Incarnate (48 page)

Perhaps it would be Sage. Suppose he already knew where she was going? She could imagine how gently and irresistibly he would ask her to stay—his eyes had been telling her for days how much he and the others needed her, how important she was. Her fear might help her resist him, make her able to dodge past him. But it wasn’t Sage she was most” frightened of. She was afraid of meeting Marry on the bright deserted stairs.

She ought to be overjoyed Harry had come back. But that was the trouble: apparitions never lasted longer than the seance that produced them, she knew that much. And she didn’t want to be a medium for what Sage was doing.

But what was that exactly? If he was giving people what they most wanted—giving the bereaved their loved ones, giving her a peace she could find nowhere else—what did
he
want? She could no longer believe he wanted purely to help people. They were giving something to him that he needed, and never noticing that he was taking it from them.

She wouldn’t be a party to it any longer. Freda hushed her thoughts, for she was nearly at Sage’s floor—the floor below hers. She made to step down, then she clung to the banisters and began to shiver. The floor that was just a step out of reach wasn’t Sage’s floor.

It was even more brightly lit than the stairs. She could smell the new green carpet that covered the landing from wall to wall; she could see beyond the open doors into the empty rooms, if they were empty. She hung on to the banister with both hands and made herself look down the narrow stairwell. She looked once, she looked away and tried again, and at last she clambered backward up the stairs, never letting go of the banister. There were so many floors down the well she couldn’t count them.

She didn’t dare risk getting lost in a house that was burning into something else. She realized suddenly that since the night she’d gone down to Doreen, someone had always taken her downstairs to her meals and ushered her back to her floor. She fled into her room without looking to see if the stairs continued upward, for she was almost sure they did.

She sat on her bed and told herself that when they next took her downstairs she would make a run for the street. She’d meant to do that every time, she had tried walking toward it until they steered her gently away. They could be gentle, since the seances had left her with so little strength. But perhaps she could reach the front door if she took them unawares.

All at once she remembered that Harry was supposed to have got lost too, on the day he’d died—got lost not a mile from his home, in streets he had known for years. Had he been made to get lost? Could his heart attack have been meant to bring her to London? She was trying to think about it when her thoughts froze. Someone was coming upstairs to her floor.

She tried to hush her thoughts, praying Sage hadn’t overheard them and was coming up to deal with her.

Perhaps he’d sent the pink creature with Harry’s face or whatever was sharing Rosie Scatchard’s room. She was round the far side of the bed and reaching for the crucifix, whether as protection or to use as a weapon, when the doorknob turned stealthily. But it was Doreen. “Oh, you’re awake,” Doreen said.

It wasn’t relief Freda felt so much as the impossibility of telling Doreen what she thought. “Would you rather I wasn’t?” she said, more sharply than she would have wanted to.

“Of course not, Freddy. What a thing to say!” She looked sympathetic and forgiving. “You’ve seemed tired, that’s all. I’m not surprised, with all you’ve been taking on.” Even the hint of that subject must have embarrassed her, for she went on quickly, “I just came to tell you dinner’s nearly ready. Come down now if you like.”

“Come in for a moment and close the door. I want to talk to you.”

Doreen looked reluctant to listen but she closed the door and sat in the chair by the bed. “What’s wrong, Freddy?”

“What do you think is wrong?”

“Nothing,” Doreen said brightly. “Nothing at all.”

“How can you say that, Doreen? What about the way your house has changed?”

“What about it?” Doreen was defiant. “It’s happier, that’s all.”

“It isn’t only happier. It isn’t the same house.”

“Oh, Freddy, can’t you see that doesn’t matter? It’s more than it was, don’t you see? It has to be.”

Freda wondered if they were talking about the same thing. She had to say what she dreaded to say, to break through Doreen’s faith. “Why are you so happy, Doreen?”

“You know, Freddy. You know if anyone does.”

“But I don’t. I’m not sure. I want you to tell me.”

“Oh, Freddy, you make me feel almost ashamed to be happy sometimes. I wish you could have what I have. I don’t see why you can’t.”

“But what
have
you got? What do you think it is?”

“Happiness, Freddy. Happiness and peace and never having to be alone again.”

It was like talking to a machine—like being unable to ask a question until you hit on the key word. “But what has that to do with me?”

“You know.” She was visibly uncomfortable. “It couldn’t have happened without you.”

“What couldn’t?”

“You know perfectly well.” She jumped up at once and clasped Freda’s hands. “Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t snap, at you of all people. Sage told us you didn’t know what you were capable of until that night. It must take some getting used to. Just try and remember how much happiness you’ve been responsible for.”

“But I
still
don’t know what I’m capable of. What
have
I done?” It was less a question than a cry of desperation.

“I wish you could see. But it’s—private. You understand.”

Freda was struggling not to reveal what she’d seen in Doreen’s bedroom, in her bed. “You think I’m a medium, don’t you? I’m not. Not in the way you think.”

“What other way is there?”

“Sage’s way. He’s using me to make these things.” She didn’t care if that offended Doreen or upset her, she was so desperate, but Doreen only looked forgiving. “It’s like being made to give birth against your will, can you imagine that? He never even asked me. I hate it, Doreen, it’s horrible, it’s not fair. I won’t be made to do it again. I want to leave.” 
₍

“He
needs
you, Freddy. That’s not the same as using you, you mustn’t think it is. And I do.” She held Freda’s hands more tightly when they tried to pull away. “You mustn’t go yet, you’ve so much still to give. You wouldn
‘t
deny people that, would you? You wouldn’t have denied me. He can’t do it without you.” She looked away from Freda, toward the door. “You tell her,” she said:

Sage was in the doorway. “I heard my name,” he said. “I thought it best to come.”

“I’ll go and help Rosie with dinner.” Before Freda could stop her, Doreen had gone. Freda stared at him, at his calm deep eyes, then looked away in case they overcame her. “Did you hear what I was saying?” she demanded.

“I did.” His voice was untroubled, reassuring. “I think you know it is no longer possible.”

“You’ll see whether it is.” No, she ought to let him think she had given up all hope of escaping. “What do you want of me?”

“Only what you want yourself.”

“No, it isn’t.” She thought of Timothy, forced herself to remember how he had died. “Don’t you say that,” she cried.

“I think you see its truth.”

“I’m going downstairs. Don’t you come in my room again without being invited.” She was so angry and dismayed that she forgot how the house had changed until she went onto the landing. The stairs went up as well as down. She wondered if he would try to stop her if she headed upward, and then she realized that he wanted her to go up, to see what was there. The bright deserted stairs above looked quite as real as those below. All at once she was dizzy and falling, until he took her arm.

They descended the stairs, through floor after floor. She lost count of the empty rooms. Beyond one open door she thought she saw a crucifix, except that the small figure was moving, growing brighter, reaching out its arms. Everything was too bright; her eyes were stinging. She closed her eyes and kept walking, since there was nothing else to do, and said, “Why have you made all this?”

“Not I.” He seemed surprised. “All this is yours.”

“So that’s why you need me,” she said, understanding nothing.

“To an extent, and for the moment. Soon there will be less strain on you.”

He sounded sympathetic, which dismayed her more than ever. Whatever he meant, it sounded so ominous that she couldn’t question him. They were on the last flight now, and he was holding her arm lightly. She ought to be able to break away, run for the front door. Where would she go? Who would believe what she had to tell? Even if she managed to bring someone here, what was there to see? Her eyes were so dazzled by the parade of floors that she could hardly see the front door or the smooth pink face of the figure that stood in front of it, smiling with teeth white as neon. She fled toward the dining room.

Doreen and Rosie were already seated, and Freda’s plate was piled high. “I can’t eat all that, don’t be ridiculous,” she said, wondering if she could eat at all.

“Do your best, Freddy. You need to eat,” Doreen said, but Freda was sure that they needed her to. It was the séances that were taking so much out of her. If she didn’t eat they couldn’t very well expect her to continue acting as a medium, but if she didn’t eat she would be too weak to resist anything. Above all, she was famished. Nobody spoke until she had almost cleared her plate.

“You aren’t still thinking of going back, are you?”

“Not yet,” she said.

“That’s right. You look after yourself for a change, you’ve done enough for us.” When Freda had’ finished, Doreen said, “You’ll feel better for that. Come and watch television and relax.”

Were they getting her ready for another séance? They couldn’t make her do it, that was one thing they couldn
‘t
do. She sat with Sage while the women washed up, and wished she were anywhere but in the parlor, so close
to
Doreen’s bedroom that was Harry’s again now. Suppose she got up before Sage could prevent her, ran across the hall into the sitting room, and threw open the bedroom door? What would Harry, or the thing with Harry’s face, do? What would Doreen do if she couldn’t pretend that her companion didn’t exist? She was almost grateful when Doreen turned on the news and she could stop thinking.

There was unrest at Holloway Prison as well as Pentonville now. Prison officers were locking prisoners in their cells for twenty-three hours a day. Realizing both prisons were less than a mile away made Freda feel imprisoned herself. Had Sage let her go home so that she would see the derelict shop, because he knew it would make her come back? She thought of being locked in a cell, of looking out at walls full of blank windows, and wondered if she already had. The house was turning into a prison full of empty cells, and only she realized they were prisoners. Though Doreen had the gas fire on full, she couldn’t stop shivering.

She hardly noticed the next news item, about the death of a London stamp dealer named Churchill. The name took her back to the war, to Timothy—dangling from the parachute as the German flare struck him, writhing helplessly and screaming as he drifted down… . She dragged her attention back to the news, for all at once, though she wasn’t sure why, it seemed vital that she should.

The inquest into the death of Geoffrey Churchill was to be held next week. Mr. Churchill had fallen from the viaduct at Hornsey Lane. Freda was trying to think what his name should mean and growing afraid that thinking would distract her from that very information on the news. Now there was something about Mr. Churchill’s wife, Joyce. Surely not the Joyce Churchill she remembered? Then there was a brief shot of her at the viaduct, and the glimpse of her face was like the answer to a prayer. “I know her!” Freda cried.

“You know her?” Doreen demanded. “The lady who’s lost her husband?”

Freda mustn’t seem too eager, the plan that was forming mustn’t seem to come from her. “Yes.”

“You know what she needs, don’t you?”

“No,” Freda said, “you tell me.”

“She needs to come here. She needs you.”

“You know what I said about all that to you, Doreen.” Freda’s reluctance was quite real. “But she is a friend of mine,” she admitted. “She did look so alone.”

“That’s how it feels, Freddy. You remember, don’t you?” Doreen gazed moist-eyed at her. “Call her, Freddy. Call her now.”

“I can’t. I’ve forgotten the number.”

“Look it up.” Doreen obviously thought Freda was trying to avoid calling. She hurried back from the hall with the directory. “Don’t leave her suffering, Freddy. Help her like you helped me.”

Freda turned the pages shakily until she found the Churchills. Joyce was the only person she could think of who might believe what was happening here, who might see what was wrong with it and not be seduced by it. Joyce had the strength Freda needed, she would know what to do and not be daunted; surely she was still like that. Here was G. Churchill, Stamp Dealer, and of course the “G” was for Geoffrey. She suppressed her excitement. “I’ve got it,” she said.

“Call her, Freddy. Do it now before you change your mind.” Doreen turned to Sage as if she’d forgotten him. “It’ll be all right, won’t it?”

Freda held her breath. “Please do,” he said.

He couldn’t read her mind! If she’d been alone she would have laughed aloud at herself. “All right, I will.”

As soon as she left the gas fire for the hall, she began to shiver in earnest. She could ignore that, and the stairs that went up forever; she must. She dialed while Doreen held the directory for her. The phone at the other end rang, went on ringing. Seconds passed before a woman’s voice said, “Yes?”

“Joyce Churchill?”

“Yes?”

“This is Freda Beeching. We met at Oxford.” That was all she had time to say before she was cut off. She stared at the buzzing receiver and then at Doreen. “She hung up.”

Doreen looked dubious. “You don’t seem to know her that well.”

“Let me have another try.”

This time it seemed the phone would never stop ringing. She imagined Joyce willing it to stop, to be left alone with her grief. Freda was close to hating herself, but where else could she seek help? She swallowed when the ringing was cut off.