Don't Look Back

by S. B. Hayes

  ‘Why so miserable?’ I asked.

  His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. ‘Explain to me again exactly what that nun said?’

  ‘I’ve told you before. Sister Catherine made it clear she knows what I’m looking for and I’ll find answers to the mystery of Patrick’s disappearance at the house.’

  Harry took his eyes from the road for a second. ‘As I was driving it occurred to me there’s another possibility.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is not really about Patrick at all. What if you’re really a target, Sinead? It’s all set up for you.’

  I laughed and shook my head. ‘What do you mean?’

  Harry stared straight ahead, unblinking. I knew how difficult I could be, but he was way off mark. ‘This has nothing to do with me,’ I said. ‘Nothing in my family has ever been about me. Patrick is at the centre of everything.’

  ‘He might be at the centre of it,’ Harry said. ‘He might be part of the plot to lure you to this weird house … the Latin clues and the picture on the wall, the cryptic advert in the newspaper and the Saint Christopher. What if Patrick isn’t really missing at all but part of a ruse to entice you there?’

  This made me pause for thought. Deep down I knew Patrick would have enjoyed turning our childhood game into something more sinister. It would be an added bonus if I was made to suffer in some way. But there was a definite flaw in Harry’s idea.

  ‘Why didn’t something happen yesterday?’ I demanded. ‘How come I wasn’t captured and locked up somewhere?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Harry replied, chewing his lip.

  ‘Stop here. James showed me a secret entrance yesterday so I don’t have to battle with those huge gates.’

  The driver behind us honked his horn in annoyance and I resisted the urge to make a rude gesture.

  ‘Who’s James?’ Harry asked.

  ‘The son of the former squire,’ I said. ‘I mean, he doesn’t have the title, although Sister Catherine insists on calling him Squire James and sometimes Master James … Didn’t I tell you all this last night?’

  ‘You fell asleep mid-sentence,’ Harry reminded me.

  I cringed and squeezed his hand. I couldn’t remember what I’d told him. I was so exhausted last night that my mouth refused to work and all the words came out slurred. He’d offered to cook for me, but I’d awoken to find myself alone with a plate of cold macaroni cheese on the coffee table.

  ‘It’s the same guy we met in the police station and at the coffee shop,’ I added. ‘The one I had a go at.’

  ‘That’s a coincidence,’ Harry said suspiciously, ‘unless he’s somehow involved.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. He’s only staying a few weeks and then he flies back home to … the other side of the world.’

  Harry digested this for a minute and it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. He must have sensed my impatience as I edged further towards the passenger door, one hand wrapped around the handle of my bag.

  ‘Don’t go, Sinead,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ I assured him.

  ‘I think you should turn around. Walk away and forget Benedict House.’

  I frowned. ‘Why are you so adamant?’

  ‘You seem to have changed,’ he complained. ‘In just one day.’

  Harry wasn’t as unobservant as I’d imagined; he’d felt the difference in me. The only thing I remembered about last night was that when he kissed me, I’d wished he was someone else – I’d wished he was James.

  Sixteen

  ‘You can concentrate on the drawing room today, Sinead. Master James has expressed a wish that you work no more than six hours and take a proper lunch break.’

  I swallowed hard because she looked me up and down with such contempt that I actually felt naked. Did she think I’d worked my charms on James just to get preferential treatment? Under her scrutiny I felt so dirty that I had a terrible urge to yell at her that I was still a virgin, but I didn’t, and dutifully trailed after her.

  ‘How’s my trial going?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s early days,’ she replied noncommittally.

  Harry’s words were still buzzing in my head and I spoke before I’d had time to think. ‘I suppose you must have heard the legend surrounding Benedict House.’

  She froze and turned to me slowly. I was forced to examine her close up, her dried-up skin looking as though all the life had been squeezed from her, and her thin mouth just a slash in her shrivelled features.

  Nerves made me babble. ‘The one about the evil squire selling his soul to the Devil and how the house lures people in to judge them.’

  After a lengthy, stomach-turning stare, she chose to answer. ‘That’s not the full legend, Sinead. People are not lured in, they are invited, but more importantly, they have a chance of redemption, an opportunity to save their soul.’

  When her back was turned again I made a gruesomely comical face. On my first visit Sister Catherine had seemed shocked that I’d managed to get in without an invitation. Was she crazy enough to believe in the legend? I could see how Benedict House got its otherworldly reputation, but I was determined not to be spooked.

  I trailed after Sister Catherine. The drawing room was more formal than the dining room, with many paintings, ornaments and a general air of ostentation. There were a number of wing chairs, two enormous sofas in green and cerise chenille, a gold and black lacquer screen and a small piano. The range of furniture was French style, high gloss with delicate bow legs, taller and more elegant than the heavy, squat furniture in the other room. The wallpaper was textured and decorated with peacock feathers; I felt as if hundreds of eyes were watching me.

  Sister Catherine left me alone without any explanation of what she expected, although there was the usual array of cleaning materials as well as an additional jar of wax. The label gave instructions on how to seal a wooden floor. I looked down and baulked; the floor consisted of hundreds of tiny blocks of wood that fitted together like a jigsaw. Some were black with age, some cracked or chipped, but overall the effect was quite beautiful. I knew machines existed to polish and protect floors like this, but it was obvious I was supposed to tackle this one by hand. She seemed determined to make me suffer.

  I waited until she had left and watched from the window as she began her tour of the grounds. Now was my chance. I took Patrick’s key from my bag and darted in and out of rooms, checking all the doors, cringing at the general squalor and mustiness and noting an unpleasant scorched smell that lingered. I took a look in the scullery again, and the kitchen with its ancient Aga. In one corner there was a velvet curtain hanging from a brass rail. I swished it open and found a woodwormy door that looked as old as the house. My heart beat faster. With sweaty fingers I inserted the key, expecting to meet the usual resistance, but it fitted. My breath caught in my throat and I paused for a moment, feeling a definite sense of triumph. I was going to find Patrick on my second day. I turned the key shaft, but the lock wouldn’t move. I jiggled it and then used both hands, hoping that brute force would work. Annoyed, I gave the door a kick and it bounced open. It hadn’t even been locked.

  Hesitantly I stepped into a narrow corridor. The floor sloped downward, the temperature growing colder as I descended. It was so dark I could barely see a few inches in front of me. My mind was feverish with thoughts of finding a jail, dungeon or torture chamber. I kept turning around, imagining I could feel fetid breath on the back of my neck. I stopped myself just in time before I ran into shelves of dusty old bottles of all shapes and sizes. This must be the wine store. It was a dead end. My shoulders slumped. I shouldn’t have underestimated Patrick. This had been too obvious for him, not enough of a challenge.

  I didn’t dare venture upstairs and had no choice but to get back to work. The windows in the drawing room overlooked the rear of the house, with wooden shutters that folded back against the wall and rested on cushioned window seats built into the
alcoves. This ceiling wasn’t open to the rafters but lower and smooth except for the most incredibly detailed cornice and overblown plaster mouldings of grapes and flowers with massive petals. Brandishing the feather duster I climbed the ladder and tackled the chandelier, listening to the glass tinkle and having visions of it falling to the ground and smashing all over the floor like crushed ice.

  It was thirty minutes before Sister Catherine made her next appearance. I tried hard to appear industrious and made a mental note of the time, thinking I could log her comings and goings.

  ‘Everything OK?’ I asked, and received a frosty look. She turned and left the room.

  I listened carefully. Sister Catherine’s footsteps stopped in the hallway. I poked my head out into the vast space. It was as if she had vanished. The fancy oak panelling ran along every wall, but I figured there had to be a disguised door somewhere. It was virtually compulsory in this type of dilapidated old house. I whistled softly to myself, thinking what to do. It was exactly twenty-one minutes before I heard her footsteps again.

  It should be easy to find a concealed doorway, no matter how tightly it was fitted, but there were splits running down the entire series of panelling, which confused my eye. And the minutes were ticking by. Sister Catherine could return and realize that I was snooping. There might be steps behind the door to the cellar, and she would push me down them and leave me there. My spine prickled. Those beneath the earth cry out for release. I had visions of decomposing corpses, maggots wriggling out of the mouth and the eyes. Or she would be waiting for me when I opened the door, arms extended, ready to pounce and wrap her claw-like hands around my neck and strangle me.

  What was the matter with me? Sister Catherine was a frail nun, and the only other person here apart from James was his sick gran. The hairs on the back of my neck rose; there was that noise again, a long mournful sigh. If I closed my eyes it was the strangest sound – hypnotic and mesmerizing. There was a draught wafting from somewhere as though the voice was being carried on the wind. I didn’t want to listen to it and yet I didn’t want it to stop. My hands felt along the wood panelling and one of my fingers grazed a small bump, a doorknob of the exact same hue, imperceptible except to the touch. The blood was pumping fast around my body, roaring in my ears like the sea. My hands were impossibly clammy and tiny beads of sweat broke out on my forehead.

  Harry’s words came back to me. What if you’re really a target, Sinead? What better plan than to entice me in here of my own free will? But the door was such a temptation that I couldn’t have backed down even if my life was in danger. I opened it and went through. There was a pull cord to my left which illuminated a cupboard measuring no more than two metres square. The panelling continued into here and it all looked very ordinary. On one side, coats and jackets hung on a series of large brass hooks, and on the other, shoes, walking boots and wellies filled a rickety rack. The floor appeared to be solid stone with no discernible trapdoors or hatches. It smelt damp and musty. Immediately in front of me was another door, made of honeyed pine. This made sense – a passageway to another part of the house. I looked for a keyhole and, failing to find one, rattled the handle. The door opened easily, but on to a solid wall. I made a noise of frustration and instinctively reached out to touch the bricks.

  The sighing was getting louder now; in fact, it wasn’t sighing, it was closer to whispering. I was sure I could almost make out words, and there were different voices and pitches – incessant, pleading and desperate, growing faster and more urgent until it felt as though they were inside my head. Was Harry right? Was I going crazy? I switched off the light and stepped back into the hall, trying to work out where the passageway must once have led. It looked as though the wall formed a buttress to a different part of the house. Following on was the west wing, which James had mentioned was out of bounds, almost ready to fall down. But James had been away for eight years and would believe anything he was told. And what better place to carry on something secret? I needed to get inside and take a look, but first I’d have to shake off Sister Catherine.

  *

  I took out my lunch and positioned myself outside on the same bench as the previous day. Sister Catherine brushed past me with complete disdain. It seemed to me that she never sat down, ate, relaxed or spoke unless it was absolutely necessary. I watched her as she began another journey around the grounds. She didn’t look back, but my eyes doggedly followed her until she was lost inside the foliage. Then I ran around the back of the house to the west wing, where I was confronted by notices warning that it was unsafe to enter. It didn’t take long to work out a possible way inside. The conservatory was in a sorry state, although I could envisage how beautiful it once had been, with its ornamental glass roof. The main structure was made of wood, but the timber had rotted and panes of glass were missing. When I peered inside it was like a tropical rainforest, with giant ferns, their leaves radiating outwards to form massive umbrellas, and vines strangling anything in their path. I carefully lifted one leg through the gap, feeling all around for shards of glass. The other leg quickly followed and I tried to find a space to stand upright. My hair was limp within seconds, my breath shallow. Moisture dripped from everywhere.

  I covered my mouth and nose as the sweet, sickly scent of decaying vegetation grew stronger. There were waxy plants with leaves the size and shape of elephant ears, huge swaying blades of lofty grasses and beautiful orchids – notorious for being delicate – yet they’d survived in this abandoned place. As I shuffled forward, I nervously glanced around. My imagination was in overdrive again and images of killer plants, moving by stealth to surround me, clouded my judgement. My breath froze. Right in the centre was a bloated monstrosity with two curved petals open like the mouth of a carp, topped with a yellow and red bonnet of veined leaves surrounding the drooling lips. It had to be carnivorous. Beside it were five or six little replicas, looking up with expectant mouths as if hoping for leftovers. In my haste to get past, I nicked myself on a cactus spike and red spots dripped on to my T-shirt.

  At the end of the conservatory was a set of double doors. They weren’t closed and the jungle had begun to march through there as well. I couldn’t wait to leave the humidity behind and I burst through the opening with a loud gasp. This room had been stripped of everything, but the glitter ball and sprung wooden floor gave me some clues – with fantastic light and elegant proportions, it must have once been the ballroom. I could almost hear the swishing of ladies’ frocks, the sound of champagne corks popping and tinkling laughter. But the room was now infested with some kind of decay. Puffballs oozed from the ceiling, large sections of which had fallen down and lay smashed across the floor, soft like chalk. The plaster on the walls had also crumbled as the white fungus forced its way out. This room was being eaten from within. As I took a step back my foot slipped through a joist in the floor, scraping the skin around my ankle. The expensive sprung floor had disintegrated. I started to think I should have taken more notice of the warnings.

  I reminded myself of the reason I was here – the entrance from the boot room. The corresponding wall was directly in front of me and there was no evidence of a doorway. I froze as another chunk of masonry fell, just missing me. I stared down at a smashed cherub, its rosebud mouth a gaping hole and its remaining curls looking like horns. I was worried that my movements had set off an avalanche and began to crawl slowly back towards the conservatory. Something distracted me. I was temporarily blinded as a light shone in my eye, the reflection off a tin box nestled in one corner. It was the only thing left in the room but it appeared temptingly bright and untarnished. I knew I should run but all I could think about was finding another of Patrick’s clues.

  Inch by inch I shuffled forward, the palms of my hands and my knees scraping the wooden floor, all the time listening for warning sounds of falling debris. I reached the box and crouched. The lid opened easily but it was empty, and I sighed with disappointment. A speck of colour flitted in front of my eyes and I blinked. It was a bl
ack and red insect with a barbed tail, its wings fluttering so fast that it made me think of a tiny fan. Its beady eyes focused on me. It hovered in front of my face and I instinctively swatted it away. Suddenly there were five of them, ten, twenty, an entire swarm, a red and black mass clouding my vision and in my hair and on my neck, crawling around my mouth. I tried to scream but there was one on my tongue, grazing the roof of my mouth. My throat began to gurgle and I knew that any minute I’d have to swallow.

  And suddenly I was back in my room, in my nightmare, choking on the weight of my fear. The swirling darkness overcame me and there was no way I could fight against it. I was floating out of my body as my life ebbed away.

  ‘Are you going to tell me why you’re really here?’ a voice demanded.

  Seventeen

  ‘It was just a dragonfly, Sinead.’

  ‘There was more than one of them,’ I insisted, still gagging. ‘They were all over me, even in my mouth.’

  James tried to suppress a grin. ‘There was one small insect and you were flapping about like you’d sat on a hornet’s nest.’

  ‘I want to get out of here,’ I said, overcome with self-pity and embarrassment. I pushed my way back through the conservatory, puzzled that the plants didn’t seem quite so overgrown or threatening now and even the man-eating flower looked smaller and harmless. I covered my head with my hands, wondering what was happening to my mind.

  ‘Come on, let’s walk,’ he said. ‘I’ll square it with Sister Catherine.’

  I followed him into the wood, grateful that the trees were closely planted and provided shade.

  ‘You don’t think it’s weird,’ I asked slowly, ‘the west wing being in ruins like that? It looks like it’s been abandoned for at least a century.’

  ‘Suppose,’ James deliberated, ‘but Gran says it’s dry rot, and once that takes hold it spreads like wildfire … everything literally falls apart, crumbles into dust. You really shouldn’t have been in there.’ He turned and confronted me with a knowing smile. ‘And? Will you tell me why you’re really here? If you’re not following me.’