Elly Griffiths - The Janus Stone

She climbs onto the bed and tries the catch. To her delight the hatch opens easily, sliding back to create a hole big enough to climb through. Gingerly, she sticks her head out. The air is cold and the mist seems almost solid, as if it will take an effort to cut through it. Come on, Ruth, she tells herself, you can do it. It’s only a bit of fog, what harm can it do you? But the grey world outside fills her with dread. And she is afraid, horribly afraid, of the elderly monster at the helm of the boat. She begins to shiver so violently that her teeth chatter and it is only by a massive effort of will that she forces herself to move. You owe it to the baby, she tells herself, you have to get her to safety. This last thought is strong enough to get her foot on the edge of the hatch.

She finds herself standing on the very front of the boat, the prow. Luckily it is flat though it rocks slightly beneath her feet. Can Sir Roderick see her? She doesn’t think so. She can hardly see her own hands as they feel for the side of the boat. Thank God there is a handrail. Slowly, quietly, she begins to crawl towards the stern.

They sense rather than see the bridge. A feeling that some large, solid structure is nearby. Then, without warning, they are plunged into darkness. Nelson sees Max’s knuckles white on the wheel and hears Cathbad’s sharp intake of breath. Then the greyness is around them again.

‘Well done,’ says Nelson to Max. ‘Where are we now?’

‘Heading towards Horsey Mere,’ says Max.

‘And they’re here too?’

‘They must be right ahead of us.’

It is like voyaging into the afterlife. They have left behind the solid world and entered into a dream state, moving silently between billowing white clouds. There is nothing to anchor them to their surroundings: no landmarks, no sounds, no earth or sky. There is only this slow progress through the endless whiteness, the sound of their own breathing and the lap of the water against the sides of the boat. Nelson, looking at his phone, is not surprised to see that he has no signal. It would have seemed incredible if anything as prosaic as a mobile phone signal could have penetrated this unearthly fog. It is nine o’clock but it could be any time, day or night. There is no moon and no sun, just the grey nothingness all around them.

‘It’s like crossing the River Kormet into the Land of the Dead,’ says Cathbad dreamily.

Max looks round and Nelson sees his eyes gleam through the mist, ‘Yes, or the River Styx. Interesting how many mythologies involve river crossings.’

‘Spare us the lecture,’ says Nelson, who is leaning forward, trying to force the boat onwards through sheer effort of will. ‘Can’t we go faster than this?’

‘No,’ says Max. ‘We’ll be into Candle Dyke soon. I don’t want to miss the markers.’

But the dream world gives nothing away.

Sir Roderick appears as if by a particularly malign form of magic. One moment she is moving carefully along the side of the boat, one hand on the rail, whiteness in front and behind, and the next she sees his red face, white hair and wide, surprised eyes. He is standing holding the wheel and Ruth knows that now is her moment. She has the advantage of surprise. Jumping forwards, she launches herself at him.

The wheel slides out of his hands but, for an old man, his reactions are remarkably quick. He throws up an arm and hits Ruth in the face. She stumbles and the knife clatters to the floor. Unmanned, the boat drifts slowly to the left. Ruth scrabbles about frantically for the knife and breathes a sigh of relief when her fingers close around its wooden handle. But when she straightens up she is looking into the barrel of a gun.

At first Ruth assumes that the gun is a fake. There is something polished and old-fashioned about it and, after all, Roderick is an old man, a feeble old windbag who likes to go on trips with the Conservative Association. So, with the gun pointing at her, Ruth says, in a reasonably calm tone, ‘Don’t be silly. Keep your eye on the boat.’

Roderick’s answer is to fire the gun in the air. The shock of the report, coupled with the acrid smell of gunpowder, almost make Ruth vomit again. Like Roderick, the gun may be antique but it is still deadly.

‘There you are, my dear,’ says Roderick smugly, ‘I’m not just a silly old man with a gun, am I? I know how to shoot. I got my Blue at Cambridge.’

Ruth had heard enough about Cambridge to last her a lifetime. Quite suddenly her fear crystallises into anger and she finds herself shouting back, ‘I don’t care where the hell you went to university. Just let me get off this bloody boat!’

Roderick’s answer is to approach her, still smiling, and place the muzzle of the gun firmly in her stomach.

‘Be impertinent again, my dear, and I’ll shoot your baby dead.’

There is a silence. The boat continues to drift to the left and, in one corner of her mind, Ruth hopes that it will run aground or hit another bridge or something. But the rest of her mind is concentrated feverishly on the madman who is threatening her life – and the life which she now realised is dearer than her own. She stares into Sir Roderick’s filmy eyes. There must be something she can say, something that will divert him, will make him see what he is doing, would make him see her as another human being. But then, she remembers, this is a man who killed his own daughter, in cold blood when he was still a teenager. There is no reason to believe that he has learnt humanity in the intervening years.

They continue to look at each other when, suddenly, as if from miles away, Ruth hears a distinct shout of ‘Ruth!’

Sir Roderick is momentarily distracted. As he turns away, Ruth shouts, ‘Help!’ as loudly as she can. Her voice echoes back to her uselessly, deadened by the fog. Sir Roderick wheels back round to face her and Ruth shoots her hand upwards and knocks the gun from his grasp.

‘Bitch!’ spits Sir Roderick, attempting to hit her across the face. But Ruth is on her knees looking for the gun. She can’t see anything but she knows it is here somewhere. Her fingers touch tarpaulin, polished wood, brass and then, miraculously, the cold muzzle of the gun. She stands up and faces Sir Roderick.

‘Keep away from me or I’ll shoot.’

Sir Roderick laughs, a genuine guffaw this time, probably born of a lifetime of despising women.

‘Shoot! Women can’t shoot.’

Ruth pulls the trigger.

It was Nelson who had shouted. He hears the first gunshot and yells wildly into the fog though he has no idea where the sound has come from. Then, suddenly, Cathbad calls, ‘Look out!’ and the Lady Annabelle looms out of the mist, heading straight towards them. The little boat now looks vast, a huge black shadow, silent and menacing.

‘Ruth!’ shouts Nelson again.

He hears someone shout back but can’t make out any words. Then he is almost thrown overboard as Max veers frantically to the left, trying to avoid the larger boat.

‘What’s he playing at?’ Nelson yells at Max, his face wet with spray.

‘I don’t think there’s anyone at the helm,’ Max shouts back.

Is Sir Roderick dead then? Is he, even now, fighting desperately with Ruth? He cannot allow himself to think that Ruth might be dead. Ruth and his unnamed, unknown, daughter.

‘We’re in Candle Dyke now,’ says Max, and Nelson is suddenly aware that there is space all around them. Before, although they couldn’t see the river bank, they knew it was there but now there is nothingness, just a sense of expanding water and silence. The Lady Annabelle has vanished again and, high above, they hear the call of seagulls.

‘Where the hell have they gone?’ yells Nelson.