A Half Forgotten Song (46 page)

“There’s nothing I can give them. The poison is too strong. I have . . . seen it before.” Rats, rats in the corners of the room, twisting and twirling in death’s dance. She started up to her feet, looking around at them in horror.

“So you know what it is? You know what they ate?” he said. Dimity could hardly keep the air in her lungs long enough to answer him. She nodded her head, felt Celeste’s empty, ink-spot eyes watching her. A flood of tingling horror washed down her back, and she swayed.

“Cowbane,” she said at last. “Water hemlock.”
Hemlock.
They knew the name. Charles went paler still; Delphine gaped at her, her jaw hanging slackly open.

There was a long pause, filled only by the sound of Celeste’s labored breathing and the strange gurgling noise she made in her throat when another seizure gripped her. From Élodie, there was no sound.

“You mean . . .” Charles cleared his throat, dragged his hands over his face. “You mean they could
die
of this? They might die?” He sounded utterly incredulous, and ignored Delphine as she began to sob once more. Dimity met Charles’s gaze and managed not to flinch. The room was crowded with shadows and devils; with contorted rats and black, black eyes; awash with a revolting sea of spittle and bile. Dimity felt as though her mind was going to fly apart.

“Yes,” she said. Charles stared at her, paralyzed by the word. “Take them to the hospital. Straightaway. They cannot wait for a doctor, or an ambulance—take them now. Dorchester. Tell the doctor there what they’ve eaten . . .”

“But you’ll come with us—you’ll come and help. Take Élodie. Delphine! Open the doors for us!” Charles wrestled Celeste’s jerking body into his arms and carried her towards the door, and Delphine rushed ahead to clear the way, and Dimity was left to lift Élodie. She did it slowly, almost tenderly. The thin little body was like a peculiar wood, hard and unyielding and yet warm at the same time. No flicker of movement over her face, no change of expression at all as Dimity lifted her. And as she carried her down to the blue car, Dimity did not think she could feel the movement of air from her open mouth anymore. There was nothing behind the black disks of her eyes. Dimity’s skin crawled away from Élodie as she climbed into the car, and there she remained, trapped beneath her with no way to escape.

Z
ach stared in amazement at Hannah’s cluttered kitchen table; or rather, at the figures seated around it. Ilir was standing foursquare to the door, defensively, his face still racked with fear and anger, and he was holding the hand of a tall, thin woman, who, in turn, had her arm wrapped tightly around a little boy of about seven or eight years of age. Zach stared at them, and they stared back at him. Their faces were pale with fatigue. The woman’s hair was dark brown, long and straight, parted in the middle and tied back in a simple ponytail. Her forehead was lined with worry.

“Zach, let me introduce you to Rozafa Sabri, Ilir’s wife, and their son, Bekim,” said Hannah, standing beside him, her body still tense with emotion.

“Hello,” said Zach woodenly. Ilir said something impatient in a language Zach couldn’t understand, and Rozafa looked up at him anxiously.

“In English, Ilir?” said Hannah.

“They cannot stay here. Not even for one night.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Rozafa . . . there’s been a slight hitch.” Zach felt all eyes turn to him, as if he were to blame. He was sweating beneath his jumper and coat, an uncomfortable prickle that made him fidget. “Zach’s going to take you somewhere safe. It seems that . . . that the police might be coming here shortly—”

“Policija?”
said Rozafa, her eyes widening. The child beneath her arm did not react. He gazed distantly at Zach as if only half awake. When his mother stood up and pulled him up with her, he moved slowly, clumsily. Rozafa stooped, gathered him into her arms, and looked from Hannah to her husband. Ready to run, Zach saw. However tired she might be, she was ready to take her child and run. They were plainly exhausted, badly in need of rest. With a guilty flush, he reminded himself how convinced he’d been that Hannah was smuggling art, or drugs, when it had been something far more precious, far more fragile.

“Now do you see? Why I couldn’t tell you? Why this needed to be kept a secret?” Hannah asked him intently.

“You could have trusted me. I would have understood.”

“I didn’t know that. Not for certain. But I’m trusting you now. Take them somewhere else. Right now, before the police show up. Okay?”

“Where . . . how should I take them? Should I take the jeep?”

“No—they’ll see you go up the lane, and you can’t drive off into the fields without headlights—you’ll get killed. Go on foot—somewhere safe. Anywhere.”

“The Watch. I’ll take them to The Watch,” he said. Hannah hesitated, frowning, and then nodded.

“Good. Keep out of sight. We’ll just have to hope they don’t think to look there.”

“Why would they?”

“Because . . . No, never mind. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Go on—hurry!”

Glancing up the lane, which was sunk in darkness, Zach ran across the yard with Ilir and Rozafa close on his heels.
This is unreal,
he thought, in a quiet hindquarter of his brain that was staying well out of it and watching to see what would happen. At the gate that led into the fields spreading up to The Watch, Ilir stopped. He spoke rapidly to his wife in what could have been Serbian, or Albanian, or Roma, and Rozafa replied, her voice high with alarm, as Ilir turned to go. She put out her hand and grasped his sleeve.

“Isn’t he coming with us? Aren’t you coming with us, Ilir?” said Zach.

“Hannah might need me here, when they come. I will stay with her.”

“But they might ask to see your passport . . .”

“If I leave, they will wonder where I am. Maybe they come looking,” said Ilir resolutely. “Now go—take them somewhere safe. Please.” He stared at Zach for a second, and Zach read the dread of their discovery in his face, and he nodded.

“Keep your mobile switched on,” Hannah shouted as they hurried away.

They ran as quickly as they could up the dark hillside, which was steeper on that side of the valley. Tussocky grass tripped them, and it was almost easier to lean forwards and use hands, to scramble on all fours. When they’d gone two hundred meters or so, they reached a fence and paused. Zach turned to look over his shoulder. The three police cars were pulling into the farmyard below them; no sirens, but their blue lights impossibly bright in the darkness.

“Down! Get down,” he said. Rozafa stared at him in incomprehension, and he realized that her English was not as good as her husband’s. He pulled at her as he sank low to the chilly, wet hillside, and she copied him, crumpling herself over the little boy. He could hear her whispering gently to him, a stream of soft words that might have been a song, or a nursery rhyme. Zach could smell fear on their unwashed skin, and he swallowed, feeling the vastness of this responsibility settle onto him. Rozafa had no choice but to trust him, not only with her own fate but with that of her child. He turned to look up the hill, but could see nothing but darkness. Shreds of sheep wool surrounded them, hanging from the wire fence like garlands and dancing in the wind. The smell of them was greasy and rich. Below them six police officers, one leading a bounding Alsatian, climbed out of the cars and ran over to the house. Three peeled off and jogged around to the back, cutting off the exits. There was nothing in there for Hannah to hide, but Zach suddenly felt frantic at the thought of her trapped inside, under attack.

“God, I hope that dog only sniffs out drugs, not people,” he muttered. Rozafa’s head came up at once when he spoke, eyes bright with adrenaline. “Come on,” he said.

They hurried on up the hill, and after a short distance Zach turned and took the little boy from his mother, hoisting him up to ride piggyback, and hurrying on again. The child weighed almost nothing. A piece of driftwood, fresh in off the sea. Zach suddenly realized how dangerous it must be to cross the Channel in a small fishing boat at night; how long and uncomfortable and dark that journey must have been. Human jetsam, exhausted and on the brink; on the edge of disaster. He could not imagine risking what they had risked, could not imagine how frightened they must be. He tightened his grip on Bekim.

After ten minutes that felt like an eternity, Zach saw the white shape of The Watch looming faintly in the darkness up ahead. Gasping for breath, he led them to the front door of the cottage, passing the boy back to Rozafa as he knocked. He turned to look down the hill again, desperate to know what was happening at Southern Farm. There was nothing to see. The police cars still sat on the yard, one set of blue lights flashing. Zach knocked again, and thought about how confused and afraid Dimity had seemed when he’d turned up earlier in the day.

“Dimity, it’s only me, Zach. I’m . . . back again. Please, can we come in? It’s very important . . . Dimity?”

“Zach?” Her voice came through the door, faint and croaky.

“Yes, it’s me. Please let us in, Dimity. We need a place to hide.” The door cracked open, and the darkness within was even deeper than the night outside. The police lights flared on the old woman’s pale skin, and in her wide eyes.

“Police?” she said, sounding bewildered.

“They’re looking for these two. This is Ilir’s wife and son. You know Ilir—Hannah’s help on the farm? Can we come in?” Zach turned to look at Bekim, in Rozafa’s arms, and saw that the child was fast asleep. His face was drawn and his mouth had dropped open, and his gums looked almost grayish. Zach had the sudden clear impression that the boy was not at all well. “We need to hide here. Just for a little while. They’re . . . very tired. They’ve been traveling for a long time.”

“Traveling?” Dimity said vaguely, and she stared at Rozafa in incomprehension. Rozafa accepted her scrutiny without blinking. Zach took a deep breath to quell his rising panic.

“Yes, traveling. They’ve just arrived from—”

“Ilir’s people? The Romany?” Dimity interrupted him suddenly. The old woman blinked, and her expression seemed to pull into focus, as if some essence of her had returned from elsewhere. The gaze she turned on Zach grew sharper.

“Yes, that’s right . . .”

“Come, come, come!” she said briskly, holding the door wider and ushering them in. “His people are my people, after all. My mother was a Gypsy, did I ever tell you that? Come in, come in, shut the door. This is a good place to hide . . .”

Zach was the last one in, and as he closed the door, he saw headlights, up on the village lane. They lanced towards the cottage, and he caught his breath. He could think of no reason why they should come to The Watch, and yet Hannah had hesitated when he suggested it, as if not entirely sure it was safe. Perhaps they had been seen, after all, fleeing across the fields. He grasped Dimity’s arm gently to get her attention.

“I think . . . I think someone’s coming down to the house . . . coming here,” he whispered anxiously. “We need to hide them. Where can we go? No—don’t!” he said, as Dimity reached for a light switch. “It’s late, better to pretend to be in bed.” The old woman clasped her hands tightly in front of her, an attitude almost like prayer. Their eyes were nothing more than faintly gleaming points in the dark. Dimity seemed caught in the grip of some impossible indecision. The police lights were still visible, sending eerie gray shadows careering around the walls. “Dimity?” Zach pressed. “They can’t be found. Please—they’ll be taken away if they’re found.”

“Taken away? No, no. Upstairs is the only place. If they come here I’ll turn them back. Go on upstairs, to the room on the left. The room on the
left,
you understand? The open door. On the left.” Just then, there was the sound of an engine outside the cottage, and headlights glared through the naked window.

“Make them put their ID cards through the letterbox before you open the door, Dimity! Go, go!” Zach hissed, propelling Rozafa towards the stairs. The Roma woman hurried up them on light feet, with Zach close behind. They shut themselves in a bedroom and crouched against the door, fighting to breathe silently, ears straining for any noise.

There was a knock at the door, and a long pause before Dimity answered. Muffled voices came up through the floor, but Zach couldn’t make out what was said. Beside him, Rozafa’s breathing grew steady and deep, and he wondered if she’d gone to sleep—surrendered all control of her situation and succumbed to exhaustion. Before long, there was another smooth growl of engine noise from outside, and then everything went silent. The air in the room was laden with peculiar scents: scents of mold and green plant life, paper, unwashed clothing; stale food of some kind; water, salt, soot, ammonia; another strong, chemical smell that Zach recognized at once. He could not imagine how that smell came to be in Dimity’s cottage. However impatient he felt, he knew they shouldn’t emerge until Dimity came to fetch them, just in case. He took out his phone and saw that he had a single bar of signal, now that he was upstairs. There was no missed call or text from Hannah, and he resisted the urge to call her until he knew the coast was clear. The silence stretched. Zach waited, and as he did so, he became aware of the touch of cold night air against his cheek. Puzzled, he turned to look for the source of the draft. Through the little window, the faint light of the sky was a patch of paler black, and he could see the broken pane of glass which was letting in the wind. It was the window he had stood beneath, and seen the curtains shifting within. The room to the left, Dimity had said. But Rozafa had led the way, and she wouldn’t have understood the instruction. Zach went peculiarly cold all over. They were in the room on the right. The room from which quiet, unidentified sounds had often come, during his visits to Dimity.

Without moving, Zach strained his eyes to see into the corners of the room. They were lost in shadow. He could just about make out dark, crowding shapes against the unlit walls. He could not shape them into furniture, could not work out what they were. He struggled to keep his breathing steady, as if some sleeping thing in the room might wake at the sound. He felt watched; he felt as though there was some awareness in that room with him, other than the huddled forms of Rozafa and her son. He thought he heard the sound of something breathing; a slow, moist exhalation. Against all common sense, he felt a rising panic, a need for light, for clarity; a need to flee from that room with its secrets and its cold, creeping air. His phone beeped and he jumped. A text from Hannah, glowing into his eyes and ruining what night vision he’d had.
They’ve gone. On our way up to you.
Rozafa said something he didn’t understand, her voice thin and tight with tension.