Midnight is a Lonely Place

for the light pull and dragged it on, flooding the huge, shadowy building with a harsh blue light from the double strip of lights which hung, crazily crooked, from their chains and electric cables twenty feet above the ground. There was an uneasy rustle from above him in the rafters and he heard a querulous piping cry. Some bird, roosting there out of the wind, was bitterly resenting his intrusion.

He opened the door of the car and slid behind the steering wheel, slamming the door behind him and ramming down the locks. It was bitterly cold in there. His breath fogged the windscreen. Glancing through it with a frown he pulled out the choke and turned the key. The faithful old car started first go and he sat there for a few minutes, teasing the accelerator with his toe, feeling the cold engine warm slowly into life. Frowning with concentration he engaged reverse gear, and craning over his shoulder, he backed the car out through the impenetrable trails of its own exhaust and swung it backwards towards the house, parking it neatly outside the front door. Mission accomplished.

Climbing out he hesitated for a moment then he reached in and turned off the engine. Locking the door, he let himself back into the house. No point in leaving the car there, engine running.

He watched his father wrap himself in coat and muffler and turned away, pretending not to see Roger slipping a bottle of pills into his pocket. He didn’t need reminding that his father was in terrible pain. The strain of his face and the pallor of his skin told it all.

‘Here.’ Roger handed him a key. ‘The gun cupboard. I’m serious, Paddy. Load it and keep it near you. And check every door and window is locked and bolted after I’ve gone. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

‘Be careful, Roger.’ Diana ran to him and threw her arms around his neck. ‘I shouldn’t be letting you go like this. Oh, darling, be careful.’

He smiled grimly. ‘I will. Don’t worry.’ He turned to the door and pulled it open. In the few short minutes since Patrick had come in the sleet had turned to snow. It whirled down out of the sky and already it was settling in the sheltered corners of the garden. He frowned as he peered through it then he turned. ‘Where did you leave the car?’

‘Right there. Outside.’ Patrick gestured past him. He frowned and took a step past his father.

The car had gone.

Patrick’s mouth fell open. He stared round helplessly. ‘But I left it here. Here.’ He stood where he had parked it. In the light spilling out from the front door the faint rectangular outline in the snow where the car had been parked was clearly visible. He looked up at his father, distraught.

‘You didn’t put the brake on,’ Roger said slowly. He was frowning. The patch of gravel where the car had been was totally level.

‘I did.’ Patrick contradicted hotly. ‘Of course I bloody did! And I locked it. It’s been taken. He must have been watching me all the time.’ He could feel the hair standing up on the back of his neck. ‘He must have broken in and hot wired it.’

‘It only took me three minutes to come out after you parked it, Patrick,’ his father said slowly. ‘No one could break into a car that fast. Not without taking a sledge hammer to the window and we’d have heard that. The brakes can’t have been on.’ He was staring down at the ground.

In the thin covering of snow there was no sign of any car tracks.

XLIII

Marcus stared at the woman who was his wife and his eyes were hard. She had never looked so beautiful. Her hair was wild, loose in the wind, her eyes fiery as she ran towards him. He gave a cold smile, his arms folded across his chest, aware of the priests drawing away from them, aware of the body sinking slowly, face down, in the soft mud of the marsh. The blood red of the sunrise spilt across the reeds, reflecting in the still waters around them. She was running towards him, but it seemed to take forever for her to reach him, to lift her hand, her nails clawed, towards his face, to duck beneath his raised arm and snatch the sword snugly sheathed at his belt. He stepped back to protect himself and she laughed. The sound made his blood curdle. She raised the sword. ‘Curse you, Marcus. Curse you. Curse you. You will not keep me from him.’

The sword seemed to catch for a moment against the flimsy stuff of her gown. Then it was free, sliding into her belly like a knife through cheese. She stood for a moment, upright, strong, proud, her fists still clenched around the hilt as she pulled it towards her, not acknowledging the pain, a daughter of Rome, then slowly her knees began to sag as the blood splashed out over her skirt.

Kate swung round, her eyes straining in the darkness. She had the feeling someone was standing behind her. ‘Greg?’ She glanced round wildly, but she couldn’t see him; she had walked farther than she thought. The beach was deserted. There was no sign of him sitting on the sand. Her heart began to pound unsteadily as if she had been running and she felt her mouth go dry. She clutched the piece of driftwood she had picked up from the tide edge, feeling it cold and wet and solid against her fingers and slowly she began to retrace her steps, straining her eyes into the darkness. Dear God, where was he? She could feel little trickles of panic running up her back. He couldn’t have gone. He wouldn’t have gone. He had to be there somewhere. She dashed the sleet out of her eyes, realising as she did so that it was more like snow now, light and feathery, caressing her skin where before it had been hard and sharp.

There it was again. The strange conviction that there was someone near her. Someone beside her, close beside her, so close she could feel the heat of his body, sense his bulk. ‘Idiot!’ In her fear she spoke out loud. She veered towards the sea trying to free herself of the feeling and felt a wave breaking over her boots, showering her with spray. She jumped back out of reach of the next and felt it again – the absolute conviction that there was a man standing beside her. She stopped walking and stood quite still staring round. There was no one there. It was some trick of the wind and the weather. Gritting her teeth she turned her back on the sea and began to walk up the beach. ‘Greg!’ Tucking the piece of wood beneath her arm she cupped her hands around her mouth. ‘Greg! Where are you?’ Trudging wearily on she scanned the darkness again. She frowned. She had suddenly realised that she was heading back towards the sea. Somehow in the dark she had turned completely round and, without noticing it, she had strayed back below the high water mark in a lull between waves. The roar of the sea and the wind had disorientated her and now she could see a wave racing towards her. She froze. It towered up above the rest like a tidal wave. Tsunami. The word flashed into her mind unsought. Desperately she turned to run but she couldn’t. She seemed to be rooted to the spot. It was as if someone were holding her, forcing her forward towards the onrushing water. She could almost feel the grip on her arms, propelling her onwards.

‘Greg!’ She heard her voice rising into a scream as the towering water seemed to lift above her head. ‘Greg!’

As the water crashed forward over her, knocking her backwards onto the shingle the last thing she heard before the roaring filled her ears was a man’s laugh.

She awoke to find Greg bending over her. ‘Thank God you’re all right. Oh Christ, Kate, I don’t know what’s going on.’ He was lying beside her, she realised, his body shielding hers, one arm across her almost as though they had been making love. He must have dragged himself towards her over the wet shingle, his poor useless foot agony as he moved. ‘I saw the wave. I saw him push you. I thought you were dead.’ He clutched at her hand, holding it against his chest.

Desperately she tried to clear her head so she could think. ‘Who pushed me?’

‘Marcus. It was Marcus, Kate. I saw his toga, his cloak, I saw his sword. He was beside you, then he pushed you towards the sea and I saw that great bloody wave rising up…’ He leaned forward and laid his head on her chest. It was a strangely comforting feeling – completely unsexual. She reached up and stroked his hair.

‘Marcus doesn’t exist, Greg. He’s not real. He’s a statue. A joke. An imaginary ghost.’

‘There was nothing imaginary about him.’ He was mumbling into her jacket. ‘He was real. I saw him push you. I saw you shoot forward towards that wave. He was real, he tried to take over my mind. He’s done it before, and each time I’ve pushed him away. I didn’t realise what was happening; I didn’t understand. But now, for some reason he wants us both dead.’

She lay back for a moment, staring up at the sky, her eyes narrowed against the softly drifting snow. It was falling harder now, settling higher up the beach out of reach of the water, clogging the dunes, drifting before the wind. ‘Why? Why does he want us dead?’