Kingdom of Shadows. Barbara Erskine
and waves in his very soul. Dear God, he had to save this place!
‘What’s wrong with me, Zak? Am I going mad? I don’t understand. I’ve been claustrophobic since I was a child, but like that! In Harrods! With hundreds of people watching! I made such a fool of myself!’ Clare put her face in her hands for a second, then she straightened and looked at him. ‘What is the matter with me?’ she whispered.
Zak sat down slowly and stretched his legs out in front of him. ‘Nothing’s the matter. People often feel like that in crowds. You’re reading too much into a fairly common reaction. Think cool, remember?’
‘Think cool! How can I? The only thing I had to help me was the meditation, and you told me not to do that any more.’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘I’ve been thinking about that, Clare.’
‘And?’
‘And more than ever I am certain that you must stop doing it. I’ve been talking to someone about you, someone who knows about these phenomena. He agrees that the way you are approaching the exercise is wrong. Wrong for you. It is too risky. I still feel meditation could help you, Clare, but not this kind, please believe me.’
‘Zak?’ She sat down near him suddenly. ‘The nightmares, the claustrophobia. Do they have something to do with Isobel? Is this all connected?’
He frowned. ‘I don’t know, Clare. Everyone has nightmares – they are externalisations of one’s inner fears and worries –’
‘Are my worries that terrible?’
‘They are to you, Clare. But you are facing them with your conscious mind now, and that should help. They should get better. Meditation, real meditation, the kind you think is boring. That will help.’ He looked uncomfortable.
Watching him, Clare suddenly felt sorry for him. He was out of his depth. She had leaned on him too far. What for him had been a straightforward exercise without complications, without questions, had turned out to be for her a tortuous path. He could not help her any more and he was frightened by what he had started.
Standing up restlessly she turned away from him. She should tell him to go; tell him it was all over; tell him she wouldn’t be tempted to meddle with the past again. Get on with her life. And yet he was in a sense her only lifeline.
‘Tell me one thing, Zak.’ She faced him, her voice calm. ‘Have I been conjuring up the spirits of the dead?’
‘I think you were well on your way towards it.’ He refused to meet her eye.
‘You think I’m a medium of some sort?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And you think Isobel would hurt me if I went on contacting her?’ Her fists were clenched tight.
‘She seems to have a very powerful personality –’
‘More powerful than mine, you mean.’ Clare raised an eyebrow.
‘I didn’t say that –’
‘But that is what you meant.’
‘Look, Clare. This is crazy.’ He sighed. ‘I can’t advise you. I’ve told you what I think. I’ve told you it is dangerous to meddle in this. I think you should stop, but I can’t force you to. Only please, be warned by what I’ve said. It may be that you are actually contacting the spirits; it may be that you’re only producing some powerful thought forms; either way what you are doing is dangerous!’
‘Are you sure you’re not the one that’s crazy, Zak?’ She smiled sadly, shaking her head. ‘All this could be rubbish, absolute rubbish, couldn’t it? You can’t conjure real people out of daydreams. Daydreams can’t hurt you!’
‘No?’ He grinned back amiably, standing up. ‘Well, I hope not, for your sake.’ He held out his hands to her. ‘Whatever I say you’ll do what you want. Take care, Clare. I have to catch my train. You know where I am if you need me. I’ll be thinking of you, OK?’
‘OK.’ She gave him a wan smile. And that was that. He had gone, leaving her alone. They both knew she wouldn’t ring him.
Instinctively she knew that she had to go to Duncairn. There she would find the answer to all her questions. Perhaps. She longed to be there, to feel the wind on her face, to hear the sea birds, to taste the North Sea spray on her lips. There she would find peace.
She never gave a thought to the menace of the oil. As far as she was concerned it was over, settled by her letter to Alec Mitchison.
On Thursday she rang Jack Grant. ‘I’ll come up to Duncairn next week. If you could give me a room for a few days, perhaps we can discuss the position, sort out our plans for the future.’
He could hardly refuse to have her, but after she had hung up she sat thoughtfully gazing at the phone. Had she imagined it or had there been suspicion and hostility in his voice? She shrugged. She had always liked Jack Grant when she was a child and the thought of him there at the hotel when she went back to the castle was reassuring. And she had to go to the castle. That much she knew.
They had asked six guests to dinner on Saturday night: Sir Duncan and Lady Beattie, George Pierce, who had been senior partner of Westlake Pierce, with his wife Susan, Henry Firbank and Diane Warboys.
Diane was sitting on the window seat, her legs elegantly crossed, dressed in a tight black skirt, slit to the thigh with a lace camisole beneath her black silk jacket. With her shoulder-length blonde hair she looked dramatic and very sexy. Henry could not take his eyes off her. She had eyes only for Paul.
As Paul poured the rest of the guests their drinks and handed them round, Clare stood by the fire with Henry. Dragging his gaze away from Diane he gave her a conspiratorial grin. ‘How are you?’
‘All right. Thank you for coming round the other night.’
Henry threw a quick glance towards Paul. ‘It was a pleasure. I hope you haven’t had any more turns like that one in the lift.’
For a fraction of a second she hesitated then she smiled. ‘I haven’t been in any more lifts. It’s usually possible to avoid them, thank goodness.’
‘I heard about your getting stuck in the lift, my dear.’ Lady Beattie’s sharp ears had picked up their conversation. ‘I am so terribly sorry. Duncan has told the lift company to come and check every single nut and bolt on the wretched things.’
Henry grinned. ‘I don’t think it was the lift, Lady Beattie. There was a short power failure, I understand.’
‘Whatever it was,’ Clare managed a bright social smile, ‘I shan’t go near those lifts again. Next time I have to go to the conference suite I shall take crampons and a pickaxe and climb the outside of the building.’
‘What a riveting thought,’ Henry applauded. ‘If ever you need an anchor man, Clare, don’t hesitate to ask me.’
Amidst the general laughter Clare saw Paul turn and look speculatively at his partner. There was something in his expression which made her shiver.
Diane moved forward from the window seat and sat down next to him, her glass dangling from red painted fingertips. In the office she wore black too, but sober, high-necked black, and her hair was usually drawn back into a tight, slim queue, held with a velvet ribbon. She eased her position imperceptibly so that her thigh was touching Paul’s. ‘One should never allow one’s life to be run by phobias,’ she said into the silence. ‘Have you ever thought of seeing a psychiatrist, Clare?’
Clare swallowed. She glanced at Paul. There was a slight smile on his lips. ‘No, Diane.’ She managed a quiet dignified laugh. ‘I have never felt sufficiently mad. Not yet.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean –’
‘Of course she didn’t.’ George Pierce broke in. ‘I expect Diane was thinking of psychotherapy. Everyone is into that these days, aren’t they? Making people