Midnight is a Lonely Place

LXI

They were there again. Nightmare voices. Hatred and anger, forcing her from her bed, until she stood, listening, in the centre of the room. Listening to something far away. The sea. The sea was the danger now. She could hear the roar of the waves, see the walls of spume crashing across the dunes.

Tell them. Tell them my story.

Claudia was the stronger now. Her voice rising above his in the howl of the wind.

Tell them. Tell them. Let the people judge.

Then he was there. Marcus. His voice the louder. Hatred. Anger.

‘No!’

Spinning round slowly, Alison raised her hands to her head and clutched at her hair. They were fighting; fighting inside her; fighting for the last of her strength.

The grave. She must go to the grave.

She must save it from the water.

She must die.

Die with the bitch whore in the clay.

Live.

Die.

The door opened quietly and she walked out onto the landing, her bare feet warm on the thin carpet. Turning towards the stairs, she began to walk down, seeing nothing but the vision in her head. In the dark at the bottom of the stairs her fingers went unerringly to the latch on the inside of the door, though it was pitch dark there, without lights. The door opened and she stepped into the living room. Silently she moved between the sleeping figures towards the hall.

By the fire Paddy stirred uncomfortably in his chair, but, worn out, he did not open his eyes, even when the cold draught from the open front door stirred the logs into flame in the hearth.

Still barefoot she stood on the doorstep staring sightlessly out into the snow. Something made her pause – in her sleep some inner guardian directed her to step into boots and jacket – then she was gone, closing the door softly behind her.

In the living room the others slept on.