Midnight is a Lonely Place

XXVI

Defiantly leaving his car in a parking space reserved for the disabled right next to the castle gates Greg strode towards the entrance. He glanced at the sky. Snow and sleet showers, they had forecast, turning to unseasonably heavy snow later. That probably meant sleet out at Redall Bay, but you never knew. Sometimes it settled. Whatever happened it would be worse in Colchester. It always seemed to snow heavily there.

It was a long time since he had been in the museum. He stared round, confused. The huge hall with its peripheral exhibits had vanished. Instead it was sectioned, partitioned, intimate, the lighting low and seductive and from some distant corner he could hear the tinny insistent blare of videoed commentary. He frowned. Why couldn’t the buggers leave things alone? He could have found his way to Marcus blindfold before. Now, God knows where he was.

He was upstairs, near yet more video crap. With an impatient glare at the booth from which sounds of massacre were emerging, Greg stood in front of the statue and stared long and hard at its face. Then he, as Kate had done, moved to the exhibit and looked down at the man’s skeleton. She had been right. It was not Marcus himself who was buried at Redall. So who was it? His eyes strayed to the other remains. Smaller, though not significantly so; Marcus’s wife had strong, well-formed bones. His art school study of the skeletal form had been fairly rudimentary, but it was thorough enough for him to give an educated guess that she had been young when she died. How, he wondered. Illness? Injury? Childbirth? He glanced at the inscription. There was no clue there, no notes beyond the bare minimum. He stared down at what was left of Marcus’s skull. Was his story written there, in the imprint of his bones? His loves, his hates, his triumphs, his disasters? He brought up his hands and rested them against the cold glass of the display case. ‘Come on, you bastard, cough.’ He hadn’t realised he had spoken out loud until he saw a woman near him turn and stare. She caught his eye and hurriedly turned away. He grinned absent-mindedly but already his attention was back on Marcus. Rich, successful Marcus who had made good after the Boudiccan defeat; who had returned to Colchester and to Redall and bought land, probably when prices were rock bottom, like today – he grimaced – was that how it had been? Or had he just helped himself to some property he fancied and marched in? Had Redall’s former owner died in the rebellion, leaving his lands wasted and deserted, or did he sell at a profit? He leaned closer to the glass, resting his forehead against it and closed his eyes.

HATE

ANGER

FEAR

FURY

The emotions sweeping through him obliterated every other thought in his head. They swirled round him, shimmering with colour: Red! Black! A vicious violent orange! He was spitting, shouting, tearing at the air, aware in some distant part of himself that there was foam at the corners of his mouth, hearing howls of anguish in his ears and realising they were his own.

Then, as suddenly as they had come, the noise and the colour and the pain were gone and he was conscious of a sudden total silence around him.

Christ, had that been him? Had he really screamed out loud, or had it all been inside his head? The tape in the booth had reached its end and was silent for a few minutes before it marshalled itself for yet another enactment of the conversation between two Romans as the hordes closed in. The hall echoed with silence and cold.

The quick, anxious tap of heels on the floor did not intrude on his shock and terror until he felt a timid hand on his arm. ‘Are you all right? Would you like me to fetch someone?’ The woman who had been watching him was staring anxiously into his face. ‘I saw you staggering about. I thought perhaps -’ She faltered as he stared at her, blankly. ‘I don’t know, but I wondered if you were epileptic or something…?’ Her anxiety petered out and she blushed crimson. ‘I’m so sorry.’

He gazed at her vaguely. ‘I’m all right. Thanks. It must be the heat in here.’ He stared round, confused. The hall was cold. Very, very cold.

Slowly she was backing away. She would hurry as soon as she was out of sight and run downstairs and perhaps send up one of the attendants. Well, when they came, whoever they were, they would find that he wasn’t pissed. In fact he had never been more sober.

He reached out a hand towards the glass case and then withdrew it quickly as though it had stung him. Whatever had attacked him, overwhelming him with its vile emotions, had come from behind that glass.