Island-in-Waiting (11 page)

“I'm sorry if I'm encroaching.”

“Not at all, I'm delighted to share it with you. Were Hugo and Martha too lazy to come?”

“I'm afraid I rather discouraged them. I felt in need of some solitude myself.”

“Then you won't want me butting in. I'll walk back down the road.”

“No, please. I didn't mean that. It's just that I've been putting off making a few decisions and it seemed time I tackled them.”

“About Ray?” His eyes were still on the distance.

“Some of them.”

“He was holding forth at the inn before lunch on the joys of your day out together.”

My heart blundered into my ribs. “What did he say?”

“Oh, that you were kindred spirits, perfectly in tune with one another and so on. It was very touching.”

“But hardly true,” I said in a low voice.

“Oh?”

“Would you say,” I began after a moment, “that it's possible for a person to be completely subjugated to the will of someone else?” I felt him turn to stare at me but I kept my eyes on the distant hills.

“That's a loaded question for a Sunday afternoon! Hypnotism, you mean?”

“Its after-effects, really. Do you know anything about it?”

“Very little, I'm afraid.” He paused. “Are we still talking about Ray?”

“Partly. It's a long story.”

“Then let's sit down and hear it in comfort.”

The bench was warm in the sunshine, sheltered from the stiff breeze on the other side of the wall. I said apologetically, “This isn't what you came up here for. You've still time to escape, you know, before I ‘hold you with my glittering eye'.”

He smiled. “I've no wish to. It sounds most intriguing. You say hypnotism comes into it. Hugo mentioned that you had rather an alarming experience a few years ago.”

“When did he tell you that?”

“On Friday, when we heard about you and John. He seemed to think there was some connection, that perhaps the long spell of unconsciousness had paved the way for a tendency to – ESP, don't they call it?”

“What Hugo doesn't know,” I said slowly, “is that the hypnotist is Ray's uncle.”

“Ray Kittering's? Good Lord, what a coincidence!”

“No, that's the whole point – it isn't. Ray used to practise hypnotism and telepathy with his uncle and he claims that he – cut in somewhere along the line. He says that since his uncle didn't bring me round himself, the connection between us has never been broken.”

“Are you trying to tell me that Ray has some kind of mental hold over you?”

I didn't answer directly. “He considers he's responsible for bringing me to the island.”

Neil stared at me. “Responsible in what way?”

“Telepathically.”

“My God!”

“How far are you prepared to suspend your disbelief?”

“Try me.”

“Well, since I came here things have escalated fantastically. Over the last few years I've been having a series of vivid dreams which seemed to be set here, though I'd never been before. I recognized Tynwald Hill, for example. No, it's no use saying I'd seen photographs and forgotten them – and anyway, it's much more than that now. I – I actually seem to slip into the past.”

I turned to him with a half smile. “I'm sorry, Neil, I know this is a lot more than you bargained for. The point is I've got to the stage when I have to tell someone and Hugo gets so worried about it.”

“I'm not surprised!”

“Tell me honestly, do you think I'm going out of my mind?”

“I very much doubt it. There are a lot of famous psychics, I believe, who are fully in possession of their faculties. In fact, the point seems to be that they have a few extra. Tell me about your trips to the past.”

As matter-of-factly as possible I related the transposition to the seashore below Orrisdale and my unwilling presence at the execution of William Christian. “And yesterday, with Ray, it happened again to a lesser extent, both at Tynwald and Slieu Whallian. I think he was responsible for those, though, as a kind of test.”

There was a long silence, broken only by the rushing of the water tumbling down the valley in front of us and the calling of the inevitable gulls that wheeled overhead. As they had wheeled when Illiam Dhone's blood soaked into the white blankets, and long years before that, when the Vikings gathered on Tynwald Hill. Somehow, I knew, my destiny was woven into the fabric of this little island as surely as theirs had been.

“About Ray,” Neil said abruptly, breaking into my musings. “He shouldn't be allowed to get away with it. It's positively – Machiavellian. The obvious solution would be to contact his uncle again and let him – disconnect you.”

“He couldn't the last time.”

“But perhaps if you were conscious, and actively trying to free yourself

“Ray would never tell me where he is. He doesn't want the connection broken.”

“Knowing Ray,” Neil said dryly, “I can't help suspecting that it isn't only your mind he's interested in!”

I smiled slightly. “He doesn't have it all his own way, whatever he was saying at the inn. Now that I realize what he's doing I can sometimes block him off.”

“I'm relieved to hear it. And you reckon the dreams you have are also due to the hypnotist?”

“It seems likely. He knows all about Manx history and folklore.”

“If you want my opinion, I think you should pack your bags and fly home immediately. It all strikes me as decidedly unhealthy. I'm sure someone would be able to trace the man for you.”

“But if Ray brought me here this time, he could do it again.”

“Oh come now, Chloe! Assert yourself! You've a mind of your own, haven't you?”

“I'm not sure,” I said carefully.

He put a hand over mine. “I'm sorry – an unfortunate choice of words! Seriously, though, I should put the greatest possible distance between you and Ray at the earliest opportunity. And loth though I am to worry Hugo, it's more than time that he was put fully in the picture. For one thing I don't care for the sole responsibility of knowing what you've told me.”

“You don't have to feel responsible for me,” I said bleakly. His repeated insistence on my going home was not at all what I wanted to hear.

“But good heavens, girl, of course I do! Would you expect me to stand by and look the other way while he turns you into some grotesque kind of puppet?”

“I shouldn't have told you. I'm sorry.” I was perilously close to tears but I'd no intention of letting him know.

“Well, you have, and Lord knows it's given me plenty to think about. I know the power of the mind is only just beginning to be fully appreciated but this! Ye gods, we've got premonition, time-hopping, telepathy and retrocognition, all in one bewildered girl! What worries me is how long you can hold your head above water.”

Over to our left purple storm clouds were massing and their giant shadows went racing down the hillsides, momentarily blotting out the colours. Neil stood up. “And talking of water we'd better be making a move or we'll be caught in the rain. It's slippery enough down there as it is. I'll go first and catch you if you fall!”

Down among the crowding trees it was suddenly much darker and cooler. The handrail alongside the first flight of steps soon gave out and the steep path plunged into the dimness, unfenced and potentially dangerous.

“All right?” Neil called back.

“So far.” I slithered after him, the noise of the waterfall roaring in my ears. On one side of the path dank gleaming rock dripped mournfully and the thin grey tree trunks were marred with the green leprosy of lichen.

“Watch this bit – it's lethal.” He reached back a hand and I clung to it as I started down the muddy slope. For a while the descent took all our concentration and we went in silence, but as it eased off slightly he said over his shoulder, “These dreams of yours, are they all in the past?”

“No. There's one particularly horrible one where I'm lost in the mist on a hill somewhere.” I put my hand against the rock face to steady myself and gasped as my fingers sank into spongy green moss. “Actually, I've had that one several times, beginning with a fairly mild, condensed version and gradually building up to the full horror.”

Down here at the foot of the gorge the trees were deciduous, their bare arms lifting in supplication to the distant sky while a few yellow leaves clung sparsely to the lower branches. I was thankful I hadn't attempted this walk alone. Hugo couldn't have realized the extent to which the recent heavy rains had intensified the dangers of the path, turning some of the steeper parts into a treacherous slide. We came to a wooden bridge and paused for a moment to look back upstream at the thundering descent of the waterfall.

“It's probably none of my business,” Neil said suddenly, “but do please be careful with Ray. The more I think about what you told me, the less I like it. Whether or not he really has any hold over you, the fact that he thinks he has could be enough.”

I gazed down into the water frothing below the bridge. “It's not only Ray, though. I've a feeling that the island and I have been waiting for each other for some time.”

“Which comment certainly doesn't make me feel any better! I must say you're the most intriguing girl, with all your dreams and portents. This afternoon has been quite a revelation. Just – take care of yourself, that's all.” He hesitated a moment and then pulled me gently towards him. His mouth was warm and firm, intensely familiar and well-remembered. It was over in a minute and I had to make a conscious effort not to pull him closer and make the embrace altogether more important than he'd intended.

“Will you have dinner with me one evening?” His voice was studiedly casual.

“Thank you, I'd like to.”

“There's a staff meeting one evening this week. I'll have to check and give you a ring.” In the five minutes we had been on the bridge it had become noticeably darker. “We'd better go, or Hugo will think the bugganes have got you!”

He took my hand and we went in silence along the dark, narrow path until, abruptly, it ended and the wooden building of the inn came into sight, with Neil's car parked next to Martha's in front of it. The glen was darkening rapidly now, premature evening shadows hastened by the storm clouds which were still marshalling on the hills. We stopped by the cars and looked at each other a little awkwardly. Then Neil smiled his slow, crooked smile and held my hand for a moment between both of his.

“Off you go then, and don't forget to tell Hugo about all this. I'll phone when I've checked about the meeting.”

He stood waiting while I started the car and moved slowly out on to the road. In the mirror I could see him still standing looking after me until I came to the bend and turned out of his sight.

Annette St Cyr had rung while I was out to let me know that she was well enough to return to work, and I was surprised when, the next morning, Martha called that she was on the phone again.

“Gaston and I were wondering if you've time to come over for a quick coffee this morning? We'd love to meet you, and thank you personally for helping out as you did. I have to leave for college about eleven, but if you could be here around ten o'clock it would give us an hour or so.”

The storm clouds which had gathered over Tholt-y-Will were falling as heavy rain when, an hour later, I drew up in the little car-park alongside the restaurant. Annette St Cyr opened the door as I reached it. She was tall, with wide grey eyes and dark hair tied back in a businesslike ponytail.

“Welcome to the Viking!”

I looked about me with interest. The room in which we stood was long and fairly narrow, its stone walls colour-washed in a warm shade of cream, and the heavy beams and rafters were a reminder of its days as a coach-house. Ten or twelve tables lined the walls, most of them only large enough for two, and at the far end of the room, alongside an enormous open fireplace, an impressive array of hotplates introduced a note of modern efficiency. Over the fireplace hung a model of a Viking longboat.

“It doesn't look its best at ten o'clock on a wet Monday morning,” Annette remarked with a smile, “but when the tables are laid and the lamps lit it really has quite an atmosphere.”

“I'm sure it has. And you run it entirely by yourselves?”

“Except for Nancy Finn from the village who comes in to do the washing-up. It's pretty hard work, I can tell you. Come through to the kitchen and meet Gaston.”

Gaston St Cyr was slightly shorter than his wife, as typical a Frenchman as one could imagine, with huge spaniel-like eyes and dropping moustaches. I automatically greeted him in French, to Annette's obvious approval.

“Is this tonight's menu?” I asked with interest, picking up the heavy card from the kitchen table.

“Mais oui.”
Gaston looked over my shoulder. “You will see,
mademoiselle
that we specialize in
cuisine
bourgeoise
rather than
haute cuisine.
There are different
plats
régionaux
each evening –
cassoulet,
fruits
de mer
and so on, and there is always offered also one English dish – baked ham or a roast of some sort.” He spoke with a strong Provençal accent, reminding me forcibly of Jean-Claude at the hotel in the mountains.

Annette was pouring boiling water into the coffee jug. “We hadn't realized you were à professional cook yourself until your brother mentioned it on the phone. I hope you didn't show me up too much! I'm very much the assistant round here, doing the roasts and vegetables and things that aren't too complicated.” She picked up the jug. “Let's go upstairs.”

The stairway to the flat above led from the little passageway behind the kitchen where I had collected my supplies the previous week, emerging directly into a small living-room, plainly and comfortably furnished. A tray of French pottery coffee cups was laid ready on the table before the fire.