Night Shade (20 page)

It’s too dangerous now to keep my eyes closed so I’m forced to look where I’m going. I concentrate on my feet, one after the other after the other. When I reach a barrier with a sign from the council stating that due to rock slides, the rest of the path is out of bounds, I clamber over it. Frankly, an avalanche is the least of my worries. Small stones crunch under my feet and the tide continues to roar far below. I’m getting close.

After what seems like an eternity, I climb to the top of a small rise and see the graveyard in front of me. It’s a cold morning but the sun is out and the gravestones gleam in the sharp light. I focus on the ruins at the far end. Part of me wonders whether I’m still dreaming and if I’ve really managed to make it this far. For some reason, when I have that thought my breath shortens and I feel a familiar tightness in my chest. Damn it. Not now. Not now that I’m merely steps away.

I pull out my trusty paper bag and start inhaling and exhaling into it. It helps a bit – at least, it helps me to reach the crumbling doorway with the Maltese cross still visible above. I stumble inside. It’s only then that my legs give way.

If you’re going to ask yourself life-changing questions, be sure to do something with the answers
.

Bo Bennett

––––––––

I
t takes me some time to re-calibrate myself. The fact that the poor excuse for a sunrise has given way to brilliant sunshine helps; it reminds me of the Dreamlands town and makes it easier for me to get to my feet and look around. Even here, inside the derelict graveyard outhouse, sunlight breaks through the fissures in the walls and roof.

The floor is surprisingly clean; there are old flagstones with moss creeping over them but little evidence of dirt. I search around, checking the walls and the gaps for a sign of anything to do with Salib but there is nothing. I walk back outside, reminding myself to breathe steadily, and look up at the cross. I gnaw on my bottom lip then reach up onto my tiptoes to touch it. My fingertips brush against it and it feels like nothing more than simple stone. Still, I venture round to the side of the small building, where I know there are enough gaps in the old bricks to provide footholds, and clamber up so I can get onto the roof.

I manage to pull myself up. It’s much harder than scaling the side of the Department’s building. But, of course, this is the real world: I’m not dreaming now. It doesn’t help that the old wooden joists creak ominously when I move. I end up shimmying along on my belly to reach the carving at the front.

I let my arms swing down towards the cross. It’s an ungainly position but at least I can touch the damn thing. I grab its thin edges and push. Nothing happens. I try pulling but it still doesn’t budge. No matter what I do – twisting, yanking, gently teasing – the bloody carving is not going to yield. Eventually, I shift back so I’m sitting on the edge of the roof with my legs dangling over the side. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. There could be somewhere else in town that has a Maltese cross on it. Or, more likely, the fact that Salib’s name is Maltese for cross is just a coincidence and I’ve come here for nothing.

I throw down a broken slate from the roof in angry frustration. It bounces off the edge and through a hole into the small room below. There’s a satisfying clatter and splintering noise so I pry off another slate and do it again. And again. And again. Then I’m yelling and shouting as I spin round on my arse and start kicking more tiles downwards through the gap. Crash, crack, crash, smash. Thud.

I frown as I peer down at the mess I’ve created. I take another tile and, more slowly this time, aim it where the last one fell. It makes a definite thud. From this vantage point, it’s suddenly clear: one of the flagstones is different to the others. It’s newer and cleaner and there’s no trace of moss around its edges. Someone placed that flagstone there recently. It’s obvious there’s no restoration project going on – the crumbling stone and appalling state of the roof attest to that – so it makes no sense for someone to make improvements to the floor. Unless they were trying to hide something.

I descend, scraping my fingernails as I drop to solid ground, and go to the rogue flagstone. I crouch down and lightly trace over it with my fingers. It’s no wonder I didn’t notice it was unlike the other ones when I was standing here the first time; even with the shafts of sunlight, the shadows cast by the walls make it nigh on impossible to spot any difference. But when I touch it and compare it to the others, it’s clear: it’s much smoother.

I try to lift it so I can see what’s underneath. For a moment, I’m not sure I will be able to budge it but, as soon as I gain purchase at its edges, it comes up easily. I push it out of the way, ignoring the frightened woodlice that scurry out from underneath. Then I swallow hard because there, wrapped up in transparent plastic to keep it safe and dry, is some kind of letter.

With my heart in my mouth, I carefully pick it up and turn it over in my hands. I make out some writing on the envelope but the plastic obscures the actual words. I tear the corner of the plastic bag with my teeth and tear off the wrapping, spitting out dirt as I do. Inside is an old-fashioned envelope made of heavy, embossed cream paper and there’s only one word on the outside: Zoe.

Like a paranoid fool, I glance around in case I’m not alone, then I carefully slide my finger under the flap and open it up. I take out the letter and unfold it. It’s covered in spidery blue handwriting. Quickly – and just to be sure – I check the second page to see the signature. When I see Salib’s name, I exhale loudly. Coming here has been worth it after all.

I turn back to the beginning and start to read.

––––––––

D
ear Zoe,

‘That’s it?’ I exclaim aloud. ‘That’s what you have to tell me?’

I shake my head in disgust. Not only is there no useful information about how to do anything but it also seems that the reason I’ve been trapped inside my own house for the last year and a half was because of my ‘protector’. The shock I felt when he touched me before dying must have been when he removed his mind blocks. I stare at the words until they begin to blur. Sure, I’ve learnt to live with my agoraphobia, I’ve even tricked myself into embracing it. But I lost every semblance of a real life in the process – and for what? Because one man wants to see people’s dreams? So what?

I must be missing something. The fact that the Mayor is prepared to murder in his quest to achieve dream dominance suggest that there’s more to this than meets the eye.

I start to shake with anger. Salib wrote that he was trying to protect me from being manipulated but all
he
did was manipulate me. I stare at the letter. He’s ruined my life.

I march outside, screwing the letter up in my hand as I do. A second later, I change my mind and start ripping it up. I let the wind carry away the shreds.

‘I don’t want any of this!’ I shout after the dancing bits of paper. ‘It’s not fair!’ I curse loudly, shove my hands in my pockets and head for home.

Goodness knows what I’m supposed to do now.

***

I
may have made the journey here in a state of high alert and fear, but I barely pay attention on the way back. I stumble down the cliff path to the beach, turning for one brief moment to the waves which roar their way up the sand. Then I shrug and turn back towards the town.

I’m halfway up the hill and less than twenty minutes from home when a car pulls up beside me. I ignore it; the thought that it stopped for me is a ridiculous notion. But when I’ve gone several feet past it and a familiar voice dripping with disdain calls out, I come to a halt.

‘Ms Lydon. Outside enjoying the fresh air? What a surprise.’

I turn round. ‘Sergeant Rawlins.’

‘What happened to your well-advertised agoraphobia?’

‘I suppose I’m cured.’ I give a tired shrug. My tone is flat. ‘Hurrah.’

‘How convenient. I wondered how we were going to get you out of your house and down to the station. Clearly, I shouldn’t have worried.’ Her eyes are flinty and I realise for the first time that I might be in trouble.

‘Why do I need to come to the police station?’

She doesn’t smile. ‘We need to ask you a few questions.’

‘We?’

Hartman gets out of the police car, his expression one of shocked dismay. I look from one to the other. ‘What is going on here?’

‘Get into the car, Ms Lydon.’

‘No,’ I say slowly, ‘I don’t think I will. If you have questions then come by the house later.’

‘I don’t think you understand. I am detaining you under Section 14 of the Criminal Procedure Act pertaining to your involvement in two suspicious deaths, those of Dean Salib and Thomas Miller.’

My mouth drops open. ‘You’re kidding me.’

‘No, Ms Lydon, I can assure you I am not. Now, please, get into the car.’

***

I
’m taken to an interrogation room. A young man who introduces himself as the duty solicitor is already waiting. The entire situation feels unreal and I wonder if I’m still stuck in a strange dream. Maybe the Mayor conjured one up for me. What other reason could there be for my suddenly overcoming agoraphobia and being accused with murder?

The solicitor sticks out his hand but, in case this situation is real, I don’t want to touch him. I shake my head imperceptibly.

‘My name is Andy Brown,’ he says. ‘The police can contact another solicitor of your choice if you wish.’

‘No,’ I answer. ‘That’s alright.’

‘They are also obliged to contact a family member or friend.’

The only person I can think of is my mother and I’m not sure she could cope with the shock. I’m not sure
I
can cope with the shock. I shake my head and sit down on an uncomfortable aluminium chair. A few moments later, Rawlins appears and sits opposite.

‘So, Ms Lydon, when exactly did you overcome your agoraphobia?’

She’s clearly wasting no time. I raise my eyes to hers in an attempt to convey my innocence. ‘This morning. Around dawn.’

‘I see. And prior to this morning, when was the last time you were outside?’

‘About eighteen months ago.’

‘Hm.’ She taps a pen on the corner of her mouth. ‘Funny that. When we went round to your house a couple of hours ago and spoke to one of your neighbours, he said he saw you outside yesterday.’

I blink. ‘Oh. Yes, I went outside then but I didn’t even get to the end of the path.’

‘Lying will do you no good.’

Andy Brown interrupts. ‘Ms Lydon was hardly lying.’

He receives a steely look for his efforts. ‘She said she hadn’t been outside for eighteen months. Apart from last night when she was, in fact, outside.’

I swallow hard. This doesn’t seem to be going very well.

‘Tell me about your relationship with Doctor Thomas Miller.’

‘He’s, uh, been helping me with my agoraphobia.’

‘And how did you know that he was dead?’

Shit. ‘I didn’t,’ I stammer. ‘I just had a feeling that something was wrong with him.’

‘A feeling?’

I dig myself into a hole. ‘He was supposed to come round and see me,’ I lie. ‘He’s very reliable so when he didn’t come...’

‘Interesting. We found no trace of an appointment with you in his calendar.’

I can’t think of anything to say. I simply stare at her.

‘I tell you what, Zoe, why don’t we backtrack instead to Dean Salib? He collapsed and died of an apparent heart attack in your hallway.’

I lick my lips nervously. ‘Yes.’

‘In your statement to the police you said you had never laid eyes on him prior to that moment.’