Don't Look Back (13 page)

‘Angel, you mean,' I corrected.

‘With a mean right hook.'

‘You should see me on a good day.'

‘I'd like that.'

I had to turn away again because he was having such an effect on me.
Stop ogling him, Sinead. He flirts with every girl he meets. Ask him about weird Sister Catherine. For goodness sake ask him about Patrick – that's why you're here.

‘Thanks for not ratting on me to Sister Catherine,' I said. ‘I … need this job … Have you seen any other new workers around?'

‘I've barely had time to unpack and visit my gran,' he
replied. He saw my look of puzzlement. ‘I don't live here any more. I'm visiting from Australia … only arrived this morning.'

‘Hold on … I saw you three days ago, at the police station.'

‘I've been staying in a city hostel with a friend who's backpacking for a year. It might be the last chance I'll get to see him … for a while … so I delayed coming to Benedict House.'

‘And … when did you leave?' I asked.

‘Mum and I emigrated when I was ten. I haven't been back since.'

I sighed, and blew my fringe into the air, inexplicably frustrated. James had only just returned after years of being away, but he still must know things about the set-up here. ‘Do you know Sister Catherine well? Has she been here long?'

James shrugged. ‘Gran thinks Sister Catherine's always been around, but she wasn't here when I was a kid.'

‘She describes herself as some kind of guardian,' I said. ‘More like a weird sentry.'

‘She does seem a little
eccentric
,' James said tactfully. ‘I've already noticed her endlessly circling the grounds.'

I didn't want to arouse suspicion by firing too many questions at him so I tried to soften my tone and almost managed to fluff my hair. ‘I've heard the house belongs to the Church.'

James nodded. ‘Benedict House has always had some
kind of codicil, which means control reverts to the Church when … I mean, if the Benedict line dies.'

‘You're a Benedict,' I pointed out.

His eyes looked sorrowful again. ‘But I'm not staying –'

I tried to hide my disappointment. ‘Sister Catherine said you were home for good.'

He shrugged. ‘She must be confused. Gran wrote and invited me to visit, but I'm only here for another fortnight.'

‘So this is just a holiday?'

James's face settled into tired creases that made him look older. ‘Kind of. There're things I need to do while I'm here, important things, but … my return flight's booked.'

There was a terrible ache somewhere deep inside me at the thought of James getting on a plane. I had a mental picture of him, rucksack slung across one shoulder, walking across the hot runway with the sun on his face, then up the steps without a backward glance, leaving me to watch the plane soar into the summer sky and away to the other side of the world.

‘Fourteen days,' I said suddenly. ‘That makes sense.'

‘Why?'

I sighed. ‘I'm on a fourteen-day trial to clean the house. It's probably for you.'

He scowled. ‘Hope it's not some awful leaving party.'

It could have been the exertions of the day or the fierce sun or the thought of James leaving, but a terrible weakness seemed to wash over me and wavy lines swam before my eyes. I murmured that I didn't feel well and lurched over
towards my bike, which was still propped against the side wall where I'd left it. My hands rested against the bricks but my body involuntarily slid down until I was sitting on the gravel. The sun didn't reach here and I welcomed the shade. I blinked to restore my vision but my eyes were dry and gritty.

‘What's Sister Catherine done to you?' James called over. ‘You're absolutely destroyed.'

He must have followed me, because in another few seconds he was standing before me, an indistinct blur. He offered something to me and my parched lips closed with relief around a bottle of water.

After I had drunk deeply I said, ‘There's something wrong with the water supply here. It tastes horrible.'

‘Really?' he answered, frowning.

Was I the only one who could taste vinegar in the water? That didn't make sense, but then nothing here did.

My legs were inelegantly splayed on the ground and I closed them, suddenly conscious of my tomboyish behaviour. James held out one hand and hauled me to my feet. ‘Come on. I'll run you home.'

‘Thanks,' I said grudgingly. ‘I'll pick up my bike tomorrow.'

I would have to come back after all, but that didn't seem so bad now. The red sports car was parked around the back of the house, which was new territory to me. As I looked into the distance at the continuing line of woodland I gained some idea of how vast the estate was.

‘Does that wall run right the way around?' I asked.

‘Yeah … the locals call it the wooded wall.'

‘And it keeps the peasants out.' I pressed my lips together to conceal a smile.

The door of the car was opened for me and I tried to slide gracefully inside but being tall couldn't manage this at all. I ducked, but still managed to bang my head, and my legs were jammed inside, my knees almost reaching my chest. The horrible image popped into my mind of Patrick, who used to capture daddy-long-legs and squash them into matchboxes. James must have realized my problem because he rolled the soft top down, but I felt so exposed that I shrank into myself, like a snail looking for its shell. I'd never been in a sports car before, let alone one this old, and the sensation was strange. We were so low down that the undercarriage seemed to be trailing on the ground. James reached the monstrous gates and jumped out to open them. He made sure to lock them again. As we turned on to the village road, he pointed to a fountain of ivy cascading down the ancient bricks.

‘There's a hidden door beneath there,' he said. ‘Sister Catherine likes to keep the main gates closed, but it's easy to find. Just keep walking until you see the first sign for the public footpath.'

I nodded and closed my eyes. It was impossible to talk above the roar of the engine until we reached the city and the volume of traffic slowed us down. My head felt as if it had been through a spin dryer. I took a minute to
compose myself and then tried to pump James for more information.

‘Has the house changed since you went away?'

He nodded, slamming on his brakes at the last minute, inches from a blue van. ‘It's much more run-down and shabby, but there're structural problems too. The west wing's almost fallen down and is off limits.'

‘A website said the house has been around since the eleventh century.'

He nodded. ‘That's true, but the estate's been enclosed since the fifth century. The house was first a church … well, not the whole house obviously.'

My pulse began to race.
The house was first a church.
Just like Patrick's note;
The first church – gateway to a place of penance.
This must have been why Sister Catherine insisted the house had always belonged to God. I gave James a sidelong glance. He had grown up at Benedict House. Should I tell him about Patrick's disappearance and the strange deal I'd been forced to make with Sister Catherine? But I didn't know him enough to trust him and could only imagine how crazy I'd sound.

There was a moment's silence and James said defensively, ‘This Master James thing … I was never a spoilt brat when I lived at Benedict House – ask anyone in the village – and I never wanted to be the squire like my dad.'

‘I never imagined you to be a spoilt brat.'

‘It's written all over your face.'

I grinned. ‘I didn't realize I was so expressive … By the way, where is your dad?'

James took a sudden interest in wrestling with an ancient radio and didn't answer. I reclined in my seat and gazed longingly at the plush 4x4 next to us with enormous tyres and elevated seats. The driver was staring back at me and it struck me that everyone gawped at a classic sports car. But I didn't have the hair, face or attitude to fit the image. No wonder James usually dated small blondes.

‘It's just here,' I said as the chapel came into view.

James looked at the building and then at me. The raised eyebrows conveyed an unmistakable message – I was hardly starving in a garret somewhere.

‘Thanks for the lift.' My voice was nonchalant.

I tried to open the car door but it refused to budge and I wondered if it was locked. James reached across me to tug at the handle and I immediately stiffened. I suspected he might be deliberately taking his time, but I stared impassively straight ahead, my skin buzzing with the heat from him. My heart was beating so loudly I was sure he must be able to hear it. The door opened with a loud
clunk
but he still didn't move and neither did I. Time stopped again, but in a way I'd always dreamed about. I could hear the gentle rush of his breath, and feel his arm brushing against mine, making me tremble. He had only to turn his head fractionally and we would be face to face. My body didn't seem to belong to me any more; I couldn't stop myself inching forward, when I suddenly pictured
Harry's face with his crooked smile. I uncurled my long legs from the uncomfortable crouched position, breaking the moment. James shot back into his seat.

‘Maybe I'll see you tomorrow, Sinead.'

I touched my hot cheek. ‘Not if Sister Catherine has her way. She doesn't give me a free minute.'

‘Time's short,' he said, and there was the sadness again.

I swallowed with difficulty, wondering if I'd finally met someone who understood. I slammed the car door and his right indicator blinked on and off as he tried to pull away into two lanes of traffic. I kept staring like a complete idiot until another car flashed him to go. His tyres squealed as he left the kerb.

It had never taken me this long to get ready before, even for a party. I'd spent over an hour studying my reflection and choosing my clothes with extra care, knowing it was a waste of time. They would only get covered in dust and grime again. The hardest thing was not to appear to have gone to any effort at all, especially as Harry would be calling in a moment and might notice. I turned my cheek first one way and then the other to examine my face. Despite the exertions of yesterday and my even worse than usual sleep, I was amazingly bright-eyed. James was a strange mixture, I mused, peeling off one T-shirt to replace it with another just a little more fitted, even though I wasn't exactly curvy. Occasionally there was a kind of world-weariness about him that didn't match his carefree attitude. He'd been evasive about his dad as well, and made his trip sound like some kind of ordeal. What had he really come home for?

I looked at myself in the mirror. I wouldn't flirt with James any more, and he'd soon be gone from my life.
My only mission was to solve the mystery of Patrick's disappearance. James had unknowingly helped by telling me that Benedict House used to be a church. Today I'd make sure I found an opportunity to explore and try out the key. I wouldn't get sidetracked. But … I didn't want to look back once James had returned to Australia and wonder what it would have been like to kiss the beach boy with the easy smile and golden skin. I glanced out of the window and rapped my fingers on the sill. There was still no sign of Harry. He was usually on time.

The sound of the flat's bell made me jump. I pressed the door-release button and it was only seconds before Harry's footsteps echoed on the stairs. I'd barely unlocked the door clasp when he burst in, even more untidy than usual; his T-shirt was covered in oil and the bottoms of his jeans were black and torn where they trailed on the floor. I guessed he'd had car trouble.

‘Have you broken down?' I asked, terrified that I wasn't going to be able to get to Benedict House.

‘I had a problem getting started, but don't panic, my car's on a meter.' His face was unusually grave. ‘You might not need it after you hear what I have to say.'

I opened my mouth to object, but Harry actually raised his voice at me. ‘For once I want you to sit down and listen.'

I perched on Patrick's sofa with my hands between my knees. Harry obviously needed to sound off about something and he deserved some of my time, but my eyes were continually drawn to my watch.

He paced back and forth across the rug. ‘Things are different now, Sinead … I have more of a right to be worried about you –'

He must be referring to the night we spent together, which made me squirm.

‘You already know my opinion about this
quest
you think you're on to find Patrick.'

He was now managing to sound like my dad, but I listened meekly. ‘I couldn't get any sense out of you last night. I'm worried all this stress is making you a bit …'

‘Crazy?' I suggested helpfully.

‘You're crazy for agreeing to work at that place,' he said. ‘Did you see any sign of Patrick yesterday or any more of his stupid clues?'

I held up a hand in protest. ‘I discovered lots of useful stuff – Benedict House was first a church, which echoes Patrick's message. Mrs Benedict views Sister Catherine as some kind of permanent guardian of the estate and the house will pass to the Church again when the Benedict line dies out.'

Harry didn't react.

‘Can we leave now?' I asked.

He shook his head and looked at me pointedly. ‘I've been doing some research of my own.' He took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and carefully smoothed it open. ‘Station Island has another name:
Saint Patrick's Purgatory
. Does that mean anything to you?'

I pursed my lips. ‘I remember my mum telling me
purgatory is that halfway place between heaven and hell where you kind of … wait to be redeemed. She thinks it's full of pain, torture and repentance.'