‘I can’t go without my work. I need to finish.’
‘Oh, not that again! Sod the bloody work. Your life’s more important.’
‘But it
is
my life. I thought you understood that. Those carvings are part of me.’
‘Leave them here. Forget them. Go now and forget everything.’
‘That’s what you want, is it? For me to forget it all. Forget what you were trying to do to me. Well, I’m not going without my work.’
‘They’re bits of wood, Regan, they’re not worth dying for. Now give me that bloody gun!’
He seemed to rush at me and slammed into my hand. The gun was sent flying as he caught my wrists, but it didn’t go off. We both watched it slide under the table and come to rest. He held me hard, the muscles of his arms taut as wire. There was no way I could pull free.
‘OK,’ he gasped, ‘let’s see what this is all about.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What is this mind-blowing artwork that you can’t bear to abandon? Come on. I want to know exactly what’s been going on between you and that thing.’
He dragged me to my feet and out the door. I yelled and swore at him. Branches whipped my bare legs and tangled my feet but he strode on without relenting. I wrestled and kicked every inch of the way and eventually hauled myself up to him, sinking my
teeth into his arm. He let go with one hand, holding the palm flat above me.
‘Now, you listen to me,’ he growled, ‘I’ve never hit a woman in my life and thought I never would. But if that’s what it takes to make you see reason, I swear I’m willing to give it a try.’
He was far stronger than me; in a hands-on fight I wouldn’t stand a chance. After that I allowed myself to be towed through the trees and onto the cottage deck.
‘Now, perhaps we’ll see what this is all about.’
He grabbed me by the back of my neck, as if I were a puppy, and forced me to look at the workbench. With his free hand he threw the cover from the wood block and we both gazed at the figure.
Silence pierced the air and a sickening chill seeped through my body.
When he spoke, it was in a whisper. ‘Jesus, Regan, what have you done? What
is
that?’
It was the most beautiful face I’d ever seen. Not a man, not quite, but close enough to be judged and found perfect. The face of an angel, that’s what it was. But how could anything so exquisite bear such an expression? The curl of the lip, the flare of the nose? And the eyes, ah yes, the eyes! It was evil in its very essence, the way a fallen angel would be—a being conceived in heaven and nurtured on corruption. Its body was of some other creature, something more akin to the tree from which it had evolved. At its feet was something torn and broken that may once have been human and was now beyond recognition.
‘It’s…I think…It…’ I struggled. My throat had closed and my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth. It was a form that I’d created, that I’d lived and breathed for weeks, and yet I was seeing it for the first time. ‘I didn’t know,’ I whispered, ‘I swear I didn’t know.’
‘No, you probably didn’t. And I wonder if you know now? This
is what you should be afraid of. It’s been using you and it’s not finished yet, not by a long way.’
He flung the cloth over the object, as if it did not deserve the light of day, and we were no longer forced to look at it.
‘But why me? I’m not a Sullivan, I’m not part of it.’ I walked down from the deck and he sat on the steps.
‘I’m not so sure. Perhaps we’re assuming too much. Because the women were all married into the family we knew about them. But there may have been others with different sorts of connections. What else do they have in common? They were all mature, late twenties, early thirties.’
‘Like me. But they had all had children.’
‘Yes, but not necessarily the heir. Old Michael’s mother lived into old age. It was the first wife who died. But they’d all proved that they could bear children. Maybe that was it.’
‘I thought sacrificial victims were supposed to be young virgins.’
‘No, that’s only in fiction. All the Sullivan women were ripe and fertile. Land is always hungry—what would be the use of a barren offering?’
‘But I’m…’ I started to say, and then fell silent.
There was that memory of the waiting room. Of the polished desk and, behind it, the secretary with the polished nails. It was my second year at university. He was very kind, the surgeon, no reproaches, no judgement. It was his secretary who took the cheque. Not my cheque, of course—as if I would have that sort of money. It was my tutor who’d paid. He could afford the private clinic. What he couldn’t afford was the scandal.
I expect my face told everything and for a moment Liam looked hurt.
‘It’s all right, I won’t ask. I expect you’ll tell me if and when you want to. But that does make a difference. Mature and proven fertile. And there was a physical relationship with a Sullivan. Is that so?’
I nodded.
‘That may well be enough. And on top of that you were able to connect with that thing in a way none of the others could. No wonder it’s holding you here. You’ve got to get away. Come with me now, Regan. Please.’
I looked at him. Liam and yet not Liam. A stranger. Patrick McGovern was someone who had lied to me. And he had a gun. Why the gun?
‘Regan, please! Trust me, will you?’
‘Trust you?
Why
should I trust you? You’ve never trusted me, have you?’ I started to back away from him. ‘You know everything about me and I don’t even know who you are. Leave me alone, will you. Just leave me alone.’
And I turned and fled, with him calling after me. It was late afternoon and, as I ducked between the branches, lengthening shadows were gathering beneath the trees.
I
ran fuelled on anger, hands clenched into fists and punching the air in rhythm with my pounding feet. All the fear and confusion I’d been stockpiling for weeks exploded inside my head and fused into one tight ball of seething, red rage. I threw it all at Patrick McGovern.
Everything he’d said to me was a lie. He’d done it so well he actually had me convinced that he cared about what was happening. All the time he was messing with my mind. All his talk of pagans and blood and human sacrifice. He’d filled me with delusions and driven me to the brink of psychosis. He’d taken my art, the thing that gave me life, and warped it into part of his mind-fuck. But the worst thing was he’d taken Liam away from me.
Yeah, OK, so I wasn’t being rational. By this time rational had abdicated in favour of mental anarchy. I suppose I thought if I ran far enough I might get back to where everything was all right between us. So I ran away to put distance between me and Patrick McGovern and the gun and that vile thing I had created out of wood.
I didn’t stop to think that I might be running straight towards it.
Eventually I was forced to slow down and then stop. I was a mess, a physical and emotional wreck, sobbing and panting. Fire throbbed in my leg muscles and deep gasps scoured my lungs. I found myself on the lake path, heading in the direction of the house. The sun had gone down and shadows were gathering around the edge of the water. I forced myself to stumble on and there was just enough left of the evening light to see where I was going. And where was I heading? I couldn’t go back for the truck,
he
would be there. Perhaps the house? Sullivan would be at the house and it was Sullivan I should be afraid of. Or maybe that wasn’t right any more. Maybe I should be afraid of whatever was lurking in the trees? The Watcher? Or was it a basilisk or the Jabberwocky, or just something Patrick McGovern had invented?
As soon as the thought came, I was aware of movement among the pines. I could feel it, a point of coldness crawling over my skin like the slimy path of a snail. I was being watched. I shivered and moved on, concentrating on the road to the house, all the time aware of the something that skulked among the shadows. There was a sharp crack, and my whole body jolted and my heart rate leapt. It was a branch snapping, that was all, some small animal. That’s what I had to believe.
I walked on, more quickly now, trying not to look behind me. I had to reach the house. No guaranteeing that would be safe, but I might find some answers there. I couldn’t trust Patrick McGovern any more, but I might get the truth out of that old drunk.
The house looked dark, but Sullivan’s ancient Jeep was parked at the side and, as I stepped into the hall, light was spilling from one of the side doors. Shuffling sounds came from the room, then a crash followed by incoherent muttering. I crept closer, pushing the door open, and found Sullivan kneeling on the floor.
The room was lit by a lamp hanging low over a central table,
leaving the corners in shadow. It must, at one time, have been an elegant dining room, but even in that dim light it looked dull and dusty. It was unlikely anyone had eaten here for years and the big table had been taken over by heaps of paperwork. I guessed Sullivan used this as a makeshift office, though his attempts at administration looked pretty chaotic. He appeared unaware of my arrival as he grovelled on the floor collecting pieces of smashed china.
‘Mr Sullivan? I hope you don’t mind, the door was open.’
His body jolted as he swung round. His hair hung over his face in greasy strings and his eyes were wide and fearful.
‘Ah, Regan, it’s you.’ There seemed to be some measure of relief in his voice. He swept an open hand over the shards and shook his head.
‘Here, let me help.’
I bent down beside him and gathered up the pieces. It looked as though it had been a vase, white with a design painted in shades of blue, fine porcelain and probably quite old and precious. I placed the pieces on the table.
‘It belonged to Sarah,’ he said as if this were some sort of explanation. ‘She liked Dresden. Bought this in a junk shop.’ He scrambled to his feet.
‘I came to tell you I’ve decided it’s time I moved on,’ I said. ‘I’ll be leaving very soon.’
‘Yes. Perhaps that’s just as well. This isn’t a good place for outsiders.’
‘Especially women,’ I whispered.
‘Yes, especially women.’
He reached for a whisky bottle from the sideboard, and two glasses. ‘You’ll join me?’
I was about to refuse, then realised I could do with a shot of something. We both sat at the table and he poured two stiff measures, downing half of his in one gulp. He put down his glass and started to sort through the remains of the vase. I took a
mouthful of my whisky and forced it down while looking around the room There was a carved sideboard and a dresser filled with what must have been Sarah’s collection of china. The walls were papered in something reminiscent of William Morris and hung with landscapes in gilt frames.
‘This must have been a beautiful house once,’ I said.
‘Yes, it was. I’m afraid I’ve let things go. There didn’t seem to be much point without Sarah. Then the lad grew up and left. After that things seemed to run away from me.’
Under the focused light his face looked drawn, the skin tinged with yellow. I guessed his liver had taken some punishment over the years and now his blood was flooded with poisons. God knows what it had done to his brain cells. His hands shook as he fingered the pieces, trying to fit them together.
‘She loved pretty things like this, did my Sarah.’ He turned over a chunk of the vase on which was painted a blue flower. ‘Her eyes were just this colour. I doubt it can be mended now, it’s beyond repair.’
‘You loved her, didn’t you? You still do. Then why?’
Sullivan didn’t answer. He looked down at his hands and the hopeless shards.
‘I’ve seen her, Mr Sullivan. I went to visit Sarah.’
He looked at me as if he didn’t understand the words.
‘I went to see her at that place, Harston House. Maggie told me where she was.’
‘You’ve seen Sarah? My Sarah?’
‘Yes.’
There was a long silence while he took this in. I thought he might be angry. Then, ‘How is she? Is she…well?’
‘Yes, she seems well. I don’t know if she’s well enough to come home, though.’
‘That’s not possible. She’s safer where she is.’
‘Like Badger, you mean? He’s safer in the woolshed, isn’t he, safer away from this house?’
He hung his head and said nothing. I waited. He glanced briefly in my direction then took another long swig from his glass.
‘Sarah’s taken up painting,’ I said. ‘Did you know she was an artist? She has some talent.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Trees, Mr Sullivan. She paints trees. Nothing
but
trees. Now why would that be?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’ He drained his glass.
‘I think you do. She told me you tried to kill her.’
‘No!’ He slammed his fist down onto the table. Then quietly, almost a whisper, ‘No. I couldn’t hurt Sarah. That’s the irony of it, you see, I tried
not
to kill her.’
He lowered his head onto his hands and murmured softly. I could barely hear the words, as if they were intended more for himself than for me.
‘I thought I could fight it. For a long while I did. Oh yes, I could see what was happening to her. At first I thought it was—you know, the way she was, on top of the world one moment then locked up inside herself the next. The doctors had explained how she was unwell, but that only made it easier for me to lie to myself. So when she started wandering off I reasoned that it was all part of her sickness. Then she began to isolate herself, locking herself in her room, taking herself off to the cottage. It was the mirror, you see, the one that’s in the cottage now. I didn’t understand about the mirror at first. By the time I realised what was going on it was too late.
‘Perhaps I should have taken her away from here, but somehow I couldn’t make myself leave. That’s a kind of sickness too, the way the Sullivans are bound to this land as surely as if our souls were rooted like the trees. I think that was all part of it. So we stayed and it got worse, until in the end I almost lost the fight.
‘It was Sarah who tried to kill herself and me that stopped her. She didn’t know what she was doing, you see. And she saw me with the knife in my hand. I’d taken it away from her. Even then it
was all I could do to stop myself from turning the blade into her.
‘But no, I didn’t try to kill Sarah. But seeing how she’s ended up, maybe it would have been better if I had.’
‘What do you know about the mirror, Mr Sullivan? Sarah had it in her room, didn’t she? Did you know it came from Ireland?’
‘I don’t know where it came from. It was my mother’s before Sarah had it.’
‘And your mother died when you were a baby.’
‘They said it was suicide but I know better now. Her things were still here, in the house. There were some old photographs, so I knew what she looked like. I’d stand in front of that mirror sometimes and picture her smiling back at me. My father never spoke about her, only the land. That’s what he cared about. To him the land was everything. It was like an obsession with him. “It’s a living thing,” he’d say. “It demands your devotion. You must feed it with work and sweat and time. You must give it your best beloved and then it will serve you well.” Over and over he’d tell me, and then, when I refused to listen any more, he started on young Jason.’
He fell silent and I stared into my drink, trying to think what it was that sounded so familiar. Then I remembered. ‘That’s what Sarah said. She said you called her your best beloved, then you tried to kill her. What does that mean, Sullivan?’
‘It means it’s time for you to move on. Get away from this place. There is nothing for you here.’
‘Yes, that’s what Liam Connors tells me I should do. What do you know about him? What has he got to do with all this?’
He looked confused. ‘Connors? Nothing as far as I know. He’s a work hand. He’s leaving anyway.’
Perhaps that was true. I hesitated for a moment, not knowing how hard to push this. What the hell, I’d come this far.
‘It’s not just the land that has to be fed, is it? What about the Watcher?’
‘The what?’
‘You know, the tree spirit, the thing that lives out on the hillside? What did your father tell you about that?’
Sullivan stumbled to his feet, knocking the chair over behind him. ‘There are things here that are none of your concern. Connors is right to tell you to leave. If you’ve got any sense you’ll go now.’
He reached for the bottle and refilled his glass, hitting the rim and spilling whisky over the table. I decided I’d gone far enough and started to back towards the door before he became really violent. But no, when he looked at me it was with such sadness and his voice was suddenly gentle.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t want any harm to come to you, that’s all it is. That’s all.’
A full moon had risen and the clearing surrounding the house was washed with blue light. My truck stood at the edge of the path with Liam leaning against it. A shout of sheer joy rose in me then sank again when I remembered he was Patrick McGovern. I was caught between the two of them, McGovern and Sullivan. I could run away for a second time, but there was nowhere left, only the trees and whatever it was that haunted them. So I sauntered over to the truck in an attempt to brazen it out. As I approached he lifted his hand and dangled the keys in front of me. But as I tried to take them he snatched his hand away, hiding them behind his back.
‘No, you don’t get away so easily this time. How’s Sullivan?’
‘Mad as a March hare. Give me my keys.’
‘No, not yet. Before I came to look for you I did some thinking.’
‘Oh, really? And what conclusion did you come to?’
‘Well, for a start, I’m not prepared to let you go without putting up a fight. And for another, you’re absolutely right. You don’t know who I am and why the hell should you trust me? And if
there’s to be any future there has to be trust between us.’
‘So?’
‘So, here’s the deal. We both get in the truck. You sit behind the wheel and I keep the keys. Then I’ll tell you what I swore I would never tell anyone. And when I’ve finished I’ll give your keys back and you can go anywhere you want, with or without me. OK?’
There was no choice really. And, like him, I knew I couldn’t give up that easily. He unlocked the door for me to climb into the driver’s seat. I gripped the wheel as if I were going somewhere while he went round to the other side and swung up beside me.
‘How did you know I was in there?’ I asked.
‘Not too hard to figure out. I went round the house and saw you and Sullivan through the window. You were having a drink together and you seemed OK. I didn’t know what he was up to and I thought if I blundered in it might make things worse. So I waited outside and kept an eye on things. Oh, by the way, I found something while I was sneaking round the back. It’s something you ought to see, but it can wait a little while.’
‘So what was it you wanted to tell me?’
He looked through the windscreen, as if studying the passage of moonlight across the grass. Then he took a deep breath and held it for a moment before he spoke.
‘My name is Patrick McGovern and for the past three years I’ve been running for my life. I came halfway round the world to hide. Australia first, and then New Zealand. It’s a small country, but easy to get lost in. I couldn’t hide the accent, but Liam Connors is a good name and I think I’ve covered my trail well enough. They probably won’t even bother looking now—they’ve plenty of other traitors to hunt down. It’s myself I’m still running from.’
‘Who are
they?
What did you do?’
‘I’d better start at the beginning. I was born in Belfast, and so I grew up in the seventies during the worst of it. The McGoverns
were a good Catholic family so they bred like the proverbial rabbits. There were seven of us, all boys: our family favoured males. I was somewhere in the middle, all of us crammed into one small terraced house in the working-class side of the city. Then there was the army of cousins and half-cousins and uncles. All devout Catholics and all staunch members of the Cause.’