Midnight Is a Lonely Place by Barbara Erskine
‘Give it a try.’ He turned his hand over to take hers for a moment. ‘You can change your mind any time. And if you’re nervous, you know we can be there very quickly. One of us will always come if you call, I promise.’ He stood up. ‘Greg is out. Come and look at his pictures.’
She followed him towards the study and paused in the doorway looking round as Roger made his way towards his chair behind the desk and threw himself down in it. ‘He has talent,’ he said tiredly. ‘It does not excuse him, but maybe it helps us to understand him a little.’
Kate walked slowly round the room. She had already formed a view of Greg’s talent from the paintings at the cottage, but this selection reinforced it tenfold. He was very good indeed. ‘Who is this woman?’ Curious, she held out a small portrait. It was one of several of the same subject.
Roger shrugged. ‘I don’t recognise her. They are all recent, though.’
Kate stared down at her. The woman had large, oval, grey eyes, too large for her face – they were the same in each painting – and looped chestnut hair. In every case she was dressed in blue, but there was no detail of what she was wearing, just a blur, a hint of shoulders, arms, no more. She shivered and put the painting down. ‘He’s good.’
Roger nodded. He gave a small conspiratorial smile. ‘Don’t tell him I showed you. Come on. We’ll start on the potatoes and after lunch we’ll take you back to the cottage.’
She couldn’t help a feeling of slight trepidation as she let herself into the cottage later, but the presence of both Roger and Diana at her heels reassured her, as did the arrival twenty minutes later of the locksmith. While he fixed the door, the others worked upstairs with her, tidying the spare room and cleaning it.
Roger checked the two windows. ‘Do you want him to fit window locks while he’s here?’ he asked doubtfully examining the window frame. There was no sign of a forced entry anywhere in the house.
Kate shrugged. ‘It seems a bit like overkill – ’
‘Perhaps they could be screwed down. It would be less expensive,’ Diana interrupted. ‘I think we should take every precaution. And there should be a larger bolt on the front door as well as a dead lock.’
It was nearly dark by the time they had all gone. Kate looked round. Strangely she was relieved to see them go. Comforted that the house was now defended like Fort Knox and reassured that her strange experiences were in some way due to Greg she had found herself longing for them to leave; after twenty-four hours without writing she was suffering from withdrawal symptoms.
Taking a cup of coffee to her desk she sat down and pulled the pile of typescript towards her. Pen in hand she began to read.
Outside, the winter day had sunk into a cold sullen night. Once or twice she looked up towards the windows, listening. She had decided against having them screwed shut in the end. It seemed so sad to have to lose the reassuring noise of the sea and the fresh air.
At this moment however there was no sound from outside at all. No wind, no sea. A total silence enveloped the cottage, broken only by the quiet hum of her computer and the pattering of the keys beneath her fingers. The shrill ring of the phone from the kitchen made her jump violently.
It was Jon. His voice was light and sociable again, casual, as though he had no real reason to make a transatlantic call to her at all. ‘How are you?’
‘So, so,’ she replied. She sat down on the high stool. ‘Actually, not so good. I’ve had a burglary.’
‘You’re not serious. Oh my God, Kate, are you OK?’ The real concern in his voice made her wish for the second time that she hadn’t told him her news.
‘Yes, I’m fine. They didn’t take anything except –’ she paused, ‘– do you remember last time you phoned I was cleaning a torc?’
‘Belonging to an ancient Brit?’ Superficially light-hearted though the words were, she could still hear the worry in his voice.
‘They took that. And they smashed up some paintings.’
‘Kate, you can’t stay there – ’
‘No. No. I’m fine. I have the phone, and they’ve changed all the locks. I am bolted and barred like someone in Holloway, except that I am the only one with a key. It was probably local kids who thought the cottage was empty. I don’t suppose they will be back.’
‘Have the police been? Are you sure you’re all right? Oh God, Kate, I wish I were closer.’ The warmth of his voice filled the kitchen. ‘Take care, my darling, won’t you.’
She hung up thoughtfully. My darling, he had called her. My darling. He still loved her.
She was aware suddenly that the wind was getting up outside. She could hear the soft moaning of the tree branches from the wood, but it didn’t matter. Suddenly nothing mattered any more. Feeling unaccountably happy, snug, knowing there was a good supply of firewood in her box, and with a brand new lock and a bolt top and bottom on the front door, she smiled. The sound made her feel all the more secure and cosy.
She went back to her book. It was hard to concentrate; her mind kept wandering back to Jon, but eventually the narrative captured her again and she was drawn back to the childhood of her poet. Catherine Gordon was something of an enigma in her relationship with her son, her love as twisted and deformed as the poor club foot of her child. Kate leaned back in her chair, chewing the end of her ballpoint. A squall of wind hit the cottage. She felt the walls shudder and heard the sudden crack of rain against the window as she sat forward, her hands on the keys and began writing again. A minute later she stared at the screen in horror.
May the gods of all eternity curse you, Marcus Severus, and bring your putrid body and your rotten soul to judgement for what you have done here this day …
Christ! she whispered. Oh Christ!
Another squall hit the windows and she flinched as though the wind and rain had hit her. Quickly, as though afraid it would burn her, she switched off the computer and pushed back her chair. Her hands were shaking.
I didn’t write that.
But she had, like some robotic amanuensis, taking down dictation. She stared round the room. It was very still. The squall had retreated as fast as it had come and the night outside was silent once again. All she could hear was the pumping of her pulse in her ears. She grabbed her cassette player and inserting a cassette with trembling hands, she switched it on. The sound of Sibelius filled the room as taking a deep breath, she moved over to the stove and bending down, opened the doors to stare at the warm glow of the smouldering logs.
‘I am tired, that’s all,’ she whispered to herself. ‘It’s been a long day. I need sleep. A lot of sleep.’ She poured herself a small whisky with a hand that was still far from steady. Sipping it slowly she stood for several minutes in front of the stove.
Only very gradually did she become aware that there was someone standing behind her. Her knuckles white on the glass, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling with fear she held her breath, not daring to move. ‘Alison?’ Her voice was hoarse with tension. It was a woman. She was certain it was a woman. ‘Alison, is that you?’ Slowly she turned round.
The room was empty. She stared at the closed door. It had warped slightly over the years and already she had learned the sound of its squeak as it opened or shut. It was distinctive; loud. And she had not heard it.
‘Come on, Kennedy. Pull yourself together.’ She took a gulp of the whisky, feeling the heat of it burning her throat and creeping through her veins. It gave her the courage to walk over to the door and pull it open. Outside, the hall was deserted. The front door was still barred and bolted as she had known it must be. There was no one there. Resolutely, her glass still in her hand she climbed the stairs and flicking on the lights she peered into her bedroom. It was empty. The room was tidy. For a moment she hesitated in front of the spare room, then taking a deep breath, she flung the door open and switched on the light. The room was as they had left it earlier. Tidy, neat, almost empty, her cases stacked against the wall. The remnants of Greg’s paintings were gone – retrieved to the makes
With a sigh of relief she went heavily back downstairs and into the living room.
Oh God, it was there again! The smell of earth and with it that sweet, indefinable scent. Shaking her head wearily she went over to the stove, piled in as many logs as she could and slammed the doors shut.
‘Go to hell, Marcus, wherever you are, and leave me in peace!’ she said out loud.
She turned round to switch off the desk lamp and let out a scream, knocking her empty glass to the ground.
A woman was standing in the corner of the room.
In the fraction of a second that she was there Kate saw her auburn hair, her stained, torn, long blue gown, and she knew that somehow, somewhere, she had seen this person before. And then she was gone, leaving only the scent of earth and with it the cloying, flowery perfume.
A taste of acid in her mouth, Kate backed towards the door. She reached it and backed into the hall, her eyes on the spot where the woman had stood. She didn’t believe in ghosts. No one sane believed in ghosts. Only to joke with the Lindseys. It was her imagination; she was too conscious of the black stormy night outside the windows and it had created this vision inside her head. That was it. Who was it who had said we are all mad at night? Was it Mark Twain? She shook her head. Whoever it was was right.
Or it might be the whisky. Perhaps she had been drinking too much. And the rest of the bottle was in the living room where – it – had been standing. Too bad. She could do without it. She took the stairs two at a time and running into her bedroom she slammed the door. She was still shaking, but not so much she couldn’t drag the Victorian chair, heavy for all its neat smallness, across the room and wedge it under the handle. Why, oh why hadn’t she insisted on having a bolt fitted to her bedroom door as well while the locksmith was about it this afternoon?
It was only as she pulled off her clothes and dived into bed, pulling the covers up over her head, that she remembered that ghosts can walk through walls.
XXII
In his bedroom Patrick frowned. The mathematical formula he had been working on wasn’t going to come out. Somehow he had to try it another way. He paused for a minute, staring into space. He could hear the music from Allie’s bedroom blaring down the passage. Even with two doors closed in between it was deafening. He sighed. Yelling would do no good. If anything it would make her turn it up louder. He frowned for a minute pondering on how she had persuaded Greg to fork out for a new radio cassette. Their father had said that the insurance would probably pay in the end, but why had Greg put his hand in his pocket so fast? He puzzled over it for a few minutes more but already his mind was going back to the figures on his screen.
Around him his books, their spines all neatly aligned, were gleaming, friendly companions in the semi-darkness. The only light in his room came from the anglepoise lamp on his desk and from the screen of the computer.
He thumped the enter key a couple of times and tried again, conscious suddenly of the sound of the sea in the distance and the whine of the east wind and the patter of rain on the window.
Before him the screen shivered. He frowned and rubbed his eyes. A letter had dropped from the top of the screen to the bottom. Then another, then another.
‘Oh, no! Oh fucking hell!’ He stared at it in disbelief. ‘Not a virus! Not a fucking virus!’
Holding his breath he tapped at the keys frantically, trying to save what he had been doing, but already the screen was blank and the cursor was moving purposefully up to the top left hand side once more. Slowly a message appeared.
May the gods of all eternity curse you, Marcus Severus Secundus and bring your putrid body and your rotten soul to judgement for what you have done here this day …
Patrick stared, clutching at the wooden arms of his chair. For a moment he sat without moving, reading the message through and through again, then he stood up with such violence that his chair fell onto the floor behind him.
‘Allie! Allie! I’m going to wring your bloody neck!’ He hurled himself at the door. ‘What have you done to my computer, you stupid, silly cow?’
He pounded the six short strides down the passage and threw open her bedroom door.
After the comparative darkness of his room, hers was a shock. At least six light bulbs blazed in there – two spotlights, a ceiling light and three desk lamps, sitting at strategic angles on the floor. No wonder she had migraines!
His sister was lying on her bed, still fully dressed, a dazed look on her face as she listened to her Sisters of Mercy tape for the thousandth time.
Patrick flung himself on the machine and pulled out the cable. ‘You cow! Do you realise what you’ve done? You’ve only fucked up my project, that’s what!’
‘What?’ She stared at him blankly. The sudden silence after the blare of music was strangely shocking.
‘The message on my computer. Very funny! Very droll! Let’s all have a good giggle!’ He was almost spitting with fury.
‘What message?’ She lay back again and put her arm across her eyes. ‘I haven’t touched your silly computer.’
‘Then who has?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t care. Get out of my room.’
‘Allie.’ His voice was suddenly very quiet. ‘I am warning you.’
‘I told you, I don’t know anything about it,’ she repeated. ‘Get out.’
He leaned forward and seized her arm. ‘Come with me.’
‘No!’
‘Come with me!’ He dragged her off the bed.
‘Paddy! You’re hurting me!’ she wailed as she followed him unwillingly down the passage and into the womblike darkness of his room.
‘There. Explain that!’ He flung his arm out in the direction of the screen.
She leaned closer and peered at it.
‘It looks like maths,’ she said. ‘I haven’t a clue what it is.’
‘Maths?’ He pushed her aside. The screen was neatly ordered, the formula complete. Nothing flickered. He stared at it in disbelief. ‘But it all fell off. There was a message – a curse – ’
‘Bullshit!’ she said rudely. ‘Can I go now?’
He didn’t hear her. He was running his finger over the screen. ‘I saw it. A message. A curse – ’
But Allie had gone, slamming the door behind her.
XXIII
‘I hope it doesn’t snow too hard. I’d hate for you to miss your last talk,’ Sam Wannaburger, Jon’s American editor, said apologetically as he hefted up the heavy case. ‘I’m just so glad you agreed to come out and see us.’ He had collected Jon from his hotel in a pickup the size of a pantechnicon and driven him in the general direction of south-west. They had stopped at last at a white-painted clapboard house set back from the main street in a small town somewhere in deepest Massachusetts. The floodlights had been switched on, illuminating the graceful lines of the house and its surrounding fir trees, making it look ethereal, floating in a sea of whiteness – for here the grass and the sidewalks were already covered in two or three inches of soft white fluffy snow. ‘Anyway, it’s too late to worry about it now. We’ll have good booze, good talk, good food. It won’t matter how hard it snows! And if we can’t get back to the big city in the pickup we’ll leave it to AmTrak to get us there!’ Sam clapped Jon on the back and pushed him none too gently up the path towards the front door.
It was a wonderful house. Huge, converted, so Sam told him proudly, from an early-nineteenth-century carriage house. The fireplace alone was about twelve feet across, the logs burning in it cut to scale; the huge, soft sofas and chairs around it built obviously for seven-foot Americans. The house smelled of hothouse flowers and – Jon hid a smile as he raised his head and sniffed surreptitiously like a pointer – could that really be apple pie?
Sam’s wife was thin to the point of emaciation, and so elegant she looked as though she would break if she moved too fast. Her hand in Jon’s
‘Sure.’ Sam beamed. ‘Let me show you your room. You’ve your own phone in there.’ He lifted Jon’s case and led the way up a broad flight of open stairs which swung gracefully from the main living room up to a corridor as wide as a six-lane motorway. Jon’s bedroom was not as large as he had feared but it was luxurious beyond his wildest dreams – bed, chairs, drapes, carpet, toning, matching, blending greens, until he had the feeling he was walking in a woodland womb. He smiled to himself at the metaphor. Ludicrous. Overblown. Outrageous. Like the room. Like his host. And wonderfully welcoming. He sat on the bed as Sam left him and pulled the phone towards him.
Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed in a clean shirt and a cashmere sweater Kate had given him for his birthday last year, Jon ran downstairs and accepted a large whisky mac from his host. His call had been a dead loss. After a great deal of hassle and toing and froing between the ladies of AT&T and the British exchange, they had established that the phone at Redall Cottage had gone suddenly and totally dead.