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She hears it again, coming from behind her, and it’s louder than before. Her anxiety level increases. ‘Patrick?’ she calls. Perhaps it’s him, moving through the house, the music following him. Though wouldn’t she have seen him pass her? He doesn’t answer. Cautiously, she walks back into the main living area. Now, the music seems to be coming from the fitness wing. She passes through the second glass corridor, her head down this time, afraid to glance up and see her reflection in the glass, looking haunted, or to see someone outside. The volume increases as she walks down the corridor, passing the sauna and the steam room.
At the doorway to the gym, she pauses before entering. The lights remain off. She can see through the room, past the silhouettes of the exercise machines, to double doors on the opposite wall. They lead out to the swimming pool. Above it, coloured light is dancing, changing shade every few seconds, from red, to blue, to green, to pink then a soft white. The pool lights. Tom set them to come on in different configurations. This is one he called ‘disco’. It’s crazy. And why is it on now? She inhales sharply. Her heart thumps hard against her chest.
She lets herself outside. The night air is warm and close and the music is booming. Was it always coming from here? Did the sound just bounce around the building in unpredictable ways,or did it move around the house from room to room the way she thought it did, earlier? As if Tom was walking through the place. She doesn’t know.
She stands by the edge of the pool. It’s the first time she’s been out here since he died. She’s been avoiding it, hadn’t even wanted to look at it, but now she feels drawn to it, afraid, yes, but compelled to walk into the lights, to let the music envelop her. It’s the soundtrack to the end of Tom’s life. The coloured light dances across the front of her T-shirt. It feels as if Tom is trying to communicate with her. Or maybe someone is trying to mess with her. Patrick? Someone else? Or is it just the house malfunctioning again? She begins to cry. All she wants is to have Tom back.
The breeze is warm. It lifts strands of her hair and drapes them over her face where they stick to her damp cheeks. She pushes them back. Beyond the lights, the night is very dark, the stars so high and so far. A sliver of moon is mostly obscured by a torn rag of cloud. Nicole kicks her shoes off, pulls her T-shirt over her head, takes off her skirt and walks down the pool steps until she’s knee deep in the water. The music surrounds her – Tom had speakers installed all around the pool, even underwater – and the lighting does too, so brightly that the rest of the world disappears as if she’d walked into the Northern Lights.
She feels so detached from reality it’s as if she has a fever or is dreaming. Her sense of danger is strong, but so is a sense that she doesn’t care, right now, in this moment. She doesn’t understand why she’s doing this, even as she feels the bite of the waterline rising up her torso. Usually, she would flinch andcomplain, shriek and stall, and Tom would laugh, but she ploughs on steadily as if drawn to dive beneath the water.
And there it is. The music. She can hear it even though she’s submerged; the sound of the opera reaches her. It feels as if she’s crying but she’s not sure if you can cry when you’re underwater. She stays under for as long as she can and when she resurfaces she gasps for breath, and even though it’s warm, she begins to shiver violently as she climbs out, her wet underwear clinging to her. Beyond the lights, the night seems darker than ever, and she feels very sad and very afraid.
‘Nicole!’ Patrick is standing by the side of the pool. When did he get here? ‘What are you doing?’ The opera is still so loud he has to raise his voice.
She has no words for him. Her teeth start to chatter.
‘I’ll get you a towel,’ he says. He grabs one from the gym and is back in a moment. He hands it to her, and she wraps herself in it.
‘Why are you out here?’ he asks. He’s wearing Tom’s robe, she notices.
‘I heard the music,’ she says.
‘Since when did you listen to opera?’
‘I don’t. It was just on. Tom has been listening to it. It was playing when I found him.’ She can’t remember if she told him that, already. She’s not sure she’s making any sense.
‘You didn’t put the music on?’
She shakes her head. ‘I thought you did.’
‘No.’
‘It’s the house,’ she says. ’The systems are broken.’
‘Come inside. Get dry.’ He picks up her clothes and shoes.
She looks up at the Barn. It seems so inviting, all lit up, floodlights illuminating the old ruins, light emanating from the windows, but she feels intimidated by it, too. She knows it’s ridiculous, but she feels as if her home has got a mind of its own.
Patrick is obviously thinking the same thing. ‘We’ll get everything fixed,’ he says. ‘I’ll sort it out. We can’t have this happening.’ She feels the pressure of his hand, lightly pushing her upper arm, guiding her in, and she lets him steer her.
‘He died out here,’ she says. The paving around the pool feels warm beneath the soles of her feet. It’s hung on to the heat of the day. ‘I thought I’d never want to be out here again, but I felt close to him, under the water. Is that crazy?’ Patrick doesn’t reply. She thinks maybe she does sound mad. She walks obediently in front of him, back into the house. As they step inside, the outside lights and music go off, all at once, and Nicole clutches his arm. The silence seems almost more threatening than the noise.
‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘The house was having a funny turn. We’ll get it sorted.’
Thank God he’s here, she thinks. I don’t think I could cope on my own.
21
WEDNESDAY
Olly
Olly flexes his fingers. His manuscript is open on the screen in front of him, calling him to start on the next chapter of his novel. He’s full of coffee and nervous energy, but he isn’t quite primed to start writing yet. He needs that energy to build just a little more.
He stands abruptly and paces the room, pausing in front of the window, taking in the view of the orchard where the boughs of gnarled apple and pear trees droop under their loads of ripe fruit. It’s another lovely morning and he wants to find the view bucolic and inspiring, but too much fruit has already fallen and is spoiling on the ground, making him think of maggots, worms and other creatures that get under the skins of things.
He looks at the few objects he’s arranged on the mantel shelf, things he’s found in the Manor House or in its grounds: a piece of stone carving that looks like a fragment of a Celtic cross, anold metal key, heavy to hold, and an ancient flint arrowhead that he found near the riverbank. All mementoes of the time he’s spent here so far. They give him succour. He’s ready to write. He takes his seat and shuts his eyes briefly before starting – it’s his ritual – but there’s a knock on the door, shattering the moment.
