While You Sleep

by Stephanie Merritt

  She clicked on the icon. Only one network was showing, and it was called ‘McBride’. Zoe frowned. Knowing Mick’s aversion to the house’s history, it seemed a sick kind of joke to call its Internet the one name he wanted everyone to forget. It was a private network, clearly showing the padlock symbol, and yet it appeared to have connected her without asking for a password. She tried clicking on her email, but the page wouldn’t load, and nor would any of the sites she tried. She pushed the laptop away in frustration, relenting a little towards Mick; perhaps he had not mentioned it because he knew the connection was poor and wouldn’t work. The kettle boiled; she scraped her chair back and crossed to make a cup of tea, unreasonably angry. She had thought she wanted to be cut off here, if only for a while; now that she had seen the prospect of connection dangled before her, she felt bereft.

  She was pouring water into one of the pottery mugs when she heard the alert of a Skype call. Startled, she scrambled across to the laptop and spun it around to see Caleb’s face, pale and wide-eyed, blinking out at her. The image was faint and badly pixelated, so that his movements appeared jerky and delayed. She couldn’t see where he was – the background behind him was dark and even his face was indistinct – but it was gone ten at night back home, so she figured he must have been hiding somewhere with his iPad so his father wouldn’t hear him. She clicked frantically to accept the call, but in the instant she heard his voice whisper, ‘Mommy?’ the connection stuttered and froze; his face hung there, distorted, before the screen went black. Fucking battery must have died; she raced up the stairs, rummaged through her luggage for the cable, slipped and almost turned her ankle in her haste to get back down to the kitchen, but by the time she had plugged the laptop in and restarted it, there was no sign of the Wi-Fi signal. She refreshed the search over and over, but it only told her no network detected. The McBride connection had vanished.

  Overcome by a sudden desperation to speak to her son, she rushed back to the entrance hall and dialled home; she would get Caleb into trouble if he was up and maybe that would put an end to any chance of him trying to Skype her again in secret, but she couldn’t bear to think of him so far away, unable to reach her. The phone clicked through to voicemail; this time she steeled herself, took a deep breath, tried to sound normal.

  ‘Hi, it’s me. Tell Caleb – tell Caleb I love him.’

  After she had hung up, she thought that perhaps she should have told Dan too, but the words no longer came naturally. She was too jittery now to sleep; she sat at the kitchen table with her mug of tea, staring at the wall. The clock ticked steadily; outside, the waves advanced and receded. She lost track of how much time passed. After a while, she reached for the sketchbook and pencil she had left on the table. Turning to a blank page, she scratched the date. She ought to keep a record of everything that had happened these past nights, in case – though in case of what, she could not say. Beneath the date she wrote:

  He came to me again tonight.

  7

  Squinting into the sun’s glare, Zoe gripped the wheel with both hands, sweat gumming her palms, heart speeding against her ribs. She had not driven a car for six months, had thought she might never be able to get behind the wheel again, and on top of that it was at least fifteen years since she had used a stick shift and she had never driven on the wrong side of the road, using the wrong hands. This first effort might have been easier if they had not both been standing there watching her grinding the gears and stalling, unable even to put the thing into first, looking at her with that weary, secretly pleased expression men assume to let you know you are proving all their theories about women and machines.

  ‘There’s a wee knack with the clutch there,’ Dougie Reid said, leaning casually in the window and dropping ash on her jeans. She had taken against Mick’s friend on sight; a wiry man with a sharp, knowing face and the stippled skin of a committed chain-smoker, who spoke through a skinny roll-up glued permanently with spit to his lower lip, the sort of man who referred to cars as ‘she’ and had looked Zoe up and down with frank appraisal when she arrived as if valuing her bodywork. ‘Let it half out before you try putting her in first. She just needs a wee bit of warming up to get her going, like all you ladies.’

  Ignoring his throaty chuckle, Zoe followed the instructions, her damp hand slipping off the gear stick in panic. Once more the car stalled. She began to suspect the fault lay as much with the engine as with her; the Golf was at least ten years old, with rust patches blooming on the fenders and worn tyres that looked as if they would skim off the road at the first hint of rain, but it was her only option short of looking for a more reputable rental firm on the mainland, which would likely cost her a thousand a month, Mick had said. She had not bothered to explain that a reputable rental company would not give her the time of day once they checked on her licence. So she was left with Dougie and this heap of junk, for which she had handed over three hundred pounds in cash taken from the village’s one ATM that morning while trying not to think about her dwindling savings.

  ‘Am I insured for it?’ she asked, pressing herself back into the seat while Dougie leaned in and turned the ignition for her, the back of his hand brushing her breast unnecessarily. Moisture beaded between her shoulder blades; as if to disconcert her further the weather had performed a sudden volte-face overnight and she had stepped outside that morning into a day that belonged to late summer: clear pastel sky, sparkling water, a golden wash of sunshine. She had come out in only a sweater and still she was too warm.

  ‘Dinnae fret about that,’ he said, as the engine wheezed into life, with a gesture that suggested the small print would take care of itself. His groundsman’s overalls smelled of sweat and oil. She wondered whether the car was even legal.

  ‘I mean …’ she hesitated to say the words for fear of tempting fate ‘… if I had an accident?’

  ‘Ach, you’ll be fine,’ he said airily, which could have meant anything. Zoe glanced at Mick and saw him give a tacit nod seemingly meant to reassure her that all was above board.

  Mick had been solicitous as usual when he picked her up that morning, asking how she was finding the house, how she was sleeping, the tenor of his questions once again making her think he was leaving something vital unsaid. Perhaps the events of the night were written too plainly on her face. She had woken in her own bed, a clear early sun seeping in at the edges of the blinds, so she supposed she must have slept eventually. Showered and dressed, with a cup of coffee in her hand, she had stood in the first-floor gallery for a long time, taking in every corner, every beam of the ceiling and piece of furniture, allowing the firm light reflected from sky and sea to scour her memory and return her to reason. There was nothing sinister about that room, nor the rest of the house. She had washed the bloodstains from the floorboards, eaten some toast and felt better, but when she had caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window she had jumped back, startled by the gauntness of her face, the shadows beneath her eyes and in the hollows of her cheeks. When she had asked Mick about the Wi-Fi connection she had briefly found, he had only looked puzzled and said he didn’t know of any in the area, maybe she had somehow picked up a private network in passing, but there was definitely none at the house. She had shrugged it away then, said she must have been mistaken. She didn’t tell him it was called ‘McBride’; he would have thought she was mocking him.

  After a couple more false starts, she managed to kangaroo the Golf across the car park in a series of alarming lurches and do the same in reverse, forcing a smile while her stomach turned over and Mick and Dougie cheered her as if she were a child on her first bike. Once the transaction was completed – cash in hand, no paperwork, adding further to her apprehension – they stood together, arms folded, and watched her as she pulled out of the golf course. Zoe wished she had not been in such a hurry to get away from their scrutiny that she had forgotten to ask how to put on the headlights or the windshield wipers. She would have to work those out for herself, before she needed them. Buttocks cl
enched tight, she jolted along the single track road down the hill towards the village at twenty miles an hour, so preoccupied with remembering what her hands and feet were supposed to be doing that for minutes at a stretch she forgot to think about the last time she had driven: the horn blaring at the intersection, the delayed shock of the impact, the airbag blinding her, blocking her mouth and nose.

  She must not dwell on that now. Instead she leaned forward, concentrating every sinew on the road ahead, precariously lifting a hand at intervals to shield her eyes from the low sun, until she found herself crawling up one side of the triangular village green. Rather than attempt the parking spaces in front of the shops with people watching, she pulled the car up on the verge opposite the school and only realised when she switched off the engine how badly she was trembling. Sun silvered the windows of the School House, so that she could not see whether the curtains were drawn. She sat in the car for a few minutes, casting furtive glances, considering whether to knock on the door and ask for her scarf back, offer an apology, but the shame of the night before burned in her face and she was too shaken by the drive to explain herself adequately. Besides, she could not relax until she had found the chemist and bought tampons; the wad of tissue in her underpants might betray her at any moment.

  The bookshop was busy, with at least five customers browsing in the front. Zoe fumbled through dates in her head, cursing softly as she realised it must be Saturday; she had hoped they would have the place to themselves. She stuck her head around the archway to the back room and found Charles Joseph seated behind his desk, glasses perched on the end of his nose, turning the pages of a large and ancient-looking volume. He glanced up and acknowledged her with a warm smile, as if he had been expecting her.

  ‘Look at this beauty. Atlas of nineteenth-century nautical charts. Extensive water damage, sadly, or it would have been a prize to collectors. Terrible shame.’

  ‘I guess you have to expect nautical charts to get wet.’

  His eyes crinkled behind his lenses. ‘A very sensible argument. Is that what I think it is in your hand?’

  She dumped the bag of pastries on the desk, away from the books.

  ‘You owe me the next episode. At least as far as the murder.’

  ‘Ah. I see you’ve had a spoiler.’ Charles arched his brow; he seemed amused rather than put out.

  A sudden movement in the corner made her turn; a fat kid with a crew cut and a flat, sullen face was sitting cross-legged on one of the beanbags behind her. She had not noticed him at first, but he had jerked upright at their conversation and was staring at her with close-set eyes. Charles leaned across the desk and spoke kindly.

  ‘Robbie, would you like to take that book home?’

  The boy snapped it shut immediately. ‘No, you’re all right.’ Zoe glanced at the cover and saw a photo of the Space Shuttle.

  ‘Call it a loan. You can bring it back to me when you’ve finished.’ Charles’s voice had grown very gentle.

  The boy reluctantly heaved himself to his feet, the beanbag squeaking under him. ‘Nae room for it at home.’ He held it out to Charles, who shook his head.

  ‘Well, then – how about you go and read in my little kitchen? While I have a chat with Ms Adams. You might find a packet of biscuits in the cupboard.’

  ‘Listen – I can come back,’ Zoe said, though she didn’t want to leave either. Charles waved a hand.

  ‘What murder?’ The child was looking directly at her, his small hard eyes accusing.

  ‘It’s a book I was telling her about,’ Charles said smoothly. ‘A detective story.’

  An expression flickered across the boy’s face; Zoe thought it might have been relief. He gave her a last wary glance before slouching his way through to the kitchen at the back.

  ‘Poor lad,’ Charles murmured, watching him. ‘I get the sense someone doesn’t like him bringing books home. Imagine feeling threatened by a child reading. But it still goes on. There’s only so much you can do.’

  If it was her shop, Zoe thought, she wouldn’t leave that kid unsupervised; he looked like the kind you wouldn’t want anywhere near a cash register, or your purse, or even your cookies. She disliked herself for thinking it, and surmised that Charles must be a better person than she was. Not that this could be counted much of an achievement.

  ‘So I presume our young friend Edward Sinclair has stolen my narrative thunder?’ Charles pushed his chair back and followed the boy to the kitchen. ‘Out to impress a lady with Gothic tales, no doubt. And there I was, trying to build suspense. Wait here.’ He returned a couple of minutes later with two mugs of coffee. ‘I made this before you came. So. Where were we?’

  She noticed that he had lowered his voice, and closed the kitchen door behind him. They had the back room to themselves.

  ‘Ailsa living alone in the house with her mute child and everyone saying she was a witch.’ Zoe spoke quietly to match him.

  ‘Ah, yes. Ironic, of course, when it was her husband who was the occultist.’

  She felt her eyes widen. ‘Seriously? What, like Devil worship, that kind of thing?’

  ‘Not quite.’ Charles smiled. He closed the nautical atlas, laid it aside and sat back in his chair, his hands folded. ‘More in the sense of esoteric philosophy. Spiritualism, mesmerism, ancient magic, Kabbala, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Like Madonna?’

  He looked politely baffled. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Never mind. Go on.’

  ‘Well. Tamhas McBride was a remarkable man in many ways. One of those Victorian gentlemen amateurs who wished to add to the sum of human knowledge, and had the means to indulge his curiosities. He was extremely well-travelled, spoke several languages, was a keen scientist—’

  ‘A scientist who believed in magic?’ She raised a sceptical eyebrow. He pointed a finger, mock-stern.

  ‘May I remind you, there’s an honourable tradition of it, going back to Newton and beyond. Modern science has its origins in what used to be called “natural magic”. Tamhas was a utopian. He believed in the perfectibility of human nature.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ Zoe muttered. Charles didn’t laugh; he merely watched her with interest, before continuing:

  ‘He believed, as many did in the nineteenth century, that scientific progress could go hand in hand with spiritual enlightenment. He was heavily influenced by European occultists who argued for the revival of the Renaissance scholar magus.’

  She shook her head. ‘You’ll have to explain.’

  ‘The magus … let me see.’ He leaned forward, hands clasped as if he were praying. ‘The medieval and Renaissance idea of the magus was a man so steeped in secret knowledge that it allowed him to exert power over the forces of the natural world. Think of Prospero in The Tempest.’

  Zoe could only dimly recall a terrible high school production. ‘You’re saying he was a magician?’

  Charles laughed. ‘Depends on your perspective. That’s certainly how he and his peers saw themselves. Tamhas practised ritual magic, we know that. Whether there was anything in it is lost to history, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’m amazed the islanders didn’t burn him at the stake.’

  ‘You can be sure he kept this part of his life under wraps.’

  ‘So how do you know about it?’ Zoe leaned in, interested despite her misgivings, her coffee cooling between her hands.

  ‘Digging.’ He offered a complicit smile and gestured towards the cabinet at the back of the room, where he kept the folder and the photograph of Ailsa McBride. ‘A while ago, I had a tremendous stroke of luck. Tamhas belonged to a number of Spiritualist societies. It was surprisingly popular among the intelligentsia at the time – well, think of Conan Doyle, of course. In 1854, when he was forty, Tamhas went to London to hear a talk by a French occultist called Eliphas Lévi – probably the most significant esoteric writer of the nineteenth century. A great influence on Aleister Crowley, you know.’

  He said this as if he expected recognition. She nodded, i
mpatient.

  ‘Tamhas and Lévi corresponded for the best part of the next fifteen years, right up until Tamhas left for his final voyage. Only a few of Lévi’s letters survived in the Drummond family, sadly – I suspect the rest were destroyed somewhere along the way, for fear they were too compromising. Awful shame.’ He paused to consider the loss. ‘But a few years ago, I tracked down a cache of Lévi’s papers to the archive of an almost-extinct Rosicrucian society in Paris. Two old keepers of the flame left, both in their eighties. Fierce hagglers, the two of them, but it was worth the price. Nearly all Tamhas McBride’s letters to Lévi are there. The best part of a decade. It’s an extraordinary find, at least for those of us interested in the history of occult thought.’

  ‘Does Mick know?’

  ‘Ah. Well. Bit of a sticky point.’ He pressed his lips together until they disappeared behind his moustache. ‘He knows I bought them, but not what’s in them. Doesn’t want to know, he says. Of course, if I decide to write a book, I’d rather do it with his blessing, but I can’t force him …’ He shrugged, took a sip of coffee. ‘The story is bigger than family history, that’s the point.’

  ‘But do these letters have anything to do with the murders?’

  Charles set his mug down carefully and fixed her with a level stare. ‘That all depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Whether you believe there is more to the world than is visible to the eye.’

  A chill needled up the back of her neck. ‘Spirits, you mean? Magic?’ She had meant to sound sarcastic but instead it came out defensive.

  He spread his hands, palms open. ‘If that’s what you want to call it. That which cannot be reasoned away or explained by rational means.’