The Midnight Side

by Natasha Mostert

  She looked back at the book on her lap. He had circled the very last stanza:

  Learn from hence (Reader) what small trust

  We owe this world, where vertue must

  Fraile as our flesh, crumble to dust.

  She tossed the book onto the edge of the passenger seat next to her and turned on the engine. She was going to have to do something about Michael. Things were getting out of hand. So needy, my God, he was so needy. His desperation was a clammy cloth smothering her heart. She couldn’t stand it anymore. He was constantly hovering over her; sometimes she could swear he was following her around. There was a time when she had enjoyed being with him—to be honest, that kind of uncritical admiration was just what she needed after her break-up with Justin. And it had been an interesting flirtation at first. An unconsummated affair, but with enough sexual tension to set a house on fire. Then it became a drag. His excessive gratitude for any attention she showed him irritated the life out of her. And once boredom had set in, amorous play was of no interest to her anymore.

  But she was becoming nervous. Even though his voice when he spoke to her was still loving and calm, she’d look into his eyes and see a stranger moving within. And she sensed his anger, an unstable mix of adoration and disappointment on the boil. She had a bad feeling about him. But these days she had a bad feeling about everything. A sense of impending disaster was shadowing her. She did not know the source of the danger, but the sense of imminent peril impacted on everything she thought, everything she did.

  When she had a feeling this strong, it was usually right.

  And so she had felt compelled to get her affairs in order; to place the untidy strands of her life in Lionel Darling’s capable hands so they could be neatly tied together. To make her plans for after. So strong was the sense that she was running out of time, that she had placed enormous pressure on her solicitor to get things sorted as soon as possible. As a token of her appreciation for his efforts she had bought him a gift: a quite beautiful leather wallet made from ostrich skin.

  On the day she gave it to him, she could see he was troubled. ‘Don’t do anything foolish,’ he told her, and she suddenly realized he was worried that her haste, her anxiety, the parting gift were all signs that she was contemplating doing herself harm. ‘Rest easy,’ she told him, ‘I’m not about to slit my wrists.’ And she had teased him, made light of his concern, flirted with him a little as she always did. But she had not told him of the fear inside of her, which was growing with every passing day.

  Only one thing, she knew, could stop the deadly, inevitable, and as yet unknowable march of future events. If she could win Justin back, the threat would disappear. She believed in that absolutely.

  But it was not to be.

  Outside it was sleeting. She turned on the headlights. The wind had come up and every now and then the car shook mightily. There was a lot of traffic on this road, not just cars but heavy trucks as well. But soon she’d be able to leave the motorway and take the scenic route down. On the map it looked like a detour, but she knew from experience that it would allow her to bypass a big chunk of extremely heavy motorway traffic. She’d better keep a sharp lookout for the exit sign …

  • • •

  HE WAS SWEATING LIKE A PIG. Sweat was dripping into his eyes, and as he touched his forehead through the thin mesh of the stocking, it was slick and wet.

  He paused for a moment to catch his breath. His legs were tired. The staircase in Alette’s house stretched endlessly ahead of him. Somehow, every time he thought he had reached the top, there would be additional steps to climb. He reached out to steady himself against the banister, but the wooden railing shifted underneath his hand and the space around him contracted and expanded; the walls first closing in on him and then bulging outward with vertiginous speed.

  At last he was standing on the landing outside her door. He placed his hand on the handle and pushed.

  The door did not budge. Was it locked? He leaned his shoulder against the solid wood and jiggled the handle—trying to make as little sound as possible.

  With a sullen, reluctant click, the door opened.

  • • •

  KEEP A SHARP LOOKOUT for the exit sign and there it was.

  She braked slightly and the glowing green needle on the speedometer started to fall as she took the exit road.

  This road was quiet. She could see no other headlights in the mirror, or ahead of her. In summer this was a lovely road with several picnic spots and scenic outlooks on the way. On the other side of the embankment was a spectacular drop of at least a hundred and fifty feet, but tonight the fog and swirling mist made any view impossible. She cautiously steered the car around the first tight bend, touching the brake pedal lightly with her foot.

  Her foot met no resistance. The car refused to slow down.

  She tapped the brake pedal with her foot several times in quick succession, mindful of the slick surface of the road, but again there was no response from the car.

  The speedometer needle was rising. She gripped the wheel tightly, trying to fight the panic. For God’s sake, this couldn’t be. She had had the car serviced only a week ago.

  This is no accident.

  She managed to take the corner, swinging the wheel sharply to the left, and the wheels skidded unpleasantly. And now the car was taking the straight, accelerating wildly.

  Oh God. Oh God. No. Help me.

  The headlights burning into the fog. Trees spinning blackly past the window. The sound of the distressed engine.

  And didn’t she just know it was going to end like this?

  This is no accident. This is no accident. Over and over again the same words running through her mind like a mantra. When she had a feeling this strong, it was usually right.

  The next bend was coming up. She turned the wheel desperately and felt the car sliding into a long skid. She turned the wheel in the direction of the skid, her foot pumping the brake pedal uselessly. Michael’s book flew off the seat next to her and she felt it brush her leg. This is no accident. And his face was suddenly clear in her mind. Her executioner; the malevolent presence in the shadows. She knew who he was now.

  The car crashed into the embankment, and as she hurtled forward, her head smashing into the windscreen with a wet smack, she screamed out his name.

  • • •

  HE STOOD next to the bed and looked down at her. Isa was sleeping like one already dead. Sleep bindes them fast; only their breath, Makes them not dead: Successive nights, like rolling waves, Convey them quickly, who are bound for death.

  He smiled. His mother was right. Poetry is such a good tool for comprehending intellectually what is understood instinctively.

  He peered at her intently. He was able to see the evidence of tears on her cheeks. Pale skin, remarkably long lashes. He had noticed them the first time he had seen her up close. Sad, sad mouth.

  He knew why, and the reason for her tears. She was grieving for that man. She was in the grip of obsession: her mind and thoughts infected by the sickness Alette had passed on to her. Little by little, she had slipped into Alette’s life, becoming consumed by it.

  In a way, tonight he would be killing Alette for a second time.

  He had tried his best. No one could accuse him of not trying to watch over her. Poor Isa. He had sensed that she was falling for Temple and he had tried to warn her off. But she wouldn’t listen. She was blinded by him. The virus had already contaminated every groove of her brain, every fibre of her heart.

  Obsession was disease. It called for a sharp knife in an uncompromising hand. Soft hands make stinking wounds, as his mother always said.

  Her hair seemed exceptionally dark against the white pillowcase. When he placed the pillow over her mouth and nose, how much would she struggle? Would she try to scream as she strained for oxygen, her heels drumming against the mattress in muted frenzy, her arms flailing?

  His eyes fell on the telephone next to the bed and for a moment he considered using the
telephone cord. It would probably be quicker that way, but the idea of it was immensely unappealing. Bulging eyes and protruding tongue … and him having to watch. No, no. That wouldn’t do. A pillow would be a more elegant way to go about it.

  The illuminated hands of the clock on the bedside table stood at thirteen minutes to five.

  • • •

  THIS IS NO ACCIDENT.

  The scream wouldn’t stop. It was echoing in her head, over and over and over again: a jagged shard of insane sound slicing through the soft tissue of her brain. And Isa knew if the scream didn’t stop soon she would get lost in it and she would be unable to find her way back.

  And suddenly the scream changed into a ringing sound: monotonous, drawn out, real—a lifeline dragging her from sleeping to waking; from death to life …

  She fumbled for the telephone receiver and placed it against her ear.

  ‘Isabelle, wake up! Wake up! Watch out—’

  The next moment the receiver was snatched from her hand and a fist slammed into her stomach. Intense pain flared through her body. He slapped her with the back of his hand so violently that her head flew to one side and she bit down on her tongue.

  Her eyes focused on the face looming above her and her mind went blank with horror. The flattened features were grotesque and alien. But she knew who it was. Oh yes, she knew who it was. Her dream had made sure of that.

  She tried to roll away from him but he dragged her back to his side of the bed. And again he hit her in the face. The fury behind the blow shocked her as much as the blow itself. Her mouth filled with the taste of blood from her cut lip and bruised tongue. He placed one enormous hand over her mouth and with the other he pinched her nose shut.

  Her eyes bulged, the pain in her head was immense. She flailed her arms desperately. He shifted his hand on her mouth to get a better grip and reached for the pillow next to her. She pulled her teeth apart and bit down on his palm as hard as she could. For just a moment his hold relaxed and she jerked her head free, gasping for air.

  ‘Fuck you,’ she screamed at him. There were tears in her eyes, she was weeping now, but if she were to die in her own snot and blood, she wasn’t going to make it easy for him. She brought her head up sharply and butted him in the face. The blow made her skull shudder and she must have hurt him because he grunted and pulled back slightly. She jabbed at him, trying to push her fingers into the jelly of his eyes.

  But now he had both his hands on her shoulders and was pushing her down, pinning one of her arms underneath her body. She struggled and screamed and her free hand scratched at the stocking over his face. But the next moment she was choking as everything went black. He had pushed the pillow over her face; was leaning on her with his full weight.

  She tried to roll over, but he was so heavy. She was fighting him but he was so strong … too strong. She was suffocating. The pressure in her head was unbearable. At the periphery of her vision were violent flashes.

  Oh, God. Don’t let me die. Please don’t let me die.

  No air. No air for her lungs. No—

  • • •

  SHE WAS LIMP under his hands. Finally. She was much stronger than he had imagined. Who would have thought she could put up such a fight?

  He relaxed his grip on the pillow and placed his burning palm against his mouth, sucking at the spot where her teeth had bitten into the flesh with such frenzy. Then he turned back to the quiet figure on the bed. He reached for the pillow that covered her face.

  The ecstatic smell of roses, intensely sweet and piercing, made him pause. One moment the air was clear, the next moment it was soaked in fragrance. The pillow was light as thistledown in his hands but his arms felt suddenly tired. He was exhausted. He could hardly lift his hand, he was so tired. Was it because he missed her so? His red-haired angel. Soft as water, strong as steel; vindictive as hell. She had bested them all. She had wreaked havoc on poor old Temple and she had outwitted him as well. Her death had not ended her obsession; it lived on in her revenge.

  He wished she were here. He wished he could turn around and there she’d be, smiling at him mischievously. Into his mind came the image of her face, so startlingly strong, he felt tears come to his eyes.

  Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death … Her lovely mouth was moving, words of beauty tumbling from her lips. Now more than ever seems it rich to die.

  She was beckoning him.

  • • •

  THE SOUND of the front door slamming shut made Isa open her eyes fully. She had kept them closed when she had felt the pressure on the pillow ease. Her every muscle had wanted to explode into action to get away from him, to breathe in air, but she had controlled herself, forcing her limbs to slacken.

  She pushed the pillow away from her and sat up. Her eyeballs ached viciously. Her arm felt as though it had been twisted right out of its joint.

  The creak of the garden gate outside drew her to the window. She looked down into the front garden. He had just stepped out into the street; his hand was still resting on the gate. He stood quite still.

  With a sudden movement he looked up and straight at her where she was watching him from behind the window. He had taken off the stocking and she was able to see his features clearly. For one frozen moment they stared at each other, their eyes locked.

  He turned his back on her and pulled the gate closed behind him.

  Without giving herself time to think it through, she grabbed her jeans and the sweater she had worn earlier in the day and pulled them on. She slipped her feet into her shoes. As she ran down the stairs, her legs felt wobbly, as though they would not support her weight. Her entire body was hurting.

  It was so quiet outside. There was not a cloud in the sky. The moon was painting the world white.

  He was walking at a moderate pace, his arms swinging easily. She saw him tilt his head to one side and even at this distance she could see his lips move, as though he was speaking to someone at his side. He was smiling flirtatiously, and now he was holding his arm out with old-fashioned courtesy, a man offering support to a female companion. His gestures seemed so eerily out of whack, for one moment Isa wondered if she had slipped back into a dream.

  He rounded the corner. She could no longer see him. She started to run. Her shadow kept close to her side and the street lamps seemed to dim. And once again she asked herself: is this real or am I dreaming?

  She heard a squeal of brakes—metal upon metal—a strange, hissing sound and a damped thud. And as she turned the corner, looking in the direction of the sick sound she had just heard, she knew without any doubt that she was not dreaming at all.

  EPILOGUE

  And in the icy silence of the tomb,

  So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights

  That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood

  So in my veins red life might stream again,

  ‘This Living Hand, Now Warm and Capable’

  John Keats (1795–1821)

  THE NEW OWNERS had made substantial changes to the farmhouse. The front parlour where Aunt Lettie used to receive visitors and where her knitting bee gathered every Wednesday afternoon was now a mere extension of a considerably enlarged living area. The kitchen had been spruced up: lots of sponging and stippling effects on the walls and stylish wooden cabinets replacing the old, chipped melamine units. Siena’s room had been transformed into a workroom for the youngest son, who had a passion for building model aeroplanes. Only Uncle Leon’s study looked more or less the same, except for the shelves now filled with computer paraphernalia instead of dusty, plastic ledgers. Mr du Plessis was a progressive farmer and believed in technology not just in the field, but also in the office. He had kept some of the early records—she recognized Uncle Leon’s handwriting on the spines of the books—but where once had stood a glass canned-fruit bottle bearing a grisly trophy was now a potted plant.

  Mr du Plessis and his wife had been more than kind to her when she had approa
ched them and asked if they would allow her to scatter Alette’s ashes on the farm. They had even offered her the use of the house for the weekend. They were to attend a wedding in Pietermaritzburg and did not expect to be back before late Sunday evening. She had accepted gratefully.

  It was very hot. She had forgotten how suffocatingly hot the farm could be in the month of February. As she walked, her feet were clammy with sweat inside her shoes.

  At the top of the ridge she stopped and placed her hand to her eyes. Behind her, in the distance, she could just make out the red roof of the house. The house looked tiny; a speck of ochre floating in a green sea of sharp-bladed sugar cane.

  In front of her, at the bottom of the steeply sloping hill, was the entrance to Siena’s secret place. Hidden behind that green cloak of creepers, trees and messily flowering shrubs was the Yoni stone.

  She started her descent, her feet slipping against the steep side, a shower of shale creating a cloud of dust. She had to use both hands to push her way through the tough tangle of vegetation. The large-leaved creepers closed behind her.

  The shadows in here were deep and the rays of the sun filtered down through many layers of leaves. Even so, the air was sultry and incredibly close. Her ears were deafened by the screeching of cicadas: a solid wall of hallucinatory sound.

  The Yoni stone looked exactly the way she remembered it. It was round and large—almost as tall as she. Unmistakably female in shape, it had an exquisitely smooth surface and in its centre a wide, tunnel-like cleft with curved sides.

  The stone was a polished dolerite rock of the type found in the western Transvaal. How it had ended up here, hundreds of miles away, no one knew. Siena said that in ancient times the rock had been used as an altar stone in sacrificial offerings to MaBona, the Great Mother: she who gives life and takes it away. Usually a Yoni stone was accompanied by a rock representing the male phallus. But no other rock shared this space. This Yoni stone was all alone.