Don't Look Back (22 page)

Shuddering at the memory, I stood up with difficulty. I would make my way to the house to see if James was awake and if he could shed light on my missing hours. I
needed to know what had happened to me. There had to be an explanation. I tried to damp down my growing fear that there were no rational explanations any more; this place was beyond the realm of the normal. I swallowed a panicky sob. My hand blindly touched Eurydice's face and my fingers felt perfect marble tears that I hadn't noticed before. A nearby tree was smeared with some dark substance and I stopped to examine it, fearful it was my blood. When I scraped at it with my fingers, flakes became embedded under my nails, but they weren't the colour or texture of blood. What the hell was happening? I stumbled on. James's car was parked at the front of the house and I remembered last night and my urgency to be with him. It hadn't abated, only intensified. If only he would appear on the balcony again, warm with sleep.

The front door was open, but there was no sign of anyone about. I entered the hall and listened, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. The sighing was particularly mournful in the silence, and every now and then an indistinct word seemed to filter through. I cautiously moved towards the concealed door, straining to listen. A low voice growled, ‘Sinead'. It was Patrick's voice and he'd used the same sharp tone as in my dream. My heart hammered. I knew he was close. It was the same feeling I'd experienced before. As if on cue, a tiny crack opened in the panelling. This was the moment when I'd finally caught up with my brother and he was going to show himself. I had followed his footsteps far enough. The game was over.

*

A disembodied hand appeared, the skin wrinkled and covered with liver spots, the nails discoloured. I wanted to run away, but found myself glued to the spot in terrified fascination as the crack widened. An ancient, wild-eyed figure with a shock of white hair emerged, dressed in a long ivory nightdress. Her face consisted of deep folds of yellow skin, her cheeks were sunken and her mouth formed an
O
of surprise. Her feet were bare and in one hand she was carrying an oil lamp. She moved towards me and I resisted the urge to run. One misshapen finger pointed in my direction as if in accusation.

‘You're here already,' she gasped, and her chest seemed to rattle with the effort. ‘I wasn't expecting you so soon.'

‘Mrs … Benedict?' I asked cautiously. ‘I'm Sinead. Sister Catherine employed me.'

Her hand loomed in front of my face, but as I instinctively withdrew to protect myself it dropped down to her side. She turned towards the sweeping staircase and her body tensed as though in preparation for the climb. I offered her my arm and took the lamp so that she could hold the banister. Her breathing was worryingly laboured but she made it to the top. Once inside her apartment she seemed to collect herself and her expression relaxed. This could be an opportunity to ask her about Patrick.

I showed her his photo. ‘Have you seen my brother here recently?'

She shook her head, but didn't seem surprised by my
question. ‘I'm sorry. Sister Catherine is the one you should ask. I don't see the people who are invited in.'

People who are ‘invited in'. So it wasn't just Sister Catherine who talked about these strange invitations.

I put my phone away, disappointed.

‘Let me get you some breakfast,' she said.

I held up my hands in protest. ‘No … really. I couldn't put you to so much trouble.'

‘I'll cook some scrambled eggs,' she insisted. Her eyes ran up and down my body. ‘You're very fresh-faced, but … so terribly skinny.'

‘I have lots of nervous energy,' I felt the need to explain. I studied my face in the mirror over the mantel. She was right about my skin – it positively glowed, as if I'd bathed in morning dew, which was fitting because that was exactly what I had done. And my hair didn't look as if I'd been lying in the wet grass all night. It looked better than when I slept on a feather pillow.

This was the first time I'd been upstairs at Benedict House. Several more oil lamps were dotted about and the heat had created flame-shaped stains on the hessian wallpaper that almost flickered in the sunlight. At night it must be like an inferno. Idly I picked up a photograph from a carved sideboard. I identified James's father immediately. His arms were possessively circled around a woman sporting a 1980s bubble perm and a blond boy with a wobbly smile. They had to be James and his mother. They both had the same large hazel eyes, but there was something else – they
both looked vulnerable and scared, held in that suffocating grip. James's father looked directly into the lens with an arrogant smile. I studied his face again, wondering if he could really be as cruel as James suspected.

Now that she was in her apartment James's gran seemed quite animated. She motioned me to sit at a small round table. A huge plate of steaming scrambled eggs on thinly sliced brown toast and a cup of tea were placed in front of me. I was desperate for coffee but smiled gratefully. I took a sip of the tea. It tasted fine – no bitter residue of vinegar.

‘It must be positively Sisyphean working here,' she said. ‘You don't look up to the task.'

‘Sisyphean?' I enquired blankly.

She brought her own breakfast to the table and sat opposite me, looking pleased to explain. ‘Sisyphus was a deceitful king who was required by the gods to roll a boulder up a hill for all eternity as a punishment. Each time he had climbed halfway up, the boulder would roll back down and his task would begin again.'

‘I'm stronger than I look,' I replied, wondering if the whole family was obsessed with myths. ‘I believe Benedict House has its own spooky legend.'

She sipped her tea primly. ‘Sometimes it's hard to separate history from legend, but we ensure that the entrance always remains open.'

My mouth twitched because she couldn't have been more wrong; Sister Catherine ensured the entrance always
stayed closed and fastened with a thick metal chain. James's gran seemed willing to chat though, and I kept my tone conversational.

‘The house used to be a church, I believe?'

She laid down her knife and fork. ‘That's not strictly true. The church was demolished and Benedict House built afterwards … on a different site within the estate grounds.'

My mouth dropped open. ‘I was told the house used to be a church, so I thought they were … kind of one and the same. Where was the church then?'

She shook her head. ‘It could have been anywhere on the estate. Over a thousand years have passed.'

My brain was whirring, trying to make sense of this new information. The first church, the one that Patrick had written about, didn't relate to Benedict House itself. It could be anywhere in the grounds. I screwed up my eyes in frustration.

‘Would there be any old maps or books that might pinpoint the exact location?'

‘There was a fire in the house,' she said wearily, pressing her forehead with her hand. ‘All was lost.'

‘What about the local archives?'

She clicked her tongue. ‘The Benedict family history has never been given over to the archives. It has always stayed here, where it belonged.'

To go up in smoke, I thought crossly.

I sat for a moment, wondering what else to ask her. It
was impossible not to be drawn again to the photograph of James's father. The conceited smile and knowing eyes made James's resemblance unwelcome.

‘Too handsome for his own good,' she laughed, noticing my attention. ‘Just like my grandson. Have you met James yet?'

I paid an unusual level of interest to my plate, trying to ignore the fact that James would be sleeping next door. ‘Yes … we've bumped into each other. James mentioned that he was … kind of hoping to meet his dad … now he was home.'

I held my breath. ‘I hope he doesn't,' she said fervently. ‘I really hope he doesn't but … it's out of my hands.'

I leaned back in my chair, wondering what to make of this. Was she acknowledging what a horrible father her son had been?

‘I … thought I saw a black mastiff in the grounds today, close to the bridge. James thought it might be Cerberus, his dad's dog.'

‘Ah, poor Cerberus,' she said sadly. ‘Such a faithful pet, but he won't have much longer to wait.'

‘For what?'

‘To be … reunited.' She looked around absently. ‘I can't let him near the house. If he should hear his master's voice, I'm not sure what would happen.'

A rash of gooseflesh broke out on my arms and legs. ‘His master's voice?'

‘Yes. I was listening to it in the hallway with the others. Weren't you?'

‘I don't know what I was listening to,' I said, my stomach churning.

‘But … I thought Sister Catherine had explained things and you understood why you were here.'

My knife jumped out of my hand and clattered on to the plate. What had Sister Catherine been saying to a sick old lady? James's gran smiled sweetly and a little knowingly, beckoning me closer. I leaned warily across the table.

‘James told me a secret,' she whispered. ‘He told me about the special young lady he's met. I'm so pleased for him.'

My heart soared and I tried to contain my grin. James had told his gran about us. He must be so sure of his feelings.

‘Did James say anything else about … this young lady?'

She laughed gaily. ‘He said she was a firebrand and he'd fallen for her the first time he saw her.'

‘I wish he could stay longer,' I said, sighing with happiness.

‘Whatever do you mean?'

There was something so incredulous in her expression that I feared I'd made a huge faux pas, but it was impossible not to continue. ‘He … mentioned something about going back to Australia.'

She shook her head and smiled as though humouring
me. ‘He was never supposed to leave at all. It was my duty to invite him here, but only to face his trial … It's too late for him, you see.'

I stared at her, dumbfounded.

‘You do understand, Sinead. No one just leaves –'

I tried to keep my face impassive as I tentatively got up from the table and backed towards the door. The calmer her voice became, the more it chilled me.

She carefully wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin. ‘No, no, no, silly girl. My son discovered that it is impossible to depart this place. James won't be able to, and neither will you. Your arrival heralds a new beginning, and for me an end to this mortal coil.'

Please let me get out of here. James had tried to warn me his gran wasn't herself. I should have listened. She was totally freaking me out.

Thankfully I'd reached the door and my hand gratefully clasped the brass handle..

‘I really should be getting on. Thank you for breakfast.'

She hadn't finished, and to reinforce her crazy utterances she stood up with her arms raised, her ivory gown shimmering in the rays of sunlight. ‘Your destiny is to stay here in a prison of your own choosing. The earth will weep with you and from your tears will spring forth new shoots –'

I bolted from the room and galloped down the stairs.

A nervous laugh escaped from me and I blew out softly, sinking down in the hallway and then rocking backwards to sit on the bottom step. Despite the heat I was shivering. Mrs Benedict's words were so disturbing, especially after hearing Patrick's voice this morning.
I was listening to it in the hallway with the others
. It wasn't just me. She'd heard something too.

What had Harry told me about the legend?
The moans of the damned can still be heard today.

Stop it, Sinead. You're overwrought.
I put my head in my hands. The catalogue of weird events was growing and so was my fear. Why didn't James wake? I didn't have the courage to burst into his bedroom unannounced, but I needed to be with him so badly that my desire was turning to a desperation that made me shivery and feverish. I moved outside to the front of the house, but the blind in his room was pulled down.

He must have been confident that it hadn't been going
to rain last night, because he'd left the top down on his car. My fingers trailed across the trim and stopped. There were distinctive horizontal scratches on the left door, silver showing beneath the metallic topcoat. And I could feel a slight dent, damage that hadn't been there the other day. James hadn't mentioned it to me. I took my hand away from the car and caught sight of my nails. They were still embedded with dirt and specks of red where I'd scratched at the tree this morning. Slowly I placed one finger against the paintwork – it was a perfect match.

A memory came flooding back in one hot, desperate surge. I was gazing at Eurydice when a car flew past me at speed, scraping the nearby tree and propelling me into the long grass. But not before I caught a glimpse of James's beautiful profile. And as I breathed in the smell of grass and earth, the sound of laughter resounded in my ears – a girl's laughter. That was the last thing I heard before I passed out.

James had been with another girl. All the time I was lying unconscious, James was with another girl, immediately after declaring his undying love for me. How could I have been so stupid? My teeth actually ground together. I was a terrible judge of character – except for Harry. Thank goodness I hadn't told him about James last night.

Even in my torment a feeling of self-preservation took over. No one knew about my night in the woods and no one would. I breathed deeply to stop the hurt from rising, but my chest throbbed as if I'd been stabbed. Everything
was raw, and if my feelings were visible I'd be a candidate for open-heart surgery.
What I feel for you is true, Sinead … I couldn't fake it.
James must say the same thing to every girl he met. I should get out of here while there was still time, because I couldn't trust what I might do.