Midnight is a Lonely Place

XLIII

Marcus stared at the woman who was his wife and his eyes were hard. She had never looked so beautiful. Her hair was wild, loose in the wind, her eyes fiery as she ran towards him. He gave a cold smile, his arms folded across his chest, aware of the priests drawing away from them, aware of the body sinking slowly, face down, in the soft mud of the marsh. The blood red of the sunrise spilt across the reeds, reflecting in the still waters around them. She was running towards him, but it seemed to take forever for her to reach him, to lift her hand, her nails clawed, towards his face, to duck beneath his raised arm and snatch the sword snugly sheathed at his belt. He stepped back to protect himself and she laughed. The sound made his blood curdle. She raised the sword. ‘Curse you, Marcus. Curse you. Curse you. You will not keep me from him.’

The sword seemed to catch for a moment against the flimsy stuff of her gown. Then it was free, sliding into her belly like a knife through cheese. She stood for a moment, upright, strong, proud, her fists still clenched around the hilt as she pulled it towards her, not acknowledging the pain, a daughter of Rome, then slowly her knees began to sag as the blood splashed out over her skirt.

Kate swung round, her eyes straining in the darkness. She had the feeling someone was standing behind her. ‘Greg?’ She glanced round wildly, but she couldn’t see him; she had walked farther than she thought. The beach was deserted. There was no sign of him sitting on the sand. Her heart began to pound unsteadily as if she had been running and she felt her mouth go dry. She clutched the piece of driftwood she had picked up from the tide edge, feeling it cold and wet and solid against her fingers and slowly she began to retrace her steps, straining her eyes into the darkness. Dear God, where was he? She could feel little trickles of panic running up her back. He couldn’t have gone. He wouldn’t have gone. He had to be there somewhere. She dashed the sleet out of her eyes, realising as she did so that it was more like snow now, light and feathery, caressing her skin where before it had been hard and sharp.

There it was again. The strange conviction that there was someone near her. Someone beside her, close beside her, so close she could feel the heat of his body, sense his bulk. ‘Idiot!’ In her fear she spoke out loud. She veered towards the sea trying to free herself of the feeling and felt a wave breaking over her boots, showering her with spray. She jumped back out of reach of the next and felt it again – the absolute conviction that there was a man standing beside her. She stopped walking and stood quite still staring round. There was no one there. It was some trick of the wind and the weather. Gritting her teeth she turned her back on the sea and began to walk up the beach. ‘Greg!’ Tucking the piece of wood beneath her arm she cupped her hands around her mouth. ‘Greg! Where are you?’ Trudging wearily on she scanned the darkness again. She frowned. She had suddenly realised that she was heading back towards the sea. Somehow in the dark she had turned completely round and, without noticing it, she had strayed back below the high water mark in a lull between waves. The roar of the sea and the wind had disorientated her and now she could see a wave racing towards her. She froze. It towered up above the rest like a tidal wave. Tsunami. The word flashed into her mind unsought. Desperately she turned to run but she couldn’t. She seemed to be rooted to the spot. It was as if someone were holding her, forcing her forward towards the onrushing water. She could almost feel the grip on her arms, propelling her onwards.

‘Greg!’ She heard her voice rising into a scream as the towering water seemed to lift above her head. ‘Greg!’

As the water crashed forward over her, knocking her backwards onto the shingle the last thing she heard before the roaring filled her ears was a man’s laugh.

She awoke to find Greg bending over her. ‘Thank God you’re all right. Oh Christ, Kate, I don’t know what’s going on.’ He was lying beside her, she realised, his body shielding hers, one arm across her almost as though they had been making love. He must have dragged himself towards her over the wet shingle, his poor useless foot agony as he moved. ‘I saw the wave. I saw him push you. I thought you were dead.’ He clutched at her hand, holding it against his chest.

Desperately she tried to clear her head so she could think. ‘Who pushed me?’

‘Marcus. It was Marcus, Kate. I saw his toga, his cloak, I saw his sword. He was beside you, then he pushed you towards the sea and I saw that great bloody wave rising up…’ He leaned forward and laid his head on her chest. It was a strangely comforting feeling – completely unsexual. She reached up and stroked his hair.

‘Marcus doesn’t exist, Greg. He’s not real. He’s a statue. A joke. An imaginary ghost.’

‘There was nothing imaginary about him.’ He was mumbling into her jacket. ‘He was real. I saw him push you. I saw you shoot forward towards that wave. He was real, he tried to take over my mind. He’s done it before, and each time I’ve pushed him away. I didn’t realise what was happening; I didn’t understand. But now, for some reason he wants us both dead.’

She lay back for a moment, staring up at the sky, her eyes narrowed against the softly drifting snow. It was falling harder now, settling higher up the beach out of reach of the water, clogging the dunes, drifting before the wind. ‘Why? Why does he want us dead?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. It’s something to do with that bloody grave. We’ve disturbed him.’

‘It’s not his grave. He’s buried in Colchester.’ She rolled towards him, dislodging his head so that he was lying face down next to her. Gently she put her hand on his back. ‘Can you turn over? Let me help you to sit up. We’ve got to try and find some shelter.’ Where was her carefully garnered piece of wood? She glanced round but there was no sign of it in the darkness. The sea must have snatched it from her before it tossed her back on the beach. She dragged herself up to her knees, groaning. Her whole body seemed to be one big bruise. She was soaked to the skin and already she could feel herself growing seriously cold. If they were not careful they were both going to die of hypothermia.

Greg, with a small sigh had lain back on the sand and closed his eyes. For a moment she felt total panic. He was dead. He had just died, next to her, between one moment and the next, like Bill. ‘Greg!’ Her voice rose to a scream.

He opened his eyes and smiled. ‘You have a plan?’

Her relief was so overwhelming she nearly kissed him. ‘We have to keep moving. However much it hurts you. It’s the only way to stay alive. Sod Marcus. If he comes near us again we’ll pray or something. Doesn’t that chase off ghosts? We’ll make the sign of the cross. The sign against the evil eye. They are always doing that in historical novels and it always works.’

Greg’s smile deepened. ‘Do you know what the sign against the evil eye is?’ He seemed to be content to lie there. Like her, a moment before, he could feel the soft engulfing peace of the snow closing over him.

‘I’m sure I can work it out. Come on, Greg. Move. You’ve got to move. Try and roll over. If you crawl, you can keep your weight off the foot. Come on. You mustn’t give in.’

With a groan he obeyed her, swinging himself over until he was lying with his face pressed into the cold, wet sand. A shaft of pain shot through him and he felt the heat of his own sweat like a mantle flowing over his cold body. With a grunt he dug his elbows into the sand and dragged himself forward a couple of feet. Falling flat again he groaned out loud. ‘It’s going to take me a while, like this.’

‘It may take all night, but we’re going to do it.’ She was grim. ‘If you can’t do it that way you’ll have to stand up and lean on me.’

‘It’s tempting, but I think if I try and stand I’ll pass out again.’ He clenched his fists and with a superhuman effort dragged himself forward again. Then he collapsed. ‘It’s no use. I can’t do it. You’ve got to go for the Land Rover. It can’t be far to the cottage.’ He raised his head with an effort and squinted into the whirling snow, willing it into view.

‘I can’t leave you, Greg.’ She was kneeling in front of him.

‘You must or we’ll both die. I’ll be OK. I’ll keep moving forward, like this, parallel with the sea. Don’t attempt to drive down onto the soft sand. Keep to the firmer stuff away from the dunes. Just get as near as you can. Realistically, we’ll only survive if we get into the Land Rover. I’ve had it and you’re soaked through. Even if it does get bogged down we’ll have a chance in there and they’ll find us more easily.’ He dragged himself up onto his elbows. ‘Do it, Kate. Here, take the keys. They’re in my pocket.’ He groped painfully inside his Barbour and withdrew them with numb fingers. Dropping them into her palm he forced himself to smile.

Her hand closed over them. She looked at him in despair. He was right. He couldn’t get back on his own.

She climbed to her feet and began to drag off her jacket.

‘No, don’t be a fool.’ He shook his head angrily. ‘You need it as much as I do. The slightest move leaves me pouring with sweat. I’ll be all right. You keep it on and get back as fast as you can.’

She nodded grimly. For a moment longer she hesitated, then she turned and began to run unsteadily back down the beach, the wind behind her now, which made it easier, without the snow and sleet in her eyes.

Her exhaustion seemed to have reached a plateau where pain and chill had withdrawn behind some automatic programmed response. On and on she went, sometimes slowing to a walk, sometimes jogging, faintly aware that part of her was listening over her shoulder for the sound of pursuit. But pursuit by whom? Marcus?

Snatching great lungfuls of air, she pounded on, driven by her fear. She had to get back to the cottage. She had to find the Land Rover. There was no question of getting lost with the sea constantly at her left hand, crashing on the shore, drawing infinitesimally back, worrying the sand like an animal reluctant to abandon its prey, yet glancing up the beach again she found she was beginning to panic. Where was the cottage? Surely she should be able to see the lights from the windows by now. She had left them on. She remembered distinctly. She had left them on because she could not bear to leave poor Bill in the dark. Tears flooded her eyes and she brushed at them with the wet, icy sleeve of her jacket and stopped.

Bending double she drew in great rasping gulps of air, not daring to look behind her, keeping her eyes strained into the darkness. Then, suddenly she saw it. The rising silhouette of the dunes against the white of the distant trees, and the angular black shape which was a roof. There was no sign of any light from the upstairs windows.

She swallowed, willing her heartbeat to slow down as she turned her back on the sea and looked for the track between the dunes. The cottage garden was white with snow; beneath the wall it had drifted in the wind and was heaped into shallow piles already several inches thick. Not giving herself time to think she followed the wall towards the front and peered round it. The Land Rover stood where they had left it. She closed her eyes and sank against the wall, weak with relief. It was only at that moment that she realised that she had half expected it to have gone. Leaving the shelter of the wall she walked towards it, then she stopped abruptly. The front door of the cottage was wide open.

‘Bill.’ Her lips framed the words silently. Her stomach was churning suddenly and her legs seemed incapable of co-ordinated movement, but somehow she forced herself to walk towards the door. Light poured out of the hall, showing the snow white and clean. There were no signs of any footprints.

She crept to the door and peered in. The sitting room door was open and she could see the curtains blowing against the window. The cottage stank of vomit. ‘Allie?’ Her voice came out as a croak. ‘Allie?’ she tried again. ‘Are you there?’

The effort of will required to force herself to walk forward and peer into the room was enormous, but somehow she managed it. It was as she had left it. Bill still lay on the sofa; nothing had been touched. Cautiously she stepped inside. The woodburner had cooled down. There was no welcoming glow from it now. The room was distinctly chilly. She took another step forward, pressing her forearm against her mouth and nose in an attempt to filter out the evil smell in the room and stopped, overwhelmed with horror and disgust. The blanket which she had drawn over Bill’s face had been pulled back. His face, blue and puffy was turned towards her, his eyes half open, staring blindly straight at her. In front of him on the floor was a pool of vomit.

Turning she ran back towards the front door, trying desperately to control her own retching. She tore out of the house and running to the Land Rover, slumped over the bonnet, her head cradled in her arms, her stomach feeling as though it were somersaulting against the back of her throat. For several seconds she stood still, fighting her nausea, her legs trembling, then at last she managed to grope in her pocket for the keys. She found them and staggered to the driver’s door, trying desperately to insert one in the lock. It was several seconds before she realised that the door was not locked. Dragging it open she pulled herself onto the seat and slammed it shut. Then she burst into tears.

Her glasses. She had lost her glasses. Sniffing frantically she groped in her jacket with shaking hands until at last she found them, pushed into an inner pocket. Rubbing her eyes with her wet sleeve, she put them on and leaning forward she inserted the key into the ignition. Fumbling with the unfamiliar gears, she slammed the gearstick back and forth until she managed to find first and at last she pulled the heavy vehicle round to face the sea and jerkily she began to drive towards the dunes.

‘Come on. Come on. Please don’t get stuck, you bastard, please don’t get stuck,’ she begged, her voice husky as she peered forward desperately through the streaked windscreen.

The Land Rover lurched across the grass and down onto the sand, its tyres slipping and sliding but somehow keeping a grip on the shifting, wet surface of the beach as she threaded her way at a snail’s pace between the dunes, the headlights catching a whirling wall of sand and snow and sleet. When at last she saw the sea, it was a barrier of angry white rising in front of her, hurling itself at the land. Biting her lip she tore the wheel round, heading north now, keeping the vehicle moving at a steady walking pace, every muscle tense as she willed the wheels to keep their traction. Where was he? Oh please God, let her find him. She had never felt so lonely in her life, with her eyes straining frantically ahead, scanning the beach and the dunes to her left as she looked for Greg’s hunched figure on the sand. She hadn’t been too long, surely? She cursed the time she had wasted weeping like some useless, spineless feeble fool, and desperately she pulled the vehicle further away from the sea as it lurched into a weed-strewn rutted pool and ground to a halt. ‘Oh, no!’ She juggled the clutch and accelerator desperately, trying hard not to drive in deeper. ‘Please. Please, come on.’ She wrenched the gear levers back and forth frantically as the car rocked forwards and lurched to a standstill again, the wheels spinning. ‘Damn you!’ She hit the steering wheel in fury. ‘Come on. Come on!’ In the cold remorseless beam of the headlights the beach was unrelentingly empty of life. Sleet whirled in the double light beams, the sand gleamed coldly and beyond it, even above the sound of the engine, she could hear the angry roar of the sea. Biting her lips in concentration she tried a new combination of gears and suddenly, wonderfully, the old vehicle lurched into life and dragged itself out of the hollow, shaking itself free like some great hippopotamus which had been wallowing in the mud. ‘Be careful.’ Kate was talking to herself openly now. ‘Be careful you silly cow. Look where you’re going. Next time you won’t get out.’ Her hands gripping the wheel so tightly her knuckles cracked, she leaned forward again, peering into the shadows at the edge of the headlight beams.

Midnight: the witching hour, in this empty, godforsaken, lonely place.

Where in the name of God was he?