by Kim Wilkins
“Why am I out here?”
She turned and looked around her. The snow fell in big flakes, the wind blowing it diagonally against her. Each delicate white spur seemed to bite into her hands and face with cold. Whatever she had to do in this dream, she wanted to get it over with quickly, before she froze. She moved along the street, past Elsa Smith’s house – all the lights were out there – and past the cemetery on the left. She stopped in front of the abbey. The snow appeared to glitter as it descended on the ruins. The wind and weather of centuries had worn the stone into gargoyles. Maisie’s eye followed the curves of the remaining arches and tried to imagine what the building had looked like when whole.
Almost as soon as she formed the question in her mind, her dream shifted and changed. In crisp daylight, the sun shone on the buttresses and darkly gleaming stone of a thirteenth-century cathedral. She stood at the huge, arched doors. One of them creaked open and she peered inside, caught a glimpse of a large figure dressed in cardinal’s robes, then found herself back outside the ruin of the abbey. Night-time. Wondering what she was supposed to do here.
“I want to go home.” Her voice echoed dully around her skull. It was no use. She was stuck in this dream. She advanced to the corner of the abbey, remembering Georgette’s diary, and moved like vapour through an iron door in the spire. Below her, a trapdoor in the ground.
All right, I’ll go down there. Soon she was descending dark stairs, moving along the tunnel and up to the two sealed doors. Sealed doors could not stop her; she breezed through the one on the right easily and found herself in a dark chamber. No, not dark. Here at the back of the room, a wall of glass bricks gleamed dimly phosphorescent.
Around her, rather than an empty room, was a fully stocked scientist’s studio. But not a modern scientist – in fact, the room was exactly as Georgette had described it, strange glass jars and old books and half-finished experiments cluttering the benches. As though it had not been disturbed in all these years. She approached the phosphorescent wall and looked at it closely. Something about the sick, pale glow caused a nauseous dread to churn in her stomach.
“I want to go home. I want to go back to bed.”
Here she awoke. Still dark outside. She kicked off her covers and went to the window, watched the snow fall. She couldn’t see the abbey from here, but she could imagine its ghostly lines and arches. Had she really gone below ground? Or had she just dreamed what Georgette had described? She supposed it was possible that Flood’s things might still be down there. If nobody knew about them, nobody would ever have cleared them out.
She anxiously scanned the front garden. She had woken up panicky, and that made her concerned that the Wraiths were out there somewhere. She opened the bedroom door and tiptoed into the hallway. Sacha, like Cathy, had chosen to drag the mattress out by the fire to sleep. Maisie saw Tabby curled up behind Sacha’s knees, sleeping peacefully. She went to the laundry window and checked the back garden. Nothing. Thank god.
As she was moving quietly back up the hall, Sacha called out sleepily, “Maisie? Everything okay?”
“Yes,” she said, standing in the doorway to the lounge room, “I had a weird dream is all.”
He sat up, pulling Tabby into his lap. His skin was golden in the firelight, his drowsy face miraculously unpuffy. “What about?”
“I dreamed I went below the abbey and Flood’s room was still there, just the way Georgette described it.”
He yawned. “Maybe it is.”
“Well, we can’t know for sure unless we go down there, and I think that would be even less popular than looking in the cemetery, so don’t suggest it.”
“I wasn’t going to suggest it.”
Maisie watched Tabby sleeping contentedly in his arms. “She never sleeps on me,” she said.
“You might move around too much.”
“I’m going back to bed.” She didn’t want to go back to bed. She wanted to curl up there next to Sacha, near the fireplace.
“Goodnight,” he said, wriggling back under the covers again. “Snowman tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay. Goodnight.”
The air-conditioning in the supermarket was a welcome relief from the sweltering heat outside. Adrian took a basket from near the entrance and headed in. It was his first day back in Brisbane and his fridge was almost empty. Sappy piped music accompanied him as he headed for the frozen food section. He was leaning into one of the freezers, grabbing a bag of frozen vegetables when he heard someone say his name.
“Adrian?”
He stood up and looked around. Sarah Ellis, Cathy’s sister, stood there, leaning on an overloaded shopping trolley.
“Sarah, hi!” he said, placing his basket on the ground. “How have you been?”
“Good. And you?”
“Not too bad.”
“I was sorry to hear about you and Maisie.”
Adrian tipped his head to one side. “Me and Maisie? What about us?”
“You know, how she’s run off with that other guy.”
“Maisie hasn’t run off with another guy.”
“Oh,” said Sarah, clearly embarrassed. She put her head down so her hair covered her face. “I’m sorry. I must have –”
“Has Cathy said something?”
“No, no.”
Adrian found himself suddenly awash with suspicion. He wanted to clutch her sleeve, ask her desperately, What have you heard? Instead he said, feigning a normal tone, “Did Cathy say something about the gardener?”
“Um…yeah. The gypsy guy.”
Gypsy? “Sacha?” he asked.
“Yeah, that’s his name. I thought Cathy said that Maisie had…you know, run off with him or something. But I must be mistaken.”
“You are. You are mistaken. You are very mistaken.”
“Sorry.” She laughed self-consciously. “God, what an idiot. Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay.” He picked up his basket and nodded goodbye. “Nice to see you.” It hadn’t been, not at all.
“Yeah, see you round.”
He was about ten metres away when she came running up. “Adrian, I’ve got to tell you. You deserve to know.”
He turned around, annoyed but curious. “Know what?”
“Cathy told me that Maisie is totally in love with this Sacha guy and that she talks about you like she’s bored with you.” She put her hands up, palms first. “There, now I’ve told you. Do what you want with that information.”
“It’s not true, Sarah.”
“Whatever. I just wanted to tell you what Cathy told me.” She was already backing away, rejoining her shopping trolley halfway up the aisle. “But you might want to ask yourself why Maisie didn’t come home early like she said she would.”
“She had a fight with her mother. And she hasn’t finished cleaning out her grandmother’s place.”
“Okay, then there’s nothing to worry about.” She turned with her trolley, didn’t look back. He stood watching her a few beats, then left his half-full basket in the aisle and headed for the car park. It was six in the morning over there, not too early to call. And even if it was too early, he didn’t care.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Dawn was still a half hour from the Reverend’s bedroom when he heard the faint tapping on his window. He sat up blearily, blinking against wakefulness. Had somebody knocked?
Again the tapping at the glass. He reluctantly climbed out of bed and reached for his robe. Padded on cold feet to the window, his heart speeding a little. He cautiously drew the curtain a crack and peeped out.
As he had expected, one of the Wraiths stood in the shadows outside. He opened the curtains fully and knocked on the window so the creature would know he was there. It lifted an arm, curled a bony finger in a beckoning gesture, then glided away in the last of the darkness, leaving the Reverend quaking in his bare feet on the thin carpet.
He had been summoned. He was hardly ever summoned. His meetings with the doctor were usually scheduled. Sometimes the
Reverend went below ground to ask favours. But being summoned was very, very rare.
The Reverend hurriedly dressed himself, washed his face and put his teeth in. He despised those dark creatures, whatever they were. The doctor had told him once, about how many centuries they had been his faithful servants, but he hadn’t really listened. It was best not to listen too carefully when the doctor began to tell stories. One might hear something one couldn’t live with. And for occasions when he did hear too much, a faulty memory came in handy.
He wrapped himself up tightly in overcoat and scarf, jammed a woollen hat over his head. He knew he looked ridiculous in it, but his scalp got so cold if he didn’t wear it and besides, he was well past needing to care about his appearance. With trembling hands, he let himself out of the house and headed for the abbey.
Once down the stairs and along the dark hallway, he could see the glow of a light under Dr Flood’s door. He knocked and was answered almost immediately.
“Reverend,” Flood said, guiding him inside. “You see, I have lit the lantern in your honour.”
The Reverend often complained – quietly, of course – about how difficult it was to see anything in the chamber. Flood worked solely by the light of the phosphorescent wall, a creature who had become adapted to the dark.
“Thank you,” the Reverend murmured. “Why do you need me?”
“I do not need you,” Flood replied, settling himself in his chair. “I am merely curious.”
“About what?”
“Somebody has been in my chamber.”
“When?”
“Early this morning – a few hours ago. I was in the other chamber working on an experiment, and when I returned I could sense that I had been visited.”
“That’s not possible. I have the only key and I was fast asleep.”
Flood bowed his head a little way, giving the Reverend a chance to examine him in the dim light. In the nearly seven decades the Reverend had known Flood, the doctor’s appearance had not changed. As though his body had aged as much as a body could without the flesh actually falling from the bones. His scalp was crisscrossed with deep grooves, his face a sea of lines and sagging flesh. But when Flood looked up again, his eyes were as alert and shrewd as a teenager’s. “And yet, someone has been here.”
“It’s simply not possible.” The Reverend’s mind was racing. Could Tony have made another set of keys on the sly? Could somebody have broken in? More importantly, was he going to be blamed for it?
“Perhaps someone in spirit, and not in body,” Flood said cryptically. Then, “Tell me about the girl.”
“The girl…?”
“The one your parishioners want me to drive out of town. Is she like her grandmother? Does she have the Gift?”
“She’s nothing like Sybill. Sybill was cunning, deceitful, and quite openly out to get us. This young woman may be curious, but I don’t think she means us any harm. And I believe she will return home soon.” The Reverend didn’t know for certain why he was protecting the girl. He put it down simply to not wanting another death on his hands.
“But does she have powers? Does she have the Gift?”
The Reverend nodded reluctantly. “I believe so, yes.”
Flood steepled his crepey fingers against each other and rested his chin upon them.
“But I don’t think –”
“Shh,” Flood said curtly, “I’m thinking.”
The Reverend shifted from one foot to the other. Flood never asked him to sit down, didn’t even have a spare chair. Minutes ticked by. He assumed dawn was breaking somewhere above them, not that Flood would ever see it down here in his dark chamber.
Finally, the doctor spoke. “I don’t think we need worry about the girl.”
“No?”
“Sybill knew things because one of my Wraiths told her. But the traitor was dispatched back to the grave, and my remaining two subjects are quite loyal. There is no way the young woman can find out anything.”
“But if she came here…in spirit as you say…?”
“It’s a matter of a simple protection spell, like the one over the cottage.” He shifted in his seat, grew more animated. “Of course, it’s her spell, a fresh spell, not Sybill’s. That’s why the Wraiths could not gain access.”
“Are they still trying? The villagers wanted her scared out of town.”
Flood shook his head. “No, they have given up.”
“But if she doesn’t leave soon…I mean…the villagers have demanded that I ask for her to be killed if she’s not gone by the end of this month.”
“It’s no matter. I’ll have her killed if that’s what they want. You know that I look after the villagers.”
“I don’t want her killed. There could be an investigation, her family would come, the media –”
“There are ways that do not look suspicious. A slip, a fall on the clifftop…”
“But…she doesn’t deserve to die. She’s no harm to us.”
Flood waved his hand dismissively. “The graveyard would only be improved by the addition of fresh young flesh. If they want it done, I’ll arrange it.”
“Can’t we just scare her off? Can’t we try –”
“She will not be scared off!” Flood boomed. Then, more quietly, “She has proved that to us. It may be she will come to regret her obstinacy. However it goes, I now know that she has been here and I can protect myself against her return. We have learned something this morning, Reverend. That’s the most a man can hope for, to learn something new each day.” He stood, moved forward and placed a hand on the Reverend’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to get you out of bed, Linden. Thank you for coming.”
The Reverend tried not to recoil from the doctor’s touch. “Goodbye, Dr Flood.”
“Take the lantern with you. It’s rather too bright and it hurts my eyes.” Flood handed him the paraffin lamp. The Reverend used it to light his way to the stairs and out into the weak daylight.
It seemed Maisie had only just got back to sleep when the phone rang and woke her again. She heard Sacha pick it up and was pulling on her dressing gown when he knocked lightly on the door.
“Maisie, Adrian’s on the phone.”
“Thanks,” she said opening the door. “Sorry to wake you again.”
“It’s fine. It’s after six. I’ll go make us some tea.”
She went to the lounge room and picked up the phone, trying not to yawn. “Hi Adrian, what’s up?”
“You tell me what’s up.” Hostility.
“Adrian?” She felt guilty even though she hadn’t done anything. As though her intentions had been broadcast to him across the miles.
“Is Sacha staying there?”
She looked over her shoulder, hoping Sacha wasn’t near by. “He’s just here for a couple of days. You suggested it yourself. You didn’t want me to be alone.”
“That was before I knew.” It was unlike him to be so angry. Usually Adrian was even-tempered until the last possible moment. So what had set him off?
“Knew what? Adrian, what are you talking about?”
“I ran into Sarah Ellis today in Coles.”
Sarah. Cathy. Realisation. “And?” Trying not to sound guilty.
“And she said that you told Cathy you were in love with Sacha.”
“That’s ridiculous. I never said –”
“And that you were bored with me.”
Such a confusion of emotions took hold of her she could barely stop her knees from shaking. Awful guilt for what she had said. Desperate fear that she had hurt Adrian. And savage anger at Cathy. She sat down and breathed deeply.
“I didn’t say those things.” Not exactly like that, anyway.
“What did you say, then, to make her think that?”
Next decision: how much to lie? Perhaps going all the way was safest. “I said nothing like it. I don’t know where Cathy got the idea from. Probably out of her own demented imagination. She and Sarah probably cooked it up between them – Sarah always fancied yo
u, you know.”
Adrian fell silent a few moments.
“I’m going to fucking kill Cathy,” Maisie said.
“Don’t swear, Maisie. You know I don’t like it.” At least he sounded like he had cooled down a little. Not much, just a little.
“Well, how dare she say things like that to her sister?”
“Just come home. I’m sick of this. I’m sick of you being so far away and I don’t trust that Sacha guy. Just come home.”
“Not yet. I’m still –”
“Nothing that you’re doing there should be as important as being home with me.” He sighed. “Maisie, I know this sounds terrible, but I’m not even sure if I can trust you any more.”
“Me? What have I done? I’ve done nothing.”
“You’re just so reluctant to come home. And where would Cathy have got her ideas about you and Sacha from? I mean, even if you said nothing, maybe she can sense something between you, I don’t know. And he’s sleeping there…I really don’t like it.”
She could hear Sacha moving about in the kitchen. She dropped her voice to a harsh whisper. “Well, I really don’t like being told what to do.”
“Come home.”
“Soon.”
“When? Give me a date.”
“No.”
“If you don’t give me a date, I’ll come over there and get you.”
“Let me think about it a couple of days.”
Again, Adrian fell silent.
“Adrian?”
“I hate that you have to think about it. I hate that I’m not more important to you.”
“Oh, Adrian.” She could feel tears pricking her eyes. “You are important to me. You know I love you. This is just something I have to do. Please try to understand.” She brushed an untidy curl out of her eyes. “I’m not like you.”
“Are you like Sacha?”
“Don’t even ask that. That’s a really dumb question.”