Sarah Rayne - What Lies Beneath

A different fear suddenly rushed in. Whoever had attacked him might have run back to the village, and Amy was still there. Would she be in danger? He felt in his pocket for his phone. He had no idea how much time had passed since his attack, but he would call 999 right away, and the police would come straight out. He was still feeling light-headed and infuriatingly weak, but he would worry about that when he had made sure help was on the way and Amy was all right.

The phone was not in his pocket. It was not in any of his pockets. Jan checked them all again, then looked around him, hoping it had slid out when he was attacked, but it was nowhere to be seen. He frowned, then another memory came back. His phone was in his briefcase, still in St Anselm’s. Then there was nothing for it but to get back there as quickly as possible, and trust to all the gods at once that he would not meet his attacker a second time, and above all that the attacker would not meet Amy.

Infuriatingly, the dizziness was still with him, and every step he took needed a huge effort. Jan got as far as the hall and paused, gasping for breath, his chest and throat feeling as if they had been scoured. But he managed to get outside, and the fresher air cleared his head slightly. He stood for a moment, considering what to do, then began to walk down the drive to the gates. It took an immense effort. His legs felt as if lead weights hung from them, and his throat was still raw.

He could see the gates, rusted and brown with age, but tiny glints of their original gilt were catching the watery sunlight. To the right was the old lodge house. Jan summoned all his strength and began to walk down the drive. He had no idea which way his attacker had gone, and he had no idea, either, where Amy would be. He reached the gates, paused for a few moments, then forced himself to begin walking down the road to the church.

The lodge house was the eeriest place Amy had ever known. Several times she thought she heard soft footsteps approaching and hope bounded up, before she realized it was only the old roof creaking, or the drip of water somewhere after the rainstorm. Once something scrabbled over her head, then there was a light beating of wings beyond the bars of the window. The aching loneliness she had sensed earlier seemed to press in on her, and she had the feeling that invisible hands reached out, begging for help…

And if she was going to let herself start imagining that kind of thing, she would end up a gibbering maniac and she would never get out! Gran would come back quite soon, and this would all turn out to be a gigantic mistake. But then Amy remembered how Gran had talked about a woman sitting dead in a chair, staring out of a diseased face, about how Gran had said she killed some man when she was a child. She had said it quite clearly: she had killed him then and she had killed him again today. Oh Jan, thought Amy. Don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.

At intervals she pulled against the leather camera strap for all she was worth, but it held firm and all that happened was that she rubbed what felt like yards of skin off her wrists and made her bruised shoulder hurt even more fiercely. Then she tried to shout through the gag, but all that came out were strangled grunts, which sounded so eerie in the silent room she gave up.

After this she tried to dislodge the gag, but it was tied too tightly and after several attempts shreds of silk got between her teeth and made her splutter. Spluttering against the gag made her feel sick so Amy gave that up as well.

She sat down on the ground, her back to the barred window, and looked about her. The room was a large one and it looked as if the police had been in here as well. A modern torch lay on top of a big old-fashioned desk, and in one corner was an open case containing what Amy thought were forensic brushes and tweezers. Hope surged up, because if police equipment had been left behind, surely someone would come back to get it? But when would that be? It might be days.

The room looked as if it had been comfortably furnished. There were pictures and mirrors on the wall, a large deep settee, a bed with cushions, and several easy chairs. Beneath the other window – which was as firmly barred – was a drop-leaf table. On one side of the fireplace were shelves with books, and on the other side was a neat stack of old vinyl records. Amy began to get a picture of someone living here, someone who had liked books and music – yes, there was the old wind-up gramophone – and who had eaten meals at the table, perhaps looking out over the drive. But why the bars and the bolt on the door? Was this where the body had lain all these years? That was a pretty spooky idea. It was even spookier to think Amy’s body might soon lie here as well. But it would not happen, of course. Gran was just trying to frighten her into keeping quiet about finding the bloodstained sweater. This last thought sounded so ridiculously like the title of a 1930s crime book, Amy tried to put it out of her mind.

The camera strap stretched far enough for her to stand up, lean over the deep window sill and see down into the ruined grounds. Would she be able to attract the attention of anyone who came along? She was just wondering if she could reach the desk and somehow hurl something through the window, when there was a movement beyond the bushes, and with a massive rush of relief she saw Jan coming out of the manor. For a wild moment she did not think; he’ll get me out of here, but: he’s not dead.

Shouting was impossible, but she might bang against the bars to attract his attention. She tried to reach the sill with her foot, but it was quite a high sill and she only got her foot partway up. In any case she was wearing trainers, which would not make much sound against the iron bars. But there must be something she could do that he would hear, there must …

Her eyes fell on the old gramophone lying near to her feet. Could it possibly be wound up? Could she manage to do it with her hands tied behind her back? Incredibly, there was a record on it. Amy could see the label, and although it was faded and age-spotted, it was still readable: ‘ The Deserted Village by John William Glover’. John William, thought Amy, I think you might be about to save my life.

Jan had gone about thirty yards along the road when, from within the tanglewood grounds of the old manor, he heard a sound so uncanny his skin prickled with horror.

Music. Elusive and blurred, as if it was struggling to make itself heard, or as if it was coming from a very long way off. It was as if cobweb strands of the past were trying to weave themselves into a pattern, and Jan stood very still, an icy finger seeming to trace a pattern down his spine. Somewhere in this sad lonely place, someone was summoning up the echoes of music written more than a hundred years ago – music that was now virtually forgotten and almost lost. The Deserted Village .

Then his mind snapped back on track, and he realized the music was coming from the lodge, and that it was cracked and difficult because it was being played on an old gramophone. But by who? His attacker? Jan was still light-headed from being half strangled: he was not sure he was in any shape to cope with those strangler’s hands a second time. But supposing the strangler had got Amy in there? How long would it take him to get to the church and his phone, and to summon the police. Ten minutes? Perhaps another ten for the police to get here? Much too long.

He went doggedly back through the gates, and into the lodge. He was starting to feel as if he might have fallen into a nightmare without noticing. The music was louder now, and there was a banging from upstairs, as if somebody might be kicking a piece of furniture. It was then that he saw Amy’s tote bag looped over the banister. He forgot about being lightheaded and went up the stairs two at a time.