Midnight Is a Lonely Place by Barbara Erskine
L
Sleet hit the side of the dune, lodging in the crevices of sand, standing a moment, half snow, half ice, then melting into the cracks and crannies. A further lump of sand fell away, and behind it the black peat, spongy, sweet, no longer encased in its jacket of airtight clay and meeting daylight for the first time in nearly two thousand years, began to wash in a black streak down the face of the excavation.
Deep down the great golden torc, symbol of Nion’s royal blood, settled further into the subsoil. Torn from its silver companion by its weight and accepted by whichever gods there were in that black underworld, it would never again see the light of the sun.
Far above, the sea was meek, restless, the waves brown from the sandbanks which the storm had chewed over and rearranged in the night. Overhead a skein of geese, flying low and fast, sent their ringing bugle cries out into the wind where they were lost.
Another high tide, another storm and the dune would be gone, the peat and the clay mingling in the churning depths of the North Sea, its secret hidden forever. Another slice of soft black soil peeled off and slid away and the air, corroding, acid, insidious, touched the arm which lay there cushioned on what had once been a raft of flowering rushes. Around the humerus, loose where once it had clung tightly, lay the twisted semi-circle of a priestly arm-ring.
‘Come on, through here.’ Patrick turned and gave Kate his hand. They were both panting now, exhausted from the scramble through the tangled, wet undergrowth.
‘You are sure you know where this short cut goes?’ Kate climbed after him, hearing her jacket rip once again on a trailing bramble as she levered herself up the slippery bank to stand beside him in a clearing.
‘Of course. Greg and I used to come this way all the time. It doesn’t go anywhere near the lane; it cuts off the whole corner and comes out just below the Farnboroughs’ place.’ Patrick looked round. It was quite dark in the clearing; the trees, glistening with sleet, hung low above their heads and they could hear the hiss of rain on the leaves of a holm oak. The air smelled of wet earth and beech mast and rotting leaves.
Kate shivered. She glanced at Patrick again. He had slung the gun across his back; in his hand was a stout staff which he had pulled from a thicket as they dived into the woods. Both gave her comfort. She glanced behind her again. Not for the first time she had the feeling that they were being watched. Her fist tightened on her own stick. Not as long as Paddy’s, but just as sturdy, she held it in front of her as she looked from side to side into the shadows.
Patrick saw her glance. ‘There’s no one around.’ He did not sound very confident. ‘If there were we’d hear the birds go up. Pheasants. Pigeon. They make a hell of a din if they are disturbed – you heard when we set them off. And there are magpies down here. They would all let us know if there was anyone around – or anything.’
She nodded. ‘I wish we had a dog with us all the same.’
Patrick nodded. He grinned. ‘A detachment of paras wouldn’t go amiss either. Come on. It can’t be much further. Once we’re on the road we’ll feel better.’
So, he was feeling it too. Kate looked behind her again. There was no sign of the way they had come. The tangle of brambles and dead brown grasses and nettles had closed without leaving any sign of where they had forced their way through. She felt a moment of panic. ‘Which way?’
‘Upwards. The road is quite a lot higher than Redall. It’s uphill all the way, I’m afraid. We’re bound to hit the road somewhere between Welsly Cross and the Farnboroughs’. We can’t get lost.’
‘No?’ she grinned wanly. ‘I hope those aren’t famous last words.’
He was about to set off again when he stopped. He gave her a long look, his thin face drooping with exhaustion. ‘You look absolutely whacked.’
She smiled. ‘So do you.’
‘It will all be over soon, won’t it?’
‘Of course it will.’ Trying to reassure him did nothing for her own confidence. She glanced up at the sky. Where she could see it, between the interlaced branches of the thicket, it was growing increasingly black. ‘We ought to get on.’
‘I know. It was an excuse to get my breath back.’ He hitched the gun higher onto his shoulder then he turned and led the way with more bravado than confidence up the high slippery bank which led out of the thicket and, he hoped, towards the north.
Ten minutes later he stopped. ‘There ought to be some kind of path. But I suppose it could be overgrown.’ He sounded doubtful.
‘Have you got a compass?’ It was the sort of thing all boys in the country festooned themselves with as far as she could remember.
He shook his head. ‘I know this path like the back of my hand.’
She refrained from comment.
He bit his lip. ‘It’s getting so dark.’
‘I know. There’s more snow on the way. You can smell it.’
He smiled. ‘And to think Greg thought you were Lady Muck from the town. You know more about the country than he does in many ways.’
‘I can believe it –’ She broke off as she saw a movement out of the corner of her eye. She spun round, staring into the shadows of the trees. ‘What was that?’ she whispered.
‘Where?’ He swung the gun off his shoulder.
‘I thought I saw something move.’
They stared in silence for a moment, side by side.
‘Probably a rabbit or a deer,’ Patrick said softly.
He slipped the safety catch off the gun with a barely perceptible click.
She strained her eyes into the distance, trying to penetrate the murky depths of the scrub. There it was again, a shadow against the shadows, upright. Human. ‘There.’ Her whisper was scarcely audible. Inside her warm jacket she could feel her skin growing cold. ‘There is someone there.’
‘What shall we do?’ Patrick’s voice rose in panic and she was reminded suddenly that he was only a schoolboy and that he was probably far more scared than she was. If that were possible.
‘I don’t know. He must have seen us.’
‘Do you think he’s got a gun?’
She shook her head. ‘I doubt it. We’d know by now.’
‘Shall I shoot at him; try and scare him off?’
‘I don’t know.’ She had started to shake again. ‘Supposing it makes him angry?’
‘If it does and he comes at us, at least we’ll see who he is. And I can shoot him for real.’ She saw Patrick’s finger curling round the trigger.
She had only taken her eyes off the shadow for a second. Now as she looked back it had moved closer. It was tall; dark. To her horror she saw that it was moving quite swiftly, seeming to have no problem with the rough, tangled undergrowth. ‘Yes. Go on, shoot.’ She could hear her voice shaking with fear.
The report from the gun was colossal. It reverberated through the woods, echoing from the trees, temporarily deafening her. A pheasant rose shrieking into the sky, followed by a pair of pigeons, their wings smacking loudly. Patrick lowered the gun cautiously, feeling in his pocket for his cartridges. ‘Where is he now? Did I hit him?’ To his chagrin he didn’t know whether or not he had aimed at the shadowy figure. He had been too frightened to think.
‘I can’t see.’ She stared into the trees, forcing her eyes to focus into the darkest corners. There was nothing there.
With shaking hands Patrick reloaded the gun. ‘If I’ve killed someone I’ll go to prison.’
‘Not if he murdered Bill, you won’t.’ She touched his shoulder reassuringly. ‘I don’t know if it was anyone. It could have been a shadow.’
‘Should we check?’
She hesitated then she shook her head. ‘Let’s get onto the road and fetch the police. They can look.’
Slowly, more nervously now, they began to make their way forward again. Minutes later Paddy stopped so suddenly Kate cannoned into him. ‘Look.’ He pointed ahead.
She followed his finger and caught her breath. He was there again. On the rabbit track in front of them. Beside he
She stared at it. It was no more than a shadow; she could see no features – no face at all, just a silhouette. But it was a man.
He had disappeared before Patrick could move his finger to the trigger. ‘Where is he?’ He was frozen, the gun to his shoulder.
‘Gone.’ Kate could feel herself trembling. ‘He vanished as I was watching. Paddy, keep the gun at the ready. Let’s walk on slowly.’
She stepped forward, so close to Patrick he could feel her jacket brushing against his arm.
‘One shouldn’t walk with a loaded gun,’ he whispered.
‘This is an emergency. Just don’t trip up.’ They were there already; where it had been standing. She looked down. There were no footprints in the mud.
‘Marcus?’ She breathed the name out loud.
Patrick lowered the gun. ‘I don’t like this, Kate. And we should have been at the road by now.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘We’re lost.’
‘How big are these woods?’ She was still scouring the ground for signs of footprints. She could see rabbit here and there, where it was soft, and the deep, sharply-cut slots of a deer, but none that had been made by a man.
‘Hundreds of acres. The other side they’re conifer plantations. They go for miles.’ He shivered visibly.
‘Can you find your way back to Redall?’ She glanced at him. The boy was near to tears.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know where we are.’
‘Right.’ It sounded confident. ‘Let’s think. Your original plan of following the rising ground sounds a sensible one. We can’t stay out here all day; we’ve got to keep moving. Let’s do that. Let’s move only upwards, then, if as you say, we cross the road we’ll be fine.’ She was trying to picture the map in her head. The sea would be to the east; the estuary to the south. That left only two directions: north where the road ran east-west towards the coast, or due west where presumably the woods spread out until they reached the bleak, agricultural prairie lands east of Colchester and south of the soft wooded folds of the Stour valley.
‘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
‘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!’