Mr. Flood's Last Resort(76)

“And have you figured out who he is yet, himself in the bed?”

“He’s Sam Hebden.”

St. Valentine snorts. “And here you are a great one for the collecting of evidence and the prying into all the corners of a person’s life.”

I maintain an aloof silence.

“Wake him up and ask him.” St. Valentine has a steely look of challenge in the eye that’s fixed on me. The other is drifting towards the living room doorway. “Give his credentials a thorough inspection.”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

St. Valentine frowns and picks at his ear. Then his face brightens as a thought dawns on him. “You’re scared, Twinkle.”

“I am not.”

He grins and his halo momentarily glows with a sickly light. “He already thinks you’re a bit touched, doesn’t he? Seeing mysteries where there are none, aren’t you? Turning your cracked little mind onto him, are we? That could dampen a man’s romantic antics, couldn’t it?”

“That isn’t it at all.”

St. Valentine stops grinning and looks thoughtful. “Then you’re scared of what you’ll find out.”

And there’s that thought again. The wife in the kitchen, staring out of the window, a cup cradled in her hands while the twins bray for their breakfast and the boy kicks a ball down the hall.

“Ignorance is bliss, Twinkle,” proclaims St. Valentine.

“If you’ve had your say—”

“I haven’t. All in all, your one had some premium messages last night.”

“What of it?”

“She saw Mary and Maggie, didn’t she? Anything else, Twinkle?” St. Valentine assumes a patronizing air. “Then I’ll give you a clue: it has a bucket and a whole rake of wishes, and there’s one at Bridlemere.”

“Jesus—she spoke about a well.”

St. Valentine grins from ear to ear. “Ding-dong.”

*

I DRESS quickly and bring a torch. St. Valentine insists on accompanying me; he enjoys a bus ride and delights when we pass over Richmond Bridge. He presses his nose through the window to gaze at the Thames, which is still and perfect and shrouded in mist. We watch a skein of geese fly over, dipping and rising, the ballast of their bodies carried by the long strokes of their wings. They adopt a V formation as they head downriver. St. Valentine takes it as a good omen. I say nothing.



ST. VALENTINE says he will wait at the gate for me.

“Go on, now, Maud, find the well and have a wee look in it.”

He glances over his shoulder. A vague form is clanking along the empty early-morning street. As it draws nearer I make out St. George.

I frown. “What’s this, a convention?”

St. Valentine looks offended. “Here we are, showing our support.” He points at St. George. “Myself and this lad.”

St. George shrugs; armor grinds. “I’d get on, if I were you. The old man will be awake soon. Don’t lean over too far and don’t fall,” he adds. “Like you did in the icehouse.”

“If you can’t see anything, then throw a good roar in. That’ll rouse whatever’s down there.” St. Valentine glances at St. George. “She has a sharp class of voice that could wake the dead.”

I narrow my eyes. “So you’re coming in with me, for moral support?”

The saints shuffle and peer off in different directions. I turn on my heel.

*

THE GARDEN is silent and wet with dew. A few cats come running over to me. When they realize I’m not here to feed them they saunter off again, threading through rubbish and jumping up onto the roofs of sheds and outhouses. I pick my way between upended wheelbarrows, car parts, and broken furniture, black bags and rusted tools. I won’t know what I’m looking for until I find it or fall down it.

*

IT’S AT the edge of the garden, in a clearing of sorts, surrounded by rubble and covered with a sheet of corrugated iron held down by bricks. I put down my bag, clear the bricks, and slide off the cover.

I lean over and the smell hits me: the cold seeping damp of deep wet places, of sunless, starless places. I can see into it several feet, a few curved rows of blown and ancient bricks, then the dark takes over. The torch does nothing; the beam is nowhere near strong enough. I pull a coin from my bag. Not for a wish, but something else, perhaps a tribute, or to pay the toll of some well-guarding sprite. I let the coin go and listen. I don’t hear it drop.

A breeze strikes up, snatching sand from a pile of rubble and blowing it over me. Was Cathal planning to fill the well in? I look around; under an old tarpaulin I find bricks and cement bags, mostly empty, a few full and weathered solid.

What was he trying to cover up?

I lean over the edge as far as I dare and I shout.

Is anyone there?

My echo comes back to me, high and mocking.

Is anyone there? There? There? There?

I wait: there is no other voice. There is no one in the well.

Then all at once the wind changes direction. It blows across the top of the well, like lips over a milk bottle, a fell high note. The kind a banshee would be proud of.





CHAPTER 37




Lillian has been busy today. She has dusted Renata’s collection of gemstones and arranged them in the new secondhand cabinet. She has wallpapered over the cura?ao stains on the living room wall and cooked a casserole for Cathal’s birthday. She leaves as I arrive, taking the living room curtains to the dry cleaner after a brief but fierce skirmish over the alleged resurgence of Renata’s pipe.