While You Sleep

by Stephanie Merritt

  Copyright

  Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

  Copyright © Stephanie Merritt 2018

  Excerpt from A Book of Silence by Sara Maitland © Sara Maitland 2008

  Reproduced by kind permission of Granta Books

  Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

  Cover photographs © Dragan Todorovic/Trevillion Images

  Stephanie Merritt asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008248208

  Ebook Edition © March 2018 ISBN: 9780008248222

  Version: 2017-11-15

  Epigraph

  ‘When those are the very things one is hoping to escape from through silence, it is not at all surprising that one starts to see one’s longings as “works of the devil” and this sense of the demonic is itself intensified by the silence.’

  Sara Maitland, A Book of Silence

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Also by Stephanie Merritt (Writing as S. J. Parris)

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  It begins, they say, with a woman screaming.

  You can’t tell at first if it’s pleasure or pain, or that tricky place where the two meet; you’re almost embarrassed to hear it, but if you listen closer it comes to sound more like anguish, a lament torn from the heart: like an animal cry of loss, or defiance, or fury, carried across the cove from cliff to cliff on the salt wind.

  If you stand on the beach with your back to the sea, they’ll tell you, looking up at the McBride house, you might catch, behind tall windows on the first floor, the fleetest shift of a shadow. All the rooms dark through glass; not even the flicker of a candle, only the shape that shivers at that same window and vanishes, quick as breath, under the broken reflections of clouds and moon. They’ll say the woman’s keening grows louder as the gale seeks unprotected corners of the house, swirls around the pointed gables, shakes the weathervane on the turret and rattles the attic windows in their frames. But listen again; when the wind drops, there is nothing but the wild sea, and the occasional drawn-out moans of the seals beyond the headland.

  Only on certain nights, the islanders will tell incomers; when the moon is high and the air whipped up like the white-peaked waves in the bay. Be patient and you might hear her. Plenty will swear to it.

  The two boys crouch by a ridge of rocks at the foot of the cliff, watching the house. It is still half a ruin; naked beams poke into the moonlit sky like the ribs of some great flayed beast. They hesitate, each waiting for the other to move. They have come this far to test the old stories, they can’t lose face now. The summer night is mild and clear; too balmy for ghosts. They are girding themselves when the screaming starts. They turn to one another in astonishment; fear makes them giggle.

  ‘Let’s go,’ whispers the nimble, ginger boy. He has his phone in his hand, ready to capture it on film.

  But his companion has frozen to the spot, stricken, his eyes stretched wide and fixed on the house.

  ‘Come on, we’ll miss it.’

  The heavier boy retreats a few paces, shaking his head.

  The ginger one hesitates, his lip curling with scorn. ‘Pussy.’

  He sets off over the sand and marram grass to the half-open door, his phone held out at arm’s length. Left behind on the beach, his friend watches him disappear into the shadows.

  The waves break and retreat, over and over, dragging layers of shingle into the restless water. A new scream echoes across the beach, a child’s cry this time. The last traces of light ebb from the sky and behind the windows of the McBride house there is nothing but solid darkness.

  1

  The island appeared first as an inky smudge on the horizon, beaded with pinholes of light against the greying sky. As the ferry ploughed on, carving its path through the waves, the land took form and seemed to rise out of the sea like the hump of a great creature yet to raise its head. Bright points arranged themselves into clusters, huddled into the bay at the foot of the cliff, though the intermittent sweep of the lighthouse remained separate at the furthest reach of the harbour wall.

  The only passenger on the deck leaned out, gripping the rail tighter with both hands, anchored by the smooth grain of the wood beneath her fingers. Doggedly the ferry rose and fell, hurling up a cascade of spray each time it crested a wave and dropped away. Wind whipped her hair into salt strands that stung her lips; she wore a battered flying jacket and pulled up the collar against the damp as she planted her feet, swaying with the motion of the boat, determined to take it all in from here as they docked and not through the smeared window of the passenger lounge downstairs, with its fug of wet coats and stewed tea. Outside, the wind tasted of petrol and brine. She pushed her fringe out of her face and almost laughed in disbelief when the noise of the engines fell away and the men in orange waterproofs began throwing their coils of rope and shouting orders at one another as the boat nosed a furrow through oily water to bump alongside the pier. Two days of travelling and it was almost over. She tried not to think about the old saying that the journey mattered more than the arrival. She tried not to think about what she had left behind, thousands of miles away.

  The ferry terminus hardly warranted the name; there was a car park and one low, pebble-dashed building, the word ‘Café’ flaking off a sign above the door. She edged down the gangplank, pushing her wheeled art case in front of her and yanking the large suitcase behind like two unwilling toddlers, a travel easel in its holder unwieldy under her arm. Each time it hit the rail as she turned to wrestle with one bag or other, she was grateful that now, in mid-October, the ferry was not crowded, so that at least she did not have to worry about how many of her fellow passengers she had maimed in the process of herding her luggage ashore.

  At the head of the slipway she saw a man in a leather jacket, its zip straining over a comfortable paunch. He wa
s holding a home-made cardboard sign that read ‘Zoe Adams’; as soon as his eyes locked on to hers and met with recognition, he broke into a broad smile and started waving madly at her, as if he were trying to attract her attention through a crowd, though she was only yards away and the few remaining foot passengers had all dispersed. She smiled back, hesitant. He was around her own age, she thought; early forties, with thinning blond hair and a round, open face, cheeks reddened by island weather or a taste for drink, or perhaps both together. He approached her with an anxious smile.

  ‘Mrs Adams?’

  She hesitated. She could have let it go, but there would only be more questions later on.

  ‘Uh – actually, it’s Ms.’

  ‘Eh?’

  Zoe tilted her head in apology.

  ‘I’m not a Mrs.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looked afraid he had offended. ‘My mistake. You’re no married, then?’

  She made a non-committal noise and set down one of her cases so that she could stretch out a hand. ‘You must be Mr Drummond?’

  ‘Mick, please.’ He beamed again, grasping her fingers and shaking them with a vigour intended to convey the sincerity of his welcome. ‘I’m the one who’s been sending all the emails.’ He released her hand and held up the sign with a self-conscious laugh; the wind almost snatched it from his grip. ‘My wife’s idea. I told her, it’s no as if there’s going to be hundreds of them pouring off the boat, but she said it would spare you feeling lost when you first set foot here.’

  Zoe smiled. If only that were all it took.

  ‘It was very thoughtful of her.’

  ‘Aye, she’s like that. Kaye. You’ll meet her. Here, let me take those.’ He tucked the sign under his arm and hefted her cases into each hand, nodding across the car park to an old Land Rover, its flanks crusted with mud.

  Zoe looked back at the harbour as he loaded her bags into the trunk. Through the lit windows of the ferry she could see the shapes of people cleaning, swinging plastic bags of trash, ready for the return trip, the boat garish in its brightness against the encroaching dark of sea and sky. The gulls shrieked their tireless warnings. Here, the rolling of the waves seemed louder and more insistent, as if the sea wanted to make sure you did not forget its presence. She wondered if she would grow used to that, after a while. A faint wash of reddish light stained the line of the horizon, but it was too overcast for a proper sunset like those in the photographs. Still, there would be time.

  ‘Hop in, then.’ Mick held the door open for her. For one panicked moment she thought he expected her to drive, before she realised she had made the usual mistake. That perverse habit of driving on the left. Perhaps she would get used to that in time, too. The quick flurry of palpitations subsided.

  ‘Is it far, to the house?’

  ‘Five miles, give or take.’ He glanced over his shoulder, shuffled his feet. ‘Look – it’s been a long journey, I know, and you’ll be tired, but we wondered if you’d like to come by the pub for a wee drink before I take you up to the house?’

  Zoe began a polite refusal but he cut across her.

  ‘Thing is, we’ve music on tonight, local band, it’s a thing we do on Thursdays, so there’ll be a lot of folk out and we thought – well, it was Kaye’s idea – she thought it would be nice for you to say hello while they’re all in one place. Since you’re staying a while, you know. Only a wee glass.’ He twisted his hands together and looked at his boots before raising his eyes briefly to hers, as if he were asking for a date. ‘She’s dying to meet you,’ he added. ‘They all are.’

  Zoe sucked in her cheeks. Christ. She was far from dying to meet them, whoever they were; quite the opposite. She felt grimy and dishevelled from the overnight flight, the five-hour train journey and two hours on the ferry; she probably didn’t smell too fresh either, under all her layers. And the point was to be anonymous here, to slip quietly into her coastal house and be left alone. She had not come here to make friends. But it had been naïve, she now realised, to imagine that a newcomer to a small community, out of season, would not immediately become a subject of gossip and speculation. If she was going to stay here a few weeks, it would be wise not to offend the locals on day one.

  ‘I’m not really dressed for going out,’ she said, though the protest was half-hearted.

  ‘You’re grand,’ Mick said, giving her a cursory glance. ‘It’s no as if they’ll all be in dinner suits.’ He clicked his seatbelt. ‘Just the one. And then I’ll run you up to the house, I promise. We can leave all the bags in the car.’

  Zoe leaned her forehead against the window, the cold solidity of the glass reflecting her exhaustion back at her. Without make-up, the jet lag and all the sleepless nights of recent months were etched on her face, like a confession. Was that why she was so reluctant to go to the pub, she wondered – plain old vanity? Was it that she didn’t want to be judged by her new neighbours until she could at least brush her hair and paint some colour into her washed-out face? Of course, it could be a scam; she would blithely go in for one drink and when she came out there would be no sign of Mick or the car, or her bags. But if she was going to think like that, the whole thing could be a scam, as Dan had repeatedly pointed out. All she had seen was a website – an amateurish one at that – and a few emails. Maybe the house didn’t even exist. If that were the case, it was too late to worry about it now; she had already transferred the money.

  ‘Sure,’ she said, forcing enthusiasm. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Lovely. I wouldn’t hear the last of it from Kaye if we’d no given you a proper welcome.’ Zoe could hear the relief in his voice as the engine belched into life. ‘You’ll like it – they’re a colourful crowd. I mean – it’s no exactly the nightlife of New York,’ he added, as if fearing he might have created false expectations, ‘but then I suppose you’ve come here to get away from all that.’

  ‘I’m not from New York,’ Zoe said, watching the mournful lights of the café recede as he pulled away. Then, thinking she ought to offer something else, she added, ‘Connecticut. You’re not far off.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’ Mick turned out on to the main road. ‘Never been myself. America. I’d like to, mind. When the kids are older, maybe. Kaye wants to go to Nashville. She’s into all the country music and that, you know? Now me, I’ve a fancy for somewhere more rugged. Hiking, fishing, that sort of thing. I’ve always liked the idea of moving to Canada.’

  ‘So does half my country right now,’ she muttered.

  ‘Aye, the great outdoors,’ Mick continued, missing the point. ‘That’s where I’m at home. Can’t get my girls interested yet, though they’re quite into animals and all that. We get otters up here – you’ll maybe see some around the bay.’

  Zoe leaned against the window and let Mick fill the silence with his wilderness dreams. For as long as he was talking about himself or otters, he was not asking her questions. They passed through what she assumed was the main street of the town: a general store; a place that sold hardware, electronics and fishing supplies; a tea room; a bookshop; a few vacant shopfronts, the windows opaque with milky swirls of whitewash as if to veil their emptiness from public view. At the far end, the street broadened out into a triangular green with a war memorial in the centre, a school playground on one side and a small, plain church opposite. Mick swung the Land Rover to the right, past the churchyard, into a narrower lane. The cottages on each side lined up crookedly against one another, like bad teeth, but they looked snug, with lights glowing warmly behind drawn curtains.

  ‘Have you always lived here?’ she prompted, when he seemed in danger of running out of talk. He slid her a sideways look and she sensed that a certain wariness had descended.

  ‘Born and bred,’ he said. She was not sure if the note in his voice was pride or resignation. ‘Got away as soon as I could, mind. All the young ones do. But my mother passed away five years back and my da couldn’t manage the pub on his own, he was getting on, you know? So I came home. Brought my wife and daughters with me.’
He heaved a deep sigh. ‘Sometimes a place is in your marrow. It pulls you back. Nothing you can do about it.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Zoe nodded. ‘My grandmother came from this part of the world, actually.’

  ‘Is that right?’ He eyed her with greater approval. ‘So you’ve come in search of your roots?’

  ‘Something like that. I guess my Scottish blood’s pretty diluted by now. She married an Englishman. My mother grew up in Kent. I was born there too.’

  ‘I’d keep that quiet round here, if I were you.’ He winked. ‘You don’t sound like you’re from Kent.’

  ‘We moved to the States when I was a kid. My dad’s from Boston.’ She wrapped her arms around herself; the thought of her father speared her with a sudden pang of longing. No use thinking of that now. She forced a brightness into her voice, changing the subject. ‘So did the house always belong to your family? The one I’m staying in?’

  Again, that slight hesitation, the flicker of a glance, as if he suspected her of trying to catch him out.

  ‘Aye.’ It looked as if this was the extent of his answer, but as they approached a turning with a painted sign at the entrance showing a white stag on the crest of a hill, he cleared his throat. ‘But it didn’t come to me until my father passed on last year.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Zoe said automatically. ‘About your father.’

  ‘Aye, well, he was eighty-seven and still working, more or less – that’s no a bad run.’ Mick sniffed. ‘But he’d let the house go over the years. They all had. Took a lot of work to make it fit to live in. Don’t get me wrong’ – he turned to her with that same anxious expression – ‘it’s all good as new – better. I did most of the work myself – that’s what I used to do, down in Glasgow, you know – restore houses. It’s lovely now, though I say so myself. Well, you’ll have seen the photos on the website. They’re no Photoshopped or any of that,’ he insisted, a touch defensive.