Sarah Rayne - What Lies Beneath

Crispian began to believe they would reach Athens without further incident and hand his father over to the care of doctors. But several nights after Jamie’s idea about the pieces of cloth, Crispian woke with a start and knew at once that someone was in the cabin with him. He half sat up, not unduly alarmed, assuming it was one of the crew or Dr Brank to say there was a problem with his father. But wouldn’t they have knocked or called out? The cabin was practically pitch-dark because the faint glimmer of moonlight on the sea stopped Crispian from sleeping, so he always drew the cover across the porthole. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he saw a figure standing motionless and silent by the door, the head turned towards the bed.

Crispian’s first thought was of Gil and the night when Gil had opened champagne and suggested Crispian stay in his cabin to drink it with him. He heard again his own stammered excuse about perhaps doing so another night, and he saw Gil’s slant-eyed smile.

Was this to be that night? Was Gil in here with him, and if so, how did Crispian feel about it? But he knew, almost at once, it was not Gil; he had no sense of Gil’s presence – none of the instinctive recognition that takes place on some indefinable level of perception within the human mind. It was then he saw a faint glimmer of colour from the intruder’s neck as if the sheen of some fabric was showing up in the dark cabin, and recognized it at once.

It was the scarlet and blue silk of his father’s scarf – the scarf he always wore to cover the sores on his neck and chest. The scarf that, even in his present, increasingly confused state, he groped for, winding it determinedly round his neck as if it were a charm that would hold the dark disease at bay.

Crispian got cautiously out of bed, moving slowly because Gil and Dr Brank had both thought Julius could sense people’s movements and he did not want to alarm him. Somehow Julius must have found his way out of his cabin and felt his way the few steps along to Crispian’s. Sleepwalking, perhaps? The result of too many of Gil’s bromide mixes? Or something simpler – trying to feel his way to the lavatory without calling for help?

Reaching for his dressing gown, Crispian glanced at the faint rim of light round the porthole, but decided not to waste time fumbling with the awkward catch. He would simply take Julius’s hand and trace out the ‘C’ he used to identify himself and which Julius had come to understand. Then he would lead him out to the passageway and back to bed.

He slid his feet into the slippers by his bed and stood up. Almost at once the figure seemed to stiffen.

He has sensed that I’ve moved, thought Crispian. We were right about that.

But as he went forward, the figure seemed to stiffen. As if it were watching him. As if it had sight.

Sight.

Crispian froze, the sudden fear that this might not be Julius after all engulfing him. Very softly, he said, ‘Gil?’ praying Gil’s light mocking voice would answer. But it would not, of course, Crispian already knew that. ‘Jamie?’ he said. ‘Jamie, is that you? Is something wrong?’

Nothing. But the resonance of his voice seemed to thrum like a shivering cobweb on the air or as a plucked violin string thrums long after the sound has died away. Crispian knew the dark figure was aware he had spoken. But he was remembering his father’s frightening strength the morning they put the strait-jacket on him, and fear prickled the back of his neck. He moved towards the door, hoping he could reach it and get to the passageway outside to call for help. But as he did so, the figure moved, darting across the room. One arm was hooked tightly round Crispian’s neck, half-choking him, and the other came round his body, pinioning his arms. Crispian fought to get free, but Julius’s arms were like iron staves and he could scarcely move. His lungs struggled for air and his senses swum, but he managed to kick out with a backwards jab and felt his foot encounter flesh and bone. But Julius hung on, and a hot, mad excitement seemed to emanate from him.

He’s enjoying it, thought Crispian in horror. He’s enjoying the power over me.

A red mist danced crazily before his eyes. The arm around his body suddenly moved upwards and his attacker’s two hands closed around his neck. Crispian clawed at them, but they were like steel traps and he could not prise them free. There was an agonizing pressure on his windpipe and blinding, hurting lights cartwheeled across his vision. He half fell but his assailant’s body kept him standing upright.

The red mist whirled and Crispian had the feeling of being sucked down a black tunnel. With his last shreds of strength he threw out an arm, hoping to reach something – anything – he could use as a weapon. His hand caught the oil lamp on the little ledge; he felt its cold brass outline, then he heard it crash to the floor, knocking books and shaving things with it.

At once the pressure on his windpipe lessened, and this time Crispian managed to wrench himself free. He fell back, gasping and coughing, his throat and lungs on fire, unable to stand, but air rushing blessedly back into his body. For several moments all he could hear and feel was the drumming of his own blood in his ears, but then it cleared a little and he became aware of a clumsy fumbling movement by the door, then of the faint light from the passageway trickling in. He’s trying to get out, thought Crispian, and on the crest of this thought managed to half sit up and turn his head. The figure was framed briefly in the doorway, the glint of the silk scarf glancingly visible, then the figure seemed to shake its head like an animal coming up out of water and went blundering down the corridor.

Crispian stood up, but his legs felt as if the bones had been pulled out and he was still gasping for air. He fell forward, half on the bed, half on the floor, but this time he managed to reach the overturned oil lamp, and to bang it hard against the floor. In a cracked, still-coughing voice, he shouted for help.

Gil was the first to arrive, with one of the crew hard on his heels. Dr Brank, blinking, appeared next, and then Jamie, whose cabin was at the far end.

‘Julius,’ said Crispian, still in the cracked, gasping voice. ‘Tried to attack me… Don’t know where he went.’

‘We’ll find him,’ said Gil in the same moment as Jamie said, ‘Are you hurt?’

‘Please find him,’ said Crispian. Then to Jamie, ‘No, I’m not hurt at all.’

They found Julius in his cabin.

‘He’s asleep,’ said Gil. He bent down to roll back an eyelid. ‘And his pupils are contracted.’

‘Not so much as I’d expect, though,’ said Brank, leaning over to make his own examination. He frowned, then gestured to them to come out of the cabin.

‘I don’t think he’s very heavily drugged at all,’ he said. ‘I think it’s possible he could have woken and found his way to your cabin, Mr Cadence.’

‘Would he have known what he was doing, though? Where he was going,’ said Jamie.

‘He might,’ said Brank. ‘In fact, I think Sir Julius may be retaining a lot more understanding and sense than we realized.’

‘Balls.’

‘What?’ Brank, who had been reaching in a pocket for his flask, looked at Gil and blinked.

‘I said balls,’ said Gil. ‘He’s retained no more sense than you do when you’re drunk, and probably a sight less.’

‘Dammit, Martlet, I should think I know more about a patient’s condition than a pipsqueak medical student.’

‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ said Gil, unperturbed. ‘But when they did let me loose on patients at Guy’s at least I didn’t attend them in a drink-sodden state.’

‘Now, see here—’

‘Stop it, both of you,’ said Crispian impatiently. His voice was still hoarse but he was able to speak sharply. ‘Brank, are you suggesting my father still has understanding?’