Don't Look Back (5 page)

‘Did you speak to him?' I asked.

The priest shook his head. ‘I didn't approach him because I thought he wanted some contemplative time alone.'

I got up from the pew and walked over to the statue, my footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. I wanted to stand in the same spot as Patrick had, and I stared at Saint Peter, waiting for inspiration.

The priest followed me. ‘Is your brother in some kind of trouble?'

I gave a hollow laugh, wishing I knew the answer. ‘This could all be just a stupid game. Patrick's missing. He left me some clues to follow, and a key that doesn't seem to fit any lock.'

The priest smiled again. ‘Then let us hope it has the same purpose as the keys given to Saint Peter himself in the gospel … the keys to the kingdom of heaven.'

My returning smile was a definite cringe. I'd been trying for so long to escape my mother's diet of force-fed religion and this felt like I was being drawn back in again. Plus the idea of me being allowed into heaven was just too embarrassing for words. I muttered a tepid thank-you and he offered his hand for me to shake, but I just brushed the tips of his fingers as though there was something nasty on them. This had all got too close for comfort. I made for the door.

‘Goodbye, Catherine.'

His voice made me stop in my tracks. I turned, my trainers making a squeaky noise on the woodblock floor. ‘How do you know?'

He gestured to his throat. I wore a gold chain around my neck from which dangled a letter
C
, a present from Dad. It was usually hidden but must have slipped outside my T-shirt.

‘No one calls me that,' I said. ‘I use my middle name – Sinead. And how did you guess it was Catherine?'

He smiled. ‘It was an inspired guess. I was already confident that your mother would have given you a saint's name. You made a sign of the cross when you came into church, and genuflected before the altar.'

‘That's just habit –'

As I struggled with the heavy door I could detect a slight smugness when he called out, ‘All the same, Catherine. Welcome back.'

The weather finally broke. I'd walked no more than fifty metres when the heavens opened. Rain splattered down in huge droplets that fell with such force they stung my skin. Within thirty seconds I was so thoroughly drenched that there was little point in seeking shelter. I tried not to laugh at the sight of the same people I'd seen on the way to the church now frantically grabbing their possessions and running for cover. In another few minutes the road was starting to flood because the drains were either blocked or couldn't cope with the volume of rainfall. I had to wade through a pool of water just to get back to the park, my tracksuit bottoms weighing me down and my trainers waterlogged. The wind had picked up and staff from the restaurants and bars struggled to get the chairs and parasols inside before they were blown away. After the endless mugginess it felt exhilarating. I gazed upwards to feel the full power of the rain on my face as lightning forked and a clap of thunder shook the charcoal sky. It was beautiful to watch.

When I finally arrived at the flat, soaked to the skin, Harry looked anxious. ‘Where did you go?' he asked.

‘Let me change,' I said. ‘I'm dripping all over the floor.'

I ran into the bathroom to peel off my clothes and towel-dry my hair, which hung in rats' tails around my ears. My skin was red and tingling. I emerged wearing one of Patrick's old shirts and his jeans held up with a tie.

‘Eat while it's hot, Sinead.'

I was famished, so hungry that I felt light-headed. I could smell Chinese takeaway and saw that Harry had completely covered Patrick's low coffee table in foil-topped containers. It looked as though he'd bought a banquet to feed a family of six. He began to peel back the tops.

‘I've never known anyone eat so much and stay so slim,' he teased, while I scooped the different dishes on to a plate without caring about the jumbled flavours. ‘Aren't you going to tell me?'

‘What?'

‘Where you went? After you nearly killed yourself, that is.'

I licked the saltiness from my lips, my head still buzzing. ‘I recognized two of the words in Patrick's note –
domus dei
– house of God.'

‘And?'

‘So I went to the local church of Saint Peter and a priest translated the rest for me.' I thrust the note at Harry and gave him a minute to read it. ‘Fire, torments and dead
people – it's totally freaked me out. What could Patrick be thinking of?'

Harry was still reading, his forehead creased in concentration.

‘And that bit about a place where time will have no meaning and one second will seem like an eternity is really sinister.'

‘That's almost provoking you,' Harry said, his concerned eyes searching mine.

I dropped my gaze, my stomach fluttering at the notion of such a place; somewhere I could breathe easily without being compelled to race through life frantically, counting the minutes. I took a deep breath and faced Harry again.

‘That's not all … the priest thought he might have seen Patrick recently – in his church, staring at the statue of Saint Peter.' My voice rose. ‘See? I followed him again like I was supposed to … if only I knew why.'

I could tell from the line of Harry's mouth that he was uneasy. ‘What do you make of the ending, Sinead –
a gateway where the dead will weep and the lake run red
?'

I scrunched my face. ‘I haven't a clue. There's something about it that sounds familiar, but my mind's whirring so crazily I can't grasp it.' I picked at the skin around my blistered fingers as if I somehow needed to feel Patrick's pain. ‘I'm more worried than ever, Harry. The words in that message are so bizarre. Patrick could have seriously lost it.'

‘Not with all those time references,' Harry insisted.
‘They're calculated.' He lowered his voice as if someone was listening. ‘You know how screwed up your brother is. Think about yourself for once, and stop this … right now.'

I shook my head. ‘I owe it to Mum; she'd be heartbroken if anything happened to Patrick. You know I'd feel responsible.'

‘What if you get hurt searching for him?'

‘Nothing will happen to me,' I insisted.

‘But how would I ever survive if it did, Sinead?'

His seriousness made me wriggle with embarrassment. I knew Harry found it hard to hide his feelings, and I loved him to pieces, but only as a friend. He must have noticed my discomfort and quickly changed the subject.

‘So what does it all mean then? Where is he?'

I shrugged, annoyed because I knew something was staring me in the face but I couldn't see it. Each time I thought I had a connection it escaped from me like a balloon in the wind. I had warmed up again though, and the food was making me more relaxed. The pelting rain had subsided, the thunder now only a distant rumble. Harry and I continued talking but my mind couldn't fully concentrate on our conversation. The words of Patrick's note were on a constant loop playing over and over in my head, separating phrases and joining them with others like crossword clues.

I suddenly sat bolt upright. ‘
Lake run red
– I remember now. There is an actual Red Lake in Ireland. Mum told
us about it when we were little. It always fascinated Patrick.'

‘Go on,' Harry said encouragingly.

My hands flew up to my face in horror. In all the commotion I'd forgotten about calling Mum. She'd be frantic with worry. I grabbed my phone from my handbag and groaned at the number of messages and missed calls. I'd switched it to silent in the police station. With a sinking heart, I pressed the number for home.

My mother berated me for at least five minutes and I didn't say a word in my defence. It was pointless once she was this worked up, and I was used to being the fall guy. She stopped abruptly, exhausted and overwrought. I tried to reassure her that Patrick would return soon and that I would stay over at his flat and ring her immediately when there was news. It seemed to do the trick. I hung up, sighing with relief. Harry smiled with mute sympathy. I rolled my eyes and threw my phone on to the rug. The massive dinner had made me sleepy and my eyes were beginning to water. I stifled a yawn and stretched, wincing with pain. The muscles in my arms were tightly knotted and welts had erupted all over my raw hands.

‘Red Lake?' Harry prompted, but his voice sounded far away and I had to jerk myself back to reality.

I leaned back against a battered armchair to make myself comfortable. ‘When Mum married my dad she moved from Ireland to the north of England, but she's always liked to tell us Irish legends. I remember the story
about the Red Lake so well because Patrick used to frighten me with it.'

‘What's so scary about a lake?'

‘Because this one surrounds Station Island … a mystical place – barren, rocky, misty and –' I paused – ‘long held to be a gateway to the next world.'

‘OK,' said Harry carefully.

‘It's to do with Saint Patrick – you know, the patron saint of Ireland?'

‘The snake guy?'

I gave him a mock stern glance. ‘Yes, the guy who chased all the snakes from Ireland.'

‘And what did he do on this island?'

‘Erm … Saint Patrick was busy converting the Irish to Christianity and some kind of cave or pit was revealed to him where he was supposed to have been shown the afterlife. Then it became a place where pilgrims visited. Some of them reported awful visions and if they survived the ordeal it meant they were saved from the punishment of –'

‘Hell?' Harry interrupted.

I frowned. ‘Some people believe there's another place, kind of halfway between heaven and hell.'

‘And that's what frightened you?'

I looked skyward. ‘No … I was terrified of the pit. Patrick used to tell me it was fathomless and I'd never get out again. I can't believe I was so gullible as to believe him.'

‘But … why would he want you to remember the Red Lake and this island?'

‘Search me. Maybe there'll be another clue.' I twisted my head to one side. ‘You know, it feels like I've been doing this for most of my life.'

‘Then don't do it, Sinead. Throw away the stupid clues, go back home and refuse to play Patrick's stupid games.'

I cupped my hands around my mouth and blew out. ‘I can't. I know he's moved out and I should be free of him, but I can't stop myself …'

‘He's brainwashed you for so long,' Harry said. ‘That's why you can't stop.'

I sighed, pulling small loops of wool out of Patrick's rug. ‘I don't know how not to follow him and … deep down … he needs me.'

Harry's expression was gloomy but he didn't push it. I was so tired that I climbed on to the sofa and nestled my head against a cushion. The light was fading and the sunset beautiful after the storm – shades of pink, yellow and turquoise all blended together as if someone had thrown a whole palette of paint colours on to a canvas. The temperature was still warm but the high ceilings in Patrick's flat made the space echo, something that wasn't noticeable in the daylight, and there were draughts from between cracks in the floorboards. I shivered. Patrick hadn't got around to hanging any curtains and I wondered what time the sun rose, debating whether to hang a sheet over the windows.

Harry twitched nervously and pulled at his curls. ‘Maybe … you shouldn't … I mean it might be creepy here alone … I could sleep in the chair?'

I stifled another yawn. ‘I'll be OK … Patrick might turn up in the middle of the night and that would be awkward.'

This was an excuse and we both knew it, but Harry nodded understandingly. This crisis with Patrick had made me feel closer to him, but I didn't want to hurt him by giving him false hope. Sometimes though, I couldn't see a way not to. I must have dozed and didn't realize he was still there. His lips brushed my cheek and a blanket was gently laid across me. My eyes flickered but I purposely didn't open them.

‘I know you don't feel the same about me, Sinead, and I'm willing to wait … just not forever.'

‘I wouldn't ask you to, Harry,' I whispered as the door closed behind him.

I woke with a start, disorientated as laser rays of sun hit my eyes. I wondered what time it was and groped for my phone. It was after nine. Amazingly I'd slept ten hours. My mind went over the events of yesterday, running through all the clues again and racking my brains trying to work out exactly where Patrick could be leading me. I drew a blank and was fearful I'd hit a brick wall. I swung my legs off the sofa and winced, realizing how tightly bunched my muscles were. My body felt even stiffer than yesterday. I hobbled into the bedroom and slid my phone back on the cabinet and my fingers touched Patrick's Bible. I traced the gilt lettering on the cover. I hadn't given it much thought yesterday, but it struck me now that the flat was so bare and yet this had been left out. And the priest had quoted from the Gospel, something about Saint Peter and the keys to heaven.

I picked up the Bible slowly and held it in the palm of one hand. The book immediately fell open at Saint Matthew's
Gospel as if it had been opened there many times, the thin pages fluttering to release the same fragrantly musty scent as a church. I stared down at the text. The words
Love thy neighbour
had been overwritten in red ink. This could be another clue. My pulse galloped and I closed my eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by a sense of relief. The trail hadn't gone cold. It was almost as if Patrick was watching my progress, nudging me whenever I stalled. He couldn't be in danger; he was enjoying this too much. I could almost hear his voice inside my head:
You'll always follow my footsteps, won't you?

I had to tell Harry. I called him and explained in a torrent what I'd found in the Bible and that I planned to talk to Patrick's neighbours later that morning. I could tell from his voice that I'd woken him.