The Magic Cottage (34 page)

The bats in the attic were working themselves up into a frenzy by now and I wondered if the cause of their upset was the freak gale that was skimming through the roof’s eaves, creating some kind of maelstrom in the loft. I thought I could hear their faint
peeping
shrieks, but put it down to overstretched imagination.

Mycroft paused at the door to the hallway, and for a moment I thought he might take the downstairs route out; instead he turned back to Midge and said, ‘I’m ready to be your ally whenever you need me, whenever you find your courage. You’ll find only by seeking.’

She stared at him, a small, lost figure, her hands still clutched together on her knees; but she didn’t say anything in return.

Then Mycroft marched into the hall and yanked at the outside door, pulling it open without hesitation.

I expected the wind to come howling in and steadied myself for the blast. But there was nothing. Not even a breeze to ruffle our hair.

He stepped into the night, the others crowding behind him as though anxious to keep close, and I hurried across the hallway to shut the door again. Before I did so, I watched them make an unsteady descent of the stone steps, the gloom out there making progress slow. If it wouldn’t have proved inconvenient for me, I’d have cheerfully hoped that at least one of them would break a leg.

They disappeared around the curve and I relaxed a little, more than relieved to see them gone. But I blinked at the night, mystified as to how it had calmed so suddenly. As far as I could tell, not a blade of grass stirred, not a leaf was tossed. The air was mild and fresh and pleasant to breathe.

And when I went back inside, closing and locking the door behind me, even the bats had settled, not a sound coming down from above.

Only the strong musty odour was left to unsettle me.

Ghosts

And that’s not all. That wasn’t the end of it that night.

I awoke later and it was very dark in the bedroom, shadows blending into deeper shadows, odd bits of furniture becoming more than they really were, transformed into sinister shapes that lurked rather than just stood.

Midge was sitting up beside me, and it was either her movement or the tension she gave out that roused me, because she hadn’t reached for me, nor called my name.

Alertness sprang at me, not bothering with creeping up, and I pushed myself onto my elbows. Midge’s arm was stiff and unyielding when I touched her, the skin roughened by goose-bumps.

‘What is it?’ I whispered urgently, not knowing why I’d whispered.

She didn’t answer right away.

I was grabbing for the lamp switch when her voice stopped me.

‘They were here,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Oh, Mike, they were here.’

I turned back to her and held her in the darkness.

‘Who were here? What are you talking about?’

She shivered in my arms.

‘I sensed them both.’ There was a shaky kind of awe in her whisper. ‘I felt I could almost reach out and touch them. They were here in this room.’

‘Midge, who the hell are you talking about?’

I heard her weeping, but there was no sadness in her voice when she spoke again.

‘My mother . . . my father. They tried to speak to me. They need to, don’t you see?’

I held on to her and my flesh prickled as much as hers.

Birth Day

Waking up next morning was more gradual.

Still blurry-headed, I turned over in the bed to snuggle up to Midge. She wasn’t there, though.

Cranking open eyelids that felt as heavy as garage doors, I squinted at her side of the bed to confirm what touch (or lack of it) had already told me. Further thoughts trailed along at a more leisurely pace, taking a little while to come together, but memories of the night before, post-Mycroft included, eventually shifted the last threads of drowsiness.

I rolled onto my back and stared up at the ceiling. Cold light of day and all that: last night’s traumatic episodes, both of them, now seemed unreal. The Synergists’ menace just stopped short of being farcical on reflection – I mean, neither of us was na¨ıv e enough to fall under their influence, we weren’t kids, receptive to being drawn into such a ridiculous cult. We were non-consenting adults. Yet Midge had been more than a mite spellbound by Mycroft, there was no doubt of that, and I realized there was more to the man than I had assumed on our first meeting, when his charisma had been understated to say the least. Maybe that was part of his allure, his very ordinariness negating any suggestion of charlatanism.

After his fairly ignominious departure last night, Midge and I had been too wound up for a sensible discussion on what had happened and where it was leading to. When I pointed out yet again that something was going on inside Gramarye itself, all she did was announce she was too tired for further arguments and was going to bed.

I followed her in, trying to make her see sense (sense? What I was trying to make her see was crazy even to me!), but she’d have none of it. Called me blinkered. Now that really sent me into a rage, considering that it was she who was turning a blind eye on all the weirdness that was going on around us! That night alone, with a howling wind battering the cottage, bats living up a storm in the attic, all quietening down as soon as Mycroft opened the door to leave. The question begged: Had there really been a gale outside? Was it possible for the night to have become so instantly calm? And look at the effect the place had on the Synergists! Christ, Joby had looked about ready to pass out in front of us, and twice now Kinsella had had to leave Gramarye in a rush. I went on. And on. On a bit more, exhausting
myself
in the end. I brought everything into it, the ruined painting, Bob’s hallucinations –
my
hallucinations, for Chrissake! – the healing of the bird at the beginning, the trust of the animals and birds, the apparent regeneration of the garden. Even our glorious love-making (up until recently), even her beautiful artwork (before ruined), and even my inspirational guitar playing. I dredged up everything I could think of.

But it was like talking to a goddamn zombie. She didn’t want to know.

Yet she did get interested when I ventured the theory that maybe is was
she
who’d healed my scalded arm, not Mycroft with his magic potion and phony mental projection, she and whatever enchantment was contained within Gramarye itself, within its walls, its grounds, its atmosphere –
in it’s bloody heritage!
– working through her,
HER
, Midge Gudgeon, innocent catalyst or intermediary or even instigator. Just as Flora Chaldean had been! And whoever lived in the cottage before her!

I was rambling, inventing, plucking notions out of the air. Or so I imagined. It could have been my tiredness and the emotional condition I’d worked myself up into, driving me towards one of those rare states when the subconscious mind takes over and throws out thoughts that are normally vague or even inconceivable.

And maybe, just maybe, my subconscious was being prompted by something deeper and even more mysterious, something completely outside of me.

And when I’d finished, said it all, it was me who became uninterested. I was the one who could hardly keep his eyes open any longer, who had to drag off his clothes and crawl into bed, totally and utterly exhausted, drained of any more considerations.

Like I said, she was interested, but she didn’t try to rouse me. My last glimpse of Midge before slipping into sleep was of her sitting on the corner of the bed studying me with a peculiar glimmer in her eyes. After that I zonked out, and was glad to.

But later woke to find Midge bolt upright and staring towards the foot of the bed.

Now I wondered about that. Obviously everything that had gone before that evening had caused her nightmare, and I’d pulled her back down beneath the sheets and endeavoured to convince her of that. Although she hadn’t verbally rebuffed my contentions, I sure as hell knew she hadn’t accepted them. She lay there still and quiet, and when I touched her cheek I found it wet with tears.

I tried my best to comfort her but unfortunately it wasn’t long before I did a three-apostles on her – you know, mind willing, flesh weak – and fell asleep again. I just hoped tiredness had soon overcome her own vigil and she’d done the same as me; the thought of her lying there in the dark, believing she’d seen the ghosts of her dead parents, possibly thinking they might return that night, made me shudder. And feel guilty.

I pulled back the covers and swung my legs off the bed, checking the clock on the move. Nearly ten. I tongue-tutted, wishing she’d woken me earlier.

First I noticed, sitting there naked on the edge of the bed and scratching my ribs, that the musty smell from last night still lingered, an odour of damp and old plaster; then I realized I was gaping at something across the room, my addled brain not quite able to comprehend what I was looking at. The long crack in the wall, running from floor to ceiling, somehow didn’t register.

‘Shit,’ I said when finally it did.

I rose quickly and my stride across the room was broken when something small and soft squelched beneath my bare foot. I hopped and swore more loudly when the sting hit me half a second later, collapsing back onto the bed and grabbing for my foot. I found the tiny, thorn-like projection and, using my fingernails (fortunately finger-picking guitar length on my right hand) as tweezers, plucked out the barb. The area around the minute puncture was already swelling a bright red and I searched the floor for the culprit. The squashed bee lay a couple of feet away and I imagined its death rattle had been more of a vengeful chuckle.

Leaning forward, I peeled up the flattened furry mound and took it, together with its last-resort weapon, through to the bathroom, limping all the way, to flush them down the loo (not before peeing on the floating carcase first, though, my own petty revenge). Back in the bedroom, I examined the crack in the wall, the new plaster that had been used to seal and cement split into two jagged, serrated edges. It was a minuscule divide, but a crack is a crack.

So much for O’Malley’s craftsmanship.

I found my robe and left the bedroom in search of Midge. She was downstairs, sitting on the kitchen doorstep, chin on her knees as she looked out at the flowers in the garden. Again I didn’t notice at first what was out of place – or in this case, what wasn’t in place at all.

I bent over and kissed her neck. There was little response. She moved over slightly as I shuffled down next to her.

Although we were on the shaded side of the cottage I could tell the sun was out in full force by the way it played on the brilliant colours of the garden. And above, the sky was the colour of faded denim, a washed-out blue, the vaguest wisps of clouds a long way off in the distance. But the air was cool in that shadowed part where we sat.

‘How are you feeling today, Pixie?’ I asked, deliberately keeping my voice light, testing. I laid a hand on her upper arm.

Her response was minimal. ‘Very confused,’ was all she said.

‘Yeah, me too. But not so confused I can’t see Mycroft and his creepy little sect for what they are.’

Her tone was flat. ‘Let’s drop it, Mike.’

Mine was reasonable. ‘I don’t think we can do that. You’ve become too enamoured with them and it scares me.’

She shrugged, a small movement, almost a flinch.

‘Midge, have you thought about what I said last night?’

Still not looking at me, she replied, ‘You said so many things. Do you even remember?’ Now she did turn her head my way.

Right then, I couldn’t. I’d said such a lot it had become something of a jumble in my own head, not so much scrambled as mashed. Only later were those notions (perceptions?) to become clear again. My head ached and you could have done a litmus test on my tongue; I wondered how I could be hungover from one glass of wine last night. Then I realized what was missing from the garden.

‘What’s happened to our friends today? There’s usually one or two still hanging around for food at this time of the morning.’

‘There were no birds outside earlier,’ Midge replied without expression.