The rest of that evening was spent leafing through old family photographs. We started with the snaps of our honeymoon, but that led to others, and finally to the photographs taken the previous Christmas. Instead of upsetting her, those last pictures of Naomi seemed to give Laura a sort of peace. Not even the presence in them of the man and woman or the two girls could alter the fact that Naomi appeared, laughing, smiling, happy. I think Laura would have accepted anything just to see Naomi again.
We went to bed late and, for the first time in over two months, we made love. It was the saddest lovemaking we had ever known, an affirmation of the flesh, an unmaking of Naomi’s death. It lasted a long time. Afterwards, Laura wept, the first time she had cried properly since hearing of Naomi’s murder. I held her until she fell asleep. Then I fell asleep myself, still holding her, drifting into darkness, naked, unable to dream.
I was wakened by Laura shaking me by the shoulder.
‘Wake up, Charles. Wake up for God’s sake.’
‘What is it?’
It was pitch-dark. I remember feeling groggy, as though I had had too much to drink. Laura was sitting bolt upright on the bed beside me.
‘Listen,’ she whispered. ‘Listen.’
I felt the room grow quiet as her voice faded.
‘What . . . ?’
‘Shhhh.’
I listened. The quietness grew around me. I could hear my own breathing, the thudding of my heart. Deep down in my stomach, I could feel the start of fear. And then I heard it, the sound Laura had been waiting for. A child crying. In the room. In the darkness, unseen but perfectly audible. The sobbing of a child.
Laura’s hand tightened on my arm. Before I could stop her – and what did I know, why would I have stopped her? – she spoke.
‘Naomi? Is that you, Naomi? Speak to me, darling. Is that you?’
The crying stopped. I had never felt so terrible a silence. I wanted the crying to stop, I did not want to think what it meant.
‘Naomi? Speak to me if you can hear me.’
The silence stretched into minutes. Every hair on my body was standing on end. I did not know which was worse, the crying or the silence it had left behind.
‘Naomi, darling, there’s nothing to be frightened of, I’m here.’
A sound of stifled sobs, someone breathing heavily, the darkness so full I could have screamed for air.
I switched on the light. It was sudden and white and harsh. All my life I had dreamed of a light that would take away darkness as that light did. I breathed it in, deep into my lungs like air, it was almost scented, I wanted all of it.
There was no one there. The room was empty. Facing us, Laura’s dressing-table with its bottles and jars sat immobile. In its round mirror, I saw my face reflected. Our clothes lay scattered across the floor where we had left them in the quickness of our embrace an hour or two earlier.
Suddenly, I felt a blow, then a second, then a third. Before I had time to catch my breath, Laura was astride me, her arms flailing, pummelling my face and chest, her face contorted, her breasts swinging with the violence of her movements.
‘Fuck you!’ she was shouting. ‘Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!’
Her punches were heavy and painful. Her ferocity overwhelmed me, I was powerless to stop her hurting me.
‘She was here!’ she screamed. ‘Here in this room! And you frightened her away. You little fuck, I could kill you! Just like you killed her.’
In desperation, I grabbed for her arms, and with an effort forced her sideways, making her topple. The bedclothes pinned me in, making it impossible to squirm out from under her, to use my superior weight and strength as counterbalances to her frenzy. She seemed to have enough strength for two women, or three. I am not a strong man, not an athlete; it was all I could do to keep her blows from my face, much less overpower her. My nose was bleeding, and my lower lip. I felt blood on my tongue and cheeks.
At last, I freed my legs from the bedding and succeeded in getting my right knee against her hip. As I pushed her on to her back, she began to kick, then tried to knee me in the groin. I could hear myself screaming, ‘Stop it! Stop it!’ But she went on struggling, as though she were possessed.
And then, as I straddled her, something awful happened. Like a blow on my already battered body, I felt a rush of lust. In a matter of seconds, I was no longer trying to calm Laura, but to make her submit while I made love to her again.
No, that’s wrong, there was no love in it. These sudden feelings bore no relation to those I had known earlier that night, no resemblance to anything I had ever experienced. I wanted to possess her, that was all.
No, not quite all. In the same instant I knew I would kill her too. It was a double lust, and I could scarcely distinguish between the two. I took such strength from it, such rage, such arrogant perfection. Laura was weakening now. Her own passion had left her as quickly as mine had come, as though one had given way to the other.
‘Charles! You’re hurting me! Let me go! I won’t touch you, let me go.’
But I forced her down, using my body like a weapon, forcing her legs apart with my knees.
‘Please don’t!’ she cried. The terror in her voice roused me more than ever. ‘You’re hurting me!’
At that moment, there was a terrible crash, as though something had exploded. Instantly, the rage and the lust left me. It was as though the explosion had been caused by its bursting out of my body.
I fell forward on top of Laura, sobbing. We lay like that for a long, long time, like spent lovers, aching from the bruises we had just inflicted on each other. Eventually, I rolled over on the bed.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
Laura had pulled herself upright.
‘Look,’ she whispered.
I dragged myself to a sitting position beside her and followed her pointing finger. Everything on the dressing-table – perfume bottles, jars of oil, cosmetic boxes – had been swept off the top and flung with incredible force against one wall. The mirror was smashed. Not cracked, but broken beyond repair into tiny fragments. There was glass everywhere.
We clung together tightly, needing each other more at that moment than we had ever done, more even than at the time of Naomi’s death. Neither of us said a word. Perhaps we feared our own voices. We fell asleep like that, worn out by love and anger and an upsurge of lust that I could not begin to understand.
I must have turned off the light before falling asleep. I remember waking in the darkness, cold and apprehensive. I had a feeling of weight, as though something were pressing on my chest, like an iron band. Laura had rolled away from me, taking most of the bedclothes with her. I could not feel the warmth or weight of her body beside me. A voice was whispering in my ear. A man’s voice, gentle, very gentle, sweet as honey, but the most hateful voice I had ever heard.
‘I cannot be calm, sir. Your wife is most delightful, sir, but she must be stopped. You will have to stop her any way you can. Then you may have all the flesh you want. Quantities, sir, quantities. I will see they disrobe for you, sir. But you must stop her first, if not with words, then the old way. We’ve done it before. Doing it’s not the worst.’
It was not a dream, though I thought at first it was, that I was only part awake. But the voice continued, insinuating itself into my consciousness as clearly and as distinctly as though it were passing through my ears. And all the time the pressure on my chest kept up, choking me, making it impossible for me to move.
Abruptly, the voice stopped. I heard a sound like a hissing in my ears, then nothing. Simultaneous with the return of silence, the weight left me. I lay for several moments, catching my breath, then turned to rouse Laura. My hand encountered sheets and blankets, but not my wife.
‘Laura?’ I sat up, feeling a sudden sense of panic. My hand reached out clumsily for the light, fumbling and slipping in the darkness. When I pressed the switch and looked, I saw that the bed was indeed empty. Laura was nowhere to be seen.
At that moment, I
heard a sound above me. A sound of feet, moving in the attic. And with them, something else. The sound of a heavy object being dragged along the floor.
13
Dear God, the clock has stopped. I wound it yesterday, it has no reason to stop now. Of course, it may mean nothing. But the silence feels charged. How I wish I could leave this house. How I wish I could leave.
I found Laura in Naomi’s room. She was playing with the doll’s house, one that my father had made in his spare time for Naomi. She had been three and a little young for the house, but he had wanted her to have it. He had modelled it on one he had seen in the toy museum at Wallington Hall in Northumberland, modifying the design of the original to make his version a more or less exact replica of the house in which we lived.
Laura was speaking to herself in a low voice. At least, I thought then that her whispers were intended for herself. I know better now, of course. They were meant for Naomi. And quite possibly Caroline and Victoria, though I cannot be certain. Not that it matters now.
She held little dolls in her hands and with great exactitude was disposing them through the rooms of the tiny house. Naomi had long ago named the dolls. I did not then know with what precognition. Charles and Laura and Naomi, of course. And Caroline and Victoria, ordinary names that had signified nothing. And Dr and Mrs Liddley, which had made us laugh. Sweet Jesus, made us laugh! We wondered where on earth she had dreamed up such names.
I took the dolls from Laura and led her from the little house. She followed me without protest, like an obedient child whose playtime has ended. We went back to bed, but neither of us slept for the rest of that night. There were no further sounds from the attic, nor did I tell Laura that I had heard any. On the floor by the dressing-table, fragments of glass lay glinting in the cold electric light.
The next morning, Lewis arrived shortly after nine o’clock. I introduced him to Laura. There seemed little point in continuing the charade. I told him that Laura had seen the photographs. That was later, when she was out of the room. I mentioned to him that there had been some I had kept back. It was then that he told me quickly what he had seen in the shots developed the day before, the ones he had telephoned about.
‘They followed you to Egypt,’ he said. ‘All of them. Including Naomi. They seem to pass . . . from state to state. Sometimes quite normal, as they would have been in life. Sometimes as they must have been at the time of death. Sometimes without real form. It’s as though they’re constantly slipping and sliding.’
I shuddered. I did not ask to see any of the photographs.
‘What about the attic?’ I asked. Laura was making coffee. We had a few minutes.
His face went ashen. He looked round at the door.
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘We’ll hear her coming. For God’s sake, tell me what you saw.’
By way of answer, he reached into a briefcase he had brought with him and brought out a small packet of photographs. I noticed that his hand was shaking.
‘Last night,’ he said, ‘before I rang you, I thought I was going crazy. Whatever you do, don’t let your wife see any of these. She looks all in as it is, if you don’t mind my saying so. These here’ – he tapped the little portfolio – ‘could send her straight over the edge.’
He slid the packet across the coffee-table.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘They won’t hurt you. You’re in broad daylight. I clapped eyes on them in my darkroom. I could have done with somebody with me, believe me.’
I opened the packet and took out the first photograph. At first I thought there had been some mistake. It was not our attic at all, but another room, a strange room, one I had never set foot in. For one thing, it seemed longer than the attic. The walls were covered in a drab, light-brown paper, there were dull-looking rugs on the floor, pieces of heavy, antiquated furniture in random groups. And the light – the light was wrong, it belonged to another season. Midwinter, perhaps.
‘There’s no mistake,’ said Lewis. ‘It came off the same roll of film as the rest. You’ll see.’
More shots of the same faded, unfamiliar room. Vivid, full-colour photographs taken with a modern camera, and yet nothing modern about the room. In one shot, an oil-lamp was burning, and for some reason the light seemed much less pronounced, as though hours or days had passed since the first shot and it had grown close to evening. I felt, I do not know why, a sense of great melancholy in the scene, as though the room into which I was gazing were imbued with a very deep sadness. The furnishings were shabby, ill-proportioned, unaesthetic. Even the light seemed tainted by its passage through the air of the room.
Lewis laid a hand on my wrist. A fingernail grazed the bone.
‘Go easy, now,’ he said.
In the next photograph, the room had changed. A chair had been thrown on its side. The rugs had been rolled up, leaving bare floorboards. And the walls . . . The walls were smeared with blood. No, not smeared, washed. The blood seemed fresh, as though someone had just painted the walls with it. Quantities had dripped on to the floor as well.
‘Go on,’ whispered Lewis.
A different angle. Blood on the walls as before, but a different light. Two indistinct shapes in the foreground. I looked more closely. Two children, girls. They were naked, crouched on all fours, and very thin. One stared at the camera, one at the floor. There were traces of blood on their skin and in their long, matted hair. And their narrow necks were encircled by leather collars, the collars fastened to chains. I thought I recognized them, I knew I had seen them before,
‘Yes,’ said Lewis. ‘The same.’
I stripped that photograph away, uncovering the next. Only one little girl in this one, the older of the two. She was naked as before, but drenched in blood. She was . . . What shall I say? What may I dare to write? I will mention only her arms. They were lifted towards me, towards the onlooker. Lifted in a mute gesture of . . . what? Rage? Appeal? Repulsion? Enticement? The hands had been severed at the wrists. Not hacked away, but severed with what looked like surgical precision. That is all I will say. That is all I have the courage to say.
Laura’s feet sounded in the corridor. There was a sound of crockery tinkling. Quickly, I gathered together the photographs and passed them back to Lewis, who slipped them into his briefcase. Laura called. I got up to open the door. As I reached it, a wave of the purest nausea swept over me. I did not make it to the bathroom. Instead, I threw up my breakfast halfway up the stairs.
When I returned, I pretended to Laura that my stomach had been reacting to the strains of the night before. She did not believe me, of course. She glanced at me and Lewis as though she suspected us of some gross infidelity. I took a cup of coffee and forced it down, sip by bitter sip, unsugared, as black as my mood. Lewis had the courage I lacked.
‘Mrs Hillenbrand,’ he said, ‘I have just been showing your husband some more photographs. They were taken yesterday in your attic. They contain . . .’ He hesitated. ‘Let us say that they are deeply disturbing. I have not shown Charles the worst of them, not by any means. But you have witnessed the effect of those he has seen.’
Laura said nothing. He went on:
‘I think you have two choices. The first is that you leave this house now, today, as soon as you have packed. Find an agent, put the house on the market, get it off your hands. Start a new life for yourselves somewhere else.’ He paused.
‘That is your first option. Unfortunately, it may leave the situation unresolved. Whoever comes here after you may very well find what you have encountered.’
‘It has not been so very terrible,’ Laura said. ‘I see no reason to leave home on account of it.’
‘No,’ Lewis answered. He was very calm. He had thought this through. ‘You are perfectly right. So far, nothing very bad has happened. It is more a question of nerves than anything. But now something has happened to disturb the equilibrium. That something was, I suspect, your daughter’s death. Before that, you were not troubled. These – what shall we call them
? – images, phantoms, whatever, were present, not just here, but wherever you and your husband went. Venice, for example. And other places too, I am sure.
‘But after Naomi’s death, they seem to have become more visible in and around the house. Charles tells me you have actually met and spoken with the little girls.’
Laura nodded. I’m not sure, but I think she shivered. More fear in the memory than in the act. Lewis went on.
‘In the photographs from Egypt and those taken here, they are beginning to shift.’
‘To shift?’ Laura’s eyebrows went up a fraction. Was she humouring him even then?
‘To move between different states. To show themselves in more than one guise. The little girls especially, but also the woman in grey and your daughter. They change form, I will not describe how. But if you were to see them in their . . . altered states, you might raise your eyebrows less.’
So, he had noticed after all. Well, he was no slouch, our Mr Lewis. An unreformed Welshman and a former alcoholic, but sharp enough for all that.
‘The man is different,’ he continued, ‘though he too shifts after his fashion. The rooms are also capable of transformation.’
‘The rooms? How do you mean?’
‘I have photographs of this room,’ he said. ‘It is the same room, but as it might have been around the middle of the last century. Perhaps a little earlier. That, at least, is my guess. In one of the photographs, the woman is sitting in a chair. Just over there, by the window.’
He pointed and our eyes followed his finger. I shivered, thinking that she might be there now, watching us. Lewis continued. He still addressed himself mainly to Laura.
‘There have been . . . manifestations,’ he said. ‘Both of you have heard sounds. Yesterday, your husband and I visited the attic. We sensed . . .’ He stopped, grasping for a way to express what it was we had experienced.
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