Midnight is a Lonely Place

XLV

Kate stopped the Land Rover and closed her eyes. There was no sign of him. She had driven up and down the beach three times slowly, edging the vehicle closer and closer to the water’s edge, taking it as far to the north as she dared, far beyond the area where they had walked. He must have wandered up into the dunes where, she knew, she did not dare to try and drive. All she could do was go back slowly, further from the tideline this time, hoping he had seen her lights and was even now trying to drag himself towards them.

Cautiously she let in the clutch, turning this time towards the sea for one last sweep of the boiling waves with the headlights. It was then she saw him. He was kneeling at the water’s edge, waving at her.

‘Greg!’ Incautiously she accelerated towards him and for an awful moment she felt the wheels lose their grip and spin, then she was near him. Drawing to a halt she leapt out. ‘I couldn’t find you.’ Shaking her hair back out of her eyes she ran to throw her arms around him.

For a moment he didn’t move then she felt him return the hug, his mouth against her hair. ‘Kate. Oh, Kate,’ he murmured. For several seconds they clung together, then gently she freed herself.

‘Come on. Try and stand. We’ll put you in the back so you can rest your leg along the seat.’ He was desperately cold. She could feel the chill from his body through his wet clothes. ‘Come on, Greg. You’ve got to stand up. I can’t lift you.’

He was staring at the vehicle. ‘But I saw you. I saw you out there.’ He gestured behind him, towards the sea. ‘I heard you call me. I was crawling towards you, then this wave came and drenched me again.’

She glanced up. ‘You’ve lost your bearings and come right back down the beach. Come on. Stand on your good leg. I daren’t bring the car any closer to the edge. You’ll have to hop.’

‘I can’t.’ He subsided onto the wet sand again with a groan. ‘I’ve had it. I can’t move.’

‘You can. You’ve got to.’ She gritted her teeth. ‘Come on. You can’t give up now.’ She hauled at his arm. ‘I’ll find something for you to lean on. You’ve got to try, Greg.’ She was growing frantic.

‘OK, OK.’ He tried to shake his head. Spray and sleet were cold on his face; tears and sweat, hot. The salt mixture ran into his eyes, blinding him. He could see someone standing behind her. Why didn’t she help? It was a woman. Not Allie. Not Ma. ‘Give me a hand. Please.’ His words were slurring. He felt Kate’s arm strong under his; then her shoulder as he hauled himself up. The other woman was helping, no, she was gone. Where was she? He felt his knees buckle. He could not put his left foot on the sand. The rush of the waves filled his head; dimly he could see the outline of the Land Rover. The back door was open. Inside it was safety, warmth, rest. With a superhuman effort he launched himself towards it with three massive hops on his good leg, throwing himself half in through the door. Then he lost consciousness again.

‘Greg! Greg!’ Kate bent over him. ‘Come on, one more effort.’ The car was a haven. She wanted them both inside and the doors locked. Behind them the beach was hostile, threatening.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw the shadow; the woman hovering near them. Her skin crawled. The blue dress was still stained; it did not blow in the wind; the sleet did not seem to wet the woman’s hair, but she was watching them and Kate could smell her scent. Over the wind and the sleet and the salt smell of sea and sand and weed she could still smell that flowery perfume. She felt sick. Her terror was so great she could not move for a moment. Only a groan from Greg jerked her back from her terrified fascination. She turned. ‘Get in, Greg. Get in quickly,’ she said urgently. ‘Just crawl. Quickly.’

Something of the panic in her voice reached him through the black haze. His hands scrabbled at the seat in front of him; somehow he dragged himself along it and lay, panting, clawing at it to give himself purchase. Behind him Kate caught him round the hips and shoved at him with all her might. Without regard to his injured foot she caught his knees and folded them in behind him and slammed the door on him.

Spinning round she stared out into the night as a new flurry of snow whirled in across the beach. Where was she? She could see nothing now. Desperately she turned and fled round the car, grappling with the driver’s door handle, dragging it open and flinging herself into the seat before slamming the door behind her and banging down the lock. With a cry of relief she slumped back to try and get her breath.

The white shape which hurtled onto the bonnet was so close in front of her she let out a scream. She saw a huge, bloodshot eye. Something crashed down on the windscreen and she saw a splintering crack shiver down the glass. ‘No!’ she flattened herself against the back of the seat, bringing up her arm instinctively to protect her face. ‘No! Please! Greg!’

Greg stirred. He found himself lying face down on the rough rug spread on the back seat. He clutched at it convulsively and felt an agonising pain shoot up his left leg which appeared to have been folded in half beside him on the floor. ‘Kate?’ His voice was indistinct, muffled in the rug. ‘Kate, where are you?’

‘Here!’ Her whisper barely reached him. ‘Greg. Help! Look!’ The fear in her voice reached him through the swimming veil of pain. With an enormous effort he raised his head. Somehow he managed to move sideways, dragging himself up into a sitting position. His teeth were chattering and his body was seized by a wave of violent rigors as he tried to focus on Kate. ‘I’m here. I’m here.’ He clutched at the back of the seat.

Her eyes still fixed on the windscreen she did not turn round. ‘Look.’

It was still there – a huge, flapping white object. Again she saw the eye, yellow, threatening, and then a vicious curved beak. Kate flinched, raising her arm to protect herself, closing her eyes in terror as with a resounding clang a sharp blow descended on the already shivered windscreen.

‘Kate -?’ Greg’s voice was blurred and indistinct.

‘It’s a gull!’ She was sobbing with fear and relief. ‘It’s a huge gull.’ For a moment the whirl of flapping wings and the cruel eyes and vicious beak resolved themselves into a clear outline, the webbed feet scrabbling for a foothold on the bonnet, and then it had gone, launching itself off into the wind and out of sight.

Kate reached for the ignition. Her hands were shaking so much she could hardly start the engine. Frantically she grabbed at the gear lever and shoved it forward. The Land Rover jerked and stalled.

‘Well done.’ It was almost a chuckle from the back. Kate started the engine again. Forcing herself to be calm she engaged reverse gear and let in the clutch with more care. The Land Rover backed away from the sea, the headlights sweeping the beach. ‘I can’t see it. There’s no sign.’

‘I don’t think we’ll send out a search party. Let’s get out of here. Can you see all right? See if you can get back to the track.’ Greg gritted his teeth as a new wave of pain hit him. Ignoring it he pulled at the rug on the seat and dragged it around his shoulders. The dim interior of the Land Rover was beginning to swim around him once more.

‘I think we’re on our way.’ Kate glanced back at the sea. Was the tide retreating at last? It seemed to be farther away, certainly, and the force of the wind seemed less. Cautiously she turned the vehicle south, keeping parallel to the waves, and began to drive back towards the cottage. Straining forward to see through the slivered glass, she watched the beach; it was impossible to see where the sand was firm. All she could do was pray as at last she swung the wheel and headed up towards the dunes. It all looked so different in the headlights; the snow and the spinning sand eddies shifted and disguised the landmarks. Nothing was where it should be. She felt the Land Rover lurch sideways suddenly and she clutched at the wheel. For a moment she thought they were going to stop, then the wheels regained their grip and they were on their way again. Moments later she saw the lights of the cottage in the distance behind the dunes and muttering a short prayer of thanks, she headed doggedly towards them, threading her way round the dunes, following the path she had taken so often on foot, until at last she felt the vehicle drag itself onto the snow-covered grass.

The front door was still open but she ignored it. She had no wish to go in there again, with poor Bill still lying on the sofa. Instead she headed up the track towards Redall Farmhouse, driving more quickly now as they lurched uncomfortably over the ruts and skidded in the ice-fringed puddles, once or twice crashing over fallen branches as she drove on with gritted teeth. The petrol indicator, she had just noticed, was bouncing around the empty level. She could not believe it. They could not run out of petrol now. Not here. ‘Hang on, you bastard. Just hang on.’ She chewed on her lip furiously, ducking automatically as they brushed beneath the low overhanging branches of a stand of larch and slithered back onto the main track.

Through the cracked and murky windscreen she didn’t see the shadow which appeared right in front of them on the track until it was barely feet from her front bumper. She slammed on the brakes, fighting to control the sliding vehicle, spun the wheel and heard with a cry of misery the resounding crack as they crashed into a tree. She was wearing no seat belt and the jolt sent her flying forward against the windscreen.

It was several seconds before she sat up, feeling herself cautiously. There was a bump the size of an egg on her forehead and she felt as though she had been kicked in the ribs by a horse but she was alive.

The headlights were directed at an angle up in the air. They had landed against a tree, with the back wheels in some sort of ditch. Even from here she knew there would be no way of getting the car out. ‘Damn.’ She struck the steering wheel with the flat of her hand. ‘Damn, damn, damn! Greg? Are you all right?’ She dragged her aching body round to look at him. He had been thrown to the floor by the impact and lay there huddled below the seat not moving. ‘Oh God!’ Stiffly she groped for the door handle and tried to push it open. It appeared to be jammed. She peered out again. What was it she had seen in front of her like that? She shivered. Whatever it was had gone – a figment of her overwrought imagination probably – and now the woods were empty as before.

‘Greg. Greg? Are you all right?’ She wrestled with the handle. ‘Greg. Can you hear me?’

It was no good. She couldn’t open it. She glanced across at the other door. It looked as though it might be easier to open. Climbing across into the passenger seat she pulled at the handle. After a moment it swung free and she managed to climb out. One glance past the headlights showed the front wing was buckled, the radiator had gone and the front tyre was flat. ‘Damn!’ She kicked the tyre as hard as she could, then she turned and dragged at the rear door. It was locked. Shaking with panic she crawled back in the front, knelt on the seat and reached down towards him. In the darkness she couldn’t see his face. ‘Greg? Greg, can you hear me?’

Her small torch was still there, in her pocket. Switching it on she directed it down. He was lying face down on the floor, his body hunched, his arms trapped beneath him as though he had made no effort to save himself at all when he was flung forward. Somehow she managed to scramble over the seat and putting her arms around him, she propped him up on the floor between the seats. He groaned but he did not open his eyes. For a moment she sat still, gazing out at the harsh beam of the headlights which lit up the woods. Soon the battery would fade and they would go out. She glanced at her watch wearily. It was after two. There was nothing for it. She was going to have to leave him and go for help on foot.

Gritting her teeth she wedged the torch into her pocket, tucked the rug more closely round Greg, lowered her window half an inch for air and climbed out into the cold. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can. Hang on,’ she whispered. She glanced up and down the track, shining the puny, swiftly-fading beam into the trees. The only sound was the drip of melting snow and the occasional rattle of leaves.

It couldn’t be more than a quarter of a mile – ten minutes’ walk at most. She set off up the path, keeping to the middle of the tyre ruts, feeling her boots slip repeatedly in the icy puddles and frozen mud. Her shoulders were crawling with terror. Tensely she hunched them, sure that any moment she would feel a hand reach out and touch her, turning round repeatedly as she walked, to look into the dark. There was no one there. The silence grew deeper as the sleet slackened and the dripping of the leaves began to diminish, but always with her was the sound of her own laboured breathing and the steady flap and squeak of her rubber boots.

The sight of a light in the distance was so sudden, so wonderful, she stopped and rubbed her eyes. It was a square light, pale blue, a light shining through an upstairs window at Redall Farmhouse. With a sob she began to run, squelching through the slush, brushing the wiry branches of larch and spruce out of her way as they tangled and whipped across in front of her.

She was gasping as she ran across the snow-covered grass and flung herself towards the door, reaching frantically for the bell.

For several seconds there was no response to her frenzied ringing, then she heard footsteps on the other side. ‘Who is it?’ Patrick’s voice was muffled.

‘It’s me, Kate. For God’s sake let me in.’

She listened to the sound of locks being turned and the two bolts being drawn, then at last the door was open and she fell into the hall.

‘Kate, thank God you’re all right. But where’s Greg?’ Diana, still dressed, her face drawn with exhaustion, clutched at her arm.

‘He’s in the Land Rover. I skidded into a tree. He’s hurt his foot, and I think he may have knocked his head. It’s only a few hundred yards up the track. You’ve got to help me bring him home.’

‘Dear God!’ Diana looked helplessly at her younger son. There was only Patrick left to help. Roger had gone to bed at last with two of his painkillers and when she had glanced into their bedroom an hour ago he had been fast asleep, his face still white and drawn as he lay clutching the pillow in the light of the shaded bedside lamp. Allie too was asleep, breathing harshly, her mouth a little open, her expression strangely hard, although her colour had returned to normal. Quietly shutting the door on her, Diana had walked downstairs thoughtfully. The sight of her daughter had filled her with unease.

Patrick had been asleep in the chair by the fire. She had pulled a rug over him and left him there, near the comforting embers. She had been sitting at the kitchen table drinking her third cup of coffee when Kate’s frenzied knocking and ringing had startled her to her feet, awakened Patrick and sent them both into the hall to stand behind the bolted front door.

‘Sit down, child and get your breath back,’ Diana commanded as Kate staggered into the living room. She was soaked and muddy and her hair hung in tangled rats’ tails around a face that was transparent with exhaustion.

‘I think he’s safe for now. I locked the doors and he’s got a rug, but after Bill -’ Suddenly she was crying. ‘You don’t know about Bill – ’

‘We know, Kate.’ Diana put her arm round Kate’s shoulders. ‘Paddy went over to the cottage before the snow got so bad. Paddy, fetch the brandy, quickly,’ she commanded. ‘Don’t try and talk, Kate, till you’ve got your breath back. Then we’ll work out how to fetch Greg.’ Her eyes went to the window. He was alone out there. Alone and injured.

‘Alison -’ Kate said suddenly. She tried to sit up but Diana pushed her back against the cushions. ‘Don’t worry about Alison, my dear. She’s safe. She came home by herself. She’s upstairs in bed now. All we’ve got to do is fetch Greg, then we can all rest.’

There was a moment’s silence. They were all thinking about Bill. Poor, kind Bill. Kate wished he wasn’t alone at the cottage. But there was nothing they could do for him, whilst Greg needed help urgently.

‘Did Alison tell you what happened?’ She opened her eyes and studied Diana’s face. Exhaustion and worry were etched on the other woman’s features.

‘Not really. She was too cold and tired. Time enough to question her in the morning.’ Diana was silent for a moment as Patrick reappeared with a tray. On it were three glasses and a bottle of cognac. He poured them each a liberal dose and handed one to Kate, then another to his mother. The fact that she said nothing when he took the third himself filled him with misgiving. He sipped it cautiously and felt his eyes stream as fire spread down his throat. ‘How can we fetch Greg? Could we somehow use your car, Kate?’

Kate shook her head. ‘The track is almost impassable. That’s why I skidded.’

‘Is there any way he could walk? You said it was only a few hundred yards.’

‘He’s hurt and he’s got no strength left. We’ve got to carry him, somehow.’

‘Carry him?’ For a moment Greg’s mother was stunned. She looked at Patrick and then at the exhausted young woman sitting on the sofa. There were three of them. Could they do it? Greg was a tall, sturdily-built man. He weighed at least fourteen stone. But if the alternative was to leave him out there all night…

‘We’ll carry him,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s not far. Between the three of us, we’ll manage. Once Kate has got her breath back and downed that brandy. I’ll get my boots and gloves.’

‘Aren’t you going to tell Dad?’ Patrick asked. He was biting his lip with anxiety.

‘Your father is asleep. We’ll be back before he even knows we’ve gone,’ Diana said firmly. ‘There’s no need to disturb him. We can lock the house. Allie is asleep too. They’ll be quite safe.’

Kate took a sip of brandy and closed her eyes. She could feel warmth flooding back through her veins, but with it came a wave of total exhaustion. She did not think she could even stand again, never mind help carry Greg back to the farmhouse. She was willing energy back into her body as she took another sip. When she opened her eyes Patrick was watching her. ‘You OK?’ he asked quietly. ‘Ma’s gone off to get her scarf and things.’

‘I’ll manage.’ Kate grimaced. ‘Paddy, could I borrow some warm socks? I’ve had half the North Sea in my boots and my feet are so cold they don’t even recognise me any more.’

‘Sure.’ He grinned, thankful to be asked for something so easy to achieve. ‘I’ll get them.’

As soon as he was gone she leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes again, feeling the room spin and tilt suddenly. She opened them hurriedly as Patrick came back with a pair of thick woolly football socks and a towel. ‘These warm enough?’

She nodded, suddenly realising that she was sitting there in their living room with her muddy, wet boots stuck out in front of her on the rug. Patrick followed her gaze. ‘Don’t worry. Ma didn’t.’ He grinned again. ‘Shall I pull them off for you?’

‘Would you? I don’t think I have the strength.’

She lay back as he bestrode her legs with his back to her and professionally drew off first one boot then the other. A shower of muddy wet sand fell on the rug. Kneeling down he peeled off her socks. Her feet were white and wrinkled and ice-cold.

‘Poor feet.’ He smiled. Reaching for the towel he rubbed them vigorously until she snatched them away in agony, then he pulled on the socks. ‘I’ll see if I can find some new boots. What size?’

‘Five and a half. Six.’ She sat forward on the edge of the sofa. ‘I think I’ll wash my face. That will wake me up a bit.’

‘O.K. I’m sure I can find something that’ll fit you. At least they’ll be dry.’

In the bathroom Kate leaned over the basin towards the mirror and stared at her face. She was drawn, grey, her eyes hollow and haunted. Pushing her hair back with both hands she splashed cold water over her face for several seconds then she reached for a towel. She would make it. Whatever it was out there would not attack three of them. She would see to it that Patrick took his gun – she had not missed the fact that he had it in his hand as they opened the door to her earlier – and they would bring Greg back. The whole exercise would be over in less than an hour and then they would all be safe.

It took two. He was conscious when they finally reached the Land Rover and he was able to greet his mother with something like good humour, forgetting the terror he had felt when he came to, to find himself alone. A combination of the fireman’s lift, a sling seat made out of the rug and frequent rests, brought them back to Redall Farmhouse shortly after four in the morning.

Diana unlocked the door and walked in first, glancing round nervously as Greg stood on one foot in the doorway, clutching at the door frame. ‘Everything looks all right. They must still be asleep.’ She put her shoulder under Greg’s arm. ‘Come on, big son. Come and sit down. Let’s look at you and see the damage.’

Behind them Patrick quietly rebolted and locked the front door and leaned the gun in the corner. He had seen the way Kate kept looking over her shoulder, and the relief on her face as they reached the farmhouse again. And he had felt it too, the atmosphere out in the woods; the certainty that they were being followed.

A large purple bruise had developed on Greg’s forehead where he had hit it on the back of Kate’s seat when the car skidded, but apart from that and his exhaustion and chill he seemed remarkably unscathed. Only his foot was badly damaged. He had been tucked up on the camp bed in Roger’s study, heavily dosed with aspirin against the pain, when Patrick spoke quietly to Kate at last. His mother had gone upstairs to check on Alison.

‘You’d better tell me what happened.’

‘I have told you.’ Kate frowned at him. Her face was white and drawn. She picked up the mug of hot chocolate Diana had made her and sipped it, blowing the steam gently.

‘No you haven’t. Not what happened before. Where did you find Bill?’

Kate took another sip of the chocolate, feeling the sharp sweetness flood around her mouth, comforting her with its memories of childhood.

‘He was near the track, on his way here. He’d been to the cottage to find me and when he found it empty he thought he’d try Redall Farmhouse.’

‘Did he…’ Patrick hesitated, overwhelmed suddenly by the image of the dead man lying on the sofa in the cottage, ‘Did he manage to tell you what happened?’

Kate hesitated. ‘He was very confused. Almost unconscious.’ She took a deep breath as though to speak then paused again. How could she tell Patrick that Bill had accused Alison of attacking him? ‘He seemed to think it was two women,’ she said at last guardedly.

‘Women?’ Patrick repeated, shocked.

Kate nodded. ‘He was in an awful state, Patrick. I don’t think he could remember much. We put him in the Land Rover and took him back to the cottage, then Greg went off on his own to try and find Allie. As you can imagine we were very worried.’ She paused again. Her hands had started shaking quite badly. Clutching the mug of chocolate against her chest she gave Patrick a shaky smile. ‘I didn’t know what to do for Bill. I kept him warm and still and tried to stop the bleeding, but he lapsed into unconsciousness.’ Suddenly she was fighting her tears. ‘I didn’t know what to do. If I’d known something about first aid…’ She put down the mug, mopping at the tears which were streaming down her face. Patrick stood up and quietly fetched a box of Kleenex from the kitchen. He put it beside her on the arm of the chair. ‘I saw him, you know,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t think first aid would have helped. I should think he had a fractured skull. You musn’t blame yourself.’ Kneeling in front of the fire he reached for the poker and prodded the logs. ‘Allie said it was Marcus who killed Bill,’ he said after a minute. He was staring into the smoky embers. ‘She said he had killed some other people as well.’ His voice was flat and tired, beyond expression.

‘Marcus?’ Kate replied automatically. She did not sound convinced.

‘Someone must have done it.’ Patrick’s face crumpled suddenly. He screwed up his eyes furiously, fighting his own tears, keeping his back to her as he stabbed at the logs.

‘There’s nothing we can do until daylight anyway.’ Levering herself to her feet, Kate came and knelt beside him. She put her arm around his shoulders, feeling the boy’s trembling body go rigid beneath her touch. ‘We ought to try and get a couple of hours’ sleep,’ she said after a pause. ‘We’re all safe here. Whatever

– whoever it is – can’t get in; the doors are locked and you’ve got a gun. Why don’t you go to bed.’

He shook his head wordlessly.

‘Lie on the sofa then. With the gun beside you.’

‘What about you?’ He still had not looked at her. She could see the wet trail of tears on his cheek.

‘If you’re down here, can I borrow your bed?’ Her fatigue was so great, she realised suddenly, that it was doubtful if she could make it up the stairs.

‘Of course.’ He looked at her at last and gave a watery grin. ‘Sorry. I’m being pathetic.’

‘No you’re not. You’re being very brave.’ She dragged herself to her feet. ‘Try and get some sleep. We’ll need to have our wits about us in the morning.’

Somehow she pulled herself up the stairs. Every bone and muscle in her body was aching; her head throbbed and her feet hurt as she dragged herself up the final steep steps and made her way towards Patrick’s room. At Alison’s doorway she paused and peered in. A dull light was spilling out across the landing from the bedside lamp. Diana was sitting on the girl’s bed, looking down at her sleeping form. She glanced up and put her finger to her lips. Then she stood up and tiptoed to the door.

‘Patrick said I could use his bed for an hour or two,’ Kate whispered.

Diana nodded. She took Kate’s arm and ushered her down the passage and into Patrick’s room. Switching on the light she stared round at the mess of books and papers and for once without comment shook her head before swooping on the bed and dragging a pile of books and tapes into a heap on the floor. ‘I’ll get you some sheets,’ she offered wearily.

‘No. Please. Don’t bother.’ To forestall her Kate threw herself down on top of the duvet, still fully dressed. She was too tired to think, to move, to stand another second. She shut her eyes. Immediately her head began to spin unpleasantly, as though she had had too much to drink. She forced them open with a groan as Diana pulled a cover over her.

Diana looked down at her for a moment, then she turned away and switched off the light. ‘Rest, Kate. We’ll talk in the morning,’ she whispered, and she tiptoed out and pulled the door shut behind her. Somewhere outside a pheasant shrieked its alarm call into the pre-dawn darkness and fell silent again.