Hiding From the Light. Barbara Erskine

eyes and looked at him. ‘What are you doing here yourself?’

      ‘I had a whole lot of reports to check and I kept thinking of this roof garden and a glass of white wine and how awful it was to be stuck in a glass palace in this heat and I thought, I’m going to play hooky!’ He smiled and climbed to his feet with a groan. ‘I’m going to have a shower and change into something more comfortable. Is there anything I can get you?’

      Shaking her head, she closed her eyes again and he watched her for a moment, frowning.

      When he came out again some time later she was asleep. Good as his word, he settled down to study the reports, glancing every now and then in her direction as the sun moved round towards the west and the shadow under the canopy where she lay deepened. It was still very hot. He finished a stack of papers, returned them to his briefcase and withdrew another pile. Somewhere below in the busy street he heard the wailing note of a police siren. It sounded for several seconds very close, then rapidly it faded into the distance as the car sped away towards the Cromwell Road.

      In her dream Emma stood in the doorway of the cottage, looking round. She was dressed in a black cloak but under it her gown was silk, embroidered with flowers. ‘Liza?’ Her voice was her own, but the words came out strangely, with a soft country burr and unaccustomed words. ‘Liza, where be ye? I’ve brought ye some butter and some posset.’

      She moved forward into the kitchen she knew so well. This small dower house on her father’s estate had been given to Liza in her old age as a reward for her care of this wayward young woman and her brother after their mother’s death. The fire was lit and a pot of water was hanging over it. She glanced in. It had nearly boiled dry. No herbs. No vegetables. Taking a thick cloth to pad her hands she lifted it off the hook and setting it down at the edge of the hearth she looked round for Liza’s cats. There were two, adored and spoiled, which the old woman had reared from kittens over twenty years before while she still lived up at the hall. If she was not careful they would steal the butter before Liza had set eyes on it. There was no sign of them.

      The table behind her was strewn with flower heads. Two small boxes of dried herbs stood nearby, both open, both spilled. A knife lay on the floor, the small pestle and mortar beside it. Sarah frowned, a frightened chill suddenly settling over her, cold as the mist that drifted in the lane outside and shrouded the church. ‘Liza? Where are you?’ The whisper was scarcely audible. She moved to the foot of the stairs and stared up, her foot on the bottom step. For a moment she couldn’t force herself to move, then as she put her foot forward the door opened behind her.

      ‘I’m here, my duck.’ Liza was standing there, wrapped in a warm woollen cloak against the mist. She stepped into the room and glanced round, smiling as she saw the gifts lying on the table. ‘That’s kind. I’ll enjoy that.’

      ‘Where were you, Liza?’ Sarah frowned, still uncomfortable. ‘The water was nearly boiled dry and everything is spilled.’

      Liza shook her head. ‘I ran outside. There was somebody in the lane.’ She shrugged. ‘Somebody I didn’t want to see.’

      Behind her a cat appeared in the doorway. It mewed and walked up to her, jumped on the table, asking to be petted. She stroked it absently. ‘Sarie, my dear, if anything happened to me, you’d look out for the cats, wouldn’t you? See they was fed and had a home?’

      ‘Of course I would.’ Sarah caught her hand. ‘What is it, Liza? What’s wrong? Why are you talking like this?’

      Liza shrugged. ‘There’s folk out there mean mischief, Sarie. Hopkins’s men. Someone has been bad-mouthing me to him.’

      Sarah let out a little cry of anguish. ‘Oh, no! No, Liza. I’d never let that happen. Never. Besides, they would never come for you. Too many people love you.’

      Liza gave a toothless grimace. ‘Well, that’s as maybe.’ She put her head on one side. ‘You remember all I’ve taught you, don’t you, Sarie? Never forget it. Never.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll be all right. I’ll keep out of their way. But,’ she laughed hoarsely, patting the cat again, ‘I worry about these two. They were my babies, just like you.’

      ‘Don’t, Liza. Don’t talk like that!’ Sarah clung to her hand. ‘No one would hurt you. Or the cats. No one …’

      ‘No one would hurt the cats! No one!’ Emma woke to find she was shouting the words out loud. Piers was bending over her. ‘Emma! Emma, it’s OK. You’ve been dreaming!’ He was holding her hand.

      ‘The cats!’ She sat up staring round. ‘Where are the cats?’ Suddenly she was crying.

      ‘The cats are fine.’ Piers stepped back as she swung her legs to the ground.

      ‘Where? Where are they?’

      ‘Inside. Max was cuddled up with you. Then you began to shout and he was frightened. They’re both inside somewhere. Em –?’ He watched as she ran across the terrace. She had kicked off her shoes before she lay down and her feet were bare; her hair was dishevelled.

      In the living room she stared round. ‘Max?’ She spotted the cat sitting under the coffee table, his tail swishing from side to side. ‘Oh, Max!’ She dived on him, trying to scoop him up into her arms, but he turned towards her, hissing. Lashing out at her in a panic he scratched her viciously across her wrist and the back of her hand before diving out of reach into the kitchen.

      ‘Leave him, Em. He’s thoroughly frightened. And so are you.’ Piers’s voice changed suddenly as she threw herself down on the sofa, sobbing. ‘What is it, darling? What’s the matter?’

      She shook her head. ‘I don’t know! It was the dream. I was so worried something awful was going to happen to them.’

      Piers sat down beside her and put his arm round her. ‘They are both fine. Just leave him for a moment. You frightened him when you started to shout. Here, I’ll get something to put on that scratch. It’s bleeding everywhere.’

      By the time he had dabbed her wrist with antiseptic and put a sticking plaster over the worst of the laceration, Emma was calm again.

      ‘So, what was the dream about, can you tell me?’

      She shrugged. Leaning back against the sofa cushions she closed her eyes. ‘That’s the silly thing. It’s gone.’

      Piers paused, watching her. ‘Em? Aren’t you feeling well? I wondered why you had come home.’

      She frowned and put her head forward into her hands for a moment. Then she shrugged. ‘My head is spinning. I think I’ll go and take a shower, Piers.’

      ‘Perhaps I’d better remind you,’ he said quietly, ‘or are you just not planning to tell me? You gave in your notice this morning.’

      She looked up slowly. ‘I hadn’t forgotten. How do you know?’

      ‘David rang me. He was really worried. He thinks you’re ill. That was why I came home.’

      ‘Well, I’m not ill.’

      ‘Then perhaps, just perhaps, you’re off your head.’ His voice had become hard.

      She stood up, looking curiously vulnerable in her navy suit skirt and silk shirt with her hair dishevelled and her feet bare. ‘Perhaps I am.’

      The atmosphere was suddenly electric. They were on the brink of shouting at one another, saying things they didn’t mean, things that could never be unsaid, and as if sensing it, neither spoke. It was Piers who broke the silence at last. ‘I don’t want to lose you, Em.’

      ‘No.’ She said it so quietly he barely heard her.

      ‘You can’t really want to give up your career. All you’ve worked for.’

      ‘No.’