her next? She is glad that penne with pesto contains no bones. She is about to say something – anything – to break the mood, when Kate causes a distraction by falling asleep with her head in her pasta.
When Kate has been put to bed, Bob and Cathbad go into the garden to light the fireworks. Ruth watches from the window. Her excuse is that she wants to hear if Kate wakes up, but really she wants to keep away from the frightening little packages with their warnings of death and disfigurement. One large rocket even has a skull and crossbones on it. Surely this should warn any sensible person to steer clear? Besides, it’s freezing out there.
Cathbad and Bob are having a great time though. Bob seems to have got over his moment of darkness. Ruth remembers how completely his face seemed to change when he talked about curses and ‘bad juju’. Ruth has known Cathbad long enough to understand that some people do believe in curses, in ill-wishing, in bad karma, but nevertheless the concept still disturbs her. Can there really be these malignant forces out there just waiting to strike or, worse, waiting to be directed? And can Bob, her smiling next-door neighbour, really direct death itself by pointing a bone? Ruth, who has spent years resisting her parents’ beliefs, is a resolute rationalist but, still, there is something troubling about a man who believes he can visit bad luck upon another human being. Or does he believe it? Maybe it’s all an elaborate joke. She watches Bob laughing as he hammers in a stake for the Catherine wheels. Who was Catherine and why did she have a wheel? Ruth has a feeling that the answer is sure to be nasty. She decides against asking Cathbad.
But surely Bob is harmless. He’s just a passionate man, a poet, someone who believes in honouring the past and respecting the dead – just like Cathbad. And like Erik. Ruth wishes she could stop thinking about Erik, especially on the Saltmarsh late at night, times when, as Erik would have said, the restless spirits walk the earth looking for the light. She wishes she could just remember Erik as a brilliant archaeologist and her beloved mentor. But darker memories insist on emerging. A stormy night, lightning illuminating the sky like fireworks, a hidden room, a terrible secret. Ruth pushes these images aside with an effort. She must only think about the good things. With Bob too. He’s a good neighbour, a kind creative person who plays the didgeridoo and likes children. And Flint, whose judgment Ruth trusts, adores him. Flint is currently asleep on the spare-room bed. He hates firework night.
Cathbad bends to light a fuse. Nothing happens. He goes back to try again. Ruth opens the back door.
‘You shouldn’t return to a lighted firework.’ She learnt that from
‘It’s OK, Ruth.’ Cathbad brandishes his taper. ‘Fire always obeys me.’
Famous last words, thinks Ruth. But she shuts the door again. The wind is getting up, making the whole lighting business more hazardous than ever. Maybe they’ll give up soon. She wonders if they’d notice if she sneaked off to watch
But suddenly there is a slight hiss and a little gold tree springs up in front of her. The tree spins, shedding gold and silver leaves. Bob laughs aloud and Cathbad performs a rudimentary, capering dance. Ruth smiles, despite herself. This sort of firework seems harmless enough, rather beautiful, in fact. A few more like that and she can put the kettle on.
In fact, there are many many more. How can Bob’s little box hold so much? Fountains, stars, spinning wheels, shrieking rockets – Ruth watches them all from the back door. What is it, this desire to fill the night with noise and light? It goes back hundreds of years before poor old Guy Fawkes. Probably another attempt to stave off the horrors of the night and of winter, like cockerels crowing at dawn. And like the cockerel, there seems to be a certain element of macho posturing involved. Bob and Cathbad are determined not to come back indoors before every last touch paper has been lit. Ruth doesn’t know a single woman who really likes fireworks.
But, finally, they do come back in, smelling of gunpowder and the sea.
‘How about that?’ says Cathbad triumphantly.
‘Amazing,’ says Ruth. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘I’d like something stronger.’
‘I might have some brandy left over from last Christmas.’
‘Perfect.’
So they sit in front of the fire and drink brandy and talk about bonfires, paganism and Aboriginal smoke ceremonies. Ruth feels her eyelids drooping but she enjoys sitting there, listening to the ebb and flow of conversation. If only she didn’t keep thinking that Kate would wake up any minute. Surreptitiously, she looks at her watch. Eleven-thirty. Even at the most optimistic assessment Kate will be awake in six hours. Ruth stifles a yawn, feeling her jaw lengthening.
‘We should go,’ says Bob. ‘Ruth has to be up in the morning.’
‘Oh, Ruth’s a night owl,’ says Cathbad, pouring more brandy.
‘I used to be,’ says Ruth. ‘Now I’m a lark. A reluctant one, I grant you.’
‘Come on Cathbad.’ Bob stands up, turns to Ruth. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening.’
‘Thank you for the fireworks.’
Bob grins. ‘Well, the sun god needs his sacrifice. Isn’t that right, Cathbad?’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘Can I give you a lift?’ It hadn’t occurred to Ruth that Cathbad didn’t bring his car. He rarely drives. He has a car but it is the oldest vehicle that Ruth has ever seen. Erik used to speculate that it dated from the Bronze Age.
‘No, I’m fine. I like walking at night.’
‘I’ll give you a lift as far as Snettisham.’
‘OK.’
Ruth watches them go. The Saltmarsh is dark and silent, the Gods of night still reigning. As Bob’s tail lights disappear into the blackness, Ruth goes back inside and bolts her door.
CHAPTER 12
The Necromancer is cantering along the all-weather track. He is going uphill, neck arched against the bit, powerful quarters pushing him onwards in a series of huge, bounding leaps. When he takes the turn at the top of the hill, his great round hooves strike sparks from the churned earth. He rises in the air, eyes red, mane and tail ablaze. He flies over the house. The Milky Way is his race track, the stars his hurdles. The asteroid belt writhes and twists beneath his feet. It is a snake that falls, hissing, to earth. It is a snake that is bigger than the sky, bigger than the earth. It is a snake that is small enough to whisper in his ear: ‘You are going to die.’
Danforth Smith wakes with a sudden lurch of the heart. He can hear his breathing reverberating around the empty room. His duvet is drenched with sweat. He reaches out for his water but touches a dead hand. He is lying beside the bishop’s corpse, the ghastly skeletal face turned to his. He tries to scream but his voice has been stolen. With horror, he watches as a snake emerges from the skeleton’s rib cage. The creature, green as death, weaves itself in and out of the protruding bones. Smith knows that it has come for him, but with equal certainty he knows that he will not be able to move, not even to stretch out a hand as the dryly slithering body presses itself against his.
Will it come for him, the black coach with its six horses, the headless coachman? He hears Niamh’s voice, her sweet Irish voice, clear as a bell. ‘When it stops at your door, there’s no escape. Your time has come.’ The sky is alight with gold and silver stars, the black horse gallops across the heavens. Romilly appears briefly, hand-in-hand with a shadowy figure that he doesn’t recognise. Then Randolph, laughing and laughing. Then Tamsin, but her face is turned away. Then Caroline. She’s trying to tell him something but he can’t hear. Now Lester the cat appears, swollen to the size of a lion. Lester opens his mouth and a man’s voice says, ‘The great snake will have its revenge’.
The snake has reached his face. He can see its yellow eyes. In the background, Randolph laughs harder than ever. He wants to say that he’s sorry but he knows it’s too late.
The yellow eyes are level with his. The black horse waits for him outside.
CHAPTER 13
