Magnus’s hand was on the door of the studio. He turned and looked at her. ‘Is this just another bit of drama?’
Belle raised her eyes to his. ‘Melody was pretty crazy before she killed herself. She’d started to say that God intended the sweats to be the end of the world. Father Wingate spent hours with her, but Melody was convinced that the people who had survived had interfered in some divine plan. She was adamant that everyone was meant to be dead, including us.’ The gun was still on the floor by Belle’s hand. She pushed it away. ‘Melody was sweet and good, but I’d started to think she might poison our food or stick a knife in us all while we slept.’
‘Did no one suggest locking her up?’
‘I think Jacob would have liked to, but Father Wingate was against it. He was sure he could save her through talk and prayer and Jacob agreed to let him try.’
‘Why didn’t you just leave?’
‘I was scared. I didn’t want to be on my own.’ She looked at Magnus. ‘I have dreams where Melody comes back for the rest of us. I saw her body, she looked dead, but what if Jacob managed to revive her after all? You used to read stories of people digging their way out of their grave and coming back for revenge.’
‘Not in newspapers you didn’t, not broadsheets anyway.’ Magnus crossed the room and crouched next to her. ‘These stories are fiction. This is just guilt and suspicion.’
Belle’s eyes were wide. She grasped his hands in hers and he saw that retelling the story had pushed her close to panic. ‘What if she’s a ghost?’
Magnus pulled Belle to her feet and hugged her. ‘Ghosts don’t exist.’ He held her at arm’s length. ‘If they did, this place would be hooching with them.’
Belle whispered, ‘I need to get away from here. Can we leave together? I don’t want to travel on my own. Neither do you. That’s why you teamed up with Jeb.’
Magnus let go of her. ‘I can’t leave yet.’
Belle caught his arm. ‘You can’t help Jeb. Even if you manage to prove someone else killed Jacob and Henry, they’re going to execute him. He was found guilty of murdering that woman and her little girl, that’s enough for them.’
‘But he didn’t kill them.’
‘Don’t you get it? When the community voted to execute Jeb it was because we wanted justice. If you’d proved that he hadn’t killed Jacob, we would have backed down—’
Magnus interrupted her. ‘That’s not the way the law works. People are innocent until proven guilty.’
Belle held up a hand. ‘There is no law. Will and these new men will make a big deal of having right on their side, but what they really want is to prove that they’re in control. Melody cut herself and I make my collages; men like that turn their pain outwards. They want an excuse to show how strong they are by making a spectacle of executing someone. The best thing we can do is go, before they do the same to us.’
Magnus said, ‘If we leave now it will be like walking away and leaving Melody to die alone in the barn all over again.’
Belle shook her head. ‘No it won’t. I loved Melody; I don’t give a shit about Jeb.’
Thirty-Eight
Nobody ever slept in action films, but Magnus was an obsolete stand-up who had only ever shot rabbits and barn-rats. The thought of being unconscious with the strangers in the house frightened him, but he was dazed with tiredness. He left Belle in her studio with the gun, crept into his room and changed his clothes. There was no lock on his door and so he pushed the bed against it and slept, fully dressed.
His dreams were filled with noise: the hiss of the sea as it receded, dragging sand and shale in its wake, the boom of the waves as they hit the shore. He dreamed that he was chained to the seabed, trying to keep his head above an incoming tide. The sea was quick and choppy. He lifted his face to the sky, but the waves pressed on and his chains held tight, grabbing him back against the swell. A dark slab of salt water rolled over his head, filling his mouth and nose and Magnus surfaced, gasping for air.
He woke to the sound of voices and hammering. Christ. Magnus had hoped that sleep would revive him, but a shaft of sunlight had fallen across his face and he had the sensation that someone had felted the inside of his head. He lay there, hot and uncomfortable in his clothes, trying to formulate a plan, his thoughts a fuzzy choice between fight and flight.
Magnus dragged himself upright. He peeked out from behind the curtains, but the view from his bedroom fell short of the lawn and so he shuffled to a room with a better outlook. Four men were building a rough structure out of planks of pine. Their features were hidden by beards and it was hard to make out their ages, but the men were awkward with their tools and materials. Magnus guessed they were more used to communal offices and Center Parcs holidays than joinery. One of them had the slack skin and cautious gait of someone who had suddenly lost a substantial paunch. Another favoured one leg. All of them wore the blank look he had learned was caused by grief. He might only have shot rabbits and barn-rats, but watching the men on the lawn, Magnus was willing to bet the only contact they had had with guns was paintball. It was a big assumption and he had not yet set eyes on the short, well-spoken man Belle had called their leader.
The men might not be the outlaws he had feared but they had found planks of wood and were busy with their task. Magnus tried to make out what they were building. The group had none of the easy anticipation of each other’s needs he had been used to on the croft and the Italian restaurant where he had been kitchen porter. They subtly challenged each other, holding on to tools longer than needed, blocking each other’s paths. He could not hear what they were saying, but Magnus had been on the stand-up circuit long enough to recognise the stiletto stab and twist of criticism disguised as advice. It was the memory of the stale-beer-stinking comedy clubs where he had spent so many nights that made Magnus realise what they were making: a rough platform equipped with stairs. The sight of it was bewildering. Magnus wondered what kind of show the men were planning and then it dawned on him — shit, shit, shit — it was a stage for an execution. He hurried back to his room, changed his mud-spattered clothes and went in search of Father Wingate.
The old man was not in the chapel or his bedroom but Magnus heard voices in the study that had once been the butler’s refuge. He pressed his ear to the door. Father Wingate sounded composed, but his voice was grave. ‘I will offer to walk the route from his cell with him. He may not accept spiritual comfort, but regardless of his wishes I will say a prayer, committing his life to the Lord.’
An Irish voice said, ‘I would have thought he’d be headed for a warmer place.’ The stranger laughed, pleased with his joke.
Father Wingate said, ‘The devil is among us, that much is true.’
Magnus would have liked to have heard more but it was too risky, standing in the open hallway. He tried the door next to the office and discovered a large cupboard that might once have served as a pantry. He slipped inside and left the door slightly ajar. A sliver of light cut into the cupboard’s dark recess. Magnus wondered how they intended to execute Jeb and why they had gone to the trouble of making a stage. Who was the theatre for?
Cut and run, the treacherous voice whispered. Cut and run.
He was tempted to sit on the floor, but was wary of being ambushed by sleep and stood, leaning against the corner of the cupboard, his eyes trained on the small slice of hallway. Magnus was not sure how long he had been hiding there when he came to with a start. He had been in a half-doze, leaning with his face scrunched against the cupboard’s wall, listening to the faint rise and fall of voices; the distant hammering from the lawn.