While You Sleep

by Stephanie Merritt

  ‘He’s not – he wants … What did he ask you?’ A thought occurred. ‘You didn’t tell him about last night? That I stayed with you?’

  Kaye was not quick enough to hide the flash of guilt. ‘I might have mentioned that you were a wee bit upset. Only because he was worried,’ she added, defensive.

  ‘Did he say anything else? Did he mention Caleb?’

  ‘Easy there.’ Kaye pulled her arm away; Zoe realised belatedly that she had grabbed the other woman’s sleeve with more force than she had intended. ‘Is that your wee boy? No, I don’t think so. He only said you weren’t quite yourself, on account of being ill, so he wasn’t sure how you’d be coping on your own …’

  ‘And you had to tell him what happened last night. Fuck’s sake!’ Zoe wheeled around, her hands in her hair, and found herself face to face with a child’s painting of a ruined house, outlined in black, a white stick figure with wild hair depicted in one of the windows. It was captioned, in clear, round, teacher’s writing: ‘The Haunted House, by Iain Finlay, age 10’. The green background was faded and curling at the edges. She started; how had Edward allowed this to stay on the wall, a year after the boy’s disappearance?

  ‘Look, Zoe – I’m really sorry.’ Kaye was trying to sound placatory. ‘I wasn’t to know what I should or shouldn’t say, to be fair. You’ve no told us anything about your life back home. And fair enough, you’ve come here for a bit of peace.’ She held up a hand as if to fend off protest. ‘Your marriage –’ she lowered her voice, with a quick glance back to the hall, and Edward – ‘and whatever you get up to here, that’s your business. I’m no like these old village wives that have nothing better to do than gossip. I felt sorry for him, that’s all. Your husband. He sounded really upset that he couldn’t reach you, like he’d been imagining the worst. I know Mick would fret like mad if I went off to America on my own, he’d do the same.’ She paused, grinning. ‘Chance’d be a fine thing, eh.’

  ‘Don’t feel sorry for him.’ The words came out curt and clipped. ‘He’s manipulating you. We’re separating, if you want to know. He doesn’t like me being here, obviously. This is his way of trying to control me from three thousand miles away. If he does it again you can tell him you’re not my babysitter. And I’m not getting up to anything.’

  Kaye clapped a metalled hand to her mouth. ‘Oh my God. I had no idea.’ Zoe could tell she was pleased with the added layer of drama.

  ‘You didn’t tell him any of that stuff about the house being cursed or me being sensitive?’

  ‘Course not.’ Kaye pulled herself up, affronted.

  ‘Did Mick tell him anything about last night?’

  ‘Mick was away to the mainland by the time he called.’

  She felt a wash of relief. ‘When’s he back?’

  ‘Tomorrow. That’s why I wondered if you wanted to stay in the guest room for tonight. It’s only that …’ Kaye hesitated, ‘if you have another bad night, I wouldnae be able to leave the kids and come out to you. It might be best, just in case.’

  Something in Kaye’s expression troubled her, the way her gaze swerved away. She was not good at hiding. There had been more to her conversation with Dan than she was admitting, Zoe was certain.

  ‘Did he ask you to keep an eye on me?’

  ‘No! It’s not that. I’d feel better if you were at the Stag tonight, that’s all.’

  Zoe looked at her. If she hadn’t learned about the phone call she would have taken Kaye up on her offer, especially in Mick’s absence. But this changed everything. She had not imagined Dan would stoop so low – intruding directly into her attempt to find some space for herself, asking her landlords to monitor her behaviour. If she gave into it now, she would never make the break. He would know that, however far she travelled, he could look over her shoulder as if he were in the same room.

  ‘Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be fine at the house. There’s really no need to worry.’ She hated to sound like a bitch when Kaye had been so generous the night before, but she guessed from the other woman’s face that she had made some kind of promise to Dan to take charge of her welfare and report back. No doubt Kaye meant well, but Zoe could not bear the idea of them conferring over her as if she were a wayward adolescent going to her first high school party. Dan had been the same after the postnatal depression when she came out of hospital, except then it had been her mother he had corralled into acting as his informer. Whatever it cost her, this time she would not accept his supposedly concerned surveillance. Her freedom was at stake.

  Kaye looked alarmed. ‘I really think Mick would be happier too,’ she began.

  ‘Well, as much as I hate to make either of you feel bad, you didn’t sign up for babysitting duties and neither did I. I’m your tenant, and that’s the deal. And my paranoid husband has no right to call you and misrepresent me and make you feel you’re responsible for me – and by the way, I’m the one paying for the house, not him. So I’d appreciate it if you treated me like an adult.’

  ‘That’s not what—’

  ‘I don’t care what he told you. I can guess. He’s a control freak. And he’s really good at it, so I don’t blame you if you were convinced.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Zoe.’ Kaye twisted her rings, keeping her eyes fixed on her hands. ‘Like I say, I didn’t know any of this. I don’t want to get involved in your business—’

  ‘You’re not. I’m fine.’ There was a long pause. Zoe knew they were both thinking of the state Mick had found her in the previous night. She was glad Dan had not managed to speak to him, or he would no doubt be on a plane right now.

  ‘What did you want to ask me about, anyway?’ Kaye said, flicking a quick glance to her watch.

  ‘Oh – it was nothing, really.’ She could not mention the padlock now; that would have to wait for Mick’s return. She stuck her hand into the pocket of her jacket and felt for it, but found nothing. Panic flared briefly in her chest; it must have fallen out in the car, or maybe at the Stag, or in the car park … She would have to find it before Mick returned; without evidence, he would never admit that Dougie had tampered with the cellar hatch. She realised, with a twinge of fear, that Dougie must know Mick was away overnight, and might well decide to use the opportunity to his advantage; the thought was almost enough to make her back down and ask for a room at the Stag after all. If not for Dan, she would have done, but she could no longer be sure whose side Kaye was on. ‘Have you spoken to Charles today?’

  ‘Charles? No – why?’

  ‘No reason.’ She did not want another knowing talk from Kaye on the subject of Charles’s psychic powers, about which she had her own suspicions.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Kaye laid a hand on her arm. Zoe thought again how pretty she was, under the defiant make-up.

  ‘I’m fine. Honestly. Last night was – out of character. I’m sorry you got dragged into this business with my husband, too – that was unfair of him.’

  ‘No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I’ll know next time.’ But there was a wariness in her tone that told Zoe she was not sure who to believe.

  ‘Kaye?’ A bearded man with a grey ponytail stuck his head around the door. ‘Hate to interrupt, but if you’re no joining us Bernie’ll have to start singing for you in a minute, and naebody deserves that.’

  ‘Away to fuck with you,’ called a good-natured voice from the hall, presumably Bernie.

  ‘Whisht, I’m coming. Here.’ She looked at Zoe and, in one swift movement, lifted one of her silver chains over her head. A jagged black stone like a lump of shiny coal hung from it. ‘Take this. It’s black tourmaline. Very powerful protection against evil spirits and negative energies. Go on, do this for me at least, I’ll feel better. And you’ve got the sage, haven’t you? Don’t forget to burn that.’

  ‘OK. Thanks.’ Zoe dipped her head like an Olympic medallist to receive the pendant. ‘Don’t suppose you have anything that keeps ex-husbands away?’

  ‘I think those are called lawyers,’ offer
ed the ponytailed man, who was leaning in the doorway. She laughed, and raised a hand in farewell, but Kaye did not smile, only continued to watch her with that same intent frown. Zoe thought she saw Kaye’s lips moving silently as she turned to go and wondered if she were saying some kind of prayer or incantation for her safety, and whether it would work.

  ‘Zoe!’

  She snapped around as she unhooked Horace’s lead from the gate, still braced with anger, to see Edward jogging across the playground towards her.

  ‘Oh – hey.’

  He stopped a few feet away. They looked at one another, unsure how to proceed.

  ‘They’re going to hate me,’ she said, gesturing to the hall. ‘I’ve already kept Kaye out for ages. You should get back.’

  ‘They can manage without me for a minute.’ He pushed his hair out of his eyes and she thought, with a pang of conscience, how young he looked. ‘I see you’ve got Horace. Is Charles OK?’

  She was touched by the concern in his face. ‘He’s fine. Horace is staying the night with me, for company.’

  Edward reached out a hand to the dog, who licked it once, as if for the sake of etiquette. ‘I can’t see him being much of a guard dog.’

  ‘That’s what he wants you to think. Underneath he’s a ruthless killer.’

  He smiled. ‘I wondered if you might care for any other company tonight?’

  ‘Well, it’s …’ she hesitated, taking in his earnest brown eyes, his smooth skin. Then she thought, fuck it. Why not? Dan thought he could watch her, even here; she would make it clear that her choices were her own now, and beyond his reach. ‘Sure. Don’t expect anything fancy. It’ll only be pasta.’

  ‘That sounds good. I’ll be a couple of hours at most. I’ll bring some wine.’

  ‘If you want.’

  ‘OK, great.’ He hovered a moment longer, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his eager smile betraying his pleasure.

  ‘You should get back to your friends.’

  He nodded, tousled Horace behind the ears, and ran across the playground, waving.

  Zoe watched him disappear into the school and glanced along the green to the row of shops. She ought to pick up some fresh salad, at least. Next to the bakery there was a small drug store, its windows crammed with support stockings and cures for indigestion, where she had bought her tampons; she toyed briefly with the idea of stopping for a packet of condoms. But that would be tantamount to deciding in advance that she meant to have sex with Edward, and part of the charm of their interaction was the not-knowing, the gentle acknowledgement that it was a possible, but not inevitable, conclusion. Part of her felt she would rather indulge the fantasy than ruin it with the disappointment and self-consciousness of experience; even so, she could not help feeling a rush of relief that her bleeding appeared to have stopped. Perhaps her body was so out of practice that she could not manage a period of more than a couple of days; still, it meant she could be open to the possibility of sex. Real sex, she thought, wryly.

  But even as she considered it, she understood fully what it meant to live in a community like this; if she bought condoms, or if Edward did, the entire village would know. They might as well sky-write it over the island. She wondered if Kaye had told Dan anything about Edward, about the rumours circulating. There was no way of knowing, now, how far Kaye could be trusted. Zoe had not dared ask her how Dan had introduced himself on the phone. Had he said, ‘Hi, I’m Daniel Bergman’, thereby giving Kaye her married name, and the means to Google her? She had not dared look herself up online lately, but she was sure there must be stuff out there; about the accident, if nothing else. She walked past the drug store; it was closed, in any case. Fate, Zoe thought, and laughed.

  17

  The light was fading as she drove back across the hills to the house, but the earlier cloud cover had broken to reveal an unexpectedly vivid sunset. By the time she turned the corner of the drive, the sky was banded in fiery reds and golds and edged with smudges of charcoal cloud, the water lit like burnished metal, and her first thought was to capture it on film so that she could later transfer the colours to a larger canvas.

  She raced up to the first-floor gallery where she had moved all her painting things and dug out her camera. The battery was low, but ought to be enough to catch the sun before it slipped away below the horizon. She had intended to take her pictures from the beach, but now she looked towards the sea and saw that the neon colours framed through the dark outlines of the gallery’s tall Gothic windows made a more dramatic photograph. She fired off a few frames, squinting back at the tiny screen to assess the results – and stopped. It was dark enough outside for the windows to capture her reflection; she could make out her own silhouette holding the camera. But that was not what made her scalp tighten. In the image on the screen, the reflection in the window clearly showed a figure standing in the doorway to the gallery, behind her. She turned, slowly, knowing full well there would be no one there. The door was empty. She zoomed in on the camera’s screen and saw that it appeared to be a figure in a cloak, like the shepherd she had seen on the moor. But the image blurred the more she zoomed; it was impossible to see any detail of a face.

  She was surprised by how calm she felt as she walked back downstairs, switching on all the lights as she went. She could attempt to rationalise it away – some double exposure of her own silhouette – or she could simply accept that this house played tricks on the eyes and the mind, why not on the lens too? Horace sat patiently at the foot of the stairs, sniffing; she guessed he could also smell that strange odour. His presence steadied her and she ruffled his ears as she passed. In movies, she thought, animals are always sensitive to the paranormal; if there was anything in the house, Horace would be whining and barking inexplicably, his fur standing on end. But perhaps Horace had not seen those movies and didn’t know his role. He padded after her to the kitchen, where she opened one of the bottles of wine she had brought back and took a large glass out to the veranda. The sun had dropped with remarkable haste; a few last streaks of orange hung above the horizon.

  The wind was sharp and fresh, out here; it whipped her hair and stung her eyes, clearing her head. Gulls circled above the cliffs, barely moving their wings on the shifting currents. The water had turned to hammered steel in the last light of the day. She had walked out of her life to be alone here, with the salt wind and the sky and no certainty of what awaited her; there would be consequences, but not yet. She felt suspended, almost peaceful. Edward would be here soon; the prospect caused a small stab of heat in her groin.

  When she grew too cold to stay outside she locked the kitchen door carefully behind her and poured another glass before wandering back to the entrance hall. She ought to call Dan and make clear how she felt about him speaking to Kaye behind her back, but she felt unprepared for a confrontation. The message light on the answerphone flashed accusingly; after a few moments’ indecision, she pressed the button and her mother’s breathless voice echoed around the hallway, as if she had begun midway through a public address:

  ‘ … so completely selfish … not how marriage works … don’t you think Daniel’s had enough to deal with … ’

  Zoe dived for the machine and hit ‘delete’ before she could take in any more. She fully expected the second message to be a continuation – the brief recording window would hardly have been sufficient for her mother’s charge sheet – but instead she heard only that strange crackle of static, like the turning of an old record, that she had heard the previous night. It seemed to go on for minutes; she was about to erase it, thinking someone had dialled the number by accident, when she heard a woman’s voice, soft and indistinct, repeating the same phrase in Gaelic. At first all she could make out was the strange cadence of the words, which seemed menacing and soothing at once, but as she listened she found that she understood the meaning, though she could not have explained how. Time to go, the woman was saying, over and over. Time to go.

  Her skin grew cold. She reached out for the delete
button but thought better of it; if someone was making prank calls to frighten her, she would need this recording as evidence for the police, along with the padlock – she would search for that in daylight. A sound in the kitchen startled her, so that she cried out, but it was only Horace, knocking a chair as he came in search of her. She knelt beside him and buried her face in his wiry fur, which he bore as patiently as he had endured all the changes in his routine so far. She fetched the rest of the bottle and took it up to the gallery, where she made sure to shut the door behind her. Edward would be here soon. There was nothing to be afraid of.

  She must have drifted off, because when she opened her eyes the room appeared strangely lit, and it took her a few seconds to realise that night had fallen outside. Struggling to sit up, she found herself on a day-bed at the side of the gallery, but the rest of the room was unrecognisable. Yellow light fell unevenly from oil lamps placed on tables and benches around the walls; an odd smoky taint hung in the air, mixed with a bitter, vegetable smell, and she could hear a man’s voice murmuring as if to himself, low and preoccupied. She rubbed her eyes and made out a tall figure with his back to her, his shirtsleeves rolled above the elbow, bent over a workbench ranged with glass beakers and a pestle and mortar. As a reflex, she reached up to clutch the pendant Kaye had given her and found, as she touched it, that she was not wearing a lump of black tourmaline but a silver Celtic cross. The discovery alarmed her; she looked down and saw that she was barefoot and dressed in a floor-length cotton shift tied with ribbons across her chest. A woollen shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, her hair hung loose. She shook her head, as if this might clear her vision; she was dreaming, this much she realised, even within the dream, but she felt so unusually aware that she could not see how to wake herself from it. The man at the table turned to her, holding out a glass. His face was not quite in focus, as if she were seeing him through a smeared lens, though she had an overwhelming impression of hair: bristling eyebrows, dark sideburns and a full moustache. When he spoke, his voice came to her distantly, as if underwater. He was urging her to drink; she surprised herself by obeying. The solution tasted brackish, slightly fermented, of vegetable matter and stagnant water; she retched more than once as she swallowed it, and wondered, in some detached part of her mind, how it was that she could taste so vividly in her dream. He led her gently to the day-bed and laid her on it; her vision was beginning to blur, dizziness unbalanced her, and she was grateful for the solidity of the bed beneath her head. Don’t fight it, the man said, not unkindly, in a broad Scots accent, and he undid the ties of her shift at the neck, though she made a feeble scrabbling attempt to bat his hand away. Good girl, Ailsa, he whispered, as he stepped away to extinguish the lamps. She tried to raise her head, which now felt alarmingly heavy on the frail stalk of her neck, and saw that the only remaining light came from a branched candelabra behind him. He stood over her and struck up a low incantation in a language she could not understand but from which she instinctively recoiled, moving his hands peculiarly across the candle flames, the strange cadences building momentum until the words reached a crescendo of invitation. The candles blew out all at once and she felt her body – which was both hers and not hers; her breasts were heavier, the springy hair between her legs unfamiliar – turn suddenly cold, as if a window had been opened to let in an icy blast.