Sands of Time

In the distance a loaded container lorry heading for the coast thundered towards her. As it raced past the lay- by her car shook and rocked. Anna awoke with a start in time to see the tail lights retreating into the distance. She blinked hard, pushing herself up in the seat. The buttons of her blouse were undone, her skin was on fire. It was almost as if…

She groped for the dream but it was gone.

With a yawn she stretched. Then she reached for the ignition. She didn’t hear the quiet exultant laugh from the back seat.

14

Passing Ipswich Anna drove on, ahead of her the Orwell Bridge and beyond it the road to Felixstowe. When she drew up at last at the side of the road it was on the apex of the bridge. Exhausted, she sat for a moment, staring out of the windscreen at the empty road ahead. From the car she couldn’t see the river, only the expanse of road stretching away ahead; the central reservation; the parapets on either side. They didn’t look high. She should be able to see over. Taking a deep breath she bent and fumbled for the parcel. It had rolled under the passenger seat and for a moment she couldn’t find it. Swearing under her breath, she leant across the handbrake and the gear lever, her fingers groping frantically in the darkness, encountering nothing more than empty space beneath the seat.

Behind her, the shadow that was Lord Carstairs stirred. She did not notice.

‘Damn! Where is it?’ She leaned further across the seat. And then her fingers closed around the bubble wrap. It rustled under her touch and for a fraction of a second she drew back. Had Carstairs somehow conjured a snake to guard the bottle as he had on their boat on the Nile? Was it possible that now, here on the Orwell Bridge, there was a cobra, coiled around the bottle to prevent her from throwing it into the water? There was no snake. Almost as she thought it her fingers encountered the small parcel again. It was wedged in the far corner beneath some integral part of the seat. Gently she waggled it free, her fingers slipping on the wet paper, and then she had it. She didn’t pause to wonder why it was damp; wonder where those few drops of moisture had come from. She didn’t hear the anguished wailing from the shadows around her in the dark above the car or suspect that the guardian priests were nearing the end of their strength. Sitting up triumphantly she opened the car door and stepped out into the road. An icy wind whipped past her as she walked around the front of the car, stepped over the low metal traffic barrier and leaned against the parapet, looking down. The water was a long way below, just visible in the darkness.

Don’t do it.

The voice at her elbow made her cry out in fear.

Don’t dare to commit such sacrilege. You will take this bottle back to Scotland. To my house. There you and I will make use of it as I planned all along.

Anna stared round, terrified. The wind was tearing at her hair, her coat, bringing tears to her eyes. There was no one there. No one in sight. A lorry rattled past in the fast lane, with horn blaring, then she was alone again on the deserted bridge. The voice had not come from inside her head. It was real. External. Coming from the dark recesses of the night.

‘Who is it? What do you want with me?’ But of course she knew. Clutching the bottle she peered round desperately, trying to see him. ‘Where are you? You bastard! How did you get here?’ Terrified she turned to face the road. There were no cars or lorries in sight, no pedestrians. The road was completely empty again.

My great-great grandson proved weak and ineffectual. The voice echoed in her head. She couldn’t see where it was coming from. He wanted to protect you. How stupidly gallant of him, and how convenient that you should have given him the slip so effectively! And, there was a short pause, that we should get on so well.

How could he be speaking to her, close to her, in her ear, and yet she couldn’t see him? She turned round again, her eyes darting from left to right, frantically trying to see shadows where there were none, trying to see a figure where there was no one to see. Below the bridge the black was deeper, more opaque above the clear reflective darkness of the river. The night was suddenly very silent. ‘Go away!’ Her voice came out as a broken whisper. ‘Go away, leave me alone.’

Scotland, Miss Shelley! If you please.

‘Where are you? I can’t see you.’

You don’t need to see me.

‘I do. I am not getting into the car with a passenger I can’t see.’

There was a quiet laugh, nothing but a whisper in the silence. You brought me here, Miss Shelley.

‘If I did, it was without knowing it.’ Dear God, he had been there in the car behind her as she drove. As she stopped in the lay-by. As she dreamed. She gave a small cry of horror. ‘I may have brought you here, but I am not taking you any further. This is where it stops. This is where everything stops.’ She raised the bottle in her hand, moving towards the parapet. ‘This ends now.’

But someone had grabbed her wrist, wrestling with her, holding her arm with iron fingers. She could feel them grinding her bones, she could feel him next to her, smell the sudden waxy perfume of the pomade he wore in his hair, she could feel the enormous strength of the man overwhelming her.

But she couldn’t see him. There was no one there. She was alone on the bridge in the dark wrestling with an invisible figure. The man from her dream. He was the man in her dream. It was all coming back to her now. The smell of his pomade was filling her nostrils. It had been Lord Carstairs tearing off her nightdress, caressing her breasts. His breath on her neck. His whisper in her ear. Her face grew hot. She had wanted him so badly. She wanted him now.

Desperately she tried to wrench herself free. But he was dragging her away from the edge. Somehow he was pulling her back towards the car. ‘You bastard!’ she sobbed, struggling violently. ‘Let me go. This isn’t happening. How can it be. Let me go!’

He was stronger than she was by a long way. She couldn’t fight him. Somehow he thrust her back through the open door of the car and it closed behind her with a slam.

Scotland! The voice was in the car with her. She sat behind the wheel panting. Tears were running down her face. Throwing the bottle down on the seat beside her she stared round the car, turning to scan the back seat. It was empty.

‘Where are you?’

There was no answer.

‘Are you there?’ She was trembling; her own voice was a whisper.

Silence.

Was he still there? She didn’t know. She could hear nothing. Smell nothing. The car was empty. Still.

‘Right.’ She put her shaking hand to the ignition key. ‘Well, in case you hadn’t realised, I am not a bloody taxi! I am not taking you to Scotland.’ But where was she going to take him? She didn’t know.

Pulling away from the kerb she was startled by the sudden blast of a car horn behind her. The first car she had seen in ages tore past in the fast lane, leaving her gasping with shock. She had stamped on the brakes and for a moment waited, her eyes closed, trying to pull herself together, until at last she managed to look up and slowly engage gear once more.

Her mind was whirling, trying to think, trying to be calm, trying to decide what to do.

I am still here, Miss Shelley!

She jumped. He spoke softly, his breath warm on her ear. It was easy to hear him above the scream of the engine.

Remember we are going to Scotland! Please don’t imagine you can fool me. I shall know if we cease going north.

North. She was trying to picture the map. She was heading over the river and into Suffolk. By no stretch of the imagination was she on her way to Scotland; as far as she could remember she was going east. Still towards the