‘No,’ said Parfrey. ‘No, I’m afraid not. Well, I must be off. Good night, Mrs. Follett. Lock your doors now.’
‘I will,’ she said with a faint grin. ‘Good night.’
She turned from the counter and was surprised to see that Scott had moved to the door.
He looked at her and shook his head slightly, as though surprised at something in himself.
‘Are you going, Mr. Scott?’ she asked, glancing at the untouched Guinness on the counter.
‘Yes indeed. I must. I must,’ he replied, with an edge of irony in his voice she couldn’t understand.
‘Chalk it up, George,’ he called to the barman.
Cal gave a short bark.
‘Good night, horse,’ he said. ‘And a good night to you too, Mrs. Follett.’
Then he was gone.
Am I going silly, thought Emily, as she sat down and sipped her drink. Or was that last farewell full of all kind of ironic stress and innuendo? But why should the revelation that I’m a Mrs. not a Miss send him off into the night like that?
She smiled to herself with little humour. In her small experience the fact of marriage usually seemed more of an attraction to men than otherwise. Experience without the risk of involvement. Almost an invitation, or perhaps a challenge. Unless they knew Sterne, of course.
Unless they knew Sterne.
Three men came in and noisily equipped themselves with beer and dominoes. One of them, a little square man with a brilliant bald head, approached her diffidently.
‘I wonder if you’d mind …?’ he said.
Emily was puzzled till she realised she was sitting at the dominoes table.
‘Of course not.’
She moved to the padded window-seat and felt something beneath her buttocks as she sat down. It was Scott’s book. She placed it on the window-sill. The men sat down to their game, leaving a vacant seat.
‘He said he’d be in tonight, didn’t he, Joe?’ said one.
‘Aye,’ replied the man who’d asked her to vacate the table. ‘Ask George if he’s seen owt of him, Dan.’
‘If you mean Mr. Scott,’ Emily found herself saying, ‘he had to leave rather suddenly a few minutes ago.’
‘Oh,’ said the one called Joe. ‘You know Michael, do you? Aye, he’s got an eye for a pretty girl.’
They all laughed without malice and Emily smiled with them.
Joe gave a glance at the others, then leaned over to her.
‘You wouldn’t play dominoes yourself, would you, miss?’
‘I have played. Yes.’
‘Would you care to join us perhaps?’
Emily’s first reaction was to say no. But then she shrugged and thought, Why not? She had nothing else to do and it was early yet to be going back to the cottage.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Just till someone else comes.’
She did just intend to stay a short while. They played a form of four-ended dominoes she was unfamiliar with, paying the winner a penny a spot with a shilling limit. For the first couple of games they broke her in gently, giving a commentary on the play and offering comments on her own dominoes. Then the serious business of the evening began and though there was a continuous exchange of comments and banter, it was a case of no quarter given. Rapidly Emily’s losses mounted to fifteen shillings. Then she began to get a grip on things and had reduced the deficit to seven when to her surprise and disappointment ‘Time’ was called.
‘Damn!’ she said. It was her ‘down’ next and she had hoped for another win.
The others laughed.
‘You’ll come in again, Em?’ asked Joe.
‘I’d like to, if I may,’ she replied.
‘May? You must!’ said Joe. Then in what might have been meant as an aside to the others or perhaps as a simple compliment, ‘You’ve got to admit it, Michael can pick’em, eh?’
‘Does he pick a great number, then?’ asked Emily, straight-faced.
‘Ah, that’d be telling!’ They all laughed as the group broke up. Scott’s book still lay on the window-sill. On an impulse she picked it up and stuffed it into her bag. It would offer an excuse to approach him again, though why she wanted to she couldn’t imagine.
Almost unknown to her in her concentration on the game, the bar had become very crowded and there was a great bustle now as people made for the door. There were several faces she recognised. Inwit was there, though he stared right through her with no sign of recognition. Old Chambers too, and one or two other vaguely familiar faces. But not Burgess.
‘Come along, Cal!’ she said. She had broken her rule tonight and let him stay with her in the bar. He had been very well behaved, though she had had to give him an admonitory jab with her toe when he showed interest in the casual offer of a handful of crisps.
It wasn’t till she stepped out into the warm night air and suddenly felt slightly dizzy that she realised all she herself had had to eat since a very light lunch was a couple of crisps. The three or four gins she’d taken would normally have had no effect whatsoever, but now they were jumping around in a very lively fashion in her head. In addition to her surprise she found she felt vaguely amorous. She stretched herself languorously, enjoying the sense of her young and fit body under the flimsy dress, then laughed as a car headlight caught her, and assumed a more decorous pose as she waited for Cal, who was relieving himself against the hotel wall.
I must be a nice object of sexual hypothesis, she thought. Attractive young woman, married, but without her husband, alone in a seaside cottage.
She laughed again. Oddly the thought of being alone in the cottage did not dampen her spirits at all.
Green man, she told herself, if I get my hands on you tonight, I might just eat you alive.
Carefully she ushered Cal along the short stretch of road they had to cover before turning off. Cars from the hotel were roaring away through the night towards Silloth and there was no pavement. But soon they turned into the dark unmetalled lonning which led down to the shore and the sea, and she was able to let go of Cal’s hairy mane and send him ahead.
The only light here had drifted millions of miles from the stars. A romantic thought, but not quite true, she told herself. It was just after 10.30 and there was still evidence in the pale blue fringe of the western sky that the sun was not long gone. The moon had still to put in an appearance, but was due pretty soon. From ahead came the constant unhesitating murmur of the sea. A soft breeze was blowing off it, bringing a subtle blend of ozone and the perfumes she had breathed so happily earlier in the day.
‘I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,’ she murmured, ‘nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs …. no, that’s hardly it. This is much fresher, less confined and stifling!’
She breathed deeply. Ahead she saw Cal’s silhouette pause as he reached the bottom of the lane. Left was the cottage, right were the paths along the Grune to the Point.
Again she became very aware of her body beneath her dress. Suddenly the thought of slipping out of her clothes and plunging into the water became very attractive.
You must be mad! she told herself, but at the same moment resolving to turn right and walk along the foreshore far enough to guarantee privacy. Cal would love it, she knew.
The dog seemed to have anticipated her thoughts, for after standing still for a long moment he himself had turned right and moved almost out of sight She could still see his hind-quarters protruding from the end of the hedge. He seemed to have stopped again.
Then suddenly he was barking furiously and making explosive gasping sounds while he rolled around, thrashing to left and right with all his great strength, on his back.
‘Cal!’ she called desperately. ‘Cal!’ And set off running with all the speed she could down the lane.
Her one thought was to get to her dog. Her blonde hair streamed out behind her, one of her sandals flew off, her handbag flew open as it whirled round on her wrist and its contents showered out behind her.
The dog had heeded
her cries, for he stood up as she approached, one huge paw brushing desperately at his face. For a second the thought flitted into her mind that perhaps he had stuck his nose into a nest of wasps.
Then as she reached the end of the lane a figure stepped out from behind the line of hedge and with a round arm swing punched her violently in the stomach.
She had often read of attacks on women, assault, rape, and had sometimes marvelled at the ease with which it seemed to have been done. Pridefully she had reckoned that she would give most men a very good fight indeed and on grounds of sheer logic she believed that rape while she remained conscious was impossible.
Now as she collapsed, retching, gasping desperately for breath, her arms and legs utterly disco-ordinated, she knew that she had lost, utterly and finally. Anything could be done to her. There were no powers of resistance left.
But the horrors had only started. A gloved hand was clapped over her eyes and rubbed violently to and fro. She had no breath for screaming, otherwise she would have shrieked so loudly they would have heard her across the Solway. Now she knew what had happened to Cal. Pepper. Rough raw pepper was being rubbed into her eyes.
She felt herself being turned over like a rag doll. Why oh why does anyone want to do this to me? she sobbed inwardly. Her bag was tom from her wrist. There was a second’s respite. Then the hands went under her clothes.
Now, she told herself, now it happens. I fancied a man, and now it happens. Blackness began to tide over her mind.
But another part of her thoughts seized upon the physical sensations the greater part of her being was shrinking from. The hands still had gloves on. Rough woolly gloves. Hardly the best dress for sexual assault. And their movements, though they ranged with indiscriminate violence over all parts of her body, were investigatory rather than sensual.
He was looking for something.
It only took him seconds to decide it wasn’t on her person.
The hands moved away.
She had almost managed to collect enough breath for a scream. She swung her arm up, feeling delight as she caught his face with her nails, and she opened her mouth to tear the silence apart.
He kicked her lightly in the stomach and the air expelled itself noiselessly from her lungs and her knees came desperately up to her chin again as the struggle to breathe renewed itself.
Her eyes were blinded by tears of pain as well as the pepper, and she could see nothing. But distantly she heard his footsteps moving away, not quickly like those of a man running from a crime, but slowly, deliberately.
Like a man looking for something still.
He’s looking for the stuff out of my handbag, she thought. If he doesn’t find what he wants, he’ll be back.
A little strength came back to her limbs, not enough to lift her up and carry her away, but enough, had she wished, to turn herself over, to move her wide-gaping mouth away from the clump of grass her face was pressed against. Every time she sucked in air, she sucked in the coarse, rough-edged blades. But she didn’t move. Movement might invite another blow in the belly. She had never before realised what a vulnerable part of the body the belly was. So large an area. So soft. So easily yielding. She could not bear another blow in her belly.
The tears streaming freely out of her eyes were carrying some of the pepper with them. Not that she needed pepper to make her cry. She felt as if she might cry for ever. But now she could see the grass as well as feel it, taste it.
Still she did not move. She was still in great pain, but it was nothing compared to the initial agony. Now she was aware of other things. The grass first. Then, through it, the sky. Spots of light. Stars. A summer’s night. Beautiful. The heavens are full of splendour. Tender is the night. The sound of the sea. A steady subdued noise but full of strength. Like a whispered roar. A late seagull mewed.
Please, please, she prayed, let someone come now. Let someone come down the lane. It’s not busy, but a lot of people use it. If I hear someone coming I can scream now. I’ll save it till I hear someone coming.
But suppose it’s him coming back. How will I know? How will I know?
With desperate caution she raised her head and tried to focus on the wedge of blackness which was the lane. She saw the lights of a car pass along the main road a quarter of a mile away. They just made her own blackness deeper, physically as well as metaphorically.
But perhaps he had gone. Perhaps she was safe.
Footsteps. Coming down the lane.
Now she was aware she need not have worried about how she would know. She knew all right. With no shadow of a doubt.
It was the attacker coming back.
She was still not ready to run. Not even ready to crawl. But she had to try.
She pushed her body away from the ground with her hands, like an athlete doing a press-up. But her last drop of strength was used in getting herself into a sitting position.
She could see him clearly now, in silhouette at least. He looked huge, outlined black against the star-spotted sky. Anyone would look big from this angle, some small area of stasis in her mind told her. But reason was no defence against the terror his bulk caused in her.
Suddenly another large shape moved forward between herself and the man. Cal, growling deep in his throat, still not recovered, but ready to try again.
Almost contemptuously the man drew a hand from his pocket and shook it over the battering ram of a head which was being thrust massively at him.
Cal’s growl turned into an explosive sneeze which in other circumstances she might have found comic. And even in these circumstances she felt a pang of quite unselfish distress as the animal once again began his blind pawing at his face, whimpering in pain and confusion.
Her arms were supporting her strengthless trunk. Her hands pressed hard against the earth, and under the left one she felt the hard smooth surface of a stone. It felt like one of the stones off the beach, all roughness worn away by years of movement backwards and forwards with the tide. Her fingers dug around it, trying to loose it from the earth.
God knows what I’m doing to my fingernails! She found she had time to think.
It was free now. Rather too large for her hand, but it was all she had. Use it as a club! she told herself. As a club!
But her nerve broke again at the sight of the figure now almost straddling her and she flung the stone with all her might.
Left-handed, from a sitting position, it wasn’t a bad throw. But not good enough. It struck him on the right shoulder and he clapped his hand to the spot, grunting pain. She couldn’t see his face, there was some kind of scarf wrapped round the lower part, but she sensed his features twisted with anger, and drew her knees up to her breast to protect her stomach.
From the gloom which stretched away to the Point another shadow detached itself. The attacker sensed it, paused in mid-blow, and turned, becoming motionless before the figure which moved now out of the edge of darkness.
It stood tall, clad in what looked like a single tight-fitting garment. In its hand was a short ungleaming sword.
Through her still streaming eyes Emily stared fascinated at its face. Whatever colour it was, it wasn’t white. If anything it was a dark shade of green.
Far away at the head of the lane she heard someone whistling gently, ‘Some Enchanted Evening’, and footsteps crunching on the loose pebble surface.
Now she could scream.
Her first high-rising shriek had not yet reached its crescendo when the green man stepped back into the night, her attacker stumbled away awkwardly towards the beach, and the footsteps in the lane broke into a run.
‘Emily! Emily!’ called a desperately anxious voice.
She did not reply, but let her scream die away to a thin bubbling sob.
‘Emily!’ he called again, unable to pick her out as she sprawled back in the grass.
‘I’m here, Arthur,’ she said, almost conversational in her exhaustion.
‘Friend, Cal. Friend,’ she added to the dog, who though obvious
ly still unable to see was growling once again.
Then, as. Burgess knelt beside her and gently raised her from the ground, she found herself weeping, not hysterically, but steadily, copiously as if it might go on for ever.
4
‘Your stomach will be a bit bruised and painful for a few days,’ said the doctor, ‘but there’s no permanent damage. Fortunately you’re obviously quite fit. Nice strong muscles.’
‘They felt like jelly,’ said Emily, pulling the sheet up over herself. ‘And Cal? What about Cal?’
The doctor laughed.
‘He seems to be managing quite well for himself. Mr. Burgess provided him with a bucket of water and he seems happy dipping his head into it, then shaking the surplus off on everything within a radius of twenty feet. But I’ll have a look at his eyes and apply a drop of something nice and soothing if he’ll let me. Now get some rest. I’ll be back to see you in the morning. I’m sorry I took so long getting here, but you came second in a queue behind a motor accident in the town.’
‘I’m very grateful to you, Doctor.’
‘A pleasure. Good night now.’
He gave a jaunty little wave and left. Emily heard him talking with someone outside, then the door opened again and Cal entered, his good eye rather red and inflamed, but obviously usable. He rested his head on her pillow and she had to roll away from his long red tongue.
Behind him came Burgess.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Hello.’
He sat down on the bedside.
‘Listen, Emily,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a word with Parfrey and, if you don’t mind, I’ll bed down here for the night, on the sofa next door, I mean. You never know. You might want something.’
‘Or somebody might want something from me,’ added Emily ironically. ‘No, I take your point. I’m very grateful. Please be my guest. Though what Mrs. Herbert upstairs will think I don’t know.’
‘Good,’ he said, standing up.
‘Don’t go yet,’ she said. ‘Stay till I go to sleep. I feel safer with you here. It’s a long time since I felt safe.’
A wave of self-pity rose in her. It was an emotion she had prided herself on avoiding in the past, but now the circumstances, combined with the lethargy produced by the pills the doctor had made her take, seemed to have broken down all the barriers of pride and self-sufficiency she had been at such pains to erect.
The Castle of the Demon Page 6