Stepping Back #4
Merv, man of few words, hung up. Claire climbed into the car, telling herself that it was probably just a stray dog, dumped on the highway further out of town. Animals could smell water for miles, couldn’t they?
Merv was waiting for her, his shock of white hair even wilder than usual.
Inside a dog was barking. Short, sharp yaps.
It sounded like the dog she’d heard the other night.
As Merv opened a door a small bundle of newly washed white fur ran past him and straight at Claire.
Before she could stop it, the small dog was jumping at her, blunt claws scrabbling at her legs as it barked hysterically.
“Whoa there, boy!” Merv caught the sturdy little animal up, holding it away from her, but it continued to bark.
Bright eyes peered at her through a mop of white fringe, and a pink tongue lolled as it fought to catch its breath.
Merv looked at Claire. “You sure you haven’t met before? He seems to think you’re his.”
She shook her head, laughing, and reached out to rub the dog’s head. It was white and woolly. This wasn’t the sort of dog that an owner dumped on a highway; this was a pet, healthy and well fed.
“I wonder where he came from?” she asked, smiling as the animal licked at her hand, little tail wagging so violently its whole body shook in Merv’s arms.
“Your guess is as good as mine. He’s an intelligent little fellow, and friendly.”
Claire gave the woolly head another pat. “I’ll put something in the paper for Thursday. Perhaps we can find his owners.”
The dog seemed calmer now, and Merv put it down. It trotted over to Claire and sat, gazing up at her with adoring eyes.
“Love at first sight,” Merv quipped.
“I’ve never had a dog,” she said, stooping to tickle the animal under the chin. “Well, not that I can remember, anyway.”
Merv leaned against the doorjamb. “Nothing’s come back to you then?”
Claire grimaced. “Nothing. It’s as if I never existed. As if I’m nobody.”
“You’re somebody in this town, Claire,” Merv reminded her levelly.
It was nice of him to say so, and Claire smiled.
“I hear you’re digging into Helen’s disappearance.” The humour had gone from Merv’s eyes.
“Yes, I am. Do you think Niall killed Helen? Is that what everyone thinks?”
He shrugged. The little dog barked, breaking the tension.
“Do you want to take him? Might be company for you until his owner’s found.”
The dog was watching her, panting, and she nodded. Why not?
But as she drove away, the dog sitting proudly in the back seat, questions began to fill her head.
If the dog belonged to the man in the homestead then why had it run away?
Could . . . could the man have fallen? Claire’s heart began to pound.
Was he still out there, inside, too hurt to call out?
Trapped and injured and expecting her help.
Guilt swamped her. The other night all she had wanted to do was get away from the place, and it hadn’t occurred to her that the man might need her help, that she was running from an injured man and not a ghost.
“Damn it,” she muttered to herself, and pressed down hard on the accelerator.
He was coming closer. She heard him throwing aside hay and tools and empty crates, anything in his way.
Helen reached through the gap in the wall, fingers like claws in the earth, and pulled herself through.
A moment later she was on her feet and running towards the homestead.
There were people there. She could get help. Someone would help her.
The water had receded some more, leaving a line of newly formed crusts over the mud around the edge of the moat.
It was still too deep for Claire to wade across despite her gumboots, but she could see the bottom now and from the feel of the sun scorching her back, it wouldn’t be long before it had dried up enough.
She shaded her eyes and squinted up the slope towards the homestead.
The barns and other buildings that must once have encircled the main house were long gone, either rotted into the mud or dismantled before the water covered them.
In daylight the homestead had lost its poignancy and looked forlorn, with one wall leaning dangerously, the boards buckled and warped, and the window frames empty dark squares staring inwards.
“Hello!”
The word seemed to stop, as if it came up against something solid. No echo, no carry. She called again. There was still no real sense that anyone who might be in the structure would be able to hear her, or that she could hear them. Especially if they were injured and unable to answer loudly.
She should have gone back for Merv. But she admitted that she wasn’t sure enough to risk making a fool of herself – the amnesiac who imagined ghostly voices. Claire would just love for that rumour to begin to circulate.
Cautiously she stepped closer, her gumboots sinking into the mud with an evil squelching sound.
The heat of the sun stung her skin and perspiration dripped down her back.
Everything was so still, the air wavering like steam from a kettle, but it was an uncomfortable tranquillity.
And the sense of being watched was back, and with it a feeling of menace.
Ignoring her unease, Claire focused her gaze on the ground leading up to the homestead. No footprints that she could see, nothing to show that anyone had ever walked or crawled up there. Not even the little dog.
And yet they must have. She had proof in the photo.
“Hello! Are you all right?”
Again that odd sense that her voice had not carried as far as it should have.
Claire began to make her way around the edge of the moat, grimacing as her boots sank in the sucking mud.
Finally she found a shallow causeway that looked crossable.
Slowly, gingerly, she walked out into the warm water, feeling her gumboots begin to fill, but she plodded on.
When one of her boots sank into the mud and stuck fast, she cursed, tugging at it and balancing on her other leg.
All of a sudden it came free with a horrible sucking sound, and she lost her balance, staggering forwards.
Before she could stop herself she fell, landing on the ground on the other side of the moat.
But where she expected to land on rock-hard earth her hands touched grass. Soft, sweet, green grass.
She thought she must have passed out.
Slowly she lifted her gaze from the grass – so green it hurt her eyes – and up the slope that was stretching in front of her. There was a long sweep of garden. An orchard to her left and borders of perennials. Lavender grew around her in big untrimmed shrubs, the spikes heavy with bees.
Horses stood in a railed yard, their tails swishing at the flies, and a couple of men were unloading a wagon, while a girl with a white apron was carrying a bucket awkwardly towards the rear of the house.
Still stunned, lying frozen upon the grass, Claire stared up at the homestead. A moment ago it had been a ruin but now curtains fluttered from the open windows and smoke rose from the chimneys and a door banged shut as someone strode across the verandah.
Claire shook her head. No. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t true.
A man was striding down the front steps. He was dark haired and wearing a brown jacket, riding breeches and boots. He moved with such an air of authority that Claire knew who it was without seeing his face.
Niall McEwen.
A moment ago she had been too frozen to move, but now she dug her fingers harder into the soft green grass beneath her and pushed herself up.
The scent of the lavender, the sounds of life about her, the utter impossibility of it all, made her head spin as if she were drunk.
Claire swayed, trying to catch her breath, trying to keep her grip on the shifting reality about her, as she stood waist deep in lavender.
Just as Niall McEwen turned his head in her direction.
His body went rigid. His chin lifted. He quickened his step. In a moment he’d be running.
Terror ripped through her.
She stumbled backwards. Water washed over the heels of her boots and, as they sank a little into the mud of the causeway, the scene in front of her faded.
Like a photo that has been overexposed. Niall was still moving towards her but there was no sound and she knew he would never reach her.
She backed away another step and into the hole that had claimed her boot previously, toppling into a pool of water. Her head went under.
Helen! The voice was in her head, a cry of anguish and need. When she surfaced and pulled herself out on to the mud, she was spluttering and choking. Her wet hair hung in her eyes and she pushed it away with a trembling hand and turned back towards the house.
It stood drunkenly above her, a ruin baking in the sun. No garden, no horses and certainly no Niall McEwen. Nothing but bare ground and warped timbers and a harsh blue sky.
He was gaining on her. She tried to scream but the sound was breathless and barely louder than the other night noises. She ran to the side, towards the garden, where flower stalks rose starkly. She’d insisted on tidying them herself and now she would never finish.
He reached for her arm but at the same moment Moppet ran between his feet and tripped him.
The dog yelped, the man cursed and Helen ran on.
Before her was the lily pond. Would he follow her in?
He couldn’t swim, she knew that much. It was one of the only weaknesses he’d admitted to her. He was afraid of water.
Perhaps she could save herself after all?
By the time Claire had showered and changed daylight was fading. Sunset was a glorious crimson and orange affair, and Claire sat on her verandah and watched it, a glass of cooled wine in her hand, the dog at her feet.
He had forgiven her for shutting him up in her house earlier and now seemed content to rest by her side, following her with his eyes whenever she moved, clearly intent on attaching himself to her.