While You Sleep

by Stephanie Merritt

  Charles made a non-committal noise. ‘It’s very explicit, you say? Unusual for a woman who would have been raised with such a strict sense of sin and shame. I wonder.’

  The wages of Sin is Death, Zoe thought. ‘Perhaps all that repression only made her fantasy life more dramatic,’ she suggested. ‘Forbidden fruit, and all that.’

  Edward turned to Charles.

  ‘What about this reputation that the house is somehow associated with sexual disinhibition?’ he asked, avoiding Zoe’s eye. ‘Did that come before or after the McBride story? I mean – could Ailsa have been responding to the atmosphere of the place, or at least influenced by its reputation?’

  Charles took another mouthful and chewed for a while, considering. ‘In its present form, I believe that aspect is a later embellishment. But that piece of land has always had curious associations. It was certainly a pre-Roman sacred site, with all the inevitable associations.’

  Zoe leaned forward. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Human sacrifice,’ Edward said, his eyes glittering with delight like a schoolboy’s.

  Charles pointed his fork at him. ‘You’re an educated man, Edward. You should know very well that there’s no conclusive proof to suggest that the Celts practised human sacrifice.’

  ‘But you said there were bones found there in the nineteenth century, when McBride pulled the old chapel down to lay the foundations,’ Edward protested. ‘They’re in the museum on the mainland.’

  ‘I also said there’s no reason to believe that they were the result of ritual murder.’ Charles glanced at Zoe. ‘Of course, the legends have more traction than historical evidence. Then there was a hermit living in the chapel in the twelfth century, a mystic, who supposedly resisted daily torments by demons in the form of beautiful maidens and wrote rather spicy poems about it. But I think it’s far more likely that if Ailsa found herself awakened in that respect, it was the influence of her husband’s pursuits. He could have conditioned her to expect certain results.’

  ‘His experiments,’ Zoe said darkly.

  ‘You haven’t told me about this.’ Edward sat up, alert. ‘I mean, I knew about the séances, but why would they have – that kind of effect on Ailsa? What was he doing – hypnotising her?’

  Charles took a long draught of wine. He appeared to be weighing his words. ‘I wouldn’t want to speculate further until I’ve had a chance to study the journal. By rights, I should send you both home this minute with a doggy bag so I can get to work.’ He smiled, but Zoe saw the hunger in his eyes, and recognised it; if he possibly could, he would have shut the door on them then and there. Ailsa’s book exerted a powerful pull on all those who came within reach of it.

  ‘I think Charles knows more than he’s telling us,’ she said.

  Charles turned to her, his eyes unreadable. ‘I think we should finish this up and have some apple crumble,’ he said, in a tone that gently but firmly closed the subject of Ailsa McBride for the present.

  It was almost ten thirty when Edward stretched and shifted in his place by the fire and murmured that he ought to think about getting back to look at his lesson plans for the following day. The crumble had been followed by coffee and a game of Scrabble in the living room, which Zoe had been persuaded to join despite her protestations; she had acquitted herself better than she had expected, though it became clear that the game was only the latest skirmish in an ongoing and fiercely competitive war between the two men, which Charles won comfortably – as, she gathered, was usual. She had enjoyed the good humour, the companionable sparring between them, but felt only half-present, watching the flames leap in the hearth as the wind rose outside, her mind tangled in thoughts of Ailsa and her book, and the nature of Tamhas McBride’s experiments, which Charles seemed so unwilling to discuss. Though she could hardly blame him for withholding, she thought, as she toyed with an unpromising row of letter tiles, since she was doing the same. He had subtly asked her more than once if she had experienced anything unusual at the house, and pride had made her lie to him. She decided to offer him a trade-off: her information for his. But this was not a conversation she wanted to share with anyone else.

  Edward hesitated, shrugging on his jacket.

  ‘I can walk you to your car if you like?’ It touched her, the studied casual politeness of his tone, that failed to disguise his eagerness. At the same time she felt a needling of anxiety; she hoped he would not expect to be spending the night with her as a matter of course.

  ‘I’ll stay and help with the dishes,’ she said. Charles caught her eye.

  ‘Well, that would be most kind.’

  Edward’s narrowed gaze flitted from one to the other. ‘Do you need me to …?’

  Charles held up a hand. ‘You have more important demands on your time, my friend. Young minds to be shaped. You are excused such mundane chores.’

  ‘Well, they’re only colouring in maps tomorrow, to be honest,’ Edward said, evidently fearful of being left out. But Charles insisted, ushering him out to the hall with a momentum that left Edward throwing her urgent glances over the old man’s shoulder, making a phone shape with his hand as the front door closed behind him.

  ‘Now then.’ Charles ran hot water into the deep porcelain sink and rolled up his shirtsleeves. ‘I’ll wash, you dry. There’s a clean dishcloth in the second drawer behind you. And then you can ask me about whatever’s on your mind,’ he added.

  ‘OK.’ Zoe found the cloth and took up her position by the draining board, determined to keep her voice steady. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts, right?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Or magic.’

  ‘Very sensible.’

  ‘But. The house. There are things I can’t explain.’

  ‘Ah.’ He passed her a soapy dinner plate and nodded.

  ‘What you said earlier – about people hearing voices in the wind because they’ve been alone for too long. That made sense to me. It’s a rational explanation, right?’

  ‘Quite rational.’

  ‘But I’ve only been there three nights. And last night I wasn’t even alone, and it still happened.’

  ‘I didn’t like to pry,’ he said, handing her a wine glass. ‘Careful with those, they’re very old.’

  ‘I mean, Edward came over for dinner.’

  Charles said nothing, though she caught the hint of an indulgent smile.

  ‘And then I wondered if these things are happening – the dreams, I mean, and hearing voices – because I’ve been told these stories about the house, so my brain’s conjuring them up out of nothing because I’ve been primed to expect them.’

  ‘Well, the human mind can play extraordinary tricks with perception,’ he said evenly.

  ‘But then, when I looked at Ailsa’s diary …’ She laid the dishcloth down and turned to face him. ‘I’ve been having these dreams, since I got here. Unlike anything I’ve had before. And they’re exactly like the dreams she records. But they started before I found the journal, so there’s no way I could have been influenced by it. So – how do you explain that? Since you know about this stuff.’ She heard her voice rise as she spoke, until she sounded almost accusing.

  Charles considered her calmly. ‘It may be that you are unusually sensitive to – atmosphere,’ he said, though the word seemed deliberately ambivalent. ‘That can happen if one is in an especially vulnerable emotional state.’

  She stared at him. ‘I’m not in a state. There’s nothing wrong with me.’

  He held up his hands in defence, his forearms sleeved in suds. ‘I meant only, being a long way from home. Away from your family.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about my family.’

  ‘Forgive me. I meant no offence. It’s the bad habit of those who live in a small community to speculate about what might lead a stranger here. We lack incident, you see.’

  She nodded, wary, and picked up another plate to dry.

  ‘That first night I arrived – you said everyone who comes here is running away fr
om something,’ she said. Charles acknowledged the truth of this with a tilt of his head.

  ‘Well – wanting space is not the same as running away,’ she continued. ‘You make it sound like cowardice, when sometimes it’s the opposite. People have their own reasons. It’s not for you to judge.’

  ‘Of course not. Again, I ask your pardon. I expressed myself clumsily. It’s true that distance sometimes brings clarity.’ After a pause, he added: ‘Though it’s also true that the things we try to distance ourselves from end up following us. It’s not always simple to escape.’

  Zoe did not reply. She felt that same unsettling sense that Charles knew more about her than she would have liked anyone here to know, impossible as that seemed. They worked in silence for a few minutes, broken only by the soft slosh of water and the chink of crockery.

  ‘But the house,’ Zoe began, after a while. ‘It feels like there’s …’ She broke off, unsure how to articulate it. ‘You don’t really think it’s possible for a place to hold on to – I don’t know what you would call it. Bad vibes doesn’t quite cover it, but you know what I mean?’

  ‘Are you asking if I believe a place can retain memories of events?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Charles put his cloth down and leaned against the sink. ‘You’ve heard of the genius loci, of course – the Roman belief in the particular spirit of a given place. The fact that it’s become a metaphor now doesn’t make it any less true.’

  ‘But there’s a difference, isn’t there? Between a bad atmosphere and actual spirits, the kind Tamhas McBride was trying to summon. You can’t really believe in that?’

  He sighed. ‘Zoe – when you’ve been around as long as I have and travelled as widely, you realise that most of what we importantly believe to be self-evident is built on sand.’

  ‘So what was Tamhas looking for?’

  Charles paused, peering ahead at the dark window as if the answer might be found in its depths.

  ‘This is conjecture, based on my own reading of certain references in the letters. I have no corroboration, though naturally I’m eager to see if Ailsa’s journal bears out my theory in any way.’ He glanced over his shoulder to the doorway, as if someone might be lurking there to snatch the book away.

  Zoe nodded, impatient.

  ‘Do you know what I mean by an incubus?’

  ‘Isn’t that a rock band?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’ He smiled. ‘The incubus is supposedly a night-demon who seduces women in their sleep and can impregnate them. The figure recurs through a number of mythological traditions – the earliest mention comes from Mesopotamia, but Saint Augustine and the medieval demonologists discuss them at length. Even King James, in his Daemonologie. They crop up in a lot of witchcraft trials, as late as the seventeenth century.’

  Zoe sucked in her cheeks. ‘Sounds to me like the Mesopotamians came up with a smart excuse for raping sleeping women.’

  ‘You may not be far wrong. One theory is that the myth evolved in societies where families would have slept in the same room, as a means of explaining away unwanted pregnancies. And later, in the Christian tradition, sexual desire, especially in women, was so bound up with the notion of sin that it often went hand in hand with accusations of heresy and congress with the Devil.’

  ‘But this is pure medieval misogyny,’ Zoe said, indignant. ‘I thought Tamhas was supposed to be an educated man – surely he didn’t believe this bullshit?’

  ‘Many of the leading Spiritualists were highly educated men – yes, and women,’ he added, seeing her expression. ‘Tamhas regarded himself and his fellow practitioners as pioneers. He was interested in testing the limits of human knowledge, like any scientist. And we mustn’t forget he had more personal reasons. He wanted an heir. He complains repeatedly to Lévi in his letters that his wife had not conceived after almost a year of marriage.’

  ‘You mean he was trying to summon one of these demons to get his wife pregnant?’ She stared at him.

  ‘I am merely saying I believe that could have been Tamhas’s intention, based on my reading of his letters. His writing is so carefully ambiguous it’s all open to interpretation.’

  She shook her head. ‘That’s the most insane thing I ever heard. Poor Ailsa – no wonder people talked about her having the Devil’s child. The servants must have figured out something weird was going on.’ She picked up the dishcloth, considering. ‘It’s strange, though – for such an intimate journal, it’s oddly cautious too. She never mentions her son or her lover by name, that I could see. There’s only one place where she refers to the boy as T.’

  ‘There was no name registered for the child in the parish records,’ Charles said.

  ‘So, it must have meant a lot to her to protect the boy’s father, if she was prepared to endure all these witchcraft rumours rather than identify him. He must have been someone important. What about the solicitor, Bonar? He had regular meetings with her, it seems?’

  ‘It’s a thought,’ Charles said mildly, though his tone suggested it was one he had dismissed.

  ‘How has no one considered this? It was probably him putting all the rumours about in the first place to discredit her, so he could save his reputation. Yes – it makes perfect sense.’ She stabbed the air with a dried fork, triumphant. ‘He was married. And he’d have known all the legal rights – towards the end, Ailsa says she’s afraid the child’s father wants to take him away. Maybe he was spreading the story that she was losing her mind so he could paint her as an unfit mother and get custody of the boy—’ She stopped, breathless. ‘What? What’s so funny?’

  Charles was smiling. ‘Nothing – I’m sorry. It’s only that you stayed behind because you wanted to ask me about things you couldn’t explain away. Now you’ve talked yourself back to an entirely rational explanation.’

  Zoe studied him. His expression was indulgent; he did not appear to be mocking her, though she could not help hearing a slight condescension. Eventually she laughed and shook her head.

  ‘Well, that’s your fault. I was almost ready to go along with the house having a memory, but the demon that impregnates you while you sleep was a step too far.’

  ‘I suppose that’s fair enough.’ He took the fork from her hand. ‘And now, you’ve been very kind, but I can manage the rest. I don’t like to think of you driving back too late.’

  ‘You mean, you want to get back to the book,’ she said, smiling. ‘Thanks for dinner. My turn next time.’

  An odd shadow passed across his face. ‘Oh, there’s no need for you to go to any trouble. It’s my pleasure to have guests. You’re welcome here anytime, you know. I do mean that.’ He flipped the dishtowel over one shoulder and walked with her to the front door. ‘I hope you’ll come back once I’ve had a chance to study Ailsa’s book, and we can talk more about it.’

  ‘What will you do with it? Will you give it to Mick?’

  ‘I must, in the end – it belongs to his family.’ He hesitated. ‘But perhaps you’d be discreet and not mention it to him just yet? It’s an important find – one that needs careful study. You understand that, I know. I’m sure you’d like the chance to look at it again.’ He raised an eyebrow, inviting complicity.

  ‘I’d love to. But really, I’d be happy to cook for you sometime too. Come and visit the house. You must want to see it, if you’re writing about all this.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve spent enough time at the McBride house over the years,’ he said. His gaze drifted as if to distant memories, before snapping back to her. ‘But it’s kind of you to offer. I wouldn’t like to put you to any trouble.’ He held out her jacket and helped her into it. Horace snuffled around her feet as she stepped out into a surprisingly cold wind, pulling her collar tight around her face.

  ‘Take care of yourself, Zoe.’ He laid a hand briefly on her arm; she thought she detected a note of urgency in his voice. ‘And Edward,’ he added, as she turned to go. ‘He’s more fragile than he appears, as lonely people oft
en are. Take care of him too.’

  She offered a curt nod in farewell, needled by the implicit reproach. But as she reached the end of the path she thought perhaps she had been mistaken, and what she had taken for disapproval was in fact concern, or a veiled warning.

  She glanced back at the gate to see Charles silhouetted against the warm light of the doorway, one hand raised in farewell, the dog wagging its tail slowly at his side, and felt the insistent prodding of unanswered questions about her host. She had found herself wondering about Charles all evening: his solitary, self-contained life, and the way he managed to appear so open and congenial while giving away so little of himself. There had been no evidence of children or grandchildren, past spouses, family or friends, neither in the form of photographs nor anecdotes. She had thought more than once that he might be gay, though he had said nothing to confirm that either; rather, he gave the impression of keeping himself separate from everyone, male or female, of holding back. She could not quite analyse why she had trusted him so implicitly, even from the beginning, and yet she had. It was not his obvious learning but the way he seemed to offer that far rarer quality, wisdom. Now she wondered if she should be more cautious. She questioned again what could have brought him here, this man of such broad horizons and experience, who could have chosen to make his home anywhere in the world. What was he running away from? She lifted her hand to mirror his gesture and watched as he closed the door to shut out the last of the light.

  The road out of the village took her along the green and past the School House. Its curtains were drawn and edged with lamplight; she slowed the car and considered pulling up outside, knocking on the door. Edward would not hide his pleasure in seeing her; she could tell him of Charles’s lunatic theories, they could laugh about them together, and she could offer her new conviction that Ailsa’s mystery lover was the lawyer, Richard Bonar. Edward would have Wi-Fi; she could search to see if there was any more to be discovered about Bonar, and even Google ‘incubus’, since she could not deny that she was curious to know more about Tamhas and his experiments. Edward would attempt to kiss her again, and part of her would welcome it. But as she drew level with the gate she looked away, set her gaze ahead and pressed the accelerator until the lights of the village faded in the mirror. What had passed between her and Edward last night, in the isolation of the McBride house, had seemed entirely inevitable, wildly romantic even, sparked into life by Ailsa and the erotic force of her forgotten writings. Zoe found she did not relish the thought of trying to repeat it in that dingy little cottage, with her car parked outside for all to see; having to sneak out in the same clothes the next morning, sheepishly, before the children arrived for school. It would seem squalid and desperate. Charles’s parting words had lodged a splinter of guilt in her mind too; though she had been tempted to tell him it was none of his business, he had only voiced what she was already uncomfortably aware of: that she must be careful with Edward. She must not use him as a distraction. Driving on past his house struck her as the responsible decision, and she was pleased with herself for resisting. Besides, Dan and Caleb would almost certainly be home from their weekend away by now; she could call, and the prospect of hearing her son’s voice spurred her to put her foot down.