by Ben J Henry
Joe nodded, tapping a thumb against the glass on his knee. He had not changed out of his uniform and the edges of the dark fabric were lost against the chair. Gus leaned forward and gripped the table, his fingernails white.
‘Who wrote it?’
‘Your father used to call it the “Murder Book”.’
A block of light through the kitchen door and the glow of street lamps behind the closed blinds did little to illuminate the dark room. Joe leaned across the liquor globe and lifted something from the shelf lining the bay window. From the shadow, he withdrew a large stuffed crow perched on a tree branch. Gus blinked scratchy eyelids over dry eyes as Joe ran a finger over the feathered head.
‘You’re familiar with collective nouns? Pride of lions, flock of sheep…’
Gus was already there: ‘A murder of crows.’
‘That book was written by our family.’
Gus returned his eyes to the leatherbound book with a steady pounding in his temples. His mouth opened and closed before he managed to speak.
‘My parents?’
‘No,’ said Joe, and firmer: ‘No. They stole it, remember?’
The policeman rose from his chair and returned the bird to the shadows before walking up to the table as if it were an altar. He cradled the glass against his chest.
‘It was my grandparents. Your great-grandparents. They are responsible for this.’
Gus’s eyes searched the gold-foil symbol, his mind latching to the names concealed within: Jack Henson, Melody Wilson. Their faces haunted the edges of his vision.
‘You never…’ Gus shook his head. ‘You or Dad, you never mentioned them. When Grandma died, I thought that was it. Are they…?’
‘Still alive?’ A grunt. ‘Yes. And no—our father never talked about his parents, and neither did we. Now you know why.’
Gus studied Joe’s gruff face as though it might spark lost memories. During summer holidays, his parents had taken him to Cranleigh, where they would endure Blithe’s relentless criticism of everything said and done by anyone in her vicinity, particularly Joe, her sole carer. Evenings had been spent playing card games on the wooden terrace, with Benedict smoking his father’s pipe and Sylvie accusing Joe of cheating just to rile him up. Blithe had interrupted each game with a new demand, from changing the water in the vases in her bedroom to opening the window while she read in the living room, refusing to join their games but seldom allowing her presence to go unnoticed. When the widow passed away and Joe joined his twin in Ireland, Gus had assumed they were all that remained of the Crow family.
‘Benedict and I were keen to cut ties,’ Joe mused, swirling the remnants of his drink in the tumbler. The air was rich with the scent of whiskey. ‘Our grandfather reached out a couple of times, but we kept our distance. At least, until—’
‘—Mum and Dad stole that book?’
‘Sylvie had this fear that, once you were old enough, your great-grandparents would take an interest in you. When you were young, they paid you little attention; but as you got older, they started to send you birthday cards from their home in Portugal. You never saw them. Sylvie made sure of that. She felt guilty, and so did Ben. They knew what our grandparents were capable of—what family they had brought you into. When you turned seventeen, they went after them. They went to Portugal. And they stole the Murder Book.’
‘How did they die?’
Joe drained the glass and set it down on the corner of the table.
‘I don’t know how they do it. But I know it involves lucid dreaming—that’s why you take those pills. I don’t know how they killed your parents, but Anna Harrington was there when it happened. They handed her the book and dropped at her feet. They died because they interfered, Augustus. And now Anna—I tried to convince her to give it back,’ he picked up the glass again, as if to crush it in his thick fingers. ‘I tried to talk sense into the woman.’
Gus thought of the large, equine eyes in Anna’s portrait, now haunted by the death of his parents. His leg twitched, seeking permission. Adrenaline urged him to sprint to Alicia’s door and wait for her mother’s return, itching to glean fragments of his parents’ final moments.
‘What was she doing there?’
‘Anna was looking for her son. Wrong place, wrong time.’
‘And she went to Bristol, this weekend, to warn Melody?’
‘She failed. Melody Wilson died last night. Kitchen fire.’
Gus pictured the elderly proprietor closing her sweetshop for the evening and turning on the stove.
‘Why are they killing these people?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Joe, glancing down at the glass as he spoke. He raised his eyes to Gus. ‘But if we don’t return the book, they’ll kill us too.’
‘Rainn,’ said Gus. ‘At school, I saw that tattoo on her wrist,’—a nod at the book—‘She’s working with them?’
Joe’s face paled and his Adam’s apple shifted up and down.
‘She’s here for the book. And if we give it to her now, there’s a chance Anna might be spared.’
His uncle was keeping some cards close to his chest, but Gus understood that the possession of this book put them both in danger. Fatigue pulled at him like an ocean current and his bloodshot eyes sought the pills on the table. A powerful longing surged through him to close his eyes, to let go and to escape.
‘If my parents died taking this book, I’m not going to hand it back like a good little Crow.’
As though acting independently of his body, his fingers clawed at the lid of the pot and prised it open. He tipped a pill into his trembling hand, popped it in his mouth and chased it with the water. A naked relief lit Joe’s face.
‘When Anna gets home, she’ll come looking for it,’ said Gus, pushing back his chair. ‘Alicia will know I’ve taken it. Until she comes knocking, I’m looking after this.’
Joe made no move to stop him when Gus lifted the Murder Book into his hands and carried it up to his bedroom. He tucked the book at the bottom of a box of hooded jackets and then frowned, pulled it from the box and hid it at the back of his wardrobe. As he sidestepped the box on the way to his bed, the floor tilted as the pill began to take effect.
Eight hours of dreamless sleep.
He collapsed onto the bed and then rolled onto his back, rubbing his eyes. Grumbling, he forced himself into a sitting position, dissatisfied with the hiding place.
He hasn’t told you everything.
Gus pulled the book from the wardrobe and cursed, looking left to right as waves of drowsiness drew him under.
He’ll ransack this room.
He stuffed the book down his shorts and crashed on his mattress. Seconds, minutes or hours later, a brilliant light burst into the room—bright sparks in his eyes and a distant growl. He sat up to see headlights through his bedroom window. The growl ended as the engine cut.
Gus rose from his bed and staggered to the window. Pressing his forehead to the glass, he watched Anna Harrington step out of her car.
A + E forever
On the outlying tree of the forest, something caught Alicia’s eye. Letters had been engraved into the foot of the trunk. The scaly bark of the pine had been pried away and a message scored into the wood beneath: A + E Forever. The lettering was untidy, cut with deep strokes. Kneeling on fallen needles, Alicia ran a fingertip over the letters, reminiscent of her mother tracing the alphabet into David’s palm.
A and E? Anna and Eloise? If Vivador was anything other than a profound lucid dream, was it not conceivable that her mother and grandmother had also ventured down the well? But, if so, why take the painstaking effort to cut letters into the tough wood when the message could be conjured in an instant?
‘Come on,’ said Ryan.
He had asked her to follow him and she had not hesitated. She had asked him where they were going and what her brother was doing in this place; he had kept his eyes forward and his mouth closed. In silence, they had crossed the hills and reached the edge of the forest.
Beneath the pale sky, tall pines stretched to her left and right as far as she could see. Since Ryan would not answer her questions, she directed her attention inward.
If you believe David might be here, why aren’t you running?
Unbound from their biological shell, her thoughts rang clear between her ears.
Because Jack is dead.
In the waking world, if something was troubling Alicia it might manifest as irritation or impatience, a lack of appetite or sleepless nights. The underlying cause of her unease might lurk on distant shelves, as had her memory of the shed. But here, in this immaterial realm, the spotlight of her attention cut through the shadows. There was nowhere for her anxiety to hide.
She entered the forest with cautious footsteps as she separated fact from belief. Jack had visited the well and died. His name was written in a book that her mother had hidden while she searched for David. The environment was stable and her thoughts clear; but these were weak reasons to believe that this was any more than a dream. It was infinitely more plausible that this was a fantasy born of desperation: the handsome stranger guiding her through the woods to her missing brother.
How can a dream be dangerous? Gus took pills to protect him from his dreams. If this place was real, then Alicia was venturing into the unknown with a man who had been waiting for her, rehearsing lines with a dagger at his side. Keeping her head forward, she stole glances at his wrists, his neck and the biceps that stretched his short-sleeved T-shirt—no tattoos. Though these would not be difficult to hide. Following this stranger deeper into the woods, the cavity between her ears filled with anxious pleas to turn and run.
You have two choices, she thought. Follow him wherever he is taking you, or wake up and wait for Mum to come home.
She picked up the pace.
‘Who created this forest?’ she asked, brushing a finger along a branch sticky with sap. Ryan shook his head: he did not know. She ran her eyes across the upper branches and over the fragrant needles that littered the soft soil. If this forest had been created by another mind, had its creator conjured the image of every tree? It had not been necessary to determine the shape and colour of each leaf when creating the oak. If it were possible to raise a forest from the bare ground, what if she imagined a planet? As the thrill of possibility pulsed through her, a breeze rustled the branches overhead, dislodging pine needles.
‘Who creates the breeze?’
‘You do. Conscious and unconscious creation: Vivador is constructed through will and expectation.’
Alicia focused on the boughs above and a great gust of wind swept the forest. The trees swayed under a fierce gale and pine needles showered upon the pair. With a bashful smile, she brushed needles from Ryan’s shoulders. He fixed his gaze ahead and continued walking.
She scanned the trees, half-expecting to spot her brother red-faced and breathless from chasing squirrels. Half an hour passed, with each line of trees a replica of the previous, devoid of animal life and disturbed only by gusts of wind that she created unintentionally. Her rising impatience was echoed in the intensity of the intermittent breeze. Ryan’s face was so peaceful, and his even, plodding steps lacked any urgency. Her fists clenched.
‘I want to know where you’re taking me.’
‘We’re nearly there.’
‘Nearly wh—’
She stopped and reached out a hand to grip a low branch.
‘What is it?’ Ryan asked.
‘Nothing,’ said Alicia. Had she imagined the concern in his voice? ‘I just felt dizzy.’
Ryan was calm as he spoke: ‘It is likely that someone is trying to wake you. You had better return to the well, else they’ll think you’re in a coma.’
Who gave him these lines?
‘Run,’ Ryan uttered.
She raced back through the forest, pausing twice when the ground trembled like the skin of a beaten drum. Her legs did not tire and her breath did not fall short as she sprinted through the trees and over the hills beyond. Two minutes later, she reached the hilltop and flung herself down the well.
Hear no evil
Someone was shaking her shoulders. Alicia bolted upright in bed, so fast that she nearly knocked the figure to the ground. Her eyes focused and her breathing stopped: it was her mother. She stared hard at the face before her, as though after all she had recently experienced, seeing her mother at her bedside was the hardest to comprehend.
‘Honestly, Alicia. Are you drunk? I’ve been—’
She threw her arms around her mother’s neck. Spiky, blonde hair tickled her cheek as the hug was returned, and only then did Alicia realise how much she needed it. For a full second, that coiled spring of anxiety began to unwind, and then she was released.
In the large black pupils of Anna Harrington’s eyes, Alicia saw no signs of deception. If the promise that they held remained, it was buried beyond a foggy cloud, obscured by remnants of things that the woman should not have seen.
‘Where is it?’ Anna asked, her gaunt face lined with panic. Having seen so little of her mother over the past months, having spent so many hours gazing at her own re-creation of that face on the canvas, Alicia met a stark contrast between her mental image and reality. What was elfin and bold in those immature strokes lay aged and troubled before her.
‘Where’s what?’ Rory poked his head through the door. A delighted grin lifted his round cheeks, as if he were thrilled to see both his girls in one room. Anna held Alicia’s gaze, the glare of street lights catching the bags beneath her eyes.
‘Your father told me you painted the wall above our bed?’
Alicia cast the covers aside and threw her legs over the edge of the bed. Wordlessly, she rose and walked past her mother, past Rory in the doorway and down the corridor. In her parents’ bedroom, both portraits lay face-down on the floor. Scattered around the portrait of Rory and David were the posters she had collected. The recess behind her painting was bare.
‘Where is it?’ Anna repeated over her shoulder.
‘Will I put the kettle on?’ asked Rory. He tilted his head at the night sky through the window. ‘Sure, it’s nearly eleven, but still… might be nice?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Alicia, stepping closer to the empty wooden frame. Her jaw tightened as she wrestled with the idea that the one person she had opened up to had betrayed her.
‘Honestly, Alicia—’
Alicia spun to face her mother with fury in her malachite eyes.
‘Honestly, Mum?’ Her voice was raised and Rory winced in the corridor; nobody shouted in the Harrington household.
One January, Alicia had been desperate for a mobile phone: her best friends had both received them for Christmas, and the pair had taken to spending breaktimes discussing their social media profiles while Alicia sketched wolves in her notepad. Anna had been adamant that she was ‘too young’ to carry the internet in her pocket. As a hormonal twelve-year-old, Alicia considered herself old enough to make her own decisions and accused her mother of isolating her from the group chats that dominated life outside of school. Anna had criticised the inane online chatter she had witnessed having confiscated devices from her students—groups attempting to communicate through acronym and emoticon, flirting and bickering their way into disputes—surely there were better ways for her daughter to express herself? Alicia had expressed herself with a string of curses and the slam of her bedroom door. When Anna had knocked on her door later that evening, she had not come to discuss the phone.
‘Your brother is blind,’ she had whispered, her large black eyes uncharacteristically sombre. Alicia had lifted her head from the pillow and hissed over her shoulder: ‘What does that have to do—’
‘He cannot see, Alicia—’
‘You think I don’t know what “blind” means?’
‘I think you understand what the word means.’
‘What does that mean?’
Anna had walked to Alicia’s dressing table and lifted a stone monkey, sat with its hands on its ears. Alic
ia had taken the monkey from her grandmother’s house during their final visit, and it had since been used as something on which to hang earrings and drape necklaces. Anna removed a beaded necklace that was tucked through the monkey’s arms and went to her daughter’s bed with the fist-sized statuette in her palm.
‘How much of our world is visual? How much do we experience through image and colour? David’s world is texture—’ she brushed a finger across the stone head, ‘—smell, taste and, above all, sound. If he cannot see the beauty in this world, then he must hear nothing but beauty in his home.’
Alicia had sat cross-legged on her bed, lifted her hand and received the stone ornament. The monkey sat on her fingers, pressing its hands over its ears with a quizzical look on its face.
‘Hear no evil,’ she had said. Alicia and her mother had continued to argue over bedtimes and household chores, liberties and responsibilities, as frequently as in any mother–daughter relationship. But they never raised their voices. From that January, Alicia made a conscious effort to paint their house with positivity. Through description, anecdote and praise, she helped her mother to generate beauty in a world that David would never see.
Presently, Alicia chewed her bottom lip, checked her anger and levelled her voice, if only for her father’s sake.
‘Honestly? Do you know the meaning of the word? Where have you been?’
Anna was fully dressed, wearing a mint-green trench coat and jeans. Beside what appeared to be a gift on the bed, wrapped in white paper with a gold bow, lay her large handbag. Had she just returned, or was she ready to go?
‘You’ve been looking for him, haven’t you?’
Anna reached out and took her daughter’s hands in her own. The expression on her face was troubled.
‘I have one last stop to make. And then I’m all yours.’
One last stop, thought Alicia. One final name on the list.
She was no longer in Vivador, yet the words between her ears were so clear she might have played them through headphones.
