figure had vanished, and the beasts were back, leaping into the air,
tumbling, vying for space. I struggled to my feet, leaning against the pulpit,
but my legs failed and I slid to the ground. On all fours, I crawled to the
nearest pew and hauled myself up. Hunched over, elbows on knees, I pressed the
heels of my palms into my eyes and sat, trembling, as the warmth drained from
me and my limbs became stiff.
The wind grew, gusting past the Chapel, raking the walls
with its fingers. I counted to a hundred, then dragged myself up, and limped
towards the door.
I was pushing against the handles
when I heard the sound. It came from the pulpit, as though one of the mythical
beasts were coming to life, whining to be released from its icy prison. I
listened, my heart thumping painfully. And I heard it again. It was now more of
sob than a whine and, for one terrifying moment, I thought it was human. But I
didn’t turn – it would be foolish – the Chapel was deserted. It would be the
wind moaning through the rose window.
I was alone in the sauna, the
fragrant steam warming my body and suffusing my nostrils with the tang of
sandalwood.
There’d been no reply to my hesitant knock at Liz’s door.
I’d snatched a coffee and cake in the lounge and made my way to the spa. As I’d
passed the gym, I’d peered through the glass door. Mike was lifting weights,
the Danes watching. He’d said something that had made them laugh, and a big
fair-haired man, whom I hadn’t seen on the tour, had punched him on the shoulder.
Now, in the sauna, I sat wrapped in the towel, trying to
make sense of what had happened in the Chapel. I’d seen things like that
before, although not since my teens. My mother had looked at me strangely when
I first described them. She reassured me they were nothing to fear, she’d had
them too, as a child, the product of an over-active imagination. They were
rarely explicit, more a collage of unconnected images with a dreamlike quality
where everything was blurred at the edges. Like dreams, I forgot them quickly.
But there was one I hadn’t forgotten, one I couldn’t forget, of the prostrate
body of my neighbour’s son. Two days afterwards, he was struck by a car and
died silently on the pavement, eyes staring into the clouds.
I sank back against the wall, gripping the towel,
remembering what I’d seen in the Chapel: the blood-stained body, a sharp bright
image, not blurred at the edges . . .
The steam swirled around the
chamber, its heat soaking into my skin and dispelling my anxiety. I must have
dozed off because, when I opened my eyes, the sauna was a crush of people,
staring because my towel had slipped. I showered and left, my limbs feeling
heavy but relaxed, as if my body belonged to someone else.
The lounge was empty. I ordered a
white wine and took it to the table by the window. The sun had dropped below
the horizon, and the sky was turning purple. Strips
of cloud, like shre dded paper, hung over the unbroken
field of snow.
‘May I join you, ma’am?’
I looked around, startled. ‘Mr Bibby.’
His voice was like his father’s, a deep southern drawl.
‘Please call me Marcellus.’
He was so large that he eclipsed the light in the room. He
was waiting for permission to sit down. I smiled awkwardly, motioning to the
chair opposite.
He set down his beer and, lifting the wooden chair as though
it were a toy, positioned it so he was facing me. As he eased his bulk into it,
the seat bent slightly under his weight.
I saw his features clearly now. The skin was coarse and
pitted around the nose, and he had those sunken eyes and premature facial lines
that are the hallmark of a life of dissipation. But I’d been wrong about his
eyes. They weren’t brown like his father’s, but black pools of viscous oil . He smiled then, and the
creases around his eyes deepened.
‘I’m Maggie,’ I said warmly. ‘Maggie Stewart.’
‘A pleasure.’ He held out his hand.
I hesitated, remembering his
tumbling, vying for space. I struggled to my feet, leaning against the pulpit,
but my legs failed and I slid to the ground. On all fours, I crawled to the
nearest pew and hauled myself up. Hunched over, elbows on knees, I pressed the
heels of my palms into my eyes and sat, trembling, as the warmth drained from
me and my limbs became stiff.
The wind grew, gusting past the Chapel, raking the walls
with its fingers. I counted to a hundred, then dragged myself up, and limped
towards the door.
I was pushing against the handles
when I heard the sound. It came from the pulpit, as though one of the mythical
beasts were coming to life, whining to be released from its icy prison. I
listened, my heart thumping painfully. And I heard it again. It was now more of
sob than a whine and, for one terrifying moment, I thought it was human. But I
didn’t turn – it would be foolish – the Chapel was deserted. It would be the
wind moaning through the rose window.
I was alone in the sauna, the
fragrant steam warming my body and suffusing my nostrils with the tang of
sandalwood.
There’d been no reply to my hesitant knock at Liz’s door.
I’d snatched a coffee and cake in the lounge and made my way to the spa. As I’d
passed the gym, I’d peered through the glass door. Mike was lifting weights,
the Danes watching. He’d said something that had made them laugh, and a big
fair-haired man, whom I hadn’t seen on the tour, had punched him on the shoulder.
Now, in the sauna, I sat wrapped in the towel, trying to
make sense of what had happened in the Chapel. I’d seen things like that
before, although not since my teens. My mother had looked at me strangely when
I first described them. She reassured me they were nothing to fear, she’d had
them too, as a child, the product of an over-active imagination. They were
rarely explicit, more a collage of unconnected images with a dreamlike quality
where everything was blurred at the edges. Like dreams, I forgot them quickly.
But there was one I hadn’t forgotten, one I couldn’t forget, of the prostrate
body of my neighbour’s son. Two days afterwards, he was struck by a car and
died silently on the pavement, eyes staring into the clouds.
I sank back against the wall, gripping the towel,
remembering what I’d seen in the Chapel: the blood-stained body, a sharp bright
image, not blurred at the edges . . .
The steam swirled around the
chamber, its heat soaking into my skin and dispelling my anxiety. I must have
dozed off because, when I opened my eyes, the sauna was a crush of people,
staring because my towel had slipped. I showered and left, my limbs feeling
heavy but relaxed, as if my body belonged to someone else.
The lounge was empty. I ordered a
white wine and took it to the table by the window. The sun had dropped below
the horizon, and the sky was turning purple. Strips
of cloud, like shre dded paper, hung over the unbroken
field of snow.
‘May I join you, ma’am?’
I looked around, startled. ‘Mr Bibby.’
His voice was like his father’s, a deep southern drawl.
‘Please call me Marcellus.’
He was so large that he eclipsed the light in the room. He
was waiting for permission to sit down. I smiled awkwardly, motioning to the
chair opposite.
He set down his beer and, lifting the wooden chair as though
it were a toy, positioned it so he was facing me. As he eased his bulk into it,
the seat bent slightly under his weight.
I saw his features clearly now. The skin was coarse and
pitted around the nose, and he had those sunken eyes and premature facial lines
that are the hallmark of a life of dissipation. But I’d been wrong about his
eyes. They weren’t brown like his father’s, but black pools of viscous oil . He smiled then, and the
creases around his eyes deepened.
‘I’m Maggie,’ I said warmly. ‘Maggie Stewart.’
‘A pleasure.’ He held out his hand.
I hesitated, remembering his
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