Midnight Is a Lonely Place

  Nion clenched his fists. The sun had still not appeared but out there, beyond the cold waters, hidden by the mists, the gods were waiting.

  The phone at Redall Cottage was working again by late afternoon. Roger drove Kate back there in the Land Rover through the heavy sleet and slush and toured the cottage with her room by room. ‘It all looks all right,’ he said at last. He had insisted on lighting the stove and carrying in a new supply of logs. ‘Are you really quite sure you feel happy about staying here?’ On the kitchen table stood a cardboard box full of tins of food, a jar of coffee, a bottle of Scotch, some matches and several other things that Diana had extricated from her own larder. ‘Just in case you get trapped by this awful weather they’re forecasting,’ she had said to Kate. Taking her aside she too had asked her yet again if she wanted to stay with them, but Kate was adamant. ‘I must work. Really.’

  Roger looked round, seemingly reluctant to leave. ‘Are you sure you’re happy about this?’ he asked again.

  ‘Perfectly happy.’ She grinned at him. ‘Really. I want to get back to work.’

  ‘Good.’ He gave a gentle smile. ‘Well, you know where we are if you want anything.’

  She stood at the door to watch him drive away into the woods, then she turned back to the house. Nothing had been decided about the excavation. Greg had wanted it buried deep beneath the sand; Roger and she had wanted to call the Colchester archaeological people and Alison, when at last she had woken up had become totally hysterical at the thought of anyone touching it at all. In deference to her tears Diana had vetoed any action at least for a day or two and reluctantly, Kate had had to acquiesce. It was after all their land; their dune.

  She glanced at her watch. It was nearly four. She put on the kettle and then hauling herself onto the stool, she reached for the phone. Anne was in.

  ‘Hi, stranger. I was wondering how you’d been getting on.’ Her sister’s voice was cheerful.

  ‘I’m fine. How’s Edinburgh?’

  ‘Wonderful. Better than I had hoped even. The job is quite fascinating and I love the city and C.J. loves the flat. It’s huge compared with our old one, and there’s a walled garden at the back. He’s in seventh heaven. At least he was until the snow started.’ She laughed. ‘So tell me about the wilder shores of East Anglia.’

  ‘A bit strange, actually.’ Kate paused, watching the steam begin to rise from the kettle spout. ‘Anne. Are there such things as poltergeists?’

  There was a moment’s silence the other end of the line. ‘Now there’s a fascinating question. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Various reasons.’ Kate smiled wryly. There would be no turning back now until Anne had wormed the last tiny detail out of her. She took a deep breath. ‘Let me tell you the story then you give me your opinion …’

  It took a surprisingly long time to tell. Anne listened in silence, clicking her fingers once at Carl Gustav as he flexed his claws provocatively against the back of an armchair. He beamed at her and leapt onto her lap, cuddling down for a long stay.

  ‘From what you say and your initial question you suspect the activity is centred around Alison, am I right?’ she said at last.

  ‘That’s how it works, doesn’t it? Teenage angst and all that. Frustrated energy.’

  ‘That’s how it works.’ Kate could hear the smile in Anne’s voice. ‘If it works. The bangs you have described sound to me as though they could just be wood splitting. You’ve probably heated up the cottage more than anyone in ages and it’s falling apart. Had you thought of that? I suppose it could be explosions of psychic energy if one believes in such things. I’ve certainly read about them. But the rest. The soil. The maggots. Ugh. That doesn’t sound like poltergeist activity either, to be honest. More like a horror novel.’

  Kate pursed her lips. ‘Anne, this is not a novel! Come on. I want your help.’

  ‘Well, then, perhaps the sudden heat has woken them up. Wasn’t that what someone suggested to you? That sounds more realistic. But even more likely it sounds to me like some kind of practical joke, Katie, love, and if the brother – Greg, did you say his name was? – is anything like as angry as you say, I should look no further than him. He sounds a very unhappy and frustrated man.’

  ‘You don’t think any of this could be supernatural then?’

  ‘I think it’s unlikely. Even the ghost you think you saw. You were tired; you could have imagined it. The smells are easily explained. They hang around for months, even years in houses sometimes. And maggots for God’s sake! What are you supposed to think? That they are coming from a two-thousand-year-old grave? How long do you think the flesh lasts on bones? How long do you think any organic matter survives at all? Besides, how would they have got into your cottage?’ Anne fondled Carl Gustav’s ears. Kate could hear his purr down the telephone. It made her feel suddenly terribly lonely.

  ‘How do I handle it, big sister? I don’t want to leave this cottage. It’s wonderful. I love it and I’m working well.’

  ‘Has anything happened since you had the locks changed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you don’t believe the maggots are breeding on something terribly dead beneath the floorboards?’

  ‘No.’ Kate looked down at her feet. The cottage floors, she had established, were uncompromisingly concrete.

  ‘And you don’t think Alison could have slipped a matchboxfull onto the windowsill while you were out of the room?’

  ‘No. I don’t.’

  ‘I think I’m going to need notice of this one. It’s tricky.’ Anne laughed out loud. ‘Intriguing but tricky. You’re not scared?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t sound very certain.’

  ‘Well, would you? In the middle of nowhere? It’s beginning to get dark. There’s a bluebottle in here now.’ It hadn’t been there a few minutes ago, she was sure, and yet there it was, circling the light.

  ‘Well, take comfort that there is nothing supernatural about bluebottles. You may not find out where they are coming from, but as sure as eggs is eggs, they are coming from the maggots who in turn are coming from some source of putrid flesh – ’

  ‘What did you say?’ Kate interrupted her, her voice tight with fear.

  ‘I said putrid flesh.’

  ‘“Your putrid body and your rotten soul,”’ Kate quoted slowly. ‘Those are the words which keep going round and round in my head.’ She was suddenly very scared.

  ‘It’s a coincidence. Have you never heard of synchronicity?’ Hearing the fear in her sister’s voice, Anne was immediately reassuring. ‘Besides, it’s hardly a coincidence when one is talking of maggots. Listen, love, I have got someone coming to supper. I really ought to get on or they will be having sardines on toast. Can we talk again tomorrow? I’ll look up something about poltergeists and teenage werewolves to give you some ammunition to throw at young Alison, but if I were you I should have a stiff drink, bolt every door, check for matchboxes of maggots under the sideboard and lose yourself in the book. And if you’re really, really scared I want you to ring me at once. Any time. Understand? Must go.’

  She had hung up before Kate had a chance to say goodbye.

  ‘Anne. Anne?’ She shook the receiver. Anne had gone but the line still sounded as though it were open. She listened for a moment longer. ‘Oh no. Not again.’ She felt a moment of quite irrational panic as she jiggled the phone, hung up and lifted the receiver again. The line had not disconnected. It was live. There was no dialling tone. She put it down again and lifted it a second time. The same thing happened.

  In Edinburgh Anne stared at the phone on the table in front of her and bit her lip. It was unlike Kate to be afraid of anything; very unlike her. To hell with the guests. Kate was more important than a perfect soufflé. She reached for the receiver again and dialled Kate’s number.

  The line was dead.

  Bleakly Kate stared round the kitchen. Damn and blast it. It didn’t matter, of course. Tomorrow she would walk up through the w
oods to the farmhouse and report the phone once again. There was no reason she should want to phone anyone again tonight. As Anne had said she should have a drink, check for maggots, and then go back to work.

  It was a quarter to midnight when at last she turned off her computer, stretched and stood up. Her eyes were weary and her brain felt scrambled. She stared down at the pile of printed pages on the desk then she picked up her glasses and put them on again, reading through the last section one more time. It was good. It was exciting, alive, tremendous. Exhilarated, she stood up and wandered through to the kitchen and reached for the new bottle of whisky. The Lindseys, it appeared, drank Johnnie Walker. She poured herself half an inch and went back into the living room. Damn it, with the phone cut off no one could ring her either and she had, she realised suddenly, been hoping for another call from Jon. She sighed. She missed him so much.

  The sharp bang above her head hardly made her jump at all. She stared up at the ceiling again and slowly she leaned forward to the table and reached for the bottle. ‘Sod off, Marcus,’ she murmured. ‘You’re either psychic energy or you’re a splitting beam. Either way you are not my problem.’

  XXXII

  Greg found Allie in the kitchen next morning. She was sitting at the table, still wearing her dressing gown. Her face was pale and strained. He sat down opposite her and reached for the coffee pot. ‘How are you feeling, prat?’ he asked.

  She glared at him. ‘Awful.’

  ‘Did Ma say you ought to see the doctor?’

  ‘No. She thinks I’m all right. Just tired.’

  ‘Didn’t you sleep?’

  ‘What do you think.’ She put her arms on the table and rested her head on them.

  ‘We are going to ring Joe today and ask him to bring a tractor up to flatten the dune,’ he said gently. ‘Dad agrees that that would be best. It’s only a matter of days anyway before the sea takes the whole lot away.’

  ‘You can’t.’ She stared up at him aghast, her fair hair flopping across her eyes. ‘You can’t do that. It’s an archaeological site. You won’t be allowed to.’

  ‘No one is going to know. I’m sorry, Allie, but my mind is made up. There are things there which are best left untouched. If you think about it you’ll agree.’

  ‘No!’ She jumped up, scraping the chair legs across the stone slabs. ‘No. I won’t let you! You can’t. You mustn’t!’

  ‘Allie – ’

  ‘No.’ Her voice had risen to a shriek. ‘Don’t you see. People have got to know. They must know the truth!’

  ‘The truth about what?’ He frowned.

  ‘The truth about –’ She shrugged, subsiding once more. ‘The truth about what is in the grave. The truth about what happened there. The truth about –’ She stopped dead. It was as though the name on her lips had been snatched from her. ‘The truth about whose grave it is,’ she improvised. ‘You must not touch it. No way. If you even think about ringing Joe I shall phone the museum and tell them. They will put a preservation order or something on it.’

  ‘What on earth do you know about preservation orders?’ Greg asked. He could feel his anger rising. He had been a fool to tell her. He should have rung Joe and they could have gone ahead with it without telling her. After the event it would be too late to stop it.

  ‘I don’t know anything about them, but I know you can get them. You can get them to stop farmers ploughing up their fields when there are special things on them.’

  ‘Well, there is nothing special about this. A few old bits of pottery and stuff in a dune on the edge of the sea. Big deal. It’s better forgotten.’

  ‘No.’ Her eyes narrowed. She looked like Serendipity when he had a mouse or a bird and he thought someone was going to try to take it from him. ‘No. You are not to touch it. The truth has to come out.’

  Greg stood up, picked up his cup of coffee and found the cup was rattling on its saucer. ‘Please yourself.’ He wandered through towards the sofa and sat down next to the cats who were ensconced firmly in a manner which denoted profound rejection of an outside world where the sleet slanted out of a slate sky and the wind knifed round corners and through unresisting flesh. He felt extraordinarily upset. Adrenalin flooded through his body; he felt a dry sickness in his throat. His hands, clenched around the cup were shaking slightly and he was angrier than he had ever been. He took a deep breath trying to steady his breathing. What on earth was the matter with him? He didn’t care one way or the other about the damn grave and being tactically defeated by Alison was no big deal. She did it all the time and mostly he tolerated it. He took a swig of the coffee and leaned back, closing his eyes.

  Behind him she was still sitting at the table. She sniffed, surreptitiously wiping the back of her hand across her eyes. Her head was throbbing and her face felt puffy from lack of sleep. There was still something she had to do but she could not remember what it was. She stared at the window wearily as a gust of wind threw more hail at the glass. The kitchen was cold. She glanced at the Aga. It was lit. The kettle on the hot plate was steaming gently, so why was it she could not stop shivering? Standing up shakily she went to where her brother was sitting and perched on the arm of the sofa. ‘I’m going to ring the archaeological people.’

  He glanced up at her. ‘You’re a fool. They won’t want to know. Anyway, what the hell could they do in this weather?’ As if to reinforce his remark another gust of wind shook the house. The fire flared up. Several sparks shot out onto the hearthrug. Automatically Alison got up and stood on them one by one. ‘They will want to know.’

  ‘They will not want to know. Anyway, by the time they get here there will be nothing to see. I expect the sea will have done all the excavating for you.’ He drained his cup, watching as she tramped methodically over the carpet to make sure she had extinguished the last spark. She turned towards the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To phone.’

  ‘Now?’ He sat up.

  ‘Yes, now.’

  ‘Allie, you mustn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ She swung round to face him, her hair hanging in curtains across her face. ‘Just why are you so against it?’

  ‘Because I think it will only cause more trouble.’

  ‘What kind of trouble?’ She raised her chin slightly in the defiance which was more natural to her than this haggard exhaustion.

  He stood up. ‘Leave it alone, Allie. Please. Look let’s wait at least until Monday. With the weather like this they won’t be able to get here anyway. Even better, leave it until the spring. Then they can come and see if it’s still here.’

  ‘That’s the whole point.’ She stamped her foot. ‘Don’t you see? They must get to it before it is washed away. They have to find out who is buried there, and why.’

  ‘No.’ His face had closed, his voice was harsh. ‘No. No one must ever find out.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’ She stared at him in astonishment and was frightened to see the implacable rage in her brother’s face. ‘Greg, what is it? I don’t understand.’ His eyes were hard, the pupils contracted to tiny pinpoints although the light in the room was low. Behind him the two cats leaped from the sofa of one accord and vanished behind the Aga.

  ‘Greg?’ Her voice was pleading. ‘What is it? You’re frightening me.’

  For a moment he went on staring at her, as though his hatred of her were too great to contain, then visibly he seemed to shake himself free of whatever strange emotion had gripped him. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong. I don’t give a screw what you do about your stupid grave, Allie. Do what you like.’

  He was shaken. It had happened again, the strange feeling that there was some kind of alien being inside his head, battering at his skull – an alien with terrible, raging emotions. Leaning back against the cushion with a groan he put his hand over his eyes.

  With a nervous glance at him Alison escaped thankfully into her father’s study. The telephone books were piled on the floor by his desk. She pulled up the swive
lling chair and sat down, reaching for the local directory. All round her her brother’s paintings were stacked against the walls, and on the easel. The room smelt strange, its own comfortable familiar smell eclipsed by oil and turpentine and wonderful arcane scents of varnish and paint and linseed. She flipped open the book and began to look for the number under Archaeology. There was nothing there. She tried again under Colchester. It was several moments before she found it. Holding her finger under the number she reached for the phone, aware that Greg had come into the room and was standing in the doorway watching her.

  Her fingers tightened on the receiver. Ignoring him she began to dial. She listened for several minutes, frowning, then she jiggled the rest and dialled again.

  ‘What is it. Is something wrong?’ Greg’s voice from the doorway was almost mocking.

  ‘I can’t get a dialling noise.’ She shook the receiver and tried again. ‘It sounds as if there is a crossed line. As if someone is listening on the other end.’

  He smiled. ‘Perhaps they are,’ he said quietly.

  XXXIII

  Bill leaned forward and stared through the windscreen. He was bitterly regretting having set out for the cottage. Just as he was leaving the office the afternoon before, someone had come in and talked to him for hours. By the time they had gone it was getting dark and he had decided to postpone his decision until the morning.