The Restless Dead

30

I fell into the freezing water as the wall behind me shuddered with a huge, rending crash. I couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. Couldn’t breathe. I thrashed around but I’d lost any sense of direction. Something struck my head. I flailed away from it, convinced the entire wall was coming down, and then my head broke the surface. I sucked in a lungful of air and breathed in saltwater as well. Coughing, I fought for breath as I struggled to stay afloat. My feet no longer touched bottom and the heavy jacket had filled with water, threatening to drag me under. The air was full of dust, still ringing with echoes of the impact, and I flinched and twisted round as something bumped against my shoulders. The humped shape of the upturned canoe floated behind me, swinging in a slow circle on the churned water.

I threw an arm over it, clinging gratefully to the smooth hull. Panting, I looked over at where I’d been standing moments before. In the fading light coming through the gate, I saw that the stone wall was bellied inwards around the hatchway.

Wedged into the opening was the crumpled wing of my car.

I felt a wave of despair. The water was lapping well over halfway up the walls, and still rising. If it continued at this rate it wouldn’t be long before the whole lower level was underwater, and me along with it.

But Porter would have reached Creek House before then. It wasn’t only Rachel who’d be there. Trask was in police custody, but Fay and probably Jamie would be home. Porter had already killed an injured teenage girl and an unarmed police officer.

He wouldn’t leave any witnesses alive.

I kicked towards the submerged decking, but when I tried to climb on to it the rotten boards pulled free of the damaged stone-work, dumping me back into the water. I’d seen enough, though: the hatch was hopelessly blocked. Grabbing on to the canoe again, I tried to force my sluggish brain to think. The shadows inside the boathouse were growing deeper. The twilight outside was fading into night, and soon it would be too dark to see. Still holding on to the canoe, I swam over to the gate. There wasn’t much chance I could open it when Porter had failed, but I had to try. The padlock and chain were on the outside. Letting go of the canoe, I kicked to keep myself afloat and squeezed my hands through the narrow gaps between the gate’s slats. The coarse wood took the skin from my knuckles as I groped with dead fingers for the padlock. It was crusted with rust, unopened in years. I wrenched on it as hard as I could, then tugged on the gate itself to see if I could break the waterlogged timbers.

But they were solid, and I couldn’t waste any more time. Letting go, I groped for the canoe again. I wasn’t going to get out through the gate or the hatchway, which left one last possibility.

One Porter wouldn’t have known about.

There wasn’t enough light to see the ceiling, but it was out of reach. Shuddering from the cold, I cast around the junk floating around me until I saw the broken oar drifting nearby. Its shaft was splintered from when Porter had tried to get through the hatch, but it was still long enough for my purposes. Swimming to the middle of the boathouse, I supported myself with one arm over the canoe and stretched above me with the oar into the shadows. Relying purely on touch, I began dragging its blade back and forth across the rough timbers. There was a bump as I felt it snag on something.

The bolt for the trapdoor into the flat above.

I’d cursed it when I’d stubbed my toe on the ring concealed under the rug, but now it was my only hope of getting out. Praying it wasn’t locked or nailed shut, I tried knocking the bolt back with the oar. But it was too clumsy and I quickly abandoned the attempt. If I was going to unfasten it I’d have to do it by hand. I tried lunging up for the bolt, but the ceiling was still too high. That left the canoe. There was a jagged hole in it larger than my fist which would make it sink if I righted it, so instead I climbed on top of its upturned hull. That didn’t work either: as soon as I put my weight on it water gushed through the hole and the canoe sank under me.

I slid off, letting it bob to the surface again. I looked around, but even if there was anything else among the floating junk I could use, it was too dark inside the boathouse now to see. Come on, there must be something. I’d kept my cumbersome jacket on for the minimal insulation it offered. More importantly, the thick plastic was waterproof.

Kicking to keep my head above water, I struggled out of it. Fumbling with my icy hands, I wadded it up and packed it into the hole in the canoe’s hull. It made a crude plug, but it was the best I could do. Hoping it would hold for long enough, I dragged myself on to the overturned hull. The canoe slipped out from under me. Spitting out saltwater, I tried again. The canoe bucked around, but this time I managed to haul myself on top until I was sitting astride it.

Now the ceiling was only inches above my head. But the canoe was already beginning to sink. Twisting round awkwardly, I groped blindly at the rough underside of the trapdoor until I felt the bolt. Gripping it with bloodless fingers, I tried to prise it back. It was seized shut. The canoe was sinking quickly now, so ignoring the bracket’s sharp metal edges I began yanking on the bolt as hard as I could.

Without warning it shot back, showering my face with flakes of rust. There wasn’t time to feel relieved. Putting both hands on the trapdoor, I pushed. The canoe bobbed lower, but the trapdoor didn’t move. Setting myself, I tried again. This time there was a slight shift. I heaved at it again. The door rose a little higher, allowing me to get an arm through.

As the canoe foundered under me, I hauled myself up and forced my other arm into the narrow gap. Then, legs kicking in space, I heaved my head and shoulders through as well. A heavy weight pressed down across my back. I’d emerged underneath the big rug, which was pinning the trapdoor on top of me. It took all my strength to drag myself the rest of the way in, but at last I pulled my legs up into the flat. Gasping, I lay face down on the floorboards. Pinpricks of light swirled in the darkness as I breathed in the sticky scent of varnish. I wanted nothing more than to lie there, but I forced myself to move. Crawling out from under the heavy rug, I rose unsteadily to my feet. The flat was in darkness. Tottering like an infant, I felt for the light switch, shuddering with cold and trailing water with every step. All my instincts clamoured for me to rush after Porter, but I was no use to anyone like this. If I wasn’t already hypothermic I soon would be. I needed warmth and calories. Fast.

I blinked, dazzled, as the overhead light came on. Porter’s search for the money had left the flat in disarray. Drawers and cupboards had been emptied, their contents strewn about, but he’d inadvertently done me a favour. He’d tipped over the sofa and in doing so had shifted it from the rug. If not for that I doubt I’d have been able to open the trapdoor at all.

My fingers were numb and dead as I tore off my shirt, and I shook uncontrollably as I rubbed myself with a towel from the kitchen. The overnight bag with my spare clothes was in the car boot, but the jacket I’d borrowed from Trask was still in the cupboard. I pulled it on over my bare skin, grateful for the warm lining. I couldn’t do anything about my trousers and boots, but they were going to get wet again anyway. The Tupperware container of dog food cake from Rachel was still on the worktop. Ripping off the lid, I crammed the remaining pieces into my mouth, forcing myself to swallow the rich mix of chocolate and carbohydrates. Then I was out of time. Pausing only long enough to snatch up a kitchen knife from the scattered cutlery, I ran for the door.

Night had fallen outside. The rain had stopped, and patches of clear sky and stars were visible behind streamers of torn cloud. But the wind hadn’t eased, and even before I rounded the boathouse corner I could hear the rushing of the creek. My car was canted down the bank among the wreckage of the steps, more than half-covered by water. The creek had spread far beyond its banks, transforming the marsh and fields into a lake. Only the higher ground around the boathouse remained above the flood, and if the creek carried on rising that would soon be covered too.

I’d worried that the boat would be gone, that Porter might have untied it to strand me here. But it was still there, its pale shape dancing at the end of the mooring rope. Supporting myself against my car, I slithered down the bank and into the water. Cold waves slapped against me as I waded out on the submerged jetty. Taking hold of the dripping rope, I dragged it towards me and clambered in. The knot fastening the line was under water, so I sawed at it with the kitchen knife until it parted with a twang. The boat immediately began to move. I let it carry me along while I crouched by the motor and tried to start it with numb fingers. It fired on the second attempt. Opening the throttle as far as it would go, I huddled down in the boat and sent it roaring up the flooded creek.

But even as I did I knew I’d be too late.

Porter would have reached Creek House by now. I’d spent too long getting out of the boathouse, and he’d have driven the big Daimler as fast as he could on the narrow roads. And I’d no idea what I’d do once I reached the house. Porter was ex-services, and a kitchen knife was no use against a shotgun. As the cold wind chapped my face, I wondered why he hadn’t gone for the stolen Mowbry when he’d had me trapped. Even if I’d managed to make it to the boat before he came back, I’d still have been within range of the shotgun. I felt a flicker of hope that he might no longer have it, that he’d got rid of it after shooting Lundy. But I couldn’t afford to let myself believe that. More likely he’d decided he didn’t need it.

Not when he could drop my own car on me instead.

The moon emerged from behind ragged clouds, silhouetting flooded trees and casting a silver glow as the boat cut across the black waters. If not for the tufts of grasses and reeds sprouting from the waves it would have been impossible to tell where the creek’s banks were. Trying not to think what might be happening at Creek House, I focused on keeping the boat in the deepest part of the channel, away from any floating debris. Then, in the opalescent moonlight, I saw something that put everything else out of my mind.

The flooding had rendered any landmarks and features unrecognizable, but off to one side I could see the long, winding hedgerow that ran beside the road.

Stranded in a flooded dip was the black Daimler.

The boat rocked, almost capsizing as I jumped up to look. The door on the driver’s side stood open, allowing small waves to lap over the sill. Porter had made the same mistake as I had on the causeway, either underestimating the water’s depth or hoping the car would make it through. It hadn’t.

There was no sign of Porter himself. I scanned the darkened road, hoping to see him stranded nearby, but except for the car it was empty. Then the creek curved away, and the Daimler was lost to view.

For the first time since I’d climbed from the boathouse, I allowed myself to hope. Although I didn’t fool myself that he was going to give up, without his car Porter would have to make his way through the flood on foot to Creek House.

There was still a chance.

I gripped the throttle tightly, as though that might wring more speed from the motor. The boat was already going as fast as it could, but even with the help from the current it seemed maddeningly slow. For what felt like an age there was nothing other than the floodplain and darkness. Then, through a screen of waving branches, I saw the lights of Trask’s house.

I willed the boat to go faster, but it continued at the same imperturbable pace. The lights slowly grew bigger, resolving into the broad strip of floor-to-ceiling windows. A smaller yellow square from one of the bedrooms hung in the darkness below them. Gradually, I began to make out shapes and colours inside. Movement. For an agonizing minute the house was obscured as a bend in the creek concealed it behind a copse of trees, then it emerged from behind them.

Waves were lapping all around the concrete pilings, but Creek House sat serenely above the floodwaters. The upstairs windows gave a clear view of the lighted room on the other side. I could see Rachel with Fay on the sofa, the young girl curled peacefully against her as she read from a book. In the smaller window below I could see Jamie sitting at a desk, staring moodily at a computer screen.

Safe.

Thank Christ. I slumped on the bench seat, suddenly weak from the strength of my relief. Framed by darkness, the windows displayed the brightly lit interior of the house like a silent film. As I drew nearer I could see Rachel’s mouth moving as she read to Fay. Downstairs in the flickering light from his computer, Jamie sat with his head in his hands.

None of them so much as glanced outside. The double glazing would blanket the sound of the boat’s approach, and I’d seen myself how impenetrable the glass became at night. Once the lights were turned on the sliding doors became a huge mirror; even if anyone in the house looked out, all they’d see was their own reflection.

But that hardly mattered: the important thing was I’d made it in time. I aimed the boat at the floating jetty, already thinking how best to handle this. I didn’t want to waste time on lengthy explanations, not with Porter still at large. The priority was to get everyone out of the house as quickly as possible. Everything else could wait until they were safely in the boat and we were well away from here.

I was almost at the jetty when Rachel broke off from her reading. She glanced over her shoulder at the stairs, and downstairs at the same time I saw Jamie raise his head as well. I felt suddenly cold as I realized why.

Someone was at the door.

Rachel said something to Fay and put the book down. She started to get to her feet, but in the room below Jamie straightened and called something. Then he stood up and went out.

To answer the door.

‘No!’ The boat rocked as I jumped to my feet. ‘Rachel! Rachel!’

Frantic, I waved my arms, but she couldn’t see or hear me. I was invisible behind the window’s dark mirror. As the boat droned the last few yards I could only watch as she turned to listen to something downstairs. Suddenly both she and Fay gave a start. Rachel shouted something and jumped to her feet. She ran towards the stairs but she’d only taken a few steps when Jamie came sprawling from the top of them.

Behind him was Porter.

Wet and caked in mud, the driver yelled and gestured at Rachel. Looking confused, she shook her head. He took a step towards her, finger stabbing. Scrambling up from his hands and knees, Jamie launched himself at him, then reeled back as Porter drove a hand into his face. The windows muted Fay’s screams as her brother tumbled downstairs.

Porter was already turning back to Rachel. She stood in front of Fay, her expression scared but determined.

‘PORTER!’ I screamed. ‘LEAVE THEM ALONE, I’M OUT HERE!’

The wind carried my shouts away. I saw Rachel snatch up a lamp and fling it at Porter’s head. It sent crazy shadows as he ducked, before shattering noiselessly on the wall. Rachel made a grab for a vase, but he caught hold of her arm. Wrenching her away, he hit her across her face. She dropped to one knee, and I saw Porter take hold of her hair.

‘NO!’ I yelled. And then they were lost from sight as the boat passed below the window.

By now I’d reached the jetty, but I didn’t slow. The propeller bit into mud and gravel as I opened the throttle and sent the boat over the flooded bank and along the side of the house. It carried me a few more precious yards before it ran aground. As it slewed to a stop, I leapt out and splashed through the knee-deep water. I was clutching the knife I’d taken from the boathouse, but I’d no plan, no idea what I was going to do as I rushed up the steps. The door stood open, the hallway beyond in darkness. I barged it aside and headed for the stairs.

As I started up them the crash of a shotgun rang out.

I staggered as though I’d been hit myself. No, I thought, numbly. No, no, no. Then I was running up the stairs. I burst into the room at the top.

And stopped.

A lazy drift of smoke hung in the air. The upper floor stank of gunpowder and blood. Rachel was kneeling by Fay, hugging the girl to her. They were both crying, but apart from a livid graze on Rachel’s face neither appeared hurt.

The shotgun blast had taken Porter between his shoulder blades. He’d been flung into the bookshelves, and now lay sprawled among the scattered books. I started to go over, until I saw the extent of the wound in his back and realized there was no point.

I turned to where Jamie stood nearby. Blood streamed from the teenager’s nose, and the haunted look in his eyes was as eloquent as any confession. He still had the shotgun raised to his shoulder, but offered no resistance when I gently took it from him.

The photograph Lundy had sent hadn’t done the Mowbry justice. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. Two over-and-under barrels were set in a honeyed walnut stock, inset with ornate silver side panels. Engraved on them in flowing script were two initials.

LV.