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.
‘You’re not wrong.’ The taxi did a little shimmy sidew
ays and the driver spun the wheel. ‘Stupid thing is, we’re nearly there. Can’t be much further.’
‘Do you think we should stop?’
‘Not here. No. Pete Cutler doesn’t give up if there’s a decent pub within sniffing distance!’ The broad shoulders quivered as he chuckled. ‘We’d freeze to death if we stopped here, mate. I reckon it’s about another two miles. Yes!’ He let out a whoop of triumph suddenly as some landmark loomed in the distance and vanished. ‘Hang on. We’ll make it.’
From the way Pete locked the taxi and followed him inside the long, low, pink-washed pub, Jon had the feeling his driver was not about to turn round and drive back to Colchester. He was right. ‘I’ll ring them back at base and tell them I’m camping down here at the old Sooty Swan for the night. Mine’s a pint of strong.’ He winked and disappeared into the passage beyond the saloon bar. Jon pushed open the door. A fire was burning brightly in the huge hearth, but the room was empty. It was several minutes before a figure appeared behind the bar. ‘Didn’t think I’d see anyone in tonight,’ the landlord greeted him cheerfully. ‘How did you get here? Hitched a ride with Father Christmas, did you?’
Jon smiled. ‘Something like that. A whisky for me, please, landlord, and a pint of strong for my mad driver and something for yourself.’ He hitched himself up onto a bar stool. ‘I don’t suppose there is any way I can finish my journey from here, is there? I’m trying to get to Redall Bay.’
The landlord was concentrating on drawing the pint. He frowned and sucked in a lungful of air through the gap in his teeth. ‘Tricky one, that. You’d need a four-wheel drive, I reckon. You going to see the Lindseys, are you? Or are you a friend of Bill Norcross? I saw he was down this weekend.’
‘I’m a friend of Bill’s, yes. And of Kate Kennedy. I don’t know if you’ve met her? She’s staying at the cottage.’
‘Writer lady?’ He set the glass on the counter and began to draw a second pint, presumably for himself. ‘He did bring her in here, yes. A week or so back.’
‘They’ve been cut off without phones for a couple of days, so I couldn’t ring.’
‘Unaccountable things, phones.’ The landlord put the second glass on the counter. ‘Always ring when you don’t want them, and won’t when you do. Do you want something to eat, sir, while I have a think about what you can do?’ He selected another glass and held it up to the row of optics.
‘I’d love something.’ Jon was cheering up by the second. He turned as the door opened. ‘Your drink, Pete.’ He took a moment to survey his companion who until now had been no more than a pair of broad shoulders and a round, red face, with a huge, lopsided grin. Pete was a large man altogether – not the ideal shape, Jon thought idly, for a life cramped behind the wheel of a cab. His brilliant blue eyes, surrounded by the gold wire rims of his spectacles, were topped by thick sandy eyebrows and he was wearing two clashing bright red sweaters beneath his anorak.
The two men moved to the fire and sat down. ‘Food.’ Jon handed him the menu. ‘The least I can do is buy you a meal after you got me this far.’
‘That’s uncommon nice of you.’ Pete grinned. ‘Any luck with a tractor?’
‘The landlord is thinking.’
‘Straining himself, is he?’ Pete leaned back on the settle with a hefty sigh. ‘I’ve known Ron Brown here for six years. He’s a good bloke. He’ll fix you up. You know, I reckon I’m starting to enjoy this.’
A chicken pie with baked potatoes, several drinks and much mutual backslapping later, Pete had wheedled Ron into lending them his old Land Rover. ‘I’m a professional driver, mate!’ he said, not for the first time. ‘You know it’ll be safe with me.’
‘In this weather and with you pissed as a newt? I’d lose my licence letting you have it.’
‘Then what say we borrow it without telling you.’ Pete heaved a contented sigh and patted his stomach. ‘I’ve had a nice time here. And I’ve heard a good story. I reckon I would like to go and do a spot of ghost hunting to round the evening off. In fact, why don’t you close up and come too? You’re not getting any more customers tonight.’
Both men had listened avidly to Jon’s story about Kate’s ghost, a story he had shamelessly embellished in the interests of camaraderie.
‘No fear, I’ll head for my bed, thanks.’ Ron shook his head. ‘I don’t fancy going anywhere in this and you wouldn’t either if you had any sense at all.’ He stooped and groped under the counter, standing upright again to toss a bunch of keys to Pete. ‘Just get it back to me in one piece tomorrow, boys, OK?’
Jon stood up. ‘Thanks. We will.’
On the doorstep they nearly changed their minds. The wind had risen and the snow was driving straight at them; there was a sting in it which cut into Jon’s face.
He hesitated. They could always wait until morning, when the sanders had been through, and go then. He glanced at Pete who was obviously thinking the same thing. Their eyes met.
‘A bit of an adventure?’ Pete said with a grin.
Jon nodded with a sudden surge of high sprits. He was right. This was an adventure.
They found the old Land Rover (the registration made it more than twenty years old, Jon calculated) in a lean to garage round the back of the pub. Facing away from the wind, it was surprisingly sheltered round there, and little snow had driven in under the roof. The two men climbed in and Pete, who had patted the bonnet as though greeting an old friend, inserted the key into the ignition.
‘Are you sure you’re OK to drive?’ Jon looked at him dubiously. He wasn’t worried about there being any other cars on the road, but he was imagining what it would be like if they skidded into a ditch.
‘Right as rain.’ Pete started the engine first go. ‘Don’t worry. I blotted up that beer with chicken pie and coffee. I’m all right. Not that any one will be driving their best tonight. You just keep your eyes skinned for this track down to the bay.’
The Land Rover backed out easily, its huge tyres holding their own in the slippery yard and gripping the road easily. They backed out past Pete’s taxi – now covered in snow – and turned onto the road again. The pub behind them, with its thatched roof and string of coloured lights looked reassuringly cosy as it faded abruptly behind them and disappeared.
‘A mile, he said.’ Jon leaned across to peer at the milometer. He snorted. ‘I wonder how many times this baby has been wound back.’
‘Probably only once. I reckon Ron has had her most of her life.’ Pete was leaning forward again, a frown between his bushy eyebrows. He did indeed seem remarkably sober suddenly.
‘A mile will be a guess, I suppose,’ Jon went on thoughtfully. ‘People are notoriously bad at judging distances.’
‘No, I think he’s right. Look.’ Pete slowed the Land Rover down in the middle of the road and stopped. They peered out into the darkness. A track led down steeply into the trees on their right, the features of the route flattened and hidden by the snow. Nearby was a notice, the message obliterated. They could see a car, almost hidden under the snow, parked close in beneath the trees.
‘Private road to Redall Bay?’ Pete glanced at Jon. ‘Want to take a shufty?’
Jon let himself out onto the slippery tarmac with its coating of impacted ice and snow and slid across to the notice. Brushing off the snow with his sleeve he peered at it. ‘Private R—d to Red– -ay. The words, blistered and worn were just visible. He walked over to the other car. Pushing the snow from the windscreen he peered in. ‘Europ-car.’ He could just read the sticker on the windscreen.
‘That’s it.’ He climbed back in. ‘And that must be Anne’s car. She must have hired it at the airport. She got this far safely, anyway. What are we going to do? Try and drive?’
Pete screwed up his face. ‘Ron said it was a bastard of a track even when the weather’s all right. I can’t think why folks put themselves through such sweat. Why not get someone to come in and flatten it for them and tip a load of tar? It wouldn’t cost the earth and they’d save a few axles.’
He pulled the Land Rover into the side of the road. ‘I vote we walk.’
‘All right by me.’
Jon grinned at him. His relief when Pete had enthusiastically volunteered to join in the expedition, had been so overwhelming it had surprised him. He had not realised how much he had been dreading the thought of braving a long walk from the pub through the darkness alone. He did not believe in Kate’s story about a ghost for one minute, but the incredible loneliness of the night, the snow, the silence, the wind, were all a bit unnerving.
Tucking the Land Rover in under the fir trees next to the red Fiesta, they reached into the back for the canvas holdall – Jon’s – and a plastic carrier containing four cans of lager, donated by Ron as a farewell gesture. They locked up and stood looking down the path.
‘Ready?’ Pete grinned at his companion.
‘Ready.’
Jon forced himself to smile back, but suddenly he had begun to shiver.
LXI
They were there again. Nightmare voices. Hatred and anger, forcing her from her bed, until she stood, listening, in the centre of the room. Listening to something far away. The sea. The sea was the danger now. She could hear the roar of the waves, see the walls of spume crashing across the dunes.
Tell them. Tell them my story.
Claudia was the stronger now. Her voice rising above his in the howl of the wind.
Tell them. Tell them. Let the people judge.
Then he was there. Marcus. His voice the louder. Hatred. Anger.
‘No!’
Spinning round slowly, Alison raised her hands to her head and clutched at her hair. They were fighting; fighting inside her; fighting for the last of her strength.
The grave. She must go to the grave.
She must save it from the water.
She must die.
Die with the bitch whore in the clay.
Live.
Die.
The door opened quietly and she walked out onto the landing, her bare feet warm on the thin carpet. Turning towards the stairs, she began to walk down, seeing nothing but the vision in her head. In the dark at the bottom of the stairs her fingers went unerringly to the latch on the inside of the door, though it was pitch dark there, without lights. The door opened and she stepped into the living room. Silently she moved between the sleeping figures towards the hall.