by Sarah Rayne
That day in Messina, there was one moment when I was in a broad street, with bustle and shops and people, and then the next moment I was in a dark narrow alleyway in the shadow of one of the ancient cathedrals. There was a service going on inside the cathedral. I could hear faint chanting voices and the sonerous notes of an organ. It sounded as if they were reciting the General Confession. It was in Latin, of course, and although I’m no scholar in the accepted sense, I remembered enough of my schooldays to translate most of it. Mea culpa, they were chanting. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa . . . And even though the darkness had its teeth and claws into me, I stood there in that ancient corner of an old city, my mind splintering with pain, and found myself asking forgiveness for what I was going to do. It was very nearly medieval behaviour, like those sly, venal priests who traded in indulgences and sold pardons before the sin was committed. Like building up a credit balance with God. But I stood there and thought – God forgive me for what I can no longer help. Then I went, like that poor wretched creature Edward Hyde, deeper into Messina’s Old Quarter to slake the hunger and reach the peace that always came afterwards.
I found what I wanted quite quickly. Any city has its women of the streets, and ports probably have more than most. The alley I entered was narrow and sunless, with tall deserted buildings on both sides, warehouses of some kind, their windows boarded up. Arched bridges spanned the street overhead and it was a slightly sinister place. But oh God, it was so very exciting to stand in a shadowy doorway, waiting. It was, in fact, an excitement that tipped over into actual sexual arousal. I write that without comment and once again the reader may judge me as he or she wishes. But I’ll wager that a great many murderers – and murderers manqué – go to their macabre work in a semi-erectile state. The books don’t describe that, of course.
As I waited, my heart thudding with anticipation, one or two people walked past, but I pressed back against the wall and none of them seemed aware of me.
There’s a line from some Shakespearean play, I forget which one, but it goes, ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes . . .’ Those words resonated through my mind and, standing there, I understood what Shakespeare, wily old bard, had meant, because between one heartbeat and the next, I knew, absolutely and utterly, that my victim was approaching. That’s something else the books about murderers don’t relate. That in the last few moments, an instinct – almost primeval – tells you your prey is within your reach. By the pricking of my thumbs, something tempting this way comes . . .
Footsteps, quick and light, came towards me and I felt my fingers curl into predator’s claws. This was it . . . In another few moments . . . I watched her walk along the street – there was a faint drift of cheap perfume, and anyone with half an eye could have seen she was a prostitute. She glanced over her shoulder as she went past the doorway where I stood – the quarry scenting the hunter, you see. That pleased me because her fear would lend an edge to what I was about to do.
I stepped out of the doorway before she could reach the far end of the alley, and caught her up. When I put my hand on her arm she turned sharply and fear showed in her eyes, so I smiled and held out a handful of cash. I have no idea how much money I was actually offering her, but the faint fear was instantly replaced by greed, so it was probably quite a lot.
Neither of us knew the other’s language, and although I dare say I could have made myself slightly understood with a few Italian phrases, there was hardly any point, and the language of money is universal. She looked at the money, then she looked at me and nodded. She glanced up and down the street, which was deserted, then up at the buildings. Apparently satisfied, she pointed to the doorway where I had been standing.
If I had been in my normal frame of mind I would not have considered, for a moment, performing that act in such a public place. I’d like that understood. But as it was, I pulled her into the shadows and pushed up her skirt, unbuttoning my trousers with my free hand. Then I backed her against the wall and we strained and heaved and sweated together in that doorway. But since it’s no part of this journal to record what it has pleased someone to call the slaking of fleshly lusts, I shall merely say the encounter was brief and achieved its culmination. Even with the lure of the money, she flinched several times, and once, just as I reached a climax, I slammed into her with such force she cried out in pain.
On a purely physical level I was satisfied. But on a wholly different level – on the dark plain where my other self walked – there was more I had to do to her. I had to. It was the only way to slake the insistent hunger and appease the agony in my head.
I did it there in the shadowy doorway, closing my hands round her neck – rather a coarse-skinned neck she had, I remember – and pressing hard into her windpipe. She choked and spluttered, flailing at me with her hands, trying to gouge my eyes, the vicious little slut. But I was too strong for her and within minutes spittle was running from her mouth and, as she jerked and fought, urine streamed down her legs and splashed over my shoes. That’s from the spasms that strangulation causes and it’s something that nearly always happens. In fact, I remember once in London— But I was much younger then and not so experienced.
It was only when her tongue started to protrude from her mouth and her eyes rolled up that the darkness began to loosen its grip. I let her fall to the ground, fastened my trousers, sufficiently calm by this time to feel annoyed at the mess over my shoes; they were handmade leather, bought in Jermyn Street. It was my own fault; I should have known better than to wear them.
I stepped back into the sunlight, and went briskly along the alley, back towards one of the cathedral squares. You’ll note that I had no concern as to whether I might have left any damning evidence behind me – that’s the weakness in my armour. Anything could have fallen from my pocket or my wallet that could have identified me when the girl’s body was found. That’s why I never made an attempt on Crispian during one of these darknesses.
Later
When I sat down to make this journal entry it was night-time. But now, as I set down my pen, I realize I have written all night, for I see that a thin dawn is breaking and it’s the start of a new day. A new day. When I began writing a description of the Messina episode, I had a hundred and eight hours of life left to me. Now I have ninety-eight.
Chapter 12
The Present
Everyone in Upper Bramley and the surrounding villages agreed it was a relief when Priors Bramley was finally pronounced safe and wholesome.
The news Ella had been dreading came on the final day of the decontamination operation. She had tried to pretend nothing would happen – that the body of the man would be too deeply buried, or the cleaning project would not go as far as Cadence Manor. But here it was, as clear as a curse, setting the little town buzzing like a hyperactive wasp. Human remains had been found, said people excitedly. Only a collection of bones, but unmistakable. No, it was not known precisely where the bones were – the police had not released much information yet. But the body was thought to have died around fifty years ago, so clearly someone must have been in Priors Bramley that last day – perhaps somehow trapped – and maybe overtaken by the tainting chemicals.
Even Upper Bramley’s bored teenagers were sufficiently roused to take an interest, because this was the grossest thing you could imagine. A degree of rivalry sprang up among the fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds, as to who could tell the most ghoulish story about corpses with acid-corroded faces who wrapped bony fingers around people’s throats and crushed them to their fleshless chests. The Red Lion, as usual alert to local mood and hearing this version, took spare-ribs off its menu and substituted vegetarian flan.
On the day the discovery was announced, Derek brought the details home, and told Ella about it over supper, which Amy had cooked and Ella suspected she would not be able to eat. But Derek, eating Amy’s chilli con carne with what Ella felt to be insensitive enjoyment, reported that the entire council offices were agog over the ne
ws. The body was no more than a cluster of bones, of course, said Derek, but there were rumours about some of the bones being damaged.
‘Does that mean it was a murder?’ said Amy, wide-eyed.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Ella at once. ‘He might have fallen downstairs or something.’
‘ “He”?’
‘Or she. Figure of speech.’
‘Actually, I believe it is a man’s skeleton,’ said Derek.
‘Wouldn’t it be cool if it turned out to be one of that old family who lived there?’ said Amy. ‘The Cadence lot. You always hated them, Gran. Maybe a black sheep turned up and one of the po-faced Cadences clonked him on the head. Or it was an illegitimate son who had to be silenced to protect the family’s reputation. Or even—’
‘The Cadences had long since gone by the 1950s,’ said Ella repressively. ‘It won’t be that.’
‘A man in my department said the police are going to do DNA and dental tests,’ said Derek.
With Derek, there was nearly always a man in his department or in the Operatic Society or the Gardening Club, who knew more than anybody else.
Ella said, ‘Probably it’s just some old tramp who didn’t know about the Geranos experiment.’
‘And thought he’d found a good place to spend a few nights?’ said Amy.
‘Yes. They’ll never be able to identify him, not after all this time.’
‘This man at the office thinks they’ll use carbon dating.’
‘Carbon dating is a bit of a blunt instrument for anything after about 1950,’ said Amy. ‘Radiocarbon concentration was hiked up after then because of the thermonuclear bomb testing, specially in the northern hemisphere.’
‘My word, imagine you knowing things like that,’ said Derek admiringly. ‘They’re saying the bones were found in the old lodge house,’ he added. ‘A man in my office was talking to one of the CID chaps.’
Ella felt as if cold water had been flung straight in her face. She only just managed not to gasp. ‘Did you say the lodge? The body was found in the lodge?’
‘Yes. What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. Just that I thought somebody said it was in the manor house.’
‘No, definitely the lodge.’
The lodge, thought Ella. But we left the man’s body inside the manor house. It was wedged in the chimney shaft – wedged in very tightly, as well. My mother saw it there, for goodness’ sake. She told me so. It couldn’t have moved, not unless . . .
She shut this thought off at once, but it was several moments before she could focus on what Amy and Derek were saying – something about dating bones by some scientific process Ella had never heard of. Amy appeared to know quite a lot about this.
Derek listened carefully, then said, ‘Well, this man in my office says—’
Ella could not stand hearing what the boring man in Derek’s stupid office had said. She said, very sharply, ‘I should think a second-year student of archaeology would know more about dating human bones than a council accounts clerk.’ Derek and Amy both stared at her for a moment but Ella was not going to back down. She said, ‘You were sounding very teachy, Derek.’
‘Was I? Sorry,’ said Derek, mildly. He scraped diligently at his plate with his knife. Ella had tried to stop him doing that for years because cutlery against china made her teeth wince, but he still did it. ‘Is there any more of this, Amy?’ he said. ‘It’s very tasty. I didn’t know you could cook.’
‘I can do two dishes, chilli con carne and spaghetti bolognese,’ said Amy, getting up to spoon out more chilli from the pot, which was keeping warm on the cooker. ‘So make the most of it. But tonight I’ll even do the washing-up.’
‘Oh, your grandfather will help you with that,’ said Ella.
‘What’s wrong with the dishwasher?’ said Derek in a half-exasperated, half-humorous tone.
‘I don’t like putting the good china in it,’ said Ella, annoyed he had not noticed she had set out her nicest dinner service in honour of Amy’s cooking.
‘Oh. Well, sorry, dear, no can do on the washing-up front. Rehearsal night and I promised to give Yum-Yum a lift.’
It was irritating of Derek to be rushing off to his silly rehearsals, although admittedly he was directing The Mikado as well as being in it. Ella was torn between relief that she had apparently hidden her anxiety from him so well and annoyance that he had not sensed something was wrong.
Amy thought Gran had seemed a bit fed up this evening, which was why she had cooked her infamous chilli con carne. Gran did not seem to have much of a life, what with Gramps dashing off to rehearsals and talking about his office all the time, although she always said she was busy and Amy would be surprised at the hectic life she led. She had friends whom she met for lunch or coffee, said Gran, and then there was the reading group at the library and her gardening interests – she was on the committee of the Exotic Plants Society. And when the Operatic Society had a social evening she always helped with the refreshments.
‘But tonight I believe I’ll have a quiet evening, watching TV. I’ve got a bit of a headache anyway.’
‘OK, I’ll wash up, then go up to my room to do some work,’ said Amy. ‘I’ve got an essay I ought to finish for next term anyway. I keep putting it off.’
She went off to deal with the washing-up, leaving Gran to her headache. It was always very quiet in this house so Amy scooted up to her room to find some music to keep her company in the kitchen. She had managed to track down the music the trampman had talked about – The Deserted Village – and had booked it out to herself. It was classified in the library’s reference section as an old vinyl recording, but at some stage somebody had dubbed it onto a CD – probably in case the original disc was broken. She had been interested in that stuff about the echoes between the music and the poem and Priors Bramley, and she wanted to hear the music.
She slotted the CD into the little player Gran kept in the kitchen, pleased to think that if she did happen to see the man again at least she could make an intelligent remark about it.
The music was extraordinary. It was not the kind of stuff Amy would normally listen to, but it painted vivid images in her mind. Whoever had originally recorded it – and it sounded as if it had been about a million years ago – seemed to have done so purely to preserve it; there was no actual singing, just a piano and, once or twice, Amy thought, a violin and a flute and even some organ notes. She would have to get hold of the original vinyl disc if it was still in the library and see if there were any sleeve notes.
At first the music was a kind of merry hay-making, capering-peasants stuff. Probably the opera would have had gangs of village lads and lasses at this stage, with leather jerkins and dirndl skirts. There were tootling bird-chirruping sounds as well. But then it changed, subtly and gradually, and a threatening sound crept into the harmonies. Something’s approaching, thought Amy, standing in the middle of the kitchen, the teatowel in her hands. Something menacing.
The menace came sweeping in – huge resonating chords like a thunderstorm or like the seven-league boots of a giant stomping over the rural idyll, sweeping cottages and barns aside in order to build his own mansion. Amy found it vaguely frightening. Then, little by little, it trickled away, and an eerie, achingly lonely theme took its place. This is the deserted village at last, thought Amy. This is the sad, lonely place that rotted away, like Priors Bramley’s been rotting away behind barbed wire all these years. It’s the decaying Cadence Manor where that man in the photograph lived. And it’s the abandoned shops where nobody will ever sell bull’s-eyes or interlock vests again. And the old church, quietly dying from dry rot and nobody caring . . .
She would love to play this on a really powerful player with good speakers so that it would belt out the sounds and you would get the full impact of the menace and the huge swathes of heartbreaking loneliness smacking you in the face. She was just thinking this when Gran opened the kitchen door.
Amy turned to say she had finished the washing-up
. ‘So I’ll go upstairs and get to grips with my essay—’ She stopped. Gran was grey-faced and pinched-looking. The hand holding the edge of the door was white across the knuckles as if she was gripping the wood too tightly.
Amy said, ‘Gran, are you all right?’ which was a rubbish thing to say because clearly Gran was not all right at all. Oh God, was she having a heart attack or a stroke or something? No, surely she was too young for that, and Dad always said she was disgustingly healthy, would go on for ever, he always said proudly.
But right now Gran did not look as if she would go on for ever. In fact she did not look as if she would go on for the next five minutes. Amy, trying not to panic, returned the deserted village to its remote desolation by switching the CD off, pulled a chair out from the breakfast bar, and took Gran’s arm and guided her into it.
‘What’s wrong? Should I phone the doctor?’ Who was Gran’s doctor?
‘Of course I don’t need a doctor,’ said Gran, but it came out a bit tremulously. ‘I’m perfectly all right.’
‘You didn’t look it when you came in,’ said Amy. ‘For a minute you looked quite ill. Shall I get some brandy or make a cup of tea?’ Tea, strong and well sugared, was good for pretty much anything.
‘I will have a cup of tea,’ said Gran, and Amy filled the kettle, thankful for something useful to do. ‘I was just a bit surprised to hear that music,’ said Gran as the kettle started to mutter its way to the boil. Her voice sounded a bit stronger although her eyes were still blurry. ‘It came as a bit of a shock,’ she said, looking at the CD player.
‘It’s just some music somebody in the library mentioned,’ said Amy. ‘It’s called The Deserted Village so I was interested in hearing it because of Priors Bramley. It’s based on an old poem. But it is a bit spooky, isn’t it?’ The kettle boiled and she poured water into the teapot. ‘Have you heard it before?’
‘Yes.’
‘Really?’ Amy looked round in surprise.
Gran said with an obvious effort, ‘Somebody I knew used to play it – well, parts of it.’
