Once...

by James Herbert

  Legs pressed against the side of the bed, Thom bent over the frighteningly thin figure and almost drew back again at the sickly sweet stench that seemed to rush at him; this was the nucleus of the room’s general malodour. But it was the sight of Sir Russell, his one-time benefactor, that shocked him the most, for, although he had prepared himself for the worst, the close-up actuality was even more distressing than he had expected.

  The master of Castle Bracken and its vast estate was little more than a shrunken ruin, his body painfully emaciated, his mottled scalp almost hairless save for a few long white strands. There was a disturbing blue tinge to his flesh and lips, and the lines and wrinkles of his shrivelled face were now deeply etched, dark ravines that had multiplied beyond belief. Heavy pouches beneath his half-closed eyes were like layered folds of blanched latex, the pallid pupils above – what could be seen of them through the slitted lids – seemingly adrift in a creamy, liquid substance; they moved a little when Thom drew closer, but he wasn’t sure if they were merely reacting to his shadow, the change in light, or if, through the moist haze of their vision, they had registered his presence.

  Thom thought – or imagined – he saw the faintest flicker of recognition in them.

  ‘Sir Russell,’ he said, almost in a whisper, ‘it’s me, Thom. Thom Kindred.’

  The gaunt head jerked slightly, as if the sick man was making a effort to turn towards him, and for a few all too brief moments, the eyes sharpened and Thom thought he saw some emotion in them, something more than mere recognition. It might have been joy, but it was too distant to tell, too lost in the mists of drugs and weariness. One of Sir Russell’s skeletal hands moved, then rose an inch or so; weak, cold fingers closed around Thom’s wrist and he felt ashamed for wanting to pull away. Somehow this . . . this thing . . . in the bed was no longer the man, the vital, active man, he had once known; that person had transmuted into this withered wreck, all skin and bones and stinking flesh.

  Oh, dear God, forgive me . . .

  The cold fingers dropped away. The eyes closed completely, as if to shut out whatever it was they had observed in Thom’s own eyes. As ill and as drugged as he was, Sir Russell had felt, had sensed, the younger man’s revulsion.

  In that instant Thom hated himself, and he reached for the withdrawn hand again to squeeze it gently in apology for his cruel but involuntary reaction.

  But the old man’s eyes remained closed and, despairingly, Thom saw a single tear seep from the corner of Sir Russell’s left eyelid. It welled, then trickled down into the sparse white hair at his temple, a faint, weak stream that caused Thom deep shame.

  He straightened and looked round at Hugo, his expression one of appeal, as if begging to be told what he might do. His friend was momentarily embarrassed and gave a shrug of his shoulders, a small shake of his head.

  ‘I doubt he knows you’re here, old chum,’ Hugo said as if to reassure him. ‘He’s like this most of the time these days. I’m sure he can’t even hear us, Thom.’

  Thom studied Sir Russell’s worn pallid face until Hugo cleared his throat and said, ‘Best be going, eh? Let him rest.’

  ‘There must be something more that can be done for him.’ Thom was almost pleading with Hugo.

  ‘Everything that could be done has been. My father has had the very best advice and treatment on offer, all to no avail. We might think that medical care has taken huge leaps forward but we’re wrong. Ask any honest practitioner or surgeon and they’ll tell you that half the time they’re making educated guesses. Not very comforting, I know, but unfortunately, that’s the strength of it. Now let’s leave him, Thom.’

  Thom could only acquiesce. He had hoped to talk with Sir Russell, perhaps convey some of the gratitude he felt for his patronage over the years, perhaps even find out what he could now do for him. Mostly he wanted Sir Russell to know that he was there, that he cared about his condition, that he would stay and help nurse him, would do anything that might ease the discomfort, if not the pain. He had always been afraid of Sir Russell and in a way he still was, despite the fact that the old man was a mere husk of what once he had been; but now it was his, Thom’s, turn to give whatever support he could. Thom knew that Bethan would have wanted this.

  ‘Can I come back and see him, Hugo?’ he asked his friend, who was hovering anxiously by the bed. ‘Maybe when he’s more alert? I think he really would like to know I’m around.’

  ‘Not sure there’d be much point, Thom. You see how he is. He just drifts in and out, hardly aware of his surroundings, it seems to me, although when he’s up to it he spends much of his time gazing out the windows.’

  Thom automatically looked towards the nearest window and felt his heart lift at the wonderful scene. From this position, Sir Russell was able to see the fields and woodlands, the distant hills. He squinted his eyes. And yes, there, the turret just rising above the treetops . . . It was Little Bracken, a reddish smudge among all the greenery. He wondered if the old man could see the tower too. For some reason, he hoped so.

  Distractedly, he walked around the bed and went to one of the long windows. The skies remained overcast, the day grey and uninteresting; yet the view was still magnificent, the myriad greens outside deepened by the lack of sunshine. He was tempted to go out on to the terrace, to breathe in the clean, fresh country air, the room he was in almost stifling in its foulness, but even as he considered it, a bird landed on the roof’s parapet opposite the window. It was a magpie, and when its wings had settled, the bird securely perched, it cocked its head and looked directly at him.

  Thom had the strange notion that this was the same magpie he had found on the top of Little Bracken’s fake belltower, the one that had not even flinched when he had clapped his hands at it. Nonsense, of course – there was more than one magpie in the neighbourhood. But even so, the way this one watched him was equally disconcerting.

  The bird continued to stare through the window at him, cool and detached, showing no fear at all when Thom tapped on the glass. He scowled, somehow irritated by the creature’s boldness.

  Thom suddenly felt a presence behind him and assumed Hugo had come over to see why he was tapping on the window. But when he turned his head, ready to point at the bird outside and explain, he was startled to find Hartgrove – old Bones – standing behind him. The manservant must have been in the room all the while, sitting silent and unnoticed in a corner, keeping a solitary vigil for his master, Sir Russell Bleeth.

  Dark, expressionless eyes looked past Thom to see what had caught his attention, and those matt eyes suddenly took on some life – what was it? Curiosity, anger, fear? – when Hartgrove saw the magpie perched on the parapet. Without saying a word, Hartgrove went to the door that led on to the roof and opened it. He stepped outside. In surprise, Thom watched as the manservant strode purposely towards the parapet, clapping his hands loudly as he went.

  The magpie had nerve, Thom had to give it that, because it waited until the last moment before lifting into the air. Hartgrove swiped at it with a long arm, but the bird was too swift and too cunning. Its flight took it backwards a few feet before it rose high into the air and finally swooped away.

  Thom looked around at Hugo, who was walking towards him, obviously wondering what the fuss was about. When he reached the window, both men exchanged looks of bewilderment before returning their attention to the tall, dark figure outside.

  Hartgrove stood perfectly still, hands by his sides, just watching the bird’s flight. And when he turned to face them a few moments later they saw a deep rage on his cadaverous face.

  Once again, Thom and Hugo swapped glances. It was Thom who spoke, and it was in a whisper.

  ‘What the hell was that all about?’ he said.

  ‘STIFFENER, THOM? Even better, stay for a spot of lunch, eh? Cook’ll soon rustle up something for us both.’

  Thom and Hugo were back downstairs in Castle Bracken’s main hallway, both of them relieved to have left the rooftop eyrie, although neither one would ha
ve admitted it. A place of beautiful views had become death’s waiting-room and the transformation was deeply unpleasant.

  ‘I don’t think so, Hugo. To be honest, I’m not that hungry.’

  ‘Made you lose your appetite did it? Well, I did warn you it’d be disagreeable. It’s a shock to see Father in that condition, I know, but come on, you’ve got to eat, old chum.’

  ‘I’ll have something back at the cottage.’

  ‘You’re quite sure? I can’t persuade you?’ Hugo’s eyebrows were raised, the palms of his hands displayed.

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure. Thanks for the offer though.’

  Together, they walked to the front door, but just as Hugo opened it for Thom, a voice from one of the nearby doorways halted them.

  ‘Oh, Thom, I’ve been waitin’ for you.’

  They turned to see Nell Quick emerging from the drawing-room, a light raincoat over her arm and a plastic shopping-bag in her hand. Her smile sent a rush through Thom despite himself.

  ‘I meant to leave earlier, but when I got outside I found my bicycle had a puncture.’ She planted herself directly in front of Thom, her back to Hugo. ‘Could you drop me off at my place on your way home?’

  He wanted to make an excuse, say he was going on into town, but found it hard to resist those deep brown eyes that looked so intensely into his. And the smile . . . oh, God, the smile . . .

  ‘Um . . .’ was all he managed.

  ‘Good. It’s not far out of your way, only a couple of minutes.’ She turned to Hugo. ‘You’ll make sure Sir Russell takes his special medication, won’t you? It’s all prepared and waitin’ on the kitchen table for you. Mrs Baxley is com-plainin’ again, but don’t you stand for any of her nonsense. We both know Sir Russell won’t touch any proper food, ’specially not the kind she wants to force on him. It’d jus’ be wasted on your father, stubborn old thing that he is.’

  Thom was surprised at the casual way the ‘carer’ spoke to his friend, although Hugo did not seem to mind. He merely nodded his head and smiled as if eager to please.

  ‘I’ll be back later,’ Nell Quick went on, ‘to give him his next dose. Sometimes I think it’s only my medicines that’s keepin’ him alive.’

  ‘I’ll do as you say, Nell.’ Hugo had opened the front door for them.

  ‘If you need me sooner, jus’ call. You know I’m on hand, night or day.’

  A look passed between them and Thom frowned. Am I missing something here? he silently asked himself. Is there something going on between these two? Nell was an attractive woman, and Hugo . . . well, Hugo had to be lonely here at the great manor house. But she was his father’s nurse. Surely Hugo wouldn’t be involved with her?

  ‘Shall we go, Thom?’ Nell was smiling at him again – no, it was more than just a smile. Her expression was both seductive and mocking at the same time, as if she were playing some secret game with him. He was beginning to be irritated by it.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I need to be getting back. Things to do.’

  She lowered her chin, looking up at him questioningly. Things to do? He was supposed to be convalescing, so what would he have to do? She seemed to enjoy his small lie.

  They descended the steps together and Thom, feeling eyes on his back, glanced over his shoulder. But Hugo had already closed the front door.

  ‘There, you see.’ Nell was pointing at the old Raleigh lying against the steps, its rear wheel tyre flat and useless. Her expression was curiously triumphant, as though she knew he had doubted her word.

  He wondered why he had not noticed the puncture on his arrival, but said: ‘We’ll try and get it into the back of the Jeep. It should just about fit with a bit of manoeuvring and the backs of the rear seats down.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Thom. It deserves a reward of some kind.’

  He ignored the glint in her eye, righting the heavy-framed bicycle and pushing it towards the Jeep, holding the rear wheel off the ground so that the flaccid tyre would not be further damaged. He suddenly became aware that his left foot was dragging, a sure sign he was becoming weary; he was beginning to limp too. He had felt so good earlier, healthy, fit, even strong. And now the tiredness, the numbness, was returning. His visit to Castle Bracken had left him in a state of depression and he wondered if that was part of the problem, bad memories, the wretched sight of Sir Russell, even the general deterioration of the once-great mansion itself, all these things preying on his mind, bringing him down, undermining his physical resistance.

  He opened up the Jeep’s tailgate and then adjusted the rear seats. There was just enough room for the hefty old bicycle once he had twisted the front wheel and handlebars. He had to push hard to get the tailgate closed again, but finally it was done.

  Thom limped round and opened the door for his grateful passenger, and then moved on around the bonnet to the driver’s side. He realized his arms were trembling slightly with the strain of lifting when he climbed into his seat and pushed the key into the ignition. He had broken out in a sweat and was relieved when he looked over at Nell to see perspiration on her brow too. It was still a humid kind of day, the air thick and sultry.

  ‘This is kind of you, Thom,’ Nell repeated flashing beautifully white teeth at him.

  ‘No problem.’ He leaned forward and turned the key, bringing the engine into life.

  Out the corner of his eye, Thom saw the woman tug at her loose skirt, pulling it back over her knees so that its hem lay across her lower thighs. Her legs were smooth and a light brown colour as though she, too, like the physiotherapist earlier, had taken full advantage of the season’s brilliant weather.

  ‘It’s so warm,’ she murmured distractedly and as if unaware how provocative the sight of her legs were. ‘’S’pect there’ll be a storm later. What you think, Thom?’ She regarded him as though honestly interested in his opinion, her eyes wide and pupils jet black in the shadows of the Jeep.

  He caught the faint muskiness of her natural odour – as far as he could tell, she wore no perfume – in the close confines and even through the sudden weariness that had come over him, he felt himself stirring.

  ‘There might be,’ he replied, swinging the Jeep round in an arc.

  ‘It’ll clear the air.’ She lifted the hem of her skirt from her thighs, just an inch or so, as if to allow air to circulate.

  Thom pretended not to notice.

  ‘You saw Sir Russell?’ she asked innocently, her hand bringing the skirt even higher up her legs.

  ‘Yeah.’ His mouth was dry.

  ‘And . . .?

  ‘And?’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘He’s in a bad way.’

  ‘I think he hasn’t much longer.’ The index finger of the hand holding the skirt played up and down the skin above her knee, each journey a little longer, but never beyond a certain point.

  Thom tried to keep his eyes on the road ahead. ‘Tell me something,’ he said to get his mind back on track.

  ‘Anything,’ she replied before he could continue; she was obviously enjoying her tease.

  ‘You’re a qualified nurse? I mean, you’ve been trained, you’ve had practical training . . .?’

  ‘Don’t I seem like a nurse to you?’

  ‘Frankly, no.’

  She gave a small laugh.

  ‘Do I take that as a compliment?’

  He was beginning to get annoyed again and was grateful for that: it wasn’t easy to switch off from this woman’s flirting. ‘It’s just a question.’

  ‘Well, I’ve had some trainin’ and cared for many sick people over the years.’

  ‘But you said you’d made up some medicine for Sir Russell . . .’

  ‘Well, you could call it medicine. A lot of people come to me for my special brews and potions. Mostly country people who know the old ways, although there are others – townies – who’ve heard about my cures.’

  Thom could hardly believe his ears. ‘Are you kidding me? Sir Russell needs a professional nurse to look af
ter him.’

  ‘His doctor comes at least once a week and he seems perfectly satisfied. I’ve been shown how to use the medical equipment and it really isn’t that difficult.’

  ‘Surely he would insist that Hugo hires a proper nurse. Sir Russell—’

  ‘Sir Russell is going to die, Thom. All the professional . . .’ she emphasized the word ‘. . . help in the world can’t alter the fact. So if my special mixtures can ease his suffering, then his doctor isn’t going to complain, is he? Remember, Sir Russell has already received the best treatment money can buy, now it’s just a matter of time.’

  ‘Surely he needs proper medication, drugs or pills, sedatives – stuff to deal with the discomfort and pain.’

  ‘They’re all at hand. You must have seen them, for yourself. Hugo and I have been trained to administer them so it isn’t a problem. I also bathe him, I clean his mess, I make his bed. I can do anythin’ a hired nurse can do, so please stop your worryin’. When I’m not there, that old pile of bones Hartgrove is always around.’

  Now she had become a little irate and, Thom noted with relief, had ceased teasing him. But, as though having just read his thoughts, she smiled at him again and leaned across to touch his arm.

  ‘I know Sir Russell has been good to you, Thom – Hugo told me how he employed your mother, then saw to your education when she died – but he’s looked after in every way, I can promise you that.’

  By now they had passed through the estate gates and had reached the main thoroughfare. Thom glanced at her as he waited for several cars and lorries to go by. The apparent sincerity of her expression surprised him.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry if—’ he began to say.

  She put a finger to his lips. ‘I understand. You’re concerned for him, but then so are we all. ’Specially Hartgrove – he scarcely leaves his master’s bedside. Have a little faith, Thom, just a little faith. I promise you I’m doin’ my best to keep Sir Russell as comfortable as possible.’