don’t think she knows what she’s doing half the time at the moment.’
Another crash followed the first and they both looked up. ‘That came from Patrick’s room,’ Diana whispered.
‘Take the rolling pin.’ Greg murmured as she moved towards the upright studs which divided the living room from the kitchen. ‘Just in case.’
‘To hit my own daughter?’ She stopped.
‘If necessary, yes. For both your sakes.’ He levered himself to his feet. ‘Damn and blast this foot. I’m coming with you.’
‘No, Greg – ’
‘Yes. Give me a walking stick from the hall. I’ll be fine as long as I don’t put too much weight on it.’ He was staring up at the ceiling.
She brought it without further argument and then led the way to the staircase, pulling open the door which hid the dark stairwell. Looking up she listened, aware that Greg was right behind her, breathing painfully as he tried to balance with the stick.
Holding her breath she began to climb the stairs. At the top she peered cautiously down the passage. It was empty. Alison’s bedroom door was closed as she had left it. The key was in the pocket of her trousers. She closed her hand around it and with a glance over her shoulder towards Greg, she moved stealthily towards the door and listened. At the far end of the passage the door to Patrick’s room stood slightly ajar.
Biting her lip as she tried to move soundlessly, Diana led the way down the passage towards it. Behind her Greg felt the sweat break out on his forehead as he forced himself to walk softly after her. Without lights the upper hall was almost dark; the black beams threw wedges of shadow across the soft pink of the ceiling. The curtains, though open, blocked whatever light filtered in from the heavy sky. The garden was totally silent. Even the sound of the wind had died. Diana tightened her grip on the rolling pin, slowing as she approached the door, reluctant to go in.
Behind her Greg frowned. He could feel the skin on the back of his neck crawling. He put his hand out and gripped his mother’s arm. ‘Let me,’ he whispered.
She did not argue. Flattening herself against the wall, she let him pass and watched as very slowly he pushed open Patrick’s door with the end of the stick. Peering over his shoulder she could not at first see anything, then slowly her eyes began to make out the dark interior of the room. ‘Hell, look at his books.’ Greg spoke out loud. He pushed the door back against the wall and took a step inside. The contents of every bookshelf had been tipped into the centre of the floor. There was no one there.
‘Allie did this? Why? How did she get out?’ Diana spoke in a whisper. The room smelled faintly of lavender.
Greg shrugged. He ran his stick under the bed, grunting with pain as his foot caught his weight, then he pulled open the cupboard door. There was nowhere in the room for anyone to hide. Pushing past him Diana pulled back the curtains, letting in a little more light. It revealed nothing but the shambles of books in the middle of the carpet. ‘Some of them are torn,’ she said sadly as she stood surveying the mess. ‘He’ll be so upset.’
‘Where is she?’ Greg turned and hopped back onto the landing. One by one he threw open the other doors – his own room, his parents’, the bathroom. All were empty. It left only Alison’s. ‘She must be back in there.’ He glanced at his mother. ‘Shall I look?’
She nodded bleakly. He put his hand on the door knob and turned it. Nothing happened. ‘It’s locked,’ he said in a whisper. ‘Is there a bolt on the inside?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve got the key.’ She put it into his hand. He frowned. With only a slight hesitation he inserted it into the lock and turned it as quietly as he could.
Alison’s room too was dark, the curtains closed, the light which had been on beside her bed now off like the others. Greg stood in the doorway peering into the darkness, trying to see. If only they still had a torch that worked. His ears, straining in the silence adjusted to the sound of breathing. It was slow and steady and came from the bed. He groped in his pocket suddenly as he remembered his matches. Pushing his stick at his mother, who was immediately behind him, he struck one and held it high. The light was small and barely touched the room, but it was enough to see the hunched form of his sister in the bed. Wincing with pain he took a shuffled step forward and held it near her face. For a brief second, before it went out, he saw her closed eyes, the dark lashes on her cheek, her fist, clutching the blanket below her chin. Holding his breath he waited, half expecting her to leap from the bed with a scream, but nothing happened. The silence extended and filled the room again. All he could hear was her slow, heavy breathing, and behind him his mother’s, quicker, lighter, exuding fear. Carefully he withdrew another match. The rasping sound as he struck it seemed to echo deafeningly as it flared and steadied, but Alison’s lids did not flicker. He watched her for several seconds before raising the match high and glancing round the rest of the room. As far as he could see it was as it should be: her clothes lay in heaps on the floor, tapes and books in confusion on the chairs and table, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Nothing but the smell. As the frail light went out again he sniffed. The room was full of the heavy, spicy odour he had smelt before in the study. His mouth dry he began to back out. Diana moved with him. Without a sound he pulled the door closed and relocked it, then taking his mother’s hand, he led her towards the staircase.
Safely downstairs he subsided into one of the deep armchairs beside his sleeping father. He realised suddenly that he was shaking again. A sheen of sweat iced his skin as the pain, which had seemed dulled upstairs, swept up his leg and took hold of him again. He lay back and closed his eyes, fighting to remain conscious.
‘I’ll check the fuses.’ Diana’s voice reached him through the roar in his ears. She groped in his pocket for the matchbox, paused for a moment to rest a gentle hand on Roger’s head, then she had gone.
Greg had allowed himself to slide away into the spinning kaleidoscope of pain, settling deeper into something approaching sleep when he felt a glass being pushed into his hand. ‘Brandy.’ The voice was crisp and commanding. ‘Come on, Greg. I’m sorry, but I need you awake.’
He opened his lips obediently and felt the fire on his tongue. For one more minute he resisted, then, choking, he felt himself propelled into full consciousness.
‘There are no trips out and I’ve tried all the fuses. Nothing works.’
Opening his eyes he realised the room was full of candlelight. He was still disorientated. ‘Did you smell the perfume?’
‘What perfume?’ She sounded irritated. ‘Did you hear me, Greg? The electricity is off. All of it. And I can’t find out what’s wrong.’ Her voice rose slightly and he realised that it was fear that he could hear. Desperately he took a grip on himself and swigged another mouthful of the brandy. Fire shot through his veins this time, and he felt his head clearing rapidly. ‘It’s the wind and the snow,’ he said as steadily as he could. ‘You know we are always being cut off when the weather’s bad. We’ve got the fire, and the Aga and candles. There’s nothing to worry about.’
‘No.’ She didn’t sound convinced. ‘What happened upstairs, Greg, it wasn’t Allie, was it.’ She sat down on the arm of the chair beside him. He could feel her trembling as she leaned against his shoulder. He reached for her hand and pressed it gently. ‘No. It wasn’t Allie.’
‘Then who -?’
He shook his head. ‘The wind? An earth tremor? Perhaps the shelves were under too much stress. Perhaps it was the cats. Where are they? Those two are quite capable of knocking a million books when they play scatty cats round the house.’
‘When they were young, perhaps.’ She sniffed. ‘Not now. Not for ages. Normally they are here, by the fire.’ Suddenly her eyes filled with tears. ‘I haven’t seen them since Allie came back.’
Greg frowned. Now that he noticed, their absence was a tangible thing. He took it for granted that one or the other or both would always be there, in the chair where he was sitting now, or on the sofa with his father, or on the rocking chair beside the Aga. The room without them was unfurnished; empty. Threatening. ‘I expect they’ve gone out before the weather worsens,’ he said, trying to comfort. ‘They won’t have gone far, not when it’s like this. They’re soft little buggers, for all they like to think they’re so tough.’
‘Oh Greg!’ A sob escaped her in spite of all her efforts to sound calm. ‘What’s happening? The car; the cats; Allie; Bill – I can’t bear it.’
He put his arm around her. ‘Just a sequence of strange coincidences,’ he said as firmly as he could. ‘And some bastard out there who will be behind bars before much longer if Paddy and Kate have anything to do with it.’
‘They will get through?’ It was a plea.
‘Of course they will get through.’ He wished he felt as positive as he sounded.
