Don't Look Back (14 page)

‘Patrick's so conceited,' Harry said. ‘I thought it might mean something else.'

I tapped a front tooth with one finger. ‘Like the other clues, it connects with the afterlife, but … Patrick did tell me, in one of his depressed moments … his addiction felt like purgatory. Maybe that's another piece of the puzzle.'

Harry handed the paper to me and I saw that he'd highlighted a few lines of text. I read it aloud:

‘“In the fifth century after Saint Patrick was shown the cave and the image of hell, other people followed his footsteps …”' Remembering Patrick's game, I stopped, then hurried on. ‘“These people, penitents they were called, would prepare for fourteen days and on the fifteenth day descend underground for their souls to be judged.'

I sensed that Harry hadn't taken his eyes off me for a second. I looked up warily, knowing what he was about to say.

‘Sister Catherine asked you to work Benedict House for fourteen days, Sinead! Isn't that weird?'

It
was
weird, and my throat tightened, but I shook off the uneasy feeling. The fourteen-day trial had something to do with James. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise. I stayed perfectly calm, knowing that Harry was still looking for a reason to stop me going back there. ‘The only
significance of any of this,' I said, ‘is what it tells me about Patrick's game.'

Harry shook his head in disagreement. ‘I think you're out of your depth, Sinead, and deep down you know it. You said yourself something's wrong about this whole Patrick-going-missing thing. This time is different from the others.'

I kept my voice quietly monotone. ‘I grew up with religious superstition and narrow-mindedness – Patrick's attempts to frighten me with tales of an abyss or fathomless pit. That's what I'm trying to escape from.'

Harry looked through me as if I wasn't there. ‘I'm worried Patrick's going to drag you down into an abyss of his own.'

‘Then don't desert me, Harry. Stick with me while I find the answers and break free.'

He still looked angry, but I devoured the rest of the text, hopeful I'd won him round. ‘It says here that time in purgatory is meaningless, one second can feel like a hundred years. That echoes Patrick's message too. And Saint Patrick and the Benedict estate both date from the fifth century.' I bounced to my feet. ‘We can talk in the car.'

Harry refused to move, his bottom lip pushed out. ‘I don't want you to go back there … In fact, I'm not going to take you.'

I hadn't bargained on Harry being so strong, and he went up in my estimation. There was something else I knew about him – he was easy to manipulate.

‘I have to go back and fetch my bike at least.'

‘Promise that's all you'll do – fetch your bike and get out of there.'

‘I'll get out as soon as I can,' I said, not committing myself. I steered him towards the door and picked up my bag, which contained supplies for the day – a huge bottle of water, tuna sandwiches, a couple of energy bars and fruit, plus some rubber gloves because my hands were already like sandpaper. Harry didn't protest again.

The heat was intense. In fact it was hard to remember what cold felt like, and there were already warnings of a hosepipe ban. Dad used to talk about the endless summers of his childhood, when the tar bubbled on the roads and he spent all day at the seaside searching for crabs and starfish in rock pools. I had always felt envious when he reminisced like that. Did passing time make everything seem rosier? The roads weren't bubbling yet, but urgent warnings had been issued on the TV and in newspapers about the dangers of the heatwave. Harry's car had no air conditioning and some of the windows didn't open. It was like being inside a microwave. I made a tired noise, wriggling into the seat and pretending to doze. I was worried that Harry would refuse to take me all the way there. I'd seen no buses and imagined that even if there were any then they'd only run about once a day. We reached the outskirts of the village before I stirred, gave a languorous stretch and stole a glance at Harry's grim profile.

‘Why so miserable?' I asked.

His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. ‘Explain to me again exactly what that nun said?'

‘I've told you before. Sister Catherine made it clear she knows what I'm looking for and I'll find answers to the mystery of Patrick's disappearance at the house.'

Harry took his eyes from the road for a second. ‘As I was driving it occurred to me there's another possibility.'

‘What?'

‘This is not really about Patrick at all. What if you're really a target, Sinead? It's all set up for you.'

I laughed and shook my head. ‘What do you mean?'

Harry stared straight ahead, unblinking. I knew how difficult I could be, but he was way off mark. ‘This has nothing to do with me,' I said. ‘Nothing in my family has ever been about me. Patrick is at the centre of everything.'

‘He
might
be at the centre of it,' Harry said. ‘He might be part of the plot to lure you to this weird house … the Latin clues and the picture on the wall, the cryptic advert in the newspaper and the Saint Christopher. What if Patrick isn't really missing at all but part of a ruse to entice you there?'

This made me pause for thought. Deep down I knew Patrick would have enjoyed turning our childhood game into something more sinister. It would be an added bonus if I was made to suffer in some way. But there was a definite flaw in Harry's idea.

‘Why didn't something happen yesterday?' I demanded. ‘How come I wasn't captured and locked up somewhere?'

‘I don't know,' Harry replied, chewing his lip.

‘Stop here. James showed me a secret entrance yesterday so I don't have to battle with those huge gates.'

The driver behind us honked his horn in annoyance and I resisted the urge to make a rude gesture.

‘Who's James?' Harry asked.

‘The son of the former squire,' I said. ‘I mean, he doesn't have the title, although Sister Catherine insists on calling him Squire James and sometimes Master James … Didn't I tell you all this last night?'

‘You fell asleep mid-sentence,' Harry reminded me.

I cringed and squeezed his hand. I couldn't remember what I'd told him. I was so exhausted last night that my mouth refused to work and all the words came out slurred. He'd offered to cook for me, but I'd awoken to find myself alone with a plate of cold macaroni cheese on the coffee table.

‘It's the same guy we met in the police station and at the coffee shop,' I added. ‘The one I had a go at.'

‘That's a coincidence,' Harry said suspiciously, ‘unless he's somehow involved.'

‘Don't be silly. He's only staying a few weeks and then he flies back home to … the other side of the world.'

Harry digested this for a minute and it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. He must have sensed my impatience as I edged further towards the passenger door, one hand wrapped around the handle of my bag.

‘Don't go, Sinead,' he said. ‘I've got a bad feeling about this.'

‘There's nothing to worry about,' I assured him.

‘I think you should turn around. Walk away and forget Benedict House.'

I frowned. ‘Why are you so adamant?'

‘You seem to have changed,' he complained. ‘In just one day.'

Harry wasn't as unobservant as I'd imagined; he'd felt the difference in me. The only thing I remembered about last night was that when he kissed me, I'd wished he was someone else – I'd wished he was James.

‘You can concentrate on the drawing room today, Sinead. Master James has expressed a wish that you work no more than six hours and take a proper lunch break.'

I swallowed hard because she looked me up and down with such contempt that I actually felt naked. Did she think I'd worked my charms on James just to get preferential treatment? Under her scrutiny I felt so dirty that I had a terrible urge to yell at her that I was still a virgin, but I didn't, and dutifully trailed after her.

‘How's my trial going?' I asked.

‘It's early days,' she replied noncommittally.

Harry's words were still buzzing in my head and I spoke before I'd had time to think. ‘I suppose you must have heard the legend surrounding Benedict House.'

She froze and turned to me slowly. I was forced to examine her close up, her dried-up skin looking as though all the life had been squeezed from her, and her thin mouth just a slash in her shrivelled features.

Nerves made me babble. ‘The one about the evil squire selling his soul to the Devil and how the house lures people in to judge them.'

After a lengthy, stomach-turning stare, she chose to answer. ‘That's not the full legend, Sinead. People are not lured in, they are invited, but more importantly, they have a chance of redemption, an opportunity to save their soul.'

When her back was turned again I made a gruesomely comical face. On my first visit Sister Catherine had seemed shocked that I'd managed to get in without an invitation. Was she crazy enough to believe in the legend? I could see how Benedict House got its otherworldly reputation, but I was determined not to be spooked.

I trailed after Sister Catherine. The drawing room was more formal than the dining room, with many paintings, ornaments and a general air of ostentation. There were a number of wing chairs, two enormous sofas in green and cerise chenille, a gold and black lacquer screen and a small piano. The range of furniture was French style, high gloss with delicate bow legs, taller and more elegant than the heavy, squat furniture in the other room. The wallpaper was textured and decorated with peacock feathers; I felt as if hundreds of eyes were watching me.

Sister Catherine left me alone without any explanation of what she expected, although there was the usual array of cleaning materials as well as an additional jar of wax. The label gave instructions on how to seal a wooden floor. I looked down and baulked; the floor consisted of hundreds
of tiny blocks of wood that fitted together like a jigsaw. Some were black with age, some cracked or chipped, but overall the effect was quite beautiful. I knew machines existed to polish and protect floors like this, but it was obvious I was supposed to tackle this one by hand. She seemed determined to make me suffer.

I waited until she had left and watched from the window as she began her tour of the grounds. Now was my chance. I took Patrick's key from my bag and darted in and out of rooms, checking all the doors, cringing at the general squalor and mustiness and noting an unpleasant scorched smell that lingered. I took a look in the scullery again, and the kitchen with its ancient Aga. In one corner there was a velvet curtain hanging from a brass rail. I swished it open and found a woodwormy door that looked as old as the house. My heart beat faster. With sweaty fingers I inserted the key, expecting to meet the usual resistance, but it fitted. My breath caught in my throat and I paused for a moment, feeling a definite sense of triumph. I was going to find Patrick on my second day. I turned the key shaft, but the lock wouldn't move. I jiggled it and then used both hands, hoping that brute force would work. Annoyed, I gave the door a kick and it bounced open. It hadn't even been locked.

Hesitantly I stepped into a narrow corridor. The floor sloped downward, the temperature growing colder as I descended. It was so dark I could barely see a few inches in front of me. My mind was feverish with thoughts of finding
a jail, dungeon or torture chamber. I kept turning around, imagining I could feel fetid breath on the back of my neck. I stopped myself just in time before I ran into shelves of dusty old bottles of all shapes and sizes. This must be the wine store. It was a dead end. My shoulders slumped. I shouldn't have underestimated Patrick. This had been too obvious for him, not enough of a challenge.

I didn't dare venture upstairs and had no choice but to get back to work. The windows in the drawing room overlooked the rear of the house, with wooden shutters that folded back against the wall and rested on cushioned window seats built into the alcoves. This ceiling wasn't open to the rafters but lower and smooth except for the most incredibly detailed cornice and overblown plaster mouldings of grapes and flowers with massive petals. Brandishing the feather duster I climbed the ladder and tackled the chandelier, listening to the glass tinkle and having visions of it falling to the ground and smashing all over the floor like crushed ice.

It was thirty minutes before Sister Catherine made her next appearance. I tried hard to appear industrious and made a mental note of the time, thinking I could log her comings and goings.

‘Everything OK?' I asked, and received a frosty look. She turned and left the room.

I listened carefully. Sister Catherine's footsteps stopped in the hallway. I poked my head out into the vast space. It was as if she had vanished. The fancy oak panelling ran
along every wall, but I figured there had to be a disguised door somewhere. It was virtually compulsory in this type of dilapidated old house. I whistled softly to myself, thinking what to do. It was exactly twenty-one minutes before I heard her footsteps again.

It should be easy to find a concealed doorway, no matter how tightly it was fitted, but there were splits running down the entire series of panelling, which confused my eye. And the minutes were ticking by. Sister Catherine could return and realize that I was snooping. There might be steps behind the door to the cellar, and she would push me down them and leave me there. My spine prickled.
Those beneath the earth cry out for release.
I had visions of decomposing corpses, maggots wriggling out of the mouth and the eyes. Or she would be waiting for me when I opened the door, arms extended, ready to pounce and wrap her claw-like hands around my neck and strangle me.

What was the matter with me? Sister Catherine was a frail nun, and the only other person here apart from James was his sick gran. The hairs on the back of my neck rose; there was that noise again, a long mournful sigh. If I closed my eyes it was the strangest sound – hypnotic and mesmerizing. There was a draught wafting from somewhere as though the voice was being carried on the wind. I didn't want to listen to it and yet I didn't want it to stop. My hands felt along the wood panelling and one of my fingers grazed a small bump, a doorknob of the exact same hue, imperceptible except to the touch. The blood was pumping
fast around my body, roaring in my ears like the sea. My hands were impossibly clammy and tiny beads of sweat broke out on my forehead.