Once...

by James Herbert

  ‘It’s all right, Thom, it’s all over.’ Eric Pimlet said as Thom drew near.

  He was too stunned to greet the estate manager right away.

  ‘Terrible accident,’ Eric said in his gruff burr. ‘Poor young girl was badly hurt.’

  ‘Was it Katy Budd?’ Thom asked, already aware of the answer as he took in the terrible damage to the green car. Although the VW’s rear end was closest to him, he could see that the windscreen was completely smashed and the front of the roof itself so badly dented its metal almost touched the front seats’ headrests.

  ‘It was a girl drivin’ all right, but I wouldn’t know her name. Policeman’ll tell you though, he’s had to look through her things.’

  ‘It’s okay. I know it was her. How badly was she hurt?’

  ‘Can’t say, but they tell me they took her out unconscious. The driver of this thing—’ Eric pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the front-damaged transport-carrier ‘—tol’ me she was pretty messed up though. They rushed her off to Royal Shrewsbury Hospital, didn’t waste no time gettin’ her there. Another ambulance took this driver off too, after he’d made a statement to the police, en’all. Had to be treated for shock, poor chap.’

  ‘Did they tell you about the girl?’ Thom was still eyeing the wrecked VW as if in shock himself. ‘How bad were her injuries?’

  ‘Don’t know, Thom. They jus’ said she was none too good. I came on it after it had all happened and stuck aroun’ so’s I could give a hand, bein’ the accident occurred on the edge of the estate. Spoke to the driver though, managed to calm him down a bit.’ Eric rubbed at his veined nose, then shook his head. ‘He still seemed in bit of a daze to me, like he’d banged his head or somethin’. Kept goin’ on about a bird.’

  Thom at last took his eyes off the wreckage and regarded the gamekeeper curiously.

  ‘Said the car appeared from nowhere, too late for him to stop,’ Eric went on. ‘Must’ve come out the lane to your place, Thom. One of your lady friends, was it? Someone up from London?’

  Thom gave a quick shake of his head. ‘What did you mean, Eric? When you said the driver was talking about a bird?’

  ‘Oh, I think he was just a bit confused, like. As I say, he must’ve taken a knock on the head. Couldn’t make much sense of him, to be honest.’

  ‘But tell me what he said.’

  The old gamekeeper huffed, and shook his head yet again. ‘He said that after the crash, when the other car had been pushed down the road and into that there ditch, he saw a bird, a black and white bird, he said, fly out from the windscreen. I reckon he was mistaken. I reckon if there was a bird, it was already in the ditch lookin’ for worms or grubs, an’ it flew up from underneath the car. I mean, it’s not likely she’d be carryin’ a magpie as a passenger, is it? Not likely at all.’

  HUGO HAD gone to the plate-glass windows of his father’s bedchamber at the top of Castle Bracken, closing all the curtains so that the evening sun burned against their thick material. The spacious but now darkened room suddenly seemed claustrophobic, the air somehow heavier, and he felt his father’s watery, old-ivory eyes watching him over the plastic oxygen mask, the invalid, as usual, propped up by pillows as he lay wasting away on the four-poster. He thought he detected momentary panic in them.

  ‘Just giving you some shade,’ Hugo called across the room.

  Hugo grimaced at the sound of the laboured breathing in the shadowy room, for the initial sharp intake of air was like a grasp at life itself, the drawn-out rattling exhalation like final submission to the inevitable. A beastly noise.

  ‘Uuh – aaarrrghhhh . . .’

  Grasp, submit; grasp, submit . . .

  And so on it went.

  ‘You need to sleep, Father,’ he called out again, wondering if the old boy even understood his words these days. Sometimes he thought he caught a spark of intelligence in those vapid eyes, but mostly Sir Russell continued to stare blankly, observing without reaction or recognition. And yet at other times, when his breathing was regular and there was no need for pure oxygen, Sir Russell could appear quite lucid. Well, the time had come for some plain, sensible speaking from the old man and Hugo hoped Nell’s new concoction would do the trick. Their patience was running out.

  He returned to the bedside, hands in the pockets of his creased trousers, and watched Nell tilt a vial over a small ball of cotton-wool as she stood by the trolley containing genuine medications and equipment.

  ‘What is it this time?’ he asked, impressed by her knowledge of potions and poisons. ‘Hemlock?’ He gave a nervous laugh.

  ‘It was good enough to rid the Greeks of Socrates, but no, we don’t want to finish him off jus’ yet, do we?’ Nell Quick was wearing surgical gloves to protect her skin as she liberally dosed the cotton wool. ‘This is henbane, a close relative of deadly nightshade with some of my own ingredients mixed in, but I’m usin’ only enough to loosen his tongue and impair his judgement. Too much and he’ll be dead in a few hours.’

  ‘It looks to me like his judgement is already impaired, although I do sometimes wonder if he understands what’s going on.’ Hugo eyed the frail figure on the bed, the sheet that covered his father more like a shroud.

  ‘What does it matter?’ Nell replied. ‘He’s too weak to do anythin’. Roll up his sleeve for me.’

  Hugo was reluctant to touch the skeletal man. He remembered his father as he used to be, a small but powerful man, full of vitality. And, it had seemed to Hugo, always full of anger. ‘But if he can hear us, if he can understand what we’re saying, he’ll be disinclined to tell us anything.’

  Nell was short with Hugo. ‘I told you: it doesn’t matter. When this begins to work he won’t know what he’s sayin’. Jus’ wish I’d used it earlier. But then he’s been so weak it might’ve killed him. He seems jus’ a little stronger tonight though, strong enough to take henbane, I think.’ She bent over the sick man and dabbed the solution on the cotton wool into the skin of his forearm. ‘I would have put it into his nose for quicker absorption by the mucous membranes, but he needs the mask right now. No matter, the pores in his skin will soon soak it up. It’ll take a while to work though, so we’ll have to come back later – unless you want to sit with him, Hugo?’ Her grin was unpleasant, but to her companion, it was ravishing.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he replied hurriedly. ‘I can think of better things to do with my time.’ His leer was as ugly as Nell’s scarlet grin.

  Even I’ve had enough for one day, Nell thought to herself. The little blonde bitch was strong enough to get away, but the fight was fun.

  She giggled and Hugo regarded her curiously. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing to bother you, my lovely.’

  Hugo was suspicious. ‘You came across the bridge this morning. Had you been visiting Thom?’

  ‘Yes, I called in.’ She pulled the pyjama jacket sleeve back down over the emaciated arm. ‘Kindred wasn’t home though, so I pushed my bike all the way here along the forest path.’

  ‘I think we should leave Thom out of this. He doesn’t matter if we find what we’re looking for.’

  ‘We’ve been through all this enough times!’ By the light from a nearby lamp Hugo could see the blaze in her eyes.

  ‘Until we’re sure, we take no chances. We have to be able to control Kindred, otherwise we stand to lose everything.’

  ‘But my father could die at any time.’ Hugo spoke in a whisper now, as if the old man might hear.

  ‘Not as long as I help keep him alive. But even if Kindred does go first, there’s still no guarantee you’ll get what’s rightfully yours. Sir Russell might still despise you enough to leave you with nothin’. No, the only sure way is to find his last Will and Testament and destroy it. Count yourself lucky he wasn’t well enough to make it in front of a proper solicitor, so there won’t be any copies lodged in an office safe somewhere.’

  ‘But his witness . . .’

  She let out a sigh of exasperation. ‘I told you before – it
won’t matter if there’s no proper documentation. There has to be written proof. Soon as we find that we can make an end to all this.’

  ‘Dear God, I hope so. I’ve had enough, Nell. We’ve searched the house so thoroughly these past months, I really don’t feel I can carry on much longer.’

  Nell’s tone changed and her eyes searched his face. He was so weak . . .

  ‘Jus’ remember how good it’ll be, Hugo. All the money you’ll ever need, an’ me on top.’ She sniggered. ‘Or beneath; or on my knees, the way you like it.’

  Dropping the sodden cotton-wool ball into a plastic bag taken from the trolley, she sidled around the bed towards him. She sealed the bag as she came, her walk provocative.

  ‘You’ll have me, Hugo. Any way you want me. An’ even when you’re too tired, I’ll mix you the brews you like, the ones that give you . . . energy.’

  ‘Yes, Nell.’

  ‘An’ then we can do things, those things that make you feel good.’

  He reached out for her, but she playfully evaded his arms. She let the bag containing the swab fall to the floor where she would retrieve it later. She began to pull off the surgical gloves, slowly, almost like a stripper going into her act.

  ‘An’ there’s always different potions for different things, Hugo. My, I’ve hardly shown you anything, there’s so much more you’ll appreciate.’

  He made to move towards her again, but she stepped back, the movement languid, sensuous.

  Hugo’s bulging eyes were pleading and his thick lips were wet where his tongue had flicked out between them.

  ‘Nell, please . . . just . . .’

  He looked downwards, then up again and Nell groaned inwardly, knowing what the gesture meant. She would have to please him, otherwise he would be useless, sulking like a little boy refused his treat. She dropped the gloves by the plastic bag and went down on her knees.

  ‘Come here, Hugo.’ Her voice was low and she made it sound as though it contained pleasure. ‘I know what you want. We must be quick though, Hugo. We’ve got a lot to do.’

  He licked his lips again as he moved forward and his hand was trembling as he pulled down the zip of his trousers.

  She delved inside, took him out, secretly disgusted by the flaccid penis that would take so much effort on her part to embolden.

  And there, by his dying father’s bedside, she leaned forward and took him into her mouth.

  While outside the door in the antechamber of the rooftop quarters, a tall but stooped figure pressed close against the panels to listen.

  THOM PULLED up before the broken picket fence and surveyed the creeper-covered house beyond it. Nell Quick’s home looked empty; but then it had when he’d driven past yesterday and he’d known Nell was inside because he’d just left her. He realized the apparent emptiness was because the windows were so black, both downstairs and upstairs. The blackness seemed to represent an absence of life.

  Nevertheless, he was here now and he was going to knock on that door – there were questions that had to be asked.

  At the site of the accident Thom had used his mobile to call the casualty department of Shrewsbury’s main hospital but, Thom not being a relative, the person he spoke to was reluctant to impart any information other than that Ms Budd was in a ‘serious but stable condition’. Possibly tomorrow they would be able to give him a little more information.

  He opened the Jeep’s door and stepped out. He had to lean against the vehicle’s roof for a moment as dizziness almost caused him to overbalance. Tired, he thought. Dog-weary beat. Too much had happened this day. He had learned so much, witnessed so much, and now this, Katy’s accident. Accident? Thom wondered.

  With an effort he pushed himself away from the Jeep and went through the gateless opening, his gaze skimming over the house as he limped up the short path. The dizziness receded, but the anxieties would not leave him alone.

  He found himself in front of the porch, the shadows inside somehow discreet, as if hiding the front door. He stepped inside and pounded on the door with his fist.

  The top section of the stable-door rattled in its frame, but there was no response from within the house itself. Thom cursed under his breath.

  Stepping back outside the porch again, he peered at the upper windows, perhaps hoping to penetrate its blackness at that angle. There was nothing though, no sign of life at all. He went over to the downstairs window, treading through the long grass and weeds to get to it, and put both hands on the glass to form a darkened tunnel through which to look. He could plainly see the opposite window, the one that overlooked the back garden, but still detected no sign of life. Next he moved along to the kitchen window, shielding the glass against the glare with his hands once more. All he saw was the usual kitchen paraphernalia and shelves stocked with jars and tins, but no signs of life. Something – that sly little nagging voice of his? – told him not to give up. Even if Nell Quick was not at home, he might still find something useful inside the house, anything that might provide a clue to Nell’s true nature and intention. Rigwit had called her a hellhagge and although a few days ago Thom would have scoffed at the idea, now he was inclined to believe. There might be something in the house that would confirm the elf’s assertion; there might also be an indication of Nell’s game plan. She appeared to have her hooks into poor old Hugo and Thom wanted to know why.

  Moving stealthily, careful not to trip on weeds or tangled undergrowth, Thom turned the corner of the house and crept towards the rear. He hoped Nell’s neighbours in the adjoining house had not noticed his approach along the path to the porch; with luck, they were not even home, for there had been no vehicle parked in front of their fence. Cautiously, he peeked around the corner, afraid that Nell might be sunbathing or attending her back garden.

  And attending it needed. He had observed the garden once before, through the window of Nell’s parlour, and had noted its cluttered disarray, but now it seemed even wilder. Yet . . . and yet, there was some order to the mess. He could see that now, for what had appeared as total disorder – abandonment even – now took on some placement logic, for among the wild ferns and overlong grass there grew herbs of all kinds, screened by the brambles around them, but obviously carefully tended, for they appeared fine and healthy with space to allow in sunshine and for uninhibited growth. In fact, rather than neglected, the plants and herbs in this apparently fiercely overgrown garden were skilfully protected; or perhaps skilfully hidden.

  Towards the end of the garden was the battered and flaky wood-framed greenhouse, its glass rendered almost opaque by rain-smeared grime. Out of curiosity, Thom made his way towards it, finding the cracked, broken remains of a centre path to make the journey easier, brushing aside tall ferns and taking each step with caution because of the slippery, moss-covered slabs of stone beneath his feet. Occasionally, he looked back over his shoulder at the house, half-expecting to see Nell’s shadowy figure watching him from one of the windows. There was no one, of course – hadn’t he rapped hard on the front door earlier? – but he could still feel eyes on the back of his neck. He realized it was the house, itself, that he could feel watching him. A silly notion, but one he was unable to shake off.

  When he reached the greenhouse he saw it was in an even worse condition than he had first thought. Not only were the panes of glass filthy, but several were broken or cracked. Bird droppings decorated the slanted roof and bedaubed the side windows and the wooden-framed structure looked as if one strong push would send the whole lot crashing. There was something dirty, unhealthy, about it and Thom had no wish to enter. Instead, he found a broken pane and peered through.

  Like the garden, everything inside looked to be growing wild, but he soon realized that this was only because the greenhouse was overcrowded with herbs, plants and fruits, most of which he did not even attempt to identify. But among them he did recognize the same orchids that he had found at Little Bracken earlier, the soil beside these disturbed and empty, as though their companions had recently been up
rooted. Thom could not even guess at the significance of this; maybe Nell had thought they would make a nice gift, something to brighten up the cottage.

  Okay, so what did all this tell him of Nell Quick? That she was an enthusiastic but untidy gardener? Or that she really was a maker of potions and herbal cures? He pictured Nell dressed in black, wearing a witch’s pointed hat, stirring a huge cauldron of bubbling liquid, and he almost laughed aloud. What a stupid picture. But how far from the truth was it? Forget the black attire and ridiculous hat, forget the bubbling cauldron and broomstick in the corner; forget the heart of a frog, and puppy dog’s tail, the black cat ‘familiar’, the book of spells, the . . . wax . . . the wax effigy with needles sticking into it – no! nonsense, forget that too. Forget all notions of witchcraft and sorcery. But remember the succubus, remember the battle for his own semen, remember Nell’s own exotic allure, remember the uneasy feeling the magpie gave him each time he saw it – somehow he knew it was the same magpie each time – and remember a magpie had been seen flying from the shattered windscreen of Katy’s ruined VW.

  He straightened and slowly turned his head to look at the house again.

  The back door had been left unlocked (not all the old country ways had died), and after a brief look around the downstairs rooms – the tiny kitchen, parlour and lobby -Thom found himself upstairs in Nell Quick’s bedroom.

  He felt guilty that he’d entered another’s home this way, even ashamed, but he wasn’t deterred in any way. In fact, he thought this surreptitious search was essential, even if he didn’t quite know why just yet; he’d know when he discovered something relevant, God knows what. He was acting purely by instinct, Katy’s accident jolting him from any reservations he might have. Besides, if Hugo was in trouble – blackmail was Thom’s best guess, the blackmailer being Nell Quick, Hugo the victim – then it was up to him to help his friend in any way he could. Whatever Hugo had been up to, whatever indiscretions or transgressions he had committed – and there were any number of foolish situations Hugo could have got himself into – Thom would support him. They’d take on Nell Quick together. It was the least, and probably the most, he could do for his friend.