Midnight is a Lonely Place

XXXVII

Standing on the shingle bank Greg shone the torch ahead of him into the sleet. All he could see were silver needles slanting across the dark; beyond, he could hear the sea above the howl of the wind. The whole world seemed insubstantial, moving. Sand. Shingle. Water. Grasses. All swayed and shifted, formless in the torchlight.

‘Allie!’ Greg yelled. His voice was puny against the roar of the elements. ‘Allie. Where are you?’ Why hadn’t they questioned her more? Why hadn’t they tried to find out why she had run out into the cold at dawn to come here by herself? Why hadn’t they asked her more about what happened? He shuddered violently. What had made her attack Bill, a man she had met dozens of times? Was it that she hadn’t recognised him, or had the attack come from someone else; the woman with her. And who was the woman? Oh Christ, let her be all right!

He moved forward, his boots slipping on the wet stones, and swept his torch around again. Nothing. There was nothing.

Shivering, he forced his way into the teeth of the wind, emerging between the dunes onto the beach and turning towards the grave. In the roaring darkness he could see the flash of breakers and hear the suck of the water as they pulled back against the wind. Beneath his feet the ground seemed to be shaking.

‘Allie!’ His fear, under control in front of Kate, was rising by the second. Fear for Allie and fear for himself. He had walked on this beach a thousand times in every weather, at midnight and in the day but never before had he found it so ball-breakingly terrifying.

His steps slowed as he approached the grave. He could feel his heart thundering beneath his ribs and he felt cold and sick. The torch was slippery in his hands as he thrust it ahead of him, seeing the beam slide waveringly towards the edge of the excavated hollow.

‘Allie?’ His voice was growing hoarse. ‘Allie? Prat! Where are you?’

It was dark in the hollow below the beam. The rushing hail and wind seemed to speed across it, leaving the gaping blackness very still.

Sliding in the wet sand he climbed to the edge and looked down, directing the beam swiftly up and down the digging. For a moment his heart stood still. A black cavern seemed to open up beneath his feet, leading down and down forever. The torch hovered for a long moment over it, then he forced it to move on and saw that it was just a trick of the light, a lie perpetrated by the shadows. There was nothing there but a slightly higher ridge in the sand, which had cast that deep impenetrable shadow. Beside it lay the usual scattering of shells and weed. The grave site was empty. He felt a rush of relief and at the same time a sharp pang of disappointment. He had half expected – hoped – to find her kneeling there, just as Kate had found her. He leaped down into the hole. The torchlight showed up every bump and indentation in the sand, but he could see no footprints, just the pitting of the rain.

Crouching down out of the wind he directed the torch at the sandface, running the beam of light along the strata. It was smooth now, wet, compacted. There was no sign that he could see of any remains. No bones. No hand reaching out from the sand, the broken fingers beckoning in supplication. He felt his body shaken by another uncontrollable shudder. Standing up he swung the torch round. Where was she? Where in the name of Christ was she?

This damn grave. If she hadn’t found it all would have been well. He aimed a vicious kick at the sand and with a sharp sense of pleasure saw a large section of the sandface break away and fall. He kicked again. It would only take a few minutes. The sand was so soft. They would think it was the sea. Behind him the tide was hurling itself ever closer across the beach. Gritting his teeth, he drew his foot back for another kick at the base of the sand cliff when he heard a sound behind him. He swung round, holding his torch out before him, like a weapon.

‘Allie!’ His voice came out as a croak. ‘Allie?’ He tried again. ‘Where are you?’

The destruction of the dune forgotten, he scrambled, slipping and stumbling back into the wind. The torch beam was growing less sharp. He shook it angrily and slapped it against his palm. His hands were ice cold and wet, his fingers growing numb.

The darkness was empty. She could be anywhere. In the woods; on the beach; in the marsh. Anywhere. Helplessly he turned slowly round, staring into the tearing darkness, feeling the ice-cold fingers of sleet sliding down inside his collar, fighting the battering of the wind, hearing the throb of it in his ears.

She could be back at the cottage by now. His hand tightened on the torch. Supposing she had gone there? Supposing she was hiding in the woodshed or amongst the trees, waiting for Kate to come back? She liked Kate. She seemed to trust her. Surely that is what she would have done. Turning, he began to retrace his footsteps, his back to the sea.

It was then he thought he saw a figure at the very edge of his torch beam.

It was a man.

As the figure moved sharply backwards Greg’s feeble torchlight caught the glint of what looked like a knife blade before he vanished into the darkness.