White Silence

by Jodi Taylor

  Leo’s eyes were sparkling. ‘And we’ve never unlocked the door since.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Jones. ‘Yes, I’d love some chocolate mousse, please.’

  ‘Because,’ said Alex, obviously determined not to be elbowed out of his own story, ‘Daddy’s legend says that if the door is opened for anyone other than Jamie Croft, then the eldest son of the family will die before sunset the next day. The door has been locked ever since.’

  Jones looked at Helene. ‘That must make things awkward.’

  She laughed. ‘It’s a major inconvenience not having a working front door but I’m afraid we have to live with it.’

  ‘That’s why we have our own entrance,’ said Leo, hoovering up the last of his chocolate mousse. ‘Grandad Rookwood built it hundreds of years ago. It’s round the back.’

  ‘Not quite hundreds,’ said his father.

  Jones was persevering. ‘What would happen if you did? Open the doors, I mean.’

  Thomas Rookwood sipped his wine. ‘According to the story I read, someone did, once. Francis Rookwood, in eighteen hundred and something or other, and after a long night of cards and wine, declared the whole thing to be stuff and nonsense. He was fed up with walking the long way around, he said, and to much laughter and encouragement, he unlocked the door. No one had oiled the hinges or the lock in years, so they had to put their shoulders to it, but they got it open in the end.’

  ‘What happened?’ I said, enthralled.

  ‘His eldest son, William, died in a riding accident the very next day. Broke his neck. The story says The Widow took him.’

  ‘Tom, ‘said his wife, warningly. Alex was looking a little pale and his colour was all over the place. Leo continued eating, completely unperturbed.

  ‘So, obviously, we don’t open the door,’ said Helene. ‘Leo, if you have finished, please put your fork and spoon together tidily, as Alex has done.’

  ‘So, if we open the door,’ said Leo eagerly, ‘will Alex die?’

  ‘No,’ said Helene firmly. ‘It is just a legend that we tell our visitors. And no one can ever open the door again after so long, so Alex and all of us are quite safe. And will we not talk of this any longer.’

  I changed the subject. ‘So how is school after the chickenpox?’

  ‘I’m in the football team,’ bragged Leo.

  ‘Congratulations. What about you, Alex?’

  ‘Captain of the chess team.’

  ‘Well done, you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rookwood. ‘Football for Leo and chess for Alex.’

  Alex flushed. I guessed chess didn’t rate very highly in this household.

  ‘Chess is a game of skill and strategy,’ said Jones.

  ‘I don’t like football,’ said Alex.

  ‘You didn’t even try for the team,’ said his father. ‘You never do. I’m sick of telling you, Alex, you should take a chance occasionally. Challenge yourself. Do something daring. You gain nothing by always playing safe.’

  Alex stared at his plate and once again, his colour wrapped protectively around himself. Jones threw Rookwood a look and for a moment I thought the rules of hospitality might go straight out of the window.

  Helene intervened. ‘If you have both finished, you may go to your room and watch television for half an hour before bed. I shall come up to see you shortly. Please say goodnight to our guests.’

  They both said goodnight politely. They had very good manners. We stayed for one coffee, and then we too politely said goodnight.

  The courtyard was well lit and I could easily see our little tower door. The air was crisp and clear and there were a multitude of stars overhead. I shivered, pulled my coat around me, and headed off across the courtyard.

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Jones, pulling at my arm and handing me the key.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘There’s something I want to check. You go on in.’

  It was too cold to hang around so I let myself in and went to put the kettle on. The fire had died down and the room was chilly. I was tired; I disliked Thomas Rookwood more than ever, but mostly, I just wanted to take my tea and go to bed.

  I was pouring it out when I heard Jones stamping in the passage and locking the outer door. ‘What were you doing out there?’

  ‘Looking at the stars,’ he said thoughtfully, taking his mug off me. ‘Did anything strike you as odd about our evening?’

  ‘Apart from the fact that Thomas Rookwood doesn’t like his eldest son, that his wife is frightened, and that Alex is emotionally desperate, no, nothing really. You?’

  ‘I, for once, am in the unique position of knowing something you don’t, but you look worn out, Cage. Go to bed and we’ll talk about it tomorrow over breakfast.’

  We never did talk about it tomorrow over breakfast. Because that night, Alex opened the door.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I was asleep. Very deeply asleep. I can’t say I was troubled by bad dreams, because I wasn’t, but one moment I was asleep and the next moment I was awake. Wide awake.

  I lay for a moment, staring into the darkness, wondering what had woken me. My first thought, despite almost daily reassurances from Jones, was that Sorensen had found us somehow and that even at this moment, black helicopters were disgorging hundreds of men, all of whom would be looking for me.

  My second thought was not to be so silly.

  I lay back on the pillows and let my mind drift away. There was something. Something elusive. I couldn’t pin it down at all. Something … I couldn’t quite grasp. The heating had shut down but the thick walls retained the heat. I pulled on my dressing gown and drew back the curtains.

  There – in the courtyard. The outside lights were off, but a tiny beam of light darted to and fro. The sort of tiny beam that might possibly be some malevolent will-o’-the-wisp, haunting an ancient building since time out of mind and seeking souls to dismay and torment, but was much more likely to be a small boy dodging about with his Junior Spaceman torch and very definitely up to no good.

  It was far too cold to undress, so I dragged on jeans, a T-shirt, sweater and a thick coat over my pyjamas. Shoving my feet into trainers, I opened the door, switched on the stair light and set off up the twisting stair to Jones’s room.

  He met me half way and very nearly frightened me to death.

  ‘Did you see?’ he demanded as I pulled myself together.

  ‘I did. What’s going on? Why are you awake?’

  ‘Because I suspected those two young buggers were up to no good. Didn’t you see the freshly oiled hinges, Cage? Smell the WD 40 they’d been spraying into the lock? And then that idiot Rookwood goes and tells Alex to take a risk occasionally. To do something daring, and surprise, surprise, Alex takes him up on it. They’re going to open the door.’

  All the strange vague feelings that had been swirling around me suddenly coalesced into one very strong feeling of danger. Of dread.

  I clutched his arm. ‘They mustn’t do that. Bad things will happen. You must stop them, Jones.’

  He stared at me. ‘Well, I was only worrying about them bringing that old wooden thing crashing down on top of themselves, but I can see you’re worrying about more than that.’

  He pushed past me. ‘We can’t get into the castle from here. You rouse Rookwood. Tell him what’s happening. I’ll try and shout some sense into them through the door.’

  We unbolted our own front door and ran out. Jones flashed the torch which he’d thought to bring with him and I hadn’t. The beam alighted on Leo, white-faced, standing outside the door. I suspected he was there to push while Alex pulled from inside.

  Jones seized his arm and pulled him away. ‘Leo, take Mrs Jones to your father. Go and wake him now.’

  Leo was cold and crying. His eyes and nose were streaming. Suddenly the big adventure wasn’t as exciting as he had thought.

  I said quietly, ‘Come on, Leo. We need to find your dad.’

  He put his cold hand in mine and we set off towards t
he Rookwoods’ private wing. He opened the door and I switched on the light.

  ‘Leo, go and wake your parents.’ He still looked too frightened to move, so I shouted, ‘Mr Rookwood. Mr Rookwood. Wake up.’

  The sound of my voice seemed to rouse Leo. He ran off shouting, ‘Daddy. Daddy. Help.’

  Behind me, through the open door, I could hear Jones pounding on the doors shouting, ‘Stop. Stop it. Stop what you’re doing, Alex. Stop it now.’

  At the end of the corridor, another light flicked on and Thomas Rookwood stood in the doorway, tying his dressing gown. He looked sleepy and dishevelled and his colour was flitting about in agitation.

  ‘Mrs Jones? Whatever is the matter? Is there a fire?’

  I stifled my dislike and said, ‘Alex is opening the door to the Banqueting Hall.’

  He smiled patronisingly. ‘I doubt that, Mrs Jones. That door hasn’t been opened in a hundred years. It will take more than feeble Alex to open it.’

  I stopped trying to stifle my dislike. ‘They’ve been oiling the hinges and the lock for some time now, Mr Rookwood. Alex intends to get that door open.’

  His mouth dropped. ‘Is he mad? That door hasn’t been opened in a hundred years. It’ll fall off its hinges. They might even bring down part of the wall with them. How could he be so stupid?’

  I refrained from pointing out that only a couple of hours ago, he’d been urging Alex to challenge himself and take a few risks.

  He seized his keys and we raced through the castle, switching on the lights as we went. I soon lost my bearings, and it seemed to take for ever before we were unlocking the heavy oak door beside the tapestry and emerging into the Hall.

  The lights were on, but it was such a cavernous space that the corners of the room were still lost in the gloom. Alex had arranged three or four torches to shine on the keyhole. A backpack lay nearby, with cans of WD40, oil, grease, a bottle of cola, two bars of chocolate and a Bible. I couldn’t help but feel admiration for him. He was obviously a meticulous planner. Lubricant for the lock and hinges. Cola and chocolate for him and Leo. And a Bible for whatever came through the doors after he’d opened them.

  Eerily lit by the torchlight, he was holding a long key.

  Thomas Rookwood switched on more lights and shouted something, his colour jumping from green through grey to red and back again, coiling around him in excitement. I could feel his tension.

  Alex glanced over his shoulder for the briefest second and then turned his attention back to the key. His own colour purple flared out around him, spiking defiance and determination. ‘You told me to do it.’

  ‘I did no such thing.’ The echoes of Rookwood’s voice boomed around the hall. I was trying to get past him but he was standing in the doorway, one hand still holding the heavy metal door ring and there wasn’t enough room for me to squeeze through.

  ‘You said I had to be brave. And do things that made me scared. So I am. You said we don’t have a ghost. So I’ll be safe. Because it’s only a legend.’ His voice sounded shrill and defiant.

  Holding the long iron key with both hands, he worked it into the lock and began to turn. I remember thinking that surely the lock couldn’t work after all this time. There was never any danger of him getting the door open.

  I was wrong. The clunk of the wards falling into place echoed around the hall. Leaving the key in the lock, he seized the door ring with both hands.

  I pushed at Rookwood, but at that moment, Helene appeared behind us, wearing a puffa coat over her dressing gown and with a sobbing Leo in tow. She screamed when she saw what was happening. ‘Alex, what are you doing?’

  Rookwood and I both looked around at her and by the time we looked back again, Alex was heaving at the door.

  Thomas Rookwood shouted, ‘Alex, stop. I forbid you to open that door,’ which I thought was a particularly useless thing to say.

  It was all too late anyway. Alex heaved with all his might and with a monstrous groan, slowly, ponderously, the door opened about twelve inches or so and then stopped. It was a dramatic moment – worthy of a television drama. The great, grey, wooden door slowly creaking open. The poor lighting. The jumping shadows.

  As Jones said afterwards, he really didn’t think anything would happen. He thought that the door would open onto an empty courtyard, that there would be a few moments of embarrassed silence, then there would be sheepish goodnights from everyone and then we’d all slope off to bed with the younger generation expecting to get a good talking to in the morning.

  He was partly right. Nothing happened. No tall black-shrouded figures materialised, pointing dramatically at Alex. No banshee wails of revenge and retribution. We all stood, frozen to the spot, and absolutely nothing happened. I let my mind drift a little, and still there was nothing. I heard someone – Helene, I think – give a huge sigh of relief, just before the hinges creaked loudly and the door moved again. Just an inch or so, but this door was far too heavy to move all by itself. No wind would ever blow this door shut. The hinges creaked again. The door opened wider.

  I couldn’t sense a thing. There was nothing there. I would have bet my life there was nothing there, but some unseen hand was opening the doors. From the other side. Or, to be properly dramatic – The Other Side.

  I heard Helene stifle a gasp of fear. I tried again to get past Thomas Rookwood because Alex was there alone and exposed to whatever was coming through.

  And then Michael Jones strolled into the hall saying calmly, ‘Everything all right in here?’ and the huge sighs of relief nearly blew him straight back out into the courtyard again. I don’t think anyone could think of anything to say. Alex stared up at him, his mouth open. Jones put a hand on his shoulder. ‘OK Alex?’

  He swallowed hard and nodded.

  Jones bent and began to inspect Alex’s provisions. ‘Excellent forward planning,’ he said. ‘Every contingency taken into account and the appropriate equipment brought. Well done, young Alex.’

  He was defusing the situation nicely; we were all beginning to relax, and I was just beginning to think I might be back in my warm bed soon, when Thomas Rookwood gave a hoarse cry.

  ‘There!’

  ‘Where?’ I said, spinning around.

  ‘She was there. Over there. Watching us.’

  ‘Where?’ I said again, looking wildly around. I couldn’t see anything. In any sense of the word.

  ‘There.’ He pointed into the shadows. ‘It was her. I saw her. Oh my God, it’s all true. I thought it was just a legend. I swear I thought it was just a legend.’ His voice was jumping with agitation. Leo redoubled his sobs.

  I finally managed to push my way past Rookwood to join Jones in the middle of the room. We stood closely together, with Alex between us.

  Jones lowered his head to me, speaking quietly. ‘What did you see?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I whispered. ‘He was blocking my view.’

  ‘No, I mean, what did you see?’

  I shook my head again. ‘Nothing.’

  For the first time since I’d met him, he looked worried. ‘Cage, I don’t like this.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘Stay with Alex. Do not let him out of your sight. Not for one moment.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I said, putting my arms around Alex. He was trembling violently.

  Thomas Rookwood and his wife joined us. Helena scooped up Alex and held him close. Rookwood seized the handle and forced the door shut again. The boom of its closing reverberated around the Hall causing dust to drop from the ceiling above. He struggled with the key a little, but eventually got the door locked. Silence settled back in the hall again.

  We stood in a group with the two boys in the middle, facing outwards and staring about us for the slightest sign of The Widow.

  Leo was sobbing violently. Helene, her eyes huge with fear was trying to calm him and hold on to Alex while not far off hysterics herself.

  I could see the tension coming off Rookwood. His colour was jumping about, pumping red and purp
le. The green had disappeared to be replaced by a muddy grey. I didn’t like this at all. The man was becoming unbalanced. He pulled Alex from Helene’s grasp and shook him hard. ‘You stupid, stupid boy. What have you done?’

  Jones knocked his hands away. ‘Exactly what you told him to do. He’s shown a little backbone. Challenged himself.’

  His voice cracked. ‘I meant on the football pitch. Not – this.’

  I stood close to Alex and put my hand on his shoulder. He was shaking, not very far from tears, but holding himself in. I said quietly, ‘Good boy, Alex,’ almost as if he was a small dog, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  We stood in our huddle, listening to our own ragged breathing in the silence, staring about us.

  ‘She’s gone,’ whispered Rookwood.

  Jones span around, flashing his torch into every dark corner. ‘Has she gone, Cage?’

  ‘Why are you asking her? I’m the one who saw The Widow.’

  ‘No one else saw her,’ said Helene, quietly.

  ‘I’m the Rookwood here,’ he said, angrily. ‘Her blood runs in my veins. If anyone’s going to see her then it’s me.’

  ‘I thought you said she didn’t exist.’

  ‘I just said that to stop everyone having nightmares. And yes, I’ll admit I didn’t really believe it but now I’ve actually seen … something … I’m not so sure.’

  Jones took me aside, saying very quietly, ‘What do you think, Cage?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s very definite he saw something. Perhaps I’m losing my touch. I do know I’m very scared. I think something is going to happen – I just don’t know what.’

  ‘Welcome to my world, Cage.’

  I stared down at the terracotta and black floor tiles and let my mind wander … just a little way … and pulled it back sharply.

  ‘What?’ said Jones.

  I whispered to him. ‘I don’t know. It might be. There’s something here but it’s … ugly. Not nice. I’m sorry – it’s faint. I just don’t know.’

  Rookwood must have overheard. He spun around. ‘What would you know about it? I’m telling you – I definitely saw her.’