Midnight is a Lonely Place

XXXVIII

‘Bill?’ Kate’s whisper sounded strangely loud in the silence of the room. ‘Bill, are you asleep?’ He was lying on his side, huddled beneath the blanket she had tucked around him, his head on the pillow she had brought down from her bed. One of the cuts had reopened on his temple and she could see a slow trickle of black blood soaking through the dressing onto the flowered pillowcase, adding to the entwined cornflowers and poppies an obscene decoration which shone slick and oily in the light of the lamp. ‘Bill?’ She knelt down next to him. His sleep frightened her. It was too deep, too sudden and she didn’t know what to do.

She squinted at her wristwatch. It was seven o’clock. Two hours since they had left Redall Farmhouse, perhaps an hour and a half since they had reached the cottage. So where was Greg? She stared up at the curtained window, straining her ears. The whole cottage was full of the sound of the wind and the sea. The walls seemed to vibrate beneath their combined assault. Trickles of draught played across the floor, shifting the curtains uneasily, flaring the flames in the stove, teasing the fringe on one of the cushions on the chair.

Taking Bill’s hand in hers, she stroked it gently, appalled by the heavy coldness. Slipping her fingers around his wrist she felt for the pulse. She thought there was something there, but it was terribly faint, barely a fluttering beneath her chilled fingers. Too frightened to touch him any more she tucked his hand under the blanket and stood up. The stone still lay on the hearth where she had put it after bringing it in earlier for Alison. Humping it up onto the top of the stove she opened the doors and pushed on another log. Then she turned to her cassette player. The Requiem was still there. As the music filled the room she glanced back at Bill.

It was a long time since she had prayed. Not since she was a small child and had knelt beside her bed, her hands folded neatly and fervently beneath her chin, and prayed for a pony. It had never materialised and her faith which for a short time had blazed inside her, had shrivelled with disappointment and died. She wasn’t sure she knew how to pray now. Our Father, which art in Heaven. Save Bill. Please, save him and keep us safe. Deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom. She kept her eyes open, scanning the room, trying to allow the music to soothe and comfort her. Behind her on the windowsill the puddle of water inside the frame had broadened. A drip fell from the ledge onto the floor. Then another.

The ‘Pie Jesu’ finished. The room fell into silence which was broken only by the sharp click as the player switched itself off. Even the wind seemed momentarily to have died away. For a while Kate sat without moving, then she stood up. She picked up the towel she had fetched from the bathroom and wrapped it round the hot stone.

‘Bill?’ she whispered. ‘Bill? Are you asleep?’ The heavy warm bundle clutched in her arms, she stood looking down at him. His face was remote, white, utterly composed. The wound on his temple had stopped bleeding now. She could see where the blood had clotted into a dried crust on his skin. ‘Bill, I’ll put this by your feet. It will help keep you warm.’ But she couldn’t. His feet were hanging over the edge of the sofa. She lifted the blanket and eased the towel-wrapped stone in near his knees. His trousers were damp. Perhaps she should try and take them off. Then, wrinkling her nose, she realised what had happened. He had peed all over himself as he lay there on the sofa. Closing her eyes she tucked the blanket back over him.

She had never tried to find the pulse in anyone’s neck before, but she didn’t really expect to find it. The total emptiness in the room told her that he was dead. Turning away she sat on the floor in front of the fire and wrapped her arms around her knees, as the tears poured down her cheeks.