The Silver Witch(50)

Stupid. It doesn’t make any sense. I was fine earlier. Stupid woman, pull yourself together.

‘Any better?’ Dylan asks, clearly concerned.

Tilda turns to say yes, to attempt to reassure him, and to convince herself, that she is okay. And as she does so she sees what is in the seat behind him. Or rather, who. The dark, shabby, broken figure of the woman from her visions sits as solidly as any living breathing person. Tilda gasps. The woman, the ghost, whatever it is, turns its ruined, ghastly face slowly, slowly, slowly toward Tilda.

And then it springs.

It leaps where there is no space to leap, hurling itself forward, over, no through the seats, smashed hands and twisted fingers outstretched as it flings its shattered self at Tilda.

And Tilda screams. She cannot do otherwise. She throws her arms over her head, and screams and screams and screams, causing Dylan to swerve dangerously, the Landrover lurching to one side, sliding, until he is able to bring it back under control and stop at the side of the road.

Tilda feels hands tightly gripping her arms, and for a moment thinks the ghoulish nightmare has her in its clutches.

‘Tilda!’ Dylan’s voice cuts through her terror. ‘Tilda, it’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe, look, we’ve stopped. There’s nothing to be scared of. Open your eyes and look.’

Panting, gulping air, she does as he says, scarcely daring to glance into the back of the vehicle. The vision has ended. The apparition gone. There is only her and Dylan. He sees her looking into the back of the car.

‘There’s nothing there, see? Just bricks, yeah?’

‘Bricks,’ Tilda nods, still trembling, letting him hold her hands now. ‘Just bricks.’

* * *

Dylan makes a quick stop at the shop in Bwlch to buy what he describes as a medicinal bottle of brandy, so that twenty minutes after arriving home he and Tilda are in the sitting room, clutching mugs of strong coffee liberally laced with the stuff. Tilda breathes in the heady fumes as she watches him light the fire. Thistle has wriggled her way onto the sofa beside her and lies with her head in her lap. Neither Dylan nor Tilda spoke for the remainder of the journey home. There was too much to say, and the noisy Landrover was not the place to say it.

Dylan carefully places logs on top of the burgeoning flames before sitting himself down in the chair opposite the sofa. Tilda takes two swift swigs of her coffee, willing the brandy to give her courage.

‘So,’ Dylan says at last, ‘do you want to tell me what it was you … thought you saw in the Landrover?’

‘I’m not sure where to begin,’ she says at last.

‘The beginning’s the usual place.’

‘Nothing about anything is “usual” anymore.’

‘You could plunge straight in to the scary bits.’

‘Says the diver.’

‘I’ll lend you my fins.’

She is on the point of telling him. Of blurting out everything that has happened since she came to the cottage: the failing power supply, the way she can influence such things, the vision of the people in the boat, and the terrifying ghost who seems intent on driving her insane. For a moment she is almost seduced by the idea of sharing it all with someone who might listen. Someone who, she senses, would make a good try at understanding the inexplicable. But she can’t. It’s all too much, too crazy, too personal somehow, and she barely knows Dylan.

How well do you have to know a person before you can tell them you’re seeing ghosts? Get a grip, girl. This is ridiculous. Pull it together.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says as calmly as she can. ‘It’s been a difficult time. But I shouldn’t be bothering you with all this.’

‘I don’t mind. If I can help…’

‘I’ve just allowed myself to get spooked. New house. Spending time alone.’ She shakes her head and tries what she hopes looks like a brave smile. ‘You must think I’m barking mad.’ She finishes her coffee, letting the brandy burn a fiery trail to her stomach, letting it numb her whirling mind.

That’s better. Can’t afford to lose it. Not now.

He shrugs. ‘You haven’t given me a reason to think that. And,’ he pauses, then goes on, ‘… it seems like you’re not going to.’

‘I’m sorry. Sorry for screaming like that. Ridiculous.’

‘Something scared you.’

‘Like I said, I’ve just got a case of the jitters. I’ll be better. I’ll be fine. Really.’

He looks at her, regarding her patiently, clearly hoping she will confide in him. But when she says nothing he does not press her further, and she finds she likes him all the more for that. There are some things she finds she does want to tell him about. Some things, or someone. ‘It took me awhile to come to terms with my husband’s death,’ she blurts out, and, realizing how big a subject this is to suddenly present him with, hurries on, ‘I think, sometimes, that’s why I get jittery. Why I overreact. It’s not that I don’t like being here, I do. This is where I want to be. It’s just that…’