Midnight Is a Lonely Place

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘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.

  XLVI

  The heavy ornate brooch was solid silver. A crude native design, but it had been his; the Briton’s. He had known it all along. Bending over her he tore it from her gown and pinned it onto his own cloak with a sneer of triumph. Stupid bitch. Had she thought to frighten him with her curses? Did she really think she could pursue him into eternity?

  He stood looking down at her for a moment, wondering how he could have loved her so much, making no attempt to draw the sword out of her body, anger and hatred boiling in his veins like vitriol, then he stooped and picking her up under the arms he dragged her towards the edge of the marsh. One thing he could do for her, sweet wife of his, companion of his bed, mate of his loins, mother of his son – send her to Hades with her seducer. With a massive heave he lifted her from the ground and hurled her a few feet into the marsh, watching with satisfaction as her body fell almost over the spot where her lover had disappeared. She lay there for a while, her blue gown spread across the mud, the sword still protruding from her body, her hair a splash of auburn in the light of the rising sun, then slowly, almost imperceptibly, she began to sink.

  Hands on hips he watched, a sneer curling his lip. Vengeance; sweet, healing vengeance. And no one would ever know. Slowly the clouds were drawing back; the sky was turning blue. It was going to be a beautiful day. He put his hand to his belt and felt for the dagger he wore there, opposite the empty sheath which had held his sword. Taking the hilt between his fingers he stroked it for a moment, then he drew it out, feeling the weight and balance of a well-loved, trusted weapon.

  Then he turned towards the priests.

  ‘Are you and Alison going to work on your projects together today, Sue?’ Cissy Farnborough looked at the top of her daughter’s head, which was all she could see as the girl sat at the table, her face buried in a fat paperback.

  Don’t read at table. She wanted to say it, but how could she with Joe sitting there on the far side of the cornflakes packet, as deeply buried in the Sunday Telegraph. She sighed. ‘Sue!’ she tried again, louder this time, more irritated. ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  Sue looked up. Her unbrushed hair stood out round her head like a disorganised halo; her nightshirt, adorned with a particularly ugly picture of some hirsute pop star’s face in close up, was crumpled and distinctly grubby. ‘I don’t know what she’s doing. She missed school last week. I’ll ring her later,’ she said ungraciously.

  ‘Please do. I should like to know if there is someone extra for lunch.’

  ‘You always make too much anyway,’ Sue commented tartly. She buried herself back in her book. Cissy pursed her lips. She turned to the kettle and switching it on, reached for the jar of coffee. Her husband and her daughter had tea at break
fast, and as usual Joe had insisted on a full, cooked, death-by-cholesterol blow out. She shuddered as she glanced at the greasy frying pan. He wouldn’t even let her grill his bacon. ‘I work for my living, woman,’ he had growled when she suggested a slight moderation to his diet. ‘These namby pamby doctors don’t know anything about life on the land. They’re writing for city folk; desk pilots. Men who never shift their backsides off their chairs from one end of the month to the other. They should try and do some real work. See what that does for them!’ She had given up. It was a well worn theme. A combination of rural arrogance and resentment against her father, who had been an accountant in London before he retired. Spooning the coffee into her cup she stirred it thoughtfully, rehearsing her own dissatisfaction silently as she turned to look out of the window. She had married beneath her; both her parents had thought so. And unfortunately they had made no secret of their opinion. She had defended Joe, stuck up for him, passionately supported him, slept with him and finally married him, and of course they had been right. He had gone to a minor public school in Suffolk but he was not what she would call educated; he was not interested in anything but the farm; he never read anything except the Sunday newspapers and he despised education in others – especially his wife. Susie was different. Nothing was too good for her, but even there he never sup ported Cissy when she tried to make the child do her homework. ‘Leave the girl alone,’ he would say impatiently every time Cissy tried to get Sue to switch off her Walkman or the television and concentrate on work. ‘She’s pretty. She’ll find herself a man soon enough. She doesn’t need all this crap!’

  ‘There’s no marmalade, Ciss!’ Joe emerged from the paper looking wounded, the lid of the jar in his hand.

  ‘Blast!’ Cissy mouthed the word silently. Why, why, why did he always manage to find fault. Why was there always something she had forgotten?

  ‘Don’t call me Ciss,’ she snapped back. Cecilia Louise. That was what her parents had christened her. But Joe had never called her Cecilia in his life. At first she had thought it funny to be called Cissy, but the joke had soon palled. Now it just added to the weight of resentment.