You and I, we are prisoners in the same old, mildewed tower.
‘Ask its name, Persephone!’
‘He won’t … tell me.’
He. Always he. Part of the denial. Giving it maleness, giving it a hard, damaged face.
‘All right. All right then …’
The drum beating louder in his head, the circle of seventeen stones glowing brightly there, Cindy braces himself, aware that what he is about to suggest is not terribly wise. It will bring with it pain and suffering, awaken memories of old, foul dreams.
‘Throw it to me,’ Cindy says lightly, and turns to look directly at the sixth chair. ‘Throw him to me, lovely.’
* * *
His hands, both of them, moving rapidly on the pad, Maiden is becoming aware of a surge of enthusiasm, a sense of violent arousal. His thumb is smudging the freshly laid pencil shading into misted whorls as he sculpts the face.
He’s in Justin’s garage, rich with the smell of oil and fear, and Justin is sobbing, ‘Please … I don’t know … I’ve told you … for fucksake, man, I don’t …’ There’s a silent, gloating presence suspended in the vault of grimy light from the roof.
‘Nice one.’ A low and guttural sigh. A rasp. Rapture.
Seffi Callard screams. ‘He’s touching my face!’
Maiden jerks at once to his feet, the pad and pencil falling to the floor, and moves towards her, but it seems a long way, like swimming through dark, muddy water, his hands clawing at the soup.
Hearing Cindy, sharply, ‘Bobby, sit down.’
Maiden feels frustration. Anger. An old resentment running as deep as a sewer. Hate. Then Seffi-
‘He’s touching me-’
Seffi draws in a huge breath and her body rears back, shuddering, and then it goes still and tight and Maiden waits for her breath to come out, but it doesn’t. She’s frozen, arched and rigid, an abandoned sculpture in bronze.
Maiden throws himself at her, but there’s something in between, something that hones the air, makes it vicious like a blade. Far away, Malcolm’s howl is close to a scream.
‘The smell!’ Grayle blurts. ‘Oh Jesus, it’s coming … it’s coming off of her.’
Maiden tries to touch Seffi but his hands don’t reach, and Seffi, though still rigid, starts to vibrate, as though there’s electricity forking into her, and there’s sweat forming like a second, bubbling skin on her face, and when Maiden’s hands hover over her shoulders he expects the electric charge to go through him like a sizzling knife, and he doesn’t care.
‘Please,’ he whispers.
And they’re all dead, the stupid irresponsible bastards!
‘Not now!’ Cindy shouts. ‘Leave me alone, can’t you?’
The drumming has lost its rhythm and the seventeen small stones from High Knoll have lost their lights, and — despicably — all Cindy can think about is his own predicament, the dissolution of his brilliant career. In a sick, dispiriting moment, he finds himself looking at the sixth chair.
It is empty but, above it, he would swear he sees Kurt Campbell’s sharp face projected into the window, in the light of the oil lamp.
And then the window itself collapses, a waterfall of glass.
XXXIV
The bulkhead bulb came on, awakening shadows in the castle walls, as if the explosion had summoned to the surface all the violent drama locked into its eight hundred years of history. Grayle stood in the yard in the rain and the irritable wind, hugging herself to squash the shakes. Feeling the banging of her own heart, like an iron bucket against the sides of a deep, deep well.
Marcus stumbled out through the fan of light, slivers of glass shining like snow crystals in his hair, an open cut on his forehead.
‘Just don’t say it, Marcus!’ Grayle’s voice rising like an elevator out of control. ‘Just like the old days. Just like the old freaking school. Only difference is, this time it’s you got to explain to the insurance guys.’
And then she was sorry because Marcus, barely free of the flu, looked like shit. Looked like he’d been beaten up on.
‘Should be some … chipboard.’ He was looking around vaguely. ‘In the old pigsty, round the …’
‘Huh?’
‘To board up the window. Got to keep … keep the rain out.’
A fog behind his glasses. The sour chill in the air, the smell, the sound, the taste of it, and all of it right there in his own back yard, within his own castle walls. The shock of invasion.
Grayle took his arm. ‘We’ll deal with it, Marcus. Bobby and I will handle it. You come back inside. Let’s get you a big glass of something strong. Get that cut cleaned up.’
‘Cut?’ A nerve tweaking his cheek. ‘Where’s … where’s Persephone?’
‘I guess she’s still in there, with Cindy and Bobby. Leave it, huh?’
‘I have to talk to her. She’ll be distressed. She needs reassurance.’
‘No, Marcus,’ Grayle said patiently. ‘That was last time. That was twenty years ago. She grew up. She knows precisely what she did.’
Cindy came out, followed by Malcolm the dog, loosed from the study. Then Bobby.
‘Marcus? You OK? Grayle?’
‘We’re fine, Bobby. Just deciding which of the all-night glaziers in St Mary’s we should call out.’
A bubbling giggle forming. Here we go, that old hysteria, welcome home. Some glass splinters fell out of her hair.
Bobby was looking at Malcolm, who didn’t move. Grayle shook her head hard, watching more glass fall around her feet. Bobby bent and patted his thighs. Malcolm looked uncertain. Grayle thought, What is this? Did Bobby collect something in there?
Malcolm gave a slow wave of his stumpy tail, ambled over. Bobby crouched. He and the dog bonded under the bulkhead lamp.
Cindy nodded. Whatever it was, it was OK now.
‘Where’s Persephone?’ Marcus demanded.
Bobby looked up. ‘I thought she came out with you.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘She was ahead of you. She ran out of the room. When it happened, she ran out, hands over her ears.’
‘Then she’s out here, someplace.’
‘Persephone?’ Marcus stumbled out into the yard. ‘Persephone!’
Stopping and listening and getting no reply. Only the wind against the castle walls. Marcus strode to the dairy. Hammered with a fist on the door.
‘Persephone! Are you in there?’ He turned to them, blood oozing down his forehead. ‘What if she’s in there with … with …?’
He couldn’t say it. But Grayle knew she wouldn’t have laughed at him this time if he had. She breathed in hard to cancel the memory of the feral, male smell.
‘Stand back,’ Marcus said.
‘Aw, Marcus-’
Marcus hurled himself sideways at the door. Bounced off, moaning, holding his shoulder.
‘Bloody hell, Marcus.’ Bobby putting himself between Marcus and the door. Malcolm started barking, figuring this was a fight.
‘She’s in there … don’t you see, Maiden? She’s locked herself in. She’s trying to deal with it herself. Bloody Lewis screwed it up, and she-’
‘All right.’ Bobby pulled hair out of his eyes; he was sweating, anxious. ‘Before we kick it in, you’ve got another key to this place, haven’t you?’
‘Lost it. Months ago. Persephone’s got the only key. Persephone!’ Marcus kicked the door, under the lock. ‘Please …’ He rattled the handle and the door sprang open. Marcus crashed through like an old bull, flung down on his hands and knees inside the dairy.
Bobby moved to help him up. Grayle pushed past them both, putting on the light. Marcus was shaking Bobby off, ramming his glasses into position.