Chapter 1

My name is Rose Williams and today, I can’t stop smiling. I can see a reflection of the reason for my persistent, dimpled grin through the mess of powders and pencils exploded across my dressing table. Backwards those letters may be (and illegible too as my left eye is still smarting after being stabbed by an errant eyeliner) but I know that text as well as any words I’ve ever read.

ROSE IT CAN BE WHATEVER YOU WANT IT TO BE.

My god Rose, this is really it! He really does think of this as a date!! My heart has set off banging again now, as it did the previous million times I read those words. Just to be sure though, I think I’d better check my question again so putting the eye pencil down I pick up the phone and begin to scroll. It doesn’t take me long to find the sent box and open the last message.

So is this a date then lol

Good. I’m happy with that little exchange. Not too pushy, no pressure put on anyone. Just the right level of intimacy I’d say, and no ambiguity either. Absolutely clear to all parties concerned that this is going to be a date. Or is it? I’m starting to panic again so as I twist my lipstick ready for action I can’t help but begin to read the texts once more. This is a big mistake because this time, as the words are mouthed by my silent lips, the sense of them smudges and twists too and try as I might there’s nothing I can do to stop them. The ones that I sent now seem childish; his have a paternal feel about them, barely tolerant and impatiently covering up his realization of a mistake made, his regret that he ever even asked me to dinner.

‘Damn it! I should have left that bloody lol off. Makes it seem like a big joke! As if a man like Cristian is going to get serious about a nineteen year old girl who laughs out loud after everything she says. You idiot Rose!! And now look what you’ve done! You look like Angelina during the lip plumping operation.’

Talking to yourself whilst applying lippy is definitely a bad idea, right up there with watching a bottle of foundation tumble over and pour its contents over your dress instead of launching balls of cotton wool at it. That’s what I’m doing now, watching instead of launching; that and waving my arms around, screaming.

‘What’s all the racket! Rose, are you okay!’

It’s mum, shouting from the bottom of the stairs.

‘Mum this outfit is ruined! Do you know where my black dress is, the one I wore for Ruby’s graduation?’

‘It’s in the ironing. I’ll pop it up. Now try and get a move on Rose, it’s almost half past seven.’

Half past seven and my face still isn’t done. In fact, it’s the opposite of done. It’s undone, by blotches of mascara, badly drawn lips and that spot on my chin that only goes out when I do. I feel like crying so that’s what I’m going to do. My eyes will need re-making anyway so best to get it over with, finish my hair whilst I sob a little and before I start them again. Crying has always helped me through these small hiccups to my perfect vision of how life should treat me and I can already feel the first tear rolling down my cheek, blown toward my ear by a blast of curling hot air. It feels strange to have your tears dried like this, denied their opportunity to fall, and by the time I’ve finished contemplating this (and selecting the next clump of blonde to volumise), I’m already starting to feel better. No doubt about it, when a girl needs to feel good about herself and berate how victimized she is by this crappy world, crying (even such wasted tears) definitely helps.

Five minutes later, hair’s done and the eyes are looking a whole lot better too. The left one has finally settled from red to white and my electric blue iris’s soon begin to dazzle as I apply the finishing touches to shimmering silver lids and sharp black underscores. Must admit, they are bordering on spectacular tonight, sexy too! And I know it sounds vain but hey, so what; they’re the best thing I’ve got. Now, all I need is the dress and that’s me ready to go on my date! But whilst I wait for mum and the dress, I guess it won’t hurt to read the texts once more. I reach for my phone. There’s an icon flashing and the instant that my heart is informed by my head that this is a new message, it races away to match the buzzing rhythm. Select, open.

So how is date goin n u heard from Ruby 2day?

Disappointment floods through me, swamps my rising excitement and, whilst it doesn’t bring me down completely to earth, the mood change does make it impossible to fly any higher. This is typical Jonathon. He has a knack of stepping in to the most precious of moments and treading all over them until they’re menial.

Haven’t seen her since lunch and its NOT a date!!!!!!!!!

Okay, so nine exclamations is possibly a little over the top but I reckon that that’s about the going rate for such a pathetic attempt at a tease

Dont get ur knickers in a twist. It’ll b harder 4 him 2 rip em off

Right, I’m not even answering that! Although I must admit that Jonathon’s lewd comment does raise rather a good point; a first date this maybe but Cristian and I do go back a long way. What if I’ve totally misread all of this? What if I’ve allowed my desire to get out of this place to knit myself a life line from nothing more substantial than romantic mist? Great, now I’ve got something else to stress me out! I’m not sure which would shatter my dreams more completely either; to find out that tonight is simply a catch-up in the kitchen where we sometimes snacked crisps whilst waiting for mums, or that its been contrived to quench a desire seeded by one too many clumsy kisses swapped for chewing gum years ago. One thing is for sure though; whatever this night isn’t it most certainly is inevitable and I’m running late. Still mumbling to myself I carry on stepping into the dress that magically appeared on the hanger at the back of my door. I can’t be sure what I might have voiced out loud and what my mum might have heard but no matter, I’m sure there will be plenty bigger mouths to put my feet into tonight. Anyway, here goes. Time for one last glance in the mirror as I open the bedroom door.

‘Brace yourself Mr Cristian Chevalier because, ready or not, Rose ‘bud’ Williams is on her way.’

Chapter 2

It’s with some relief that I finally arrive at the gate house of Hartford Manor. The road behind me was deceptively slippery, its’ dusting of snow having been whipped away by a low, busy breeze that left only polished black ice to drive on. Although the road out of the village is only a couple of miles long, I’d almost lost control on at least two occasions and I’m glad that mum had convinced me to take her less trendy but heavier car. Even so, four deep treaded tires muscled by traction control weren’t enough to stop me from skidding as I jab at the brakes and begin drifting slowly toward the set of heavy iron gates that suddenly appeared in my headlights. I’ve lost control (undeniably so as my open palms are flapping at the steering wheel and my eyes are screwed shut) but the car somehow manages to keep it together and when it feels safe to take a peek I’m amazed to see that the front bumper is merely nuzzling the iron work, hopefully with no damage to either. These gates are new, and very black and very poorly lit by ridiculously small (but probably period) lanterns mounted on stone pillars either side. All this must have been installed recently because Ruby and I had passed this way only last Friday, on our way to Hartford Heights in search of early sledging opportunities. That recollection makes me cringe and remember why I’m here.

‘Christ you really need to grow up Rose, and quickly too!’

There’s an intercom on the left hand post and a sign above it invites me to press for attention. Trouble is, I really don’t want to get out of the car. It’s freezing and my cream shawl looks good but fails miserably to live up to its fluffy promise of warmth. My reluctant hand is already pulling on the door handle though, when a loud click buzz interrupts my whining and heralds the silent swinging of the gates. Whilst I wait for them to fold back fully I remember my manners and lean forward to crane my neck upwards into the windscreen, turning from side to side and mouthing ’thank you’ to who ever it is that has spotted me on a monitor and opened the entrance. Although I can’t actually see the camera, I know that there must be one because the manor house itself is still out of site, waiting behind the woodlands that gather on either side of the car as I roll forward. Even with my lights on high beam this mass of grey trunks and branches are so tightly packed that it’s impossible to see more than two or three strides into the gloom on either side. Wallop! Without any warning at all, my childhood fears are back. Damn it! I can’t believe that this place still gives me the creeps, a feeling that’s particularly worrisome considering that I’m going to be living here one day. This cheeky thought makes me smile but not enough to push the trees back. I’d been so convinced too, that there wouldn’t be the slightest recollection of what I had imagined to be in these woods as a child. I was absolutely certain that ten years away from this place, ten years of growing up actually, would have rationalized all those unseen eyes and stalking shadows away. But here we go again; hairs rising on the neck and a cold sweat beading on my powdered brow. And now a third physical response to my fears kicks in, or to be more accurate, kicks down on the accelerator. My flight reflex only lasts an instant but it injects enough momentum into the car to set the back end sliding as I try and correct the problem and bang on the brakes which immediately lock and set the world into a slow, silent spin apparently eager to show me every demonic face that its twigs and bark can muster in the moonlight. This ghoulish panorama reminds me of those crude paintings that kids are bombarded with as they set off into the ghost train, only this lot is for real and no more than the thickness of a window away!

‘Don’t panic Rose, and for Christ’s sake don’t touch anything either.’

The car is slowing its spin already and with any luck, if it goes around just a little bit further… and ….and…and yes! I’m pointing the right way!

‘Yes!! In your face Clarkson!! Jesus, imagine what would have happened if you’d have tried all that macho ‘steering into the spin’ stuff.’

Talking out loud at times of extreme stress is a bad habit of mine. Thinking about it, it’s a habit that I more than likely developed in these very woods, trudging through leaf fall in my anorak, on the verge of tears trying to find Cristian who was exceptionally good at hide and seek back then. I wonder if he…

‘Jesus what’s that!’

A second burst of scratching scuttles across the roof of the car, freezes me so completely that even my mouth slams shut. There’s something on the car. It can’t be branches because they’re well out of reach. Maybe it was…shit, there it is again!

‘What the hell could it….’

I love squirrels, have done ever since I fed them at the petting center in Appleby, but never have I been so pleased to see one. He’s a comical little fella too, spread eagled and clumsily sliding his white furry belly down the windscreen, tiny little claws scrabbling and eventually finding the wiper blade before tumbling onto the bonnet and finding his hairy little feet.

‘Awwwe. You are soooo cute mister! But hey, try not to be so scary next time eh?’

Pressing the button over my head turns the interior lamp on. Hopefully this will give me enough light and time to get a decent look at him before he’s startled and dashes back to the trees. He’s a grey, as pretty much all the squirrels round here are nowadays, but to my mind these are just as handsome as the reds. Sat in that traditional nut munching position, the squirrel seems far from startled though. Strangely, he appears somehow focused, not the slightest bit phased by his tumble into this pool of bright light. It’s a weird posture he’s taken; twitchy nose pushed out toward me and beady black eyes (reduced to an almost squint by serious looking lids) staring hard into the car.

‘My my we are a serious little man aren’t we. What’s got you so….’

Before I can finish asking him my question, he’s gone. Not disappeared back to his acorn stash though, I mean really gone; dead. And as I watch eyes bulge and blacken, teeth snarl and limbs stiffen, my love for squirrels dies with him. It’s an awful thing to see but thankfully I don’t have to look at this twitching corpse for long as it soon slumps and slides off the bonnet and into a leaf filled ditch beside the road. I have no idea why an animal should die like this, right in front of my eyes, but I can’t help but suspect Hartford woods. I’m starting to hate this place. It’s already tried to kill me twice tonight and managed to dispose of Mr Squirrel rather effectively. I need a hug! This desire turns out to be a lot stronger than the confused cocktail of fear and disgust that has stunned me into a motionless, wide mouthed gape and I’m able to set off again, perhaps with a little more speed than is safe but as there is only one, long sweeping bend left before I reach the forecourt of the manor house and the journey is concluded without any further slips and slides. It is so good to hear the pop-crunch of small loose stone under the tires, giving the car grip and me the confidence to relax a little and absorb more of the detail of my slow approach to the front doors of the house. Someone is there, black against a row of huge Georgian windows, stood under an unnecessary umbrella and I have to slow the car down. As ridiculous as this crawl might seem to who ever it is waiting there I have no option because my heart beat is doubling with every roll of the wheels and I need time, days even to get a grip of it and slow it down if I’m to avoid the same fate as the squirrel. The silhouette ridiculously close now but still I creep forward and even consider hitting the gas and racing back into the woods. My nerves are unbearable and made worse by the fact that, although I suspect it to be him, I dearly hope that this tall and broad figure isn’t Cristian because the man has a head that is bulging with what can only be described as the mother of all beards. I hate beards, and as the headlamps roll around to reveal the mystery figure my heart finally stops racing and sinks; it is Cristian, my Prince turned into some stinky ol’ crazy hermit lord of the manor type dude. Well, I’ve come all this way and I still need that hug so here goes. I open the door and march quickly towards him, head down a little but held high enough to see his arms open to receive me. They close tightly as he speaks my name and with them comes the divine scent of a fragrance applied so perfectly that it doesn’t cover but delicately embroiders his natural, male odour.

‘Hello Cristian, it’s so good to see you after all…’

I have to stop these well rehearsed words because something has flopped into my mouth, something acrylic and hairy and altogether disgusting that makes me think of dead squirrels. It’s his beard! I step back to try and understand how I’ve managed so effortlessly to commit the ultimate faux pas that is eating your hosts beard before the aperitifs but the beard comes with me, snagged by my front teeth and stretching a thin band of elastic looped around Cristian’s head.

‘Careful now Rose! If that snaps we could both be….’

I spit the thing out and laugh hard as it twangs back into his face.

‘You! You know I hate beards you, you bloody fool!’

I realize that I haven’t heard Cristian’s laugh for far too long. It is so sincere and although a little deeper now than it had been all those years ago, just as rewarding.

‘I do, I do. I remember the email you sent too, on the day you first saw Beck’s with his beard and how you were disgusted with yourself for ever thinking he was good looking. Anyway, thought it might break the ice a little.’

The joke has indeed broken the ice but I’m kind of surprised that he was expecting any chill other than from the November night. I can’t help thinking that there’s maybe a little clue here as to how he sees tonight going. Surely that’s the smoking gun right there; his nervousness at our meeting proves that this really is going to be a date! Any doubt that lingered unreasonably beyond this conclusion was totally discredited by his next words.

‘You look beautiful by the way. Come on, let’s get inside and I can show you what I’ve been up to.’

Gently we hold hands as we walk into the hallway. It is so good that neither of us are even pretending that this isn’t happening. It’s like I’m in an instant relationship and it feels so good. I want to hug him again and I’m already planning how that first kiss might happen when I’m invited back to the real world to take in my surroundings.

‘So, what do you think?’

In front of me is the most beautiful staircase I have ever seen; oak and iron that has been beautifully crafted and accented with golden curls, dancing in the light of a huge chandelier and leading my eyes up towards a central landing. Here the staircase splits to take tired and overindulged guests to their bed rooms in either wing of the house. The walls are for the most part oak panels but not that stuffy dusty affair that so many period houses seem to have. No, this oak is light and crisp and the pattern of motives carved through it (vines and crests and all kinds of stuff) looks to be continuous, breaking only at doorways that lead off to equally sumptuous lounges and drawing rooms. There’s a library too. I can see its shelves through the door behind the stairway, bathed in the incandescent orange of large low table lamps that make the oxblood leather of the chesterfields look like they were tanned only this morning.

‘Oh my Cristian, it’s absolutely beautiful! Have you done this yourself?’

It was a ridiculous question and we both knew it; real craftsmen had laboured here.

‘Oh no, this is well beyond me. Do you like it? The whole of this floor and the upstairs landing has been restored to exactly how it was originally. I don’t know if you remember but this lot used to be paint and paper.’

I did remember; yellowing gloss wood work and that heavy embossed wall paper that was inevitably snagged and ripped by the slightest of scrapes. But this, this place is truly amazing and to be honest, oozing money.

‘But the upstairs rooms and the third floor is more contemporary, more me. Now that part of the design I did have a hand in. Didn’t want the place getting too stuffy and uptight if you know what I mean.’

‘But isn’t Hartford Manor a listed building? I mean, aren’t there rules and things that you have to follow?’

Cristian smiles at me but it isn’t smugness, it’s with genuine, cheeky pride.

‘True Rose, yes. But I find that there aren’t many minds that I can’t get to come around to my way of thinking.’

Somehow during my survey of the entrance hall I’ve managed to turn myself right around until I’m looking up directly into Cristian’s face. I believe him when he says that he can make anyone do anything for him. I can feel myself melting into his dark brown eyes and hoping that he’ll ask me for something just so that I can oblige, no matter what. Without the beard he is as handsome a man as I have ever seen. Have I got my sums right here? The man I am with now has to be older than twenty five. Not because he looks it but because of the wisdom in his face and the perfect confidence of his hair, his nose, his lips. Neither of us have spoken for a moment or two but it doesn’t feel wrong in the slightest to stand here and look at each other. He is looking at me too and I wonder if it’s the spot on my chin that eventually starts the conversation up once more.

‘Anyway, I’ve given the staff the night off so if you come with me my Lady, I will show you to where we’ll be dining.’

My host crooks his elbow and I laugh as I link him. Any other setting and Cristian’s joke about his staff wouldn’t have worked.

‘No seriously. I have. Except for James who’s doing the meal. I was going to try and cook for you myself but he wouldn’t have it. Hates anyone messing in his kitchen. Good job too because my food is always too ambitious and always a disaster.’

Okay, I may be in the presence of serious money here but that doesn’t mean that I have to turn into some dizzy little blonde with nothing to say and that’s three times he’s spoken and I have contributed nothing. It’s time for me to take the initiative and show him that I’ve grown, that I can lead an interesting, intelligent conversation and that Rose ‘bud’ Williams, his childhood pal, has matured into somebody worth getting to know.

‘A squirrel jumped on my car and had a heart attack on the way here.’

It sounded ridiculous but surprisingly he listens intently to my squirrel story. I manage to finish it, with the squirrel dramatically throwing its paws into the air and keeling over just as Cristian pushes a chair into the back of my legs to seat me. The table is huge and filled with glass and silverware. Whilst he lights the candles I ask him what he thinks might have happened.

‘You know it’s a strange thing Rose. I’ve been working on this place for what, six months would you say? Anyway, once the main construction crew finished back in September I started to notice things in the woods and on the roof of the house. Birds mainly, or at least to begin with.’

‘Really! That is strange. And are you sure they hadn’t been there a while?’

‘I did wonder but the three or four I came across were pretty fresh, barely a few days dead I would say. And then the other animals started turning up. There was a dead water rat out by the gate house, miles from the river and one of your squirrel friends that Sally found curled up on my bedroom window sill one morning. If I remember rightly, there…’

‘Sally in your bedroom?’

The curse had struck so much sooner than I had hoped it would. These were private words forced into the public arena by my rising stress at the thought of Sally in my man’s bedroom. The moment I heard them out loud I knew that Sally was a maid or a cleaner too. Cristian had never mentioned this name in text or email or phone call and he certainly would have if she was a feature in his life. The only thing that had been kept from me over the years was his endeavors here at Hartford Manor, his family home but that was a mutually agreed secret if you like, one designed to keep this glorious surprise until the final reveal. I feel terrible that I thought anything else of him and even worse that he knows it but he’s gracious and let’s me off the hook completely.

‘Yeah Sally. She was making the room and found the poor thing all stiff and with the weirdest expression, similar to the one you described I guess. I actually kept that animal and took it down to Turners in the village. He had a look at it but couldn’t find anything so we put it down to natural causes.’

It’s all bit creepy this talk of dying animals and from his rueful look and the way he has started to fiddle with the salt cellar I can see that it isn’t only me that is concerned that our relaxed intimacy is stiffening. I need to find something to change the subject quickly and I scan the room for anything of interest. Unfortunately, what I do find is possibly worse than if I had rummaged through the side board and came across a dead horse. It’s a picture, sat on the mantle piece to my left. It’s a photograph of Cristian’s mother and it reminds me of the forgotten horror that happened in this building almost ten years ago to the day.

Chapter 3

Initially, I‘m glad to see that my mum is still up when I get home but her puzzled expression reminds me that the clock has barely ticked through eleven and I am well early considering both our expectations.

‘I know, I know. But it isn’t what you think and honestly, we had a lovely time mum. And I couldn’t believe what he’s done to the place. Honest mum, you wouldn’t recognize it.’

Mum’s are no different to girl friends when it comes to gossip, especially if it’s romantic in nature and there’s no way that she’s going to be deflected by my attempt to smuggle away the gritty details of her daughter’s love life and replace them with a discussion about period renovation. Her face is still a little unsettled.

‘Honest mum, it went fine! And if you must know we’re meeting up again tomorrow. Cristian’s taking me hunting so you can take that look off your face and do us both a brew like a good mummy should.’

I’m not being rude and she knows this role play well enough to curtsey as she backs away into the kitchen mumbling ‘yes m’lady’. I kick my shoes off and throw my shawl over the banister but I’m barely settled in the lounge when the fishing starts.

‘But you are back early love. Any particular reason?’

The truth of it isn’t to be shouted through the house so I don’t reply, pass the time finishing my text to Ruby (who is suspiciously quiet and must be up to no good with her bloke) whilst I wait for mum to come into the room. She has biscuits, drinks and a huge quilt that she throws over us both as she joins me on the settee. I raise my knees, snuggle up and wait until the first slurp of hot sweet tea has been taken before beginning my story. I tell her everything; how handsome he is, how relaxed we were together and how lovely the house is. I tell her about the squirrel and about how he has Sally to tidy and James to cook. Finally I get to the explanation of why I‘m home so early.

‘It was just seeing his mum’s picture like that. It knocked the wind out of me. I couldn’t stop looking at it for the rest of the meal and although he didn’t mention anything I’m pretty sure he knew what I was thinking. The way I saw it, better to make some excuse and leave early rather than to let, oh I don’t know, some awkwardness develop between us, ‘specially as we’ve only just really met each other again after such a long time. So do you think I did the right thing mum?’

Mum nods and agrees but I can feel her feet fidgeting under the blanket and her breathing occasionally deepens until it sounds like an almost sigh.

‘What is it mum? Do you think I should have said something? Maybe asked about her and fronted it out?’

‘Oh no love, definitely not! And anyway, I’m not sure what you could of said are you? I mean it isn’t an easy subject to talk about under any circumstance, never mind over a romantic dinner and you were only a kid when it happened.’

Mum shuffles her bum and sits up a little more so that she is looking at me straight in the eyes.

‘What do you remember about Dawn Chevalier anyway?’

She was something that I had thought about quite a bit during the drive home (in equal measure with planning Cristian’s future and watching the road) but I hadn’t found many memories at all of Mrs Chevalier. I had been only six or seven when my mum had worked at the manor. She took the job when dad left home and from what I remember of seeing the two women together they soon had developed a kind of friendship, at least something beyond simply boss and employee. That’s why I was always so welcome I guess and I used to love going to work with mum although not so much on school days when my plans for fun would be anchored by a bag full of homework. Saturdays were the best. That’s when Cristian and I would have pretty much the whole day outside together to chase and play in the grounds and being outside all the time was probably the reason why I didn’t have much to say about the man and the lady who actually owned that kid’s paradise.

‘I don’t recall much really when I think about it. She was quite plump I remember, but very pretty too. Oh but not as pretty as you mum!’

I am amazed that I haven’t earned a smile for this.

‘And when she died, do you remember that?’

I shrug my shoulders to let here know that I didn’t, not directly anyway. I did remember being so very sad that my mum lost her job and that the boy I was in love with was taken from me without even a chance to say goodbye or pinch his nose one more time. Kids are selfish like that so I’m not beating myself up about it. I get the feeling too that my mum’s intensity isn’t disappointment that her daughter has a complete lack of awareness about another’s personal tragedy either; it’s tells me that the success of my date with Cristian has triggered a conversation that she has hoped would never have to be held. She makes her decision, twists around and grabs my laptop from the side table, opens it up and turns the screen and keypad toward me.

‘Google Cristian Chevalier.’

I’ve never been out with anyone who I could seriously consider Googling before and excitement buzzes through me. I suppose that even if I had Googled my ex-boyfriend I’m pretty sure I would have received at most two or three relevant hits (all about his car accident which did make the local rag) and certainly nothing approaching the three hundred and seventy two articles that are listed for Cristian. Taking a quick scan of the first page of hits doesn’t tell me much that I didn’t already know; that Cristian, in spite of his years, has become one of the most successful business men in the country and has the earning power of a captain of industry three times his age and experience. The latest article, taken from the Financial Times newspaper, describes him as a phenomena and recommends no less than seven of the nine companies which he owns or directs, for investment.

‘Okay mum so we know Cristian has done amazingly well but what am I looking for exactly?’

‘Go to page six, about halfway down it should be.’

I’m puzzled with my mum’s assuredness of where I need to navigate too. How often has she done this and more to the point, why the hell would she? I realize that I’m not actually doing as she has instructed, just wondering at her when she raises her eyebrows to urge me on. And there it is.

Does Tragedy Make the Man?

My mouth is drying quickly and making it hard to finish my cookie so as I wait for the article to load I drink my tea, peeking over the rim of the cup at mum who is watching my face, searching for any early warning of an emotion with such weight that she may need to step in and support me. Her readiness to act is reassuring but scaring me a little too, making me wonder if I really want to know what the page building in front of me has to say about Cristian’s past. That same expression also tells me that these are things that I must know if I am to be part of Cristian’s future so I begin to read. I do this silently to begin with, the first two paragraphs setting the scene, introducing Cristian and adding nothing to what I already know but as the story reveals its dark heart I repeat the words out loud so that my mum can validate with sad tutts and reassuring hand squeezes that this terrible tale actually happened at Harford Manor in a room not far from where I had dined less than an hour ago.

‘Cristian Chevalier, the boy, had a mouth crammed full with silver spoons. His father, Thomas Chevalier, had made his fortune in a series of fabulously successful land and property deals, one of which would yield the magnificent Hartford Manor; the Cheshire country pile that the Chevaliers called home. It was here that Cristian grew up. Horses in the meadow, dinghies on the lake, private tutors and maids ensured that..hey mum, that’s you isn’t it?’

Mum snorted and spat a little tea onto the duvet.

‘No you cheeky thing! I wasn’t a maid! I did a bit of cleaning that’s all. And to be honest, Dawn wasn’t big on the idea of servants and those so-called maids were nothing more than occasional helpers. I don’t think any of them actually stayed over, except Cristian’s nanny but she left soon after I started there.’

Under my breath I whisper ‘yes m’lady’ and ignore her playful slap, concentrate instead on picking up the thread of the story to continue reading.

‘But as is often shown to be the case, fame and fortune are no guarantee of happiness and Cristian’s idyllic life was to be mercilessly taken from him shortly after his fifteenth birthday by an event that would make the most hardened horror fan cringe. It should have been such a happy time too; Christine Lucy Chevalier arriving in the world shortly after midday on the 19th August 2000. Hey mum, I didn’t know he had a sister!’

‘He did love, briefly. Best read on eh?’

Briefly? I restart, backing up a bit to be sure that nothing is missed.

‘…..arriving in the world shortly after midday on the 19th August 2000. Having left nurse and mother to clean the baby, Tomas Chevalier and Doctor Jeremy Ernest Hill were already in the library drinking brandy when the first scream was heard. Hill later was to testify that he entered the room some moments after Chevalier having been knocked down by the fleeing nurse who he then stopped on the stairs and attempted to console. When he eventually did enter the bedroom the scene before him was described at the inquest as one of complete and bloody mayhem. Christine Chevalier, wrapped tightly in a blood soaked towel, was lying motionless across her mother’s belly.’

I have to stop. I’ve seen the next few words. I already know what they say but that doesn’t make it any easier to release them from the page because there they can do no harm. This is Cristian’s life! This is the tragic death of his baby sister barely ten minutes old. Surely the fact that she is dead and buried is all that we’re required to bring with us. Why the hell shouldn’t the rest of it be left in the past where it belongs? What right do these next few disgusting words have to pollute my present? This is one reason why I hate the man who wrote them, for recording so clinically something that the man I am falling in love with so desperately needs to forget. The other reason I hate him is his ‘matter of fact’ description of baby Christine; innocent and impossible to resist.

‘A small, silver crucifix had been stabbed into each of her eyes…oh jesus mum, is all this for real?’

I’ve read enough and mum knows it. She pushes gently on the laptop lid and closes it to a click.

‘Dawn hung herself less than an hour later, before the police could take her. Thomas disappeared, very effectively too because he hasn’t been heard from to this day, but I guess that wasn’t difficult given the personal fortune he had. The police suspected that he might have had something to do with his wife’s death but no one really had the heart to pursue him. He’d been through enough and anyway, Hill’s testimony was more than the coroner needed to close the case.’

‘And that’s when Cristian went to live with his Aunt on the Isle of White.’

I feel awful as this realization sinks in. When Cristian had abandoned me I had spent the next few weeks writing silly poems about him and scribbling nasty comments on the walls and desks of Hartford junior school. I only stopped when I was threatened with suspension. I want to go back to school tomorrow, find those desks and clean all my graffiti from them or add a note to this generation that I was wrong and that Cristian Chevalier isn’t smelly or mean but kind and handsome and so terribly terribly sad. Suddenly I‘m tired, so very tired; drained by the nervous emotion of the evening and the aching I have to hug Cristian. Dreams are the only option I have to hold him, until tomorrow, so I kiss mum goodnight and go to look for him in them.

Chapter 4

Morning brings a clear blue sky and a chilly breeze but no text from Ruby. I’m quite concerned now. Jonathon is worried about his sister too but he knows as well as I do that she is prone to going off the radar every six months or so to spend a couple of days doing god knows what to boyfriend Pete. Having said that, Ruby would normally have gotten in touch, if only to send a row of grinning yellow faces and kisses. Still, if she can’t be bothered to interrupt her love life to say hi to her friend, why the hell should I interrupt mine? Cristian is waiting, gun cocked and ready I hope! This smutty thought stays with me until I reach the gates of Hartford Manor. They are open this time so there was really no need for me to stop on the main road and check before entering the woods. It’s no surprise to me that the place doesn’t feel half as menacing as it did last night. But it is a surprise that the trees are menacing at all and the journey through them is by no means a comfortable one, causing me to glance in the mirrors and out of the side windows more than I would normally do during the forty minutes of M62 to Manchester. It’s about now that I realize why I am here, that I’m committed to spending the next few hours trudging through my nightmare looking for something to kill. Guns and Cristian should be enough to keep me feeling safe though.

Around the final bend the hunting party is already in full swing; tots of whisky and huge belly laughs being passed around by three men as they lean on Range Rovers and toss treats to the black labradors busy worshipping them. Cristian sees me, straightens his posture, beams a grin and waves. The car has hardly stopped and he is all but dragging me out of it to begin introductions. Not very gentlemanly I must say Cristian!

‘Terry, Stan, this is Rose, the lady I was telling you about.’

Telling them things about me that makes them roar with laughter eh young man? Once again, not the behavior of a Chevalier gent that I‘d been expecting. Do you think your father would…..I stop this playful tease instantly and vow not to even think about thinking about joking with Cristian’s family, no matter how obscure the connection or how funny the gag may be in my head.

‘And these two hounds are Bruce and Lloyd. Careful though, I have known them lick a man to death.’

The dogs are ridiculously welcoming considering that we have only just met but a click of Stan’s fingers is all it takes to control them and they leap onto the tail gate of the lead vehicle, quickly settle down and understand immediately that the serious business of the day is afoot. Cristian puts his arms around my shoulder and leads me to the rear vehicle, opening the door and ushering me in before closing it for me. Now that’s better. As he walks around the front of the car he talks loudly, something about a buck deer that Stan had seen yesterday down by the river. Once he is seated next to me inside the car his macho shouts simmer down and I’m glad to see that it’s me and not the deer that is to be his true quarry today. He leans over and kisses my cheek.

‘I really enjoyed last night Rose. I hope you did too.’

Oh I did boy, and without hesitating I kiss his lips as they retreat to tell him so.

‘And I’m not going to let you get away so easy this time mister.’

Oh my God Rose! What the hell have you just said! Oh right, yeah, because there aren’t many easier ways I can think of to get rid of an annoying seven year old girl. Pulling pigtails probably wins it but it’s definitely a close call between that and arranging to have your mother murder your sister and then hang herself.

‘Rose, believe me when I tell you that there’s been hardly a day when I haven’t thought about you, about us even, during the past few years. Your emails, phone calls, texts, they were always the highlight of my day. I could have been only a signature away from closing the deal of my life and I would leave the board room to take your call. And trust me Rose, that has happened!’

These are the words I want to hear. And okay, Cristian’s declaration of his love for me, (because that’s exactly what he means even if it isn’t what he said) could seem sudden to some but only those who weren’t privy to the calls and contacts that he had just mentioned. They were the essence of our relationship, not last night which was nothing more than an affirmation (for the benefit of that clueless world outside ours) of what we both already knew. How I ever doubted this fact is beyond me but now, having been presented with all the evidence I need, I can finally relax and start to enjoy this very precious thing that I had lost but have now found; Cristian Chevalier.

My absent dreaminess is snapped back into focus by a sharp blast from the car horn, necessary to move the dogs from our parking spot. We’ve arrived, at the brow of a gently sloping meadow and for a moment I’m hopeful that we won’t be hunting the woodland after all. Stan soon crushes this idea with a point of his shooting stick towards a clump of trees that mark the start of a steep bank, tilted down toward the river. Cristian grabs his gun from the rear seat and steps down from the car. He’s excited again, replenished with macho winks, one of which he throws at me before setting off at a pace. I manage to grab his hand and haul myself after him. It’s not easy to keep up with legs which are so much bigger than mine and I feel like a child again, that is until he stops sharply less than fifteen paces down into the woods. He pulls me toward a low, almost horizontal branch and asks me to hold his gun so that he can use binoculars. I hesitate.

‘It’s okay Rose, it can’t go off. See?’

Cristian waggles the two parallel barrels which are hanging loosely from the stock. I can see the golden discs of powder charged cartridges waiting there ready to murder and it makes me feel uncomfortable. Other than the squirrel, I can’t recall ever seeing an animal die and I hope today is a washout as afar as that goes. I take the gun from him and hold it away from me with two arms outstretched. My stance makes him smile but it isn’t mocking. I hold my breath so as not to be the one who might startle what ever it is that Cristian is scanning for but have to exhale because he seems to be taking ages. I’m actually on the point of boredom and my arms are very tired when Cristian lowers his head a little and motions a slow, flat hand behind him for me to do the same. Or at least that’s what I thought the signal meant and I feel more than a little stupid when he turns and looks down at me kneeling on the ground.

‘No Rose, I mean can I have the gun’

This is going well.

‘See that line of trees to our left? Well Terry and the dogs are up behind them on the bank. I think I saw a glimpse of the buck working his way down to the river. Should see him in a moment or …there he is! See him!’

The animal is magnificent. More than built for the woods, this lad was built by them; huge chestnuts for eyes and stout, moss covered branches for antlers. It’s no good, I’m going to have to say something. Cristian will understand, I’m sure he will, but as I open my mouth to protest he puts me back in my place.

‘Should be a better cut of meat than the venison we ate last night don’t you think Rose? And that was pretty darn good even if I do say so myself.’

What the hell was I thinking? This whole scene epitomizes the very country life that I’m hoping one day to be a part of. Actually no, this is more than that. This is life itself, nature in its very purest form; eons of evolution helping one species in its quest to be nourished by another. I mean, who is man to deny one of the strongest forces in nature, to deny the hunt? I give Cristian the gun to let him take his place in the food chain and with my action there’s a sudden tension in the air. Everything’s senses ratchet up a notch. The dogs and Terry hold on the bank, perhaps sensed by the deer’s twitching nose. Cristian shallows his breathing and steadies his aim. Stan’s whispered advice doesn’t detract but adds to the anticipation as he points out that the shot is too far, too close to the branches and that a clean kill will need the animal to step another four or five nervous paces into the river. But the deer isn’t moving forward. He’s had enough to drink and is stepping backward, starting a cautious, short step turn that will soon line him up for a bolt back into cover. Stan knows this animal well and his anticipation of losing the kill causes him to swear under his breath (although to his credit he does follow this quickly with a hushed apology). I take his experienced judgment that the shot can’t be made as a signal to relax and stand fully. Cristian knows it too and lowers his head but strangely holds the gun firm and ready to fire. It takes only seconds of him freezing like this for me to think that something more than the spoiled shot is wrong.

‘Cristian ? Are you okay?’

No answer so I step towards him, crunching sticks and leaves so loudly that Cristian’s prey must hear me. Stan stops me. The deer is indeed moving again, only this time towards us! He doesn’t look like the same animal at all now. There’s no skittish flicker of tail or ears. His head is raised and he is taking proud, confident steps, high and graceful hooves that clatter pebbles in the shallow water. Purposeful he seems too, as though none of the natural instincts that surely must be racing through his body can override this march towards his death. Cristian eventually raises head again and the deer immediately begins to come to his senses, flares nostrils and widens eyes as the fear of his open surrounds hits him. But it’s too late. Before the deer returns fully to follow instinct, a thunderous bang drops him to his knees and rattles a thousand birds from their roosts. Only when the last echo has bounced short of my ears and the screeching, flapping bedlam has calmed can the woods return to their preferred eerie silence.

‘You are one lucky sod Cristian.’

This time it’s me who must apologise but Stan doesn’t take any notice and carries on scrambling down the bank to collect the trophy whilst calling back to Cristian at how unbelievably lucky that shot was. Stan’s amazement reinforces my impression that we had both just witnessed something very unusual here and I’m confused.

‘Is that normal Cristian? I mean one minute he was going away and the next he….’

‘Like I said last night Rose, I find that there aren’t many minds that I can’t bring around to my way of thinking these days.’

Chapter 5

I heard a mother lull her bairn,

and aye she rocked, and aye she sang.

She took so hard upon the verse

that the heart within her body rang.

"O, cradle row, and cradle go,

and aye sleep well, my bairn within;

I ken not who thy father is,

nor yet the land that he dwells in."

And up then spake a grey silkie

as aye he woke her from her sleep,

"I'll tell where thy bairn's father is:

he's sittin' close by thy bed feet.

"I am a man upon the land;

I am a silkie on the sea,

and when I'm far frae ev'ry strand,

my dwelling is in Sule Skerry.

A boat is approaching. Forty miles westward from Orkney it has traveled, lashed by the north Atlantic, a barnacled blue bow battling through the winter surf. The helmsman is struggling to control his craft, desperate to gain purchase with a narrow strip of shingle that rattles its pebbles in annoyance at the foaming waves grinding it. The beach is tantalizingly close and the only landing offered by this remote and ancient isle. For the fishermen who trawl these waters, the lump of guano caked rock that they call Sule Skerry (barely the size of Hartford Manor’s grounds) serves only one purpose; to protect the automated lighthouse that warns them away and guards the entrance to the Pentland Firth. But the man in the boat is no sailor and his purpose is far graver than to trawl herring and toss their guts to gulls. Finally his frustration wins out and he leaps into the freezing foam. Waist deep he drags the boat, scrapes his knuckles on the mollusk infested rocks as he anchors to them. Hands bleeding, stung from salt, the tatty invader continues; suit jacket torn on the left arm when he snagged it on the motor housing, pants ripped for a second time now as he catches a rusty nail whilst clambering back into the boat to collect the most precious of the three pieces of cargo bundled there. The girl, no taller than his waist, is sleeping from freezing exhaustion and he needs to get her somewhere warm quickly. With her hitched across his broad shoulders it isn’t too difficult to carry the short distance over flat topped basalt to an abandoned keeper’s house. The door is open (as he knew it would be) and the kerosene fire on the far side of this cluttered store room (once a rest area for weary lighthouse men) is full of fuel. Placing the girl gently on a pile of sacking he stays low to twist the ignition knob on the burner and the fire lights with the first spark. He pulls back the hood of the girls coat, sweeps salty wet strands of grey hair from her wrinkled forehead and kisses it gently.

‘Won’t be a moment princess. You get yourself warm and dry.’

The second load is much bigger than the first. This one is properly bound in an old sheet, tied around with rope every twelve inches or so. It’s all the man can do to maneuver the load from the boat and so he doesn’t even try to carry it, electing instead to grab the top binding and drag it into the keep. He takes more care to stash it than he did to get it there though, propping it up in a corner of the room furthest away from the fire. A final time he feels the cloth, checks a small slit six inches down from the top to be sure that everything is okay and the right way up. Happy with the examination he leaves once more to collect his third and final load.

The third load is small, hardly a load at all. It isn’t wrapped and it isn’t heavy so the man can easily raise the cage to his eyes as he carries it across the rocks. Poking a finger through the wire, he touches the furry back of one six rats inside and drags air through lips squeezed tightly enough to make a squeaking sound. The rats show some interest in him but not much until he has them settled on the floor of the keep, chunks of dried food from his pocket popped though the bars. The girl is beginning to wake.

‘Are they okay daddy’

‘Oh yes love, all of them are fine. You know, I think they might even like sailing.’

The girl hasn’t decided whether to wake or not and so she only half heartedly groans her protest.

‘Not them daddy, the other things. Are they okay?’

The man leaves the rats to feed and goes to sit on the floor next to his daughter.

‘They are princess, absolutely fine. Now you try and rest and I‘ll wake you when it’s time to eat. Bean’s okay?’

‘Hmmm, yummy, but tell me again, what colour are they, and I don’t mean the beans silly!’

The man smiles.

‘They’re green princess, like the grass you play on. Now go to sleep.’

Finally able to relax after years of toil, Thomas Chevalier leans back against the white washed wall of this abandoned building set on the remotest lump of rock in the British Isles and sighs deeply. He’s done it, fulfilled his part of a ghastly bargain. All that remains is for him to wait for his reluctant partner to arrive and seal the deal.

Chapter 6

Tonight is a big night. Cristian phoned me at work yesterday to let me know that he has some people arriving today and that they’ll be staying with him until Friday. From the names he gave, and the way he grouped them, I assumed that they’re in couples; six people in total and all of them friends from his time spent in the Isle of White. I think one of them may have been his auntie and her husband. Anyway, this gave me a huge problem, one of the three biggest quandaries that a girl can have. These are; career or kids (hopefully not going to be an issue for me!), towel or tampon (yuk!) and how long to wait before sleeping with your man. It’s the third one that I’m wrestling with. Now under normal circumstances I’m not the type of girl to be so cold and calculating about passion, wouldn’t give it a thought this early in the morning (after all I’m not Ruby!) but Cristian put me on the spot when he texted me whilst I snoozed this morning. He wanted to know if he should tell his driver to hang around tonight and return me home after the party or not. I can’t decide whether he’s being tricky or remarkably insensitive but I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt this time and put it down to a bloke’s immeasurable capacity for dousing the fire with practicalities. Either way it doesn’t help me. I’ve texted Ruby to ask her advice and don’t even know why I’m bothering to wait for a reply because I already know what she would do. Jonathon’s chipped in with his contribution already though and he’s as insightful as ever. Despite being only sixteen, his opinions often make a lot of sense, crude as they sometimes are.

Men don’t see women as loose when they nail them on the first night. They see it as confirmation of their own irresistibility. Unless the girls banging someone else. Then they’re a slut )))))

I haven’t had time to fully consider how this revelation sits with my frame of reference when Jonathon follows it up on a more serious note.

BTW no word from Ruby. Can we meet?

It has been a long time. Three days now since she disappeared for her weekend binge but I guess her absence from work on Monday was a big alarm bell because if there is one thing Ruby is not, it’s unreliable. I agree to meet him in the café opposite the office block at lunch, which is less than an hour’s invoicing away. In the mean time I need to get the answer for Cristian squared away. I could talk to Gillian about it but I know how judgmental she can be. In spite of the fact that she is only a couple of years older than me she has a completely alien view about how young women should behave. I think this is something that her rather up himself husband has drilled into her because according to the information available in the village, she used to be a bit of a tear away. Now it’s all ‘baby this’ and ‘baby that’ and ‘what the hell does she think she looks like in a mini skirt’. Anyway, she’s busy filing and (rather hypocritically) flirting with the boss to try and get a half day release to take the kid to a pantomime. Talking of pantomimes, that’s what my love life is in danger of becoming if I don’t get this sorted. ‘Oh no she won’t, Oh yes she will!’ the crowd roars as Cristian sneaks up behind me, his evil landlord cloak drawn across his face. Come on Rose! Make the decision and send the bloody text! Right, settle down now because this has to be simple. If Jonathon is correct, and I suspect he is, then Cristian isn’t going to judge me if I decide to stay over tonight. And I have to admit, he is irresistible, a nine out of ten on that score so ultimately he has to take responsibility doesn’t he? Especially so as he’s mentioned more than once that people always end up seeing things his way. The only other thing left to consider is how I’ll feel in the morning. Now then, let’s imagine, someone is marking me out of ten on the slut scale. I am pretty confident that I’d only get a frigid two, maybe creep up to a ‘naughty but nice’ four, depending on how much wine I’ve drunk. Sod it, decision made.

Send the driver home. If that’s okay with you. X x

‘Sleep with him’.

Gillian hears my stress relieving mouth and steps away from the boss proclaiming far too loudly that she didn’t. Well well well Mrs Holier than though! Seems that we all have a quandary to deal with! My enjoyment of her discomfort doesn’t last though.

Great I’ll get Sally to make up a spare room. See you at seven x x

Very tricky indeed Mr Chevalier, and Jonathon agrees when I read him the text.

‘So how are you going to play it then?’

I feel guilty about making him help me sort my problem out first. Jonathon’s obviously worried a hell of a lot more than I had anticipated about Ruby. I can see it in impatient lips that tremble ever so slightly as they sip at chocolate laced foam.

‘Oh I don’t know, just play it by ear I guess. Anyway, what are we going to do about Ruby? You not heard from her I take it.’

He hasn’t and the poor thing is now becoming close to losing it. Boy, will I give her a piece of my mind when I see her! Okay, ignoring me for two or three days is fine but her younger brother who idolizes her? That simply isn’t fair. Reaching out across the table I clasp his hand in between mine and rub it vigorously.

‘Hey now don’t you worry, she’ll be fine. You know what she’s like don’t you? Ruby doesn’t care about anyone but herself and that…’

Pete. Pete has just walked into the café.

‘Pete! Over here!’

What she sees in this shambling, drug dealing tramp I will never understand but whenever I have challenged her Ruby always insists that Pete is her soul mate. Who am I to argue? To be honest, until Cristian, I did envy her this relationship, jealous that she had found someone who she considered to have a soul worthy of worship and I hadn’t.

‘So where’ve you hidden her then?’

A strange combination of nonchalant shrug and nervous flick of greasy fringe tells me two things; the lad is stoned and doesn’t know where he is, never mind Ruby.

‘But she was with you last weekend right?’

‘Yeah, oh yeah. Hi Rose, Jonno. Yeah she was with me this weekend. Camped out at Hartford Heights. Had a blast.’

This was going to be like getting blood from a stoner.

‘And?’

‘Yeah, this weekend was a blast Rosie, a real blast.’

Giggle one more time pal and I’ll blast your head off!

‘Yes, we get it Pete. It was a blast. But where is Ruby now?’

‘Dunno. She did one Saturday afternoon.’

‘But you just said….’

One thing I have learnt in Pete’s company over the past three years is that you can’t rush someone who is so chilled out on skunk that they aren’t even phased by losing their girlfriend. Taking a deep breath I start again.

‘So you were camping out with Ruby on Friday night and Saturday morning and then you split up on Saturday afternoon. Now concentrate Pete, where did she go then?’

‘Hey don’t be tryin’ to bring me down Rose, she’s a big girl. One minute she was there, the next she ain’t.. Her call’

‘Okay, okay, sorry Pete. But she didn’t mention anything about where she was going?’

‘Nope. Like I say, one minute she was there and…’

‘Where Pete? Exactly where was she?’

‘In the tent. I told you, we were camping, up at Hartfo…’

‘Hartford Heights, yes Pete, I’ve got that. And she was in the tent on Saturday afternoon and…?’

Disgustingly he bends closer in towards me; invades my space with his big greasy wobbly head, eye lids barely open. I would like to think that his arrogant, slowly stated answer to my question is nothing more than a front to cover his embarrassment at being dumped, but it isn’t. He truly is despicable.

‘And I went to get some wood for the fire and when I came back she wasn’t there. She’s a big girl Rosie. One minute she was there, the next she ain’t.. Her call.’

He straightens again and I can’t be bothered to interrogate him further. The man’s a loser, literally so having just lost my best friend somewhere up in the woods.

‘Hey listen, you couldn’t lend me a tenner ‘til Friday could you?’

’Piss of Pete. I have to go and find my friend.’

I haven’t fully calmed myself even by the time Jonathon and I arrive outside the police station. I need a minute or so more to get my thoughts together. I need to be taken seriously on the other side of that little blue door where everything is examined and cross examined. I have to present my concerns in a rational manner and avoid seeming sensationalist. Thinking about how believable I have to be, it’s probably best if I leave a very emotional Jonathon in the car. Turning toward him I rub his hair to grab his attention.

‘Hey now come on you. She’s fine. I know it. I’m only going to let the police know because, well because it’s best too, that’s all. It doesn’t mean that she’s in trouble. In fact it’ll probably be me who gets into trouble for wasting police time!’

My smile is pathetic and betrays my total lack of conviction in what I am saying. Ruby is in trouble, no doubt about it in my mind, and the sooner the police get themselves up on Hartford Heights to check the caves and crags there then the more chance they will have of finding her; painfully sober now and badly injured by a spaced out fall into something or other.

Chapter 7

Tonight is a big night. So huge in fact that there isn’t room for both it and concern for Ruby so thoughts about my missing friend are pushed slightly to one side. To be honest, unburdening myself of responsibility at the police station probably helped me to do this. The constable had been extremely sympathetic and he had promised me faithfully that he would send a car round to pick Pete up first thing in the morning so that he could be taken to show them where exactly they pitched tent. Good luck trying to get him to remember that! Well, I can do no more, nothing that will help anyway, so I don’t feel bad at all about clearing my head a little to make room for Cristian and the daunting task before me; dazzling his friends whilst dancing around the big issue (that being which room I will sleep in) long enough so that Cristian is forced to make a decision.

Concerning his friends, they seem a nice bunch. I was a little worried that they would turn out to be business partners or associates and that this may be more of a show and tell than a welcome to the inner circle but thankfully it isn’t. June and David are genuine friends, introduced to Cristian during the first week of his relocation to the Isle of White. Childhood sweet hearts these two may have been, but they’ve also been married for the last four years and it is so reassuring for me to see how happy and in love they are. Chatting away and smiling in the presence of proof that this can actually work (that my future with Cristian isn’t therefore just some wishful theory of mine) swells my confidence and as the introductions continue I can feel myself drawing closer and closer to my very own childhood love. Samantha (or Sam as she likes to be called) and her husband Richard are equally as sweet to me. Apparently Sam had met Cristian during a family holiday on the island. He had been throwing pebbles at the sea and she, only ten years old, had brazenly asked him if he would teach her how to throw properly, like a boy. Sam laughs as she tells the story of how her first wayward attempt almost hit Aunt May and her face lights up the room so completely that I don’t want it to go out. And I was right about Aunt May being a guest. She and John are a generation apart from the rest of us but none the less involved. I get the impression too that Cristian has told his Aunt perhaps more than he has me about his intentions (although I do hope not about tonight!) because almost every time I catch her eye I find her looking in my direction, warmly though and it doesn’t make me feel at all uncomfortable. On the contrary, her pleasant interest in how I am fitting in is reassuring and I’m sure that she would help out if I began to struggle. As ever with me, every silver cloud has a lead lining and on this occasion it’s the face that’s formed by the cloud that’s creeping me out because I can see little difference, other than the passing of time, between Aunt May and the photo of her sister, Dawn. It’s spooky, really spooky and I wonder how Cristian is feeling, having someone who looks so much like his mother back in Hartford Manor. I mean, I hardly knew the woman but it’s hard for me to shake an image of Aunt May clutching two tiny crosses ready to strike so god knows how he is feeling. I squeeze his hand and he leans down to hear me whisper how happy I am. A kiss follows, our first one in public, and Sam marks the occasion by raising her champers high and toasting us.

‘To Cristian and Rose. Thanks for inviting us to your fantastic home.’

Cristian and Rose eh, that’s what they all just shouted into the air. And my, how fantastic it sounds even if frankly, a little hard to believe. But this huge hug, this handsome man who is telling me how happy I make him too, these things are real and I can’t help myself from belonging here with him, in this home with these family and friends. I know I’ve fallen too fast but then how can I be expected to stop myself if my feet haven’t touched the ground for days? And what’s more, why the hell should I.

‘Time for the grand tour yet Cristian? I’m dying to see what you’ve done to the place.’

‘Absolutely Uncle John, I thought you’d never ask Bring your glasses everybody and I’ll bring the bottle. This could take a while!’

Myself and Cristian lead the party which is no less chatty as it troops around the ground floor, only interrupting what seems to be a continuous giggle to express oooh’s and aaaar’s as each door is entered. Uncle John seems to be the one with the sharpest wit and his continuous tease of the man he calls son is warm and full of pride. Apparently it had been his idea that Christian should renovate and relocate to his family home. I am so glad he did! The kitchen is next, my favorite room downstairs, and it seems like Cristian is holding back a little as we approach, as if he is keen for me to enter first. I tug him gently to ask him to catch up but he refuses.

‘This is a woman’s place so it’s only right that Rose should invite us into her domain eh lads?’

Cheers from the fella’s and groans from the ladies but to me the joke doesn’t seem at all out of place as I step into this magnificent Georgian kitchen, back into a time when women really would have held sway here. As people disperse to fill the space, open draws and cupboards (why, I have no idea) I make my way down to the far end of a timber topped central isle and stand in front of the huge agar stove there, one of its doors open slightly and already stacked full of wood ready for breakfast should James decide to cook au natural instead of using the more modern equipment which has been inoffensively incorporated into an arrangement of larders, sinks and wine racks set against the left hand wall. There are heavy oak beams holding the ceiling along the entire length of the room and either side of the stone chimney behind me these are fitted with wrought iron hooks. To my right, heavy pots and pans are hanging and to the left there are three pheasant, one rabbit and a shank of venison butchered from the animal that Cristian killed last weekend. Suddenly I feel the urge to speak, to say something that marks the moment and lets people know that I am here and that this is indeed my place. Need something funny though, and as this is to be my first joke tonight, it will have to be a good one.

‘Not hanging my squirrel up here then Cristian?’

Shit. Is that funny or sick? It sounded edgy and funny in my head but not so now. Maybe no-one heard me and that’s why there isn’t any laughter. Then it hits me; this is a punch line with no actual joke! I mean, nobody except Cristian knows about the squirrel. As far as they’re concerned it might as well be some smutty little euphemism (like beaver) or I might even have had a pet squirrel. Wait a minute, was that a snigger I just heard, over by the double fridge? Ah yes, Aunt May to the rescue, closely followed by Cristian and now John.

‘Oh you poor thing! Cristian told me about that on the phone. You really should tell the story Rose.’

So I do. This time though I go back to the beginning, to the gates that I crashed into and how I felt obliged to apologize to thin air. I tell people how scared I was of the woods, about the scratching noise and what I imagined it to be. They heap sympathy on me, connect with me and I love it, soak up every drop. Even if I do say so myself, this time the climax is funnier than ever; my animated dying squirrel antics over exaggerated, fueled as they are by champagne and appreciative chortles. The round of applause at the end is probably a little over the top though. After all people, a squirrel did actually die here!

‘Top up before we go upstairs anyone?’

Cristian fills glasses and everyone regroups around the breakfast bar. As we set off again I suddenly realize that I’ve never actually been up this staircase. The thought almost paralyzes me. What if someone asks me something? Asks me where the bathroom is for example? They’ll know immediately, realise that this isn’t the done deal that they were led to believe and that until the deal is done then maybe they shouldn’t be so accepting of me. We’re already on the top landing and turning left. I link Cristian tighter to get closer to him so that I can use him as a shield should someone need my advice. He would have to take the question wouldn’t he? That’s the correct etiquette isn’t it? I mean, there’s no way I would be expected to answer for him.

‘Rose, where is the ladies room?’

You have got to be joking June. You just went, less than ten minutes ago. I saw you! And why are you using my name? Why can’t you just ask generally where the toilet is? Why do you have to be so bloody specific June!

‘It’s er…..’

‘Well I think it’s best if she uses our room Rose, don’t you think? It’s closest. That door just to your left June, through to the other side and the en-suite is on the right. That okay love?’

‘Yeah sure, use our room June and please, excuse the mess.’

I can see now why Sam wanted throwing lessons from my man. Two birds with one stone. Good shot Cristian. Three birds actually, if you were also aiming to turn me into a jellied mess of anticipation that is, Mr Chevalier. My whole body has been charged by the thought of ‘our’ unseen bedroom and what happens in there. Every sense heightened. I can smell him so powerfully now and I want him. I touch him, my skin tingles and I want him more. I want him more than I have ever wanted anything and getting to know his friends and family isn’t so important anymore. I wish they’d all declare how tired they are from the journey and go to bed right this minute. But they don’t, because we are soon back downstairs where there is food to be eaten, liqueurs and coffee to be drunk and past lives to reminisce. Horny hours to waste.

Breakfast is served in the conservatory. It is a delicious, lonely affair as I am the only reveler who has to go to work today. Cristian had made me promise to wake him but I simply didn’t have the heart (or the strength!) to rock him from his deep sleep. The boy is very tired, and I can’t help but grin as I remember my role in his exhaustion. No, it was definitely the right decision to leave him there and I’m sure that my note will be understood and take the heat out of any protest he may have about me sliding off like this. God I am so happy! I actually physically have to pinch myself and it hurts a lot but when I’ve finished rubbing the red away I am still here; sat with breakfast looking out across a huge expanse of manicured lawn that only begins to reclaim meadow flowers and seed husks beyond a huge gazebo set at the edge of Hartford Manor’s unbridled nature. That must be a lovely place to sit, looking back at the house. The thought widens my grin.

‘Well someone seems happy today. You sleep okay Rose?’

I’m not even going to try and hide how ecstatic I am about last night. Aunt May has already seen it and understands perfectly well.

‘Oh it was fantastic May, really it was. I’m still a little sore though.’

I am referring to my niggling headache but the double entendre of this expression is draining the warmth from Aunt May’s face and refilling it with cold scorn. I need to explain quickly but in a way that won’t dig me in any deeper.

‘Champagne always gives me a hangover.’

Instantly warm again, Aunt May takes a seat and butters some toast whilst she waits for James to finish her scrambled egg and smoked salmon. Small talk is the order of the day; the weather, my job, her plans for the rest of her stay if she can drag John away from the bar for long enough. Then something arrives at the table that I certainly didn’t order.

‘There is no camera Rose. Did you know that?’

No camera did she say? Does she want to borrow one? I mean, I’d be happy to oblige but I don’t have one with me and she’ll have to wait until lunch time. Aunt May has sensed my confusion and explains.

‘At the gate house. You mentioned something about them whilst you were telling your squirrel story last night, that you thanked who ever it was who had opened the gate by talking to the camera. Well there isn’t one, not at the moment. Cristian had a hiccup with some contractor or other and, oh I’m not sure about the details but the bottom line is that they won’t be here until January at the earliest.’

Is she calling me a liar? Is this what this is about? A little prod perhaps, to let me know that she’s seen a chink in my character and that I’m not good enough for her nephew.

‘Really May? I’d just kind of assumed that there was I suppose. I feel even more ridiculous now!’

‘Oh no, please don’t Rose. And I don’t mean anything by it, honestly. After all, it’s only natural to assume that there had to be somebody watching, what with the gates opening like that, before you had time to announce yourself to the intercom.’

Aunt May is all together serious about what ever it is that she is trying to tell me so I think it’s best to stop the pretence, risk offending her and get this out in the open. She’s got me far too intrigued to be able leave this issue unresolved at the breakfast table and my driver will be here in less than five minutes.

‘May, are you trying to tell me something?’

Of course she is. Her awkward, fidgeting hands tell me so and all I need to do now is wait for the silence to finish the interrogation and break her. Shouldn’t be long either; her hands have steadied, planted on the table either side of her plate.

‘There was a period when there were always dead animals around Cristian. His first summer with us in fact. Mostly they were field mice, perhaps the odd bird. I started to notice them not long after he came to stay with us. I’d collect the milk from the doorstep and find a small body trapped between the bottles. Or perhaps in the garden, by the shed where we stored our bikes. During picnic visits to the park too, but not where you might expect to see dead creatures, in the woodland for example. No, they’d always be on the tarmac or gravel paths, sometimes it seemed around every corner. The phenomena lasted no more than six month and then stopped just as quickly as it had started. And yes yes, I know that animals do die, of course they do but we never really see them do we? I mean, occasionally we do but how often have you seen a wild, dead but whole animal, one that hadn’t been flattened by traffic Rose?’

Hardly ever. Perhaps a handful of birds, nearly always late chicks that had been pushed from nests at the end of spring but the squirrel was certainly my first furry corpse. Aunt May doesn’t wait for my answer as we both understand it to be a rhetorical question.

‘At first John and I thought that perhaps Cristian had been so unbalanced by what had happened that he was doing something, catching things and killing them and leaving them for us to find, like some cry for help. But the more we thought about it the more this didn’t make any sense. After all, at some of the places we were first time visitors and yet there they were. Dead animals.’

I have no idea what to say but I ‘m desperately hoping that this story has a happy ending.

‘So what was it then?’

Aunt May sits back and adopts a more relaxed posture which goes someway to dispelling the weirdness of all this. Open palms turn toward me to let me know that she isn’t holding anything back as she gives me her answer.

‘Rose, I have no idea. But when Cristian told me about you and the squirrel, well I couldn’t help but think that maybe something is happening again, like before.’

Finally some light at the end of this rather dark and depressing tunnel that has so far managed to shut out what was shaping up to be a beautiful and crisp autumn day. Because here’s the thing; I saw the animal die. One minute it was alive, the next it was dead and so, even if Cristian had been somehow responsible as a child for what happened to those other creatures, he absolutely had nothing to do with killing that squirrel. And so what if he was a little screwed up as a kid? Is it really any surprise that he spent a summer snuffing out a few little rodents? If that’s what he needed to do to start to fix himself after losing everything in such horrible circumstances, then that’s fine by me.

Aunt May nods as I explain the flaw in her conviction that some unspoken, mouse murdering evil has risen again. Nods, but as it turns out, not in acceptance of new evidence because my rebuttal actually reinforces her position, a position that she (rather sneakily I might add, given the open handed gestures) hadn’t yet fully developed.

‘And Rose, I would happily leave it there, truly I would because I love Cristian just as much as you do, believe me. It’s just I can’t, not until I’ve told you one more tale about Cristian as a boy.’

Chapter 8

‘Tell you what Pete, I‘ve been in some shit holes in my time but this really does take the biscuit mate. What on earth have you been doing in here dude!’

The voice in Pete’s head is his own. Maybe a little deeper and with more of a gruff edge about it but it’s easily recognizable as his own; like he sometimes sounds after a heavy come down. And unnerving as it is, the appearance of the voice this morning is no real surprise. Pete is well versed about the possibility that he would hear it one day. The cocktail of narcotics that he had taken over the past three years, whilst existing exclusively inside a continuous haze of marijuana, had made it inevitable. Still, surprising or not, the clarity and lucidness of the voice is shocking enough to stick him to his sofa.

‘Yep, I haven’t seen a head this trashed for a long long time. Have to go way back to the absinthe dens to find a mind so truly in need of such a complete rewire pal. Then again, it’s not like you didn’t know what this shit was doing to you is it? So don’t expect any sympathy from me, no sir.’

Pete hasn’t got the capacity to understand what is happening fully or the courage just yet to speak out loud. He does know though that if he did talk (tell it to go away) and the voice talked back, then that would constitute a conversation. Such a dialogue couldn’t be risked as that would lead him one step further down the road that leads to the nut house. It’s a step that Pete isn’t ready to take so he stays still, pinned to his settee and listening with wide open eyes.

‘Anyway Pete, I ain’t here to bum you out so I’ll cut the crap and get to the point. Here’s the deal. In about, ooh let me see, ten minutes or so, there’s gonna be a copper knockin’ at your door. Now don’t panic dude, he ain’t looking for your stash or nothing, he just wants to chat to you about that bitch Ruby. See he, and a few others come to mention it, think you might know more than you’re letting on about what’s happened to her. That slag Rose has got ‘em all wound up you see, got ‘em thinking that you did something to her Pete. Imagine? Don’t they realise how much she meant to you and that it’s her that’s done the dirty on you, runnin’ off like that without so much as a goodbye? Anyway, they’re reckoning that it would be a good idea for you to help ‘em out, get in the car and go for a drive up to Hartford Heights to show ‘em stuff. But we don’t want to do that do we Pete.’

Pete really doesn’t. He hates the police and at the moment, he hates Ruby too. He allows himself the slightest of nods.

‘So here’s what we’re going to do instead Pete. But before I take you through it, we’re gonna need some paper and a pen.’

Pete doesn’t move.

‘Now now Pete, come on. Time’s a tickin’ and Mr Plod’ll be here soon enough. Don’t want them crawling all over your dodgy dealings do we? And if that bitch Ruby turns up and gets to tell ‘em her side of what ever story she’s concocting, before you get a chance to give your side? Well who knows, you could be in a whole world of hurt don’t you think? I tell you pal, can’t be trusted, any of ‘em and especially not her. They are after you Pete, believe me when I tell you this. They want to put you away, for a long long time with whatever bullshit charges they can stick on you. You need to get ahead of the game Pete and the game starts in about nine minutes. So come on, shake a leg and let’s get on with it eh? There’s a boy.’

Pete shakes his head vigorously at the thought of prison. That particular nightmare, above all else, is the one he fears. Grabbing the arm of the sofa he pushes himself up to go to the kitchen. Not because he’s been told to do this though but because he has to do something different, something to re-occupy his mind and repel what ever it is that has invaded it. Convinced that he’s only going to the cupboards to get cereal and that he isn’t doing anything that the voice desires, Pete trudges off. He’s soon back, sat ready on the settee; paper on knee and pen poised with not a cornflake in sight.

‘Nice one dude and hey, I’m really sorry about this but I forgot to mention something else we’re gonna need. Don’t mind do you? Good lad. Now nip and get that rope for us will ya, the one in the cupboard under the stairs. Chop chop now Pete, they’re nearly here.’

Chapter 9

My head is in bits. This is no good at all. I can’t concentrate and it’s absolutely pointless me being here. Perhaps if I asked Mr Wainright nicely he’ll give me half a day’s sick leave. Then again, would I be any better off at home, sat alone and waiting for a seven thirty dinner date with Cristian and his friends? If I was to be honest with myself I can do without turning up tonight. Not that I believe Aunt May’s story. Well the story maybe, parts of t probably did happen as she told it but to imply that about Cristian? I’m not sure I could sit across the table and enjoy her company so soon, if ever. Then again, suppose I don’t show up and she chips in with her idea why I’m a no show. What would Cristian think then? I bet she is well capable of leaning him towards the idea that I did believe her and that I don’t want to see him.

‘Damn it!’

‘Rose, are you okay?’

For once my inability to keep my mouth from acting was a good thing and I decided to take the opportunity it presented to feign stomach cramps. I had been wishing that mum would be home but she isn’t back from her fortnightly raid on Tesco’s yet. It was a long shot anyway, hoping that she might have remembered some morsel of gossip to corroborate Aunt May’s assertion that there was something very strange about Cristian.

Okay, let’s look at the facts again. Aunt May’s ring had gone missing. Fact. She had looked for it for over three hours in the garden where she last remembers having it. Fact. She had returned to the house and found Cristian sat watching television having completed his homework. Fact. But would someone really bother to interrogate a kid about a ring that had been lost whilst he was at school? Wouldn’t a normal routine for a young lad (desperate to watch his favorite program) be to dash upstairs, scribble school work, dash to kitchen, collect drink and then dash to telly? Aunt May admitted as much when I asked her if Cristian had been in the garden and she told me that he hadn’t been outside at all, not even to say hi, I’m home. On the other hand, I suppose the art of straw clutching demands that a person leaves no stone unturned, no matter how unlikely it is that a nugget will be found there. I’ll put that down as a possible fact then but here comes the tricky bit. Cristian apparently, without looking away from the television, had given her a clue about where the ring was, and what a smoking gun that turned out to be. As best as I can remember, he’d said that she should look behind the apple tree where there are two holes in the dirt made by Uncle John’s ladder. More specific than that he had narrowed it down further by telling his aunt that the hole nearest to the shed is covered by a leaf and that the ring would be in there. Oh come on Aunt May, who the hell do you think you are kidding here! Bull shit lady, absolutely not fact! Of course though, according to the story the ring had been found exactly where Cristian said it would be and naturally there had been a dead mouse involved too, its paws stretched out stiff across the leaf Actually, I think Aunt May even mentioned having to move the mouse before recovering the jewelry. Fact? I’m not so sure. Putting the mouse right at the crime scene is a little too convenient, especially as this happens to be one of the most critical parts of the evidence. There is definitely motive to exaggerate here and thinking about this some more, wouldn’t she have noticed that furry little stiff earlier, during the three hours she had been searching? Surely this overly tidy woman would have been drawn to the hole by the dead animal and felt compelled to bin it immediately. Whether that would have uncovered the ring or not doesn’t really matter because either way, the mouse shouldn’t still have been there when she followed up on Cristian’s instructions. Now that is a fact lady! But then again, this little anomaly doesn’t quite live up to its early promise of being a bullshit busting show stopper because Aunt May wasn’t claiming that the mouse had taken the ring, only that Cristian had some how ‘sensed’ it there. Yes, that was the exact term she had used. Cristian had sensed where the ring had landed through some kind of connection with the mouse, just like he had connected with the squirrel that night to know that I had arrived at the gates. Brrrrr, this conclusion of Aunt May’s still makes me shiver and I’m on my way to the kitchen to get warming, comforting soup when the phone rings.

I pick up and only at the very last moment do I remember to sound too poorly to work but not seriously ill. The result is a hastily contrived kind of squeaking, asthmatic whine that sounds more like my granny on helium than stomach cramp but luckily for me, this isn’t the boss; it’s the police constable who I reported my concerns about Ruby to yesterday. After asking me if I am okay and then checking once more (I forgot to revert to my natural voice when I answered him that I’m fine) he finally gets to his point; he has some news and I should go to the station this afternoon. He won’t tell me anymore than this but does insist that Ruby is fine and that I shouldn’t worry but that it is important that he speaks to me. The police man sounds anything but fine and even though I demand that he should explain more, when he declines a third opportunity to do so (offering instead to send a car to collect me) I realize that this is perhaps a serious business that’s beginning. I promise to be at the station as soon as possible and put the phone down. Karma can be so cruel and fast acting too because immediately that the call is finished my stomach sets off into sharp twisting turns of stressful cramp, so severe that I need to sit and hold my arms across it for a while until it settles. The constable’s rather unsettling mix of vague reassurances and ominous insistence, taken on top of Aunt May’s crazy X-file style attempt to expose my boyfriend’s true nature, turns out to be a rather sickening cocktail.

The small blue door of the police station seems to have shrunk. I’m not sure that I can get through it. This is how Alice must have felt before entering Wonderland except for one subtle difference because, whilst there’s no doubt that the enchantment beyond will still have dormice, white rabbits and Cheshire cats, I can’t help thinking that they’re all dead. Trouble is I have to go in and find out about Ruby so taking a deep breath I twist the door knob and through the looking glass I go.

‘Rose? Rose Williams, yes? Oh thanks for coming down at such short notice love. Tom’s expecting you so if you’d like to come through I’ll show you to his office. Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?’

As we walk I order tea, two sugars and a drop of milk. The police woman leads me past the reception desk and down a bright yellow corridor. I can honestly say that I’ve never been inside this place before and everything about it is different to how I imagined it to be. It’s light and warm for a start and as it turns out this small village cop shop has no cells so the noise the place makes isn’t a psychotic symphony of tin mugs clanging on bars. I can’t smell urine either but I can smell coffee and the lady stops at a small kitchen to prepare my drink. She shouts for Tom and his head pops out of a doorway less than five paces further down. First impressions? The bloke looks more stressed out than the mad hatter.

‘Rose, thanks for coming down at such short notice. Please, come and in and grab a seat. Beryl will bring your brew through when it’s ready.’

The office door hadn’t been shut when I arrived but whatever he wants to talk to me about requires Tom to not only close but lock it too. Pointless really because no sooner has he turned the key and taken his seat behind the desk than my tea arrives. From the corridor Beryl moans about how ridiculous it is to lock the door when there’s only the three of them in the whole building and Tom excuses himself whilst he collects my drink and reminds her that station protocol has to be followed during interviews. Is this what this is? An interview?

‘By the way Rose, this isn’t an interview. But she doesn’t have to know that now does she.’

I wait for him to get back to his side of a very neat pile of light blue cardboard folders stacked to one side of a PC monitor before asking him what it is if it isn’t an interview and also if has he found Ruby yet.

‘Yes and no Rose, yes and no. We haven’t found Ruby but then again, we’re not looking for her either. Like I promised I would, I went round to Peter Statham’s house this morning to have a chat with him.’

From the top folder Tom takes a single sheet of paper. On it is a hand written account by Pete of how, on Friday evening shortly after they had finished setting up camp, he had discovered ‘texts of a romantic nature’ on Ruby’s phone. This didn’t sound very ‘Pete like’ but I guess Tom is translating all this into police lingo. Pete and Ruby spent the whole of Friday night talking about this and eventually they decided, quite amicably according to Pete’s words, that they should split. Ruby called her lover and organized for him to collect her as soon as possible which turned out to be the following day around lunch time. And that was that? Case closed Tom? So why hasn’t she answered her texts for four days then? Don’t you think she would have found time to contact her best friend and fill her in on this life changing event? What does the letter say about that then Columbo? To my surprise, quite a bit as it turns out.

‘And I quote, Ruby wanted to be alone. I asked what I should say to Rose and the rest of them and she said that we should say nothing for a few days because she wanted time to get her head together. To make sure she wouldn’t be disturbed. by anyone she left her phone with me but I was so angry with her that after they had driven off that I just threw it in the woods. Unquote.’

Huh, fancy that.

‘Well thanks very much for everything Tom, and I’m sorry to have troubled you with this but we were starting to worry. So I take it Pete is still at his flat then? I’d like to catch him and have a chat on my way home.’

Tom slides the letter back into the folder. It’s only now that I notice what’s written on the front of it in thick black letters. Next to the case number is printed Peter Statham, not Ruby Stevens. Why is that? Why has Pete got a case to close and Ruby hasn’t?

‘Perhaps I should have explained earlier Rose. This isn’t a statement as such, it wasn’t taken from an interview. This was a suicide note, and that’s why I need your help.’

Today has gone far beyond the weirdness of breakfast. As I leave the police station and climb into the patrol car I can sense a dark twist developing on the horizon, something that I am completely not happy about and the worst of it is that I’m not even allowed to run away, hanker down and ride it out in the storm cellar. Apparently it’s my civic duty to stand in the open and wait for that menacing tornado to devour me, spin me around. Okay, I understand that helping the police out is important but surely I’ve done my bit so why should I be the one who has to identify Pete’s body? This is total crap if you ask me. I mean come on Tom, the police know who he is! That’s why you went round to his place this morning remember? That wasn’t a random address I gave you. So if it wasn’t Pete that you found hanging from the ceiling there, who the hell do you suppose it to be? Call me naïve but I never realized that it was such a common event, having suicidal strangers knock on the door and ask if they can borrow a length of rope. Cheers mate, and sorry to be a complete pain but would it be okay if I strung myself up in your living room because mine is a right tip and I’d hate to be found swinging in a dump. Tom won’t listen though. He’s sympathetic enough but he’s insisting that someone has to identify the body and as Pete doesn’t appear to have any next of kin (and god knows where Ruby is) then I’m the next best thing. Jesus, I forgot about Ruby! She’ll be devastated when she finds out and even though the note doesn’t blame her it’s pretty obvious that the break up was simply too much for him.

We’ve arrived. Outside the small health clinic come treatment center, yet another building in the village that I have no recollection of ever having been in. Somewhere inside its yellow brick walls is the eye of the tornado and the sooner I get this done the sooner blue skies will return and save the day. I recognize the girl behind the reception but she doesn’t acknowledge me and her total yet awkward professionalism as she checks Tom’s credentials leads me to believe that having to adapt treatment room number two for use as temporary morgue is a rare event. Rare, but not unforeseen for the notice on the door has been produced by a sign making machine and clearly states that admission is restricted and can only be given if accompanied by a police officer or coroner. Coroner. Damn it, I‘ve seen what coroners have to see, on the television. Their patients are always dead, decayed and bruised death masks frozen in some terrified screaming plea for mercy, their last expression as life abandoned them. No way, I can’t do it. I can’t stand there and watch the bag get unzipped. Especially because there’s no bloody point!

‘We already know who it is so why do I have to do this!’

‘I know Rose, and I‘m sorry to have to put you through this but trust me, this will all be over as quickly as possible. Now, let me tell you how this will happen. The body is lying on a trolley. It’s behind a screen but it isn’t covered over. When we go inside I’ll go behind the screen and I’ll ask you to confirm that the body is that of Peter Statham. There’ll be no rush so you take your time. His head will be at the end nearest to you so when you feel ready just lean around the screen, take a quick look and just say yes or no. That okay?’

No Tom, it isn’t okay. But it’s going to have to be I suppose. Mind you, if all I need to do is pop my head around the screen and say yes or no, maybe I can keep my eyes closed or just stop them at the hair line. I don’t actually have to look at his face and no one would be any the wiser. My heart is hammering again and stomach cramps are slowly returning (damn you Karma!) and by the time the door has closed us inside, with only two paces between me and a dead person, I am physically shaking. Tom reassures me once more and reminds me what to do as he carefully pulls back the curtain and slips behind. I breathe deeply, three times, long and loud. Tom stays quiet but as I repeat this attempt at lowering my blood pressure for a third time he speaks.

‘When you’re ready Rose. In your own time.’

This is police speak for get a move on it’s almost lunchtime. Here goes; one….two ….three…pop.

I haven’t closed my eyes and neither have I stopped at the hair line. The result is very disappointing. Pete looks more like he is taking a nap than beginning his journey to the other side. Totally under whelmed I move further in but freeze mid step to check that this is okay.

‘Sure, come in Rose. So is it Peter Statham?’

‘Yep. That’s Pete. Is it okay if I touch him?’

How and why this macabre moment made me ask this question I will never understand but all my fears had stayed outside the screen leaving only an inquisitive desire to test how far I can go. Tom nods. He doesn’t look to be the slightest bit taken aback and his nonchalance is all the encouragement I need to reach out and grab Pete’s hand. It feels warm and soft, warmer than it did in life and not at all clammy. Without warning I begin to cry and I realize how much I am going to miss hating this man. I’m still sniffing tears, taking in as much of this scene as possible (so that I will be able to console Ruby when she eventually shows up) when there is a knock at the door. A rather urgent voice asks if Tom is inside and explains that it’s Jeremy and that he got Tom’s message. Tom tells me that it’s the doctor and slips back through the screen to let him in. When he returns he is with a middle aged, very well dressed gent; clean shaven, tidy hair and immaculate finger nails. He doesn’t disturb me, doesn’t really acknowledge me at all but quickly busies himself at the head end of the corpse, bent slightly with his back facing me. Then, with no warning at all his cool, sharp appearance is suddenly betrayed by an agitated jerk that makes me jump as he straightens up and whispers something illegible but quite rude. Tom turns to me and looks concerned about whether or not I should still be here but whatever decision he was about to make is too late; the doctor has already slipped a scalpel from his inside jacket pocket, bent back over the head and sliced something.

‘Shit Tom, it’s back.’

Chapter 11

They tell the children different.

Some folks say silkies are men at midnight;

And that's to keep the children in their bed.

Some folks say it's on Allhallows Eve that silkies are men, come for wicked children and dandle them down in the waves and drown them;

And that's to keep them good.

Some folks say the silkies are the spirits of dead hunters;

And that's to comfort widows, and it's not true.

I've looked for my dad; none of them beasts is him.

Some say the silkies are men when as they like.

Some they're men when as they walk on the land.

Some say only great silkie turns into a man.

It's all untrue because if we should doubt who is a man and who is not, we'd soon be looking slyly at each other: "Is he a silkie really?"

Thomas Chevalier closes the book and looks out to sea. There’s still no sign of the end for him; no sail heaving his way or engine humming his name in the offing. The only noises he can hear are huge splashes as his daughter heaves rocks into a flat calm sea, the cry of gulls and the screams of the girl in the tower they circle. How long she will scream he has no idea but the noise doesn’t concern him; it can’t be heard beyond the first few hundred yards of open water. His daughter is concerned by it though and she carefully turns around, drops to all fours and slowly makes her way back toward him across slippy, trippy pebbles.

‘Are you sure that they’ll be okay daddy? I mean, I have heard that if you scream too hard for too long then they can fall out and what would we do then?’

This is a story. Christine has become a very competent teller of tales over the years. They always, but always include the phrase ‘I have heard’ and whenever she is challenged she insists that her father was there too but that his hearing isn’t as good as hers is because he doesn’t have to rely on ears. He has eyes that work.

‘Please tell her to stop daddy.’

‘Okay Princess, I’ll go and talk to her again but you promise me to throw your stones from here whilst I’m away and not to go near the water. Okay?’

In spite of her propensity toward story telling his daughter isn’t a liar and her word is all he needs. Leaving her on the beach he makes his way up shallow basalt steps towards the light tower. The door at the base is hooked by a padlock but not clasped and Thomas is quickly inside, climbing around the one hundred or so steps that curl thirty meters upward to the watch room where the lantern and the girl are kept. The stairway is lit naturally by three slits of glass equally spaced through the climb and it’s only by counting these that Thomas can gauge how far he has to go, when its time to begin rummaging in his pocket to find the key he will need to access the lamp room. He knocks on the door and the screaming stops but only long enough to morph into a desperate shout.

‘Please! Please let me go. Why are you doing this to me! Please!’

‘Listen Ruby, you need to calm down. Now if you go away from the door and tell me when you’re on the other side of the lamp then I can come in and we can talk about this again. I’m not going to harm you, I give you my word, so please.’

The keeper isn’t lying; he truly has no intention of harming his prisoner. On the other hand, he isn’t telling the truth either because he well knows that Ruby will never leave this god forsaken lump of rock. But if he can keep this from her for a few more days then every one will have a better time for it. Hearing the girls call bounce around a thousand prisms to find him from the other side of the lamp lens, Thomas turns the key and joins her.

Under any other circumstance the lamp room would be a fantastic place to spend time. The space is contained by a perfectly curved wall of diamond shaped panes, each piece of glass attached to the next by a black iron frame, sixteen feet in diameter. Even the flat grey light of the day outside is revitalized by it, pouring in from every direction. Above there is an iron dome. Strong and untouched by centuries of abuse it stands still, proud of its unblemished record, of a life dedicated to protecting the heart of the tower; a fantastically engineered mass of prisms that turns slowly at the centre of the room. Yes, under any other circumstance Thomas Chevalier could lose hours in this place but its clinical beauty is stained by the stench of fear and the sobs of a woman that is close to losing her mind.

‘Please Ruby, you really need to calm down.’

‘Please, please, please, please….’

He does have pity, of course he does, but there is nothing he can do. A deal has been struck and it’s far too late in the day to pull away from it. The girl has to be here, in the tower, when they arrive and that’s the end of it. Thomas isn’t sure what to say or why he even bothered to climb here at all. But then he does remember.

‘It isn’t doing any good Ruby. No one can hear you and I wouldn’t ask for myself but all this screaming and carrying on is starting to upset Christine and she’s struggling to sleep at…’

‘Fuck Christine! Do you think I give a shit if that little freak sleeps at night! And fuck you too!’

In a smooth, sweeping motion Ruby scoops down to the floor and picks up a thick iron bar, two feet long. Thomas is confused, he had checked out the place and it was clean before he brought her here but it doesn’t take him long to understand; the girl’s been busy during the night, busy wiggling free one of the railings of the balcony that runs the full circumference of the lamp room. Instinctively, he raises his hands as Ruby takes a short step towards him and jerks the bar in the air.

‘Now let me go!’

‘I can’t Ruby, I simply can’t. And lets be honest here, you’ve hardly room to get a decent swing, certainly nothing that is going to hurt me seriously so really, please, put the bar down.’

‘Yeah? And who says it’s for you!’

The bar swings down, crashing into the lamp and showering the floor with shards of glass. Thomas has to act, not only to stop this mindless act but to save his life too. Before Ruby can reset for another blow he manages reach her, to grab her arm with one white knuckled hand and crash his other fist into her jaw. The girl drops to the floor and he’s quickly on top of her, knees pinning shoulders, shoulders that jerk with every heavy sob for her failed attempt at freedom.

‘No Ruby! Believe me girl, no! This lamp is gas powered. You smash this any more and it won’t be the maintenance crew who come and check it out, it will be the undertaker! Now please, pull yourself together. I am not going to harm you!’

There’s such a thing as credible deniability, adored by politicians and now adored by Thomas Chevalier because with it his steady stare and firm words can convincingly deny any intention she might suspect he has of harming her; he truly doesn’t. He has to hope that she will fill in the rest though, conclude that it’s okay to be calm and to believe that she is relatively safe. As she relaxes he stands, moves back a little and allows her some space to clamber up. She is spitting blood and he feels terrible at what he has done, obliged to apologise and to promise that he has never hit a woman before and that he never will again but he doesn’t. Something in her eyes has changed, no longer defiant and bright they’ve shifted hue, dulled by submission he suspects and this shift in power is a good thing if they are all to work together to fulfill their roles in the days to come.

For the rest of the day Thomas doesn’t hear any noise to speak of from the tower and he he’s pleased with this outcome as he stands on the shore line in the late evening having settled his daughter for sleep. There is some noise though, the soft banging of tired feet on metal plate. It’s Ruby of course. Defiant, resourceful Ruby who (having heeded his warning about the gas in the lamp) has taken to jumping around in the light beam, a futile attempt to flash her distress to passing sailors. Thomas smiles but it’s a smile tinged with sadness that this fiery soul will soon have to be extinguished.

Chapter 12

I have to find that doctor. The doctor whose first name is? Is what? What was his first name? Come on Rose, think! Timothy? Was it Timothy? No, it didn’t begin with a ‘t’, it began with a…Jeremy, that was it! Definitely Jeremy. I have to find a doctor called Jeremy. Mum will know him, she knows everyone.

MUM DO YOU KNOW A DR IN HARTFORD CALLED JEREMY X X

Whilst I wait for her text I carry on walking, briskly back towards the police station to collect my car. Should only take me ten minutes or so. Just hope my boss doesn’t see me. Best to take the long way round and go down Elm Street to be on the safe side. I’m at the top of Elm Street five minutes later and I reckon that I’m roughly halfway there when mum answers.

Dr Jeremy Hill. His surgery is at the Health Center. You OK?

How stupid am I? Where else would any sensible person begin to search for a doctor other than the place I left only five sweaty minutes ago! And now I have to waste more time answering every possible scenario that my mum has cooked up.

Am fine. Not pregnant, no STD, no accident. Just need to speak to him. Will fill you in later X X X

Mind you, knowing what a dizzy cow I can be, it’s probably a blessing in disguise that I haven’t walked straight out of treatment room two and into his office. At least now I have a few minutes to think about my questions whilst I finish collecting the car and get back there. Also, with any luck, the delay will have given Tom and Dr Hill time to wrap up their seemingly very grave business and for the policeman to leave. Dr Hill, now why does that name ring a bell so loudly? Anyway, the most important thing is not to appear as though I am digging or trying to trick him into saying something. Just tell him who I am, that I had to identify Pete’s body and that when I was asked to leave and squeezed past him and Tom, I noticed that Pete’s eyelids had been opened. Jesus those eyeballs didn’t half give me the creeps, much more like the real thing that you see on telly. The left one was black, and I don’t mean that his pupil had dilated to some huge hole either. I mean proper black, couldn’t even see his pupil in it. The whole thing; white bits and coloured bits, all shiny jet black like a polished lump of coal had been rammed into his socket. That was strange enough but what the doctor had done to Pete’s right eye, well that needs explaining. Trouble is this is police business and no doubt he’s made all kinds of oaths about what he can say and what he has to take with him to his grave but then again, when I explain why I need to know, that I’ve seen eyes like that before, then maybe he’ll talk. It’s worth a try at least.

When I arrive back at the health center I’ve pretty much got my line of questioning sorted out. In my head at least, god knows how my mouth will behave. The coast is clear. Tom the police man has driven his car away. Another bonus is that Dr Hill’s name is there, right at the top of a brass plaque screwed to the wall and telling people who works inside. Good, there’ll be no need to ask if he does work here and that would have made the rest of my tale very difficult to pitch. Now all I need to do is negotiate the receptionist. This is going to be some feat, knowing what bulldogs they can be, but I do have a slight advantage because not only have I already been here once today (under police escort too) I know that the girl recognized me. Here goes, and stay casual and breezy.

‘Hi Trudy. Listen, when I was here before helping the police out and stuff, Dr Hill asked me a couple of things and I said that I’d let him know if I remembered them. The answers I mean. Not the questions, because I’m sure he’s remembered the questions. Probably wrote them down actually, what with him being a doctor and all that. Well anyway, I have remembered them. The answers to his questions that is. Very important questions too he said, appertaining to the incident that he, and I of course, were asking of during our time in assistance with the police and…’

‘What’s you’re name.’

Rose. Rose ‘gabbling run-away gob doesn’t know when to shut up’ Williams. That’s me. Trudy punches in the extension and tells the Dr that I would like to see him. Incredibly, when she puts the phone back on the hook, she asks me to go straight through a gathering of the hopeful sick and into the office on the other side of the waiting room.

‘Hello Rose, come in.’

I enter and close the door. Before I have taken my seat Dr Hill asks how he can help me. Talk about me fishing, this man has more than an inkling as to why I’m here, it is so obvious from his suspicious smile. Well, I’m not changing my strategy, not this late in the game.

‘Hello doctor and thanks for taking the time at such short notice. As you know, I was asked to identify Peter Statham this morning and..’

‘Yes, yes. Terribly sad that, and you of course have my condolences. Did you know him well?’

It’s going to be difficult to keep this slippery fish on the hook, that much is obvious. I mean, he barely sniffed at the bait and was off.

‘Well enough. He was going out with my best friend. The thing is, I..’

‘Oh dear, she must be devastated.’

‘Actually, I’m not sure that..’

Stick to the plan Rose, stick to the plan. Talk over him if you have to but get to the point before he manages to waste all of the allotted five minutes per consultation on small talk.

‘But that isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about doctor. You see, when I first went in to identify Pete he had his eye lids closed. It was only when I left that I noticed that you’d opened them and that there was something strange about his…’

‘Well unfortunately, we often find that acute strangulation can….’

Have I given him too much line here, too much wriggle room? Maybe it’s time to re-bait the hook.

‘I’ve seen eyes like that before doctor.’

Hook like and sinker. I can see from his slackening jaw and the smallest of flickers in his gullet that he’s swallowed the lot. It takes a moment longer for him to realize this, but eventually he does and hands me complete control of how fast to reel him in.

‘Where? Where have you seen them?’

‘But what I don’t understand is why you seemed so intent on checking Pete’s eyes. As far as I know, that’s all you looked at. And how did you know so quickly to dissect one? Did you know it would be full of black powder? And what was that …’

‘Where Rose? It’s important that you tell me where and when you think you saw them.’

Not so fast my little fishy.

‘What was it doctor?’

Ah, the old Mexican stand off. But he wants what I have so much more than he covets his secret. It’s kind of unsettling actually; to hold something and not be able to feel its gravity. Like lighting a firework with no idea of how big a bang it will make. As it transpires, fireworks turn out to be an excellent analogy.

‘It’s carbon. Pure carbon. Pete’s eyes were full of it. Now you tell me something that I want to know Rose.’

And then it hits me. And instead of swapping secrets, I’m going to tell him something he definitely doesn’t want to know or to remember.

‘You were there that afternoon weren’t you Doctor Hill. At Hartford Manor the day that Dawn Chevalier murdered her new born child.’

Chapter 13.

Dr Jeremy Hill’s Mercedes is very plush indeed but its aristocratic airs do not prevent this from being undisputedly the most uncomfortable car ride in the world ever. Revealing one of my trump cards (I still haven’t told him about the squirrel eyes) kicked off a whirl of activity, most of it feeling rather clandestine; real cloak and dagger stuff. First off was a call to Trudy to cancel his afternoons until four o’clock. Next, as he removed his doctor paraphernalia (stethoscope, white coat, sincere grin) and replaced it with civilian garb he tried to call someone from his mobile but couldn’t connect. Keys collected and a brisk walk complete, we were off and driving to a rendezvous that he arranged with police man Tom using the in car phone system.

Only now, five minute into our journey, does he say anything to me. I sit sill, listen to his calm yet troubled voice and pray for silence.

‘I’d only been Dawn Chevalier’s physician for a couple of years when she found out she was pregnant with Christine. I knew the family well enough though as me and Thomas went a good ten years further back than that, both of us having spent some time in the forces. In fact it was Thomas who helped me get my practice set up in Hartford. I guess that’s why he was quite open about sharing his concerns with me.’

I wonder why he’s pausing. That can’t be it surely? Oh no, he’s listening to his earphone, searching for a connection, probably with who ever it was that he tried to call earlier. No luck this time either but he listens to the earpiece for a ridiculously long time, hypnotized by its repetitive beeping. The call disconnects with a slick click and we’re back in the room.

‘I’d been visiting Dawn at the manor regularly. About four months in to her term, after a routine check up, I was on my way out of the front door when Thomas took me to one side. He explained that his wife wasn’t happy about keeping the baby. She wanted an abortion. I must say, I wasn’t surprised by this because she never had seemed too keen on the idea at all. Still smoking, still drinking too and I remember telling him that if she didn’t stop then the chances are she would miscarry anyway. I offered to talk to her about it but he cut me right down, said I wasn’t even to mention this and that if he found out I’d in anyway encouraged or helped to get rid of the child then I’d have him to answer to. I tell you, Thomas Chevalier, friend as he is, is not someone to mess with.’

‘You mean wasn’t someone to mess with. He disappeared right?’

He’s ignored me and although he hasn’t said anything yet that I can consider as being implicitly ominous, inexplicably I have goose bumps and an uneasy desire to know more.

‘I was a bit bothered as to how compromised my ethics might be by this so I asked him why he felt it would be okay to ignore her and he told me that she’d been the same with Cristian. Well that helped enormously so I forgot about it. Until she started ringing me at the office, at home and….hello? yeah, it’s Jeremy. You there yet Tom? Good, nice one. Look, we’ll be there in about ten minutes. You managed to get hold of him yet? No, me neither but keep trying yeah? Okay, ciao!’

Phones are so intrusive, interrupting our conversation like that, but on this occasion I am glad of it, the doctor’s voice suddenly changing from dark back to light and snapping the rising tension. Why do people talk so differently on phones I wonder? Orange don’t have some kind of cool-o-meter that earns you points for every year under middle age you can manage to sound do they? He did say another ten minutes driving would get us there, where ever that is. I hope that it’s somewhere warm and bright and sunny because the doctor’s story telling tone borders on menacing. It doesn’t look like I’m going to get my wish though as all the signs say ‘Hartford Heights, this way’ and outside in the wild is the last place I want to be, especially up there, wrapped in a morning mist that’s cleared the town to pool and wait amongst the woods and meadows. Oh great, the doctor’s dark voice is back, and I push myself a little lower into my seat as he continues his tale.

‘Shortly after Thomas had told me this Dawn started ringing me at the office and at home, convinced that there was something wrong with the baby and that I should terminate her. I am not exaggerating when I say that by this time she was almost having weekly scans to try and calm her down. Everything was text book but she kept on insisting that something was wrong, that something was inside her baby. But I didn’t listen, not properly. I just played it like any other doctor would. I asked her what she thought it might be but she’d just clam up. You know I think I was so closed to what she was trying to say that she forgot I was her friend as well as her doctor. Only once did she mumble something. It’s a silkie she said. A silkie’s got my baby. I’ll never forget it, how calm and certain she was about this. How resigned she was to what was in her mind. How I dismissed her so completely.’

I have to ask, even though all I really want to do is to sing lala lala lala loudly and stick my fingers in my ears until he’s finished.

‘So what’s a silkie doctor?’

‘I had no idea what she was talking about Rose. And she didn’t much either. All she kept insisting was that there was a voice in her head that had told her this. Damn, it, she even told me that if I wouldn’t deal with it before it was too late then she would when the time came.’

This regression isn’t good for Dr Hill and it’s even worse for me. His memories become more vivid the nearer we get to Christine’s murder and he feels compelled to fill in every detail of what happened with blood reds, evil blacks and deep, unfathomable blues for heavy regrets to drag him down into. I’m being pulled there too, into the centre of a black whirlpool and I’m terrified by the presence of it. It’s all I can do to stop from myself from crying out and instead I place my hand on his leg and rub it, for my reassurance not his. .

‘Look, I’m sure you did everything that you could Dr Hill.’

Finally there is a brief respite for me to calm a little; the horrible tale of how a baby girl died is paused as we approach the rendezvous. I can see Tom, the not so police looking man, stood by his own car. We are indeed at Hartford Heights, and Dr Hill pulls from the road to park in the lay bay next to a tatty timber bench and a low dry stone wall. On the other side of the wall are bare, winter trees and through them, in the misty far ground, I can just make out the stone chimneys of Hartford Manor. Somehow, it doesn’t feel like home so much today and it takes me longer than it should to get out of the car. Tom speaks first and his language has changed too; far more natural and preferred to that rather stiff, formal police talk he had insisted on during our previous dealings but still, above all else, it too is slightly panicked. The men appear to be ignoring me, but they’re not. They talk urgently to each other, occasionally glancing in my direction but mainly looking into each other’s eyes, intently too, as if making sure that nothing changes there. In spite of their unwelcoming stance I start to shuffle closer to them. Not to hear better (I can hear this all too well thank you very much) but to feel safer. If I could, I would stand between them, hide behind Tom’s big belly as the story is told of the day that Christine Chevalier died.

Dr Hill explains how when he had finally made it into the bedroom that day there was indeed bedlam. True, mind bending madness of a much higher degree than my mum’s account had hinted at. Christine wasn’t lying dead on her mother’s belly. Her injuries were truly awful but nowhere near fatal. Only her sight died that day and she was already in the arms of her father when Dr Jeremy Hill entered the room. Dawn was sat calm in bed, satisfied with what she had done. Only the child and her father were screaming. The nurse was still in the room too, frozen to the spot and unable to help. She hadn’t left and met Hill on the stairs at all. It was her eyes that changed first apparently, signaled the onset of a rage of such intensity that the young doctor could barely manage to pull her grip away from the throat of the Chevalier woman. According to the doctor, the very instant that he managed to prise her hands away from Dawn’s jugular those same eyes emptied of both rage and colour. Not all the way to black exactly, not like Pete’s. Each iris had blackened though and where a healthy eye might have tiny red blood vessels the nurse’s had black streaks. This was soon to change again though, because according to Tom, who’d been a young traffic cop back then, when he pulled the nurse’s body from the wreckage of her car (less than two hundred yards from Hartford) his initial impression had been that she had no eyes. She did of course; black shiny ones.

I’ve had enough of this. This stuff is straight out of the horror movies, something I can barely watch never mind star in. The image of dead bodies with coal black eyes is burning itself on to the back of my retinas and I doubt if I will ever sleep again. I need a cushion to clutch and hide behind, a cushion stuffed with reality and something scientific that will help me rationalize all this weirdness back toward my understanding of what is and what can’t be so I ask the doctor to help, to tell me what he thinks the black stuff in the nurse’s eyes was.

‘Carbon. Just like Pete’s, just like Dawn’s after they hung themselves. Something made these people do what they did Rose. Something that, when they had done what it asked them to, burnt their eyes black. And I know that this sounds completely ridiculous but Thomas Chevalier knew what it was. As I stood in that room, watched his life wrecked by it, I watched his eyes change too. Only momentarily, seconds even, but that was long enough for him to be given understanding of what had begun and how it would end. Stood there with his bleeding baby girl clutched to his chest Thomas Chevalier did a deal. With what I don’t know but he needed my help, and ultimately Tom’s too if he was to save his daughter. And yes there was money involved, of course there was but that wasn’t the reason I agreed to help him Rose, honestly it wasn’t. It came down to nothing more than the pathetic pleas of a once strong man, a powerful man who I trusted and respected and yes, feared a little too. I guess I didn’t have the guts to deny him or his money and neither did I have the means to do it alone so I convinced Tom to help. I falsified death certificates, buried a pretend baby and Tom signed the police reports that would close the case. That was over ten years ago Rose, and that’s where the answers run out I‘m afraid. We did our bit. We put the smoke screens up for Thomas and Christine and what ever it was that was with them to disappear. Tom and I tied up every loose end, covered everybody’s tracks to make sure that there would be no trail or come back. At least we thought we had but finding Peter Statham swinging like that this morning has changed everything and we have no idea why.’

Exhausted by my efforts to keep it together, not to succumb to the terror that is building inside as these sinister revelations seep into me, I slump on to the bench. I just want to un-know all this. Not forget, because I don’t think that there is a life long enough for me to be able to rub it all out. I need to un-know it and I curse my decision to take a peek at Pete’s eyes. Blaming Pete makes me wonder too why doing that had brought me to this place and then I remember. It wasn’t just Pete, it was Aunt May and the squirrel. They’re the real culprits here. Her implication that there was something unusual about my Cristian is what had opened my mind and allowed this macabre mess to be rammed into my head. My Cristian, my beloved Cristian. I just thank god that I haven’t heard his name mentioned once. I wonder how much of this he is aware of? Poor thing.

‘Now, tell us where you saw these eyes and whose they were.’

It’s Tom asking. I’d completely forgotten about the ace up my sleeve, the one that had convinced the doctor that should be invited in to the trust of these tow men. Uh oh. I get a feeling that they’re not going to like this. Rather sheepishly I offer a response but Tom doesn’t hear all of my mumblings.

‘Hartford Manor, I got that but who was it you saw again? I missed the last bit. It was a man called Cyril did you say?’

‘No Tom, I said squirrel. The eyes belonged to a squirrel.’

‘Oh for fu…..’

‘Hey now come on guys! I never said they belonged to a person did I? I just said that I had seen eyes like Pete’s before, all black and shiny.’

‘Yeah, like an itsy bitsy cutesy little squirrel’s eyes Rose. And do you think that might have been because you were looking at a squirrel perhaps?’

Sarcastic sod, but I suppose he has a point. Most small woodland creatures do have little black eyes now I come to think of it, especially at night. I feel awful, like I have tricked my way into some secret society. Actually so what? I don’t care about these two. I don’t care what they have done or why they did it or what they believe is lurking in the woods. It’s not my business and it never should have been! What I do care about is Cristian and putting as much space between us and them and their ghost stories. The game is up for me and Dr Hill is more than ready to take me back to my car, speaking only once during the journey when he asks that I don’t say anything to anyone about what I know. I give him my word but I’m lying.

One day Cristian will want to talk about all this and when he does I’ll be ready to understand and fill in any gaps he might have about his father’s disappearance and the role that Dr Hill and PC Tom had in it. And if I know anything about the man that Cristian has become, then god help them.

When I eventually arrive home mum still isn’t there. I have a text from her letting me know that she’ll be eating out with her friend but hopes to be back before I leave for the dinner party. This gives me roughly two hours to kill and I decide to spend it googling around to see if I can get even more information about what Laurel and Hardy had said earlier, mainly in an effort to expose any flaws in their tale. At here in the lounge, miles away from the misty woods and their story, I already feel less threatened and, well safe again I guess and as I reflect I begin to develop a more rational attitude. I mean, those two were starting to sound like a right couple of gossiping conspiracy theorists. And not very good ones either. When this boils down, all they have is a crazy lady of the manor and a suicidal junkie with coal dust in his eyes. I think it’s time I started to challenge them a little harder. After all, there are huge holes in this particular X-file, big enough for me not to throw my love for Cristian away. What was I thinking! That Aunt May has a lot to bloody answer for. It was her who started all this, seeded my readiness to doubt Cristian stings my heart.

What sort of girlfriend am I? One that doesn’t deserve him, that’s what sort. Quick Rose, run away! Aunt May’s seen a dead mouse! That woman is definitely over protective. She’s probably jealous of me too. You know, I just bet she fancies him! Quick Rose, runaway again! There’s a couple of under achieving blokes here who’ve noticed that when somebody hangs themselves their eyes go a funny colour. Run-a-away Rose, that’s who I’ve become. Damn it girl, have some faith in your man, in your heart for Christ’s sake! Stop running away Rose!

I vow never to run again and tap the word ‘silky’ into the search field. Not surprisingly my screen fills with links and adverts for lingerie, some of which is very sexy indeed. I spend the next half hour buying things. Well, I’m sure that Cristian will appreciate this as much, if not more, than my noble attempt to clear his family name. But once my allowance limit is reached I have no option but to try again, this time with different spelling. Silcy doesn’t get any hits of interest, and neither does silci. But silkie does and Wikipedia tells me that;

‘Selkies (also known as silkies or selchies) are mythological creatures that are found in Faroese,Icelandic, Irish and Scottishe folklore.’

Hmmm. This is a a little worrying but then again, I’m sure it wouldn’t have taken Dr Hill much time to get to this reference either, sitting listening to some poor old lady who belives he is accessing her records when in reality he’s surfing. In fact, given the closeness of the words and, by his own deeds, Hill’s rather dubious character, I wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t stumbled across this handy piece of folk lore when googling for something to excite him during a quiet spell in the surgery. I read on.

‘They can shed their skin from seals to become humans. The legend apparently originated on the Orkney and Shetland Islands, where selch or selk(ie) is the Scots word for seal (from Old English seolh).Selkies are able to become human by taking off their seal skins, and can return to seal form by putting it back on. Stories concerning selkies are generally romantic tragedies. Sometimes the human will not know that their lover is a selkie, and wakes to find them gone.’

Now this I don’t like one little bit!. Sometimes the human will not know that their lover is a selkie, and wakes to find them gone. Jesus that would be freaky! Mind you, it’s more likley that Cristian thinks I’m the silkie round here after I abandonned his bed to get to work this morning. And anyway, all we have is mice and squirrels, not a dead seal in sight.

‘Other times the human will hide the selkie's skin, thus preventing them from returning to seal form. A selkie can only make contact with one particular human for a short amount of time before they must return to the sea. Examples of such stories are the ballad, The Great Silkie of Sule Skerry and the movie The Secret of Roan Inish’

And there’s the truth of it. It was a film! A film that I just bet that Dawn Chevalier had come across during a pregnancy that was depressing her so badly that she wanted it finished and was prepared to convince anybody of anything to achieve it! Thank you Mister Ronan Irish, whoever you are.

Chapter 13

Mum’s home. I can tell by her face that I’ve got a lot of explaining to do about where I’ve been today when I should have been working. In situations like this (having already lied) I always find that the truth doesn’t really have much to offer and it’s best to stick with the first, far less complicated lie. The stomach cramp story serves me well, as does my new relationship with Dr Hill. One text and he’ll write me a dummy prescription and confirm my attendance at his afternoon clinic, no questions asked. Up until this moment, when the lie leaves my lips, I hadn’t considered this angle. The fact that this morning I was an inconsequential nobody around these parts; this afternoon I have two pillars of society, a doctor and a policeman, tucked away deep inside my pocket. The power that these two have endowed me with makes me tingle inside. I feel like some kind of mafia don and corrupt as this may be, don’t they say that ultimately all power corrupts? I’ve just taken a short cut to the end game, that’s all. Come to think about it, here’s another possibility that I’d missed completely. Whilst I was with Tom and the doctor, (being accosted by them with fearful tales in plain sight of a mist shrouded Hartford Manor) I’d been too wrapped up in all their supernatural intrigue to be able to step back and consider them from another perspective. This new view from the living room reveals a different picture, one in which these two ambitious men aren’t the good guys at all but nothing more than low lives, a bent copper and junky GP that have hatched some deviously complicated scheme to extract money or favor from one of the richest families in the country. Okay, I haven’t got time now to unbundle all the things that they’ve said but I bet that if I did, if I took it all apart, sorted the wheat from the crap and then stuck it all back together (glued with common sense this time) then I would smell blackmail and conspiracy veiled in demonic folk lore to keep those meddling kids away. This whole thing is turning into an episode of Scooby Doo! Yeah, I bet that in my alternate jigsaw it’s the Chevaliers that are the real victims!

I finish getting ready. When I’m done, when the dress is hung and the face made, I set off running (nearly knocking mum over in my dash for the door) but this time I’m running to Cristian; the man I love and who is having a dinner party in less than fifteen minutes. I am late but thankfully the gates are open and I don’t have to stop or even slow down too much, rattling my car over the cattle grid that keeps the animals of Hartford Manor inside its woods and meadows. These woods, so scary only days ago, aren’t in the slightest bit spooky tonight. I can’t explain what has changed in my attitude toward them. My only guess is that I’d been led so far down that fairy tale woodland path by the Brother’s Grim earlier today that returning to the real world, back to a world of nature filled with actual trees and the benign shadows they cast has made me realize how childish I have been. In fact…

‘Sod it.’

The car screeches and almost skids I‘ve pressed the brakes that hard. A quick check outside tells me that I’ve gone too far so I back up a little until the drivers window draws level with a particularly large elm. This is it. Confidently I step out of the car (leaving the door wide open) and in the soft glow of the interior light I begin my search through the crispy leaves that fill the ditch at the roadside. Amazingly I only need to grab and throw three handfuls of mulch away before my hand raises the cardboard stiff corpse of my squirrel.

‘Gotcha! Now then let’s take a look at those peepers shall we.’

The best place to do this is on the flat bonnet so I place the squirrel there and maneuver myself around until finding the optimum position to inspect him properly. He looks a lot less evil and demonic than I remember and I feel guilty about how disrespectful my story has been to him. Ah well, he’s only a squirrel, and a dead one at that. Without thinking any more about it (because thinking will only lead to hesitation and hesitation to doubt and doubt to running and I don’t run anymore) I use my nail file to lever his tiny, frozen left eye from its socket. I almost have it in my fingers too when there’s a voice behind me, a voice from a car that I’ve been far too engrossed to hear approach.

‘Rose? Is that you?’

The voice belongs to David and as I turn around slowly, desperately trying to hide what I am doing I watch his face contort into something between disgust and absolute confusion. He says nothing more, just stares, and I have no choice but to glance behind me as the squirrel completes its slow slide down the bonnet and into plain view, left eye trailing behind its head.

‘Oh don’t worry David, I haven’t killed another one. It’s the same squirrel.’

Oh well that’s fine then. Phew! I bet he thought you were a serial squirrel killer when it turns out that you’re nothing more than a dead squirrel eye thief.

‘Ah, I see. Well, erm listen, I’m glad we caught you. June and I are can’t stop for dinner unfortunately. We’ve managed to get an early appointment with a specialist tomorrow morning and need to get back tonight. June’s not feeling too good you see. Anyway, it was…well it was nice to meet you Rose and hopefully next time yes?’

Now June leans forward, waves and nods. I wave and smile back and instantly regret using the hand that is clutching the nail file, bits of squirrel gooh stuck to the tip. I swear that I can hear David call me weird just the instant before the window has fully slid back into place. I just hope that they are either too preoccupied or polite to ever mention this again. Well there’s no point crying over spilt milk so back to business and once their car has turned on to the main road I pick up the eye ball between my thumb and forefinger. It feels very hard, not squidgy at all and it isn’t easy to jab the nail file into it. Eventually though it pops inside and when I pull it back out there is something on it, something dark and dry. I wouldn’t say it was black or fine though, no where near the jet black powder of Pete’s eye. Then again, it isn’t blood red either. Then again, black pudding is made from blood so maybe that’s what colour blood goes when it’s been left to rot. No doubt about it, this definitely does look more like black pudding than the stuff that had puffed out over Pete’s cheek. It’s a relief to finally put all this to rest, to be happy with this conclusion and so disconnect the undoubtedly strange death of my best friend’s lover from the notion that my Cristian somehow killed the squirrel. Good job well done, I wipe my hands on a tissue and set off to the manor.

Aunt May is there to meet me on the steps.

‘Hi Rose! Oh what a relief. We were beginning to worry that you’d had an accident.’

This is middle class code for where the hell have you been. I apologise and explain that I was already running late and also that I stopped to say goodbye to David and June.

‘Yes, it’s a shame that June took so bad, and so quickly too. Still, it’s good that you had chance to say good bye. I know they were disappointed not to have seen you. Anyway, let’s take that coat off. We’re in the drawing room having aperitifs.’

The first thing I notice when I walk into the room is that Cristian isn’t in it. Sam immediately solves the mystery with a breezy hello and an explanation that Cristian is in the kitchen. Apparently he’s cooking tonight but as I turn to go and see what he’s up to Aunt May intercepts me at the door.

‘Oh no Rose. Strict instructions that nobody goes in the kitchen tonight.’

‘Yes, and that includes you too May!’

I shout my hello back at Cristian and then sit to start sipping the gin and tonic that Uncle John has made ready for me. It tastes good and it isn’t long at all before I’m completely relaxed into the same, warm comfort zone that I had enjoyed last night. Then Sam ruins it all.

‘You know what Richard?’

‘What love?’

‘You are quite frankly the biggest, most annoying self absorbed prick I‘ve ever met.’

Oh my god! A jet of frothy G&T spews out of my mouth and all over the chesterfield. What did she just say? Have I walked into some kind of parlor game and they forgot to fill me in? Is it my turn to close my eyes, point and then call Aunt May an overly protective slut? But Sam’s outburst isn’t a game and everyone in the room, especially Richard, is gob smacked. What’s more, she isn’t finished yet either.

‘And how the hell I’ve put up with you over the past two days, never mind the past four fuckin’ years is a mystery to me! Jesus, I deserve a fuckin’ medal having to sleep with a limp dicked, limp wristed bore of a pathetic excuse for a man like you!’

Sam is standing as she finishes her tirade of abuse. Freeze frame. Richard; wide mouthed and simply too confused to move, poor thing. Aunt May; strangely distant and oblivious to Uncle John; staring at his wife to see if her face holds any clue as to what is happening. I’m sat stock still, dribbles of drink down my chin, not daring to wipe them in case sudden movement should turn Sam’s attention my way. It’s left to Cristian to hit the play button as he enters the room to check out if what he thinks he had heard in the kitchen was actually said in his drawing room.

‘Samantha? What’s going on? Richard, has something….’

‘Richard and I are leaving. I’m sorry that it’s happened like this but….anyway, it had to be said so thanks again for your wonderful hospitality Cristian, and Rose it was lovely to meet you. I’m just so sorry that you had to see this but I…I….well I just couldn’t hold back any longer I guess.’

There’s a light in Sam’s eyes, one that’s unnaturally fiery and completely weird. It should make her look angry but it doesn’t and in a strange way her expression is almost over controlled. I can’t help but wonder what emotion smolders inside because I can’t see hate or drink or anger there. Her final words are to order Richard to get the car as she goes upstairs to pack and bring bags. Thirty silent seconds later Richard slowly rises, shakes his head and then Cristian’s hand before leaving to get the car. Only when the front door has closed behind them and the car crunched away do I breathe out loud. I know it’s not my place but someone has to say something.

‘My god! Did anyone see that coming?’

A muffled laugh, the type that people hide behind hands when nerves have been jangled and events of gossip proportions witnessed, fills the room. John’s wit is the first to return to normal operations.

‘You like you need another drink Rose, or should I just tip it straight on to the carpet to save you the trouble?’

Now the laughter is open and complete and for the first time tonight I really notice Cristian. He looks delicious stood at the drawing room door wearing his kitchen pinny, a dab of flour on his forehead. I want to be with him and I am not going to take no for an answer.

‘Need some help in the kitchen love?’

‘That and a bloody large gin I think Rose. You two will be okay here on your own won’t you? I can trust you not to throw anything at each other I hope? But if you must, start with the vase. It’s a fake!’

I don’t wait for Aunt May and Uncle John to stop laughing so that they can answer. I want my hug, the first of the evening and when I finally do get it, it is long and strong and topped with a tender kiss. That and floury hand prints across my back which luckily Cristian notices and pats away as he releases me to get ice from the fridge. I prepare the drinks, ease myself up to sit on the work top nearby, chat and watch him as he cuts and chops, seasons and tastes. This man has everything I have ever wanted and it’s all I can do to drag myself away from him when he asks me to go and check how Uncle John likes his steak cooked. I would have shouted through but it didn’t feel right for the lady of the house to behave like this so I drop down, kiss Cristian’s cheek and go to find out. I’m nearly there too when Uncle John’s earnest whispering stops me dead in my tracks.

‘She doesn’t deserve this May. You have to do something. Please, before it’s too late. If Cristian insists on having her then find another way.’

Hang on a minute! Deserve what? Cristian having me? Is Uncle John implying that I don’t deserve Cristian’s love? Are these two foster parents really so protective of their man that they can’t let him be happy with someone whose daddy doesn’t drive a Bentley? Aunt May is quiet now and I’m on the verge of launching into their discussion, putting my case and defending our love, when Uncle John speaks again.

‘Look May, I know that you’ve tried to warn her off, and I thank you for that, really I do. But surely there must be something that can be done to keep her and Cristian apart for long enough. Jesus, this is Rose we’re talking about here! Are silkies so bloody stubborn that it always has to happen like this?’

Silkies! Did the man just say silkies? No, he couldn’t have done. Could he? I mean, why the hell would Uncle John do such a thing; drag my nightmare from off the dark pages of some Celtic fairy tale and into the real world like that. And to accuse Cristian too! My Cristian, who I’ve only just proven to be innocent by popping a dead squirrel’s eye in between my fingers. An eye that may indeed have been filled by black soot, perhaps clumped together by the damp of freeze thaw November nights? Now stop it Rose! Don’t doubt him anymore and for Christ’s sake stop running! Face it up girl! This has to be some kind of sick joke. I bet Sam and Richard and June and David, probably Dr Hill and Tom too, are all in on the gag. Yeah, I bet they’re waiting for a signal right now, ready to dash back into the house, shout surprise and start the real party. Not this party, the one where everyone either fell ill or went crazy and left me alone in this house with hell knows what.

‘I’m sorry John, but there is no other way. I am not going to risk losing another one, waste another twenty five years. No, it’s decided.’

‘And you think Cristian is going to be okay with this? You think he’s going stand by and watch, simply shrug his shoulders as the love of his life has her very essence devoured by……’

‘Enough! Cristian is my concern and he will make the right decision!’

Oh my god who the hell was that? At its core the voice still held Aunt May’s soft tone but there are other dimensions there now too, gruff and dark.

‘And you’d do well to remember who I have with me inside this bag of bones that you call your wife so you can deal with your guilt as you see fit but I warn you, do not interfere! Rose dies tonight.’

I can hardly breathe. Tears are sliding down my cheeks and I slide down the wall with them until my knees are tucked tightly into my folded arms. Even this doesn’t feel safe but it’s the best that I can do to try and hold myself together whilst at the same time keep my head above the torrent of fear that’s just exploded over me. It’s no good. I’m drowning and quickly too and I need to get myself together, clamber up to the high ground. But how? I can see the front door well enough and it is so tempting but that would mean me dashing in plain view through the hallway. No thanks! Should I run to the kitchen maybe? Take a chance on Cristian? I mean, as far as I can tell he knows nothing of this plot to kill me. Damn it! That’s exactly what this is isn’t it? A plot to kill me! I don’t understand why they want me dead but my ignorance doesn’t stop reality merging with the horrifying fantasy that has just been discussed in the next room. Together they kick me hard in the head until the idea of Cristian being my savior crumbles leaving only the back door of Hartford Manor as a possible escape route. Yes that’s it! I can easily slip out into the dark there, find somewhere unseen to hide and think about what to do next. That’s what I need now, time to think all this through and finally having a plan galvanizes me into action. I wipe my eyes, remove my heels and then set off across the hallway as quietly as possible; head down, shoes in hand and feet almost sliding so that I won’t be heard. My decision to move was perfectly timed for no sooner have I slipped behind a partially open door at the rear of the staircase (gently pulling it to behind me) than Cristian appears from the kitchen. He’s calling my name. I hear Aunt May and Uncle John explaining that they haven’t seen me and thankfully soon, their discussion about where I could have got to becomes muffled by distance as I continue to make my way down this dark corridor. It should, if my memory serves me correctly, lead to the tradesman’s entrance at the rear of the manor. Ah yes, here it is. I’m amazed at how steady my hand is as I turn the handle. There is a ridiculously loud click though, one that kicks in a reflex; slowing my door pulling arm and crunching my face up as though doing this will stop these damn creaking hinges. When the noise of the door finally dissipates I‘m relieved to still be able to hear that muffled discussion back in the drawing room. The back door is finally open enough for me to squeeze through it and out into the night. I step through into the cold air but immediately I realise that this isn’t outside at all. This isn’t freedom. This is the cold room! Damn it! I need to go back and find the proper door, the one that leads to the garden but before I can the corridor lights up. Someone is coming.

‘Damn it damn it damn it!’

Having only one option does tend to make taking a decision a hell of a lot easier, for had there been time to run again then I might have considered it, become frozen and found, but there wasn’t so I quickly shut myself back in to the cold room and spin around, frantic to find somewhere to hide. My eyes are squinting and slowly adjusting to the gloom, a gloom that is already partially lit by a brilliant moon watching me through a high window. Too high unfortunately; I’d never make it. So where then? Behind the coats racked on the wall? I curse the childishness of my idea and remind myself that this isn’t a game. This isn’t hide and seek like I used to play with Cristian. Fear rises again as I remember how good he had been at finding and how rubbish I had been at hiding.

‘Think Rose, think!’

Ah, now that looks promising! And although I have to crawl, I feel a lot better once I’ve managed to squeeze myself under a heavy steel work bench and draw a flimsy cotton curtain across to complete my disappearing act. The cloth is sticky and stiff in parts and a lumpy smudge of whatever it is that clings to it smears my bare shoulder. On my pale flesh the gunk looks slimy and congealed, like black pudding and suddenly I realize where I am; tucked away under that place where those that are yet to be hunted will be butchered. Animals will and have been hacked and boned here, just like the young buck that Cristian shot that day and with whose antlers I now find myself having to share my hiding place with. But I am so remarkably together now, so focused and pumped with survival instinct that even being surprised by this deer’s severed head doesn’t concern me.

‘Well, hunted I may be but I’ll be damned if I’m going to end up like him.’

Then a thought hits me. My absolutely last lifeline, one that never the less just might be strong enough to tether me to the place I want to be whilst I ride this out. Quickly I pull out my nail file and start digging. In no time at all, the eye is in my hand. One sharp stab is all it takes to slay my floundering love for Cristian and as I watch it disappear in a puff of powdered carbon I begin to weep again. Before I can finish grieving and return to my escape plan another head appears in my hiding place. This one does shock me, forces my arms forward to scratch and punch but the hands that grab mine are too strong. Still, I struggle.

‘Rose! Rose stop it! It’s John, Uncle John Rose. Please, you have to calm down and be quiet. Trust me, I’m on your side.’

Trust me? How dare he ask for my trust! I allow him to think that I do though, stop fighting for a moment but as soon as his hands relax I rip mine free and scratch him again, this time drawing blood. He punches me on the chin and I understand immediately that this is a fight I can’t win. But I’m not coming out from under the bench. No way.

‘I’m sorry for hitting you Rose but really, you must calm down. You don’t have much time. Now be quiet and listen. The next door down is a tradesman’s entrance. That leads out onto the lawns at the back. Once you get across them and into the woods, if you turn left then it’s only a short distance to the road. Do you hear me Rose?’

Suddenly I do trust this man. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s the tears in his eyes, perhaps it’s his hand that’s trembling as he helps me rise from my hiding place.

‘But above all else Rose, you need these.’

From his pocket Uncle John pulls a small tube. He struggles to open it and I help him flip the top.

‘Here, put these in.’

He’s offering me two small discs of glass. He can tell I have questions.

‘They’re contacts Rose, but special ones. Made of diamond see, pure carbon. Look.’

Uncle John raises his free hand and expertly flips a third similar disc from his eye to show it to me. It’s obvious from his quivering urgency that being without this for even a second is almost too much for him and I hardly have chance to see it fully before he rubs the lens back in to position.

‘I wear them all the time Rose, that’s how I get by. Now please, you must use them too, put them in and go. It’s time to run Rose. Run Rose, run!’

And I am running, as fast as I ever have. Out of the door and…and where? Where to? Who the hell knows, but it’s away from the manor house and that’s all that matters. The night is clear and the moon would be so beautiful if it didn’t insist on following me with its silver search light. It isn’t as if the light is helping me navigate either, because the diamond discs in my eyes are stinging and blurring my vision. It’s important that they stay there though, Uncle John said so. Whatever happens Rose he said, don’t take these out. I won’t. I’m sure that I can trust Uncle John and so I have trusted him; with my life. I’m still running, feel like I could run forever through the crisp white grass and I’m nearly at the woods when the first shout rings out. It’s Cristian, stood outside the conservatory calling my name, pleading with me to go back to him.

‘Never! Never you fuckin’ freak!’

To my right, from the fringe of dark trees beyond the glistening frost covered lawn, comes a noise loud enough to bring my mouth and legs to a dead stop. Turning towards the sound I not only hear it again but see it too; a crack as branches break followed by a steamy snort that catches moon beams and smokes. I’m backing away from it but I can’t turn and run. If I have learnt anything about myself over the past twenty minutes it’s that I need to take control, keep aware and face my fears and so as the beast announces his arrival with a guttural bellow, less than ten feet away I make my stand. My god he is magnificent! But the stag is in such a hoof stomping frenzy that, what would normally be a panicked glare is more of a focused and threatening stare. There’s fire in his eyes, just like Sam had and for me the staring contest is over before it begins. I turn to run but the route to the woods behind me is blocked by yet another, slightly smaller buck leaving me with two escape routes; the river or the manor.

‘Come on Rose, pick one!’

The two options conspire and cause me to delay until they both are slammed shut by thundering gallop from either side. The only way is down now and so I hit the ground moments before two sets of stomping hooves are raised above me then dropped, slamming heads together. I can do nothing but cower here as the bellowing beasts rattle and battle antlers above me. I’m caged by their legs until one animal manages to lock the others antlers and twist him off balance, not quite enough to topple but enough to open a gap! Instinct kicks in but no sooner have I started my crawl toward the river than the larger stag sees me, stomps on my leg! I try again and again the animal rams his hoof onto my calf. There’s a stabbing pain, another snapping noise and this time my leg is broken. I know this to be so but there’s no pain to confirm it; adrenaline has taken care of that as well as given me the strength to dig my fingers into the ground to begin again and drag myself away from the center of the melee. Unexpectedly though I’m no longer dragging myself now but flying! I‘m actually in the air and as I tumble forward I can see the young buck that tossed me. He’s watching me fly, waiting for me to land. I do, with a clumsy roll to one side that scrapes my back across the glass hard ground more than three feet away from where the smaller stag stands. The animal is looking at me still as if checking that I’m okay! Too long though, he takes too long and it’s too late for him to dodge or brace himself against the mighty slash that gouges upward into his gullet, ripping his neck and lower jaw to shreds. His back legs buck and the momentum of the attack spins them around in my direction. I have to get further away! But the ground is slippery, too hard to hold and before I can gain purchase to begin my backward scramble I’m showered with warm blood an instant before the already dead animal slams onto my legs and chest. Vertebrae crack and nerves sever and my body melts away. Now is a good time to scream but there isn’t enough breath in my paralyzed chest to raise even a murmur.

The victor is standing over me now, bending down and considering me. I can feel his heavy quick breath; damp and warm, snorting onto on my face but cooling as the moisture in it pools under my neck. It’s nice to feel something. His head is so close to mine now, so wild and yet so engaged by me that in spite of these terrible circumstances I can’t help but forget my crushing pain and forgive him. I have never felt closer to nature and even the fire in his huge eyes is reassuring, its swirls and flashes strengthening our connection. I would have stayed here like this too, absorbed by the wonder we share, had it not been for the bright blue discs that begin to blaze in front of my eyes. My initial reaction is to turn my head but the bright lights follow and I realize that they’re not in front but actually on my eyes; diamond discs fluoresced by something that bounces around and off them. Snap! The connection breaks and the stag raises himself high on hind legs, rallies his front hooves and dips his neck. Ready for the drop. Ready for the kill. Best to close your eyes for this Rose, but the next thing I feel isn’t the slash of an antler. It’s a rush of hot air laden with shot. The bang and the blood are here soon after and together they rip apart the stag’s chest fur in a hundred places. Slain by the shotgun the stag slumps to his knees, twitching nose only inches from mine, dead eyes black as carbon.

It’s dark now. Dark and still and so quiet.

A man once told me that this could be whatever I wanted it to be. Well, Mr Cristian Chevalier, I choose this. I choose the silent dark; safe behind my diamond discs where you can’t break my heart anymore and where the silkies can’t find me.

Chapter 14

‘Come away from the water Christine! The waves are a little too big today darling.’

Thomas is shouting at himself as much as his blind daughter. He’s more than a little guilty about not having noticed sooner how close she had gotten to the under tow, already nipping at her toes and only needing to grab an ankle to claim her feather light frame into its pulverising churn. Thomas shudders at the thought of losing her completely, so close to the day when he will finally get her back too. It’s always the same when he is studying his notes though, hours lost in his own deliberations, his obsession with the thick dossier on his knee. And although he knows better, although Christine has retreated less than two short skips away from danger, he can’t help but to return to them.

Thomas Chevalier knows a lot about silkies. In truth he shouldn’t do. No modern man should even know that there are such things because if nothing else they have been disciplined and covered their trail well over the millennia. But there’s one important difference between this dedicated father and other men of our age for Thomas Chevalier has lived with a silkie inside him. Ten days he shared his mind with it. Two hundred and thirty three hours to be precise, and not once did it feed because Thomas and the silkie had been reluctant partners back then, shared a common purpose (hastily dealt), each needing the other if they were to get their precious cargo safely away from Hartford Manor and delivered to Aunt May’s house on the Isle of Wight.

‘Symbiotic not parasitic’

This was the first thing that Thomas Chevalier ever wrote about silkies, a phrase he had used to describe the encounter as they had traveled south. It hadn’t been anywhere near accurate of course but it remained in his book to this day, scribbled words on a tatty scrap of paper now taped to the inside cover to serve as a reminder of how devious such creatures can be. Aunt May certainly wouldn’t describe silkiesthem as symbiotic and there wasn’t a day passed that Thomas didn’t cringe at the thought of what he had done to his sister-in-law. But a father can only ever follow instinct and instinct has no time for reason or compassion. Thomas surmised that it must have been like this for the silkie too. Distraught at having witnessed such brutal damage to a daughter, breeched and left vulnerable by a hardwired duty to protect her son. She had bared herself to Thomas Chevalier back then (in the days following the dreadful events at Christine’s birth) and told him things to earn his trust. She had had no choice but to break her kindred’s code of conduct. Instinct had made her do it, that irresistible force of nature.

In truth to describe the thing lodged inside him as female had been wrong, an assumption corrected by Thomas early on in his records once the fact that these creatures are asexual had been realised. It was those torrid first few hours at the manor house, spent listening to its wailings and rabid threats (putting Thomas in mind of a grieving mother) that had sexualized it then. To call it silkie, well that should be contested too for these entities have had many titles through the centuries. In the steaming jungles of the Philipines the Batak people whisper tales and live in fear of aswang. Further east, high amongst the mist shrouded mountains of Japan is where bakenko roost, raiding the fishing villages by night to feed. Spawned in the heat of the African deserts are maita, hunting down the native Hausa, sapping the strength of their warrior men until nothing is left but bone and flesh for scavengers to scrap over. It is only in the medieval Celtic lore of northern Europe that silkie hunt. But changing a name does nothing to alter the nature of the beast. Aswang, bakenko, maita or silkie; beneath his list of references, illustrations and notes, Thomas Chevalier’s dossier underlines their common heritage.

The Soul Eaters

There used to be three, thick and doubting question marks written after this entry but they had been blocked out a long time ago. For ThomasMr Chevalier, life before the silkie invaded it had been busy but straightforward. A business man back thenhe had been, and a very successful one too. Principled and practical in every aspect of family and work, that was Thomas Chevalier and there had been no room for any creed other than self belief. Certainly the idea that the spirit of that same self roams inside each of us would never have been considered. But Setantii changed all that.

Setantii is what the silkie inside that particular doubting Thomas calleds herself, a name taken from iron age settlers of millennia past. Those unfortunate families that had originally populated the country side where Hartford Manor now stands were the people whom Setantii first coveted. They do this silkies. They covet the tribes of the place where they first come into existence and take their name. But let’s be clear here; silkies are not alien or unnatural. They aren’t even supernatural. They are a part of nature, perhaps the biggest part too if that was to be measured by understanding and connectivity. Maybe Setantii would have drawn the explanation of what she was (and how she came to be) to a close at this point, had it not been for the educated pragmatism of the mind that she shared coupled with her rising frustration at being distracted from her task by the continuous line of questioning that Thomas put to her.

It was on day seven of their journey that Setantii eventually conceded to explain more, a week since the carnage at the manor house. The fugitives had by this time taken a route deep within the New Forest, hidden there behind fresh spring foliage. Whilst a young Cristian had climbed trees and splashed rocks in a nearby stream, his father sat down to listen to the voice in his head and so become the first human in history to be given understanding. Thomas allows himself a rare smile as he remembers how Setantii had drawn him in so easily that day. The cold damp rock he sits on now reminds him of the slab that had so completely numbed his seat back then and as he closes his eyes it is easy for him to go there again to listen once more.

Setantii began with a question.

‘Tell me Thomas Chevalier, how is that you came to be?’

Thomas thought long and hard about his answer, convinced that there must be something behind what he knew it to be but, unable to uncover anything more profound, he offered it anyway.

‘I was born. Seeded by my father and nurtured by my mother.’

‘And your mother? How was it that she was alive in order to create you?’

A light went on in Thomas’s head, so bright that Setantii saw it too.

‘That’s right man. You are the result of a thousand mothers and fathers, each coupling improving your design to make you stronger and more ready to survive this world. Evolution is the answer to why you are here Thomas but tell me, can you answer this simple paradox? Why would evolution select for you an increasingly larger brain if mankind neglects to use most of its capacity? Doesn’t it seem strange to you that life should expend so much effort in order to develop something so under utilized?’

‘But that’s a myth! This idea that humans use only ten percent of their brain simply isn’t true. Of course the human brain is complex but every bit of it is used. Not all at the same time grant you but used it is. Along with performing millions of mundane acts, it composes concertos, issues manifestos and comes up with elegant solutions to equations. It's the wellspring of all human feelings, behaviors, experiences as well as the repository of memory and self-awareness. So whilst it's no surprise that to me that the brain remains a mystery unto itself, it is a surprise that you don’t know this Setantii!’

‘Ah the arrogance. Where would we be without it? The very thing that gave my kind the opportunity to evolve and ascend.’

Thomas was confused that his neat and factual attempt to discredit Setantii’s argument had such little impact. On the contrary, it seemed more like he had clumsily sprung some philosophical trap placed in front of him. Of course he had.

‘It’s true that you use all the bits of your brain but what isn’t true is that that you use its full capacity. Remember, just because you and your bitch of a dead wife used every room in Hartford Manor doesn’t mean that you couldn’t fit another hundred guests in there does it?’

‘Hey now just a….!’

The widower had his protest slapped back down before it could rise fully.

‘Your family doesn’t increase in size or effectiveness just because you live in a big house and it’s the same with your brain. The fact that there are more synapses to fire doesn’t seem to have made human kind any more valuable than it was a thousand years ago does it Thomas? The truth of it is that humanity blew it and nature grew tired of evolving a species that squandered every opportunity she presented it with.’

A loud splash yanks Thomas back to Sule Skerry where his daughter has somehow managed to roll a rather large rock to the brink of a flat rock slab and heave it over, mercifully not following it into the Atlantic.

‘Cristian, move away from the water please! I won’t tell you again!’

On hearing her father’s voice say this name, Christine turns away from the sea and back toward him, clambers down from the rocks and dashes up the beach as fast as the loose shale and her memory of it allows her too. She can hardly breathe by the time she reaches him but it’s excitement, not exertion that’s making her pant and Thomas knows what’s coming.

‘Is he daddy! Is my brother really here!?’

Thomas sighs heavily, cursing himself for this simple mistake made as he drifted back from memories and onto Sule Skerry. Reaching out to lift, twist and sit his daughter on his knee he explains that her brother isn’t here just yet but that he will be soon. After a rough and tumble hug and tickle, topped off with a huge raspberry kiss on her cheek, Thomas releases his daughter and smiles proudly after her as she makes her way to feed the mice as he has asked. She has barely entered the lighthouse keep before his attention returns to the dossier. This is what he reads from the notes that he wrote after his discussion with Setantii that day.

‘The silkie has told me that nature does indeed have design but so more than just those ‘survival of the fittest’ rules tailored for a particular species, as the evolutionists would lead us to believe. And whilst there is no doubt that there exists this battle between life forms for territorial supremacy (in their struggle to the top of the food chain) the numbers and form of any one genre will only ever progress as long as it fulfils a more fundamental set of criteria; a higher order if you will. It is this plan, the ultimate goal of natures laws that decides the who, what, when and where’s of evolutionary success in order to ensure that the planet, not its inhabitants, will thrive. So yes, natural selection will evolve a selected animal toward supremacy but ultimately, if that species veers too far from the master plan then that’s where it stops to become either extinct or at best irrelevant.’

Thomas looks up from his notes and out to sea in order to contemplate nature’s master plan once more. Ten years have past since he first heard it and the sublime simplicity still makes him shiver. And here it was; the answer to the biggest question ever asked by man, word for word and scribbled inside a set of scruffy, loose leaf papers upon the trembling knee of a man that most people would consider crazy.

It’s the energy of the stars that populate this universe Thomas, not the organisms that blink in and out of existence within it. The earth is nothing more than a seed of our sun; a seed that will have gestated for 5 billion years by the time she is ready. And when this planet has fully evolved a life form advanced enough to transcend this solar system, then our Mother Earth will release her offspring into the galaxy and in doing so assure her sun’s lineage. Only then will she return to her star and begin the cycle over. Do you understand what I am telling you Thomas? There can be only one Earthling in each cycle. This is the prize that has slipped through man’s grasp.

So man as nothing more than a supporting act with no purpose other than to nourish and assure the dominion of another, higher species? A failed evolutionary step? Is this the holy grail (in reality a badly chipped holy mug) implicit within the master plan that Setantii had outlined? Thomas Chevalier alone had burdened this quandary as he went about his decade long, relatively mundane quest to rescue his daughter. Setantii had elaborated on her revelation toward the end of their journey south as Thomas and Cristian Chevalier braced themselves in the wind of the bow of the ferry that sailed the Solent toward the Isle of Wight. Bathed in the cool, salty sunshine, it was to be Thomas’s and Setantii’s last day together. With time running out the man had asked nothing of the silkie, simply listened intently as she explained man’s part in the creation of her genus.

Setantii had began her explanation with ideas that could be found in any school boy text book. How, as a species, the hominoids had done well with one amongst them winning the race against the chimps and gorillas, orangutans and gibbons. Rapid cranial development had given this animal the edge, made room for its brain to swell and as the number of neurons multiplied so human kind climbed to claim its place at the head of the family. Standing proudly he emerged as a new species, armed with a large brain that buzzed with activity, heightened his capacity to reason the information that his senses reported about the environment he roamed through. But there had been a price to pay, for this improved brain was ravenous, needing ever more energy, heat and food. For Tomhais this is the point where Setantii’s teachings had lifted from the page, facts taking wing to become fantastic. She explained how for some time this need to feed slowed his development. A balance had been struck between hunger and the mortality of those young hunters who were having to take ever greater risks with their own lives before their genes could be sown. The problem was fundamental. What good was it to see or hear an animal at distance if the ensuing hunt might result in more energy being drained by the body, a bludgeoning stumble over rocks or a freezing chill from rivers crossed? Evolution ploughed on. More neurons were added, more power to the brain until finally a sixth sense emerged that revealed to man a set of previously hidden natural rhythms in the world outside and so broadening the spectrum of energies that man could see, hear and feel. It was these energy streams that some men latched onto, learnt to control and direct in order to carry their thoughts into the minds of the organisms that they lived amongst. Man’s rise accelerated once more, became meteoric as this skill was honed to search for food through the eyes of birds, trick the minds of deer to bring meat and fur to his spear. Meat and fur that he desperately needed to nourish and warm the brain that he now served. Setantii herself had admitted that this creature had become a magnificent animal but Thomas could sense a smugness in her tone as she undid him. For at even as man reached for his he was condemned to fail, unable to shake a niggling urge to cut free and replace what the earth provided with his own ideas of how things should be. It was his perverse belief that nature was not his master but a tool for him to wield that eventually led him down a very different path, one which definitely wasn’t part of the master plan. Technology became man’s folly and as he turned his back on the natural world he disconnected himself from it, claimed victory and convinced himself that he had broken free from the forces of creation to take control of his own destiny. But mother earth had a different agenda and would not be denied what she had designed for her purpose. Evolution acted quickly to make the adjustment. From the brain of man another branch budded on the tree of life. A new species, built from energy, not matter. A species designed to thrive amongst the souls of the living, take from each whatever it needs to ensure that when the cycle closes Earth can release its contribution; a single entity, blown onto the winds of space-time by a dying sun in the hope that its essence will flourish once more, warmed by the nurturing glow of whichever new star accepts her gift.

Silkie, aswan, baakenko, maita. Call them what you will but this is their purpose. Call them Earthlings.

These were to be the last words that Setantii would ever dictate to Thomas Chevalier. He had almost missed them too, amidst the rattle of chains and clatter of the disembarkation ramp as the ferry had docked.

The sun is sinking fast on Sule Skerry. Time for dad to feed and settle his daughter down for the evening. As Thomas stands a loose piece of paper slips from the folder he clutches and floats toward the sea. He only just manages to catch it with a rather stiff lunge before the mischievous breeze has time to dunk it fully into the waves. It is an important piece of paper too, one that contains the details of what will happen over the next few days. Thomas clutches it tightly and sits back down on the rocks, tearful as he remembers May, ready to confess just one more time for his part in her slow demise. It had been Aunt May who had told him that one day he would receive the letter, or at least the words had come from her lips. Thomas closes his eyes and raises his hands to cover them but he can still see how quickly her face had changed that day. A moment of shear delight (catching a glimpse of her nephew climbing down the steps to leave the boat) instantly replaced by abject horror as Setantii entered and introduced herself. Thomas had accepted then that this was how it had to be, that there could be no gradual transition from a loving aunt to a maternal, ancient entity that protectively grabbed Cristian and held him on the dockside whilst Thomas shook John’s hand. Everyone knew of course that the delivery of Cristian into his aunt and uncle’s care that day had to be done quickly (and secretly too) but only Thomas and Setantii knew that the selkie would stay there also, invade May and take charge of raising her offspring for the next ten years. For his part, Thomas was to say goodbye to his son forever and build a new life in which he could raise a blind daughter in preparation for the day when her sight would be restored and the infant silkie in her exorcised. This was the deal between man and silkie, a deal that empowered each of them with custody of one of the two children that they shared. Thomas Chevalier would raise his daughter to become human; Setanti would ensure the development of her next generation by mentoring Cristian’s ascension.

‘I’ll write soon with all the details of what you have to do Thomas!’

Uncle John had looked at his wife with a rather puzzled expression as May shouted this but Thomas hadn’t reacted, incapable as he was of hearing anything above the screams of his own conscience and grief for the son he had just condemned. Weeks later, perhaps only days after he and baby Christine had moved into the first of the seventeen homes that they were to rent during the coming years, the letter (that had almost been lost to the sea) had arrived.

Sule Skerry, December 1st 2010. Bring Christine, six white mice and a girl called Ruby Stevens from Hartford. She has blue eyes and red hair and she is as pure Setantii as remains today. No substitute will be acceptable.

Today it was November the 26th and Thomas Chevalier has completed his side of the deal to the letter.

Chapter 15.

My name is Cristian Chevalier and tonight I am consumed by misery and remorse. The woman I love is broken and I cannot say that she will ever be returned to me. I am the one who did this to her. The secret I kept broke her heart. My failure to protect her broke her back. I tried but the animal that I took to stand between her and Setantii’s stag was too small and I too unpracticed at this dark art. If it hadn’t been for Uncle John then god knows how much would be left of her now. Thankfully his bravery at the very last saved her life from the stag and her soul from the monster that controlled the beasts attack.

‘Rose? Rose, can you hear me darling?’

My love’s hand is warm in mine but still it refuses to recognize my voice. It’s been like this for three hours now, ever since her motionless body was laid on these crisp white sheets and I begaan my vigil next to her. The nurse has asked me to leave three times already. I know that once Rose’s mother arrives my time with her will be over but for now, I refuse to go. Before I leave her side I have to know if it is paralysis or hate that denies me her recognition. She looks so beautiful. Were it not for the medical paraphernalia connected to her arm and a bruise smudged onto the bridge of her delicate nose, a person could easily mistake the coma she has slipped into for sleep. That’s what I have made of my Rose, a Sleeping Beauty. But it will take more than a gentle kiss on her cherry lips to wake her.

‘I won’t leave you here Rose, I promise you I won’t. I’ll bring you back to me love, no matter what or how long it takes.’

Behind me there is a slow, mocking handclap.

‘What a heart wrenching scene. And such lovely words too Cristian. But think hard before you make a promise that you may not want to keep.’

I don’t have to turn around to know who has spoken. Neither do I have to maintain any pretence of what it is.

‘Setantii, this is not the time. And for your information my decision stands. This changes nothing for me. Did you really think that crippling Rose would lessen the love in my heart? Love can’t be defeated so easily Setantii. This is something that you will never understand, no matter how many souls you devour!’

My outburst is the final straw for a nurse who has already risked the wrath of her matron by allowing me to stay at Rose’s bed side. The nurse stomps from her reception desk at the ward entrance and into the room, her face puffed and fuming as she sees Aunt May, confounded by the fact that yet another stranger has managed to slip past her guard. The nurse isn’t to know that a silkie has touched her mind.

‘Right, I don’t know who you are but this really is enough. Besides which, Mrs Williams is at the front desk and as neither of you are relatives?’

The question hangs in silence long enough for it to become rhetorical.

‘Exactly. So please, if you don’t mind I’d like you to leave now. Both of you please.’

I am so reluctant that the nurse, struggling to retain her patience and polite demeanor, is forced to lean across my shoulder and physically unclench my fingers from Rose’s hand. I release them one by one, with no real resistance but enough for me to be able to tell Rose in future (should she ever find it in her heart to forgive me) that the nurse had to remove me from her bedside. Stealing a final kiss from my beauty’s softly breathing mouth (but she doesn’t wake, why won’t she wake?!) I stand and leave the room. Setantii follows me, wary of the glare I’ve given her and staying a cautious two paces behind as we make our way through the open ward and out into a deserted and silent corridor. Hospitals at night are an enigma to me;, permanently poised on the precipice of tragedy and yet so quiet. Just like the lady and the man striding urgently towards me now. Desperate as they are for things to be okay inside whichever of these rooms it is that holds their life in the balance, still their urgency daren’t place a foot too hard on the tile for fear of making noise. As it turns out, the room that they place their trust in is the same one that holds my heart. The low lighting in the corridor makes it difficult for the woman to see anything through the tears in her eyes and only when she is less than ten feet away does she see something that bumps the plight of her daughter down her priorities. She stops dead in her tracks. As it turns out, the room that they place their trust in is the same one that holds my heart.

‘Dawn? Dawn Chevalier? But…’

As Setantiishe offers anbegins to explaination for this unsettling encounter, sheSetantii moves forward and stands at my shoulder.

‘Oh no my dear, I’m afraid I am not her. My name is May, Dawn’s sister. Dawn left us almost ten years ago. Oh how awful for you to be surprised like this. Did you know her well?’

‘I knew she had…, but you look so….yes. Yes wWe were friends, for a while and….Cristian!’

Finally, as her confusion clears, June Williams has recognizesd me. From where, I have no idea but she knows who I am and I can tell from the hate she is spitting at me that she holds me responsible for her daughter’s condition. And why wouldn’t she.

‘You stay away from my daughter you hear! You just fucking stay away from her!’

The enigma is dispelled. Apparently if you happen to put a mother’s child into a deep coma then she will become frenzied in a hospital, regardless of the time of day. It is left to her companion to protect me as frankly I don’t have the stomach for it, deserving each clenched fist that she pounds into my chest. At least this woman’s anger is pure, bursting with the hate of a real mother. I wish my mother had been left alone to love me like this, instead of having to share her maternal duties with the entity that had invaded her. Eventually she is restrained, hugged firmly and turned away to be dragged past me. She isn’t screaming anymore, but she is crying loudly and I pickstep up my pace to get away from the pain I have caused her. It’s a relief to finally step outside, and hear the soft plastic doors flap closed behind me. he

‘Well that went well don’t you think?’

I’ve really had enough.

‘Listen you heartless bitch, that woman has just learnt that her daughter is possibly paralyzed for life and with an outside chance that she may never recover from her coma! So if you could just try and understand that…’

‘Try and understand you say! Oh I understand Cristian, all too well. And before you condemn me for my lack of sympathy think about this. I have already lost one of my offspring and a second is all but gone to her human father. And these are souls that it takes more than nine months of pathetic huffing and puffing to bring into this world. For twenty five years I must drape myself in human garb whilst I wait for my protégé to arrive, every day spent anxiously hoping that nothing will harm the human child that carries it. So don’t you dare presume to tell me I know nothing of a mother’s angst at losing a child!’

Setantii is right about this and for a fleeting moment I pity her. Christine will be human for that was the deal she made with my father and she will not renege on it, regardless of what becomes of me. But I’m pleased too that she has finally accepted my decision, that I will not ascend and instead allow my silkie brethren to retire to some dark corner of my mind and wither there. She deserves some recognition for this.

‘Thank you Setantii. Thank you for understanding my decision.’

Worryingly Aunt May’s face looks smug, not at all accepting of either my thanks or my choice for a future life.

‘Your decision? Your decision isn’t made yet Cristian, believe me.’

‘But you just said that you’ve failed twice already Setantii, with Christine and I.’

‘Christine yes, but for you I have high hopes. But there was another, before I came to the Chevalier family. And that is someone that I want you to go and speak to Cristian. A man who once had to make the same decision that you face now. He made his choice and I respected that. All I ask is that you listen to him before you make yours. Surely you owe me that much? But you have my promise that if, by the time you have finished listening to what he has to say, your decision still stands then so be it. A human you shall be and I will not, indeed cannot stop you. Free will is the key to your ascension Cristian. Nature demands that nothing can happen unless you truly want it. It is a choice that only you can make.’

Setantii’s declaration makes my blood boil up! If this was to be my choice and mine alone then why did she try and gouge the heart out of my girlfriend at the tip of a raging stag’s antler? Oh, she will answer this before any more deals are done!

‘So what the hell was the point in trying to kill Rose then Setantii? Is that anything at all to do with my free will? Couldn’t you have just taken her, walked her toward me and spat in my face, have her tell me that she hates me and doesn’t want to see me again?’

‘And do you really think that you wouldn’t have known?’

Of course I would have. It’s impossible to mistake the fiery passion of love and hate with the insidious flame that a silkie brings to a loved one’s eye. But still, to try and kill Rose like that?

‘So you chose to threaten her instead, hold her safety to ransom and demand that I ascend. This still doesn’t seem to have much to do with free will Setantii!’

‘Not a ransom Cristian. As I said, I could not trade her life for your ascension for that would break the laws of nature. No, I was simply removing a distraction if you like, giving you a little less reason to humanize yourself, that’s all. Callous it may be, but the silkie inside you is far more important to me than you can yet understand Cristian. So please, will you go and talk to the man who has the answers you need?’

I agree to go and talk, tell Setantii that I will go and talk to whoever she wants me too. What I don’t mention is that I’m doing this only in the hope of gleaning information, picking up clues to any weaknesses that this stranger may be aware of and that may point the way for me to discover how best avenge what this demon has done to Rose. ar

Chapter 16

Whilst Cristian Chevalier listens to Setantii’s instructions outside of the hospital, June Williams leans awkwardly against the door of her daughter’s room, taking a minute to pull her self together after having fallen apart so completely in the corridor. Jeremy Hill stands beside her (patting her back gently as she sobs) encouraging her to take her time. He knows that there’s no point to it, that Rose won’t care if her mother cries or laughs or sings but for June’s sake he waits, patiently whilst secretly wishing that she would hurry up and let him get on with what he must do.

Of course Jeremy Hill isn’t Rose’s doctor. He isn’t even what one might call a friend of the family but never the less he was the first person to be told about what had happened on the lawns of Hartford Manor, albeit to a girl that he had first met less than twelve hours previously. He had been at home when he received a call, just before nine o’clock this evening. When Hill picked up the phone he had heard John Trent on the other end, urgent and pumped with adrenaline. This was Uncle John, the man who had fired the gun that killed the stag and he was recounting how, almost immediately after the animal had died, he had found himself in savage fight with Aunt May. Hill might have laughed at this image (a large, fit man being thrashed by his tiny wife) but he knew better, for as frail as May Trent’s body is, the creature inside it had made slender arms both fast and accurate and the small fists they yielded had managed to bloody her husband’s nose and blacken his eye before finally being subdued. Hill had listened to John’s account with suspicion and remember’s thinking how over the top this response was to Rose’s rescue seemed, a view shared by Uncle John and raising serious concerns about Setantii’s motives for attacking her. Hill hadn’t understood what they might be but he had been convinced that Rose William’s was perhaps more significant to the silkie within May Trent than simply playing an annoying bit part in Cristian’s ascension should make her. The men’s agreement about this had been whispered but clear; Rose was somehow important and she must be protected until they could find out more.

‘I think I’m ready now doctor. And thanks again for driving me all this way at such short notice. It really is very good of you.’

‘Oh please Mrs Williams, think nothing of it. All part of the service. Please, after you.’

Hill opens the door and steps aside to allow June to enter. The room is small and dimly lit by a single angle poise lamp that sits on a desk at the far side of the bed. In the pool of light beneath it there are papers and notes that the nurse uses to record the condition of her patient and chart the vital signs as they scroll across the monitor mounted on the wall above it. Rose lies motionless on the fringe but Hill is pleased to see that rather than fuel June’s angst, the sight of her helpless daughter steels the mother and there are no fresh tears. Whilst June draws a chair closer to Rose’s bed, Dr Hill moves around the end of it to inspect the medical notes.

‘Can she hear me Dr Hill? I mean if I talk to her, will she be able to hear me?’

‘I believe she will June, yes. Would you like me to leave?’

Hill curses his breeding and the gentlemanly behavior demanded by it. If the answer to his polite gesture happens to be yes then he is going to have one hell of a time coming up with an excuse to pries open one of Roses eyes, an action necessary if he is to confirm that the hospital staff haven’t removed her diamond lenses and in doing so let down her only defense.

‘Oh no that won’t be necessary. You do what you have to doctor, we’ll be fine.’

The doctor doesn’t need a second invitation. He reaches for the lamp and angles it toward Rose’s face, igniting a corona of dazzling blond hair around her head that sets the pillow on fire. Gently he takes the upper and lower lid of her right eye and draws them apart to expose her cornea. It’s white, bright white and he sighs with relief. Leaning closer he can see a pale milky swirl upon her pupil and satisfied with this he releases and allows the eye to close.

‘Good. Very good. Tell me June, did you know that Rose had contacts?’

He should have looked up fully first, then perhaps Hill would have seen that June is talking to her daughter. Barley audible as her words are (even to someone who is awake!) she is engrossed in her one way conversation and hasn’t heard the doctor’s question. Hill walks back around the bed and places his hand on June’s shoulder.

‘Listen to me June. I’m going to leave you alone with Rose now. I’ll wait for you outside so you take as long as you need. But this is important so you have to listen to me before I go. Rose has contact lenses. I think they’re cosmetic but that doesn’t matter. They have to be left in place June. If they’re removed and Rose should wake without them then her eyesight could be permanently damaged. Do you understand me June? They have to stay in her eyes, no matter what.’

The woman finally looks away from her daughter and nods for the doctor but this isn’t enough.

‘What did I say June?’

‘That the contact lenses have to stay in place.’

‘That’s right. It’s very important so should a nurse or even a doctor ask about them then you just tell them to talk to me before they do anything, okay?’

This time her nod is a lot firmer and with it, his work done for the night. Dr Hill slides quietly from the room and leaves mother and daughter alone to try and work out how they can reconnect across the darkness that divides them.

Chapter 17

It’s early morning by the time that Setantii and I finally arrive back from the hospital and pull to a stop on the forecourt of Hartford Manor. The winter sun is just rising, with barely the strength to lift and hold a thin band of mist above the woodland beyond the lawn where Rose fell last night. There it stays; a grey canopy unable to rise higher but refusing to fall. Is this what I am to become? A stubborn grey haze trapped between sky and ground, undecided and so unable to commit to either existence? I shudder at the thought. Not at the gravity of the decision I face, immense as it is, but at the realization that this marks the first time that I can remember ever doubting my choice not to ascend and to stay with Rose. But it isn’t me, Cristian Chevalier that falters. It is something else. It is the developing silkie inside me, as yet unnamed, that has begun to stir and fight for its right to life. Setantii feels it too. Smiling, she puts her arm around me and together we walk up the entrance steps.

Uncle John isn’t here to greet us but there is a note from him pinned to the door. I’m the first to reach out and take it down.

To Cristian,

Be strong son, and follow your heart where ever it leads.

To Setantii,

When this is over, I beg you to bring my May back to me. No matter how much of her soul remains, it will be enough to complete me.

John T

‘And will you?’

I thrust the note into Setantii’s hand and give her a moment to read it.

‘You know Cristian, this is something that I haven’t quite decided yet. When I eventually leave your Aunt May, which I will when my time caring for you is over, I’m really not sure how much of her soul will remain intact and whether or not it would be best to take it for myself or give it back to John. And let me say that this outcome won’t be swayed by John’s damned intervention last night. No, I can forgive him that because both he and May have been magnificent over the past decade, really they have. You have my promise that I will decide based only on what is best for them and that may well mean your Uncle being set free to finally grieve for his wife. ’

It suddenly strikes me that as much as I know about Setantii’s role as my guardian, I know little of her relationship with my aunt and uncle. Never mind that, I am almost ignorant about how the silkie and my biological mother were together! When I was a child Setantii had been very real, a kind of imaginary friend. When I played she would play too, whisper in my ear and laugh as we searched for Rose hiding in the woods. At school she would guide me to the answers, fend off bullies and on the way home bring cars to a halt should I step from the curb without looking. Of course she had never explained her true nature, the fact that she had invested a part of her self in me and so she remained something that I had created, a secret guardian that I truly valued. After my mother had committed suicide, and as my father and I had fled to Aunt May’s, Setantii fell silent. I was desperately sad to begin with and her abandoning me like this had been a double blow. During those ten days of furtive travel I began the process of coming to terms with both of these losses and reasoned that the stress of everything had perhaps forced me to grow up, cast aside childish things and with them my imaginary friend. I know now that Setantii was in fact herself grieving and panicking too, desperate to recover the situation, talking inside my father but never once neglecting the duty of care she had for me. Only when Setantii and my father had made sure that I was safely in the care of Aunt May and Uncle John did they separate and Setantii take up her new place within the body of my aunt.

‘You see Cristian, when I entered May it had to happen quickly. I needed time if I was to explain things to her, allow her to lapse in to madness where I could gradually convince her that everything was going to be okay, that I was in control but that she would be safe. Believe me, I took no pleasure in draining her soul so quickly and so completely but the alternative would have taken months, years maybe and I couldn’t risk that That’s why there is so little left of your Aunt May inside here today. I had to shut her down immediately, take almost all of her and leave only the faintest memory of what she was for me to present to the world, keep John by my side. It had to be this way if I was to be able to continue looking after you properly. Do you understand Cristian?’

On some level I think I do. What’s more Setantii sounds genuinely remorseful for what she has done to my aunt. But I still can’t get past my loathing of this creature. This silkie that invaded my family, contaminated my mother and laid a seed inside the fetus she was nurturing; the rudiments of a child that would one day become me.

‘And was it the same for my mother Setantii? Make your excuses and raid her like this did you? Strip everything that she was and take it for yourself, murdering what was left when you’d done with her? ’

‘I didn’t kill Dawn Chevalier! Trust me, you knew your true biological mother Cristian. She wasn’t a mere puppet like May has been. No, Dawn took her own life that day, after she’d taken Christine’s eyes.’

We are in the drawing room now having walked slowly whilst we talked. I need a rest too, for a short while at least before I get busy again, grab a bag and leave for god knows where. Above the fire place is a picture of the woman that we are talking about. Dawn Chevalier, my mother who (if I am to be brutally honest) was never really much of a comfort or help to me. I loved her of course, but I had sort of loved Setantii too back then, never guessing that they were one and the same; silkie and human mother’s sharing body and soul to tend their child together. That’s if Setantii is to be trusted on this for I have no reason to believe that she hadn’t dealt with Dawn the same way that she now treats her sister, May. Having sensed my doubt Setantii leans forward and begins to offer her reassurance in calm, deliberate tones.

‘Ancient I may be Cristian but it is only in recent times that I have become powerful enough and humanity sufficiently plentiful for me to be confident about replicating.’

Replicating. What a strange word to use. It sounds like something a machine might do, not a sentient being but then again, is a human birth anymore than this; the replication of parent genes with perhaps the odd twist?

‘You remember me telling you once that man and silkie have common ancestry Cristian? Well for mankind the separation of our two species was total but for silkie it wasn’t. Like the turtle must find a particular beach or a salmon the exact river where she was born so silkie have to return, only able to seed ourselves in the soul of humanity from where we came. I had failed once already and so I took great care in selecting your family as one that would give me the best chance of nurturing a new life through to ascension. Your father is a brilliant mind, physically strong too but it was his money and influence that convinced me that he could protect you better than most. His young wife Dawn was an excellent candidate too. She didn’t have the strength of purpose of your father but if anything her mind was sharper than his. The thing that impressed me most about her was how open she was, a free spirit. It still took time to bring her around to my way of thinking though and in this aspect your father’s stubbornness and money didn’t help. He employed all kinds of doctors and treatments to try and shake me from her but in the end her madness went away all by itself as she accepted the idea that we could work together, as equals, to bring our next generations into the world. And so you were born Cristian.’

Setantii is smiling again but this time it isn’t so warm. There’s a falseness about it that’s difficult to grasp but I know it’s there none the less. I feel like I’m staring at one of those magic pictures; knowing that somewhere within that matrix of confused dots lies the full picture yet it refuses to reveal itself to me, no matter how long I look.

‘And we were good together Dawn and I. You were happy and safe under our wing until..’

The smile is replaced by a tight lipped frown as Setantii considers her next words carefully. I stay silent, not wanting to interrupt her thoughts as I feel sure that they are leading toward a long sought answer about why my mother died.

‘When Dawn fell pregnant with Christine I immediately thought why not take the opportunity to seed her again? It was a mistake and I admit that I was wrong not to have involved her in the decision but, well let’s just say that I had misread the situation. Dawn was so angry when I told her, angry that I had taken another of her children and looking back I can understand her feeling this way. On two occasions she tried to terminate the baby and twice I had to control her mind, stop her from carrying it through. Eventually she conceded that I was not going to let it happen and an uneasy truce was restored. But she had been clever you mother, cloaked her true intent in irrelevant nonsense and hidden it deep inside her mind, only developing those plans on the occasions when I left her to be with you. This is how she managed to keep her murderous preparations from me for the next five months of the pregnancy, how she hid the crucifixes in her bed, ready to plunge them into the eyes of her daughter the moment that she was born.’

Pop! The picture comes into focus! And at the center of it stands Dawn Chevalier; brilliant and brave. A wonderful mother, prepared to risk everything in the hope that her baby girl will be given a chance at a normal life. She knew that a person’s eyes are not only the gateway to their soul but more importantly the sole passage through which silkie can enter and leave it! She knew that taking her daughter’s eyes like this, gruesome as it was, would trap the fledgling entity inside. Of course she couldn’t have known how Setantii would react, but for Dawn Chevalier it was a case of better the devil you don’t know. My mother took a blind leap of faith that day, one that might yet pay off for Setantii’s instincts to protect the things she had planted inside my sister and I had forced her hand. Betrayed by Dawn she had turned to my father, no doubt lied as she struck a deal with him that would buy herself time. Better this than accepting defeat there and then and abandoning the offspring trapped within baby Christine.

‘And that’s why my mother had to die. Because she closed the eyes of her baby and beat you.’

The bitterness of my words tightens Aunt May’s expression further until it freezes, as still as the photograph of her dead sister that smiles at me over her shoulder. Other than this, there is no response.

It’s time for me to pack.

Chapter 17

Ten minutes is all it takes for me to bundle the things I will need into a rucksack and sling it onto the back seat of the car. I would have been quicker had it not been for Lloyd and Bruce insisting on helping me. I hate leaving the dogs like this. They’ve seen the bag, know what it means and twice I have to tell them to jump down from the back seat of the Range Rover. Remarkably, explaining that Stan will be coming around soon to keep an eye on them seems to settle the pair and I return the dogs to the house with little resistance. Setantii has gone. She hasn’t left a note and so I have no idea where she might have slid off to but this isn’t a surprise for it was made quite clear that what I must do I must do alone. As I drive through the woods the satnav thinks about how best to get me to the address that Setantii gave me, on the way back from the hospital. By the time I reach the gates it’s done deliberating and instructs me to turn left, adding that the journey will take just over an hour. Just sixty minutes separate me from Jack Noble; a man who I have never met but a person with the capacity to have the most profound impact on my life.

Initially I’m making good progress but as the hedge rows and dry stone walls of the country side are cleared to make room for shops and houses, the morning rush hour jabs the brakes and idles the engine. I have three days left and with time so short every delay sat at traffic lights notches my frustration up a level until it has to be released. With the motorway finally in view I swing the steering hard right and pull out of the queue, onto the opposite carriageway, force at least three cars to mount the curb before cutting back in and stealing onto the slip road at the head of the line. The swarm of beeping rage I kick up is soon left behind as my speed finally returns to meet the schedule set by my satnav. It isn’t only the journey that is frustrating me either. Since I talked to Setantii outside the hospital come to realize that, for all her attention over the years, she hasn’t actually told me more than a handful of tangible details for me to consider here. I mean, if everything I know is true, then all I really know is that by the time I leave Sule Skerry I will either be human or something else completely! Something higher, set free to feed on the souls of the race I will have denied. Not much to go on at all and I pray that Jack Noble will have more for me to go on. There it is again! A nudge hardly felt but undeniable. A gentle jab from deep inside my mind, prodding my thoughts away from a decision already made. Less than four hours ago I had resolved not to ascend, not to step foot on some remote lump of rock that Setantii had called Sule Skerry. I had set off on this journey not to rise but to cement my feet firmly to the ground. My search for a man called Jack Noble had been undertaken for one purpose only; to discover clues as to how Rose, my mother and sister might be avenged. Now I find that my agenda over the next few days has been completely rewritten, and pretty much without my having a conscious say in it too! Confirmation of this fact is glowing on the passenger seat. Enlarged on the ipad screen beside me there is an article about the Orkney’s. It contains a small section of map and the picture of a place called Stromness; a tiny Scottish seaport clustered around an old harbour built from grey stone long since heaved out of the island itself. Stromness is a step off point, for the ferries and smaller craft that I can clearly see on the photograph seemingly being lifted onto the causeway by a high North sea tide. This a town that, without any recollection, I have asked my ipad to find for me. This is the town that is the final stepping stone to a place called Sule Skerry.

Something is indeed stirring inside and its influence is emerging ever faster.

Chapter 18

I’m impressed.

On the edge of the Peak District, nestling within sweeping moorland, Lyme Park is a magnificent estate. Lyme Hall lies at the heart of this splendor and makes my country pile look like one of those mock Georgian suburban new builds. The satnav announced that its duties were complete and that we had arrived at our destination well over a mile ago. From the moment that I entered through wrought iron gates (twice the height of those protecting Hartford Manor) the drive had been uphill and on a well maintained tarmac road that curls upwards through beautifully managed woods and parkland. Occasionally I glimpse small groups of red deer grazing amongst the oak and elm. The hunting here must be magnificent but it couldn’t possibly be as awesome as the breathtaking setting of the manor house itself which ambushes me as I drive over a final crest. The building’s eighteenth century façade is an Italianate palace, chiseled from limestone so clean and crisp that if someone were to tell me that it had been cast only this morning from the finest alabaster I wouldn’t have questioned them. Lyme Hall shines, veils itself in a mystical shroud spun from a mist that lingers still on the surface of the lake lying before it and which the edifice seems to float upon. Unicorns would not look out of place here.

‘My my Jack Noble, you have done well for yourself haven’t you.’

Or has he. My heart sinks as I see the sign; Lyme Hall Mental Institution.

The lady in reception is impeccably dressed and extremely well spoken. There is no doubt that is a private facility, right at the top end of the mental health care spectrum so I guess that Jack’s family still have money, enough at least to stick their benefactor here out of harms way. I wonder if it was Setantii that drove his mind over the edge and dumped him here in a Wonderland.

‘Chevalier, Cristian Chevalier. I’m here to visit Jack Noble.’

‘Okay. And is he expecting you Mr Chevalier?’

‘Er no, no he isn’t. I’m actually not related either, just a friend. But do you think he will see me?’

‘Well let’s find out shall we.’

The phone is already in her hand and soon answered. So efficient.

‘Hi Barbara, it’s Amanda at reception. Do you have Jack with you at the moment? Oh you do, right. I have a gentleman here to see him, Mr Chevalier. He doesn’t have an appointment but he….okay fine. I’ll send him down.’

Amanda puts down the phone, smiles and informs me that Jack is in the old orangery and that if I follow signs for the ‘Sunshine Room’ I will easily find it. I do. Barbara is already waiting there to briefly introduce herself as she opens the door. The space we enter is exactly as the name suggests; a room filled with sunshine. Its high glass ceiling, supported by stone columns framing rows of floor length sash windows, pushes back on the sky. The far wall (at least one hundred feet away) is built solidly until it reaches shoulder height where the rest of the gable end is completed with more pillars and panes. Around the entire room a wire safety mesh has been screwed to the bottom six feet of each glazed section but its relatively open weave doesn’t deter the glass from scooping buckets of light into a space that in its conception had been filled with trees and plants from all parts of the globe. Today the light pours onto a far less romantic collection of vegetation; rotten human minds that are either ambling around or sitting at tables, occasionally standing to look through a window and wonder at the world outside. I shake my head, reluctant to follow the nurse and convinced that this is a complete waste of my time that should be spent dissecting my dilemma, not sympathizing with a crazy man whose brain has been fried by a silkie’s scorn.

‘This way Mr Chevalier. You’ll be quite safe I can assure you. The mesh is only there to prevent accidents, stop the patients from hurting themselves.’

I have no choice but to go through with this so I trudge after her. Halfway down the room she stops and waits, taking position next to another white coat that I presume is a doctor of some description. The man before me in the easy chair looks older than I expected Jack to be, in spite of his almost trendy attire; loose jeans, sandals and a tee shirt that is two sizes too large but I suppose better collects the occasional dribble form his slack mouth. Better get this charade over with so I don’t hesitate to lower myself onto my haunches, place one hand on the old fella’s knee and begin the introduction.

‘Hi. How are you feeling today? My name is Cristian and I, well I just wanted to talk to you about something but if…’

‘What the hell are you doing?’

The doctor (or whatever he is) has interrupted us. I stay down but tilt my head to look up at him. He doesn’t seem angry, more confused so I stand up fully in order to better apologise for breeching whatever ‘lunatic interviewing’ protocol it is that I haven’t followed.

‘I’m sorry, but I was just trying to talk to Jack.’

The man grins, more insanely than any expression I’ve seen so far today, and offers me his hand.

‘No you weren’t pal, but you are now! I’m Jack Noble, head psychiatrist. Now how can I help you young man?’

I instantly like this man, although I can tell that he’s enjoying every morsel of my embarrassment. It’s this jovial, open and confident demeanor that convinces me that perhaps there’s no need for me to try and dress up what I have to say.

‘Please, call me Cristian. And it’s so good to finally meet you Jack. I just wish we had longer because time is short and I need to talk to you about Setantii.’

A number of scenarios had been played out in my head during the journey here. In one Jack Noble whispers the name back to me, screams and runs for the door; in another he screams vengeance and lashes out at me; in a third he drops to his knees and simply screams. Yes, it’s true to say that Jack Noble screamed a lot in my imagination but never once did he respond to this revelation by casually placing his hand on my shoulder and uttering these words.

‘So it’s your turn then. You must be very excited Cristian, but with a lot of questions too I guess.’

The place that Jack takes me to talk is a picnic area far away from the hall and surrounded by trees. This, he explains, is so that we won’t be disturbed. He jokes about how, if anyone did happen to hear us discussing silkies then we may both find ourselves booked in to the institute for a night or two. He has a point but I suspect that his main interest in this open air venue is his desire to smoke a lot.

‘So, what do you want to know about him Cristian.’

The confusion in my face is wiped away as Jack explains that he is referring to Setantii.

‘Oh right, so I guess that you always felt that she was a he then’

‘Never really thought about it like that, Setantii just always felt like a father figure to me. So he, sorry I mean she, was more of a mother to you then was he? Christ this is going to get confusing! I think we should go with the mum angle for this then eh? So in your own time son, fire away.’

Jack smiles and smokes whilst he waits for me to structure my questions. I’m surprised how difficult it is. In the car I’d been very clinical in this, certain of the things that I needed to know but I realize now that those pre-prepared questions had all been about the mechanics of things; how ascension would happen for me, how silkies lived and more importantly how they died. Answers that are still important to me of course but sat here next to another human being who has lived through my nightmare I feel compelled to discuss more fundamental, ethereal issues. Like for starters, why the hell were we chosen!

‘You know Cristian, I remember asking Setantii that very same thing shortly after my twenty first birthday. By then I’d all but accepted that I wasn’t actually different to other blokes my age, except for the fact that my imaginary friend turned out to be real. He told me that…sorry, she told me that she had liked my name, as simple as that. She was serious too. I had been chosen mainly because of my name.’

‘Jack? What’s so special about Jack?’

‘Not Jack you pillock, Noble! You see Setantii had reckoned that in Europe most names were a good indication of the quality of someone’s blood line and not surprisingly the name Noble had grabbed her attention. What’s your surname name again, Chevalier? Well no offence mate but that sounds pretty posh too don’t you think.’

No offence taken; it is a posh name, inherited from a line of medieval French knights according to my father. It was as simple as that then. Big house, plenty of cash and a posh name; an irresistible combination to a silkie looking to seed. Thanks dad, but before I can fully reconcile this with the fact that Phillip King (a rather privileged boy in my junior school class) had escaped Setantii’s attention, another concern I have held for some time forces its way to the front of the queue.

‘And did you use it at all Jack, the silkie in you? And I don’t mean Setantii. I mean the young, undeveloped silkie growing inside. I have, or at least I think I have. For instance, there’s been a few times whilst hunting when I can clearly remember concentrating hard on an animal, walking a stag or paralyzing a rabbit to get the kill shot.’

My confession can be the only reason for the concern that has darkened Jack’s face. He finishes stamping on a freshly killed cigarette butt and turns to me.

‘And what about other people Cristian? Do you think you ever reached into them and brought them under your influence or maybe just told them what to think? You mustn’t you know, very dangerous thing to play about with when you don’t know how to control it.’

Jack immediately looks away whilst he roots in his jacket pocket for another cigarette. He isn’t interested in an answer, satisfied that he has done his bit and issued this grave warning. I’m relieved, because there would have been no denial. Three times I had whispered into a company director’s or contract manager’s mind, convinced them that the deal I offered was good for everyone. That had been over five years ago, back when I was just setting out and once I had established a name for myself and my businesses were thriving such tactics had been dropped. Dangerous it may have been but I seem to have gotten away with it. Unless…

‘And could this change things for me when it comes to staying human do you think Jack? I haven’t given the silkie something to grasp on to and make it more difficult for me to deny its ascension have I?’

‘No Cristian, it isn’t you that I’m worried about. It’s the other people. You see something like Setantii is well practiced in her art. She can flick in and out of living minds at will and take as little or as much as she desires from them. But a young, unformed silkie like the one inside you, well that’s a different story. A bit like asking a toddler to colour a picture in, stick between the lines. Oh they’ll try to be tidy but you can guarantee that the outcome will be bloody messy. And it’s the same for anyone that you tried to reached in to, only messy in this case usually means brain cancer or a stroke. Like I say, you must not do it Cristian, no matter how tempting it is.’

Ted Mitchel; diagnosed with brain cancer three months after I took his company over. Sheila Watson; crippled by a stroke fifteen minutes into her train journey home having signed on the dotted line and committed to a four year deal to supply me with accountancy services. I actually went to Jason Turner’s funeral only last April when he finally lost his battle against cancer. Sat in the church amongst the mourners, that was when I had first considered these three individuals as a group and toyed with the idea that my manipulation of their minds had brought about their premature deaths. And do you know something, if I was to be brutally honest with myself? Completely out of character, but the overwhelming emotion I had felt at this self accusation had been total apathy. This is the really scary thing about my relationship with this swelling presence inside me;

‘How much of me would be taken by it then, if I give it life that is?’

‘Damn good question Cristian, and not an easy one to answer but if I was to take a stab at it I’d say this. I believe, and this is only my theory, that there are three states that these silkie creatures can exist in. The one inside you now is truly like a baby. It’s connected to you, sharing your thoughts through what can only be described as some cerebral equivalent of an umbilical chord. Even though your mind and soul are nourishing it, the silkie remains passive in this symbiosis. When they’re brooding, like Setantii is with you at the moment, silkies seem to be able to enter a person completely and stay there for the full term but this isn’t an aggressive take over, more of a time share deal. That’s why it can be so difficult for them to reach to this point of understanding. For some reason they seem to need the human carer to be completely aware and available to them, have to explain to their host what is going on and get them to accept what effectively will become a partnership focused on raising both the human and silkie babies together. The third state is their natural one, one in which they will spend god knows how many centuries existing. This is the fully fledged silkie, an intelligent energy form totally independent of humanity but with one exception. It’s the old energy can’t be created or destroyed chestnut and to survive and grow they must still feed. But theirs is not a material diet, because they don’t have bodies to move about or keep warm. No, the energy they crave can only be found in one place; deep within the illusive, complex, life giving vitality of a human soul.’

Jack is brimming with passion and I’m impressed but not surprised by how eloquent and succinct his theory is. After all, this is a man who has dedicated his life to understanding the human psyche. I’m not sure I agree with his proposition that silkies value the young mothers they invade though. This isn’t a partnership of equals; preferable though it may be to get on with each other, the silkie is in control and she will take whatever she needs to make sure her offspring mature, as in May’s example when Setantii’s hand had been forced. On the whole though I like the three state theory. But Dr Jack still hasn’t answered my question.

‘Wow! You really have given this some thought haven’t you? But coming back to the bit about ascension as Setantii calls it. This emergence of a fledgling silkie when its gestation is complete, what happens to me if I decide to cut the umbilical and set it free into the world?’

My enthusiasm fuels his excitement and Jack is almost garbling now in his haste to explain, animated hands not caring that they have dropped a freshly lit cig onto the floor near his feet.

‘Look, try not to think of it as a cutting of the chord Cristian but more like reeling it in! Or a tug of war maybe, but with you having by far the stronger grip on reality! This really is your choice Cristian. To win this all you have to do is deny it, remove the supply of energy and starve the infant silkie to death. Alternatively you can choose to succumb to it, let yourself go and….’

Jack’s words pile to a dead stop, his train of thought jarred to a halt by something he’s seen in one of my possible futures. He bends down and collects the smoldering cigarette from the floor. It takes three more purposeful pulls on it for him to decide to finish reading my fortune.

‘Well too put it bluntly Cristian, you would become the silkies first meal.’

Chapter 18

I can know they’re here.

Three men stood around my bed.

Sounds and smells tell me so.

Sounds and smells are the only things allowed to enter my dark world and in truth, the sounds are barely that; muffled changes in tone that only occasionally form words. It’s nice to come out from my hiding place though, knowing that good people are here. Hiding is what I mostly do now. And when I’m not hiding I practice masking my mind from the stag that tried to kill me and the silkie fire that left his eyes and knocked on the window of my soul. That’s my biggest fear, that one day it will come back and smash its way through those fragile discs to finish what was started however many nights ago. Time isn’t a part of my life anymore. Oh, I have space enough but time disappeared when the lights went out.

Oooh now wait a minute, this smells good! It’s Dr Hill’s fragrance, suddenly bursting in. I remember its clean citrus zing so clearly from my time spent in his car. He must have leaned closer in to examine me and yes! yes! yes! He said my name. He did! I definitely heard Rose! Christ, I could never have imagined how fantastic it could be to hear my name on the lips of a good man. I wonder who he’s with? Policeman Tom probably. At least I hope so because them two definitely know this shady business and if anyone can make sure that I’m safe then it’s Tom and Jeremy. Oh my god! I never realized how ridiculous their names sound put together like this! I’m actually laughing in my head, as hard as I have ever done, but obviously without my usual wide open and extremely embarrassing breathless grin. It feels great to laugh, even to myself like this and…oh dear, this isn’t so good. Jesus man, take a shower would you? And I was right, it is Tom. Underneath his sweaty aroma I can catch the odd whiff of three day old linen. I mean really, would it be too much to ask for the powers that be to give our boys in blue more than three bloody uniforms to wear? Still, his smell is kind of sweet too, homely and nice to have here with me. Poor sod, it isn’t his fault really and I guess I’m just not use to the smell of men having lived alone with mum for so long. Ah, now here’s a new sound, a bit brighter than the others. It is definitely a man’s voice though. I’d say older because there’s a muskier tang to him. Hang on a minute, why are these people taking it in turns to get in close like this? Just to stare at me? Well I hope that’s all they’re doing. I don’t want to finally be returned to the land of the living and find out that I’m all over the news. Imagine that! ‘Coma girl raped by bent copper whilst dirty doctor checks pulse.’ Creepy thought this, too black to be funny. Best put it back where it belongs, deep down there in the subconscious pit with all the other perverse trash that I apparently, like everybody else, carry around. Gin, that’s what this new smell is. Stale gin with a splash of tonic if I‘m not mistaken, just like I used to drink with…Uncle John! It is. It’s Uncle John. My savior’s here. I had no idea that he knew the other two. Then again, if anything can cause people to find one another, a secret shared about some demonic murderer that burns its victim’s eyes to carbon would certainly do it. I wonder what they’re all doing here next to my hospital bed though. So far all I’ve heard is my name and something that sounded like diamond. That’ll be a reference to my contacts no doubt, which I hope and pray are still in place. I need to concentrate harder, try and filter these sounds a little better. It’s not an easy skill this. A bit like squinting to focus on something difficult to read but so much more frustrating because there are no physical bits to grab hold of. I do have a sense of where this is all happening though, where the words are getting lost. Difficult to explain but there’s a place that’s within me but kind of behind me too. Strange feeling to try and reach out and manipulate it but in this small bundle of activity there are definitely words. Ah now here’s one. Damn it! One of them said silkies. I was hoping for a phrase more like ‘it’s all been a horrible dream’ or ‘let’s wake her up and let her in on the joke’ or…. hold on, did Dr Hill just say plan? Yes he did, and Tom’s repeated it. Revenge too! Someone definitely said revenge. Now we’re talking, or should I say they are. Fighting talk I do like. Go boys go! You get that evil bitch May and you do her in properly you hear? Because I‘m not coming out until she’s gone once and for all and….Cristian, Dr Hill just said Cristian. Ouch that hurts!

Quite simply it is incredibly cruel how blinded love can be and how long it can linger even after it has been betrayed.

Chapter 19

Whilst Jack was away all I could think about was Rose. She seems a thousand miles away from this icy, fairy tale world but in reality she lies trapped in the warm dark of a hospital that’s less than three miles from here. I miss her so much and I must keep focused, remind myself that I can’t allow the battle for existence that has begun within me to deflect me from my ultimate goal; to be with her again. Jack’s back and I walk to meet him.

‘Okay that’s me clear for the rest of the morning. Now whose car should we take? Fancy yours if that’s okay but only if I can smoke.’

We’re already stood next to my car so his timing is both calculated and perfect. As for the smoking deal, well why the hell not. One thing that losing Rose has taught me is that the things I’d valued up until then (clean smelling upholstery amongst them) were in fact worthless. Jack climbs in to the Range Rover, puts his belt on and immediately opens the window to light up.

‘This the ashtray? Okay, so when you get to the gates at the park entrance you need to take a sharp left onto the main drag. Follow the signs for Disley and when you see the Bull’s Head, take a right into the car park behind it. We can cut through an alley from there. I was thinking, once we’ve finished at the library the pub should be opened up by then. I could murder a pint and a bite to eat if you fancy it.’

The reason that Jack is taking me to the library is so fantastic that I am still finding it difficult to believe that I am wasting time and petrol driving there. Jack insists that there is a library in this small Cheshire town that’s filled with books about silkies. Hundreds of accounts of what they are and do he says, all there in black and white, often with pictures too. I can only presume that the library is perhaps in reality a secret hoard of records, probably kept behind some false panel in an old cottage, catalogued and guarded by yet another member of what is rapidly becoming a rather large circle of people who know about these things. I couldn’t be more wrong though.

The library is bright and clean and modern. If she is a guardian, the woman at the desk doesn’t look to be a very effective one as she fails to notice either of us pass her on our way to…

‘The children’s section? Are you having a laugh?’

‘Nope. You sit down, I’ll get some books.’

Aside from me and Jack there are only four other people in here. This part of the library feels anything but scholarly; a floor scattered with paper and crayons and low tables for small plastic chairs that bring my knees to within inches of my chin. It’s noisy too. I must look as ridiculous as I feel and it isn’t long before the two (previously chatty) young mum’s decide that their even louder little ones have learned enough for one day and it’s time for a latte in the Costa next door. They leave as Jack returns to drop a pile of books on the desk. He is indeed having a laugh and I need no further proof of this than the titles spread out before me. The one nearest to me is particularly mocking; a large print early learning classic about some knife wielding farmer’s wife and her phobia of rodents.

‘Three Blind Mice?’

‘Yep, but where you’re going they’ll more than likely be five or six. There was for me anyway. The book underneath that one is a good read too.’

‘Rapunzel? Listen Jack, are you being serious here or just using this as an excuse to skip work and sink a couple of lunchtime pints? Because really, there is no need to go to all this trouble. I will have a pint with you, but just the one because I’m driving.’

I start to get up but Jack pushes me back into my seat with a firm hand and face. He squats down on the chair opposite me.

‘Oh I’m serious Cristian, never been more so. See all these fairy tales in front of you? All inspired by silkie lore they are. You know what lore is I take it, well in this case these stories, these fairy tales are all based on man’s knowledge of silkies. I’m talking four or five hundred years ago of course, and probably even further back than that.’

My face is telling its own story; smirking and doubting every word but Jack’s excitement is back and he won’t give up.

‘Just indulge me a minute will you. You have to remember that in, oh I don’t know, let’s say the fifteenth century, people were a hell of a lot more ignorant than we are today and what’s more they were fearful of pretty much everything. With no science to speak of, how else could they explain strokes and cancers and corpses with black eyes? Do you know what happens when ignorance and fear are put together like this?’

I‘m hooked, intrigued to see where this is going and in order to convince Jack that he’s got me I apologise by taking a stab at his riddle.

‘Religion?’

‘Right on the button Cristian! Very sharp my lad and that’s exactly true for a lot of things. But suppose people were unable to worship something because maybe it was too scary or too dark? Then what? Well I’ll tell you what happens shall I. People trivialize their fear. We do it today too. We make films not just about ghosts and aliens but about shark attacks or terrorists or tidal waves or meteors too. We write scripts, make movies and re-catagorise all our fears as entertainment. Once it’s up there on the silver screen, well it ain’t so scary anymore is it because there’s always a hero in those stories, always a happy ending. And that’s what they did back then when their villagers were being hunted and drained and killed by silkies. Only they didn’t have Hollywood of course but they did know how to tell a bloody good story. Stories that made sure that the lore was retained but also allowed them to distance themselves from it. It’s a very powerful technique this, sharing stories, making them childish but it doesn’t make the creatures within them any less real.’

Okay, and so much for the theory but as always the devil’s in the detail. I reach out and slide one of the books over to Jack. He glances at it and accepts my challenge.

‘One of my favourites this and with a common theme too. As far as I can tell the first reference of this particular lore was made in a medieval romance called Perceforest. In that book a princess named Zellandine falls in love with a common man who naturally has to prove his worth to her father. Recognise anything yet? A curse of nobility perhaps? Anyway, whilst he’s away doing his thing Zellandine falls into an enchanted sleep. Now I wonder if that could have had anything to do with the arrival of a young silkie? Anyway, about one hundred years later on and the story turns up again, only this time in France. The silkie that does the damage this time is portrayed as a wicked fairy. La belle au bois dormant the storie’s called. The beauty that sleeps in the woods. Sleeping Beauty to you and me. Could you possibly think of a more benign title than this if you were trying to convince you and the kids that everything’s okay? Poor cow get’s her soul sucked out to within and inch of her life would have been more accurate, but not quite so calming just before bedtime is it? Pick another one.’

There’s a lot to choose from and if Jack knows his stuff half as well on each of these then this fairy tale silkie theory of his really does have legs. I‘m drawn to the cover illustration on a book that’s already the closest one to him and all I need to do is spin it around so that he can see the blond princess lying there inside what can only be described as a glass coffin, her prince knelt by her feet. Snow White is her name and as Jack pats her picture confidently he proceeds to fill me in.

‘The origin of Snow White is tricky to pin down but it’s certainly no later than the middle ages. There’s a twist to this though, right at the start when the girl’s teacher urges our hero princess to murder an evil stepmother.’

Jack pauses and looks up.

‘You said you thought of Setantii as a mother figure didn’t you? Step mother maybe or would that be stretching it?’

Of course it wouldn’t be and he knows it. It makes me wonder too, had Jack been around in my youth and given me explicit directions on how to purge my demon, would I have considered it?

‘As for the glass coffin, well it isn’t?’

‘Isn’t what? A coffin or glass?’

‘Neither. It’s a cocoon, a place where she’s kept safe I think. And the glass most likely represents diamond.’

‘Diamond?’

‘Silkies hate diamond. It’s poisonous to them. And not specifically diamond either, any form of pure carbon. Setantii told me this when I was a kid. Sat in school, clueless halfway through a maths test thinking hard about what the square root of four could be when I popped a pencil in my mouth and started chewing. Jesus she was on me like a shot, used the hand of the lad sat next to me to yank the pencil out of my gob and sling it across the classroom. Billy Hunt, poor bugger. He got a right caning for that. Bottom line was that the carbon in the pencil was very bad for the silkie growing in me. I’d asked why and she said that it was difficult to explain to such a small mind but it was something to do with having evolved and ultimately separated from a carbon based life form. You’ve seen those black eyes when a life has been extinguished by silkie right? Well this is the reason. They pack those eyes with carbon when they exit, put a physical barrier there to prevent them or any other of their kind from re-entering a corpse by mistake. Because here’s the deal Cristian, if there’s one thing a silkie fears more than carbon it’s the soulless vacuum of death.’

I’d never contemplated that such a superior creature could fear anything until now. My plans for revenge had until this point been little more than pointed anger but with this information, lifted straight from the pages of children’s fairy tales, I can begin to believe that there is a way to defeat Setantii. I just only hope that Jack will help me when the time comes but before I can recruit his services he invites me to help him understand the symbolism of one particular element of this story that has eluded him during the twenty or so years he’s spent studying these texts.

‘But the ring in this story, that’s always left me stumped. Snow White is comatose only after she puts it on. Any thoughts? I think it could be important but I don’t recall anything like this ever being mentioned by Setantii or referenced anywhere else either. I toyed with the idea that the ring represents a circle of life and that she’s become a part of it but it’s…..’

‘Love. The ring represents love Jack. That’s what’s brought her down. That’s why she has to be protected from the silkies. She’s become something that the silkies fear and that has the potential to condemn their unborn to die. She is a woman in love Jack, that’s what Snow White’s ring identifies her as and a woman’s love can’t be left behind so easily. The silkies must have come to realize this over time, learnt the hard way how powerful love is and had countless of their own cast aside, suffocated to death in the name of it. Trust me on this Jack.’

I know that I’m right. I know that on the front cover of this book I could just as easily paste a picture of Rose lying in her coma behind diamond eyes. Even so, my analysis makes Jack sad. Initially I‘m surprised at how jealous such a passionate man can be over his precious theory but there’s a distance in his vacant stare that tells me that my beating him to the answer isn’t the problem here. I‘ve reminded him of someone, someone who he shakes out of his head as he picks up a third book.

‘One more before we get that pint eh Cristian? And I’ll choose this time if that’s okay because this next one will explain a bit about what you’ll be faced with the day after tomorrow, if you decide to go up there that is.’

‘Up there? So you know about Sule Skerry too then?’

‘Oh god yes. I actually got as far as Stromness before I bottled it and went home. Incidentally, if you do go and find that you’ve got a couple of hours to kill then you have to try the grilled mackerel at the Ferry Inn. Great local brew too.’

Jack’s back, enthusing this time over a fresh fish and real ale supper. My knees are killing me, badly cramped all of a sudden and I have to remind him of what we are meant to be doing here (squeezed into these ridiculously tiny chairs) by thrusting a copy of Rapunzel into his hand. I hadn’t meant this rather snappy action to come across as aggressive as it has but at least Jack is refocused.

‘The original story came from the story of Rudaba in an ancient Iranian book called Shahnameh. And when I say ancient, we’re talking first century AD. There are loads of elements of silkie lore in this and later versions. For example, the child being surrendered at birth. The enchantress taking Repunzel as a child and raising her.’

‘But this story is all about the tower isn’t it? What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘That Cristian has everything to do with everything. Isolation is the key to all this you see. For a silkie to emerge, flawless and pure, the ascension has to happen away from all other lives. The only two souls involved can be yours and, well Rapunzel’s. Finding a location is simple enough and it’s fine to go all the way out to Sule Skerry say, miles from anywhere, but if you’re simply stood on the rocks then the chances are that there’s going to hundreds of small but potential impurities crawling around nearby. Same goes for the jungle, the desert even. That’s why the silkies use towers for this. Okay, you’ll be going to a light house in order to get at least a hundred feet from the ground but if we were sat in China right now you’d be on your way to somewhere like the White Tower at Liao-yang. In the Ukraine your destination might be the Krisco Tower at Kafa say, or if you fancied somewhere a bit warmer, how about the pyramids of the Sudan. That’s where Rapunzel will be. High in a tower, miles from anywhere, pure and ready.’

‘You keep saying Rapunzel but what does she represent?’

‘She doesn’t represent anything Cristian, she’s real. She might be a he for that matter, a person carefully chosen by Setantii and taken to that light house on a remote Scottish island to wait for you. And when you go there, when you’ve finished honing your skills on the mice that Setantii no doubt has with her, then you will ascend the tower and, if you choose, use Rapunzel and lure out the silkie inside you to take flight and feed.’

He’s serious about this. He means what he says. That I am expected not only to sacrifice my life so that Setantii’s line will continue but take the life of another, completely innocent human being with me. My god! If there was the slimmest of chances that I would consider going through with this madness then that’s been totally wiped out by the idea that my last act as a human would be to murder another. There’s no more to be said. My decision is made and all I want to do now is get back to Hartford Manor and spend some time alone waiting for the silkie to. Only when this evil inside me is dead can be sure that any plan of attack is mine and mine alone. The last thing I need is the dying remnants of some double dealing entity influencing any ideas that I may have. That’s when I will contact Jack again and ask his advice, when it’s definitely dead. I stand slowly. Jack stands too and follows me out.

Neither of us has said a word and my hand is on the car door handle before our silence is broken. I explain that I don’t much feel like having a pint anymore. I think Jack understands although it’s difficult for him to hide his disappointment. His attitude angers me at first but I quickly forgive him. After all, none of this is new to him and what’s more, Jack made the right decision and was brave enough to defy Setantii at the very last. I can only imagine the rage she must have been in, so close to finally rearing her first offspring. Still, at least she had the integrity to accept Jack’s decision, as she has promised to accept mine. The day has warmed, melted the frost and cleared the mist and Lyme Hall, although still impressive, looks a shadow of the magical palace it had been less than an hour ago. Jack steps down from the car, waits and waves whilst I turn around before turning to go back to work. I watch him in the rear view mirror and I‘m not ashamed to admit to myself that I’m going to miss my new found and dependable friend. I’ll call him in a week or so, as we agreed. The park has people in it now, midday dog walkers mainly and I have to brake sharply as I exit one blind bend to avoid hitting a young girl who is struggling to control her Alsatian in the middle of the road. I stop, wait and watch and I’m thinking about offering her my help when the dog finally manages to slip his leash and bolt toward the car. He isn’t stopping either, no matter how hard she screams after him. Not until he reaches the car that is. Now he does stop. Sits down less than a cars length away. Sits and stares at me. There’s fire in his eyes.

‘Shit!’

The dog is up and running now, slipping past me and heading for the hall. There isn’t room to turn the car around on this narrow tarmac strip. The quickest way to get in pursuit is to drive through the trees. I can clip corners this way too, take a more direct line. The ground is firm enough, still crisp in here, holding well (rutted as it is) and with all four wheels driving the steering is sure. I can see the dog ahead, tracking the road, not so sure about the direction he has to take, unable to see the hall from his low view point. Good, this gives me a chance of beating him to Jack. I have to concentrate though, grip the steering wheel tightly as route one bounces me back out of the trees. For a short time I can accelerate hard across the tarmac. The extra speed is needed too, flinging me across a shallow ditch on the far side, dropping me back into the woods down a steep slope. My head cracks the roof, my feet are flailing around searching for the pedals, finding the brakes only just in time to jab them, turn and then sharply again but I can’t kill my speed quickly enough and a third oak has me beat. Beneath its thawing branches lies a thick mulch carpet that slides the rear end of the Rover around, slamming it into the trunk. My shoulder cracks the side window and my head follows through, shattering it completely. Where the hell are the air bags! But I’m okay and the car is okay and the engine is still running and I’m okay to carry on. Not through these woods though. Shit, I’ve only managed to negotiate a third of them and already I’m a bloody mess! Get real Cristian! Leave all this macho bullshit to the professionals. Yes, the best chance I have of reaching Jack in one piece is to get back on the road. I should have done this from the off. My speed is twice that achieved in the woodland and I arrive outside Lyme Hall just as the dog is romping in through the front door.

Only a short dash across the forecourt and I’m inside. The place is bedlam; Amanda torn between the phone in her hand, her duty to the desk and the safety of the world outside the front door.

‘Amanda! Phone the police and phone an ambulance!’

The chaos brought by the dog has filled the corridor with all kinds of reactions; some frozen, some screaming, some sprinting toward the conservatory. Negotiating my way through this confusion (clipping the occasional shoulder) doesn’t sap too much pace but it might have well had because the door of the Sunshine Room is blocked completely by a white wall three coats deep, doctors and nurses staring into the well lit horror on the other side.

‘What the hell are you doing! Get in there!’

A younger porter at the front of the crush continues to slap the reinforced glass and rattle the door handle as he screams back at me.

‘I’m trying for fuck’s sake! The door is locked from the inside! Barbara please! Don’t be scared and open the door Barbara! Please!!’

Barbara’s mind has been slammed more firmly shut than the door. She isn’t going to open either for a while. Setantii has made sure of that. The woman’s face is nothing more than a mask of humanity staring vacantly back at the crowd outside; nurse turned to nutter by one sharp slice of a silkie tongue. Over her shoulder I can see Jack. He’s fighting hard, desperately defending himself but it can only be a matter of time before the savage strength and speed of the dog over powers him completely.

‘Is there another way in?’

‘No, this is it. Barbara please!’

‘Keep talking to her and keep trying! Just keep trying! I’ll go around the side.’

I’m thinking whilst I’m running, trying to recall how the windows are built. All I can remember is that there is a heavy mesh covering them on the inside but I‘m pretty sure too that it only reaches up six feet or so. Yes, I am sure of it so if I can knock out the glass from one of the higher pains then I should be able to scramble inside. It’s a good plan and would have worked perfectly were it not for the fact that these sash windows are period, made from sturdy hard wood frames and each square of glass in them is less than eight inches wide. I know I’ll never get through but still I balance on the stone ledge and smash a row of them out throwing shards into the room and releasing sharper screams from it. These are Jack’s screams ripped out of him from a demon dog that has all but finished his work for the day. The inmates are standing and watching, occasionally clapping, unable to understand what is happening. There’s a man stood near the window though and the noise I have made turns him around.

‘Hey you! Yes you. Come here. It’s okay, it’s only a game but Doctor Jack wants you to help him win. Would you like to help Doctor Jack beat the dog?’

Arms jammed through the window frame I beckon him over and he comes to me, not once questioning who I am but seemingly pleased that he’s been asked to help. I want to shout encouragement for Jack, tell him we’re coming but I can’t in case the patient takes flight. He’s close to the window now and I can lower my voice a notch or two.

‘Look there, on the floor by your feet. That’s right, there’s some glass. Can you see it? Good. Well I think it would be great if you picked up one of those big sharp pieces and then stabbed the dog with it to make him stop hurting Doctor Jack. Do you think you can do that for Doctor Jack?’

Painfully slowly the man bends down and selects a piece of glass. He stands and offers it to me. I want to reach in just a little further and throttle some sense in to him but I manage to keep calm and once more explain to him slowly what I want him to do. This time he understands, turns around and begins a slow tortuous shuffle toward the fight. I hold my breath, not at all sure what this simple man is capable of but when he finally gets to within striking distance of the animal I have my answer.

‘Jesus! Okay, that’s enough now!’

The first slash at the Alsatians spine had probably been sufficient. The second probably justified to make sure that the animal was dead as Jack pushes him away but the third and fourth and fifth strikes, plunged deep into the dog’s belly? Well, quite simply they were as sick as the mind that delivered them. Still, the plan had worked; Jack is very bloodied but I think he’s going to be okay. He’s managed to get onto his knees at least and stay there, sucking hard to get oxygen back into his over stressed body.

‘Jack are you okay?’

He can’t speak yet but he can raise one hand and a sort of smile.

‘Christ Jack, that was scary! Listen, you get yourself cleaned up and we’ll go and get that pint yeah?’

Jack raises his face to me and laughs, as best as he can.

It’s a memory that I will always carry with me. My final memory of a man who I had known less than three hours but whose death will leave a huge hole in whatever life I am to have. I didn’t watch the end. I had been surprised by the first strike to his throat, unable to react quickly enough as it was gashed by a glass wielding mad man with fire in his eyes. As the second had rained in I was already dropping from the ledge and onto the floor, covering my eyes and ears to shut out the third, fourth and god knows how many more butcher cuts that followed.

Chapter 20

Omnipotent? I guess not or they would be gods.

Omnipresent? No, too good at hiding to be everywhere. Silkies are neither of these things.

But they are powerful enough so as to be unassailable and they are in every place that they need to be.

I realize this now, that the decision isn’t mine to remain human or to become silkie. The decision is Setantii’s for me to either die by her vengeance or be devoured by her offspring. I am doomed, and there is no escaping this fact. That’s why Setantii sent me to Jack. Not for me to hear what he had to say about the decision he had made twenty five years ago but for me to witness the consequences of it. That was why Jack had been allowed to live for so long after killing Setantii’s fledgling; because she knew that one day an example would have to be made. And this isn’t just about my life either. Silkies control, it is their nature and if somebody dare challenges them then they will unleash hell. And not just on the brave soul who defied or tried to harm them either, but on their loved ones too.

Rose isn’t safe. She will never be safe whilst I am alive. And if I am to die anyway then I should do everything possible to make sure that Rose will be left alone by the silkie once I am gone. So I will surrender to Setantii, tomorrow on Sule Skerry, but not before she has given me this promise.

The hand in mine is the same as the last time that I held it; warm and still.

‘Rose it’s me, Cristian.’

I know she can’t answer me. I’m not sure she can hear my words either. I have to say them though, pray that they do get through, perhaps wait somewhere inside for her to find one day.

‘Listen love, I don’t have much time. I have to leave soon and,…’

The words choke me. Over and over they had played in my mind on the way to the hospital but they refuse to be heard now as if the act of releasing these thoughts makes them irrevocable. But that’s exactly what they are and they must be said, however quietly.

‘I won’t ever see you again Rose.’

The pain is unbearable but I’ve seen what will happen if I try and stay by her side.

‘But I want you to know Rose that no matter where I am I will always love you for as long as I can.’

(Don’t leave me Cristian! I love you too!)

I can’t bring myself to tell her that the love I have, immense as it is, has only two days to cherish her. For Cristian Chevalier Sule Skerry waits and it is there that I will cease to exist, give myself over to a being that knows nothing of love or of the sacrifice that I will make in its name. For the last time I say goodbye, lean closer and kiss my Snow White. She doesn’t awaken though because there can be no fairytale ending to this tragedy.

‘I’m sorry my love, but I hope that one day you will think of us and smile. Goodbye darling.’

(No Cristian! Talk to Uncle John! He has a plan, a plan to keep me safe and it might be able to save you too! Please, just talk to John!)

I place her hand gently back by her side. If I could have one thing now it would be to feel its soft squeeze to let me know that she has understood. Scholars will tell us that words are powerful and mighty but when it comes to love they are weak and useless. One touch or glance to connect me back to her, however brief, could have replaced everything that I’ve just tried to say.

As I turn my back on Rose and leave her side for ever, my life is already ended.

Chapter 21

Jonathon Stevens has had enough. His sister is still missing and as far as he can tell the local plod have all but given up on her, written her off as dead and passed responsibility for finding her corpse over to the Manchester detectives; the ‘proper coppers’ as Jonathan likes to call the metropolitan force, especially when speaking to PC Tom Young.

Jonathon’s frustration over this situation had built gradually during the days since losing Ruby but earlier today, as he sat fidgeting and trying to listen to the last college lecture on his timetable, something had snapped. Slamming books closed, storming out of applied physics (offering no explanation to his tutor or classmates) Jonathon had headed straight for the police station intent on letting the village plod know exactly what he thought; that their lethargy bordered on negligence, their failure to find Ruby was nothing less than incompetence. Jonathon should have been in good time to catch PC Young too but as he stormed inside the desk sergeant who greeted him compounded the young man’s disgust by telling him that Tom had left work early. Typical! Beryl did add though, that if he hurried, he could probably catch Tom in the rear car park. As Jonathon had dashed back outside and around the building he had passed an open window, spotted Tom at his desk and stopped to listen in on the phone call that the police man was engrossed in.

The few words that Jonathon Stevens had managed to grasp then (stood shaking by that open window, shielding one ear from the rush hour traffic) were the reason why he’s now crouched down (as quietly as his fear and hate will allow) behind a vine torn brick wall outside a derelict building deep inside the midnight woods of Hartford Manor. He’s eaves dropping again, this time on two men that are huddled less than twenty paces away, cloaked in moon shadows next to what appears to be a large tool shed. The building is a lot newer than the deserted house where Jonathon hides and it has a ridiculously strong, suspicious looking black, steel door. The men are very agitated. They are talking about his sister. They are talking about Ruby Stevens and in the present tense too.

‘So did he mention how long it might be before the girl will be brought here then?’

‘Tom, how many times do I have to tell you? No, he didn’t! We just have to wait, check and make sure everything is ready, just like we have every done other month for the past two years!’

To punctuate his frustration Dr Hill slaps an open hand onto the door and it booms. Jonathon is glad of the noise, uses its reverberation to cover a deep breath that he has been lingering on the edge of taking for the last five minutes. He doesn’t yet know who the man they are talking about is but he does know that he is their leader, the one the others are waiting for instruction from and more importantly the man who is holding his sister captive.

‘Look, don’t get pissy with me Jeremy, I‘m only bloody asking! And it’s okay for you. You’re the one who he contacts but I’m left in the bloody dark every time unless you tell me something. And tonight isn’t quite the same deal now is it? Or you wouldn’t be phoning me at work and telling me to get my arse down here on a Wednesday night now would you?’

Jonathon knows Jeremy Hill (the GP who investigated and prescribed cures for both his eczema as a child and acne as a teenager) and he’s staggered; not only by his doctor’s apparent involvement in all this but the fact that Hill’s professional mannerisms appear to have remained intact, uncompromised by the foulness of his actions. For example, he’s folded his arms whilst listening to Young’s whining but they are held smug and loose, draped onto his waist just as he would before admonishing a spotty kid for picking and squeezing. It’s the doctor’s voice too that he’s using still, not the evil hisses one might expect from a kidnapper. This surgery voice is perhaps more sinister to Jonathon; clinical and deliberate and too smooth not to be sly.

‘My my my, here it is again. Can you not just leave it alone for Christ’s sake? And let’s be honest, I know that you have never been happy about my relationship with Thomas, the fact that he trusts me more than you to keep this all together, but you have to remember that it’s nothing personal Tom. It’s just that Thomas and I have history. And yes I know that you have as much as me at stake here but the bottom line is this. I am the one who specified and supervised the installation of the equipment. I am the one who can do the procedure. In short Tom, I am the one who Thomas Chevalier trusts to save his daughter.’

Hill’s conceit cranks up the tension so tightly that Jonathon begins to feel all but invisible. The men have locked narrow stares and in doing so presented an opportunity that the young, heroic spy simply has to take. Edging forward, staying as low as he can, Jonathon breaks cover, soon relying only on the milky gloom to keep him from view. He isn’t quite sure what he intends to do but he is certain that something has to be done. To do it he needs to get closer and as a flustered Tom Young finally speaks, Jonathon slowly steps on.

‘Oh is that right Jeremy? So what you’re really saying here is that I’m just the side kick, the fat copper who loses the paper work and makes out dodgy reports? Well let me tell you something Dr smarty bollocks, I’m more than that! I am fuckin’ more than that d’you hear!’

The disjointed paved floor that Jonathon creeps across cracks and crisps as each of his footfalls splinters winter debris. Fortunately the cold noise doesn’t have the energy to interrupt PC Young’s heated tirade.

Only fifteen paces away, maybe less, when Jonathon’s slow motion attack (because that’s what this is he has decided) is suddenly frozen to the spot by sharp movement ahead. Tom Young’s arms have jerked, springing his hands from the warmth of deep pockets. They’re waving menacingly now and loaded with something that he had hidden there in his coat. Whatever these objects are he’s using them to threaten his accomplice, all the time continuing to shout.

‘Because I, my snooty friend, am more than just your bitch. I am in fact…..’

In an instant Young’s mood switches and his rant takes a weird, theatrical pause during which he steadies his hands, pushes them forward and reveals what he holds there for the doctor.

‘Da daaaa.! The man with the midnight pies! Want one?’

In each of the copper’s hand there is indeed a pie; a pork pie Jonathon judges from the packaging. The humour with which they have been served relaxes the men for the first time tonight.

‘So come on doc, don’t fight it. You know you want one too now don’t you? Come on, come and join me on the fat side.’

The laughing policeman continues to clown around, weaving one of the pies through Hill’s craving gaze. Hill simply shakes his head, smiles but eventually accepts this tasty peace offering when Young eventually stops teasing him with it. In the gloom, Jonathon shakes his head too, embarrassed that he had cowered from two small pastries in such a way but with only seven paces left to his target, he soon refocuses. It is the first of those seven steps that breaks the twig that makes no more noise than the others had but (being closer as it is) emits a snap sharp enough to turn heads.

The doctor is the closest and is the first to spot Jonathon. He shouts and the race begins. Jonathon launches himself forward but the frosty ground immediately slides from beneath him and his attack stumbles. Hill backs away adding precious, defensive distance and Jonathon loses heart; he can see in the doctor’s face that without the surprise or the speed needed to threaten him, the man has decided to stand his ground, lower his stance and prepare to grapple the boy. But Jonathon is able to lunge one more time, reaching out and grabbing Hill’s raised elbow, turning the doctor around whilst at the same time wrapping an adrenalin pumped arm around the doctor’s neck. The move is completed with a clean jerk backwards as Jonathon drags Hill off balance and into his control.

‘Don’t you dare fuckin’ move Young or I‘ll snap his fuckin’ neck you hear! Now where’s my sister you piece of shit!’

PC Young’s training kicks in and it impresses the hell out of everybody. He’s already adjusted his stance, feet set wide and stable and now he is slowly raising his forward arm to present a calm, outstretched hand. This act of pure professionalism would have been so much more impressive if he didn’t still have a pie in it.

‘Okay now son, let’s just calm down shall we? It’s Jonathon isn’t it? Jonathon Stevens.’

Hill tries to twist as he hears his attacker’s name but Jonathon tightens the grip around his captive’s neck, squeezing the words that were forming there into a breathless grunt.

‘Hey now listen Jonathon, seriously mate. Just relax a little will you? The man can’t breathe son and I’m sure that you don’t want that now do you? He won’t try to escape again, you’ve proved your point.’

‘Where’s Ruby! I know she ain’t dead and I know you know where she is you bastard so tell me or I swear to god I will break his neck!’

‘Now would be a good time.’

Jonathon’s confusion lasts only as long as it takes Uncle John to swing the metal bar that strikes his head and drops him to the floor. As Jonathon rolls there, arms wrapped tightly around his mop of bloody hair in an effort to contain the pain (that will surely burst his brains if he releases it!) he hears Hill say something that chills him to the bone.

‘Get the little bastard down to the lab. I’ll deal with him there.’

Consciousness is drifting away from the fallen hero now, melting into the frozen dark ground that he lies on and faster than he can reel it back. The last thing that Ruby’s brother ever sees of the world above ground is a huge steel door sliding open.

Chapter 22

I would have thought that my relentless battle to survive both my grief for the love I’ve relinquished and the black shadow of ascension looming over my short life (darkness now the only thing that I share with Rose) might have kept hunger away. But they haven’t. Less than an hour into this monumental journey and I need to stop at the services to grab snacks. I feel so guilty caving in like this; delaying my mission to protect Rose so that I can stuff a cheese and pickle sandwich into my mouth. But that’s Cristian Chevalier. I’m renowned for it amongst family and friends, this need to eat like clockwork. I remember playing one of those truth or dare card games (which I’m sure are designed to cause arguments between drunken partners and wreck parties). My cousin Helena asked the question of me then; would you consider eating human flesh if you were stranded in the wilderness. I didn’t even think about the answer, said that if I was ever plane crashed onto some Andean mountain top then I would be sautéing the pilot for lunch; day one, dead or seriously ill. Everybody had laughed, but I was serious; missing a meal simply isn’t an option for me. As I restart the car (struggling to find the ignition and at the same time trying to unwrap the sandwich) a thought hits me. Will I be as ravenous when I become the monster that I am soon to be? A shiver rattles my spine and a voice in my head echoes something that poor Jack had casually mentioned to me as I drove him to his death back at the asylum.

‘Cristian, you’ve heard that old saying you are what you eat haven’t you? Well, just remember son, if you do go through with this, we are what you will eat. No blame or shame to it mind, just a simple fact that’s all.’

I wonder, how many humans will I need to feed on each day to keep me satisfied? How many cancer ridden stroke victims will I leave behind the next time I visit a service station to fill up, only not on lead free but souls? Damn this feels weird! Without even realising it I’m looking at people differently and already a part of me wants to be inside them, hunt down their essence and take what I need from it. I can’t tell whether it’s my own dark subconscious that’s creating these desires, making me stare and wonder like this (now at the young dad strapping his baby into the rear seat of his Renault over by the toilet block) or if it’s the silkie inside that I swear knows its time is approaching. A swift shake of the head spills cheese from my mouth and brings me back to the road just in time to spot the rabbit. Feet reflex and slam into the brakes giving me a hard jolt forward but the furry little rascal distance enough to hop safely to grass verge where he settles and continues to stare. Very strange and a little unsettling too. I mean why the hell would a rabbit be glaring at me so intently like this? And then it strikes me.

‘Setantii. I wondered when you’d show up.’

Setantii wouldn’t have dared leave my safe passage north to chance, no more than she is able to interfere in the decisions I have to make but I don’t come across her again until Carlisle when I have to swerve sharply to avoid clipping a large cow’s head that’s poking out from its field half way around the bend. The back end of the car tries to slide to the front but I manage to hold it there, smoking behind me as the tyres carve a lazy rubber ‘s’ onto the tarmac.

‘Jesus Christ Setantii! Are you trying to fucking kill me! Right, that’s it.’

Furiously I throw the car into reverse and back up ten yards or so to where the cow has pushed itself over the hedgerow, head protruding a ridiculously long way into the carriageway. I lower my window, strain to reach out and up, get nose to huge wet nose so that I can be sure I will be heard.

‘I know you’re in there Setantii! And if you want me to get to Sule Skerry safely then you just better keep your bloody distance you, you stupid…..you stupid cow!’

There is hesitation mid rant as I realize how ridiculous my behavior must seem to anyone who might happen to witness it! By the time I’ve finished shouting at the cow I can see in its eyes that it has already been emptied of silkie. Even so, the animal still remains rooted to the spot with its head held dangerously close to passing traffic. The poor animal is confused, wondering why the farmer is shouting like this and why its head has stopped chewing grass to poke through the hedge instead. I can’t help but smile as I continue on.

Soon Glasgow approaches and the countryside greens that have been sliding smoothly past my car window during the last sixty miles or so begin to judder and stall, gradually morphing into concrete greys. Initially I was hopeful that the staring animals in the fields and woodlands would have been left behind in the green but as I wait at a busy junction I’m startled by a curious cat, leaping onto and strolling confidently across the bonnet before taking a seat on top of post box next to the car. The cat stares at me whilst I wait for the lights to turn. He’s a scraggy old thing and tired looking too except for the light in eyes that burns a vivacious green, just like those glass cats eyes marking my way through the pitch black country lanes that brought me here. Night falls quickly at this time of the year. I should have been thankful for its cover too but as I leave the city lights behind (on route to the ferry at Scrabster) I start to suspect that perhaps the dark isn’t my ally after all, that because I am more difficult to track through the night the animals that search for me have had to reinforce their numbers. Ten miles out of Glasgow and this theory is soon confirmed simply by a sharp rise in the frequency with which I can spot those spying eyes. As far as I’m aware the rabbit the cow and the cat had been the only animals to watch me this far (and that during nearly two hundred miles of travel) but these twisting forest roads weaving me through the Scottish lowlands present a different challenge to Setantii, especially at night. Every second mile I see her, dark conifers pricked with lights either at their base or high in the branches. Further still and the number doubles, trebles until the presence of pairs of tiny green lights (set back from the road since my argument with the heifer) becomes so mundane that I’ve come to all but ignore them. That is until half way around a tight, loch side bend I’m confronted by a sight that draws my breath and brings the car to halt.

To my right stands a loan fir, huge and dark. The tree is rooted on the tip of a narrow spur of land that juts into the still black water for a hundred feet or more. Viewed through a misty night this silhouette could easily be mistaken for the mast a tall ship (set to sail upon a midnight voyage), an image that’s re-enforced by the mass of lights adorning every branch giving this shadowy sail an eerie green, ghost ship hue. It is so striking that I’m compelled to leave the car, squelch across sodden ground towards it. As I approach the lights become animated, blinking occasionally or shuffling along perches as though rippled by a light a breeze. Closer still and I can here soft flaps as the owls jockey for position. There must be a hundred of them at least.

‘Why Setantii? Why have you brought so many to this place?’

As I stand here beneath them, waiting for an answer (that I suspect will never come), another thought enters my mind. Perhaps this isn’t all Setantii’s work. Oh she’s amongst them for sure, but the more I look the more I become convinced that each of these birds hasn’t been brought here by Setantii alone, that in reality each of them contains a different silkie. But surely that would mean that individual entities have traveled from god knows where to be part of this throng, at this specific place and time. Why on earth would such intelligent beings do this? There must be a reason, something here that I don’t yet understand!

Turning my head upwards to look around the tree again I get a better idea of numbers. There are more than I initially thought; those birds that are sat toward the back of the tree can only be seen intermittently when they bob or twist their heads to view me through the branches. I continue with my inspection, top to bottom and half way down the tree I finally notice a peculiar affect that my interest in them has. It seems that every time I hold my gaze on a small group the green light in their eyes dims a little. It doesn’t go out but it definitely dims. I skip to the bottom branches to see what is goingon and there, yes it happened again; the eyes of the three birds perched closest to me darken a little as they look away, ever so slightly but enough to dull the shine. The only word that I can think of to describe the feeling that I have is one of being revered. Yes, that’s it! Ridiculous it maybe but that is why these silkie have gathered here! Unmistakably, these creatures revere me and my knowing smile is met with a steady brightening throughout the tree, surely in recognition of this insight. As the lights continue to intensify their glow a soft green sheen leaves the tree, drops slowly down and I allow it to wrap me in its soft, warm energy.

In all the years that I have lived I have never once entered a room and declared proudly that I am human. I have never sat alone, drank wine by the fire and contemplated my relationship with the rest of my species or for that matter even considered that I belong to the human race. All I have ever been is Cristian Chevalier. But tonight all that is changing. Stood here bathed in this soft green light I feel a yearning inside slowly rise, enticed to the fore by the awesome sense of power and wisdom that is cascading down upon me.

And so finally I understand. I have my answer as to why so many have come before me tonight. They are here to show me what I can be a part of and for the first time in my life I want to belong to a species.

I want to be Silkie.

Chapter 23

‘Did you see it daddy?’

Christine’s question isn’t fully heard but it is sufficiently excited to lift Thomas Chevalier’s head from his text messages.

‘Awe now don’t tell me I’ve missed another one! That’s three already. Whereabouts was it princess?’

Dad is meant to be scouring the sky for shooting stars. This is something that father and daughter have done now for the past two nights, since Christine demonstrated beyond doubt that somehow her blind mind could feel when they appeared. The first experience of this emerging ‘super sense’ had been during a routine evening stroll, just before bedtime. Thomas had led Christine to her favourite place behind the lighthouse where seals liked to rest occasionally. There had been no seals that night but on the way back Christine had become very excited, claimed that she had sensed a shooting star. Thomas had had to pick her up to calm her down only to be dumfounded when, just as she was settling in his arms, he spotted another star streaking over head at the very instant Christine swished a finger directly along the path of the meteor. They had waited another hour that night and although no more appeared the time wasn’t wasted for if nothing else the empty sky demonstrated beautifully that Christine hadn’t been simply guessing or messing round.

This is why Thomas is sat on the beach at midnight with his sightless daughter cradled in his lap, wrapped tightly in blankets and waiting for shooting stars. Not because the tests continue, but because for the first time in her life his daughter can enjoy a sense other than smell, sound or touch and share it with her most favourite person on earth.

‘Well why don’t you stop texting then and help me find them daddy!’

‘Okay okay! Honestly you are so impatient these days madame.’

Thomas jiggles her belly playfully but ends with a serious note.

‘But we have to be quiet darling, or we might wake Ruby and you know how upset she can be don’t you?’

His warning is heeded immediately and drops Christine’s thrilled voice to a whisper.

‘Oh sorry daddy, I forgot. Because we definitely don’t want cry baby eyes do we? I want happy eyes.’

‘And so do I so let’s settle down again and finish your chocolate drink. I think fifteen more minutes then we will get inside.’

With his child settled Thomas returns to the news he has received on his phone. It’s bad, complicating news that he can do without but has no option but to deal with.

Damn it. Just keep him there and no more mistakes. Get Tom on the paper work. Take the suicide angle but wait a couple of days until after his sisters body turns up.

Send.

Thomas sighs, deeply frustrated at the news he’s received from the manor and tired of waiting for his son to arrive. He feels sure that Setantii will be here soon but as for Cristian, well that still remains uncertain. Based on Uncle John’s observations Thomas is hopeful that the boy will make the journey. And there are eyes that glow in the black winter swell too now, more each day. This steady increase in activity further buoys his confidence that his son will come but that said, the silkies in the seals still aren’t welcomed by him. Thomas abhors their presence here. They have to be the reason why Christine has suddenly become so sensitive to the world but more than this they serve as a constant, awful reminder of what his daughter has been infected with.

‘Damn silkies.’

There’s no immediate threat to Thomas but still, as he mumbles their name, a hard wired instinct causes him to tap eyeballs and pockets to ensure that the diamond lenses are in place, as a catholic might touch the points of an imaginary crucifix before praying.

‘Come on Cristian, where the hell are you? I’m relying on you son so don’t let me down.’

Thomas closes his eyes and tries to relax but it simply isn’t possible, being so close to achieving what he has worked so hard for over the past ten years. Naturally, Cristian isn’t aware of his estranged father’s plan or indeed the role that he’s playing in it. Only yesterday for example, he had unknowingly been manipulated by it, walked into a scene and been nudged towards Sule Skerry by one of the lead players. That gentle tug of intrigue had been carefully hooked into Cristian’s thoughts by Jack Noble. Thomas allows himself a self congratulatory smile as he thinks about Jack and what they had accomplished together.

Ten years ago, without Jack’s guidance, Thomas Chevalier would surely have been lost in a swirling hopelessness that flooded the void created by Setantii’s departure from him at the ferry port. Fortunately however, swept along with that despair there had been a life line for it happened that, during the silkie’s panicked (and rather ill conceived) occupation of Thomas, Setantii had opened a handful of her own secrets. Amongst them had been a deeply maligned name. It had taken Thomas over a week to tease it from out of his confusion and then another to fully understand that a man called Jack Noble would perhaps be his only hope. Having deciding this, finding Jack had been easy and so that fraught father wasted no time in coupling together his financial power with Jack Noble’s wealth of silkie knowledge. Together the men took Jack’s muddle of fairy tale ideas and wrought from them a complex scheme, designed not only to rescue the Chevalier children but also bring about the end of silkie’s dominion over mankind.

For their ambitious plan to work the men would need to take huge and challenging steps over the next decade. To begin with, and before anything else could be done, Jack insisted that there had to be research. ‘Defence is the best form of attack’ he had repeated, over and over until finally a reluctant Thomas relented and agreed to contact a trusted friend of his. Dr Jeremy Hill was to be brought in to the fold and tasked with designing those crucial, diamond impregnated contact lenses that would in future shield them from silkie contagion. Alongside this Jack had another, far more conceptual idea for a weapon of sorts (‘a vein purging, silkie poisoning, carbon based kind of transfusion’) and this too had to be investigated, handed over to Hill for research. ‘Okay but I’m going to need facilities you know. Expensive and secret ones too’ was the thrilled demand that had signaled Hill’s acceptance. Thomas had immediately remembered an abandoned coal face under the grounds of his estate; a very private mine which in previous eras supplied fuel to the manor’s fires and stoves. It would be perfect, over sixty feet deep and encased in partially worked seams of impenetrable black carbon.

Five years of hard graft later and with phase one all but complete Jack had finally been happy for the next stage to begin, that being to make sure that Cristian would choose to become silkie. Initially Thomas had been appalled at the suggestion, protesting vehemently that he would never abandon his son to such a demonic fate. It had taken time for Jack to calm him. ‘Cristian will simply have to wait a little longer that’s all. Remember, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush’ Jack had said, seemingly having a proverb for every occasion. What he was explaining to Thomas did have impeccable logic though because the only chance that he had for a normal and safe life with his daughter was for her brother to ascend. This had to be seen to be done if a proud Setantii was to deliver on her side of the bargain and leave Christine alone to the care of her father. Naturally, once the girl was safely underground, the doctor and Jack would conduct the procedures necessary to replace her shattered eyes and create an exit through which the chemical exorcism of the underdeveloped silkie could be completed. That would be the time when they would renege on the deal and turn their attention to Cristian. His redemption was by no means guaranteed but still, Jack was hopeful that some essence of humanity would linger (for a while at least) after his ascension and that may be there would be enough there to bring Cristian back.

It went without saying that to steer this plot safely through to fruition would require the conspirators to keep their clandestine maneuvering well hidden from Setantii. Not an easy thing to do considering that they were dealing with a creature that could enter minds and steal thoughts amongst other things. Their best chance of success here would be to distract the beast, maintain her focus on Cristian’s care. Thomas’s fortuitous placement of the boy down at poor Aunt May’s and miles from Hartford had been an excellent start and the longer he stayed on the Isle of White the better. That said, it had also been agreed that nearer the time Cristian should be brought back to Hartford where he could more easily be influenced and watched over. It had been left to Uncle John to arrange this and so as Cristian (already a successful and renowned business man) approached his twenty third birthday his uncle set about laying down a trail of crumbs that would lead to Hartford Manor. ‘I tell you what Cristian, someone of your stature really should have a place to call home by now. Somewhere impressive and grand. For networking as you people call it, all that hunting and other stuff that comes with the territory.’ Uncle John had done a fine job too, although he did let himself and the team down right at the last when he wobbled and tried to save Rose. Dear Rose. In all these years it could honestly be said that she had been the only real threat to the master plan, barging into Cristian’s life, full of love like that. Tom and Jeremy’s attempt at scaring her off had been, well frankly pathetic but thankfully her influence was in the past now and Cristian had said goodbye to her.

‘Daddy! Two together! Did you see them?’

Thomas hadn’t seen the shooting stars but he says that he has and uses their arrival as a sign that it’s time to call it a night.

‘Come on lady, let’s get you into bed. I have a feeling we’re going to have a very special day tomorrow and I don’t want you to be too tired princess.’

Thomas gathers his daughter up into his arms and walks carefully across the rocks back to the lighthouse. As he stoops to open the door Christine reaches up and kisses him on the cheek.

‘Cristian is coming tomorrow daddy.’

‘Well I hope so darling. But don’t you worry and…’

‘No, he is coming. The seals said so.’

At last Thomas Chevalier knows for certain that he stands on the eve of the final day of his ten year struggle. All that remains is for him to finally meet his son and remove any lingering doubts that Cristian might have about letting his human self go, if only for a week or two.

Chapter 23

There are very few towns in the United Kingdom that sound like they feel. Less than thirty miles from Hartford can be found the eternally damp and drizzly village of Little Peeover. This is one such place. Scrabster (the highland ferry port where I spent the last four hours sleeping in my car) is another. Not that scrabster is a word of course, but when said with a husky, morning voice the place makes a sound that describes perfectly how I feel this morning. Exactly how I do feel (other than ‘scrabby’ that is) is a damn good question actually. Having driven through the night, almost five hours continuously since the fir tree, I am feeling more than a little spaced out. My head banging fatigue makes me wonder if the fir tree thing happened at all or whether it was simply a hallucination, played into my semi dream state during a toilet break. The gull tap tapping on the windscreen and staring into my car is evidence to the contrary. He’s very agitated about something, tapping and scratching around on the bonnet then flying over to the docks occasionally before returning and starting his annoying little routine all over again. I wish he’d leave me alone, just allow me to grab another couple of hours sleep. It’s bad enough that the bloody ferry man insists on blasting his horn every thirty seconds. Yes, we get it! You’ve got a big boat now do you mind shutting the fu…damn it, the ferry’s here!

The ensuing morning dash across a stretch of pot holed, mud puddled tarmac is worth both the pain in my head and the mess splashed on to my jeans because the ferry man does indeed have a big boat, unexpectedly plush too. I’d been expecting some grotty old, open decked commuter sloop but this thing is huge, almost budget cruise standard. I’m almost disappointed that the journey to Stromness will only take an hour or so and therefore deny me the opportunity for a good kip curled up on one of the comfy settees in the rest area. Instead I take my coffee to a seat towards the bow and settled down looking out onto the Pentland Firth. This stretch of water has a fierce reputation and on a day like today who am I to argue; the North Sea angrily lashing out at the invading Atlantic tides leaving a foaming cap on each rolling swell. Now the boat is humming loudly, swinging around and edging toward the mêlée as the huge propellers are commanded to churn harder by the captain. Satisfied that his course is set the captain now takes a moment to drool his thick Orkney accent through the personnel address system and welcome his passengers aboard. He explains some of the highlights of our short voyage (one that will barely leave sight of land) and finished with an apology for his late departure, explaining that the flock of seagulls that had been obscuring the bridge has now dispersed. Perched in the wind on the bow rails I can see a number of the loutish gulls innocently preening themselves, unaware that they had delayed the ferry or what had made them do it.

I can’t help marvelling at this, how magical it all suddenly feels to be in a world where animals help me on my journey! Jack would have relished the imagery; a fairy tale world where the woodland creatures sweep Snow White’s floors, clean her dishes and shake Christian Chevalier’s ass out of bed to make sure that he catches his ride. My smile lasts only as long it takes for a question to surface; how much of this childish wonder will be lost when I become the puppeteer?

Chapter 24

At the side of the road there are nine cats; five black and four white. They are sitting patiently in a line with their backs turned on a steep bank where meandering road and river almost collide. It’s raining hard but their instinct to slip away into the night and find shelter simply isn’t powerful enough to move them. So they sit, in a narrow picnic area where by day sightseers stop to munch and view the river below.

Uncle John is very tired. His eyes are sore and his glasses irritate his nose. He scratches beneath them but it doesn’t help much. This man’s whole demeanour is one of an agitated old fogy who is sick of today and should have been in bed hours ago. The unfortunate business at the lab has upset him more than he let on to the others. A gentle man, John Saunders has a well deserved and cherished reputation amongst his friends and family for being a peace maker, the voice of reason should debate become heated. There isn’t one amongst them who wouldn’t choke on their scone if they discovered that he is also a man capable of smashing an iron bar into a young boy’s head. John rattles his own head in self disgust and the action sets his nose tingling again.

‘How far is this bloody place!’

John shouldn’t allow himself to get so wound up, bang the steering wheel like that. For one thing it isn’t good for his blood pressure but more importantly he really should be taking more care of his driving; too fast for the conditions on such poorly lit roads that are trying hard to freeze a steady rain. And there’s no need for speed either. His lodgings are less than three miles further along this main road that connects Hartford to Chester. What’s more, only an hour ago the land lady promised him faithfully that she will wait up and have supper prepared ready for him, despite the lateness of his arrival. John’s going to need a good night’s rest too because tomorrow he will return home to the Isle of White, spend a couple of days outside of that vicious inner circle which he has come to despise over the last few years. This is the reason he isn’t staying with Hill or Young tonight, even though they both offered him a bed; the last thing he needs is to be in the presence of people who constantly remind him of what a terrible business he is mixed up in. Still, if things go to plan, all this should be behind him in a week or so and then Uncle John can finally set about rebuilding his life, answer that more righteous (and hopefully cleansing) calling to care for what remains of his beloved May.

‘I’m doing this for you darling, not for those damned Chevalier’s’

This simple truth is the crutch that supports John Saunders through what he refers to as his dark decade. He repeats it often when alone.

Up ahead, on the right hand side of the road, there is a field. Access to this rutted pasture is afforded by a heavy black iron gate. Perched on the gate post there are two thrushes. Together they peck and tug at a loop of loose chord that the farmer has used to tether his gate closed. The birds have picked at bits of this rope before (collected its fluffy strands to soften nests during spring). Tonight though, they won’t stop tearing until the strands are broken completely through. The car’s headlights can’t be seen yet, nevertheless there isn’t much time to spare when eventually the rope fails, separates and coils onto the floor. The gate opens but only three or four inches before juddering to a stop on a clump of muddied grass. It takes a second, determined nudge from the horse to overcome this resistance and swing the gate fully out into the road.

‘The Hungry Horse restaurant/B&B welcomes you’ says the sign and finally a weary traveller can begin to relax. John smiles. On the sign there is a picture of a horse’s head and in-between its pricked ears are three very gold and very dubious stars. Still, no matter what the real rating of the place is, surely even the most incompetent of kitchens can make a cup of tea and a plate of toast. That’s all John wants right now, tea and toast and as for the room, well he doesn’t intend to see much of it anyway through his steadily leadening eye lids. All he wants to do is get there, warm up a little and then hit the hay. What John mustn’t do though is hit the gate. Shocked from his semi-dream state by the sudden appearance of a black iron frame just beyond his head lamps he slams on the brakes, at the same time yanking the steering down hard left. The car begins to skid but John knows the drill, backs off the brakes a little and corrects his wheels to face into the slide, confident that he can hold enough of the road and straighten up in time to slip through, pass the gate on the opposite carriageway. He would have completed this text book manoeuvre too had it not been for a huge brown mound that materialises from the dark to block his way completely leaving no room between it, the open gate and the fencing on the opposite side. Brakes jab back on and this time they do grip too fast, lock up and turn the car around, set it to drift ominously backward out of control. John grips the steering wheel and waits but the mound isn’t as solid as he’d feared. As the car jerks to a halt there is no crunch or tinkle, just a soft yielding thump at the back of his car.

For a moment there is silence. The first thing to make a noise is the rain, drumming on the roof. John checks his rear view and not quite believing what he thinks he’s seen there, checks his wing mirrors too. No doubt about it, he’s definitely hit a horse. Consequently, the next thing to make a noise is John’s wicked sense of humour.

‘Hungry? I’d say the poor bugger’s dead!’

John’s joke has served its purpose well and all but stopped his trembling but once his nervous giggling has subsided there’s a bit of a nasty taste left behind. A country man at heart, he likes horses and doesn’t relish one being hurt like this.

‘Ah well, let’s see if there’s anything we can do for you then fella.’

The rain has backed off a little. Even so, as John crouches down to take a closer look, a steady stream of water runs from his thinning hair, onto his nose and drops in to the animal’s huge open eye. Nothing, not a flicker and this is all the confirmation that John needs of the horse’s demise. He sighs and closes the horses eye. Deciding that it would be best to phone the police from the guest house John slowly stands to return to his car but doesn’t get far before remembering that the way to his bed is impassable. Turning back around he applies a speculative and gentle push to the gate, but it doesn’t budge. Grabbing it with both hands next, blood pressure rising, he shoves again but like some huge furry doorstop the heavy horse won’t permit the gate to close.

‘Damn it you stubborn sod! Move your bloody head will you!’

As John’s frustration unceremoniously rattles the gate onto the back of the horse’s neck he happens to notice that the real Hungry Horse is in fact tantalisingly close, clearly visible from the scene of the accident. On a summer evening this would be a beautiful stroll but on such a freezing wet night John simply doesn’t have the legs for it. He thinks he can see a junction however, halfway between the horse and the hotel, that looks like it could bypasses his problem completely. Back at the car this is soon confirmed by inspection of his satnav. The car is already facing the right way too and the engine starts with the first twist of his key.

‘Finally!’

Happier that things are going his way for a change and with the smell of warm toast in his mind, John sets off in search of his left turn. It isn’t until he reaches it (and has to slow right down to determine where the junction actually starts) that he realises there is something wrong with his wipers. Oh they’re moving well enough but instead of making a squeegee clean sweep the one on the driver’s side isn’t dealing with the rain at all well. If anything the broad streaks it leaves with each pass make it more difficult to see ahead, especially through a pair of continuously steamed up glasses like he now has following his unshielded sortie into the rain. Suddenly impatient once more, John convinces himself that the problem will fix itself (probably as the ice that must have gathered there melts away) and drives on.

Truth be told the road isn’t the only thing that John Saunders can’t see too well. For instance, he missed completely the flight of the two songbirds, fluttering from his windscreen (where they had been busy damaging his wiper blade) as he returned to the car. Also, had he seen the horse stand and return to its paddock he set off then John might have understood that something wasn’t quite right with this scene. Even without the crappy wiper and steamed up glasses though, John couldn’t be expected to see around the next bend where cats are standing and strolling to take their positions on the tarmac; black to the left, white to the right.

Ah, those good ol’ dependable cat’s eyes. There isn’t a motorist in the land who at some time hasn’t followed these tiny reflecting miracles down mist shrouded lanes and asked himself two questions. Why didn’t I think of that and what would we do without them? John is no different. Visibility slashed in half by an unfortunate collaboration of rain, bad wipers and steamed up glasses he drives on through the night, placing all his blind faith in the tiny lumps of glass that are guiding him. The satnav is telling him something different however, that the road will bend to the left thirty yards ahead, but he ignores that new fangled space man technology. No, the light bouncing back from the cat’s eyes has his vote of confidence; it’s telling him to veer right and that has to be correct because there’s nothing about a cat’s eye that can go wrong is there? But it turns out that not all cat’s eyes are to be trusted, a lesson hard learnt by John Saunders as he bumps a low tarmac ridge.

‘What the….’

Far too late he sees his headlights devoured by the void as the ground falls away before him. The car is already committed to plummet but incredibly it hesitates, hangs on to the steep river bank, held there by a slim branch that strains but doesn’t yield. John releases his seat belt, flings open the door and launches himself from the car. Now he has a branch too, but as he pulls himself towards it and out of the vehicle his left foot refuses to follow. It won’t take long to twist it free from the control pedals but it is time that John simply doesn’t have. Crack, and the car is released. John looks up to the road, pleading for salvation, the slim limb he clutches ripping flesh and blood out of his grasp. Then, through his pain, comes understanding. It only takes a second for him to fall from view but it’s enough for him to see the cats scatter; black unveiling the true course of the road that they had obscured , white erasing the false bend that their devilish stares had created to lead John over the edge.

‘Setantii!!!!! We had a….’

John wants to protest that they had a deal but the freezing black water slams his mouth closed as the car takes him under. He doesn’t have long to live, twenty panicked seconds at most before he will have no choice but to open his lungs to the river.

‘And I have delivered on my promise John.’

The voice in his head demands so much of his attention that John literally forgets his desire for air. He allows his thoughts to answer.

‘But you promised Setantii, you promised, you gave your word that you would give what was left of her when this was over!’

‘And it is over for you John. You have kept your word and given me everything that I asked from you. Open your eyes John. See where you are going.’

Immediately John does as he is asked and instantly a switch is thrown, changing his perspective from one of hopelessness to one filled with hope. May is with him, drifting serenely in the water by his side, smiling gently and waiting patiently for him to join her.

‘This is my word, her soul John. The very best of a wonderful woman and I return her to you. Join her, be happy again.’

John Saunders doesn’t simply smile, he opens his mouth wide and grins.

Chapter 25

Approaching Stromness is like sailing into a postcard. Stepping from the gang plank to become a part of the harbour scene is invigorating. I’m utterly buzzed by it, soaking up the energy of the fishermen and the traders there. Soaking up or feeding on? This is the question I find myself pondering as I weave my way through piles of sodden nets, scowled at by sturdy men stinking of fish and whisky. I’m on my way to the first of three pubs that I can see have opened their doors (even at this early hour) to dole out booze and attentive barmaids for the fishermen to find solace in. Two days ago I would have said that the last thing I needed was to see Setantii amongst them but the disappointment I feel upon leaving the Flattie Bar is impossible to deny. The Ferry Inn is next, positioned central to the harbour wall and a lot busier than the previous pub had been; there are three people at the bar. Aunt May isn’t one of them. Well, if you can’t beat ‘em…

‘Hi, I’d like a single malt please. Smooth and peaty if you can recommend something local that’s fits the bill?’

The woman behind the counter is fat and ginger and her smug smile at the other customers leaning on the bar annoys me intensely. She says nothing, turns to jab at an optic with a rather tatty glass and when it’s done, still without addressing her customer directly, places the tumbler in front of me whilst at the same time ringing the price into the till.

‘Lovely thanks. And could I have a couple of lumps of ice in that please?’

The three fishermen stop moaning at each other and turn to stare. From the deep set frowns on their faces you would have thought that I’d asked the barmaid to get on the bar, drop her knickers and piss in it for me.

‘I’m sorry sir, but we don’t serve cocktails.’

The woman is deadly serious too, sharper than the scotch which I feel obliged to sip with a shrug to let everyone think that I wasn’t particularly bothered about the ice anyway. After a necessary, rather uncomfortable silent two minutes spent fidgeting at the bar I nod to no-one in particular and slip away to a quiet corner where I can justifiably turn my back on my new drinking buddies and watch the wharf. Almost immediately though my view is blocked by a thin faced young man, cupping his hands around ruddy cheeks to douse reflections so that he can better peer through the salty windows of the pub. He sees me, drops his arms and sets off again pushing a wheel chair into to the bar. I’m tempted to help him as he struggles to drag his charge backwards up the entrance steps but he eventually manages okay and makes a beeline for me with his bundle of blankets and shawls. I recognise the woman buried amongst them immediately. She looks dreadful; sallow and gaunt with no hint of the vivacious woman who had cared for me as a child in those lifeless, carbon streaked eyes.

‘Aunt May?’

‘No Cristian, she isn’t in here anymore. It’s just me now.’

Setantii’s openness about her possession of this dying body leads me to believe that the man pushing her is probably silkie too. He is.

‘Allow me to introduce myself Cristian. My name is Keltz, or Donald Frasier should we be in the company of others. How was your journey so far?’

The man shuffles the wheel chair closer to the table then offers me his hand as he sits down. I refuse it, not quite sure why he is here (other than to wheel Setantii around of course). No, there is something definitely not quite right about this one and I don’t fully trust his thin weak lips, still rather awkwardly pulled back into a semi sneer that I think is an attempt to reassure me that he’s okay.

‘Keltz will be with us tomorrow on Sule Skerry Cristian.’

This isn’t information, this is an instruction; pulling rank over the doubt that she must be able to sense in me.

‘Keltz has spent the last five years helping me prepare for today and we could not be in better hands.’

‘Oh, so you’ve done this before then?’

It turns out that he has, but a long long time ago. That was back in the days when silkies were known to men and existed openly alongside them. What also transpired from Keltz’s tale (which I have to admit is a rather intriguing account of medieval granite towers and sacrificial highland princesses) is this: that if silkies were indeed to have some kind of family tree then I will soon be able to call this weasely little man Grandad. I get the feeling that he could talk until sundown but a weary and increasingly impatient Setantii seizes her opportunity to interrupt when Keltz pauses to slug my whisky that mysteriously seems to have slid across the table toward him. Fast hands these silkies have.

‘Now listen, we don’t have much time Cristian, but before we leave for Sule Skerry I need you to know something.’

I wonder if it’s the royal ‘we’ that Setantii is worried about how much time there is? This husk of May certainly doesn’t look like it’s going to last the day, for even as she speaks I can see the folds of skin on her face, neck and hands yielding, sliding slowly from her increasingly zombified frame right before my eyes. Surely it can’t be much longer until this corpse (whose dry rattle of a voice I’m listening too) is literally a bag of bones?

‘Go on.’

‘Today you will meet your father and your sister.’

Now this I wasn’t expecting! Sure, I knew there was a deal between Setantii and my father but I had no idea that he still had a part to play in it. Jesus! My father will be there? A man who I haven’t heard from for over five years and before that maybe twice a year if I was lucky (at Christmas or on my birthday). And if I’m to be honest with myself, I’ve given up on him as much as he has on me. In fact the last occasion that I can remember being asked about my family had been at a business lunch almost two years back. Without hesitation then I continued to crack lobster claws and nonchalantly answer that I’d been orphaned by a car wreck at the age of fifteen, a lie that had sat so well on my conscience that I haven’t since felt compelled to change it. But today I’m going to see my father again? I’m going to meet the man I so recently and utterly denied? My feelings are so mixed up about this that it’s hard for me distil the truth from them, to understand exactly why I really don’t want to see him on Sule Skerry today. And then it hits me; I don’t want to give that damned persuasive father of mine the opportunity to talk me out of a decision that’s all but made.

‘And you’re going to allow this? I mean, how can this possibly help? You’ve said all along that this is my decision and mine alone. And now you’re going to give him one last chance at talking me out of it?’

I’m amazed by how dismissive she appears to be of my concerns, especially as this is a concern that she must surely share? Apparently not though for she says nothing more about it until Keltz has her outside and rolling quickly toward a not too shabby cruiser that I presume is to be our ride to Sule Skerry.

‘Just listen to what he has to say and then make your decision Cristian. Now come on, get me on this bloody boat will you?’

I can understand her frustration, her rising fear. The body she is using is failing rapidly and as Jack had said, the only thing that a silkie truly fears is the death of its host, shutting down the exits and trapping them inside to endure a slow, starving death in a rotting corpse. The closest analogy I can think of as I help Keltz carry her onboard would be driving a car blindfolded, knowing that there’s a wall ahead and just praying that you will reach your destination first. Finally we are ready and Keltz pilots the boat out of the harbour. I stand at the stern, where Setantii is slumped into a soft leather captain’s chair, and watch a small crowd that has gathered on the dockside, waving frantically after us to tell us that we’ve left the wheel chair behind. They aren’t to know that we won’t be needing it anymore.

Chapter 26

The man in the crumpled suit looks to be as hesitant as I do about our imminent reunion. Whilst I help Keltz wind the anchor and wrestle the gang plank into position, my father stands stock still ten yards back from the shore line. My sister (who I have never met) is tucked tightly beneath the protective wing of his tatty jacket. I don’t look at him directly but as I coil and heave ropes I do occasionally glance his way. It isn’t long enough before the work is done and the time arrives. I walk toward Setantii and bend down to slide my arms beneath her shoulders.

‘No Cristian. Leave me here for a moment. You go ahead and speak to your father.’

There isn’t a ripple on the water and although the gang plank yields it’s solid enough. Still, crossing it is one of the most difficult things I have ever had to do. Two more strides are all that I need to take but midway the menacing sea fret (that crept in with our arrival and erased the beach) lurches at me, grabs my attention by the ankles and holds me there. Slowly this damp mist twists the nature of the small strip of aluminium that I’m stood on until it’s no longer a bridge tying land to sea but a portal connecting two worlds together; one silkie the other human. Little by little the uncertainty about which of these worlds I truly belong in rises from the mist and pins me between them. It takes my father’s intervention to move time on. As I hesitate he acts, strides forward and offers me a hand.

‘It’s so good to see you son. Come on, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

There’s no hug (which I am thankful for) but there’s a warmth in his tired face that I recognize and have to admit that I’ve truly missed. His eyes look poignant and teary too, shined by that kind of sadness usually reserved for airport departure gates where people wrestle emotions to reconcile what is best for the friend that is leaving with their own sense of loss. Strange to see such sentiment at our reunion, as though my father is already anticipating the journey I am about to embark upon. Or am I? Only moments spent standing with my family again like this and already I’m forced to reconsider where I do indeed belong and where I want to be. I wonder if blood really is thicker than water, even if that water has the ebb and flow of a silkie spirit within.

‘This is Cristian princess. Say hello to your brother.’

The little girl in front of me is one full of contradiction. Her hand, (placed in mine by our father) is chubby and childlike but her face is old beyond her years. Her jeans are hip and her hoody loud but the dirty blonde hair that falls onto it is lifeless and laced with grey, splitting ends. My sister has dark, deep set rings around eyes that are semi closed over. I wish they would close fully, shut away the slithers of sightless white that I can see, scarred by jet black streaks perhaps left there by the panicked silkie behind them. But her aura is bright and cheerful and she is my sister and we instantly connect.

‘Hi bro’. Done you a picture if you wanna to see it?’

It’s obvious that my father has rarely (if ever) heard his princess talk like this and the awkwardness with which she delivers her street talk forces us to smile at each other. She doesn’t wait for my reply though and pulls me eagerly to one side, away from Thomas before confidently handing me a fold of paper. I dread opening it. I mean, what the hell is it going to look like, a picture drawn by a ten year old blind girl? I’m anticipating the kind of result you could reasonably expect if you were to give a chimpanzee a pencil and paper, then put the cheeky little monkey on a trampoline whilst he sketches away. Preparing to lie I force my face straight then I kick myself again; she won’t be able to see even if my face screams with laughter as long as I do it quietly! So the final fold is undone and the picture revealed. I needn’t have worried about my reaction being kept quiet though because the detailed imagery that pours into my mind occupies it completely, leaves nothing for the world outside to see or hear and bringing with it a strong sense of déjà vu.

In the centre of the picture there is a man standing atop a semi circular mound of grey rock. He is wearing jeans and a tee shirt and there’s nothing particularly striking about him. At his feet lies a woman; black haired and cherry lipped, bright blue eyes turned upward to watch as he stretches his arms high above his head. Just beyond his high reach is a young boy. But the boy’s image is ethereal and somehow my thoughts have a hard time holding on to him. This could be because of the streams of starlight that are tumbling out from a huge black void in the sky above and behind them both; the tails of a dozen or so galaxies that are spinning there, each dropping a wisp of white light to coil around the boy and draw him toward them perhaps? It isn’t clear what is happening up there but beneath the sky there is no doubt. Inside the mound, which I suppose must be some kind of cave, there are three men holding hands. Each has a bright diamond dagger slung from their neck. Surrounding them and filling every remaining inch of paper Christine has drawn death; a macabre panorama of screaming corpses (both animal and human), each with a ghost like shadow straining to separate but also tethered and condemned. Above all else the feeling that this image gives me is one of struggle, as if the picture is still in motion; a snap shot clipped from an animated scene that’s yet to be resolved.

‘Wow! And you’ve done this all by yourself ?’

Christine nods vigorously and beckons me down to her level so that she can feel for my ear, place her hands around it and whisper.

‘Yes. Well, Tinkerbell did most of it but I helped too.’

‘It really is beautifully drawn and coloured in Christine. So tell me, who’s Tinkerbell then?’

I think I already know but it would be good to have my sister explain so that I can be sure not to put my foot in it.

‘Oh she’s my silkie. She isn’t very happy with me at the moment though because she didn’t want to give it to you but I made her. But Cristian, you mustn’t show it to that one. Promise?’

I stand and unquestioningly turn to see where my sister is pointing; Keltz has joined us on the island, Aunt May slung around his neck like some Halloween rucksack, clinging to his shoulders as he makes his way toward the light house. I whisper my promise back and manage to discretely slide the picture into my pocket before they reach me. Setantii all but ignores my father but is clear about what she wants to happen next.

‘Talk to your father Cristian. If you are going to do this, now is the time.’

If this old hag could raise a single globule of saliva in that crumbling mouth of her’s then I’m sure she would have used it to spit this command at me. And why so pushy anyway? I’m beginning to get the uneasy feeling that this conversation with my father is perhaps more important to Setantii than it really should be. Still, it’s a conversation that I do now feel that I’m ready for, being far more open minded than I have felt since standing in awe beneath that loch side tree, bathed in owl light. My father has already walked to take his place on the rocks by the waters edge. It’s time to join him, listen to what he has to say and see if it can once and for all turn my mind against the increasingly energetic silkie inside me.

‘Son, I…’

Son he called me. God how I’ve missed that tiny syllable. My father’s lips are trembling and he’s unable to continue. I guess he doesn’t know that there’s nothing more to be said for, when spoken softly like this, son says everything; how sorry he is, how much he’s missed me, how much he loves me. I wonder if ‘dad’ has the same power, the power to tremble my lips and let him know that I understand and that he doesn’t need to be forgiven for the terrible circumstance that have kept us apart all this time.

‘Listen Dad….’

It does, and the charge of emotion that the word ignites knocks me forward to steal the hug that I’m now not only ready for but desperately need. His arms are as sincere as mine and our embrace is strong and silent.

‘Oh please! Will you two just get on with it! There’s more important things at stake here than for two grown men to sit cuddling like a couple of gay tramps on ecstasy.’

I can’t help thinking that there’s a tinge of jealousy colouring Setantii’s jibe. Still, there’s enough humour in the imagery to make both me and my dad laugh a little as we release each other.

‘I guess the old bag has a point eh Cristian?’

Dad smiles, sniffs hard and dries his face with the sleeve of his jacket. He still looks so tired but a lot less stressed now than when I had first seen him from the boat. There is some concern remaining in his face though, that slight crinkle of brow and cheek telling me that what he has to say next isn’t going to be easy for him. The wind is rising, icy too but even its chilly blast can’t hurry him and it takes a few more frowning moments before he speaks.

‘I remember asking you once, during the walk back from a days fishing on the lake I think, what it was that you wanted to be when you grew up. You would have been about ten at the time I suppose, not quite finished junior school. You stopped, stood soldier straight with your arms by your side and looked me straight in the eye. Spiderman you shouted. I want to be Spiderman. Determined little bugger you were too.’

‘It was Batman actually, but close enough.’

‘Well whichever one it was, I certainly never thought that I’d be sitting here saying this but guess what son. Batman, Spiderman, Dogman, Catman, take your pick. You’ve got your wish Cristian.’

My wish! I certainly don’t remember blowing out the candles on my fifteenth birthday, screwing my eyes shut and praying hard to the cake fairy for a new bike, a Bat-mobile and oh, how about infestation by an evil soul eating entity please. And what is my father implying here, that I should be thankful, succumb to the silkie inside? Is he really prepared to say goodbye to his son for ever this time, having battled all these years only to give up the fight for my soul at the very last? Incredible as it seems, he has.

‘Cristian trust me and listen, because I am going to ask one more thing from you. Not for me but for your sister, you must ascend tonight.’

Chapter 27

Stuart MacDonald (aka ‘Mac the knife’ to his pals down at the coroner’s office) was a little surprised that Dr Hill had so adamantly insisted on attending the early morning slab where John Saunders is laid out, open and bloody. What is more of a mystery to him though is Hill’s response to the autopsy findings; stumbling away from the table, open mouthed, crouching on the floor with his back to the room like that. The doctor’s still there too, head buried between hands that clutch the phone he’s been so busy trying to contact someone with. The pathologist has left the corpse now and gone to sit in silence behind a small metal desk. He’s taking a few moments to mull over the evidence, not yet prepared to talk until he understands a little more about what just happened here.

It should have been a routine autopsy (a quick cut and shut as he had told his wife) because the police report was quite clear that the cadaver had drowned. So once the lungs and stomach had been exposed, why had Hill then been so obsessed with inspecting the eyes? He’d even asked for one of them to be removed so that he could check behind it. Why would he do that? Furthermore, what had he seen there that had gotten him all wound up like that, adamant that the skull cap had to be cracked open and the brain tissue inspected? Frankly, Mac the knife was a little disappointed that he’d allowed himself to get carried along by the doctor’s anxious enthusiasm to delve deeper than was necessary. Looking at the corpse now it was indeed a bloody mess and he reckoned that the morning coffee he’d promised Mrs Mac wasn’t going to happen now; too much here to write about and stitch back together. Still, the brain thing hadn’t been a complete waste of time. It had uncovered the tumour and whilst it was true that this little black nodule hadn’t contributed to the accident it was not too much of a stretch to assume that it would have done for Mr Saunders in a year or two. At least that’s what his report will say, offer a few crumbs of comfort to the bereaved and let them know that their loved one was screwed anyway. Yes, that was it! That was the moment when things really got bizarre, when Mac’s knife had sliced through the brain tissue and exposed the tumour!

‘Did you know your friend had brain cancer Jeremy?’

Hill sighs deeply, lowers his hands and raises his head.

‘No. I didn’t know about the tumour. How long has it been there would you say?’

‘Oh, not long. Somewhere between twelve to eighteen months I’d guess. Had he been complaining about feeling un-well?’

Hill stands, rather shakily and checks his phone for a response once more before reluctantly sliding it into his trouser pocket. His brow is sweating profusely and in spite of the doctor’s attempt at composure it is obvious that he is still no less rattled than he had been five minutes ago. He ignores the pathologist’s question and makes his way to the door, despondent and pausing only briefly to further compound the pathologist’s confusion.

‘Well, we’re completely fucked then.’

Chapter 28

My hands are cupped and held out but shaking so hard that Keltz can’t yet place the mouse there. So this is it. Even if I wanted to back out now I don’t think I could. Everyone gathered here is urging me on, willing me to pick up the key to begin the process of unlocking my soul and feeding it to the silkie I will become. Come on hands! Stop bloody shaking will you! My father is sat behind me on one of two deck chairs that he’s set up for himself and Christine. I glance back at him for a second time and he nods again, this time more vigorously. Setantii is still inside what’s left of crumpling Aunt May, slumped on a pile of sacks to my right where Keltz literally dumped her ten minutes ago. Her head is cricked sharply forward by a pillow of tough rubber life jackets and she looks ridiculously uncomfortable but I have to remember that May isn’t there anymore and this awkward repose means nothing to the silkie. Damn this is so embarrassing! It’s no good, I’ll have to lower my hands, shake them out and then try again. Whilst I do this I look up. It’s a mistake. All I wanted was to distract my hands for a moment, drift for a while in the rolling grey clouds but instead I find myself staring into the desperate blue of Ruby Stevens’ eyes, pleading at me from the balcony above. Her hair is so unclean that it barely flickers in the breeze. Instead it twists down past her terrified face forming greasy red strands. The poor girl looks like a zombified Rapunzel. Her mouth is saying something but I can’t hear. Neither can I turn away until Setantii butts in on our silent conversation.

‘She’s a whore and a junky Cristian. Now come on, focus!’

I look away from the wretched prisoner. Not because I agree that Ruby deserves her fate but because the plan my father outlined was quite clear on this point; Ruby will have to be sacrificed to not only save Christine and Rose but also if I am to have any chance of finding myself again once this is done. I would never have believed that good men (fathers, brothers, lovers) could so readily be turned to murder if pressed. But apparently they can.

‘Okay Cristian, I’m going to put the mouse in your hands. Now, just remember what we talked about. Concentrate but only a little more than you might need to when you breathe or walk. You need to set your mind to auto, blur it a little so that it’s only just aware of the mouse.’

Keltz’s bony hand slowly lowers the mouse by the tail until its scrabbling front paws are scratching in mine. He holds it there, waiting for me to nod. I can hear my father explaining what the mouse looks like (one velvet ear slightly larger than the other) and now Christine excitedly announcing that Simba is a very good mouse indeed, her favourite actually and that I will have no trouble at all with him. I’m not sure that Simba heard this or understood his part for no sooner have I nodded my head than his begins to bleed profusely as I try and squeeze my thoughts inside it.

‘Gently Cristian, gently and…..oh dear. Well, no matter. Let’s try another one.’

Whilst Keltz dumps the dead mouse and roots around in the cage at his feet for the next victim, Christine pesters dad to tell her what happened. He sounds flustered and I don’t think she is convinced by his assertion that Simba is fine. His attempted description of a happy little mouse scampering across the rocks and playing with the seagulls is almost as messed up and confused as Simba’s brains but eventually Thomas Chevalier is put out of his misery too.

‘So did he die quickly then daddy?’

‘Yes he did darling, and hey Cristian! Be a bit more careful this time would you?’

I promise myself that I will and nod to Keltz again. This time I don’t even think about the mouse to begin with, barely look at it even. Instead I allow my hands to sense its soft white fur and warm belly. Without realising I’ve now fully closed my eyes to watch him in my imagination, develop his tiny essence there and stroke it with my mind. Slowly I let the light back in, open my eyes to bring the physical and the ethereal together and as the virtual mouse and the real one are overlaid I try and coax a small part of me into joining them.

‘Good Cristian! Now stay calm, it’s important that you don’t do anything for a moment. Just let yourself be. Let the mouse be.’

I can hear Keltz well enough but his voice sounds strange as though I’m not hearing it inside my head where it should be. The only sounds here with me are droning, meaningless tones? Damn it, this doesn’t seem right at all. I wonder if something’s gone wrong. I look toward my father to see if there’s any sign of disaster in his expression. There isn’t. I watch him calmly rise from his chair and stand behind me. Behind me? But how can that be? Now I am beginning to panic! I can feel my heart ramping up, screaming at me to do something. I need to relax, and quickly! Just calm down Cristian, breathe deeply. Concentrate on getting your heartbeat down. Come on, big deep breaths Cristian. One and two and three and, let’s get that heart beat under control eh? That’s it, big deep breaths and four and five and for Christ’s sake breathe slowly dammit! But it’s no good, I can’t! I’m totally losing it now and no matter how I try I simply can’t get control of my heart. I can’t get… hang on a minute? Control of my heart or…of course, that’s it! That’s why I can’t calm down! That’s why I’m looking past myself at my father and why Keltz’s voice doesn’t make sense! I’m inside the mouse, actually inside another animal’s brain! This little rodent doesn’t have a clue what Keltzs is saying. How could it understand that those sounds should form words? And it isn’t my heart beating itself to bits then! Christ, I’m actually here, watching the world through the eyes of a mouse. Weird and, and now something else. Whiskers, I can see whiskers! Actually, not see but feel wiry hairs that have just kicked into life and are trying to tell me something. Oh hang on a minute, easy fella! My mouse heart is racing away faster now, too fast to register a count and the tingling around my nose is instantly so charged that ouch that hurts so bad! The mouse is panicking, set to flight and I can sense its hardwired instinct to run or if necessary die rather than face its fear. But I have instincts too now, a whole set of new ones and without thinking or leaving the mouse I shift perspective, snatch a view from my human psyche and quickly realise that it’s my hands that are causing the problem; tightening their grip just a little too close for comfort. As soon as I relax my fingers the mouse slows its heart and resets its whiskers to a comfortable itch.

Well, we’re not quite one me and this mouse but by God, if we were any closer we would be!

‘Excellent Cristian, truly well done!’

Setantii is more than congratulatory; she’s proud. It’s me again, grinning and turning around so that everyone can know where I’ve been. Keltz has lifted the mouse from my hands and is taking a good close look at it. His staid inspection has us all pinned to the spot but it isn’t long before a huge grin spreads across his face and allows us to relax.

‘Perfect! Just a touch of damage in his left eye but other than that, perfect. Well done Cristian, bloody well done mate.’

‘Cristian no! No Cristian, please! Please don’t! I’ll do any…’

One look upward from me and Ruby instantly shuts up. She knows that this is only going to end one way. I’m so buzzed by it all that the compassion that I naturally do have for her plight is completely swamped. All she can see in my eyes is hunger, a desire to get on and take her. She’s gone now, back inside the lamp room, no doubt desperately searching for somewhere to hide in her glass tomb. I can’t imagine what is going through her mind, but I guess I’ll find out soon enough.

‘So what’s next?’

Keltz glances at Setantii and they both agree on something. Without answering my question he kneels and opens the door of the cage. The remaining mice step gingerly from it, sniffing at rocks and air but none of them stray too far from their home. Keltz places my mouse amongst them, stands and claps his hands loud and fast. The mice scatter.

‘Okay Cristian, give them a minute or two then bring them all back here to the cage. Fast as you can mind, and not one at a time either. I want you to try and control as many of them as you are able, simultaneously.’

I take a deep breath and close my eyes but before I can project, Keltz drags me back.

‘But be careful Cristian, and this is important so listen well. You must keep aware at all times of the vitality of each animal. The very moment that you feel that there is the slightest possibility of any one of them being in mortal danger, you have to get out. If you don’t, well whatever part of you is left inside when the mouse dies is gone too. Forever. And believe me, an eternity of feeling incomplete is not something you want to experience. Now, do you understand?’

Oh I understand alright. But I can’t help thinking that this little snippet of information might have come in handy a few minutes earlier! I scowl and nod at the same time and Keltz gets both messages.

‘Yeah, well maybe I should have mentioned it sooner. Anyway, good luck!’

It takes only a moment for me to imagine a mouse again but I soon realise that locating the little buggers is going to be tricky. I’m already outside of my body but being so focussed on finding mice I’ve given little thought to this weightless omnipresence. It truly is a wonderful experience though! But there’s also an echo of familiarity about it, a kind of ‘second nature’ feel to it all. It’s as though, even as a human, I always had this ability but for some bizarre reason never felt inclined to fly. Seconds have passed and I’m already fifty paces away from my body in every direction; a globe in a space that’s dominated by my presence. I push on, inflate the bubble and as the threshold expands so does my understanding. The radar kicks in. This is how things make themselves known to me; hot spots of life flashing pink and yellow, channelled back to the core where I stand and analyse. There’s my dad and sister, daubed in glowing hues as if by one of the great impressionists; nothing that neatly defines form but unmistakably human. Christine has a playful purple swirl too, charged full of energy as it loops out, twists and turns before flowing back into her. My sister, a flaring star. Oh I can’t wait to tell her how beautiful Tinkerbell is! And as for Stantii and Keltz, what magnificent creatures they are. Their energy is truly immense but so exquisitely controlled, contained inside a crimson crystal ball marbled by the most intense blues and purples imaginable.

‘Erm, the mice Cristian? Don’t forget the mice.’

These aren’t words that Keltz sends but thoughts, sensed God knows where by my existence. That’s what I am. I am everywhere and nowhere, a mere probability in this shell of energy that I have created. The mice don’t stand a chance and catching a glimpse of orange tucked behind the nearest rock I enter and take him. Easy. Here’s another, then a third and a fourth caught sniffing for food inside the light keeper’s house. Finally the fifth is found, rummaging through sticky seaweed on the beach. Time to go home boys! Or at least that was the plan but controlling all these panicked mice is like trying to herd cats. They’re scattering again and each time I manage to bring one closer another two disobey me, scamper blindly away from the unseen predator that they must sense is hunting them down. Right, I’ve got two now, running toward the cage but damn it where the hell is that one over by the beach going? Suddenly my senses are blasted by salt; it’s everywhere, pouring into me from the mouse that had been investigating the beach but is now tumbling through ice cold surf. Can mice swim? I can’t quite remember but once on Discovery I did see a……

‘Get out Cristian!!’

Keltz pop’s the bubble and I collapse back, dropped to my knees as my senses are overloaded with the taste and smell of salt. I’m coughing hard but there’s no sympathy, only harsh words.

‘Cristian, what the hell do you think you are? Some kind of rodent life guard! Rule one, if in doubt, get out! Now back on your feet and try again.’

Quite where Setantii has found this cruel wit I have no idea. I guess it was the demise of Aunt May that dropped the veil to reveal a crick necked, gruff voiced old bitch. Still, she has a point. This time I am not going to let these little bastards get carried away doing mouse stuff. They’re mine, and the sooner they realise it the better. I have three again already. There are only three left now; the fourth has been taken by a gull whilst I was recovering. Now that was a close one! I have no idea how quickly that beak would have severed a spinal chord or crushed an abdomen but I guarantee that it would have been quicker than I could have reacted. I really am going to need to sense more, keep my animal wits about me and learn from the mouse as much as control it. Yes, symbiosis, that’s the key here and it seems to be working. The three of us are separated but working as a team, watching for danger together and only when we’re satisfied that it’s safe to cross the next stretch of open ground do I direct, walk us on toward the cage. Stop again, look and sniff some more then move on. We can see each other now and come together on top of a high granite slab. The cage still isn’t in sight but we can smell our own faeces upwind. It smells good, like safety, like home and from this point on we have six eyes and three noses all scanning for danger whether it soars above us or lurks in the deep crevice beyond the next rocky edge. Ah, there’s the cage! Stop. Sit. Wait and smell. All clear. Run!

A volley of applause tells us that we’ve made it, blasts our tiny ears and sets our hearts racing again. Tiny feet tense instantly and muscles charge with adrenalin ready for flight but I calm them, suppress these urges and even make time to show boat a little; each of the mice standing on their rear legs and clapping their front paws together. The crowd loves it and claps harder. Show over I sit the mice in the cage and watch from inside as Keltz closes the door. Three blind mice, oh see how we ran!

Chapter 29

So the time has finally arrived. The time for me to say goodbye. Hard to explain how, but this long silent hug and these soft kisses on the cheek from dad are all I need to understand that he really does believe that this is to be a temporary separation. I’m not so sure. Not that I doubt his ability to rescue me when the time comes, because Thomas Chevalier would never make a promise to his son that he couldn’t keep. No, the uncertainty I have is purely about my own, as yet untested, willingness to surrender the prize that waits for me at the top of the lighthouse. Being held so close to him like this, it’s me who reacts first to the gentle buzz in his jacket pocket that finally pushes us apart.

‘You’ve got a text I think dad.’

‘Yeah? Well you have a date with a pretty little girl whose heart you seem to have stolen. The text can wait, but your sister can’t. Good luck son, and remember my promise to you.’

Christine is standing on a rock, making herself tall enough to wrap her tiny arms around my neck and pull me close in so that she can whisper. Her words are a strange mixture of the sweet and macabre; ice cream smothered in chilli sauce.

‘Thank you so much Cristian. I always believed in you even though you were just a story to me. And don’t be scared. Tinkerbell says she is oh so jealous of you and if she thinks like that then this has to be exciting doesn’t it? And we will see each other soon won’t we. But only if you take care mind, so please be specially gentle with her and don’t damage those eyes now. Promise?’

It’s a strange promise to have to make to someone so young but as I wrestle with it the mask of innocence that Christine wears for me is torn away revealing again her sallow and wrinkled skin, a face eroded by years of living trapped behind those scarred, white eyes. A life time spent sharing her dark world with the occasional rage and tantrums of a young and impetuous silkie. My sister was never given the chance to be innocent and I have nothing of her childhood to protect here.

‘I promise Christine. They will be the bluest eyes anybody as ever seen.’

My sister’s smile is the last thing I see before entering the lighthouse stairwell. Her image only lingers a moment though and by the time I’ve rounded the tenth step it is gone, taking with it the daylight from the entrance door that has also twisted from view. Always gloomy, always cold, there is nothing more disorienting than the spiral stairs of a lighthouse. I feel like I’m on Penrose’s steps, that whilst each stone appears to take me higher than the last I am in fact being led back to the beginning. It’s a weird sensation but at the same time one that sits easily in my mind and it strikes me that, as surreal as this spiral appears, it still makes more sense than what is truly happening. I am going up. I am climbing to the top of a tower. There is a real girl cowering from me there. I am going to raid her, claim her soul and save her eyes so that they can be given to my possessed sister. And when all this madness is done, when I have maimed and slaughtered Ruby Stevens, I am going to disappear from this planet for ever to be replaced by something I still don’t fully understand. I’m trembling and sweating hard now but this steadily deepening dread still isn’t enough to stop my legs from stepping on but oh Mr Penrose, if only you could be proven right just this once! If only you and your impossible stairs could be true, accept responsibility and drop me back at the entrance door with its daylight welcome! At least then I could say with all my heart that I tried, shrug my shoulders and leave all this behind with my pride in tact and Settanti and dad reconciled. But it’s a hopeless exit strategy this, for Penrose was indeed a lying bastard. Two more steps are all it takes to prove it and deliver me outside the crumbling grey paint of the lamp room door. So what now? How the hell is this going to work exactly? Should I knock? Knock? What are you thinking Cristian? Just burst in and take her! Should I? No, of course I shouldn’t. Knock. I tap my knuckles three times on the steel panel.

‘Ruby? Are you in there? It’s Cristian.’

‘Fuck off! Fuck off and stay the fuck away from me you freak! Just leave me alone! I haven’t done anything Cristian. Please please please….’

So much for my attempt to bring a little decorum to the table! Whilst Ruby rants and I hesitate my right hand reaches out and tugs the door handle down. The door is halfway open before I even realise what is happening. The silkie did this, the silkie inside me that didn’t hear the terrified plea of a young woman but instead tasted the delicious aroma of its first meal. As the door closes behind me I see her and my heart sinks. The skin around her eyes is puffed and red and looks really sore. Her lips and nose are dry to the point of cracking too and her hair is lying limp and greasy around shoulders that are so slumped they can barely support her baggy jumper. Ruby sniffs hard, drops to her knees and continues to beg, only quietly now as she accepts that her defences are breached and her only hope remains my compassion. As pathetic as she presents herself, my sympathy for her is nowhere near as powerful as I had expected it to be. If anything she’s beginning to annoy me a little. All this pitiful pleading for a life that, as far as I can determine, has been completely wasted, devoted to prostituting mind and body to drugs and sex and with no intention of ever redeeming herself wouldn’t you say Cristian? And don’t forget, your sister is so much more deserving! Better those sparkling blue eyes are finally used as they should be, to appreciate our world’s crystal clear beauty rather than aid her loathsome hunt for the sharp end of a needle or some scumbag’s cock don’t you think? After all, I did give Christine my promise didn’t I. Decision made and nothing more to think about.

A flash of Ruby’s image freeze frames in my mind’s eye and this is all it takes for me to reach out, connect and enter. Snap click and I’m inside Ruby Stevens! But this place is nothing like the mouse. There it was easy to sense the world beyond the whiskers. In here though I’m immediately bombarded by so much static that it’s all but impossible to sift and filter out those external sensations that I need to orientate myself. Emotions, imaginations, memories are all at once connecting with me in a chorus of chaos that can’t possibly make sense to anyone other than their creator. It’s a strange, dimensionless static too. Yes, I do have some sense of the physical space that Ruby’s mind occupies but its boundaries are no more substantial than a soap bubble. I don’t know how I know this but its true size can’t be measured. This mind doesn’t have ‘size’ and in here I can move at will in any direction for as far as she can imagine. I can be everywhere and nowhere in the same instant and as for Ruby, well there simply is no place for her to hide. Ah, but here comes something new, a heavy and constant presence smashing its way through the confusion. Oh my, this is indeed a powerful thing and it isn’t searching for her either! A solid wall of energy first nudges me then pushes steady and firm but rather than push back I yield, absorb and twenty five years of gestation are finally complete. My silkie is here and it brings no fear, just an irresistible and instinctive craving. Together now, all we desire is to consummate our union, hunt down the soul of the scarlet woman who built this place and immediately we set about stripping away the flack, dredging through the mire that Ruby Stevens used to define herself. Boy, did she did abuse her life or what! Even as a child her fantasies were dark with only a few memories kept from it but as the search for her continues it becomes clear what has happened to create such a twisted mess. Ruby’s absent mother hardly features at all and from the age of twelve this landscape is dominated by the inappropriate, lusty attention of men. A teacher cuddles her (far too intimately) in the evening classroom. Uncle Bob, drunk and leering, grappling at young breasts in the smoky corner of her brother’s birthday party and a threatening stranger exposes himself, forces her to touch him in a midnight park. These people (some of whom she no doubt looked to for protection) have failed this girl hard, sexualised Ruby far too young and it’s the memory of such beasts that fuels her darkest fantasies, dungeons in which Ruby the dominatrix commits unspeakable acts on bondaged perverts. The intense hate and pain here is toxic, sickening to a point where I yearn to get the hell out but Jesus this hunger! I have no choice but to find her, peel back more layers and root out the nourishing soul of this girl. But there are so many pieces of stinking trash to rummage through and as each are lifted the more noxious this place becomes. Almost overpowered by it now, I‘m about to retreat when a blast of sweet smelling salts suddenly brings me back round. I recognise it instantly for this cleansing aura could only belong to one thing. It is the unmistakable presence of a rose. Yes! My Rose is here! And of course stood next to her is Ruby, clutching tightly to the only good, pure and loving thing in her life. This is Ruby’s haven and the hunt is over.

‘It’s time Ruby, time to leave all this behind.’

‘But I don’t want to die Cristian. Can’t I stay here with Rose?’

‘You’re not going to die Ruby, only leave this place. Come with me and we’ll go to find her together. I promise.’

So much more is expressed and felt in this short exchange that by the time these words have gone no doubt lingers. With a trusting smile Ruby Steven’s finally let’s go of her torrid life and joins me. I am swelled by her, my energy amplified to the point of bursting this bubble! Not at her expense though for she is not devoured, merely collected. Ruby’s entity endures and as I leave this human vessel behind I no longer feel like the murderer that I once believed I would become. Rapunzel is finally rescued from her tower.

Chapter 30

It’s been eight hours since Thomas Chevalier watched Cristian ascend. Consumed by grief and guilt then, Thomas hadn’t the fortitude or composure to acknowledge his son’s triumph or for that matter the hand which was laid reassuringly on his shoulder as Cristian had walked to join Keltz at the boat. Thomas regrets this deeply, this missed opportunity to reaffirm his promise, but the sun is finally rising and its distant glow lightens his mood, blesses him with the hope that a new day often brings to the hopeless. He will remember this night as being the longest and saddest of his life. It’s the second day of December 2010, the day after Thomas Chevalier traded his son for a box of blue eyes. Never has such a self-assured man been so unsure of what he’s done. Were it not for the comforting wisdom of his daughter this distraught father might still be slumped at the base of the lighthouse, thrashing himself with remorse. It was she who reminded him to send the text that would bring them a boat to take them home. It was she who stumbled around alone, slowly packing away her things for over an hour before dad finally picked himself up enough to help. It was she that silently reminded him he still has a daughter to care for.

It’s been six hours since May’s body was discarded. Thomas hated May for such a long time during the years whilst the silkie inhabited her that he’d forgotten how much he had once loved his sister in law. Empty and dead, that husk of May was more than enough to remind him of his loss, one so heartfelt that Thomas wept constantly as he bundled and bent her body into a cloth sack. When finally loaded with May and ballasting pebbles he had been in too much of a hurry to unburden himself, dragging the bag to the sea, unaware that the hasty knot he had tied would fail twice on the way across the rocks; the first time releasing a scrawny grey hand, the second an errant elbow that scraped across barnacles until it bled. The words he spat at the sea as he rolled her corpse into the surf were sharp and expressed only his sorrow for what had happened and his pledge to avenge her.

It’s been three hours since Thomas collected the eyes. Years spent training under the supervision of Dr Hill had prepared Chevalier to execute this clinical yet gruesome procedure perfectly and without thinking. In fact, so many pig heads had been bought by Hill and practiced on over the years that, unbeknown to the doctor, he had earned himself a nickname in Hartford. Kermit the farmers called him, a jibe raucously blurted out one night in the Black Swan when Billy Cartwright, snorting beer through his nose, recounted how Hill gets more pig head from his farm than Kermit does from Miss Piggy. But neither Hill nor Chevalier are muppets and their hours of practice paid off, the student expertly applying his skills when called upon; popping eyeballs, severing optic nerves, plopping his prize into saline filled Tupperware. That had been the easy part, the bit Thomas had been ready for. He had not been ready however, for the sick thud a heavy corpse makes as it slaps on flat rock fifty feet below. That was only once he had struggled to lever it over the handrail of the lighthouse balcony of course. Truth is, and as abhorrent as this act was to him, Ruby’s dead weight had been simply too much for one tired, middle aged man to hump back down the spiral. The seagulls had been glad of their chance though, flocking to scrape a meal whilst Chevalier had dallied during his descent. But at least Ruby was with May now and ultimately that was all that mattered.

It’s been fifteen minutes since the boat left Sule Skerry.

‘When will we be at the laboratory daddy? Tonight?’

‘Well no actually. I thought that we deserved something a bit special after all this time so I’ve arranged for us to stay in a hotel tonight princess. What do you think about that eh? Nice warm bath and as much coke as you can drink’

‘Oh that will be brilliant! But will my eyes be okay?’

‘Absolutely fine. Jeremy says that there’s no real hurry, as long as we get them to him within a few days. They are lovely aren’t they but I think I should look after them now for a while.’

There’s something a little too discomforting about watching his daughter caress Ruby’s eyes through the transparent plastic like this. He’s even noticed her shaking them gently occasionally to try and spin them in their suspension, as if to get a better look so to speak. No, not pleasant at all and so dad decides that enough is enough.

‘Give them to me now Christine and you can go and have a rest down the stairs. Just over there behind you, there’s little door under where the captain is standing. Six steps and the last one is a little bigger than the others so take care now and don’t rush. I think there’s some milk in the fridge too.’

Thomas accepts the container from Christine and can’t help smiling as she waves goodbye to the grisly orbs before turning to do as she’s been told. He watches as her probing hands lead her to the hatch and holds his breath as her foot searches for the first step. Once this is found and taken she descends confidently. When his daughter’s head is safely tucked away through the door Chevalier returns his attention to the back of the boat and continues to watch the lighthouse dissolving into a thickening fog. He’s concentrating hard, willing that accusing structure to take with it into the mist the secrets that it’s witnessed. He’s concentrating so hard that he doesn’t notice a circle of ripples on the sea where a small brown mound has surfaced and began tracking the boat. Although close by and well within his line of sight, Chevalier’s focused stare is oblivious to the fierce red eyes that are sliding out of black water there. Too late Chevalier sees the teeth, launched high above the guard rail, ripping into his hands and tearing the plastic container from them. The strike leaves Chevalier hardly enough time to breath never mind protest and as quickly as it raided the seal is gone, leaving it’s victim open mouthed and staring at the water. Staring at the exact spot where the animal submerged, understanding immediately who did this and hoping beyond hope that Setantii’s sharp fangs will slip their grip.

‘Drop it drop it drop it you bastard!’

Over and over he repeats his desperate mantra until incredibly it’s answered and the container reappears. Thomas punches the air but his moment of elation lasts no longer than the adrenalin pumped to his arm for the container isn’t bobbing freely. Held high, taunting him from the slicing jaws of a seal, the box’s ragged form is torn and empty of those precious eyes. The box stays there only long enough for Setantii to be certain that her enemy has seen it.

‘Damn you Setantii! We had a deal you double crossing…’

Thomas’s accusation is cut short as it boomerangs and knocks the venom from his belly for he knows that he too intended to break their decade long pact. Gripping the handrail tightly he screams at the sea then drops to his knees with head lowered. Grief, denial, acceptance all completed in a flash and now anger reaches in and grabs the phone from his jacket pocket.

‘How the hell did you know eh?’

Mumbling this question to himself he scrolls through his address book and is about to hit the call button when he notices the unread texts from Hill. Once opened the fog lifts.

‘Oh John, how the hell could you do this to us? It would have worked out fine if only you’d just have trusted me. Oh you bloody fool John!’

In the time it takes for a new text window to load Chevalier has formulated his next move. What had five minutes ago been a trap poised to spring has now become a deadly game of chess and so he must prepare, set the pieces in place even if he isn’t fully certain about how he will eventually use them. What he does feel in his gut though is this; that previously a pawn, somehow Rose is now queen. Never one to ignore his instincts, Thomas taps his instructions to Hill. That done and it’s time to set his defence. They are a long way from the lab, too far to dash and simply pray that Setantii won’t find them (for she surely will). No, he needs to make a measured retreat if Christine is to be kept safe and for that he will need help. Taking a deep, anxious breath Thomas calls the only person on the planet who understands the danger that lies ahead for him and his daughter. Mercifully, two rings are all it takes for the phone to be answered.

‘Thank god you picked up. Yes, I’m fine thanks, for the moment at least but listen, Setantii knows everything and Christine and I are in big trouble. I’m going to need your help.’

Chapter 31

‘But you can’t be absolutely certain that it’s been inside his head can you? I mean, any one of us could have a tumour couldn’t we? Come on Jeremy, you’re the bloody doctor! You should know all this shit. Damn it! Don’t you think you’re jumping to conclusions here?’

The agitated man sat on the end of my bed (on my foot actually you flabby sod!) is definitely Tom and he’s beginning to babble on a bit. I‘ve been listening to him clutch at this particular straw for over five minutes now and yet still he’s refusing to accept what Dr Hill is telling him. What that is exactly, I’m not quite sure because I missed the start of the conversation. I think I was asleep when they came in. Imagine that, me in a coma, in bed all day and still napping! Weird. Anyway, I think the general point is that whatever plan they had hatched last time they were at my bedside has gone out of the window. Something to do with Uncle John spilling the beans? Frankly I find this a little hard to believe. Admittedly, I didn’t know him all that well but he was unmistakably warm and genuine and gave me the impression that he could be trusted. And let’s face it, when it came down to it, he was the only one who stepped in to be my hero! I‘ll kind of miss him visiting, keeping an eye on me every so often and checking that my diamond eyes are still in place. But beggars can’t be choosers and having Tom and Jeremy here is still a huge comfort. Ahhhh, finally my foot is released. Just wish I could wiggle it a bit to reset my toes. So frustrating this, having the sensations slowly dribble back into my extremities but still not able to move a bloody muscle! Oooh, now there’s a nice noise, sharp and tinkling. I think someone’s just thrown his toys out of the pram and kicked my wash bowl over.

‘Oh well that’s just bloody marvellous Tom! How the hell is that going to help? Kicking Sleeping Beauties piss pot across the room!’

Hey, that isn’t wee! Is it? Oh, you know I think it might be. The nurse is pretty diligent about…., well let’s just say she likes to drain me regularly. My god how embarrassing! I never thought I’d be glad of being in a coma but god forbid I should wake before that stinky mess has been mopped up. Imagine! Opening my eyes slowly for the first time. Sitting up and smiling prettily, stretching elegantly, inviting the world to welcome me back, tears of joy as they rush to hold me then Doctor Jeremy Hill slipping, rolling about in a pool of my piss. Yep, even if I could come round right now I think I’d probably fake my coma for a little while longer. Still, he did call me Sleeping Beauty which is kind of nice.

‘I know, I know. Look I’m sorry, but it’s just so, so….oh I don’t know Jeremy, I guess when it all boils down to it, that friggin’ silkie just scares the hell out of me. Pass me a handful of that paper towel would you?’

The dispensing mechanism next to my head is rattling as Hill takes a bundle of paper from it. My head is rattling too. I hate that word and the thing that calls itself by it. I’ve had it close enough to me to know that Tom should indeed be scared. We all should be. My dark just got a whole lot darker.

‘But if you think about it Tom, and assuming the worst here, even if the silkie does know everything about Chevalier’s plan, the one thing that it doesn’t know is that we know it knows, if you get my meaning? Under the chair there, you’ve missed a bit.’

‘What, so you’re thinking that we could still have the element of surprise if we handle things right yeah? Hey, and here’s another thought! Let’s suppose that it did know we were plotting to kill it, save the Chevalier kids and all that. Surely it would have tried to protect itself by now wouldn’t it? How long did you say John had the cancer, twelve months at least? Plenty of time for it to try and take us down wouldn’t you say? Yeah, thinking about this again, maybe it doesn’t know a bloody thing about us after all.’

Oh people, please! Not all this denial crap again. Wake up! Of course it knows about you. But does that mean it feels threatened by a fat copper and a dodgy doctor? I’d say about as much as you’re threatened by the fluff in your chubby little belly button Tom. That’s all you are to it, fluff! This thing is ancient and evil. It has the knowledge of a million devoured souls and you think it’s going to stop what it’s doing, put its own master plan at risk and bother it’s primordial ass with a lump of blue fluff? Uh uh boys, think again. It knows about you, trust me and it probably has you pencilled in for some special soul sucking attention right after it’s finished doing whatever it’s busy doing at the moment. No lads, sorry to tell you this but I‘m afraid you’re doomed.

‘Well about time too.’

‘What? Is that a text from Thomas?’

‘It is yes. But it isn’t good news. I was right, the silkie is on to us. He wants us to get underground as soon as possible and wait for him there.’

Well, I’m not one to say I told you so, but I bloody well did! Having my knights in shining armour turned into marked men by a single text like this is not cool. In fact, far from being a comfort now these two are definitely a liability, and a lethal one at that. That thing could be looking for them now! And imagine if it found them here, with me, unfinished business that I am. No no, this is definitely crap!

‘So come on then! What the hell we waiting for?’

Exactly! What the hell are you waiting for! Go on, run. Run as fast and as far away from me as your fat little legs will carry you!

‘Okay Tom, now don’t panic. There’s something else he needs us to do first. A slight change of plan. You go and find a wheel chair and I’ll go and sort the paper work out.’

‘What? You can’t be bloody serious! He wants us to….’

‘Exactly. We’ve to take Rose down to the lab tonight and start to get things ready. He’ll meet us there as soon as he can.’

Oh well that’s just bloody marvellous!

Chapter 32

‘My name is Kingdom and you need not fear me.’

Keltz doesn’t look impressed. He’s not even trying to hide his disappointment either; patting the seat, beckoning me to join him back on the bench. Once I’m sat down he shuffles closer, still stinking of stale whisky from the train journey to Blackpool. Why here to this brazen hussy of a town I have no idea but I do know that I have to pull back a little as his face contorts in search of tact.

‘I like the name, really I do but somehow it feels kind of weird in this context. Thing is it’s all still a bit, oh I don’t know, stiff don’t you think? Sure, it would have been fine maybe a hundred years ago but now-a-days, well people just don’t talk like that do they? Unless you’re going for Prince Charles that is but hey, as we discussed, stay away from those high profile heads remember. Go on, have another go, but drop the Kingdom bit and all the pretentious crap this time yeah?’

Keltz leans back and returns his elbows to the top rung of the bench, hanging them loosely over it. This is my cue to stand and take my position again on the path in front of him. To be honest I’m getting more confused by every attempt and I’m not all together happy at being told to drop my silkie name. Kingdom was suggested and talked about a lot on the boat and we’d agreed how good it was then so what’s the problem all of a sudden? We’ve been at this for almost thirty minutes now, sat in the park practicing my introduction (or the ‘Booh!’ as silkies affectionately call it). Keltz says that it’s the most critical point in any feeding session, that moment when the occupied mind first realises that something alien has entered it and questions what’s happening. The Booh! can either settle or panic and if panic sets in then Keltz reckons it’s a terrible experience for everyone. I suppose I should try something at the other end of the spectrum, perhaps something a bit more street and see how that works.

‘Stayed chilled now ‘cos I’ll be in ‘n’ out before you know it.’

I know it’s crappy but at least it’s a start and kind of current, especially amongst the gang bangers and scum classes who I intend to make my staple diet. Keltz stays silent and hard to read for a moment then merely nods his head to his left, in the direction of a couple of teenagers who are busy kicking a ball to one another along the woodland path. Keltz is challenging me, I’m sure he is, so maybe he doesn’t think that this is such a bad introduction after all. Time to try it out.

Snap, click, Booh!

‘Stayed chilled now ‘cos I’ll be in ‘n’ out befo…...’

The lad’s head is suddenly cram packed with energy, instantly reaching some kind of critical mass, exploding with so much vigour that I panic as much as he does! I’ve got to get out, reel myself back too quickly though and I just know that I’ve hurt him. So fast is my retreat in fact, that I’m out of there in time to catch the action; the boy midway through a shock reflex that jerks his face so hard into the tree that he spins to the ground, moaning and swearing loudly through split lips. His pal helps him to his feet and supports him as they struggle past our bench, no doubt on the way to the hospital to see if a stitch is needed to stop the bleeding. I can hear the injured boy trying to explain that there was definitely someone there, that his lips will be okay but Christ how his eyes are burning. I don’t feel good at all about this and for me, school’s out for the day. Keltz knows it too.

‘So how d’ya think that went dude?’

His taunting sarcasm stings but I don’t bite.

‘I guess you were going for that hip rapist kind of sound? Not good was it. Look, we’ll call it a day shall we, pick it up again tomorrow. In the mean time though, if you do get a bit peckish then there’s a little slight of hand that you can use to get yourself a nibble without causing any alarm.’

I’m sat back next to my mentor and I’m listening intently because I can’t imagine developing the level of finesse that I’m going to need to feed at leisure any time soon. And god forbid I should need to coax someone into to doing my bidding!

‘You know that very first moment when you’re entering the eyes, there’s a kind of rush of images from outside? Well they’re real time, the most recent optical inputs that the brain is busy processing and it’s that process that you’re hacking into.’

I do recall these sliding scenes that Keltz is describing but I hadn’t paid much attention to them, never sure if they belonged to me or not. As I entered the boy just now for instance, and before that crushing panic set, I did fleetingly see his feet trapping the football ready to pass it back to his mate. But what use can that be when it comes to feeding from him without smashing his face into a tree?

‘All you have to do is scoop them up on your way through. Sounds tricky I know but believe me it isn’t and by the time you’re in you should have a good bundle of snapshots with you. No need for the booh and all you have to do is hold a moment or two then let them all go. Those images will do two things. Firstly, continue on to where they were going and lead you straight to the soul. Secondly provide you with the diversion you need to grab a slice of pizza without the victim ever knowing! Confuses the mind see, this little double take. Clever or what?’

It is indeed clever, fiendishly so. Keltz calls it ‘doing the domino’. I wonder if this is perhaps some reference to the ‘domino effect’; a nice and concise description of those stacked frames of reality collapsing back into someone’s déjà vu experience. But it’s not domino as in ‘the domino effect’ at all and Keltz grins as he explains that it is in fact domino as in the phrase ‘Domino’s? I’d like a garlic bread and a thick crust Hawaiian with extra chillie please.’ Fast food for silkies is what it is and I can’t wait to get me some!

‘Now that sounds like something even I can manage Keltz. Fancy a stroll back to the hotel and maybe I can try it out on the way?’

‘Sure, why not. But first there’s something I want you to see. Those two pigeons near the bin.’

‘Very good of you to point them out but I’ve seen a pigeon before thanks.’

Keltz laughs and his guttural snort reminds me of how much I already value the friendship of this scrawny, ginger haired man.

‘Funny guy eh? Just grab the one on the left and follow me.’

Snap click and I’m flying. This is a magnificent creature! Wings beat effortlessly and soon they’ve pushed me high above the trees, climbing steeply in pursuit of Keltz. The park is already nothing more than a grass stain on the housing estate below, a mass of back yards and washing lines scrubbing away at it. Higher we climb, into the endless blue air above a smoking haze of evening cloud that is not yet thick enough to rain or prevent the Irish Sea from shimmering into view. Here Keltz finally stalls and we turn our wings toward the steady breeze here, tip and tilt to hold position.

‘Look to the west Kingdom.’

Feathers spill the cool breeze as I turn to my right and so I tumble, but not far. Steady again I focus these fantastic eyes and immediately spot what Keltz wants to show me. Pinned just behind the horizon, somewhere between the sea and the sun, there’s a dark cloud but its form is too precise, too geometric to be a weather system. Even so, that is exactly how this thing makes me feel; like a storm is gathering. This is the reason why Keltz has brought me so close to the seaside.

‘What the hell is it Keltz?’

‘Tuatha he calls himself. Look, look at how he’s feeding now!’

I am looking and the longer I stare the more I sense Tuatha’s sinister portent. I curse these perfect pigeon eyes for they reveal far too much, even at this distance. At the heart of the shadowy dome sits a crimson orb and from it, blood red tentacles constantly lash out. I can’t actually hear them but I can feel their sharp crack each time a life is touched, flashing white and lighting the murk as each soul is taken. Strange too this feeling that I’ve seen Tuatha’s hideous form before.

‘He always starts around this time, as dusk falls. Hunts through the night that one, which believe me is not good for your health. Simple rule Kingdom so listen well. You don’t go to those western isles, not ever you understand?’

I don’t fully understand anything about this other than that I have seen enough. We both have and it isn’t only the air that gradually warms as we descend although there isn’t sufficient heat in the dying day to melt the chill that Keltz’s stern words have brought. Tuatha isn’t mentioned again until we’re sat in the hotel lounge; me cradling a cool larger and Keltz (or Donald as I have to call him in public) swirling a large whisky. It’s his third and I think he’s ready to talk.

‘So what’s all this about Tua…’

‘Used to be a good friend he did, to me and Setantii. We’d spend time over there and likewise he’d visit the mainland occasionally. Centuries we shared and grew together. But when the troubles came to his land, and even though he knew the risk, Tuatha found himself drawn to them. Once he’d…’

‘Risk did you say Donald?’

Keltz empties his glass and jiggles it in the direction of the bar, refusing to answer me until the barman turns and jabs a tumbler at the optic.

‘You know that old saying, you are what you eat? Well when you were human Cristian, that was kind of true. Shit in, shit out would probably have been more accurate but for silkie, the saying is literal. More than that, we can only ever be what we eat.’

This I think I already knew but hadn’t made all the connections in the way that Keltz so concisely expressed it. Back at the lighthouse I’d been amazed, initially by how complete Cristian’s essence remained within me but also by how Ruby exists here too. Not as sentient of course but she’s here and contributing to my whole.

‘The Troubles tainted pretty much everyone who lived on that island. Brothers, sons fathers all set against one another, all filled with hate and let me tell you, more than the few who acted had murder in their souls. Even if they didn’t set bombs or shoot guns, it didn’t matter see, ‘cos the evil was still there and when a society becomes so polluted like that it’s time to move on, let it heal and reconcile itself. But Tuatha refused to leave.’

Keltz’s drink has arrived. He takes it with one hand and grabs the jacket sleeve of the waiter with the other to stop him leaving. Whilst he slugs his scotch he holds a hard stare to let the boy know that he isn’t to move before the glass is empty and that only then can he trot off and pour another. I can see a cool blue fire in Keltz’s eyes and I wonder how the hell this young lad must be feeling. I’m tempted to take a peek but I still don’t have my booh! sorted so I resist.

‘And you know something Cristian? I’m pretty sure that he was already hooked on that dark and tasty stuff before he was pushed to the brink and it was all he had left on his plate. Not that it matters eh? Whether he chose too or not, that milk’s been spilt a long long time. Tuatha is lost to us, has become what he has become. Nothing more to me now than a dark smudge on the horizon.’

The whisky boy is back just in time for Keltz to toast his lost friend. He’s very drunk now, or at least Donald Frasier is. What state Keltz is in I can’t be sure other than truly sad at losing a friend like this. He’s miles away, drifted to a far off place that makes him feel helpless and desperate; a place from where he can still see Tuatha yet is unable to reach out and drag him back from the centre of that grey dome. Hang on a minute. Grey dome? Now where have I…of course that’s it! Christine’s picture!

‘Picture?’

Keltz is back in the room so quickly (and lucid too) that his sharp, hushed voice surprises me.

‘Sorry Donald, come again?’

‘You said picture. A picture given to you by Christine.’

I’m pretty sure I didn’t mention it out loud. Did I? Maybe I did mumble something. Whilst I’m busy musing my hand further betrays me, reaches down and checks the neatly folded paper stashed in my pocket.

‘Is that it? Can I see it?’

I can’t think quickly enough to come up with a reason why not, so long as one condition is met. Pulling it from my jeans I hold the paper across the table, halfway between us whilst I explain to Keltz my terms.

‘Okay you can but, and I know this is going to sound strange, you’re going to have to promise me that you won’t tell Setantii about it. I know, I know, but I gave Christine my word on this and that means a lot to me. So?’

He’s already snatched it! Busily unfolding it, nodding and agreeing to keep it to himself. I suppose this rather half hearted acceptance of my demand will have to do. Not that I need have worried though because before I can protest he’s given it back to me and judging from his complete lack of interest in what he’s seen, I doubt he’ll even remember this tomorrow.

‘Cute. Yeah, she’s a cute kid your sister. And don’t worry about Setantii, I won’t mention it. You have my word.’

I know he’s telling the truth and I feel a lot better about what just happened. Still, I’d rather change the subject, push the whole incident further into obscurity.

‘So I’m thinking that my idea of preying on the criminal fraternity isn’t such a good strategy after all then.’

‘Oh definitely not Christian. Forget about all this soul sucking vigilante stuff. No, you need to stay on a more wholesome diet, for at least a few decades. Long enough to build up a good reserve that won’t easily corrupt should you try something a little more exotic shall we say. Simple folk is what you need. Good, honest, hard working people that are too busy in their lives to develop any really deep, negative passions. Boring I know, but think of them as your five a day vegetables if you like. Oh, but not that you should actually go after vegetables, or anyone with a mental problem. They will really screw you up!’

I know I shouldn’t but as black as this thought is I can’t help laughing out loud. It’s good to laugh with Keltz again, especially after all this, frankly depressing, talk of bad men and their poisonous evil. Good to leave it behind finally, lesson learnt.

‘So when will Setantii be joining us? Soon I hope.’

‘Hard to say. You have to remember that she’s spent the last ten years cooped up in that old woman, looking out for you. My guess is she’ll take her time, stay free for a while and enjoy herself again. But she’ll be in touch I’m sure, in some form or other. When she’s taken care of a little business that is. You want another beer?’

‘No not for me thanks. Think I’ll give Domino’s a ring.’

Snap click.

Chapter 33

If there’s one thing that Thomas has learned during the past decade it’s this; keep moving. The problem for the fugitive Chevaliers on this occasion though has been one of timing, both their luck and trains finally running out at Lancaster. This logistical hiccup couldn’t have come at a worse time. Staying under the silkie radar had until this morning been an exercise only in stealth, the purpose of which was the concealment of an elaborate double cross. When that particular cat leapt out of the bag the rules of the game changed; cat versus mouse now, in a mad dash to the safety of the lab. Of course Thomas knew that Lancaster was to be the end of the line when they boarded the last train from Edinburgh and consequently he’d been able to set plan B in motion hours ago. Even so, the instant that he and his daughter stop moving and step from the carriage onto the empty platform, fear pricks him. He huddles his daughter under his jacket as they walk. The guard harrying them out of the bright ticket office isn’t helping calm to his nerves and neither is his lack of sympathy to Thomas’s suggestion that they should sit in the waiting room to watch the window for their friend’s arrival. All too soon then, the Chevaliers are stood still again, silent and exposed on the shiny cobbled apron of the station forecourt. Trying to get his bearings before the station lights are turned off, the only landmark that Thomas manages to register is a monolithic silhouette towering above them; a castle backlit by the pollution of the city it once ruled. It’s well past midnight, although Thomas can’t be sure in which century they’ve been dumped. The rain stopped at Penrith but there’s a damp, steady wind (too lazy to go around them) cutting through clothing to chill their bones. The safety of the Manor is more than sixty miles to the south and there’s no sign of the get away car he summoned from the train.

‘Shouldn’t be too long now princess. Here, take my scarf and cover up those ears. They’re turning blue!’

Christine accepts the scarf but isn’t yet ready to smile. Dad immediately regret’s his choice of adjective.

‘Hey now come on little’un, try and cheer up eh? Look, I know it’s disappointing but the doctor has some new eyes ready for you at the lab doesn’t he.’

‘But they’re not blue are they daddy.’

The man at the station has herded father and daughter into a stone walled pen before abandoning them. This parking and turning circle has been scooped from out of a steep wooded bank that wraps itself more than half way around the space making it feel very claustrophobic. The only colour in the gloom is yellow, thick letters daubed onto the floor telling people where travellers can be dropped and where taxis might appear if you wish hard enough. Thomas and Christine have had to climb up from the platform (twenty feet above the track now) and further twenty foot ascent remains if they are to get to the granite bridge carrying the main road into the city. The only thing that connects them to the relative safety of that high street is a glistening tarmac slope, walled with fortifying blocks of sandstone holding back the trees and bushes gathered on the slopes above it. Deserted and dimly lit (with only the occasional iron coach lamp dribbling a feeble glow into orange pools) the chute seems more like a Victorian rat run than a twenty first century thoroughfare, a huge wrought iron gate (that hasn’t closed for decades) marking the exit at the top. Frozen in this pen Chevalier stares at the gate, willing his ride to turn through it, drive down and collect them. Somewhere on the bank a branch snaps, crisp leaves rattle. It’s time to move.

‘Come on Christine. I think it’s best if we go and wait for Jack on the main road. No point standing here freezing to death is there.’

Thomas grips his daughter’s hand and steps away from the doorway. He leads her into the centre of the road so as to split the distance of the night shadows massed on either flank. This change in perspective morphs the place and the up ramp is no longer a way out (its walls no longer there to defend against the woods) but ramparts defining a gauntlet that they must run. Oh, but it won’t be hot oil, rocks and arrows that Setantii will rain down on their charge to the gate and Thomas knows it even before a second loud crack (closer and high to their left) confirms that something is in motion, hunting them down. A flash of white between tree trunks and he catches a glimpse of the weapon that Setantii has chosen. Ironically, it’s Christine’s favourite woodland story time character, Mr Brock, who is scrambling down the slope to say hello.

‘Run Christine, as fast as you can princess, keep a..!’

A volley of sticks and leaves blasts over the wall less than ten paces ahead, cutting short Thomas’s instructions and their sprint to safety. Debris is still tumbling through the air when two huge claws burst from it, grapple the capping stone and effortlessly heave a huge head up onto it. Behind the head a third set of claws and then a fourth appears, scrabbling for grip to lever the remaining black bulk of a badger into view. Such a powerful animal this is, a low and wide bundle of muscle. Not the quickest in the woods Mr Brock, but he has the teeth and the attitude sufficient to savage any dog that dares. What chance this father and his blind daughter then?

Setantii doesn’t hesitate, tumbles her beast down over the fifteen foot wall. Thomas takes a step backward from the fiery blue eyes that are fixed on him as the silkie manoeuvres her animal into position. No longer able to hide his terror, Thomas shouts past the creature, toward the gate for help. Christine cries out too but the badger simply ignores their panic, creeps forward again and forces Thomas to make a move. Any move will do, any attempt at prolonging for even a few seconds the lives that those looming slashing swipes will take!

‘Setantii don’t! Please don’t do this!’

Dragging his screaming daughter to one side Chevalier slings Christine against the nearest wall, knocking the wind out of her and with it her ability to scream. The silence lasts only as long as it takes his terrified princess to refill her lungs but it’s enough for Thomas to be heard, command her to stay still whilst he digs in; her back pressed tight against the wall, he in front with a wide armed stance to complete the shield. Mr Brock simply adjusts his position, wheels around to face them and begins priming his haunches ready for what will be a decisive and lethal attack. Instinctively Thomas can read the animal’s posture, anticipate when it will strike and with this knowledge comes a weird calm that begins a slow, entirely inappropriate countdown in his head.

‘Five……four…..’

The badger’s rear legs continue to flex, shuddering as they gather the energy needed to spring its huge front claws and teeth onto its prey. Even above the screaming Thomas can hear the boar grunting and growling, the beast itself merely a dark outline in this place that’s been shunned by the lamps.

‘….three……two……’

Thomas Chevalier opens his mouth to repeat his plea but instead remains silent. Enough is enough. This proud man refuses to beg anymore, not even for the life of his daughter whom he loves. In truth, he can’t imagine her life without him in it to protect her. So maybe it is time to call it a day, end the dreadful uncertainty that he and Christine have spent the past ten years wandering through. Yes, perhaps it is time now to stop trying to convince each other that their future is bright. It’s time to stop lying to one another. This is their future now; tearing, shredding, blood soaked claws. But however gruesome this will be, perhaps it’s for the best that they die here tonight, together on these cold damp cobbles.

‘……..one……..zero.’

An awful guttural snarl marks the end of the count down and launches the attack. Thomas raises his arms, closes his eyes, discovers that time is not only relative to light but to dark too for it takes an age for the badger’s jaws to finish closing, crunching and puncturing his hand into a bleeding sack of broken bones. The attack hits hard, the badger too heavy to fend off. One slow heart beat later the first claw arrives, ripping through Chevalier’s jacket and gouging into his shoulder. The pain jars his eyes open, demands that he watches as another brutal moment slides into view. Mid air the beast twist, peels back snout and lips to retarget teeth at Chevalier’s neck. These fangs flash bright in Thomas’s mind, as do the stripes of the badger’s head, lit suddenly by a halogen white light?

The windscreen behind the headlamps eventually arrives, smashing the badger’s hind quarters high amidst a shower of glass. Thomas cries out again, not in pain but in anticipation of it. Huddling over Christine he offers himself once more as protection against the back end of the car that’s skidding, crumpling and grinding along the wall. Mercifully it stops, only inches away and easily close enough for Thomas to see and hear the driver leaning across from his seat, popping the door lock and shouting at him.

‘Get in!’

Breathing too hard to answer, Chevalier does as he’s told. Forgetting the pain he yanks at the door handle but there’s too much damage to this hand and the door for it to be opened. Wincing and with one eye on the dead badger Thomas switches position, tries again with his good arm but as he dallies a new noise fills the silence left behind by the crash; a high pitched, squealing bedlam that demands his attention, turns him away from the stubborn door in order to see what the hell kind of horror can make such an atrocious noise. And there, in the far dark corner where wall meets station, rising from the train track is his answer; Setantii’s second wave pouring over a chain mail fence bringing with it a revitalised sense of urgency for Thomas.

‘Shit! The doors jammed!’

The first of the rats is already less than a car’s length away. With time running out Thomas grabs his daughter and bundles her through the broken passenger window, dumping her headfirst onto the safety of the passenger seat.

‘Turn it around!’

Thomas slaps the roof hard, urging his friend to get into gear whilst at the same time flattening himself as much as possible to avoid this wreck of a vehicle as it pulls away from the wall. Bouncing over the body of the badger the car first discards its rear bumper and next that stubborn door! Falling to bits like this it puts Thomas in mind of something that a clown might drive around a circus ring, but there is nothing funny about the macabre scene (or clown’s for that matter) that slowly unveils itself as headlights swing across a mass of fur flowing out from behind the station. Revolting yet mesmerising too, Thomas watches the rats part like rancid water then regroup once the car’s wheels have rolled through their ranks. Too soon they’re on him, well before the car has completed its turn. Kick! Connect! Squeal! The closest of them is sent tumbling back into the throng. A second on his shoulder, ripped from it and tossed against the wall. Time to flee but the wave of vermin is relentless, clawing at his trouser legs, leaping over his head and grasping at hair. Impossible to outrun this plague and already a squirming black mat has been laid across his escape route, pimped by hundreds of tiny blue LED’s through which Setantii is homing in. Thomas knows the race is lost and yet still he high steps on only to skid, stumble and fall with his very next stride. Face down and helpless, drowning beneath a frenzied flood of tiny incisors all ripping at his flimsy cotton armour and for a second time in as many minutes Thomas Chevalier accepts his fate for it won’t be long before they’ve reached the good stuff, the stuff that this stricken man needs to hold his life and soul together. And for a second time in as many minutes, Jack Noble comes to his rescue.

It is the strangest thing. Thomas can hear the car breaking hard then stopping. A damaged door crunches open and Jack begins shouting on his way through the rats. But the biting and the writhing? Well that’s all stopped. At first this lack of pain terrifies Thomas, the idea that somewhere nerves have been exposed and severed (just like the telephone cables at the Manor had been one year). But this can’t be the case because he can still feel the pinch of tiny claws all over him. It’s just that the claws are standing still for some reason, standing by whilst his rescuer reaches in to pull him from the eye of the hurricane. It’s only when Thomas has staggered to his feet (composed himself sufficiently to take the first of two painful strides needed to reach the car) that he gets a sense of what might be happening here. That fiery blue wave, the one that had crashed into him less than twenty seconds ago, has dissipated. Something’s pulled the plug, drained all that malicious blue hate from these rats’ eyes and left a smouldering red scum behind, too cool to be rage though and more like shock. So stunned are his attackers in fact that Thomas is able to take his time. Carefully he lowers himself into the car, wincing out loud only once when he twists to check that Christine is safely tucked away on the floor beneath the back seat. With a thankful nod to Jack the horror finally ends and the car rolls forward. It isn’t until the safe sanity beyond the gate is reached that Chevalier dares to speak, the quiver in his voice betraying how scared he remains and the amount of pain he is in.

‘Christ Jack you left that a little close didn’t you?’

‘Hey, this pile of junk doesn’t get anywhere quickly mate. Maybe it might be a bit quicker off the mark now it’s lost a couple of doors though eh?’

Jack’s lack of gravity doesn’t lighten Thomas’s mood.

‘Shit you’re bleeding everywhere. Lancaster Infirmary’s not far so we…’

‘No Jack! Just get us to the bloody Manor will you?’

Thomas feels bad about his outburst, hopes that his friend (who after all has just risked his life to save their’s) understands the fear behind his brevity. Even so, perhaps he was a little harsh.

‘Look, Jeremy’s got more kit down at the Manor than any A&E in the country.’

Jack’s still sulking a little so Thomas offer’s a final attempt at an apology.

‘I tell you Jack, you should have seen some of the invoices he’s put through over the years. It was hard to tell sometimes if he was setting up a laboratory or starring in his own series of CSI Hartford.’

At last the friends can smile together, Thomas snorting out loud when he turns to see Christine (less than half a mile from the place where she almost died) fast asleep.

‘Poor things exhausted. So anyway, how have you been doing? Are you pretty much fully recovered?’

‘You kidding? I’m not wearing the polo neck as a fashion statement if that’s what you mean. No, the stitches come out next week but other than that I’m feeling okay. Close call though. Surgeon reckoned that one of the gashes was less than three millimetres from my main artery. If that crazy hadn’t been able to fight off Setantii as well as he did then you’d be rat shit by now I reckon!’

It’s a simple truth and Chevalier shivers at the thought of it. They’ve both had close calls at the hands of Setantii it seems, and she will certainly try again soon to punish the men who double crossed her. It feels important to Thomas to try and figure out if there is any science behind these lucky escapes so he asks Jack to tell him more about the mental patient who attacked him at the institute.

‘Jonesy god bless him. Of course he hasn’t a clue what happened to this day but I just couldn’t cover for him, too many witnesses screaming through the door. He’s been transferred down to Broadhurst, poor bastard. I feel bad about it but when things calm down I’ll get him back where he belongs.’

Thomas winces again but this time at his friend’s pain.

‘So why do you think he didn’t deliver that killer blow then?’

‘He didn’t want too, simple as that. Loved me to bits that ol’ pant pissing fool did. And when it came down to it, as susceptible as his broken mind was, Setantii just couldn’t force him to it. Oh I’m sure he thought he had done me in. I was a right bloody mess, all but dead but Jonesy managed to hold back just enough to leave something for the crash team to work with when they eventually busted in. Must have blown Setantii away seeing me kicking ass tonight!’

And there’s the second answer. Thomas recognises it immediately; the rats had been frozen mid-attack by nothing more mysterious than fuse blowing astonishment. Even for a being as powerful as Setantii, it’s one hell of a feat controlling a thousand minds at once. The shock of seeing her nemesis back from the grave like that must have been simply too much. With her hard drive crashed she’d had no time to reboot all those rats and so her prey slipped away. Oh, but she’s back online now! Thomas can trace her constant presence as the car speeds south through the night. Bright pin pricks of light soaring high, flitting through woodland or shooting across black fields, arrow fast. Birds and bats she relays, each poor animal possessed, ridden to an exhausting death then discarded for the next. Paradoxically her presence is comforting, like the monster in the movie which isn’t so scary when you can see it. Only when those tiny blue dots disappear (less than ten minutes into the journey) do Thomas’ nerves really begin to jangle. This is no longer a pursuit, it’s a race and the only thing that he has that can beat Setantii to the lab is a phone.

‘Tom? Yeah, we’re on our way, I’d say less than forty minutes but listen. The silkie’s going to beat us there. What I need you to do is get the Range Rover and meet us outside the Black Bull. And bring gun’s Tom. Shotguns, pistols, anything you can get your hands on. Leave now and take the long way round past Grayson’s farm. Park at the back and we’ll see you there. Good luck.’

Thomas tosses his phone into the glove box and shuffles forward to better scan the night sky, through the hole in the damaged windshield. Switching his vigil between this and the rear view mirror he can easily watch over his sleeping princess at the same time. Dad is glad that daughter is finally resting, never suspecting that Christine isn’t sleeping at all. She’s busy, concentrating hard and making a kind of phone call too.

Chapter 34

I saw a film once. Scarface it was called and it ended in a cocaine fuelled bloodbath; Pacino’s last stand, his character off his face and raking down his enemies with an M16. The scene I am in now looks a bit like that, only the slain hoodlums here are creatures of the woods and the powder smudged across their dead faces is not white but black. There are chunks of them everywhere, bits of furry or feathered flesh strewn across the roof of the Range Rover. More recognisable are the animals squished onto the road. These are still intact, flat and emptied of blood and guts but for the most part all there. It seems they served their purpose well these little kamikaze critters, laying themselves down like that to grease tyres, skid the car from the road and into the tree. Good god, her timing must have been perfect to pull this off! The boot is popped open and there are guns there.

‘Keltz, what do you think?’

He shrugs, like me undecided as to what the nature of any danger might be. The human’s aren’t a problem, wouldn’t warrant us carrying the shotgun or the pistol but neither of us are quite sure what rages in Setantii at the moment. I toss him the shot gun and he catches it neatly with one hand, stepping forward to load his pockets with shells. I check the clip in my pistol and it’s full. The expertise and steady hands that do this are not Cristian’s though because he never held a gun. Must be either Ruby or no, most likely the teenager (taken at the bus stop last night) who was use to handling a weapon. Looking further into the car I can see the back of somebody’s head resting on the gear stick.

‘I’m going to check around the front Keltz. Cover me would you?’

My order does sound both pathetic and dramatic and Keltz isn’t going to let the moment pass.

‘Got your back serge! And hey listen, if I don’t make it, tell me kids I love ‘em and Brenda that the girl at MacDonalds meant nothing to me.’

Funny bastard. I can still hear him chortling away as I peek in through the open driver’s door. I recognise the dead man sprawled across the front seats. His name is Tom, Tom Jackson or something like that. Yeah, whacko Jacko we called him, the village copper. I remember that he drove Rose and I home in his police car one autumn morning when Mrs Edmundson grassed us up for sapping apples out of her back garden. Well, whacko Jacko won’t be reading any more terrified kid’s their phoney rights, poor sod. I just hope he was dead (or at least unconscious) before what ever it was came to steal his eyes. There’s nothing I can do for him so I stand and start to walk back to Keltz, ask him if he has picked anything up.

‘Oh she’s still here alright, not far away either. Why, what’s the plan?’

‘Not really got a plan, I just want to talk to her I guess. Try and convince her to let it go, let my father live and leave Christine alone.’

‘Brilliant! Well I’m glad that’s sorted then Kingdom.’

Foolishly I congratulate myself before realising just how much sarcasm this praise is steeped in. Keltz hasn’t finished knocking me down yet either, finishing me off with a voice that sounds spookily close to Aunt May’s.

‘You make a good point Cristian my dear and listen, I’m really sorry for getting all pissy about your father trying to slaughter my offspring. Maybe I should apologise to daddy? Yes, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll stop trying to kill him and apologise. Now, what do you suggest? Should I say it with chocolates or should I say it with flowers? I think flowers is best don’t you? Big bright yellow ones stamped all over his fuckin’ grave!’

Jesus where did this come from! Keltz’s sarcasm has twisted his words so tightly that any humour in them is soon squeezed out, lost to the night. It’s difficult to know what his anger is directed at though; my naivety or Setantii’s vengeance. But he’s calming as quickly as he boiled, seems to almost regret his outburst too so rather than ask for an explanation I decide to let him finish his thought.

‘No, that isn’t going to work Kingdom. We’re going to have to be a bit more proactive here.’

Proactive? Now what is he talking about? And pumping his shotgun like that while he makes this barely veiled threat. What’s that about?

‘Hang on a minute Keltz, I’m confused. I thought you were supposed to be Setantii’s friend? So why aren’t you trying to calm me down, convince me that Thomas Chevalier has got what’s coming to him? Come to think of it, why the hell aren’t you out in the woods helping her hunt him down?’

There are many questions here but Keltz only offers one answer.

‘The picture. Look, it’s complicated but I think that Setantii knows about Christine’s picture and if ….’

Keltz intriguing explanation is left hanging, splintered by a thunderous bang rattling through the trees. I don’t recognise the noise but my instincts do and they crouch me down behind the Range Rover, wrap my arms around my head. Keltz is already here and we’re still cowering when a second blast rips out from the woods. This time I see it before I hear it, a bright yellow flash that barcodes the trunks less than five hundred meters in from the road. My hand tightens its grip on the gun but I’m unable to stand until I hear my name, my human name shrieking beneath the rumble as its echo dies away. It’s Christine calling my name and this time not telepathically (as she had earlier tonight to spring me from my bed and bring me here). These words are real, as clear and present as the danger she is in, trapped amidst the torrent of gunfire that has suddenly ignited deep in the woods. I’ve made my decision; automatically check that the safety is off then set off scrambling into the dark, firing my shouts into the mayhem there.

‘Setantii! You leave her alone you hear! Christine! Christine!’

Keltz is close behind, running too and shouting my name but I ignore him until his cry changes to such a sharp and demanding screech that I have to do as I’m ordered and throw myself to the floor.

‘Cristian, duck!’

I hit the dirt as he pulls the trigger, the shot cracking the air where my head had just been. It’s on its way to pepper the chest of a mallard (momentarily lit by the powder flash), mid flight ten feet in front. The duck is dead by the time it flops onto the back of my head. My mouth is pressed so close to the ground so quickly that it fills with crap; crunchy leaves, small twigs and something pasty and bitter that’s best left a mystery. As I roll over onto my back, coughing and scraping these things from my tongue, I struggle to fathom what has just happened here. Why would Setantii attack me? And with a duck of all things! Is she attacking or just distracting?

‘Oh she’s attacking alright! With whatever she can set her mind on. She’s lost it Kingdom, completely. Now come on, we need to get to the others and protect your sister!’

Go Keltz! The fiery little Scotsman leaps over me and by the time I’m up and running again he’s already a flickering silhouette backlit by the battle raging ahead. Three guns at least are blazing, almost continuously. I can see a building in the clearing ahead and that’s where they huddle; three men, backs against a huge steel door that one of them is struggling to open. They are surrounded, penned inside a ring of dead animals being bombarded by a seemingly inexhaustible supply of live cannon fodder incoming along every bearing; animals unseen until the last five meters or so where the stealthy gloom thins enough to blip them onto the radar. Something is dropping from a high tree, parachuting in and locking its tiny legs tight as it hits the drop zone. I recognise immediately the target, a man who now has a squirrel on his head (recognise his face that is, not because father made a habit of wearing rodents for hats) and my fear for him shouts out as he drops to his knees, arms flailing to grasp a bushy tail.

‘Dad!’

Flung to ground and shot, the squirrel still twitches as my father struggles to stand, immediately forced back down though by an owl swooping up from its low trajectory. The bird hits hard, screeching into his face talons first. One of the men fends it away to arms length for the third to shoot. Feathers still flying the guns swing left, all three needed to bring down a fox. And still they come, as fast as Setantii can summon them from the dark woods, their assault rooting me behind the last of the trees oh but look at Keltz! He’s marching on, striding boldly across the clearing; pumping his shotgun, firing with one hand whilst grabbing for ammo and reloading with the other. When he reaches the door however, things get really weird.

Keltz stops firing, casually drops his weapon to the floor and sets about heaving open the steel slab. Only when a thick stripe of light has spilled from it do the men finally seem to notice that this rather reckless reinforcement has arrived. It takes another moment for my dad to recognise Keltz, shout a loud and shocked accusation. The other men (already halfway through the door) are stopped in their tracks, reach back outside and restrain Keltz with his own arms, yanking them roughly up his back and dragging him inside and out of sight. I can still hear them as they secure their silkie prisoner with a heavy string of obscenities and threats. The last thing they collect is my father and in such a hurry too that his protest has time for only one word; the steel snubbing out the light and leaving Christine’s name alone in the dark.

And that’s it. The battle is over, although what has been won or lost I have no idea. Initially I’m elated, so glad that it’s done (leaving me unscathed) that I actually laugh inside. Except the silence that’s settling isn’t complete and soon wipes the smile from my virtual face. Rap! rap! rap! it goes, the sound of remorse bashing on my head and it hurts so bad when I let it in. Shit, I should have done something to help! Am I really such a coward damn it! Why was it so easy for me hide? Maybe it was my silkie conscience that refused to set itself against one of our kind? If only Keltz hadn’t raided so heroically then maybe I could convince myself that this was true. It doesn’t take much longer before there isn’t room enough for both me and my guilty shadow behind this tree. Breaking cover I step out into the clearing, intent on making amends and shouting my sister’s name but still I daren’t in case my fear feeds these cooling embers and flares the melee back to life so I call out as quietly as I possibly can.

‘Christine. Are you there?’

My voice is feeble and pathetic. It embarrasses me. It’s certainly not the brave roar of some evolutionary masterpiece (the bellow which Kingdom should command). No, this is the weak whimper of Cristian; the ‘man’ that failed Rose when she was attacked by the same evil that is at this very moment threatening my sister somewhere in these woods. Well, not this time Setantii. No way bitch!

‘Christine!!’

So full blooded is my cry that exhausted birds take flight and I hurt my throat.

‘Cristian!’

My name echoes back ahead of hers, from some dim corner tucked away toward the rear of the building. With it comes an opportunity for absolution that I am not going to let pass. I’m finally acting, running again but all too soon my heels are slamming into the dirt and halting my charge, jarred not by fear this time but thankfully by something far nobler.

‘Christine, are you okay?’

Christine is on the floor, sitting with her knees tucked up tight into her arms. She nods but doesn’t speak. I raise my gun and take aim, feel the trigger begin to yield. On each side of her, standing perfectly still and staring directly at me are my Labradors; black, strong and capable of ripping my sister apart at the flick of a switch behind those bright blue eyes. I would call them, command them to sit or fetch something but what would be the point for Setantii holds their leash. The trigger is tight now, ready to hammer the bullet on its way but hey, what if? I lower my arms.

‘Christine, do you think that you….’

Jesus Cristian! Was I actually going to ask a blind ten year old girl to try and crawl away? Just do what you have to do damn you!! Decision made. Weapon raised, elbows locked, wrists snapped and aimed at Lloyd. From this distance, the shot is sure. One eye closes the other focuses on a spot of grey between his huge brown eyes. I squeeze harder; snap, click and I’m in. I’m in and she isn’t here. She’s gone! It only takes and instant to check that those brown eyes were for real and soon I’m back behind my gun, calling them, their tails slapping Christine in the face as they leap from her side, so happy to see me as they would be to see Christine or Keltz or any one for that matter.

‘Okay boys, now you get yourselves home you hear? Go on, home!’

One last lick and off they go, straight there, to the pile of culled game by the door.

‘I said home!’

A hurried selection made the pair decide together that they should do as they are told and leave; Lloyd with a mouthful of rabbit, Bruce proudly showing his pigeon to me before setting of after his pal.

‘Are you okay sis’?’

‘Oh Cristian, it was awful. So loud and so scary but is daddy okay?’

‘He is Christine, he’s fine. Now let’s go and find him should we?’

She is as light as a feather this one, with the grip of a bear but I would rather struggle to breathe than ask her to release her hold on my neck. After all, who needs air when you have something so precious in your life?

Chapter 35

Almost and hour has passed since Cristian took his sister down into the lab but Setantii is still fuming. High above the streets of Hartford she stalks, flecks of orange crackling through her and although she knows that rage won’t help sniff out her mark, she simply can’t quell it. This anger isn’t for Thomas Chevalier and his merry men though, for there’ll be times and places-a-plenty to deal with them. She’s mad at herself, cursing her decision to use the dogs to protect Christine whilst the battle raged in the woods. Of course the dogs had been ideal to begin with (guarding and taking down anything that Keltz sent to harm the girl) but at the end, when that unexpected opportunity to tell Cristian the truth presented itself, well what use were two soppy eyed and seal-faced Labradors then? Considering Keltz, Setantii remains in two minds; one purple (grieving the loss of a friend), the other red (despising his betrayal even though it had been suspected for some time). Purple prevails and pulls her spirit down to malinger amongst the naked branches of a winter oak for a while; a short rest she will use to purge her sadness by recalling the events that have wrecked her ancient bond with Keltz.

Sule Skerry is where she had unwittingly scuttled their friendship, as Keltz had placed Aunt May’s husk next to the lighthouse of that treacherous rock. Setantii (excited by the prospect of Cristian’s ascension) hadn’t been able to resist the temptation to flip out and enter Cristian’s mind, peek at his intentions. It was during that opportunistic domino that Setantii glimpsed Christine’s picture. What an epiphany! In an instant the world, the universe, everything changed as Christine’s revelation swept away the folly of the past decade. And what a folly that petty squabble had been! Attempting to unravel the tightly twisted fates of Setantii and the Chevalier’s had been like trying to spin water the wrong way down a drain; possible of course but completely unnatural. And this is what Christine’s premonition makes exquisitely clear; that it isn’t about fission anymore, it’s about fusion and the desire of Mother Nature to reunite human and silkie before returning them to the stars! But there is portent in Christine’s omen too, a warning of those who will set themselves against the child’s ascension. They are there in the picture; three men embraced by Tuthera’s dark aura in a pact to destroy Earth’s final creation. As for who might be capable of manipulating and mediating such an alliance, well as hard as it to accept (and as much as Setantii tries to deny it) tonight’s foray in the Hartford woods leaves no room for doubt. It has to be Keltz and a final ripple of purple signals Setantii’s acceptance.

Time to refocus. Setantii is moving again; dropping from the tree, sweeping left toward a short row of houses which are set back from the main road and partially hidden behind a tall, unruly hedgerow. Tricky to find for your average visitor these homes but for this silkie the mission target is painted clear, angst oozing through red brick at the centre of the terrace. Behind that wall lies Setantii’s only hope of reaching Cristian. Up and in, gliding along the landing now then drifting to a halt outside a bedroom door left partially open to allow street light to dribble in and dilute the darkness. Finally Setantii can see her; a woman who has no idea that silkies exist but in the next few moments must agree to help one!

Snap click booh!

‘June. I have news about Rose.’

June isn’t dreaming yet and so the voice she hears unsettles her almost sleep. She turns onto her side, gathers more quilt into her arms and shuffles her cheek deeper into the pillow. Setantii repeats the booh and it only takes a moment for June to register that the voice is real. So roused she snaps open her eyes and rolls them toward the door.

‘Hello? Is there somebody there?’

It’s a timid demand and it shakes with fear. Setantii has to act quickly, before terror takes hold and her message is lost to the bogey man in the shadows.

‘Your daughter and her baby are in great danger June. This is what I want you to do.’

Chapter 36

This is a dreadful place. And these stairs! Okay they’re wide enough but so long and ridiculously steep! A tilt of only four or five degrees more toward the vertical and they’d be a ladder. Badly lit too and the whole sense is one of descent not into a real place but into a state of mind, a stairway to fear and depression. Two more careful steps and I finally bottom out but into a space that does nothing to dispel the illusion. The ceiling of the cave is low, only inches above my head and I have to tell Christine to tuck down as I first lift then lower her to the ground. I stand and straighten my back but these claustrophobic carbon walls are pressing so close that even without Christine’s grip it’s hard for me to breathe. Laboratory is far too grand a word, a euphemism as ridiculous as that used by those Englishmen who insist that their graffiti stained council house is their castle. Leading away from the steps is a gently sloping tunnel cut through the coal seam, four strides wide. I can’t see its full extent because less than fifty feet in the string of pathetic bulbs runs out. Scrooge would have better Christmas lights than this. Ah there’s Keltz! But he’s stood strangely still, his back straight up against the wall and his head and shoulders lit by torch beams shone from some kind of chamber that’s carved into the opposite wall. These bright shafts of light flame Keltz’s red hair and his pale white face seems float from out of the black coal, the ghost of miner’s past. I can see the hand that points one of the lights now and then another aiming the barrel of a shotgun!

‘Dad? What the hell are you doing? Is this how you thank someone who just saved your life?’

‘He’s silkie Cristian, and that makes him the enemy! Now come over to us, bring Christine with you.’

To his credit Keltz seems to take this demolition of his character square on the chin, nodding it firmly to let me know that perhaps it would be best if I joined them. I’m still holding Christine’s hand so we walk together through the tunnel. As we approach Keltz she tenses, tucks closer then even shuffles behind me, eventually swapping hands and sides completely until I’m shielding her. Dad’s attitude is bad enough but to lose Christine’s trust like this? I’m about to say something when dad beats reaches out to grab her hand. Christine doesn’t need anymore encouragement. She pulls toward him dragging me with her through the narrow entrance that he’s been guarding and immediately I am shrunk, not by fear but by the immensity of this…this god knows what! I have no idea where I am. It could easily be an ancient alien craft, swallowed up millions of years ago by the swamp that would eventually become this bed of coal. But this place isn’t alien or ancient. My dad built this.

‘Jack, cover the door!’

Yes, my dad. My dad, who’s just shoved me so hard in the back that I’m now sat on the floor rubbing the pain out of my elbow. Knocked aside just so that he can reset his damned defences! This mistrust of Keltz is really starting to piss me off. It really is time that I…..hang on a minute, did he just say Jack? My bewilderment wipes every other emotion from my face.

‘Yeah it’s me Cristian. Long story but hey, what d’you know, Jack’s back!’

As I stand to hug him (possibly a little inappropriate having barged past my father to do this to a man whom I’ve only ever spent a few hours with!) I ask him how this could be, remind him that I saw him die less than a week ago.

‘Takes more than a knife wielding nutter to do for Jack Noble lad but I tell you, that Setantii is one pissed off silkie now!’

‘Yes indeed. And it’s going to take more than a few gun toting men to stop her finishing you off too. Jack Noble.’

Jack releases me, raises his gun to hip height and points it at Keltz who doesn’t flinch but does carry on talking; calmly and clearly.

‘Okay I’m silkie too but believe me, that’s where the similarities between me and Setantii. Is it really so difficult to accept that we’re not all the same, that I’m not willing to stand idle as one of my kind persists in slaughtering and maiming men? I mean, come on people! You only have to pick up a paper to see that your lot have the same problem. Front page you’re all ‘oooh, aren’t we good, aren’t we humane’ and slapping yourselves on the back for sending blankets and a couple of sniffer dogs to an earthquake zone but turn to page two and one of you just shot the kids after stabbing mummy to death. Evil deeds done by individuals. And it’s the same for us. Of course Setantii would argue that her fight for her offspring justifies any cruelty but she seems to conveniently forget that those children belonged to someone else before she laid the seeds that would one day steal their souls.’

Compelling stuff this and everyone seems gripped by it. Growing in confidence Keltz takes a small step away from the wall and relaxes his stance. His arms raise and open slightly but no one responds; no weapon is raised or light shone back in his face.

‘So please believe me when I say that silkies don’t have to destroy to survive. Take me for instance, Donald Frasier. I didn’t raid this man, charge in to his head one sunny afternoon and evict him from his life. No, when I found Donald he was all but dead, crumpled in a heap at the base of the cliff that he’d slipped from during a spring hike. He was broken, his mind and spirit irreparable by your medicine but just as his life was about to ebb away I stepped in. It took me a couple of hours but I finally got him fixed him up. Good as new except that Donald had gone. And that’s how it should be. That’s how it will be too if we can only work together on this. Setantii is a rogue. She’s gone too far and I’ll tell you now, I’m not the only one who thinks that her carrying on and contaminating the silkie entity like this cannot be allowed to continue. Gentlemen, it’s already been decided. Her line will be purged.’

In a final, dramatic gesture to let everyone know that Setantii’s fate has already been taken out of his hands, Keltz stuffs them firmly into his trouser pockets.

‘So what do you say eh lads? You gonna let me help you sort this bitch out once and for all?’

The angle of Jack’s gun tilts slowly down until it’s pointing to the ground. My dad is thinking too, tapping his torch against his leg. I hadn’t noticed until now but he looks terrible; torn dirty clothes smattered with dried blood. He mumbles something to Jack and then looks at me, but not for advice. I can see from his serious brow that he has to know something more before deciding what happens next.

‘Give us a minute Keltz. Cristian, Jack, we need to talk. You too princess, give me your hand and we’ll get you some juice in the medical suite. Jeremy, take Jack’s gun and just make sure he doesn’t move. We won’t be long.’

As we walk toward the back of the room that name rolls around my head. Jeremy…Jeremy…Jeremy! Of course, that’s who this third man is! Jeremy Hill, our old family doctor. God he was always so crisp and clean cut, so together. I guess that’s why it took me so long to put a name to his drawn, dishevelled face. The last time I saw him was at the hospital I think. He’d been escorting Mrs Williams, Rose’s mum when she accosted me in the corridor. That was the last time that I had seen Rose too and this sudden memory ambushes me, hits me hard enough to exhale a whisper of her name across my lips. My father stops so sharply that I bump him forward onto the door which he was about to open. Bizarrely, he spins around to offer an apology before I can begin mine.

‘I’m sorry son, I should have mentioned it earlier but there’s something you need to know before we go in here.’

I know what it is! I can see in his eyes what he wants to tell me! Rose is behind this door so I repeat her name, only louder this time with a rising intonation that turns it into a question. My dad answers me with a crooked smile. He’s turning back to the door, preparing to open it but he’s taking far too long! Barging past him I grab and twist the handle, burst into the room. My god she is more beautiful than I’d dared to remember! How did I ever consider abandoning her? I see nothing else, only my porcelain princess lain on crisp white linen barely creased by her delicate presence. So still, so peaceful as if, well as if…

‘She’s okay dad right?’

‘She is Cristian, she is. Although there hasn’t been much improvement as far as the coma goes but Jeremy thinks that…’

His voice fades away as I drift into an alternate space and time, a place where only Rose and I exist. Frozen here, unable to move yet I still drift toward her, drawn to her bedside. It’s only when I’ve taken her hand in mine that I can hear dad again, finishing what ever it was that he was saying about her condition. I’ve arrived on the far side of what would best be described as an operating theatre. Thankfully Rose isn’t connected to any of the machines here though and the gentle rise and fall of her chest tells me that everything is okay, that I haven’t lost her.

‘Christian, there’ll be time enough to spend with Rose but for now, we really do have to talk.’

A firm hand accompanies this soft voice, grasps my elbow and coaxes me away. As dad walks me over to join Jack and Christine I notice another strange feature of this subterranean world that he and his associates have created. In the left hand corner of the room there is a glass box, floor to ceiling and ten feet square. At its centre there is a large leather chair. Not built for comfort though this seat, more like something a dentist might use, if he was fixing fillings for the Spanish Inquisition that is. Straps and tubes lace it, the tubes disappearing into the sturdy metal pillar which supports the whole contraption. There are only two other objects of interest here; a large container of clear liquid suspended high above the chair and a frightened, ginger haired boy sat in it.

‘His name is Jonathon. That’s all you need to know for now.’

I have no choice to accept this because I am immediately dragged into a hushed and urgent discussion.

‘So? Do we trust him or not? Cristian, you know him best.’

‘Awe, come on Jack. I’ve only spent a couple of days with him. You’re the silkie expert here.’

‘Well excuse me pal, but you seem to be forgetting that you are a fuckin’ silkie!’

‘Hey, now just mind you language Jack!’

Christine is grimacing madly in her effort to stifle a huge grin at hearing such grown up talk. It’s a rather comical attempt at presenting herself as being old enough to hear swear words without giggling. She isn’t old enough, she’s just a kid and as I smile with her it strikes me how easily I forget that she too has a silkie inside. What Jack has said (however crudely) should be true though. Both me and my sis (and especially me) should know Keltz better than anyone here but I don’t feel like we do. I certainly don’t. That sense of being something new that I initially felt back on Sule Skerry really has faded. Yes, I can fly with pigeons or climb inside a strangers head but do I feel fundamentally different to how I did a week ago? No, I wouldn’t say so. It’s as though my human and silkie ingredients blend so well with one another that, rather than change this whole process has been one of consolidation. So does this give me any better insight into Keltz? No, and I guess that’s because I never met Donald. What I do know is that we really have very little choice but to trust him, at least for now, so here goes.

‘Okay okay. I don’t like doing this but just hold on. Let me concentrate a moment, try and connect.’

I stare at Keltz, count to three and then close my eyes. One deep, deep breath. Hold. Exhale slowly.

‘He’s telling the truth, so what next?’

I don’t feel at all bad about moving this along with a lie. At least now we are making some kind of progress, putting focus back where it should be; on finding a way back to fresh air.

‘Well in that case there are two things that struck me. First, that Setantii is pretty much finished. If there are others, and god knows how many of her kind that have turned on her and decided she must be dealt with then I don’t really see how three extra men are going to be much help. No, this is good, and I’m thinking that all we need to do is keep our heads down, stick together and sit it out.’

‘Down here? No way dad! I’m not…’

‘No, not down here. I’m thinking of the manor. We can all stay there, keep an eye on each other, set up defences and bolt holes that we can easily get to if we need to batten down. So what do you think Jack?’

Jack obviously thinks this is a great idea. The most recent confrontation with an angry silkie appears to have completely knocked the fight out of him too. I must have missed something here though because with a strategy agreed both Jack and my dad turn to me.

‘Which brings me to the second point. It isn’t just Setantii that has to go, Keltz was very clear about this. It’s her line that has to be ended and that means you two.’

My dad pulls my sister and I close, hugs us both tightly, one under each arm. I will never forget his face at this moment. His lips are trembling, his eyes brimmed with tears. It isn’t long before these tears roll down huge cheeks and moisten the corners of a smile that’s bursting with pride. This is not pride for us though. This is for Thomas Chevalier; a man who has battled over a decade to rescue his children from the devil and who has finally arrived within sight of that goal.

Chapter 37

Actually, this is a lot comfier than I thought it would be. The straps are firm but not that tight, except the one around my forehead perhaps which is very irritating. Mind you, I always hated having my head restrained, be it by a motor cycle helmet or during a rugby scrum. I wonder if the garage has fixed my bike yet? Jim reckoned no more than a couple of weeks to get the parts an..

‘There, it’s in.’

I have to hand it to Jeremy. I didn’t feel a thing. The needle he is wiping down and securing with tape is pretty big too, perhaps the largest of the three that he’s inserted into various veins around my body. Thankfully, this one flopping onto the back of my hand is the last of them.

‘So what’s next?’

Dr Hill looks confounded by my question, as if this point in these magical proceedings would always be so far far away that it didn’t ever really need considering. But this is exactly where we are; on the point of introducing a purging, diamond laced synthetic fluid into my body. For my part I was expecting there to be some kind of internal conflict, to be fighting myself over this decision to separate into component parts but it seems that Kingdom agrees with Christian; it was fun whilst it lasted but this relationship’s going nowhere, especially with my love for Rose being so strong. Three’s a crowd as they say. Hey now there’s a thing, I wonder if we’ll still be friends?

‘You seem very relaxed about all this Cristian.’

I can see Rose through the glass box. She is all I want.

‘And why wouldn’t I be? So, what’s next?’

Hill reaches down, collects something from beneath the chair. When he stands again he’s holding a mask in one hand and the end of a tube in the other. The mask is clear and light but it’s also big and the thought of it clinging to my face causes me to tense and flinch against the constraints.

‘Are you having problems Cristian? You know, with your, well with your silkie side’

‘No, no. I just hate masks that’s all. Or anything on my face really. Is it absolutely necessary?’

‘Oh yes, I’m afraid it is. This is to make sure that when the silkie leaves it doesn’t hang around here.’

The doctor waves the tube in front of my face then sets about connecting it to the mask as he explains how this will work. I hadn’t realised, but the walls of this box are in fact laminated sheets of glass sandwiching a thin film of pure carbon. Hence the grey tint I suppose which I’d thought was simply a cool look and not functional at all. Silkie proof Dr Hill reckons. The mask and the tube have a similar hue so I guess they’re the same type of material. Apparently the idea is that when Kingdom is coaxed into separation, when he’s chased out of me by the poisonous diamond drip, then the mask and the tube will guide him to the surface. Somewhere in the woods above there’s a rat busily nibbling away at a piece of plastic pipe and he’s in for a hell of a shock! I have to admit, this all seems to be remarkably well thought out. But I have to stop thinking about that now and concentrate on keeping it together. The mask is here, sucking onto my cheeks and pushing my eyes together. This is the right thing to do isn’t it? Bloody hell this mask is tight! Why so tight? Yes, remember this is all about my Rose. Hill has left the room, already closed and sealed the box leaving me alone. And then there’s the other thing too, that thing Keltz said about Setantii’s line having to end anyway so…oh hang on, what’s that? Looks like a control panel or a monitoring station or something has just popped open in the wall outside. Hill is standing in front of it, checking stuff out then….shit, here we go, he’s pushed a button!

Beneath the chair a pump has started turning and sucking and pushing. Okay, now breathe Cristian, because if you mess this up not only will you lose Rose but you’ll spend the rest of your life hiding from silkie hit men. Yeah, imagine that, so…uh oh, the pump’s hunted down my right hand already and the first batch of blood is on its way! Into the tube I go, down below to be processed. Damn these straps are so tight! I’m surprised any blood can flow at all. A soft click a whirr and a beep, all sequenced above my head. I can’t see properly but, ah here it comes, the diamond stuff dropping down its tube past the chair on its way to blend and cure me. Do I really want to be cured? Wouldn’t it be simpler for Rose to simply learn to love me again? Keltz’s looks happy about all this though. I can see him stood next to my dad, whispering something in his ear from time to time, all the while smiling. Why is that? Why is he the only one smiling? And it’s not a warm, supportive ‘you’ll be fine and we’re all behind you’ smile either. No, this is more of a ‘mwah ha ha, I love it when an evil plan comes together’ kind of twisted grin. It is undeniably sinister. Another pump starts, another tube fills with blood and my panic ratchets up. The straps tighten, the mask clamps harder. Bang! Bang! Bang! Three thunderous booms ripple the sheets of glass around me. What the hell made this noise I have no idea but outside the box heads are turning, guns raising. Everything is happening so fast now! The third and final tube jabbed into my left arm jerks, demands my attention with a sharp jolt of pain. I can just about manage to tip my eyes down far enough to watch as a pallid red liquid rises through it from the floor. This is it. This is the end. The final phase of a sequence that has collected, cleaned, mixed and prepared a lethal mixture that‘s now on its way to invade and take my Kingdom from me! And there is nothing I can do about it except scream into this bloody mask and jack my eyes open as wide as they will go. It’s almost here! Less than an arm’s length away this red venom snaking up my leg and still no one does anything! Up over my knee now, crossing my thigh, lifting itself up, inches from the single steel fang through which it will enter my veins. No more than a small section of clear tube to fill, now a slither, now falling back and stopping its advance? The door is already open by the time I have the confidence to look away from the tube. Jeremy is back in the box. Looking past him I can see the woman whose sudden appearance must have something to do with Hill’s last minute intervention. I watch her as the doctor removes his needles from me, quickly but firmly. Once satisfied that I’m fully detached he finally prises the mask from my face. I breathe deeply, calm myself and allow him to remove the rest of the straps until I can stand free.

‘Slight change of plan Cristian and you won’t believe who’s turned up. By the way, how was it?’

It’s June, June Williams and she won’t stop staring at me.

‘Why is she here?’

‘Well I’m not quite sure but she somehow managed to convince your dad that the purge should be delayed.’

I had almost passed Hill on my way to greet Mrs Williams but his choice of words stops me in my tracks, level with his shoulder. I turn my head and whisper in his ear.

‘Delayed? Not cancelled then?’

He shrugs.

‘Hey, I’m just the brains around here.’

I leave the doctor to his invention; emptying and tidying, preparing and resetting the sequence ready for his next customer. I’m not so sure that this will be me, but we’ll see. June’s face is hard to read. There’s definitely hate there, anxiety too. But there’s more; wonder and purpose in eyes that are distant and glazed yet at the same time focussed? She knows something this woman and there’s a slight delay before she answers me as to why she is here.

‘I thought that would be obvious. I’ve come to get my Rose.’

Dad steps forward, tries to put his arm around June’s shoulder but she jerks it away. Undaunted he continues to offer his reassurance, the first gentle step towards her not only leaving but keeping quiet too about what she has witnessed of this subterranean madness.

‘But your daughter’s safest here June. I can’t explain why but you have to trust me. Dr Hill’s taking good care of her.’

June ignores him, closes her eyes slightly and leans forward a little as if to intensify her stare before talking directly to me.

‘I want her fixed and I want her back. And I want it done now.’

From nowhere it hits me and I understand what she is willing me to say.

‘I’ll do it.’

‘Do what exactly?’

‘I’ll fix her Jack. I’ll fix my Rose. You remember what Keltz said, about fixing Donald when he found him? Well, I’ll fix Rose!’

Keltz’s twisted grin is back but this time it will not deter me from what must be done.

Chapter 38

I’ve been feeling an awful lot lately. Not arms or legs or toes or….well, not anything much of the physical me at all other than a slightly fuzzy buzz when I get banged into something or slung somewhere in a hurry. This new bloke is the worst for that. So careless! Jack I think his name is. Jesus Jack I call him. Twice I’ve heard Dr Hill tell him to be gentle. ‘Jesus Jack, will you be careful!’ or ‘Jesus Jack, she isn’t one of your drugged up nutters!’, whatever that means. Twice Jesus Jack has laughed too, the clumsy insensitive git. But it turns out that my being oblivious to pain isn’t perhaps the only upside of this numbness for like I say, for a while now I’ve been feeling a whole lot more ‘connected’. Maybe it’s some kind of compensation that Lady Luck doles out for being such a bitch but whatever or why, pretty much daily now Rose Williams is finding herself logged back on to the world. And it really is like that too, like logging on to some super-dupa network. And just like the internet, I haven’t a clue how it works. All I know is how to log on, to send a fleeting thought and push a small button somewhere deep inside my belly. Why down there I have no idea, but that’s where the button is. Push it and hey-presto I’m online, experiencing things without so much as a quiver in my eardrum or a ripple on my skin. I’m not seeing or hearing or tasting or smelling or anything like that. No, all that biological stuff is completely bypassed somehow and so all that’s left for me to do is simply experience! It’s truly weird and I have to say that initially it was truly terrifying. I can remember the first time that I experienced this sixth sense. It happened by accident I suppose, something akin to a reflex that kicked and pushed my button without being asked to. It happened as I was being moved from the hospital when, without warning, I’d been ripped from my cosy dark and plunged into a vibrant and horrifying ‘can’t breath must scream’ panic as the clinical disinfectant and humming machines of my hospital room were replaced by mouldy damp and far too tight dirt walls. Shit, just thinking back to that moment now (sheets drawn over my face before being taken down into the ground) makes me shiver and want to cry out again! Unplugged and buried alive, it had been exactly how I imagine a decent into my grave would be. Brrrrrr! In fact I’d been so scared by that experience that it was a while before I would push the button again, this time to bring the puzzling bright white of a new room into my head. I couldn’t then (and still can’t) for the life of me work out why this new place also has machines that beep but twisting facts around and around until they click into place isn’t something that I’m very good at so I’ve long since tossed Mr Rubik’s bright white cube to the back of my mind. Yeah, I’ve found something better to fill my head with now, spend most of my time here being angry and very abusive. I regularly have a proper hissy fit at Jesus Jack (which I really enjoy doing!) and the rest of ‘em all get a piece of my mind too from time to time, if for no other reason than..….hang on, what was that? A tiny tap tap tap somewhere on my eyes? There it is again! So clear this time that I want to tap back, tell who ever tapped ‘knock knock, who’s there?’ I smile at myself but the joke backfires, immediately reminds me of those tough diamond discs given to me by Uncle John and the noise they might make if they were to be tampered with. I remember what they keep out. Tap tap who’s there. ‘Key’ come’s the imaginary reply. Panic rising again, my mind racing away! ‘Sil..key’ the voice in my head hisses, ‘and I’m opening the door!’.

I push my button hard but nothing. Again and again I push but still nothing happens to let me see what the hell is going on!

‘Rose.’

Instantly my fear crescendo’s then freezes, its delicious chill hanging and tingling through me for this is no longer a fear of invasion but dread that the visitor may pass by.

‘Cristian!’

My mind slides open as I call his name. He’s entering me now, flowing gently into me, gathering my whole and wrapping it up within him. What is he? I am absorbed by him and I have never felt so safe, so loved, so….so…there are no words to describe this! Sugar melted in warm water is what I am, every part of me in every part of him. There is no need for expression or excited chat for I empathise everything; the ecstasy of his silkie ascension and his willingness to give it all back for me! This love for me is immense and dominates us but I know that mine is there in the mix too, sweetening the nectar as it surges through me. My prince is here to rescue his sleeping beauty! Already I can feel him getting busy, pins and needles jangling my spine as nerves and muscle are reconnected, sparked into life. My toes are wiggling, tangled in cotton at the end of legs that are sliding against itchy sheets. He laughs warmly as we share my embarrassment at not having shaved! Now my knees are twitching, thighs tensing and…..oh my! He lingers and we share the moment until my right arm flops from the bed, not to hang loose though because I can finally lift it! I reach out, grope around for Cristian’s human hand, find it resting gently on my belly but it doesn’t respond to my touch and I realise that he isn’t in there, that his body is parked and idling until he returns from fixing me. Still, it’s good to hold him and I’m almost complete now so it won’t be long until….

Without warning the whole thing disappears; the sparkle, the love, the torrent of emotions between us all sucked away in an instant leaving only a soulless vacuum. Cristian and I are compelled to retreat from this nothingness, its dominion impossible to challenge as it reverberates through everything. At the centre of the space so summoned, an infinitesimal point of light has appeared. It floats through my wonder, static for a moment then effervescing wildly, inflating to the size of a pink pea. I can’t find Cristian anymore and I should be panicked but I’m not; I’m calmed and inexplicably filled with joy by the presence of this tiny globe. It’s settling, with only a rhythmic rippling pulse distorting its surface now but this is still enough to smudge the image of the something which it cocoons. Mesmerised I watch it spin and as the ripples subside further, the shadow within focuses. I am stunned by what is revealed.

‘My baby? Cristian, we have a son!’

I have to reach across the void to my baby boy, send a thought from my heart to touch his but at that very moment my button is pushed and I’m launched into white room mayhem.

‘Cristian!!!!!!’

I can’t breath! There’s a plastic mask strapped tight to my face. It dribbles air in and muffles my cry for help. The weasel of a man who put it there is backing away, grinning wildly, resetting his messy red hair with one hand and cradling a shotgun in the other.

‘He won’t hear you Rose. He’s dead to the world’

The horrid man leans across me, takes Cristian’s hand from mine and waves it in my face before flopping it back down. I try to strike him but my right hand only swings through a shallow arc at the elbow. My shoulder ignores me.

‘See? Nobody home.’

He laughs as he straightens again and I feel his spit on my forehead. My breaths are so shallow now, this mask pulling tighter and tighter on my face and my eyes plead with him to loosen it. He doesn’t, just steps back slowly. Three, four, five paces then he stops, tutts and shakes his head.

‘My my, you are a right sorry pair aren’t you. How the hell did you get into such a pickle eh? Daddy trapped inside mummy like this. Oh, that reminds me, how is that little bastard of yours doing in there? You said bye bye to little diddums yet? No? Well, best hurry Rose ‘cos this pure silkie’s about to blow you and your fuckin’ freaky family off this planet.’

Silkie! Damn it Cristian what is happening here! I plead with the gun man again, begging form my child’s life into this damn mask as he raises the gun. Cruelly he only grins wider and winks at me down the barrel. His finger is tensioning, set to pull the trigger! My eyes close. My eyelids are working! Hurry Cristian, hurry and give me strength! Too late. The noise is deafening, smashed into me by an ash hot stream of stinking air but thankfully there is no pain. I guess Cristian hasn’t fixed whichever part of my body that’s been struck yet. Either that or maybe he’s realised how futile it is, taken me off line and spared me the agony of a fatal gunshot wound. I open my eyes and raise my head to see if I can see the damage. I can raise my head and now more good news; there’s no blood, no guts spilled across my bed. But there is blood and guts plastered across the glass panel that segregates my bed from the main room. These belong to the man who’s appeared from nowhere and is wrestling my attacker to the ground. Go on man, kill the ginger haired freak! Where he’s finding the strength to fight I have no idea because the shot blast he obviously shielded me from has punched a huge hole in his side, ripped skin and tatty suit to bits. I guess his dying weight is just about all he has left though because what looked like a contest is already over; the dying man tossed to one side, slumped against the glass and sliding to the floor. My attacker is exhausted from the struggle; spitting phlegm, panting and laughing when his shallow breathes allow.

‘These fuckin’ Chevalier’s. I tell ya Rose, they’re really starting to piss me off.’

Is that who the injured guy is, Thomas Chevalier? It’s one hell of way to meet grandad,

‘And I know it may be hard for you to believe right now, what with you going to die and all that but trust me, I’m doin’ you a big favour here.’

He’s bending down, picking up the gun dropped during the struggle. I sense Cristian’s panic, an instruction to yank the mask away from my face. I check my arms once more to see if they can reach my face yet.

‘I can’t do it Cristian, I just can’t move them!’

Crying won’t help but that’s pretty much all I have left in me now; a pathetic, frustrated sob as I stare helplessly back at the red haired hitman, watch him slowly lower his hand and place it on the weapon at his feet. His fingers are touching the butt when a bloody leg lashes out and kicks the gun hard, the shove weighted so perfectly that it spins and glides to a stop within inches of my bed.

‘Cristian! Left arm Cristian, left arm!!!’

Had the red haired man not delayed, decided to let this act of defiance pass instead of punishing it with swift sickening kicks to my hero’s head, then maybe things would have been different. But he didn’t and as his boot rained in for a third time on Thomas Chevalier, Cristian Chevalier set about putting things right. My arm begins to tingle and sparks jolt my fingers. I will Cristian on, urge him to fix my shoulder and finally it jerks, rolls down and lowers my hand to collect the weapon. My arm feels so weak but I managed to pick it up, shuffle my hand along to the trigger and point it in the general direction I want to aim. Red sees me, stops kicking and mocks the wavering barrels with a sarcastic smile. Had I been aiming a pistol or a rifle then okay yeah, he could have quite confidently walked up and taken it from me. But the spray of shot gun? Nah, I’ll hit everything within ten feet. The bastard’s got nowhere to go to get out of the way of this baby and he knows it!

‘Threaten my family would you you son of a….’

The recoil rips my shoulder from its socket, sends the gun flying and smashing into the wall just above Cristian’s head. I hear screams through the smoke, man screams and then I see him, stumbling around the room with hands clamped to his bloody face. My hand is at my face too, trying to get this bloody mask off but it’s so difficult with only one arm. Red has stopped screaming, taken to swearing and cursing me, vowing vengeance with all manner of limb tearing, bone crushing, soul sucking threats. But behind his anger I can sense it. I can tell how badly I’ve hurt him and as he staggers from view it’s my turn to laugh, but somehow I can’t. Instead I‘m crying again. Finally I manage to unhook the mask, sling it away and gulp down fresh air. Even before it has hit the floor Cristian is standing, hugging me and helping me to sit up on the edge of the bed.

‘Are you okay Rose? God I thought we were done for love, I really did. You were so brave darling, so…’

I silence him with a short, gentle kiss. Of course I want to hold him and listen to his sweet praise but I can also see that his bruised and battered father needs him more than I do. It hurts to see my love’s pain as Cristian tenderly hitches his father up the glass a little so he can better hear and be heard. It is also horribly clear that Thomas Chevalier, so badly injured, has only a few moments left. Cristian knows it too and doesn’t waste them by trying to remove discs and attempting to mend him. There simply isn’t enough life left and all Cristian can do is hold and thank his father whilst he slips away.

Chapter 39

My name is Kingdom and today, I can’t stop smiling. The reason? Well, tomorrow I will marry my Rose! It’s not going to be a big do though; just Rose and I, June and Christine of course (to sign the book) and finally Stan and his good lady. My girls are all busy with the registrar at this very moment in fact, going through the order of service, arranging flowers from the meadow on a lace cloth that Rose has draped over the conservatory dining table. Indeed, those flowers are one reason why I’m strolling deep in the woods instead of helping. ‘Would you and your bloody dogs just get out of the house for an hour or two please?’ Rose had pleaded, her calm façade finally breached by Lloyd when for a third time he’d snatched Christine’s posy from the kitchen work top. I’m regretting convincing Rose to let him keep it now. He looks extremely gay for a hunting dog, poncing through the trees like that with a bouquet of daffodils in his mouth. Ah, here we are again and as is happening more and more recently, I’ve no real sense of my journey here. I must have negotiated the stepping stones in order to cross the brook and yes, my dry feet said I did it perfectly. I’ve passed the three tallest elm trees in Hartford too. Never even noticed them and now I’ve crossed the clearing and avoided three huge branches lying there without ever seeing them. On auto pilot it seems, I’ve arrived safely once more to present myself before the main reason for my morning walk. This has been my routine for about a year now; Sunday morning boiled eggs, newspaper and tea in the study then an hour’s walk with the dogs to check out the lab. In fact come to think of it, it’s been exactly a year to the day since we sealed this place! I shudder and take a step back, never liking to stand too close to the door but that’s okay because from five paces the weld looks fine. The doorframe could probably do with a lick of paint though, to keep that rust from taking hold. I’ll have a word with Stan when I get back and get him on that whilst I’m on the honeymoon. Stan did a great job that night. Normally this is as far as my recollections would be allowed to go. At this point I’d usually call the dogs back and turn to home but today, on this first anniversary, well it just feels right that I pay some kind of homage to the place that changed everything so completely. I brace myself, stay and stand and let the memories in.

For the first time in a long time I’m holding my father again, as tight as I can to try and stop him from slipping away. But we both knew that it was hopeless and when we’d accepted this, said goodbye and allowed him to leave, I just didn’t have time to mourn him. Getting out of that place had been the priority. I’d humped his body onto my shoulder and called to Rose and her mum to follow. I remember calling back every second step to make sure that they still had hold of Christine’s hand. It felt like we were climbing out of a volcano that night; so hot and steep the ascent, all the time Keltz raging and blazing somewhere deep in the earth behind us. Once outside I still couldn’t rest though because my work was far from over. As the women had huddled and consoled my sister I’d crept away into the woods to bury my father. I wish now that I had done things differently but then my fears were too many. That all this would be discovered, that Keltz would stumble after us and continue his onslaught, that I’d abandoned and condemned the others who, as I stood sobbing in the empty rain over my father’s body, I knew must still be inside the monsters lair. My terror of all these things had been too strong and so the course of action I chose was to swiftly deal with them all. I rang Stan, dragged him from his bed and told him to get to Hartford woods with his welding set as fast as he could. He’s a good man is Stan, didn’t ask why then and he hasn’t asked why since. Whilst I waited for him I buried dad. I used a piece of corrugated iron ripped from the side of the lab entrance to scrape a shallow grave in the soft ground beneath a nearby oak tree. I feel terrible again for what I did, feel now more like I disposed of a body rather than buried my father but it had to be done that way and it had to be done close to the door because I had to keep an eye on it, make sure nothing burst through. And once I’d put him in the ground it was my turn to go there, back into the monster’s lair to search for Hill and Jack and poor, innocent Jonathon.

I have no regrets about my actions that night when it comes to this. Some might say that I should have stepped from the bottom step instead of clinging to it. Those same armchair heroes might scorn me too if I told them that I never walked to the end of the light and into the dark tunnel’s beyond but instead stood at the bottom of the entrance shaft and shouted. But what would have been the point? My voice searched much faster and further during those few minutes than my legs could have ever done in an hour. There was no where for the sound to go, other than the distressed ears of anyone who might be trapped down there. And I swear on my father’s woodland grave that I heard nothing back that night, not even from Keltz. I knew that he had to be down there though, led deep into the mine by his blind rage. He probably came across and dealt with the others too, so savage was his hate for humanity then. That’s why they couldn’t answer me. It has to be this way. Nothing else makes sense or other wise they would have called back wouldn’t they? And as there is no other way out, as I’d heard for myself the threats from Keltz behind us as the girls and I had made our escape, then he had to have been still down there when Stan welded the door and sealed his carbon tomb. Yes, this is how it was, no doubt. I’ve taken a lot of solace from this knowledge over the past year, even daring to hope that Keltz is perhaps still clinging to some kind of life in the mine and enduring that most feared of silkie deaths; a slow rotting hell trapped behind Donald’s smashed eyes.

And now it is time to go, back to the manor and my own idea of hell; three stressed out women and a wedding to organize!

‘Lloyd, Bruce, come on lads. Time for home boys.’

Bruce is soon here, bursting through the bushes to heel but Lloyd isn’t with him.

‘Lloyd!’

It’s unusual for him, not to be first back. I stand quietly, listening hard but there’s no rustle of mischief in the woods, no bark to let me know he’s heard my voice.

‘Lloyd come here now!’

Still nothing. I’m starting to worry. Instinctively my eyes scan the weld again. Is that what I think it is? No, it can’t be, please god no! Oh but it is. It’s a crack, a tiny hairline crack snaking to the edge from where the keyhole has been filled. Oh please no, surely not, not today of all days! Is it? I rush forward and with immeasurable relief rub the thin line of black mould away. Then, as my heightened nerves spin me quickly to check my back, I notice Lloyd sat quietly beneath a nearby oak tree. His eyes are closed and laid on the ground at his feet is a bundle of half chewed daffodils. I’m overwhelmed by what I see, emotions rising through me so fast that I’m barely able to express my appreciation.

‘Thanks Setantii, that’s a nice thing you’ve done.’

Finally, my father has the tears he deserves.