by S. B. Hayes
When I finally arrived at the flat, soaked to the skin, Harry looked anxious. ‘Where did you go?’ he asked.
‘Let me change,’ I said. ‘I’m dripping all over the floor.’
I ran into the bathroom to peel off my clothes and towel-dry my hair, which hung in rats’ tails around my ears. My skin was red and tingling. I emerged wearing one of Patrick’s old shirts and his jeans held up with a tie.
‘Eat while it’s hot, Sinead.’
I was famished, so hungry that I felt light-headed. I could smell Chinese takeaway and saw that Harry had completely covered Patrick’s low coffee table in foil-topped containers. It looked as though he’d bought a banquet to feed a family of six. He began to peel back the tops.
‘I’ve never known anyone eat so much and stay so slim,’ he teased, while I scooped the different dishes on to a plate without caring about the jumbled flavours. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me?’
‘What?’
‘Where you went? After you nearly killed yourself, that is.’
I licked the saltiness from my lips, my head still buzzing. ‘I recognized two of the words in Patrick’s note – domus dei – house of God.’
‘And?’
‘So I went to the local church of Saint Peter and a priest translated the rest for me.’ I thrust the note at Harry and gave him a minute to read it. ‘Fire, torments and dead people – it’s totally freaked me out. What could Patrick be thinking of?’
Harry was still reading, his forehead creased in concentration.
‘And that bit about a place where time will have no meaning and one second will seem like an eternity is really sinister.’
‘That’s almost provoking you,’ Harry said, his concerned eyes searching mine.
I dropped my gaze, my stomach fluttering at the notion of such a place; somewhere I could breathe easily without being compelled to race through life frantically, counting the minutes. I took a deep breath and faced Harry again.
‘That’s not all … the priest thought he might have seen Patrick recently – in his church, staring at the statue of Saint Peter.’ My voice rose. ‘See? I followed him again like I was supposed to … if only I knew why.’
I could tell from the line of Harry’s mouth that he was uneasy. ‘What do you make of the ending, Sinead – a gateway where the dead will weep and the lake run red?’
I scrunched my face. ‘I haven’t a clue. There’s something about it that sounds familiar, but my mind’s whirring so crazily I can’t grasp it.’ I picked at the skin around my blistered fingers as if I somehow needed to feel Patrick’s pain. ‘I’m more worried than ever, Harry. The words in that message are so bizarre. Patrick could have seriously lost it.’
‘Not with all those time references,’ Harry insisted. ‘They’re calculated.’ He lowered his voice as if someone was listening. ‘You know how screwed up your brother is. Think about yourself for once, and stop this … right now.’
I shook my head. ‘I owe it to Mum; she’d be heartbroken if anything happened to Patrick. You know I’d feel responsible.’
‘What if you get hurt searching for him?’
‘Nothing will happen to me,’ I insisted.
‘But how would I ever survive if it did, Sinead?’
His seriousness made me wriggle with embarrassment. I knew Harry found it hard to hide his feelings, and I loved him to pieces, but only as a friend. He must have noticed my discomfort and quickly changed the subject.
‘So what does it all mean then? Where is he?’
I shrugged, annoyed because I knew something was staring me in the face but I couldn’t see it. Each time I thought I had a connection it escaped from me like a balloon in the wind. I had warmed up again though, and the food was making me more relaxed. The pelting rain had subsided, the thunder now only a distant rumble. Harry and I continued talking but my mind couldn’t fully concentrate on our conversation. The words of Patrick’s note were on a constant loop playing over and over in my head, separating phrases and joining them with others like crossword clues.
I suddenly sat bolt upright. ‘Lake run red – I remember now. There is an actual Red Lake in Ireland. Mum told us about it when we were little. It always fascinated Patrick.’
‘Go on,’ Harry said encouragingly.
My hands flew up to my face in horror. In all the commotion I’d forgotten about calling Mum. She’d be frantic with worry. I grabbed my phone from my handbag and groaned at the number of messages and missed calls. I’d switched it to silent in the police station. With a sinking heart, I pressed the number for home.
My mother berated me for at least five minutes and I didn’t say a word in my defence. It was pointless once she was this worked up, and I was used to being the fall guy. She stopped abruptly, exhausted and overwrought. I tried to reassure her that Patrick would return soon and that I would stay over at his flat and ring her immediately when there was news. It seemed to do the trick. I hung up, sighing with relief. Harry smiled with mute sympathy. I rolled my eyes and threw my phone on to the rug. The massive dinner had made me sleepy and my eyes were beginning to water. I stifled a yawn and stretched, wincing with pain. The muscles in my arms were tightly knotted and welts had erupted all over my raw hands.
‘Red Lake?’ Harry prompted, but his voice sounded far away and I had to jerk myself back to reality.
I leaned back against a battered armchair to make myself comfortable. ‘When Mum married my dad she moved from Ireland to the north of England, but she’s always liked to tell us Irish legends. I remember the story about the Red Lake so well because Patrick used to frighten me with it.’
‘What’s so scary about a lake?’
‘Because this one surrounds Station Island … a mystical place – barren, rocky, misty and –’ I paused – ‘long held to be a gateway to the next world.’
‘OK,’ said Harry carefully.
‘It’s to do with Saint Patrick – you know, the patron saint of Ireland?’
‘The snake guy?’
I gave him a mock stern glance. ‘Yes, the guy who chased all the snakes from Ireland.’
‘And what did he do on this island?’
‘Erm … Saint Patrick was busy converting the Irish to Christianity and some kind of cave or pit was revealed to him where he was supposed to have been shown the afterlife. Then it became a place where pilgrims visited. Some of them reported awful visions and if they survived the ordeal it meant they were saved from the punishment of –’
‘Hell?’ Harry interrupted.
I frowned. ‘Some people believe there’s another place, kind of halfway between heaven and hell.’
‘And that’s what frightened you?’
I looked skyward. ‘No … I was terrified of the pit. Patrick used to tell me it was fathomless and I’d never get out again. I can’t believe I was so gullible as to believe him.’
‘But … why would he want you to remember the Red Lake and this island?’
‘Search me. Maybe there’ll be another clue.’ I twisted my head to one side. ‘You know, it feels like I’ve been doing this for most of my life.’
‘Then don’t do it, Sinead. Throw away the stupid clues, go back home and refuse to play Patrick’s stupid games.’
I cupped my hands around my mouth and blew out. ‘I can’t. I know he’s moved out and I should be free of him, but I can’t stop myself …’
‘He’s brainwashed you for so long,’ Harry said. ‘That’s why you can’t stop.’
I sighed, pulling small loops of wool out of Patrick’s rug. ‘I don’t know how not to follow him and … deep down … he needs me.’
Harry’s expression was gloomy but he didn’t push it. I was so tired that I climbed on to the sofa and nestled my head against a cushion. The light was fading and the sunset beautiful after the storm – shades of pink, yellow and turquoise all blended together as if someone had thrown a whole palette of paint colours on to a canvas. The temperature was still warm but the high ceilings in
Patrick’s flat made the space echo, something that wasn’t noticeable in the daylight, and there were draughts from between cracks in the floorboards. I shivered. Patrick hadn’t got around to hanging any curtains and I wondered what time the sun rose, debating whether to hang a sheet over the windows.
Harry twitched nervously and pulled at his curls. ‘Maybe … you shouldn’t … I mean it might be creepy here alone … I could sleep in the chair?’
I stifled another yawn. ‘I’ll be OK … Patrick might turn up in the middle of the night and that would be awkward.’
This was an excuse and we both knew it, but Harry nodded understandingly. This crisis with Patrick had made me feel closer to him, but I didn’t want to hurt him by giving him false hope. Sometimes though, I couldn’t see a way not to. I must have dozed and didn’t realize he was still there. His lips brushed my cheek and a blanket was gently laid across me. My eyes flickered but I purposely didn’t open them.
‘I know you don’t feel the same about me, Sinead, and I’m willing to wait … just not forever.’
‘I wouldn’t ask you to, Harry,’ I whispered as the door closed behind him.
Six
I woke with a start, disorientated as laser rays of sun hit my eyes. I wondered what time it was and groped for my phone. It was after nine. Amazingly I’d slept ten hours. My mind went over the events of yesterday, running through all the clues again and racking my brains trying to work out exactly where Patrick could be leading me. I drew a blank and was fearful I’d hit a brick wall. I swung my legs off the sofa and winced, realizing how tightly bunched my muscles were. My body felt even stiffer than yesterday. I hobbled into the bedroom and slid my phone back on the cabinet and my fingers touched Patrick’s Bible. I traced the gilt lettering on the cover. I hadn’t given it much thought yesterday, but it struck me now that the flat was so bare and yet this had been left out. And the priest had quoted from the Gospel, something about Saint Peter and the keys to heaven.
I picked up the Bible slowly and held it in the palm of one hand. The book immediately fell open at Saint Matthew’s Gospel as if it had been opened there many times, the thin pages fluttering to release the same fragrantly musty scent as a church. I stared down at the text. The words Love thy neighbour had been overwritten in red ink. This could be another clue. My pulse galloped and I closed my eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by a sense of relief. The trail hadn’t gone cold. It was almost as if Patrick was watching my progress, nudging me whenever I stalled. He couldn’t be in danger; he was enjoying this too much. I could almost hear his voice inside my head: You’ll always follow my footsteps, won’t you?
I had to tell Harry. I called him and explained in a torrent what I’d found in the Bible and that I planned to talk to Patrick’s neighbours later that morning. I could tell from his voice that I’d woken him.
‘Great idea,’ he said, and I heard the muffled sound of a yawn. ‘I’ll come over now.’
I smiled to myself, suspecting he would have agreed to whatever insane scheme I suggested. ‘I probably should go alone, Harry. People might respond better to a girl by herself.’
‘I’ll still come by, Sinead. Anything you need?’
I looked down at Patrick’s cast-off clothes. ‘Would you fetch me some more sweats and a clean T-shirt from home? I’ll text Mum and tell her to pick something out for me, but don’t breathe a word about what’s happening here. She will question you, and it won’t be pleasant, but just don’t say anything useful.’
Harry laughed nervously. ‘How about some food? You know how grumpy you are when you don’t eat.’
‘Some bagels and jam would be nice.’
‘Anything else?’
I could picture Harry’s long-suffering smile. ‘My laptop. And Harry?’
‘Yes?’
‘Try not to be long. Time is of the essence.’
*
When Harry arrived I’d showered and was unsuccessfully trying to style my hair without a hairdryer. He placed all the things that I’d asked for on the bed.
‘She’s suspicious,’ he announced, looking a bit shell-shocked after his encounter with my mother. ‘She gave me the full interrogation but I didn’t crack. I pretended not to know anything.’
‘Well done,’ I said, and he grinned. ‘I’ll have to face her sooner or later, but I couldn’t stomach it yet.’
‘She’s checked with all the hospitals and with Patrick’s landlord, but he hasn’t heard anything and he knows nothing about the flat being given a spring clean.’
‘That was a good idea,’ I said with amazement. I’d have expected her to just pace about wringing her hands and doing nothing constructive. I went into the bedroom to change. It was amazing the difference some fresh clothes made to my mood. Despite having a bare face and floppy hair, I felt almost human again.
Harry peered at me with renewed interest. ‘You look different somehow.’
I touched my cheek self-consciously. ‘I don’t have my make-up.’
‘It suits you … makes you look softer … I mean, prettier.’
He looked away, but it was obvious what he meant; I looked less forbidding without my scary eye make-up, which would be a bonus if I was attempting to butter up Patrick’s neighbours. I looked in the mirror and hardly recognized myself. I studied my features critically – wide mouth, deep-set greyish-blue eyes, high jutting cheekbones. Harry often told me that my smile transformed my whole face but I didn’t smile often enough. I glanced at my watch. The time was now a respectable 11 a.m., and it was Saturday so there was a decent chance of catching people at home. I gave Harry a feeble wave and stepped outside. There were five flats in all and it seemed sensible to begin at the one closest to Patrick’s.
I walked down a small corridor and through a fire door, threw back my shoulders and rapped decisively on the door. It flew open almost instantly, which caught me off my guard. A suspicious face stared back at me. ‘Yes?’
I tried to smile, but my mouth distorted as if I was in pain.
‘I’m … looking for Patrick, who lives in the next flat … I wondered … have you seen him lately?’
This guy was fairly young with gold-rimmed spectacles and an annoying goatee beard. I could smell bacon wafting into the corridor.
‘Hmm,’ he considered, stroking his facial hair. Something about his expression told me he wasn’t going to be helpful. ‘I saw him a few weeks ago when he borrowed twenty pounds off me for a family emergency. I haven’t seen him since. I think he’s been avoiding me.’
‘Oh,’ I mumbled.
‘Are you a relative?’
‘Just a … friend. I’ll be sure to remind him about the money when he turns up.’
‘Do,’ he snapped, and slammed the door in my face.
OK, bad call, I reflected, but they couldn’t all be like that. I was ashamed that Patrick had borrowed money and failed to pay it back and disgusted with myself for not admitting we were related. The shame wasn’t anything new; Patrick had mortified me by his behaviour so many times that I should have been immune, but I’d never denied him as a brother before and it wasn’t a nice feeling.
I trudged downstairs starting to think that this exercise would produce nothing worthwhile. There was no reply from the second flat. By the time I reached the third, my knock was softer as if I was determined no one should hear. I was about to leave when a figure appeared in the doorway with the astonished look of someone who never has anyone knock on her door. I took a breath and choked on a wave of heavy, cloying perfume. This lady was middle-aged with orange skin and Barbie hair, dressed in a flowery gardenparty style two-piece. She glided past me, surprisingly light on her feet for someone so plump. She peered into the hallway, saw that it was empty except for me, and seemed disappointed. I launched into the same patter as before, and again lied about my relationship with Patrick. Despite the guilt, it tripped easily off my tongue.
‘I work all day – I don’t have time to socialize,’ she said petulantly.
&n
bsp; ‘Well, it’s not really socializing I had in mind … Patrick is kind of … missing, and his family are worried about him.’
‘That is most disconcerting,’ she said, appearing anything but. ‘Have you asked his employer?’
‘He doesn’t work,’ I muttered, physically edging away from the questions and her perfume.
‘His college perhaps?’
‘He doesn’t … I mean … yes, I’ll do that. Thanks for the advice.’
Her gracious smile didn’t fool me for a second. I tried to stop anger from engulfing me and felt sorry for Patrick, having to live next door to these people. They didn’t have to tell me what they thought of him; I could see it in their eyes, and I’d already used up twelve minutes on this fruitless exercise.
I almost lost the nerve to knock on the last door. The TV was turned up loudly and there was scuffling and movement inside, but it was a couple of minutes before an elderly woman cautiously popped her head outside. She was the first resident to appear friendly and I relaxed slightly. I’d only just mentioned Patrick’s name and that I was a friend when she interrupted.
‘You have his mouth.’
I stopped because she’d rumbled me. ‘He’s my brother,’ I admitted.
She gave a little nod of recognition. ‘Would you like to come in?’
The door opened wide and I stepped over the threshold. Inside was as different from Patrick’s minimalist flat as it was possible to be, crammed with heavy, old-fashioned furniture and opulent upholstery. I counted two sofas, three armchairs, a leather chair next to a writing desk and a chaise longue in a green striped fabric. There was barely a hint of wall space to be seen because of the abundance of paintings, all different sizes and themes. This flat was larger than Patrick’s but felt more cramped and much darker. The lady motioned for me to sit on the uncomfortable-looking chaise longue. It had carved animal legs that looked so real I almost expected them to nip my ankles. She perched on the smaller sofa with both hands resting in her lap and turned to me with interest.
