The voices were still warring inside her head. Standing staring down into the snow-filled grave, Alison saw nothing of the snow, nor of the two figures floundering against the wind.
‘Kate!’
The word whirled past her and was lost. It meant nothing.
Whore
Murderer
They were inside her head, both of them, sucking her energy. Soon she would be drained and they would go.
‘It’s not Kate!’
She did not hear the words; did not see the two men who stood now, one each side of her.
‘Who then?’
Jon shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ Tentatively he reached over to touch her arm. ‘Are you all right?’
Alison ignored him. She did not see or hear him. Her gaze never left the drifting snow at her feet.
‘Hey, kid, are you OK?’ Pete’s touch was stronger. He took her by the shoulders and shook her gently.
Alison did not react. Claudia’s face was white against the snow, her gown, still stained with blood, as blue as the sky. She could feel the woman’s need, the longing, the fear and hate: May the gods of all eternity curse you, Marcus Severus Secundus, for what you have done here today.
She was winning now: Claudia.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ Pete glanced at his companion. ‘God knows, but the kid’s freezing.’ Jon wriggled out of his jacket and wrapped it around Alison’s shoulders. ‘Let’s get her back to that cottage.’
‘I don’t know that that’s such a good idea.’
‘Maybe not, but where else can we take her?’
The two men looked at one another for a moment across Alison’s bowed head.
She could not hear them. He was there now, his fury blistering inside her skull. The grave. Destroy the grave!
With a sob she wrenched herself free of Jon’s arm. Staggering a few steps from him, she aimed a kick at the snow-covered sand. ‘Destroy it!’ The voice which came from her lips was guttural; low pitched. A man’s voice, for all the words were clearly English.
Jon stepped back in surprise. Then, regathering his wits, he moved forward again to pick up the jacket which had slipped from her shoulders and wrap it once more around her. ‘Come on. You must keep warm.’ His own voice was shaking with cold.
‘No!’ She shook him off with ease. ‘Keep away from me.’ She threw the jacket down on the snow and leaped down into the shallow hollow below the dune with a sudden, last surge of energy. ‘The sea will take it soon.’ She threw back her head and laughed. ‘The sea will take it at last! Two thousand years it has taken for the tide to come and tonight it will wipe the slate clean!’ She stood staring at the sea, her hair streaming back from her forehead, her eyes fixed on the horizon. Jon and Pete, surprised into silence, stared with her. The wind was strengthening from the east, whipping the snow in across the water, building the waves, pushing the sea higher and higher up the beach.
‘Alison!’
The cry barely reached them. For a moment none of them reacted, then Jon turned. Three figures were hurrying towards them, heads down into the wind, almost lost in the white whirl of snowflakes.
‘Kate?’ As he recognised her Jon felt his heart leap inside his chest. Relief, joy, worry – all three seemed to swirl around his head as he stepped towards her. She was accompanied by a young man – a boy he saw as he looked closer – and Anne.
‘Jon?’ Her astonishment stopped her in her tracks.
‘Hi.’ He found he was smiling. He shrugged. ‘It’s a long story.’
She stared at him for a moment, overwhelmed with relief, wanting to throw herself into his arms, then her glance moved on past him, resting briefly on Pete before she turned to Alison.
‘Allie? Allie, are you all right?’ Her questions to Jon could come later. The fact that he was there, on the beach in the snow, spoke volumes. She slid down the side of the dune after Patrick who had thrown his arms around his sister.
Alison shrugged him off viciously, and he staggered back, bewildered. ‘She’s gone, Kate.’ There were tears running down his face. ‘She’s gone. She’s not here. It’s not her.’
‘Allie!’ Kate took Alison’s hand and chafed it in her own. ‘Allie, come on. Fight it. Please. You have to fight it. Come back to us!’
‘What’s wrong with her?’ Pete slid down beside them.
‘She’s ill. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.’ Pushing her hair out of her eyes, Kate began to button the jacket across Alison’s chest. ‘We have to get her back out of the wind. She’s no strength left.’
‘She seemed to have plenty of strength to me, love.’ Pete grimaced. ‘She nearly pushed me across the beach.’
‘But don’t you see, that’s not her!’ Kate cried. ‘That’s not her strength. He’s possessing her. He’s draining her. We have to get her away from here.’
‘I’ll take her.’ Jon did not waste time asking her what she was talking about. He lifted Alison off her feet and turning, began to tramp inland, with his back to the wind.
He knew the exact moment when the strength went out of her. He could feel it draining away as he walked. Physically, she seemed lighter suddenly – a bag of bones in his arms where moments before he had held a rigid, angry body. He clutched her more closely, glancing down at her face as he cradled her against his chest. Her eyes were closed, her face white, a child’s face, when a moment before it had seemed to belong to someone else entirely. He shuddered and suddenly there was a hand on his arm. He glanced sideways and met Kate’s eyes. She smiled as she stumbled along at his side. ‘Thank God you’re here.’ Did he hear the words against the wind or did he imagine them? He wanted to reach out and touch her, but all he could do was smile and stagger on, feeling the weight of the girl dragging at his arms. Suddenly, her head lolled back and her eyes rolled open. He stopped, horrified, staring down at her face. She was limp now, cold inside the roughly-buttoned jacket.
‘Jon, what is it?’ Kate was beside him, looking down at Alison’s face.
He met her eyes. ‘We’ve got to get her inside quickly, Kate.’
Wordlessly she nodded. Tucking the jacket more closely around Alison’s inert body, she followed as Jon walked on across the snow through the dunes, his shoulders hunched against the wind.
In the cottage he carried her straight upstairs and laid her gently on Kate’s bed, then he stood back as Kate pulled the blankets over the girl and chafed her hands.
Pete appeared in the doorway behind them. He had pulled the front door closed, and then, firmly, shut the door to the living room before climbing the stairs.
‘What happened to Bill?’ Jon asked softly. His eyes were fixed on Alison’s face.
Kate did not look up. ‘He was attacked. In the woods near here.’
‘Attacked?’
She went on rubbing Alison’s hand. ‘He said it was a woman. Two women. We brought him here. But the phones were out. We couldn’t get help.’ Her voice was shaking; he saw a tear fall onto the blanket. Stepping forward he put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘Judging by the bruises on his face no one could have helped, Kate. I should think his skull was fractured in a dozen places.’
‘He said Allie did it.’ The words were out before she could stop them. She heard both men gasp and at last she looked up. ‘She couldn’t have done, could she? She couldn’t … He was a big man. She’s only a child …’
The room was very silent. The girl on the bed, her face white, her hair strewn damply across the pillow, did not move. Her hand in Kate’s was limp and cold. Kate leaned back against Jon, her eyes closed. She was suddenly so weary she couldn’t move. Alison’s hand dropped from her fingers. For a moment it lay on the blanket where it had fallen, then suddenly it convulsed into a fist. The girl’s eyes flew open. Her voice when she spoke was strong and triumphant.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Listen. The tide is rising at last.’
LXV
When Boudicca swept across the country and burned the ci
ty she still called Camelodunum, he was one of the few who managed to escape. Taking his new wife and his child, he rode out of the town in good time and waited in safety as the smoke of rebellion rolled across the country. A spark had ignited the revolt as he had known it would. But it had not been his doing. Claudia’s curse had not touched him. The sacrifice of an unknown, unsung prince to the gods of a British bog had sunk unnoticed into the mists of time. He was triumphant. Later, when the revolt was quelled and Nion’s tribe had gone, lost in the slaughter of a proud and rebellious people, he would obtain the land.
He asked for the marsh where the whore he had called his wife had died, as a reward for his services to Rome and it was given to him with much more. He grew rich and fat; he bought more land; he owned two villas. He watched his son grow; the boy who had rich auburn hair and eyes of glass grey like his mother, and once a year he rode east, to the edge of the land and he stood looking down into the marsh, staring at the irises and bog cotton which blew in the knife-blade wind. Others, unseen strangers, still offered sacrifices to the gods of the marsh – pots of coins, small pieces of jewellery, even weapons. He offered nothing. He did not throw down a rose to commemorate the love which had gone; he did not hurl a dagger to the gods of hate. He merely stood and stared at the shifting, watery scene glittering in the sunlight, and, before he turned to go, he spat upon her curse.
‘The storm is getting worse.’ Diana turned from the study window, letting the curtain fall. She looked down at the bed where her husband lay. His face was grey with pain. His hands were clawing restlessly at the blanket she had pulled over him.
‘Don’t worry. Joe will make it.’ His voice was growing noticeably weaker. ‘He’s a stubborn old bugger. I can’t see him letting a mere blizzard get the better of him. And the kids will be all right.’
Diana forced herself to smile. ‘I know.’ She turned back to the window so that he couldn’t see her face. Drawing back the curtain a little she peered once again into the whirling snow. He was out there somewhere. Marcus. She could feel him. Evil. Waiting. Waiting for what? To use them? To draw on their energy? And no door could keep him out. She turned back to Roger. His eyes were closed and she watched him for a moment. The energy was draining out of him almost visibly. Their evil visitor would find no food in him. She shuddered. He was dying. She could not pretend to herself any longer. He was dying before her eyes. She wanted to throw herself at him and hold him, to will her own strength into him, but she couldn’t. She could do nothing but wait and watch. Shaking her head miserably she tiptoed towards the door and let herself out of the study into the cold hall. She could feel the draught blowing under the front door. It was icy; a drift of snow had somehow slipped under the draught-proofing and lay in a white veil across the stone tiles. Closing the door behind her silently she went through into the sitting room.
Cissy and Sue were seated on the sofa near the fire, side by side. Automatically her eyes went to the chair nearest the inglenook where normally in weather like this the two cats would be lying, in a heap of black and white fur. There was no sign of them. Greg was standing in the kitchen, leaning on the back of one of the bent oak chairs. He seemed to be gazing into space, ‘How is he?’ he asked as she wandered listlessly over to him.
She shrugged. ‘Not good.’
He looked at her hard. ‘Joe will get through, Ma.’
She tried to smile. ‘I’m sure he will. But I don’t think it will be in time for your father, Greg. We have to prepare ourselves.’
He put his arm round her, pulling her close against him. ‘It was bound to happen one day. We knew he hadn’t got long,’ he said gently.
She nodded dumbly.
‘He always said he wanted to go here and not in hospital.’
‘I know.’ It was a whisper.
‘Shall I go and sit with him for a bit?’ He dropped a kiss onto the top of her head. ‘You get some sleep; you look completely flaked out. I’ll call you if he needs you.’
She nodded. With a glance at the two dozing on the sofa, she went to the door at the foot of the staircase ‘The moment he needs me, Greg,’ she repeated softly.
‘I promise.’
The staircase was cold and the upper floor of the house dark as she climbed wearily up to the bedroom she had shared with Roger for so many years. For a moment she stood in the doorway looking round, vividly aware in some inner part of herself that he would never walk through this door again. On the floor, in the corner, a pathetic reminder that Christmas was barely two weeks away, a pile of presents lay, partially hidden by a rug.
She walked across to the low window and stared out. It was growing light, but the snow was thick now, whirling through the air, blotting out the horizon. In this east-facing bedroom you could usually see across the dunes towards the sea, but today she was conscious of nothing but grey and white – a moving, whirling mass of nothing. Disorientated, she turned – and stopped short.
The woman by the bed was so clear she could see every detail of her clothes, her hair, her skin, her eyes. For a moment they stood there, their eyes locked together and for the first time Diana knew that Claudia could see her as clearly as she could see Claudia.
‘Sweet Blessed Jesus!’ The words were out of her mouth before she knew she had spoken. ‘What do you want?
For a fraction of a moment longer they stared at each other, then Claudia was gone.
‘Ma.’ Greg’s voice from the foot of the stairs was urgent. ‘Ma, come quickly.’
Diana whirled back to the door conscious with some part of her brain that the room smelled of a sweet, sickly perfume. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘He wants you.’ Greg hobbled ahead of her towards the study. Roger was lying propped up against the pillows and cushions. He was breathing with difficulty and his cheeks, which for so long had been colourless, had a livid, painful colour to them.
‘He’s here, Di,’ he said slowly. ‘That bastard is here, in this room. He’s real.’
Diana glanced at Greg.
‘Marcus,’ Greg mouthed. ‘He’s seen Marcus.’
Diana knelt at the side of the makeshift bed and took Roger’s hand. ‘He can’t hurt you, love.’
‘Too damn right. I’ve nothing for him. It’s the kids he wants. He wants their energy. But he’s not going to get it.’ He gripped Diana’s hand so hard she winced. ‘I’m going to fight him on his own ground.’ The breath was rasping in his throat.
‘Roger – ’
‘He didn’t bargain for that, did he. I’m going after him. To hell, if necessary.’ He looked from his wife to his son and back. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sane. Dying, but sane. I’ve never believed. Not in heaven or hell or God or Satan until now. But this bastard has made me realise there is somewhere out there. If his soul can survive there, black as it is, then so can mine!’ He laughed weakly and Diana buried her head in the blanket near him, trying to smother her sobs. ‘I’m going to find out what it’s all about. And if he can come back then so can I. I shall return to tell you.’
‘Dad –’ Greg tried to interrupt, but Roger talked on, his words slurring together now as the drugs took a stronger hold on his pain.
‘No, my mind is made up. I am going to find out why she cursed him. She’s here, you know, in the house now. She was his first wife. She’s come to help me. She wants me to find him. I shall get him. I shall win – ’
‘Dad!’ Greg knelt down stiffly on the other side of the bed, wincing as his foot dragged on the ground. ‘Dad, don’t talk like this.’
‘Why?’ Roger turned and looked at him. His eyes, though unnaturally bright, were perfectly lucid. ‘After what that bastard has done to my daughter, you think I am going to let him get away with it?’
‘No, of course not, but – ’
‘But nothing. My mind is made up. I am going after him. A quest. A glorious quest through the realms of the afterlife. How do you like that idea?’ He sounded delirious as he laughed again, clutching at Diana’s hand. Then he be
gan to cough.
‘Roger –’ Desperately she tried to soothe him. ‘Get some water, Greg, quickly. Roger, darling, please, calm yourself. You’re going to be all right.’
‘Balls!’ The word was gasped through another spasm of coughing. ‘Do me the kindness of treating me like an adult, Di. I know. You know. Greg knows.’ He paused, breathless, and sipped gratefully as Greg held a glass of water to his lips. ‘Thanks son. Look. Better this way than lingering for months in some goddam awful hospice. I love Redall. All of it. I was born here. My father was born here. Not many families can say that nowadays. I’d like to think that you or Paddy will make your home here too. This place is in our bones,’ he smiled grimly. ‘Who knows, perhaps we are descended from Marcus himself. I’m bound hand and foot to this place – its history is in my blood.’ He looked at Diana. ‘What I’m trying to say, love, and making a frightful hash of it, is that I’m happy to die here. And I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still love you, whatever happens. And I’ll stick around. Not to frighten you. Just to watch over you and keep Marcus in line.’ He closed his eyes, exhausted.
Diana looked up at Greg. Her eyes were blinded by tears. ‘Greg –’ She mouthed his name but no sound came.
Greg was biting his lip. Neither of them said a word as, holding a hand each, they watched Roger’s face lose the colour which had animated it, as he dozed again. Around them the room seemed to grow darker in the candlelight.
‘A quest,’ Greg said at last, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘I like that idea.’ He frowned. If it were possible – to travel through time and space – to treat death as a mere doorway – that would only be comforting if one expected to find angels on the other side.
But Marcus was a demon.
LXVI
The waves threw off the snow, thundering up the beach in clouds of spray. The sea had reached the soft sand now, the sand which was never covered by the tide, sucking greedily at the ground and spitting out the residue with each successive incursion. Peat and soil swirled and dissolved; sand turned to brown liquid, dispersed and vanished, to be deposited again on a distant shore. In the dune the grave welcomed the first deep wave which seeped into its heart, whisking away a trowel and a brush, tearing at the remaining bones, grinding them, stirring them, flushing out every trace of what had been. Another followed and then another and then the sea overwhelmed, passing onwards towards the calm, ice-bound estuary where, long before, the geese had gone, flying inland away from the storm.
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