Midnight Is a Lonely Place by Barbara Erskine
‘I knew she would be OK.’ Greg shook his head in exasperation when she told him. Then he leaned across to the counter and picked up the box of matches lying there. ‘Do you want me to light the fire for you while I’m here?’ His voice was curt, almost as if he were offering against his will.
‘Would you.’ She did not allow herself to sound too grateful. ‘The lighters are over there. I’ll get us a whisky.’
‘All done.’ Greg came back moments later. ‘Good lord, what’s that?’ He had spotted the dagger lying on the table near the coffee pot. Curiously he picked it up and examined it. ‘Where did you find this?’
‘In Alison’s excavation.’
He frowned. ‘I thought she asked you not to touch anything there.’
‘She did, and I had no intention of doing so. This was lying on the ground at the edge as though she’d dropped it. Another tide and it would have been lost.’ She poured the two drinks and pushed one towards him. ‘I told you, I went out to see if she was still there. There’s a terrible mess at the excavation.’
He raised his glass and sipped the whisky, still holding the dagger. ‘I thought she was doing it carefully.’
‘She was. She showed it to me only yesterday. It must have been that storm last night. It’s full of seaweed, and half the side has fallen in. I expect that’s how that came to light.’ She nodded in the direction of the dagger.
Putting down his glass he examined it more closely.
‘Is it Roman do you think?’ He glanced up.
Kate missed the sudden amusement in his eyes. She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. I think it might be earlier but I’m not an archaeologist. I do think she ought to get some experts here. She could be doing irreparable damage, poking around the way she is.’ She still had not mentioned the torc.
‘The way you describe it the sea will do a lot worse than anything she could do. At least she’s saving a few things this way.’ Greg put the dagger down. ‘You’d better bring it when you come to dinner tomorrow.’
‘I shall.’ She met his eye. For a minute they studied one another, measuring each other up.
‘So. How are you liking Redall Cottage?’ he said at last.
‘Very much. But I’m sorry you had to leave so I could come.’
‘You mean you’d like me to move back in with you?’ He raised an eyebrow suggestively.
‘No.’ She did not flinch. ‘I’m paying for my privacy.’
‘And I’m interrupting it.’ He put down his glass.
‘Not for another thirty minutes. I allow myself the occasional break. Have another?’ Picking up the bottle she gestured towards the glass. He intrigued her. Handsome, boorish, presumably talented, he was something of an enigma.
‘Why not. I can hardly get done for drunk driving in that thing. No one would notice the difference.’
As Kate led the way through into the sitting room he followed her. She poured his whisky then she glanced at him. ‘Someone broke in here last night.’
‘Broke in?’ His expression was bland; politely interested. If he was surprised he didn’t show it.
‘They seemed to be looking for something.’
‘Have you told the police?’
She shook her head. ‘Whoever it was had a key.’ She sat down, cradling her glass on her knee.
‘Oh, I see. You think it was me.’
‘No. It was a woman.’
That did surprise him. ‘You saw her?’
She shrugged. ‘Not quite. But I know it was a woman, and I smelt her perfume. I thought at first it was Alison messing about, but now I’m not so sure. Perhaps it was a friend of hers.’ She paused. ‘Or of yours.’
He did not rise to the remark. ‘Is anything missing?’
‘No. At least, nothing of mine.’ She took a sip from her glass, not looking at him. ‘Did you mean to leave those pictures upstairs?’ she asked after a moment. She sat staring at the wood-burner. The fire inside roared like a wild beast.
Greg raised his foot and kicked the damper across. ‘I did. There’s no more space in the farmhouse. Why, don’t you like them?’ He threw himself down into the chair opposite her. There was a challenge in his eyes.
‘Not much.’
‘Too strong for you, eh?’ He looked puzzled suddenly. ‘Did you mean to imply that one of them is missing?’
‘No, they were all there, I think. And yes, I suppose so,’ she conceded. ‘They are disturbing.’
‘They depict the soul of this place. The cottage. The bay. The land. The sea. The sea will drown all this one day, you know.’
‘So I gather.’ She refused to be rattled by the dramatic declamation. ‘And sooner rather than later if that digging is anything to go by.’
He frowned. ‘It’s strange. None of us knew that was there. Allie found it a while back – the signs of the dune having been dug by men and not just being natural – then only a few weeks ago a great section split off like a ripe rotten fruit and it started spewing out all these bits and pieces.’ His voice was quiet, but his choice of words was deliberate. He had not taken his eyes off her face. ‘It exudes evil, this place. It’s in my paintings. I’m amazed Allie can’t feel it. But she’s an astoundingly insensitive kid. Perhaps it’s because she anaesthetises herself all the time with that noisy crap she calls music.’
Kate smiled. ‘I saw the scarlet machine this morning.’
He was right. She had felt it. The evil. She gave an involuntary shudder and was furious to see that he had noticed. He smiled. Pointedly he put down his glass and, standing up, he went to the stove. Opening the doors he loaded in another log. ‘Do you want me to get in touch with the police about your visitor?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing was taken. I’m sure it was a schoolgirl prank. I’ll bolt the door in future.’
‘And you’re not worried about staying here alone?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t a burglar at all. Perhaps the woman you saw was a ghost. I told you this place was haunted. Haunted and evil. The locals won’t come near it.’
Was that it, then? Was this all a ploy to frighten her away? She laughed. ‘Being a writer of history I’m happy to live with ghosts.’
‘I trust you’re not tempting providence with that remark,’ he said. Throwing himself down in his chair again he crossed his leg, left ankle on right knee and sighed. ‘I used to find it very oppressive here after a while. My paintings would change. They would grow more and more angry. Whilst I am by nature quite a sunny chap.’
She was watching him closely.
‘At the farmhouse I paint differently. With more superficiality,’ he went on thoughtfully. ‘If I ever paint a masterpiece it will be in this cottage.’ For a brief moment it was as though he was talking to himself. He had forgotten she was there; forgotten he was trying to scare her. Remembering her again he glanced at her. ‘Art, it seems, must wait for commerce.’
Straight from the hip. She took it without flinching. ‘Don’t you sell your paintings then?’
‘No.’
The reply, loaded with scorn, was succeeded by a long silence. She did not pursue the subject. Studying his face as he stared morosely into the flames she was conscious suddenly of the lines of weariness around his eyes and the realisation that Greg Lindsey was a very unhappy man. The moment of insight struck her dumb. The silence dragged out uncomfortably as she, too, stared into the flickering fire.
The crash from upstairs brought them both to their feet. ‘Shit! What was that?’ Greg put down his glass.
She swallowed. She had heard a crash like that before and her investigation had found nothing. ‘The wind must have blown the door shut,’ she said at last. ‘I’d better look.’ She did not move. The room seemed suddenly warm and safe. She did not want to climb the stairs.
The noise seemed to have shaken him out of his introspection. He looked at her, noting her white face and anxious eyes and was astonished at his own reaction. He should have been pleased that she was scared but
Taking the stairs two at a time he went first into the spare room. The room was empty save for her cases and boxes, and his own pictures, standing where he had left them behind the door. He noted briefly that they still faced the wall, then he ducked out of the room and switched on the light in the main bedroom. After the stark businesslike aura of the living room downstairs with its computer and books, the bedroom – his bedroom – shocked him by its unaccustomed femininity. He glanced round. Nothing was out of place. Both doors had been open. Nothing appeared to have fallen – he checked the painting on the wall. One of his, it was uncharacteristically pretty, depicting the bluebells in Redall Wood. He scowled at it. His mother must have brought it over, for it used to hang in the spare room at the farmhouse. Having ascertained that there was no reason for the bang that he could see, his gaze travelled more slowly around the bedroom for the second time, noting her towelling bathrobe, thrown across the bed, her slippers near it, both a bright flame which would suit her rather mousy colouring. He found himself picturing her in the robe for a moment. On the chest of drawers lay a heap of silver bangles – she had been wearing them the day she arrived, he remembered – and next to them a glass filled with winter flowers she must have gathered in the wood. The naturalist in him noted periwinkle, small velvety-red dead nettles and a sprig of daphne she must have found in what was once the cottage garden. Continuing his quick perusal, he studied the small collection of cosmetics. On neither occasion that he had met her so far had she been wearing any makeup at all, but obviously when the occasion demanded she was happy to gild the lily. He turned to the low windowsill where she had put several paperbacks – poetry and social history, he saw. No reader of fiction, this author.
‘Have you found anything?’
Her voice behind him in the doorway made him jump guiltily.
‘Nothing. Both doors were open. Nothing seems to have fallen over. The windows are closed.’
‘Could it have been outside?’
‘The chimney, you mean?’ He smiled. ‘I think we would have noticed if it had fallen through the roof.’
‘What was it then?’ Her voice betrayed her irritation. From the landing she had seen him studying her things. His interest made her feel vulnerable and angry.
‘Perhaps it was the ghost of Marcus. I’ve often heard things here.’ When she did not rise to the remark, he headed back towards the stairs, glancing at his watch. ‘Look, Kate, I should be going back. There’s nothing here. Nothing to worry about. I’ll take a look at the roof as I leave, and get a few more logs in for you. It was probably out in the trees – a branch coming off or something. Acoustics are often unaccountable.’ He descended the stairs ahead of her. ‘If you’re worried, give us a ring and Dad or I will come back and check things for you.’
‘There won’t be any need. I shall be all right.’
Marcus
She shivered at the name which had floated unbidden into her head, watching as Greg pushed his feet into his boots and reached for his jacket. Half of her wanted him to go. He had been perfectly polite, but she could sense his dislike. The other half was afraid. She did not relish the idea of being alone.
Which was crazy. She had rented the cottage for six months and she wasn’t planning to have any lodgers. She had to get used to being alone, and get used to whatever funny noises the countryside had to throw at her. As if to test her resolution the sharp scream of a vixen rang out as he opened the front door. He turned and studied her face. ‘You know what that is, I suppose.’
The bastard! He expected her to be frightened. ‘I know,’ she said. She managed a smile. ‘I’ve lived most of my life in the country, Greg. Because I have, or had,’ she corrected herself as she remembered yet again the full implications concomitant with moving out of Jon’s flat, ‘a London address, it does not make me a townie.’
She thought he had the grace to look slightly shamefaced as, with a bow and a mock touch to his forelock, he headed for the Land Rover. She did not hear his parting comment as he hauled himself behind the wheel: ‘And fuck you too, Lady Muck!’
It was only after she had watched the tail lights disappear into the trees that she realised he had neither given the roof a glance as he left, nor fetched her in the promised extra logs.
‘Bastard.’ She said it out loud this time. She glanced at the log box. There were still a few there but not enough after the blaze he had initiated, for the night. She would have to go out again into the dark.
The torch was sitting where she had left it on the counter in the kitchen. Next to the dagger. She looked at her jacket hanging on the back of the door and she reached a decision. When the fire died she would have a bath – heated by electricity – and she would go to bed. Nothing and no one was going to get her out of the front door again until it was daylight.
With an immense feeling of relief she shot the bolt on the door and walked back into the living room. She made sure the damper was closed – make the wretched thing last as long as possible – put on an Elgar tape – the Enigma Variations – loud – and then she poured herself another whisky.
She had worked for another couple of hours on the book, and was printing up a rough copy for herself when she remembered the silver polish she had stashed away in the cupboard under the sink. Switching off the computer with a sigh of relief she stacked the pages neatly away and went to the drawer. The torc looked greenish-black as she lifted it out and examined it again in the bright kitchen light. Shaking the bottle of polish she smeared some of the mixture cautiously onto the metal and began to rub it gently with the corner of a duster. Ten minutes later she gave up. Her more and more energetic rubbing had had no effect whatsoever. Disappointed, she laid duster and metal on the counter when the phone rang.
‘Hi, Kate.’ Jon’s voice was so strong it sounded as though he was in the next room. ‘I’m in Boston. How is Lord George?’
‘Going well.’ She found she was smiling. ‘What about your tour?’
‘OK. A bit tiring. Nearly over now, thank God. I’m taking five at the hotel. English tea and muffins before I get ready to go out this evening. What are you up to?’
‘I’m cleaning an ancient British torc with modern British silver polish and its having no effect whatsoever.’ Leaning against the counter, the phone comfortably tucked against her ear she turned and surveyed her handiwork.
‘Sounds fun.’ The response from across the Atlantic was muted. ‘May I ask where you got an ancient British torc?’
‘It was lying on the beach.’
‘I see.’ She could tell he didn’t believe her. ‘There isn’t an ancient Briton wearing it, I suppose?’
‘Not at the moment, no.’ She smiled to herself again. ‘You’d love it, here, Jon.’ It was a tentative feeler; a peace offering.
‘The parties are good are they?’ The irony in his tone reminded her that they were no longer supposed to be friends. Or lovers.
So, why had he rung her again?
She knew better than to ask.
‘There’s no one to party with, here. Just the birds and I believe there are seals round in the bay.’
‘And the occasional ancient Brit.’
‘You got it.’ She mimicked what she hoped was an American insouciance. ‘Actually the ghost is Roman.’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘You sounded almost serious,’ Jon said cautiously.
‘Did I?’ She reminded herself how quick he was to pick up nuances; his sensitivity was one of the things she loved – had loved, she corrected herself sharply – about him. It made his actions over the last few weeks harder to bear.
She laughed lightly. ‘How silly. Only joking.’
‘I see.’ He was still thoughtful. ‘You are all right?’
‘Yes. Fine.’
‘OK. Well, enjoy yourself kiddo. I’ll give you a ring in a day or two.’
The blast of cold air behind her, smelling heavily of wet earth, took her completely by surprise. She whirled round. The front door must have blown open in spite of her care in locking and bolting it. She peered out into the hall. The door was as she had left it. The hall was dark and deserted.
Come on, Kennedy. Either a window has come open or the wind has blown back down the chimney. She found she was whispering to herself as she looked into the warm, dimly-lit living room. There was still a faint glow coming from the stove, though the log box was empty. The room was cooling, but the scent of earth was not coming from there. It was coming from upstairs.
Her bedroom window must be open. She frowned. She had opened it earlier to stare out at the sea, watching the mist drifting in across the still, grey water as night came in from the east. Obviously she had not latched it properly. Her hand on the stair rail she began to climb.
Both doors at the top were open. Both rooms were in darkness. Reaching the top she clicked on the light. The window in her bedroom was shut as she had known in her heart it would be, and the curtains were tightly drawn across. She sniffed. There must be a patch of damp in the house which the rain had activated somehow. Ducking out of the room she peered into the other across the landing. The smell was stronger there and the air was cold. Bitterly cold. The room had a north-facing window, she reminded herself as she went to examine it. It was closed and judging by the cobwebs welded over the catch, had not been opened for a long time.
Slowly she surveyed the walls, looking for the telltale signs of discolouration on the wallpaper. Tiny lemon yellow flowers on brown green stems romped across the uneven walls and between the oak beams without a sign of damp.
Switching off the lights she walked downstairs again, sniffing. The smell was still strong. A sweet, cold smell like a newly-turned flower bed after rain. With a shrug she walked back into the living room and turning over the tape, threw herself down in the armchair nearest the fire.