Don't Look Back (16 page)

‘Not lately,' he replied, with an enquiring lift of his eyebrows.

‘My dad's a doctor,' I explained, ‘but … I don't get to see him either.' I knelt up, pretended to roll up my nonexistent sleeves and reached for his wrist. ‘Wow, your pulse is slow! No wonder you feel faint.'

He grinned. ‘It should be beating faster.'

I peered at his arm all the way past his elbow, taking in the scars, bruises and needle tracks. He saw where my eyes were drawn and flushed. ‘I was ill already, picked up food poisoning and ended up in hospital.'

I knew enough about addicts to be almost certain he wasn't one, but something was odd, some of the needle marks looked years old. I gazed into his eyes to check
that his pupils weren't dilated. How had I never noticed them before? I mean really noticed them – the beautiful shade of hazel reflected the surrounding wood and gave them an almost golden tinge. Something rose in my throat and stayed there. I couldn't move, blink or even breathe, but then neither did he, and one of us had to eventually break away. I briskly pulled the skin below his eyes as if nothing had passed between us. It was pale, almost white, instead of a healthy pink. Dad had told me this could be an indicator of anaemia.

‘You really
should
get a blood test,' I said. ‘You might be low on iron.'

James gave me a salute and rolled over on to his back, staring up at the thick branches, only a small patch of blue sky visible. I wanted to lean over and kiss him, so badly that it hurt. Another moment and his lips parted slightly, his eyes flickered and he was asleep, his breathing now soft and regular. With anybody else I might have felt slighted, but it was obvious that he was exhausted, probably still jetlagged. It was hard to resist an urge to take out my phone and capture an image of him sleeping but I couldn't have faced Harry after such a betrayal.

I gazed around the wood just to be certain that no one was watching and then allowed myself to study every last detail of James's features. There was a scar above his beautifully formed upper lip and a tiny blemish on his chin. I took in the curve of his cheek and his sweeping brow; even his hairline was enthralling. If I'd stayed longer
I could have counted every pore and imperfection in his skin, each one of which was all the more touching because of his overwhelming beauty. If I pictured an angel in my mind's eyes it would be James, asleep in the remains of the spring blossom, facing up to heaven. And if I rearranged the petals and bunched them slightly together, they even resembled wings.

For once my mind wasn't frantically galloping ahead to something else or worrying about Patrick. I was perfectly happy to stay here watching James and thinking about the things he'd told me. He wasn't here for a holiday. He'd come back to Benedict House to try to find his dad and to regain some memory of his childhood. Every now and then he would twitch and his forehead crease as if with pain. I wanted to run my hand across it to iron out the furrows. He gave a little moan, his eyes fluttered open and he took a breath.

‘The white knight. Even here I can't escape from him.'

‘White knight?'

James rubbed his eyes with his fists. ‘Just a stupid dream I have.' He raised himself to a sitting position. ‘There's a guy dressed all in white with a red cross on his chest like a crusader or something. There's a dead hare lying next to him.'

‘Sounds like a nightmare.'

He screwed up his mouth. ‘Mum thought so too. She was so worried she even took me to the school counsellor.'

‘And?'

He frowned. ‘The dream only happened after we emigrated. The counsellor said the white knight was my dad, who'd turned into this kind of heroic figure because I idolized him … and the dead hare was a symbol of my loss because we were separated.'

‘That's plausible.'

‘But the dream is really disturbing without knowing why. The guy doesn't move or speak … just stares through me. It used to drive me crazy because sometimes it felt like a hazy memory more than a dream.'

I hugged my knees, feeling an immediate empathy with this. ‘I had asthma. I still dream about the first time I couldn't breathe, when I was little … I thought I was dying.'

‘How old were you?'

‘Four … maybe five.'

‘Tell me what happened,' James said simply.

I glanced at him and looked away, realizing I'd never even told Harry details of that night. I began hesitantly. ‘I woke from a really deep sleep and knew something was different in my room … I stayed really still and then … I was fighting for breath –' My throat scratched again and I swallowed, remembering the sensation as the air was sucked from me and I lashed out with my fists. I stared down at the ground. ‘The other day Mum hinted it had all been in my head.'

‘I'm sure it wasn't,' he said.

I was about to remind him of my encounter with the
dragonflies, but I clamped my mouth shut. I didn't want James thinking I was borderline insane.

After a thoughtful silence he said, ‘We seem to have a lot in common. We've discovered we're both looking for missing family and –' he laughed – ‘we both have really bad dreams … maybe we can help each other.'

His words dragged me back to reality. Had I really just divulged my life story to someone I'd only known for two days? What was it about James that made him so easy to confide in? His suggestion lifted my spirits. Talking to Harry lately had become so confrontational; it would be good to have an ally, someone else who was stumbling around in the dark, just like me. I couldn't get my head around how strange it was that we'd ended up in the same place at the same time, both looking for answers. But I was still determined to keep my distance, so I shrugged nonchalantly.

‘Tell me more about Patrick's clues,' he asked. ‘If they're connected to Benedict House, I might be able to help.'

I took a crumpled piece of paper out of my pocket. I'd created my very own mind map of all Patrick's clues, the latest arrow connecting Benedict House to the first church. I'd also added Saint Patrick's Purgatory and the fifth century. Wary of his reaction, I also described the weird wall mural.

He didn't look at me as if I was crazy. ‘You must think a lot of your brother to go through all this,' he said.

‘I do,' I answered hesitantly, ‘but this is a kind of
goodbye … I mean, goodbye to chasing after Patrick and looking out for him. I'm ready to let him go, if I can only solve his clues.'

After a few minutes James's forehead wrinkled. He repeated a few words to himself and then got to his feet. ‘Will you come with me, Sinead?'

‘Where to?'

‘There's a temple I'd like to show you.'

He held out his hand and I took it. As our eyes locked all my good intentions flew out of the window. For one heart-stopping moment I would have followed him to the ends of the earth.

We walked through the wood together, side by side, stumbling over tree roots and being hit by branches because the path was single file only. But I didn't complain because I didn't want James to let go of my hand.

‘I thought it must have been demolished,' he said, his stride increasing. ‘This used to be a clearing without anything blocking the view and the temple could be seen from the house. That's one thing I remember.'

I looked around, puzzled. These trees looked old to me and I wanted to ask James how they could have sprung up in the eight years he'd been away. But he was probably just mistaken. He had left as a boy and returned as a man, so everything would be distorted in his eyes. He stopped dead and I did the same, my gaze following his. I could just make out the impressive grey slabs of an oblong building, crowns of laurel leaves topping the classical columns. But it was swamped by greenery as if the wood had claimed it for its own. Ivy curled and writhed around its columns like
a giant serpent and on to the domed glass roof. After my recent experience any excessive growth made me nervous and a felled tree nearby didn't lessen that feeling. It had been overtaken by the same ivy, which erupted from its trunk, making it seem alive with tendril arms reaching out for me.

‘Wow! Most people have a little summer house or maybe a garden room … you have a temple.'

‘Yes, but look what's written on it.'

I looked up at the monolithic structure. There were letters carved across the top and one word caught my eye –
Gloria
. The rest was obscured by the thick covering of waxy pointed leaves, but I guessed immediately what it must say.

‘
Sic transit gloria mundi
– so passes away earthly glory,' I said, and blew out slowly. Patrick! I could feel his presence trying to pull me back to him. He must have stood on this very spot plotting his next move or challenge for me. Suddenly the wood seemed really hostile. At this moment I could really believe this wasn't a game, that Patrick wished me harm.

‘Do you think your brother's been here, Sinead?'

I nodded.

James's voice was calmly pragmatic. ‘In that case, we should investigate.'

*

It was so dark inside that I had to squint to make out any details. I walked gingerly because the floor was matted
with years of rotted leaves, grass and berries and I didn't want to imagine how many animals had made this place their home in the harsh winters. Stone plinths of different heights were dotted around.

‘The temple paid homage to Greek culture,' James said. ‘There used to be a collection of marble statues displayed here, but they were donated to a museum.'

It would have been lovely in here before the trees and climbers took over – I could imagine light flooding the dome, hitting the white marble and bouncing off the walls. The only ornamentation I could now see was carved figures on the walls; they reminded me of crude Stone Age art.

‘What are these?' I asked.

‘It's the story of the underworld. Here's the king, Hades, with his wife, Persephone.'

I ran my fingers across the images, parts of which were missing because the stone was porous and crumbly.

‘Does it give you any clues, Sinead?'

‘The underworld, and the cave revealed to Saint Patrick,' I reflected, talking mostly to myself. ‘They're both visions of the afterlife, one pagan, one Christian. It probably makes sense to Patrick's warped mind but not to me … and then there's all the stuff about time fleeing, which is weird because … it seems to slow down here.'

‘No one can slow down time,' James said, but he sounded like he would have liked to be wrong.

I looked around again, not sure why I disliked the temple so much. It struck me as a decadent reminder of
a bygone era, but there was also something creepy about the empty interior. I was about to leave when I spotted some branches placed on one of the plinths. They'd been carefully arranged in a triangle shape, so I knew they hadn't blown in from outside. I picked one up, noticing it had been whittled smooth with a knife. Sweat pooled at the base of my spine and I tried to keep my voice steady. ‘This is a sign from Patrick.'

‘It's easy to see
signs
everywhere,' James said gently.

‘A
secret
sign,' I emphasized. ‘Whenever I was in trouble at home or Mum and Dad had had a row, Patrick would leave a warning by the front door … some branches in the shape of a triangle. It's the international symbol of distress. Patrick learned it in the Scouts or somewhere.'

‘And what does it mean?'

‘It's an SOS.'

James's brows arched. ‘Save our souls.'

I shivered in the gloom of the temple. I pulled James outside with me and cupped my hands over my face. ‘These clues are so morbid, and Patrick's mental state is shaky … but … as long as I'm following him, I think he's safe. I don't know why he's doing all this, or why Sister Catherine is holding out on me, but I feel I'm getting closer.'

James threw back his head as if expecting answers to drop from the sky. ‘I can't think of any other leads, Sinead.'

I was disappointed, but didn't want to show it. ‘You've got me this far. You told me about Benedict House first
being a church, and I'd never have found the temple on my own. I thought about following Sister Catherine –'

‘Don't bother,' he said. ‘She does the same walk day in, day out. It would drive anyone else crazy.'

I scowled in agreement. ‘Well … maybe … you could try out the key for me tomorrow on the upstairs doors. I haven't made it that far yet.'

James nodded easily, as if this was a perfectly normal request. He looked up again at the Latin words.

‘You recognized the phrase, James.'

‘It's the strangest thing,' he said. ‘I know my way around the house and the grounds. I can remember the seasons and how the landscape changed –' he paused – ‘particularly in autumn; the whole place is dazzling when the leaves change colour and die in an incredible blaze of glory.' He blinked rapidly. ‘But everything else is like … fighting shadows.'

I tried to reassure him. ‘You'll remember more things now you're home. Your mum must have helped to fill in the blanks.'

‘Yeah, she's told me how inseparable Dad and me were and how we'd roamed the estate together doing guy stuff.'

‘And what did the counsellor say about your blank memory?'

He sighed. ‘Probably brought on by the trauma of leaving my friends, my family, the place I was brought up. It's weird because I've spent the last eight years being someone, but I don't know if that person is me.'

‘Memory loss can't alter your personality,' I insisted. ‘It can't change what's inside.'

James took a faded photograph out of his pocket and handed it to me. It showed a youngish, well-dressed man standing in front of a red two-seater sports car. He didn't have to tell me that this was his father, the resemblance was undeniable; the bone structure, and the hairline, even the stance was James's. But there was arrogance, almost a sneer, in the smile that James didn't have, and there was something about the eyes that made me uneasy.