seemed to be listening, shrugging off the hissing rain and wind.