Part 20 (2/2)

*We need the police.' Roger frowned. *Did you try the phone?'

Diana shook her head. She was staring at her daughter who had not moved. Alison was standing before the fire, her arms hanging loose in front of her. From the scratch on her left forearm the blood dripped slowly and steadily onto the carpet.

Roger strode past her towards his study. In thirty seconds he was back. *It's still dead.' His face was grim. *I'll have to take the car and try and get help from Joe's.'

He glanced at Patrick who was still sitting at the kitchen table, staring deep into his empty tumbler.

*Paddy!' His voice was sharp as he used the baby name for his son which Patrick hated so much.

Patrick jumped. He looked up at his father. There was bewilderment in his eyes.

*Patrick, your mother must stay here and look after Alison. I'm going to leave you here to take care of them both. I want you to lock the door behind me, and bolt it. You are not to let anyone in. Anyone at all, do you hear?'

*Dad, you can't go.' Patrick rubbed his sleeve across his face. He was s.h.i.+vering again in the soaking wet clothes. *Let me take the Volvo. I know how to drive it.'

*He's right, Roger. You can't go.' Diana looked from Alison to her husband and back in an agony of indecision. *It should be me.'

*No. Alison needs you.' Roger shook his head.

*I can do it, Dad,' Patrick said quietly.

The fact that Roger hesitated even for a second showed more clearly than any words just how weak and ill he was feeling, but he shook his head slowly. *Not in this weather. It's too dangerous. And it's not as though I have to do anything but sit there and let the car do the work. I'll drive it up to the road and along to Joe's. Joe will do the rest and bring me back.' He hesitated, seeing the strange mixture of emotions cross his son's face and reading them all. Relief that he did not have to go out again; worry about his father; indignation and mortification that he was not considered old enough to cope.

Roger sighed. *Get the car out of the barn for me, there's a good chap.' He smiled. *I'll get my coat.' He took Patrick's arm and drew him to one side. *You'd be more use here, old chap. If anything happens.' He glanced at his son's face and knew that the sop he had just thrown to the boy's pride was in fact the truth. *You're stronger than me. You can protect them better. I want you to load the shotgun and keep it in here near you.'

Patrick stared. Then he nodded. *I'll get the car.'

Unhooking the keys from the small rack behind the door he pulled it open and peered out. He didn't want to go out again. Outside was hostile and frightening. It had lost all the safety and charm he had known all his life a the secret wonder of the black sky sewn with stars, the rus.h.i.+ng clouds, even the rain and snow. He had loved them all for that special clean fresh smell that comes at night, that quietness which enfolds the countryside and wipes out for a few hours all the brash horror of the twentieth century.

Shutting the door behind him Patrick sprinted across to the barn. Pulling open the heavy double doors he groped 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 m.u.f.fler 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 G.o.d, 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 a 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 onrus.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+ngle 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 G.o.d you're all right. Oh Christ, Kate, I don't know what's going on.' He was lying beside her, she realised, his body s.h.i.+elding hers, one arm across her almost as though they had been making love. He must have dragged himself towards her over the wet s.h.i.+ngle, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y wave rising up ...' He leaned forward and laid his head on her chest. It was a strangely comforting feeling a completely uns.e.xual. 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?'

He shook his head. *I don't know. It's something to do with that b.l.o.o.d.y grave. We've disturbed him.'

*It's not his grave. He's buried in Colchester.' She rolled towards him, dislodging his head so that he was lying face down next to her. Gently she put her hand on his back. *Can you turn over? Let me help you to sit up. We've got to try and find some shelter.' Where was her carefully garnered piece of wood? She glanced round but there was no sign of it in the darkness. The sea must have s.n.a.t.c.hed it from her before it tossed her back on the beach. She dragged herself up to her knees, groaning. Her whole body seemed to be one big bruise. She was soaked to the skin and already she could feel herself growing seriously cold. If they were not careful they were both going to die of hypothermia.

Greg, with a small sigh had lain back on the sand and closed his eyes. For a moment she felt total panic. He was dead. He had just died, next to her, between one moment and the next, like Bill. *Greg!' Her voice rose to a scream.

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