Mr. Flood's Last Resort(30)

The next summer, castles were the thing. We banked sand and built forts with the treasure the sea left behind. Crab Death Castle with its portcullis of pincers and broken legs waving from the battlements. A place with a cursed aspect. Bladder wrack crawled down its walls and its moat was infested with deadly rope octopuses. Princess Castle had stained glass windows made from smooth-edged fragments of bottles, clear, green, and brown. Its drawbridge was paved with a million shells. Its wildflower garden had been picked from the dunes—

*

DUNES CREEP. Deirdre told me as much. They could move inches when you weren’t looking. If you annoyed them by running over them, or snooping round them, or digging into them they would simply glide over you and you would never be seen again. The sand would fill your mouth, plug your nose, and squash your eyes. You’d suffocate with the whole massive weight of the dune above you. You’d die in the dark, listening to the sound of your ribs breaking and the sand rushing into your ears.

The best thing to do was not to annoy the dunes but rather to sit still and read your book and keep your fecking mouth shut.

*

I COULDN’T read and watch the dunes at the same time. So I brought a book I knew so well I wouldn’t have to look at it. That way I could keep my eyes on the dunes. The book was called The Illustrated Book of Saints; it had been Granny’s and then it was mine. I knew it by heart, words and pictures both.

I liked the pictures best.

St. Joseph of Cupertino flying over the wall of the monastery with an unflattering tonsure and a look of amazement on his face (as well he might—a plump monk clearing eight feet). St. Dymphna, with her laughing eyes and gold crown, walking over a field with her feet white against the green. St. George, a secret favorite of mine just for his glinting armor and smirking yellow-eyed dragon. I knew every habit and robe, halo and attribute of the major saints and many of the minor ones.

The saints were brilliant. There they all were having revelations, or building churches, or being fed to lions. I loved their veils and coronets, coifs and birettas, their holy expressions and long pale hands. If I closed my eyes (quickly, because of the dunes) I could hear their voices—soft supplications and whispered prayers—in the wind coming in off the bay and the waves washing the shore. Sometimes I could even smell the saints. A subtle smell that came and went. Starched wimples and elderly velvet, spicy incense and the odor of sanctity—like the sweet, sad scent of overblown roses.

On cold days, or on wet days, or when the dunes moved and my heart stopped with the fear of being smothered, I imagined it was all part of my nun training, such as the wearing of itchy knickers or the eating of soup. I would suffer these privations willingly: it would be worth it to join a convent. Granny said a nun’s life was dull, but I knew better. At a convent you had your own room and coach outings every weekend. Depending on the order, you could grow flowers, play with chickens, or go out helping people. And best of all, if you had enough misfortune and didn’t whine or moan about it, you had a cast-iron shot at becoming a saint.

*

ST. MAUD. Imagine the picture in The Illustrated Book of Saints. I am no less than seven. My eyes, blurred with tears of anguish, are raised to the heavens. My hands are clasped, my face paler than pale.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I made my sister disappear.





CHAPTER 12




“It’s from Mary Flood,” says Renata, gazing at the newspaper cutting through her varifocals. “Voiceless as only the dead are voiceless, she communicates with us by sending material clues from beyond the grave.”

I don’t even try to contradict her, for Renata is particularly strident tonight. She is favoring Liza, her most flattering wig: the black bangs set off her burning pirate eyes. She has teamed it with a wiggle skirt and a pair of kitten heels. The effect is that of a retired 1950s vixen, all in honor of our guest, no doubt.

Sam Hebden looks baffled.

This afternoon Sam and Renata discovered that they are kindred spirits, for they both have chakras, share the same animal totem (the goat), and worship Johnny Cash. They also learnt that Sam has little recollection of Mr. Flood’s assault with a hurley. Renata interprets this as evidence of post-traumatic stress and Sam seems happy to go along with it. In hushed tones in the hallway Renata informed me that I am not to plague Sam with questions. He will tell us what happened in his own good time, when his fractured psyche repairs itself, memory loss being common to victims of trauma.

To be fair, Sam doesn’t appear to have suffered any great trauma. An absent air sometimes comes over him but this could be due to Renata’s experimental cocktails. Otherwise Sam gives the impression that he’s very well in himself, lolling on the easy chair with his stubble and his gray eyes and his devilish smile.

“Maud.” Renata clicks her fingers under my nose. “You must keep an open mind. The trouble with Western thinking is that it sets science at odds with the supernatural. These are simply different, but equally valid, ways of telling a story.”

I grimace. Renata has memorized entire articles on true spectral crimes and the science behind them. She has shared every one of them with me. I have contemplated for hours pictures of middle-aged bearded virgins called Dave with machines made out of tinfoil and kitchen probes.

“To solve a crime,” Renata continues, “the canny detective will use everything at her disposal, both modern and archaic. She may cast an electronic web or consult her age-old tools of divination—either can offer her guidance.” She bites her lip. “I prefer the archaic. More reliable.”