Island-in-Waiting (3 page)

“What is it?” I straightened and followed her glance out of the window. A man was leaning on the gate talking to Hugo, and once again the safe, warm present fragmented like a shaken kaleidoscope and reformed to show a symbolic black cloud hanging over the stranger's head. As I blinked incredulously he turned towards the house and in the same instant a needling pain zigzagged like a current through my head. I caught my breath as Martha said disgustedly, “That's all we need! The surest way to ruin a Sunday afternoon!”

“Who is it?” I asked carefully.

“Ray Kittering, the art master I was telling you about. Oh blast! Hugo's sure to ask him in for a cup of tea.”

“Why don't you like him?” I was conscious of a curious empathy with the dark-haired man at the gate, a feeling as totally without reason as my cognizance in the churchyard earlier.

“It would take too long to go into,” Martha answered curtly. “There! What did I tell you?”

Presumably at Hugo's invitation, Ray Kittering had pushed open the gate and they were both walking towards the house. Martha opened the back door. “Hello, Ray. We saw you from the window.”

“Good afternoon.” His eyes, large and dark, moved to me and the odd little current, less painful this time, shot through me again. I couldn't put a name to it; it was nothing as commonplace as physical attraction.

“Chloe, this is Ray Kittering from St Olaf's,” Hugo was saying. “My sister, Ray.”

He held out his hand and, still confused by my reactions, I took it rather hesitantly. “I hear this is your first visit? I'd be glad to show you round the island some time.” His voice was soft, with an Irish intonation offset against a hint of the north country. I found it curiously attractive. Hugo took him through to the sitting-room and Martha said quietly,

“I shouldn't fall for that line. You don't want to be tied to the like of him while you're here.”

“Surely he's not that bad?” I said defensively. “I got the impression he's rather unsure of himself.”

She regarded me with open amazement. “Whatever gave you that idea? He's about as unsure of himself as a boa-constrictor!”

I flashed a curious glance at our guest as I carried through the tray. There was nothing in his appearance to excite such antipathy. He was slightly built, of medium height, with dark hair shaggy over his ears, a thin nose and a mouth that looked as though it could be petulant. Without doubt his eyes were his best feature, dark and slumbrous with thick sweeping lashes.

“One without milk,” I said quickly as Martha started to pour.

“Thanks, I was forgetting.” She looked up. “For Ray, you mean? How did you know that?”

I stared back at her, pulses suddenly racing, aware that I was the focus of everyone's interested attention. “I've – no idea!” I faltered.

“I was just about to remind her myself,” Ray said slowly. “Have you the sight, Chloe Winter, or was it the little people whispering in your ear?”

With a smilingly incoherent disclaimer I handed him his tea but his eyes followed me as I moved away and sat down.

“Well, I've a touch of it myself, and there's something I know for sure. You'll be over here for a long time yet, I'd take a bet on it.”

“Then I'm afraid you'd lose it,” I said breathlessly. “I'm only on holiday, two weeks at the most.”

He shook his head decidedly. “I feel it in my bones and I'm never mistaken. You belong here, somehow. You should have come years ago.”

Catching Martha's frown I hastily picked up my teacup. Hugo was saying something about St Olaf's but I scarcely heard him. Of their own volition my eyes returned to Ray Kittering and encountered his steady gaze. A strange excitement began to flow over me, and the physical attraction I'd discounted suddenly asserted itself, drying my mouth and setting my heart pounding. Dimly I was aware that our concentration on each other was causing Hugo and Martha some embarrassment but I was as powerless to break away as a hypnotized rabbit. And as the phrase came into my mind a nerve jerked agonizingly and at last I was able to drop my eyes.

Immediately Ray broke into the conversation. “When can I see you?” It was blunt to the point of rudeness, completely excluding the others in the room.

“I don't know.”

His excitement, only partly physical, was coming across in great scarlet waves of emotion. “Tonight?”

“I'm sorry,” Hugo put in smoothly, making a stand at last. “We have other plans for this evening.”

“I'll phone you, then.” Ignoring Hugo, he spoke directly to me but Martha, roused by Hugo's intervention, came to his assistance.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit anyway?” she asked acidly.

His concentrated attention shifted at last and I felt myself go limp, as though strings which had been manipulating me had suddenly slackened.

“You asked for the set of folios I'd collected. I put them on the hall table.”

“Thank you.”

There was a brief, splintered silence and Ray, finally interpreting the atmosphere in the room, rose to his feet. Without a word Martha preceded him to the door and held it open.

“I'll be in touch,” he said, and was gone. Hugo, with an expressive glance at his wife, followed him.

“What happened, Chloe?” Martha was regarding me with a puzzled frown. “You just seemed to – go under.”

That was it, exactly. Under – submerged – incapable of thought or breath. “He's very attractive,” I said unsteadily.

“So I've been told, though I can't see it myself. Everyone at college loathes him. You asked me why earlier. For one thing, he goes out of his way to upset people, but it's more than that. Sometimes in the Common Room he sits watching me, smiling slightly, and I get the creepy feeling that he knows exactly what I'm thinking.” She shuddered. “Not to put too fine a point on it, he
frightens
me. I know it sounds crazy, but there it is.”

Hugo came back into the room. “Well, he certainly gave you the full treatment, didn't he? I've never seen him in action before. Take my advice and give him a wide berth, my girl. You're supposed to be here to enjoy yourself and I don't want to have to pick up any broken pieces.”

“Why couldn't I see him tonight?”

Hugo eyed me speculatively. “Because we're going out for drinks.”

“Are we?” Martha looked surprised.

“As of now, yes. A few of the crowd congregate at the King Orry on Sunday evenings. There's no reason why on this occasion we shouldn't join them.”

“In other words it was just an excuse.” I stared at him sullenly, resenting his intervention.

“It was,” he confirmed blandly, “and a much needed one, I felt.”

“To protect me from Ray Kittering?” My voice was heavy with sarcasm.

“To protect you from yourself,” Hugo answered sombrely. “Now stop being awkward, there's a good girl. I've no intention of standing by while Ray devours you, so you might as well accept the fact.”

I regained my equilibrium during the afternoon and after a light supper we duly set out for the King Orry, an attractive little inn outside Ballaugh. The oak-beamed room, dominated by a brass-canopied chimney-piece, was filled to capacity. Hugo guided Martha and myself over to the far corner, where a group of people were talking animatedly. They turned to welcome us and the blood suddenly rushed to my face in a wave of excitement. Two feet away from me was the man I had so nearly run to greet in the departure lounge at Heathrow.

Hugo, totally oblivious of my confusion, introduced him in turn. “Neil Sheppard, my sister Chloe.”

He held out his hand. “Didn't we come over on the same plane yesterday?”

“Yes, I believe so.” It was as useless to pretend I didn't remember him as to deny the deep sense of familiarity which once more flooded over me. Even his voice was well known to me, and the way his mouth lifted slightly at one corner when he smiled –

Mechanically I responded to the other names Hugo was reeling off – Pam Beecham, Martin and Sheila Shoesmith, John Stevens, Simon and Carol Fenton.

“Are you over here for long?” Neil asked, handing me a glass. I felt Pam Beecham glance at me quickly.

“About two weeks, I think. I haven't seen Hugo and Martha for some time.”

“You were wise to wait till the season was over. Provided the weather holds, the island is at its best at this time of the year. Didn't Hugo say you've been in France?”

“Yes, for almost two years.”

“Doing cookery, wasn't it?” put in Carol Fenton. “We'll have to persuade you to pass on a few tips while you're here!”

“Will you be going back to France?” Pam enquired.

“I don't think so, but I haven't any definite plans yet.” Jean-Claude wanted me to return for Christmas. If I did, I knew it would be taken as a sign that our interest in each other was serious.

“Neil, I meant to tell you:” Pam tucked her arm possessively in his. “I was able to get an extra ticket after all, if you'd like to come.”

“Ticket?”

“For the concert at Port Erin.”

“Oh yes. Thanks.”

Talk became more general and I didn't have a chance to speak to Neil again. On the way home in the car I said casually, “Is Neil Sheppard at St Olaf's too?”

“Yes, they all are. I like Neil; he's been a good friend to us since we came.”

“When I saw him at the airport yesterday I was sure we'd met before.”

“It's unlikely. He's been here about six years and his people live in Hertfordshire.”

“Pam seems to be stepping up the attack!” Martha remarked with a giggle.

“So I noticed, but I doubt if she'll make much progress. Neil's not one to be stampeded.” Hugo's eyes met mine in the driving mirror. “Enjoy your evening after all, Chloe?”

“Yes, thank you.” With a sense of almost guilty surprise

I realized that since meeting Neil I had entirely forgotten Ray Kittering. Two hours earlier I should not have believed that possible.

It had been an eventful day. Perhaps the stimulation of last night's dream had made me receptive both to the legend of the cross and later to Ray. But what of my ‘recognition' of Neil? Instead of lessening as might have been expected on closer acquaintance, it had deepened still further and I was no nearer being able to explain it.

I fell asleep with thoughts of Ray, Neil and St Stephen's jostling for prominence in my mind – and woke, I don't know how much later, to find Hugo standing over me shaking my arm.

“What is it? What's happened?” I stared up at him uncomprehendingly.

“I was about to ask you the same thing. You were shouting and screaming fit to waken the dead!”

“I was?” Behind him in the lighted doorway Martha was hovering anxiously.

“Yes, a frightful commotion. You must have been dreaming.”

“I'm sorry I disturbed you,” I said after a moment.

“It doesn't matter since you're all right, but it was quite a performance. Load of foreign-sounding gibberish. Fair gave me the willies!” added my scholastic brother. He looked down at me a moment longer. “Sure you're all right?”

“Quite, thank you.”

“O.K. See you in the morning, then.” With his hand under Martha's elbow he pulled the door shut behind him.

And it was then, without warning, that the ‘voice' slid into my mind, bringing as always a shaft of pure fear. This phenomenon had first happened several years ago at much the same time as the dreams started, but while I'd recounted those until my parents' obvious lack of interest discouraged me, this other strangeness I'd kept fearfully to myself. Those who heard voices were after all distinctly suspect. Not that it was a voice as such. It filtered directly into my understanding without sound or visual image, compelling, personal and anonymous, and its message was always the same. ‘
Come to me! I'm waiting for you.
'

At first I'd tried to signal back: ‘
Who are you? What do you want?
' but there was never any reply. It seemed I was equipped to receive but not transmit.

Yet that night after Hugo had left me there was for the first time a difference. It was nearer and clearer than ever before and excited exultation replaced the usual longing.

‘You recognized me! Why did you take so long to come?'

And as, without hope, I tried once again to establish contact, it switched off and my mind was my own again.

You recognized me.
Tumultuous conjectures went clattering round my head and would not be silenced. Neil? Ray? Or one of the others who had been at the King Orry the previous evening? And was it then to the Isle of Man that the ‘voice' had been summoning me over the past five years? If so, now that I was here, what would happen?

On a wave of escalating fear my mind suddenly went blank and, dreamlessly, I slept.

Hugo and Martha were at the breakfast table when I reached the kitchen the next morning.

“Sorry to have started without you, but I have to leave in a few minutes and it seemed a pity to wake you, especially after your disturbed night.” He looked up at me with narrowed eyes. “How are you this morning?”

“Fine,” I answered firmly, sliding into my chair and accepting a cup of tea from Martha.

“No after-effects of your nightmare?”

“None. I don't remember dreaming at all.” Which was true. Not dreaming –

“It wasn't one of your glorious Technicolor extravaganzas, then?”

I flashed him a quick look and went on stirring my tea. “No.”

“Her what?” Martha demanded.

“She went through a phase some years ago of extraordinarily vivid dreams. Do you still have them, Chloe?”

There was no point in denial. Dreams, after all, were acceptable, something that happened to everyone. “From time to time.”