Don't Look Back

by S. B. Hayes

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ I blurted. ‘I’m looking for my brother Patrick. I think he might be working at Benedict House.’

  She seemed reluctant to speak and stared at me with strange black eyes that looked overlaid by an opaque centre. I was just reaching into my pocket to show her the photo of Patrick when something on the ground caught my attention. I bent down and picked up a silver Saint Christopher medal, running my thumb across the engraved image. It was Patrick’s, I was certain. My mother had given it to him to keep him safe on any journey, and he always wore it. My spine tingled. I hadn’t expected to find him so soon.

  ‘My brother Patrick?’ I repeated. ‘He replied to your job advert.’

  She might have knitted her brow, although the pattern of deep furrows made it difficult to tell. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she replied stiffly. ‘We never advertise.’

  Liar, I thought. ‘But you’ve taken on new staff?’

  ‘We have had no new workers here. You should go. Leave by the path that brought you here – the grounds are not safe for strangers.’

  I stared at her mutinously, furious at being dismissed like this. I made a decision to ignore her. I began to head towards the house, but her voice stopped me in my tracks.

  ‘How did you get in without an invitation?’

  What did she mean by an invitation?

  ‘The gate was … sort of open,’ I lied, and then lied some more. ‘I … erm … knocked at the gatehouse, but no one answered.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have come, it must be a mistake –’

  She suddenly froze and put one hand across her heart, her breathing alarmingly shallow. I wondered what could have affected her so badly. She moved closer, and I had to stop myself from flinching. One of her bony hands touched me, but it was in a strange patting gesture, as if she was checking I was actually flesh and blood. She muttered something to herself, which I strained to hear. ‘If the house has chosen you to stay, then it’s out of my hands. But why now, after all this time?’

  My stomach curdled and I wondered if Patrick had had the same reception. What had he got himself into this time? This place was so remote that anything could be going on. I decided to tackle her again, making sure my voice sounded confident.

  ‘I know my brother came here. This is his Saint Christopher medal. He told his neighbours he’d recently started a job and I’m sure he answered your advert in the local paper.’

  ‘Is that all?’ she asked.

  I couldn’t help myself. I put my hands on my hips, half wishing Harry was here to restrain me. ‘No, it isn’t all. He left me … messages, some in Latin, but everything led me here. There’s no mistake. This is where Patrick meant me to come.’

  Her withered fingers interlaced. ‘Then I believe you. The answers you’re seeking must lie here.’

  ‘The answers you’re seeking must lie here.’ Why did she speak in riddles? I narrowed my eyes. ‘So where is my brother?’

  ‘Only you can find him,’ she answered, ‘if you truly wish it.’

  ‘Of course I want to find him, but where is he?’

  ‘We can take you on for a trial period of fourteen days.’

  I looked at her in horror. ‘You expect me to work here?’

  ‘For fourteen days,’ she repeated, ‘and then you’ll have your answers.’

  I made a noise of disbelief. ‘You really think I’d agree to something like that? Give me one good reason why I should?’

  ‘I recognize the hunger in your eyes,’ she answered. ‘You can’t let this opportunity go. You’ll do exactly what I ask of you – we both know it.’

  This was so bizarre that I was rendered speechless, my mind racing with wild thoughts. I could phone Mum and tell her to call the police but it would be my word against that of a nun, albeit a seriously creepy nun. I opened my mouth to protest again but closed it, realizing I’d been backed into a corner. What other options did I have? If I refused, I’d have no other way to follow Patrick. She was right; I was hungry to find him and I couldn’t let this go. But she wouldn’t get the better of me. I’d agree to work here, but only to get my foot in the door so I could search for Patrick. I wasn’t going to actually graft in some dusty old heap, and definitely not for fourteen days.

  Although seething inside I tried to keep my face unemotional. ‘OK … I agree to your terms.’

  I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t enlighten me further.

  ‘What will I do here?’

  ‘You will work for the good of the house.’

  ‘And when—’

  ‘Tomorrow, at ten,’ she interjected before I could finish. ‘You can call me Sister Catherine.’

  ‘I’m Sinead.’

  She scrutinized me for a moment. ‘Remember you came of your own free will, Sinead.’

  And then she walked away. I shivered involuntarily. Sister Catherine, my namesake, was a ghoulish nun who looked as if she’d been dead for several centuries. There was a sense of nightmarish unreality about all this, but how could I give up my search for Patrick when I was so close? Sister Catherine had promised me answers, and nuns didn’t lie, did they? I twisted my nose stud, pondering the awfulness of my situation and cursing my brother.

  I took a minute to look around. There didn’t appear to be anyone else in the immediate vicinity, nor any vehicles. I was conscious of how long it had taken me to reach the house and how worried Harry would be. I tried to send him a text, but I had no signal. It seemed even more of a slog on the way back, and when I reached the first bend the path forked. There was a choice between the winding, undulating one I’d come by, or a route which looked more direct. It must have been well trampled to stop the shrubs from encroaching.

  The path was a normal width at the start, but within minutes it narrowed considerably and I had to consciously draw in my arms and make myself smaller. The plants and bushes had grown so tall that I couldn’t see what was in front of me and my feet were tangled in greenery. I stubbed my toe on a stone and swore with pain, then picked up a stick and began to beat back the foliage which was scraping my face. I pushed my hair back from my sticky forehead and had to peel my vest top away from my skin. This felt like wading through a steamy jungle. It didn’t make sense – the other path had been cold and dank, but this one seemed almost tropical. My vision began to swim. Water. There must be some special kind of pond, a type I’d never come across before, because there was steam rising and a gurgling noise like water echoing down a plughole.

  I’d been completely obstinate in disregarding Sister Catherine’s instruction to leave by the way I had come, but it was time to admit my mistake and retreat. I’d only wasted ten minutes or so. Soon I’d be in Harry’s car, telling him the whole story. I pivoted and came face to face with a sea of giant triffids blocking my way. What had been a clear path minutes ago was now a wall of greenery. And it was so much denser and pricklier than what was in front of me; each stem, stalk and branch seemed to be interwoven and crossed with another, like a tangled mass of barbed wire. Panic sent pins and needles all over my body. There was no going back. I had to keep moving forward, realizing how stupid I’d been. I could be heading in any direction. I tried to call Harry but again failed to get a signal.

  I lurched on, aware of a strange feeling behind, a sensation of something bearing down on me. A nervous glance over my shoulder revealed nothing but the same impenetrable jungle. I began to run, a frantic clumsy run that got me nowhere fast; it wasn’t just leaves scratching my face, it was branches clawing my hair, stabbing my face, and brambles pulling and ripping my clothes. I fell and rolled, my hands instinctively protecting my head. I tried to scramble to my feet but thorns embedded themselves in my head, my hands, even my feet, tearing my flesh.

  *

  ‘Sinead! You’re like a great clumsy giraffe crashing about in there. Come out now.’

  There was hazy blue sky. The gates rose in front of me but I had no idea how I had got there. I managed to crawl through the ga
p and lay on the concrete staring up at the griffins. Harry’s face loomed somewhere above me, but his features were rippling as if he was underwater. My throat was making a horrible gasping sound. Momentarily I was back in my bedroom, staring at my pink lampshade and wondering why I couldn’t get my breath. Harry’s hand held mine and there was a pulling sensation on my arm as he dragged me to a sitting position.

  ‘They came alive,’ I mumbled. ‘Everything came alive.’

  My vision began to clear, and Harry gave me an exasperated look. I stared at my hands and feet and then touched my head. There was no blood, no abrasions or any wounds that I could feel.

  ‘Is my head all right? I mean, is it bleeding or … scratched?’

  He looked puzzled. ‘There isn’t a mark on you.’

  I examined my clothes. There weren’t any rips in them, yet I could still feel both my flesh and my clothes being torn apart. I pulled up my T-shirt. The skin was perfectly smooth and unbroken.

  ‘What made you turn back?’ Harry asked.

  My breath was still ragged and my chest heaving. A sob welled deep inside and I tried to swallow it.

  ‘I didn’t turn back, Harry. I reached the house … sorry I was so long. It took ages.’

  He shook his head at me in bemusement. ‘You really are weird, Sinead. You’ve only been gone for ten minutes. I barely had time to realize you weren’t there.’

  Twelve

  I clutched my head. What was happening to me? It was one thing to mistakenly see a figure outside Patrick’s flat in the middle of the night, quite another to imagine being attacked and ripped apart by brambles. And what about the time issue? I was sure I had been gone for over an hour yet Harry claimed it was only ten minutes. A glance at my watch told me he was right. How could it be?

  ‘Are you all right?’ Harry asked with concern. ‘You look a bit shaken.’

  ‘I just … fell over a branch or something,’ I muttered.

  ‘What’s it like in there? Have they seen Patrick?’

  I self-consciously pulled at my earring. ‘I didn’t get a straight reply, but he’s definitely been there.’

  ‘How can you know?’

  I wormed my hand into my pocket and took out the medal. ‘I found this in the grounds. It’s Patrick’s Saint Christopher medal; I’d recognize it anywhere.’

  Harry rubbed the three-day growth on his chin. ‘Well, who did you speak to?’

  I gave a nervous cough. ‘The place is deserted and I only saw one person – a decrepit nun who was tight-lipped about giving up any information.’

  ‘If you’re so sure Patrick’s been there, Sinead, we definitely should tell the police. Remember your time obsession? It’s almost three weeks since he disappeared.’

  This was the second time he’d suggested this. ‘Go to the police and tell them what? How threatening does this sound – an elderly nun is holding my six-foot-two, nineteen-year-old brother prisoner?’

  Harry ran one hand through his tangled hair. ‘You’re right. If he’s there, it has to be willingly.’

  His words suddenly made me remember something. ‘That nun – Sister Catherine – muttered this weird stuff about me not having been invited to the house, and then she said, “Remember you came of your own free will, Sinead.”’

  ‘Why would she say that?’

  I braced myself, already anticipating Harry’s reaction. ‘I don’t know, but she said I could find the answers I wanted at Benedict House, if I … erm … worked there for fourteen days.’

  Harry’s eyes flared and he stared at me in total disbelief. ‘Tell me you’re joking?’

  I threw my hands in the air. ‘What other choice do I have? I thought you understood Patrick’s game. His Saint Christopher medal is obviously the next clue. Benedict House is where I have to be.’

  Harry massaged his forehead. ‘You’re not safe out alone,’ he complained.

  I winced. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘That probably explains the nun’s comment. She doesn’t want to be accused of exploiting you. It’ll be slave labour for crap money.’

  ‘It’s the only way to find Patrick,’ I said. ‘I owe him this.’

  Harry’s voice rose in frustration. ‘He wouldn’t put himself in danger for you. His only brush with danger is falling down the stairs when he’s wasted.’

  My head was still throbbing and there was a catch in my voice. ‘Patrick has chosen me to do this … and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t at least try.’

  Harry tucked a stray strand of my hair behind my ear. ‘You were never the saintly type, Sinead. Maybe staying in a converted chapel has got to you.’

  I didn’t pull away and his hand lingered on my cheek. ‘Maybe it has,’ I said absently. I took one last look at the massive gateway with its griffins.

  Harry’s eyes followed mine. ‘When you were gone I found another website – the Ancient Houses of Britain. It says centuries ago the black sheep of the Benedict family went missing in mysterious circumstances. The story was … he promised his soul to the Devil after his death.’

  ‘Of course he did,’ I said dismissively.

  ‘But the Devil tricked him and took him to hell early, Sinead. Thereafter the house lures people in and acts as judge, jury and executioner. The moans of the damned can still be heard today.’

  ‘An urban legend,’ I scoffed. ‘Is that the best you can do?’ I remained deliberately unimpressed. ‘It’ll take more than that to stop me going back.’

  His mouth suddenly hardened. ‘You don’t know anything about these people.’

  I waved aside his concerns. ‘Mum said the house had been given over to the Church. Finding a nun in charge is quite normal. She’s a bit snappy, but I’m sure she’ll come round.’ Harry still wasn’t happy, but I was too tired to argue with him further. ‘Can you take me back?’ I asked. ‘I’m desperate for a shower.’

  I wanted to be alone, but after Harry had left I felt unsettled and mooched about the flat. A quick search on Google had done nothing to improve my mood. Hallucinations could be attributed to a whole host of conditions – bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, psychosis, seizures or a brain tumour, all of which I really didn’t want to have. Something else was haunting me – Sara’s final words to me. Did I use Patrick as an excuse not to do the things I wanted, an excuse not to live? I raced, dashed and hurtled through life, desperately trying to save every second without any idea why I was hoarding time. It wasn’t a quirky habit any longer; it was more like an illness. I needed to be normal, to realize that I had many more tomorrows to look forward to.

  The day had left me feeling so wiped out that I decided to rest on the sofa for five minutes. The last thing I expected was to doze. I woke with a start, unsure where I was and whether it was morning or evening. A glance at the clock told me it was almost five. I’d been out for almost three hours and had wasted so much of the day. Then I remembered my resolution. It wasn’t wasted time; it was relaxing time, something that regular people did. I stretched and, for a second, had another sense of Patrick. I shouldn’t be so worried that he was lost; he was somewhere near, trying to show me where to find him. If only I knew how.

  What are you trying to tell me, Patrick?

  On a balmy summer’s evening like this, it would have been nice to climb the clock tower and look out over the city, but I couldn’t face it alone. I moved towards the light. The view from the windows was still impressive. My eyes swam at the sea of colours, shapes and movement. Things were heightened in a city; the crush, the rush and volume increased tenfold. It was as if everyone had to wring every last minute from the day, make the most of each last drop of sun before it dimmed, in case it didn’t rise again the next morning.

  From this perspective the people ceased to exist; they were just pinpricks moving down below, but their lives seemed to clog my throat and my senses. I felt an ache somewhere deep inside for everyone I didn’t know and would never meet and it was as though I could feel their emotions. My own li
fe seemed inconsequential and transient, filled with hopes and dreams that would never be fulfilled. Then I realized that this was how Patrick had suffered, by feeling too much and seeing the beauty and the ugliness of the world, the hope and the despair.

  A feeling of complete sadness swept over me and I held on to the window for support. I’d seen heaven and hell through Patrick’s eyes and the sensation had left me reeling. I grabbed my bag, letting the door close behind me, and tumbled downstairs on to the street. Heat didn’t dissipate in the city; it was retained by all the glass, concrete, brick and steel. It hit me like a wave. My feet pounded the pavement as I thought how easy it was to be invisible here; sometimes I found this comforting, but not tonight. Everyone seemed to know where they were going, but I was directionless.

  I sat at a table by the window of the first cafe I found, ordered a glass of iced water and tried to remember who I was: my life had again taken on the semblance of a dream. Maybe the stuff that had happened at Benedict House was real and I was dreaming now. Patrick had studied philosophy and often rambled on about alternate realities. I always figured that his head was so messed up he saw things that weren’t there, but maybe he saw things the rest of us missed.

  I left the cafe and walked past an Italian restaurant, still weighed down by my own sadness. I stopped dead outside. The beach boy was eating spaghetti with a girl – a different girl – and they were sharing the same strand and meeting in the middle. He wasn’t just handsome, he was completely beautiful, and I didn’t know how it had escaped me before. He took my breath away and made my aching loneliness worse. It seemed as if everyone had someone, and at that moment I was sure that someone was better than no one. It was easy to banish Sara’s words from my mind. There was one person who understood me and liked me, warts and all. I don’t know what he thought of my message, but he came, as I knew he would.