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.
‘Perhaps with the grave flooded, he’s left completely.’ Patrick stood up too. Jon and Pete bent to pick up the stretcher and slowly the small procession began to move on. Kate paused a moment, staring back the way they had come. He wasn’t here now. The woods were empty. But that didn’t mean he had gone for good. Something deep inside her told her that he was still around, somewhere. Waiting.
LXX
‘Dear God, what’s happening!’ Diana shrank against Greg. The room had grown dark. The rush and roar of the wind filled the chimneys, scattering ash into the room.
‘Susie!’ Cissy shouted suddenly, her voice shrill with panic. The girl had fallen from the chair. She was struggling on the ground, her hands to her throat as if she were trying to prise fingers loose from her neck – fingers they could not see. The candle which had stood on the table beside the sofa flared suddenly and went out. An acrid trail of smoke drifted across the room.
‘Susie!’ Diana flung herself towards them. ‘Oh God, it’s happening again.’
Susie was thrashing backwards and forwards on the rug, beating her heels on the ground, fighting for breath.
Mine
I have her
Mine
HATRED
ANGER
She could see nothing, feel nothing but the pain inside her head as three formless shapes tried, parasitic, greedy, to fasten their empty, gaping souls to hers.
‘Mummy –!’ Her shriek of pain and fear died in her throat as she writhed once more in a spasm of agony.
‘Susie!’ Cissy was on her knees, pulling at the girl’s wrists, trying to drag her hands away from her face.
‘It’s what happened to Allie.’ Greg knelt down beside them. He looked at the girl for a moment then he stared round the room. ‘He’s here. He’s here, in the room with us.’ He turned back to his mother.
‘Stop her hurting herself, Cissy,’ Diana commanded, her voice surprisingly strong. ‘You bastard, Marcus!’ She turned and shouted at the ceiling. ‘Can’t you see, there’s no point. It’s over. We know. We know what you did – ’
‘That is the point,’ Greg put in quietly. He was holding Susie’s small hands in his own. ‘We don’t know what he did. We think we do. We think he murdered Claudia and now his conscience is making him pay the ultimate price, but we don’t know.’
‘No! No! NO–!’
Susie screamed so loudly that both Greg and Cissy shrank back, releasing her hands, staring down at her in fear and horror as she sat up, her body rigid, clawing at her eyes.
Greg recovered first, pulling her hands away from her face. ‘He’s using her in some way. The only way we can stop it is to find out what it is he is trying to say. And the evidence must be in that grave. We have to go and see as soon as the weather has improved enough to have a go ourselves. Never mind the archaeologists. This is between us and Marcus and Claudia. We need to know the truth. For all our sakes.’
‘He’ll try and stop you,’ Diana put in softly. ‘He wants whatever is in that grave to stay hidden.’
‘Tough. It’s not going to. Besides, he’s tried to stop me before and he failed,’ he grinned bitterly. ‘I defeated him, remember? And I mean to get at the truth.’ He climbed awkwardly to his feet, swearing softly as a shaft of pain shot up his leg from his throbbing foot. ‘Do you hear that, Marcus Severus Secundus?’ Like his mother, he was shouting at the ceiling. ‘I’m not afraid of you, and I mean to have the truth!’
In answer the wind screamed ever more loudly down the chimney, scattering sparks.
‘Where are you, Roger? Oh, please help us!’ Suddenly Diana was crying. ‘Fight him for us. Make him go away.’
‘Ma –’ Greg put his arms round her.
‘No. He promised. He’s there. I’m sure he’s there. Help us Roger. Please.’ She was trembling violently.
There was a long silence. Greg bit his lip. Wherever his father had gone, he had not lingered here. The silence thickened around them. He could feel the skin on the nape of his neck prickling.
There was a presence in the room. But it was not his father. It was a female presence. Greg shivered, staring round. Claudia. He could sense her near him, the woman in blue, the woman whose image he had so often conjured up with pencil and brush. ‘Claudia’s here. Speak to her.’ He seized his mother’s arm. ‘Go on. Tell her we mean to find the truth. Tell her we will avenge her.’
‘Greg – ’
‘Go on!’ He turned round slowly himself, as if expecting to see the woman somewhere concealed in a corner. ‘Do you hear me, Lady Claudia? We are going to learn the truth about your death. That’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s what this is all about.’ He paused, panting, half expecting to hear a voice answering his, but the only response came from the wind. ‘Claudia!’ He shouted the name again.
Surely he could smell it: the jasmine scent she wore.
And something else.
Tobacco.
He bit his lip with a glance at his mother. Had she smelt it too? It was two years since his father had given up smoking – the day his cancer had been diagnosed – but suddenly he could smell his tobacco in the room. Was he here, after all, fighting for them as he had promised or was it wishful thinking, this strange blend of scents? Ashamed at the sudden tears in his eyes he moved a few paces towards the window and looked out, trying to control his emotions.
In the space of an hour the scene out there had changed. The snow had turned to rain. The garden, so recently locked in a brittle, short-lived frame of ice had become a living, dripping sea of water. From trees and bushes the soft snow slid in lumps or melted as he watched, desperately trying to swallow his tears. Th
e rain, sliding down the window was carrying the premature winter away with it as swiftly as it had come. The flowers of winter jasmine had freed themselves from a frosting of ice and drooped, yellow and orange from slender green stems.
Somehow he managed to get a grip on himself.
He was turning back towards Diana when out of the corner of his eye he saw a movement in the trees. He stiffened, a shot of adrenalin flooding through his stomach. Marcus? Claudia? His father? He waited, holding his breath.
His relief when he saw the small group of figures emerge from the trees, carrying between them what looked like a stretcher, was enormous. ‘It’s Kate and Paddy,’ he called, trying to keep his voice steady. He limped to the door and, fighting the bolts, he pulled it open. The blast of cold air carried the sweet, clean smell of melt water before it, as the soaked, exhausted figures staggered across the lawn. He did not question who the two unknown men were as they trooped in; enough that they were all safe.
He stared down at his sister’s face and he grew cold, his relief stillborn.
‘What happened, Kate?’ He looked up and met her eyes.
‘We found her at the grave again,’ she said wearily. ‘Marcus had her.’ She flung herself down on the sofa beside Anne who had collapsed there as soon as she walked in. It was only then that she saw Susie lying in front of the fire. ‘Oh no?’ Her plea turned to a sob.
‘They’ll be all right.’ Diana was cradling Alison’s head against her breast, kneeling beside the stretcher where Pete and Jon had lowered it to the floor. Behind them Paddy bolted the front door again and then subsided where he was onto the mat, sliding down to sit with his back against the wall, staring into space. He had reached the limits of his endurance.
Blowing on his freezing fingers Jon went quietly over to stand behind Kate and put his hands on her shoulders. It was a reassuring gesture and she leaned back, grateful for his strength. Raising her eyes wearily she found Greg staring at her. His white face was stiff with shock.
‘This is Jon Bevan, Greg,’ she said slowly, beginning to grapple with the zip on her wet jacket. ‘He and Pete came to look for us. They went straight to the cottage. They found Allie.’
‘Jon Bevan?’ Claudia, Marcus, even his father were forgotten as Greg, oblivious suddenly of everyone else in the room, focussed his attention on Jon’s face. ‘The poet?’
‘That’s right.’ Jon stepped round the sofa and held out his hand.
Greg stared at it. He did not make any attempt to take it. ‘So, you’ve come to play ghostbusters with us, have you?’ he said coldly. ‘And what are your qualifications for sending Marcus Severus Secundus back to the hell he surely came from?’
Jon lowered his hand. Slowly he began to peel off his sodden jacket. ‘Perhaps a poet can communicate with the dead; I’m sure he can do it at least as well as a painter,’ he replied stiffly. ‘We are supposed to speak a universal language which transcends the ages.’
‘I thought you and Kate were finished,’ Greg pressed. He was shaken by the sudden arrival of this man whom he had thought long gone from Kate’s life.
‘Greg!’ His mother interrupted, her voice sharp with anxiety. ‘Help me with Allie! Quickly!’ Alison’s head had fallen back on Diana’s arm and her eyes had rolled open.
Unnoticed by any of them the smell of tobacco in the room strengthened.
‘Christ!’ Greg helped his mother lower her to the floor. Bending low he put his ear to her mouth. ‘She’s still breathing.’ He swivelled to face Jon, his face growing hard again. ‘Well? What do we do, poet?’
Jon ignored him. He like the others, was staring down at the two girls lying near one another on the floor. Only the occasional terrified sob from Cissy punctuated the silence of the room. Diana’s eyes had filled with tears. She was drained, too tired even to speak. With Alison’s hand in hers she sat helplessly on the floor gazing at her daughter’s face.
There was a long silence. Kate looked at Jon. She had not noticed the hostility between the two men, nor the electric atmosphere as the tension between them flared, but she could feel the cold in the room which was suddenly palpable. It was swirling clammily round them. He was there. He hadn’t gone. She could feel the strength of the alien mind reaching out, the tendrils of anger and hatred threading through the air, feeding on the energy of hate.
‘NO!’
She didn’t realise she had cried out loud until she saw the others staring at her, their faces full of fear. ‘He’s looking for someone else – ’
‘Fight him. Don’t let your mind go empty. Fight him hard. Recite something. Concentrate.’ Anne caught her arm. ‘Fight him. He’s drained those two like … batteries …’ She spluttered with anger. ‘And he needs energy from somewhere else. Fight him.’ She looked round. ‘Where’s Paddy?’ Her voice sharpened with fear.
‘Oh God! Don’t let him have gone into the study! Don’t let him have found his father –’ There had been no chance to tell them Roger was dead, no way of breaking the news gently. Diana scrambled to her feet and pushing past Pete, she ran to the door. She stopped abruptly. Patrick was slumped against the wall in the passage outside.
‘Paddy! Her voice rose to a shriek. The boy opened his eyes. ‘Paddy. Are you all right?’ Flinging herself down beside him she hugged him tightly.
He nodded vaguely. ‘Tired.’ He could barely speak.
‘Tired and very brave.’ Jon had followed her out. He extended a hand to the boy. ‘He’s OK.’ You could tell from the eyes. Alison’s blank stare did not compare with this blurred, sleepy moment of disorientation. ‘Come on, old chap. Stand up and come to the fire.’ He smiled at Diana. ‘He’s OK. I’m sure he’s OK. Just exhausted.’
Diana nodded. Behind the door in the study Roger lay, cold, on the camp bed. She had to tell Patrick that his father had died. She had to tell the others. Tears filled her eyes but she said nothing as Jon helped Paddy through to the fire and lowered him into a chair. Now was not the moment. She couldn’t face even talking about it. Not yet.
They all stood huddled together, looking round. A spatter of rain hit the window. From the icicle above the porch a steady chain of drips began to fall onto the step. Inside, the temperature was still dropping. They stared at one another.
Anne frowned. ‘He’s still here. Looking for energy,’ she whispered. ‘I can feel him.’ She shuddered. ‘My God, I’ve never felt anything like this before.’ She stared round at the frightened faces. ‘Concentrate. Fill your minds with something. Think hard. Recite poetry. Anything. Don’t let him in. Recite! All of you together. Now. Something you all know. Quickly.’
For a moment the room was totally silent. Then Diana, her daughter’s hand clutched in her own, began slowly to intone the words of a nursery rhyme. ‘The owl and the pussy cat went to sea, in a beautiful pea green boat …’
With a shaky smile Cissy joined her and after a minute Pete joined in. ‘They took some honey and plenty of money wrapped up in a five pound note …’
Was it their imagination or was the room growing less cold?
‘Go on. It’s working,’ Anne whispered.
‘Again. Again. Another.’ Diana had screwed up her eyes as if she were praying. ‘Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the king’s horses and – ’
They all felt the sudden easing of tension in the room.
‘He’s gone.’ Greg’s whisper cut them short.
There was a moment’s silence.
As swiftly as it had come the cold prowling menace had left, and with it the strange, sudden, enigmatic smell of Roger’s tobacco.
For the time being the encircling shadows were empty.
LXXI
The police Land Rover slid and bucked down the track with Joe in the front between the two uniformed constables. Behind them Doctor Jamieson clung on for grim death to the back of the seats as they skidded through the increasingly wet slush. ‘Not far now.’ Joe peered through the windscreen. ‘Down through those trees and we’re
there.
A gust of wind rocked the car sideways and the driver swore as he fought to keep it on the track. In front of them the radio crackled and spat with interference. The younger constable, Bob Garth, grinned at him, his face grey with fatigue. He had already been on duty for forty-eight hours. ‘You reckon your ghost will be waiting for us then, do you?’
Joe had told them the whole story as far as he knew it. It was greeted with solemn interest by the two policemen. The doctor, an old friend of the Farnboroughs’, was more forthcoming. ‘If I didn’t know you better, Joe, I’d tell them to breathalyse you. I’ve never heard such a load of bollocks. You’ve all been letting the solitude get to you.’
‘I’ve heard stories about Redall Bay before,’ Bob Garth put in. ‘A lot of the locals reckon it’s haunted. If not by the Black Dog then by a whole range of sinister things. You won’t catch them going down on the marsh or the beach in the dark. When I was up here the other night I reckoned it felt strange. There was something very funny about all that business at the cottage.’
‘The ghosts the locals are afraid of were invented by the smugglers to keep the revenue men away,’ the man at the wheel put in. Mat Larkin had lived nearby all his life. ‘You don’t want to believe a word you hear about them.’
‘I suppose not.’ Joe did not sound too sure. He too was local born and bred.
‘Nearly there now.’ Mat swung the Land Rover expertly round a slippery bend. The wheels skidded in the wet slush, throwing muddy white spray across the bushes.
‘Looks peaceful enough now.’ All four men peered through the windscreen at the farmhouse as they drew up outside. Climbing out, both Joe and the doctor instinctively hung back allowing the two policemen to go first. A face at the window showed them that they had been seen. Seconds later the front door opened.
‘Come in. Quickly. For God’s sake, look! He’s tried to take Susie too!’ Cissy, near hysteria, grabbed the doctor’s arm.
Joe stood looking down, paralysed with fear as Hal Jamieson knelt and felt the girl’s pulse. He pulled up her eyelid and peered at her eye and then laid his hand on her forehead. ‘She’s asleep,’ he commented tersely. ‘Heavily asleep.’ He turned to Alison and frowned. His examination this time took longer. He glanced at Diana. ‘Her temperature is low and her pulse is weak. She’s suffering from exhaustion. They should both be in hospital – Good God! What was that?’