Moon (26 page)

    'Where is my daughter?' the financier asked Poulain, ignoring Childes.

    'Resting,' the doctor replied, then quickly informed them of Amy's condition.

    Sebire's expression was grim when Poulain had finished. 'We want to see her.'

    'I don't think that's wise at the moment, Paul,' the doctor said. 'She'll be asleep and you might be more upset than necessary. In this kind of accident injuries often look much worse than they are. I've just advised Mr Childes here that she shouldn't be disturbed.'

    Pure hatred shone from Sebire as he turned to the younger man. Vivienne quickly reached for Childes' arm. 'Are you all right, Jonathan? You didn't say too much on the telephone.'

    'I'm fine. It's Amy I'm worried about.'

    'This would never have happened if she hadn't been such a fool over you,' snapped Sebire. 'I warned her you were nothing but trouble.'

    His wife interposed once more. 'Not now, Paul, I think Jonathan has been through enough for one day. Now Dr Poulain has assured us that Amy will recover without permanent injury -'

    'She may have been scarred for life, Vivienne! Isn't that permanent enough?'

    Poulain spoke. 'The scarring will be minimal, nothing that minor plastic surgery won't easily repair.'

    Childes rubbed at the back of his neck, the movement awkward because of the painful stiffness in his chest. 'Mr Sebire, I want to say how sorry I am.'

    'You're sorry? You really think that's good enough?'

    'It was an accident that could have…'
Happened to anyone?
It was a sentence Childes could not complete.

    'Just stay away from my daughter! Leave her now before you cause her more harm.'

    'Paul,' Vivienne warned, catching her husband's sleeve as he moved towards Childes.

    'Please, Paul,’ said Dr Poulain, 'there are patients on this floor to consider.'

    'This man isn't what he seems.' Sebire stabbed a finger at Childes. 'I sensed it from the very start. You only have to look at what happened this afternoon at the school to realise that.'

    'How can you say that?' his wife protested. 'He saved the little girl's life.'

    'Did he? Did anyone else see exactly what happened? Perhaps it was the other way round and
he
was attempting to murder her.'

    The last remark was finally too much for Childes. 'Sebire, you're being your usual kind of fool,' he said in a low voice.

    'Am I? You're under suspicion, Childes, not just from me but from the police as well. I don't think you'll be returning to La Roche or any other school on the island where you can hurt helpless children!'

    Childes wanted to lash out at the financier, to vent his frustration on someone, anyone - Sebire would be ideal - to strike back in any way he could. But he didn't have the energy. Instead he turned to walk away.

    Sebire clutched his arm, swung him round. 'Did you hear me, Childes? You're finished here on this island, so my advice to you is to get out, leave while you're still able to.'

    Childes wearily pulled his arm away. 'You can go to hell,' he said.

    Sebire's fist struck his already bruised cheek and he staggered back, caught by surprise, going down on one knee. He heard a jumble of sounds before his head fully cleared - footsteps, raised voices - and regaining his feet seemed an unusually slow and difficult procedure. Someone else's hand under his shoulder helped. Once up, he felt unsteady, but the person by his side supported his weight. He realised it was Overoy who held him and that Inspector Robillard was restraining Sebire from attacking him further.

    'I'd have hated to have read your horoscope this morning,' Overoy said close to his ear.

    Childes managed to stand alone, although he had to resist the urge to slump onto the nearby bench. His limbs felt sluggish, as if their blood flow had thickened, become viscid. Vivienne Sebire was pale beside her husband, her eyes full of apology. Sebire himself still struggled against restraint, but his efforts were slack, without vigour, the thrust of his anger dissipated in that one blow.

    Perhaps there was even an element of shame behind the rage.

    'Come on, Jon,' Overoy said, using Childes' Christian name for the first time. 'Let's get you out of here. You look as if you could use a good stiff drink and I'm buying.'

    'Mr Childes hasn't been examined yet,' the doctor quickly said.

    'He looks okay to me,' Overoy replied, gently tugging at Childes' elbow. 'A little battered maybe, but he'll survive. I can always bring him back later if need be.'

    'As you wish.' Poulain then spoke to Sebire in an attempt to diffuse the situation. 'Perhaps it would be all right for you to look in on Amy, as long as you're quiet and she isn't disturbed.'

    The financier blinked once, twice, his face still a patchy red from fading anger, then finally tore his gaze from Childes. He nodded and Robillard released him.

    'Let's go,' Overoy said to Childes, who hesitated, opened his mouth to say something to Amy's mother, but then could not find the words. He walked away, the detective at his side.

    Inside the lift, Overoy pressed the G button and said, 'The officer keeping watch on the schoolgirl got word to us that you were back at the hospital. You must like the place.'

    Childes leaned back against the panelled wall, his eyes closed.

    'We heard you ran off the road.'

    'That's right,' was all that Childes would say.

    The lift glided to a stop, its door sliding open to admit a porter pushing a wheelchaired patient, a grey-haired woman who gloomily surveyed the arthritically-deformed knuckles of her hands folded in her lap and who barely noticed the men, so quietly immersed in her own infirmity was she. Nobody spoke until the doors opened again at ground level. The porter backed out the wheelchair and whisked away his sombre patient, whistling cheerfully as he went.

    'I've hired a car for the weekend so I'll drive us somewhere quiet where we can talk,' said Overoy, holding the doors before they could close on them. 'Even if your car were still driveable, I don't think you're capable. Hey, we're here, ground floor.'

    Childes was startled. 'What?'

    'This is as far as we go.'

    'Sorry.'

    'You sure you're okay?'

    'Just tired.'

    'What condition did you leave your car in?'

    'Sick.'

    'Terminal?'

    'They'll mend it eventually.'

    'So like I said, we'll take mine.'

    'Can you get me home?'

    'Sure. We need to talk, though.'

    'We'll talk.'

    They left the hospital building and found Overoy's hire-car parked in a doctor-reserved bay. They climbed in, Childes relieved to sink back into the cushioned passenger seat. Before switching on the engine, the detective said, 'You know I have to leave tomorrow evening?'

    Childes nodded, his eyes closed once more. 'So if you've anything more to tell me…?’

    'It made me crash my car.'

    'How d'you mean?'

    'I saw it looking at me, Overoy. I saw it in the back seat. Only it wasn't really there!'

    'Easy now. You thought you saw someone in the back of your car and that's what caused you to crash?'

    'It was there. It tried to choke me.'

    'And Miss Sebire can verify this? She saw this person?'

    'I don't know. No, she couldn't have, it was in my own mind.
But I felt its hands choking me!’

    'That isn't possible.'

    'I can show you the marks. Dr Poulain noticed them.' He pulled at his shirt collar and Overoy flicked on the interior light. 'Can you see them?' asked Childes, almost eagerly.

    'No, Jon. No scratches, no bruising.'

    Childes swivelled the rear-view mirror in his direction, stretching his neck towards the glass. The detective was right: his skin was unmarked.

    'Get me home,' he said wearily. 'Let's do that talking.'

    

    

    
It stood inside the blackness of the ancient and solitary tower, perfectly still, perfectly silent, relishing the void. The dark oblivion.

    
The sound of waves crashing against the lower cliffs drifted through openings, echoing around the Martello's circular walls like many whispers. The thing in the dark imagined they were the hushed voices of those lost to the sea, forever mourning in their starless limbo. The thought was amusing.

    
Strong stenches hung in the air inside the crumbling tower - urine, faeces, decay - the abuse of those who cared little for monuments and even less for their history; but these odours did not offend the figure lurking in the comforting blackness. The corruption was enjoyed.

    
Somewhere in the night a tiny creature screamed, prey to another more swift and more deadly.

    
It smiled.

    
The forces were building. The man was part of that building. Yet he did not know.

    
He would. Before very long. And for him, it would be too late.

    

    

    Estelle Piprelly searched the darkness, the incomplete moon consumed by thick clouds so that little was visible below her window. The lawns were still there, the trees were still there - and the sea still battered the lower cliff faces - but for all she knew there might be no existence beyond the confines of her room. So acute was her aloneness that life itself could well have been an illusion, a fantasy invented by her own mind.

    Yet that could easily be borne, for loneliness was nothing new to her, despite crowded days, duty-filled hours; it was this new, threatening emptiness arousing a deeper, soul-touched, apprehension that was hard to bear. For the night's mood presaged menace.

    She turned away, leaving the soft ghost of her reflection, a slight bending of her famously ramrod-straight spine appearing to change her character, render her frail. There was an aimlessness to her step as she paced the room which was part of her living quarters in the college, a listlessness in her movement. Lines frowned her face and her hands curled into tight balls inside the long, knitted cardigan she wore. Her lips were less firm, less severe than usual.

    It was not just the sable bleakness of the night that haunted La Roche's principal, nor the unsettling quietness of late hours: Death had bid her a mocking hello that day. And its unholy visage had been present in the faces of a certain number of her girls. Just as many years before, when the mere child who could not understand but who could be
aware
had observed the imminent mortality of certain of the island's occupying forces, she had now discerned the death masks of her own pupils.

    The disquiet weakened her, forcing her to sit. On the mantel-shelf over an unlit fire, a dome-shaped clock, its face set in lacquered wood, counted away the moments as if they were the beats of an expiring heart. She pulled the cardigan tight around her, clutching the wool to her throat, the chill from inside her rather than the air around.

    Miss Piprelly, swiftly aged and almost tremulous, pushed her thoughts outwards, wanting to - desperate to - perceive, but knowing ultimately that the strength was not within her, the faculty not that great. By no means comparable to Jonathan Childes'. How strange that he himself did not know his own potential.

    The enigma of the man frightened her.

    She turned as a breeze brushed against the window. Had she expected Death himself to be peering in?

    Miss Piprelly wondered how secure the school was. True enough, a policeman guarded the main gate, frequently leaving his vehicle to prowl the grounds, checking doors, windows, shining his torch into surrounding shrubbery. But could a solitary policeman prevent somebody from entering one of the buildings, with their numerous access points, the irregularity of the complex itself making surveillance difficult and providing easy concealment for skulking figures. She had spoken with Inspector Robillard that very afternoon, voicing her concern (and, of course, unable to explain the reason) and he had assured her that the area in and around the college was regularly patrolled, had been since the attempt on Jeanette's life. He understood her anxiety perfectly well, yet felt it was misplaced: he doubted the attacker would return to La Roche now that the police had been alerted. The principal wished with all her heart that she could accept the policeman's calm assurances.

    Her thoughts dwelt on Jonathan Childes once more - as they often had over the past few days. Reluctantly, Miss Piprelly had asked him to stay away from the college - no, she had insisted, he was not on suspension, neither was he under suspicion; but his presence at La Roche appeared to have put her girls at risk, and their welfare must always be her prime concern. She, Victor Platnauer, and several other members of the governing board had discussed the matter with Inspector Robillard and it was deemed wise, for the time being, that Childes should be kept away from the school (she had not mentioned that Victor Platnauer had insisted Childes be instantly dismissed). As there were less than two weeks left of summer term, it did not seem unreasonable that Childes should accede to their request. He had. And without hesitation.

    When she had called him to her study on that Monday morning, just three days ago, his intensity had been disconcerting. He had hardly seemed to hear her words, yet had not been inattentive. His mind was grappling with inner confusions, while still acutely aware of everything around him. Of course he was distressed not only by Jeanette's terrible ordeal, but also by the injuries to Miss Sebire in the car crash on the same day; however, she felt his inward preoccupation had little to do with shock. The man was seeking -she had
felt
his probing inside her own head - but his searches were random, speculative. He had recognised the gift in her, although he had not spoken of it. At times she sensed a vibration all around his form, a psychic field constantly expanding and contracting. Its fluctuating levels disconcerted her, yet he appeared unaware of these invisible emanations.