The Resurrectionists

by Kim Wilkins

  He lay in his own blood. The creature had gouged some sharp protrusion through his shirt and his flesh. Virgil was still conscious. His eyes were opened, he looked at the wound bewildered. I was at his side in an instant, my hands were covered in his blood, my skirts trailing in it. My mouth seemed to be stretched into a scream, a sob which would not emerge from my lungs.

  “Gette,” he cried. His body shuddered. He turned his bewildered eyes upon me.

  “Virgil,” I sobbed.

  “I’m going to die.”

  “I love you. I love you.”

  “Don’t let them put me in the ground here in Solgreve.”

  I was moaning and crying and could not heal his wound with my hands.

  “Promise me,” he said. Breathless.

  “Virgil, Virgil. Don’t die. I cannot bear for you to die.”

  He fell silent. My sobs shuddered in the night air.

  Yes, Virgil is dead. I watched the sun come up and I’ve watched it set and arise again and I am no closer to comprehension. His body is gone. The Reverend came for it. They will put him in the poor’s hole, and what am I to do? I have no money for a proper burial, for removing him to Whitby. I know he did not wish to be buried here, but Flood will surely not steal the body of one he knew in life. Even he must delineate a boundary he will not cross.

  I sometimes find myself thinking of these things: my husband’s burial; whether I can face Flood and whether he will give me Virgil’s money; how Henri and I can get out of Solgreve without the tailor or the glass man seeing us go. Mundane, trivial things. They give me a moment’s respite from the grief, but always lead me back there eventually, for it is the terminus at which all my hopes for the future are irretrievably halted.

  Henri cries and cries as though he understands what has happened. Were my heart not already broken, I might go to him and pick him up and do anything to stop the progress of his tears. But it seems somehow a fitting accompaniment for my mood. I let him wail his distress and I sit here mutely. For if I let just one sob pass my lips, my body would crack in two and the breach would be impossible to mend.

  Tomorrow is Christmas and Virgil is dead.

  And so I shall copy out the last of the sonnets which he wrote, and I shall pray fervently that his eternal soul has received a more gentle reception than that he anticipated.

  A brightly burning angel of the Lord

  Spread his blazing wings and ope’d his eyes;

  And fire licked round the edges of my soul,

  Tearing from my throat my ragged sighs.

  To my knees with wonderment I fell,

  And fear with frozen tread in my heart crept –

  The world with muffled heart-beats carried on,

  While “God forgive!” I wept, and wept, and wept.

  For not as watercolour to a child,

  Nor soft with whispered breath of Bible page,

  But sharp and hot with pain the seraph comes –

  A messenger of grievéd Father’s rage.

  And though it is of mercy that he sings,

  I find my spirit crushed between his wings.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Maisie bit her lip and blinked back tears. Sacha was still reading part two of the diary. She laid the section she had just read on the floor and stood. Sacha looked up.

  “Any answers?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. But it’s very sad.” Her voice trembled, she took a big breath.

  “I’ll try to read faster.”

  “Take your time, I’ll go cook something for dinner.”

  He smiled. “Just not instant noodles.”

  “When have I ever given you instant noodles?”

  He returned his attention once more to the diary and Maisie went to the kitchen. Tabby followed her and nudged emphatically at her empty bowl. Distracted, Maisie pulled the cat food from the cupboard and poured some out for Tabby. Flood had brought pagan priests back from the dead? That fitted with Cathy’s information that Solgreve had once been a sacred pagan site, but it didn’t fit with any kind of rational position. Virgil may have been delusional. He believed that Flood was centuries old, so he was hardly a reliable witness.

  Maisie defrosted some chicken breasts in the microwave and leaned against the counter to think. Now was hardly the time to take a rational position. The Wraiths had been all over her house – but only two of them, not three – and she knew they were supernatural beings. Nothing human moved or sounded or looked like that. So they were still around, these phantoms that Flood had once summoned back from the grave. They had killed her grandmother just as they had killed Virgil, and they were still here. Was it the cottage? Did they have some kind of fascination with it? The microwave pinged and Maisie went about making a stir-fry, wondering who might have lived here between Georgette and Sybill, and if they’d also had problems with evil spirits.

  She was getting wine glasses out when Sacha came into the kitchen.

  “Finished?” she asked.

  “Yeah. You’re right. It’s too sad.”

  “I can’t bear to think of her pain.”

  “She’s long dead by now, Maisie. And at peace.” He walked to the stove and checked in the pan. “Can I do anything?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “I’ve got your jacket in the van, the one you left at my dad’s.” He jingled his keys in his pocket. “I’ll go get it.”

  “Sure. When you’re back dinner should be ready.”

  “Great.” He disappeared. She poured the wine, hesitated a few moments and then thought, dammit, she would light some candles. After all, sad tales aside, she still intended to elicit a romantic thrill out of the evening. She lit the candles, turned out the lights, and Sacha returned.

  “Here,” he said, handing her the jacket. As he did so, some change fell out of the pocket.

  “Thanks,” she said, hanging it over the back of her chair.

  He bent to pick up the change. “Candlelight dinner, huh?” He offered her the handful of coins.

  “Just put it in my purse.” She indicated where it lay on the bench. “The candles are just for atmosphere.” She felt embarrassed. Was is too obvious that she had romantic designs on him?

  “Is this Adrian?” He had flipped open her purse to put the coins away and caught sight of the photograph she kept inside.

  “Ah, yes.”

  “You look happy together.”

  “It was our third anniversary.”

  He looked up from the photo to her, then closed her purse and sat at the table. “Three years?”

  “Actually, nearly four,” she muttered.

  “Cathy likes him.”

  “Everybody likes him. You’d like him. He’s very easy to like.” She concentrated on serving their dinner. Trust likeable Adrian to make an appearance, albeit only photographically, just when she was entertaining another man by candlelight.

  “Are you going to marry him?”

  She sighed and slipped into her seat across from him. At length she answered him. “I don’t know. I suppose so.”

  “You don’t sound very keen. Do you love him?”

  She nodded. Kept her eyes on her food. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  “It’s all right,” he said, tucking into his meal. “I understand. How you can love somebody and yet not be sure. They don’t tell you that in movies or books – love is supposed to be this thing that obliterates confusion.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Still, if you’ve got something special with Adrian, you should protect that.”

  She looked up. He held her in his steady gaze. Was he warning her off? In that instant, she knew tonight would surrender no hot kisses, no murmured approval, no fulfilled desire. Before she’d even asked him, he was telling her no.

  “I know.”

  “The chicken’s good.”

  “Thanks.” She sipped her wine. Wished she could gulp down the whole bottle. The thought that her desire, her intentions, were transparent to Sacha made her feel
sick. She shouldn’t have lit the candles. What was she thinking? The problem was she wasn’t thinking. At least not with her head.

  “Is it okay if I stay a few days? I don’t have to go back to work until Wednesday.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll show you the little cave I used to play in as a kid. It’ll be fun.”

  Fun. Like friends have fun. Not the kind of fun lovers have. She forced herself to smile. “Yeah, that would be fun.”

  “Is everything okay? You seem a bit down.”

  She shrugged. “Just thinking about the diary. And about Sybill.” She looked up, embarrassed about the candles between them. “And what I can do about it.”

  “What we can do about it,” he said. “Between the two of us, I’m sure we can figure it out.”

  “Do you think it’s at all possible that the letter Virgil wrote is still tucked into the back of Georgette’s diary?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Because there might be more diary around here somewhere.”

  “Well then, that’s our first task.” He emptied the last of his wine and leaned forward to refill it. “Tomorrow, we start searching for diary number four.”

  They spent all day Sunday digging through the junk in Sybill’s cottage. Maisie got stuck into the masses of stuff stacked in the old desk in the back room, while Sacha went about tapping walls and checking behind recent fittings. They found nothing important, but had enough useless papers and books to build a bonfire in the early evening. They watched television together and had spaghetti on toast for dinner.

  Monday morning found them searching again, but by now Maisie realised she was soon going to run out of boxes of junk to sort. She had already done so much – half-heartedly though it may have been – since she first arrived. The cottage was starting to look almost spartan. Almost.

  In the late afternoon, Sacha came to join her in the back room. “Let’s stop for a while. Go for a walk.”

  “Fine,” she said, climbing to her feet and brushing dust off her pinafore. “You know, there may not even be another diary piece. Or Sybill may not have found it. Or it could be destroyed.”

  “I’ve thought all those things. But, damn, if we could get hold of that letter that Virgil wrote, detailing what Flood did…”

  “I know, I know. But we might have to accept that it’s not here.”

  She brushed past him and grabbed her coat, glove, scarves and hat from the bedroom. When she emerged, he too had rugged up against the cold.

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you the cave.”

  They locked the house and went through the back garden and into the wood. The air was freezing. Above them, no blue glimmered. All was white, as though the sky had fallen in. The sea breeze chafed their cheeks. Maisie pulled her hat down harder over her ears. As they approached the cliff-top in the sea wind, the cold intensified. She wasn’t so afraid walking through the wood with Sacha by her side. She stole a glance at him. He had pulled a grey beanie over his ears, and looked like a soccer hooligan.

  On the edge of the cliff they paused and gazed out to sea. The wind came in powerful gusts that filled her mouth when she spoke. “It’s pretty frigging cold out here.”

  “Don’t worry, the wind’s not so bad down on the beach.” He led her down the long, sloping path to the shore. She followed him, trying not to slip on loose pebbles. The salty sea air rushed around her, and the roar of the ocean nearly drowned out the sound of her own ragged breathing. A flock of seagulls shrieked past. On the shore, the wind was not so gusty, but the crashing waves shot up sprinkles of rimy dampness. They picked their way over the rocks, trying not to tread in the cold pools. Maisie’s nose started to run. She sniffed, wiped her glove across her face. Why did she never remember to bring a tissue?

  “It’s just up here a little further,” Sacha said. Maisie nodded. Her ears were aching. She followed him about ten minutes more and then they started to ascend another slope.

  “See?” He was pointing to a hollow in the cliff face.

  “Uh-huh,” she said. She was out of breath and her eyes were streaming.

  In a few moments he was helping her the last, steep few metres into the cave. It smelled musty and junk food wrappers had been plugged into the corners. But it was a welcome relief from the wind battering outside. Not even enough room to stand inside. They wriggled into the back corner and stretched their legs out in front of them.

  “I suppose we should have brought a picnic,” Maisie said.

  “Never mind,” he replied. “Isn’t this wonderful? You have a great view of the sea, but it’s mostly protected from the wind.”

  “It’s still cold,” Maisie said, surreptitiously wiping her nose on her sleeve. Then, realising she was whingeing, she added, “It is great though.”

  “I came here all the time as a kid. I even built a little fire once, but I smoked myself out.”

  “And what did you do when you came here?”

  “I just sat here to think. When I was about nine I wanted to be an inventor. I used to come here and imagine inventions.”

  “What kind of inventions?” she asked, removing her hat and self-consciously rearranging her hair.

  “Stupid things. Toys that could communicate with you and put themselves away at night. A dog-walking machine. I had no idea how I’d make them, I’d just imagine them.”

  “And you don’t still want to be an inventor?”

  He shook his head. “No. I don’t have a head for science. How about you? What did you want to do when you were little?”

  “I think I wanted to be a ballerina. I don’t know. It was decided for me really. By the time I was nine I could already play three instruments – cello, piano, and flute – and it was just a matter of finding out which one I’d be best at.” She leaned her back against the wall and they sat together in silence for a little while, watching the endless to and fro of the sea. But it was not a comfortable silence for Maisie. The sea made her feel restless, yearning. For what, she didn’t know. But it made it no easier that Sacha sat so close to her, his dark eyes fixed on some point beyond the horizon, his smooth cheek exposed to her hungry gaze.

  “The other night you said you understood about how confusing love could be,” she ventured. “Have you been in love?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m nearly thirty.”

  “Who was she?”

  “There have been a few.”

  She didn’t want to hear it, not really. She imagined these other women, capable of attracting Sacha’s love, must have been superior beings – all beauty and wisdom and smooth body parts.

  “Go on.”

  “The last time was with a girl named Vanessa.”

  A fitting name for a superior being, Maisie thought. She had been stuck with a grandma’s name, and other girls went around with names like Vanessa. She wondered if this was the girlfriend with the taste for Baudelaire. French poetry seemed like the kind of thing a girl named Vanessa would be interested in.

  “It didn’t work out?”

  “No. She wanted to get married and I didn’t, so she ditched me for some guy that did. I think they’re still very happy together. I probably made a mistake.”

  “Do you still miss her?” A tug in her heart. Not sympathy, just plain jealousy.

  “Not really. Sometimes.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. She wasn’t like me, really. She wanted different things, and perhaps if we’d stayed together we would have been miserable.” He turned to look at her. “Why do you ask?”

  “You asked about Adrian. I suppose I was curious.”

  His eyebrows drew almost imperceptibly closer, as though he was thinking, keeping her in his gaze. “Maisie…” he started.

  “Yes?” For some reason her heart sped a little. He seemed so intense.

  Then the intensity was gone. He shook his head. “No. It’s nothing.”

  “Go on, what were you going to say?” She now knew the meaning of the phrase, dying to know.

&nbs
p; “Nothing, honestly. Just me being stupid. Come on, let’s head home.”

  He helped her up and they began the hike back to Solgreve. What had he been about to say? Something inconsequential? It drove her mad…

  The air outside was positively crackling with cold by now, and tiny snowflakes started spinning out of the sky as they were walking up the front path of the house.

  “Snow!” Maisie cried. “I’m still so excited by it.”

  “Well, if we get a good layer, we’ll make a snowman tomorrow.”

  She unlocked the house. It smelled warm and inviting. “That sounds like fun.”

  He closed the door behind them and took off his coat. “If your phone bill can stand it, Maisie, can I make a few calls and see if I can track my mother down? I think we need her help. She might know if Sybill had ever found more than three pieces of the diary. She might know loads of helpful stuff.”

  “Sure,” she said, waving him in the direction of the phone. “I’ll start dinner.”

  She busied herself in the kitchen, cutting up vegetables and trying to keep an ear on what Sacha was doing. She could hear his voice, but not really what he was saying. In a few minutes he had joined her.

  “I found her. She’s on her way up.”

  “Up to Whitby?” Maisie asked, filling a pan with water and putting it on the stove.

  “She’ll probably come here. Is that okay?”

  “Of course? They were really close, weren’t they? Sybill and your mother?”

  “Yes. Ma first met Sybill when she was only a teenager. They told fortunes together in Scarborough for a few years before Ma went wandering again and Sybill came up here. They even shared a flat while I was away at school.”

  “I’m dying to meet her. I hope she won’t mind if I ask a million questions. When will she be here?”

  “Hopefully by the weekend. I’ll come back here after work on Friday to wait for her.”

  “Where will you both sleep?”

  “Hey, we’re gypsies,” he joked, “we can sleep anywhere.”

  The snow falling on the roof was not audible while Maisie was awake. But as soon as she slept, she could easily hear its soft whisper in the dark. She listened to it for a while, enjoying a feeling of peace, then realised she was dreaming. She was outside on the street, looking down at Sacha’s van and the cottage in darkness. The fire glowed somewhere deep inside the house.