Black Harvest (6 page)

“We’re in for a storm,” Colin said.

“Good,” Prill muttered. “We could do with some rain.”

She reached the front door first and Mum handed her the key. She pushed it into the lock but could hardly bring herself to turn it. The key had become a lead lump, impossible to move, so desperately did she not want to enter that house.

“Hurry up, can’t you?” Colin badgered impatiently.

Fighting tears back, wanting to run a million miles away, she pushed the door open slowly.

A
CARD FROM
the telephone engineer lay on the small table in the hall. Mum read it. “Thank goodness for that, I’ll phone Dad in a minute.”

“I’ll get the exchange for you, shall I?” Prill said, pushing past the two boys and going into the kitchen.
It had to be now.
She picked the receiver up and listened, then she jiggled the black buttons up and down.

“It’s not working.”

Colin came up behind her, grabbed the phone and listened for himself. “That’s ridiculous. This card says, ‘An engineer called today as requested and we are pleased to inform you that—’”

“Oh, shut up, will you? It’s just like it was before. It’s as dead as a dodo.” She went off to tell her mother.

“Why don’t we use the O’Malleys’ phone? Can I come
with you? We could go now.”

“No-o, Prill,” Mrs Blakeman said slowly. “They must have had enough of us for one day, after Oliver’s performance with the petrol.” Then something made her turn round. He was standing in the bedroom doorway in his pyjamas.

“That was quick. Don’t you want any supper?”

“No. I just want to go to bed.” His face was smeary from crying.

“All right, love, sleep well then. Do you think you should send your mother a card in the morning, just to tell her you’ve arrived and everything? She’ll be missing you.”

“She’s not written to me. She said she’d write. She said there’d be a letter waiting for me when we got here.”

Mrs Blakeman had noticed. Nobody had written, not even Prill’s best friend Angela who always sent letters when they were separated. There had been no letters at all.

“I’m sorry about what happened, Auntie Jeannie.” A tear ran slowly down Oliver’s left cheek.

“Don’t worry about that now, no harm was done. Off you go to bed.” She hugged him but he went off looking utterly miserable. Prill felt sorry for him.

“So much for the wonderful engineer,” Mum said gloomily, putting Alison on the bed to change her. Prill went away. She didn’t know exactly how phones worked but she felt secretly that if a man came a thousand times to mend this one it would make no difference. The fact that it didn’t work was nothing to do with cables or electrical impulses.

Something was closing in on them and driving them
slowly but relentlessly into a dark place, where there was loneliness and some kind of immense suffering. Wherever that place was, phones did not ring, letters were not delivered, pain and sickness came inexplicably and were not relieved. Over everything was the stink and rottenness of death itself.

And all of them had been touched by it in some way. Except Oliver. Why was he on the outside of everything? He was only unhappy now because of what had nearly happened to Donal Morrissey. The house itself held no terrors for him. In a little while he would probably drift off to sleep quite peacefully.

She and Colin hadn’t really been fair to him. If they’d been a bit more friendly from the beginning he might not have gone off on his own, then the fire wouldn’t have happened. She decided to talk to him tomorrow. Oliver was clever. He was so clear-thinking and cool, wise beyond his years. Talking to him might actually be a relief.

In Dr Moynihan’s dream kitchen there was an electric deep-fryer the size of a small aquarium. Mum switched it on.

“Right. Chips, beans and sausages,” she announced firmly. “Come on, we’re all hungry. Don’t mope around, Prill, let’s just be grateful Alison’s nodded off. You can speak to Dad tomorrow morning.”

Prill didn’t reply. Her mother’s forced cheerfulness grated on her; she hated people jollying her along when she felt really miserable. She decided to feed the dog. When the human race got too much to bear there was always Jessie, faithful, loving, a bit mad.

But even she was in a mood. At the first sniff of dinner she was usually there at your feet, wagging her tail and butting her head into your legs till you gave her the dish. But now, when Prill put her meal down on the glossy kitchen tiles, she hardly looked at it, and when the girl stroked her neck and made a few coaxing noises, she shook her off irritably and gave a low growl, slinking off to her lair under the table where nobody would bother with her.

“I’ll peel the spuds,” Colin said, wanting to hurry the meal up. He had griping pains in his stomach again. He felt like eating a horse. Silently Prill got cups and plates out and banged them miserably on the kitchen table. “D’you know where the vegetables are, Mum?” he asked.

“In the utility room, on that tiled counter. I thought it would be the coolest place to store them.” She was trying to use the electric tin opener. “Never seen one of these before. Wonder how it works?”

Colin was soon back with a polythene bag. His mother looked across at him. “What on earth’s the matter? You’ve gone really pale.”

“Are these the ones?”

“Yes. Don’t you remember? We stopped and bought them on the way out of Dublin.”

Prill had gone to get ready for bed. He shut the door into the hall so she wouldn’t hear him. “Look,” he said.

The bag had held ten pounds of potatoes. All that remained of them was a blackish slime. It looked as if they had somehow burst open; now they were just empty skins
covered with a dark, spongy substance that had oozed out into the bag and was turning rapidly into a greeny-brown fungus. The bad smell was indescribable, and a black liquid was dripping from the corners of the bag, making inky stains on the kitchen floor.

“I just don’t believe it. I bought
ten pounds
of them. Ugh, close the bag for goodness’ sake and throw them away. It must be this weather, though I chose the coolest place I could think of.”

Colin went outside to the dustbins. He threw the bag in and covered it with several layers of newspaper. Then he rammed the lid on tight. Even then he could smell it, that stinking sweetness that made his stomach curdle and brought a foul taste into his mouth. The heat was nothing to do with it. The heat had nothing to do with the milk either, the milk that had turned to a grey jelly in the jug.

He still had stomach pains. In the kitchen his mother was standing in front of the fridge-freezer. “Look what I’ve found,” she said triumphantly. “A bag of frozen chips. I’m sure Dr Moynihan won’t mind if we use them.”

“Mum, I really don’t think I want any. I had an enormous piece of cake up at the farm. I’m… I’m not hungry any more.”

“Neither am I,” Prill said. She was sitting at the table in her dressing-gown, brushing her hair. From her bedroom window she’d watched Colin throwing the potatoes away.

“What’s the matter with everyone?” Mrs Blakeman said. “Doesn’t
anyone
want anything to eat?” Neither of them
answered, then Prill said blankly, “Alison’s crying again, by the way. That didn’t last long.”

The night was so broken up with noise and climbing in and out of bed, nobody could say whether they’d actually been to sleep or not. Only Oliver slumbered on blissfully through everything. Nothing seemed capable of rousing him, not even the storm that blew fitfully all night, rattling the windows and hurling bad-tempered squalls against the glass. Colin and Prill lay awake, listening to the thunder, hoping that the violent showers would bring the temperature down. But it felt hotter than ever, and Colin was sweating inside the sleeping bag.

He could smell that mustiness in the room again. At one point he shone his torch on the ceiling. The faint grey lines he’d noticed yesterday were thickening gradually and the corners of the room were blurry, as if festooned with cobwebs. Oliver had said it couldn’t possibly be mould, either he’d dreamed it or it was dampness coming out of the plaster. The builders should have waited much longer, he said, before decorating. He was such a know-all.

Prill heard her mother get up with Alison and traced her steps to the kitchen, bathroom, then back to bed. It happened half a dozen times and the baby never seemed to stop crying. Poor Mum. No wonder she was irritable.

Why was everything so much worse at night? Prill could bear the day, if they could get right away from the bungalow, swim, take Jessie for long walks, or just lie in the sun on that peaceful headland. But now, in the small hours, there was no
escape. As she lay in bed a fearful darkness seemed to press down upon her, like a great hand, and her mind would not let her sleep.

Three or four times she found herself standing by the window, so hot she could hardly breathe, staring out at the sweep of green field with the gate in one corner.

And the woman came again, quickly this time, as if she’d seen Prill. The girl saw her move rapidly down towards the house, stumbling as she ran and falling forward into the slime of the field, her dark cloak plastered to her by the streaming rain.

As before there was a blankness in which Prill saw nothing, then the face, with its silent, agonized scream, was thrust up against the window, the leaf hands plucking at the catch, and suddenly she felt cold air, and the sound of a window being pushed open.

She fled from the room in absolute terror, a hard lump blocking the scream that was forcing itself into her throat. She turned round to see if the woman was behind her, but blackness smothered everything and she was crashing into walls and furniture as she thrashed about in the darkness, trying to find the door.

The cold gust had come from the hall window. It was wide open and Colin stood in front of it, staring out into the night. Prill clutched at his hand. It felt clammy and cold and he was trembling.

“What’s up?” she whispered. “Have you still got stomach ache?”

For a minute he didn’t answer but went on looking at the rain. Then he closed the window firmly and stared at her.

“You look awful. What on earth’s the matter?”

“Nothing…
nothing
,” she said. It was only a dream. If she pretended it hadn’t happened it might go away, like toothache the minute you’ve decided to go to the dentist. She felt better with Colin. It was better not to talk about it. If she denied her very existence the woman might not come again. She said, “Oh, I was dreaming, that’s all. It was mixed up with the thunder, and Alison kept waking me when she cried. It’s just hopeless trying to get a good night’s sleep in this place.” Then she looked at Colin. His face was putty-coloured. “Did you dream, too?”

He shook his head and said slowly, “No, I don’t think I was dreaming, I’d not even gone to sleep. I saw somebody, just outside the window, somebody looking in. I’m positive.” He stared out at the darkness, as if just looking might bring the person back.

“But it’s three in the morning, and look how wild it is. Who’d be creeping round out there at this time?” He looked so frightened Prill tried to put the question in a calm, reasoning voice. But she didn’t fool him, or herself.

“There
was
someone, Prill, and I wasn’t asleep.”

“Who was it?”

“I couldn’t see the face till they came right up to the window, but it looked a bit like Donal Morrissey. He had a red thing over his head.”

“But he’s at Father Hagan’s. The O’Malleys said so. He’s
staying there till they’ve mended his van.”

“Well, perhaps he’s come back. I’m sure that’s who it was. I did see someone, I’d swear on the Bible.”

They had both had the same dream. If it was a dream. The Morrissey face peering in at them through the driving rain, that withered, pain-filled face that accused and begged them, silently.

“I saw it too,” formed on Prill’s lips, but she swallowed the words back. Instead she went down the passage towards the kitchen.

“What are you going to do?”

“Make myself a drink, look up Dr Moynihan’s phone number, then go back to bed.”

“And then what?”

“I’m not waiting for them to come back to the phone. There’ll be a phone box in Ballimagliesh. I’ll go there and get through to Dad on my own.”

“I think everything would be OK if he came back,” Colin said thoughtfully. “Mum’s not herself, is she? She’s being horrible to Alison. What’s got into her?”

“It’s not just Mum, or Alison. You know that as well as I do. I just think we should pack up and leave. I’m going to tell Dad that.”

“Don’t you think that’s going a bit far?” Colin said, but in a voice that lacked all conviction. “I shouldn’t think he’ll want to give up the portrait. Anyway, couldn’t it just be the weather, and this bug we’ve got, and everything? I think we’ve started imagining things.”