The waves threw off the snow, thundering up the beach in clouds of spray. The sea had reached the soft sand now, the sand which was never covered by the tide, sucking greedily at the ground and spitting out the residue with each successive incursion. Peat and soil swirled and dissolved; sand turned to brown liquid, dispersed and vanished, to be deposited again on a distant shore. In the dune the grave welcomed the first deep wave which seeped into its heart, whisking away a trowel and a brush, tearing at the remaining bones, grinding them, stirring them, flushing out every trace of what had been. Another followed and then another and then the sea overwhelmed, passing onwards towards the calm, ice-bound estuary where, long before, the geese had gone, flying inland away from the storm.
Joe stood panting at the top of the track and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He could barely see now for the weight of snow on his eyelashes; his face was frozen stiff and his tears seemed to turn to ice as the wind whipped them from his eyes. He looked round, exhausted. Two cars were parked at the edge of the road. Drawn up under the trees. Anne’s he supposed; but whose was the other? He walked over to it, and swept the snow off the snow-covered bonnet. Ron’s Land Rover from the pub. He frowned and glanced back the way he had come. Whatever Ron had come for, he had left no trace. His tracks had long ago been covered over.
Wearily he turned up the road and began to trudge towards home. Twice he stopped and looked behind him. A dozen times in the wood he had had the feeling that he was being followed. Each time he had stopped and raised the gun, sweeping it menacingly around at the undergrowth. But there had been no one there. No one at all. Only the silence and the wind and the occasional crash of snow falling from the trees.
It took him another hour to trudge the few hundred yards home, grope in his pocket with deadened hands for the key to the back door, and let himself into the blessed warmth and stillness. The house was very quiet. Stamping the snow off his boots he shrugged himself out of his coat, leaving it where it fell on the kitchen floor and he went over to the wall telephone. Picking it up, he listened. The familiar dialling tone rang out almost deafeningly in his ear.
Nine nine nine.
He had never dialled it before. Shaking his head wearily, he waited for a moment before asking for police and ambulance. The woman on the other end of the line was dubious. ‘They’ll be with you as soon as possible Mr Farnborough, but the weather is so bad! They’re still forecasting hurricane force winds and blizzard conditions. The helicopter can’t take off. It will be down to the police to try and get through with a medical team.’
‘Do your best, love.’ Joe found he had sunk down onto the wooden chair left neatly against the wall. Near him Cissy’s apron hung on the back of the door. He shook his head. ‘Things are bad down there. Very bad. There’s a man murdered. Another man dying. Please. Help us.’
He sat still for a long time after he had hung up. There was nothing more that he could do. He could not go back. He had agreed to wait so he could guide the police vehicle down to the farmhouse. Leaning his head against the wall he closed his eyes wearily.
In two minutes he was fast asleep.
LXVII
Kate glanced up at Jon as they stood side by side looking out of the bedroom window of the cottage. She still wasn’t entirely sure how or why he had appeared – explanations would come later – but she was comforted and happy that he was there. Behind them Alison was sleeping deeply. Downstairs in the kitchen Pete and Patrick were rummaging in the drawers of the dresser for candles and matches.
Patrick didn’t like being down here. He was acutely conscious at every moment of the dead man lying on the sofa in the next room. Bill who in life had been a genial, popular visitor at Redall Farmhouse was in death a terrifying threat.
They were half-way up the stairs when Alison screamed.
‘Shit, what was that?’ Pete was close behind Patrick who stopped dead, his face white. ‘That was Allie.’
‘OK, son, I’ll go. You wait here.’ Pete pushed past him, taking the rest of the stairs two at a time.
In the bedroom Jon and Kate were standing over the bed. Kate had clutched at Jon’s arm – her fingers were white as they sank into his sleeve. Alison was lying on the bed thrashing back and forth as though in pain, her hands clasped to her head. ‘Mummy!’ she screamed again. ‘Mummy, help me!’
Anne sat down on the bed. She caught Alison’s wrists, trying to pull them away from the girl’s face. ‘Allie. Allie, please, listen to me. You’re dreaming. Don’t be afraid. Wake up. Allie, wake up.’ Alison was raking at her temples with her nails. A streak of blood appeared across her forehead, then another. ‘Allie, don’t, you’re hurting yourself. Please.’
Alison did not hear her. They were there again, inside her head. Only this time he was laughing.
Claudia’s screams inside her head were so loud she thought her brain would burst; pain and anguish swirled about her; a tide of blood washed back and forth behind her eyes, and now, suddenly, there was another voice – a man’s voice – the voice of Claudia’s lover. At last he had come. He was there with them. And he was strong; stronger than Marcus, his fury uncontrollable.
With a groan Alison pulled at her hair, sitting up, rocking back and forth with such violence that Anne slipped off the bed to the floor. ‘Alison!’ She scrambled to her feet. ‘Can you hear me? Listen!’ She grabbed at the girl’s hands again. ‘You must be strong. Come back to us, Allie. Open your eyes and come back. Whatever it is you’re fighting, you must be strong.’ She gasped as Alison tore her wrists free and went back to attacking her own face with her nails. ‘Alison, please!’ She looked wildly at Jon. ‘We’ve got to tie her hands. She’s going to scratch herself to pieces. Please, help me, quickly.’
Jon looked round wildly. It was Kate who pulled the belt from her bathrobe which still hung on the back of the door. It took three of them to hold her still, but somehow they managed it, tying her wrists together and tucking her firmly down with the sheets. When they had finished both Anne and Kate had been badly scratched themselves. ‘She’s as strong as three men!’ Anne stared down at the girl who was still throwing herself back and forth beneath the sheets. She rested a hand on Alison’s damp forehead.
Alison did not feel it; she did not know what was happening to her. There was no room for thought inside her head now. No room for her at all. She had ceased to fight them. They had her strength. That was all they wanted.
Jon was shivering. The temperature in the room, he realised suddenly, had dropped violently. Surreptitiously he retrieved his jacket which had fallen to the floor when they put Alison into the bed. ‘What is it? What has happened to her?’
Kate looked at Patrick who had slid into the room behind Pete. ‘Marcus has got her.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘My Roman. Remember? He killed Claudia, who we think must have been his wife, and now he’s haunting us.’ She looked down at the bed. ‘He’s possessed her, Jon.’
‘No!’ Anne shouted. ‘No! He can’t have her. Fight, Allie, fight!’ She put her lips close to Alison’s face. ‘Concentrate, Alison. Think! Think about anything. Use your brain. Fight.’ She took Alison by the shoulders and shook her gently. ‘Don’t give in. Don’t let him win. Oh God!’ She threw her hair back off her face with a furious jerk of her head, clenching her fists in her frustration. ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help her! Alison. Listen to me. Fight!’
Pete, like the others, was staring at Anne. His gaze left her face at last and slid down to Alison’s restless form. His mouth had gone dry. He probably looked as bad as the others. They were all white-faced, cold. He cleared his throat. ‘This kid should be in hospital, Anne,’ he said at last. ‘Where will we find the nearest phone?’
Kate shook her head. ‘The phones aren’t working.’ Was it her imagination or was Alison calmer now? She stared down, terrified, at the girl’s tortured face.
Shadows.
Whirling shadows filled with hate.
Inside her head Allie stared into the darkness helplessly and saw the three prowling, amorphous figures. She could feel someone’s hands ice cold on hers, hear a voice shouting her name, but she could not react. They were
