‘Christie?’
She started. ‘Where are we?’
‘We’ll be there soon. Stay with me.’
‘Sure.’
The slur in her voice had grown worse, but when he checked her again her eyes were open.
He said, ‘You knew Fergus was going to fall down there, didn’t you?’
‘How could I? The sinkhole wasn’t marked.’
‘I saw your face. You’ve lived here for decades. At the very least, you knew there was a danger of it and you didn’t warn him.’
There was a shrug to her voice.
‘He should have kept to the path.’
‘Fergus should have kept to the path. Archie should never have gone out in the boat. Men who associate with you seem to become careless.’
Her voice held a challenge.
‘In that case perhaps you should be careful.’
‘What about Alan Garrett? Should he have been more careful?’
‘Obviously. If he had, he wouldn’t have smashed himself up against a tree.’
‘Did you kill him too?’
‘I never killed anyone, except maybe Miranda.’
‘Who?’
‘My little girl. And that was a sin of omission.’
‘Not according to Fergus.’
‘He lied.’
‘He’s not here to contradict you. But even if he did, you appear to be a jinx, a magnet for demisuicides.’
Her tone was scornful.
‘A spellbinder.’
‘Being called a witch isn’t the slander it once was.’
She sighed.
‘Dr Garrett was into risk-taking. We talked about it. He was the kind of man who slowed down on the level crossing when the train was coming, who walked to the brink of the cliff in bad weather, the edge of the subway platform during rush hour. Did you know he was a rock-climber?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’d started climbing freestyle, without ropes. He told me that sometimes he would deliberately take extra risks, go for an unsure hold, let fate have its hand.’
Murray’s voice was dry.
‘I have been half in love with easeful death, called him soft names in many a mused rhyme.’
‘Half in love, half frightened of. Men like that shouldn’t get married, but they do. I suppose they want to anchor themselves to something. I met his wife. It amazes me how these sturdy women ally themselves to reckless men.’
‘Like you did with Archie?’
‘Oh, I was never that robust. If I had been, I would have picked myself up and got on with my life instead of endlessly sorting through the bones.’
It was an unfortunate image, and they both fell silent for a moment. Then Christie said, ‘I don’t know if he’d ever talked about it before, but it excited him, discussing his obsession with someone who understood. I can picture his death as clearly as if I’d been there. He saw the empty stretch of road, the tree, and put his foot down, giving fate one last chance to let him make the corner or crash.’ She snorted. ‘It was one chance too many.’
Murray closed his eyes. He felt the urge to press the accelerator to the floor, to test whether she could maintain her glibness as he raced the car onwards into their deaths. But he opened them again, kept his speed level and turned the Cherokee out onto the open track at the edge of the moor.
He could see the windows of Christie’s lonely cottage burning brightly in the dark. He supposed it would look beautiful in the summertime, the small white house shining from a midst of green, but tonight it looked like a Halloween lantern, its windows blazing, door glowing like the mouth of Hell. He dropped their speed.
‘Christie, did you leave the front door open?’
He heard her rustling upright in the back seat.
‘No.’
There was a halo around the building. It rippled gently. Murray glanced at Christie in the mirror again and saw her head silhouetted against the back window, a tuft of hair spiked at a crazy angle.
‘Fergus.’ Her voice was full of wonder. ‘I always knew he’d be the death of me.’
Murray drove on, expecting to hear the sound of sirens, but nothing disturbed the night except the gentle rumble of the Cherokee’s engine. He could see the flames now. They had burst beyond the windows and were licking the outside walls of the house. Soon they would begin to consume the roof. They were less than half a mile from the cottage when Christie commanded him to stop.
Murray eased the car to a halt, got out and helped her from the back seat. The interior of the house had seemed full of natural materials — wood, paper and brightly woven rugs — but the fire smelt toxic, as if the whole place had been formed from plastic. Murray started to cough, his eyes teared, but still he stood there, Christie leaning on his arm, both of them watching the flames’ progress.
Eventually she said, ‘I should have put the photographs and my memoir in the boot of the car.’
He nodded, knowing the answer to his question, but asking it anyway.
‘They’re all in there?’
‘Yes, all your pretty chickens lost at one fell swoop. Fergus always wanted to know if I’d written any of it down. I told him no, but I guess he didn’t want to take the chance.’
Her smile was strangely peaceful, as if none of it mattered any more. She turned and lumbered awkwardly towards the car’s back seat. Murray moved and helped her in. The mud was beginning to dry on his clothes, stiffening the fabric. He wanted nothing more now than to be gone. He asked, ‘What will you do?’
‘What I was always going to do.’
It was too much in one night. He looked back towards the burning cottage, expecting to see car headlights racing towards it, half-hoping for the whole sorry mess to be taken from him. But the only brightness came from the flames. They were alone on the dark expanse of moor.
‘Why hasn’t anyone come?’
‘Perhaps they hope I’m inside.’
‘Are you really hated that much?’
‘Who knows?’ She shrugged as if it didn’t matter. ‘People sleep deeply in the countryside, and I suppose the house isn’t overlooked. They would probably come if they knew.’
‘You don’t have to do this.’
‘I want to.’
‘It would be better to wait.’
‘For what?’ She nodded towards the distant house and placed her hand on her daughter’s coffin. ‘I’ve lost everything and gained everything. Life seldom achieves such perfect balance.’
‘I won’t help you.’
‘You don’t need to. I brought what I needed with me, just in case.’
Murray took a deep breath and walked a few yards into the darkness, wondering if this had always been what she’d intended. He rested his hands on his knees and bent over, fearing that he was going to be sick again. When he returned, she was propped up against the car window with her legs stretched out along the back seat. She’d pulled the blanket up to her neck, and Murray could see that beneath it she was clutching something to her. He was reminded of a woman preserving her privacy with her child’s shawl while she breastfed in public.
She gave him a smile that beckoned visions of the girl she’d been, and said, ‘I’m sorry. The poems weren’t inside Miranda’s coffin.’
‘Were they ever?’
‘I suppose not. It was Fergus who suggested placing them beside her. I thought it was an overly sentimental gesture, but he ran back to the cottage to get them. I guess he didn’t follow through.’
Her voice was empty of rancour.
Murray said, ‘What really happened?’
She ignored his question.
‘There should be a bottle of water in the boot. Will you fetch it for me, please?’
He got it and handed it to her.
‘Tell me Fergus made everything up.’
‘I already did.’