by Amy Cross
“It's difficult to remember,” I tell her.
“You didn't notice a sudden change?”
“Not that I recall.”
“And now?” She pauses. “I'm sorry, Judith, but I just feel as if we endured something together on that day, all those years ago. Am I just imagining things?”
“I'm sure that everything is alright,” I reply. “There's really no need to fuss over trivial matters.”
“Anyway, I was close to Briarwych,” she continues, sounding a little nervous, “and I had a few days to kill, and I thought of you and I decided to come and drop in to see you. You're the only person I really remember with any fondness from the old days, Judith. Oh, tell me I'm not making a fool of myself. I'm terribly worried now that you're about to say that you barely remember me.”
“Of course I remember you,” I tell her, not for the first time since I came into the room. “And I remember that day, too.”
“It was stiflingly hot.”
“It was.”
“I had to take off my dress.”
“Did you?” I think back to that moment. “Yes. Yes, you did.”
“And I fell asleep for a few minutes.”
I swallow hard.
“Yes,” I say, “you did.”
“Did you fall asleep too?”
“No.”
“Too hot, eh?”
“I suppose so.”
“What did you do, then?”
I try to smile, to look untroubled.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“What did you do while I was sleeping?”
“I really don't remember,” I tell her. “It was a while ago now, Prue. It was, what, a couple of decades ago.”
“I remember it as if it was yesterday,” she says keenly. “Every moment. Every second. I even remember the sensation of being asleep. Come on, Judith, you must remember. What did you do while I slept next to you?”
“I don't remember.”
“It's important.”
“Why?”
She opens her mouth to reply, but then something holds her back.
“I don't know,” she says finally, sounding a little plaintive. “Honestly, I don't. It just feels as if it's very important indeed. The question is buzzing around in my head and I can't ignore it. Are you sure you don't remember, Judith? It was when the heat was really at its worst.”
“If I could remember,” I reply, “I would tell you.”
As I say those words, in my mind's eye I see myself holding the rock up and then bashing it down against Prue's face. I didn't strike her, of course, but I think I did briefly hold the rock. And I felt as if I was being watched, too. I remember looking over at the tree-line and searching for an observer. I cannot tell any of that to Prue, of course, but I think I remember every moment of that walk. Even if I have, ever since, been trying to put it out of my mind.
“You must think that I'm a fool,” she says suddenly.
“Not at all.”
“Of course you do. I show up here, after all these years, babbling away about some old day that means nothing.”
She smiles, but she looks distinctly uncomfortable, and then she gets to her feet.
“I have disturbed you for long enough,” she says, as if she suddenly has a great urge to leave. “It was nice to see you again, Judith. You seem to be doing well and your daughter is absolutely delightful.”
“It was nice to see you to,” I reply, and I follow as she heads to the door. “Please have a safe -”
“I'm around later,” she says suddenly, turning to me.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I'm staying at the Hog and Bucket,” she says cautiously. “I shall be eating my supper there tonight. I don't suppose you happen to be going there later, do you?”
“I never set foot in that place,” I reply.
“Too down-market for you, is it?”
“It's really not my sort of establishment. There are far too many drunkards.”
“I suppose so,” she replies. “There wasn't really anywhere else to stay in Briarwych, though.” She pauses. “If you change your mind and would like to talk some more, you know where to find me. We can even meet somewhere else, if you like.”
“It was nice to see you,” I tell her, “but I'm afraid I really am far too busy. Have a safe journey.”
“You don't still have that crucifix, do you? The one that I found that day.”
“I don't know where it might be,” I lie. “I'm sorry.”
“It's fine.” She mutters something else under her breath, then she turns and makes her way out of the door. “It doesn't matter.”
Breathing a sigh of relief once she's gone, I step across the hallway and gently push the door shut. I should not have been so troubled by her visit, but something about Prue Williams just makes me feel uncomfortable. Perhaps she is a reminder of a darker time in my life, of a moment that I have put in my past. For a moment I worry that her arrival cannot be a coincidence, not coming so soon after that voice that I heard, but then I tell myself to put some concerns to bed. And then, slowly, I look up the stairs as I realize that there is one thing I must check.
***
“If you really must remember the afternoon in the forest,” the voice told me yesterday,” the answer can be found wrapped in linen in the bottom drawer of your chest. The one in your bedroom. You put this answer there yourself. But do not torment yourself, Judith. I think it would upset you to know the truth. Simply be glad that the girl has learned her lesson.”
Crouching in front of my dresser, I realize that I have delayed this moment for long enough. I pull the bottom drawer open, and then I start gently moving the bed-sheets aside. And then, just as I am beginning to think that there is nothing untoward here, I see that a piece of linen has been placed carefully in one of the corners, and it is quite clear that something is wrapped inside.
My heart is racing, but I force myself to reach out toward the item.
Suddenly I feel a rush of panic. I try to brace myself, but the sensation builds and builds until I fall back and bump against the side of my bed. I hold my hands up, as if to protect myself, as wave after wave of sheer dread comes rushing through my soul. I turn away and cry out, but for a moment it is as if the panic has seized me and will never let go. Only after a few more seconds does the feeling finally begin to fade, and I am left panting in shock on the bedrooms floor.
I look back toward the drawer. For a moment I consider looking again, but then I reach out with my right foot and push the drawer shut. There's nothing in there, anyway. I'm just letting myself get spooked. I need to get on with things, rather than allow myself to fall victim to these base superstitions.
Chapter Eleven
“Mummy, no!” Elizabeth screams, twisting to get away from me. “Mummy, please!”
Grabbing her by the arm, I pull her back and put a hand over her mouth to keep her from crying out. Then, as she struggles some more, I reach down and put my other hand on her waist. Tears are streaming down her face and running onto my fingers, but my usual compassion is being pushed aside by a cold, hard anger. Reaching out, I grab the -
“No!” I gasp, suddenly opening my eyes and sitting up in bed.
My heart is racing, but I feel a rush of relief as I realize that I was merely having a nightmare. I dreamed I was in the forest with Elizabeth; I had her pinned down and I was determined to punish her, and I was filled with an anger that I have never felt in real life. I could sense something awful approaching, something utterly dreadful, and I cannot help but feel relieved that I woke before I reached that part of the nightmare.
As I try to gather my thoughts, my gaze falls upon the bottom drawer of the dresser. For a moment I contemplate the piece of linen that rests in there, and I find myself wondering what is wrapped inside the linen. I tell myself that I should not be concerned by such things, but then I cautiously climb out of bed and make my way over. Last night I experienced some kind of panic when I was a
bout to unwrap the piece of linen, but this time I am sure I shall be a little stronger.
Reaching down, I begin to slide the drawer open.
I freeze as I see that, while the linen remains where I left it, there is now a small, dark red patch on the fabric, as if something bloodied has begun to soak through.
I hesitate for a moment, before sliding the drawer shut again. There is no rush to unwrap that piece of linen. I can do it tonight.
***
“I'm late,” I say as I hurry down the stairs a few minutes later, having dressed in haste. “Elizabeth, why didn't you wake me? It's quarter past nine!”
Heading through to the kitchen, I spot Elizabeth sitting at the table with a rather strange, rather blank expression on her face. I make my way to the sink and pour myself a glass of water, and then I turn to see that Elizabeth is simply staring into space, and that her eyes look reddish and sore, as if she has been sobbing.
“Elizabeth?” I continue. “Are you okay? Why aren't you at school?”
She turns to me, but it takes a few more seconds before she seems to realize that I am here.
“I didn't feel well,” she whispers.
“And what exactly is wrong?”
She swallows.
“Elizabeth, do you need to see a doctor?” I ask.
She pauses, before slowly shaking her head.
“Well, what's wrong?” I continue. “Elizabeth, you're starting to worry me.”
“I think I just need to rest,” she replies. “It'll pass in a day or two, I'm sure. Is that alright, Mother? I'll just go to bed and sleep until I feel better.”
“I'm really not sure that sleep is the best thing,” I tell her, before realizing that perhaps getting a doctor involved would not be the best idea. After all, there is still a part of me that worries about whatever happened in the forest, and that would rather let things resolve themselves without outside intervention. “A few more days, then,” I tell her. “Then we'll have to reconsider.”
She nods.
“And I must get to the church,” I continue, hurrying to the door. “There's no -”
Stopping suddenly, I realize that something isn't quite right, and then I slowly turn and look at the back of Elizabeth's head.
“It's Saturday,” I tell her.
I wait, but she doesn't answer.
“It's Saturday, Elizabeth,” I continue. “There's no school on Saturday anyway.”
“Oh.” She pauses. “Okay, then.”
I want to ask her what's really wrong, but I suppose she's just being a melodramatic young lady. I'm sure I merely told her off in the forest, and she's feeling a little glum about the whole thing. Rather than risk disturbing her further, then, I turn and hurry through to the hallway, and then I make my way out of the cottage and along the lane.
Reaching the cemetery, I open the gate and start making my way toward the church. One of the local tradesmen is busy digging a grave for Violet's funeral, but then I stop in my tracks as I see that Father Perkins is standing outside the church's main door.
And he is talking to Prudence Williams.
I step back behind one of the trees and watch. I cannot hear from this distance what they are saying, but they seem to be deep in conversation. Father Perkins came to the parish long after Prue and her family moved away, so this is unlikely to be a reunion of old acquaintances, but I can think of no other reason why Prue would be here. She has never been a churchgoer and, indeed, I am not sure I have ever before seen her anywhere near a place of worship. Perhaps she is merely touring the local area, but I must confess that this whole situation seems rather odd. Prue's return to Briarwych is starting to make me a little unsettled.
Suddenly she turns and starts coming this way. I pull back out of sight and take care to remain unseen as she goes out through the gate. She is walking very swiftly, with great intent, and soon she is out of view. I turn and look back toward the church, but Father Perkins is also gone and I cannot shake the feeling that the conversation I just witnessed was not entirely pleasant.
I pause to gather my thoughts, and then I make my way along the path and into the church.
“Judith?” Father Perkins calls out from his office. “Is that you?”
I make my way over to the door and see that he is making tea. He looks rather flustered.
“I'm sorry I'm late,” I tell him. “I shall make up the time.”
“No, it's okay,” he replies. “In fact, why don't you take the day off? I'm sure you could spend some enjoyable time with Elizabeth.”
“I have far too much to do here,” I say, as I step into the room. “I must -”
Before I can finish, Father Perkins steps back, almost as if he is scared of me.
“Is anything the matter?” I ask.
He stares at me for a moment, as if he is waiting for something to happen, and then he manages a smile that seems rather forced.
“No, Judith,” he says with a sigh, “nothing is the matter.”
“What was Prudence Williams doing here?”
“Who?”
“The woman who was here a moment ago.”
“There was no woman here a moment ago,” he says, although he sounds a little tense. “You must be mistaken.”
“Oh, but I saw -”
“There was no woman here,” he says again. “I'm sorry, Judith, but there was no-one here so let's just let that be the end of it, eh? If you insist on working today, that is fine, but I have a great deal to do before Violet Durridge's funeral on Monday so I'm going to have to work in here. Please shut the door as you leave the office, and do not disturb me for the rest of the day.”
I pause for a moment, feeling as if something is wrong, but then I realize that no good will come of forcing the matter.
“Of course,” I say, turning to go back out into the corridor. At the last second, however, I spot an envelope resting on the table, and I see that my name is scrawled on the front in a crude, sloppy hand.
Reaching out, I pick the envelope up and turn it around, and I see that there seems to be a piece of paper inside.
“Where did this come from?” I ask.
“I'm sorry? Oh, yes, that had been slipped under the door when I woke up yesterday. I was going to give it to you, but I forgot.”
I step out of the room and pull the door shut, and then I make my way along the corridor before stopping and opening the envelope. My hands are shaking a little, and I cannot escape the feeling that this envelope must be connected to Prue's sudden return, and perhaps to Father Perkins' insistence that the woman was not here a few minutes ago. And then, as I remove the slip of paper and turn it around, I feel a sliver of fear in my chest as I read the five words that are written on the page:
I know what you did.
Chapter Twelve
“Dear Lord, give me guidance,” I whisper as I kneel before the altar. “I feel as if the world is running out of control.”
It is late in the afternoon and I have spent the day in a frenzy. I have tried to distract myself with work, but finally I have decided to pray for help. There is no doubt that Prue has come to Briarwych with some kind of mischief in mind, and I cannot help but worry that somehow she saw me holding the rock all those years ago, that she knows I experienced that strange moment of temptation. And if she means to cause trouble, my entire reputation here in Briarwych could be damaged.
“Help me,” I continue, with my eyes squeezed tight shut. “Guide me, Lord. I do not know what to do.”
I wait, and the church remains silent.
Father Perkins is in his office still, with the door shut.
Finally, slowly, I open my eyes.
“Are you there?” I whisper, feeling a flicker of fear in my chest as the words leave my lips. “Are you listening?”
I wait.
“Of course I am here,” the voice says suddenly. “I have heard every word you have uttered, but I thought you no longer wanted to hear me.”
I look around, but th
ere is still no sign of anybody standing nearby. I hesitate, worried in case this is all a trick, and then I turn back to look at the altar. I know I should not be interrupting my prayer to speak to this other voice, but I need help from somewhere.
“What does she want with me?” I ask.
“Who?”
“Prudence.”
“She was here earlier, talking to the priest.”
“What did she say?”
“She was talking about you, Judith.”
I swallow hard.
“She told him that you should not be allowed in the church,” the voice continues, “and that something was very wrong with you. He defended you at first, but she was very persuasive. She has a snake's tongue when she speaks, and gradually she made him fearful. By the time she left, she had filled his mind with doubts.”
“Why?” I ask. “What exactly did she tell him?”
“There is only one way for you to learn that, Judith,” the voice says. “You know what you have to do.”
***
As soon as I step through the door of the Hog and Bucket public house, I am overcome by the stench of beer. Every fiber of my being is urging me to leave this filthy place, but I force myself to walk toward the bar. There are drunkards all around, in various stages of inebriation, and I am quite aware that I am being watched. I am sure the locals never thought the day would come when they would see me in here.
“Good evening, Ms. Prendergast,” Thomas Neill says, clearly amused by my arrival. “Come for a swift libation, have you?”
“Most certainly not,” I reply, as the barman comes over. “I believe you have a guest, a Ms. Williams. Is she still here?”
“She's up in her room, I think,” the barman replies. “She's been up there most of the day.”
“I should like to speak to her.”
“Stairs are near the toilets,” he continues. “You'll find your way easily enough. She's in the first room.”
“Thank you.” With that, I turn to walk away.
“Funny,” he adds, “she said you might be popping by, but I never believed her. Old friends of yours, is she?”