Читать книгу The Dream Weavers онлайн | страница 7
She nodded. Several would-be authors had found their way to Chris’s cottage over the years. Presumably they thought the isolated position, the uncertain internet connection, the dark skies and stunning views would inspire them.
‘I am writing a history of the Anglo-Saxons,’ he went on. ‘The Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Mercia to be exact. I have already written about the kingdoms of East Anglia and Wessex. This is volume three of seven. I have formed a habit of renting a cottage on-site, as it were, when I am on my final draft, to make sure I have an authentic feel of the area I’m writing about and be near local museums and suchlike. I live in London and I have two teenage kids. Peace is at a premium, so that idea works for me. My last two writing retreats were in Suffolk and the New Forest. I saw this cottage online and it seemed ideal. Right on the border between England and Wales – or in my book, between Mercia and Powys – and I was beguiled by the place’s charm in the pictures.’
She was studying his face closely and he looked away, uncomfortable under her scrutiny.
‘At first I assumed the voice belonged to a real person, obviously,’ he hesitated, then went on, ‘I still do, to be honest. I assumed Elise was her lost dog, or perhaps a child. But not again and again. If it was a child missing there would be people looking, police, search parties, helicopters, … but now,’ his voice trailed away. ‘But now, OK, I admit it, I’m not so sure she, the voice, is real. If it was, I would at least have caught a glimpse of the woman by now. I’ve tried hard enough. But Christine assures me it isn’t the wind or the water pipes or any of your other candidates for weird noises. I rush outside when I hear her, and I call out to her.’ He raised his eyes from his cup and held her gaze. ‘And,’ he hesitated, ‘I acknowledge I do feel uncomfortable when I hear her. Cold. And her voice is odd. It comes from far away.’ He looked down into his cup again. ‘Once or twice she’s banged on the door in the night. When I open it, there’s no one there.’