Midnight is a Lonely Place (45 page)

‘Come on. We can’t get lost, Paddy. Not here. This is hardly uncharted country. We’re just getting tired and cold.’

‘And frightened,’ he put in. She wished he hadn’t.

‘All right, and frightened.’

‘You think it’s Marcus, don’t you.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. I don’t want to think any more. Let’s save our strength for walking.’

He hesitated, about to say something, then he changed his mind. Breaking the gun he lowered it to his side. ‘OK. Lay on Macduff. Which way would you say is up?’

She glanced round. ‘Straight on up this rabbit track. Shall I go first?’ It was only wide enough for them to go in single file. She saw him hesitate, and knew he was longing to say yes, but chivalry or male pride, or the possession of the gun or a bit of all three won and he shook his head. ‘I’ll go. You can protect my rear.’ The giggle he gave was a little hysterical.

Two minutes later he stopped with a gasp of terror. The shadow on the track was barely ten feet in front of them. A swirl of icy wind swept round it, whipping leaves and soil off the ground, howling up through the branches of the trees, gaining in strength until it rose to a scream as the hatred and anger hit them like a tangible force. Kate heard Patrick cry out and she saw him reel to one side, the gun flying into the air. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. She could feel a constriction round her throat. Her feet refused to move. She wanted to run, to run faster than she had ever run in her life before but she couldn’t take even the first step. There was an enormous bang somewhere inside her head and suddenly everything went black.

LI

Fat, confident, unsuspecting, the priests died like sheep, their throats cut
like butter, their indignant, protesting whimpers still on their lips as they
fell. So much for the power of their gods! He wiped his knife on a fold of
his cloak and sheathed it with a triumphant smile. That was the end of
the matter. The Britons, the whore, all dead, all gone to Hades and
perdition. No one would know. The land would not tell. The men of the
Trinovantes, who would give an arm each for a reason to fall on Rome,
would never find reason for rebellion from him. This small drama would
die as it had flourished on the edge of the mud. If men had disappeared,
it would be assumed that the gods had called for more than one sacrifice;
they were greedy these British gods; they lapped blood like dogs in the
arena
.

He folded his arms and stared out across the marsh, towards the eastern sky. It was clear now of cloud. The sun shone cold and hazy, clean like the blade of his knife, the light incising the wind. The heaviness of salt was in the air, overshadowing the flat, sallow smell of mud, cleansing it, purifying it with the incense of the northern seas. His eyes flicked down at the rushes which grew at the marsh’s edge; they were green, the ends tipped with spiky, iridescent flowers. Nothing disturbed them. There was no sign that anyone had passed that way at all. He flexed the muscles of his fingers slowly, staring down at his hand. Four lives, snuffed out like flames, as though they had never been. And no one would ever know
.

It was the sound of a shot which awoke her. Loud, close, exploding in her brain. Then silence. A long long silence where she floundered painfully in nothingness. A shot. It couldn’t have been a shot. Who would be shooting? The sound must have been in her head. A part of the nightmare. A part of the pain. Giving up the struggle to make sense of nonsense Cissy slept again.

‘Mummy!’

A cry this time, floating into her head like a dream. ‘Mummy, I’m hurting. Help me.’

The sound spun round and round, and finally lodged in some part of her brain which was capable of a reaction. Cissy forced her eyes open with a groan. ‘Susie?’ She tried to move. There was a tight band around her ribs, preventing her from breathing properly. ‘Susie?’

‘Mummy.’
The word was followed by a sob.

The sound cut through the last of Cissy’s confusion. Christ! She’d crashed the car. She lifted her head with difficulty and stared round, trying to make sense of a world upside down. No, not upside down. On its side. The car was on its side and she was hanging from her seat belt. She looked down. Red. Blood. An awful lot of blood. Dear God, had Sue been wearing a seat belt at all? The child was below her, huddled in the well in front of the passenger seat.

‘Are you all right?’ Somehow she managed to make her voice work calmly in spite of the pain in her ribs which was, she realised, excruciating.

‘We’ve crashed!’ The reply was couched in the tone of a complaint.

‘I can see that, darling.’ Cissy bit her lip, trying to keep herself under control. ‘Darling, I don’t see how I can move. Are you hurt? Try and move each one of your arms and legs in turn. See if they’re all right.’ Her eyes were heavy. She wanted to close them, to slide away from the pain.

‘They’re OK.’

‘And your head. Does that hurt?’

Sue moved it from side to side experimentally and her eyes filled with tears. ‘Yes.’

‘And your neck?’

‘Yes.’

‘But not so badly you can’t move.’

‘No.’

‘Is there any way you can climb out?’ The windscreen had gone, she realised hazily. That was why it was so cold. She was shaking now, her whole body shuddering in tight, agonised spasms. ‘If I undo my seat belt I’m going to fall on top of you.’

‘Is the car going to explode?’ Sue was crying so hard she had not heard anything.

‘No, darling, of course it’s not going to explode. Range Rovers can’t explode.’ If they could, presumably it would have done so by now. ‘Please, Susie, I want you to try and be brave. We have to get ourselves out of here. See if you can wriggle out of the windscreen. Then see if you can stand up.’ She was finding it hard to breathe now. ‘This is an awfully big adventure.’ Who had said that? Peter Pan, was it? But he was talking about death. ‘Please, darling. You must get out. If you can’t help me, you have to go down to Redall and get help. If I …’ she swallowed and choked, ‘ … if I pass out, you musn’t be frightened. I think I’ve broken some ribs. It’s not serious –’ please God ‘– but it’s very painful. I think we’ve got to cut the strap.’ Everything was spinning round her. She frowned, trying to focus. She couldn’t see Susie at all now. Or hear. Why couldn’t she hear? She tried to lift her head and look round, but her eyes were blurred with tears. Hands. Where were her hands? Why couldn’t she use her hands?

‘I’m out, Mummy.’ Susie’s voice was further away, but it seemed to be stronger. ‘I think I’m all right.’ Suddenly her face was there, close to Cissy’s. ‘Can you climb out?’

Cissy tried to think. Climb out. It seemed like a good idea, but how? She seemed to be suspended by her pain, swimming in space.

‘I …’ She tried again. ‘I’m all right. My ribs. I think my ribs are hurt.’

‘It’s the seat belt. You’re hanging in the seat belt.’ Susie’s voice was extraordinarily strong. ‘I’ll see if I can cut it with something.’

‘No.’ Shaking her head hurt. Perhaps her neck was broken too. Her thoughts were scattered, like a flock of pigeons after a bird scarer has gone off. Regroup them. Bring them in. Make sense. ‘Can’t cut it. You’ve got to undo it.’

‘Mum, I can’t. Look, you’re pushing down on the slot.’ Susie’s hair was sweeping her face. ‘We’ve got to lift you up somehow. ‘Can you pull yourself this way?’

The girl’s hands were cool, competent. She would make a good nurse. Cissy pondered her hands for a few seconds. ‘Mummy!’ The voice was cross now; impatient. ‘Concentrate. You can’t hang there. We’ve got to get you out. Put your hand up here. Where mine is. That’s it. Now hold on. There. Tightly.’

She’s make a good commander too; firm. Positive. Calm. Lost in her endless pop music, it was easy to forget what the child was like as a person. She had become a shadow, walking round the house jerking to an unheard rhythm –

‘Mummy!’

Silly girl. Giving orders. Silly orders.

‘Mummy! Put your hand here.’

Impatient too. Stroppy little cow her father called her. Joe. Joe! Where was Joe?

She must have called out loud. Susie’s face was there, in front of her again. Concerned, swimming in brightness. ‘Dad will come soon, but we have to get you out.’

Susie had seen the slight dribble of blood at the corner of her mother’s mouth. It terrified her. It should be Cissy comforting her, not the other way round. She glanced yet again over her shoulder into the dark trees. There had been no sign of him, the kook who had stood in the middle of the track in front of them and caused her mother to skid, but he must still be out there. He must have seen them crash.

Marcus

The name floated into her mind. Allie’s Marcus. The dead Roman from the grave on the beach.

‘Mummy!’ Her terror gave her strength and she turned back to the smashed windscreen, leaning against the bonnet, trying to get a purchase on her mother’s shoulder. ‘When I say, try and take as much of your weight as you can here, on the doorframe. I’ll see if I can free your belt.’ She took a deep breath and reached into the car through the shattered glass. There was blood on the seat belt; the catch was slippery, hard to press, the belt strained beneath her mother’s weight. She curled her fingers round the release and braced herself. ‘Now. Now, go on, lift yourself as much as you can. NOW!’ Frantically she pressed, wrenching the catch. Nothing happened. ‘Don’t let go. Pull up harder!’ It must open. It must.

Pull. Cissy closed her fingers around the windowframe where Susie had positioned them. Pull. Good idea. Take her weight. Take the strain off her ribs. She pulled again and the pressure had gone.

‘Done it!’ The shriek in her ear was ecstatic. Then she was falling. Frantically she clung on again. Susie’s arm around her took her full weight and she felt the girl stagger; the arm closed around her and the pain was renewed in force but somehow she was half out of the windscreen. Flailing with her hands she felt grass and brambles; her weight was sliding her out of the car across the bonnet to the ground and suddenly she was lying on the mud, huddled, hips high, hugging her pain.

‘Well done!’ Susie was triumphant. ‘Now sit up comfortably. Lean against the bank here.’

The girl glanced up into the trees again. There was something there. It moved slightly in the darkness of the shadows. She stood up, letting her mother slump back to the ground, her eyes straining to see what it was.

‘Who’s there?’ Her voice was shaking. ‘Greg? Paddy?’ Please let it be one of them. They must be near the farmhouse. She glanced round, confused. How far had they come before they crashed? She couldn’t remember.

It was there again. The movement in the trees. She could feel her mouth, dry as sandpaper; she couldn’t breathe properly. Her knees were beginning to shake. ‘Mummy.’ It was a reflex action, this desperate whisper for help. She knew her mother couldn’t hear her. ‘Mummy, can you see him?’

The figure was tall; the face, dark, aquiline, cruel. Strange, she had always thought ghosts would be transparent, insubstantial, traversable should they cross one’s path. Without fully realising she had done it, she sank to the ground beside her mother and reached for Cissy’s hand. ‘Mummy. Help me. He’s coming.’

Cissy heard her. She tried to move her fingers but they didn’t seem to work; her words of reassurance were lost as blood seeped into her throat.

LII

Joe frowned and glanced once again at his wristwatch. Strange that they weren’t back.

He could smell the beef. The whole house was full of appetising scents which made his juices flow. Perhaps she didn’t realise the time; she always got carried away, did Cissy, when she went down to Redall; something about that house that made one forget the time – he had felt it too. But if she was bringing them back, surely they should be here by now? He glanced at his watch once again; it was after three. The meat would be ruined. He glanced at the oven and shook his head. Tempted though he was to start without them perhaps he’d better get down there and see what was wrong. Grabbing an oven cloth off the rail he pulled open the door and pulled out the meat pan. The meat was dry, shrunk on the bone, the potatoes almost black. He shook his head sadly and pushed the trays of food onto the counter. Spoiled anyway.

Outside he glanced up at the sky. The light was nearly gone already, the cloud black and threatening, the wind – he sniffed knowledgeably – coming a degree or so round to the north. That would bring real snow; the kind they hadn’t seen for four years on this coast. Thoughtfully he hauled himself up into the old Land Rover which stood by the barn and leaned forward to turn the key.

At first he didn’t recognise what he saw; his eyes refused to make sense of the axles, the wheels, the exhaust which were all he could see of his Range Rover, on its side in the ditch. In the headlights, through the driving sleet, all he could see was a pattern of shiny mud and steel. Then he realised and his stomach turned over. He skidded to a halt, and leaving the headlights trained on the wreck, he levered himself out of the driving seat and jumped down into the slush. ‘Cissy?’ Dear sweet lord, where were they? ‘Susie my love?’ He jumped into the ditch and clambered round to the far side of the vehicle, his boots sliding and squelching, catching in the brambles.