Moon (8 page)

    His presence had been in the graveyard, so close to the little corpse, almost
feeling
its cold, clammy touch. For a few brief moments he had existed
inside
the other being, this thing that had defiled the dead child. Had felt its obscene glory.

    Yet had been apart from it, an observer with no influence, a watcher of no power.

    Still the thoughts persisted and with them, sneaking through like an insidious informant, came a new dread, an unspeakable notion that caused him to moan aloud. The thought was too distressing to contemplate, yet would not go away. Surely he would have known, would have been aware in some way, no matter how deeply hidden his conscious mind had kept the secret? But hadn't he felt at one stage, when those monstrous hands had raised the lifeless body from the grave, that they were his own, that those hands belonged to him?

    Was the vision merely a released memory? Was he, himself, the desecrator? No, that couldn't be, it couldn't be!

    Childes stared at the closed window and listened to the night.

    

    

    
It sat in the shadows watching the slender crescent of light that was the moon through the grimy window, and it grinned, thoughts dwelling on the ceremony it had carried out in the burial ground earlier that night.

    
It relived the exquisite moment of opening the body, of scattering the contents, and relished the memory.

    
A tongue slid across parted lips. The silent heart had tasted good.

    
But now a frown changed its countenance.

    
In the cemetery, for one brief moment as it had drawn out the dead child, a sensation had stayed the movement, a feeling of being watched. The graveyard had been deserted, though, that was certain, only headstones and frozen angels the nocturnal spectators.

    
Yet there had been contact with something, with someone. A touching of spirits.

    
Who?

    
And how was it possible?

    
The figure stirred in the chair as a cloud engulfed the moon; its breathing was shallow and harsh until the feeble light returned. It considered the possibility that someone was aware of its existence, and stretched its mind, seeking the interloper, searching but not finding. Not yet.

    
But in time. In time.

    

    

    'You look a little pale,' Estelle Piprelly remarked as Childes entered the study and took a chair facing her on the other side of the broad desk.

    'I'm fine,' he responded. 'You've hurt yourself.'

    He raised the bandaged hand in a deprecative gesture. 'I broke a glass. Nothing serious, just a few minor cuts.'

    The ceiling was high, the walls half-panelled in light oak, the upper portions a restful pastel green, except one wall which was covered from floor to ceiling with crowded bookshelves. A portrait of La Roche's founder dominated the wall to Childes' right, undoubtedly an accurate facsimile but one that revealed little of the sitter's true character, so typical of many Victorian studies. Beside the door, an ancient clock loudly ticked away the seconds as if each one was an announcement in itself. Childes looked past La Roche's principal, bright sunlight from the huge windows behind her blazing her grey hair silver. Outside were the school gardens, green lawns bordered with awakening flowers and shrubs, the slanted roof of a white-framed summerhouse dazzlingly mirroring the sun's rays. Beyond were the clifftops, rugged and decaying, slowly eroding bastions against the sea. The darker blue of the horizon indicated the clear divide between sea and sky, a distinct edge to the calm affinity between both elements. Although the room itself was spacious and its tones soothing, Childes suddenly felt confined, as if the walls were restraining an energy emanating from within himself, a force that the bounds of his own physical body could not contain. He knew that the sensation was simple claustrophobia, nothing more, and much of it was due to the impending confrontation with the headmistress.

    'I had a call from Victor Platnauer this morning,' Miss Piprelly began, confirming his expectation. 'I believe you met on a social basis last Saturday evening.'

    Childes nodded.

    'He told me of your, er, unfortunate accident,' the principal went on. 'He said that you had fainted during dinner.'

    'No, dinner was just about over.'

    She eyed him coolly. 'He was concerned over your state of health. There is, after all, a huge responsibility on your shoulders when teaching youngsters, and such an occurrence in the classroom could cause some distress among the girls. As one of our governors,
Conseiller
Platnauer was seeking some assurance that you were not prone to such collapses. I think that's reasonable, don't you?'

    'It's the first time ever for me. Really.'

    'Any idea as to why it happened? Have you consulted a doctor yet?'

    He hesitated before answering. 'No to both questions. I'm okay now, I don't need a doctor.'

    'Nonsense. If you fainted, there must be a reason for it.'

    'Maybe I was a little tensed up on Saturday. A personal thing.'

    'Enough to make you black out?' she scoffed mildly.

    'I can only tell you it's not a regular occurrence with me. I feel healthy nowadays, probably healthier than I've felt in a long time. Life on the island has meant a big change for me, a different style of living, away from the pressure of my last job, out of a rat-race profession. And I don't mind admitting there was a considerable strain on my marriage for several years. Things have changed since I came here: I'm more relaxed, I'd even say more content.'

    'Yes, I can believe that. But as I said when you came in, you look a trifle peaky.'

    'What happened shook me as well as the other dinner guests,' he said testily.

    He felt uncomfortable under her gaze and looked away, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his cords. For a moment it had seemed she had looked into the very core of him.

    'All right, Mr Childes, I don't intend to pursue that particular matter any further. However, I do suggest you consult a doctor at the earliest opportunity; your fainting spell may well be a symptom of some hidden illness.'

    He was relieved, but said nothing.

    Miss Piprelly lightly tapped the blunt end of a fountain pen on the desktop as if it were a gavel. 'Victor Platnauer also brought something else to my attention, something, I'm afraid, to do with your past history, Mr Childes, and of which you have omitted to inform me.'

    He straightened in his seat, body tensed, hands clasping his knees, knowing what was coming.

    'I refer, of course, to the unhappy dealings you had with the police before you came to the island.'

    He should have realised it would not be forgotten so easily, that England was too close, too accessible, for such news not to have travelled, and to have been remembered by some. Had Platnauer always known? No, it would have been mentioned long before. Someone had told him very recently, and Childes smiled to himself, for it was so obvious: Paul Sebire had 'looked into' his background - either that, or Amy had told her father - and passed on the interesting information to the school governor. In a funny way, he was glad the secret was out, even though he considered it to be nobody's business but his own. Suppression leads to depression, right? he told himself.

    'Right,' he answered.

    'I beg your pardon?' The headmistress looked surprised.

    'My "dealings with the police" as you put it, were purely as a source of information. I helped, in the true sense, with their investigations.'

    'So I gather. Although your method was rather peculiar, wouldn't you say that?'

    'Yes, I would say that. In fact, the idea still astounds me. As to my not having informed you when you hired me, I hardly thought it necessary. I wasn't criminally involved.'

    'Quite so. And I'm not making an issue of it now.'

    It was Childes' turn to be surprised. 'My, uh, standing here isn't affected in any way?'

    The ticking clock timed the pause. Six seconds.

    'I think it only fair that I tell you I've asked our police department to supply me with more information on the matter. You should appreciate my reasons for doing so.'

    'You're not going to fire me?'

    She didn't smile and her manner had its usual brusqueness, but he regarded her with new interest when she said: 'I see no reason for doing so; not at this stage, at any rate. Unless you have anything further to tell me right now, anything that I'll probably find out anyway?'

    He shook his head. 'I've got nothing to hide, Miss Piprelly, I promise you that.'

    'Very well. We have a particular need for your special abilities, otherwise I wouldn't have asked you to spare La Roche more of your time, and that I've explained to Victor Platnauer. I must admit he was reluctant to see my point of view at first, but he's a fair-minded man. He will, however, be keeping a close eye on you, Mr Childes, as I shall. We've agreed to keep the whole affair strictly to ourselves: La Roche would find any such publicity regarding yourself totally unacceptable. We have a long-established reputation to protect.'

    Estelle Piprelly sat back in her chair and, even though her body was still ramrod straight, the position seemed almost relaxed for her. She continued to study Childes with that unsettling, penetrating gaze and the fountain pen stood stiffly between her fingers, base resting on the desktop, like a tiny immovable post. He wondered about her, wondered about her sudden frown, what she was reading in his expression. Was there just a hint of alarm behind the thick lenses of her spectacles?

    She quickly recovered, leaving him unsure that he had seen any change at all in her demeanour.

    'I won't keep you any longer,' Miss Piprelly said curtly. 'I'm sure we both have lots to do.'

    I want him out of the room, she thought, I want him out
now.
It wasn't his fault, he wasn't to blame for this outrageous extra sense he possessed, just as she was not responsible for her own strange faculty. She could not get rid of the man on that basis; it would have been too hypocritical, too cruel.
But she wanted his presence away from her, now, that instant.
For a moment she had thought he'd seen through her own rigid mask, had sensed the ability in her, an unwelcome gift that was as unacceptable to her as adverse publicity was unacceptable to the school. Her secret, her
affliction,
was not to be shared; it had been too closely guarded for too many years. She would take the chance of keeping him on - he was owed that much - but she would keep away from him, avoid unnecessary contact. Miss Piprelly would not give Childes the opportunity to recognise their similarity. That would be too foolhardy, too much to give after so long. Dangerous even, for someone in her position.

    'I'm sorry, Mr Childes, is there something you wanted to say?' She deliberately quelled her impatience, years of self-discipline coming to her aid.

    'Only thanks. I appreciate your trust.'

    'That has nothing whatsoever to do with it. If I thought you untrustworthy I wouldn't have employed you in the first place. Let's just say I value your expertise.'

    He rose, managed to smile. Estelle Piprelly was an enigma to him. He started to say something, then thought better of it. He left the room.

    The principal closed her eyes and let her head rest against the high-backed chair, the sun on her shoulders unable to dispense the chill.

    

    

    Outside in the corridor, Childes began to shake. Earlier that morning he had assumed he was in control, that much of the anguish had been purged the day before, literally walked from his system, so exhausting him that when he returned home sleep would overwhelm him. And it had. There had been no dreams, no restless turning in the bed, no sweat-soaked sheets; just several hours of oblivion. That morning he had awoken feeling refreshed, the sighted images of Saturday evening a contained memory, still disturbing but at least uneasily settled in a compartment of his mind. Subconscious reflex, self-protecting mental conditioning; there had to be a legitimate medical term with which to label the reaction.

    The morning newspaper had easily shattered that temporary defence.

    Still he had gone through the motions of everyday living, unnerved but determined to get through the day. Halfway there and then his meeting with Miss Piprelly. Now he was shaking.

    'Jon?'

    He turned, startled, and Amy saw his fear. She hurried to him. 'Jon, what's wrong? You look awful.'

    Childes clung to her briefly. 'Let's get out of here,' he said. 'Can you get away for a while?'

    'It's still lunchbreak. I've got at least half an hour before my next lesson.'

    'A short drive then, to somewhere quiet.'

    They parted when footsteps echoed along the corridor, and turned towards the stairs leading to the main entrance, saying nothing until they were outside, the sun warming them after the coolness of the school's interior.

    'Where were you yesterday?' Amy asked. 'I tried to reach you throughout the day.'

    'I thought you were showing Edouard Vigiers around the island.' There was no criticism in his response.

    'I did for an hour or so. He understood my concern for you, though, and suggested we cut it short. I wasn't terribly good company, I'm afraid.' They walked towards the carpark. 'I came by the cottage, but there was no sign of you. I was so worried.'

    'I'm sorry, Amy, I should have realised. I just had to get away, I couldn't stay inside.'