The ground floor rooms had not revealed much more than he had expected, for although his perusal of the parlour yesterday had been cursory, the room had no hidden secrets of any interest. An ancient, handwritten book on herbs and their properties for healing, a drawer full of bills, many of them red-inked final reminders, old letters still in their torn envelopes that he deliberately did not read – he was only prepared to take his snooping so far – and general accumulations that would not be out of place in any household.
The two upstairs rooms (not counting the tiny bathroom) were altogether different though.
The bigger one merely had a quilt-covered mattress on the floor’s bare boards for a bed, a long oak sideboard set along one wall and opposite this a tall wardrobe featuring a full-length mirror on its door. Unlit candles stood on the top of the sideboard, sharing space with a few cheap jewellery boxes, make-up accoutrements and perfume bottles. Apart from another large mirror over the sideboard, its gilt frame chipped and flaked, that was the whole of its contents – no chairs, framed photographs or pictures, no books or magazines lying around, no flower vases or lamps, nothing at all to make the room more comfortable or personal. Behind him at the top of the stairs was the bathroom, its door open so that he could see inside. It was half-tiled with white squares, the rest of the walls a creamy shade of white; the bath itself was plain and small, the toilet and sink next to it equally plain and functional. However, the room next door to the bedroom was the very antithesis of its companions, for whereas they lacked clutter and colour, this room had more than enough of both.
Garishly painted in red and black – red walls, black ceiling and floor – it came as a shock. Thom gave out a quiet breathy whistle and remained on the threshold for several long moments. A gold pentagram, a five-pointed star, was painted on the floor, and when he glanced up he saw it was replicated on the ceiling. There were symbols or hieroglyphics painted at certain points, chiefly close to the apex of each triangular shape. However, whereas the five-pointed star on the floor pointed towards the window, the one above was reversed. At the far end of the room and beneath the curtained window there was what appeared to be a small altar covered in a black material, its surface littered with odd-sized candles, some black, some red, some gold, most of which were burned down to varying degrees, their wax molten-like, spilling over on to their stands or receptacles. There was also a medium-sized bowl on the altar, its contents hidden from Thom’s view for the moment. Piles of dusty-looking books stood around the walls, and some that lay flat on the floor and whose pages were open, looked to be original handwritten manuscripts, their letters copperplate and inked in red. A bookcase occupied the corner to his right, but instead of books, objects filled its shelves: amulets, ointment jars, crystals, necklaces, unused candles, an ornamental hand mirror, an athame, which was a knife with a black handle and steel blade, both of which had lettering of some kind inscribed on them, a coil of red ribbon, cloves of garlic, and various pieces of small statuary and metallic symbols.
The combination of smells and scents was almost overpowering, the mixture unpleasant rather than pleasing.
There were daubings on the red walls, crude images of men and women copulating or performing lewd acts upon one another, some in groups of three or four, all badly executed in gold and black paint. A larger depiction was of a horned creature with the upper body and limbs of a man but with a distorted goat’s head and cloven hooves for feet. A naked female knelt behind it and was lifting its tail to kiss its anus. There were names inscribed among the pictures, set out randomly it seemed and rendered just as unskilfully. CRESIL, MERIHIM, ABADDON, BEELZEBUB, LILITH, JEZEBETH, BELIAL, HECATE, MOLOCH, PYRO, SEMIAZ, ZAGAM . . . the list seemed endless and there were far too many names to take in. But he recognized a couple, for years ago most of his boarding-school friends had taken a keen interest in horror stories and movies and, although he was never so inclined himself, it was impossible not to borrow such books or magazines in times of boredom, or to overhear snatches of excited conversations. Wasn’t Beelzebub the Prince of Demons, second only to Satan himself? And wasn’t Hecate the Queen of Witches?
A looped cross made from twigs and straw decorated the opposite wall and close by it hung a fox’s tail or brush, the reddish fur faded and matted as though many years had passed since the animal itself had roamed the countryside. Next to this was a horseshoe, open end downwards, the opposite of good luck.
Even though he knew all this was ridiculous, merely evidence of an obsessed mind – no, more than that: Nell Quick was plainly crazy! – Thom could not help making the sign of the cross on his chest. He was hardly religious, but this came as a reflex action, for there was something evil about this room, something that made him feel terribly vulnerable. He figured he might have felt the same in a high-security lunatic asylum where all doors were left unlocked.
Fighting the urge to leave immediately, Thom took two steps into the bizarre room.
And wished he’d followed his urge.
A heaviness seemed to fall upon him, a lumpen weight that had nothing to do with the physical. Rather it was like a sudden feeling of oppressiveness that sank over his shoulders, an ethereal mantle that hung heavily. Even the air he inhaled tasted thick. And the conglomerate aromas were like poison.
This is not a good place to be, he told himself. But still he lingered.
He walked to the altar.
Thick black candles at either end had been used, their frozen wax spilling on to the black cloth beneath; other thinner candles of gold and red were welded by their wax into tarnished holders. He thought there was a third black candle, but it was different from the rest, unburnt, its top curving slightly to one side, its surface smooth, lustrous in the light from the window behind. Curious, yet unthinking, his mind assaulted from all sides by other things in the room, he picked up the object. And quickly put it down again, for it had no wick and it was definitely not a candle. It was too heavy to be made of wax.
Why a black vibrator should be the centrepiece of an altar, he had no idea. But then, perhaps it wasn’t an altar, perhaps it was a shrine, a shrine to eroticism.
Also on the crowded altar were three daggers, two of which had black blades as well as black handles, the third of normal steel and white-handled, a single but large rough crystal, a long, thin twig from a tree (Thom’s experience with all kinds of woods and their origins told him it was from the willow), fairly straight along its length but unrefined, with no attempt to smooth out the knots. A wand of some kind? he asked himself of the latter object. Had to be, considering everything else that was on offer here. Nell honestly imagined she was a witch and this room held the proof! Christ, it was madness! But then, so was talking with faeries.
There were two receptacles on the altar he now realized, the smaller of the two hidden by the other when viewed from the doorway. The larger one was metal, a curved bowl with patterned holes around its rim, and its bottom was filled with broken pieces of charcoal and ashes. The smell of incense came from it, pungent enough to compete with the room’s other odours. The second receptacle was of more interest to Thom.
It was made of dark-blue glass, broad at the top and curving down to a squat stem and base. It might have been a chalice, or at least represented one. There were oddments inside and it was these that caused Thom to catch his breath.
He picked up the container in both hands, hands that were not steady, hands whose grip was too wary, for the fingers cupped the midnight-blue glass lightly, as if it might burn. He raised it to chest height and a foot away from his body, and stared at the contents.
Each item was innocuous in itself – a white shirt button; a lock of hair, several strands separated from the main clump; a small set of steel dividers. Their bed was not the bottom of the receptacle itself but a crumpled photograph, and all conspired to create an identity.
The button might have come from one of his own old shirts. The hair had the same colouring as his own and could have come from his head. T
he small set of dividers had lost their shine, the needles at the end of each arm almost black with age, and they resembled the first set he had ever bought himself when he had left college and was preparing to take up carpentry as a full-time occupation (in fact he knew they were his, for he had measured wood and cuts and grooves with them for so long that it was impossible not to recognize the blemishes and scratches in their metal; because he’d had them for such a time and used them for virtually every job since day-one, they had become a kind of good-luck mascot, a familiar tool he held in affection, no big deal, but a simple and sentimental token of all the hard work he had put in over the years).
What held the items together and made him sure they were all from the same source – Thom, himself – was the colour print he now reached in for with one hand. The other objects slid off its rumpled surface as he drew the photograph out.
He placed the ‘chalice’ back on the altar and smoothed out the photograph with both hands. One edge was torn, as if it was merely half or a part of a whole and, although the photograph had obviously been taken many years ago, he recognized himself immediately. It was slightly blurred, as if the photographer had a shaky hand or had moved as the shutter had clicked, and there was just part of another’s elbow showing on the torn side, as if he had been standing close to someone. In the shot, Thom was fresh-faced, a teenager, his hair too long, his clothes casual, and in the background was woodland. He could not remember exactly when the picture was taken, but he was fairly sure that the person who had been standing next to him, whose elbow was just in shot, was Hugo. Perhaps it was old Eric Pimlet who had taken the photo. Thom could not think of when he had last seen it, or if he had seen it at all, but assumed it had laid around in a drawer somewhere at Castle Bracken. Had Nell come upon it on one of her visits to tend Sir Russell? Or had she deliberately searched it out?
A button from one of his shirts wouldn’t have been too difficult to obtain – easy to slip into the cottage while he was out and snip one off. The hair? His teeth bit into his lower lip as he reflected. Yes. The other day, on her sofa downstairs. She had sat next to him, an arm going round the back of the sofa. Hadn’t he felt a slight tug at the back of his neck when he’d leaned forward? Had she had a small pair of scissors concealed in her hand? Easy to drop them behind the seat or leave them on the windowsill after they’d done their work. But the dividers?
He had never met Nell before he’d returned to Little Bracken to recuperate and the little tool had gone missing long before that; before his stroke, in fact. They had never been in daily use, but were kept in a special compartment of his tool box along with compasses, Stanley knife, vernier gauge, sliding bevel, squares and various other smaller tools of his profession. One day they just weren’t there and he’d assumed they had been left lying around somewhere after a job and he had chided himself for such tardiness. They’d turn up sooner or later, he told himself, but they never had. Until now.
How? Why? It didn’t make sense. He was sure they were his, but Nell Quick could never have had access to them. There was only one possible connection between his London workshop and Bracken itself. Hugo.
Thom shook his head in dismay.
Surely not. Yet Hugo had visited him a month or so before his stroke. And it was a short time after that that Thom had discovered the dividers had vanished.
But why? Nell might take all this witch – this hellhagge – nonsense seriously, but surely not Hugo? It made no sense at all. And what could Nell do with these personal items anyway? Did she truly believe she could cast some kind of spell on him? Thom remembered the succubus. And he remembered the stroke itself. Was Nell’s magic the cause of that too?
Such a monster was hardly likely, yet Thom, himself, had borne witness to it. And the succubus had tried to steal the most intimate thing of all from Thom – his semen! Was that to be added to the contents of this glass? The very thought made him feel nauseous. And the idea that his lifelong friend, Hugo Bleeth, might be involved in whatever nasty scheme Nell Quick had in mind made Thom feel suddenly cold.
THE OH-SO-FAMILIAR sensation of overwhelming exhaustion had come over Thom only moments after the coldness and he had staggered from Nell Quick’s house, footsteps heavy on the narrow staircase to the ground floor, heart pounding in a ponderous beat, his skin dank with sweat. He had to get away from there, in particular away from that red-and-black painted room that seemed to exude a peculiar degeneracy. Panic had set in with the fatigue and he realized that the thought of Hugo stealing from him to help this woman was its catalyst. He and Hugo had been friends since childhood, and even though they had not seen each other on a regular basis in latter years, Thom had always thought the bond between them remained strong. If he was wrong, if something had happened to change their relationship, what could it have been? Had Hugo discovered that they shared more than a long-term friendship, that they were related by blood, no matter how tenuously? Hugo had only been Jonathan Bleeth’s half-brother, but the link was Sir Russell himself, for the old man was Hugo’s father and his, Thom’s, grandfather. Yet Thom had been virtually disowned, even though Sir Russell had paid for his tuition and board, so surely Hugo could not be jealous of him. And if Sir Russell was so ashamed of his illegitimate grandson, was it likely that Hugo had even been informed of his half-brother’s congress with Bethan, or of the child who was its result? If he had known, surely Hugo would have talked to Thom about it when they were kids. Confusion, doubt, disbelief – all connived with the exhaustion to send Thom limping through the kitchen and out of the back door.
The fresh but warm air was a relief after the closeness inside Nell’s house, reviving him enough to increase his speed. It was not exactly a run, more of a hobbling walk, but he was soon back at the Jeep and yanking open the driver’s door. He drove back to Little Bracken erratically, once or twice losing concentration so that he had to jerk the wheel sharply to avoid leaving the road, the Jeep’s speed rarely consistent, his foot sometimes too heavy on the accelerator pedal, weariness or lack of attention the cause. As he turned off the main highway into the lane that led to the cottage, he noted that the accident scene had been cleared, both transporter and green Volkswagen gone, only tyre marks on the road and a scarred tree trunk evidence of what had occurred. Brambles and thin branches lashed at the Jeep’s paintwork as Thom fought to stay in control, and he was glad when Little Bracken’s stunted tower finally came into view. He pulled into the clearing and parked the vehicle haphazardly, tumbling out and almost staggering up the short path to the front door.
Once over the threshold he leaned back against the door-jamb and called Rigwit’s name. Response came there none.
He bolted the door top and bottom and ran his hands over his face, then studied the palms as if surprised at their dampness. Something else surprised him. He was hungry. He was so god-damned hungry. But then of course, he had eaten nothing all day. Just forgotten to eat, it hadn’t been a priority. Now, though, despite the exhaustion, despite the incredible amount of information he’d had to absorb – Christ, that he’d had to accept! – throughout the long day, despite his fear for Katy Budd, his fear of Nell Quick, his body – in particular his grumbling stomach – was crying out for sustenance. He felt unwell, he felt as if the left side of his body was made of lead, yet his belly was demanding to be fed! Good to know there was at least some natural order to things left.
Thom made for the fridge.
It was getting dark outside and Thom left the kitchen table to switch on the overhead light. The plate and cup he’d used for his quick pre-packaged meal lay unwashed in the sink and he still wore the loose sweater over his T-shirt because of the chill that had crept into the evening air. He returned to the table and stared down at the open book.
Then he sat and began turning the pages again.
It was the same book that the faeries had used as a portal into his world, and this was the first time Thom had had a chance to study it properly. Earlier, the first pages he had searched for were
those somewhere around the middle, half-expecting the faeries to come streaming through the moment he found them. Disappointingly, there was nothing but symbols and hand-drawn lettering in a language unknown to him. He’d left the book open on the table for several moments, simply regarding it and unconsciously fingering the small scar running from his lower lip as he did so. He’d tried willing the faeries to appear. Nothing. He’d placed his hands on the vellum pages in the way a spiritualist might place their hands on a seance table, his eyes closed, imagining the faeries pouring forth. Nothing.
Finally, Thom had given up and closed the book so that he could examine its cover. There were no clues there. It was fashioned from plain, dark leather, its surface now worn and scarred but with no man-designed embellishment – no symbols, no title, not even a decorative border of any kind. It might have been some ancient idea of a scrapbook. In fact, on his initial perusal earlier, that had been his first impression, for although there were no cuttings inside there were sketches, more symbols, and lots of writing. Some of the latter went on for page after page, with no illustrations or adornments to break up the tedium, while other pieces were short, set out in stanzas as if they were poems, but again, all in a language Thom had never set eyes on before. There was nothing orderly about most of the writings – they appeared to be ideas or thoughts put down at random – and not all paid tribute to the particular author’s penmanship, for there were blotches and scratchings-out, blobs of ink, or paint, or whatever the medium used, spoiling characters and often whole words.
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