The Calling of the Grave (20 page)

    Now I
saw them together, the differences were more apparent than the similarities.
Sophie's sister looked older. She must have been devastatingly pretty as a
sixteen-year-old, but it was the plump type of prettiness that didn't age well.
The genes that supplied Sophie's slim limbs and bone structure had apparently
skipped her elder sibling, and her face was already settling into lines that
spoke of disappointment and impatience. As though to make up for it her clothes
were smart and expensive, her manicured nails as sharp as blades.

    I
considered offering my hand, but quickly decided against it. The tension
between the two women felt strong enough to arc into life and fry anyone who
got in the way.

    'David's
an old friend,' Sophie said, after an uncomfortable pause.

    'Good.
Then I hope he can talk some sense into you.'

    Sophie
looked embarrassed. 'Not now, Maria.'

    'Then
when? You're in no condition to discharge yourself, never mind stay in that
place on your own!'

    Sophie
gave an exaggerated sigh. 'I'm fine. And "that place" is my home.'

    'Where
someone was able to walk in and attack you! And now you want to go
back'?
You just can't admit you made a mistake, living somewhere so out of the way I
bet you haven't even given any thought to how you're going to get there, have
you?'

    'David's
taking me,' Sophie blurted.

    Maria
turned to me. 'Really. And will you be staying with her as well?'

    I
managed to catch my surprise. Behind her sister, Sophie was looking at me in
mute appeal. 'For a while.'

    'David's
a doctor,' Sophie said, smoothly editing the truth. 'See, I told you, I'll be
fine.'

    'You
could have mentioned that sooner.' Maria sighed, reluctantly letting go of her
irritation. 'Well, I can see I'm wasting my breath. I hope you have better luck
with her, David.'

    It
seemed safest not to say anything, so I just smiled. This time Maria offered
her hand.

    'Nice
to meet you, anyway. Sorry for seeming a little bossy. I just worry about
Sophie.'

    'That's
all right. It's what big sisters do.'

    Her
smile was snuffed out. 'You know where I am if you want me,' she snapped at
Sophie.

    Her
heels rapped on the ward floor as she strode out. I turned to Sophie,
bewildered. 'Did I say something wrong?'

    She'd
covered her eyes. 'Maria's two years younger than me.'

    The
day just kept getting better. 'Oh, God. I should apologize . . .'

    But
Sophie was laughing. 'Don't worry. She acts like she's older. She always has,
that's half the trouble.'

    'And
the other half?'

    'That'd
be me,' she said, her laughter drying up. 'She thinks I'm irresponsible and impulsive.
Hard to argue, really. We're just different. She's got two lovely kids and a
nanny to look after them, and enjoys throwing dinner parties. And that's not
me. We don't even like the same clothes.'

    She
looked down at the jeans and sweater she was wearing. I understood now why they
didn't look quite right: they were her sister's.

    'So
you're discharging yourself?' I asked.

    'The
doctor wants to keep me in for another twenty-four hours. But all the tests are
OK and I feel fine. A little woozy, and I still can't remember what happened,
but that's all. I want to go home.'

    'You've
had a bad head injury. Another twenty-four hours—'

    'I'm
going home,' she said with finality. 'Look, it's just concussion. I'll take it
easy, I promise.'

    I let
it go. It wasn't my place to argue, and if the hospital and Sophie's sister
hadn't managed to dissuade her I doubted I'd have much success.

    'Sorry,
I didn't mean to snap,' she said awkwardly. 'And thanks for covering for me
with Maria. I shouldn't have put you on the spot like that, but she wanted me
to go and stay with them. And believe me, that would
not
be a good
idea.'

    I
could imagine. 'So how are you getting home?'

    'I'll
catch a train,' she said lightly. 'Don't worry, what I said about you staying
with me was only for Maria's benefit. And I don't expect you to take me.'

    'No,
but I will.'

    'Oh,
no, I couldn't let you do that!'

    'I've
no choice.' I smiled. 'I gave my word to your big sister.'

    Sophie
slept most of the journey. For all her bravado she was far from fully
recovered, and her eyes had closed even before we'd left the hospital grounds.
Her head lolled against the seat rest, but her breathing was strong and
regular, rising and falling in the steady rhythm of deep sleep. I drove
carefully so as not to disturb her. There were any number of questions I wanted
to ask, but they could wait.

    Driving
out to Dartmoor, with a woman I'd not seen in eight years asleep next to me, I
felt oddly at peace. I knew it was only temporary, a brief respite from the
real world. Something was obviously troubling Sophie, and her attacker was
still out there somewhere. But they were problems for the future. Here in the
thrumming cocoon of the car, with the landscape breezing by outside and
Sophie’s quiet breathing beside me, I felt strangely content.

    It
was late afternoon when I pulled up outside Sophie's cottage. She woke when I
switched off the engine. 'Where are we?' she asked, sitting up and rubbing her
eyes.

    'Home.'

    'God,
don't tell me I slept all the way.'

    'Best
thing for you. How do you feel?'

    She
thought for a moment, still blinking away sleep. 'Better.'

    She
looked it. Her colour was normal, except for the shocking bruise on her face.
We climbed out of the car. After the tarmac and concrete of the city, the cold
autumnal air out here tasted fresh and sweet. The sun was low, casting long
shadows across the garden like a spreading stain. Off to one side was the small
orchard that had seemed so sinister before. In the daylight it was a little
better, although the gnarled old apple trees looked dead and barren.

    Behind
them, standing almost as tall as the house, was the inverted cone of the kiln.
Its dilapidation was more evident now, crumbling bricks seemingly held up by
the rusted scaffolding. A pile of unused poles lay nearby, overgrown with grass
and weeds: whatever repairs were being carried out had obviously ground to a
halt years before.

    'That's
my pride and joy,' Sophie said, as I opened the garden gate for her. 'It's a
Victorian bottle kiln. There aren't many of them left.'

    'Does
it still work?'

    'Sort
of. Come on, I'll show you.'

    'It's
OK,' I said, not wanting her to tire herself.

    But she
was already following the path towards it. The rickety wooden door squealed as
she pushed it open. 'You don't keep it locked?' I asked.

    She
smiled. 'You're not in the city now. Besides, I don't think thieves would be
interested. There's not much of a black market for hand-thrown pots.
Unfortunately.'

    I
followed her inside. There was a damp, dusty smell of old plaster. Light came
from small windows set around the circular walls. In the building's centre was
the original oven, a giant brick chimney stack that extended through the domed
roof. It was scaffolded off, and parts of it were supported by a makeshift
assembly of rusted props and timber joists.

    'Is
it safe?' I asked, looking at the sagging brickwork.

    'Safe
enough. It was like that when I bought it. It's a listed structure, so I can't
knock it down even if I want to. Not that I would. The plan is to get the
original oven working again eventually, but that'll have to wait till I get the
money. Which won't be any time soon.'

    Off
to one side stood a smaller, modern electric kiln and a clay- spattered
potter's wheel. Workbenches and shelves were arranged around it, stacked with a
haphazard assortment of pots. Some were glazed, others just baked clay. Even to
my unschooled eye they seemed striking: organic shapes that looked as artistic
as they were functional. I carefully picked up a large jug whose curving form
seemed to flow, as though it had grown naturally. It felt well balanced in my
hands, its lines smooth and sensuous.

    'I'd
no idea you could do this,' I said, impressed.

    'Oh,
I'm full of hidden talents,' she said, absently running her hand over a large
ball of dried clay. It stood on a table littered with half- finished and broken
pots. She smiled self-consciously. 'As you'll have noticed, being tidy isn't
one of them. Anyway, I hope you can keep a secret.'

    Leaving
me to wonder what she meant, she went to the kiln's curving wall. Sliding out a
loose brick, she reached into the hole and took something out.

    'Spare
key,' she said, holding it up. 'Always comes in handy.'

    Until
then I'd not given much thought to the condition of the house, but the sight of
the key jogged my memory.
Oh, hell.

    'Wait,
Sophie,' I said, hurrying after her as she left the kiln, but by then she'd.
already seen for herself. She stopped dead on the path.

    'Oh,
my God!'

    When
we'd arrived the porch had been shadowed by the dying sun, hiding the damage to
the front door, and our attention had been on the kiln. Now we were close
enough to see the splintered wood and the way the door hung loosely on its
hinges.

    I
cursed myself.
Idiot! You should have realized! The
police had made a
half-hearted attempt to wedge the door shut, but the hallway was wet where rain
had blown in, and muddy footprints criss-crossed the rugs and polished
floorboards. There was a rank smell, as if a fox or some other animal had been
inside.

    Sophie
stared in dismay at the scattered contents of the open drawers and cupboards.

    'It's
not as bad as it looks,' I said feebly, cursing myself for not anticipating
this. I should have come here instead of wasting my time at Wainwright's. 'I
thought the police would have told you.'

    There
was no answer. I realized she was crying silently, tears running down her
cheeks.

    'Sophie.
I'm really sorry—'

    'It
isn't your fault.' She wiped furiously at her eyes. 'Thanks for bringing me
home, but I think you'd better go.'

    'At
least let me—'

    'No!
It's all right. Really. I - I just want to be on my own. Please.'

    I
could see she was only holding herself together by force of will. I hated to
leave her like that, but I didn't know her well enough to do anything else.

    'I'll
call you tomorrow. If there's anything else you need . . .'

    'I
know. Thanks.'

    Feeling
helpless, I started back towards my car, feet scuffing through the dead leaves
that lay on the path. Behind me I heard the door creak in protest as she forced
it shut. I got as far as the gate before I stopped, one hand on the weathered
wood. The sky was already beginning to darken, the first stars pricking through
the cold, deep blue. The ploughed fields and woods were starting to lose their
identity in the lengthening shadows. Apart from the sway and rustle of bare
branches, there wasn't a sound: no bird or animal to break the solitude. It was
a bleak and lonely spot.

    I
turned and went back to the house.

    The
door had been pushed to but wouldn't close properly on its sprained hinges. I
pushed it open. Sophie was on the hallway floor. She was hugging her knees,
head bowed as she shook with silent sobs.

    Without
saying anything I crouched next to her. She buried her face against me.

    
'Oh,
G-God, I'm so scared. I'm s-so s-scared
. . .'

    'Shh,
it's OK,' I told her.

    I
hoped I was right.