Luke was pulling the cover back, shaking it and folding it onto the chair in the corner. He turned, surveying the floor, and decided it was too late to bother with sweeping it. Time enough for that tomorrow before Joss came home. Hauling his sweater up over his head he walked through into the bathroom and began to run the hot water.
Whistling to himself under his breath he peered at his reflection in the mirror as he reached for the toothpaste, noting the bags under his eyes with a scowl then he stopped what he was doing suddenly and held his breath; he was listening, he realised, straining his ears above the sound of running water. Impatiently he turned off the tap, wrenching at it as the water flow continued for a few seconds. Then came the drips plopping seemingly unstoppably into the bath with the sound of stones rattling in a dustbin and then at last silence. Tiptoeing to the door he turned the handle soundlessly and eased it open, peering out into the hallway. The house was silent.
Reaching for his dressing gown he pulled it on, belting it over his jeans and took a step out onto the landing. Cautiously he peered over the banisters and down into the stairwell. He wasn’t sure now what he had heard, but he could feel rather than hear that there was something – or someone – there.
‘Joss?’ It was a whisper. ‘Joss?’ he tried louder. The silence seemed to deepen. He wished he had some kind of a weapon to hand. Looking round desperately he spotted the pewter candlestick on the coffer between the doors to the bedrooms. Stealthily he crossed over and taking out the candle he hefted the heavy lump of metal into his hand before turning once more to the stairs.
‘Joss? Who’s there?’ His voice was stronger this time. ‘Come on, I can hear you.’
It wasn’t true; the silence was so intense it was almost tangible.
‘Joss?’ He put a foot on the first step down. ‘Joss? Lyn?’
He was half way down the stairs when he heard a movement behind him. Spinning round he looked up onto the landing, peering through the turned wooden posts of the banisters and caught sight of something as it fled into his bedroom. Not Kit or Kat. A woman.
‘Joss? That is you, isn’t it? Come on. Stop playing the fool. I nearly hit you with the candlestick.’ Two at a time he retraced his steps and pushed open the door.
She was lying on the bed under the covers – an indistinct shape in the dim light of the bedside lamp. He smiled, relief flooding through him. ‘My God, you had me going there; I thought it must be your ghost.’ Putting down the candlestick he walked across to the bed. ‘Joss? Come on. No need to hide.’ Reaching down he pulled back the covers.
There was no one there.
‘Joss?’ His voice slid up the register. ‘Joss, for Christ’s sake, stop messing about.’
He peered behind the hangings and then stooped to look under the bed.
‘Joss, where are you?’ Spinning round, he peered into every corner of the room. ‘Joss!’ The palms of his hands were sweating. ‘That’s enough. You’ve had your little joke.’ He backed away from the bed towards the door. With one last glance over his shoulder he turned and fled down the stairs.
In the kitchen he threw himself into the chair at the head of the table and put his head in his hands. What in God’s name was the matter with him? He was going neurotic; he was going mad; he rubbed his face with his hands and for a moment he sat still, just staring at the door, half expecting someone to appear through it at any moment.
It was several seconds before he stood up again and went to the stove. Pulling open the door to the fire box he peered in. The coals were glowing nicely and for a minute he stood, his hands outstretched to the warmth. There was no way he was going back to Janet’s! He was not going to be chased out of the house by the girls having a joke on him, or by anything else.
He frowned for a moment, not wanting to think about what else it might be. Joss’s terror and Paul’s very real warning hovered for a moment at the corners of his mind, but he pushed them back angrily. This was complete nonsense. He had allowed them to get to him, that’s all. And it wasn’t going to go on. He was going to stay in the house and that was that.
For a moment he was tempted to retrace his steps to the great hall, stand up and make an announcement to that effect to any ghosts or spirits or demons who might be lurking, but he thought better of it. A good night’s sleep – or at least what was left of the night – he looked at his watch and realised suddenly that it was well after one – was a more sensible plan of action and in the morning the others would be back.
Sitting at the kitchen table, a mug of hot chocolate in front of him, he cupped his hands round the comforting warmth of the pottery and stared blankly ahead, aware that his eyes were closing. Slowly his head began to nod. Once or twice he jerked it up and resolved to stand up and go back upstairs, but each time he leaned back, sipped the chocolate and decided to wait a few more minutes by the warmth of the stove.
He was awakened by the phone ringing. Staring round, confused, he found he was still in the kitchen and it was – he peered at the wall clock – nearly seven o’clock. Outside it was still pitch dark. Fumbling for the phone he picked up the receiver.
‘Mr Grant?’ The voice was unfamiliar. A woman with a soft local accent.
He grunted assent, running stiff fingers through his hair. The inside of his mouth felt like old mouldy felt.
‘Mr Grant, I’m Natalie Cotting. Jim’s sister.’
‘Jim?’ For a moment Luke was confused. ‘Oh, Jimbo.’
There was an amused snort from the other end of the line. ‘Jimbo. Right. Did he tell you he’d been on to me?’
‘No. He didn’t. Did you want to speak to him?’
‘No. No. I’m sorry to ring so early, but I’ve been thinking and I reckon I should come over today if I can get the day off. Is your wife there, Mr Grant?’
‘Joss? No.’ He was shaking his head, confused. ‘She spent the night with a neighbour.’
‘Ah.’ There was a moment’s silence. ‘And your children. They’re with her, right?’
‘Yes.’