John Harwood: The Ghost Writer

She must have fallen asleep, for after an indefinite interval she woke in darkness, with the impression of having heard a door close. Or had she only dreamt it? She slid off her bed, still fully dressed, and crept out into the corridor. No light shone beneath her sisters door, but the door to the landing stood open, and as she came nearer, she saw a faint glimmer of yellow light on the polished floor outside the studio.

Candles burned in the sockets on either side of the lectern. His hair was dishevelled, his feet bare, his shirt half-unbuttoned. He had also lit the triple candelabra on the table; its light shone full upon her face as she stood with her hand on the handle of the half-open door, but he did not see her. His forehead gleamed; she could see the reflection of the flame moving over his temple as he swayed slowly back and forth. Once again she waited, willing him to look up, her anger rekindling as the seconds passed. A stirring of the air set the candles flaring the portrait of Imogen de Vere, which stood just to the left of her line of sight, caught her awareness, and she knew exactly what she wanted to do.

She closed the studio door softly and returned to her own room, where she lit another candle, and changed into the emerald green gown. It was a little loose around the bodice and shoulders, but that would not matter; and her hair was still pinned up. She took out the veil, and for the third time drew it over her head.

The mirror showed only a flame floating in black mist, but that did not matter either; she knew the way blindfold. Her sisters room was still dark and silent as she made her way back along the corridor.

Even through the veil, she could see that his gaze remained fixed upon the lectern. She took a step into the room, then another. Still he did not see her. Three more paces, and a hooded shadow fell across the portrait as she came between it and the candelabra on the table. He looked up, and though his face was little more than a blurred impression of features, it seemed to her that he smiled. Then he began to speak, but so softly that she could not hear him through the muffling folds of gauze. She raised both hands and threw back the veil.

The smile faded; the words died on his lips. For several seconds he stood petrified. Then, very slowly, his expression changed to one of disbelieving horror. She began to back away, her shadow growing larger as she retreated until she bumped against the table. The room suddenly brightened; something moved upon-no, in -the bed, at which she had not even glanced before. In the flaring, crackling light she saw Beatrice's head upon the pillow, a bare arm and shoulder emerging from beneath the sheet, eyes opening wide as Cordelia tore off the burning veil and beat at her hair with both hands.

The flames around her head went out, with a horrible smell of singed hair; the blazing remnants of the veil floated across the room and settled upon Henry St Clair's palette-tray. Cordelia stood paralysed, watching her own narrowly averted fate enacted upon the canvas. A tongue of fire darted up one bare arm and across the shoulder of the emerald green gown; the beautiful face seemed to rise up in flight; and then, with no memory of an interval, she was stamping with her bare feet at the smouldering ruins of the portrait, with acrid fumes burning her throat, and a thousand tiny red sparks floating and settling and crawling about the floor.

She had knocked over the candelabra on the table; it too had gone out, but the two candles on the lectern still burned. Someone had been screaming; she did not know whom. Harry had not moved; he stood gripping the lectern with both hands, his mouth half open. Beatrice had wrapped herself in the sheet and was shivering on the edge of the bed, staring at her sister with glazed, uncomprehending eyes. Cordelia's hands and the back of her neck were beginning to sting painfully. Aside from the stinging, she felt perfectly numb; her mind had frozen in mid-thought, somewhere between Harry and Beatrice and what her aunt and uncle would do now that Ashbourn would have to be sold.

But now Harry was folding away "The Drowned Man". Meticulous as always, he fastened the clasp, took up the black volume and placed it under his left arm. He might have been walking in his sleep, or perhaps the dream was hers, for it seemed to take him an age to cover the few paces that separated them. She thought he would pass her without speaking, and knew that she ought to be angry, angrier than she had ever been in her life, but the feeling would not come, nothing would come; until he stopped between her and Beatrice and muttered something that sounded like "Sorry old… sorry." And then, quite clearly, "I must, you see."

The open window was directly behind him; one good push would send him reeling backwards past Beatrice, across the bed and over the sill. Something must have showed in her face, for he flinched away from her, hugging the black book to his chest. Beatrice, now with her clothes clutched against the sheet, held out her free hand as if inviting him to help her up. But he did not see her; his eyes remained fixed upon Cordelia, to whom he repeated, "I must have it, you see." Then he turned and made for the landing at a horrible hopping run.

Cordelia followed, not knowing what she meant to do. From the doorway, she saw him silhouetted crabwise against the starlit window as he reached the head of the stairs. Then she was thrust violently aside. A pale figure darted across the landing and flung itself at Harry. His arms flew up, and he lurched violently forward, clutching at the black volume as it sailed over the banister. One foot caught on the rail, and for an instant he seemed to hang motionless in the void. Whatever sound he made in falling was drowned in Beatrice's scream before she vanished, wailing, down the stairs.

A LANTERN GLEAMED ON THE LANDING BELOW, FOLlowed by the sound of Uncle Theodore's hurrying footsteps. Cordelia turned towards the light, but then, remembering what she was wearing, and what he had seen before, she retreated into the darkness of the corridor, to prepare herself for all that she had yet to face.

One came true. I had found the missing pages of 'The Revenant'. Crouched beside the guttering candle, I turned over the last page and saw that there was writing on the back.

My name is Anne Hatherley and my sister Filly-Phyllis-shut me in here. I heard the front door slam hours ago. I'm afraid she's left me here to die. I mustn't waste time, there's only half a candle left. And half a pencil.

I'll try and write in the dark.

Filly slept with Hugh. Hugh Montfort, my fiancé. I heard them in the attic. They were making love on Lettie's old bed. It's all in my grandmother's story-the pages I'm writing on. No time to explain. I thought it was haunting me but Filly was making it come true. She's been reading my diary-I don't know for how long.

I posted Hugh's ring back the next day with a note saying, you know why, I never want to see you again. He didn't reply. And then for a week Filly behaved as if I'd done something unforgivable to her. She was daring me to speak and I

The pencil just broke. I had to light the candle to sharpen it on a stone. Only nine matches left.

A week after I saw them in the attic my face and scalp started burning. Exactly what happened to Imogen in the story. And then it all blew up. Iris heard the row and Filly started screaming at her too. Next thing she was walking out the door. She must have had her cases packed and waiting, I think she went straight to Hugh's flat. Iris was so angry she cut Filly out of her will and left everything to me. She died that same week, I know it was the shock.

Every day my skin's got worse. It burns like fire and I feel sick all the time. The doctor said he'd never seen anything like it. Just like the story again. He gave me some ointment but it didn't help.