Midnight Is a Lonely Place by Barbara Erskine

  Behind them another shower of hail swept in from the sea. The hailstones rattled against the wiry grass, shushing into the sand, battering their faces. To Kate’s horror she saw that Alison neither blinked nor moved as the hail hurled itself against her face and slid down her cheeks. ‘Oh God!’ She glanced round wildly, half hoping that there would be someone else around, someone who could help, but knowing already that there was no one on the beach at all. ‘Alison, you must listen to me!’ She grabbed the girl’s hand which was ice-cold and began to chafe it vigorously. ‘Alison, you’ve got to stand up. Come on. You can’t stay here. You’ll catch pneumonia. Come on. Stand up.’

  Alison gave no sign of hearing her. She stayed totally rigid except for the hand which Kate was tugging which was limp and cold as death.

  Kate stared round, her hair tangling across her eyes, her own face ice-cold with sleet. In only a few moments the sea had changed from pewter to the colour of black ink; opaque, thick, sinister in its uneasy movement. Far out there was no distinction now between sky and water. All were black and threatening.

  ‘Alison, come on. The weather is getting worse.’

  Dropping the girl’s hand Kate moved in front of her. Alison’s face was frozen into immobility, the eyes staring straight ahead, not reacting when Kate brought her hand sharply towards them. ‘Right.’ Kate spoke with some force. ‘I’m sorry to have to do this.’ She pulled back her hand and gave Alison a sharp slap. The girl did not react. She did not even blink. Behind them another curtain of hail raced across the sea, embedding itself in the sand, turning the beach a glittering white.

  Kate stared at her in despair, then dragging off her own jacket, she pulled it roughly around Alison’s shoulders. Without the padded, fleece-lined protection, the cold enveloped her like a curtain, wrapping itself around her, embedding itself in her lungs, clawing at her bones, but she ignored it. She pulled Alison’s arm around her neck and heaved at her, trying vainly to raise her off her knees. ‘Stand up, blast you. Stand up,’ she cried through gritted teeth. ‘You’ve got to move, Alison, or you’re going to die of cold.’ She struggled desperately against the dead weight of the girl. Alison was barely two inches shorter than she was, and although not plump she was solidly built. Nothing Kate could do seemed to shift her from her knees.

  ‘Please.’ Stopping her futile effort Kate stood back, wiping the streaming sleet from her face, feeling the ice soaking through her own sweater. ‘Please, Allie, you must try. Stand up. I’ll help you. Then we’ll go to the cottage. It’s warm there. Warm and safe.’ In spite of herself she glanced at the streaming sand around them. Just at this moment she was not prepared to think what could have sent Alison into this state. She did not dare.

  Taking a deep breath she pulled the girl’s arm around her shoulder once more, and putting her own around Alison’s waist, she heaved at her, rocking her sideways slightly to try and gain some momentum. As though sensing the movement for the first time, Alison stirred. ‘That’s it. Help me. Try and stand up.’ Kate was elated. Taking another deep breath she renewed her efforts with the last of her strength and this time Alison tried feebly to scramble up. ‘Good. And another step. Good girl.’ Kate pushed her frantically, terrified she would fall again as, unsteadily, Alison rose to her feet, leaning heavily against her. ‘Good, that’s it. Now, we’ve got to get you out of here. One step at a time. Steady. That’s it.’ Sweat was pouring off her face in spite of the icy downpour as, somehow, Kate half guided half pushed Alison up the bank and onto the beach. Still the girl’s eyes hadn’t moved; still she did not appear to register anything going on around her, but she was stumbling forward, guided by Kate’s desperate tight grip around her waist, hanging from Kate’s shoulders like a giant rag doll.

  Twice they had to stop while Kate fought to regain her breath but slowly they drew nearer to the cottage. Somehow Kate managed to prop the girl up against the wall as she groped for her new, shiny keys then at last the door was open and they were inside out of the hail. Slamming the door closed with her foot, Kate half carried, half dragged Alison into the living room and unceremoniously tipped her onto the sofa. Gasping as she tried to regain her own breath she ran upstairs to her bedroom and dragged a blanket off her bed. Gathering up her dressing gown on her way out of the room she ran downstairs again. Alison lay where she had left her, half on the sofa, her legs still trailing across the floor.

  ‘Right, let’s get you out of those wet clothes.’ Awkwardly Kate bundled the girl back against the cushions and began to pull off the soaking sweater and tee shirt. Then the slip of cotton which was her bra. Somehow she forced the cold unbending limbs into her towelling dressing gown, trying to rub some warmth into the wet slippery skin which reminded her horribly of the feathers of the dead gull. She pulled off the girl’s boots and then her jeans and socks, and somehow lifting her legs onto the sofa, tucked her up in the blanket, making a cocoon out of which the girl’s head, with its straggly wet hair, poked like the head of a startled doll.

  ‘Phone.’ Aware that her own teeth were chattering Kate turned towards the kitchen. Shaking, she waited for the number to connect her to Redall Farmhouse. It was only as she tried for the second time that she realised that there was no dialling tone. The line was not dead – she could hear it alive, hissing slightly, resonating as though there were someone at the other end. But the number made no impression on the echoing silence. ‘Oh, no. Please.’ It was a sob of desperation. She took a deep breath and punched nine nine nine. The line remained silent, expectant, as though someone at the other end were listening as desperately as she was. ‘Hello?’ She shook the receiver. ‘Hello, can you hear me? Is someone there?’ But no one answered. A fresh wave of ice hit the kitchen window. Slowly she hung up. She had never felt more alone.

  She went back to the living room and stood looking down at Alison. The girl’s face was unchanged, her muscles somehow frozen in the same look of astonished terror. She was not blinking. Her pupils did not appear to be reacting to the dim light of the sitting room. They were still pinpoint small, staring. Reaching into the blankets Kate felt her hand. Was it marginally warmer? She thought so. What was one supposed to do with cases of hypothermia? No alcohol. Wasn’t that what they said? Hot water bottles. She had no hot water bottle and she was pretty sure that she would have seen one if there was one in the house. Somehow she did not think it was something that Greg, or even his parents would consider a necessity. So, what else could she use? A hot brick. Wasn’t that what people used in the old days? A hot brick wrapped in flannel. She gave a grim smile. There was neither brick nor flannel in the cottage that she had seen. Then she remembered the stones outside, edging what had once been the drive. Large smooth stones, pebble shaped, perhaps off the beach. One of those would do, surely, wrapped in a towel. She turned and ran back to the front door. Pulling it open she stared out at the storm. The clear morning had turned into a vicious darkness lashed by squalls of hail and sleet which tore at her clothes, reminding her that she, too, was chilled to the marrow and wet through. She dived out and heaved at one of the stones. About ten inches long and shaped like a pillow, for a moment she thought it was stuck fast. Then it came up out of the icy ground with a small sucking noise and she carried it back inside, staggering under its surprising weight. She laid it gently on top of the woodburner, and opening the doors, stacked in some more logs. ‘Not long, now,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I’m getting something to warm your feet. Would you like a hot drink?’ She glanced round at the girl. ‘You’re safe now, Allie. Come on. Try and wake up.’ Sitting down on the edge of the sofa she put her hand on Alison’s shoulder. The girl flinched. The movement was so sudden and so violent that Kate jumped. She frowned. ‘You’re safe, Allie,’ she repeated gently. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’ She found herself looking towards the window. Outside, beyond the streaming sleet as it slid down the glass, she could see nothing. What had happened out there in the dune? She wished fervently that Greg was still around. Or that he w
ould remember something and come hurtling back in his Land Rover. Perhaps she should try the phone again.

  As she stood up Alison grabbed her wrist. Kate gave a little cry of fright. The girl was staring at her now, her eyes suddenly fully focussed in her white face. ‘Don’t leave me.’ Her voice was hoarse, barely audible.

  Kate breathed a sigh of relief. ‘You’re all right. You’re safe.’

  ‘No.’ Alison shook her head. The movement seemed to hurt her and she flopped back, her eyes closed for a second. Kate frowned. She was relieved that the awful horrified stare had gone, but the monosyllabic answer had chilled her. ‘Why are you not safe?’ she asked softly. ‘What happened? Do you want to tell me?’

  For a moment she thought Alison had not heard her but slowly the girl’s eyes opened. ‘They’re free,’ she whispered. Her fingers clutched with surprising strength at Kate’s hand. They were still ice-cold. ‘I’ve released them.’ Her words were slurred, as though she were slightly drunk. ‘They’ve been waiting. Claudia. Claudia wants her revenge.’

  ‘Claudia?’ Kate stared down at the white, pinched face, puzzled. ‘Who is Claudia?’

  Alison smiled shakily, but her voice when it came out was surprisingly strong. ‘Claudia is a whore; a traitor. She’s an animal. She deserved to die.’

  Kate stared at her in horror. ‘Alison, do you know where you are?’

  The green eyes opened. They roamed the room unsteadily then they focussed on Kate. For a moment the girl said nothing, then abruptly she burst into tears.

  ‘Oh, Allie, love, don’t. I told you, you’re safe.’ Kate was astonished at the strength of the wave of compassion which swept through her. Leaning forward she put her arms around Alison and held her close. The girl suddenly seemed as frail as a bird, every bone sticking out beneath the warmth of the dressing gown, her body still radiating a terrible chill. ‘Listen, let me go upstairs to fetch a towel. I’ve heated a stone up for you. I can put it near your feet to warm you up once I’ve wrapped it.’ Glancing at the stove Kate began to rise.

  ‘No!’ Alison clutched at her again. ‘Don’t leave me.’

  Kate subsided onto the sofa beside her again. ‘There is nothing here to frighten you, Alison,’ she repeated gently. ‘You’re safe.’

  As though to emphasise her words an extra loud gust of wind shook the cottage. A puff of smoke blew out of the open stove into the room, bringing with it the pungent aroma of burning oak and apple. Kate glanced at the window, wondering for a moment if it would hold against the force of the storm. Something moving on the sill caught her eye. Water. There was water on the sill. The window was leaking. She moved slightly, without letting go of Alison’s hand and craned sideways to see better. Sure enough, a puddle had formed on the wood. She stared. Floating in the puddle were bits of leaf and soil and there, wriggling around the edge were several maggots.

  For a moment she thought she was going to be sick.

  ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Her voice rising shrilly in panic Alison clutched at her harder. ‘What have you seen?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’ Wincing at the pain of the girl’s clawed fingers Kate tried to free herself. ‘Some rain leaking in, that’s all. It’s hardly surprising, the wind’s so strong.’ Somehow she forced herself to sound calm. ‘Listen, I must go and get something to mop it up. I’ll stick a towel on the sill. There must be a leak in the window frame. Then why don’t I make us a hot drink. I’m sure you’d like something, wouldn’t you?’ How she kept her voice steady, she didn’t know. Firmly she tried to unfasten Alison’s fingers. She was like a child, clutching desperately at her mother’s skirt. The moment Kate managed to dislodge one hand the other grabbed at her again. ‘Allie, there’s nothing to be frightened of,’ she repeated.

  Allie nodded frantically. ‘There is. There is, don’t you understand? Claudia is free. Claudia and …’ she hesitated, frowning, her head suddenly cocked to one side as though trying to hear something from far off, in another room. ‘Claudia and … and … Claudia and …’ Her voice was fading. A look of puzzlement appeared on her face. ‘What was I saying?’

  ‘Nothing, Allie. Nothing at all.’ Kate forced her voice to a calmness she did not feel. The child was hallucinating. Was that a symptom of hypothermia? She did not know. The vagueness, the fear, were they all part of it? Oh God, they needed a doctor. ‘Allie, I want to go and ring your mother. You’ll be quite safe here. I’ll only be in the kitchen. Look if I leave both doors open you’ll be able to see me all the time – ’

  ‘No!’ Alison’s voice slid up into a scream. The sound made Kate’s skin crawl.

  Alison was fighting with the blankets. ‘I’ll come with you. I don’t like it here. That window. She is going to come through that window.’ She flung out her arm. Kate looked where she was pointing. There was more earth in the puddle now. Earth and peat and – she could feel the bile rising in her throat as she saw a movement at the edge of her vision.

  Suddenly her mind was made up. ‘OK. Let’s go into the kitchen. Come on. I’ll help you. We’ll make a hot drink and I’ll try and phone.’

  Please let it work. Please God, let the phone work.

  Her arm around Alison, she helped the girl shuffle through to the kitchen and sat her, still cocooned in the blanket, on a stool.

  Quietly, she closed the door and turned the key, then, her hand shaking with fear, she picked up the phone.

  The line was still dead.

  XXVI

  Defiantly leaving his car in a parking space reserved for the disabled right next to the castle gates Greg strode towards the entrance. He glanced at the sky. Snow and sleet showers, they had forecast, turning to unseasonably heavy snow later. That probably meant sleet out at Redall Bay, but you never knew. Sometimes it settled. Whatever happened it would be worse in Colchester. It always seemed to snow heavily there.

  It was a long time since he had been in the museum. He stared round, confused. The huge hall with its peripheral exhibits had vanished. Instead it was sectioned, partitioned, intimate, the lighting low and seductive and from some distant corner he could hear the tinny insistent blare of videoed commentary. He frowned. Why couldn’t the buggers leave things alone? He could have found his way to Marcus blindfold before. Now, God knows where he was.

  He was upstairs, near yet more video crap. With an impatient glare at the booth from which sounds of massacre were emerging, Greg stood in front of the statue and stared long and hard at its face. Then he, as Kate had done, moved to the exhibit and looked down at the man’s skeleton. She had been right. It was not Marcus himself who was buried at Redall. So who was it? His eyes strayed to the other remains. Smaller, though not significantly so; Marcus’s wife had strong, well-formed bones. His art school study of the skeletal form had been fairly rudimentary, but it was thorough enough for him to give an educated guess that she had been young when she died. How, he wondered. Illness? Injury? Childbirth? He glanced at the inscription. There was no clue there, no notes beyond the bare minimum. He stared down at what was left of Marcus’s skull. Was his story written there, in the imprint of his bones? His loves, his hates, his triumphs, his disasters? He brought up his hands and rested them against the cold glass of the display case. ‘Come on, you bastard, cough.’ He hadn’t realised he had spoken out loud until he saw a woman near him turn and stare. She caught his eye and hurriedly turned away. He grinned absent-mindedly but already his attention was back on Marcus. Rich, successful Marcus who had made good after the Boudiccan defeat; who had returned to Colchester and to Redall and bought land, probably when prices were rock bottom, like today – he grimaced – was that how it had been? Or had he just helped himself to some property he fancied and marched in? Had Redall’s former owner died in the rebellion, leaving his lands wasted and deserted, or did he sell at a profit? He leaned closer to the glass, resting his forehead against it and closed his eyes.

  HATE

  ANGER

  FEAR

  FURY

 
The emotions sweeping through him obliterated every other thought in his head. They swirled round him, shimmering with colour: Red! Black! A vicious violent orange! He was spitting, shouting, tearing at the air, aware in some distant part of himself that there was foam at the corners of his mouth, hearing howls of anguish in his ears and realising they were his own.

  Then, as suddenly as they had come, the noise and the colour and the pain were gone and he was conscious of a sudden total silence around him.

  Christ, had that been him? Had he really screamed out loud, or had it all been inside his head? The tape in the booth had reached its end and was silent for a few minutes before it marshalled itself for yet another enactment of the conversation between two Romans as the hordes closed in. The hall echoed with silence and cold.

  The quick, anxious tap of heels on the floor did not intrude on his shock and terror until he felt a timid hand on his arm. ‘Are you all right? Would you like me to fetch someone?’ The woman who had been watching him was staring anxiously into his face. ‘I saw you staggering about. I thought perhaps –’ She faltered as he stared at her, blankly. ‘I don’t know, but I wondered if you were epileptic or something …?’ Her anxiety petered out and she blushed crimson. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  He gazed at her vaguely. ‘I’m all right. Thanks. It must be the heat in here.’ He stared round, confused. The hall was cold. Very, very cold.

  Slowly she was backing away. She would hurry as soon as she was out of sight and run downstairs and perhaps send up one of the attendants. Well, when they came, whoever they were, they would find that he wasn’t pissed. In fact he had never been more sober.

  He reached out a hand towards the glass case and then withdrew it quickly as though it had stung him. Whatever had attacked him, overwhelming him with its vile emotions, had come from behind that glass.