Midnight is a Lonely Place

XXV

Kate had slept in the end, too exhausted to do anything else, but she too had awoken at six to the sound of rain against the windows. It was steady rain this time, hard and unrelenting and behind the sound of it she could hear the wind.

She didn’t want to get up. There was something frightening downstairs, something which when daylight came she would have to confront, but until then she was going to stay where she was, safely tucked up in her bed with the lights on. Wearily she reached for her book and lay back huddled against the pillows.

When she dragged herself out of bed an hour later and pulled back the curtains all she could see was blackness, alleviated only by the streaks of rain sliding down the glass. But she couldn’t go back to bed. She was too conscious of the silence outside her door.

Pulling on a pair of jeans and a thick sweater she went out onto the landing and peered down. All seemed as usual down there. She stood for several seconds, then taking a deep breath she ran down and flung open the living room door. The room was empty. The woodburner still glowed quietly. All was as it should be. Lights burned in every room – God knows what her electricity bill would be when she left – but all was quiet. There were no strange smells, no figures lurking in the shadows.

Her face doused in cold water and a mug of strong coffee at her elbow she poured some muesli into a bowl and reached into the fridge for some milk. She was a first class prize idiot with a powerful five-star imagination – how else could she be a successful writer – and a bad dose of nervous collywobbles. All she needed was food, coffee – both being attended to – and then a bracing walk in the rain to clear her head. Then in the cold light of day, probably with more coffee, she would switch on the computer again and get back to young George and his mother.

The knock on the front door took her completely by surprise. Greg stood outside, his collar pulled up around his ears, rain pouring off his Barbour jacket. His hands were firmly pushed into his pockets.

‘You see. No key. I had to knock,’ he said grimly. The wind snatched the words from his lips and whirled them away with the rain. ‘May I come in, or am I too dangerous to allow over the threshold?’

‘Of course you can come in!’ Kate stood back to let him pass and then forced the door closed behind him. ‘Why the sarcasm?’

‘The sarcasm, as you call it, was perhaps engendered by two hours of questioning by the police last night who seem under the impression that you still think I robbed the cottage.’ He pulled off his jacket and hanging it on the knob at the bottom of the bannisters, shook himself like a dog. ‘I just thought I would come and thank you in person for your vote of confidence and, incidentally, collect one or two of my things which I would rather not leave here any longer.’

Kate could feel her antagonism rising to match his. ‘I assure you, I didn’t tell the police it was you. If they thought so they must have got the idea somewhere else,’ she said furiously. ‘And I must say, I wonder if they aren’t right. It seems the sort of half-baked stupid thing you would do to try and get me out. That was the idea, I take it? To get me out.’

‘It would be wonderful to get you out.’ He folded his arms. ‘As it happens, I think the wind and the weather will do it for me. Now, if you don’t mind, I should like to collect my property and then I shall leave you to your triumph behind your locked doors.’

‘What property exactly have you left behind?’ They were facing each other in the hall like a couple of cats squaring up for a fight. ‘It seems to me you cleared everything out on Wednesday night.’

‘The torn paintings, yes. There are two more here. On the walls.’ He strode past her into the living room. There in the corner, hanging near the window, was a small portrait sketch of a woman. Kate had hardly noticed it. He took it down and laid it on the table. ‘There is another upstairs. If you will permit me.’ Still unsmiling, he turned away and ran up the stairs two at a time.

Kate shrugged. How petty could you get! In spite of herself she walked across to the picture and looked down at it. It was the woman whose portrait she had seen over and over again in the study at Redall Farmhouse, but in this version her figure was full length, her garment clearly drawn.

He had come back into the room again in time to hear her gasp. ‘What is it?’

She looked up at him, her face white. ‘You’ve seen her. You’ve see her here.’ She was accusing, taut with shock.

‘Who?’ In his hand he held the small picture of the bluebells which had been hanging in her bedroom. She glanced at it regretfully. It was so unlike his usual style. She had really rather liked that one.

‘The woman in the picture. I saw her. Last night.’

He frowned. ‘You can’t have. I made her up. She came out of my head. She’s a pastiche of styles – something I was doing for fun. A doodle.’ A doodle of a face which had come without his bidding and which had tormented him.

‘A doodle of so much importance that you can’t leave her here with me.’ Kate spoke so softly he had to strain to hear.

‘That’s right,’ he said. His voice was aggressive. ‘What do you mean you saw her last night? You had a visitor, did you? Are you sure she wasn’t a burglar or a vandal?’

‘She was a ghost.’

She said it so flatly that he wasn’t sure he had heard her correctly. For a moment he stared at her. He was the one who was supposed to be doing the frightening; the one who had decided to use ghosts to scare her away, and yet, with that one small sentence she had sent a shiver down his spine, a shiver which had raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

A moment later he shook his head. She was trying to play him at his own game. Fine, if that was the way she wanted it. ‘Where did you see her?’

‘There. Almost where you are standing. Your sketch is monochrome, but her dress was blue, like the other pictures you’ve done of her, the ribbons and combs in her hair were black.’

Greg had to fight very hard the urge to move to another part of the room. ‘Supposing I admit that I have seen her.’ In his dreams; in his head; even in his heart. ‘Doesn’t it frighten you, sharing the house with a ghost?’

For a moment she paused, as if she were considering. She looked him in the eye. ‘I suppose, if I’m honest it does, yes.’

‘But you’re going to stay, just to spite me.’

‘If you don’t mind my saying so, you have a very inflated idea of the importance you hold for me,’ she said seriously. ‘I’m staying because I came here to write a book; because this is my home for the next few months and because -’ she hadn’t meant to add this, but it came out anyway ‘- I have nowhere else to go. I can’t afford London rents at the moment.’ None of his business why.

‘So, you’re staying.’

‘So, I’m staying.’ She glanced at the painting under his arm. ‘I’m sorry you’re taking that. I liked it.’ The remark was a concession.

He did not rise to it. It was a trifle, a pretty sketch of which he was not proud. ‘I am sure you can buy yourself a print if you need bluebells on your walls.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘I don’t think I’ll bother,’ she said dryly. ‘Now, if there is nothing else, I would like to get back to work and I expect you have to report to a police station somewhere.’ She smiled sweetly and was rewarded with a scowl.

‘No, I am sorry to disappoint you but they did not arrest me. Nor any of my friends.’

‘I’m sure it is only a matter of time.’ She stepped past him and went towards the front door.

The wind had changed slightly and as she opened the door, rain swept into the hall, icy, harsh, cruel. She stood back and he walked out without a backward glance. By the time he had climbed up into the Land Rover she had closed the door and walked back into the kitchen.

She was thoughtful. Every shred of intuition told her that he was not lying; that the break-in had had nothing to do with him. But the picture? What did the picture of the woman mean?

She waited until he was safely out of sight before donning her weatherproof jacket and her scarf. Her enthusiasm had gone but she was determined to go out anyway, to clear her head, to get rid of the terrible throbbing behind her temples and, dragging her mind back to the book, to straighten out her thoughts about the next chapter. Somehow she had to rid herself of the images of the last few days. The cottage had ceased to be an impersonal place to work and think. It had become tied up with personalities: with Greg and Alison; with Roger and Diana – and, God help her, with Marcus and the lady in a blue gown.

The grass clung wetly to her legs above her boots, soaking her trousers. Then she was on the short turf and then the sand. The tide was on the ebb, but the angry white-topped waves still lashed the beach, sucking at the stranded weed, filling the air with the sharp, cold smell of far-off ice.

Turning her back doggedly on the dig Kate walked into the wind, her hands pushed firmly to the bottom of her pockets. The cold was so fierce it stung her face, it hurt to breathe. She clamped her lips tight across her teeth and, head down, walked firmly forward, scarcely aware of the beauty of the sea beyond the beach where the air was crystalline, the colour of mother-of-pearl, and the heaving mass of water had the solid shine of polished pewter. Somewhere nearby a gull screamed. She looked up and saw it weaving and circling effortlessly on the wind, part of the fearsome force of it.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods

There is a rapture on the lonely shore,

There is a society, where none intrudes,

By the deep sea and music in its roar…

It was elemental; wonderful. As always, Byron had the words to convey the power of the scene; if only she in her turn could bring his images into her book…

The sand whirled around her feet in eddies, loosened by the sleet. Ahead she could see the body of another gull, one which had lost the battle with the elements, lying wet and bedraggled on a patch of wet shingle. A tangle of weed lay near it, and it was not until she was close, staring down sadly as she compared it with the beautiful wild beauty of its colleague above her head that she saw the cruel pull of nylon fishing line around its legs. Overwhelmed by anger at the thoughtless, careless arrogance of man she stooped to touch the mottled grey brown feathers. It wasn’t even an adult bird. This must have been its first winter, its first joyous tussle with the elements. The bird’s body was cold and hard, the feathers clamped scalelike against its body. Shivering, she straightened and walked on.

She did not walk for very long. The opaque mist on the horizon was drawing closer; the wind strengthening. She could see a faint shadowing across the waves which was a shower of hail sweeping down the coast and towards Redall Bay. Turning, she walked briskly back, more comfortable now that the wind was behind her.

She had not intended to walk as far as the grave, but somehow she could not resist it. One glance, to see if it were still there. Each tide now was a threat. Each storm, each wind.

Her shoes sliding on the side of the dune she was nearly there when the first shower of hail hit her. Sharp, biting, the ice cut her hands and face, tearing at her scarf as she scrambled the last few feet and stood looking down into the hollow below the exposed face of the dune to find that she was not the first person there. Alison was kneeling on the sand, her hands ungloved, hanging at her sides, her eyes fixed on the exposed face of the working. One glance at the trail of wet weed and shells showed Kate that the early morning tide had come nowhere near the edge of the excavation this time. It was still safe.

She hesitated, unsure whether to creep away, not wanting to intrude and risk a mouthful of abuse. The girl was unmoving. Kate frowned. She took a step closer. There was no sign of any spades or trowels, no ghetto blaster, no tools of any kind. Still Alison had not moved. Her hair whipped wildly around her head; her jacket flapped, unzipped, around her body.

‘Alison?’ she called, uneasily. She paused, waiting for the girl to turn and swear at her for intruding upon her private thoughts, but Alison didn’t stir.

‘Alison!’ she called again, more sharply this time, and she began sliding down the side of the hollow. ‘Alison? Are you all right?’

Alison gave no sign that she had heard. She was staring at the sand and peat face of the dune.

‘Alison?’ Her voice rising in alarm Kate put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. ‘Alison, can you hear me?’ She shook her gently. The girl’s body was rigid and cold beneath the flapping parka, clad, beneath it, in only a tee shirt and thin sweater. ‘Alison, what’s the matter?’

Behind them another shower of hail swept in from the sea. The hailstones rattled against the wiry grass, shushing into the sand, battering their faces. To Kate’s horror she saw that Alison neither blinked nor moved as the hail hurled itself against her face and slid down her cheeks. ‘Oh God!’ She glanced round wildly, half hoping that there would be someone else around, someone who could help, but knowing already that there was no one on the beach at all. ‘Alison, you must listen to me!’ She grabbed the girl’s hand which was ice-cold and began to chafe it vigorously. ‘Alison, you’ve got to stand up. Come on. You can’t stay here. You’ll catch pneumonia. Come on. Stand up.’

Alison gave no sign of hearing her. She stayed totally rigid except for the hand which Kate was tugging which was limp and cold as death.

Kate stared round, her hair tangling across her eyes, her own face ice-cold with sleet. In only a few moments the sea had changed from pewter to the colour of black ink; opaque, thick, sinister in its uneasy movement. Far out there was no distinction now between sky and water. All were black and threatening.

‘Alison, come on. The weather is getting worse.’

Dropping the girl’s hand Kate moved in front of her. Alison’s face was frozen into immobility, the eyes staring straight ahead, not reacting when Kate brought her hand sharply towards them. ‘Right.’ Kate spoke with some force. ‘I’m sorry to have to do this.’ She pulled back her hand and gave Alison a sharp slap. The girl did not react. She did not even blink. Behind them another curtain of hail raced across the sea, embedding itself in the sand, turning the beach a glittering white.

Kate stared at her in despair, then dragging off her own jacket, she pulled it roughly around Alison’s shoulders. Without the padded, fleece-lined protection, the cold enveloped her like a curtain, wrapping itself around her, embedding itself in her lungs, clawing at her bones, but she ignored it. She pulled Alison’s arm around her neck and heaved at her, trying vainly to raise her off her knees. ‘Stand up, blast you. Stand up,’ she cried through gritted teeth. ‘You’ve got to move, Alison, or you’re going to die of cold.’ She struggled desperately against the dead weight of the girl. Alison was barely two inches shorter than she was, and although not plump she was solidly built. Nothing Kate could do seemed to shift her from her knees.

‘Please.’ Stopping her futile effort Kate stood back, wiping the streaming sleet from her face, feeling the ice soaking through her own sweater. ‘Please, Allie, you must try. Stand up. I’ll help you. Then we’ll go to the cottage. It’s warm there. Warm and safe.’ In spite of herself she glanced at the streaming sand around them. Just at this moment she was not prepared to think what could have sent Alison into this state. She did not dare.

Taking a deep breath she pulled the girl’s arm around her shoulder once more, and putting her own around Alison’s waist, she heaved at her, rocking her sideways slightly to try and gain some momentum. As though sensing the movement for the first time, Alison stirred. ‘That’s it. Help me. Try and stand up.’ Kate was elated. Taking another deep breath she renewed her efforts with the last of her strength and this time Alison tried feebly to scramble up. ‘Good. And another step. Good girl.’ Kate pushed her frantically, terrified she would fall again as, unsteadily, Alison rose to her feet, leaning heavily against her. ‘Good, that’s it. Now, we’ve got to get you out of here. One step at a time. Steady. That’s it.’ Sweat was pouring off her face in spite of the icy downpour as, somehow, Kate half guided half pushed Alison up the bank and onto the beach. Still the girl’s eyes hadn’t moved; still she did not appear to register anything going on around her, but she was stumbling forward, guided by Kate’s desperate tight grip around her waist, hanging from Kate’s shoulders like a giant rag doll.

Twice they had to stop while Kate fought to regain her breath but slowly they drew nearer to the cottage. Somehow Kate managed to prop the girl up against the wall as she groped for her new, shiny keys then at last the door was open and they were inside out of the hail. Slamming the door closed with her foot, Kate half carried, half dragged Alison into the living room and unceremoniously tipped her onto the sofa. Gasping as she tried to regain her own breath she ran upstairs to her bedroom and dragged a blanket off her bed. Gathering up her dressing gown on her way out of the room she ran downstairs again. Alison lay where she had left her, half on the sofa, her legs still trailing across the floor.

‘Right, let’s get you out of those wet clothes.’ Awkwardly Kate bundled the girl back against the cushions and began to pull off the soaking sweater and tee shirt. Then the slip of cotton which was her bra. Somehow she forced the cold unbending limbs into her towelling dressing gown, trying to rub some warmth into the wet slippery skin which reminded her horribly of the feathers of the dead gull. She pulled off the girl’s boots and then her jeans and socks, and somehow lifting her legs onto the sofa, tucked her up in the blanket, making a cocoon out of which the girl’s head, with its straggly wet hair, poked like the head of a startled doll.

‘Phone.’ Aware that her own teeth were chattering Kate turned towards the kitchen. Shaking, she waited for the number to connect her to Redall Farmhouse. It was only as she tried for the second time that she realised that there was no dialling tone. The line was not dead – she could hear it alive, hissing slightly, resonating as though there were someone at the other end. But the number made no impression on the echoing silence. ‘Oh, no. Please.’ It was a sob of desperation. She took a deep breath and punched nine nine nine. The line remained silent, expectant, as though someone at the other end were listening as desperately as she was. ‘Hello?’ She shook the receiver. ‘Hello, can you hear me? Is someone there?’ But no one answered. A fresh wave of ice hit the kitchen window. Slowly she hung up. She had never felt more alone.

She went back to the living room and stood looking down at Alison. The girl’s face was unchanged, her muscles somehow frozen in the same look of astonished terror. She was not blinking. Her pupils did not appear to be reacting to the dim light of the sitting room. They were still pinpoint small, staring. Reaching into the blankets Kate felt her hand. Was it marginally warmer? She thought so. What was one supposed to do with cases of hypothermia? No alcohol. Wasn’t that what they said? Hot water bottles. She had no hot water bottle and she was pretty sure that she would have seen one if there was one in the house. Somehow she did not think it was something that Greg, or even his parents would consider a necessity. So, what else could she use? A hot brick. Wasn’t that what people used in the old days? A hot brick wrapped in flannel. She gave a grim smile. There was neither brick nor flannel in the cottage that she had seen. Then she remembered the stones outside, edging what had once been the drive. Large smooth stones, pebble shaped, perhaps off the beach. One of those would do, surely, wrapped in a towel. She turned and ran back to the front door. Pulling it open she stared out at the storm. The clear morning had turned into a vicious darkness lashed by squalls of hail and sleet which tore at her clothes, reminding her that she, too, was chilled to the marrow and wet through. She dived out and heaved at one of the stones. About ten inches long and shaped like a pillow, for a moment she thought it was stuck fast. Then it came up out of the icy ground with a small sucking noise and she carried it back inside, staggering under its surprising weight. She laid it gently on top of the woodburner, and opening the doors, stacked in some more logs. ‘Not long, now,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I’m getting something to warm your feet. Would you like a hot drink?’ She glanced round at the girl. ‘You’re safe now, Allie. Come on. Try and wake up.’ Sitting down on the edge of the sofa she put her hand on Alison’s shoulder. The girl flinched. The movement was so sudden and so violent that Kate jumped. She frowned. ‘You’re safe, Allie,’ she repeated gently. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’ She found herself looking towards the window. Outside, beyond the streaming sleet as it slid down the glass, she could see nothing. What had happened out there in the dune? She wished fervently that Greg was still around. Or that he would remember something and come hurtling back in his Land Rover. Perhaps she should try the phone again.

As she stood up Alison grabbed her wrist. Kate gave a little cry of fright. The girl was staring at her now, her eyes suddenly fully focussed in her white face. ‘Don’t leave me.’ Her voice was hoarse, barely audible.

Kate breathed a sigh of relief. ‘You’re all right. You’re safe.’

‘No.’ Alison shook her head. The movement seemed to hurt her and she flopped back, her eyes closed for a second. Kate frowned. She was relieved that the awful horrified stare had gone, but the monosyllabic answer had chilled her. ‘Why are you not safe?’ she asked softly. ‘What happened? Do you want to tell me?’

For a moment she thought Alison had not heard her but slowly the girl’s eyes opened. ‘They’re free,’ she whispered. Her fingers clutched with surprising strength at Kate’s hand. They were still ice-cold. ‘I’ve released them.’ Her words were slurred, as though she were slightly drunk. ‘They’ve been waiting. Claudia. Claudia wants her revenge.’

‘Claudia?’ Kate stared down at the white, pinched face, puzzled. ‘Who is Claudia?’

Alison smiled shakily, but her voice when it came out was surprisingly strong. ‘Claudia is a whore; a traitor. She’s an animal. She deserved to die.’

Kate stared at her in horror. ‘Alison, do you know where you are?’

The green eyes opened. They roamed the room unsteadily then they focussed on Kate. For a moment the girl said nothing, then abruptly she burst into tears.

‘Oh, Allie, love, don’t. I told you, you’re safe.’ Kate was astonished at the strength of the wave of compassion which swept through her. Leaning forward she put her arms around Alison and held her close. The girl suddenly seemed as frail as a bird, every bone sticking out beneath the warmth of the dressing gown, her body still radiating a terrible chill. ‘Listen, let me go upstairs to fetch a towel. I’ve heated a stone up for you. I can put it near your feet to warm you up once I’ve wrapped it.’ Glancing at the stove Kate began to rise.

‘No!’ Alison clutched at her again. ‘Don’t leave me.’

Kate subsided onto the sofa beside her again. ‘There is nothing here to frighten you, Alison,’ she repeated gently. ‘You’re safe.’

As though to emphasise her words an extra loud gust of wind shook the cottage. A puff of smoke blew out of the open stove into the room, bringing with it the pungent aroma of burning oak and apple. Kate glanced at the window, wondering for a moment if it would hold against the force of the storm. Something moving on the sill caught her eye. Water. There was water on the sill. The window was leaking. She moved slightly, without letting go of Alison’s hand and craned sideways to see better. Sure enough, a puddle had formed on the wood. She stared. Floating in the puddle were bits of leaf and soil and there, wriggling around the edge were several maggots.

For a moment she thought she was going to be sick.

‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Her voice rising shrilly in panic Alison clutched at her harder. ‘What have you seen?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’ Wincing at the pain of the girl’s clawed fingers Kate tried to free herself. ‘Some rain leaking in, that’s all. It’s hardly surprising, the wind’s so strong.’ Somehow she forced herself to sound calm. ‘Listen, I must go and get something to mop it up. I’ll stick a towel on the sill. There must be a leak in the window frame. Then why don’t I make us a hot drink. I’m sure you’d like something, wouldn’t you?’ How she kept her voice steady, she didn’t know. Firmly she tried to unfasten Alison’s fingers. She was like a child, clutching desperately at her mother’s skirt. The moment Kate managed to dislodge one hand the other grabbed at her again. ‘Allie, there’s nothing to be frightened of,’ she repeated.

Allie nodded frantically. ‘There is. There is, don’t you understand? Claudia is free. Claudia and…’ she hesitated, frowning, her head suddenly cocked to one side as though trying to hear something from far off, in another room. ‘Claudia and… and… Claudia and…’ Her voice was fading. A look of puzzlement appeared on her face. ‘What was I saying?’

‘Nothing, Allie. Nothing at all.’ Kate forced her voice to a calmness she did not feel. The child was hallucinating. Was that a symptom of hypothermia? She did not know. The vagueness, the fear, were they all part of it? Oh God, they needed a doctor. ‘Allie, I want to go and ring your mother. You’ll be quite safe here. I’ll only be in the kitchen. Look if I leave both doors open you’ll be able to see me all the time – ’

‘No!’ Alison’s voice slid up into a scream. The sound made Kate’s skin crawl.

Alison was fighting with the blankets. ‘I’ll come with you. I don’t like it here. That window. She is going to come through that window.’ She flung out her arm. Kate looked where she was pointing. There was more earth in the puddle now. Earth and peat and – she could feel the bile rising in her throat as she saw a movement at the edge of her vision.

Suddenly her mind was made up. ‘OK. Let’s go into the kitchen. Come on. I’ll help you. We’ll make a hot drink and I’ll try and phone.’

Please let it work. Please God, let the phone work.

Her arm around Alison, she helped the girl shuffle through to the kitchen and sat her, still cocooned in the blanket, on a stool.

Quietly, she closed the door and turned the key, then, her hand shaking with fear, she picked up the phone.

The line was still dead.