She stood for several moments staring at the darkening garden, then she turned back to the phone. Piers did not answer. She waited for the message. ‘Piers, it’s Em.’ Her voice sounded strange in the empty kitchen. ‘Please call me. I need to talk to you. Soon.’ She hung up, glancing at her watch. Of course, he wouldn’t be back from the office yet. It felt much later than it was because it was growing dark. Unbolting the back door she slipped out onto the terrace and called the cats again. There was no answer and after a moment she went back inside, bolting the door behind her nervously. She felt terribly alone. And scared.
At least the Aga hadn’t forsaken her. She walked over to it and savoured its solid warmth for a moment before lifting the lid of the hot plate and putting the kettle onto it. Then she dialled Alex’s number.
Paula picked up the phone. Her voice was sharp. ‘Yes, he got your message. No doubt he’ll have a word with you next week sometime.’
‘Next week?’ Emma echoed. ‘Is he there? Could I have a word with him now?’
‘No, you couldn’t.’ Paula sounded even sharper. ‘He’s tired and he’s busy with the children. It’s really not convenient, Emma, I’m sorry.’
Emma put down the phone. She bit her lip, hurt. Oh God, there must be someone she could talk to. This time she dialled the rectory – of course, he wasn’t there. But there was always his mobile. He had said she could ring him any time. He had meant it, too. Surely he had. The phone was switched off. ‘Leave your name and number,’ the message recited and she did. Somehow she knew he would not call her back that night.
She made a pot of tea and drew the curtains against the darkness, wondering where Max and Min had got to. It would soon be their supper time. They would certainly appear then, and keep her company.
The house was quiet. Too quiet, and she was very conscious of the dark silent garden outside. Walking over to the radio she switched it on, glad of the sudden chorus of voices which flooded the room.
Touring the whole house, she turned on all the lights and drew the curtains, checking each room in case the cats had got themselves stuck somewhere. They were nowhere to be seen.
Nor were they there when half an hour later she looked at her watch and reached automatically for their bowls.
‘Max? Minni? Supper!’ She banged a fork against the tin. ‘Come on you two.’
There was no sign of them. ‘Max? Min?’ Her voice sharpened in anxiety. She unbolted and opened the back door again. It was cold outside. A spattering of rain blew into her face as she tried to see into the darkness. Stepping out, she walked over to the edge of the terrace, straining her eyes to focus across the garden. ‘Max? Min?’ The wind was rising now, blowing away her words. It was sharp with salt and mud, a sudden reminder that winter was on its way. From the fields beyond the hedge, she heard the short sharp scream of a fox. Shivering, she turned back inside and closing the door behind her she bolted it once more. They would come in when they were ready. Perhaps they had killed a rabbit and were even now gloating over their own private do-it-yourself supper in one of the sheds or in the barn.
The music ended and someone began to read the news. She listened with half an ear.
Emma!
She frowned, shaking her head slightly. If the cats didn’t want their supper, the next thing on the agenda was a drink. She glanced down at the neat wine rack, newly stocked with carefully selected bottles of Shiraz and Merlot and Sauvignon. She didn’t feel like wine. Wine was a convivial drink; a drink to savour with friends. She reached into the cupboard for the bottle of malt.
Emma!
She paused, staring round. On the radio they were previewing the evening’s programmes. Leaning across the table, she turned up the volume, then she added some water to the Scotch.
Emma!
‘Oh, stop it!’ She took a gulp from the glass. ‘Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!’
She stared at the Aga, frowning. The kitchen, normally warm and cosy, suddenly seemed unnaturally cold. She took another swig from her glass. Her mouth was dry and she realised she was beginning to feel rather sick.
‘Max? Min? Where are you?’
The atmosphere felt strange. There was a tenseness in the air which was palpable.
Almost automatically she reached for the phone – her lifeline. But who could she ring? Not Alex. Not Mike. Not Piers.
Lyndsey.
Lyndsey would know what to do. Putting down her glass, she reached for the phone book and with shaking hands she began to turn the pages. It took a long time to find it, but at last she spotted the number against Lyn’s address, and punching it in she put the receiver to her ear.
The number rang on and on. Biting her lip, she looked round the room. Surely it was growing darker and colder by the second? ‘Lyndsey. Answer. Please.’ As the phone rang on she pictured Lyndsey’s little house, the small front room, the warm coals on the fire, the crystals, the flowers, and suddenly she slammed down the receiver. She wasn’t there. Flora, then. Even if she was far away in London, Flora’s voice would cheer her up. She dialled the number and waited. Flora’s answer phone was typically forthcoming: ‘I’m away for a few days. If you’re a burglar my neighbour’s rottweiler will get you, so don’t bother coming round. If you’re an aromatherapy client I’ll see you in a couple of weeks as arranged. Anyone else, leave a message. Bye!’
Emma smiled wanly. No Flora then, either. There was no one to help her. Not anywhere.
Emma? We’re friends. I’m going to help you, and you are going to help me, Emma.
‘No.’ Emma shook her head.
Emma, we have to do it. We have to punish him.
The voice was no longer inside her head. It was there, with her in the room.
‘Go away!’ Emma put her hands over her ears.
We know how to find him, Emma.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ She shook her head miserably. She walked across to the Aga and stood, gripping the towel rail. Automatically she glanced at the temperature gauge on the front. It was up to its full heat, so why did she feel so cold?
Turning her back on it, she went over to the table and reaching for the radio, she turned up the volume as loud as it would go.
You have to hear me, Emma. Listen. The voice was back inside her head. We have to kill him. Don’t you see? We have to make him suffer as Liza suffered. We have to drag Hopkins down to Hell, Emma. And now we can reach him. We can reach him through Mike, Emma. The voice went on and on. You can help me reach him, Emma. We have to kill Mike, Emma, then once he is dead, Hopkins will be in our power and we can send him to Hell!
79
Saturday October 31st
HALLOWEEN
The next morning, Jamie was as right as rain.
‘I’m hungry, Daddy!’ He bounced into his parents’ bedroom at seven o’clock. Alex groaned. There was no sound from Paula. Reluctantly Alex dragged himself out of bed, ducked into the shower, pulled on his favourite gardening clothes – old threadbare cords and faded checked shirt and a cable-knit sweater – and he headed down to the kitchen. By the time he had inhaled his first cup of coffee, he felt wide awake. He gave the children their breakfast and settled down for a few minutes with the morning paper.
‘God, you all sound cheerful.’ Paula appeared, still in her nightshirt. She reached for the coffee. ‘Any news?’
‘Pages.’ Alex groaned.
‘What are we doing today, Mummy?’ Sophie slipped out of her own place and went to lean against her mother’s knees as Paula collapsed into a chair.
‘Nothing, if I have anything to do with it.’ Paula groaned again.
‘Can we go and see Sally? Can we, Daddy?’ Sophie’s face was eager. ‘Jamie’s better and they said we could go again. They said we could ride their pony.’
Alex glanced at Paula and raised an eyebrow. She shrugged. ‘Would you take them? If I collect them at lunchtime?’
‘Of course.’ He smiled. ‘OK, kids. Teeth. Make beds. ETD ten minutes!’
<
br /> It was after he had dropped the children off and seen them scamper eagerly away towards the paddock behind their friend’s house, each clutching a windfall apple for the grossly fat pony, that he remembered Paula telling him that Emma had phoned the night before. Pulling the car up in the lane he thought for a minute, then he reversed into a gateway and turned the Volvo, heading back towards Liza’s.
The cottage was half-hidden in the mist which lay like a milky blanket across the fields and gardens. He pulled into the lay-by behind Emma’s car and climbed out. The doors and windows of the house were closed, the curtains still drawn. He rang the front door bell and waited. There was no reply. He rang again, glancing at his watch. It was still early but he could hear music coming from inside. Perhaps she was already out working in the gardens. He made his way round the side of the house to the terrace and knocked at the kitchen door. The sound of the radio was really loud here. There was still no reply, so he tried the handle. The door was locked. He frowned, knocking again, harder this time, and called out, ‘Emma? Are you there?’ Perhaps she couldn’t hear him because of the music.
A blackbird flew out of the old apple tree in the garden behind him, pinking a warning.
‘Emma?’
He moved from the door to the window, and shading his eyes against the reflections, he peered in. The kitchen appeared to be empty. Frowning, he leaned closer, squinting to focus his eyes over the pots of herbs along the window sill. The lights were on. The radio was on the table – he could see the two red lights on the top.
‘Emma!’ He tapped at the glass and suddenly he saw her. She was sitting on the floor in the corner of the room, her arms wrapped around her knees, her head pressed into them tightly.
‘Emma? My God, Emma, what’s wrong?’ He banged the glass harder. ‘Emma. Can you hear me?’
She was moving. He saw her slowly raise her head and stare blankly around her as though she had just awoken from a deep sleep.
‘Emma!’ he yelled. He rapped on the glass again. ‘Open the door! Emma, the door is locked. Can you hear me? Over here? Open the door!’
Damn the music. She couldn’t hear him.
Then at last she was looking towards him. He saw her frown. Slowly she released the grip on her knees and straightened her legs. Then, agonisingly slowly, she began to struggle to her feet. For several seconds she stood leaning against the wall, then she took two steps towards the door, staggering, her hand to her head.
‘That’s it. Come on, Emma. Three more steps and you’re there.’ He peered through the glass anxiously.
She was leaning against the table now, taking deep breaths, then she was moving again.
Stepping back from the window he hurried back to the door. He could hear her trying the handle from the inside.
‘Emma, it’s bolted. Pull back the bolt.’ His mouth was against the wood.
At last he heard the rasp of iron and finally the door opened. She stood staring at him. ‘Alex?’ The word was drowned by the blast of music which had hit him.
‘It’s OK. I’m here now.’ He put his arm round her and gently pushed her back into the room. Two strides across the floor to the radio and he had switched it off. Blessed silence flowed around them.
‘Max? Min? Where are they?’ Emma’s eyes had filled with tears.
‘I don’t know.’ Alex pushed her into one of the chairs, then he turned to the Aga. ‘You need coffee. What is it? Did you drink too much?’ He had spotted the whisky bottle on the worktop.
She shrugged. ‘Sarah was here. She wouldn’t leave me alone. I tried to ring you.’ Her eyes filled with tears again. ‘No one came, and the cats are missing.’
‘I’m sure the cats are fine.’ He reached into the fridge for the jar of coffee. ‘I expect they ran off because of the noise. They’ll be back soon.’
‘Noise?’ She was squinting at him.
‘The radio. You had it turned up full volume.’
‘Did I?’ She put her hand to her head again.
‘Listen, Em.’ Alex was watching her anxiously. ‘I wonder if I should call the doctor to look at you. How much did you drink last night?’
She stared at the bottle, her brow furrowed as though trying to focus. ‘Not much.’
‘Presumably Sarah drank with you?’ He was pouring hot water into the jug. ‘Who is she, anyway?’
Emma started to laugh. ‘Sarah doesn’t drink. No, not a drop.’ She shook her head slowly from side to side. ‘She wants me to kill someone.’ She looked up at Alex pleadingly. ‘She wouldn’t go away.’
‘Then maybe I should call the police.’ He turned and stared at her, trying to hide his shock.
‘No.’ Suddenly her laughter had become shrill. ‘Not the police. She’s in my head, Alex. In here!’ She thumped her temple with the palm of her hand. ‘She won’t leave me alone.’
‘OK.’ He pushed a cup of black coffee in her direction. ‘Just hang on a minute. I’m going to ring the surgery.’ Picking up the phone, he walked out of the room with it to be out of earshot. The receptionist passed him on to Dr Good, who was standing beside her.
‘As it happens I’ll be passing the door,’ he said after he had listened to Alex’s description of what had happened. ‘We don’t have a surgery on Saturday. Normally I would suggest you take her to A & E, but if you hang on with her I’ll be there in about half an hour. She came to see me only last week so I’d like to take another look at her.’
By the time he arrived, Emma had drunk two cups of coffee and was looking marginally better. There was still no sign of Max or Min.
James Good went with her into the sitting room while Alex waited in the kitchen. Ten minutes later the phone rang. Alex paused to give Emma the chance to pick it up in the next room. When she didn’t, he lifted the receiver. It was Piers.
‘Emma left a couple of messages. She sounded anxious.’ His tone of voice was slightly hostile.
‘The doctor is with her,’ Alex explained quietly. ‘She doesn’t seem to be very well.’
‘But you are there to look after her?’
‘Well, I am at the moment – ’
‘So, I needn’t have worried,’ Piers snapped.
‘I’m sure she’d like to speak to you,’ Alex replied cautiously. Shit! Paula’s meddling had antagonised Piers. ‘Look, I was only passing. She left a message for me sometime yesterday so I dropped in. It was lucky, because I found her – ’
‘And she’s OK?’ There was a moment’s silence the other end of the line and Alex heard a woman’s voice in the distance. ‘Hang on, I’m coming!’ Piers was talking to her. Then he was speaking back into the phone. ‘Look, tell Em I rang. I’ll be in touch.’
‘She’d like to speak to you, Piers. If you hold on – ’
‘I can’t. I’m busy. I’ll give her a ring tomorrow.’ Before Alex could reply he had hung up.
Alex scowled. Poor Emma. She must have rung everyone she knew last night and no one had come to help her. No one at all.
In the living room, James Good had listened carefully to Emma’s story.
‘I’m going mad, aren’t I?’ She looked at him desperately. ‘I’m paranoid or schizoid or something. You’re going to say I should be locked up!’
He smiled. ‘No, I was thinking how strange that someone else had come to see me with similar symptoms only yesterday. Nightmares seem to be endemic round here at the moment.’ He sat back in his chair and stared at her thoughtfully. ‘Is it possible you could go and stay with someone for a few days? Right away from here. A complete change of scene and some company is my preferred prescription.’
She bit her lip. ‘I suppose I could go back to London for a short stay. Piers, my ex, said I could go back any time.’ It was ages since he had said it. She wondered suddenly if he would still mean it.
‘Then now is the time.’ James Good smiled at her gently. ‘I’ll prescribe some mild tranquillisers for you, but on the whole I think a change of scene would do the trick.’
‘I’
m not being possessed, then?’ She fixed her eyes on his.
He shook his head with a smile. ‘I don’t believe in possession. I do believe in obsession. Too much worry about your move. Too much worry about the history of your house. A lively imagination. A sensitive, highly intelligent woman who is suddenly on her own when she is used to living with someone else. That is a recipe for symptoms like yours if ever I heard them.’ He leaned forward and reached into his bag for a prescription pad. ‘I don’t want you to be alone in this house again for several nights. Can you arrange that?’
She nodded.
‘Excellent. Then come and see me in about a week’s time and we’ll see how you’re getting on.’ He stood up. ‘I must go.’ Reaching out, he shook her hand. ‘This is a lovely cottage, Emma. You are going to be very happy here. Just give yourself time to adjust.’
80
Saturday morning
‘You’ve got to help me, Tony!’ Mike drove up to the tiny cottage on the waterfront at Pin Mill shortly after eleven o’clock and Ruth had pointed down towards the foreshore where Tony was doing something to his boat. ‘I spent last night at Aldeburgh, thinking. Thinking was not enough.’
Tony was standing in the mud, dressed in shorts and sandshoes, a thick sweater keeping him warm against the wind. His white hair was blowing wildly as he turned to face Mike, who was gingerly standing on the edge of the hard. He grinned.
‘Hang on, I’ll come up. Can’t have you getting muddy. Come on. Straight into the pub,’ he added as he joined Mike. ‘Let’s have a beer.’ They sat at a table in the bar, looking out across the water. Nearby the open fire crackled in the hearth. The room was cheerfully full and noisy. A child appeared from the restaurant area next door, chose a game of dominoes from the pile of pub games on the table near them and disappeared again. At the feet of an old man standing near them a portly spaniel lay down with an audible sigh. It was obviously preparing for a long stay.
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