Ancient Images (28 page)

    The wind rattled the latch before she lifted it, and slammed the door behind her. A draft that smelled of earth followed her through the porch and roused the posters on the inside of the glass, set them reaching toward her as she opened the inner door and stepped into the oak-beamed room. The paunchy landlord was behind the bar, his redheaded wife was padding about in her tigerish slippers and wiping tables. "Here she is," the landlord said without looking up.

    He must have seen Sandy crossing the car park-surely they hadn't been told to expect her. The woman stooped to examine the table she was wiping. "Will you be having the lunch?"

    "Just a drink," Sandy said, "and may I use your phone?"

    The woman hadn't sounded especially welcoming, and now her voice grew brusque. "Ask him."

    The landlord was watching Sandy as he polished the beer pumps. His expression seemed just short of hostility, and didn't change as she met his eyes. "May I?" she said.

    "You've not said what you'll have to drink."

    "A half of lager, please," Sandy said, and went to the phone on the wall at the end of the bar. Perhaps he and his wife had had an argument about Sandy after her first visit, and that was why the woman had grown as curt as he was. From her place by the phone Sandy could see the road to Toonderfield through the window between two prints of hunting scenes. She dug in her purse and found she had almost no coins. "Could you give me some fifty-pence pieces?"

    The landlord stared discouragingly at her ten-pound note, and then at her. "Long distance, is it?"

    "I'm afraid so," Sandy said, telling herself that he didn't intend to sound menacing.

    He took the note from her, set down her glass of lager, rang the till open. He peered into the drawer and slapped a five-pound note on the counter, and then four pound coins, which the phone wouldn't accept, and the change from a pound. She was about to argue when he took back a pound and replaced it with two fifty-pence coins. "That's all I can do for you."

    "If it is, then thank you," Sandy said, and dialed Roger's number. She knew it by heart, and the sound of his phone ringing, deceptively close to her. She gazed out at the empty road beyond the prints of English countryside and imminent bloodshed, and the ringing ceased. "Hello, yes?"

    She'd become so used to receiving no reply that she almost dropped the coin. She shoved it into the slot and waited until she heard it drop. "Guess who this is," she said, "and guess where I am."

    "I'm sorry, I don't know. Who is this?"

    "You don't know? Well, that's wonderful. Thanks so much." She was tempted to cut him off without even warning him to stay away from Redfield. "You've forgotten my voice already, have you? It's a good thing I remember yours."

    "Excuse me, I think you're making-was

    "Damn right I've made a mistake. I made it a few nights ago, twice if you remember, or has that slipped your mind too? Who helped you forget, Roger?"

    "I told you you were mistaken, miss. This isn't Roger."

    "Oh, you aren't Roger?" Sandy cried, and sensed the landlord and his wife listening behind her. "You just happen to be in his flat and sound exactly like him, do you?"

    "We would sound alike. I'm his father." Sandy opened her mouth and shut it again as her face blazed. The pips began, and she thrust in the second coin, grateful for the interruption. "God, I'm so sorry. I'm a friend of Roger's. We were planning to meet, but of course he wasn't expecting you to visit. I see that must have put our arrangement out of his mind."

    "Well, no, it isn't quite like that, Miss…"

    "Sandy. Sandy Allan." She was suddenly breathless, his voice had turned so grave. "What is it?"

    "Roger is in the hospital. That's why I flew over. He's been in there since the day before yesterday. He hasn't been able to say much." Roger's father coughed and said, "All I know so far is he was attacked by someone wearing a mask or with something wrong with their face."

    

    

    Sandy wrote down the name of the hospital, and apologized again for her tirade. "Let it go," Roger's father said. "He wanted me to make a call, but I couldn't get the name he was saying. Now I've heard yours I'm sure it was you." He promised to tell Roger she was on her way, and wished her a safe journey, and then the phone began to chirp, hungry for change. Before she could say any more to him he'd gone, presumably assuming she had been cut off.

    She held on to the receiver for a few moments, though it felt like a handle that had come off in her hand. She mustn't start blaming herself for having suspected Roger when in fact he was lying in the hospital. She mustn't start wondering how badly hurt he was. His inability to speak or to make himself understood might be the effect of painkillers, but then how much pain would he be suffering otherwise? She couldn't help him by brooding. She hooked the receiver onto its rest and fished her keys out of her handbag. Snapping the bag shut, she turned toward the door to the porch.

    She saw the redhaired woman exchange glances with the landlord and step into her path. They had been biding their time, she thought numbly: they must have been instructed not to allow her to leave. Then the woman pointed beyond Sandy, her face heavy with regret. "You're not leaving your drink?"

    "I'll have to. I only bought it to get change," Sandy said, and was so afraid she would burst out laughing at her panic and appear unforgiveably rude that she was almost running by the time she reached the porch.

    She sat in her car and laughed at herself until she had to gasp for breath and wipe her eyes, and then she set off. As she drove onto the road, the tower rose in her rearview mirror. Scarecrows flapped and swayed on both sides of the road. One seemed to stoop beneath the wheat as she passed, but she wouldn't let that or the tower distract her. The tower would be out of sight as soon as she was past the bridge at Toonderfield.

    The tower seemed not to be shrinking as quickly as it should. "Freud knows why," she scoffed at herself, but it made her feel as if the car wasn't moving as fast as the speedometer claimed. She mustn't let her fears tempt her to drive faster, or she might go off the road as Giles Spence had. At last the yellow distance between her and the bridge telescoped, the canal gleamed like teeth in a thin mouth. She sprayed her windscreen with almost the last of the washer fluid, and the wipers scraped an arc relatively clear of mud as she braked at the narrow bridge and accelerated down into the copse.

    Trees leaned over her, nodding their dense heads of leaves. A greenish tinge crept into the mud that coated the windscreen beyond the sweep of the wipers, as if moss had grown there, unnoticed until now. Trees linked branches above her as the road began to curve. She didn't remember the copse as being so extensive or so dim, but on her way into Redfield she'd had no reason to notice. At least she was past Toonderfield, she thought, and immediately wondered if she was. If Giles Spence had run his car into a tree, it had to be down here. Toonderfield must end on the far side of the copse.

    The road zigzagged, and she braked reluctantly. She was about to see the sky beyond the copse, she promised herself. What did it matter to her if Spence had died here all that time ago-just fifty years ago? At least she was out of sight of the tower. There had been nothing about the tower in the graveyard, she thought: only about the land-the land that "shall be soaked with blood." She couldn't help peering through the dimness and the mud that edged her windscreen at the trees, to see if she could identify which one had been marked by Spence's crash. But it wasn't the sight of any tree that made her foot jerk on the accelerator, nearly stalling the car.

    It was only a scarecrow. Someone must have dumped it among the trees rather than cart it away when it ceased to be of use. It must have been abandoned quite some time ago for its head to have grown into such a mess, though admittedly more than one of the scarecrows she'd glanced at as she passed the fields hadn't had much of a face. A wind scuttled through the undergrowth, and the scarecrow swayed out from the tree in whose shadow it was propped. The looming of the fattened greenish blob that might be more like a face than she cared to see made her press the accelerator hard, slewing the car across the curve. The road turned sharply back on itself, and she saw the sky a few hundred yards ahead, at the end of the next straight run. She was so dazzled by the daylight, and by the relief it made her feel, that she almost didn't notice the scarecrow.

    The copse must be used as a dumping ground for the figures. It couldn't be the same one, since it was behind a different tree, between her and the open road. This tree, a stout oak, looked as if it had been damaged at some time in the past; perhaps it was the tree she had been searching for earlier. She'd no time and no wish to look closely at it, nor at the ragged famished shape that was silhouetted behind it, poking its spiky greenish head forward. She came abreast of the tree, and as it blocked her view of the figure she felt compelled to accelerate. The oak tree passed out of her vision and reappeared in her side mirror, and she saw the scarecrow lurch after her and vanish on all fours in the heaving undergrowth.

    She cried out, grappled with the wheel as her hands jerked nervously, fought the urge to look over her shoulder. She was almost out of the copse, out of Toonderfield. The wind had overbalanced the scarecrow, that was all. What looked like a blotchy face darting after her through the ferns and grass must be the shadows of leaves.

    She sped between the last trees. A sudden panicky notion that she hadn't made it after all felt like a hook in her stomach. Then the sky opened overhead, and she raced into the wide landscape. The copse shrank in the mirror as if it were returning to its seeds, and then there was nothing around her but fields, nothing behind her and ahead of her except the road. Soon the landscape would calm her, she tried to reassure herself. Soon she wouldn't feel as if she was still being followed and watched.

    

    

    When she reached the motorway it was a relief to have to concentrate on driving. All she could see following her was the occasional car rushing up the outer lane, determined to scare anything slower out of its way; all she could see watching her were lorry drivers, gazing down at her legs from their cabs. In Nottinghamshire a vanload of miners whistled at her, in Warwickshire a truckful of muddy bare-kneed men sang her a rugby song. Homing planes gleamed in the sky over Luton. The passengers must be able to see London, she thought, and felt as if she was finally home.

    She came off the motorway during the rush hour. If she headed straight for the hospital, she might well find nowhere to park. She swung toward the North Circular, through the roaring tangle of overpasses, and made for Highgate Station. She'd forgotten there were so many traffic lights, nearly all of which turned red when they saw her coming. At last she was able to edge out of the shuffling procession and drive down the slope to the station car park.

    Less than five minutes later she was on the train. At Warren Street she dashed across the zebra carpet of a crossing to the hospital. The tiled lobby made her think of a cave carved out of an iceberg, except for its mugginess. She knew which ward to head for, and the nurse who was regulating visits let her in.

    She had a view of all the beds in the ward as soon as she was past the double doors. Dressed heads chatted from their pillows, wrapped plastered arms with gloves of bandages were stretched out on sheets, but she couldn't see Roger. If he'd been moved out of the ward, shouldn't that mean he was recovering? Surely the occupant of the furthest bed, a man wearing a Balaclava of bandages and with one leg hoisted in the air, couldn't be Roger. His bandaged arm stirred on the sheet, and the man sitting at the bedside turned to her.

    His large dark eyes needn't mean he was Roger's father, but he stood up and held out his hands as if he were apologizing for what she was about to see. At once all the anxiety she had been suppressing in order to drive came at her like a wave, and for a moment she thought she was going to faint with the mugginess of the hospital. The sight of Roger, almost unrecognizable with bandages, made her realize how much worse his injuries might have been, and how unbearable it would have been for her to lose him. Just the thought of doing so felt like the threat of a wound not much smaller than her life.

    She hurried forward between the beds, trying to swallow, and Roger's father met her halfway. Beneath his lined forehead and graying eyebrows his face looked tired and sad. "You're Miss Allan," he said, in a voice that didn't sound nearly as much like Roger's as it had over the phone.

    "Please call me Sandy, won't you?"

    "Be glad to. Since I spoke to you I've been hearing from Roger how much you mean to him. From the way you talked at first I guess the feeling is reciprocated." He'd taken her hands and was holding them firmly; his plea made his eyes waver. "I mean," he added hastily, "when I have to go back I can tell his mother that our boy's being looked after."

    "I think you can."

    "Well, that's good. That's fine. And when he's better I hope that you, well, ah…" His directness had deserted him now that it had achieved its aim. He let go of her hands and rubbed his forehead with his knuckles. "Time for me to step aside. Do you mind if I hang around, or would you rather be alone?"

    She was touched by his concern. "Whichever you'd rather."

    He went quickly to the bed and leaned on Roger's pillow. "Can you see who's here, son? Someone you were asking for. Can you see?"

    "Sure, dad," Roger said, and gave him a determined smile. "Nothing wrong with my eyes. They're some of the bits of myself I missed injuring."