Midnight Is A Lonely Place Part 20

Suddenly he was frightened. *Kate! Greg! Why don't you open the door?' he shouted once more. He began pounding on it again with both fists. *Come on. Please.' His voice cracked and slid up into the alto range, something which normally would have embarra.s.sed him terribly. As it was he didn't even notice. He could feel tears p.r.i.c.king at the back of his eyes. He ran back to the window and knocked, pressing his face against the gla.s.s, but the flowery curtains with their pale sun-stained linings obscured any view of the inside of the room. He turned back and ran past the door, making this time for the windows at the side of the cottage. The bathroom window was slightly open. He inserted his arm and jiggled the arm of the latch free, letting the window swing outwards a little. The wind caught it and slammed it back against the wall, but it didn't matter. The gap was large enough for him to climb in. He tried to get his knee up onto the narrow sill but his oilskin caught. Swearing to himself he unzipped it and tore it off, feeling the rain and wind blast against his body as he bundled the unwieldy garment up and tossed it in in front of him. Then he levered himself up onto the windowsill, and, holding his breath, squeezed himself in, dropping awkwardly onto the floor. The bathroom was dark. He scrabbled around the wall until he found the door and beside it the pull cord for the light. Tugging at it, he switched it on and stared round. The bath had a scattering of dark wet earth in the bottom. The tap was dripping slightly and he could see the trail scoured by the water in the soil. He frowned. Kate struck him as the sort of person who would meticulously wash out a bath after her, but perhaps like Greg she was also the type to get easily distracted when she was being creative; he forgot to change his clothes and wash and even eat when he was painting.

Tiptoing across the floor again he opened the door a crack and peered out into the hall. It was dark out there, but he could see a thin line of light showing from the living room. Opening the door further he peered up the stairs. Everything there was dark and silent.

Suddenly he was shy of having broken in. It seemed a terrible intrusion to be in someone's house without their knowledge. He cleared his throat loudly, then realising how frightening that might be if Kate were on her own in there, he called out nervously. *Kate, are you there?' He knocked on the door and jumped himself at the loudness of the hollow sound he made. *Kate, it's Patrick.'

He crept across the hall and pushed the living room door open. The room was empty save for a figure lying on the sofa, covered by a rug. He felt a rush of relief. She was asleep. That explained it. He had crept right into the room before he realised that the feet and legs hanging over the arm of the sofa were those of a man.

*Greg?' He moved closer. The air in the room was stale and faintly unpleasant. It was very hot in there. Glancing at the stove he registered that it was glowing with heat. *Greg?' He pulled the corner of the blanket away from the man's face and gave a small cry of horror. The flesh of Bill's face was discoloured and puffy; his eyes, half open beneath flaccid lids, were gla.s.sy and dim. A small stream of saliva had run from the corner of his mouth onto the pillow where it had dried in a sticky trail amidst the black crusts of blood. He was very obviously dead. Patrick reared back, repelled, swung away from the body and vomited onto the floor. *Oh G.o.d! Oh G.o.d a oh G.o.d a oh G.o.d!' He leaned over and vomited again. Groping in the pocket of his jeans for something to wipe his mouth on, his fingers encountered the oily rag which he had used earlier to wipe the dipstick on the Volvo as he checked the engine for his father. He brought it to his face, mopping his mouth and his brow and his eyes, leaving a smear of dark oil across his cheeks. His eyes on the body he backed away from it towards the door. Where was Kate? He reached the hall and slammed the door shut, leaning against it. He felt desperately cold and s.h.i.+very despite the heat in the house, and his legs were shaking violently. For a moment he thought they were going to collapse under him. He sat down on the bottom step of the stairs and took a deep breath, followed by another. Then he half turned, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g his neck round so he could gaze up into the darkness of the upper landing. *Kate?' His voice was husky, barely a whisper. *Kate, are you up there?'

Somehow he hauled himself to his feet and he began to climb. Above him a door slammed again. *Kate?' His voice wavered unsteadily. *Kate, it's Patrick.' He could hear the wind more clearly up here. It was howling around the windows and behind it, a deep, subliminal beat, was the roar and crash of the sea. He reached the landing, straining his eyes into the darkness as he scrabbled along the wall for a light switch. He found it and flipped it on. Both bedroom doors were wide open. The air up here was ice cold in contrast to the fug downstairs. He frowned. In some recess of his mind he was registering that heat rises. It should be hotter up here, unless a window was open somewhere.

*Kate?' He tiptoed towards her bedroom door. Then he stopped. As the shock of what he had seen downstairs wore off a little his brain had begun to function again and the significance of what he had seen dawned on him. No fall could have caused the injuries he had seen on Bill's head and face. The man had been beaten to death. Bill had been murdered and the murderer was wandering round in the dark, perhaps up here now. He thought about the sound of the slamming door. Both doors on the landing were open. He swallowed, tasting once more the sharp, bitter flood of bile in the back of his throat. Kate. What had happened to Kate?

Taking a deep breath he flung wide the door to her bedroom and stared in. The light was on. The room was empty. He looked round, his hand clutching the door handle so tightly that his finger joints cracked. Apart from the bed which had been stripped of its blankets, the room seemed undisturbed. Peaceful. It was full of the scent of some unidentifiable perfume a not Kate's. He sniffed, puzzled. It was pleasant. Nice even, but it disturbed him. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stirring, like the hackles of a dog. He didn't like it. He turned away from the door and went across the landing to the other room. The light showed it to be empty with only a few stacked suitcases and cardboard boxes piled near the window on the far side of the floor. There was no sign of Kate. The windows in both rooms, he noticed suddenly, were tightly shut. So which door had he heard banging, and why the cold? He shuddered.

The kitchen. He hadn't checked the kitchen. *Kate!' Suddenly he found his voice again. *Kate, where are you?' Taking the short flight of stairs two at a time he threw himself at the kitchen door. The room was empty. He stared round frantically. She had to be here. Please G.o.d, let her be here somewhere.

But there was nowhere for her to hide, nowhere else she could be. On the table in the middle of the room he noticed suddenly the bottle of Scotch they had given her. It lay on its side, empty. The lid, he found after a moment's hunting, was on the floor in the middle of another patch of damp wet earth; a cautious sniff told him the damp was whisky.

*Oh G.o.d! Kate! Greg!' He glanced round wildly, then turning on his heel, he ran to the front door and tore it open. All he could think about was getting home as fast as possible. Dad would know what to do. Dad would somehow make it all right.

Outside, the darkness was opaque, wet, like the bottom of the sea. He could see nothing, hear nothing but the wind. He was searching frantically for his bicycle when he heard the door bang behind him. Terrified he looked round. The bicycle wasn't there. He couldn't find it. It was gone.

For a moment in blind panic he thought of taking the Land Rover. He had driven it before, on the track. He ran towards it, scrabbling at the door handle and, dragging it open, looked inside. There were no keys in the ignition. With a sob of frustration he slammed the door and looked round again.

Where was his bike? It must be here. Desperately he ran a few steps up the track and suddenly he saw it, right in front of him. He couldn't stop in time and he had fallen over it before he knew what was happening. It bruised his s.h.i.+ns, and he felt the warm trickle of blood down his leg, but he ignored it, dragging the machine upright, fumbling numbly for the pedal. It was only when he was once more on the track through the trees, his face streaming with rain and tears that he realised he had left his oilskin where it had fallen on the bathroom floor in the cottage.

XLII.

Half-way back along the track the back tyre of Patrick's bicycle punctured. The machine ploughed deep into the mud and stopped. Panting, Patrick tried desperately to force it on, then, giving up, he dismounted and let out a string of expletives. It was impossible to ride with a flat tyre when the track was in this state. He was nearly in tears. Around him the woods seemed to be closing in. He grabbed the front lamp and slid it off its bracket, directing it around him in a long sweep. The trees hung over him, Arthur Rackham fingers clawed, ready to s.n.a.t.c.h at his flesh, their trunks twisted into leering faces, sleet dripping from their boughs like acid, trying to eat away his face.

With a sob he hurled the bicycle away from him and began to run, his boots slipping and sliding, his body pouring with sweat, the cycle lamp, clutched in his hand, illuminating the puddles, throwing blinding reflections from the black, treacly mud, sparkling from the sleet crystals which had caught in the undergrowth. After a hundred yards or so he had to stop, doubled up with an agonising st.i.tch in his side. He put his hand to his hip, gasping. It was then he saw a figure in the shadows.

He froze, the st.i.tch vanis.h.i.+ng as though by magic. Slowly he straightened. He fought the urge to switch off the torch. Whoever it was would have seen where he was by now anyway. Slowly he swept the light around in an arc, playing it on the slick black of the branches, seeing the shadows shrink back and regroup just beyond the reach of the beam. He was holding his breath. If it was Kate or Greg they would have come forward at once when they saw him. The picture of Bill's battered, dead face swam up before his eyes and he thought for a moment he was going to black out. He took several steps backwards, feeling twigs and thorns tearing at his jersey, but he felt safer with the narrow trunk of a spruce at his back, solid between his shoulderblades. At least no one could get him from behind. Under the tree the smell of resin was clean and sharp and strong. It cleared his head a little. Once again he swept the torch round. There was no one there. No one in sight. He crouched lower trying to steady his breathing which sounded deafening in his ears.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed there. Perhaps five minutes, perhaps much longer, but suddenly he realised that he was s.h.i.+vering violently. The sleet was soaking into his thick sweater and he was ice cold. There was no sign of any movement in the trees. Whoever it was had long gone. Cautiously, he forced his cramped legs to move, crawling out of his hiding place and straightening up. He swept the rapidly-dimming lamp round once more. Nothing. He looked left and right up the track, seeing it disappear into the distance and he felt a sudden moment of total terror. Which way was home? In his panic he had lost his bearings completely. He closed his eyes. Idiot. Nerd. Keep calm. He knew this track like the palm of his own hand. Look for a landmark; he had always prided himself that he could recognise any tree in the wood.

He swept the lamp around again, concentrating this time on the vegetation. But it all looked so different in the dark; so sinister. For a moment he was afraid he was going to cry. His eyes were stinging suspiciously; he had never felt so desolate or so lost in his whole life, but as he cast one last desperate glance around, he spotted the lone pine. It was a tree they all knew well a a tree which rose head and shoulders above the others in the wood, an ancient Scots pine whose distinctive shape had been out of range of his torch as he flashed it around. With a sheepish grin of relief he headed towards it, realising that he was barely ten minutes from the farmhouse.

As he rounded the barn he caught sight of someone crouched in the lee of the wall and he stopped abruptly. Whoever it was was not moving. He glanced at the house, rea.s.sured by the comforting sight of light pouring from the downstairs windows, then he looked again at the figure. His cycle lamp had barely enough strength to light the path at his feet, but he shone it warily in the direction of the barn wall.

*Allie?' His voice was hoa.r.s.e. *Allie, is that you?' He took a few steps closer. *Allie?' He ran towards her. *Allie, what is it? What are you doing out here? What's wrong?' Catching his sister by the arm he swung her to her feet.

She stared at him. Her eyes were hard and blank. There was a deep scratch down one side of her face from her temple to her jaw and her hands, he saw as he pulled her towards him, were raw and bleeding.

*Come in, Allie.' His voice was urgent. *Come in. Quickly. *He glanced over his shoulder. There was a murderer out there in the woods and by the look of things he had already attacked his sister.

Pus.h.i.+ng open the front door he half carried, half dragged Alison in. *Ma!' He propelled her into the living room. *Ma!'

Diana flew towards them. *Dear G.o.d! Alison! What happened to her?'

Patrick bit his lip. He shook his head, for a moment unable to speak, watching as Diana guided Alison towards the chair next to the fire and knelt beside her, chafing her hands.

Behind him his father had risen from the kitchen table where he had been staring blankly at The Times crossword for the last forty minutes. After a first horrified glance at his daughter, Roger turned to his son. He was appalled at the expression on Patrick's face. Putting his arm round the boy's shoulders he guided him back to the kitchen and sat him down at the end of the table. Without a word he reached into the cupboard and produced a bottle of brandy. Pouring a quarter of an inch into a tumbler from the draining board he pressed the gla.s.s into his son's hand. *Drink first. Then tell me,' he instructed.

Patrick took a sip from the gla.s.s. His eyes started to stream. *It's the brandy. Making my eyes water,' he whispered. *It's the brandy.'

His father's hand was on his shoulder. *It's OK old chap. It's OK. Take your time.' Roger glanced over Patrick's head towards his wife. She was tucking a blanket around Alison's knees. The girl had not spoken or moved since she had sat down.

*Give her some brandy, Di.' Roger called. He pushed the bottle across the table.

Diana looked at him. Her face was white as she left Alison's side. She stood for a moment staring down at Patrick. *What's happened to them, Roger? What in G.o.d's name has happened to them?'

Patrick took another gulp from his gla.s.s. He was clutching it so tightly his knuckles shone white through his chapped skin. Taking a deep shuddering breath he looked up at his father. *Bill Norcross is dead. He's at the cottage. He's been murdered.' His eyes flooded with tears again and this time he made no effort to hide them. *His head is all bashed about, and his face ...' He drank again, the gla.s.s trembling so much in his hands his parents could hear it banging against his teeth. *I couldn't find Kate or Greg. I called and called. The cottage was empty so I came back, then I got a puncture and I saw someone skulking in the woods ...'

Roger sat down abruptly. His face was grey. He closed his eyes as a wave of pain shook his body. *Try the phone again, Di. Perhaps by now they've reconnected it.'

For a moment she didn't move, then she turned and ran towards the study.

Alison watched her with blank eyes. *The truth has to be told,' she said slowly. She pushed the blanket away and staggered to her feet.

Her mother stopped abruptly in the doorway. *Allie? What do you mean. Did you see what happened?'

Alison smiled. *It was Marcus. She's told me everything. It was Marcus. He killed them all.' Stooping, she picked up Serendipity who was curled up on the sofa, and cuddled him in her arms.

*Killed them all?' Diana whispered. Her mouth fell open in horror. *Killed who?'

Alison smiled again. She kissed the top of the cat's head. *All of them. All in the same grave.'

*Who?' Roger was suddenly there behind them. He grabbed his daughter's arm and swung her to face him. The cat gave a yowl and fought free of her grip, leaving a long scratch along her arm but she didn't appear to notice. *Alison! Answer me. Who has been murdered? Where is your brother?' Diana's gasp of horror was lost in his next shout. *Alison! Can you hear me? Who has been murdered?'

*All of them.' She smiled vaguely. *Did you expect him to let them live?'

Roger swung round to face his son. *What does she mean? Did you see the Land Rover? Did Greg get to the cottage?'

Patrick nodded. *It was parked outside.'

*So he must have seen the a' he paused. *He must have seen Bill there.'

*I suppose so.' Patrick took a deep breath. *Someone had put plasters on his face. He was tucked up on the sofa. Someone had tried to look after him.'

*Greg and Kate perhaps.' Diana clutched at the thought. *They must have found him. Tried to help him.'

*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.