Don't Look Back (15 page)

Harry's words came back to me.
What if you're really a target, Sinead?
What better plan than to entice me in here of my own free will? But the door was such a temptation that I couldn't have backed down even if my life was in danger. I opened it and went through. There was a pull cord to my left which illuminated a cupboard measuring no more than two metres square. The panelling continued into here and it all looked very ordinary. On one side, coats and jackets hung on a series of large brass hooks, and on the other, shoes, walking boots and wellies filled a rickety rack. The floor appeared to be solid stone with no discernible trapdoors or hatches. It smelt damp and musty. Immediately in front of me was another door, made of honeyed pine. This made sense – a passageway to another part of the house. I looked for a keyhole and, failing to find one, rattled the handle. The door opened easily, but on to a solid wall. I made a noise of frustration and instinctively reached out to touch the bricks.

The sighing was getting louder now; in fact, it wasn't sighing, it was closer to whispering. I was sure I could almost make out words, and there were different voices and pitches – incessant, pleading and desperate, growing faster and more urgent until it felt as though they were inside my head. Was Harry right? Was I going crazy? I switched off the light and stepped back into the hall, trying to work
out where the passageway must once have led. It looked as though the wall formed a buttress to a different part of the house. Following on was the west wing, which James had mentioned was out of bounds, almost ready to fall down. But James had been away for eight years and would believe anything he was told. And what better place to carry on something secret? I needed to get inside and take a look, but first I'd have to shake off Sister Catherine.

*

I took out my lunch and positioned myself outside on the same bench as the previous day. Sister Catherine brushed past me with complete disdain. It seemed to me that she never sat down, ate, relaxed or spoke unless it was absolutely necessary. I watched her as she began another journey around the grounds. She didn't look back, but my eyes doggedly followed her until she was lost inside the foliage. Then I ran around the back of the house to the west wing, where I was confronted by notices warning that it was unsafe to enter. It didn't take long to work out a possible way inside. The conservatory was in a sorry state, although I could envisage how beautiful it once had been, with its ornamental glass roof. The main structure was made of wood, but the timber had rotted and panes of glass were missing. When I peered inside it was like a tropical rainforest, with giant ferns, their leaves radiating outwards to form massive umbrellas, and vines strangling anything in their path. I carefully lifted one leg through the gap, feeling all around for shards of glass. The other leg quickly
followed and I tried to find a space to stand upright. My hair was limp within seconds, my breath shallow. Moisture dripped from everywhere.

I covered my mouth and nose as the sweet, sickly scent of decaying vegetation grew stronger. There were waxy plants with leaves the size and shape of elephant ears, huge swaying blades of lofty grasses and beautiful orchids – notorious for being delicate – yet they'd survived in this abandoned place. As I shuffled forward, I nervously glanced around. My imagination was in overdrive again and images of killer plants, moving by stealth to surround me, clouded my judgement. My breath froze. Right in the centre was a bloated monstrosity with two curved petals open like the mouth of a carp, topped with a yellow and red bonnet of veined leaves surrounding the drooling lips. It had to be carnivorous. Beside it were five or six little replicas, looking up with expectant mouths as if hoping for leftovers. In my haste to get past, I nicked myself on a cactus spike and red spots dripped on to my T-shirt.

At the end of the conservatory was a set of double doors. They weren't closed and the jungle had begun to march through there as well. I couldn't wait to leave the humidity behind and I burst through the opening with a loud gasp. This room had been stripped of everything, but the glitter ball and sprung wooden floor gave me some clues – with fantastic light and elegant proportions, it must have once been the ballroom. I could almost hear the swishing of ladies' frocks, the sound of champagne corks
popping and tinkling laughter. But the room was now infested with some kind of decay. Puffballs oozed from the ceiling, large sections of which had fallen down and lay smashed across the floor, soft like chalk. The plaster on the walls had also crumbled as the white fungus forced its way out. This room was being eaten from within. As I took a step back my foot slipped through a joist in the floor, scraping the skin around my ankle. The expensive sprung floor had disintegrated. I started to think I should have taken more notice of the warnings.

I reminded myself of the reason I was here – the entrance from the boot room. The corresponding wall was directly in front of me and there was no evidence of a doorway. I froze as another chunk of masonry fell, just missing me. I stared down at a smashed cherub, its rosebud mouth a gaping hole and its remaining curls looking like horns. I was worried that my movements had set off an avalanche and began to crawl slowly back towards the conservatory. Something distracted me. I was temporarily blinded as a light shone in my eye, the reflection off a tin box nestled in one corner. It was the only thing left in the room but it appeared temptingly bright and untarnished. I knew I should run but all I could think about was finding another of Patrick's clues.

Inch by inch I shuffled forward, the palms of my hands and my knees scraping the wooden floor, all the time listening for warning sounds of falling debris. I reached the box and crouched. The lid opened easily but it was empty,
and I sighed with disappointment. A speck of colour flitted in front of my eyes and I blinked. It was a black and red insect with a barbed tail, its wings fluttering so fast that it made me think of a tiny fan. Its beady eyes focused on me. It hovered in front of my face and I instinctively swatted it away. Suddenly there were five of them, ten, twenty, an entire swarm, a red and black mass clouding my vision and in my hair and on my neck, crawling around my mouth. I tried to scream but there was one on my tongue, grazing the roof of my mouth. My throat began to gurgle and I knew that any minute I'd have to swallow.

And suddenly I was back in my room, in my nightmare, choking on the weight of my fear. The swirling darkness overcame me and there was no way I could fight against it. I was floating out of my body as my life ebbed away.

‘Are you going to tell me why you're really here?' a voice demanded.

‘It was just a dragonfly, Sinead.'

‘There was more than one of them,' I insisted, still gagging. ‘They were all over me, even in my mouth.'

James tried to suppress a grin. ‘There was one small insect and you were flapping about like you'd sat on a hornet's nest.'

‘I want to get out of here,' I said, overcome with self-pity and embarrassment. I pushed my way back through the conservatory, puzzled that the plants didn't seem quite so overgrown or threatening now and even the man-eating flower looked smaller and harmless. I covered my head with my hands, wondering what was happening to my mind.

‘Come on, let's walk,' he said. ‘I'll square it with Sister Catherine.'

I followed him into the wood, grateful that the trees were closely planted and provided shade.

‘You don't think it's weird,' I asked slowly, ‘the
west wing being in ruins like that? It looks like it's been abandoned for at least a century.'

‘Suppose,' James deliberated, ‘but Gran says it's dry rot, and once that takes hold it spreads like wildfire … everything literally falls apart, crumbles into dust. You really shouldn't have been in there.' He turned and confronted me with a knowing smile. ‘And? Will you tell me why you're really here? If you're not following me.'

‘I told you, I need the job.'

‘You're lying,' James said with complete confidence. ‘You didn't even ask about the salary, and you don't look the type to take orders from Sister Catherine.'

He was right and my guilty face said everything.

I took a deep breath that hurt my lungs. ‘OK, I'll come clean. It's my brother, Patrick. He hasn't been seen for a few weeks and everyone's really worried. He told his neighbours about getting a new job and he had a copy of the local paper with a circled advert for Benedict House.'

‘So … you came here expecting to find him?'

I nodded. ‘Sister Catherine hinted she knew something about him, but she won't tell me unless I agree to—'

‘I can't believe she'd do that,' James cut in. ‘Not when she knows how worried you are.'

I had to bite back anger. ‘It's true. She keeps saying all this weird stuff about answers being revealed and how if I work here I'll find what I'm looking for.'

He shook his head incredulously. ‘Why would she say
that, and why would you go along with her? You've no evidence Patrick's even been here.'

‘I have. He left a kind of … trail for me to follow. I also found his medallion in the grounds.'

James still looked sceptical. ‘Tell me about this trail.'

I was hot and bothered and my throat tickled horribly. ‘We used to play a game when we were children. He'd leave me clues and I'd follow him to solve them. He's still doing it now. He's even left me a key and I have to find the door it fits.'

‘OK … but Sister Catherine wouldn't get involved in childish stuff like that.'

‘You don't actually know anything about her,' I burst out. ‘She could have some kind of hold over your gran. I mean, why does your gran say she's always been around when she clearly hasn't?'

James suddenly hung his head. ‘I didn't realize until I came back, but Gran … she forgets things and gets confused –' He shrugged, looking unhappy.

I winced. No wonder Sister Catherine had said Mrs Benedict didn't receive visitors. I threw James a sympathetic glance, not really knowing what to say.

‘It's really sad,' he went on. ‘She's fixated on the past and thinks my dad is still here, at the house.'

‘And where is he?' I asked for the second time since I'd met him.

James looked away into the wood, his eyes remote. ‘The truth is, I don't know. He walked out on Mum and me
and hasn't been in contact since. That's why we emigrated. I came back here hoping Gran would be able to help, but … she can't and now I don't know where to look and I don't have much time –'

I felt sorry for James. He'd travelled from the other side of the world looking for answers and come up against a brick wall. I knew how that felt. His eyes looked glassy and he changed the subject. ‘What was the job Sister Catherine advertised?'

I scrunched my face. ‘It was vague … something about a life-changing opportunity. If Sister Catherine was counselling Patrick, it might make sense.'

‘Counselling Patrick because … ?'

‘He's an addict,' I replied, surprised how easily it rolled off my tongue. ‘And he has other … psychological problems. Dad was always threatening to check him into rehab, and Sister Catherine made a pointed comment about lost souls –' I cringed, realizing how weird this sounded.

‘I'm sorry about your brother, Sinead, but I can't see Sister Catherine putting up with messed-up teenagers.'

I grimaced. ‘She's not exactly Mother Teresa, is she?'

We walked on in silence, but now that we'd talked it felt comfortable between us. Inside the trees' natural arbour the temperature was at least ten degrees cooler and I could breathe again.

‘I missed it here,' James said unexpectedly.

‘What? The sun and surf weren't a match for rainy old England?'

‘Surprisingly, no,' he answered with touching honesty. ‘I missed the rain most of all. Sometimes I'd wake in Melbourne in the blistering heat, convinced I was back here on a dewy morning, my shoes and socks wet and the wood smelling damp and earthy.'

‘It must have been an idyllic childhood,' I said with envy.

He gazed into the distance. ‘So I've been told, but … I wouldn't really know.'

I did an about-turn. ‘You don't remember?'

He looked me straight in the eye, his mouth set firm. ‘I have this blank … a dead part of my brain that I can't access, and only vague flashes of memory … but I don't even know if they're real.'

‘James, that's awful,' I said. He looked so lost that I wanted to reach out to him. I had to ball my hands into fists to stop myself.

He sucked in a breath. ‘It feels as if my life only began when I reached Australia. Mum's told me things about living at Benedict House, but … I can't connect with them.'

‘Has your mum ever talked about returning together to help you … connect?'

James shook his head. ‘She doesn't even know I'm here; she would have stopped me.'

‘But … why didn't she want you to come back?'

‘That's what I'm here to find out,' he said grimly. ‘I'm eighteen now. I can make my own decisions and go wherever I choose.'

‘And … you might come back someday?' I asked, hope blooming inside me.

‘Never say never,' he quipped, and there was that sadness again. He leaned against a silver birch and picked a few tiny leaves from a lower stem. We hadn't walked very far but he was quite out of breath. I wondered if the humidity had got to him. I flopped on to a pile of pink blossom that still covered the ground. He did the same.

‘You OK?'

He closed his eyes tightly, opened them wide and then repeated this twice more. ‘Yeah. Sometimes I get dizzy ever since I had … glandular fever in the winter. It's made me a bit run-down.'

‘Had your bloods checked?'