Midnight is a Lonely Place

XXXV

Her eyes were blinded by tears as she parted the clump of elder with a shaking hand and peered through. She could see him standing only a few yards from her, naked now, his arms raised in salute towards the eastern sky, his fists clenched against the crimson clouds. Behind him the priests were waiting. She saw the golden knife, the ligature, the bowl which contained the sacred mead. As she watched, he turned. For a moment she saw his face. His expression was closed, cold, impassive, as though his spirit had already fled.

The priest stepped forward with the bowl. With a bow he handed it to Nion. The young man turned back towards the east. He raised the bowl towards the red clouds. On the distant horizon, two miles away, where sea met sky, crimson colour bled upwards from below the rim of the earth. Behind him the priest raised his knife. They all waited, motion suspended, their eyes on the distance where the sun would appear.

Claudia bit back her tears. She clenched her fists. He would not see her, or hear her pain. Her eyes, too, went to the horizon. As she watched, the smallest segment of scarlet appeared out of the crimson mist.

Nion tensed. His knuckles whitened on the rim of the bowl. For a fraction of a second he seemed to thrust it further towards the sun, then he threw back his head and began to drink. She saw the movement of his throat; she saw the golden liquid spill over the side of the bowl, onto his chin, run down his arms and splash onto his chest. He drained the bowl to the dregs and flung it into the marsh, then he crossed his arms on his breast and knelt.

Behind him the two priests stepped forward. She saw the red reflection of the sun glinting on the knife blade as it was raised. And she saw the garotte as it was slipped swiftly and dextrously about his throat.

The meal had been excellent. Bill sat for a long time over his coffee. At his side The Times lay beside his cup, neatly folded to expose the crossword. In the last hour he had managed only two clues and he was feeling discouraged. He glanced up at the window. Outside the sleet appeared to have stopped. A slash of palest stone-washed denim blue had appeared between the clouds. Staring up at it he felt a sudden uplift of his spirits. Damn it, it was only twenty miles or so further.

Slotting a couple of carriers full of Marks and Spencer food into the boot of his car he tucked four bottles of wine in beside them and slid into the driver’s seat.

He had no problems until he reached the track down through the Redall woods where the slush and rain had turned it into a quagmire. Parking on the side of the road he climbed out. Behind him a tractor was lumbering along the road. It drew to a halt behind his car. Bill walked up to it. ‘Hello, Joe. Do you think I’d be mad to take the car down to the cottage?’

Joe laughed. He scratched his head. ‘I reckon you were mad to come at all,’ he shouted over the clatter of the engine. ‘I tell you what. You come and leave your car up at the farm and I’ll run you down to yours. Best that way.’

Bill gave up the effort of competing with the huge engine. With a grin he gave a thumbs up sign and turned back to his car. At least this way he wouldn’t get trapped by the weather.

It was an hour later that Joe delivered him to his door. Waving his good Samaritan off he inserted his key in the door and pushed it open with his shoulder. The smell of cold and damp assailed him at once and he grimaced. ‘Bloody fool.’ He meant himself.

The front door led straight into the living room. The furnishings were shabby and not very pretty – good enough for weekends, but not so good they would get nicked. It always depressed him a little when he arrived, but he knew from long experience that once he had put a match to the fire – a resolution he had never once broken was to leave it laid ready when he left for London at the end of each trip – and turned on the lights and the radio the little house would spring to life. He found he was humming as he walked through into the kitchen – basic with an old, deep sink, a barely functional electric cooker and a pine table and chairs which were probably by now worth a fortune as antiques. Once he was settled he would dig out his wellies and stride out through the mud to visit Kate.

It had never crossed his mind that she wouldn’t be at home. He peered through the windows of her cottage. The woodburner was alight. He could see the glow of the fire through the closed doors. He shaded his eyes as he leaned closer. Her desk was untidy, as though she had got up and left it in the middle of some work. And the lamp on the table in the corner was switched on. He glanced over his shoulder towards the beach. Perhaps she had gone for a walk.

His wellingtons sliding wetly on the sand and shingle, he made his way down towards the sea, standing on the foreshore at last, shading his eyes as he stared up and down the beach. The rain and sleet had drifted inland. Overhead the cloud was still thick, but it was higher now, and there was still the odd patch of blue. His hands wedged firmly into his pockets he threw his shoulders back and inhaled deeply. It was a rash move and led to a spasm of coughing, but at least he was getting the desired fresh air. He chuckled to himself, and turning north up the beach began to walk briskly over the sand. The sea was sullen, heaving menacingly on the horizon, a shifting solid mass of seemingly waveless water. The tide was midway up, he guessed, creeping nearer half-heartedly, dribbling each progression of weed and shells onto the beach before sliding back into the black depths to gather itself for another inroad onto the sand.

He didn’t walk far. The wind in his face was not strong but it was bitingly cold. Turning, he glanced back the way he had come. There was no sign anywhere of Kate. No footprints on the sand to show where she had passed. Disappointed, he retraced his steps. Blow fresh air. You could get too much of that. He walked down the beach as far as the end of the dunes and climbed up to get a view across the estuary. It was alive with geese. Bustling with activity. He could hear them now, gossiping, squabbling, murmuring to each other as they spread out across the still water onto the low-lying islands and the saltings. He grinned to himself. He liked the geese. They were jolly chaps, and with them there it wasn’t possible to feel lonely. He couldn’t understand why people had to shoot them. But then some people would kill anything that moved, given half a chance. Shrugging himself deeper into his thick quilted jacket he turned away and pulled up short. There was a woman standing in the distance on one of the other dunes. His heart leapt. ‘Kate!’ he shouted. ‘Over here.’ He waved.

She had her back to him. He could see she was huddled into some long garment. Her hair was tearing free of its fastenings.

‘Kate!’ He put his hands to his mouth and bellowed. The trouble was the wind was blowing from her to him, carrying his voice away. Behind him some of the geese looked up from their grazing and he heard a volley of anxious alarm notes. He leaped off the dune and ran back through the deep, soft sand towards her, feeling the sweat break out on his body beneath the heavy jacket. Puffing, convinced he was about to have a heart attack, he scrambled up the dune where she had been standing. She was nowhere to be seen. He stared down. Half the dune had fallen away onto the beach. He could see where the tide had washed the sand into mounds of weed-covered spoil. A dead crab lay on its back amongst the debris. He wrinkled his nose. Slithering and jumping he made his way back onto the beach, staring round. Where the hell had she gone? Out at sea the evening was beginning to draw in. He could see the mist which preceded the coming darkness hovering on the horizon.

Crossly, he made his way back towards her cottage. Obviously she hadn’t seen him. Well, he couldn’t blame her for going in. It was becoming much colder. He could feel the icy chill on his body as his sweat dried. Suddenly he felt very alone.

The cottage was still deserted, the front door locked. He stared at it in disbelief. Perhaps it wasn’t Kate he had seen after all? It must have been someone else. But who else would be out there on the beach in this weather at this time of day? It had certainly been neither Alison nor Diana. One was too short, the other too well-built. Although the figure he had seen had been too far away to recognise he had been able to see that she was tall and willowy, her figure emphasised by the way she had pulled her coat tightly around her.

Disappointed, he turned away from the door. He might as well walk up to Redall Farmhouse and see if he could cadge a cup of tea there. Maybe that was where she was anyway. Pulling his collar up more tightly around his ears, Bill set off towards the trees.