Midnight is a Lonely Place

XXXII

Greg found Allie in the kitchen next morning. She was sitting at the table, still wearing her dressing gown. Her face was pale and strained. He sat down opposite her and reached for the coffee pot. ‘How are you feeling, prat?’ he asked.

She glared at him. ‘Awful.’

‘Did Ma say you ought to see the doctor?’

‘No. She thinks I’m all right. Just tired.’

‘Didn’t you sleep?’

‘What do you think.’ She put her arms on the table and rested her head on them.

‘We are going to ring Joe today and ask him to bring a tractor up to flatten the dune,’ he said gently. ‘Dad agrees that that would be best. It’s only a matter of days anyway before the sea takes the whole lot away.’

‘You can’t.’ She stared up at him aghast, her fair hair flopping across her eyes. ‘You can’t do that. It’s an archaeological site. You won’t be allowed to.’

‘No one is going to know. I’m sorry, Allie, but my mind is made up. There are things there which are best left untouched. If you think about it you’ll agree.’

‘No!’ She jumped up, scraping the chair legs across the stone slabs. ‘No. I won’t let you! You can’t. You mustn’t!’

‘Allie – ’

‘No.’ Her voice had risen to a shriek. ‘Don’t you see. People have got to know. They must know the truth!’

‘The truth about what?’ He frowned.

‘The truth about -’ She shrugged, subsiding once more. ‘The truth about what is in the grave. The truth about what happened there. The truth about -’ She stopped dead. It was as though the name on her lips had been snatched from her. ‘The truth about whose grave it is,’ she improvised. ‘You must not touch it. No way. If you even think about ringing Joe I shall phone the museum and tell them. They will put a preservation order or something on it.’

‘What on earth do you know about preservation orders?’ Greg asked. He could feel his anger rising. He had been a fool to tell her. He should have rung Joe and they could have gone ahead with it without telling her. After the event it would be too late to stop it.

‘I don’t know anything about them, but I know you can get them. You can get them to stop farmers ploughing up their fields when there are special things on them.’

‘Well, there is nothing special about this. A few old bits of pottery and stuff in a dune on the edge of the sea. Big deal. It’s better forgotten.’

‘No.’ Her eyes narrowed. She looked like Serendipity when he had a mouse or a bird and he thought someone was going to try to take it from him. ‘No. You are not to touch it. The truth has to come out.’

Greg stood up, picked up his cup of coffee and found the cup was rattling on its saucer. ‘Please yourself.’ He wandered through towards the sofa and sat down next to the cats who were ensconced firmly in a manner which denoted profound rejection of an outside world where the sleet slanted out of a slate sky and the wind knifed round corners and through unresisting flesh. He felt extraordinarily upset. Adrenalin flooded through his body; he felt a dry sickness in his throat. His hands, clenched around the cup were shaking slightly and he was angrier than he had ever been. He took a deep breath trying to steady his breathing. What on earth was the matter with him? He didn’t care one way or the other about the damn grave and being tactically defeated by Alison was no big deal. She did it all the time and mostly he tolerated it. He took a swig of the coffee and leaned back, closing his eyes.

Behind him she was still sitting at the table. She sniffed, surreptitiously wiping the back of her hand across her eyes. Her head was throbbing and her face felt puffy from lack of sleep. There was still something she had to do but she could not remember what it was. She stared at the window wearily as a gust of wind threw more hail at the glass. The kitchen was cold. She glanced at the Aga. It was lit. The kettle on the hot plate was steaming gently, so why was it she could not stop shivering? Standing up shakily she went to where her brother was sitting and perched on the arm of the sofa. ‘I’m going to ring the archaeological people.’

He glanced up at her. ‘You’re a fool. They won’t want to know. Anyway, what the hell could they do in this weather?’ As if to reinforce his remark another gust of wind shook the house. The fire flared up. Several sparks shot out onto the hearthrug. Automatically Alison got up and stood on them one by one. ‘They will want to know.’

‘They will not want to know. Anyway, by the time they get here there will be nothing to see. I expect the sea will have done all the excavating for you.’ He drained his cup, watching as she tramped methodically over the carpet to make sure she had extinguished the last spark. She turned towards the door.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To phone.’

‘Now?’ He sat up.

‘Yes, now.’

‘Allie, you mustn’t.’

‘Why not?’ She swung round to face him, her hair hanging in curtains across her face. ‘Just why are you so against it?’

‘Because I think it will only cause more trouble.’

‘What kind of trouble?’ She raised her chin slightly in the defiance which was more natural to her than this haggard exhaustion.

He stood up. ‘Leave it alone, Allie. Please. Look let’s wait at least until Monday. With the weather like this they won’t be able to get here anyway. Even better, leave it until the spring. Then they can come and see if it’s still here.’

‘That’s the whole point.’ She stamped her foot. ‘Don’t you see? They must get to it before it is washed away. They have to find out who is buried there, and why.’

‘No.’ His face had closed, his voice was harsh. ‘No. No one must ever find out.’

‘Why on earth not?’ She stared at him in astonishment and was frightened to see the implacable rage in her brother’s face. ‘Greg, what is it? I don’t understand.’ His eyes were hard, the pupils contracted to tiny pinpoints although the light in the room was low. Behind him the two cats leaped from the sofa of one accord and vanished behind the Aga.

‘Greg?’ Her voice was pleading. ‘What is it? You’re frightening me.’

For a moment he went on staring at her, as though his hatred of her were too great to contain, then visibly he seemed to shake himself free of whatever strange emotion had gripped him. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong. I don’t give a screw what you do about your stupid grave, Allie. Do what you like.’

He was shaken. It had happened again, the strange feeling that there was some kind of alien being inside his head, battering at his skull – an alien with terrible, raging emotions. Leaning back against the cushion with a groan he put his hand over his eyes.

With a nervous glance at him Alison escaped thankfully into her father’s study. The telephone books were piled on the floor by his desk. She pulled up the swivelling chair and sat down, reaching for the local directory. All round her her brother’s paintings were stacked against the walls, and on the easel. The room smelt strange, its own comfortable familiar smell eclipsed by oil and turpentine and wonderful arcane scents of varnish and paint and linseed. She flipped open the book and began to look for the number under Archaeology. There was nothing there. She tried again under Colchester. It was several moments before she found it. Holding her finger under the number she reached for the phone, aware that Greg had come into the room and was standing in the doorway watching her.

Her fingers tightened on the receiver. Ignoring him she began to dial. She listened for several minutes, frowning, then she jiggled the rest and dialled again.

‘What is it. Is something wrong?’ Greg’s voice from the doorway was almost mocking.

‘I can’t get a dialling noise.’ She shook the receiver and tried again. ‘It sounds as if there is a crossed line. As if someone is listening on the other end.’

He smiled. ‘Perhaps they are,’ he said quietly.