White Silence Page 14

  I drained my glass. ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘God, Cage, will you stop doing that.’

  ‘I can’t help it, so you might as well just tell me the truth. Do you want another pint?’

  ‘Any man stuck with you would want another pint.’

  As the barmaid pulled his pint, I leaned casually against the bar and watched Jones stare into the fire. To all intents and purposes, he was a man enjoying a warm fire after a good lunch. I knew differently, however.

  I paid for the drinks and returned to the table. He was warm, well fed and mellow so I decided to take a chance.

  ‘So, tell me about this domestic bliss that you have such mixed feelings about.’

  He looked around the bar, but we were alone. Even the barmaid had taken herself off somewhere. I could faintly hear crates being stacked. He took a long pull on his pint and then said, ‘Do you remember, on the way up here, you said I’d lost someone?’

  This wasn’t what I’d expected at all, so I just nodded.

  ‘Her name was Clare. Is Clare. Is … Clare.’

  I nodded again.

  ‘We worked several assignments together. On our last one we were posing as man and wife. I won’t say where. It’s not yet a terrorist hot-spot and we want it to stay that way. So in we went. Me and Mrs Jones. We were a nice couple. Quiet. No kids. No loud music. Happy to pass the time if you met us in the street or at the market. You know the sort of thing. I was a freelance computer programmer so I could work at home and Clare got a brilliant job helping the old woman who ran the corner shop. Long hours and awful pay, but you hear everything about everyone in places like that. She used to come home absolutely knackered, so I learned to cook and clean. Well, I had to or we’d have drowned in an ocean of dust, dirt and disease, just prior to starving to death, because not only did she not have a clue about that sort of thing, she really didn’t care, either.’

  He stopped for a while, staring at his memories. I said nothing, seeing it through his eyes. Dark narrow streets. Suspicious eyes everywhere. One wrong move … one wrong word …

  ‘It was a long-term assignment. We were about nine months in and expected to be there for at least another six months. As far as I could see, we’d fitted in, no problems at all. I was in the local backgammon team. Clare was supposedly learning to drive, which was actually a wonderful cover for us driving up and down streets, stopping outside suspect properties where she’d screw up another three-point turn while I pretended to shout at her and got photos instead. If asked – which I was, afterwards – I would have said it was going well.’

  He sighed. ‘I don’t know where it all went wrong. Whether it was something we said or did – or something we didn’t say or do – I don’t know. Don’t suppose I ever will now. No one does.’

  I still said nothing. His colour was darkening. Dirty black tendrils twisted their way around him, drilling inwards. Nothing pointed towards me. I think he’d forgotten I was there. He was talking to himself.

  ‘Something went badly wrong because they came for us at three in the morning. No warning. We were both asleep. I opened my eyes and they were standing at the foot of the bed. I tried to break free. I’m a big man and I know what I’m doing but there were six of them and they were professionals. Someone dropped something over my head and they dragged me onto the floor. They started with baseball bats and then went on to boots. And all the time, I could hear Clare screaming. She screamed until she was hoarse. I could hear her voice breaking. God knows what they were doing to her. It seemed to go on for hours, but it couldn’t have. It just seemed that way.’

  His colour was now almost completely dark and folded in upon itself. I sat very still, hardly daring to breathe. The contrast between this warm, sunny, normal room with its cheerful fire and the dark story unfolding in front of me was almost beyond imagining.

  ‘They pushed me down the stairs. I suspect I already had a fair number of broken bones so that hurt, I can tell you. The next thing I remember is being in a car. In the boot, I think, bumping over some rough ground. That hurt as well, but I suspected it was going to hurt a lot more when we eventually arrived at our destination.’

  He seemed to become aware of me. ‘Sorry. Boring on. Shouldn’t do it. Not your world. Sorry.’

  I shook my head. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well, to cut a long story short they tied a brick around my neck and dropped me into some disused waterway. It smelled and tasted foul. I still can’t believe I didn’t go down with cholera.’

  ‘How did you escape?’

  He laughed bitterly. ‘I didn’t. I didn’t do anything. They hadn’t tied the knot very well and the brick came loose. I just floated to the surface. I remember lying on my back, squinting at the sky because my eyes wouldn’t open properly, waiting to go down for the third time, when some kids who shouldn’t have been there, busy building a raft they shouldn’t have been, saw me, jumped in, which they really shouldn’t have done, and dragged me to the side. They couldn’t get me out and I was in no state to assist and after a long discussion based mostly on what someone’s mother was going to say about all this, they telephoned for help. I think they were disappointed I wasn’t dead. I think everyone was. I know I was.’

  He stared at his beer.

  ‘And Clare?’

  ‘No trace.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nothing. Not from that moment to this.’

  I had to say it. ‘Do you think she’s dead?’

  ‘My brain knows she is. Long dead. Long buried. Long gone.’

  ‘And your heart?’

  ‘Is convinced that somewhere out there she’s still alive. And I shouldn’t.’

  ‘Why not? What’s wrong with hope?’

  ‘Because if she’s where I think she is then she’s better off dead. Much better off. When I think of what they could be doing to her. Right now. Right this minute …’

  I could hear the bitterness in his voice.

  ‘Were you very close?’

  ‘We lived as man and wife. In addition, we’d worked together before. We were a good team. She had my back so many times.’

  ‘And you think she’s dead?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘How were you discovered?’

  ‘No idea. Such surveillance as we could muster showed nothing unusual. I’ve been over and over it in my mind and there have been any number of departmental post-mortems. It could have been anything. We’ll never know.’

  I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Yes, a bit of a conversation stopper, aren’t I? Every now and then I put in a request to go back and dig around but they won’t let me. I’d probably never even get out of the airport alive. Anyway, a month or so in hospital, some intensive counselling and a month’s light duties, and here I am – as right as rain.’

  I looked at his swirling colour – that dreadful dead patch over his heart had returned. No, he wasn’t as right as rain. Nothing like.

  Actually, neither of us were. For me, the excitement of our escape and new surroundings wore off to be replaced by frequent panic when I would ask myself what on earth I thought I was doing. What had happened to my life? How did I arrive here? Hiding in a remote Northumberland castle with a damaged spy and a stolen car. In fear of a man who apparently wielded powers wider than I could comprehend.

  Jones kept me busy. The weather took a turn for the better. The temperature rose and we walked. We explored the countryside, hiking up and down paths, jumping small streams and standing breathless on tall crags, admiring the view as the wind buffeted us from every direction. It wasn’t unpleasant. It was certainly better than the Sorensen clinic. I was occasionally quite surprised to find I was enjoying myself. On other occasions, I would catch myself thinking how much Ted would have enjoyed this. Or something would happen and I would think, I must tell Ted that, followed by the realisation I would never tell Ted anything again.

  Sometimes, especially as I was preparing for bed, I would find m
yself crying for no reason at all. Out of consideration for Jones I would try to keep it in, because he wouldn’t want me blubbering all over the place, but one evening the panic and the loneliness and the grief were all too much for me to hold things back any longer. He said nothing, made up the fire, presented me with a mug of tea and we sat up all night playing cards. I lost a fortune to him, finally falling asleep on the sofa just before dawn.

  I awoke to the smell of bacon and a piece of paper on the table he claimed was a legal document giving details of how and when I was to repay my colossal debt. Apparently if I committed all my income to him for the next thirty-five years then I might just have paid off one third. He’d let me off the rest. I made a rude noise and accused him of usury – I had no idea what that was but I was certain he wouldn’t either – and threw the paper into the fire.

  We drove into the nearest town, did a little shopping, and, because the weather was very bad that day, spent the afternoon at the cinema. Offered a choice of films, I opted for a romantic comedy and made the mistake of letting Jones buy the tickets. We ended up watching a SciFi blockbuster in 3D. I lost the plot after about ten minutes, and Jones’s attempts to explain things didn’t help at all, but an impressive number of planets exploded and Jones ate a whole tub of popcorn.

  The sun came out more often and the snowdrops came up. Lambs appeared. Life went on.

  Complaining loudly, the boys went back to school. They both attended the local comprehensive. Alex looked very smart in his black sweater and white shirt. Leo was dirty even before he got on the school bus. Thomas Rookwood renewed his invitation to dinner yet again. I still didn’t like him much and we’d put him off several times, citing my supposed ill health, but, in the end, it seemed best to go ahead and accept, so we did. He said he’d send the boys for us at seven that evening.

  They turned up at ten to seven. We could hear them whispering outside the door, counting down the time until seven o’clock. Jones relented and let them inside to wait because it was cold out in the passage. They looked considerably cleaner and smarter than usual.

  Jones peered down the corridor. ‘Where are the dogs?’

  ‘Mummy makes Daddy shut them up at night. Except for Juno. She sleeps in front of the fire because she’s old.’

  ‘Just like Mrs Jones,’ said Jones brightly, and, all right, that was how I had spent the afternoon, but there was no need to tell everyone.

  The family lived in the tower and wing opposite us. The boys took us into their sitting room which was larger than ours. It was typical of the castle, slightly shabby, but comfortable. They had central heating so there was no coal fire and the room smelled of a mixture of pot pourri and Labrador. Juno sprawled on the rug, jowls quivering as she snored. That dog could sleep for England.

  They had better pictures on the walls than in the rest of the castle – well, they were certainly more cheerful than the ones in the gallery. Some of them were quite modern and I suspected owed their presence to Mrs rather than Mr Rookwood. There were family photographs scattered around as well. This was obviously their family room. Mrs Rookwood’s embroidery lay on the arm of a chair. I was pleased they hadn’t made any special attempt to tidy up for us. A family dinner was nice.

  Except for the atmosphere around the table.

  ‘So,’ said Jones chattily as we seated ourselves. ‘You’re a bit out of the way up here, aren’t you? Do you ever get cut off?’

  ‘Occasionally,’ said Rookwood, ‘but we don’t feel cut off. This castle has been the centre of social life in this part of the country for hundreds of years and I intend it should always be so. We provide employment, especially in the summer when we’re open to the public. We cash cheques for the elderly who can’t get out. We’re a designated point for parcel delivery and collection. I personally petitioned for the mobile library to call every fortnight, to keep the post office open and for a more frequent bus service. I like us to be involved in everything that’s going on around here. Don’t I, boys?’

  Leo nodded vigorously, his mouth full.

  Jones turned to Alex and said chattily, ‘So, what’s it like living in a castle?

  ‘Great,’ said Leo, answering for him. ‘Masses of room to play hide-and-seek and no one can hear us if we make a noise.’

  ‘Keep telling yourself that,’ said his father dryly, ‘and pass the bread to our guests, please.’

  I thought I’d sensed a bit of an atmosphere around the table and it seemed Leo had had an accident that afternoon. Nothing serious, obviously, since he was sitting opposite me, apparently unharmed, and shovelling down his chicken as if he hadn’t seen food for a fortnight.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Jones, passing me the bread.

  ‘I wanted to see if the ice on the pond was thick enough to walk on.’

  ‘And was it?’

  He grinned. ‘No.’

  ‘Fortunately,’ said his mother, with very great restraint, ‘the pond is only about eighteen inches deep. If that.’

  Leo, remarkably unabashed for someone who had had, in his own words, a near-death experience that afternoon, was describing his adventure when his mother interrupted him.

  ‘That is enough, Leo. You have been very naughty. You were warned to stay away from the pond in any weather. It was very fortunate for you that the water was shallow enough for you to be able to wade to safety.’

  Leo grinned unrepentantly, correctly assuming his transgression had been forgiven. ‘I wasn’t in any danger. Alex pulled me out.’

  I watched Alex’s colour curdle away under his father’s gaze.

  That was interesting. It wasn’t Alex who had fallen through the ice, but I could see it was Alex with whom his father was more annoyed. Was Thomas Rookwood one of those fathers who takes secret pride in his son’s misadventures? Because that’s what boys do, isn’t it? If they’re not falling out of trees, or skateboarding their way into A&E, or blowing up their bedrooms, then they’re not real boys. Was it possible that Thomas Rookwood would value Alex, a quiet and uncomplaining child, much less than he would the cheerfully mischievous Leo? Or perhaps he was simply annoyed with Alex for not taking better care of his brother. Or was there something else here?

  I wasn’t alone in my concern. It seemed to me that his mother, Helene, who spoke with the faintest French accent, seemed perpetually poised to intervene – to stand as a shield between her husband and her eldest son. Her colour was closer to Alex’s than Leo’s. Her soft lavender frequently merged with Alex’s deeper purple, although tonight, in the presence of his father, Alex’s colour was shading more towards red, so flooded with anxiety was he.

  He sat quietly, however, eating his dinner, rarely speaking. Unlike Leo who was waving his fork around and scattering his peas.

  ‘Leo,’ said his mother, reprovingly, and he subsided. ‘And what of you, mon cher?’ she said to Alex, obviously changing the subject. ‘What else did you do this afternoon?’

  Alex said nothing His colour curled even more tightly around himself. I suspected he had probably spent his afternoon trying to dissuade Leo from playing on the ice and getting no thanks for it. He was a sensible and sensitive boy who was always going to come second to noisy, boisterous Leo. I felt quite sorry for him.

  ‘I wrote some more of my story,’ he said, defensively. He looked at Jones, obviously expecting ridicule, and said somewhat defiantly, ‘I’m writing a book.’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ said Jones. ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘I wrote about our ghost.’

  ‘You have a ghost?’ said Jones. ‘Awesome.’

  ‘We don’t have a ghost,’ said his father impatiently. ‘We have a legend.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Leo, dramatically. ‘The Legend of The Widow. Daddy found it in an old book and told us the story.’

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘Can you tell us about the legend, Alex?’

  He looked at his father, who nodded briefly.

  ‘It was before us Rookwoods. It was when the Crofts lived here.
There was a rebellion in 1745 and the son of the house, James, wanted to go and fight. His mother, Lady Croft, didn’t want him to because her husband had been killed in another rebellion.

  ‘Was that the one in 1715?’ asked Jones, surprising me. ‘The Jacobites?’

  Alex nodded, pleased to find someone who shared his interest.

  ‘Yes. She said she’d lost her husband in that one and didn’t want to lose her son as well. She didn’t want him to go.’

  ‘Understandable,’ said Jones.

  ‘But he said it was his duty to support the rightful king.’

  ‘Ah, duty,’ murmured Jones, and drained his wine.

  ‘So he put on his armour and said goodbye to his mother who was waiting for him in the Banqueting Hall. All the household was there to say goodbye to him. All the men were cheering and all the ladies were crying.’

  He paused, obviously picturing the scene.

  ‘Anyway, the big door was open and everyone could see his horse in the courtyard, all saddled up, and his men with their weapons and their pack horses. Once again, his mother begged him not to go but he said he had to. He kissed her goodbye. Everyone was crying. Then he strode out of the Hall, mounted his horse, waved to his mother and galloped away.’

  We paid him the compliment of silence as he paused for effect. His colour was boiling with excitement now, the purple enriched with blue and gold. He was enjoying himself.

  ‘His mother locked the door to the Hall behind him and gave orders that it wasn’t to be unlocked again until he returned home safely. He had been the last person to leave through them, she said and so he must be the first person to return through them.’

  ‘And did he?’ asked Jones. ‘Return home safely, I mean?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, he was killed. We don’t know how. We think he must have been blown to bits by a cannon because they never found his body. Anyway, he never came home again and so the doors have never been unlocked.’

  ‘What a sad story,’ I said. ‘Poor Lady Croft. To lose her husband and then her son.’

  ‘Good for us though,’ said Thomas Rookwood. ‘The castle changed hands after her son’s death and came to us.’