Don't Look Back (10 page)

‘What do you know about manor houses?' I asked Harry.

‘Er … not much. Only that the rich landowner or squire would live in the big house and the peasants in his cottages.'

‘And he owned them … body and soul.'

‘Guess so. In the case of the lord of the manor, he owned the whole village.'

‘Don't you think it's bizarre these places have still survived?'

He shrugged. ‘Thought you said it belonged to the Church now?'

‘According to my mother.' I chewed my lip. ‘I can't see any sign of it.'

‘Does it even exist?' Harry asked in a spooky voice.

‘It's here somewhere,' I replied. ‘The village has only one road. They can't hide a giant crumbling ruin.'

Harry made a sudden noise, did a sharp U-turn and abruptly stopped the car.

‘They can,' he said, staring ahead in amazement. ‘They can hide it behind these.'

The wooden gates were at least three metres high. They were joined together by a thick chain threaded through circular metal handles and fastened with an impressive padlock. On either side was an irregular stone wall extending as far as the eye could see. It must have encompassed the whole estate. Trees and foliage of every description covered the perimeter, their branches hanging down to the pavement, in some places causing the wall to bulge.

‘Wow,' he breathed. ‘And what are those freaky stone things on top of the gateposts? They look like an eagle's head with a lion's body.'

‘They're griffins,' I muttered. ‘Mythical creatures
renowned for guarding priceless treasures or … protecting from evil.'

‘Fascinating,' Harry said, with an oblique glance in my direction. ‘There's no bell or intercom. What'll we do?'

I got out of the car feeling daunted by the formidable entrance. Annoyed, I yanked the chain and my hand was immediately stained with thick yellow rust. I looked back at Harry, who shrugged and pulled a face as if to say
don't ask me.
Cautiously I pulled one of the gates towards me and had my first glimpse of the grounds. Immediately inside the entrance was a tiny gatehouse with semicircular clay roof tiles, which reminded me of the gingerbread house in ‘Hansel and Gretel'. The chain was long and there was a gap, large enough for me to squeeze through. Harry wound down his window and I went back to the car.

‘I'm going in,' I said.

‘You can't just wander in there, Sinead.'

‘I'll be fine,' I said, too brightly.

Harry shook his head emphatically. ‘I'll find somewhere to park and come with you.'

‘It's OK, really. I'll just go and ask about Patrick. I won't be long.'

Harry thought about this for a few seconds, still undecided. He took out his mobile and laid it on the dashboard. ‘Keep your phone on. Call me if you need me.'

Quickly I wedged my legs and feet through the gap followed by my shoulders and head, for once glad I was so skinny. I stiffened, expecting alarm bells to sound or an
irate gatekeeper to appear, but the place was so quiet it was unearthly.
The house that time forgot
. I was acting more confident than I felt. The moment my feet began to walk along the path, a chill ran through me and I rubbed my arms as goosebumps appeared. I didn't dare turn around in case I lost my nerve, so I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and listening for the sound of guard dogs.

The path was in shade from the wildly overgrown trees, but shafts of sunlight would intermittently burst through, making me blink as though someone was flashing a torch into my eyes. I jumped as something registered in my peripheral vision. There was a face staring at me, pale and ethereal, but it was only a statue of a woman dressed in classical robes. She was sculpted in a pose of distress, one hand on her forehead, the other held out in a plea to someone. I smiled at myself for being frightened by a lump of stone.

The path weaved and I crossed a cattle grid, but there was still no sign of life. I could barely differentiate between a prize rose and a dying weed but everywhere was in full bloom and the fragrance heady and musky, so strong it almost choked me. But then the air seemed to grow danker and there were clouds of hovering midges that were impossible to avoid. I shuddered as they stuck to my face and caught in my hair.

As I walked I couldn't stop thinking about what I'd say to Patrick if he was here. The fact that he was still playing
his game made me so angry I almost didn't want to find him. I was also worried about what to ask his employers. I didn't want to get him in trouble, but he had to realize how much he'd scared Mum and me. I trudged on, feeling as if I'd already covered half a mile. As I rounded a blind corner Benedict House materialized, still a way in the distance but visible in all its glory. It took my breath away.

The house was perfectly proportioned and symmetrical, the old red bricks warmed by the sun. There were at least twelve chimneys reaching to the sky, as straight as arrows. My pace quickened. Close up the house was even more impressive, the entrance jutting out like a castle keep and the long elegant windows made up of leaded panes. Two of them had a small Juliet balcony. I was so busy staring at the facade that I didn't notice the stooped, dark-robed figure that seemed to have appeared from nowhere. My hand flew up to my mouth and I lost my footing, stumbling backwards. As if the black habit and extra-wide wimple weren't scary enough, looking into her face was like peering into a skull. I'd never seen anyone so cadaverous; her eye sockets were little more than black holes, her flesh shrivelled. The thick dark material of her habit reached the ground, which gave her a strange impression of weightlessness.

‘I'm sorry to bother you,' I blurted. ‘I'm looking for my brother Patrick. I think he might be working at Benedict House.'

She seemed reluctant to speak and stared at me with strange black eyes that looked overlaid by an opaque centre.
I was just reaching into my pocket to show her the photo of Patrick when something on the ground caught my attention. I bent down and picked up a silver Saint Christopher medal, running my thumb across the engraved image. It was Patrick's, I was certain. My mother had given it to him to keep him safe on any journey, and he always wore it. My spine tingled. I hadn't expected to find him so soon.

‘My brother Patrick?' I repeated. ‘He replied to your job advert.'

She might have knitted her brow, although the pattern of deep furrows made it difficult to tell. ‘I don't know what you mean,' she replied stiffly. ‘We never advertise.'

Liar, I thought. ‘But you've taken on new staff?'

‘We have had no new workers here. You should go. Leave by the path that brought you here – the grounds are not safe for strangers.'

I stared at her mutinously, furious at being dismissed like this. I made a decision to ignore her. I began to head towards the house, but her voice stopped me in my tracks.

‘How did you get in without an invitation?'

What did she mean by an invitation?

‘The gate was … sort of open,' I lied, and then lied some more. ‘I … erm … knocked at the gatehouse, but no one answered.'

‘You shouldn't have come, it must be a mistake –'

She suddenly froze and put one hand across her heart, her breathing alarmingly shallow. I wondered what could have affected her so badly. She moved closer, and I had to
stop myself from flinching. One of her bony hands touched me, but it was in a strange patting gesture, as if she was checking I was actually flesh and blood. She muttered something to herself, which I strained to hear. ‘If the house has chosen you to stay, then it's out of my hands. But why now, after all this time?'

My stomach curdled and I wondered if Patrick had had the same reception. What had he got himself into this time? This place was so remote that anything could be going on. I decided to tackle her again, making sure my voice sounded confident.

‘I know my brother came here. This is his Saint Christopher medal. He told his neighbours he'd recently started a job and I'm sure he answered your advert in the local paper.'

‘Is that all?' she asked.

I couldn't help myself. I put my hands on my hips, half wishing Harry was here to restrain me. ‘No, it isn't all. He left me … messages, some in Latin, but everything led me here. There's no mistake. This is where Patrick meant me to come.'

Her withered fingers interlaced. ‘Then I believe you. The answers you're seeking must lie here.'

‘The answers you're seeking must lie here.' Why did she speak in riddles?
I narrowed my eyes. ‘So where is my brother?'

‘Only you can find him,' she answered, ‘if you truly wish it.'

‘Of course I want to find him, but where is he?'

‘We can take you on for a trial period of fourteen days.'

I looked at her in horror. ‘You expect me to work here?'

‘For fourteen days,' she repeated, ‘and then you'll have your answers.'

I made a noise of disbelief. ‘You really think I'd agree to something like that? Give me one good reason why I should?'

‘I recognize the hunger in your eyes,' she answered. ‘You can't let this opportunity go. You'll do exactly what I ask of you – we both know it.'

This was so bizarre that I was rendered speechless, my mind racing with wild thoughts. I could phone Mum and tell her to call the police but it would be my word against that of a nun, albeit a seriously creepy nun. I opened my mouth to protest again but closed it, realizing I'd been backed into a corner. What other options did I have? If I refused, I'd have no other way to follow Patrick. She was right; I was hungry to find him and I couldn't let this go. But she wouldn't get the better of me. I'd agree to work here, but only to get my foot in the door so I could search for Patrick. I wasn't going to actually graft in some dusty old heap, and definitely not for fourteen days.

Although seething inside I tried to keep my face unemotional. ‘OK … I agree to your terms.'

I waited for her to continue, but she didn't enlighten me further.

‘What will I do here?'

‘You will work for the good of the house.'

‘And when—'

‘Tomorrow, at ten,' she interjected before I could finish. ‘You can call me Sister Catherine.'

‘I'm Sinead.'

She scrutinized me for a moment. ‘Remember you came of your own free will, Sinead.'

And then she walked away. I shivered involuntarily. Sister Catherine, my namesake, was a ghoulish nun who looked as if she'd been dead for several centuries. There was a sense of nightmarish unreality about all this, but how could I give up my search for Patrick when I was so close? Sister Catherine had promised me answers, and nuns didn't lie, did they? I twisted my nose stud, pondering the awfulness of my situation and cursing my brother.

I took a minute to look around. There didn't appear to be anyone else in the immediate vicinity, nor any vehicles. I was conscious of how long it had taken me to reach the house and how worried Harry would be. I tried to send him a text, but I had no signal. It seemed even more of a slog on the way back, and when I reached the first bend the path forked. There was a choice between the winding, undulating one I'd come by, or a route which looked more direct. It must have been well trampled to stop the shrubs from encroaching.

The path was a normal width at the start, but within minutes it narrowed considerably and I had to consciously draw in my arms and make myself smaller. The plants and
bushes had grown so tall that I couldn't see what was in front of me and my feet were tangled in greenery. I stubbed my toe on a stone and swore with pain, then picked up a stick and began to beat back the foliage which was scraping my face. I pushed my hair back from my sticky forehead and had to peel my vest top away from my skin. This felt like wading through a steamy jungle. It didn't make sense – the other path had been cold and dank, but this one seemed almost tropical. My vision began to swim. Water. There must be some special kind of pond, a type I'd never come across before, because there was steam rising and a gurgling noise like water echoing down a plughole.

I'd been completely obstinate in disregarding Sister Catherine's instruction to leave by the way I had come, but it was time to admit my mistake and retreat. I'd only wasted ten minutes or so. Soon I'd be in Harry's car, telling him the whole story. I pivoted and came face to face with a sea of giant triffids blocking my way. What had been a clear path minutes ago was now a wall of greenery. And it was so much denser and pricklier than what was in front of me; each stem, stalk and branch seemed to be interwoven and crossed with another, like a tangled mass of barbed wire. Panic sent pins and needles all over my body. There was no going back. I had to keep moving forward, realizing how stupid I'd been. I could be heading in any direction. I tried to call Harry but again failed to get a signal.

I lurched on, aware of a strange feeling behind, a sensation of something bearing down on me. A nervous
glance over my shoulder revealed nothing but the same impenetrable jungle. I began to run, a frantic clumsy run that got me nowhere fast; it wasn't just leaves scratching my face, it was branches clawing my hair, stabbing my face, and brambles pulling and ripping my clothes. I fell and rolled, my hands instinctively protecting my head. I tried to scramble to my feet but thorns embedded themselves in my head, my hands, even my feet, tearing my flesh.

*

‘Sinead! You're like a great clumsy giraffe crashing about in there. Come out now.'

There was hazy blue sky. The gates rose in front of me but I had no idea how I had got there. I managed to crawl through the gap and lay on the concrete staring up at the griffins. Harry's face loomed somewhere above me, but his features were rippling as if he was underwater. My throat was making a horrible gasping sound. Momentarily I was back in my bedroom, staring at my pink lampshade and wondering why I couldn't get my breath. Harry's hand held mine and there was a pulling sensation on my arm as he dragged me to a sitting position.