Encounters (53 page)

She shook her head, biting back her misery. ‘Claudia’s father was killed, and her brother …’ She stopped. She had spoken without thinking. ‘He was only fourteen. Oh God!’ She sat down again and put her head in her hands. ‘And Julia … Julia was raped …’ She was sobbing again.

‘The link is still there, Frances.’ Charles reached out and touched her hand. ‘It’s all right. It will break. That is what the psychometrist who came to see us said. She said sometimes it stretches and stays, like a spider’s thread, then it breaks. It always breaks. Then you will be free. Let me lock up and I’ll walk with you. Have you got a car?’

She shook her head.

‘Where do you live?’

She didn’t want to be alone. Not any more. When she was alone the memories flooded back; the memories of another woman, another time. ‘I live in Lexden. Not far.’

He nodded slowly. ‘Lexden burned first of course. I’ll walk you home if you’ll let me.’

She smiled. ‘Thank you. I’d like that.’

Her eye was outraged and confused by the muddy site outside the van. She could still see the neat row of thatched shops, the entrance to the villa, the gravelled road – and the smoke; the smoke that had rolled over the city and obliterated it.

Slowly they began to walk. They left the site, glancing sadly at the huge machines of destruction waiting in the wings and began to walk through the streets.

Glancing at her he smiled. ‘Each time you go up one of the escalators in the new store they’ll build there you’ll remember today.’

She smiled and shook her head. ‘No, I’ll remember that day nearly two thousand years ago.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’ve seen her before, you know.’

‘Julia? I thought perhaps you had.’

‘She haunts me. I think she must have lived where our house now stands.’

‘It’s possible.’

‘You don’t think I’m mad?’

‘No.’

‘My husband did.’

The divorce had been in the papers the week before, with all the gory details of her unreasonable behaviour; her year-long obsession with a ghost. It had made the national headlines.

Charles smiled sympathetically. ‘I confess I did recognize you from the photos. But all that proves is that your husband is a racist.’

‘A racist?’ She stopped and looked at him, astonished.

‘He obviously doesn’t like Romans.’ He smiled. ‘Does all this make you believe in immortality?’

‘No.’ It came out more harshly than she meant.

‘You should.’

‘I would have thought archaeologists would believe in the utter finality of death.’

‘On the contrary. We’re professional resurrectors.’ He could sense her pain; real pain beneath the shock and fear. She had walled off the vulnerable wounded part of herself; the part which encompassed the mortal echo which was all that remained of Julia and her child. He should help her to try to forget it. He wrestled with his conscience and lost. ‘Don’t you want to know what happened to them?’ he asked after a long pause.

She shook her head.

‘If you knew the truth they might rest in peace,’ he persisted hopefully.

God! How he wanted to know the truth. What he would give to listen to her describe the scene again; an eyewitness account of the sack of Colchester. It was unbelievable! He could imagine the paper he would present; the articles he would write; the books …

She stopped in the middle of the pavement for a moment, looking at him. ‘Why me? Why do they pick on me?’ Her question had the ring of desperation. Slowly she began to walk on.

He pulled himself together with an effort and followed her. The woman was suffering. It was unfair to encourage her – to encourage Julia – and prolong her agony. ‘As you said, perhaps you live on the site of their home.’

She gave a tight half laugh. ‘We used to dig up things in the garden. Bits of pottery. A coin. A little statue which we gave to the museum. Things like that. We were so excited.’ She tried to bite back her tears.

Her house was large and grey, set back a little way from the road. The garden was full of blossom, the flower beds beautifully tended, the lawns neatly cut. Even in the rain it was lovely.

There was a house agent’s board nailed to the front gate. Charles noted it and frowned. Part of the tragedy of divorce.

As they walked up the drive – the high privet hedges cutting them off from the roar of the traffic in the road outside – he stared round, trying to get the feel of the past which here was so close beneath the surface, trying to reach out as she must reach out to touch the minds of the dead. If only he could do it too. Why was it that she, with no particular interest in history could see it, touch it, feel it, while he … he must be content with books and shards and bones?

He put his hand in his pocket. The small tile lay there, abstracted from its fellows as he tidied up the van. Did it hold the key? Gently he closed his fingers around it. He closed his eyes.

They both turned in surprise at the sound of wheels on the gravel. The gates behind them had been closed. For a moment he didn’t understand; he didn’t seem to be able to focus properly; the air was full of smoke.

Her scream turned his blood to ice. All he saw was the flash of the upraised sword, a glimpse of the eyes of the man who drove the chariot, then everything went black.

Encounters

Barbara Erskine is the author of
Lady of Hay,
which has sold well over a million copies worldwide, the bestselling
Kingdom of Shadows, Encounters
(short stories), and
Child of the Phoenix,
which was based on the story of one of her own ancestors. This was followed by
Midnight is a Lonely Place
and
House of Echoes
– which were shortlisted for the W H Smith Thumping Good Read awards of 1995 and 1997 respectively – plus her second volume of short stories,
Distant Voices.
Her most recent novel is
On the Edge of Darkness.
Barbara Erskine’s novels have been translated into twenty-three languages.

Barbara Erskine has a degree in mediaeval Scottish history from Edinburgh University. She and her family divide their time between the Welsh borders and their ancient manor house near the unspoilt coast of North Essex.

Acclaim for
Encounters
:

‘A marvellous mixture of emotional tales with the emphasis on love.’

Woman’s World

‘Short stories with the “unputdownable” quality of a good novel … convincing … an easy, compelling read.’

Eastern Daily Press

Lady of Hay
Kingdom of Shadows
Child of the Phoenix
Midnight
is
a Lonely Place
House of Echoes
Distant Voices

HarperCollins
Publishers
77–85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This paperback edition 1995
15

Previously published in paperback by Fontana 1991

First published in Great Britain by Michael Joseph Ltd 1990

This collection © Barbara Erskine 1990 and as follows:

‘Cabbage a la Carte’ (
Woman’s Weekly
) 1976; ‘Feline Express’ (
New Love
as ‘Cupid Was A Kitten’) 1978; The Consolation Prize’ (
Women’s World
as ‘A Loving Invitation’) 1984; ‘There was a time when I was almost happy…” (
Woman’s World
) 1979; ‘Summer Treachery’ (
Rio
) 1981; Trade Reunions’ (
Best)
1988; ‘The Bath: A Summer Ghost Story’ (
Living
) 1987; ‘The Green Leaves of Summer’ (
Woman’s Own Summer Stories
) 1979; ‘Encounters’ (
Woman’s World
) 1977; The Touch of Gold’ (
The Writer
) 1976; The Helpless Heart’ (
Woman’s World
as ‘Give Me Back My Dreams’) 1978; The Indian Summer of Mary McQueen’ (
Secrets
) 1980; ‘The Magic of Make Believe’ (
Woman’s World
) 1984; ‘A Summer Full of Poppies’ (
Secret Story,
Robinson) 1989; ‘A Face in the Crowd’ (
Woman’s World
as ‘Forsaking All Others’) 1983; ‘Flowers Shouldn’t Make You Cry’ (
Woman’s World
) 1979; ‘Someone to Dream About’ (
Woman’s World
) 1986; ‘Milestones’ (
New Idea
) 1980; ‘Marcus Nicholls’ (
Red Star Weekly
as ‘Windows on the Past’) 1980; ‘A Quest For Identity’ (
Woman’s World
) 1977; The Heart Will Understand’ (
Woman’s World
) 1980; ‘A Stranger With No Name’ (
Woman’s World
) 1980; ‘Just An Old-Fashioned Girl’ (
Woman’s World as
‘Love Never Changes’) 1981; ‘All This Childish Nonsense’ (Woman’s World as ‘A Promise is Forever’) 1977; ‘A Love Story’ (
My Story
) 1976; ‘A Promise of Love’ (
Woman’s World
as ‘Don’t Tread On My Dreams’) 1978.

The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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