The figure had moved. She was slightly to Kate’s left now, almost behind her. And she was beckoning. Beckoning back towards the grave. It wasn’t Allie. This woman was taller, slimmer and she was wearing some sort of blowing, willowy garment – a skirt in spite of the weather, and it looked like a long skirt. Kate’s mouth had gone dry. She found her breath was coming in small, tight gasps. Was this the woman Bill had seen with Allie – the woman who had watched the girl attack him and not lifted a finger to help?
‘Claudia?’
It was a whisper. Please God, don’t let this be happening. Don’t let her be real. Kate took a few steps backwards. The woman seemed to follow her. Adjusting her fingers carefully along the body of the torch until her thumb found the switch, Kate drew it out of her pocket. Sliding the switch across she lifted the torch in one quick movement and shone it straight into the woman’s face. She did not react. The beam went straight through her. Kate could see the streaming grasses and the blowing sand behind her as if her figure was made of glass.
‘Help!’ The voice was distant, almost obliterated by the wind. ‘Help me, someone! Kate!’
Keeping her eye on the woman, Kate backed away. The woman seemed to follow her. Her face was clearly visible. It was a youngish face, pale in the torchlight, the cheekbones high, the hair unravelled, whipping around it. She could see the colours clearly for all their transparency. The bright blue of the gown with the stains upon the front, the redness of her hair, the strange golden eyeshadow on the deepset eyes.
‘What is it? What do you want?’ Kate’s voice was shaking. She was vividly conscious of the cry from behind her but she did not dare to turn her back on the figure. It didn’t seem to threaten her in any way but her own terror was so great she was incapable of doing anything other than backing slowly away from it. Slowly, the figure was holding out its hands, but at the same time it was fading. The background behind it was growing stronger. It was her torchbeam, she realised suddenly. It was weakening. ‘Oh no. Please don’t run out.’ She switched off the beam and switched it on again, keeping it directed desperately at the figure. But the woman had gone. She directed the beam up and down, seeing it waver as her hands shook. There was nothing there. Nothing but the violence of the night. She swung round and began to run towards the place from where the voice had seemed to come, the torchbeam swinging violently up and down as she moved and then she saw him. Greg. He was sitting on the edge of the sand, almost in the water.
‘Greg. Oh Greg, thank God!’ She flung herself down beside him, almost knocking him backwards on the sand, tears streaming down her face. ‘Greg. Greg.’ She couldn’t do anything but repeat his name over and over again as she clutched at his jacket.
His arm went round her and he pulled her against him. ‘It’s OK, Kate. It’s OK. Calm down.’
‘I saw her. I saw the ghost. Claudia. She was standing by the grave. And there’s a body there, Greg. A body.’ Sobbing, she pushed her face against his sleeve. His jacket was wet and cold, and she could feel him shivering through it. ‘Greg. Bill’s dead.’ The words were muffled through the green waxed material, but he heard them clearly enough.
‘Oh sweet Christ.’ He hugged her closer against him. ‘Listen, Kate. You have to help me. Strange though it may seem I’m not sitting here with my feet in the sea for fun. Something has happened to my ankle. I’ve got it caught in something. Have a look, there’s a love. Each time I try and lean forward to free myself I go all peculiar.’
He had lain there watching the tide rising higher and higher, swimming in and out of consciousness. He was not catatonic like Alison, nor dazed like Bill, but he knew, as he lay back, resigned to the cold that was creeping through him, that he was well on his way to unconsciousness. Then he had seen the crazily flashing light of Kate’s torch for a second in the dunes behind him. The sight had given him the shot of hope which had sent the adrenalin coursing through his veins again.
Kate crouched forward. She held the torch close to his ankle. ‘It’s fishing line. All wound round your foot. The hook has gone through your shoe.’
She felt her stomach clench at the sight of the blood soaking into the sand around his foot. The line had tangled around a whole pile of jetsam weed which had snagged against something which stuck out of the sand. She tugged at it, careful not to touch his foot, but it was immovable, tethering him there in the path of the tide.
Greg eased himself forward on his elbow. ‘Can you free it? I’ve got a knife somewhere in one of my pockets. Inside, here.’ He tried to drag the zip down from his chin but his hands were cold and slippery and he could feel another wave of nausea and dizziness building.
‘I’ll look for it.’ She left his foot and came close to him again. The knotted ends of her scarf were fluttering wildly in the wind. He could feel them drumming against his cheek as she knelt beside him, her eyes narrowed. ‘Wait, I’ll have to get my gloves off.’ She gave him the torch and he saw her pulling at the fingers of her glove with her teeth. He switched off the torch. He could see how weak the battery was, and he ducked suddenly as a stronger than usual wave hurtled up the beach and crashed almost over them, covering them both in icy spray. The glove was off and she had the heavy zip in her hand now, coaxing it down. He could feel the cut of the wind as it slid inside and froze his skin. Her hand followed and he felt her fingers rummaging against the jacket lining. Easing his position slightly, he lifted himself onto his other elbow and put his free arm around her shoulders, trying to borrow some of her warmth. But her jacket was slick and cold with rain. She glanced up at him, her face only inches from his and he saw her smile grimly in the darkness. ‘Hang on in there. I’ll find it. You’ve got more pockets than the Artful Dodger.’
‘Keep searching. I wish I were feeling better. I’d take the chance to make a massive pass at you!’ He gave a wan grin.
‘In this cold I might just reciprocate.’ Her hands were methodically searching each of the deep pockets on the inside of his jacket. Another wave broke across them and she heard herself gasp at the cold.
His arm tightened around her. ‘It’s getting closer.’
‘It must be nearly high tide. It was in over the edge of the grave.’
‘There’s an easterly wind. It’s pushing it higher than usual.’ He glanced up at the sky over her head. ‘Thank God the moon, wherever it is, isn’t quite full. We’re not into springs or I would have been a goner by now.’
The pain from his foot was hitting him in pulses, travelling up his leg and receding but always constant from his ankle down. He did not dare to try and waggle his foot. The pain when he had done that had caused him to faint. When he had woken up it was because a wave had broken across his face; he had come to, choking. He did not dare to contemplate what the pain would be like when Kate freed him. If she could free him. Perhaps he would pass out again – God’s own anaesthetic. He tried to concentrate on her hand roaming the pockets of his jacket. He was not so far gone that the old system had not reacted a little to the questing hands of a beautiful woman. Her hair smelt of woodsmoke and ash from the woodburner, and her body, pressed close to his, had the slightly musty smell of wet wool, but under it all he could smell the faintest traces of whatever scent she had put on that morning – whenever that was, and her own indefinable smell, the smell that registered subconsciously and made you like or hate, love or loathe, or remain purely indifferent to every human being you met. In her case, in spite of the aggravation she had caused him, he found it extremely attractive. He lay back a little, trying to ease the weight on his elbows, jumping as the movement jarred his leg.
‘Sorry. Did I hurt you?’ She had noticed.
‘Not you. The hook.’
‘Found it.’ At last her fingers had closed over the knife. She pulled it out of his pocket and sat back. Catching hold of his zip she dragged it up. ‘Can’t let you freeze to death.’ She shook her head as another deluge of cold spray poured over them. Officially, the tide had turned half an hour before, but nobody seemed to have told the sea. She glanced at his face. ‘I’ll try not to hurt you.’
He forced a grin. ‘Listen, if I keel over, just go on and do it. Cut the line, and get the hook out while you can and stop the bleeding.’ He paused to catch his breath as another spasm of pain took him. ‘Don’t try and move me though. I’m heavy.’ Another wan grin. ‘When I come to, I’ll be able to wriggle away from the sea. Then you can go and get help.’
‘OK boss.’ She put her hand on his for a second and squeezed it. Then she picked up the torch.
Whatever happened she mustn’t drop the knife. She tried to pull open the blade with cold, wet fingers but they slipped off uselessly. Swearing, she tried again, hands shaking. Behind her Greg had lain back on the sand. His eyes were closed. His face in the torchlight was almost transparent. She breathed on her fingers for a moment to warm them and then, half unzipping her jacket, pushed her hand under the opposite arm to dry her fingers on the wool of her sweater and bring some feeling back. The next time she tried to prise open the blade the knife opened easily. With a sigh of relief she edged down his body until she was opposite his feet. His free leg was hunched up beneath him where he had tried to drag himself away from the approaching water, his other leg stretched out, the foot
