by Sarah Rayne
‘Yes, but—’
‘I don’t know what they do in your country, but they’re ’ard as a brick wall when it comes to abortion here,’ said the woman. ‘And we don’t want no trouble.’ Then, in a sharper voice, ‘Rom, you’re bleeding again, aincha?’
‘I think so . . .’
‘Don’t stand about like a couple o’ useless pricks,’ said the woman, turning to the two boys. ‘One of you get downstairs and find cloths and towels. We’ll see if we can cheat old man death by ourselves.’
In the nightmare hours that followed, Declan and Colm lost all sense of time. It was only when Romilly’s landlady lit candles and set them around the room that they realized night had fallen.
At first they thought Romilly was going to bleed to death, and the woman clearly thought so as well. She ordered Colm to lift the end of the narrow bed and she and Declan slid house bricks under it, so that Romilly’s head was lower than her body. Beyond embarrassment, they helped to wad thick towels between Romilly’s legs in an attempt to staunch the flow.
The thick greasiness of the burning tallow candles mingled sickeningly with the stench of blood and sweat, and Romilly was moaning with pain, hunching over in the bed, clutching her lower stomach. Declan said in a low voice, ‘If she was still bleeding, wouldn’t she have lost all the blood by now?’
‘She ain’t bleeding,’ said the woman, watching the huddled figure on the bed. ‘Not to speak of, anyways. I reckon it’s a poison that got in when that butcher skewered her with his filthy needles.’ She glanced at him. ‘You ever cut your finger and saw it turn bad and fill up with pus? So you have to jab it open to drain away the poison?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s what’s wrong with her now. I seen it before with girls who had this done. But the poison’s inside, so we can’t do nothing to drain it away.’
‘Could a doctor?’
‘Dunno. But even if he saved her, she’d be off to prison straight after.’
Colm said, ‘I’d rather she was alive in prison than dead in this room.’
Shortly before midnight Romilly seemed to sink into a kind of stupor; her skin was hot and dry, and weals broke out in patches. She seemed unaware of where she was and when Colm took her hand and told her she would soon be well, she stared at him with no recognition.
Speaking very quietly, Declan said, ‘Colm – should we get a priest to her?’
They stared at one another, the tenets of their upbringing strongly with them. You did not, if it could be avoided, allow someone to die without confessing and receiving absolution.
‘Yes,’ said Colm. ‘Yes, we should.’
‘Do you know where we can get a priest?’ said Declan, turning to the woman.
‘I never have no truck with Romans,’ said the landlady, closing her mouth like a rat trap. Declan and Colm looked at one another. Declan could hear Colm’s thought as clearly as if they had been spoken. What you did on the cliffs of Moher in a lashing storm, you can do again here.
‘No,’ said Declan in a low, furious voice. ‘She deserves the proper ritual.’
‘Then I’ll go and find a priest,’ said Colm. ‘There must be a church around somewhere.’
‘You ain’t got time for that,’ said the landlady. ‘She ain’t got long.’
They sat on each side of the bed, holding Romilly’s hands, feeling helpless and angry. As a distant church clock chimed twelve, Romilly fell back, and a dreadful choking cough came from her lips.
‘She’s going,’ said the landlady. ‘Nothing we can do now.’
Oh yes there is . . . Declan said, ‘Would you pour me some water from the jug.’
‘And fetch a piece of bread,’ said Colm.
They bent over the bed, and the landlady stood at the foot, watching them. After about five minutes, she said, ‘She’s gone.’
‘I know,’ said Colm.
‘What was that you said to her?’ She looked at Declan, who hesitated.
Colm said, ‘He was just chanting an old prayer we have.’
They managed to arrange a funeral at a small, rather bleak church a few streets away, and there was a brief, impersonal service, which took the last of their carefully hoarded money. Neither of them had any idea what they were going to do next. Declan was distraught at Romilly’s death, but Colm swung between bitter grief and a black raging fury that Declan found frightening. Twice he went off by himself, hunching his shoulders when Declan would have accompanied him. Declan had no idea where he went – he thought he probably just walked the streets, trying to come to terms with Romilly’s squalid death.
After the funeral they returned to their lodgings. They would be given an early supper and also breakfast tomorrow morning, but after that they would be expected to pay their reckoning. Neither of them knew how they would do it.
Colm had spoken very little since Romilly’s death, but as a thin spiteful rain began to beat against the windows, he suddenly said, ‘So this is how our wonderful dreams of making a golden fortune in London town end. In a shabby bedroom, hungry and destitute.’
Shortly after two o’clock, Declan found himself thinking they had just over four hours to get through before supper was served downstairs. Neither of them had been able to eat much breakfast because of facing Romilly’s funeral, and they had not been able to afford a midday meal after it. He was starting to feel slightly sick and a bit light-headed with hunger.
A nearby church clock was chiming the half hour, when Colm suddenly stood up and said, ‘I’m going out.’
‘Where . . . ?’ But Colm had already gone, the street door downstairs banging.
Declan grabbed his jacket from the bed and went down the stairs after him. When he reached the street there was no sign of Colm. He stood irresolute for a moment, then turned up his collar and began to walk through the driving rain towards the east. Towards Canning Town and the Church of St Stephen where Romilly was buried.
The present
Benedict fought his way free of the clinging cobwebs of Declan’s world, and little by little became aware that he was in Nina’s flat.
He felt sick and light-headed – exactly as Declan felt when he followed Colm out into the London streets all those years ago, he thought. But that wasn’t real. I’ve got to remember that this is all simply a quirk of my own mind.
But he could feel that dark alter ego’s claws still embedded deep in his mind, and fighting free of them took such a massive mental effort, he thought at first he was not going to manage it. This time, thought Benedict in panic, he’s going to take me over forever. But even as the thought formed, he was aware of a surge of defiance. I won’t let him, he thought. Whether any of that was real or not, I’m not going to stay in that world. I don’t want to see what happens next – I don’t even want to know about it. Because the murders are about to begin. He’s going to the East End tonight – to Canning Town and to the old river steps.
Declan Doyle was about to start killing all the people he believed had brought about Romilly’s death.
Michael was absorbed in his Andrew Marvell notes when the phone rang.
A slightly hesitant voice said, ‘Dr Flint? Michael Flint? It’s Benedict Doyle. I don’t know if you remember me, but—’
‘Of course I remember you,’ said Michael at once. ‘How are you?’
‘A bit mixed. You said if I needed help . . . I dare say you’re frantically busy, but . . .’
Michael consigned the Marvell notes to the back of his desk and said, ‘I’m not frantically busy at all.’
Benedict sat in Michael’s study with the view over the tiny, tucked-away quadrangle, and said, ‘It’s very good of you to spare the time.’
‘You said on the phone you weren’t exactly recovering.’
‘I’m not. I don’t know how much Nina told you—’
‘Only the basics,’ said Michael, not wanting the boy to be embarrassed. ‘That you seem to have plugged your mind in to a different time and place.’
‘
Oh, OK. Well, they’re calling it – this thing I have – these visions of people living in another time – a form of dissociative personality disorder. It sounds grim, doesn’t it?’
‘Not necessarily. Half my students have some peculiarity or other. Particularly,’ said Michael, choosing his words carefully, ‘if they’ve been taking something slightly exotic.’
‘I’ve never done drugs,’ said Benedict at once. Then, with a half-grin, ‘Well, OK, I’ve smoked the occasional joint. Only grass, though.’
Michael said, ‘I’d have been a bit sceptical if you’d said you hadn’t tried anything. But I shouldn’t think dissociative personality would be caused by the odd spliff.’
‘You do understand, don’t you?’ said Benedict gratefully, and Michael saw his use of the slang term had been reassuring. ‘I thought you might. My cousin’s very kind, but she’s a bit—’
‘A bit removed from student life?’
‘Yes. And the doctors were very good, but it doesn’t occur to them that there might be another explanation for these visions. I don’t really think there is,’ said Benedict firmly. ‘I think the diagnosis is right. But the things I see – people and incidents – are so real. This personality they call an alter ego – his name’s Declan – I feel the emotions he feels.’ He frowned, then said, ‘I thought if I could disprove these people – if I could . . .’
‘Find there was no record of any of the people or places?’
‘Yes,’ he said eagerly. ‘Declan was my great-grandfather’s name, so I’m identifying the . . . the alter ego with him. And he did exist, of course. But there are other people with him. I do know you can’t prove a negative,’ he said, earnestly, ‘but I think it would be reassuring if a search – a real scholarly, organized search – didn’t find any evidence of their existence. I think I could just about cope with Declan waltzing into my mind occasionally if I knew he wasn’t real. But it’s this halfway state I’m finding so hard. Only I don’t know really how to go about making a search.’
‘Isn’t there anyone at Reading who would start you off?’ said Michael. ‘I’m not making a polite excuse – I’d like to help if I can – but I don’t want to tread on any toes. Your own tutors, for instance?’
‘I’d rather no one at Reading knew,’ said Benedict. ‘Well, not unless they have to. I’m hoping to go back in a week or so and I don’t want them to look at me sideways or wonder if I’m suddenly going to turn into Mr Hyde or the wolfman.’
‘I can understand that,’ said Michael. ‘I think you’d better tell me a bit more. Can I make some notes? I promise to eat them afterwards so nobody will know. Or,’ he said, glancing towards the window sill, ‘I’ll feed them to Wilberforce.’
With his usual instinct for timing, Wilberforce yawned and got up to walk across to the fire at this point, and Benedict smiled. Seeing that he had relaxed, Michael said, ‘Take me through the whole saga. Start at the beginning, go on until you reach the end, then stop.’
With an air of a swimmer finally deciding to plunge into treacherous waters Benedict took a deep breath and said, ‘The beginning is two boys growing up on the west coast of Ireland.’
FIFTEEN
It was a remarkable story. As it unfolded, in Benedict’s rather hesitant words, Michael thought one of the really remarkable things was the logical, sequential nature of it. Declan Doyle and Colm Rourke’s childhood – their youthful infatuation with the red-headed Romilly as they grew up; the appalling incident with the renegade priest in the old watchtower – could Benedict really have dredged all that out of his subconscious? Could anyone? Michael reminded himself that he knew hardly anything about the subconscious mind. He reminded himself that he knew hardly anything about Benedict Doyle, either.
As he listened carefully, occasionally making a note of a name or a place, he thought: but there’s the chess set. Nell found that single piece – the king – and Owen found a reference to it, or to something that looked like it. And Eithne, all those years ago, had believed it was deeply evil.
When Benedict reached the part about Nicholas Sheehan’s death, he faltered, and seemed to find it difficult to go on. He accepted Michael’s offer of coffee, and drank it gratefully, then resumed his story. This time Michael found himself pulled deeper into the world of Colm Rourke and Declan Doyle, and into the Ireland of the late nineteenth century, and he found it an unexpectedly attractive world. Benedict’s voice was more assured now, soft and measured, with some of the consonants slightly blurred. Nice, thought Michael. The room was very still. Wilberforce was snoozing on his favourite window sill, and strong winter sunshine slanted in. A fly, fooled by the warmth into thinking it was spring, buzzed lazily against the window.
Michael put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. There was a mirror in direct line: it faced a row of bookshelves on the opposite wall and he liked sitting here and seeing the books’ reflections, with the lettering on the spines reversed as if they had changed into a secret or magical language. But as Benedict’s story unfolded, he began to realize he was not seeing the reversed images of the books as clearly as usual. He blinked, thinking it was the sunlight, but it made no difference. Something was obscuring the books’ reflections, something that was trying to take shape . . . It must be Benedict’s alter ego, he thought. It’s forming – this is what he sees . . .
He turned his head towards the window, half expecting to see that Wilberforce was uncurling from his snooze, or that a large bird had perched outside and was casting a freak reflection. But there was nothing and, when he looked back at the mirror, there were the rows of books, ordinary and familiar again and perfectly clear.
Benedict ended his story with Romilly’s death in London’s East End, and with Colm vanishing into the rain-drenched London streets, Declan following. He sat back, looking drained and exhausted, and reached for the coffee jug again.
‘That’s an extraordinary tale,’ said Michael softly. His voice sounded odd, as if it did not quite belong in the room, and he sat up a little straighter, hoping to dissolve the clinging mists of the Irish ghosts. He noticed vaguely that the fly had stopped its rhythmic buzzing. ‘I can’t decide if it sounds like a form of dark romantic fiction or simply the—’
‘Ravings of a disturbed mind?’
‘You don’t strike me as especially disturbed.’ He reached for his pen again. ‘Benedict, if those other people did exist it should be possible to find a record of them. And the places – the church where Romilly Rourke was buried, for instance. Can you remember any other details – any clues in the house, maybe? Papers, documents?’
He thought there was a slight pause before Benedict answered, as if he was trying to make up his mind about something. Then he said, ‘No. Nothing. There were a few boxes I didn’t open, but I think they were all household stuff – glassware and china. The things Nell was going to look at.’
‘Yes, I see.’ Michael sensed an evasion, but he did not press further. He thought for a moment, then said, ‘Benedict, I would like to help you if I can, but before we do anything I think we need to clear it with your doctors.’
‘Do we? Yes, of course we do. They might say if any of the people had lived, it would sort of feed the . . . the condition.’
‘Or that if they didn’t exist, you might go into a panic and end up worse off. I think you should ask that specialist if he’ll OK a bit of research. Explain I’m only wanting to help – that it’s meant to squash a wild idea you have that these events might actually have happened.’
‘If I could do that,’ said Benedict slowly, ‘I think I could concentrate on beating this thing – or learning to live with it.’
‘That sounds very sensible. Say that to your specialist, too. And make it clear that I’ll abide by his advice. If he says we don’t do it, then I’m afraid we don’t. You’ve got my card, haven’t you? He can write to me or phone or email – whatever’s easiest. And if he does agree, I promise I’ll do what I can.’
‘You’ll help me to find
Colm and Romilly and all the rest?’
‘Yes,’ said Michael slowly. ‘Yes, I will. I don’t think I’ll be able to do much until the new term has got itself under way – it’s always a fairly crowded time and it’ll be several days before things start trundling along under their own steam – but after that I’ll start searching.’
Benedict nodded, as if relieved, then said, ‘Dr Flint—’
‘If we’re going to be on ghost-hunting terms, you’d better make it Michael.’
‘Michael, Nell West said she’d go back to Holly Lodge. To look over the rest of the furniture and stuff.’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t think she should do that,’ said Benedict.
‘Why not?’
Benedict paused, and Michael felt the silence start to become charged, as if something – some hidden force – was starting to thrum.
‘Because he’s there,’ said Benedict at last. His voice was very soft.
‘Who? Who’s there, Benedict?’
Benedict’s hands gripped the arms of the chair so hard the knuckles turned white, and he leaned against the chair back, turning his head from side to side, as people with aching necks sometimes do to ease stiff muscles. His eyes were half closed and Michael received the impression of inner struggle.
There was a faint movement within the mirror, then Benedict opened his eyes and Michael felt the same cold prickle of apprehension he had experienced in Nina Doyle’s flat. Benedict’s eyes were vividly, unmistakably, blue. When he spoke, Michael’s apprehension spiralled into real fear, because it was the voice he had heard that day in Nina’s flat.
‘We both know who’s inside that house, don’t we?’ said the voice that was not Benedict’s.
There was a brief darting movement from the mirror, and this time, unable to help himself, Michael turned his head to look. For a split second the outline of a man looked back. A man who wore a dark coat from another era and who had turned up the collar to hide his face.