The Devil's Piper

by Sarah Rayne

  The music had an odd quality to it. It was not loud but it was difficult to hear anything over it. Moira found it difficult to hear what Father was saying. It was filled with achingly sweet promise and there was a beckoning, mocking quality. It reminded you of all the other worlds that existed – not fantasy, beyond-the-skies worlds, but ordinary ones where people had interesting jobs and friends and travelled and married and had children. The music gave you tantalising glimpses of other lives; like a thickthorn hedge parting for a minute. Like the lovely Bible line about In my Father’s house are many mansions.

  And then the music quickened and became sharper, and Moira half turned towards it and stumbled over a tree root, catching her sound foot and tumbling headlong on the ground. She was not in the least hurt – only a sudden jolt to her foot – but she felt silly and undignified in the way you feel silly and undignified if you do not look where you are going and end up flat on the ground.

  Edward bent over her at once, saying she must not move, they would fetch help, putting his arms round her and smothering her against his tweed coat, making it difficult for her to breathe.

  This was all ridiculous. Moira said firmly, ‘I’m not in the least hurt – except I’ve ruined a new pair of tights,’ but Edward was not having this. A terrible thing had happened to his Moire Silk, his dear one, but her daddy would get her home. They were near to the house anyway and she should be carried – no, he insisted. He put his right arm about her body and bent down to slide his left under her thighs and Moira experienced a jolt of repulsion.

  She struggled to get out of his grasp and stand up. ‘Father, please—I’m not hurt and I’d really much rather walk home.’ It would not do any good: he would tell her that Father knew best, and wave aside her protests and in the end she would give in.

  Letting the thickthorn hedge close again and letting the doors to all those mansions close . . .

  He was hugging her against him; one hand was imprisoning her waist and there was the hot press of masculinity. Moira struggled to get free and as she did so, the music pouring out from Mallow swooped and spun all about them, and there was a moment – dreadful! sick-making! – when she was jammed up against Edward’s groin and he was thrusting forward in horrid, rhythmic movements and Moira could feel the hard lump of flesh between his thighs and a sudden radiating heat. Revulsion scudded across her skin again.

  Without warning, the music stopped, as if the musician had flung it away impatiently, and Edward stepped back, putting up a hand to his forehead as if suddenly dizzy or confused.

  They went down to the house in uncomfortable silence.

  It was pointless to argue against his ministrations once they were home: Moira did not bother to try, even though it was completely ridiculous to be carried up to her room and laid on the bed. The odd, confused look had vanished from Father’s eyes; his face was jowly with possessiveness and he was calling for aspirin and hot milk, elbowing Mother out of the way, making a ridiculous fuss about a small fall. He patted pillows into place and drew the curtains completely instead of leaving the gap which let the moonlight shine on to the end of the bed.

  ‘A light supper, I think,’ he said, standing up and frowning down at the bed. ‘A little fish perhaps, or an omelette.’

  Mary said, ‘We’d shepherds pie tonight—’ and Moira started to say that would be great, because she was actually very hungry after her afternoon’s work. Mother made a good shepherds pie, with the mashed potatoes crisp and brown on top of the minced lamb.

  ‘Fish cooked in milk,’ said Edward firmly, waving away the suggestion that fish would smell out the bedroom for twenty-four hours. ‘Perhaps a little stewed fruit to follow. A thimbleful of brandy in warm milk afterwards. I shall sit with you while you have your supper.’

  Mother had switched on the little bedside lamp after taking away the supper trays, and it cast a soft pool of light over the pillows. There was a bowl of dried lavender on the little bureau under the window, and a faint breeze from outside stirred it, taking away the fish smell. Nice, thought Moira, drowsy from the unaccustomed brandy. Mother made the dried lavender from the bush outside the dining room window and sewed it into little cotton sachets for tucking into dressing table drawers. Poor Mother, who led such a boring life. Poor Moira who will lead a similar one if I’m not careful. Push back the thickthorn hedge, thought Moira hazily. Is there any way I could do that? And what about that really dreadful moment outside Mallow? Will he do that again? And what on earth do I do if he does?

  You did not, of course, fall asleep at this time in the evening – it could not be much later than half past eight or nine o’clock – but the unaccustomed brandy coupled with the aspirin, made her feel sleepy. Father had tiptoed out of the room after fluffing up the pillows and adjusting everything in the room that could be adjusted. Irritating. Moira closed her eyes and waited for him to go and after what seemed a very long time, she heard the door of her room open and close again. Good.

  She closed her eyes and sank in a comfortable half-dream, the kind of drifting daydream where you floated drowsily beneath warm sun-dappled beech trees and where you were not quite awake, but not so much asleep that you could not direct the dream. The thin sweet sound of the monks’ Vespers’ bell drifted across her dreaming. It was a pity she had not seen Ciaran this afternoon. Ciaran . . .

  How might it have been if it had been Ciaran with her when she fell? How would it feel to be picked up and carried by him? Moira turned on to her back, smiling, feeling his arms, imagining him bending over her, brushing her cheek with his lips . . . He was an odd example of celibacy. He never looked at women with any kind of sexual edge, but Moira had often received an impression of some immensely strong emotion being banked down. She thought he had probably known a great many women before he became a monk.

  It was very wrong to wish that that strong self-control would give way in her company, but it was immensely exciting to imagine it. He would be gentle and strong and his hands would fold back her nightgown and slide over her naked body, cupping her breasts, and then going lower. Even when you were drifting through a misty green-and-gold world of half-sleep it was possible to feel it all very clearly indeed. Moira could feel her breasts tingling with delight. She could feel the sudden startling intrusion of a hand between her thighs, of a thick warm masculine finger stroking her . . . Someone was breathing harshly with pleasure. Someone was bending over her . . .

  The half-guilty pleasure vanished abruptly and Moira was aware that something very frightening was hovering about her. Panic flooded her mind and alarm bells pounded against her senses. Wake up. Wake up before the half-dream crosses over into a nightmare.

  Moira opened her eyes and looked up into the hot eyes of the man leaving over her. Not Ciaran. Oh God, not Ciaran. Not the celibate monk about whom she had sometimes fantasised.

  Her nightgown was drawn up to her shoulders and her father was standing over her with a look of concentration on his face. One hand was stroking her naked body, pushing between her legs.

  The other hand was fumbling inside his unzipped trousers.

  The horror and the revulsion she had felt earlier, outside Mallow, swept over her, so that it seemed as if the little lavender-scented bedroom was filling up with it.

  And I shall drown, I shall drown in the smothering lavender nightmare, I shall suffocate . . .

  Moira clutched at sanity. Edward had gone from the room – it was impossible to think of him as Father any longer – he had gone stumblingly, clutching a hand to his groin, oh God, unbearable! – his face averted.

  Moira wrenched her pillows into place and switched on the bedside lamp. Light. Yes, that was better. You could think better with light, you could feel more normal. She hugged the covers around her for warmth and comfort and forced herself to think.

  The idea of running away, of escaping the stifling protectiveness, the looming boredom of the years ahead, had tugged at the edges of her mind for a very long time. Now it bubbled up and boiled o
ver, swamping her in a huge, fizzy froth. Could it be done? How could it be done? Money in the post office, a dark night to creep out into . . . It was like seeing a crack appear in the skies that was only a thin sliver of light at present, but that you could, if you had sufficient courage, force open so that you could climb through into the shining worlds beyond.

  Yes, but could she do it? Leave Mother and the twins, leave Curran Glen which was the only place she had ever known in all her nineteen years and a bit? Even thinking about it made her feel sick and cold inside, but behind the sick and the cold feeling her mind was already considering practicalities.

  Could she walk to the railway station a mile or so beyond the town and get on the first train that came along? Into the unknown . . . Yes, but climbing through into those beckoning worlds. Setting foot at last on the path that widened as it went, and the path that wound excitingly past all those mansions with their doors to the other worlds half open . . . I’ll do it, thought Moira, and the shining, fizzing champagne fountain cascaded over her mind again, sprinkling it with delight, sweeping aside the guilt about leaving Mother and the twins. They would be all right. She would write to them as soon as she could, telling them that she was fine, not telling them where she was, but reassuring them. Maybe later on, the twins could come to stay with her. Extravagant visions of having her own little flat – well, maybe a nice bedsitter at first – rose up. Dublin University might even be a possibility, still. Did you have to have parental permission?

  She had known since she was approximately fourteen that she would run away one day; the only thing she had not been sure of was when it would happen.

  Now she did know. She had known the minute she opened her eyes and saw him with lust making his eyes bloodshot and with his left hand plucking rhythmically at his groin.

  She was going tonight.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Moira waited until the house was silent and then slid out of bed. It took a long time to get dressed because of the need for silence, but she managed it. She put on dark trousers and a sweater, with a jacket and black sou’wester, and laid out a couple of cotton shirts and a skirt. She eased the dressing table drawers open, wincing when they scraped, and took a selection of underthings, folding everything into her old school satchel. It was a bit freaky to be running away from home with your things in a leather satchel – well, it was very freaky indeed – but the suitcases were all away up in the attic and impossible to reach without being heard.

  The satchel was quite spacious. She tucked away her hairbrush and comb, and took her savings book from the bureau. Five hundred punts, saved from odd birthday presents sent by aunts and her godmother over the years, all of it diligently tucked away against the day when home should become unbearable, and occasionally added to by Edward who said smilingly that he knew ladies liked to have a certain amount of independence these days; Moire Silk should have a little money of her own to fritter. He had sounded like somebody’s father in Pride and Prejudice. Moira suddenly wondered with panic if there was any way in which he could stop her from drawing the money. She had no idea if that was possible but, trying to cover every contingency, she took her birth certificate out of the bureau and folded it into the satchel’s zipped pocket. Proof of identity. She took her passport as well, obtained for a short holiday in France just after she had left school. Moira suspected that the holiday had been a way of driving a wedge between her and her schoolfriends who had all been taken up with going to colleges to learn to be teachers or nurses or physiotherapists. Several had got secretarial jobs and one was starting as a very junior reporter with the local newspaper which would be hard work but great fun. Two were going to Dublin University – Mother Bernadette and the nuns had been very pleased about that. God did not give you intelligence just for you to waste it, they said.

  Moira would have settled for any job where she could have gone out each day and met people and done something interesting, or even something boring, but this had been waved aside. A little jaunt to France, said Edward. His Moira was not to be drudging in an office or spoiling her looks by studying in a college. They would be off to Paris, and they would see the sights together.

  Moira had liked Paris, it was interesting and beautiful, but Edward had not cared for it. Nasty messed-up food, he said. Too much garlic. Cars hooting all the time, and had Moira noted the cost of things! Absolutely disgraceful, and he would like to know how people had the cheek to charge such inflated prices! Mother had been nervous and timid throughout, thanking waiters and hotel people too effusively. It had all been a disaster, but the one thing it had done was provide Moira with a passport.

  She would leave a note, not saying where she had gone or why, but simply telling them she had left. The Victorian flavour of this pleased her, because her father had behaved like a modern version of Mr Barrett for years and it served him right if she fled into the night like Elizabeth. She wrote the note and propped it against the tea caddy where it would be one of the first things found in the morning. It was a good thing she had not a spaniel for her father to vent his wrath on like Mr Barrett with Flush, although it was a pity there was no sexy, poetical Robert waiting to carry her off to a romantic wedding in Italy. Had it been Italy? Well, anywhere at all.

  She had no idea how far five hundred punts would take her. It seemed a very great deal but it might be a very small amount indeed out in the world. There would be such things as travelling, and the renting of a room of some kind until she found a job. This ought to have been daunting but it suddenly all seemed so exciting – the crack in the sky widening – that Moira did not care if she had to sleep in a Salvation Army Hostel. She did not care if she had to sleep on a park bench.

  For more immediate needs she had just on ten punts in her handbag, which would do to buy things like a toothbrush and flannel and soap which she would have to do on account of the bathroom door squeaking badly and not daring to open it to get her sponge bag.

  The side door squeaked as well, but it was on the other side of the house and it was pretty certain that it would not be heard. Holding her breath and praying to every saint in the calendar, Moira went down the garden path and out into the night.

  It was not quite the classic flight through the storm, but it was not far off. Clouds were massing overhead, and the trees surrounding the Abbey and Mallow House were being whipped into contorted shapes against the darkness. Like reaching arms, like long-fingered hands clutching at you. There was a flurry of rain and the wind tore her hat away and sent it bowling into the dark night, snatching her hair away from her face like a huge angry hand. Moira gasped and turned resolutely towards the main street.

  The Abbey clock was chiming softly as she approached the old stone arch. Two o’clock. There could not possibly be anyone abroad at this hour. Even the late-night travellers at Murphy’s would long since have wrapped up their revels. Curran Glen would be sleeping.

  Curran Glen was not sleeping. Lights burned in Mallow House – Moira could see the steady glow clearly, and she hesitated. It looked rather welcoming.

  A dark figure loomed out of the shadows and grabbed her.

  Moira had the breath almost knocked out of her, but the person who had grabbed her was female which was reassuring. A harsh voice said, ‘What the devil are you doing? And who on earth are you?’

  ‘I’m—I don’t see what that’s got to do with you!’ said Moira, pushing her assailant’s hands away and glaring. ‘If it comes to that, who are you and what are you doing?’

  The girl regarded her and an unexpected glint of amusement showed. Moira’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness now, and she could see that the girl was a few years older than Moira herself: probably she was about thirty. She was tall and thin and she was wearing dark trousers and what looked like a man’s donkey jacket. Her hair swung out like black watered silk, and her eyes slanted above high cheekbones. Her voice was English, with a cool, faintly arrogant edge to it.

  ‘I’m robbing a grave,’ said the girl. ‘
But since you’ve put paid to that for tonight, you’d better come back to the caravan and tell me who you are.’

  The small caravan in the Abbey field was not quite what Moira had expected. It was sleek and modern, with bright curtains at the windows and a scarlet geranium in a pot on one sill. An estate car was tidily parked.

  ‘I’m not a gypsy,’ said the girl, glancing at Moira with amusement as if divining her thoughts. ‘No strings of wet washing or scraggy dogs or nose-picking children. Come in.’

  Inside, it was larger than it looked and very clean, and although it was untidy it was a rather nice books-and-music untidiness, with the books spilling on to the floor and tapes and records strewn over one window sill. A small CD player stood in the corner. There were two bunk beds, each one covered with a silk fringed counterpane with vividly coloured silk cushions scattered across the pillows. Most unexpected of all was what Moira recognised as a lap-top computer on the fold-down table at the centre.

  The minuscule kitchen had things like garlic presses hanging up, and a mortar and pestle and a row of little jars labelled with different spices. There was a tiny cooker with a lidded iron casserole on it.

  The girl stood in the kitchen, her arms folded, studying Moira. ‘Now,’ she said. ‘Let’s establish some credentials.’

  Moira looked at her warily. ‘You said you were grave-robbing—’

  ‘Yes. But it’s all right,’ said the girl. ‘I’m on the side of the angels. Never mind that for the moment. Oh, and I’m not gay, in case you were wondering about my motives. Far from it. There’s no need to look so startled, it would have been a fair enough assumption. Now. I’ve got permission to be on Abbey land, although not, perhaps at this time of—You do know it’s two o’clock in the morning, do you?’ she said suddenly.