Prospero’s Children. Jan Siegel
Will asked, not looking at his sister, his voice carefully devoid of any wistfulness.
‘I don’t think it’s necessary,’ Fern said. ‘Put something against your door, though—something heavy. You can bang on the wall if you really need me. I feel it’s important to…well, act nonchalant. As if we haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. Then either she’ll think we’re unobservant, which means she’ll be underestimating us, or she’ll be as baffled as we are. She’s behaving as if there’s nothing going on; so can we.’
‘Do you suppose Mrs Wicklow was right,’ Will said abruptly, ‘when she said she’d seen Alison before?’
‘Yes,’ said Fern. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Can you put a short wig over long hair?’
‘I think so. Actresses do it sometimes. I’m sure they do.’
This ought to be very exciting, ‘Will remarked.’ I just wish I wasn’t scared. Are you scared?’
‘Shitless,’ said Fern coolly, going over to the back door. The vulgarism was unusual for her and Will grinned.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Leaving the door open.’
‘What? If that creature comes—’
‘Our prowling visitor,’ she pointed out, ‘can already get in: we know that. I want to be sure—’ She hesitated, changed her tack. ‘I’m like Mrs Wicklow. I want to let in the air.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘And don’t use that kind of language.’
‘But you said—’
‘I’m sixteen,’ said Fern haughtily. ‘I’m allowed.’
They went upstairs still squabbling, falling silent, by mutual consent, at the foot of the second flight. Fern mounted a few steps, but there was no sound from Alison’s room. The low wattage lighting favoured by Great-Cousin Ned did not reach far, and the upper landing was swathed in shadow. She could see Alison’s door but it was firmly closed and she hoped the sense of oppression which seemed to emanate from it was the result of pure fancy and overstrained nerves. She stole quietly back to her brother and the two of them went to their respective beds.
For all his apprehension, Will fell asleep quickly; but Fern sat up, reading by torchlight so no betraying gleam could be seen under the door, her senses on alert, half fearful, half in a sort of desperate expectancy. More than an hour passed while she tried in vain to concentrate on the story, unable to restrain herself from regular glances at her travelling clock: the luminous hands seemed to snail around the dial, spinning out the minutes, dragging her down into slumber. A brief shower battered on the window, until a rush of wind swept it away. When the snuffling finally started, she had almost given up. Her body jerked upright on a reflex, snatching her cheek from the pillow; her breath was caught in her throat; her eyes dilated, though there was nothing to be seen. She switched off the torch and retrieved the book, which was slipping floorwards. In the corridor outside she heard the sniffing moving closer, hesitating at Will’s door, progressing on to hers. There was the familiar ragged panting, the not-quite-noiseless footfalls, the sudden scrabble of claws on wood. And then silence. A new silence, invading the passageway, tangible as a presence. The snuffling and the clawing had ceased, the panting changed into a low snarl, a soft, dark noise on the edge of hearing, rising slowly to a growl, a sound neither feline nor canine but somewhere in between. Fern thought she had never in her life heard anything so totally evil. Then came a sudden rush, the skidding of paws on bare board, the swish of bunching drugget, a clamour of snapping, worrying, grumbling, an ugly yowl. Heavy bodies seemed to be struggling and writhing; a crash told of an overturned table, a shattered vase. Yet throughout Fern was convinced it was the intruder who made most of the noise: the challenger was mute, with no voice to cry defiance or pain. She heard a scurrying as of something bent on escape: one set of paws fled towards the stairs, chasing or being chased, and then quiet supervened. Out in the garden there was a howl of baffled rage, maybe of fear; but it died away, and only the wind returned, droning among the chimneys, and under the eaves. Fern had grown used to the wind; they had become friends. She lay down, smiling faintly, heedless of the damage she envisaged outside her door. A name came into her mind, clear and certain as a call: Lougarry.
She fell asleep.
At breakfast, Alison was irritable. ‘Nightmares,’ she said. ‘I thought I could hear voices crying, shrieks, moans. I expect it was the wind.’ Will looked innocent, Fern bland. She had risen early to dispose of the broken vase; it was one Robin had said might be valuable; but then, his daughter reflected, he always said that. A rapid confabulation had revealed that Will, too, had witnessed the fight in the night.
‘I slept well.’ Fern asseverated sweetly.
Will merely smiled, and attacked his Frosties.
A little to their surprise, Alison chose to go for a walk later, declining company even before they had had an opportunity not to offer it. Afterwards the back door, unlatched, swung open; the dog was waiting outside. ‘Come in,’ Fern said. ‘You don’t have to wait for permission. You’re always welcome.’ She came in, hobbling on three legs: there was blood on the fourth, dried into brownish crystals, and more blood clogging the thick fur of her ruff. She lay down at Fern’s feet and fixed her with that steady unhuman gaze.
That’s a wolf, ‘said Will.’ I know it is. Where did you find it?’
‘She found me. Get some antiseptic; I’ve seen a bottle of Dettol somewhere. She’s hurt.’
‘It was her,’ Will said, ‘last night—wasn’t it?’
‘Fetch the Dettol.’
The animal was docile while Fern cleaned her wounds and applied cream from a tube of Savlon, crusted from long disuse, which was all they could find. The tears in her shoulder were deep and ugly but her expression appeared indifferent, beyond suffering. ‘Lougarry,’ Fern murmured. The tired muzzle lifted; the ears pricked.
‘Thank you,’ said Will.
Robin phoned that evening: Alison spoke to him at length and hovered when Fern took over, making confidences impossible. Of course we’re selling, ‘he reiterated a little too forcefully.’ Leave it to Alison. Bright girl. Knows what she’s doing. Gave me the name of a useful chap over here—professor of witchcraft—they have professorships for everything in America. What’s that, darling? Can’t hear you.’
The line shouldn’t be this bad, thought Fern, giving up. We live in an age of satellite technology. Supposing it isn’t the phone…
Alison left on Monday, promising to return by the end of the week. ‘She may be involved in this business,’ Will said, ‘but I don’t believe she’s the real enemy. She’s not…she’s not frightening enough.’
‘What do you want?’ asked Fern. ‘The Devil in person? Yesterday you complained you were scared; today you’re complaining you’re not scared enough. That isn’t logical.’
‘I’m still scared,’ Will explained, ‘but not of Alison. She’s all slippery charm: you think you’ve caught her out—you think you can pin her down—but her personality just slithers away from you as if it were greased. Mrs Wicklow says she saw her before, but she isn’t absolutely sure. She must have come here after something, but she hasn’t tried to search the house. We think she’s controlling that creature that sniffs in the night, but we don’t know. We can’t prove anything.’
‘I thought you believed in the impossible,’ said Fern. ‘Now you want proof.’ She was anointing Lougarry’s injuries as she spoke: once Alison had gone, the dog had come into the kitchen and lain down in the place beside the stove which she had taken for her own.
‘Not exactly. I want to know what we’re up against.’ Will cupped his chin in his hand, gazing dreamily into the middle distance. ‘What’s really going