‘How would you know? You never met him.’
‘I know enough from what you told me. The facts speak for themselves: a married man, who couldn’t even be bothered to come to mother’s funeral, to be with you when he must have known how much you – ’
‘God, I wish I’d never told you! Can’t you ever leave me alone, let me make my own mistakes?’
‘If you really want to go back to him, I won’t stop you.’
‘You know it’s too late.’ She stared down at her lap, looking like a sullen child. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to. I wasn’t crying about him.’
I felt embarrassed and full of remorse. Of course. It was Christmas Eve – her first not spent with mother.
‘Come on,’ I said gently. ‘You’ll only make yourself feel worse, sitting up here alone. Come downstairs and help me decorate the tree. We always used to do that on Christmas Eve, remember? I’ve got a fire going and I thought I’d make some mulled wine. We’ll put the Christmas Oratorio on – would you like that?’
‘All right,’ she said, her voice dreary. ‘But in a minute. Just give me a minute alone.’
I hesitated, hating to leave her in such a mood. Her hand went out and switched off the light.
‘Sitting alone in the dark,’ I said. ‘Well.’ I stood up and moved uncertainly towards the door. ‘You always used to be afraid of the dark.’
She gave a heavy sigh. ‘Not for years, Pam. And it never scared me half as much as it did you.’
I left without answering. I was surprised, and a little shaken, to discover that she knew that about me. I had always been terrified of the dark. Even now a residual uneasiness lingered. But my own fear had always meant very little to me beside my obligation to protect my little sister. I had been her scout and protector, going ahead of her into darkened rooms to turn on the light and make certain no monsters lurked. I remembered the night my protectorate had ended, when Sylvia had turned on me, screaming, ‘Leave me alone! Leave me alone! You never let me do anything! I’m not a baby, I’m not scared!’ To prove it, to free herself from my loving care, she had rushed headlong, alone, into the terrifying dark.
On Christmas Day Sylvia vanished. It was to be the first of many such disappearances, although I didn’t know that at the time. I had no particular reason for searching for her, but finding her room empty made me curious and I went on a circuit of the house. I hadn’t heard her go out, and looking out of the window I saw that the car was still parked in the drive, and there was no one in sight. I went upstairs again, thinking that somehow I had missed her, but still the rooms were empty. In her room I found a straight-backed chair in an odd position, almost blocking the door. I had my hands on it to move it when I happened to glance up. The loft door was directly overhead.
I stared up, wondering. ‘Sylvia,’ I said loudly. ‘Sylvia?’
Footsteps sounded, so close over my head that I winced. Then the door clattered open and Sylvia’s head, the fine hair all tangled rat-tails, swung out and smiled. ‘Hi.’
‘What are you doing up there?’
‘Cleaning.’
‘On Christmas Day?’
‘Sure, why not?’
‘Well, it doesn’t sound like much fun.’
‘I got bored with reading. Anyway, I thought I’d better get it cleaned up before the roofers come.’
‘There’s no rush. We won’t get anyone out to fix the roof until after the holidays.’
‘I know. I just felt like doing it. Okay?’
‘I thought we could take a walk.’
‘Not right now.’
‘It’s lovely out.’
‘Great, you go for a walk. Maybe I’ll be finished when you get back. Have fun.’ Her head swung up out of sight and the door – really nothing more than a flimsy piece of wood – came clattering down to close me out.
Having suggested a walk, I now felt obligated to go for one, but I was not in a good mood as I set out. Sylvia wasn’t being fair, I thought. It was Christmas, after alclass="underline" a special, family holiday. We should celebrate it by doing something together. Was that really asking too much of Sylvia? I argued it out with her in my imagination as I put on coat, hat, boots, and gloves, and by the time I had reached the road she had apologised and explained that cleaning out the attic was by way of being a present to me.
It was a cold, clear day and the air tasted faintly of apples. Since the ground was not too muddy, I soon left the road and struck off across the fields. I was travelling to the east of the house, up a hill, and the exertion of climbing soon had me feeling warm and vigorous. When I reached the top of the hill I paused to catch my breath and survey the countryside. Our house was easily picked out because it stood away from the village, amid fields and farmland, and my eyes went to it at once. The sight of it made me smile, made me feel proud, as if it were something I had made and not merely bought. There were the yellow stones of my house; there the bright green patch of the untended garden; there the spiky winter trees standing close to the east wall, like guardians.
I squinted and pressed my glasses farther up my nose, closer to my eyes, unable to believe what I saw. There was something large and black in one of the trees; something that reminded me horribly of a man crouching there, spying on the house. Absurd, it couldn’t be – but there was something there, something much bigger than a rook or a cat. Something that did not belong; something dangerous.
I fidgeted uneasily, aware that if I ran down the hill now I would lose sight of it. It might be gone by the time I reached the house, and I might never know what it had been. If only I could see it better, get a better view.
Perhaps it was only a black plastic rubbish bag tossed into the branches by the wind and caught there.
As I thought that, the black thing rose out of the tree – rose flapping – and half-flew, half-floated toward the rooftop. And vanished.
Lost against the dark tiles? Suddenly I wondered about that tarpaulin. How tightly was it fixed? How easily could it be lifted? Could something still get in through the hole in the roof? Something like that horrible, black, flapping thing?
I thought of Sylvia alone in the attic, unsuspecting, unprotected. I moaned, and stumbled down the hill. I kept seeing things I didn’t want to see. Something horrible looming over Sylvia. Sylvia screaming and cowering before something big and black and shapeless; something with big black wings. I would be too late, no matter how fast I ran. Too late. As I ran across the empty winter fields towards the house the tears rolled down my cheeks and I could hardly catch my breath for sobbing.
‘Sylvia!’ I could scarcely get her name out as I burst in the house. I felt as if I had been screaming it forever. ‘Sylvia!’ I staggered up the stairs, catching hold of the flimsy rail and foolishly using it to haul myself upward. ‘Sylvia!’
I could hear nothing but my own ragged breathing, my own voice, my own thundering feet. I stood in her room, too frightened to mount the chair and push open the door. ‘Sylvia!’
Above me, the board clattered and was pulled away, and Sylvia looked out, flushed, angry, concerned. ‘What is it?’
I caught the back of the chair and held it. Finally I managed to whisper, ‘Come down. Now. Please.’
She frowned. ‘All right. But I wish you’d tell me . . .’ Her head drew back and her feet came down, flailed a moment, then found purchase on the chair seat. She let herself down and pulled the door shut after her.
I caught her arm. ‘You’re all right?’
‘Yes, of course I’m all right. You look awful. What’s wrong?’
‘I saw something . . . from the hill . . . I was looking down at the house and I saw it. Something big and black, crouching in the tree where it shouldn’t have been. And then it flew towards the roof. And then I couldn’t see it anymore, and I thought it might have got in, through the hole, you know.’