Resurrectionists (13 page)

“Tabby, come on girl.”

In typical cat fashion, Tabby decided she’d rather sit a few paces from the back door in the dark and not come in just yet. Maisie left the door open a crack and returned to the bathroom. She couldn’t face showering under the unpredictable hose-nozzle so she started to fill up the bath with hot water and found some strawberry-scented bubble bath in the bottom of the cabinet: probably manufactured in 1976, but it would do. A bath was a good way to relax, to contemplate. Darkness would complete the mood. She turned out the light, disrobed, and slipped into the water.

“Aah,” she said, and because it was nice to hear a human voice, even though it was her own, she said it again. Longer. “Aaaaah.” That sounded like a relaxed person. She leaned her head back on the porcelain. The dark was not so bad, not so spooky, when the electric light was only four steps away and the television buzzed quietly in the background. Her toes were poking out of the water at the other end of the bath. The nails were painted black, a contrast against her pale skin. When she’d painted them she’d still been at home. Miles and miles and miles away. Might as well have been on the other side of the universe.

“Shit,” she said, palming the stupid tears off her cheeks. “Shit, shit, shit.”

She closed her eyes and tried to think of anything but home. Tabby’s cold nose nudged at her elbow.

“Hello, puss,” Maisie said. “Did you close the door behind you?”

She heard the cat settle next to her. A warm, dozy feeling began to descend on her limbs. It wouldn’t be wise to go to sleep in the bath. What if she slipped into the water and drowned? Nobody would find her. Nobody would notice her missing. Adrian would call but assume she was out. Sacha would think she’d gone home. Tabby would have to catch mice and drink bath water to stay alive.

Stop it
. Morbidity was not to be encouraged. Even if she did go home, she knew what to expect: a long summer without Adrian; more long hours working with people she didn’t understand or (be honest) like; her mother always preparing to be disappointed in her; her father looking at her as though he wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed to have such a musically
un
gifted daughter – a mix-up at the hospital perhaps? She’d be no closer to . . . To what? That mythical moment when happiness would just magically materialise? When fulfilment was suddenly hers? She had no idea at all what it would take to bring her to that moment. She didn’t even know where to start looking for it.

A bell in the distance. It would be Christmas soon. Perry Daniels had said it might snow. She had never seen a white Christmas before.

She began an unknowing descent into a light doze. The bell seemed to be tolling down a long tunnel – a sound that was both metallic and organic. Something familiar about it.

And somebody running. Somebody with cold bare
feet. An unspeakable horror in pursuit.
With sudden ferocity, the back door slammed shut. Maisie sat up with a start, her heart racing. Tabby skittered off, her tail bushy with fear.

“What the . . .?”

The wind gusted frantically outside. The

windowpanes rattled, and raindrops shook violently out of trees.

Maisie put her hand over her heart.

“Tabby?”

It was okay. Just a blast of wind. At least the back door was closed now. She had been dreaming, hadn’t she? That strange bell sound, the awful feeling of something pursuing her. But it had felt horribly, almost unbearably familiar. She grabbed her towel and got out of the bath, switched the light on. Not enough light. Soon, every bulb in the house was burning. As she approached the bathroom again, she saw Tabby sitting on the laundry windowsill, her tail switching restlessly.

“What the hell are you looking at?” Maisie

demanded, instantly hating her desperate tone.
Calm
down, be nice to the cat. Right now she’s your only
friend.

Breathe.

She dried herself and pulled on her dressing gown and a pair of woolly socks. Loud television would fix it. The faintly strawberry water swirled down the plughole. Light nausea curled into her stomach. Breathe. Just breathe.

In the lounge room, Maisie turned the television volume up. What she needed was a Caramel Rabbit. Lots of hot milk, rum, caramel topping and a tiny dollop of honey. That would relax her. She busied herself in the kitchen. Tabby was now enthusiastically playing hockey with a bottle cap across the kitchen floor. Maisie stepped out of her way as she skidded into the refrigerator door. The microwave hummed and she watched her cup turning around inside. It was one of those novelty mugs, with a mouse and a cat hugging, and “best friend in the world” written across the top. She wondered who had given it to her grandmother, who her “best friend in the world” was. Maisie had never had a “best friend” or even known someone who would buy her such a gift. She supposed Adrian was technically her closest friend. Other people she saw in groups. She wasn’t given much to gossip or to sharing personal feelings with other women: they never liked her. Or at least she imagined they didn’t. Suddenly, Tabby dropped her bottle cap and

pricked her ears up.

“What is it, Tab?” Maisie asked.

The cat dashed out of the kitchen.

“Not the laundry again,” Maisie groaned,

following Tabby. A half moon glimmered a little light in through the louvred windows. The microwave stopped and beeped loudly. Tabby had already leapt up on to the washing machine and now sat there staring out the window. Maisie pushed her face up to the glass and peered out. To her horror, she could see a figure standing beside the oak tree, pressed up close to it, just half a silhouette. She pulled away from the window and flattened herself against the laundry door. Had he seen her? Was it a he? She crouched down next to the washing machine and cautiously peered over the sill again. Perhaps it was just a shadow. She watched the dark shape for a few moments, wishing that the moon were bright enough to illuminate it clearly. The shape didn’t move, and she started to believe it was merely a shadow behind the oak.

But then it detached itself from the tree and took one pace out. She stifled a cry of horror. It was a human shape, all right, and it looked like it was wearing a long cloak of some description. She dashed to the telephone and had the receiver to her ear before she realised she didn’t know the local police station’s number. The phone book was still lying on the floor next to her chair. With shaking hands she leafed through the pages and found the number, then dialled.

“Constable Tony Blake.”

“Constable Blake. This is Maisie Fielding from the cottage on Saint Mary’s Lane. There’s an intruder in my back garden.”

“I’m sorry?”

“There’s a person in my back garden. Standing by the tree. I’m alone and I’m afraid. Could you come by?”

There was a short pause, and Maisie had been certain he was going to refuse. But then, reluctantly, he said, “Sure. Sure. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Don’t open the door to anyone but me. I’ll knock three times.”

He hung up. She turned the television and all the lights off, crept back to the laundry and surreptitiously peeked out the window again. The figure was still there. She waited, watching, with the awful sensation that the figure was watching her in return. But that wasn’t possible. With no lights on in the house, he couldn’t see inside. Tabby made a low growling noise, her tail swishing madly. Maisie turned to the cat.

“Who is it, Tabby?” She wished she could shake the feeling that the figure wasn’t flesh and blood. She wished that she couldn’t see the outline of a cloak and hood, like that apparition she had glimpsed last week. She turned back to the garden, and the shape was gone. She pressed her face close to the glass. Definitely gone. But she had only looked away for a second, maybe two. How could it have disappeared so quickly?

For a few moments she merely gazed at the garden. A knock on the front door made her jump.

She rushed to the door, then realised there had only been two knocks. She stopped about a metre away, heart thudding in her chest. The village constable had told her to let no-one else in, that he would knock three times. And it had only been a few minutes since she had called him. He couldn’t be here yet. She licked her lips. Her throat had gone dry. “Who is it?” she managed to say faintly.

Knock, knock.

Jesus, this was unbearable. Why couldn’t her grandmother have installed a peephole when she was putting all the deadlocks on the door?

The deadlocks. Had she shot them all when she came in? Her eyes quickly ran over the door. Only one of them was locked. As she stood, paralysed, one of the handles started to move, as though someone were trying it from the outside.

She reached out. Her hand was trembling. With a sudden movement, like touching a snake, she clicked the other deadlock into place. The handle stopped moving. Moments passed. The microwave peeped once to let her know it had been five minutes since her milk stopped cooking. Darkness all around her and the intolerable pressure of fear in her chest.

Then, clearly, three short knocks.

“Who is it?” she called, terrified.

“Constable Tony Blake.”

She snapped the locks and pulled the door open. A big, burly man in a musty police uniform stood there. His face looked like it was made of granite, and his narrow eyes were hostile.

“Whoever it was, they came around the front and they knocked,” she said breathlessly.

“Probably campers. Kids on Christmas holidays. Let me check out back.”

Maisie showed him into her house almost

reluctantly. She could hear that Tabby had resumed her hockey game in the kitchen. Constable Blake opened the back door and strode out into the garden, flashing his torch about. She waited for him by the door.

“Whoever it was, they’ve gone,” he said, returning to the house.

“Thank you for coming, anyway.”

He fixed her with those hostile eyes. “I used to say this to your grandmother and I’ll say it to you. This house is too far from the town for a woman living alone. It’s dangerous. You could be in danger.”

Maisie thought he sounded like he relished the idea. She locked the laundry door. He stood, barring her way into the hallway. She felt very small next to him.

“For your own safety, get yourself off to Whitby or Scarborough, or somewhere there are more people and a properly staffed police station,” he continued. “If you’d called half an hour later I would have been off duty. It’s not safe here for you.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” she said, willing him to move. She was beginning to regret calling him. Phantoms in the garden suddenly didn’t seem as menacing as the big policeman blocking her way. Suddenly, thankfully, he turned and was heading back down the hallway to the front door. “Well, if there are people with mischief on their minds, they’re always going to come here first. The cottage stands out, alone here, and it’s an obvious target.”

“Thank you for coming. I’m sure your car must have scared them away.”
Just go
.

He stopped and turned to her once more.

“Remember – I’m off duty between ten p.m. and six a.m., and Sundays. If it’s an
emergency
. . .” he said this word emphatically “. . . you can call me at home. Otherwise, just keep everything locked and don’t answer the door.”

She nodded. He bade her goodnight and headed towards his car. She closed the door with some relief and carefully locked it. She headed to the laundry window and once again looked out.

The garden was empty. She felt almost certain that her intruder hadn’t been a thrill-seeking kid on a camping holiday. In fact, she had an awful suspicion that it wasn’t even human.

Adrian waited in a cafe at Darling Harbour: a tastefully decorated place in oak and chrome, soft lights glancing off polished surfaces, and the smell of ground coffee hanging heavy and sensual in the air. Even though he lived in Roland Fielding’s house, he still felt apprehensive about meeting him here. Of course, it made sense for them to meet up for lunch while they were both in Sydney working on the same production. It was just that the two of them were so rarely alone together. Usually Maisie was there, calling Roland

“Dad” and making fun of the way he couldn’t keep his hands still if music played in the background, even if it was the neighbour’s radio playing middle-of-the-road seventies rock. But to be alone with Roland Fielding, internationally acclaimed conductor, an imposing man with silver hair, an erect back, and a distracted gaze. It was all Adrian could do not to call him “maestro” when he arrived.

“Hi, Roland.”

“Hello, Adrian.” Roland settled across from him and picked up the menu. “Last night went well, don’t you think?”

Adrian nodded. “I think so.” He knew he wouldn’t get a compliment on his personal performance out of Roland, so he didn’t wait for one. “I thought I might have the pasta. What about you?”

“Hmmm . . . I’ll have the salmon.”

Roland motioned for a waitress, who came to take their orders. When Roland had handed her the menus and she was on her way back to the kitchen, he turned to Adrian.

“Have you heard from Maisie?”

“I spoke to her yesterday.”

“How is she?”

“She’s fine. She spent the weekend with a friend in York, and she sounds a lot less homesick than she was last week.”

“Next time you speak to her, tell her to call her mother.”

“Sure.”

“Janet’s too stubborn to call her, but I’m sure she’s worried sick.”

Adrian opened his mouth to ask Roland about Maisie’s grandmother and the arrests, but a loud burst of laughter from a neighbouring table interrupted him. Roland looked over his shoulder and bestowed on the group one of his trademark looks of disdain, but they didn’t notice him. By the time he turned back, Adrian had thought better of delving into personal matters. Lunch arrived and they slipped into a discussion of difficult scores and errant flautists while they ate. Roland ordered a bottle of wine between them and started to relax into an afternoon reverie, reminiscing about other orchestras and other concerts, long ago and in faraway places. A three o’clock sunbeam lay across the table when he began to describe his years conducting the Berlin Philharmonic in the seventies. His eyes glinted with excitement as he spoke about the concerts he had been part of, the famous musicians he had worked with.