The Sin Eater(50)
‘That’s an extraordinary tale,’ said Michael softly. His voice sounded odd, as if it did not quite belong in the room, and he sat up a little straighter, hoping to dissolve the clinging mists of the Irish ghosts. He noticed vaguely that the fly had stopped its rhythmic buzzing. ‘I can’t decide if it sounds like a form of dark romantic fiction or simply the—’
‘Ravings of a disturbed mind?’
‘You don’t strike me as especially disturbed.’ He reached for his pen again. ‘Benedict, if those other people did exist it should be possible to find a record of them. And the places – the church where Romilly Rourke was buried, for instance. Can you remember any other details – any clues in the house, maybe? Papers, documents?’
He thought there was a slight pause before Benedict answered, as if he was trying to make up his mind about something. Then he said, ‘No. Nothing. There were a few boxes I didn’t open, but I think they were all household stuff – glassware and china. The things Nell was going to look at.’
‘Yes, I see.’ Michael sensed an evasion, but he did not press further. He thought for a moment, then said, ‘Benedict, I would like to help you if I can, but before we do anything I think we need to clear it with your doctors.’
‘Do we? Yes, of course we do. They might say if any of the people had lived, it would sort of feed the . . . the condition.’
‘Or that if they didn’t exist, you might go into a panic and end up worse off. I think you should ask that specialist if he’ll OK a bit of research. Explain I’m only wanting to help – that it’s meant to squash a wild idea you have that these events might actually have happened.’
‘If I could do that,’ said Benedict slowly, ‘I think I could concentrate on beating this thing – or learning to live with it.’
‘That sounds very sensible. Say that to your specialist, too. And make it clear that I’ll abide by his advice. If he says we don’t do it, then I’m afraid we don’t. You’ve got my card, haven’t you? He can write to me or phone or email – whatever’s easiest. And if he does agree, I promise I’ll do what I can.’
‘You’ll help me to find Colm and Romilly and all the rest?’
‘Yes,’ said Michael slowly. ‘Yes, I will. I don’t think I’ll be able to do much until the new term has got itself under way – it’s always a fairly crowded time and it’ll be several days before things start trundling along under their own steam – but after that I’ll start searching.’
Benedict nodded, as if relieved, then said, ‘Dr Flint—’
‘If we’re going to be on ghost-hunting terms, you’d better make it Michael.’
‘Michael, Nell West said she’d go back to Holly Lodge. To look over the rest of the furniture and stuff.’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t think she should do that,’ said Benedict.
‘Why not?’
Benedict paused, and Michael felt the silence start to become charged, as if something – some hidden force – was starting to thrum.
‘Because he’s there,’ said Benedict at last. His voice was very soft.
‘Who? Who’s there, Benedict?’
Benedict’s hands gripped the arms of the chair so hard the knuckles turned white, and he leaned against the chair back, turning his head from side to side, as people with aching necks sometimes do to ease stiff muscles. His eyes were half closed and Michael received the impression of inner struggle.
There was a faint movement within the mirror, then Benedict opened his eyes and Michael felt the same cold prickle of apprehension he had experienced in Nina Doyle’s flat. Benedict’s eyes were vividly, unmistakably, blue. When he spoke, Michael’s apprehension spiralled into real fear, because it was the voice he had heard that day in Nina’s flat.
‘We both know who’s inside that house, don’t we?’ said the voice that was not Benedict’s.
There was a brief darting movement from the mirror, and this time, unable to help himself, Michael turned his head to look. For a split second the outline of a man looked back. A man who wore a dark coat from another era and who had turned up the collar to hide his face.
‘I’ve been given guarded approval by the specialist,’ said Michael to Owen Bracegirdle, three days later. He was focusing on the practicalities of the task and ignoring that fleeting image he had seen. It would have been auto-suggestion or some sort of self-hypnosis – the room had been warm and there had been that dazzle of light from the lowlying winter sun, and the classic soporific buzz of a fly against a window pane. It could even have been a form of telepathy – Benedict could have been believing so strongly in the presence of Declan that he had projected an actual image of him which Michael had picked up.
‘The specialist emailed me saying there was no reason why we shouldn’t try to track down one or two of the names in Benedict’s story,’ he said to Owen. ‘I got the impression he had been down this route with patients before, though: as if people with this condition won’t accept the diagnosis until they’ve made absolutely sure they aren’t a victim of some peculiar kind of Biblical possession or a reincarnation takeover or something.’
‘Understandable. I think I’d rather believe I was being possessed by the spirit of my great aunt Jemima, than accept my brain was flawed,’ said Owen.