Читать книгу The Good Sisters - Helen Phifer - Страница 10

Five weeks of nonstop hard work and the house was much cleaner, lighter and smelt better. Oliver and his two labourers had been in every day, working until six or sometimes later. As they opened up each room the house felt a lot better. Kate spent every hour working alongside them. By the time they went home she would make herself something to eat then sometimes carry on until ten or eleven.

When she was on her own she would open a bottle of wine, drinking it as she cleaned, sanded or painted – whatever needed doing first. She hadn’t been drinking as much because she was so tired, but if she didn’t have a drink at all, sleep wouldn’t come until the early hours.

Tonight, she’d managed to not have one, even though her hands were beginning to shake like some old drunk’s and she felt like crap. She wanted to see how bad it would feel to go without. By nine o’clock she knew she had to go to bed because the craving was so bad. Her mouth was so dry that she kept whispering ‘just one sip’, but she knew if she could make it through until the morning she might just be ready to go to the doctor’s and get some help.

She lay there on her bed, waiting for the usual tiredness to kick in. It didn’t. She’d never been so awake as she listened to the clock on the mantelpiece ticking away. Each tick sounded louder than the last and as she stared at the wall, she heard a door bang from somewhere up on the second or third floor.

Her heart was in her mouth and then she realised that Ollie – she’d shortened Oliver to Ollie because it was much easier to yell – had probably left a window open to get rid of some paint or plaster fumes. It was just a draught, nothing else. Looking at her phone because it was too dark to see the clock face, she saw it was 3 a.m. She turned on her side, closing her eyes when she heard the scratching again.

Her mouth felt even drier as she lay still, trying to figure out where it was coming from. It didn’t sound like the scrabbling sound she imagined a rat would make. Did she know what a rat actually sounded like? No, she couldn’t say that she did. What she did think it reminded her of was sharp fingernails. Scared to move, she waited for it to happen again.

It sounded as if it was coming from inside the wall opposite her bed, which was ridiculous as outside her room was the hallway. She sat up, leaning over to turn her bedside lamp on, and felt better as the warm glow filled the room. She got out of her bed and crossed to the wall by the door. Her heart racing, she pressed her ear against the wall and waited for it to happen again. Five minutes passed. She couldn’t hear anything.

Her imagination was running wild and she imagined someone on the other side of the wall in the same position as she was, ear pressed against it listening for sounds of movement from inside her room. Her neck started to feel stiff and she stood straight, telling herself she would have to get some mouse traps tomorrow. There was no more scratching, so she got back in the bed and knew that first thing tomorrow she would ask Ollie to check for rats or squirrels.

As she lay there thinking about how much she liked having the cowboy around, she felt a warm sensation spread over her, and then she reminded herself he was married and that it was an absolute no to even think about him as anything more than a friend. She knew how much it had hurt her deep inside to see Martin openly flirting with women who were half of her age. Every time he had done it had been like a kick in the stomach – a reminder from him that she was never quite good enough for him.

Her eyes finally getting heavy, she was drifting off when a loud thud on the floor above her made her eyes fly open. It had come from the room that was almost finished. She jumped and sat up, pulling the covers over her. She was probably extra jumpy because of the lack of alcohol flowing through her veins. She waited, holding her breath, but there was nothing more until she finally lay back down. Squeezing her eyes shut she willed her brain to shut down and let her sleep. But then, from the same room, came the sound of footsteps on the wooden floorboards – not heavy or loud, but light.

Kate reached out and turned on the small bedside lamp once more, her heart racing. Someone was upstairs. She listened, not daring to breathe out, and they came again. They were definitely footsteps – walking faster this time. Her hands were shaking. She didn’t know what to do. She picked up the phone to dial the police, but her finger hovered over the button. This was her house. She should really go and take a look. It didn’t sound as if it was some six-foot rugby player stomping around, more like a ballet dancer moving gracefully.

She threw back her covers and stepped onto the cold, tiled floor. Shit, it’s freezing. She didn’t dare to put her too big slippers on because of the noise they made, so she picked up the torch from under her pillow and then crossed the room and grabbed the small, wooden baseball bat that she’d got on a holiday years ago. She wasn’t a violent person, but if someone had broken into her house they would get a quick whack on the head for their troubles.

Creeping from her room, she left the door ajar because it creaked loudly as it closed. She made her way to the staircase. She stood at the bottom, listening for any sign of where her intruder could be. Her mobile phone felt heavy yet comforting in her pocket. There was no sound from upstairs so she made her way up, taking each stair one at a time then pausing when she reached the top.

The room above hers was seven doorways down the wide corridor. She shone the torch around and every one – except for that one – was shut. She was tempted to run outside and phone the police, but her pride wouldn’t let her. She’d feel like an idiot when the nice young officer they sent did a check of the gardens and stumbled across her recycling bin. They would think she was running some kind of private drinking club with the number of empties inside it, then they would ask who lived here and she would have to say ‘just me’. She could feel the look of pity they would give her, burning her soul to the core.

No, it was better for her to have a look around. If she still wasn’t happy, she could phone Ollie. No doubt he would come and make sure she was okay. Although she had no idea what his wife would think about her disturbing him at such a late hour. She waited, but couldn’t hear anything. Her heart pounding, she began to walk towards the open door.

Had she shut all the other doors today or had he? They had agreed to keep them all shut to cut down on the draught until the entire house had heating in. She would ask him tomorrow when he came. Tomorrow seemed so far away at this moment in time. The torch felt heavy in her hands and the beam was moving everywhere because she was shaking so much.

Before she knew it, she was standing right in front of the door she thought the footsteps had come from. The darkness inside was all-consuming. Come on, Kate, you know the score. There could be some mad axeman waiting in there for you. How many times have you watched the film and screamed at the television for the stupid woman to phone the police or to run? But she couldn’t. She had to check inside that room and prove to herself she wasn’t hallucinating. After all she’d been living here for five weeks now and had never heard anything up until tonight, and then the voice inside her head whispered: You’ve never been sober before tonight. You’re normally comatose by now, oblivious to the world in your wine- or vodka-induced sleep.

Lifting the torch, she shone it directly through the door as if to prove herself wrong. She wasn’t imagining this. Her heart was pumping the blood around her body so loud she could hear the fast thump, thump of it in her ears. The beam shone into the darkness. Her mouth was dry as she moved the torch around and couldn’t see anything. A little braver now, she stepped forward and reached her hand around the door frame, feeling along the wall for the light switch. As her fingers found it, she pressed it and held her breath.

Light flooded the room – the empty room in which a window was still open and the piece of net curtain across it fluttered with the breeze. She smiled to herself, relieved that it was nothing, and then she turned and saw the crosses. Her feet froze to the spot and she let out a shriek. On the wall above the light switch, there were three wooden crosses all hanging in a row. She had been in here earlier and there wasn’t anything on the freshly painted wall then.

How had they got up here? The very first thing she’d done the day she moved her sparse belongings here had been to go around with a cardboard box and take down every single cross and crucifix that had been dotted around the house, because they completely freaked her out. She had then taken the full box outside to the shed around the side of the house, not wanting to throw them away because it didn’t seem the right thing to do. She had quite happily pushed the sellotaped box into the side of the shed and left it there.

So who the fuck had put these up on her freshly painted walls? If they thought it was some kind of joke they could think again. She crossed the room and slammed the sash window down a little too hard. Minute pieces of wood splintered off and fell to the floor with the impact. Bugger, she needed to be more careful. A whole houseful of new windows wasn’t on her list of priorities. Not until she had to anyway. The plan was to only replace the ones that wouldn’t open or were broken; the rest would be taken care of when the money started to come in.

She walked over, about to pull the crosses from the wall, when she realised how dark it was outside, how late it was and how no matter how brave she felt she wasn’t walking around to the shed at this time of night. Instead she walked out of the room, turning off the light and shutting the door firmly behind her with her trembling hands.

She needed a drink. Turning on the landing light now, she switched off the torch, not wanting to drain the batteries. The upstairs landing looked so much better bathed in light. She would need to have some wall lights fitted or at least a couple of side tables and lamps that were kept on all night so the guests wouldn’t get freaked out by the darkness.

Kate let out a sigh. She’d never even considered anything like this. It was a much bigger project than she’d realised. It wouldn’t be half as stressful if Amy was still here to help her. Hot, salty tears filled her eyes. She missed her friend so much since she’d died six months ago. She didn’t think she’d ever really laughed since. Well, not like the pair of them used to – setting the world to rights over a couple of bottles of wine. Amy would say something funny and they would laugh until the tears rolled from their eyes.

Kate wondered if anyone would ever make her laugh like that again. She certainly hadn’t had anything to laugh about lately. She found herself downstairs in the huge kitchen that was an empty shell apart from the fridge, microwave and a battered old pine table with three chairs. She opened the fridge and pulled out the vodka. She didn’t want to sit around drinking a glass of wine. She needed an extra-large shot of something strong that would knock her out.

Grabbing a wine glass off the end of the table where what little cutlery and kitchen essentials she owned were stacked, she filled it to the top with vodka, emptying the bottle. Leaving the bottle on the table she went back to her room, sipping the vodka as she went. She didn’t want to spill any and waste a single drop.

She left the lamp on. It was staying on. The thought that she should be checking the house filled her mind. She wasn’t that brave. If someone wanted to break in and put up crosses on the wall, they could get on with it. There wasn’t anything apart from the builder’s tools worth stealing. She knew the scratching was probably mice or worse still, rats. Ollie would deal with them for her. She might have even imagined the footsteps, because Ethan or Jack had probably put the crosses on the wall before they left for some kind of joke. They weren’t to know that they’d freak her out. In fact, it made perfect sense and she convinced herself that was what had happened.

Ollie could deal with those two as well as her vermin problem, and sanity would be restored to her life once more. She looked at her lonely bed. God what she’d give to have someone lying in there waiting to wrap their arms around her. She was so bloody sick of being on her own. As she sat down on the bed, she lifted the glass to her lips, closed her eyes and then drank it down. She coughed and spluttered as the neat vodka burnt its way down her throat, filling her with warmth. Her head began to feel muzzy.

Putting the glass on the bedside table she climbed back in, feeling sick as the room started spinning. She muttered to herself: Too much, Kate. One of these days you’re going to kill yourself – and a part of her wondered if that would be such a bad thing. The last few days, she’d had fleeting moments of despair at how much work needed to be done before they could open the house for business, followed by mild anxiety attacks. She’d never been one to suffer with her nerves, but she’d go into certain rooms or parts of the house and her stomach would start to fill with butterflies for no particular reason, which was unsettling her. She’d think about the huge project that she’d taken on and brush the feelings away as anxiety.

She had no one who wanted her. Maybe dying would be the best thing for her – even though the thought of leaving her girls terrified her. Just then, her eyes closed as she finally fell asleep.

Upstairs, the footsteps that had paused continued from room to room, looking for something that had been lost a very long time ago, but Kate was oblivious to it all.

***

Ollie let himself in with the spare key that Kate had given to him. He was much earlier than usual, but he wanted to get the next room finished. He had told himself that if he managed to get two bedrooms up and running, with the bathrooms plumbed in, then maybe Kate could have her daughters over to stay with her.

Martin couldn’t really say no to her now she wasn’t living in that grotty council flat and it might cheer her up, because although she’d never said as much he could tell she was feeling down. If she had her kids to stop it also might mean she would drink a little less. He felt bad for checking up on her, but he counted the empty bottles every morning in the recycling.

It was none of his business what she did and he knew this, but he liked her. If he was honest with himself, there was something about her that he found very attractive and he didn’t want to see her throwing her life away. She had so much to live for – plus he kind of felt responsible for her now he was seeing her every day. The poor woman was even lonelier than him and he’d thought he had it bad.

He was surprised to see the same number of bottles as yesterday and was secretly pleased, until he got to the kitchen and saw the empty vodka bottle on the table. Bollocks. He walked down to her room. It wasn’t like her not to already be up and pottering around. Then again, he was early and it looked like she’d hit the hard stuff last night.

Lifting his hand to knock on her door, he stopped mid-air. What are you, her father? This is none of your business, Ollie, so keep out of it. Instead he listened at the door for any sign of life. He heard a gentle snore and the bed creak as she moved. He couldn’t help but wonder what she was sleeping in and then he stepped back and walked away.

This was well and truly overstepping the mark. It was beyond their working relationship and he felt like a dirty old man for even thinking about her like that. Instead he went back to the kitchen where he began to make some toast and a pot of tea, banging around loudly and hoping she’d wake up.

As he finished setting the teapot on the table, he turned and jumped to see her standing there yawning. She was wearing a pair of mismatched pyjamas. Her hair was tousled and sticking up and she didn’t have a scrap of make-up on. She looked so sexy. Mortified, he had to turn away before she noticed what a funny shade of red his face had turned.

‘What time is it?’

‘I’m early. It’s only eight o’clock. I thought I’d get started on that second bedroom. I wanted to make a big difference today.’

‘Thanks, Ollie, that’s really kind of you.’ Kate sat down, putting her head in her hands.

Ollie poured her a mug of tea out and passed her some toast. As he reached over he caught a whiff of her perfume. It was the same one his wife had worn. Funny how he’d never noticed that before. Then again, he’d never been in such close proximity to Kate in her pyjamas either. Normally they were both covered in plaster dust and muck. She sipped the tea and picked up a slice of toast, nibbling on the corner. She held her head up with one hand. He kept telling himself not to say it, but it came out before he could help himself.

‘Heavy night?’

She looked at him and he saw the faint redness beginning to creep up her neck. He could have kicked himself. It was none of his bloody business what she did so why was he so bothered?

‘Not really, I couldn’t sleep. I tried my best to drift off but then I heard scratching on the wall and I thought I heard noises coming from the bedroom above mine. I had to go and investigate, but there was nothing there.’

‘It’s an old house, Kate. It would make lots of noises anyway as the floorboards settled once the air cooled. With the amount of work we’re doing, it’s bound to increase – especially at night when there’s no one banging around up there and you’re here on your own. I never thought to mention it to you.’

She nodded her head. ‘Oh, that reminds me. Did you leave that bedroom window and door open?’

‘No, I was the last one in. I’m sure of it and I could swear that I shut them both. Why?’

‘They were both wide open when I went up there and it was freezing cold. And I didn’t think the crosses were very funny either.’

He didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. His first instinct was that she’d been drunk and didn’t know either, but then it bothered him that the window was open. He distinctly remembered closing it because he’d wondered whether or not he should leave it open an inch to air the room out.

‘How wide open was the window?’

She put the mug down and lifted her hands apart quite some distance.

‘I didn’t leave it like that. I’m positive.’

‘Well, someone did. It doesn’t matter now. It just gave me a bit of a fright being on my own and sober for the first time in, well, in a long time.’

‘What happened, Kate?’

‘Not much really, apart from me deciding that I’d not drink and then I couldn’t sleep because of the scratching and noises.’

She leant forward onto her elbows, managing to knock her mug and spill tea all over the table. He jumped up to get some kitchen roll and mop it up.

‘No, I mean exactly what happened that caused you to come back down and finish off almost half a bottle of vodka?’

He could have kicked himself. Now she was going to think he was some weirdo who was keeping tabs on her. This was her house and her life. What right did he have to know how much vodka she had left in the bottle or how much she’d drunk? She hesitated, and he knew that once more he’d put his size eleven foot in it and embarrassed her.

‘I was lying in bed and heard noises from upstairs – footsteps to be exact – so feeling brave, I went up there to see what or who it was. All the other doors were shut except for that one; it was wide open. So I forced my shaking legs to walk down and have a look inside. That’s when I saw the window open and figured the breeze had opened the door, but it doesn’t explain who put those fucking awful crosses on the wall. To tell the truth, I was really pissed off about that last night. I spent ages that first afternoon going round collecting them all. Now I don’t want them in my house and if it was some kind of joke, then that’s enough and we can forget about it. But it was all just a bit too freaky at three o’clock in the morning. So can you tell Ethan and Jack no more, please?’

‘First of all, I don’t know anything about any crosses. I’ll ask the lads if they do when they get here, but they left before I did. However, most importantly, why didn’t you phone the police? It could have been a burglar or a tramp.’

She shrugged. ‘I’m not a complete wimp, and I’m used to all sorts of people – I had no choice living in that flat. And let’s be honest there’s not much to steal, is there?’

‘Phoning the police doesn’t mean you’re a wimp. You are on your own living in this huge house in the middle of nowhere. Phoning the police is the sensible thing to do. Or you could have phoned me. I would have come over.’

‘I did think about it – ringing the police and you – but the police would have looked me up and seen that I’d been previously arrested for drunk driving. Then they’d have thought I’d had one too many glasses of wine and not taken me seriously anyway. I’m sure they have far more important things to do. I didn’t ring you because I didn’t want to disturb you so late. That is way beyond the call of duty as my project manager and builder.’

‘What about my being your friend? I’ve known you a long time, Kate. I’d like to think that we weren’t just in a business relationship.’

He wanted to kick himself. What was wrong with him this morning? He didn’t know whether it was the sight of her sitting there, looking as sexy as hell, or the concerned big brother coming out in him, but he clearly wasn’t thinking straight. She pushed her uneaten toast to one side and stood up.

‘Thanks for my breakfast. I’d better go and get dressed.’

He watched her leave then stood up himself. He needed to get cracking, otherwise he was going to end up running after her and saying something he might regret later, when he was at home thinking about everything.

This was none of his business. Kate had made that quite clear. She didn’t think of him as a close friend. If she had she would have called him last night and she hadn’t, which hurt him, but he’d get over it. From now on he would keep it purely professional: no flirting, laughing or joking. At least the job would get done quicker. The harder he worked the less time he’d have to think about her and her situation – or so he hoped. He put the mugs and teapot in the sink then went out to his van.

***

Last night seemed so far away now and Kate had been dreaming about the last time she’d taken her girls shopping. Amy had come with them and they’d done the full works: Trafford Centre, Nando’s for lunch. Back then, she had never imagined how shitty her life was going to turn less than three months later.

She noticed the empty vodka bottle was now in the bin. She needed to get a grip and sort her life out. Ollie was a kind, good-looking man, but he was also a married man and there was no way she was going to go there – no matter how lonely or scared she was or how much her hormones were telling her to.

5 January 1933

Sister Agnes had not slept more than a couple of hours. She had spent the whole night freezing cold and having the most horrific nightmares where she was burning in the depths of hell. The pain as the searing heat crackled and blistered her skin had almost been too much to bear, and at one point she’d woken up in a cold sweat – breathless – only to drift off and continue with the same dream.

Not only had she been there, but so had Edith and Mary. Mary had been doing the most sinful of things with a half-man half-beast creature and Agnes hadn’t been able to look away because she was shackled by her arms to a rough stone wall.

As she opened her eyes and saw the murky, grey light filtering through the window she breathed out a huge sigh of relief. Never had she had such impure thoughts – and at her age, it was wrong. She would be praying extra hard for her soul at morning prayers today. She wondered why she had dreamt about such depraved filth.

After getting out of bed she washed, dressed, took her rosary beads from the dressing table and placed them around her neck. Instantly she felt better, purer, and closer to God and nature. She would sleep with them on tonight if it meant she wouldn’t have such terrible dreams. The house was quiet. Everyone else must still be asleep, which was good. It gave her a chance to make a pot of tea and gather her thoughts.

It would also give her the chance to decide what to do about Lilith. The woman couldn’t stay here any longer. There was something about her that was off kilter. Agnes never judged anyone on face value, but the sneaky grins and smirks whilst Lilith was relaying her tale of woe last night had stayed with her. Who in their right mind would smirk about being beaten and forced to do terrible things?

As she sipped her tea she felt a shadow fall over the kitchen door and turned to see Lilith standing there, watching her. She was so surprised that she spilt the hot liquid all over herself, scalding her arm. She hadn’t heard the woman leave her bedroom or come down the stairs. Lilith rushed to the sink and picked up a dishcloth. After running it under cold water, she pressed it against Agnes’s arm. Her touch made Agnes jump once more. The woman’s fingers were colder than slivers of ice if that was possible.

‘Have you hurt yourself badly, Sister?’

Agnes shook her head.

‘Did I give you a fright? I’m sorry about that. I’ve always been an early riser. I hate lying in bed wasting the day when there’s so much to do, although I do hate the sunlight. My skin is so fair that I can’t go out in it. Don’t you agree? Why don’t you run your arm under the cold water? I’ll clean this mess up and then make us a lovely fresh pot of tea.’

Agnes pushed herself up from the chair and crossed to the sink. Running the tap, she held her arm underneath it. The whole time she watched Lilith as she cleaned the spilt liquid from the table, then set about getting fresh teabags from the cupboard along with clean cups. How did she know where everything was? Last night she had been sitting sniffling and crying, too upset to watch them making a pot of tea. Once again, the feeling that Lilith was not what she seemed washed over Agnes.

When the teapot was on the table along with clean cups, Agnes turned the tap off and took a clean tea towel from the wooden rail to wrap around her arm, blotting it dry. She forced herself to sit back down. The back of her throat felt parched she was so thirsty. Lilith poured fresh cups of tea and passed one to her.

‘Now you be careful, Sister Agnes. We don’t want you burning yourself again, do we? There is nothing worse than the lingering slow burn of hot liquid on such delicate skin.’

Agnes took the teacup and blew on it. She hoped that her trembling hands wouldn’t betray her and spill this one all over. She prayed even harder that Lilith wouldn’t notice the trembling was in fact pure fear and would put it down to old age.

‘Thank you, dear, that’s very kind of you. I didn’t sleep very well last night. I think I’m still half asleep.’

Lilith smiled, making the skin on the back of Agnes’s neck crawl. Later on that night she would describe to Father Patrick that she thought being stared at by Lilith was how it must feel to be a fly trapped in a spider’s web.

‘I have to say I’m very fortunate that I stumbled across this place last night. I thought I was going to freeze to death out there – it was so cold. Thank you so much for giving me permission to come in.’

She nodded at Agnes as she spoke. Agnes’s head was spinning. What was this about? Almost every sentence Lilith said seemed to have a hidden meaning to it. Or was that just her taking everything and twisting it to fit her mindset? At a loss for words, she forced herself to smile at Lilith. Thank you for giving me permission to come in. Agnes felt as if her brain was screaming at her, warning her, only she couldn’t work out what her subconscious was trying to tell her. The sound of heavy footsteps running down the stairs broke the awkward silence between the two women as Sister Edith breezed in.

‘Good morning, Mother Superior, how are you today?’ She looked down at the white linen tea towel wrapped around Agnes’s arm and gasped.

‘Oh my goodness, what’s wrong? Have you hurt yourself?’

‘It was just an accident, Edith – my own silly fault. Good morning, I trust you slept well?’

‘Do you want me to take a look at it?’

Agnes shook her head. She didn’t want Lilith looking at it again and giving her an excuse to get too close to her. ‘No, it’s fine; it’s nothing honestly.’

‘I did sleep well, but I had the strangest dreams. To be honest, I can’t believe it’s morning already. The night passed by so fast I feel as if I haven’t been to bed.’ Edith smiled at Lilith then busied herself making breakfast for everyone. By the time the porridge was bubbling on the stove and the thick crusty bread had been sliced ready to spread with butter and jam, Sister Mary still hadn’t appeared and Agnes stood up.

‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll just go and see if Mary is okay. It’s not like her to oversleep when you’re banging around in the kitchen, Edith. I’ll be back down shortly. Please don’t wait for me – just tuck in.’

Agnes would normally make all three of them say prayers before they ate, but for some reason the thought of praying in front of that woman made her feel queasy. Today she would do her praying to God in private, as far away as possible from Lilith. She went upstairs and knocked on Mary’s door. There was no reply.

‘Mary, is everything okay? Do you need anything? Are you ill?’

There was no sound from inside the room. Agnes put her ear against the heavy wooden door to listen. There was no movement and Mary – who was a heavy sleeper and snored quite loudly, much to Edith’s annoyance – wasn’t making any noise whatsoever.

Cold tendrils of fear crept up Agnes’s spine. She tried the door handle; it was locked. So Mary had been worried enough last night that she’d had to lock her bedroom door as well. That made two of them. She would take Edith to one side and ask her if she had done the same. Agnes lifted her hand and knocked on the door. Still there was no movement from inside the room. She knocked again, much harder this time and shouted, ‘Mary!’

A hand on her shoulder made her jump and Agnes turned to see Edith standing there.

‘Come on, Mary, what did you do last night after we all went to bed? Did you have a go at the cooking sherry again? Open the door and come get your breakfast.’

***

Edith smiled at Agnes, expecting Mary to tell her to bugger off any second.

The last time they hadn’t been able to rouse Mary, she had finished off half a bottle of whisky Father Patrick had left behind. Oh, it had been funny to watch Mary walking around with her head in her hands and being sick every time someone mentioned food the day after. Agnes didn’t like them to be mean to each other, but it was only a bit of a laugh. Edith knocked much harder than the older woman ever could. She stopped briefly then began to hammer on the door with her fist.

Agnes reached out her hand to stop her. ‘Something’s wrong. We need to get into that room. Have you got a spare key?’

Edith shook her head. ‘No, sorry. I should have told you when it happened. I misplaced the key ring you gave me last year with all the spares on and seeing as how we don’t normally lock our doors, I didn’t think it really mattered that much.’

‘Edith, what are you like? How are we going to get in there now? I’ll have to phone Father Patrick or Constable Crosby to come and break the door open.’

***

Agnes turned to see Lilith standing at the top of the stairs watching them and she shivered.

‘Is everything all right, ladies? What’s the matter with Sister Mary?’

Agnes ignored her and squeezed past her to go downstairs. As she did a faint whiff of something gone off filled her nostrils. Where was that smell coming from? It smelt like meat that had been left too long and was on the turn. She left Edith knocking on Mary’s door and Lilith standing watching. She picked up the phone and dialled Constable Crosby. The relief when he answered the phone almost made her cry.

‘It’s Sister Agnes from the convent. Please can you come as quickly as possible? We can’t get into Sister Mary’s room and she isn’t answering anyone. We’ve knocked ever so hard and shouted very loudly. I’m afraid she’s taken ill.’

‘I’m on my way, Agnes.’

She put the heavy receiver down. It really was most unlike Mary to lock her door. She went back upstairs to see Lilith seated on the top step picking at her long, deep red painted fingernails.

‘Is there anything you want me to do?’

Leave! screamed a voice inside Agnes’s mind, although she would never say that. She was far too polite and that wouldn’t be a very charitable thing to do. She knew that Father Patrick would be disappointed in her lack of empathy for a fellow human being.

‘No, thank you, I don’t believe there is. Can I ask how long will you be staying here, Lilith? Do you have family or friends you can stop with?’

The words came out before she could stop herself. A loud knock on the front door broke the interaction between the two women. Agnes went downstairs to let a rather red-faced Constable Crosby inside.

‘By heck, it’s cold out there, Agnes. I didn’t think the patrol car was going to start. Have you woken Mary up yet?’

‘No, we haven’t. There’s no answer. I can’t even hear her snoring and trust me, Crosby, she has on occasion snored so loud that it’s kept me awake all night.’

Crosby chuckled at the thought of a nun snoring. ‘Right then, you’d better show me which one is her bedroom. I have to say I never thought I’d get to see the day I saw the inside of a nun’s bedroom.’

He winked at Agnes who shook her head. He was a loud, brash and sometimes funny man who was also very good at his job. He was a big help whenever they had cause to ask him for any. She led him upstairs. Lilith was now standing across the hall from Mary’s bedroom with Edith. Her slender arms were crossed and she smiled at Crosby, who looked at her and smiled right back.

‘A new recruit into God’s army, Agnes?’

Lilith giggled. ‘I’m afraid not, Constable. I don’t think he would let me join. I’m not a very good girl.’

She winked at him and Agnes noted the faint redness creeping up his neck. She pointed to Mary’s room and he strode across and hammered on the door with his fist. It was so loud it echoed around the hall; in fact, it was so loud Agnes was sure it would wake a deaf person.

Constable Crosby stopped to listen at the door. Silence greeted him. Agnes felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. They didn’t need a policeman to tell them something was wrong. He lifted his foot and kicked the door. It moved a little, not much. So he stepped back then barged the door using his shoulder and putting his substantial weight behind it. The door splintered and cracked. He looked over his shoulder at Agnes. They both knew the noise he was making was loud enough to wake the dead, so why hadn’t Mary opened the door?

As he launched himself at the door once more, it gave with a loud splintering sound and he stumbled forwards. He seemed to be trying to take in the sight before him, but his eyes would not or could not register what he was seeing. Agnes motioned with her hand for Edith and Lilith to wait there. She stepped in behind Crosby and, just as he had, she looked around trying to understand what it was she was seeing. The normally white walls were covered in splatters of red. The smell hit them both at the same time, making them gag. Agnes lifted her hand and made the sign of the cross. Crosby uttered one word: ‘Fuck.’

***

It had taken hours before the police had taken Mary’s body away. Father Patrick had taken them all into the front room where they’d prayed for Mary’s soul. There was no way she had killed herself and it couldn’t be murder either, could it? Constable Crosby had needed to break the door down himself. The windows were shut and locked from the inside.

Agnes’s first thought had been that somehow Lilith’s husband had gained entry into the house, looking for his wife, and killed Mary by mistake. Then she realised it had been her who had unlocked the front door to let the constable inside and all the locks and bolts had still been fastened. It didn’t make any sense and throughout everything Lilith had kept very quiet. She hadn’t suggested it was her husband and she had taken to her room, locking herself inside.

Agnes had spent over an hour with Crosby and Father Patrick, talking them over what had happened since Lilith had knocked on the convent door. Father Patrick had done his best to reassure both women that it wasn’t their fault. Yes, it was very strange, but they would find out what had happened. Edith, who hadn’t stopped crying for hours, had started to panic when Father Patrick had told them he was going back to the vicarage and he’d had to promise her he would go home, get a change of clothes and then come back and spend the night.

By this time Lilith had come out of her room and was loitering in the doorway of the front room. She kept smiling at the priest and Agnes didn’t like it one little bit. Agnes had asked Patrick if they could tell the woman to leave when they had been alone in the kitchen, but he’d shaken his head.

‘Agnes, I admit it’s all a very strange and sad coincidence, but that’s all it is. We can’t really tell her to leave when she has nowhere to stay that’s safe. The church has always been a safe place, a haven. How many times have we offered sanctuary for those in desperate need? Over the centuries, it’s been too many to count. Lilith needs our compassion and our help. We will let her stay here until she has somewhere safe she can go to.’

‘Very well, Father. There’s something about her that I can’t put my finger on though. She makes me feel uneasy.’

‘Agnes, if I didn’t help the people who made me uneasy I’d never be able to do my job. It will be fine. The poor woman must be terrified, escaping a violent husband then waking up to this. We must be patient with her and show her more kindness than before.’

‘Very well, Father, whatever you wish.’

Agnes wasn’t happy at the thought of Lilith still being a guest inside the house. Father Patrick had offered to bring someone in from the village to clean up the mess in Mary’s room and Agnes had declined. She thought it was the least she could do and she wanted to see what had happened, now that Mary had been taken away to the undertaker’s, the various parts of her body all wrapped up in a sheet.

Crosby had told her before he left that they could clean up the mess if they wanted to either tonight or tomorrow. As tempting as it had been to leave it until tomorrow, Agnes wasn’t a fool and knew that the room smelt horrendous already. To leave it another day before trying to clean up the blood and mess would make it unbearable.

Edith was in the kitchen with Lilith and Father Patrick, so Agnes went to the cupboard under the stairs where they kept the disinfectant and mop buckets. She took a big bottle of bleach, a box of rags and the mop bucket. Locking the door behind her, she went upstairs. Mary’s room was the seventh one along the landing. The door wasn’t shut properly because of Crosby’s attempts to kick it in.

Agnes’s mouth felt dry and her hands were trembling at the thought of going inside it on her own, but she needed to do this. She was in charge of running this convent and the responsibility weighed heavy on her shoulders. Mary’s family would be coming tomorrow and might want to stop here. It was the least they could do and she wouldn’t have them going into their daughter’s room if it was still stained with her blood.

Agnes was only a small woman, but she was strong. The corridor seemed to her as if it had increased in size because Mary’s bedroom door looked so far away from where she was standing at the top of the stairs. As she forced her feet to walk forwards, she began to pray under her breath. She prayed for Mary and for the rest of them because she couldn’t shake the feeling that what had happened to Sister Mary was just the beginning of something terrible.

The smell hit her as she got halfway along the landing and her empty stomach lurched. She crossed herself. How had this happened to Mary? What had happened? It didn’t make any sense to her whatsoever. They had all been fine last night.

Agnes thought she heard the sound of heavy footsteps coming from Mary’s room and she paused to listen. The police, doctor and undertakers had all left. There should be no one here. She waited, her heart racing. Stop it, woman, you’re scaring yourself. Holding herself straight, she walked the last few steps and listened at the door, pressing her head against the wood to make sure there was no one still in there. She was greeted by silence.

She pushed the door open and gasped once more; the sight in front of her eyes was horrendous. Earlier had been bad enough, although the shock had numbed some of it. The blood was everywhere. It was as if someone had taken a paintbrush and splashed it all around the white walls. The bed had the white outline of where Mary had fallen, but surrounding it and bleeding into it were dark, almost black congealing pools of blood.

The stench was how Agnes imagined an abattoir would smell. That was it. Mary had been butchered to pieces in her own bedroom and not one of them had heard a sound. How had that been possible? Her eyes fell onto the book on Mary’s bedside table: Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Something bothered Agnes about that book, but she didn’t know what. Why had Mary been reading that? Mary and Edith had been to the picture house in the town to watch it and both of them had come back scared of their own shadows for days. So what was it that had compelled her to go out and buy the book?

Agnes stepped forward and reached out for the soft, leather-bound book. As she flicked open the front page, her eyes began to stream and her nostrils flared at the strong smell that was emanating from it. It smelt like embalming fluid, but what on earth would that be doing on the pages of a book? Agnes had helped out at the undertaker’s a few times back in her younger days and although it was hard to describe exactly what it smelt of, it always had the same effect on her. Dropping the book back, she stepped away. Something strange was happening in this house and she didn’t have any idea what it was.

Agnes started to blot, wipe, scrub and wash every trace of blood away that she could find. Every couple of minutes she would twist her head from one side to the other to look behind her. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. Mary’s room was huge, but so were all the others. It was a massive house, which had obviously been designed for a wealthy family. Not a small group of women who had given up their everyday lives to serve God.

She was kneeling on the floor, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn bloodstain, when she felt the skin on the back of her neck prickle as a cold gust of air rushed against her. She pulled herself from her knees, which made two loud clicks that echoed around the room as they straightened up. Agnes half expected that woman, Lilith, to be standing in the doorway watching her. She turned around. There was no one there.

The room was beginning to smell much better. The harsh, coppery stench of the blood was being wiped away by the strong-smelling ammonia. There was another smell coming from the corner of the room where Agnes felt as if someone was standing. It smelt like electricity. Agnes would describe it to Father Patrick as the smell in the air when there was about to be a thunderstorm. She waved her hand in front of her, expecting the air to crackle and fizz, but it didn’t.

She hummed to herself, one of her favourite hymns. She was too old to believe what her mind was trying to say. It was being ridiculous. She was being silly. For whatever reason, Mary had done that to herself. Agnes didn’t know why or even want to know how, but there was no evidence that suggested any other explanation.

She turned back to the floor and felt her heart miss a beat to see the book that had been on the bedside table moments ago now on the floor, next to her mop bucket. How? There had been no noise, no draught. Agnes knew that she hadn’t knocked it over herself; with a hand that was shaking so much she found it hard to get her fingers to pick the book up, she gripped it as tight as she could. The icy-cold leather stuck to her fingers and she shook them, almost dropping it with revulsion.

She started to read the words in front of her and the room began to spin. Frankenstein’s monster had just killed Victor’s new wife Elizabeth. Tucking the book into her pocket she left the room, unsure of what or who was watching her, but certain that someone was. She went to the bathroom to clean herself up. Her clothes were ruined and smelt terrible. She turned on the taps and began running herself a bath. As she undressed, she looked into the mirror, asking herself: ‘Are you going mad, woman?’

She didn’t feel as if she was. Her face didn’t look much different. Well, apart from the few new wrinkles that had appeared around her eyes and forehead overnight. Once more the feeling she was being watched made her shiver. She turned around to check the door was still locked. Then she slowly bent to look through the keyhole and make sure that there wasn’t anyone peering through it; although what anyone would want watching a 60-year-old naked woman was beyond her.

She squinted; all she could see through the tiny lock was the landing outside the door. Wondering where Lilith was, Agnes straightened up and walked across to step into the bath. This wouldn’t be a quick in and out like usual. She would be spending as long in here as she could. She needed to soak away the smell of dear Mary’s blood, not to mention her aches and pains from being scrunched up on the floor scrubbing.

As she sunk into the steaming water she wondered what had happened to change the dynamics of this house of God, and try as she might the only conclusion that she could come up with was the arrival of Lilith Ardat. Why did she feel such revulsion towards the woman? Agnes didn’t dislike many people; it wasn’t in her nature. Why had they let her in? What was it that she had said to Agnes earlier? ‘Thank you for giving me permission to come in.’

Agnes had her own horror book tucked away in her bedside table drawer. She had read Bram Stoker’s Dracula many years ago. Her copy had been a gift from her sister – just before she’d died – so even though Agnes hadn’t particularly enjoyed the story, the fact that the book was more sentimental to her meant that she kept it close to her. Agnes had been terrified of the vampire Count Dracula and his wicked, evil ways when she’d read it, but she knew it was only a story. All this talk of not having a reflection and needing to ask permission to enter someone’s house was plain ridiculous. Or was it?