Midnight is a Lonely Place

XXXI

The light was strangely cold. In the cool dawn before the sunrise the marsh was laved with a pale veiling of mist which lapped across the grasses and reeds in a silent, muffling shroud.

Nion stood at the edge of the pool. Bathed, dressed in his finest array, he was ready. Behind him the two priests stood, the tools of their trade openly displayed before them on a wooden altar – a rope, a knife. They waited now, in prayer, respectfully watching his preparations. When the moment came he would tell them.

He frowned. Why only two priests? He had expected them all, a circle of attendants, not this quiet, almost shabby affair unwitnessed and unsung. Slowly he began the business of preparation. Around his neck he wore two torcs. The great twisted golden torc, the symbol of his royal blood and priesthood, and below it one of carved silver which Claudia herself had given him. He took off the first, pulling the heavy gold over his warm skin, feeling the constriction, swallowing, closing his mind to what was to come. He took the torc in his hands, gently running his fingers across the intricate design on the metal, admiring it for the last time. It was truly a worthy gift to the gods. He held it up above his head, half expecting an early stray beam from the still-hidden sun to catch the gleaming metal. None came. He murmured the words of offering and then hurled it with all his might into the mist-covered water. It was gone before him to the world beyond. Next came the silver. Pulling it from his neck he touched it to his lips, then he hurled it after the first. He turned and gathered up his weapons. Sword, spear, dagger. One by one he raised them in offering, balanced across his palms, and threw them. Beneath the curling white of the mist they sank into the cold brown water and began to settle inexorably into the mud.

His clothes next. He unfastened his cloak, folding it carefully into as small a bundle as possible, doing it slowly, meticulously, perhaps stretching out the last few moments before the rim of the sun showed above the sea. Pinning the bundle with his cloak pin he hurled it after his weapons. Next came the bag of coins, his leather belt, his armlets, his tunic. Finally he was naked, save for the strip of woven ash bark around his arm, his birthright and his name sign. The cold air played across his skin. He frowned. He would not want the priests to think that his shiver was one of fear. Imperceptibly he straightened his shoulders, his eyes, like theirs, upon the eastern horizon which with every second grew brighter. Behind him he was conscious suddenly that one of the priests had reached to the altar and taken up the garotte. He was winding it onto his hands.

Nion clenched his fists. The sun had still not appeared but out there, beyond the cold waters, hidden by the mists, the gods were waiting.

The phone at Redall Cottage was working again by late afternoon. Roger drove Kate back there in the Land Rover through the heavy sleet and slush and toured the cottage with her room by room. ‘It all looks all right,’ he said at last. He had insisted on lighting the stove and carrying in a new supply of logs. ‘Are you really quite sure you feel happy about staying here?’ On the kitchen table stood a cardboard box full of tins of food, a jar of coffee, a bottle of Scotch, some matches and several other things that Diana had extricated from her own larder. ‘Just in case you get trapped by this awful weather they’re forecasting,’ she had said to Kate. Taking her aside she too had asked her yet again if she wanted to stay with them, but Kate was adamant. ‘I must work. Really.’

Roger looked round, seemingly reluctant to leave. ‘Are you sure you’re happy about this?’ he asked again.

‘Perfectly happy.’ She grinned at him. ‘Really. I want to get back to work.’

‘Good.’ He gave a gentle smile. ‘Well, you know where we are if you want anything.’

She stood at the door to watch him drive away into the woods, then she turned back to the house. Nothing had been decided about the excavation. Greg had wanted it buried deep beneath the sand; Roger and she had wanted to call the Colchester archaeological people and Alison, when at last she had woken up had become totally hysterical at the thought of anyone touching it at all. In deference to her tears Diana had vetoed any action at least for a day or two and reluctantly, Kate had had to acquiesce. It was after all their land; their dune.

She glanced at her watch. It was nearly four. She put on the kettle and then hauling herself onto the stool, she reached for the phone. Anne was in.

‘Hi, stranger. I was wondering how you’d been getting on.’ Her sister’s voice was cheerful.

‘I’m fine. How’s Edinburgh?’

‘Wonderful. Better than I had hoped even. The job is quite fascinating and I love the city and C.J. loves the flat. It’s huge compared with our old one, and there’s a walled garden at the back. He’s in seventh heaven. At least he was until the snow started.’ She laughed. ‘So tell me about the wilder shores of East Anglia.’

‘A bit strange, actually.’ Kate paused, watching the steam begin to rise from the kettle spout. ‘Anne. Are there such things as poltergeists?’

There was a moment’s silence the other end of the line. ‘Now there’s a fascinating question. Why do you ask?’

‘Various reasons.’ Kate smiled wryly. There would be no turning back now until Anne had wormed the last tiny detail out of her. She took a deep breath. ‘Let me tell you the story then you give me your opinion…’

It took a surprisingly long time to tell. Anne listened in silence, clicking her fingers once at Carl Gustav as he flexed his claws provocatively against the back of an armchair. He beamed at her and leapt onto her lap, cuddling down for a long stay.

‘From what you say and your initial question you suspect the activity is centred around Alison, am I right?’ she said at last.

‘That’s how it works, doesn’t it? Teenage angst and all that. Frustrated energy.’

‘That’s how it works.’ Kate could hear the smile in Anne’s voice. ‘If it works. The bangs you have described sound to me as though they could just be wood splitting. You’ve probably heated up the cottage more than anyone in ages and it’s falling apart. Had you thought of that? I suppose it could be explosions of psychic energy if one believes in such things. I’ve certainly read about them. But the rest. The soil. The maggots. Ugh. That doesn’t sound like poltergeist activity either, to be honest. More like a horror novel.’

Kate pursed her lips. ‘Anne, this is not a novel! Come on. I want your help.’

‘Well, then, perhaps the sudden heat has woken them up. Wasn’t that what someone suggested to you? That sounds more realistic. But even more likely it sounds to me like some kind of practical joke, Katie, love, and if the brother – Greg, did you say his name was? – is anything like as angry as you say, I should look no further than him. He sounds a very unhappy and frustrated man.’

‘You don’t think any of this could be supernatural then?’

‘I think it’s unlikely. Even the ghost you think you saw. You were tired; you could have imagined it. The smells are easily explained. They hang around for months, even years in houses sometimes. And maggots for God’s sake! What are you supposed to think? That they are coming from a two-thousand-year-old grave? How long do you think the flesh lasts on bones? How long do you think any organic matter survives at all? Besides, how would they have got into your cottage?’ Anne fondled Carl Gustav’s ears. Kate could hear his purr down the telephone. It made her feel suddenly terribly lonely.

‘How do I handle it, big sister? I don’t want to leave this cottage. It’s wonderful. I love it and I’m working well.’

‘Has anything happened since you had the locks changed?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you don’t believe the maggots are breeding on something terribly dead beneath the floorboards?’

‘No.’ Kate looked down at her feet. The cottage floors, she had established, were uncompromisingly concrete.

‘And you don’t think Alison could have slipped a matchboxfull onto the windowsill while you were out of the room?’

‘No. I don’t.’

‘I think I’m going to need notice of this one. It’s tricky.’ Anne laughed out loud. ‘Intriguing but tricky. You’re not scared?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You don’t sound very certain.’

‘Well, would you? In the middle of nowhere? It’s beginning to get dark. There’s a bluebottle in here now.’ It hadn’t been there a few minutes ago, she was sure, and yet there it was, circling the light.

‘Well, take comfort that there is nothing supernatural about bluebottles. You may not find out where they are coming from, but as sure as eggs is eggs, they are coming from the maggots who in turn are coming from some source of putrid flesh – ’

‘What did you say?’ Kate interrupted her, her voice tight with fear.

‘I said putrid flesh.’

‘“Your putrid body and your rotten soul,”’ Kate quoted slowly. ‘Those are the words which keep going round and round in my head.’ She was suddenly very scared.

‘It’s a coincidence. Have you never heard of synchronicity?’ Hearing the fear in her sister’s voice, Anne was immediately reassuring. ‘Besides, it’s hardly a coincidence when one is talking of maggots. Listen, love, I have got someone coming to supper. I really ought to get on or they will be having sardines on toast. Can we talk again tomorrow? I’ll look up something about poltergeists and teenage werewolves to give you some ammunition to throw at young Alison, but if I were you I should have a stiff drink, bolt every door, check for matchboxes of maggots under the sideboard and lose yourself in the book. And if you’re really, really scared I want you to ring me at once. Any time. Understand? Must go.’

She had hung up before Kate had a chance to say goodbye.

‘Anne. Anne?’ She shook the receiver. Anne had gone but the line still sounded as though it were open. She listened for a moment longer. ‘Oh no. Not again.’ She felt a moment of quite irrational panic as she jiggled the phone, hung up and lifted the receiver again. The line had not disconnected. It was live. There was no dialling tone. She put it down again and lifted it a second time. The same thing happened.

In Edinburgh Anne stared at the phone on the table in front of her and bit her lip. It was unlike Kate to be afraid of anything; very unlike her. To hell with the guests. Kate was more important than a perfect soufflé. She reached for the receiver again and dialled Kate’s number.

The line was dead.

Bleakly Kate stared round the kitchen. Damn and blast it. It didn’t matter, of course. Tomorrow she would walk up through the woods to the farmhouse and report the phone once again. There was no reason she should want to phone anyone again tonight. As Anne had said she should have a drink, check for maggots, and then go back to work.

It was a quarter to midnight when at last she turned off her computer, stretched and stood up. Her eyes were weary and her brain felt scrambled. She stared down at the pile of printed pages on the desk then she picked up her glasses and put them on again, reading through the last section one more time. It was good. It was exciting, alive, tremendous. Exhilarated, she stood up and wandered through to the kitchen and reached for the new bottle of whisky. The Lindseys, it appeared, drank Johnnie Walker. She poured herself half an inch and went back into the living room. Damn it, with the phone cut off no one could ring her either and she had, she realised suddenly, been hoping for another call from Jon. She sighed. She missed him so much.

The sharp bang above her head hardly made her jump at all. She stared up at the ceiling again and slowly she leaned forward to the table and reached for the bottle. ‘Sod off, Marcus,’ she murmured. ‘You’re either psychic energy or you’re a splitting beam. Either way you are not my problem.’