Don't Look Back (17 page)

‘I'm trying to get under Dad's skin,' he said, with a rueful laugh. ‘That's why I hired the classic car.'

‘Has it brought anything back?'

He rolled his eyes. ‘Only he used to drive like a demon. I've had to stop myself from copying him more than once.'

Remembering my scary spin in the car I gave a weak smile. I knew we should have been heading back, but I wanted to help James, and I didn't want to end our time together. Our talk about our dreams was still fresh in my mind. I had an idea.

‘Will you try something for me?' I suggested.

‘What?'

I looked down at the springy forest floor. ‘Will you lie down?'

James didn't even ask why. He even seemed grateful to drop to the ground. The floor was cushioned with the latticework of a rope-like plant. I knelt next to him and tugged on a strand to feel how tightly it was anchored. I
told him to close his eyes and waited until he was settled. When I covered his lids with my hands his lashes fluttered against my palms.

‘I was really scared of the dark,' I said, ‘but Mum would never let me have a nightlight. I used to lie awake for ages and … because I couldn't see, my sense of smell and hearing were heightened. That's how I remember so much about the night I got ill. I thought we could maybe see if it works for you … to jog your memory.'

‘You're experimenting on me,' James teased.

I pressed my hands tighter against his eyes. ‘Just lie still. Let your mind wander and your senses reach out.'

I waited for a few minutes, intently watching the expression on his face. It gradually changed from amused scepticism, to mildly serious and then to concentrated.

‘I can smell woodsmoke,' he said, his tongue moistening his lips. ‘I can hear birds beating their wings and footsteps crunching through the dry leaves. The footsteps are heavy and they're getting closer … A woman is crying –' He flinched. ‘I can feel hot breath on the back of my neck, a dog panting, and drool spattering my skin. There's squealing … it sounds like an animal in pain, it's high-pitched and desperate –'

James's eyes suddenly flew open and he stared at me as if I was a stranger. ‘I was back here again, and I remembered Dad's dog, Cerberus.'

‘Cerberus?'

‘The three-headed beast that protected the entrance to
the underworld,' he said, sitting up. ‘Dad's joke about his favourite pet. He used him mainly as a guard dog but they were devoted to each other –' He stopped abruptly.

‘Anything else?'

He shook his head in frustration. ‘The rest is still shadows … shapes moving through a mist. It feels as if I'm trapped in a kind of … halfway place.'

‘Halfway between what?'

‘Reality and delusion,' he said flatly.

I squeezed James's shoulder and helped him up. We walked back to the house together and I hoped that he might grab my hand again but he seemed far away, lost in his thoughts. He left me with a dejected smile and a promise to stop by tomorrow and pick up Patrick's key. I expected a lecture from Sister Catherine, but she seemed strangely impassive.

‘I'm still following Patrick,' I said, almost in defiance. ‘I've found more signs that he's been here.' She stared straight ahead without acknowledging my words. ‘You can't expect me to slog away here for fourteen days without giving me something to work on.'

For a moment I actually thought there was the trace of a smile on her lips. ‘You should concentrate on proving you have the endurance necessary to see this task through.'

‘I have enough
endurance
to find Patrick,' I assured her.

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Perhaps you should ask yourself
if you belong here at all … if you have the right qualities to remain at Benedict House.'

‘Remain!' I cried, incensed. ‘I'm only here for Patrick. I'm not going to stay here one minute longer than I have to. I'm not a prisoner. I could leave right now and never look back.'

She clutched my arm, her bony fingers hurting my flesh. ‘When you find your heart's desire, Sinead, don't look back; you must never look back.'

As if worried that she had said too much she put one finger across her lips and walked quickly away. I tried to shake off her strange words. By the time I'd finished cleaning the drawing room my legs were rubber and I could barely lift my head. I cried off meeting Harry, desperate to unwind alone and think about the day. My evening meal was a sad microwave dish for one, bought in the corner shop and consisting of reconstituted meat floating in some kind of sauce. It looked and tasted like spicy glue.

My mother had left me four messages. I had to speak to her and persuade her I was making progress and that Patrick had been at Benedict House. She still hadn't been to the police. It was almost as if she believed in Patrick's game so strongly that she viewed me as the only one who could bring him home. I pondered Patrick's clues again and thought about helping James, but the memory of my visions kept returning – malevolent plants, predatory fungus and a swarm of angry dragonflies. Dragonflies – I'd
never seen one before, but the first time I did, hundreds had attacked me.

I Googled ‘dragonfly' and baulked at the various names for them, mostly malign – water witch, devil's needle, devil's horse, horse stinger, hobgoblin fly. There were old superstitions that a dragonfly could pluck out your eyeballs or sew your eyelids together. In Sweden it was believed they were used by the Devil to weigh your soul. If one flew around your head, then this was what it was doing. Benedict House seemed to be doing things to my mind, not helped by Sister Catherine saying weird stuff about me remaining there. As if anyone would stay a minute longer than they had to. I tried to switch off, but it was impossible. Her urgent voice still echoed in my head like some strange omen.
When you find your heart's desire, Sinead, don't look back; you must never look back
.

James's irises were melted caramel today and his pupils huge dark orbs. Each time I saw him I had to stop my heart from fluttering like a trapped butterfly. He took the key from me and stuffed it in his pocket.

‘Any plans today?' I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

‘I'm going into the village later on to talk to some of the families I used to know. I'm hoping someone might remember something about Dad … or me. I might even find out who I used to be.'

I smiled encouragingly. ‘Good idea.'

‘Any more thoughts on Patrick?'

I twisted my head to one side. ‘I wondered if there was a basement in the house. One of Patrick's sayings was
Those beneath the earth cry out for release
.'

James scrunched up his face doubtfully. ‘I know every inch of this house and there aren't any underground rooms.'

‘Patrick's SOS clue links with Benedict House once being a church,' I went on. ‘I had another idea there might
be a part of the house that's more sacred than the rest, something in its history.'

My words seemed to register with James and he stared at me intently. ‘There is a special place.'

My heart began to race. ‘Where?'

‘Benedict House has its own priest's hole. Have you heard of them?'

I put my hands on my hips with mock indignation. ‘My mother is Catholic
and
Irish. Of course I know what they are … secret places to hide Catholic priests during the Reformation.'

‘Wouldn't it fit? A place of penance, save our souls …'

My eyes lit up. ‘When can we go there?'

‘We'll have to wait until there's no chance of Sister Catherine coming back.'

‘Why?

His eyebrows spiked. ‘Because she's made the space her own.'

My eyes darted nervously about but James assured me that we were alone.

*

‘It's fine, Sinead. Sister Catherine goes to visit Gran at the same time every day and spends more than half an hour with her.'

‘She's weird with her timing, isn't she?' I asked, aware that I could be talking about myself. ‘Everything's so precise and measured, as if it all means something.'

‘Gran told me she comes from a closed order where
they shun the outside world but pray all the time. She rises at four a.m. and begins her walk in the dark.

‘Really? But how does she see?'

James shrugged. ‘She knows the place so well she must feel her way along. Don't get hung up on Sister Catherine – I think deep down she has a good heart.'

My lip curled, unwilling to attribute any unselfish motives to my surly namesake. I turned my attention to James. The last few hours waiting to see him had dragged so much. He had a small smear of something by the side of his mouth, perhaps from his lunch, and I wanted to reach out and wipe it off. His skin smelt of apple or some kind of fruit juice and I inhaled deeply. He was drawing me in and I was struggling to stop it from happening. There was something about him that belied the brash, flirty exterior. And he noticed things that most people didn't, with eyes that seemed to see deep into my soul.

I jiggled impatiently on the spot. ‘OK, where is it?'

James smiled enigmatically and went straight to the concealed doorway in the hall. I followed him through and we stood, almost touching, in the small space.

‘I knew this place was odd,' I said. ‘Sister Catherine spends ages in here, and when I sneaked a look I saw the doorway's been bricked up.'

James turned to me with mischievous eyes and then slowly crouched and examined the wood panelling. There was a slight creak and one of the sections of the panelling
actually slid upwards in the same way as a sash window moves. We both stared into a space.

‘Come on,' he urged. ‘Every ancient house has to have a secret staircase.'

I felt a tingle of excitement following James. He ran like a small boy, his feet turned outwards and clattering on each step. We climbed so high I figured we must have been close to the roof space. How would an old woman like Sister Catherine manage these stairs? I wondered. There was an answer to one mystery though; there must be a vent somewhere because I could feel a shaft of air and hear a rushing sound which would account for the strange sighing. I also remembered those desperate voices and realized that I was seeing
and
hearing things that weren't there.

There was another tiny door on the right-hand side. My eyes automatically searched for a keyhole. I looked to James for direction and he pushed open the door, urging me to go first. I took a tentative step inside. The room contained little more than a single bed, a chest of drawers and tiny lattice chair. I noticed a spare nun's habit resting on the back of the chair as if it was waiting for someone to put it on. Everything was painted white and the crisp bed sheets were tucked in very tightly without the faintest wrinkle. Immediately in front of us was a fabulous painted trompe l'œil of an arched window, depicting a girl with short dark hair standing beside a lake looking up to the sky. Her hands were held aloft as a flock of doves flew
upwards. A semicircle of sunlight illuminated the painting, radiating outwards and fading as it reached the girl. I was blown away. It was bizarre to conceal something this beautiful. The only other decoration in the room was an icon of a lady dressed in white robes. Above her head was a halo and faint lettering – Saint Catherine of Genoa.

I asked the question even though I instinctively knew the answer. ‘Sister Catherine sleeps here? She'd rather hole up in this tiny room than in the palatial house?'

James shrugged. ‘Guess so.'

The space was a blank canvas. It reminded me of Patrick's bedroom after its transformation. I scratched my nose thoughtfully.

‘Patrick's flat's been given an amazing clean – it was literally dazzling. What would you make of that?'

James shrugged. ‘He's trying to turn over a new leaf, cleaning up his space and … maybe himself?'

‘That's what Harry thought … but I was so disbelieving. Maybe Patrick is trying to change and become a new person.'

‘Hope so,' James said.

‘I'm still no closer to finding him,' I said with regret. ‘The priest's hole is a great lead, but I don't think Patrick's been here.'

‘This isn't the priest's hole, Sinead. This was meant to look like a servant's bedroom.'

I frowned. ‘Where is it then?'

James made me face the doorway. I heard some kind of metal catch opening and he turned me around by the shoulders with the look of a boy showing me his secret den. I could see that the painting disguised a cavity just big enough for an adult to hunker down inside. I walked over, desperate to find one of Patrick's clues, but the space was empty. Despite my disappointment, I couldn't help but admire how ingeniously the thick wall had been excavated. The painting had been applied to a heavy slab of wood with cleverly concealed locks that were flush with the wall. Grinning, James squeezed himself into the hole and I wondered how often he'd done this as a child. It must have been a fantastic place to hide. I couldn't resist the urge to shut him in.

‘You can stay in there until Sister Catherine gets back,' I called.

James's muffled speech sounded as if he was getting annoyed, which made me grin to myself. But then he hammered on the wood so frantically that I knew something was wrong. I hastily tried to open the locks but my fingers were sweaty and it took me several goes to master them. His agitation made me fumble even more. Seeing him shocked me. He was crouched inside, cowering, his hands covering his head.

‘James, I'm sorry, it was just a bit of fun –'

He climbed out, his face ashen and his breathing laboured. I could see he was trembling. ‘I get a bit claustrophobic,' he muttered, clearly embarrassed. ‘I suddenly
remembered how much I hated being in there, but it was too late; you'd locked me in.'