Читать книгу Midnight is a Lonely Place - Barbara Erskine - Страница 25

There was a scattering of wet, sandy earth on the kitchen table. Kate stared at it. The torc lay where she had left it, next to the duster and the jar of silver polish. She touched the soil with her finger. It was wet and cold. She sniffed. The smell was there but very faint now – the smell of a newly-turned garden.

Or a newly dug grave.

She shook her head. She had not slept well. The room had been cold and the noise of the wind and rain lashing the windows had woken her several times from her uneasy, dream-laden sleep. Her head was so heavy she could not even think straight as she walked over to the sink, filled the kettle and switched it on. Perhaps after a cup of coffee she would find an explanation for the mess on the table. There had to be a reason. Earth does not just materialise on a kitchen table. It must have fallen from the beamed ceiling, perhaps released by creeping damp and rain, or it had been swept in on a freak gust of wind under the front door or down the chimney.

She spooned Nescafé into a mug and poured in the water, watching the swirl of brown granules clinging to the blue pottery dissolving as she stirred. It scalded her tongue when she drank but the caffeine shot into her system with gratifying speed. Putting down the mug she picked up the torc and stared at it closely. There was no sign of the effort she had made to clean it. Even the scratches she had made with her nail had disappeared. The metal was as greenish-black and corroded as ever. Wrapping it carefully in the duster she carried it upstairs and through into the spare room. Only one of her suitcases boasted a key. Locking the torc inside it, she pushed it into the corner and, closing the door behind her, she made her way downstairs again. She put the polish away and going to the sink rinsed out a J cloth under the hot tap. It took only a few minutes to wipe up the earth, rinse the cloth again and put it away before she dragged out her boots and jacket and throwing open the front door went outside with her log box. It was a bright sunny morning. High, white, wisped clouds raced across a vivid blue sky from the west and behind the cottage the sea glittered blindingly.

The rain had blown into the shed and many of the logs were soaked. Rummaging in the back she found a few that were dry and carried them indoors. Three times she made the trip back and forth, until there was a satisfactory pile beside the stove. Then she brought in kindling and a final armful of logs to put in the stove itself. Satisfied that she had enough fuel for twenty-four hours at least she stared down at the stove. There was no point in lighting it now. There was one more thing she had to do before she settled down to work for the day. It had been gnawing at the back of her mind since she had cleared up the soil in the kitchen.

Locking the front door behind her she wedged the key into the pocket of her jacket, and pulling on her gloves she headed across the short grass at the back of the cottage towards the beach. A flock of tern rose and wheeled as she appeared on the shingle banks and ran slipping and sliding towards the sand. The beach was wet still from the tide and trailed with weed. A line of shells, white and pink and glabrous in the bright sunlight, marked the line of the high tide. The air was so cold it made her eyes water as she turned right and followed the line of dunes towards Alison’s excavation.

For a long time she stood on the edge staring down into the declivity. Another huge chunk of the dune had broken away and she could now see clearly the different strata in the bright sand. There were pale lines of clay, different shades of sand and gravel and now, clearly visible, a thick black crumbling layer of peat.

There was a strange dryness in her mouth as she half jumped, half slid into the hollow. A spray of bladderwrack lay draped across the bottom of the trench and, half-buried in the sand, something bright red caught her attention as she peered nearer. Frowning, she kicked at the sand fall. Alison’s ghetto blaster lay there beneath a pile of sea weed. Stooping she pulled it free. The ‘on’ button was still depressed. Alison had been back this morning early and had gone again. Putting the machine on the edge of the hollow she stared round. What could have happened to make her abandon her precious cassette player? There was no sign of the girl’s tools, but perhaps they were buried in the latest sand fall. She stepped closer to the face and cautiously she drew off her glove. The peat was soft, layered, compressed. It smelt, when she withdrew her fingers, of wet garden soil. She swallowed hard. ‘Alison?’ Her shout was whipped up by the wind and carried only a few yards before it was dissipated and dissolved. ‘Alison?’ She shouted louder. Scrambling up to the edge of the hollow she put her hand to her eyes against the glare and stared round. The beach was empty.

She turned round. There could be no question of the girl being there, under the sand, but for a moment her imagination was playing the wildest of tricks. She could see where it was soft and loose, where it had fallen, and where, in the bottom of the hollow, a long mound lay compressed beneath the clay. A mound that had the shape of a human grave.