Hiding From the Light

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘Mistress, your father will be waiting. He will be worried.’ John Pepper’s voice interrupted her thoughts and she jumped guiltily. ‘In my view this place should be burned to the ground.’ He was just outside, on the path. ‘It’s imbued with her evil, so it is.’

  ‘That’s not true, John!’ she rebuked him sharply. ‘Liza’s not evil. She’s just an old woman who has done much good with her medicines. And you were fond of her yourself, not long ago if I remember rightly!’ Turning towards the door, she glanced once more round the low-ceilinged cottage room before walking out into the sunshine. It was only after he had pulled the door closed behind her that she realised she was still clutching Liza’s old bag.

  The crash against the window pane woke Emma with a start in time to see Min jump off the bed and up onto the sill where she sat, chattering angrily into the darkness. Presumably a bird had flown into the glass in the dark. Emma sat up uneasily, aware of the solid sleeping body still warmly beside her in the bed. It was comforting.

  She had been dreaming. She frowned. She had been dreaming about the house as it had been long ago. Even as she struggled to remember she could feel the bright sunshine, the smell of dry herbs hanging from the hooks in the kitchen ceiling, the darkness of the shadows, slipping away. She tried desperately to clutch at them, to fix them in her memory, but they had gone, leaving her full of unease. What was it that she could not recall? What was it that was so unpleasant it swam in her subconscious, leaving nothing but terror?

  Piers stirred beside her. ‘What is it, Em? Go back to sleep! We’ve got an extra hour in bed in the morning, remember.’

  She lay back against the pillows and stared towards the windows, watching the cat’s silhouette against the stars. The mist must have cleared. As she closed her eyes she found herself hoping she would go back to the same dream.

  40

  It was light when Emma next awoke, and she was screaming.

  ‘Emma! Em, for God’s sake, wake up!’ Piers was shaking her by the arm. ‘Em, what is it? What’s wrong? Have you got a pain?’

  She stared at him wildly and for a moment she didn’t recognise him.

  ‘Emma! Wake up! Em, are you all right?’

  ‘Piers?’ She clutched at one of the pillows and held it tightly to her chest. ‘Oh, Piers, I had such an awful dream.’

  He had climbed out of bed. ‘Poor old you.’ Coming round to her side he sat down beside her and put his arm round her. ‘Hey, you’re shaking. Come on, you’re all right.’ He frowned. ‘Em, you’re not still having nightmares about this place, are you?’

  She shrugged, sniffing. ‘It wasn’t about this house. Not really.’

  ‘Go on, then.’ He stood up and walked over to the window. ‘Tell me what it was about.’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s all a jumble. People riding. The chink of harness. The sound of horses’ hooves. Men, dressed in black, their faces so angry. So unforgiving. The terrible fear. And powerlessness.’ She was sitting up now, still hugging the pillow, and as he watched she began to rock back and forth, tears trickling down her cheeks.

  He sighed. ‘It is this damned house, isn’t it! Even now you’re here, it’s getting to you.’ He paused, expecting her to deny it. She said nothing.

  ‘Come on, Em. We’re awake now. Why not get up, have a shower, then we’ll have some breakfast. You’ll feel better once you’re up and about. I’ll go and put some coffee on.’ He hesitated. ‘There’s still room for you at home, you know. I’d love you to come back.’

  She threw back the bedclothes. ‘Piers – ’

  ‘I know.’ He turned towards the door, heading for the bathroom. ‘Thanks, but no thanks, eh?’

  ‘Piers, that’s not what I said. It’s just that this is my life now – ’ she called after him, but he had gone.

  When she ran downstairs he had been busy. ‘Coffee, toast, eggs, sunny side up.’ He grinned at her. ‘My God, you look awful.’

  ‘Thanks!’ She sat down at the table and glared at the plate he put in front of her. ‘Did you give the cats their breakfast?’

  ‘Of course.’ He sat down and leaning across he put his hand on hers. ‘I’ve been thinking about things while I practised my newfound culinary arts. I can see I’ll never winkle you out of here and, you’re right we should have a country cottage. And this one would be perfect. Come back to town, Em, and we’ll come down here at weekends. David Spencer rang me last week to ask after you. He said your job is still there for you. And you know you’re missing it, really.’

  ‘No, Piers. I’m not.’

  ‘Oh, come on. When we talked about it last night at the Wests – ’

  ‘We both saw the strain that woman was under. The exhaustion, the stress, the battle to be endlessly on top of everything. You know, Piers, when I first saw this house, I never thought about the job at all. It was irrelevant. It didn’t matter to me. Oh, yes, later, of course I thought about it. But not at first. Then, when I did spend those endless hours tearing myself apart about whether to do this or not, it was only because of the money. I could afford to buy the cottage, but could I afford to live here without a job? I’m not a fool. I know it’s unlikely that I’ll make a living out of herbs. But, do you know, it didn’t worry me. And it still doesn’t, and you know why? Not because David has given me some work, but because living in London – the lifestyle, the holidays, the restaurants, everything – is so expensive. Stop doing it all and there is no expense. Oh, I’ll have electricity, oil, council tax, all that, but it is minuscule compared to what you shell out on your flat and I can grow most of my own food. I still have some of my savings left and part of Daddy’s fund. If I’m careful I won’t need any more money. And no, I’m not bored. Or lonely.’

  Piers stared at her in silence. ‘You mean that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘What about Whiskas? You have two hungry cats to support.’

  ‘I’ll cope.’

  ‘And a pension? What about your old age?’

  ‘I’ll think of something. Listen, Piers. There is another way. You could come here. Join me?’

  ‘No way. I’m sorry. Oh, Em, I think you’re an idiot.’ He pushed away his plate, untouched. ‘There’s not much point in me being here even now, is there? It really is over. Your life is here now and you’re not going to compromise.’ He stood up.

  ‘Piers? Where are you going?’

  ‘Back to dreadful, expensive London.’

  Ten minutes later he was packed and climbing into his car.

  ‘Piers.’ She was trying to hold back the tears. ‘You can’t just go like this. Please. I want us to stay friends at least.’

  He paused and came back to stand in front of her. Catching her hands, he stared at her for a moment. ‘I hate to see you so unhappy, Em, but I can’t do anything about it, can I? You won’t let me. Liza’s has won. I’ll be there for you if you need me, but I’ll be in London, and …’ He hesitated. ‘Em, the offer is there now, but it might not always be that way.’ He shrugged. ‘A man can’t wait forever. Kiss the cats for me, sweetheart. And take care.’

  Whoever or whatever lived in the house with Emma had not bothered to try and scare Piers away. There had been no point. He was no threat.

  The house was unbearably empty after he had gone and there was no sign of the cats, so pulling on her jacket Emma walked down the lane towards the village. The air was cold and blustery and she walked fast, trying to blot out the loneliness and misery which had enveloped her. She wasn’t sure what she had expected of Piers, but not the terrible sudden finality of that goodbye.

  Walking down past the Maltings towards the Thorn Inn, she stopped to watch the water spouting from the beak of the swan fountain in the middle of its stone basin. Then she wandered down towards the quay.

  The mud glistened in the morning light and she watched the choppy waves running up the channel. A few boats still swung to anchor on the tide, but most had been taken out of the water for the winter. She stood, he
r hands deep in her pockets.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ The voice behind her made her jump and she turned to see Lyndsey standing a few feet away with her bicycle.

  Emma responded to the hostility in her voice with a wave of antagonism. ‘So, this is your private patch as well, is it? I thought anyone could walk on the quay.’

  ‘They can.’ Lyndsey’s face was wary. ‘I thought you’d come to look for me.’

  ‘No. Why should I?’

  Lyndsey shrugged. ‘No reason.’

  ‘You mean because you were so damn rude the other night when I thought you needed rescuing and was willing to risk life and limb to do it?’ Emma held her gaze.

  Lyndsey flushed. Then she grinned with a small shrug. ‘Something like that, I suppose. I’m sorry. I guess we frightened each other.’

  ‘Look, Lyndsey.’ Emma sighed. ‘I had forgotten that you lived here. Let’s start again. Do you want to come and have some tea or something in the café? I’m getting cold and there’s no need for us to be enemies, is there?’

  Lyndsey shrugged again. It seemed an all-purpose gesture with her, which could mean yes, no or maybe. She leaned the bicycle against the wall and they walked up the narrow street towards the old sail sheds which had been turned into workshops and galleries and boasted a small tea shop.

  Sitting by the window looking out across the full expanse of the river, Emma waited for Lyndsey to speak. When she said nothing, she sighed. ‘Alex was worried about you.’ Far out in the grey, white-topped waves the ribs of an old shipwreck stuck out of the water.

  ‘Alex is always worried about something.’

  ‘He seems to be a very kind man.’

  ‘He is.’ Lyndsey looked up at last. ‘He’s a good friend.’

  ‘He thought you’d disappeared after you ran out in the rain. He thought something might have happened to you. We both did.’

  ‘I went away for a bit, that’s all. I needed to think about what had happened.’

  Emma studied the other woman’s face. She was looking down at the table, idly drawing the teaspoon through the sugar in the earthenware bowl between them.

  ‘Why don’t you like me living at Liza’s?’ she asked gently.

  Lyndsey glanced up. ‘I have my reasons.’

  ‘I’ve known the house since I was a child, you know.’ Emma went on quietly. ‘I wanted it so much I left the man I love to come and live here.’

  ‘That was a stupid thing to do.’ Lyndsey’s face hardened.

  ‘Yes,’ Emma said bleakly. ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘So, why don’t you go back to him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  They eyed each other warily. ‘I’ve been having nightmares,’ Emma went on, almost to herself. ‘About the cottage. In the old days.’

  The spoon dropped from Lyndsey’s fingers, scattering sugar across the table. ‘Sorry, messy!’ She brushed the sugar onto the floor.

  ‘I will take care of the house. I do know how special it is,’ Emma went on. ‘And to be honest I’m not likely to venture into the churchyard. Especially not at night. Especially as it belongs to someone else.’ She shivered. ‘I really wasn’t spying.’

  ‘Good.’ Lyndsey narrowed her eyes, staring out of the window across the river towards the wreck. Above it a streak of blue sky had appeared between the torn rags of cloud. ‘I have good reasons to be there, and permission.’

  ‘I’m sure you have.’ Reasons like black magic. Spells. Emma found she couldn’t look Lyndsey in the eyes and ask what she believed and what she did. She looked so normal. Surreptitiously, she crossed her fingers under the table and suddenly she found herself wishing Piers was there too. How he would laugh if she confessed to taking tea with the local witch and how he would mock her if she told him she was scared.

  41

  Sunday afternoon

  As he had half expected on a Sunday, the shop was closed. Stepping out into the street, Mark looked up at the windows. There was no sign of life. Or anything else. He sighed. He could always go and beg a key off Stan Barker, but he wasn’t sure, now he was here, that he wanted to do that. The street was deserted. The brief few moments of sunshine had passed and soon it would begin to grow dark. Retracing his steps, he walked slowly up the High Street, crossed the road and walked back on the other side. Then, still on foot, he headed for Church Street and the rectory.

  Mike was once again in front of the computer. He led Mark into the study. ‘The only room with a fire,’ he apologised, gesturing at one of the worn leather armchairs. ‘I hate it when the clocks change. Suddenly winter is on its way with a vengeance and the nights start to get colder.’

  ‘You haven’t got to go and take a service or anything?’ Mark sat down. ‘I forgot Sunday is probably your busiest day.’

  Mike shook his head. ‘All the services are over. Have you been up to the shop?’

  Mark nodded. ‘I didn’t go in. The place was locked up and somehow I didn’t feel I wanted to.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Have you got a video machine?’

  Mike grimaced. ‘I’m not quite that out of touch. It’s in the sitting room. Through here.’

  The room was ice cold. Somewhere in the bowels of the house, the central heating was starting to clank into life but it would be a while before the heat reached this room. Mike drew the curtains across the large darkening windows and switched on the TV.

  ‘It’s not long.’ Mark slid the video out of its cardboard sleeve. ‘Only a few seconds.’

  They watched the relevant bit of film three times, then made their way back into the warmth of the study.

  ‘So.’ Mark threw himself down in his chair. ‘What do you make of it?’

  Mike propped himself on the corner of the desk. ‘It does look like something, certainly,’ he said cautiously. ‘I went over there, you know, after we spoke on the phone.’

  ‘And?’

  Mike didn’t answer for a moment. ‘I don’t know if there was anything there that I didn’t generate from my own imagination.’

  ‘You don’t sound very sure.’

  ‘No, well. It’s easy to get sucked into this kind of thing. Very easy,’ he said slowly. ‘There was a sense of evil there. Yes, there was. But it could have come, as I said, from my imagination. Then again, it could have come from Hopkins, or it could have come from the witches. Everyone assumes they were innocent. They might not have been.’

  ‘We’re coming back to do some more filming at the end of the week.’ Mark shook his head. ‘If that was a face on the film, it is potentially very exciting.’

  ‘If.’ Mike frowned uneasily. ‘It could just be a trick of the light, I suppose.’

  ‘It could be.’ Mark did not sound as though he believed it. ‘We’ll set up again. Same camera position. Same lighting angles. Same shadows, hopefully. See what happens. And I’m getting hold of some more sensitive equipment. We might even try EVP. Electronic voice phenomena. Ever heard of it? It captures ghostly voices outside the normal range of our hearing.’ He waited for a moment, watching his host.

  Mike had begun to pace up and down the worn carpet. He stopped, frowning thoughtfully. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think you should go back, Mark. Not to try and film again.’

  ‘So, you do believe it.’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t know what I believe. But I feel uneasy. Afraid, if you like. If that is a face, it could be anyone. Hopkins. A good witch. An evil witch. I don’t believe Hopkins was an intentionally bad man. I think he was sincere in his own way. I think he honestly believed these women were in league with the Devil. But whatever residues are left in that shop are best left alone.’

  Mark pulled a face. ‘I think Hopkins was a sadistic, vicious misogynist. I think he enjoyed torturing women.’

  ‘No.’ Mike shook his head. ‘No, he really thought they had congress with Satan. He thought that only repentance and death could save their souls. He did not enjoy hurting them.’ He was speaking more vehemently than he had intended. ‘He felt th
e evil that we’re feeling; he believed those old women were as guilty as hell.’ He wiped his forehead suddenly, astonished to find that he was sweating.

  Mark did not appear to have noticed. He exhaled loudly. ‘I’m not convinced. And I can’t believe you are. Not really.’ He grinned. ‘But, whatever one believes about the old women or Hopkins’s motives, surely it’s quite possible he is not resting quietly in his grave?’

  ‘It’s possible.’ Mike sat down opposite him. ‘You’re not recording this, are you?’

  Mark shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t do that to you.’

  ‘Good. Then I’ll be honest with you. I think it’s very possible. Too many people are thinking about him. All the time. The town doesn’t let him rest. He’s in the guide books. He’s in the pubs. He’s in the museum. You are making a film about him. The local witch is conjuring him in the old churchyard. This is not good news. The trouble is,’ he shook his head, ‘I’m guilty of it myself. I’ve picked up on the “vibes”,’ he waved his fingers in the air to denote inverted commas, ‘and I’m having nightmares about the man.’

  Mark raised an eyebrow. ‘You, too? Then talk to us for the film. I think it’s important.’

  ‘Unfortunately I can’t. I’ve been warned that the bishop would take a dim view.’

  ‘Perhaps we could persuade him?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Is there anyone else we could get to give the church’s side of the picture? I understand there are still exorcists around.’

  Mike grinned. ‘It’s called the ministry of deliverance now. And it’s a specialist division of the church.’

  ‘So, let me speak to the specialist.’

  ‘I’ll ask. That’s all I can do, I’m afraid. No promises.’