Just for an instant he wondered if he could see the curved cruel beak of a boat surging in on the tide. But no, there was nothing there.
As he turned away to follow his dog up the cliff he shivered with fear. The evil was in the mist.
Behind him it swept in along the coast and around into the estuary heading up river towards Mistley and Manningtree. Within minutes the whole peninsula was shrouded in cold, clammy fog.
10
Saturday night
‘You have done what?’
Piers stared at Emma with disconcerting intensity.
‘I’ve made an offer. The cottage in Mistley.’ She had arrived back home just before ten to find him sitting alone in the roof garden listening to the soft strains of a string quartet, a glass of white wine on the wrought-iron table near him. The cats were asleep on the sofa swing. The hot night was velvet up here, not black, no London night was black. It was bitter, dark orange, scented with traffic fumes and chargrilling from dozens of terraces and rooftops and flowers from the park and the squares and a thousand small expensive gardens. A breath of cold wind trailed past them and was gone, leaving them staring at one another in silence.
Piers sat down and reached for his glass. ‘Forgive me, Emma, but I thought I heard you say you had bought a cottage. I must be going mad.’
‘You did hear me, Piers.’ Her confidence was evaporating fast. She sat down beside him and kicked off her sandals. Her ankle was still slightly swollen. ‘You will love it, I promise. I had to make the decision. There was someone else after it.’ She rubbed her face with her hands, exhausted after the long drive. ‘Can I have some wine?’
‘We’d both better have some wine.’ Piers’s voice was tight with anger. ‘Then perhaps you can explain.’
But how could she explain? The certainty. The fear of losing it. The knot of panic-stricken, illogical and desperate emotions which were tearing her apart made no sense to her, either.
‘You are out of your mind!’ was his terse comment when she had at last finished her rambling account of the day.
‘Probably.’ She stared after him as he went to lean on the parapet. ‘I had to do it, Piers. Don’t go on asking me why. I don’t understand myself. I know it doesn’t make sense. I know I’m mad. It’s just –’ She paused. ‘I knew the house. It was as though I knew every inch inside and out.’
‘And you decide to buy every house you’ve ever visited?’
‘No, of course not!’
‘Then why this one?’
Emma shook her head ‘Because it was home. It was as though I had been there before. Not just in my childhood. I only ever saw the outside then, from the road. I knew every tree, Piers. Every beam in the walls. I can’t explain it.’ She was trying not to cry. Leaning back in the chair, she stared up at the sky. The silence lengthened.
‘I’m going to bed, Em.’
She hadn’t realised that Piers had moved away from the wall. He was standing in front of her, looking down at her face. His own was deep in shadow, hiding his anger. ‘Where would you get the money from, Em? Have you thought about that?’
‘The money is not the problem, Piers. I have my father’s trust fund and I will use my own investments. I can afford it. I’m not asking you to contribute.’
‘I’m glad to hear it!’ He took a deep breath. Several seconds of silence stretched out between them. ‘Don’t forget that your ma and Dan are coming to lunch tomorrow. Perhaps they can talk some sense into that silly little head, eh?’ He stooped and kissed her hair. ‘See you in the morning.’
She didn’t move. Blinking back tears, she stared up at the sky again. For all the affectionate words she had heard the steely undertone. There would be no compromise over this one. Why had she ever hoped there would?
Sniffing miserably, she staggered to her feet and reached for the wine bottle. The wooden boarding under her bare feet was still warm. She could smell the luminous white flowers of the jasmine growing in the tub near the French doors. A dark shape flitted out of the shadows near her and she heard a loud purr. One of the cats had woken up. Bending, she picked him up and lifted him up onto her shoulder. Her eyes had filled with tears again. Wine glass in hand, she climbed into the swing seat and lay back. In seconds Max was joined on her knees by his sister, Min, cuddled up into the crook of Emma’s arm. In ten minutes, Emma was asleep.
As she began to dream first one cat, then the other, slid out of her arms and fled through the scented shadows, in through the French doors and out of sight.
If the old lady’s hiding place were discovered, she would die. There would be no escape. She pushed herself further back against the old brick wall and held her breath, aware of her heartbeat thundering in her ears.
‘We know you’re there, Liza.’ The voices were closer now. Women’s voices. Soft. Insinuating. ‘Come out and talk to us. You know it is what you have to do. It is the will of Christ.’
She put her hands over her ears and pressed hard, fighting to escape their words. If she didn’t make a sound. If she stopped breathing. If her heart ceased its infernal din, she would be safe. They would never find her here. Never.
‘Liza!’ They were closer now. At the gate. ‘Liza, why make it harder for yourself? Surrender to us, make your confession before Almighty God. He will be merciful. Come, Liza. We know you’re here!’ The voices were growing louder, echoing in her head, coming from every side now.
Liza!
Liza!
Liza!
Almighty God will be merciful, Liza …
All you have to do is repent Liza …
She could feel the sweat, ice cold between her shoulder blades and under her breasts. Her stiff, swollen hands were clenched into tight, white-knuckled balls, her nails cutting deep into her palms.
Come out, Liza!
They were laughing.
Pray, Liza …
It’s your turn, Liza …
With a start Emma sat up, feeling the perspiration cold on her body. She was shaking with fear. It took several seconds before she realised she was still outside on the roof terrace. She staggered to her feet and went to lean on the parapet, staring down towards the patch of darkness which was the garden square, trying to steady herself, aware of the noise of her heartbeat thundering in her ears. It was only a nightmare, for God’s sake, sparked off by her row with Piers. Stupid bad dream!
She glanced down at her hands gripping the rail they had added on top of the wall when they moved into the flat. They were shaking. She could actually see them trembling as her fingers clung to the cold metal. With a frown she forced herself to let go and turned towards the French doors.
She stood for a long time under the shower, her face upturned to the sharp drumming of the water, letting it drive out the fear. Then she wrapped herself in a huge towel and went into the kitchen.
‘Emma?’ Piers found her there an hour later. He turned on the light. ‘Come to bed, sweetheart. We’ll discuss the cottage in the morning.’
‘There’s nothing to discuss.’ She rubbed her face wearily. ‘It’s done. The offer is made.’
‘And can be withdrawn. You haven’t signed anything.’
‘No, but –’
‘We’ll talk about it in the morning, Em. Come on.’ He reached for her hand and pulled her to her feet. ‘Maybe we can compromise. A cottage might be fun. One day. We could drive around a bit. Get some ideas.’
She sensed a softening of his attitude and glanced at him quickly. ‘Do you mean that? You’ll think about it?’
‘I’ll think about it.’ Turning off the light, he led her towards the bedroom.
Peggy and Dan were late for lunch. When they followed Emma out onto the roof, Piers was ensconced on the swing seat with a pile of newspapers, the wine already opened, and a half-empty glass beside him on the table.
‘Sorry, darling, we couldn’t find anywhere to park.’ Peggy kissed Emma on the cheek and threw herself down on one of the cushioned chairs. Dan picked up the bottle, c
hecked the ice-cold, clouded glass to see how much was left and began to pour. He was a stout, fresh-faced man with white short-cropped hair and vivid blue eyes. Having retired at fifty from the City, he had spent the last ten years in a new career as a wine importer, specialising in small, select vineyards known only to a very exclusive group of connoisseurs.
‘Not bad stuff.’ He topped up Piers’s glass after he had done the others. ‘Good year.’
‘I thought so.’ Piers folded his paper and put it aside. ‘So, how are you both?’
‘Good.’ Peggy grinned. ‘But our news is very boring. I want to hear yours. Did you go and visit the cottage yesterday?’ She looked from one to the other expectantly.
Piers scowled. ‘So, Em told you about it, did she?’
‘Emma rang to say you might go and see it.’ Peggy frowned. ‘I know she said you wouldn’t consider it, Piers, but –’
‘She said that too, did she?’ Piers stood up. He went to lean on the parapet. ‘Perhaps you would like to remind her of the fact, Peggy.’
‘Piers!’ Emma had followed them out onto the terrace with a bowl of olives in her hand. She shook her head. ‘Ma doesn’t want to be dragged into this. Nor does Dan.’
‘Dragged into what exactly?’ Dan sat down on the chair next to Peggy’s. He leaned forward expectantly, his elbows on his knees. ‘Come on. Tell me. What’s this all about?’
‘I went to see a cottage on my own as Piers wouldn’t come,’ Emma said, passing him an olive. ‘And I liked it a lot.’
There was a short silence.
‘So, you are going to see it too?’ Dan asked cautiously. He was looking at Piers.
‘No.’ Piers drained his glass. ‘And in spite of that fact, in spite of me saying I don’t want a cottage at the moment because we’re too busy and we can’t, actually, afford it, in spite of all that,’ he paused for dramatic effect, ‘she put in an offer.’
There was a profound pause, then Emma turned to him. ‘You may not be able to afford a cottage,’ she said quietly, ‘but as I told you last night, I can.’ There was a further moment’s awkward silence.
‘I’ve got the particulars here.’ She stood up and disappeared inside for a moment. When she returned she had a sheaf of estate agent’s details in her hand. ‘It probably doesn’t look that special on paper, but it is.’
‘Why don’t we all run down there and see it?’ Dan drained his glass and held it out to Piers for more as Peggy took the A4 sheets from her daughter and began to read them. ‘What about next weekend? It sounds like a fun excursion to me.’
‘For you, perhaps.’ Filling the glass, Piers put the bottle down and turned to lean over the railing, staring out across the rooftops. ‘If Emma wants this place, that’s up to her. I don’t and I see no point in wasting a day of my life trailing off to see it. If we bought a cottage I would want it to be in Normandy or Brittany. Not, I repeat not, in Essex.’
Emma shrugged. ‘So much for mutual discussion.’
He swung round. ‘Excuse me? What discussion did you engage in before you made an offer for this place, pray? You went knowing my views. And you decided to buy it knowing my views.’ His voice rose slightly.
Dan and Peggy glanced at each other. Peggy leaned forward and touching Emma’s arm she frowned and shook her head. ‘Let’s change the subject,’ she said softly. ‘I think you two need to talk about this on your own later. Come on, I’ll give you a hand in the kitchen.’ She led the way in through the doors.
Emma followed slowly. She had picked up the estate agent’s details from the chair upon which her mother had left them. ‘I have to have it,’ she said as they went through into the kitchen. ‘I don’t know why.’
Peggy turned. ‘You don’t know why?’ She scanned her daughter’s face.
Emma shook her head. ‘I made the offer because I was in a complete panic in case I lost it. It’s pretty, but not especially so. I’ve seen prettier. It’s not in particularly good condition. The garden is too big for a holiday cottage and Piers hates the idea. I should tear this up –’ she waved the papers in front of Peggy’s face – ‘and forget all about it. Even the estate agent thought I was mad.’
‘But?’ Peggy’s eyes were fixed on her face.
‘But! I couldn’t be rational about it. From the first moment I saw the ad in Country Life, I knew I was going to live there.’ She opened the fridge door and brought out a plate covered in foil. ‘Mummy, this is weird. I know it more than anyone.’
Peggy frowned thoughtfully. ‘You’re prepared to risk your relationship with Piers over this house?’
Her daughter nodded. She was near to tears.
‘Take a day off next week. I’ll come with you. Dan too, if you’ll let him. And we’ll go and see it again.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Emma looked up thoughtfully. ‘I’ll call in sick. I am sick!’ She looked round wildly, found a roll of kitchen paper sitting on the draining board, and tearing off a sheet she blew her nose. ‘Can you get someone to look after the shop?’
Peggy nodded. ‘I’ll ring Edward. He’s always willing to do a day there for me.’ Edward was her next-door neighbour, a retired colonel whose heart had been soundly broken when Dan had arrived on the scene.
‘Don’t tell Piers,’ Emma pleaded suddenly.
‘No. I won’t.’ Peggy sighed. ‘But I think you should, Emma. What you and Piers have here is too good to lose, sweetheart. It really is.’
11
Sunday morning
Mike had walked over to the church early. After the early fog it was a glorious day and he could smell new-mown grass from the churchyard where Bill Standing, in his job as groundsman, had been trimming round some of the old graves. A retired professional gardener, Bill liked nothing more than to mow the grass and trim the hedges, training the cascades of rambling roses which grew over the lych gate and across the wall into a glorious patchwork of pink and red. He denied, however, having had anything to do with the mowing in the rectory garden, and had, to Mike’s certain knowledge, never set foot inside the church itself. To Mike, this last information had been an amazing piece of news. He didn’t understand it at all, especially as the old man seemed so fond of the place. Mike stopped at the gate and raised his hand in greeting. One day he would love to talk at length to the old boy, who, he suspected, was a fount of local knowledge and wisdom, and ask him why he wouldn’t go into the church, but so far his attempts to engage Bill in conversation had met with little success.
Bill had been staring down towards the estuary, a worried frown on his face. Mike followed his gaze. There was nothing to see but the bright strip of water and a few wheeling gulls. As Mike watched he shook his head thoughtfully and turned away. The expression on his face was grim. Mike paused and called his name. Bill glanced up, nodded, and turning the mower trundled it off in the opposite direction. Mike shrugged and paused to glance round the churchyard instead. The weathered headstones were mostly illegible now. The salt-laden east winds off the estuary had long ago beaten the inscriptions into indecipherable lichen-crusted anonymity, but there was a quiet warmth in the shelter of an August morning which made it seem a good place to lie in peace.
He opened the gate and walked up the path. The church was already unlocked, one of the churchwardens there before him, making ready for the service. Donald James, who had retired three years before from his position as manager of one of the oldest banks in Colchester, was carrying prayer books through from the vestry and laying them out on the shelf by the door. ‘Morning, Rector.’ Donald smiled at him. ‘Shall we leave the door open and let the sunshine in?’
Mike obligingly pushed the door back as far as it would go. The limed oak with its medieval ironwork groaned slightly as the sunlight hit the grey stone floor.
‘That’ll be enough books, Donald. I doubt if we’ll get very many.’ Mike shrugged. ‘Pity. But it is the holidays. Several of our regulars are away.’ He walked on up the aisle towards the vestry. The small room smelled of books and the old m
usty hassocks someone had stacked in a corner, rather than throw them away. Mike hesitated in the doorway, then he turned back and walked on towards the chancel. Kneeling on the top step before the altar he gazed up at the cross, composing himself, drawing his thoughts together and, finally, beginning to pray.
Behind him Donald moved quietly between the pews to pick up some fallen rose petals from the carpet beneath the pulpit. He glanced round as a shadow darkened the doorway for a moment and recognising the figure raised a hand in greeting. Judith Sadler was Mike’s lay reader. A tall, dark-haired woman in her early forties, she was wearing a severely cut navy trouser suit and a pale-blue shirt with what looked suspiciously like a dog collar. Donald frowned as she headed up the aisle. It would probably not occur to her to leave the rector alone until he had finished praying. Sure enough, she was already speaking when she was several yards from him.
‘Good morning, Mike. What a glorious day!’ Her voice cut Mike’s prayers off in mid-flow. He opened his eyes and sent up a quick last petition. For patience. His predecessor seemed to have thought a great deal of Judith and had recommended her as lay reader very highly. He had not disclosed until later that he had not endorsed Judith’s powerful ambition to become a priest herself and that his lack of recommendation had contributed to the Director of Ordinands turning her down for selection, something which Judith was not going to forget or forgive.
Mike rose to his feet and turned with a smile. ‘Good morning, Judith.’ Ushering her ahead of him towards the vestry so that they could robe in good time he saw out of the corner of his eye that a stranger had entered the church. That was a good sign. He was closely followed by two or three other figures momentarily silhouetted against the bright sunlight. Perhaps he had underestimated the size of the congregation after all.
Hiding From the Light Page 7
