Haunted (14 page)

‘We were very young.’

A leaf dropped lazily between them, its edges curled and brown. Another followed. Ash felt the ground’s coldness seeping into him, despite the sun’s warm rays.

‘But you asked me how they died,’ said Christina. ‘It was a motoring accident. They were driving through France, on their way to visit friends in Dijon when it happened. Nobody knows how or why, but apparently their car just ran off the road. Nobody was even sure who’d been driving – their car burst into flames. All that was found inside were two . . . were two charred . . . bodies . . . burnt beyond recognition . . .’

He switched off the recorder and leaned towards her to touch her arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to dredge up such bad memories.’

‘It was so long ago – it’s only a distant thought now, reality hardly plays a part.’

‘You must have missed them terribly.’

‘We were fortunate to have Nanny Tess. And fortunate, too, that there was enough money left to provide for us.’

‘Miss Webb was trustee?’

Christina nodded. ‘Nanny has kept the family together all these years, even though we must have driven her near to breaking point at times.’

Abruptly her mood changed. She laughed at Ash’s quizzical expression.

‘Our games,’ she explained. ‘From the time we were little we’ve always loved to tease, to play tricks on each other. Nanny says we inherited it from Mother – she sometimes used to drive Father frantic with her games. Just as we do with Nanny.’

‘Yeah, I noticed at breakfast,’ he said drily. ‘Doesn’t she ever get mad at you?’

Again she laughed, a light sound, but full of mischief. ‘Frequently. But she’s learned to accept us for what we are.’ She pulled at a blade of grass, played its tip along her lips. ‘She scolded us more when we were children, and that was mainly because we could be particularly spiteful to one another – you know how children are. I was probably worse than Robert or Simon, but then what would you expect of a girl with two older brothers?’

‘You don’t have to tell me how spiteful sweet little girls can be.’

Christina regarded him curiously. ‘You said that as someone who knows from bitter experience.’

He looked away. ‘I, uh, I had a sister myself.’

‘Had?’

He stared into the distance. ‘Juliet. She . . .’ it was as if he found the word difficult to say ‘. . . drowned . . . when we were kids. We both fell into a river, but I was the lucky one – I was pulled clear.’ He remembered the small pale hand disappearing beneath the water’s surface. Its fingers had been outstretched.

Now Christina reached forward and gently touched his hand. He was startled.

‘Are you still afraid of water?’ she asked him softly. ‘Is that why you panicked so last night?’

He didn’t answer, but searched her eyes, her hand still upon his. He turned away again, unsure, flustered.

‘I’m confused about what happened,’ he said at last. ‘But I still have nightmares about Juliet’s death. Maybe they got confused with reality last night.’ He thought of arms pulling him from the water; but was it a memory of hours, or years before?

‘You still think of Juliet,’ she quietly prompted.

His reply was cold. ‘I can barely remember her.’

He fumbled in his pockets for cigarettes, drew them out. One was in his mouth before he remembered to offer the pack to Christina. She shook her head, watching him. Ash flicked on his lighter, inhaled smoke. He was about to say more, the flame still alight, half-forgotten, when he noticed her staring at his raised hand. She was gazing at the tiny spear of fire as though fascinated.

She blinked when he snuffed the flame.

And then she was on her feet, brushing creases from her long skirt with her hands. ‘We should get back to the house,’ she told him.

Bemused, Ash stayed where he was.

‘Bet I can get back before you!’ Christina taunted. With a laugh, she whirled and ran off into the trees.

Ash stubbed his unsmoked cigarette into the earth and scrambled to his feet. He called after her. ‘Hey, not so fast! I’ll get lost!’ But Christina ignored him and he could only watch resignedly as her figure moved further away.

He stalked off in her wake, not quite sure if he were irritated or amused by her childishness. The loss of their parents at such a tender age had hardly matured Christina and her brother Simon; but then perhaps that was what they lacked – the firm hand of a father, the steadying influence of a mother. Nanny Tess obviously hadn’t fulfilled either role. Robert appeared to be the patriarch figure, although his manner was one of benevolent aloofness.

He caught glimpses of Christina ahead of him, a bright shape flitting through the trees.

‘Christina! Give me a break . . .’ he shouted, but heard only her distant laughter.

The woods were hushed, the trudging of his own footsteps through fallen leaves the loudest sound. And soon he had lost sight of Christina altogether.

He stopped. Looked around. Had he heard someone behind him? He called her name again.

There was no reply, not even her laughter now.

He walked on, only to stop once more.

Had a figure ducked behind a tree to his left?

He waited a moment, but there was no more movement. He continued, becoming annoyed with the silly game.

The noise that brought him to a halt this time was different. It had sounded like a child’s giggle.

He whirled and caught a fleeting glimpse of something hurry through the trees to his right. But it was gone in an eye’s blink.

Ridiculously, he thought it might have been a small girl. It had moved so fast, though. He couldn’t be sure.

He turned his head, sharply. No, he couldn’t have heard the whisper of voices; surely the muted sounds had been a breeze sighing through the woods.

Now the faintest echo of laughter.

Ash drew in a shallow breath. A feeling was rising – was
creeping
– from the hollow of his stomach – or so it seemed – spreading upwards and outwards, a gradual sensory frosting of sinews and nerve lines, seeping through to his outer skin, prickling its surface with tiny bumps. An unease that he could not understand; yet a sensing which he could not ignore. His pace quickened as he walked on through the forest.

Occasionally he would look behind him. Sometimes he would glance sharply to his right, other times to his left. He was not alone. Yet there was no one else with him.

Ash did not run. But he walked in haste.

He heard a snigger, he felt the touch of a hand on his shoulder. The touch could only have been the brushing of leaves. But the snigger could not have been anything else but a snigger.

He almost stumbled, his hand scraping across the rough bark of a tree. He did not linger.

The woods seemed more shaded, more gloomy, as if dusk were impossibly premature. The coldness might well have been in his own mind, for he could feel perspiration on his brow, the clinging of his shirt, the dampness against his lower back. He hurried, now ignoring the small noises that seemed to keep pace with him, the shadows that had no substance when focused upon.

And then he was in bright sunshine, the clearing he had burst into summer warm, as though it had trapped and stored its own heat. He even heard the lazy drone of a blowfly which had found sanctuary from the season’s death-chill. His eyes narrowed against the unexpected glare.

The clearing was an orderless area of coarse grass and foliage, with several openings that could have been paths around its ragged fringes. At the centre, its stone walls lichen-patched and stained, stood a small, square edifice. Its door, a tall rusted iron gate with grass growing through the lower bars, was ajar. Two earthenware vases filled with wilted flowers were on either side of the entrance.

He realized that the building, neglected and weather-worn could only be a mausoleum. A tomb. The previous Mariells’ final resting place?

Curious, he moved closer.

The sun slowly drew the coolness within the tomb. A shifting.

Ash paused, the long grass steadying to a rest in his wake.

‘Christina, is that you?’

He waited for a reply. There was none. But there was another sound from within the shadowed entrance.

He forced good humour. ‘Okay, Christina, joke’s over. You’ve had your fun.’

The silence was not comforting.

Weary of the game, he sighed. ‘Christina . . .’

The air itself seemed strangely still. Ash stepped closer to the old building and his hand reached in for the gate, fingers curling around a bar as if for support. He noticed at the side of the entrance a plaque, grimed with age, muddied by passing seasons. At the top he could just discern parts of the Mariell name.

He pushed at the gate and it scraped noisily on its hinges as it swung stiffly inwards. Inside, the air was dank, stale, and there came to him a sense of total emptiness. Yet there were tiers in there, narrow concrete platforms set against the walls. On them were stone coffins.

His voice was very quiet when he said, ‘Who’s in here?’

Still no answer, but there was movement: a shadow separated from other shadows. It came from behind a coffin on one of the lowest tiers.

He then heard the deep, menacing growling as the black bulk of the dog slunk from the darkness. Seeker’s teeth were bared as it came into the light, and its shoulders were hunched, head low to the ground.

Ash backed away, slowly, cautiously. The dog stalked him, muzzle creased, quivering over pointed teeth that glistened wetly. It snarled throatily, bunching its muscles, hindquarters tensing against the earth floor. It sprang forward.

Ash pulled the gate shut, the dog’s charge adding impetus from the other side against resisting hinges. He fell away as Seeker’s hurled body rocked the bars. The animal became frenzied by its sudden imprisonment, howling at the man lying beyond its reach, yelping in frustration. Slaver from its jaws soaked struts of the rusted gate.

The investigator picked himself up, his eyes never leaving the maddened beast whose ululations were amplified by the stone surroundings. Ash hurried away from the mausoleum, stumbling backwards, body half-crouched as if preparing for the attack should the dog burst through the iron bars. Not until he had reached the edge of the clearing did he turn his back on the dog and run. The sounds of metal clanging against stone and Seeker’s frantic barking followed him through the woods. He pushed into foliage, leaping over low obstacles, brushing aside leafy branches that tried to hinder him, not knowing how long the animal could be contained by the unlocked barrier, desperate to put as much distance as possible between him and it.

Voices. No, there couldn’t be voices. But there
were
. Around him. In the woods.

He, himself, shouted something, but he had no idea what.

Snickering. God, they were laughing at him. Shadows moving between the trees.

‘
Stop this!
’ he shouted (or did he scream this time?).

They whispered in return.

Then the crashing of leaves and bushes behind him, as if someone were following, someone or something moving fast. Charging. The dog charging through the undergrowth.

‘
Help me!
’ he cried out, but their laughter taunted him.

He dare not look, he dare not peek over his shoulder. He might trip, he might fall, he might
see
the black fury bounding after him. The crashing was drawing closer, he was sure he could hear the dog’s laboured panting, the rumbled growls as it gained on him; he was certain he could
feel
its hot breath.

His legs felt awkward, as though the knee-joints had loosened, his stride having no rhythm, no coordination. He staggered, each step jolting his body, his lungs seeming to jar against his ribcage. The dog was almost upon him, he could hear,
he could hear
, the widening of its jaws, the clicking of its teeth, the slopping of its distended tongue . . .

The stark blueness of the sky dazzled him as hands grabbed his chest, a figure blocking his way. He would have collapsed had not those same hands steadied him.