The phone rang for a long time before Kiwi's voice came on. "Who is it?" she said, irritation undisguised.
"It's Mike. You got back okay."
"Eventually. My navigator slept most of the way, so I took a few wrong turns."
"How is he?"
"Speak to him."
Bob was on the other end almost immediately. "Sorry, mate," he said humbly.
"You prat."
"Yeah, I know. I can't understand it, though, Mike. I didn't take much."
"You'd been drinking as well. How come you sound so bloody normal now?"
"Was I that bad last night?"
"Jes—hasn't Kiwi told you?" I almost thumped the wall.
"She said I was a bit hysterical."
"I don't believe it. You were out of your skull!"
"Some nightmare."
"You didn't have a fucking nightmare! Don't you remember any of it?"
"Not much. Pretty scared, was I?"
"You saw something downstairs in the kitchen, Bob. Surely you recall that?"
There was a pause. Then, "Look, Mike, I freaked out—I don't know what I imagined I saw, or even if I went down there."
"Kiwi said you did."
"Okay, okay, maybe I did. Everything's a bit . . . you know, hazy. I'm really sorry I upset everybody. How did, uh, how did Midge take it?"
"Oh, she thought it was bloody hilarious."
"Apologize for me, willya?"
"That's not gonna work." I shook my head despairingly. "Just think back, will you, Bob? When you were lying on the floor against the wall, when I came over to you—d'you remember anything happening with the walls? Anything that was . . . weird?"
"Are you nuts? Nothing happened to the fucking walls. I took a lousy hit, that was all, so don't blow things up out of all proportion, Mike. I feel bad enough already."
"There's more to it than just a bad trip. You saw something in the kitchen that terrified you, and when you were upstairs you felt the walls closing in."
"There's nothing unusual in that, is there? I mean, things coming out of the brickwork, monsters lurking in the dark— that's pretty standard stuff on spoiled smack."
"You said yourself you didn't take much."
"Enough to pick up bad vibes."
"What?"
Again a pause, a long one this time.
"I gotta get back to bed," he said finally. "I'm not feeling as good as I might sound. Let me give you a call in the week, Mike, maybe say sorry to Midge personally. Take care of yourself."
"Wait a minute—"
The receiver went dead. I toyed with the idea of ringing him back, but somehow it didn't appeal. Perhaps I was reluctant to press him further. I went back to the kitchen.
They were sitting side by side on the doorstep, Midge with her chin resting on her raised knees, arms tucking in the nightshirt she wore behind her legs. Val was leaning back against a porch post, stout legs stretched out onto the path before her. Birds pecked breadcrumbs, unperturbed by her brogues. The two women stopped talking when they heard my approach and looked over their shoulders at me.
"How is he?" asked Midge, and she really did look anxious.
"Would you believe he doesn't remember a thing?"
"Oh yes, I'd believe that," Val commented dryly. "He was so far gone last night, anything's possible."
"Could be he doesn't want to remember," I said.
She regarded me quizzically, but I said no more.
Midge stood. "I ought to get dressed and tidy up."
"I'll give you a hand to straighten things upstairs," I volunteered.
"No, you chat with Val for a while. I won't take long."
I caught her arm before she could pass by. "Bob says he's sorry."
She managed a thin smile. "I'm glad he's okay, Mike, but I don't want him here again. You know why."
I drew her into my arms, not the least embarrassed by her agent's presence.
"I'm sorry too," I whispered.
She hugged me back only briefly, and there was something feeble about the effort. "You weren't to know," she said. "I don't blame you, Mike." Even so, her eyes didn't shine for me as much as usual. She turned and disappeared up the stairs, leaving me standing there watching empty space.
"You've got a problem."
Val was in the doorway, blocking daylight and slapping dust off the back of her skirt.
I raised my eyebrows, wondering how much Midge had told her.
She stepped inside, walking-shoes clomping over the tiles. "Next door." She indicated with her head, "Huh?"
"Hadn't you noticed? I spotted it when your squirrel friend hopped onto the range. It's only a hairline now, but it could get very dangerous later."
"What are you talking—"
"The crack in the lintel above the range. It's not that easy to see at first, I know."
I went through, ignoring Rumbo, who was into the pots and pans cupboard beneath the countertop, unwisely left open by someone, and made straight for the iron range.
The crack was there all right, running from top to bottom of the stone. I gingerly touched the lintel and it seemed solid enough. I was shaking my head in disbelief when a shadow loomed up from behind.
"You should get that seen to as soon as possible," Val advised. "In fact, I'm surprised you didn't do so before you moved in; that could kill someone if they were bending over the range and it collapsed. I dread to think what will happen when the stone's heated by fire in the winter. Goodness, are you feeling ill? You look quite pale. That lintel's not going to fall in right away, you know; after all, it's lasted for some time by the looks of it."
I straightened and faced this largish woman, someone whom I'd always felt had held me in mild disdain, who didn't actually dislike me—there had never been any true animosity between us—but who wasn't madly in love with me either; and something in my demeanor must have alarmed her, because there was genuine concern in her voice when she said, "I think you need to tell me about things, Mike."
And I did. We sat at the table and I went through everything with her, from the first visit to Gramarye, to the bizarre events of the previous night.
Then I went back, adding details, offering my own theories, feeling foolish in parts, but carrying on, getting it all off my chest.
Only the reappearance of Midge, standing at the foot of the stairs, brought my ramblings to a halt. Her face was screwed up in utter wretchedness and was blotchy-wet with tears; one hand buried itself in her hair, fingers working against the scalp.
I thought she'd overheard everything I'd said. But her other hand was pointing to the stairway behind her.
SPOILED ART
I COULD GET NO sense from her. I held Midge's arms and tried to calm her, but she could only shake her head, a few incoherent words emerging between sobs.
So I pulled her aside, as gently as possible, and took the stairs two at a time, stopping only when I was in the middle of the round room, looking left and right, turning my whole body around, then around again, searching for whatever had upset her so much. The room was now tidy, bed reconverted to sofa, and little evidence of last night's soirde remaining; the sun's rays blazed through the windows, glorifying walls and furniture. I could see the forest outside, presented as framed mosaics through the glass, green and lush, with no hint of threat.
I searched and found nothing out of place, nothing that could have caused Midge's distress.
I ran into our bedroom.
Empty.
The bathroom.
Empty.
The spare room.
Empty.
And back into the round room.
Where Midge, supported by her agent, now stood.
She was gesturing toward a window. No, toward the drawing board standing before the window. She seemed reluctant to go near it.
Val left her and strode across the room, and I quickly followed, catching up so that we reached the drawing board together.