Midnight Is a Lonely Place by Barbara Erskine
Only seconds later Patrick was climbing out of the car again. Carefully he relocked the door – something which struck her incongruously as being immensely funny, and began to make his way back towards her. He was muddy and out of breath when at last he stood beside her again.
‘It was locked. There was no sign of anyone forcing the door and pulling at the wires under the dashboard. Everything was as it should be. No mud; no water; no scratches. In perfect nick.’
‘Should we be pleased?’ Kate asked wryly.
Patrick bit his lip ‘How did it get there, Kate?’
She shrugged. ‘Better not to ask at the moment. Let’s concentrate on getting up to the road.’ Pushing the gun at him she turned away from the sea.
He nodded. ‘There’s a short cut. Let’s take that. I’ll show you.’ He led the way back across the grass.
In the house Greg turned away from the window. Behind him, his father had thrown himself down on the sofa. Within seconds he had fallen asleep. With a compassionate glance at Roger’s exhausted face, Greg hobbled back to the kitchen. ‘They’ve gone. Listen, Ma, what are we going to do about Allie? She is not going to sleep for very long.’
He gave her a careful look under his eyelashes, knowing what he would do – lock her up somewhere safe – and knowing that his mother would not hear of it. ‘We have to accept that she might be dangerous. I know it’s not her fault; it’s not her, for Christ’s sake, but we have to be careful.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ Diana’s voice was hoarse with fatigue.
‘Is there a key in her bedroom door?’
‘You know there is. She’s always locking herself in.’
‘Then it won’t be any hardship for her if we take her up and lock the door when she’s safely tucked up in bed. For our own peace of mind.’
To his surprise she merely shrugged. ‘All right.’
He glanced at his father and then back at her. ‘You and I are going to have to do it, Ma.’
She nodded. For a moment she sat still, visibly wilting, then as he watched she straightened her shoulders and looked up. She gave a brave attempt at a smile. ‘Sorry, Greg. I’m being no help. You’re right, of course.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll get her upstairs.’
‘You can’t do it on your own.’
‘Of course I can –’ Diana stopped short. For a moment neither of them had been looking at Alison but now, as they spoke, they realised that the girl had opened her eyes.
‘Allie?’ It was Greg who spoke first. ‘Are you all right?’
Her eyes were wide, frightened, bewildered. Her own. He glanced at his mother and saw that she had seen too. She went towards the girl and kneeling put her arms round her. ‘Allie, darling. You gave us such a fright.’
‘Did I fall over?’ Alison struggled to sit up, leaning against her mother.
‘You had a dizzy spell, old thing.’ Greg replied. He grinned at her reassuringly. ‘Better now?
‘I … I think so.’
‘Bed, sweetheart.’ Diana’s voice was firm. ‘Then I’ll bring you up something to eat.’
Alison climbed unsteadily to her feet and stood for a moment, rocking slightly, looking around her in a daze. ‘He’s gone, hasn’t he,’ she said at last.
‘Yes, he’s gone.’ Greg shook his head sternly at Diana as she opened her mouth to speak. ‘Nothing to worry about any more little sister.’
Alison smiled. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ she repeated obediently. She still looked dazed.
Diana took her arm. ‘Come on, darling. Upstairs. You’ll catch cold down here.’
Greg watched as they crossed the room, then he sat down, aware again suddenly how badly his foot was throbbing.
It was several minutes before Diana reappeared. ‘She lay down at once and she seems to have gone to sleep again.’
‘Did you lock the door?’
She nodded. ‘Oh, Greg, I hate to do it.’
‘It’s not going to hurt her. And better that than a repeat of – whatever happened before.’
She nodded. Pulling herself together she moved purposefully towards him. ‘Right. Let’s look at that foot.’
‘Shouldn’t we wait for the doctor?’
‘So he can amputate? Come on. Put your leg up on the chair.’ They both knew she had to keep herself busy somehow.
Gently she pulled away the bandages. They studied the swollen foot. ‘I’m going to have to drain that.’ She glanced up at him.
He managed to muster a smile. ‘Can you face it?’
‘Of course. I’ll get the first aid box.’
It was in the study. Switching on the light, she peered round looking for the box she had left on the desk. It did not seem to be there. With an exclamation of annoyance she began to search the room then suddenly she stopped. It was cold in there – extraordinarily cold – and she could smell earth; damp earth. She frowned, fighting a sudden urge to run out of the room. ‘Greg? What did I do with the first aid?’ Her voice was unnaturally loud as she called over her shoulder. The door behind her was closed. Surely she hadn’t closed it? She almost ran towards it, grabbing at the handle. It wouldn’t open. ‘Greg!’ Her voice rose to a scream. ‘Greg!’ There was someone behind her. Someone very close to her. She could smell a strange perfume; sweet, cloying, and the cold was even more intense now, cutting into her fingers as she wrestled with the door latch. ‘Greg!’ Her voice broke into a sob. Whirling round she raised her arms in front of her face to ward off whoever was there.
The room was empty. She stared round, stunned. She had been so certain; she had heard her, felt her, smelt her; a woman. She knew it had been a woman. Sobbing with fear she turned back to wrestle with the latch. The door swung open with ease.
‘Ma? Are you all right?’ She could hear Greg’s voice calling her; not worried, not afraid, just curious. Hadn’t he heard her screams then? Swallowing hard in an attempt to steady herself, she looked back into the room. The first aid box was on the shelf by the door where she would have seen it straightaway if she had looked. Grabbing it she slammed the door behind her and went back into the living room.
‘Couldn’t find it for a minute.’ She gave Greg a bright unnatural smile. ‘Right. What I need is some boiling water and the TCP and I’m ready for you.’ She hunted out a towel from the drawer while the kettle boiled, putting it gently under Greg’s foot, fussing about laying out her equipment on the table.’
He put a hand on her arm. ‘Are you OK?’
She nodded. ‘I’m fine.’
‘It’s going to be all right.’ He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘There’s an explanation for all this; nothing can bring Bill back, but I know it had nothing to do with Allie. Once the police get here they’ll sort it all out, you’ll see.’
She nodded again, concentrating on sorting out her dressings and bandages.
She boiled the razor blade for several minutes, then, washing her hands first with soap and water, then in the TCP she waited for it to cool before picking it up. ‘Don’t look.’
He grinned. ‘If I don’t look I might find you’ve chopped my foot off.’ He gritted his teeth as she laid the blade against the stretched swollen skin. She hardly seemed to apply any pressure at all but suddenly the wound was erupting in a froth of yellow-green pus. He swallowed hard, averting his eyes in spite of himself, wincing as he felt the pressure of her fingers pressing out the last of the poison. She swabbed the wound again and again, holding the cotton wool with a pair of tweezers, then at last it was over. He felt the cool, clean dressing on the fiery skin, and then the bandage.
‘Thanks.’ He spoke through gritted teeth, amazed to find he felt dizzy with pain.
She had noticed. ‘Rest a minute and I’ll make us both a cup of tea.’ She was gathering the swabs and throwing them into the bin, clearing up the mess, wiping down the table. Collecting the kettle, she was half way to the sink when the lights went out.
‘Shit!’ Greg stared round. ‘It must be a fuse.’
‘Don?
The room was dim without the lights; the windows allowed a grey, dismal daylight to filter in from the garden where, they realised suddenly, it had started snowing again – soft white flakes this time, drifting down out of the heavy sky.
The loud crash upstairs made them look at each other in alarm.
‘Allie!’ Greg said. ‘She’s woken up.’ He glanced at his father. Roger had not stirred, his head cushioned on his arm.
‘I’ll go.’ Diana put down the kettle, horrified and ashamed to find that she was afraid – afraid of going to her own daughter.
‘Be careful. Remember she’s not herself,’ Greg said softly.
She glared at him. ‘Who are you suggesting she is?’
‘I don’t know. No one. I’m just saying, take care. She’s been through a lot and she’s had awful nightmares and I don’t think she knows what she’s doing half the time at the moment.’
Another crash followed the first and they both looked up. ‘That came from Patrick’s room,’ Diana whispered.
‘Take the rolling pin.’ Greg murmured as she moved towards the upright studs which divided the living room from the kitchen. ‘Just in case.’
‘To hit my own daughter?’ She stopped.
‘If necessary, yes. For both your sakes.’ He levered himself to his feet. ‘Damn and blast this foot. I’m coming with you.’
‘No, Greg – ’
‘Yes. Give me a walking stick from the hall. I’ll be fine as long as I don’t put too much weight on it.’ He was staring up at the ceiling.
She brought it without further argument and then led the way to the staircase, pulling open the door which hid the dark stairwell. Looking up she listened, aware that Greg was right behind her, breathing painfully as he tried to balance with the stick.
Holding her breath she began to climb the stairs. At the top she peered cautiously down the passage. It was empty. Alison’s bedroom door was closed as she had left it. The key was in the pocket of her trousers. She closed her hand around it and with a glance over her shoulder towards Greg, she moved stealthily towards the door and listened. At the far end of the passage the door to Patrick’s room stood slightly ajar.
Biting her lip as she tried to move soundlessly, Diana led the way down the passage towards it. Behind her Greg felt the sweat break out on his forehead as he forced himself to walk softly after her. Without lights the upper hall was almost dark; the black beams threw wedges of shadow across the soft pink of the ceiling. The curtains, though open, blocked whatever light filtered in from the heavy sky. The garden was totally silent. Even the sound of the wind had died. Diana tightened her grip on the rolling pin, slowing as she approached the door, reluctant to go in.
Behind her Greg frowned. He could feel the skin on the back of his neck crawling. He put his hand out and gripped his mother’s arm. ‘Let me,’ he whispered.
She did not argue. Flattening herself against the wall, she let him pass and watched as very slowly he pushed open Patrick’s door with the end of the stick. Peering over his shoulder she could not at first see anything, then slowly her eyes began to make out the dark interior of the room. ‘Hell, look at his books.’ Greg spoke out loud. He pushed the door back against the wall and took a step inside. The contents of every bookshelf had been tipped into the centre of the floor. There was no one there.
‘Allie did this? Why? How did she get out?’ Diana spoke in a whisper. The room smelled faintly of lavender.
Greg shrugged. He ran his stick under the bed, grunting with pain as his foot caught his weight, then he pulled open the cupboard door. There was nowhere in the room for anyone to hide. Pushing past him Diana pulled back the curtains, letting in a little more light. It revealed nothing but the shambles of books in the middle of the carpet. ‘Some of them are torn,’ she said sadly as she stood surveying the mess. ‘He’ll be so upset.’
‘Where is she?’ Greg turned and hopped back onto the landing. One by one he threw open the other doors – his own room, his parents’, the bathroom. All were empty. It left only Alison’s. ‘She must be back in there.’ He glanced at his mother. ‘Shall I look?’
She nodded bleakly. He put his hand on the door knob and turned it. Nothing happened. ‘It’s locked,’ he said in a whisper. ‘Is there a bolt on the inside?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve got the key.’ She put it into his hand. He frowned. With only a slight hesitation he inserted it into the lock and turned it as quietly as he could.
Alison’s room too was dark, the curtains closed, the light which had been on beside her bed now off like the others. Greg stood in the doorway peering into the darkness, trying to see. If only they still had a torch that worked. His ears, straining in the silence adjusted to the sound of breathing. It was slow and steady and came from the bed. He groped in his pocket suddenly as he remembered his matches. Pushing his stick at his mother, who was immediately behind him, he struck one and held it high. The light was small and barely touched the room, but it was enough to see the hunched form of his sister in the bed. Wincing with pain he took a shuffled step forward and held it near her face. For a brief second, before it went out, he saw her closed eyes, the dark lashes on her cheek, her fist, clutching the blanket below her chin. Holding his breath he waited, half expecting her to leap from the bed with a scream, but nothing happened. The silence extended and filled the room again. All he could hear was her slow, heavy breathing, and behind him his mother’s, quicker, lighter, exuding fear. Carefully he withdrew another match. The rasping sound as he struck it seemed to echo deafeningly as it flared and steadied, but Alison’s lids did not flicker. He watched her for several seconds before raising the match high and glancing round the rest of the room. As far as he could see it was as it should be: her clothes lay in heaps on the floor, tapes and books in confusion on the chairs and table, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Nothing but the smell. As the frail light went out again he sniffed. The room was full of the heavy, spicy odour he had smelt before in the study. His mouth dry he began to back out. Diana moved with him. Without a sound he pulled the door closed and relocked it, then taking his mother’s hand, he led her towards the staircase.
Safely downstairs he subsided into one of the deep armchairs beside his sleeping father. He realised suddenly that he was shaking again. A sheen of sweat iced his skin as the pain, which had seemed dulled upstairs, swept up his leg and took hold of him again. He lay back and closed his eyes, fighting to remain conscious.
‘I’ll check the fuses.’ Diana’s voice reached him through the roar in his ears. She groped in his pocket for the matchbox, paused for a moment to rest a gentle hand on Roger’s head, then she had gone.
Greg had allowed himself to slide away into the spinning kaleidoscope of pain, settling deeper into something approaching sleep when he felt a glass being pushed into his hand. ‘Brandy.’ The voice was crisp and commanding. ‘Come on, Greg. I’m sorry, but I need you awake.’
He opened his lips obediently and felt the fire on his tongue. For one more minute he resisted, then, choking, he felt himself propelled into full consciousness.
‘There are no trips out and I’ve tried all the fuses. Nothing works.’
Opening his eyes he realised the room was full of candlelight. He was still disorientated. ‘Did you smell the perfume?’
‘What perfume?’ She sounded irritated. ‘Did you hear me, Greg? The electricity is off. All of it. And I can’t find out what’s wrong.’ Her voice rose slightly and he realised that it was fear that he could hear. Desperately he took a grip on himself and swigged another mouthful of the brandy. Fire shot through his veins this time, and he felt his head clearing rapidly. ‘It’s the wind and the snow,’ he said as steadily as he could. ‘You know we are always being cut off when the weather’s bad. We’ve got the fire, and the Aga and candles. There’s nothing to worry about.’
‘Then who –?’
He shook his head. ‘The wind? An earth tremor? Perhaps the shelves were under too much stress. Perhaps it was the cats. Where are they? Those two are quite capable of knocking a million books when they play scatty cats round the house.’
‘When they were young, perhaps.’ She sniffed. ‘Not now. Not for ages. Normally they are here, by the fire.’ Suddenly her eyes filled with tears. ‘I haven’t seen them since Allie came back.’
Greg frowned. Now that he noticed, their absence was a tangible thing. He took it for granted that one or the other or both would always be there, in the chair where he was sitting now, or on the sofa with his father, or on the rocking chair beside the Aga. The room without them was unfurnished; empty. Threatening. ‘I expect they’ve gone out before the weather worsens,’ he said, trying to comfort. ‘They won’t have gone far, not when it’s like this. They’re soft little buggers, for all they like to think they’re so tough.’
‘Oh Greg!’ A sob escaped her in spite of all her efforts to sound calm. ‘What’s happening? The car; the cats; Allie; Bill – I can’t bear it.’
He put his arm around her. ‘Just a sequence of strange coincidences,’ he said as firmly as he could. ‘And some bastard out there who will be behind bars before much longer if Paddy and Kate have anything to do with it.’
‘They will get through?’ It was a plea.
‘Of course they will get through.’ He wished he felt as positive as he sounded.