The Lost Relic

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Vila Flor, Portugal

After spending most of the day curled up on the sofa with her laptop and a pile of notes to work on her research paper, Brooke had changed into shorts and training shoes and gone for an early evening run through the forested countryside that surrounded her cottage for miles around. She was on her way back, still a couple of kilometres from home, when the sky turned ominously dark and she smelled the electric burning smell of an imminent storm. As the first rumble of thunder rolled across the hills, she felt the first heavy raindrop spatter on her arm. Moments later, the heavens opened. By the time she came running back to the shelter of the cottage, she was soaked to the skin and shivering.

Feeling invigorated after a long, hot shower, she lightly towelled her hair and pulled on a sleeveless T-shirt, a pair of loose jogging pants she used as pyjama bottoms and for general lounging-around duties, and her cosy old dressing gown. She trotted downstairs, put on some Django Reinhardt and idled away some time with a magazine while her hair dried before going into the little kitchen to start putting together a simple evening meal.

As she padded around the kitchen in her bare feet, the rain was lashing the windows and the darkening sky was lit up every few seconds by the lightning flashes. These late summer storms could go on for hours. After dinner, she planned to read a hundred pages of the paperback she was deep into, before getting an early night and listening to the wind howling and the rain on the roof. She loved storms. They comforted her, somehow.

Dinner was going to be a rice salad with mixed beans and some freshly sliced tomatoes from the garden. Brooke made a dressing with olive oil, garlic and just a little wine vinegar. She was grinding a sprinkle of black pepper onto it when the music paused momentarily between tracks.

That was when she heard the sound from outside. Brooke looked up from her pepper grinder. What was that?

It had sounded like footsteps outside, on the gravel path next to the house. She strained to listen, but then the thunder growled loudly again across the hills.

Maybe it was Fatima, she thought. The farmer’s wife could be coming by with some eggs or wine, the way she often did.

During a storm?

Brooke went to the front door, opened it and peered outside into the sheeting rain. ‘Fatima?’

No reply. There seemed to be nobody there. Brooke shut the door, then bolted it as an afterthought. She was just about to head into the kitchen when she heard it again – the same sound of shoes crunching on wet gravel, footsteps moving quickly round the side of the house.

A fleeting movement past the kitchen window caught her eye. It could have been anything in the falling darkness – leaves blowing from a tree, or a bird wrestling against the wind. But she could have sworn she’d seen the figure of a man hurrying past.

She caught her breath, stepped quickly across the kitchen and drew the largest of the carving knives out of the block on the worktop. She walked back to the front door. Her heart beat fast and her hand was trembling a little as she slid back the bolt and turned the handle.

‘Luis? Is that you?’

Still nothing.

Had she imagined it? It wasn’t like her to get jumpy in a storm.

Brooke strode back to the kitchen and replaced the knife in the block.

And looked up to see the face squashed up against the window pane.

She let out a gasp.

The man outside was staring at her. His hair and clothes running with rainwater. His face was wild, plastered with mud down one side.

It was Marshall.

‘Brooke – let me in,’ he implored. The aggression that had burned in his eyes last time she’d seen him in London had fizzled out. He looked utterly forlorn.

Brooke stared at him through the window for a second, then marched to the door and tore it open.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she managed to say through her shock.

‘I came to see you,’ he replied lamely. The rain was still pelting down around him, bouncing off the ground. The small case at his feet looked soaked through.

‘You scared the life out of me, Marshall,’ she said angrily. ‘Sneaking around like a bloody rapist or something.’

‘I’m sorry. I thought you wouldn’t want to see me.’

‘Damn right I didn’t want to see you. How did you know I was here, anyway?’

‘Your neighbour told me where you’d gone to.’

‘You’re lying, Marshall. Amal is someone I can trust, unlike you.’

Marshall hung his head. ‘OK, OK, I tricked him into letting me inside your flat, and I went into your computer.’

‘You really are a piece of shit, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. I know. I am. You’re right. But I had to see you.’

‘I don’t want you here,’ she yelled. ‘I came here to get away from you!’ She was about to slam the door in his face, then something made her hesitate. The wetness on his face was more than rainwater. He was weeping openly. She’d never seen a man so empty, so defeated.

‘All right, Marshall,’ she sighed. ‘You can come in. Have a shower and dry your clothes, and we’ll talk. But you can’t stay here. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

He nodded. Brooke stepped back from the entrance steps to let him through. He left a trail of muddy steps on the hallway flagstones.

‘What happened to you?’ she said, looking at the mud caked down his side.

‘Bloody cab driver dropped me miles away,’ he mumbled. ‘I had to walk. Slipped and fell in this stinking bog.’

‘You know there’s no access for a car here, you silly sod. That’s what the path is for. You should have stuck to it.’ She pointed up the stairs. ‘You do remember where the bathroom is, don’t you? There’s a clean towel and a bathrobe on the rail. Go.’

While he was cleaning himself up, Brooke paced in the kitchen, cursing loudly. ‘What do I do now?’ she asked herself over and over. A shutter banged in the wind, and she went round the downstairs rooms closing them. As she bolted the last one, the lights went out and the house went dark.

‘Shit. There goes the power.’ She’d been half-expecting it. It didn’t take much of a storm to cut her off out here. She lit candles and placed them around the kitchen and living room. A few minutes later, Marshall came downstairs, feeling his way in the dim light. He was wearing the bathrobe. His hair was still wet. He came shuffling into the living room and slumped on the sofa.

Brooke stood over him with her arms folded and glared at him. ‘You know your being here is totally out of order, don’t you? You’re lucky I didn’t leave you out there to drown like a rat.’

‘I am a rat,’ he mumbled miserably. ‘You came all the way to Portugal to state the obvious?’

‘Don’t hurt me. You have no idea how I’m feeling right now.’

‘Things cannot go on like this, Marshall. You’ve got to snap out of this fixation, or whatever it is. You may have convinced yourself that you’re madly in love with me, but you aren’t.’

His face twisted. ‘Speaks the great psychologist. Is that a clinical diagnosis? I’m delusional, is that what you’re saying?’

Brooke breathed deeply and tried to sound calm. ‘I think you’re confused, Marshall. Maybe you work too hard and you’re going through a crisis, and now you’re at risk of losing everything. Phoebe loves you, you know. You’ll break her heart if you carry on like this. And you’ll end up with nobody, because the simple fact is that I don’t love you. I like you, you’re a great guy – or at least, you could be if you started acting more normally – and you’re family to me. But I could never feel anything beyond that for you and it’s important that you get that through your head. I’m with Ben. And even if I weren’t with Ben, even if I did have those kinds of feelings for you, do you think for a moment I could ever betray my sister?’

There was a long silence. Marshall sank his head into his hands and his shoulders began to quake. When he looked up at her, his eyes were red and his face streaked with emotion in the candlelight. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ he sobbed. ‘I just can’t control my feelings.’

Brooke sighed. He was a pathetic sight. ‘I think we could both use a drink,’ she said, going over to a little cabinet where she kept some red wine, some glasses and a corkscrew. She quickly opened a bottle, poured out two glasses and carried them over to the sofa. Keeping well away from him, she perched herself on its arm and laid the glasses down on the low table in front of them.

Marshall snatched his up and drained half of it down in one gulp. ‘Oh, Jesus, I’m such a wreck,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve been a real prick, haven’t I? You must hate me. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.’

‘I don’t hate you,’ she said softly. ‘I think you must be in a lot of pain and I wish there was more I could do to help you.’

‘What am I going to do?’

‘You’re going to go back to Britain. You’re going to drive straight to Exeter and find Phoebe and take her away from that course she’s on. Surprise her. Take her on a cruise. Jet out to the Bahamas. Look after your wife.’

He nodded slowly, sniffed, smeared tears down his cheeks with the back of his hand and slurped more wine. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he murmured weakly.

‘There’s no maybe. As for me, I might be moving to France soon – could be when my contract is over, in six weeks’ time. That means you and Phoebe won’t be seeing so much of me, and you can seek some professional help to forget these irrational feelings you’ve been having. Get on with your life.’

‘Ben is a lucky guy.’

‘So are you. You have Phoebe.’

He started to cry again. ‘This is so hard.’

Brooke felt a surge of pity for him. She moved from the arm of the sofa to sit closer to him, set down her glass and laid her hand gently on his arm. He sank towards her, pressing his face into her shoulder, and she held him for a few moments.

‘It’s all going to work out fine,’ she said. ‘Trust me.’