The Grieving Stones (8 page)

Steve looked away. His face relaxed. Had she misread him in some way? There was no reason for him to be annoyed with her.

“Would anyone like another drink?” Jake was holding up a wine bottle, offering it left to right.

“No thanks,” said Clive. Steve said nothing. Moira continued to weep, but silently.

“Yeah, why not.” Alice made to stand but Jake was already on his feet and pouring her a glass. “Cheers,” she said.

“I think I’ll visit the little boys’ room and then call it a night,” said Clive, standing. His long, lean body cast a thin shadow as he tottered across the room, slightly drunk. “We have an early start tomorrow… lots of work to do.” He was speaking quietly, talking more to himself than to the others.

“Yes,” said Moira, taking the hint and pulling reluctantly away from Steve. Her cheeks were shiny. “I should hit the hay as well. Thank you, everyone.” She stood and smoothed down her skirt, smiled shyly, then headed for the door that led to the rickety stairs.

“I think I’ll turn in, too.” Steve stood without making eye contact. He left the room and shut the door quietly.

“Just us, then.” Jake sounded delighted.

Shit,
thought Alice.
This is all I need.
She hoped he wouldn’t make a drunken pass at her. That would make things awkward for the rest of the weekend. She hadn’t given out any signals that she was even remotely interested, but a man like Jake – confused, insecure – might not concern himself with such minor details and plough on anyway, hoping for the best.

“I’ll just finish this then go up,” she said.

Jake stood and crossed the room, sitting down heavily beside her. He was too close; his thighs brushed against hers. She shifted sideways, pressing herself up against the arm of the sofa, but he didn’t get the message and moved with her, maintaining the contact.

“So,” she said. “That Moira, eh? She’s been through the wringer.”

“We all have,” said Jake. His eyes were glassy from drink. She’d seen this look on men before, usually just before a situation spun out of control. “Isn’t that why we’re here? Because we’ve all been though such horrible shit?”

Alice nodded.

“When my sister died, I thought I would die, too.”

She nodded again. She’d heard it all before, at the group sessions. Jake’s twin sister had died of a drug overdose when they were both twenty-two. She recalled that it had been bad drugs supplied by a bad man who’d shown no remorse when he was arrested for his crimes. The case had even made the national news.

“I see her sometimes, you know.”

She went rigid. Every muscle in her body seemed to go tense.

“When I’m in that weird state between being asleep and awake…you know, late at night or early in the morning. I see her drift into the room. She waves at me but she never speaks.”

Alice had no way of responding, so she just let him talk.

“Oh, I know it isn’t real… of course I know that. She’s dead. But it’s nice to pretend. I like to imagine she’s been away on holiday or something, and that she’s just come back. It’s lovely… lovely to see her again.”

Alice drained her glass. Jake’s hand had strayed onto her thigh, the fingers dancing across her denim-clad skin.

“I… I’m off to bed. Night, Jake…” She stood quickly, pushing him sideways only half accidentally: she wanted him to realise that he was overstepping the mark, that his attention was unwelcome, without actually saying something. He slid sideways across the back of the sofa, spilling his wine. “Whoops,” she said, stepping away.

“Ah… fuck.” He started to brush at his crotch, not making the mess any better. He was making it worse, in fact. “I’m such a dick.” When he looked up at her, he seemed small, childlike. For a moment, she felt sorry for him. A huge and heavy sense of pity pressed down upon her and she struggled to breathe. It lasted only a few seconds, but the feeling was intense and unnerving.

“Are you okay?” She made no move towards him.

“Yeah… yeah, I’m fine. You just go to bed. I’ll finish this bottle first… maybe Clive will stay up and chat.” He smiled, showing his teeth in the gloom.

Alice turned and left the room without saying another word. For a moment, she thought she’d seen the crude outline of a figure standing behind the sofa, its arms upraised, head thrown back. It wasn’t real of course, just a trick of the drink and the poor light, or perhaps Clive had returned from the bathroom… but nonetheless, it was a powerful image on which to end the evening.

Walking along the narrow corridor to the stairs, she had the impression that someone small and crouched was shuffling behind her, keeping pace with her slow footsteps. She fought the urge to turn around and climbed the steps, coming up into the loft room. Moira had left a lamp on; its low light created shadows along the base of the walls.

Alice moved slowly across the room, towards the bed, trying not to make any noise. This room had been tidied, too. She wondered when they’d had the chance to do it. Her gaze was drawn to the punch dummy. She was certain it had been moved, probably when the others had been busy. When she’d first seen the dummy, it had been standing close to the wall, close to the lower part of the sloped ceiling, its head almost touching the ceiling panels, but now it was positioned a few feet nearer the centre of the room.

No,
she thought.
Don’t be so stupid. It hasn’t moved on its own. They shifted it when they were tidying.

She did her best not to look at the dummy: the weird truncated torso, its smooth, blank face. When she reached the bed she undressed and slipped into an old, long t-shirt. She left the lamp on; it was better that way in case she or Moira needed to get up and go downstairs to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

A breeze rattled in the eaves. Something large and airborne flitted by outside the window, brushing momentarily against the roof tiles. She climbed into bed and let her head sink into the surprisingly soft pillows. The mattress was hard but not unpleasantly so. She closed her eyes and tried to drift off, but now she was up here she no longer felt tired. She kept her eyes shut for a little while longer, trying to summon sleep, but it was no good. Her brain was too active to allow her to fall into the comforting darkness.

When she opened her eyes she felt her chest tighten. The punch dummy had moved again. It was closer to the bed – just by a fraction, but enough that she noticed it. She fought to control her breathing. She didn’t want to wake Moira and cause a commotion. Surely it was just her imagination. The barren landscape, the old house, the weight of all that darkness outside… it was playing with her mind, causing her to conjure images where there was nothing to be afraid of.

But she wasn’t scared. Even now, aware that an inanimate object might be moving across the room by itself, fear was not the dominant emotion. Again, she felt a deep and profoundly moving sadness, a sense of loss and abandonment that matched her own deep-seated sense of defeat.

“Are you here?” She had no idea who she was speaking to, but there was definitely a presence there, and it would be rude not to at least acknowledge it. “Don’t be afraid.”

Was that it? Was whatever dwelled here, in this abandoned house, afraid of them? Had they disturbed its peace?

“I’m sorry… we didn’t meant to butt in. We won’t be here long, just a few days. Then we’ll be gone.”

Gone…
it was a thought more than a voice, not even a whispered one.
Gone, but still I can see you. I can always see you.

It wasn’t him; it wasn’t Tony. His ghost had not followed her here, but someone or something knew about what had happened to him and the bad things he’d done to her when he was alive. But it wasn’t mocking her. This was more complicated – and clumsier – than simple mockery. She suspected that someone or something was trying, in its own confused way, to make contact.

The house creaked silently. The noise was nowhere but inside her head.

“Would you like me to stay?”

The sounds ceased. Whatever was in the room with her paused, and it waited.

“You do… you want me to stay.”

Alice had never felt so needed in her life. It was like a physical ache, or a pressure in the air.

Just then, Moira started to talk in her sleep. There were no words, just a low mumbling. Alice looked over at the other bed, and saw the woman swatting her hand near her face, as if she were trying to shoo away a fly. The punch dummy now stood at the side of Moira’s bed. She had no idea how it had been able to move there without her noticing, but somehow it had made the short trip across the room.

Alice held her breath.

Moira pushed off her unzipped sleeping bag and stood, her oversized nightshirt riding high on her chunky thighs. She took tiny little steps as she moved away from the bed, and too late Alice understood what was happening.

She sat up in bed. “No!”

The punch dummy was back where it should be, close to the wall, nearer to the eaves.

Moira’s eyes flickered open and she looked right at Alice, her face white with surprise. For a moment that seemed to last forever and yet was over in a heartbeat, she stood motionless above the entrance to the loft room, one foot near the edge. Then, almost comically, she pitched to one side and fell through the opening. The noise she made was like thunder; it shocked Alice into motion. She ran across the room and fell to her knees at the top of the stairs. Looking down, she saw Moira lying there, at the bottom, her left leg bent sideways at an unnatural angle.

Someone came clattering along the corridor, slamming into the wall in his haste. It was Clive. He was only half awake; his hair stuck out from his head in tendrils and wearing only a pair of underpants.

“She fell,” said Alice, wondering why she sounded as if she were trying to convince him of her innocence. “She fell down the stairs.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

The three men managed to move Moira carefully into the other room and lay her down on the threadbare sofa. She was moaning but she wasn’t weeping. Her leg was already starting to bruise.

“What happened?” Clive’s face was stern. He was once again assuming the mantle of their leader, the one who was in charge when things went wrong. He went around the room putting on all the lights.

“I… I think she was sleep-walking,” said Alice. “When I woke up she was standing at the top of the stairs. She fell… she just… fell.” She turned her attention back to Moira, who was covering her face with her arms, resembling a child who had fallen and injured herself on the school sports pitch.

“It hurts,” she said, between sobs. “My leg hurts.”

The limb was starting to swell. Her shin had doubled in size and her foot was twisted too far to one side. It was clear that a bone was broken.

“Shall we call an ambulance?” Jake was standing at the bottom of the sofa, his face pale and his eyes darting from one face to another.

“By the time one comes from the nearest town, she’ll be in even more pain.” Clive took out his phone, looked at it, and then looked at Jake. “It would be quicker to take her to hospital in the van and drop her off at A&E.” He took out the van keys and started to turn towards the door.

“I’ll do it,” said Steve, taking a few steps forward and reaching out a hand to take the keys. “You’ve all drunk a lot more than me tonight. I’m the only one sober. Besides, I’m not really enjoying being here. I can’t get on the Internet and this place is filthy. I probably shouldn’t have come at all, and now I’m here I just want to be out of the house. It’s… stifling. Can’t you feel it?” He looked right at Alice as he said this, as if she were the focus of his discomfort.

Clive shook his head. He handed Steve the keys. “If you’re sure… I do still feel a bit pissed.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure. I’ll drive her to the hospital and wait there with her. Will you three be okay without the van?”

“Of course. We won’t need it until we go home. There’s plenty of food and drink, and we’ll be busy all day.” Clive clasped Steve’s hand and then let it go. “Thank you. I appreciate this.”

Steve nodded. “Don’t be daft. Like I said, I’m glad to be getting out here. Do you really not feel it? The cold cloying atmosphere… I think it’s vile, this place.”

Alice shook her head. “I like it here,” she said, and then wished she hadn’t. The look Steve gave her made it look as if he was repelled by her words.

Clive spoke again: “Is that okay, Moira? Do you understand what’s happening?”

“Of course I fucking understand!” Her voice was too loud in the small room. Her eyes were wet and rimmed with red. She bared her teeth as she spoke, her face twisting into a snarl.

Steve went into action. “Okay… let’s get her into the van. We’ll try to be as careful as possible, Moira… but it’s going to hurt a bit.”

“Just get me the fuck out of here.” It was as if her suburban veneer had been stripped away and all that remained beneath was a loathsome fury, a red-hot rage. “I hate it here.”

Alice stepped close, bent over, and brushed the sweaty hair out of Moira’s face with her hand. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Moira blinked at her. “No… it wasn’t your fault. I… did you see anyone else in the room?”