Alex Preston - The Revelations

Abby stepped forward. Marcus could see that Sally Nightingale was packing her underwear and was attempting to manoeuvre the black lace pile into a suitcase and out of sight.

‘It’s Lee. We can’t find her anywhere. She was, well you know how she gets sometimes. . She was on the edge of one of her slumps last night. I worry that she might have gone home.’

David stood up straight and looked directly at Marcus.

‘I know about Philip. You should have told me before taking him away from here. Sometimes the people who have the strongest reaction against the Retreat are those who are closest to letting God into their hearts. I should have spoken to him before he went. I would have made him stay. We can’t afford to lose people. You know that.’

Marcus, feeling his hangover throbbing behind his eyes, stared back at the priest.

‘I just don’t agree with keeping people here against their will. He would have taken a taxi if I hadn’t driven him. At least the car journey gave me some time to work on him. He may come back, and at least then it’ll be his choice.’

David narrowed his eyes.

‘If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s Lee’s. I could wring her neck. But let’s find her first. Didn’t she do something like this a few years back? Someone found her curled up with a book out of sight somewhere, as I remember it. Has anyone tried calling her mobile? She’s probably still drunk from last night.’

‘It’s turned off,’ Mouse said. ‘I’ve tried a few times.’

They made their way back downstairs together. The Earl and Mrs Millman were waiting in the gloomy hallway. David went to stand beside them and turned to face the three friends.

‘You take the top floor, Marcus. Mouse and Abby, why don’t you have a look in the woods? She might have gone for a walk. We’ll search the ground floor.’

Marcus took the steps up two by two, reached the landing and turned right, away from the east wing where they had been staying. He walked along another long corridor whose doors opened into empty, silent rooms. A rocking horse stood against the wall halfway along the corridor. He stood and placed his hand on its cool, mottled haunches. A child’s hand had ripped clumps from the mane, the tail was now just a few white hairs. The saddle was worn slick, the bridle broken and hanging down from between the horse’s square white teeth in two ragged strands. Marcus gave the horse a gentle push and it lurched forward, a painful shriek of protest coming from the rust-sealed joints. He walked on, and the eerie screeching of the horse pursued him as he went.

A spiral staircase led up to the tower he had seen from the lake. He ran up the steps and into a dust-filled study. Books lined the walls and a cluttered desk stood against the far wall. In the centre of the desk there was a half-drunk bottle of brandy next to four crystal glasses. One of the glasses was still full. Marcus went over to the desk, sniffed the brandy in the glass and downed it. He cleared the burn from his throat and went back down the steps.

Through a pair of white swing doors, and around a corner, he found himself in a corridor identical to the one that led to their rooms. He looked out of the window onto the courtyard below and realised that he must be in the west wing. The rooms here were largely unused, full of crates and piles of books and furniture covered in dust sheets. Paintings in chipped frames were stacked facing the wall. He came upon the room with a frieze of mermaids that Mouse had spoken about. The frieze was set in the wall above a huge four-poster bed that sagged when Marcus knelt upon it. The fish-tailed women were very beautiful, breasts jutting out from the tresses of hair that fell around them, stomachs flat and swimming-toned. Marcus ran his hand slowly over the bas-relief carvings. Sea horses and dolphins frolicked behind the women, and in the background whales lurked in the depths. Marcus eased himself off the bed and crossed to the gabled window, opened it and leaned out. From his lofty vantage point he looked down on the gravel driveway below. The day had all the grey hopelessness of late October.

Nightingale’s silver Mercedes saloon was parked next to the Earl’s Bentley. The bus that was due to take the Course members back down to London was sitting with its engine idling on the other side of the turning circle. But his car, which he had parked under the branches of a pine tree when he had come back from dropping Philip at the station, was gone. He ran back down the blank, cold corridors, past the staircase leading up to the tower, and along to his room. He looked on the dresser for his car keys. Then, flinging aside Abby’s neatly folded clothes, he searched for the jeans he had worn the previous day. The pockets were empty. He walked down to the entrance hall where David and the Earl were standing drinking mugs of tea.

‘She’s gone,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’ David looked at him with raised eyebrows.

‘She’s gone. She has taken my car. Let me try her phone again.’

He reached into his pocket and dialled her number. Lee’s voice asked him to leave a message. Mouse and Abby came into the hall.

‘Lee has taken the car.’

‘Really? She’s a terrible driver. I mean, not to worry you or anything, but she honestly doesn’t know one end of a car from the other. She drove me back from the pub once when I went to stay with her. Terrifying.’ Mouse smiled at Marcus and started climbing the staircase. ‘I’m sure she’ll be full of contrition when we get back to London. Now I’m going to finish packing.’

‘I would offer you three a ride home with us, but I’m afraid we’ve got my guitar and our suitcases. There’s plenty of space in the bus.’ David patted Marcus on the shoulder. ‘I know it’s a pain, but I’m afraid it’s just the price we pay for knowing someone as unique as Lee. She gets these mad spells. But Mouse is right, she’ll be fine back in London. She was probably just missing Darwin.’

*

Marcus pressed his cheek to the cold window as the bus edged through shuffling traffic along the Banbury Road to the motorway. Abby had made them ham sandwiches. He gnawed listlessly at a corner, his mouth dry. He slept for a while. When he awoke they were at Hillingdon, creeping along in the slow lane. Maki was staring out at the traffic crawling along the grey motorway, headphones on. She tapped her nails on the glass. The twins were chattering at the front, trying to catch the driver’s attention, laughing wildly at private jokes. It had started to rain and the rhythmic swooshing of the wipers lulled Marcus back to sleep. When he woke again they were back at the church.

He lifted his suitcase from the rack above the seats and made his way down the aisle. As he stepped from the coach into the cold rain, Maki took his elbow.

‘I’m not coming back,’ she said. ‘I thought I should tell you. You’ve been very good to me. Goodbye, Marcus.’ She smiled at him, turned, and walked down the path, lifting a small black umbrella over her head.

Marcus and Abby took a taxi home. Abby went to bed as soon as they were in the door, kissing him and trying to drag him with her. He pulled away, called Lee’s mobile again and then decided to walk down Kensington Church Street to her flat. Sunday sadness enveloped Notting Hill Gate. Tramps huddled in the entrance of the Tube as he passed, their breath steaming, hand-rolled cigarettes held up to emphasise their words as they shouted at each other. Italian tourists stood with their hands stretched out, bewildered by the rain: they had heard that the English weather was bad, but this? Marcus held his law-firm umbrella over his head, imagining himself inside a protective bubble. The rain pattered down on the stretched fabric. The sound seemed to move in time with his footsteps, rippling through the patterns of his thoughts until everything was dominated by the syncopated rattle of the rain. Marcus started to look for his car where the road described a dramatic chicane and began its descent to Kensington High Street. When he came to Lee’s door, he rang the bell, stood back, and waited.