Midnight is a Lonely Place. Barbara Erskine

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СКАЧАТЬ into the living room. She made sure the damper was closed – make the wretched thing last as long as possible – put on an Elgar tape – the Enigma Variations – loud – and then she poured herself another whisky.

      She had worked for another couple of hours on the book, and was printing up a rough copy for herself when she remembered the silver polish she had stashed away in the cupboard under the sink. Switching off the computer with a sigh of relief she stacked the pages neatly away and went to the drawer. The torc looked greenish-black as she lifted it out and examined it again in the bright kitchen light. Shaking the bottle of polish she smeared some of the mixture cautiously onto the metal and began to rub it gently with the corner of a duster. Ten minutes later she gave up. Her more and more energetic rubbing had had no effect whatsoever. Disappointed, she laid duster and metal on the counter when the phone rang.

      ‘Hi, Kate.’ Jon’s voice was so strong it sounded as though he was in the next room. ‘I’m in Boston. How is Lord George?’

      ‘Going well.’ She found she was smiling. ‘What about your tour?’

      ‘OK. A bit tiring. Nearly over now, thank God. I’m taking five at the hotel. English tea and muffins before I get ready to go out this evening. What are you up to?’

      ‘I’m cleaning an ancient British torc with modern British silver polish and its having no effect whatsoever.’ Leaning against the counter, the phone comfortably tucked against her ear she turned and surveyed her handiwork.

      ‘Sounds fun.’ The response from across the Atlantic was muted. ‘May I ask where you got an ancient British torc?’

      ‘It was lying on the beach.’

      ‘I see.’ She could tell he didn’t believe her. ‘There isn’t an ancient Briton wearing it, I suppose?’

      ‘Not at the moment, no.’ She smiled to herself again. ‘You’d love it, here, Jon.’ It was a tentative feeler; a peace offering.

      ‘The parties are good are they?’ The irony in his tone reminded her that they were no longer supposed to be friends. Or lovers.

      So, why had he rung her again?

      She knew better than to ask.

      ‘There’s no one to party with, here. Just the birds and I believe there are seals round in the bay.’

      ‘And the occasional ancient Brit.’

      ‘You got it.’ She mimicked what she hoped was an American insouciance. ‘Actually the ghost is Roman.’

      There was a moment’s silence.

      ‘You sounded almost serious,’ Jon said cautiously.

      ‘Did I?’ She reminded herself how quick he was to pick up nuances; his sensitivity was one of the things she loved – had loved, she corrected herself sharply – about him. It made his actions over the last few weeks harder to bear.

      She laughed lightly. ‘How silly. Only joking.’

      ‘I see.’ He was still thoughtful. ‘You are all right?’

      ‘Yes. Fine.’

      ‘OK. Well, enjoy yourself kiddo. I’ll give you a ring in a day or two.’

      For the second time he had not given her time to say goodbye. The line had gone dead and she was left staring at the receiver once again. Replacing it slowly she went thoughtfully back to the table and picked up her duster.

      The blast of cold air behind her, smelling heavily of wet earth, took her completely by surprise. She whirled round. The front door must have blown open in spite of her care in locking and bolting it. She peered out into the hall. The door was as she had left it. The hall was dark and deserted.

      Come on, Kennedy. Either a window has come open or the wind has blown back down the chimney. She found she was whispering to herself as she looked into the warm, dimly-lit living room. There was still a faint glow coming from the stove, though the log box was empty. The room was cooling, but the scent of earth was not coming from there. It was coming from upstairs.

      Her bedroom window must be open. She frowned. She had opened it earlier to stare out at the sea, watching the mist drifting in across the still, grey water as night came in from the east. Obviously she had not latched it properly. Her hand on the stair rail she began to climb.

      Both doors at the top were open. Both rooms were in darkness. Reaching the top she clicked on the light. The window in her bedroom was shut as she had known in her heart it would be, and the curtains were tightly drawn across. She sniffed. There must be a patch of damp in the house which the rain had activated somehow. Ducking out of the room she peered into the other across the landing. The smell was stronger there and the air was cold. Bitterly cold. The room had a north-facing window, she reminded herself as she went to examine it. It was closed and judging by the cobwebs welded over the catch, had not been opened for a long time.

      Slowly she surveyed the walls, looking for the telltale signs of discolouration on the wallpaper. Tiny lemon yellow flowers on brown green stems romped across the uneven walls and between the oak beams without a sign of damp.

      Switching off the lights she walked downstairs again, sniffing. The smell was still strong. A sweet, cold smell like a newly-turned flower bed after rain. With a shrug she walked back into the living room and turning over the tape, threw herself down in the armchair nearest the fire.

      When she awoke ‘In the South’ had finished, the fire was out and the room was ice cold. Her head ached and for a moment she was too stiff to move. Forcing herself to her feet she groaned and reached for the switch on the table lamp. Turning it off she made her way to the door. A warm bed and a heap of soft pillows to cuddle into, that was what she wanted. In the doorway she turned and surveyed the room before flicking off the light switch on the wall and plunging the room into darkness. It was as she made her way into the bathroom and reached for her toothbrush that she realised she had not had any supper. Two whiskies was not exactly a nutritious way to end the evening. Perhaps that accounted for her splitting headache. She frowned. She was beginning to drink too much. She contemplated getting herself something to eat and realised that she wasn’t hungry. She also realised that she had not switched on the immersion heater so there was not enough hot water for a bath. With a sigh she bent over the basin and splashed some tepid water into her face. All she wanted was sleep. Food and bath could wait until morning. That was one of the joys of living on your own, she recognised suddenly. You could please yourself. Cook or not cook. Wash or not wash. Sleep when you wanted. And just at this moment that was all she wanted.

      It was as she put her foot on the bottom step of the staircase that she saw the movement upstairs. She froze, ‘Is there anyone there?’ Her voice sounded thin and frightened in the silence.

      There was no answer.

      ‘Who is it?’ She called again. Her desire for sleep had vanished.

      She was answered by the rattle of rain on the windows as a squall of wind hurtled in from the sea.

      ‘Christ, I’m seeing things now,’ she muttered to herself. Tired eyes. Too much computer, that was the problem. It was the logical explanation but it still took an enormous effort of willpower to force her up the stairs, throwing on all the lights when she reached the top. The place was empty, the windows closed against the storm. She sniffed hard. The scent of wet СКАЧАТЬ