by Irene Black
Less than an hour later, she was awake again. The wind was howling. The old apple tree scraped at her window. From the far side of the garden came a rhythmic banging. Hannah knew at once what had happened. The shed door had blown open. It would drive her mad all night if she left it. She cursed and scrambled out of bed. Pulling aside the curtain of her bedroom window, she stared out into bitter blackness.
She only hesitated for an instant. The idea that someone might be lurking out there in the freezing night was absurd. She slipped on trainers and a coat and grabbed a torch.
She let herself out through the front door, turning on the outside light. The cottage was more or less in the middle of her plot, slightly more garden at the front than at the rear, where it backed onto a paddock. The shed was at the far side of what would have been the front garden had there been a dividing line between front and back. Hannah’s garden, however, simply encircled the house as one entity. She loved the feeling of space around her.
The porch illuminated part of the lawn to the side of the house, but the back part and the bushes beyond were in darkness. She slithered across the grass and scrambled through the shrubs to the shed. Her fingers were freezing, and it took a few moments to secure the lock. She turned and started to make her way back to the house. She hadn’t gone more than a meter or so when she heard something ahead of her in the shrubbery. A cough maybe? A suppressed sneeze? She shone her light at the sound, but all she could make out was a close network of twigs and branches, white and luminescent in the torch beam. If anything was there, it was well hidden.
The only way back to the house was through the bushes. Hannah held her breath for what seemed an eternity. It was still blowing a pretty fierce gale. Finally, she convinced herself that the sound she had heard was only the wind scraping the trees against the house. She relaxed and started to push her way back.
She stepped out of the bushes onto the lawn. Later on, she would remember very little of the next few minutes. He was simply there in front of her, outlined against the house light. A small, shadowy figure in a black mask. She felt herself slipping to the ground, slowly, as if through water. Her head crashed down hard on a sharp stone. The weight of a body on top of her; a stench, a horrible, rotting odor; bones sticking into her chest, her stomach, her shoulders.
She was too stunned to react. Her head was split open, although she didn’t know it. She veered in and out of consciousness, her sight blurred. But the man’s words cut through her delirium. They would stay with her forever.
“I’m gonna give it you, bitch,” he snarled. “You see if I don’t.”
She tried to fight. She felt herself hitting, pushing, biting, but somehow her limbs remained inert. Her mind was refusing to surrender, but her body had been taken over. He was forcing her mouth open, invading her throat. His breath stank. Saliva ran down her face, slimy as a slavering bloodhound.
The sound of car wheels on gravel. Someone was driving up the lane.
Next minute, Duncan was standing over her. The man had disappeared.
“Hey, girl,” he said. “What the hell’s happened to you?”
He helped her up. He must have taken her back to the cottage, although she couldn’t recall this later on. One moment she was flat out on the grass, and he was staring down at her. Next she was lying on her living room couch, screaming at Duncan to call the police.
Duncan called an ambulance.
“I don’t need an ambulance,” she murmured. “Police—call the police.” Then she lost consciousness.
When she woke up, she was in a hospital bed. Her head throbbed, and she learnt from a nurse that it was morning. She had been concussed and had needed stitches but was otherwise unhurt. They were keeping her in for observation.
“I need a phone,” she told the nurse.
Some two hours after Hannah had called the police station, a constable arrived. Duncan had walked in ten minutes earlier, his arms full of flowers.
The policeman made sympathetic noises and took down the details. Then he wanted her to repeat it all again. Hannah had had enough. She felt her eyes closing. The constable turned to Duncan.
“Can you describe what happened, Sir?”
“I’ve no idea. I got out of the car and found her lying in the grass.”
“You didn’t see anyone else?”
“No.”
“Wouldn’t your headlights have picked out any intruder?”
“I would have imagined so, yes.”
They thought Hannah was asleep. In fact, she heard every word. No, she wanted to scream, the attack was at the back of the lawn, near the bushes. The headlights were on the drive. He couldn’t have seen anything. But Hannah’s tongue felt as if it were made of lead. She couldn’t even protest.
The policeman continued. “Any chance that she could have dreamt it up? Or could she have been sleepwalking and slipped on the wet grass?”
“I’m sure that’s the case. That’s why I didn’t ring you last night.”
“I’ve got to tell you, Sir, we’ve been called out to the cottage a number of times in the past few months because she thinks she’s seen something or heard something. Never a shred of evidence. You couldn’t throw any light on it, could you?”
Duncan was quiet for a moment.
“Well,” he said finally, “she did have psychotherapy in America, last year. It surprised me. And yes, she seems more vulnerable lately. Something about her has changed.”
Hannah knew at that moment what loneliness felt like.
* * * *
Ashok was appalled but at the same time mesmerized by Hannah’s story. For a few moments, they sat in silence in the darkness.
Hannah’s courage was indisputable, but her action that night was completely incomprehensible to Ashok. He simply could not understand what would drive a young woman out into an isolated garden in the middle of the night, knowing that there might be something unpleasant out there. He wanted to ask her, but he held back, suspecting that the question would not be well received.
Hannah broke the silence. “So there you have it. Poor, sad Hannah, dotty as an overripe banana—well, that’s what most people think anyway. I suppose you agree with them, now you’ve heard it.”
“You should have more faith in me. I told you from start I believed you.” He hated himself for the lie. Half lie. Part of him did believe her. The intuitive part. The cognitive part was filled with doubts.
“Sure,” she said and gave a sharp little laugh. “Sure.”
Ashok ignored the sarcasm. “No idea who the fellow might be?”
“None. When I’d seen the man that time before in the garden, remember, I’d only seen the back view—he wouldn’t face me—he didn’t want me to be able to identify him.”
“Or recognize him,” Ashok said in as impassive a voice as he could muster, “if it was someone you knew.”
“Well, yes, that’s also a possibility. Anyway, this time he’d clearly planned the shed door thing to get me out of the house and into the bushes. He’d been hatching this scheme over the year. Watching me and testing me, to see how I reacted, but always making sure I didn’t see him until the police had written me off and until he was pretty sure I’d come out to close the shed door.”
“Where on earth did Duncan get that psychotherapy story from?”
“It was true in a manner of speaking. I spent a year in America and did a course. Part of the course involved undergoing the therapy myself.”
“That’s quite standard procedure.”
“Try telling a copper that. I did, next day. He came back and asked me why I’d been to see a shrink. Just patronized me—little smiles, yes dear, and all that.”
Hell, Ashok thought, digesting this latest information. What if she really is a basket case? Perhaps her friend Duncan was right, and she has made the whole thing up. After all, I hardly know her. How do I know what she’s like?
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
“Of course.”
&n
bsp; “Why did you go out alone again in the middle of the night?”
“It wasn’t that late. The moon was shining. Wouldn’t you have done the same?”
“I wouldn’t have gone out the first time, if you want the truth. Not after what you told me. And I’m a—”
“A man, you were going to say. What difference should that make? I’m as tough as you are.”
“I don’t doubt that for one moment. But there are times when self-preservation has to come before principles.”
“Okay. So it was stupid of me. But no way was I going to be made a prisoner in my own home. Can you understand that?”
“Yes, of course.” No, of course not, he thought.
Hannah reached out and placed a hand on Ashok’s. “It’s just so great to have someone to talk to. Being here, tonight, being with you, I mean, it’s like for the first time in a year, someone believes me.”
An echo from the past. “That’s what I’m here for,” he said.
Hannah stiffened and drew back her hand, as if reining in her reprieve.
“He’s out there somewhere,” she said, “I know he is. No point in me lapsing into a false sense of security.”
“Not false, Hannah. As long as you’re a guest in my city, I won’t let you come to any harm.”
Her voice hardened. “I’m going to get him, you know. But I’ll need your help.”
“I’m right beside you.”
Ashok was grateful for the darkness that kept his face hidden. At that moment, he knew that it was he, not Hannah, who wore the haunted look. Hannah had unwittingly drawn him into her nightmare and trapped him there. He was with her in the cottage garden, watching helplessly, unable to move, unable to change the course of events. Once more he thought about Maighréad. It hadn’t been enough to be a good listener. She’d seen his silence as strength, but in the end he’d failed to protect her, he’d failed to put things right. He couldn’t let that happen again.
Now he made a silent vow. Regardless of whether Hannah’s story was real or imagined, he would help her; not only listen to her but also help her to bring this matter to a close. Then, finally, the ghost of Maighréad could be laid to rest.
Chapter 4
During the autorickshaw drive back to the Chamundi, Ashok seemed brooding, deep in thought.
He accompanied Hannah into the foyer.
“Will you be all right now?”
She hesitated. Go on girl, go for it, she said to herself, and looked him in the eye. “Fancy coming up for a nightcap?”
“A nice idea. But I’m afraid I’ve got to get back. Would you like me to go with you as far as your door?”
“No, no,” she said, trying to hide her embarrassment. “I’ll be fine now. And thanks for all you’ve done. You’ve been a very patient listener. Sorry to have taken so much of your time away from your family.”
“Hold on there. Are you giving me the old heave ho? I haven’t been that boring, have I?”
Hannah’s laugh reflected the relief that she felt. So he did like her, even if he thought she was a crazy, scarlet woman who propositioned guys on their first date. How insensitive she’d become. She’d forgotten that decent, altruistic men still existed.
“Oh no. Just thought you’d have had enough of this mad cow.”
“Remember, cows are sacred here.” He handed her the bag. “Don’t forget your clothes. I’ll phone you first thing tomorrow morning to make sure you’re all right. Then we’ll decide what to do next. Okay?”
“Okay.” Their eyes met. He leant towards her and brushed her cheek briefly with his lips.
“You’ve got my number. If you have slightest worry, phone. Anytime. Understood?”
“Understood. Good night, my knight in shining armor.”
“Good night, my damsel in distress.”
She watched him disappear through the revolving doors, which seemed to parallel her feelings, as they continued to spin after Ashok had vanished into the night. She struggled for a rational explanation for the effect he had on her. She couldn’t have fallen for this guy after a couple of meetings. Such things didn’t happen to Hannah. No, it was obvious. She was experiencing something like a psychotherapeutic transference —intense feelings towards the therapist that sometimes developed during a course of therapy.
Thus reassured, she went over to the reception desk to collect her room key. The receptionist handed her a small, square box. “Someone left this for you.”
“For me? Are you sure?”
“The gentleman was quite definitely asking for it to be given to Miss Hannah Petersen.”
“Did you see who it was?”
“An Englishman I think. Small, thin—”
Clutching the box, Hannah raced outside. It was too late. Ashok had gone. Calm down, she told herself. No point in panicking. This might be perfectly innocent. She went back to the reception desk and picked up the bag of clothes that she had dropped in her rush to chase after Ashok. She spoke to the receptionist again.
“The man who left this for me. Is he staying here?”
The receptionist shrugged. “I don’t know, Madam. Many English guests are here. Yesterday I did not see that man. Maybe he is arriving today morning, before my shift.”
Hannah took the lift to her room and locked herself in. She sat on the bed and looked at the box for a moment. Then she picked it up and turned it over in her hands. It fitted comfortably into her palm, was exquisitely worked, with curvy Islamic flourishes engraved over every inch of its shiny silver surface. Probably real silver, she mused. She debated for a moment before opening it. Her curiosity outweighed her fear, but she held it at arm’s length.
A slip of printed paper lay on top of the contents. It was headed R.I. Poonamchand and Sons, Pearls Merchant, and briefly exalted the virtues of freshwater pearls and the particular virtues of those selected by R.I. Poonamchand and Sons. Hannah removed the paper carefully. Underneath, nestling on a bed of crimson velvet, lay a string of perfect black pearls that glinted purple, green, and blue as she turned the box slowly under the lamplight.
Hannah was totally mystified. If this was her stalker, he’d changed tack. He’d never given her anything before. It didn’t fit the pattern. So maybe it wasn’t the stalker. Perhaps there was some misguided young man in the hotel who had bought it for his girlfriend and changed his mind. Perhaps they’d had a row. It might even have been the hotel receptionist, pretending it was someone else. Perhaps—heaven forbid —someone had recognized her. After all, it wasn’t unusual for her readers to show their appreciation, particularly someone who had benefited from her investigations: in Belfast, a child’s drawing or a poem; in New York, flowers or simply tears and a hug. Yes, there were all sorts of feasible explanations. Except…also printed on the slip of paper was the address of R.I. Poonamchand and Sons. The pearls had been bought in Hyderabad.
* * * *
“So—you have come back to us. You have passed enjoyable day with your friend from aeroplane?”
Since his stroke, Srinivasa Rao had taken to bedding down on his mother’s living room sofa on the ground floor of the house. Ashok’s attempt to tiptoe up the stairs and enter their own quarters quietly was futile. Srinivasa was a light sleeper and had in any case had one ear open for his son’s return.
Ashok had even instructed the rickshaw driver to stop at the end of the lane, so his father wouldn’t hear it drive up. In vain. His father was like a faithful hound that could detect from afar the return of those he loved. Ashok gave a resigned sigh and sat down on the edge of the sofa. What would his patients think if they could see him now? Their respected surgeon, a child again.
“Yes, Bapa. She is a remarkable person. It has been a most interesting evening.”
“And have you given any more consideration to that young lady in Mysore? Or is it that you have been too busy with other matters?”
Had he ever been anything but a child? Even in England, had he ever actually needed to make a choice, to take a stand, to swim
against the tide? Only once before had that prospect loomed before him, but in the end he never had the chance to put it to the test. And what had he felt when it ended? Grief mingled with relief, he remembered. His family had always been everything. He as an individual counted for little. Families traveled together through life, as one entity, even if it meant personal sacrifices. But today his equilibrium had been knocked sideways. Somehow he would have to try and steer a peaceful passage through the churning seas of his emotions.
“Truth to tell, I haven’t had time to give much attention to her.”
“Haven’t had time? Or haven’t had interest?”
“I don’t know.” It was no good trying to fool the old man. Ashok knew his father had read his mood accurately. He had tried to marshal his thoughts on the drive home from the Chamundi. What was happening to him? He had fought to remain calm when Hannah had told her story, to maintain a dispassionate but sympathetic bedside manner, to be simply a good listener. He knew, though, that he had not altogether succeeded in this. The vibes that had surfaced between them were too insistent, despite his attempts to reason them out of his head. At this point in his life, the last thing he could afford was to get involved with her. As the autorickshaw had approached Malleshwaram, he had made an effort to pull his thoughts back to the purpose of his homecoming. In any case, what did he know about Hannah? Nothing. Was her story true? Had these terrible things really happened to her? It didn’t bear thinking about. Or was she, as everyone else seemed to conclude, merely a disturbed young woman with a persecution complex? But why did he feel as if he’d known her for much longer than two days? Why did he still feel that they’d met before sometime? He’d asked her on the plane.