Echoes of Darkness

by SIMS, MAYNARD

  The whistle stopped abruptly. The wind died and the rustling stilled. The shadows remained.

  From the shadows stepped shapes and figures she had never seen before. They seemed like figures but she couldn't be sure. The resonance of the whistle still confused her. The noise of the wind and the sounds from the wood still echoed in her head, so she was uncertain what she was seeing and what was her fear. Shadows were lengthening into misshapen bodies, or were they the patterns of the trees running across the clearing? Sunlight spreading through the branches gave a serene softness to the scene, which belied the glimpses she kept seeing of short bodies, long arms, and slithering shadows.

  And in the shadows were the animals of the wood. The squirrels, the birds, the deer, and suddenly Cathy wanted to be with them. Her fear left her, and she wanted to get up and dance to the tune of the whistle. Voices were calling her and she felt herself responding, getting slowly to her feet. She thought she saw arms held out to her, beckoning her, making sweet promises of peace and happiness if she joined them.

  "Yes," she said, and stepped into the shadows.

  Beth and Jack ran into the clearing to find Sue lying on her back, asleep. Of Cathy there was no sign. The teddy bear was beneath the tree, lying there innocently, as if waiting for Cathy to pick it up and cuddle it.

  "Sue, where's Cathy?" Beth crouched down and shook her daughter hard to wake her, but her fingers recoiled from the touch. Sue's skin was cold like marble, and for an instant Beth thought her daughter was dead. But Sue opened her eyes and smiled.

  "Sue, what's happened to Cathy?" Jack this time, a father's voice, full of authority.

  Sue opened her mouth to speak, but the voice that came from her lips wasn't hers. The voice was deep, masculine. A voice from the trees, a voice of the grass, of the woodland. A voice from the shadows.

  "The small one is ours," it said.

  COMING HOME

  Extracts from papers relating to the case of Thomas Rydell.

  Thursday.

  As I sit and write this I can still see him, Ivor Maddox, arms held aloft in a victory salute, fists clenched, leading the cheers of his supporters. I can still feel the bitter sensation of defeat; a numbness that slowly enveloped my body as the Chief Returning Officer read out the number of votes cast for each candidate. A five thousand vote majority wiped out; an end to my career as a Member of Parliament. And, my God, wasn't Maddox sanctimonious in victory. His acceptance speech belabouring a downright lie that it had been a hard-fought, clean and fair fight. If they had stripped me naked and dragged me through the town to suffer the jeers and derision of the populace, they could not have done a better job of humiliating and reviling me.

  He offered his hand (I accepted it, it would have looked churlish not to), patted my arm sympathetically and said, "Bad luck, Tom." All the while the glitter of excitement in his eyes was saying, good riddance.

  An asinine television reporter asked me, "Do you think the recent revelations about your personal life had any influence on the result of this campaign?" I lied smoothly, and said of course it might have had a minor effect, but national swings, the country's general dissatisfaction with a government enjoying a third term of office, the grass is always greener; it always surprises me how you can flannel these so called seekers of truth.

  I walked from the podium to be greeted and consoled by a handful of faithful supporters, the many having disappeared like dew from the grass on a hot summer's morning. Bill Black, my political agent and greatest friend, wrapped an arm around my shoulder and led me out of the scrum, at the same time protecting me from the chairman of the constituency party who shot me a look which contained all the venom of a cobra strike. The fact that he is also my father in law, or rather, soon to be ex-father in law once Louise has her way at the divorce courts, did nothing to mitigate the hostility.

  And what was my sin? What was the overwhelming issue in this election campaign?

  "Where did it all go wrong, Bill?" I asked my friend.

  "You cheated on your wife, you got caught cheating on your wife."

  "Others have, and they've survived."

  "You should have listened to the Central Office spin doctors. Played happy families for the benefit of the press. The loyal wife shows support for her repentant husband, the press loves that sort of thing. Instead you paraded your mistress and told the press and public that they could like it or lump it. You might even have got away with the fact that Sophie is younger than your daughter, the public like romance. But what killed you stone dead was the fact that she was Ivor Maddox's personal assistant. You were sleeping with the enemy, old son. Nobody trusts a man who does that. And I told you so at the time. She's not here tonight then."

  "I told her not to come. It would only embarrass her."

  "Her or you?"

  A camera flashed in my eyes capturing my moment of misery.

  "Get me out of here, Bill, will you? I can't face an inquest tonight."

  And like the true friend he is he drove me home. "I think you need some time away from all this," he said. "My place on the coast. You're welcome to use it for as long as you like."

  "A holiday?"

  "A deferral. Your father in law is baying for your blood. If you go AWOL for a while it will give the old devil a chance to cool down."

  "I don't know."

  "Sleep on it."

  As we pulled up outside the apartment I was renting in town I said to him, "I didn't know love had a political agenda, Bill."

  He shook his head. "Don't be naive, Tom. Everything has a political agenda."

  So that's the end of a bloody imperfect day. I think I'll take Bill up on his offer. The house is on the Dorset coast, high up on a cliff and the nearest neighbour is half a mile away. I could ask Sophie to come with me, but I don't want her to see me in such an emotionally battered and bruised condition. Perhaps in a few days. God, I could use a drink right now.

  Friday.

  The drive to Dorset did nothing to lift my spirits, but then they were at a pretty low ebb. I awoke this morning to find no reporters camped on my doorstep. For the last six weeks since the story of Sophie and myself broke I have had to run the gamut of embarrassing, impertinent questions every time I've stuck my head out of the front door. Today nothing. They've sucked me dry and got the result they wanted. The great game of build them up and knock them down. For fifteen years I have given the press good copy. I've done the chat show circuit - a flamboyant self-publicist, a sincerely committed politician, take your choice - I've even been asked to give an after-dinner speech at a National Union of Journalists' function. Now they have gone, leaving nothing but litter behind. Is there anything more pathetic that yesterday's news?

  Friday (later).

  I feel more settled now. My first impressions of Bill's hideaway are that it could use a woman's touch. The furnishings are efficiently comfortable, the bed is soft enough (I'm sitting on it as I write this). But the place lacks a certain warmth. The books on the shelves in the study are mostly political biographies and works by outstanding historians. Too dry for my taste. There is no television or telephone (a blessing), but neither is there a radio or record player. I could use some music right now to lift my mood.

  As you come in the front door there is a small passage with rooms leading off. A sitting room, a dining room and a kitchen. There is also a locked door, which I find intriguing and infuriating. I hate locked doors. It might lead to a cellar or something. Maybe Bill has secrets he doesn't want revealed...but then, don't we all?

  Saturday (3am).

  Damned if I can sleep! It's not the bed, that's comfortable enough. There's no ticking clock to keep me awake. The house doesn't creak and groan, there's no rain to hammer at the windows, and outside the wind is but a whisper. I've spent the last hour standing at the window watching the sea. There are no street lamps nearby, just the moonlight, which casts its pale glow over the field that runs down to the cliff-top. Beyond the cliff, the caps of the waves are painted
silver and they roll inshore with a monotonous regularity, hissing over the rocks on the beach with a soft susurration. The sound brings to mind the breathing of a large animal, regular and calm, but it does nothing to lull me to sleep.

  There are a few lights further out to sea, buoys marking the channel I suspect, and more than once I've heard the distant throb of an engine, a fishing boat perhaps.

  Tiring of the view I eventually returned to bed and tried to read a biography of Ramsey MacDonald, but became bored during the introduction. Besides, reading about politics is the last thing I want to do. It's bad enough my mind going over the events of six weeks ago, when the scandal was uncovered and Louise kicked me out of my house, without reading about someone else's triumphs and set-backs in the political arena.

  What is really keeping me awake of course has nothing to do with my surroundings, or the unfamiliar bed. What makes it impossible to sleep is that small voice nagging at me from the back of my mind. The persistent, panic-stricken voice that asks the question, "what are you going to do now?" and repeats it like a mantra, or a record with the needle stuck. And every time my eyelids droop and I feel myself sliding into sleep, the small voice asks the question again, and I give it the same answer. I don't know, I really don't know.

  Saturday.

  Well, despite the lack of sleep I don't feel that bad. Once dawn broke I bathed and dressed and went for a walk. For October the weather isn't that unreasonable. Cold, but fairly sunny with only one small outbreak of rain at about noon. I was passing a pub in the village at the time so I popped in out of the shower and ordered a Stilton ploughman's for lunch. The barman looked at me curiously when I ordered a pint of lemonade to wash it down with, but didn't comment. Neither did he seem to recognise me, which was a relief, because my face has been plastered over both tabloid and broadsheet newspapers for weeks now. Mind you I was dressed in casual trousers and tweed jacket, as opposed to my customary suit, and I expect my hair was a bit windswept from my walk along the beach.

  I nearly committed suicide today. That looks odd written down, makes it more real I suppose. An actual admission that it was that thought going through my mind as I stood at the cliff's edge and looked down. It was late afternoon, the tide was out and small weed strewn pools were left in the natural bays made by the formation of the limestone rocks. For a moment I considered pitching myself into space and letting myself fall.

  What stopped me was the realisation that I was not alone on the cliff-top. Something made me glance round just as I was preparing to jump, and to my complete surprise, not more than thirty feet away, a woman was sitting at an easel painting. How I didn't see her before I can't really say, though I suspect I was so wrapped in my misery that I was not really aware of anything other than my rather morbid thoughts.

  The idea of suicide disappeared from my mind like smoke sucked from an open window. If I was going to kill myself, I thought reasonably, I was going to do it in private. Instead I walked across to the woman and watched her paint. It was a rather turgid landscape, in a watercolour style that I would describe as hopeful rather than adept, but she was attacking her subject with a passion, and it took her five minutes before she even acknowledged my presence. Then, abruptly she put down her brush, turned and smiled and said, "Hello, I'm Hester Brice, but I'll hit you if you call me Fanny."

  "Fanny?" I said perplexed.

  "Fanny Brice, that awful American vaudeville star. People have tried to bestow Fanny on me as a humorous nickname for as long as I can remember. I hate it."

  I smiled politely as vague images of an incredibly boring Barbra Streisand film nudged my memory. I think I went to the London premiere. Took Louise. Happier times.

  "Hello," I said. "I'm..."

  "Tom Rydell, the disgraced MP." She peered at me over the top of her half-frame glasses, but there was no malice in the look. "I've been watching you for a while now. Thought you were going to jump off the cliff at one point."

  "Just enjoying the view," I said unconvincingly, taken aback by her perspicacity.

  Something moved at her feet, something white and furry that I'd taken as a foot-muff and in fact was a small, white West Highland terrier. The dog stretched and rolled over, exposing its belly, which Hester Brice duly tickled. "This is Benson, my friend and ally. Say hello to Mr Rydell, Benson."

  The dog opened its eyes and looked up at me but soon lost interest as the tickling continued. "Why Benson?" I asked, more for something to say than out of any real desire to know.

  "Why not? It's a serviceable enough name. Better than Fido or Patch, or, heaven forbid, Jock. Benson is altogether more dignified."

  She had an ageless quality about her. The clothes she wore were practical but expensively tailored, her dark hair was cut into a sleek bob that defined the fine bones of her cheeks, and her pale blue eyes sparkled with warmth and humour. She really was quite a beautiful woman.

  "I've finished here," she said. "Fancy a stroll?"

  "Why not," I replied. For some reason that I still can't explain, she was beginning to lift the gloom that was draped around my shoulders like a shroud. I was a little shocked when she ripped the painting she had been working on from the easel and screwed it into a wet soggy ball.

  "Don't you keep your paintings?" I said.

  "Only the good ones. Too much grey in this. And there's too much grey in life altogether, don't you think?"

  Sunday.

  They say that sea gulls are the vessels that carry the spirits of drowned sailors back to land. If that's the case why did they all choose last night to haunt me? Another sleepless night, this time kept awake by the noisy and persistent cawing of the damned birds.

  I had a visitor first thing this morning, a man called Hooper. When the doorbell rang I debated for a few moments whether I should answer it. I had it in mind that it might be reporters, though how they could have traced me to here I could not imagine, unless of course I was spotted in the pub and someone rang the press. Paranoia after living under siege for so long, I suppose.

  Edwin Hooper introduced himself as a neighbour and a friend of Bill, just calling in to see if I had everything I needed. He seemed pleasant enough and I invited him inside. He followed me in and damned if he didn't check that door in the hallway to see if it was still locked. He tried to do it surreptitiously of course, but made a hash of it, and I saw him tug at the handle. I said nothing but got rid of him as soon as I could. All of which leads me to suspect that Bill asked him to check up on me. I now have a pretty good idea what's behind the locked door. Bill must think I'm stupid!

  Before Hooper left he handed me a letter given to him by Bill to pass on to me. He had, he explained, been in London the day before and called in to see his friend. He obviously makes a habit of dropping by to see people. I won't encourage him again.

  I recognised Sophie's handwriting and tore open the envelope.

  The Letter.

  My Darling,

  I'm so sorry about the outcome on Thursday, and even sorrier that I could not be there to comfort you. Bill tells me you've gone away for a while, and although I'm sad you felt the need to go without speaking to me first, I realise that you need some time on your own to lick your wounds.

  The past weeks have been hell for you, my darling, and you've suffered it all so well, with so few complaints. I know that you have taken the brunt of this harassment to protect me, and words cannot express how grateful I am, nor how much I love you.

  Maddox came to see me this morning and offered me my old job back. "After all, you did win the election for me," he said. Can you believe the cheek of the man, after sacking me? I'm afraid to say I lost my temper and slapped him. He laughed. The bastard!

  I'm going to stay with my sister in Epsom for a few days. You have the number should you wish to phone me. If not then I shall just have to wait until you return.

  Missing you more than words can say,

  I love you!

  Sophie.

  I've read it three times now an
d I find the letter makes me incredibly sad; I'm missing Sophie desperately. But at the same time it also makes me incredibly angry. Politics is a dirty business, and Ivor Maddox is like a hog wallowing in the filth of it, digging his snout into the mire in order to root out a few truffles.

  Monday.

  Hester Brice is really quite a fascinating woman. I met her again while I was out walking today. About a mile from the house is a small wood. Elm, chestnut and silver birch mainly, with a scattering of willow. The paths are nearly hidden by ferns and bracken, with patches of briar and bramble to catch at the ankles of unwary walkers. I was able to negotiate my way into the centre of the wood without too much trouble and found a small clearing. A fallen tree made a convenient seat, and I settled there for a while to eat a lunch of ham sandwiches that I prepared before I left the house.

  It was the dog, Benson, I saw first, a white furry shape rummaging around in the dense undergrowth, yapping excitedly when it uncovered a badger set, the scent of these secretive, nocturnal animals sending the Westie into something akin to a frenzy.

  Hester appeared from the other side of the clearing, calling for Benson to calm down. And then she saw me and her face lit up with a smile. She was dressed for walking, wearing a heavy woollen skirt, thick waterproof jacket and stout shoes. Her hair was mostly hidden by a man's trilby hat. She carried a walking cane and used it to cut a swathe through the overcrowding fronds of bracken. Despite the practicality of her attire she looked incredibly feminine.