by Sarah Rayne
‘Certainly, they will. But I might be able to help there,’ said Donal, and he sent Jess a look that made her feel as if a shard of ice had been skewered into her spine.
‘Jess has a mobile phone, which we’ll keep charged,’ said Nuala, ‘so she can call us in a crisis. But we’ll be calling in every day, of course.’
‘And phoning every night.’
Donal said, ‘Tormod hasn’t asked where she is, has he?’
‘Not once. He sits mumbling to himself each evening,’ said Nuala. ‘Sometimes he shivers and shudders.’
‘It’s my opinion he exaggerates it all to get attention,’ said Aunt Morna. ‘One day I shall tell him so.’
But Jessica knew Aunt Morna would not do any such thing. She knew both the aunts were too frightened of Tormod.
Crouched in the darkness of the ice pit, Jessica could remember how clearly she had seen the aunts’ fear of Tormod.
How much time had passed since Donal had imprisoned her down here? Would it be anywhere near the three hours he had said, yet? Could she even trust him on that?
Once she would have thought that she could trust him. But then once she would not have thought that Donal was capable of committing murder …
TWENTY-TWO
It was a dull storm-laden evening when the birth happened. The aunts had said there was plenty of time; they had counted up weeks and days since – well, since the day of the attack, said Aunt Nuala. There would be plenty of warning.
But there was not.
Aunt Morna had just gone home, leaving Jess with some of Nuala’s lamb stew – a bit heavy perhaps for an August night, she said, but nourishing and substantial, and Jess must be sure to eat every morsel. There was one of Donal’s herb drinks, as well. He had arrived for a short stay that morning. If Jess felt up to seeing him, they might bring him along tomorrow.
Jess had eaten the lamb stew, which was very good, but afterwards had felt it lying like a lump of lead on her stomach. Or was it the baby, indignant at being overwhelmed by all that meat and gravy and vegetables? Lately, she had been thinking of it as a real person, a tiny boy or girl. What would it look like? Would she be allowed to give it a name before the hospital took it away for adoption, which was what the aunts said was going to happen. Best thing for everyone, they said. Don’t cry, Jess, dear, you’ll get over it in time. You have all your life ahead of you.
But would her life still have Donal in it, and those whispered threats? Would it have Tormod, who had crept into her room while she was asleep, and stood at the foot of her bed, his eyes hooded, his hands curved round the bedrail like claws? When Jess tried to think how many years there might be until she could leave Kilcarne and go to the GMIT, sick despair closed around her. Four years at least. She was not sure she could get through four years. Would she even be able to go to GMIT then?
The feeling in her stomach was starting to be a bit more than discomfort, and Jess got up to walk about, hoping to ease it. She would go up to the bedroom and lie on the bed, where she could see the photograph of the actor and the people in the old fire screen.
She was halfway up the stairs when pain – dreadful, spiking, red-hot agony – sliced through her. She doubled over, gasping, the room spinning around her in a sick blurred whirl as warm fluid, streaked with dark blood, gushed down her thighs.
She did not remember phoning the aunts, but she must have managed to do so, because after what felt like a lifetime of agony, they were there, running anxiously up the stairs, calling that it was all right, Jess, they were here, she would soon be at the hospital.
But downstairs were men’s voice as well, and through the pulsating waves of pain, Jessica was aware of a different panic.
‘Who’s that—?’
‘It’s your Uncle Tormod and Donal. Donal was coming with us anyway, and we couldn’t keep it from Tormod. He insisted on coming. But they’ll both stay downstairs.’
The pain swept in again then, and Jessica no longer cared who was in the house.
The aunts wrapped a blanket around her, trying to rework their original plan, because they had not allowed for this kind of emergency, certainly not so soon. Jess swam in and out of consciousness, struggling weakly against the clenching pain. Time blurred and seemed unimportant, but at one point she was aware of the aunts saying they must get her to the infirmary.
‘Donal will carry her downstairs and out to the car,’ said Morna.
Being in Donal’s arms again – smelling his skin – feeling his body …
‘No,’ said Jessica on a gasp of pain. ‘Not Donal—’
But they did not seem to hear. Nuala was saying that, once they were on the road, she would phone ahead. ‘That way they’ll be ready for her.’
As they started to help Jess off the bed, calling to Donal please to come up, heavy, slow footsteps came up the stairs. Jess gasped and shrank back, fighting off the aunts’ anxious hands.
‘Tormod – he’s coming up here … I don’t want him … I don’t want either of them—’
But Tormod was already there, standing in the doorway, staring at her. His shoulders were hunched and his mouth worked. Behind him was Donal.
Aunt Morna said, firmly, ‘Tormod, would you go back downstairs while Donal carries Jessica to the car.’
‘You will not take her to any infirmary,’ said Tormod. He did not move from the doorway.
‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it’s already too late for that.’ That was Aunt Nuala, trying to make the best of things.
‘Emergency ambulance,’ said Aunt Morna, reaching for the phone. ‘We didn’t want to do that, but there’s no alternative now. While we’re waiting for it to arrive, Nuala, you light that fire, for the child’s shivering fit to break apart.’
As Nuala knelt to put a match to the fire, Morna reached for the phone, but Tormod took two paces into the room and knocked it from her hand. ‘Will you let the whole of Kilcarne know what’s going on?’ he said, his voice thick with fury. ‘Have Tromloy lit up like a blazing beacon, with sirens and wailing ambulances, bringing everyone up here inside of five minutes wanting to see what’s happening. You will not phone anyone.’
‘Tormod, please …’ Aunt Nuala got up from the hearth, still clutching the poker she had been using to stir up the fire. ‘You must let us get help.’
‘Tormod’s right,’ said Donal, stepping into the room. ‘We’ve kept the secret all these months – don’t let it out now.’
‘No! We must call the ambulance,’ said Nuala, but as Morna tried to reach the phone lying on the floor, Tormod snatched the poker from Nuala’s hands, and held it up. For a moment Jess thought he was going to hit her with it, and Aunt Nuala clearly thought so as well, because she flinched and put up her hands to shield her head.
Aunt Morna said, very briskly, ‘We’ll manage. The fire’s burning up and we can boil water on it. I’ll fetch towels from the airing cupboard – they can be burned afterwards. And isn’t giving birth the most natural process in the world?’
A quick glance passed between the aunts, and Jessica saw that Morna was going to try to get help from beyond Tromloy – perhaps to find Jessica’s own phone, or even to drive or run to a phone box. But would Tormod let anyone leave the room? He was still there in the doorway, still holding the poker.
Then the pain tore through Jess again, impossibly and viciously strong, and she screamed and writhed, trying to escape it. One of the aunts – she no longer knew which was which – held her ankles, and then, as the pain threatened to rip her into two pieces, it felt as if something burst inside her, then fell out on the bed with a soft squelch. Jess gasped, but the pain was releasing its claws and there was only a cold, wet emptiness.
For a few moments she was aware of nothing except deep gratitude that the pain was rolling away, and she lay back, gasping, the sweat cooling on her face. But there was something wrong somewhere – something in the room that was very wrong indeed. What was it? Was there something that was not here but should be? She
fought through the dizziness and weakness.
The child. The child should be crying. Didn’t all babies cry when they were born?
She managed to half sit up in the bed – Aunt Nuala put a pillow behind her – and saw that Aunt Morna was holding something wrapped in a blood-smeared towel – something that was still and silent. Tears were streaming down Aunt Morna’s face, which was dreadful, because Aunt Morna never cried. But she was sobbing helplessly, and saying, ‘Nuala – oh, Jessica – this poor little thing – I can’t bear this—’
Nuala was at her side; she gasped. ‘Dear God.’ Then she said, ‘It couldn’t possibly have survived – not like that—’ She too was crying, but through it, Jessica heard her say a terrible word. ‘Incomplete.’
The word spiked into Jessica’s mind. Incomplete. The child – the poor, unwanted thing, made from that day of fear and pain – was incomplete.
The aunts looked at one another, and Jessica understood neither of them knew what to do. She started to ask them to let her see the child, but before she could get the words out, Tormod was at their side.
His face was contorted and twitching with rage, and he grabbed the towel-wrapped bundle from Aunt Morna.
‘Tormod – no … We should—’
‘It’s as I said it would be,’ shouted Tormod. The firelight fell across his face more strongly – or was it just the firelight? Wasn’t it blood flooding into his face, turning it red, then crimson? ‘Look, both of you. Look at it! The abomination before the Lord. Exactly as I said it would be! A child of sin and shame – unnatural.’
‘It’s dead,’ said Nuala, very quietly. ‘It must have been dead for a long time.’
‘It can’t ever have drawn a single breath, but Donal can baptise it and arrange a discreet funeral in his parish, can’t you, Donal?’
‘Hardly anyone would need to know,’ said Morna, almost pleadingly.
But Donal did not speak.
The crimson in Tormod’s face deepened, the thick colour bleeding into his eyes. In a voice that sounded as if he was speaking through flannel, he said, ‘Nothing Christian … Won’t allow any churchyard to be defiled …’ Half to himself, he said, ‘Catriona.’
The name blurred, and broke up like splintering bone, and Tormod frowned. His face was changing – it was as if it were made of wax and the wax was melting, running down, reshaping his face into a dreadful, distorted mask.
He made a clawing motion at the air, as if fighting something off, then his hand flopped down by his side, as if a string inside him had been cut. But he’s still holding the baby with his other hand, thought Jessica, horrified.
Before the aunts could stop him, Tormod had stumbled to the hearth, lurching and falling as he went, so that Jessica thought he was going to fall straight on to the fire. There’s something dreadfully wrong with him, she thought. But he’s still got the child, and I must see it – I must— Incomplete …
‘Donal, stop him,’ cried Nuala. ‘Donal, please—’
But still Donal did nothing. He stood aside so that Tormod could get to the fireplace. When Morna tried to reach Tormod, Donal grabbed her hand and pulled her back.
In a terrible smeared whisper, Tormod said again, ‘Catriona.’
Then, with the hand that still had its use, he threw the dead child straight on to the fire. As the flames roared upwards, he fell to the ground.
As the fire burned up, there was a nightmare moment when a small outline was silhouetted against the flames. Jessica cried out, and fought her way from the bed, forcing back the weakness and the sick dizziness. The pain was still dragging at her and the bed was bloodied and smeared, but the pain was bearable and she needed to reach the fire, because none of them seemed to realize that what was burning in there might still be alive—
One of the aunts grabbed her arms to pull her back on to the bed, and she thought Donal was there as well, but Jess threw the hands off impatiently.
‘Jess – dear child – it’s dead – it really is … You can’t do anything—’
Then Donal’s voice. ‘Jessica, do as your aunts say! It’s dead! Leave it be! Let it go!’
Somewhere in the distance she thought someone – Morna? – was sobbing into a phone, saying something about an ambulance being needed, but none of it mattered – all that mattered was reaching what was burning in the grate.
The hearth had a row of small black bars jutting up from the hearth – a miniature fireguard – and Jess reached for them, not caring if they burned her hands, only wanting to reach the little, lost thing that Tormod had called an abomination, that Donal had let him fling into the flames without trying to stop him.
Incomplete, they had said. Dead for a long time. But she must be sure of that, she must …
As her hands closed around the black bars, there was a dreadful sizzling and the stench of burning, and somebody started to scream. Pain tore through Jessica’s hands, and dizziness began to spin her away from the room.
The last thing she was aware of was Aunt Morna pulling the fire screen across the hearth to hide what burned there. Then she tumbled down into a world where there was no longer any pain.
There was no pain in the dark, enclosed space of the old ice pit, but as the memories swirled around her, Jessica felt as if the pain she had endured two years ago was clawing at her again. With it was the fear and the panic, and that desperate compulsion to get to the child, just in case …
The aunts had said it was incomplete. That it was dead – that probably it had never drawn breath. But was that really true? thought Jessica in new agony.
Threaded through it all was the knowledge that Donal had done nothing to save the child. He had stood back as Tormod lunged forward, and he had allowed the child to be flung into the flames. He wanted it to happen, thought Jess. If Tormod had not done it, Donal would have done it, because he wanted there to be no trace, no evidence.
He had not committed a murder that night – nobody had committed a murder, because you could not murder a creature that had never lived, never drawn breath …
But he was capable of it. The slow, creeping suspicion that Donal was not going to come back to let her out of this place took a firmer hold of Jessica.
TWENTY-THREE
When Bea heard the sound of a key turning in the lock of Tromloy’s door, and then the soft footsteps coming along the hall, panic had sliced through her.
She forced herself to think. The only way out of the cottage was by the stairs, and anyone down there would hear and see her. Her phone, which might have summoned the Garda, was marooned in her bag on the kitchen table. The bedroom window was too small to get through, even if there had been a friendly tree she might have scrambled into like a wayward heroine in an old book. And there was a twenty-foot drop straight to the ground below.
All that was left was to hide. She stepped back into the narrow space by the window, into the small alcove created by the wardrobe and the window wall. She waited, listening, trying not to shiver, almost trying not to breathe.
Who had come into the house? Who had a key? Was it the man she had seen with Jessica Cullen? It must be. And there might be a perfectly innocent explanation for him having a key and coming in here, although Bea could not think what it could be, and she could not think why anyone, engaged on a harmless task, would not knock on the door first.
Whoever he was, if he came up here and looked into this room, he would not see her. Not from the door. Or would he? If he did, what would she do? She risked darting out of hiding to snatch up a paperweight lying on the dressing table. It was solid and heavy and, although it was a bit bizarre as a defence weapon, it would deal a hefty blow.
The floorboards below creaked. He was walking along the hall. There was the sound of the sitting-room door opening, and then the kitchen.
The memory of the man she thought of as Maxim Volf came strongly into her mind. But he had not got a key – he had said so. When he came into the house, he had done so through the window with the faulty cat
ch – the window she had had repaired a couple of days earlier. And he had said he would not come into Tromloy again. ‘You have my promise,’ he had said, before melting into the darkness, and although it was completely irrational, Bea’s instinct was to trust him on that score.
This was surely the man she had seen with Jessica Cullen. The man who had had that unmistakably furtive demeanour. He had seen her take those photographs, and he had not liked it – that had been clear from the way he turned to look at the house. Bea took a firmer hold on the paperweight, which she probably would not be able to bring herself to use, but felt slightly braver for having it.
He was coming up the stairs. There went the loud creak of the floorboard that had creaked ever since she and Niall bought Tromloy. And now he was walking along the landing. Abi’s room was the first one he would come to – would he go in there? But he did not. He was looking for her, and he knew where she was, because he had seen her at the window. He was coming straight to this room. Bea shrank against the wall, her heart thudding so violently she was afraid it would give away her hiding place.
Then the old floorboards just outside the bedroom creaked again, and a soft voice said, ‘Beatrice?’
Bea felt a deep shiver go through her entire body, because this was every horror story, every macabre Gothic fright-tale ever written. The intruder, entering the locked house, and softly calling the beleaguered heroine’s name. Knowing the name.
‘Beatrice Drury,’ said the voice. ‘There’s no point in hiding. But there’s no need to be afraid. I’m Jessica Cullen’s cousin, Father Donal.’
Bea did not move, but he came into the room, and a shadow seemed to fall across the window. And then he was there in front of her. He was younger than she had thought, and he was wearing the conventional dark suit and white priest’s collar. It should have been reassuring to see that, but it was not. It was the eyes. They were wrong – so very wrong, so very much filled with sly calculation. No priest should look like that. No human being should look like it.
