“Where’s it come from, or rather should I ask, who’s got that amount of money to throw around?”
“To be honest, I don't know. The board’s being secretive. Whoever it is, they want to remain anonymous.”
Most people invest in the future. Only someone with a unique perspective on life would invest in the past. Five years is a long time. You can achieve a lot in five years if you have faith in what you do. The investigation is going well, but we're still missing a vital connection. Jack smiled. Five years should be long enough to find it. “In the long run, Al, what does it matter? As long as you’ve the money to carry on it’s irrelevant.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Why worry where it comes from, I’ll just worry about spending it. So when should I expect you, tomorrow?”
“No chance,”
“When then? It’s never lasted for more than a few hours so far and...”
“Exactly,” Jack interrupted. “So there’s no point in me rushing as it’ll be over before I’ve even left Ireland. Look, I’m booked up for a Holistic fair in Peterborough in two weeks time so I’ll be in the area anyway. What do you say to me stretching out the visit and we’ll see if anything happens while I’m there?”
“If it’s the best you can do...”
“It is. When the fairs finished, I’ll come up to Cambridge for a week. Can you put me up?”
“Pleasure's all mine. By the way, how's it going with the text translation I faxed you? Any good.”
“The Ancrene Riwle is making fascinating reading.” Jack rubbed his palm across his jaw. He needed a shave.
“Thought you'd enjoy it. What's it all about? Nun's prayers or vows of abstinence?”
Jack laughed. Al was too much. “Vows of enclosure actually. Though to be honest there's something about it which has me foxed. Can't quite put my finger on it."
“No doubt given time you will. Hey Jack, I've got a sensor going off. I'm hanging up, buddy. Catch you later.”
“Bye.” Jack said, but Al had already gone.
Needing to clear his head, Jack wandered from the house and into the garden.
How am I going to find this woman. I've never had such a strong telepathic connection with anyone and especially someone I've never met. It's unusual to say the least. My chances of meeting her in person must be practically zero.
He crossed the expanse of well-trimmed lawn to where a bed of white roses hung heavy-headed in full bloom. With gentle precision, he plucked a blown specimen from one of the bushes.
A little bit of magic for you. Whoever you may be.
The petals were loose on the stem. He pulled them off and let them sit in the palm of his left hand. He closed his eyes and murmured the words of an ancient Celtic spell. Then with one gentle breath blew the rose petals from his hand. The velvet flakes floated down in a soft shower to rest on the dark, upturned earth of the flower-bed.
That'll be a nice surprise. Hope she enjoys it. Enough games, time to get some work done.
It was getting close to midnight when Jack took off his glasses and laid them on top of a stack of papers. The computer screen became a blur. He rubbed his eyes to try and clear his vision. Enough is enough for one day. He pushed the chair back on its wheels and stretched out his long frame. Stifling a yawn, he saved the document he’d been working on and switched the computer to sleep. Before clicking the study light off and closing the door he took the pile of printed papers, slipped them into a large envelope and shut them in the safe. Well out of the way of Mrs Murphy’s prying, feather duster.
Half an hour later he stepped from a steaming shower, towelled himself dry and made for the bedroom. Jack, afflicted by night-time asthma attacks, kept the furnishings to a minimum. He pulled down the simple roller-blind and slipped between the cotton sheets.He’d been asleep for a while when he began to toss and turn in the bed. He mumbled something and then woke with a start. The heavy pressure of an erection pressed tight against his pyjamas. Dreaming about her again. So vivid. As if she was in the bed by my side. It must be my imagination.
Jack sniffed the air.
Perfume?
He sniffed again.
Jasmine?
He sat up in the bed, troubled. The sensations, although enjoyable, left him confused.
Wide awake and unable to sleep more, he got up, dressed in a pair of old jeans and a thick wool sweater and went downstairs. In the kitchen, he prepared a flask of strong coffee and carried it through to the garage where he collected his fishing rod and a director-style folding seat before setting off into the dark.
In the early hours a low mist swirled over the waters of the lake and then dispersed. Jack, booted feet resting in the shallows, watched the dawn break. The first weak rays strengthened until they broke through the grey haze and sent shimmers of light, like shoals of silver fish, dancing across the lake. The gentle lap against the shingles was hypnotic. He was tired, but his over-active mind wouldn’t rest. The identity of the woman still perplexed him. The only thing I can do is keep trying to make contact. Keep at her till she responds. He shifted in the chair. The tight stretched canvas creaked as he leant over to pull the vacuum flask from his bag. With a quick twist he cracked open the Thermos and poured strong black coffee into the plastic cup, inhaling deeply of the rich Columbian as it steamed into the cold air. It blended well with the shot of whiskey he’d laced it with.
A rustle of leaves came from the bed of reeds by his side. In their midst, a thin stalk bent beneath a delicate weight before a flash of gilded blue flew out along the water’s edge. Jack missed the sight. His eyes were fixed on an island just off-shore where a dark, shadowy figure moved.
Patrick is roaming his turf.
The skin on Jack's arms bristled. He sat up straight and rubbed the back of his neck. There wasn't time to row over. He'd tried before. Patrick would be long gone when he got there.
“One day, Patrick, one day...” The chuntering call of the otter silenced him. She was followed by her off-springs, their short-legged bodies undulating in their peculiar land-bound walk. The mother raised her head to sniff the air, black whiskers on her stub of a nose bristling. She can't see me, but she knows I'm here. Senses my presence. Jack didn't move a muscle. Two metres from him, further along the shoreline to the right, she paused again before in a swift and splash-less blur of sleek brown fur, the otter family slid together below the water’s surface and disappeared. Jack’d seen what he’d come to see. He stood up and wound in the fishing line. There was no bait on the hook. He hated fishing.
Chapter 3
Thorney, England. 2010.
The insistent ringing of the telephone intruded the quiet hours of the night. Brigitte didn't know how long she'd slept when she staggered from the bed to answer the late night call. Still half-asleep, she mumbled into the phone, “Yes. Who is it?” There was no one there. She banged the receiver back in its cradle.
Crawling back under the covers, she remembered what she'd been dreaming about and groaned. Tried to bring it back, but couldn't. The moment had gone. The strange intimacy had disappeared with the shrill ring of the phone. Rolling over in the bed, she thought of the sensation of his warm breath. It'd sighed from his lips and tickled her ear when, in his own strange way, he'd repeated her name over and over again. Brigid. He'd called her Brigid, then waited in silence to see if he'd raised a response. She hadn’t wanted to stir too quickly and spoil the moment. Feigning sleep, she'd kept her eyelids closed. His touch, the lightest of strokes, brushed against her hair in a caress so soft and gentle it could only be interpreted as sensually inviting. She'd trembled when his delicate touch fondled the soft curve of her thigh. A shudder passing through every cell of her body from the need to feel his strength inside her. The powerful surge of passion he created in her was overwhelming her and she submitted to his masterful hands, letting her mind wander free to reach out and join him.
Brigitte thumped the pillow and turned over, restless and confused. It wouldn't be difficult to
decide to swap her visits to Paul for visits to a sex therapist. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but it didn't seem five minutes before the buzz of the alarm woke her again. In the dark, the numbers on the clock-face glowed fluorescent-green. Seven o’clock and time to face another day. She dragged herself from the dishevelled bed and went to wake her daughters for school.
On the upstairs landing, the phone sat quiet and innocent on its small table. Curious about the late-night disturbance she pressed through the buttons searching for the incoming number. Nothing? How strange. It must have been just another dream.
The girls’ room was as warm and dark as a cocoon. Brigitte shook at the first half-comatose body.
“Come on you two, it’s time to wake up.” To reach the top bunk, she needed to stand on the bed-frame. “Come on, Skip, up and at'em.” This is like waking the sleeping dead. It took her ten minutes of constant probing to get a lucid response. “Don’t be long in the bathroom or you’ll miss the bus.” Why am I asking for the impossible?
Brigitte was leaning against the kitchen work-top drinking her second cup of coffee when Shelley appeared. To have made it to the kitchen first she must have won the sprint to the bathroom.
“You look tired, Mum. Didn’t you sleep well again?” Shelley sat down at the table and poured cereals into a bowl.
“No, I had another bad dream. Did you hear the phone ring late last night?”
“The phone?” Shelley asked, crunching her way through her cornflakes.
“I think I got up to answer it about three-ish, but I’ve just checked and there’s no call registered. Just wondered if you’d heard it?”
“It sounds to me like you were dreaming. Where’s Skip? If she doesn’t hurry up we’re going to miss the bus.”
“You finish your breakfast and I’ll go to see what she’s doing.”
There wasn't any need. Skip flew into the kitchen like a tornado.
“Why does it take you so long to put your make-up on, Shelley? Is it because you’re so ugly and you need loads?”
Here we go. Is there ever a day they don't fight first thing? Though after last nights radical dream and the phantom phone call, their squabbling is making me feel normal.
“Come on,” Brigitte handed Skip some buttered toast. “Take this and eat it on the way to the bus stop. If you don’t hurry up, you’ll be walking again.” In a rush, they grabbed their school bags and pecked her on the cheek.
“See you tonight, Mum.” They shouted before the front door banged closed behind them and they left her in a wake of silence.The note, Call Paul, PLR, stared at Brigitte from the fridge door. She swore under her breath. I'm not in the mood for another stop smoking session. I'd rather have a cigarette with my coffee.
Why am I the only person at the station?
Brigitte boarded the waiting train and in an empty carriage, settled herself next to the window. The seat was hard and uncomfortable. Through the thin fabric of her skirt, with that dusty, ingrained itch of oldness, the rough velour covering, as frayed as it was, prickled at the skin on the back of her legs. With a jolt, the train shuddered into motion and like a discoloured memory, the station disappeared behind her in sepia-framed slow motion. She ran her finger along the ledge of the window and then gazed at the coal black smudge on the tip. Pressing her forehead against the rain mottled glass, she let her eyes follow the flecks of soot floating past her speckled vision while the train gathered speed. With the rocking motion of the carriage, the connecting door between the compartments slid open and closed. The soft, swishing thud sounding like a dull heartbeat in her ears.
The tack of the wheels on the tracks is hypnotic.
Scenery flitted by. A patchwork slope of fields and hedges. The burnished blur of early autumn was an unfamiliar landscape. She exhaled. Her breath left its mark in an opaque white cloud. She wiped her hand across the dirty glass. The ruins of a castle came into view. High on a hill and circled by tall trees. The increasing proximity of its looming tower sent shivers down Brigitte's spine. A coven of ravens appeared and circled in slow flight above the distant monument.
Is it a warning?
Caught on a rising current of air they soared high until they became no more than black dots in the blue of the sky. Then, with the sun glinting on their dark plumage, they swooped in a swift, downward flight which brought them closer to the train. Brigitte's heart beat a panicked rhythm in time with the frantic flapping of their wings.
The train hissed and in a dry, metal on metal screech, slowed and came to a halt. In a haze of steam, Brigitte left a deserted station behind. The country lanes she walked along passed in insignificance until there, stretched out before her, was the castle.
Why am I so afraid?
She took a tentative step closer, her heels sinking deep into the soft turf of the embankment. Step by timid step she crept forward until she stood on the edge of a narrow, wooden bridge which spanned the moat-like river. A cold hand twisted at her insides. Caught in the ominous shadow cast by the thick granite walls, she shivered. Like the wings of a moth caught in the light, her nerves fluttered.
I must go in. Someone is waiting inside for me. But who?
Gathering her courage, Brigitte stepped onto the rotted planks of the bridge. The boards bowed beneath her weight. A strong smell of decay mingled with stagnant weed and river debris rose to overwhelm her. She stumbled across in panic. On the other side, trembling with fear, she pressed her back against the solidness of the arched entrance and tried to calm the pounding of her heart. The damp, green moss, growing between the unevenness of the rough stone, rubbed dark stains into the fabric of her blouse.
The archway opens onto a grassy courtyard, blessed sunlight and the sweet scent of roses. It is as if, in the act of passing beneath those stone curves, I have walked back in time. He is here waiting for me. He is here and I am safe.
He hastens to me. The sun glints on his hair. Long, untidy hair which hangs about his shoulders and is as black as the soaring raven's wings. Without a word, he takes me by the hand and pulls me toward the castle doors. I don't want to enter there, but he makes me. Inside. it is dark, but through slit windows cut high in the stone walls, thin shafts of light enter. Stray motes of dust dance in the beams like minute grey butterflies searching for the way out. My legs will not respond. He tugs at my arm and I must keep pace with him until he catches me in a firm embrace and holds me tight.
He is still with me, but he is also there in front of me. In some place, dank and morbid, illuminated only by the flicker of burning torchlight. He is seated in a chair, bound and gagged, with two men by his side. I am mortally afraid and struggle to break free of his grasp. He is too strong and grabs me by the hair, forcing me to watch, forcing me to listen. Time stands still. There is nothing more in my world other than the sound of his voice and the violence before me.
“Look at me, Brigid. The strangling sensation of that rope tightening around my neck woke me.”
From beneath the dirty sack-cloth laced tight about his head, a rasping cough sounded and echoed through the dungeon. One of the men slapped him hard on the back. “Ease your struggling, pagan, lest you choke to death and save us a job.”
“Look at me, Brigid. For all the care we'd taken, they caught me unawares and sleeping.”
His breath is a harsh murmur in my ear.
“They brought me here. To this place. They brought me to your home. Here, to this place of anguish which to us was once one of such happiness. You were gone. Anger is a raging force inside me. I begged to all the divinities that you were not suffering so at the hands of Patrick.
“Is he dead already?” One of the men asked. His companion pressed his ear to their prisoner’s chest.
“His heart beats faint. Perhaps it is failing him through fear.”
“Then the luck is with him, for he will feel no pain. Our work will be easier without his struggling.” With a grunt he dragged a heavy wooden trestle into position by the ch
air.
The executioner mounted the bench and with a nod to his companion, signalled he was ready to begin. They worked with swift and practised movements. One positioned a spiked metal stake to the prisoner’s head, holding it steady with both hands. The other, from his higher point on the bench, prepared to swing a heavy mallet.
With a swift, brutal ring of metal on metal the spike pierced their captive's skull, exited at the nape of his neck and embedded its cutting point in the soft flesh between his shoulders.
As the stake penetrated his skull, it pierced her heart. Her breathing seemed to cease. Still he wouldn't let her turn her eyes away. She screamed at them to stop. Not a sound escaped from her constricted throat.
“Brigid, Brigitte,”
“Brigitte. You’ll hear me counting back from five. When I reach one you'll be awake.”
Paul recited the numbers.
“Five... four... three... two...one. Brigitte, can you hear me?”
Bit by bit he brought her out of the deep hypnotic trance. Her lids fluttered for a moment, then opened. She stared up at him, glassy-eyed and not quite with it. Beads of sweat stood out on her forehead. Her mouth was dry and a faint sensation of nausea had settled in the pit of her stomach.
“Welcome back.” Paul said.
“Have I been somewhere?”
“You tell me?”
“I can't remember a thing.” She yawned. “I'm a bit sleepy though.” She closed her eyes again and just lay there, exhausted.
“Brigitte, stay with me.”
“Sorry. I just feel really tired.”
“I don't think that's down to the hypnosis. Are you sleeping well?”
“No. Things keep... well, waking me up.”
I don't like the way he's peering at me over the frame of his glasses. He'll only get the wrong idea if I tell him I'm having erotic dreams.
Paul got up from where he'd perched next to her on the couch, pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers and walked across the room to his desk.
“It's no good you pretending to fiddle with your pencil sharpener, Paul, if you've got something to say, then just say it.”