Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

  Some of the coffee slopped into the saucer when she plonked it down in front of him and the liquid was only lukewarm. But he placed both hands around the cup and drank greedily. He hadn’t realised how thirsty he was.

  Three more days. Three more days of juggling tedium and tension. Three more days of staring at the walls of his hotel room, of walking through streets he had no wish to see. The thought of it was a grey veil settling over his brain.

  And then, unbidden, came to his mind the image of green, rain-washed fields, of dark woods and a house with honey-coloured walls. The driveway matted over by falling leaves, the barks of the shadowy trees covered in moss. A landscape with the subdued richness of a canvas by Corot.

  No. That door was closed forever. The man who had been master of the spacious rooms and elegant gardens was gone, and the man in his place had forfeited the right to return. There was no going back. And what a cliché it would be, the murderer returning to the scene of his crime. The idea of it was ridiculous. The mere thought of it was madness.

  Madness. It wasn’t even to be contemplated.

  • • •

  HE DECIDED to catch the five o’clock train. He had no wish to arrive at the Ainstey train station in broad daylight. Nine years was a long time, but maybe not long enough. He might still be recognised.

  But the station was deserted and, apart from a couple walking their dog, the streets were empty. The windows of the houses were closed and the lights shining from behind the flowery curtains were a butterscotch yellow. Even the church was dark. He looked at the thick stone walls, the silvered stained-glass windows. His mother had visited this place so often. It had been her second home. Hers and Richard’s. But he had never considered it a refuge.

  He passed quietly by the village pub. The sign with its gilt lettering and colourful design swayed in the wind. The Slug and Pudding. It was just as he remembered it. From behind the closed door came the sound of voices and laughter and he glimpsed the dark shapes of moving figures on the other side of the tiny windows with their leaded panes.

  The evening was clear but it was bitterly cold. He had bought a wool coat this afternoon before setting out, but he had no gloves. He pushed his fists deep into his pockets.

  Stars peeping through wisps of rapidly moving clouds. The moon luminous in a blue-black sky. His footsteps making little sound, not even when he crossed the wooden footbridge spanning the narrow, darkly flowing river. For a moment he stopped and gripped the railing with both hands, looking down at the water, listening to its icy whisper. Somewhere underneath him, in the shadow of the bridge, was a large boulder with sensuous curves. He couldn’t see it in the darkness, but as a boy he had paused at this exact spot every time he had to cross. It had been his own private ritual: throwing pebbles at the boulder, watching as they spun off and hit the rapidly flowing water like bullets. Two pebbles only; never more than two. The first for safe passage. The second for luck.

  He left the bridge and started to walk down the narrow lane which would eventually lead him to the gates of Paradine Park. The gravel track seemed frosted in the strong moonlight and he could see hawkweed flourishing at the edges. He passed by MacGregor’s stud farm and he smelled the horses and saw in the gloom the white poles of the paddocks. And now the high sandstone wall that marked the outer boundary of Paradine Park was on his right. It was tall, the height of two men, and formed a formidable barrier. But the wall was in need of repair. He saw gaps between the stones and the coping was crumbling.

  The gates loomed up in front of him. The moonlight was strong and the graceful filigree pattern of the gates stood out clearly. They were shut and for a moment he wondered if his way would be barred and he would have to turn back after all, but when he slipped his hand between the icy spokes, the bolt slid easily out of its lock. He stepped through and on either side of him the pale limbs of the beeches rose tall and lovely in the darkness.

  He stood, his heart weak, his mind softening with remembrance. The track, ribbed with shadows, stretched ahead of him like something from a dream, like a ribbon of endless longing, exactly as he wished it, more perfect than he recalled.

  He found that he had moved, without realising he had done so. On his left, on the other side of the row of beeches, he glimpsed the dark hump of the maze and farther back the sheen of the man-made lake, its water still and glassy. An owl called softly. The tentative sound hovered in the air, causing him to glance over his shoulder. His eyes probed the latticework of branches, but he could not find it, and after a moment he pressed onward once again.

  At the very edge of the avenue he stopped, his body in shadow. In front of him was the house, as secretive, as mysterious as a storybook castle. Its windows were black, showing not a gleam of light. There was no sign of life, no cars in the driveway, no sound of a door slamming, or a dog barking or music or voices. No windows left slightly ajar.

  He had no idea if the house had been sold. Maybe Harriet was still living here. But the house gave the strong impression of being deserted. His feet scrunched through the loose gravel. Walking hesitantly up the front steps, he peered through the windows that flanked the front door. He imagined he could make out the sweeping curve of the balustrade, the gaping hole of the fireplace, but the shadows in the entrance hall were too deep for him to be sure.

  The curtains were drawn across most of the windows on the ground floor but, as he walked down the length of the house, he noticed one set of windows with the curtains open. The music room. Cupping his hands, he pressed his face close to the glass pane.

  The room was empty. He strained his eyes, but he could see no pictures on the wall, no furniture. A piano used to occupy the space right beside this window, a Steinway with real ivory keys and a mellow voice. And on its walnut surface had stood a bowl of flowers and photographs in gilt frames. Pictures of his mother and Harriet arm in arm; Richard in his cricket whites; his father seated in his study, an old-fashioned pince-nez clasped to his nose. He remembered that there had been a picture of himself, as well, to complete the array of family snapshots, but as he stared into the empty darkness, he found he could not recall what the picture had looked like.

  The house was deserted, then. He turned away from the window. To his left was the giant cedar tree, its leaves moving sleepily in the wind, the rope swing with the tyre swaying gently. The bushes in the rose garden were a tangle of thorns. The wisteria walkway was without blooms. The tough stems made a vault above his head as he entered, but they were naked, stripped even of leaves. And there, pale in the moonlight, was the sundial. Time that Was. Time that Is. Time that is Yet to Be. He rested his hand on the dusty surface and waited.

  Nothing. No echo of the past came to him as he stood there on the springy grass, the smell of rotting wood bitter in the air. If he were to find ghosts, surely this was where they would be, here where hate and rage and death had come together one summer’s night when the grass was fragrant and the drooping sprays of wisteria had looked like a bride.

  The owl hooted again from deep within the avenue of trees. A night bird answered hesitantly. The sound floated on the cold night air like a call to prayer.

  There was nothing here. He had been foolish to come. Paradine Park had been abandoned even by the ghosts. And what had he thought to find? Catharsis, a sense of forgiveness even?

  He turned his back on the walkway and walked toward the front of the house, intent now only on leaving this place behind. But as he stepped onto the gravel driveway, he stopped. A car was approaching fast, the lights two glowing eyes in the darkness. It was already more than halfway down the avenue and he wondered that he hadn’t heard the engine earlier. Quietly he stepped back into the shadows, finding shelter behind a thick-leafed magnolia bush.

  A door slammed. Quick, light footsteps. The footsteps of a woman. He drew back into the shadows even farther. She was now standing in front of the door: he could hear her fidgeting with the keys. The door swung open with a protesting creak and then a wash of light suddenl
y spilled out into the night.

  He peered cautiously around the bush. He caught a glimpse of a slight figure, a long black coat and red scarf. The next moment she had closed the door. But the light in the entrance hall was on and he could see straight through one of the long slim windows adjacent to the front door. She was pulling off her coat, her back toward him. But then she turned around and her delicately boned face was in the light.

  His breath caught. His thoughts seemed to thicken. He stared at the figure framed in the window and his heart shouted, Oh! Oh! Oh!

  • • •

  SHE WAS TIRED but filled with a sense of accomplishment. Her bags were packed. Her passport, ticket and a pocket-sized travel atlas were stacked on top of each other next to her bed. The ticket was open-ended; she had no idea how long she would be out there for. All that was left was for her to drop off her winter clothes, her cameras and the MG with her long-suffering friend Caroline. She’d do that tomorrow on her way to the airport and take a taxi from Caroline’s flat in Guildford out to Heathrow. Usually she would have stashed her stuff with Barry, but after their scene in the coffee bar, she did not feel she had the right any longer.

  She could hardly believe that she was almost on her way. In another eighteen hours she would be in the air on her way to a country thousands of miles to the south, like a migrating bird attracted to warmer climes. She had decided to simply leave without saying anything to anyone. She felt a little ashamed to abandon ship like this, but the managing agents of Paradine Park would be sure to insist on a reasonable notice period. And the story about her fictitious husband could come out and the resulting unpleasantness might slow her up even more.

  She stretched. Maybe she should take a shower to get rid of the city grime. She had spent the day in London arranging her visa and buying cotton trousers, T-shirts and a hat. She had summer clothing at her mother’s place, but she had no wish to go there. She certainly did not want another verbal run-in with her irate parent.

  She undressed and dropped her clothes on the end of the bed. She found herself shivering slightly as she walked down the hall to the bathroom. The heating in her bedroom was adequate, but the long passage was draughty. The soles of her feet were freezing and the chill in the air made her clasp her hands to her bare shoulders.

  She turned on the shower and waited for the water to turn from tepid to hot. It always took some time. After a few minutes the bathroom started to fill up with steam. She slipped into the cubicle with its old-fashioned bottle-glass doors.

  The hot water felt like a blessing. She shampooed her hair and soaped her body using the expensive body wash she had bought that morning in a sudden burst of extravagance. It was a waste of money, really—she would have to leave it behind. But the gesture had suited her mood. Now that she was actually about to leave, her thoughts were light as air and she felt playful. She squeezed the bubbles between her fingers, enjoying the woody scent. She was happy. Certainly, she had some doubts, apprehensions even, but she hadn’t allowed herself to think too much about what exactly she would do once she arrived on the other side of the world. The important thing was to get there.

  She stepped out of the shower and draped the thick pink towel around her. The mirror was fogged up, reducing her face to a hazy blob. She smiled and reached out her hand and traced in the patch of moisture the outline of an animal: four legs, sloping body, ears pricked.

  She suddenly yawned uncontrollably. She really was very tired indeed; she should go to bed.

  Just before leaving the bathroom, she wondered: had she locked the front door? She hesitated, trying to recall her actions after she had arrived. She couldn’t remember, although… she probably had. There was no need to pad down the draughty passage and chilly staircase for nothing. Besides, she really should guard against becoming paranoid.

  She opened the bathroom door and started to walk down the passage to where the soft light of her bedside lamp shone through a crack in the door, which she had left ajar.

  Time for sleep, she thought. Time for dreams.

  • • •

  THE ANIMAL was inside the house. He was moving on silent feet down the moonlit hallway. His paws barely brushed against the slippery floor and he threw no shadow against the moon-washed walls. On and on he went, down that long passage with its row of smooth closed doors. On and on he went, toward that one room at the end of the passage with its door open.

  He was at the threshold. He crouched down till his belly touched the ground; his senses locked on the soft breathing of the sleeping figure in the bed beneath the window. The woman stirred and sighed.

  The animal delicately stretched out one paw and moved his body stealthily forward. The muscles in his massive shoulders bunched. His eyes were phosphorescent blue and glowed like coals inside his head.

  She opened her eyes. The man was standing next to her bed. The moonlight in the room was strong and she could see his face. ‘Justine,’ he said. He held out his hand. ‘Justine,’ he said again.

  TWENTY-SIX

  SHE WAS WATCHING him without blinking. The moonlight was pooling in her eyes. She hadn’t lifted her head off the pillow and her hand resting lightly on the white bed sheet seemed relaxed. But as Adam said her name again and stretched out his own hand toward her once more, she tensed and her fingers jerked spasmodically. And in her eyes he saw fear.

  He stopped.

  ‘Don’t be afraid.’ His voice was no more than a whisper.

  Still she said nothing. She continued to look at him with eyes wide and gleaming. Her face was at once both familiar and unknown to him. The eyes were spaced very far apart, almost disconcertingly so. Her face was broader over the cheekbones than the picture in the magazine had led him to believe. But her mouth—the full mouth with the tender but extravagant curve to the upper lip—oh yes, he recognised her mouth, and the long pale neck, the ineffably vulnerable hollow at the base of her throat.

  He swallowed and tried to moderate his breathing. His skin felt flushed and he could feel sweat forming in the hollows underneath his arms. The urge to touch her was overwhelming, but he managed to push his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. Inside his mind was a refrain: Please. Oh, please… Don’t turn from me…

  Taking a deep breath, he stepped back from the bed, stopped beside the chair. ‘Is it OK if I sit down?’

  She did not answer, but he could sense her mentally shrinking from him. She was still very much afraid. Terrified, even. But what the hell had he expected? A woman alone waking up to find a stranger in her room… The real surprise was that she wasn’t screaming the roof down.

  She was now pushing herself into an upright position and he caught a devastating glimpse of the sweet curve of her breast before she pulled the bed sheet up to her shoulders. Her hand moved from underneath the bedclothes toward the lamp on the bedside table. It sprang to life, chasing the shallow glare of the moonlight, replacing it with softer shadows and deeper light.

  He kept his eyes on her, but his surroundings were pushing at the edge of his awareness. This was the room in which he had spent the first years of his life. He looked at the woman in front of him and it suddenly felt as though what was past and what is yet to come had collided in a freakish twist of time.

  She was watching him warily. Her face had lost its mask-like expression, but the set of her shoulders was taut. She had placed one foot on the floor: he could see her toes peeping from underneath the overhanging blanket. The tense line of her back warned of imminent flight.

  He eased himself slowly onto the chair, taking care not to make any startling or abrupt gestures.

  At the corner of her one eyelid was a tiny tic. She lifted her chin and he could see where her pulse was drumming in her throat. His own heart was beating like a trip-hammer. He felt suddenly clumsy: too large, too hulking. He searched desperately in his mind for the right words to reassure her, the words that would put to flight the panic in her eyes. But he could think of nothing. He was struck dumb. Words started to f
orm inside his mind, but were unable to leave his lips.

  The silence stretched out between them, as vast as a desert.

  • • •

  THIS WAS ALL WRONG, she thought. This was not how she had imagined it would be. She had fantasised about this moment—a man and a woman running toward each other in slow motion, the landscape an improbable field of multicoloured flowers, the sky a celestial blue. This clichéd, soft-focus fantasy felt more true than the reality in which she now found herself—the night black outside the window, an intruder in her room.

  Who was this man, really?

  The dark blue coat he was wearing seemed very new. The coat was just slightly too small for him, fitting tight over his chest with the sleeves an inch or so too short. His hands were exposed up to the wrists and black hair curled from underneath the white cuffs of the shirt riding up his arms. His fingers were long and calloused. He was very dark from the sun; the skin across his cheekbones seemed almost varnished. High-bridged nose. Strong mouth.

  And his eyes—his eyes were the same burning eyes that belonged to the boy in the painting; to the man in the newspaper photograph whose face she had studied again and again. His body was almost aggressively relaxed, but the restless intensity of his gaze made her mouth go dry. Even though he was several steps away from the bed, she imagined she could feel the heat coming off his body.

  She had searched for this man. She had been about to fly thousands of miles into the unknown with no more than a blind irrational compulsion steering her course. And now, without any effort on her part, he was here. But it was all too much, too unexpected.

  She recognised vaguely that she was in shock. Her hands were cold and her brain felt as though it had shut down. Even the fear that had flooded her body as she woke up to find him next to her bed was somehow blunted, like pain in a lightly anesthetised limb—numb, but waiting to flare into awful life.