After three attempts the branch finally hooked over the stern and the boat gradually started to move through the bed of nettles. When there was enough exposed wood to grab, he did so and pulled the boat out onto the path.
‘All you need now are the oars to go with it.’
He spun around at the sound of the voice behind him.
Cat stood there, arms folded, a slight smile playing on her lips. ‘I startled you. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s okay. I’m just a bit surprised, that’s all. I didn’t think you were talking to me.’
She shrugged. ‘I over-reacted. Besides, you were right. I don’t like people getting too close. It gives them more opportunity to let you down.’
‘That’s a very sad outlook on life,’ Steve said.
‘It’s true though.’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘It’s my experience.’ She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to see Lisa coming down across the lawn towards them.’
‘Changed your mind then,’ Steve called when she was no more than a few yards away.
‘I’d like to see the island,’ she said.
‘Well, I guess I’ll leave you two love birds to it,’ Cat said quietly.
‘What do you mean?’ Steve said.
‘Oh. Steve, open your eyes. Catch you later.’
Steve watched her depart. As she passed Lisa, Cat nodded a hello. Lisa responded with a tight smile.
‘I didn’t expect you to come,’ Steve said as she drew alongside.
‘I think we need to talk.’ Lisa said.
Steve watched Cat’s departing back and suddenly the full meaning of her words hit him like an express train. He turned to Lisa. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think we do.’
Sean lay on the wet ground staring up at the sky. The landing had knocked the wind out of him, and he still wasn’t sure whether he had broken anything. He propped himself up on his elbows and stared back across the lake, astonished that he could have been picked up and hurled such a distance. Had he not landed on the massive plant, he would have surely broken his neck.
He was trying to block out the terror of the chase through the wood, and didn’t want to speculate what it was that had propelled him onto the island. He was only relieved now that there was a body of water between him and the mainland, and that he was still alive.
He splashed around in the boggy ground until he found a foothold, and then pushed himself up. His feet sunk into the mud immediately, the thick, smelly stuff sucking at his shoes. He wrenched them clear and made his way up the bank. The most obvious thing to do would be to cross to the other side of the island and try to attract the attention of one of the others. Maybe they would get the boat and come and fetch him.
He finally made dry ground and took some time to wipe the worst of the mud from his shoes, but the water had seeped inside. Walking was unpleasant.
Soon he found himself on a path. It was just beaten earth, compacted and dry, and cracking open like a dried out riverbed but it led him through the trees to the centre of the island. After a few hundred yards he broke from the trees to find himself in a clearing, and in the centre of the clearing, surrounded by an unkempt and overgrown garden, was a small cottage.
Clearly it must once have been quite pretty with its orange tiled roof and white stuccoed walls, but now it had fallen into disrepair. The roof was moss-covered and there were gaps where tiles had come adrift. The moss continued down the white walls, staining large areas a dirty green.
One of the upstairs windows had been boarded up but the other one was exposed, and Sean could see torn and ragged curtains hanging up inside. Downstairs it was a similar story. Through one of the windows he could see various items lined up on the window sill – a brush, a bottle of washing-up liquid and a sponge, all covered in dust and cobwebs, looking like they had sat there unused for years. He approached the other window and looked through into what had probably been the lounge. Furniture shapes under dirty grey dustsheets and an ancient television took up space in the corner.
He tried the front door but it was locked so he went around to the back of the cottage. The back garden was just as overgrown as the front. He could make out the remains of a lawn, but it resembled nothing more than a weed infested meadow. There was a small ramshackle shed and a dilapidated greenhouse with most of its glass missing, and away in the corner of the garden stood an old wooden water butt. An ancient lean-to covered the back of the house, its glass roof obscured by the brittle brown growth of a dead grapevine. The door hung open on loose and rusted hinges.
Sean walked into the lean-to, bushing away the spiders’ webs that hung from the grape vine, and tried the back door. The handle twisted under his grip and the door opened smoothly.
He stuck his head inside and called a hello, though he didn’t think for one moment the place was inhabited. No one could live in such decaying surroundings.
He was surprised when his call was answered by a small sound from deep within the house. He wasn’t sure if it was a voice, or perhaps the sound made by a small animal. It was a strange sort of mewling sound – the kind of sound a frightened cat might make.
He went inside and called again. As he walked through the downstairs room he was struck by the smell of the place. The only thing he could liken it to was the reptile house in the zoo he had visited once – a musky mixture of animal and vegetable smells, pungent and quite unpleasant.
His call was answered once again by the strange, plaintive mewling sound, and he realised it was coming from upstairs. The stairs themselves had seen better days. Covered by a threadbare carpet runner, they were in about the same state of disrepair as the rest of the house.
He took the first three stairs gingerly – testing them to see that they would hold his weight – then climbed the rest quickly. Once upstairs he called again, and once again his call was met by the same response. On the landing he was confronted by three doors. Behind one was a filthy and unusable bathroom, behind another an empty room into which the afternoon sun was pouring, enlivening the dust-motes as they spun in the air.
He hesitated before opening the third door. He tapped on the wood lightly as his fingers closed around the handle. There was no response. He turned the handle and opened the door a fraction. An insufferable stench wafted out of the room. He was about to close it again when he heard a small groan from within.
He pushed the door open wide. The room was in darkness. Through the windows he could see the thick wooden boards he had noticed from the garden. Underneath the window was a narrow bed, lying on it was a figure, an old, old woman with leathery skin and just a smattering of white hair. A rough looking blanket was pulled up to her chin, but the body beneath it made scarcely a bump.
The old woman turned her head to look at him, and with what seemed to be a huge effort said, ‘Sean... help me...’ The voice was barely a croak, just a whisper, but he heard it and a shiver rippled through his body. How on earth did the old woman know his name?
He approached the bed cautiously, looking about the room, paying special attention to the dark corners. Apart from the old woman the room was empty. When he reached the bed he crouched down, next to her.
‘Who are you?’ he said. ‘How do you know my name?’
There was movement under the blanket as the old woman tried to free her arms.
‘Here,’ Sean said. ‘Let me.’
He grabbed the top of the blanket and pulled it back, then recoiled in horror and shock, bile rising in his throat.
He reeled away from the bed and what he had revealed beneath the blanket.
Wood lice. Thousands of them, creeping and crawling, feeding off the old woman’s decaying body.
‘Sean.’ Again the weak, croaking voice.
Sean was being sick in the corner of the room.
‘Help...it’s me...Su...’
Sean wiped his mouth. There was panic in his eyes when he turned again to face the old women. He had to get out of here, ba
ck to the mainland, back to reality. He needed to get some help. There was nothing he could do to help the old woman now. She needed expert medical treatment.
‘Sean!’ Again. Even feebler now. Fading away.
‘I can’t help you!’ Sean shouted at her. ‘I can’t help you and I don’t know you!’ And as the words left his lips he noticed something hanging around the old woman’s withered neck. A gold ankh, fashioned from ivy leaves – identical to the one worn by Susan Cross. Anger surged up within him, and he was about to ask the old woman were she had got the ankh from, when he looked closely at the old, wrinkled face and realised the awful, horrific truth.
‘Oh my God, it’s you.’
14
Sean backed away from the bed. What had happened to Susan Cross was too horrible to accept. His mind baulked at it, and yet the irrefutable evidence was lying there on the bed. He couldn’t pull his gaze away from the old woman’s – Susan’s – face, and as he looked tears welled up in the pale, bloodshot eyes and trickled down the sunken cheeks.
‘Help me...’ the withered mouth whispered.
Sean shook his head. ‘I can’t help you... I don’t know what to do... I...’ A noise behind him made him turn in time to see Sarah Delacourt glide into the room. He didn’t even have time to blink before the woman attacked him, lashing out with her perfectly manicured hand.
The blow sent him staggering sideways, but before he could regain his balance she struck him again. This time her hand connected with the side of his head and he blacked out momentarily. He could not believe the power of the blows. The woman seemed slightly built, and as she approached him, her face expressionless, her eyes calm, there was no hint that she was expending any effort at all.
He saw the next blow coming and dodged it, avoiding the flailing arm and moving around her. The door to the room was still open and he made a dash for it. With ease Sarah Delacourt reached out and caught the sleeve of his leather jacket and yanked him off balance.
Sean stumbled and fell to the floor. Splinters from the bare wooden boards dug into the balls of his hands as he put them out to break his fall, and he winced. He was facing the bed, just inches away from Susan. She was looking beyond him at the doorway, a look of absolute terror on her face.
He turned to follow her gaze. Entering the room was a nightmare in black. The figure was small and squat and entirely covered in dusty black cloth. Entirely covered except for the face, which was a puffy, doughy mass, featureless apart from two glittering black eyes and a slit for a mouth. It moved silently, seeming to glide across the floor towards him, and Sean noticed with disgust that in its wake it left a slimy trail, like that of a slug.
He was so absorbed watching the creature’s progress that he didn’t have time to avoid Sarah Delacourt’s foot as it swung at his head. The toecap of her shoe hit his temple with such force that Sean heard the definite crack as his skull split open. Then there was only darkness.
‘I’m sorry, Lis. I’ve just never seen our relationship in those terms.’
They were walking at the side of the lake, a good yard of space between them. Lisa was looking straight ahead, not daring to look at Steve as he spoke the words she was dreading to hear.
‘I mean, we’re friends, good mates... If we became involved with each other, it might only last a couple of months, and if we broke up then where would it leave our friendship?’
‘Who’s to say it wouldn’t last?’ Lisa said, trying hard to stop her voice from trembling.
‘None of my other girl friends have. Who was the longest?’
‘Eve.’
‘Right, Eve. And how long did that last? Three months? I’m just not the type for commitment. I’m like my dad I suppose.’
‘And that’s the issue here, isn’t it?’ Lisa said hotly. ‘It has nothing to do with me, or your feelings for me. It’s because you’re afraid that you’re just like your father – too selfish to give yourself to another. Frightened to make that connection. I love you, Steve. I have done for years. Does it really frighten you that much?’
Steve bent down and grabbed a handful of stones from the path. He started to throw them, one by one, into the lake. ‘I don’t know,’ he said at last.
Lisa stopped walking. ‘This is getting us nowhere. I’m going back.’
She turned and started to retrace her steps. Steve carried on walking, still pausing every few paces to skim a stone across the surface of the lake.
By the time Lisa reached the house she was crying – hurt by Steve’s rejection and furious with herself for actually coming out and baring her feelings to him. She had probably ruined everything. The words were out there now, and things would never be quite the same between them. They would both try of course, and on the surface things would tick along much the same as before, but underneath the jokes and banter her crushed feelings and Steve’s inability to handle them would be an issue between them.
She climbed the stairs wearily, hoping no one would see her. But even that humiliation wasn’t spared her. She turned the corner at the top of the stairs and almost walked straight into Cat who was coming out of her room, clutching her washing things. A towel was draped around her neck and she had pinned her hair up into a mound on top of her head.
‘Sorry,’ Lisa said, stepping around her to head on to her own room.
Cat stared at her hard ‘Would you like to talk about it?’ she said.
Lisa hesitated. ‘You’re busy,’ she said, indicating Cat’s washing bag.
‘I’m only going for a shower. It can wait. Come on.’ she pushed open the door to her room and ushered Lisa inside.
Cat closed the door behind them and went across to the cabinet that stood in the corner. She pulled open a drawer and took out a can of Coke and two plastic tumblers. She flipped the ring-pull and poured an equal amount into the two tumblers.
Lisa sat on the bed, looking about the room. Standing on top of the bedside cabinet were two framed photographs. One showed a good-looking sun-bronzed boy, with an easy smile and kind blue eyes. The other photograph showed the same boy, standing on a beach with chalky cliffs at the back of him, but in this photograph he wasn’t alone. He was standing with his arm around a pretty young girl with long tawny hair and equally bronzed skin. They made a striking couple.
Cat noticed the attention Lisa was paying to the photograph. ‘Corfu, last year. I can’t remember ever being as hot.’
Lisa looked from the photograph to Cat and back again. Her jaw dropped in astonishment. ‘The girl in the picture... It’s you!’
Cat shrugged and handed Lisa her drink. ‘Another time. Another life,’ she said, sat down on the bed next to Lisa and raised her tumbler. ‘Men,’ she said. ‘May they rot in hell.’
Lisa smiled ruefully and raised her glass. ‘I take it Golden Boy is no longer on the scene then?’
Cat sipped at her drink. ‘No. He’s engaged now to a girl who works at Tesco.’
‘Do you miss him?’
‘Like losing a limb,’ Cat said bluntly. ‘They say that time is a great healer. Well, it’s been months and I’m still waiting for it to work its magic. What about you? I take it your feelings for Steve aren’t reciprocated.’
Lisa sighed. ‘Why do we always fall in love with the wrong ones?’
‘It’s one of life’s nasty little pranks,’ Cat said. ‘How long have you known him?’
‘All my life... and that’s the problem. I think we know each other too well. He just sees me as one of the boys. I think it’s because I like football.’
‘I think it’s because secretly he feels the same about you and is terrified what might happen.’
Lisa shook his head. ‘I wish you were right,’ she said, hardly able to believe she was having such a meaningful conversation with the other girl. They were hardly well suited – but then that may be why she was so easy to talk to.
‘I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Believe me.’
Tim leaned back in his seat and rubbed his eyes. He was
so tired. He hadn’t slept at all last night, and he suspected he wouldn’t sleep tonight either. Taking his mobile phone from his pocket he linked it quickly to his laptop, punched in a number and within seconds he was connected to the Internet. Moments later he was surfing on his favourite sites, mostly music related. He called up Google, to would help him find the web pages he was looking for. An idea had occurred to him. His explanation of what the others were experiencing seemed totally reasonable to him, and he couldn’t understand why it wasn’t to them. He realised he would need more evidence to support his case.
He typed in the name of Edward Mason, Allen’s famous brother. He waited for the search engine to do its work. When it came up with nothing, he typed in one of the pseudonyms Mason used. The result was almost instantaneous. There were a dozen pages about him.
Five minutes later he was reading an interview with the man himself. Two minutes after that he was staring at the screen, mouth open in disbelief as he read the same line over and over again.
The death of my brother, Nick, five years ago, had a profound affect on my writing.
Finally Tim read the sentence aloud, and the words seemed to echo around the room, bouncing off the walls, coming back to mock him. How could he be so wrong?
He called up the search engine again and typed in SENICE. He really dreaded now what he was going to find.
An hour later he was still reading. There was no information to be found about the Senice Foundation, and only one document about Isabella Senice herself. But that document – unearthed from the archives of the London University – shot down in flames all his high-flown theories about a charade being played out here.
Tim stared at the screen of his laptop and realised he had been badly wrong about Senice House and its occupants. His whole body was shaking as he rose from his seat and crossed to the door. He had to apologise to Sean, and tell the others just what was happening here. Then they would have to leave, as quickly and as secretly as possible, because he knew if DeMarney or the Delacourt woman got so much as a hint of their intention, they would stop at nothing to prevent them.
A Weaving of Ancient Evil Page 8