While You Sleep

by Stephanie Merritt

  ‘Oh, OK. We’re back to the incubus, are we? I’d say that falls squarely in the realm of the impossible.’

  ‘Would you?’ He crooked an eyebrow. ‘In spite of everything you’ve told me?’

  A chill stole over her skin. ‘Yes. I mean, there’s the child. Who must have had a human father, whatever the legend says. I was reading your book about it last night.’

  ‘Oh? At Mick and Kaye’s?’ He had turned his back to refill the kettle.

  She frowned. An odd sensation spread under her ribs. ‘How did you know I was at theirs?’

  ‘You told me.’

  ‘I don’t think I did.’ Tired as she was, she felt certain she hadn’t said anything about where she had spent the previous night. Charles appeared not to have moved from his desk until she found him – he could not have spoken to anyone that morning.

  ‘Or else – I was at my desk most of the night. Perhaps I saw the Land Rover coming down the lane and returning late. That must have been it.’

  Zoe gave him a long look. An uncomfortable tension had entered the room, affecting their earlier ease. She pushed the plate of toast away. ‘You know Kaye says you’re psychic, right?’

  He laughed. ‘Dear Kaye. I’m afraid like many city folk she rather romanticises the history of the islands. She thinks anyone who was born here must be part Druid.’

  Zoe tilted her head. ‘You can’t blame her – it’s not like the islands don’t invite it. All those legends … I always thought, you know, when I was a kid and my grandmother told her stories, that there must be a kind of magic here. I guess that’s why I wanted …’ She dipped her head, left the thought unfinished.

  Charles gave her a searching look before returning his attention to the range.

  ‘True. Though Kaye would have us all cavorting around standing stones at the solstice if she could.’ With a deft movement he whipped out the next round of toast. ‘I’m flattered you read my book. Dare I hope it was in some way informative?’

  ‘I can see where the rumours around Ailsa’s son might have come from. The coincidences, I mean. The way the incubus is supposed to impregnate women with the – whatever the child is called.’

  ‘You mean the cambion.’ He nodded, reaching for a jar of dark home-made marmalade. ‘A child fathered by an incubus on a mortal woman is called a cambion. Always a male child, said to have certain distinctive traits. Merlin in the Arthurian legends was supposedly a cambion, hence his magical powers.’

  ‘But the legend says the baby appears stillborn. Then it’s mute as a child. Like Ailsa’s son.’

  ‘Until the age of seven years, yes. At which time he fully assumes his true nature and comes into his powers.’

  ‘Ailsa wrote in the journal that at seven years he becomes his father’s son. Towards the end she believes the boy is in danger, she says his father wants him, she makes him wear her cross for protection. Do you think …’ she hesitated, the hairs prickling on her arms ‘… she convinced herself that it was true? If she was losing her mind, maybe she really started to believe that her son was evil in some way.’

  ‘I think there is no doubt from the diary account that Ailsa loved her son fiercely and would have made any sacrifice for him. It also sounds as if she was suffering from some illness towards the end, and was terrified of what might happen to the boy when she was gone.’ Charles took a bite of toast, his eyes fixed distantly on the window. ‘As I said before, she wouldn’t be the first mother to kill a child considered abnormal, under the illusion that she was sparing him a lifetime of suffering. More than a lifetime, in this case.’ He turned back to her, his face grave. ‘The cambion is supposedly immortal. He ages, but cannot die or father children. She would have known the legend from Tamhas, I’m sure of it. Still, there’s one thing we have learned from the journal.’ He paused to pour another mug of tea.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The boy’s exact birth date. All Hallows, 1862 – a good six days before the date officially registered by Bonar. Which means the final entry with those ominous verses of Scripture was written two days before the boy’s seventh birthday.’

  ‘You think that’s evidence that she killed him? To save him?’

  Charles held out his hands, empty. ‘I think it’s significant. Not conclusive either way. But I feel the journal is an extraordinary testament to a mind at its limits. It’s deeply disturbing to read. You must have found the same.’

  She nodded, hearing an echo of profound sorrow in his voice, and thought again how he seemed so much more invested in the story of Ailsa and her son than Mick, her direct descendant, who wanted only to disown her.

  ‘Will you tell Mick?’

  ‘In time, of course. I would like the opportunity to study it in more detail. Perhaps you would be kind enough not to mention it to him for a while longer?’ He lifted an eyebrow, looking for complicity.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Not that I suppose he’d have a great deal of interest, but he’ll worry about the content being made public.’

  ‘Would you do that?’

  ‘I couldn’t, without his permission. The book rightly belongs to him. That’s why I’d like time to read it thoroughly before he makes any decisions. I’m sure you understand.’

  She nodded, scraping her chair back. ‘I should get going. Thanks for the tea.’

  ‘Zoe – there is one more thing.’ He stepped forward, as if to intercept her. ‘Humour an old man, will you?’ He fixed her with his serious blue gaze; she felt a flicker of alarm. ‘There is an influence in that house that I believe is dangerous. It drove Ailsa McBride to her death. Perhaps you might reconsider whether it’s wise for you to stay on there. A woman in your position—’

  The muscles tightened in her jaw. ‘What position is that, then?’

  He sighed. ‘Alone. A long way from those you love. You may be susceptible.’

  ‘Susceptible. You mean you think I’m crazy like she was.’ She stared him down.

  ‘I meant only, in your circumstances, there would be no shame in choosing—’

  ‘You know nothing about my circumstances. Unless – have you been spying on me? Googling me?’ She exhaled hard through her nose, trying to keep her composure. ‘Jesus, what is wrong with this place – don’t you understand privacy? Can’t any of you leave other people the fuck alone? What’s funny?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Charles suppressed a smile. ‘Says the lady who walked into my house while I slept.’

  ‘You left your door unlocked! Anyway, I was worried about you.’

  ‘And I’m also concerned about you. I’m not interfering for my own amusement, I promise you.’

  ‘You think I’m nuts.’

  ‘Far from it.’ His face grew serious. ‘I think you could be in danger.’

  ‘You’re not the first person to tell me that. Mick warned me there are people in the village who want to scare me off.’

  ‘I’m not one of them. But you were right to say earlier that I know more about the story than Mick. On the strength of that knowledge, and the evidence of the journal, I’m asking you to trust me when I suggest you think carefully about staying there alone.’

  ‘Come back with me and have dinner tonight, then,’ she said, folding her arms. She thought she saw him flinch, so quickly she could not be sure.

  ‘I don’t think we ought to give the gossips any more ammunition, do you?’ He gave her a paternal look, gently chiding. ‘Besides, I have a lot of work to catch up on. Thank you for the offer, though.’

  ‘You won’t, will you?’ she said, a knowing smile stealing over her face. ‘You won’t set foot in that house. You’re scared.’

  He lowered his eyes. ‘Let us say that I also regard myself as susceptible in some ways.’

  ‘So you are psychic.’

  ‘You see, I knew you were going to say that.’

  They looked at one another; Zoe caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth and burst out laughing. She put her hand in her pocket and c
losed her fingers around the cold metal of the broken padlock.

  ‘I know exactly what I have to be afraid of in that house, and I’m going to deal with it,’ she said, determined.

  ‘Very well. But since I can’t accept your kind invitation tonight, let me send Horace in my stead. He’ll even bring his own food.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Zoe glanced down. The dog was lying on the floor under the table. At the mention of his name, he raised his head and thumped his tail on the floor. ‘I’d love to have him, but – he won’t like to be away from you, will he? He’ll be miserable – I couldn’t do that.’

  ‘He’s a trouper. He’ll do what’s asked of him. Won’t you, old chap?’ He reached down and scratched the dog between the ears. Zoe privately doubted whether ponderous, faithful Horace would prove much of a deterrent to someone like Dougie Reid – she could not imagine him leaping for an intruder’s throat under any circumstances – but the dog’s presence might at least lend her a shot of courage, and she was grateful for the offer.

  On the doorstep, Charles handed her a bag containing dog food and Horace’s favourite blanket. Horace himself seemed quietly accepting of his secondment; he stood beside her, gazing wistfully at his home.

  ‘You can always call me, you know,’ Charles said, his face earnest. ‘If anything disturbs you. Anything at all.’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind. So you don’t think I’m crazy, then?’

  ‘Not in the slightest. I think you’re as sane as I am.’ His blue eyes glinted in the low light. Zoe smiled.

  ‘I don’t know if that’s reassuring.’

  At the gate she turned to look up at the house. The long window on the first floor at the front must be Charles’s study, where she had found him. A thick screen of pine trees inside the garden wall shielded the house from the lane. He could not possibly have seen Mick drive past last night, much less have identified who was in the car. That same unease tightened in her sternum; not for the first time, she found herself questioning her instinctive trust of the old bookseller. Horace nudged her leg with his nose, as if to reprimand her for such disloyal thoughts.

  16

  In the last light of the afternoon, the saloon bar of the Stag appeared stale and shabby. The tarnished horse brasses arrayed above the bar; the worn carpet patterned to disguise decades of stains; the sepia prints with their faded mounts, depicting the fishing industry of yesteryear: all wore a self-pitying air of neglect by day that she had not noticed in the hot crowds of her previous visit. Two elderly men slumped in a window seat, clutching full pints on a table slick with spilled beer, rheumy eyes glued to a soundless shopping channel with subtitles on the wall-mounted television. The ghosts of woodsmoke and old cigarettes lingered in the air. Behind the bar, Annag Logan clicked her thumbs furiously on her phone, barely raising her eyes to register Zoe’s entrance.

  Horace trotted ahead to the back door and turned to look questioningly at Zoe, evidently on his way to Charles’s bench in the garden.

  ‘Hi,’ she said brightly, though the girl had clearly decided to ignore her. ‘Is Mick around?’

  ‘Nope.’ More clicking. Zoe leaned forward and saw coloured shapes zipping across the screen.

  ‘Well, do you know where he is?’ She was determined to keep her temper despite the girl’s manner, though Annag’s words, as reported by Robbie, ran through her mind like a news ticker.

  ‘He’s away to the mainland.’ Annag bothered to look up for this; she clearly wanted to see how it landed.

  Zoe felt a flicker of fear. She folded her fingers around the broken padlock in her pocket. ‘I didn’t know. When’s he back?’

  Annag shrugged. ‘Tomorrow, maybe. Or Wednesday. Can’t remember. He’s gone to see the brewery. He usually stays over a bit, goes to the cash and carry and that.’

  ‘OK. Thanks. Is Kaye here, then?’

  This time there was a distinct hesitation. ‘She’s at a rehearsal. With the band.’

  ‘Where?’

  She could see Annag wrestling with herself, could tell how much the girl wanted to tell her to mind her own business. Zoe laid her hands flat on the bar and leaned closer. ‘It’s important,’ she said pleasantly, locking eyes until Annag flicked her gaze back to her game.

  ‘At the school hall. You’ll know where that is.’ There was no missing the malice in the last words. Don’t rise to it, Zoe told herself.

  ‘Thanks. Come on, Horace.’ She clicked her fingers. Horace lumbered to his feet and padded over to her. She had not thought it possible for a dog to roll its eyes, but Horace seemed to favour her with a particular expression of weary tolerance that was as near as dammit.

  ‘Must get spooky out there all on your own,’ Annag remarked, as Zoe reached the door.

  She turned. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Why’ve you got Horace, then?’

  Zoe forced a smile. ‘Company, I guess.’

  ‘You’re no short of that, from what I hear.’ The girl’s attention was deliberately fixed on her screen.

  ‘Do you know the house well, Annag?’

  ‘What?’ Her head jerked up; she stared at Zoe.

  ‘Are you familiar with the McBride house? Have you spent much time there?’

  ‘No.’ The girl’s small eyes shrunk further; her face had grown wily and guarded. She even put the phone down. ‘Why would I want to go there?’

  ‘It’s very beautiful. A lot of bird life.’

  She saw no spark of recognition; Annag only returned her stare with the same careful blankness.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I thought maybe you liked seabirds?’

  ‘Do you like them?’

  ‘I’ve kind of gone off them.’

  ‘Well, you’ve come to the wrong place, then.’ She resumed her game, to demonstrate her lack of interest in the conversation. She was good, Zoe thought; if Dougie had roped Annag into helping him, she was not going to give it up that easily.

  ‘You should probably take your little brother to the doctor, by the way,’ Zoe remarked, as she was leaving. ‘That cut on his face looks nasty.’

  At this, Annag raised her head. ‘He’s a clumsy wee bastard. He’s always falling off things. You should probably mind your own business.’

  ‘OK. Here’s an idea. Why don’t we all try doing just that?’

  She pulled the pub door closed behind her, but the victory of the last word felt hollow; a pulse of anxiety started up at her temples. If she had achieved anything, it was only to set Annag more determinedly against her by suggesting she knew who was behind the gull incident. She regretted mentioning Robbie’s bruise, too. Families were tight-knit here; she should have realised that any attempt at interference from an outsider would only meet with a closing of ranks. But the real unease, she realised, as she opened the passenger door for Horace like his personal chauffeur, came from the knowledge that Mick was away from the island. If anything happened in the house that night, no one was coming for her.

  On her way to the school she stopped and swore loudly, causing Horace to prick up his ears like a maiden aunt; in the heat of her exchange with Annag she had forgotten her intention to ask for the Wi-Fi at the pub. She could hardly go back in now and ask a favour; it would have to wait until she had spoken to Kaye.

  It was almost four when she reached the school hall; the children had long gone and she could hear Kaye’s laughter as she pushed the door open into that familiar smell of floor polish and gym shoes. Edward stood under the semicircular window at the end tuning his violin, his eyes closed, the last light of the afternoon gilding his hair. She allowed herself to watch him for a moment, conscious of the whispers and glances of the other men as they unpacked their instruments. Belatedly, she wished she had thought to put on make-up, and found herself ridiculous for thinking it.

  ‘Kaye! Annag said I’d find you here.’ She made her voice brisk and cheerful, to quell any doubts about her reason for showing up. But she could not suppress the small charge of excitement when Edward snapp
ed his eyes open and turned to her with a smile disarming in its frank pleasure at seeing her. She acknowledged him with a brief nod. ‘Can I have a quick word?’ She lowered her voice and gestured Kaye to the door.

  ‘Course. Back in a jiff, fellas.’ Kaye took her by the elbow and led her into a corridor lined with children’s paintings carefully mounted on coloured sugar paper. Zoe tried not to look at them. The stick figures surrounded by spiky trees and wobbly seas made her think of Caleb, with a predictable pull in her chest, but they also reminded her of the sinister drawing left in her sketchbook.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve come – I was going to ring you after this,’ Kaye said, squeezing Zoe’s arm, her fingers now plated with long silver rings. In her bold eye make-up and fuchsia lipstick she appeared entirely alien from the soft creature of the night before in the fluffy robe, a Valkyrie armoured in Celtic jewellery. When she next spoke, she lowered her gaze; the purple glittering lids and thick lashes a shield against evident embarrassment. ‘Do you want to stay at the pub tonight? You can come for dinner. I think it’s best.’

  ‘Uh – well …’ She was going to explain about Horace, but Kaye cut in.

  ‘It’s only – this is a bit awkward, I wasn’t sure if I should tell you, but – I had a phone call. From your husband.’

  ‘What?’ Zoe stared at her.

  Kaye glanced up in discomfort. ‘He was a wee bit worried about you. He said he hasn’t been able to get through on the number for the house and he’s left messages but hasn’t heard back.’

  ‘But – how did he get your number?’ Anger spread coldly through her limbs; she felt her fists curl. Dan must have found a way to look through her computer again before she left, though she had changed her password after the last time.

  ‘I thought you must have given it to him, for an emergency contact.’ Confusion clouded Kaye’s face. ‘Maybe he got it from the website, then. Anyway, he only wanted to check you were OK – he said you hadn’t been well lately, so he asked if …’ She tailed off, seeing Zoe’s expression. ‘I know – they’re babies, aren’t they? I take the girls to my folks’ for a couple of weeks in the summer and, honest, Mick’s on the phone every five minutes – he cannae work the drier, where are the spare towels, all that. I’m like, you’re forty-six, man, did you no manage to wash your clothes before I came along? Actually, I’m no sure he did.’ She laughed, trying to lighten the mood. ‘It’s like having an extra child, I’m no kidding. Sounds like yours is the same, eh?’