Midnight is a Lonely Place. Barbara Erskine

burnt morsel; one of the old men; one of the fathers, who was ready to go willingly to meet the gods.

      The bedroom at the Hyatt Hotel in New York was stiflingly hot. Jon Bevan had woken suddenly, his body bathed in sweat. With a groan he brought his wrist up close to his face and scrutinised the luminous dial of his watch with eyes that felt as though they had been rubbed in hot sand. Four in the morning. Swinging his feet to the carpet he groped his way across the bedroom to the small bathroom and felt for the light switch. The bright white light was blinding. Groaning again he went in and ran the cold tap into the basin, plunging his hands in, sweeping the water over his face and shoulders. It wasn’t cold. In fact it was tepid, but it was better than nothing.

      What had woken him? He passed back into the bedroom and turned on the light beside the bed. The heavy double curtains were tightly closed. It was strange how he had got used to Kate’s silly, paranoid need to have the bedroom curtains open at night; now he too felt claustrophobic with them shut. He lifted one corner and peered out but he knew there would be no stars there. His bedroom looked out onto a monstrous, cavernous well, surrounded by other windows, reaching up out of sight towards the heavens. Even when he had tried to crane his neck out while it was still daylight he had not been able to see the sky. He pulled up the window an inch or two. Cold air rushed into the room, and with it the smells and sounds of the city. The blast of a car horn, the distant wail of police sirens, a miasma of indistinguishable music, a shout from somewhere in the dark wall of windows in front of him, and carried on the cold air, rich and spicy and nauseating, the smell of a thousand kitchens cooking steaks and fries, burgers and beans and onions. At four in the morning, for God’s sake! Pulling down the window he sat down on his bed with a groan. Last night’s party at the Café des Artistes had gone on until ten. Then he and Derek had gone on to 44 where they had met up with some other writers. After that he could remember little. They had gone to Peace then on somewhere else he could no longer recall – drinking, talking philosophy which had become increasingly maudlin, composing lines of stupendous prose which they had scribbled on paper napkins and promptly lost and which by tomorrow would be forgotten, and best so. He gave a grimace, embarrassed even to remember it. And tomorrow there would be more of the same. A talk to a group of creative writing students, a signing session at Rizzoli’s, lunch with … who? He shrugged. Who cares. One of Derek’s minions would turn up, usher him around, line him up, make sure his clothes were on straight and his hair brushed, present him on time – a minion who would be intense, humourless, dedicated to the art of not losing an exhausted author in New York.

      With an exclamation of disgust Jon threw himself back on the bed and crossed his arms behind his head. He would never sleep now. He groped for the TV remote and pressed it at random. Seconds later he switched it off again. He was not that desperate.

      The trouble was, he was missing Kate. He was missing Kate most dreadfully, and the guilt he felt about the way he had treated her had not gone away. The thought made him furious with himself. He had been small-minded, jealous, insecure, unfair. He listed his faults mercilessly. Well, at least now he had a new American contract as good as under his belt and he could begin to pay her back some of the money he owed her. He glanced at his watch again, idly computing what the time was in England. Nine? Ten? Morning anyway. He pulled the phone towards him and began to dial Bill. Somehow he would persuade him to divulge her number. He had to speak to her. He was missing her too much.

       XIII

      The tide had turned but the wind still piled the sea in against the north-east-facing coasts of Britain. It filled Redall Bay, all but inundating the low-lying islands which were the abode of so many birds. It washed away a huge section of cliff, six metres long, further up the coast near Wrabness, bringing two oak trees which had been clinging desperately to the edge of what had once been a wood crashing to the sand. Rolling up the beach, it flooded into the hollow near the dune, worried at the soil and began to undermine the face of the excavation.

      Two of the bodies lay on top of each other, the man face down, his face pressed into the seeping wetness of the clay, his head at an angle, bent against his shoulder. The garotte was embedded deep in the strange desiccated blackness which was all that remained of his skin. He was naked save for the strip of tanned tree bark tied about his arm. It was the bark of the ash; the tree which was his totem; the tree for which he had been named – Nion.

      The woman lay across him, hunched, contorted by the agony in which she had died. The fabric of her clothing was strangely intact. In one or two places the colour was still visible, though darkened by the chemical processes of clay and salts and decomposition. And by the blood. Out of sight, beneath her as she lay across the other body was a sword. It was a short sword, but sharp, corroded now to razor thin metal. One of her hands still clasped the hilt. The point was embedded between her ninth and tenth thoracic vertebrae.

       XIV

      Kate was stacking the dishes in the sink next morning when she happened to glance out of the window and saw Alison appear from the wood. The girl had a fluorescent green haversack over one shoulder and in her hand she carried a large red radio cassette player. Still exhausted and angry after her disturbed night Kate waited for her to approach the cottage, but Alison veered off the path and headed straight towards the shed.

      Drying her hands Kate went outside. The storms of the night had passed and the day was bright and crisp with only the lightest wind blowing from the south.

      ‘Good morning.’ She stopped behind Alison as the girl groped inside the shed.

      Alison jumped. She turned, her spade in her hand. ‘Hi.’ She did not look pleased to see her.

      ‘I thought you might be going to drop in and say hello,’ Kate said.

      Alison shrugged. ‘I thought I’d get on.’

      ‘Fair enough. But first, haven’t you got some explaining to do about last night?’

      It had not been easy to sleep after the disturbances. Even with the front door locked and bolted and the lights on throughout the house Kate had only dropped off an hour or so before dawn and then her sleep had been restless and light.

      ‘Last night?’ Alison turned back to the shed and retrieved a trowel and a broom.

      ‘It was you who came up to the cottage.’

      ‘Me?’ She had the girl’s full attention at last. ‘I didn’t come up last night. What on earth would I do that for?’

      Kate frowned. The wide eyes looked genuinely puzzled.

      ‘Someone came to the cottage last night. About three in the morning and let themselves in. They must have had a key.’

      ‘Weird.’ Alison shook her head. ‘Did they steal anything?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Why did you think it was me? I’m not a thief.’

      ‘I know.’ Kate tried to lighten the mood by laughing. The sound came out tightly; it betrayed her sudden misgivings. ‘You would tell me, wouldn’t you, because if it wasn’t you, I need to know who it was.’

      ‘Perhaps it was Greg. He’s probably still got a key.’

      ‘No, it was a woman. And she had earth on her hands. I thought perhaps you had been digging again.’

      ‘At three in the morning?’ Alison gave her a withering look. ‘If it was a burglar you’d better tell the police or something. We’ve never had burglars here before.’ The implication in her tone was that Kate had obviously brought the trouble with her. ‘You’d better ring Dad.’

      ‘Yes, perhaps I’d better.’ Kate frowned. ‘In fact I’ll drop in and see him when I pick up the car. I need to go into Colchester this morning.’

      She wasn’t