Midnight Is a Lonely Place

  ‘Oh Greg.’ Her eyes filled with tears. Miserably, she went to Roger, who put his arm around her and guided her back towards the house.

  In his impatience Greg had put his foot down for a couple of steps. The pain sliced through him like a knife and he swore viciously. ‘Just thank God the wind is blowing away from the house; the snow will damp down any sparks. But we’ve lost the barn, Dad. Nothing can save it.’

  They stood in the doorway for a moment watching in despair as the first flames licked out through the black boarding. Diana’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I loved that barn. It was lovely. And my roses! My poor roses. They’ll be burned.’

  ‘I expect their roots will be all right.’ Roger tried to sound reassuring. Gently he pulled her in and closed the door. ‘Go and sit down with Joe. Greg, can you manage to get us all a brandy?’

  ‘Are you hurt, Joe?’ Trying to forget the pain of her precious plants, and the small birds who always roosted in the barn at dusk Diana turned towards him, scrutinising the black smudges across his face.

  He shook his head. ‘Just bloody shocked.’ He sounded angry more than anything else. ‘What bastard would do a thing like that? That place must have been booby trapped!’ He threw himself down on a chair. ‘I reckon I could do with that brandy, thanks Greg.’ He looked at Cissy. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Much the same.’ Diana sat down beside her and put her hand on Cissy’s forehead. Aware that her own heart was thundering in her ears with the shock of what had happened she slipped her fingers down to take the pulse beneath Cissy’s ear. It was stronger now and steadier.

  She looked up to find Greg standing behind her with a glass.

  She reached up for it. ‘So. What happens now?’

  ‘I’ll go on foot. That’s what happens now.’ Joe swallowed his brandy in one gulp and held out the glass for a refill. ‘I’m not letting any murdering bastard do that to me and get away with it.’

  ‘You can’t go in the dark, Joe.’ Greg glanced at the windows. ‘It would be madness. Kate and Paddy will have reached your place by now. If they can’t get in, I’m sure they will hitch up to the Headleys’ or Heath Farm. They will get help far more quickly than you can.’

  ‘And if they haven’t made it?’ Joe’s question was brutally direct. ‘What if he got them?’

  ‘He hasn’t got them, Joe.’ Greg looked at his mother. ‘Paddy had a gun. He wouldn’t be afraid to use it.’

  His eyes strayed thoughtfully to Sue. She said she had heard a shot. But you can’t shoot ghosts. The thought kept straying back into his mind. A gun would have no effect on Marcus. No effect at all.

  As if she had read his mind, Diana glanced at him. ‘A ghost couldn’t set fire to the barn, Greg. Or move the Volvo. That must have been a real man.’

  ‘A ghost?’ Joe stared at her. ‘What does a bloody ghost have to do with all this? Are you telling me a bloody ghost ran my wife off the road?’

  ‘I don’t know what we’re telling you, Joe. I just don’t know.’ Greg was white with frustration. He threw himself down on the chair again. ‘Oh, Christ, I wish I could walk! Where are Kate and Paddy?’

  LIII

  Kate was lying on her face, her head cushioned on her arms, aware slowly that a small trickle of blood somewhere in the hair above her left temple had dried into a crust. How long she had been lying there she wasn’t sure, but in the interval she had grown very cold. Cautiously she raised her head, expecting to feel at any second an icy hand on her back, but there was nothing, just the long, lingering catch of the bramble which had scratched her head as she fell. Her hand closed in the mud, crisp now with incipient ice, and she realised she was shaking.

  ‘Paddy?’

  There had been no sound since the gun went off. Her terror had led to paralysis of will. She could not move or speak. Some atavistic instinct told her that shamming death was her only protection. How long that state had lasted she didn’t know. She moved her hand slightly, trying to bring her wrist, with the narrow, gold watch, within sight without raising her head more than a few inches.

  ‘Paddy?’ She tried again, louder this time.

  ‘Here.’ His voice was muffled, but not too far away.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I think so. I’ve lost the gun. I fell.’ She could hear tears in his voice. ‘Has he gone?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She raised her head higher, trying to see. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Here.’ She rose cautiously to her knees, wishing she could stop herself shaking. She could actually hear her teeth chattering. ‘I’m here. Keep talking and I’ll see if I can find you.’ The light had nearly gone.

  There was a rustling somewhere to her left. She swung round. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Yes. I’m OK. Here.’ He clung to her for several seconds and she could feel the chill of his body against her own. ‘He’s gone,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t feel him around any more.’

  ‘Which way do we go?’ He pulled away from her and she could feel him grasping at his dignity almost as though it were armour, and shrugging it on again.

  ‘We should have brought a compass.’ She tried to make the remark light. ‘We can still follow the contour of the land, though. Keep going up.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem to work.’

  ‘Paddy, what else can we do? We can’t stay here all night.’ She had only just realised that it was snowing again; proper snow this time, light and feathery and relentless; a pale glimmer at her feet showed where it was settling.

  ‘Do you know any prayers?’

  The question caught her by surprise. ‘Well, the Lord’s Prayer, of course, everyone knows that.’

  ‘That’s what one says to ward off evil, isn’t it? To keep him away.’

  Kate reached out and took his hand. ‘We could say it together if it helps. You’re right. It’s supposed to keep evil spirits away. I’m not much of an authority on prayer.’

  ‘Or evil spirits, I expect.’ He forced a small laugh. ‘Do you know it in Latin? Pater Noster. All that. He must speak Latin if he’s a Roman. We don’t do Latin at my school.’ Again the strained little laugh. ‘It never crossed my mind that I might need it.’

  May the gods of all eternity curse you, Marcus Severus, and bring your putrid body and your rotten soul to judgement for what you have done here this day.

  Kate rubbed her face with her hands. The words were trapped in her brain. They were not external. If they had been Paddy would have heard them too. And the words were in English.

  ‘I think he understands our language,’ she said carefully. They had both accepted, she noticed, that it was Marcus they had seen, not some flesh and blood intruder in the woods. ‘I think if we are communicating with him or with anyone else it is in our heads.’

  ‘But you could tell him to sod off in Latin?’ He said it so hopefully she heard herself laugh out loud.

  ‘I did the kind of Latin one learns in the hope that it will facilitate one’s grasp of literature,’ she said apologetically. ‘I don’t think I ever learned to say sod off.’ She paused. ‘I do know the Pater Noster though.’

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘Pater Noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie. Et dimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. Et ne nos inducas in tentationem: sed libera nos a malo …’ She stopped.

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘Go on,’ he whispered.

  ‘That’s it. Or at least, that’s all I can remember. But that’s the important bit. Libera nos a malo. Deliver us from evil.’ It didn’t matter. There was no one out there listening now. She was sure of it. He had gone. ‘Paddy, let’s try and find the gun. It can’t have gone far.’ It was almost dark. The light was failing fast.

  ‘I think it fell over there. Don’t tell Dad it went off. He’ll never let me use it again.’

  ‘It
probably saved our lives,’ she retorted tersely. ‘I can see it. There. In those nettles.’

  The snow was thicker now, drifting down, here a pale drifting cloud, there driven by the wind into a stinging curtain.

  Patrick retrieved the gun cautiously, and broke it under his arm. He looked round. ‘There’s no sign of a path. I can’t even see which way we came.’

  ‘This way.’ Kate didn’t hesitate. She pushed through some brambles and began to climb a small incline, her borrowed boots slipping in the snow.

  ‘Wait.’ Patrick was staring round. ‘Look. Through the trees.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There. I can see a light.’

  ‘Thank God!’ It was a heartfelt prayer. Side by side they scrambled towards it, sliding and slipping downwards now, out of the eye of the wind into the shelter of the woods again.

  ‘It’s gone. I can’t see it.’

  ‘There. There it is.’ Patrick stopped. ‘It’s Redall. Oh, Kate, we’ve come round in a circle. We’re back where we started. He’s not going to let us escape.’ The disappointment and fear in his voice were palpable.

  She bit her lip, angry with herself as much for the stupidity as for the overwhelming rush of relief which had swept over her. ‘Can’t be helped. We’ll go back in and see if we can find a compass.’

  ‘Right.’ He nodded firmly.

  ‘Then we’ll have to try again. And this time we’ll stay on the main track.’

  ‘Agreed.’ He gave her a broad grin. ‘A hot drink first, though. Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ She put her arm around his shoulder.

  LIV

  Jon opened the door of his flat and peered in. It smelt stale; unlived in. Cyrus, he had heard only yesterday before he flew out of Kennedy, had stayed there just two days before having a massive fight with the sponsors of his London visit, and flying back to the States.

  Dropping his bag on the floor, Jon pushed the front door closed behind him with his foot and stooped to pick up his mail. Wearily he walked across to the table and threw it down. On the windowsill a vase of dead flowers stood in a circle of sticky yellow pollen. He went to pick it up and carried it through to the kitchen, wrinkling his nose at the stench from the stale water. On the worktop was a set of keys. Turning on the tap so it ran into the vase, flushing away the slimy green deposits which clung to the rough porcelain he picked up the keys and looked at the tag. A small black cat. Kate’s keys. He smacked them down on the counter. Two days! Two lousy days Cyrus had stayed and he had as good as thrown her out for that! Well, he had paid back the first half of her money now, at least.

  Going back to the living room, he flung himself down on the sofa and reached onto the table beside him to punch the answer machine. The calls went on and on. He listened wearily, his eyes closed. The procession of voices through the cold half light of the afternoon was like a review of his life. ‘Hi Jon. Call me when you get back’ … ‘Jon, if you’re there around the 18th we’re having a get together …’ ‘Jon, don’t forget, twelve thirty on the 23rd at the Groucho …’ ‘Jon …’ ‘Jon …’ ‘Jon …’

  He stood up and went to pour himself a Scotch. The bottle – all the bottles on the tray, he noticed wryly – were empty.

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Jon. This is Bill. Just to let you know all the phones down at Redall seem to be out of commission. I’m going down this morning – it’s about ten on Saturday morning now – to see what’s going on.’

  Jon switched off the machine. Reaching for the phone he dialled Bill’s number. It rang on in the silence. He redialled – Bill’s cottage this time. ‘Come on, answer.’ Jon drummed his fingers on his knee. Abruptly he cut the connection. He tried the Redall Cottage number. The line was still dead. Swearing under his breath, he dialled the Lindseys’. That, too was silent. He slammed down the receiver and stood up. What the hell was going on up there?

  Turning to his bags, he found the bottle of duty free Talisker he had picked up at the airport. Uncapping it he poured himself a slug.

  Why the hell did he care so much anyway? Kate was part of history. They had not got on. The affair was over. Finished. Kaput. There was nothing left to rekindle. She wasn’t interested in him any more, however friendly she had been on the phone. That was just politeness; typical Kate, not wanting to hurt anyone’s feelings. He would probably never see her again.

  He drained his glass and poured some more. Outside the window with its veil of sooty net the London street grew dark. A steady wet sleet had begun to fall. Setting down his glass Jon went to switch on the tall, chrome lamp in the corner. Then he reached for the road map.

  LV

  HATE

  ANGER

  FURY

  raging inside her head. There were no words, no form; a mael strom of whirling pain.

  ‘Mummy!’

  The cry was muffled, agonised. It fell into the black silence of the room, unheard.

  ‘Mummy, help me!’

  They were inside her head, locked in battle. He, Marcus, always the stronger, tearing at the core of her brain, wanting her, using her, needing her voice, her arms, her strength.

  And she. Claudia. She would not give in. The truth must be told. Nion. Betrayed. Insult to the gods. Nion. Nion. Love of my life, partner of my soul.

  Tear them out. Be rid of them. Be free of them. Nails. Rip them out with her nails. Tear her head open.

  ‘MUMMY. HELP ME!’

  ‘Let the truth be told. I will have the truth told.’ The scream is louder now. Claudia is gaining in strength. ‘The grave is open. The secret is out. The people of Britain shall avenge our death. The fall of the Empire will not be revenge enough. May the gods of all eternity curse you, Marcus Severus Secundus, for what you have done …’

  ‘No, no, NO!’

  Alison sat up violently, her hands to her temples. Her nails were red with her own blood. She stared round the room. The lights were no longer on, but she could see quite clearly. The woman was standing by the window, her blue gown moving gently as though the wind were blowing from behind her, her feet in the soft dune sand, her hair tangled in its combs. She seemed to see right through the wall, through the house, through the darkness and the snow.

  Alison cowered against the wall. Blood. There was blood everywhere; down the front of the woman’s dress; on the floor on her own sheets and – she looked down suddenly, seeing without trouble in the darkness, all over her own hands.

  Her own scream blocked out the sound of voices. She screamed on and on, out of control, out of her head now, watching herself from the doorway, watching the group of people downstairs rise from the kitchen table, pick up their candles and head towards the stairs. Diana was there first, the flame of her candle shivering and trailing smoke.

  ‘Alison. Alison, darling! Oh Christ, what’s wrong with her?’

  She could see her mother’s arm around her, see her mouth moving, but she felt nothing. He was there now, inside her head again. Laughing. Why was he laughing? Laughing at the blood and the pain. Laughing at her: the woman by the curtains. She was indistinct now, a shadow from a distant past. Nothing more. Disappearing. Vanquished. Crumbling back into the sand. Part of the forgotten time …

  ‘Pater noster …’ It was Patrick’s voice, trembling, in the shadows. ‘Libera nos a malo. Ave Maria. Libera nos a malo.’ The words slid into a sob of pain.

  ‘Her face. Christ, Di, look at her face.’ Breathless, Roger had joined the group on the landing, peering over his wife’s shoulder. ‘Shut up, Paddy!’ He turned on his son. ‘I won’t have that sentimental crap uttered in this house!’

  ‘Go away, all of you.’ Diana tightened her grip on Alison’s shoulders. ‘Go away. I’ll see to her.’ She glanced up, scarcely able to see through her tears. ‘Kate, will you stay. The rest of you go downstairs.’

  For a moment Roger opened his mouth, about to speak, then he changed his mind. He handed Kate his candle and turned away. He was shaking visibly as he ushered the others down.

/>   Obediently Kate went to the bathroom for a facecloth and, wringing it out brought it back to the bedroom. Diana wiped the blood from Alison’s hands, then gently she guided her back to bed. ‘You’re safe now, sweetheart. Quite safe.’

  ‘What about her face?’ Kate was holding the candle steady.

  ‘I’ll leave it for now. They’re only superficial scratches.’ Diana glanced at her wearily. ‘I’m not letting you and Paddy or Joe leave this house again tonight.’

  ‘Someone must get help, Diana.’

  ‘Time enough in daylight. Everything must wait until then.’

  ‘But what about Greg? What about Cissy?’ Kate had been appalled at the sight of Cissy Farnborough lying, barely conscious, on the sofa by the fire.

  ‘She’ll be all right. I can take care of her. There is someone trying to kill us all out there, Kate!’ Diana pulled the sheet up around Alison’s chin and tucked it in. ‘I am not letting anyone else set foot outside this house.’

  Kate looked down at Alison. The girl was quiet now, lying very still on her blood-stained pillow, breathing long, even breaths as though she were asleep again. ‘What do you think happened?’ she asked in a whisper.

  ‘She had a nightmare.’ There was a desperate set to Diana’s chin.

  ‘I think it was more than that.’ Kate walked further into the room. The small intimate space, lit by the two candles was icy cold. On the floor in front of the curtains lay a scattering of sand. Kate stared down at it for a moment, frowning, then she turned away. ‘Why did your husband swear at Paddy for praying?’

  ‘He doesn’t believe in God. He stopped believing the day he discovered he had cancer.’

  ‘And does he believe in evil? In possession? In ghosts?’

  It was Diana’s turn to shiver. ‘He’s a reductionist and a fatalist. He believes in nothing that cannot be scientifically proven.’