Don't Look Back (11 page)

‘They came alive,' I mumbled. ‘Everything came alive.'

My vision began to clear, and Harry gave me an exasperated look. I stared at my hands and feet and then touched my head. There was no blood, no abrasions or any wounds that I could feel.

‘Is my head all right? I mean, is it bleeding or … scratched?'

He looked puzzled. ‘There isn't a mark on you.'

I examined my clothes. There weren't any rips in them, yet I could still feel both my flesh and my clothes being torn apart. I pulled up my T-shirt. The skin was perfectly smooth and unbroken.

‘What made you turn back?' Harry asked.

My breath was still ragged and my chest heaving. A sob welled deep inside and I tried to swallow it.

‘I didn't turn back, Harry. I reached the house … sorry I was so long. It took ages.'

He shook his head at me in bemusement. ‘You really are weird, Sinead. You've only been gone for ten minutes. I barely had time to realize you weren't there.'

I clutched my head. What was happening to me? It was one thing to mistakenly see a figure outside Patrick's flat in the middle of the night, quite another to imagine being attacked and ripped apart by brambles. And what about the time issue? I was sure I had been gone for over an hour yet Harry claimed it was only ten minutes. A glance at my watch told me he was right. How could it be?

‘Are you all right?' Harry asked with concern. ‘You look a bit shaken.'

‘I just … fell over a branch or something,' I muttered.

‘What's it like in there? Have they seen Patrick?'

I self-consciously pulled at my earring. ‘I didn't get a straight reply, but he's definitely been there.'

‘How can you know?'

I wormed my hand into my pocket and took out the medal. ‘I found this in the grounds. It's Patrick's Saint Christopher medal; I'd recognize it anywhere.'

Harry rubbed the three-day growth on his chin. ‘Well, who did you speak to?'

I gave a nervous cough. ‘The place is deserted and I only saw one person – a decrepit nun who was tight-lipped about giving up any information.'

‘If you're so sure Patrick's been there, Sinead, we definitely should tell the police. Remember your time obsession? It's almost three weeks since he disappeared.'

This was the second time he'd suggested this. ‘Go to the police and tell them what? How threatening does this sound – an elderly nun is holding my six-foot-two, nineteen-year-old brother prisoner?'

Harry ran one hand through his tangled hair. ‘You're right. If he's there, it has to be willingly.'

His words suddenly made me remember something. ‘That nun – Sister Catherine – muttered this weird stuff about me not having been invited to the house, and then she said, “Remember you came of your own free will, Sinead.”'

‘Why would she say that?'

I braced myself, already anticipating Harry's reaction. ‘I don't know, but she said I could find the answers I wanted at Benedict House, if I … erm … worked there for fourteen days.'

Harry's eyes flared and he stared at me in total disbelief. ‘Tell me you're joking?'

I threw my hands in the air. ‘What other choice do I have? I thought you understood Patrick's game. His Saint
Christopher medal is obviously the next clue. Benedict House is where I have to be.'

Harry massaged his forehead. ‘You're not safe out alone,' he complained.

I winced. ‘You're right.'

‘That probably explains the nun's comment. She doesn't want to be accused of exploiting you. It'll be slave labour for crap money.'

‘It's the only way to find Patrick,' I said. ‘I owe him this.'

Harry's voice rose in frustration. ‘He wouldn't put himself in danger for you. His only brush with danger is falling down the stairs when he's wasted.'

My head was still throbbing and there was a catch in my voice. ‘Patrick has chosen me to do this … and I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I didn't at least try.'

Harry tucked a stray strand of my hair behind my ear. ‘You were never the saintly type, Sinead. Maybe staying in a converted chapel has got to you.'

I didn't pull away and his hand lingered on my cheek. ‘Maybe it has,' I said absently. I took one last look at the massive gateway with its griffins.

Harry's eyes followed mine. ‘When you were gone I found another website – the Ancient Houses of Britain. It says centuries ago the black sheep of the Benedict family went missing in mysterious circumstances. The story was … he promised his soul to the Devil after his death.'

‘Of course he did,' I said dismissively.

‘But the Devil tricked him and took him to hell early, Sinead. Thereafter the house lures people in and acts as judge, jury and executioner. The moans of the damned can still be heard today.'

‘An urban legend,' I scoffed. ‘Is that the best you can do?' I remained deliberately unimpressed. ‘It'll take more than that to stop me going back.'

His mouth suddenly hardened. ‘You don't know anything about these people.'

I waved aside his concerns. ‘Mum said the house had been given over to the Church. Finding a nun in charge is quite normal. She's a bit snappy, but I'm sure she'll come round.' Harry still wasn't happy, but I was too tired to argue with him further. ‘Can you take me back?' I asked. ‘I'm desperate for a shower.'

I wanted to be alone, but after Harry had left I felt unsettled and mooched about the flat. A quick search on Google had done nothing to improve my mood. Hallucinations could be attributed to a whole host of conditions – bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, psychosis, seizures or a brain tumour, all of which I really didn't want to have. Something else was haunting me – Sara's final words to me. Did I use Patrick as an excuse not to do the things I wanted, an excuse not to live? I raced, dashed and hurtled through life, desperately trying to save every second without any idea why I was hoarding time. It wasn't a quirky habit any longer; it was more like an illness. I
needed to be normal, to realize that I had many more tomorrows to look forward to.

The day had left me feeling so wiped out that I decided to rest on the sofa for five minutes. The last thing I expected was to doze. I woke with a start, unsure where I was and whether it was morning or evening. A glance at the clock told me it was almost five. I'd been out for almost three hours and had wasted so much of the day. Then I remembered my resolution. It wasn't wasted time; it was relaxing time, something that regular people did. I stretched and, for a second, had another sense of Patrick. I shouldn't be so worried that he was lost; he was somewhere near, trying to show me where to find him. If only I knew how.

What are you trying to tell me, Patrick?

On a balmy summer's evening like this, it would have been nice to climb the clock tower and look out over the city, but I couldn't face it alone. I moved towards the light. The view from the windows was still impressive. My eyes swam at the sea of colours, shapes and movement. Things were heightened in a city; the crush, the rush and volume increased tenfold. It was as if everyone had to wring every last minute from the day, make the most of each last drop of sun before it dimmed, in case it didn't rise again the next morning.

From this perspective the people ceased to exist; they were just pinpricks moving down below, but their lives seemed to clog my throat and my senses. I felt an
ache somewhere deep inside for everyone I didn't know and would never meet and it was as though I could feel their emotions. My own life seemed inconsequential and transient, filled with hopes and dreams that would never be fulfilled. Then I realized that this was how Patrick had suffered, by feeling too much and seeing the beauty and the ugliness of the world, the hope and the despair.

A feeling of complete sadness swept over me and I held on to the window for support. I'd seen heaven and hell through Patrick's eyes and the sensation had left me reeling. I grabbed my bag, letting the door close behind me, and tumbled downstairs on to the street. Heat didn't dissipate in the city; it was retained by all the glass, concrete, brick and steel. It hit me like a wave. My feet pounded the pavement as I thought how easy it was to be invisible here; sometimes I found this comforting, but not tonight. Everyone seemed to know where they were going, but I was directionless.

I sat at a table by the window of the first cafe I found, ordered a glass of iced water and tried to remember who I was: my life had again taken on the semblance of a dream. Maybe the stuff that had happened at Benedict House was real and I was dreaming now. Patrick had studied philosophy and often rambled on about alternate realities. I always figured that his head was so messed up he saw things that weren't there, but maybe he saw things the rest of us missed.

I left the cafe and walked past an Italian restaurant,
still weighed down by my own sadness. I stopped dead outside. The beach boy was eating spaghetti with a girl – a different girl – and they were sharing the same strand and meeting in the middle. He wasn't just handsome, he was completely beautiful, and I didn't know how it had escaped me before. He took my breath away and made my aching loneliness worse. It seemed as if everyone had someone, and at that moment I was sure that someone was better than no one. It was easy to banish Sara's words from my mind. There was one person who understood me and liked me, warts and all. I don't know what he thought of my message, but he came, as I knew he would.

‘I don't want to be alone tonight,' I told him.

Harry stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

It was a perfect midsummer morning, with fat fluffy white clouds and a turquoise sky, the heat just beginning to rise. I set out in plenty of time, unsure how long it would take to cycle to Benedict House, but certain that Sister Catherine wouldn't appreciate me being late. It felt great to zip along winding country lanes, although the speed of some passing cars meant that I almost ended up in a hedgerow more than once. It was hard not to dwell on last night. Thinking about Harry brought a lump to my throat that simply wouldn't budge.

How could I have used him like that, and where would we go from here? We'd done nothing but kiss, which had been sweet and safe, but it hadn't exactly set my pulse racing. I'd slept more soundly than usual, although Harry had teased me about talking in my sleep and kicking him in the night. Waking enfolded in his arms had been nice, but now he thought that we were in a relationship. Meanwhile, my only distraction today was the prospect of being ordered
about by an ancient nun who probably thought a woman's place was in the kitchen. But I had to find Patrick. I had to concentrate on this and nothing else.

The gates had been left unlocked, but they were difficult to open. They seemed top heavy, as if I was pushing against a resistant force. Either that or they were reluctant to admit me. Maybe this was part of the fourteen-day trial and I'd already failed. But if Sister Catherine thought I'd give up so easily she was mistaken. I used a shoulder-barge tactic and managed to create a space large enough for my bike to pass through. I was barely back in the saddle when the gates closed behind me as if the hinges were spring-loaded. I peered at the gingerbread house looking for an explanation, almost expecting to see a witch appear to lure me in with promises of candy.

Get a grip, Sinead.

The griffins appeared aloof today, as if they wouldn't even deign to look at me. I childishly blew them a raspberry and began to pedal. The path was rocky and every now and then a bump or a hole would jolt my bike and throw me forward, but I became used to weaving around them. I looked nervously for signs of movement but there wasn't a leaf stirring. The marble lady appeared to have turned her head slightly because I could see more of the smooth curve of her cheek, but I figured I was imagining it.

Sister Catherine was waiting by the entrance. She stared straight ahead, but didn't react until I got nearer and my tyres skidded on the loose stones.

‘You're two minutes late,' she said coldly.

I dismounted and thrust out my chin, determined not to be intimidated.

‘I'll show you your duties, Sinead.'

Sister Catherine's manner was irritatingly high-handed and I was tempted to rudely bob a curtsy, but I was dying to see inside the house. I followed her up the steps and over the threshold, the set of keys on her waistband jangling and her black robes billowing behind her like the sail of a pirate ship. It was the proportions of the interior that first struck me; the hallway was gigantic, with plaster columns reaching to the lofty ceiling and a sweeping staircase complete with threadbare red carpet and polished oak banister. Patrick would love it, was my first thought. It was very romantic, faded but opulent, and would have appealed to his love of decadence.

‘Do the rest of your order live here?' I asked.

Sister Catherine held herself rigid. It was obvious she didn't like being questioned. ‘I'm the guardian of the house,' she said. ‘There are no others.'

I drew a circle with my hand. ‘You live here all alone?'

Her lips thinned. ‘Mrs Benedict, the last incumbent of the Benedict family, is still resident, and Squire James.'

So there was a squire. I had a sudden vision of a fifty-year-old man with mutton chop whiskers and florid cheeks, dressed in baggy breeches and a tweed waistcoat.

I frowned. ‘But … doesn't the house belong to the Church now?'

‘The house has always belonged to God,' she answered abruptly.

‘And will I meet Mrs Benedict and Squire James?'

Her cloudy black eyes glinted. ‘Mrs Benedict is infirm and does not receive visitors, but you will be able to meet the squire. He is home for good, I'm pleased to say.'

‘He's been away?'