Don't Look Back (30 page)

‘You OK?' he asked with concern. ‘You're as white as a ghost.'

Tears pricked my eyes. There wasn't time to savour our meeting, which might be a blessing as seeing Harry again felt too painful.

‘I don't have much time,' I said weakly.

‘Story of your life,' he quipped.

I bit my lip and stared down at the ground, bracing myself for my confession. ‘There's something I should have told you weeks ago, Harry. Sara is completely crazy about you … and I kept it from you.'

He attempted to touch my cheek, but I took a step away from him. ‘I'll always love you … but only as a friend. She'll love you so much her heart will feel like it's breaking when you're apart, and her face will light up whenever she—'

‘I don't want anyone but you,' he cut in, but I hushed him.

I remembered the way James used to look at me, and it was another minute before I could trust myself to speak. ‘When someone returns your love, the feeling is so amazing your heart sings and everything in the world changes colour … you want to hold the moment forever. That's what you deserve, and that's what you can have. Don't waste it –grab it with both hands, because you never know how much time you have.'

Harry didn't reply, but I could hear his pained shallow breathing. I deliberately avoided looking at him because I didn't want to remember him bereft and suffering.

I tried to swallow and made a horrible noise with my throat. ‘Please go, before you see me cry.'

He whispered, ‘Look after yourself, Sinead.' Then he smiled the shy, crooked smile I loved and turned to go.

I took a few steps forward and wrapped both arms
around him, hugging him tightly. My head rested against his spine. Then my arms were empty and I was hugging only air. I didn't look up until I was certain that he was completely out of sight.

*

Coming back to Benedict House felt so right, like returning to my real home. The atmosphere was electric and I noticed the long shadows and quickened my pace. I wanted to see Sister Catherine, to gain some kind of affirmation that I was on the right track, but she was nowhere close to the house. The front door was open and I went inside. I baulked at the sight that greeted me. The magnificent hallway, which I had polished and buffed to perfection, was now filthy, the marble chipped and stained. The sweeping staircase was gouged and split. I went into the main living room and found it in total disarray, the furniture and fittings damaged and the windows smeared with grime. The rest of the downstairs was the same, and water penetration had left damp rivulets down the walls. Despite my fourteen days' hard labour, the house was in a far worse state than when I arrived. It smelled of decay and neglect, as if it had been unoccupied for years.

What was going on? And where was Sister Catherine? I went outside to take stock, heaving for breath as though I'd run a marathon. I glanced upward; the elegant facade had disintegrated as well, the window frames rotted and patches of the roof missing, blackened rafters visible as though fire had ripped through the building. Nothing here
should have surprised me any more, but my mind was reeling. I needed to return to the monument, the only real thing my mind could grasp right now.

It was early evening and the sky had darkened in the last few minutes, black and grey clouds swirling angrily overhead, almost extinguishing the last vestiges of sunlight. Because of the prolonged humidity a series of thunderstorms had been predicted and a clap sounded in the distance like the crash of cymbals. The wind picked up, reminding me of the day I started to look for Patrick, when I almost fell from the clock tower, and the day I first met James. This already seemed like a lifetime ago. By the time I reached the glade the rain was battering the ground. The wind had intensified and I had to walk against it. Every step felt as if I was trying to climb a mountain. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. The ground must have been so dry that the rain had run off into the nearest channel. The dried-up stream was now filled with rising water, a surging torrent almost level with the bridge. I had to get across quickly.

I stepped on to the first plank, but it rocked violently and my hands gripped both sides. My feet were sliding, which forced me to my knees. The wind felt like the roar of a hurricane in my ears, buffeting me from side to side like a rag doll. I wanted to curl up to escape from it, but if I let go of the ropes I'd be thrown into the water. My chin nuzzled my chest to protect my face as I blindly shuffled forward an inch at a time. Something whizzed past my ear, grazing my cheek. It seemed to have the solidarity of stone, as though
rocks were being hurled in my direction, and still the water rose, covering my feet and calves as I crawled along. It's a two-metre-wide stream, reason told me, not a raging river, but this felt as real as any of my previous ordeals.

At last I was at the other side, whipped and exhausted but unbowed. It would take more than this to stop me, I thought with pride. I could see the dark outline of Cerberus skulking at the side of the monument. He hadn't growled, but I was still fearful of him. It would be awful if he stopped me now, just when I was so close. I tried to move purposefully, glad when my hands met solid brick. With fumbling fingers I reached into my pocket, took out the heavy iron key and inserted it into the lock. I wasn't surprised that it was a perfect fit, and it turned with ease. I plucked up the courage to look over my shoulder and gaze into Cerberus's eyes. At dusk the dying sun reflected in them like tiny dancing flames, but he didn't appear aggressive any longer. He was lying full-length on the ground, alert and watchful, almost as if he'd been instructed to stand guard.

The door was carved from ancient gnarled wood, at least ten centimetres thick and still strong. It blew shut behind me and I was immediately plunged into darkness, trembling like a leaf in my sodden clothes. After a few minutes my eyes adjusted and the darkness seemed to be composed of shades of green, purple and charcoal. Somewhere there was a tiny dot of white light. I looked down, thankful I hadn't tried to move, because there were
steps directly in front of me. There was no choice but to descend, with the terrifying certainty that this was where I had always been meant to come.

The steep steps felt as if they'd been carved into the earth itself. Being underground gave me a horrible claustrophobic sensation. The air was stuffy and my ears felt as if they were plugged with cotton wool. As I descended lower I could see a small room ahead, measuring no more than three square metres, and the source of the light revealed itself, a single candle held in a small glass container resting on a simple stone altar. Who would have come down here to light it? There was a wooden crucifix hanging above. The walls and ceiling were made of rusty brown earth held up by arched stone supports. There was only one other item in the room: a pale leather-bound book. It had escaped me at first because the binding was the same colour as the altar. I opened it at the beginning and there was a full page of Latin text in illuminated writing. Some of the words were vaguely familiar and then it hit me: this was where Patrick had lifted the passage from. The word
infernus
jumped off the page. The priest had implied that it could mean subterranean or hell. If Patrick was trying to frighten me, he was succeeding.

I was scared and frustrated. There was nothing else here. I'd followed my brother's footsteps to the letter and I couldn't stay much longer because I was feeling faint – every cell of my body was screaming to be out in the open. The only way forward was for me to resurface and find Sister
Catherine to ask her why I'd failed. I'd done everything right and I still didn't have the answers she'd promised me. It seemed to take longer climbing back up; the steps seemed to go on forever. My eyes had adjusted to the dark and now I had limited vision. I pressed my ear to the door, listening for any sounds, but my hearing was still muffled. I gently pushed against the wood, but it didn't move. I pushed harder and then used my full weight, but the door held fast; there wasn't even a creak. Hot, wet panic engulfed me. A tomb – that was what this place had become. No one knew where I was and no one would come looking. I'd willingly entrapped myself here to die slowly of thirst and hunger. And I suddenly realized it was scorching beneath the earth.

I'm not certain whether I blacked out for a few minutes or if panic sent me flying into my own orbit, detached from the world. But there was a voice calling me and it seemed real, a voice echoing somewhere in the distance but growing louder. I cocked my head to one side. It wasn't coming from outside. It seemed impossible, but the sounds were emanating from below. My feet took the stairs again so fast that I stumbled more than once.

There was a figure standing in the shadows. I would have recognized him anywhere.

Patrick had a huge grin across his face and I was so shocked to see him that I was struck dumb. He looked so handsome, better than he had done for ages, his complexion vibrant and full of colour, his voice eagerly warm. I expected to feel relief but I was consumed with fear. My trembling worsened and my teeth chattered uncontrollably.

‘I knew you'd find me, Sinead. Well done.'

I spread my fingers across my cheeks. ‘But where … I mean, how did you get past me?'

Patrick moved to one side and held out the palm of his hand in an old-fashioned gesture as though inviting me to dance with him. I stared at the wall until he took a step towards it and, with an impish expression, a step through it. I gaped in amazement. It was an optical illusion. What appeared to be solid earth had actually been hollowed out. Sister Catherine had told me that the foundations of the church remained; they must form a series of tunnels, maybe catacombs. Patrick had a flaming torch in his hand
to light our way. This was surreal. I rubbed my eyes in case I was hallucinating again.

‘What took you so long?' he asked.

Patrick was acting as if nothing was wrong, which made me so much more afraid. ‘Your clues were so … bizarre,' I said. ‘I was really worried about you.'

‘But you solved them all, Sinead … except for the snake. I saved that until last.'

‘I don't need to know,' I said, dread coiled deep within me.

‘You have to know,' he insisted. ‘It's important. It's what I've been waiting for.'

I tried but failed to tear my eyes from Patrick. He ripped open his shirt and I could see a red and black snake tattooed diagonally from his waist to his shoulder. His muscles rippled and the snake seemed to come to life, its scaly body undulating across his chest. It was chilling.

‘Mum hates tattoos,' I said warily. ‘What made you do it?'

‘It's the new me,' he replied. ‘Haven't you ever longed to break free and become the person you've dreamed of?'

‘I've changed as well in the last few weeks –'

‘Don't lag behind,' he urged, striding ahead.

My breathing was slow and heavy. ‘Why did you make me go through this, Patrick? And why here? At Benedict House.'

He didn't answer. My dread was increasing, yet I was
still compelled to follow him. ‘Patrick! Slow down. You're going too fast and I can't keep up.'

Something else was worrying me – the ceiling of the tunnel was getting lower and I had to stoop. My claustrophobia was worsening too, the familiar closed-in feeling filling my mouth and choking me as if the roof was caving in. There were footsteps up above, a backwards and forwards movement that told me we must be underneath Sister Catherine's interminable pacing. I stopped dead as another sound reached me and my heart somersaulted.

‘I have to go back,' I shouted out. ‘I heard James's voice.'

Patrick turned slightly. I could see only a portion of his face, but the light from the torch made his skin glow a burnt orange. ‘It isn't him, Sinead. He's dead, you know that.'

‘I don't know that,' I cried. ‘His body disappeared and Sister Catherine said he was waiting for me.'

Patrick's tone grew sharper. ‘Sister Catherine lied, and if you leave me now, you'll never see me again.'

‘Don't be silly … I'll follow after you and … meet you at the house.'

Patrick angrily made his way back to me. ‘You can't just abandon me again, Sinead.'

I was used to his violent mood swings and tried to calm him. ‘I'm not abandoning you –'

He pulled a sneering face that made me retreat – he had never looked quite so menacing. ‘You know what I
tried to do when we were children. What must you think of me now?'

Patrick must have talked to Mum in the last few hours. She must have told him that I knew what had happened all those years ago and he was no doubt filled with remorse. Every fibre of my body was aching to search for James, but the customary loyalty made me hesitate.

‘I forgive you,' I said quickly. ‘What you did … it wasn't completely your fault. Mum should have tried harder to see what was under her nose.'

Patrick grasped my wrist and his fingers seemed to burn into my skin. I cried out in pain.

‘You're not going back, Sinead. You've come too far and you've been lost for too long.'

There was no saliva in my mouth and my voice came out thick and claggy. ‘I've been confused and aimless maybe, but not lost … and since I met James—'

‘He isn't enough to save you,' Patrick cut in.

His words chilled me to the bone. ‘I've changed,' I yelled as if to convince myself. ‘Since I met James I'm a different person.'

‘You haven't changed enough,' Patrick said smugly, his eyes glowing like hot coals.

James was calling my name again. On impulse I turned around to make a run for it, and was beaten back by a wall of flames.

‘It isn't him,' Patrick insisted. ‘He's trying to trick you. You're only safe with me.'

And then James's calm and soothing voice was inside my head. ‘Don't listen to Patrick. If you follow him, you'll truly lose your way. Walk through the fire – it won't burn you.'