The Pearl King

by Sarah Painter

  The insurance money for Lydia’s stolen Volvo had come through and, with the money she had saved from Paul’s apology-cash, she had just enough to replace the ancient banger with a new rust-bucket. What she hadn’t had, though, was the time or energy to do so. Lydia booked an Uber and packed a wheelie case and rucksack with hastily wrapped gifts. Then she checked on Jason. He was reclining on a pile of pillows on his bed, laptop resting on his knees. ‘Is it okay if I stay overnight?’

  ‘Course,’ Jason said easily. ‘My charge seems to last a good twenty-four-hours these days.’

  ‘Still chatting with your hacker pals? Will they go offline for Christmas?’

  Jason glanced up, a single eyebrow raised to show her just how stupid a question that was.

  ‘But it’s Christmas!’ Lydia said, playing on her ignorance. She could see how much Jason enjoyed having an area of expertise. One that was current and not a result of his status as a ghost. It was good for him and he seemed more alive than ever. ‘Even SkullFace has to celebrate Christmas!’

  Jason shook his head, with a mock-withering look.

  ‘Your present is on my desk. It’s not much.’ A book of fiendish math and logic problems, set by GCHQ, and a large notebook with squared paper. Lydia had hesitated over the packs of Sharpies, but she didn’t want to encourage Jason to start writing on the walls again.

  ‘I haven’t got you anything, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You’re doing all the background checks for me, that’s gift enough.’

  ‘Aren’t you giving me a salary?’ Jason asked, his face serious. He held it for a couple of seconds, long enough for sweat to break out on the back of Lydia’s neck, before grinning. ‘Gotcha.’

  ‘Hilarious,’ Lydia said. ‘Have a good night.’

  The sun was low in the sky as Lydia travelled to the suburbs where she had grown up. The Uber driver was playing Last Christmas on a loop and Lydia didn’t even mind. Christmas Eve had come at a good time, she needed away from Camberwell and Charlie’s constant presence. She felt hemmed in, by him and by Mr Smith and by the Families. She had promised to be ‘in’ and she would keep her word, but that didn’t mean she liked it. When her mum opened the door wearing a Santa hat, Lydia felt prickling in her eyes. She couldn’t afford to be weak, but this was the one place she ought to be able to let her guard down.

  As she followed her mum through to the living room, she vowed to open up about her feelings. Emma was always telling her that she wasn’t alone and that she had to stop acting as if that was the case. ‘Tea?’ Her mum said over her shoulder. ‘Say hello to Dad and then come and help me make it.’

  Lydia stopped in the middle of the room. Henry Crow was hunched in his favourite chair. The snooker was on the television, but he wasn’t looking at it, he was staring down at his lap. A line of drool poured from his slack lower lip. Lydia was stunned with the horror of it, but her mum swooped in with a fresh Kleenex, wiping up the dribble. There was a child’s plastic sippy cup on the coffee table, next to the pillar candles and foliage her mother always put out in December.

  She turned horrified eyes onto her mother, who was hovering, uncertainly. ‘It’s okay, darling. Let’s make tea.’ She scooped the cup off the table and said, in a loud and bright voice, ‘cup of tea, Henry?’

  Her dad didn’t respond.

  In the small kitchen, Lydia could almost imagine everything was as it should be. It looked exactly the same as it always had. There was the blue vase in the window, the souvenir magnets on the fridge, the metal pan rest on the counter and the beige toaster with the faded dial which her parents had had since the early eighties and refused to replace even though it burned one side of the bread.

  ’Why didn’t you tell me?’ As soon as the words were out, Lydia knew why. Because she would have come to the house and her presence made her dad worse. Her power-up ability seemed to strengthen whatever was ailing her dad and his Alzheimer’s-like symptoms got more intense whenever she was around.

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you,’ her mum said, turning away to fill the kettle. ‘You’ve had more than enough on your plate. And I don’t suppose that’s changed now.’

  ‘I had to go in,’ Lydia said switching subjects. The thing that had once seemed unthinkable had happened, but it paled into insignificance next to what was happening in this house, right now. ‘I made a deal with Charlie when I was in jail. It seemed like the best option at the time. Now, I don’t know…’

  ‘I’m proud of you,’ her mum said. Lydia was getting the milk from the fridge and she was glad they weren’t looking straight at each other. She didn’t have to see the conflict and pain in her mother’s face, and could pretend that she was okay with her only daughter choosing to go all in with the Crow Family after she had given up her career and spent twenty-five years in the suburbs in order to keep her away from it.

  ‘Don’t let him push you around, though.’

  Lydia knew she meant Uncle Charlie. ‘I won’t.’ There was the sound of feathers fluttering in her ear and she forced herself not to flinch. ‘What is wrong with Dad? Has he been to the doctor?’

  ‘They say vascular dementia. Tiny strokes destroying his brain.’

  Lydia sagged against the counter. ‘Hell Hawk.’

  Susan shrugged. ‘I’m not convinced. I’ve asked for a second opinion, so we’re just waiting on the appointment. I don’t want them looking at his age and jumping to conclusions.’

  Lydia wanted to say ‘we both know what’s wrong with him’ but she wasn’t sure whether her mum was ready to hear it. That Henry Crow was ill because he had been repressing his magic, his Crow nature, keeping it under wraps for the sake of his wife, who wanted to give their daughter a normal upbringing. ‘When did it get this bad?’ Her last coherent conversation with her dad had been when he had used a charm to sharpen his mind. A relic from Grandpa Crow. Had using it done this?

  ‘He had a fit last week,’ her mum said, dumping teabags into the food recycling. ‘He’s not been right since, but it’s just a matter of time. He’ll be better again, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ The moment the words were out of her mouth, Lydia regretted them. She knew the best thing she could do was to stay away, her presence always seemed to make her dad worse.’

  Her mum put a hand onto her arm and gave a gentle squeeze. ‘I don’t think so, darling. You spend as much time with him as you want.’

  She didn’t say ‘while you can’ but Lydia heard it loud and clear.

  Waking up on Christmas Day in her childhood bedroom, Lydia wanted to have a drink. It was still early, though, and she didn’t know if her mum kept whisky in the house. She wanted to take the edge of the world so badly it made her hands shake.

  Her mother was in the kitchen, wiping down already-spotless counters and stirring a pot of porridge on the stove. ‘You want croissants? I’ve got some in the freezer I can put in? Or there’s toast. I know you won’t want any of this,’ she indicated the pan of oaty gloop.

  ‘Just a coffee, thanks,’ Lydia kissed her mother on the cheek. ‘How’s Dad?’

  ‘Still asleep,’ she replied. ‘He won’t be up until after lunch, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I have to go to Charlie’s,’ Lydia said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s okay, thank you for coming.’

  They were being weirdly formal with each other.

  ‘Are you seeing Emma today? I’ve got gifts for her little ones.’

  And there was the urge to cry, again. This normal world of gifts and her normal best friend and semi-detached houses, where the worst thing was the possibility of hateful porridge. There was a thumping noise from upstairs and her mother hurried up. Lydia stirred the oats. Not the worst thing. Not by a long shot.

  Lydia dropped off the gifts at Emma’s house on her way back to Camberwell, walking the distance to Emma’s house and booking another Uber to get to Charlie’s. First on her list after the holiday had to be getting a car.

  It was a family
day and she didn’t want to intrude, but the half an hour of watching Archie and Maisie hyperactively bouncing around the living room while Tom and Emma laughed with each other was the single most precious thing Lydia could imagine. Maisie was so enamoured with the gift she had opened moments before Lydia’s arrival that Emma couldn’t coax her into opening Lydia’s gifts. ‘I’m sorry,’ Emma said.

  ‘No worries,’ Lydia said. ‘It’s nice that she’s enjoying herself.’

  When it was time to leave, she hugged Emma tightly and felt the power of friendship flow between them. It wasn’t Crow magic, but it was real and solid.

  Emma pulled back and looked into her eyes. ‘You doing okay? Really?’

  Lydia gave her a rare full smile. ‘Today was lovely. Thank you.’

  Emma accepted the side-step, possibly because Maisie had just come out of the living room and into the hallway. She barrelled into Lydia’s legs and wrapped her arms around her knees. ‘Not go.’

  Lydia couldn’t kneel down with Maisie gripping her so she patted Maisie’s curly head and promised a trip to the local soft play centre in the near future.

  When she looked up, Emma had her eyebrow raised. ‘You have to stick to that, you know. Maisie won’t forget.’

  ‘I know,’ Lydia said, a touch defensively.

  ‘Blimey,’ Emma shook her head. ‘You are full of Christmas spirit.

  Charlie’s house had two topiary trees in enormous stone planters on either side of his front door. His nod to the season was that they were tastefully lit with white lights and inside the house was ablaze with white candles in pewter holders. He might have looked like a thug in a suit, but Charlie had taste.

  Lydia hadn’t seen this many Crows in one place since the meeting in The Fork and it was overwhelming. Feathers, claws, and the beating of wings, plus the occasional uncanny sense that she was soaring high above the city, the feeling of a warm thermal current buoying her up as the horizon tilted. If she was completely honest with herself, it was a rush. The way she imagined drugs would feel.

  Her Aunt Daisy had been the one to open the door to Lydia. Her face was flushed and Lydia guessed that the alcohol had been flowing for several hours. After they exchanged season’s greetings and a slightly stiff hug, Daisy led the way down the hall to the big kitchen diner. Happy chatter, party hats, people wearing tinsel and Christmas jumpers, Bing Crosby on the discreet audio system; everything was the same as no doubt every other house in the street. Except for the real candles flickering on the tree in defiance of the London fire prevention service’s best advice and the life-size straw goat which Lydia knew would be waiting outside on the patio, ready to be lit when darkness fell.

  ‘What would you like?’ Daisy had led the way to the bar, a table covered in white linen and booze bottles of every kind.

  ‘Whisky,’ Lydia said, already reaching for the blessed amber liquid.

  ‘Charlie’s in the living room,’ Daisy was saying as Lydia poured herself a full tumbler. ‘And John’s here, somewhere,’ she looked around. Without warning she leaned in close, gripping Lydia’s arm hard enough to hurt. ‘Have you heard from her?’

  Never mind Mr Yul Goat, you could have lit Daisy’s breath. She shook her head. ‘Sorry.’

  Daisy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t lie to me.’

  Lydia pulled away. ‘I’ve got to pay my respects.’

  ‘Yes.’ Daisy said, her voice loud and a little slurred. ‘Yes, you do.’

  Lydia wove through the crowd, nodding and exchanging greetings as she went. She needed to be seen by as many as possible, be visible and smiling for a half an hour or so and then she could slip away. Go back to her flat and drink one of her Christmas presents with Jason and his hacker collective for company. She felt bad about side-stepping Daisy, for telling a half-truth, but she could hardly tell her the full version. That she saw Maddie in her dreams. That sometimes she felt she was hovering just to the left of her shoulder, but when she turned, she was nowhere to be seen. That sometimes, when she was walking down the street or sitting at the metal table on her roof terrace or conducting surveillance in her old Volvo, she felt eyes upon her and would have laid money that Maddie was somewhere nearby, watching.

  In between the large kitchen diner, there was what had been a dining room when the house had first been built and was now a kind of entertainment space. Low leather sofas, a wall of books, and a flat screen fixed above the fireplace. Aiden was slumped on one of the sofas, squished with a couple of similarly-aged, similarly-boneless-looking Crows. They all wore loose woolly hats and low-ride skinny jeans, and Lydia stood in front of them just long enough for them to notice her. ‘Aiden,’ she said, keeping her voice chilled. ‘Good Yule.’ After a moment, the youths struggled to their feet and offered handshakes and season’s greetings.

  In the living room, which had an impressive bay window shielded with both white blinds and wooden shutters, an enormous log was burning in the fireplace, kicking out more heat than was necessary with the press of bodies.

  Charlie was standing in front of the fireplace, holding court to a circle of Crows. When he spotted Lydia, he threw his arms wide and shouted her name in a booming voice. Everybody stopped talking and looked, which was exactly the point. Charlie loved a bit of theatre and this was his moment. The prodigal child had returned to the fold and Charlie was going to make sure everybody knew where the credit should lie. It was also no mistake that she was now approaching him in his palace, like an acolyte hoping for benevolence. She walked into his embrace, the whisky she had just downed helping her to smile at the crowd once Charlie had released her from his hug and slung an arm around her shoulders. She looked around at the Crow Family and felt the smile begin to hurt the muscles of her face. It was going to be a long afternoon.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lydia had downed another two tumblers and was ready to leave. She had paid her respects and, more importantly, had been seen to do so. ‘I’m heading off,’ Lydia said quietly to Charlie. ‘Need an early night.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Charlie said. ‘You’ve got to stay for the goat.’

  When Lydia had been small, she had dreamed of being at Charlie’s famous Christmas party, of getting to watch the Yule goat, a life-size straw animal adorned with red ribbons, go up in flames. Now, standing in Charlie’s house with her wider family all around and her mother’s blessing to be there, she only wanted to run away. Fast.

  ‘You’ll stay,’ Charlie was saying, now, certainty in his voice.

  Then another cousin or great-uncle or somebody-removed, joined them, red-faced and grinning. ‘Game’s starting. You two in?’

  Charlie shook his head and the man opened his mouth, maybe about to cajole or tease and then clearly thought better of it. He dipped his head at them both, suddenly deferent.

  ‘What game?’ Lydia said, feeling sorry for him.

  ‘Poker. In the kitchen. Low stakes, just for fun.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘I’ll be through in a minute.’

  After the man had moved away, Charlie spoke mildly. ‘I wouldn’t. Not unless you’re very good. Philip will rob you blind.’

  Lydia had been thinking she could join a hand or two to shake Charlie and his intense tete-a-tete and then melt away. She wanted to tell Jason about her dad. Never having been much of a sharer, there was something about Jason’s undead status which seemed to loosen her natural reticence. Some of the time, anyway. Maybe it was because he was a ghost, maybe it was because it was Christmas or maybe it was the sixth tumbler of whisky, but she felt like some caring-sharing time in her PJs.

  ‘Besides,’ Charlie said. ‘We’ve got some business to attend to.’

  ‘Today?’ Lydia asked, surprised.

  She followed Charlie through the packed house, hoping he didn’t mean a bit of training. With everything swirling around inside, she felt like it wouldn’t take much to bring up her lunch. He led the way out of the front door and onto the street. The cold was a slap in the face and Lydia felt her nausea
clear. ‘Where are we going?’

  Charlie opened the passenger door and waited while she got inside before walking around and getting into the driving seat.

  ‘Won’t take long,’ he said, flashing her his shark smile. ‘Then it’s goat-burning time.’

  ‘Home-time for me,’ Lydia said. ‘You can drop me off. I told you, I’m knackered.’

  Charlie ignored this and pulled out into the quiet street. Camberwell was subdued, but there were still plenty of people around. London didn’t stop, not even for Christmas Day. As they approached the Thames, the roads got even busier, although there was definitely less crawling and waiting than usual.

  Charlie chatted as he drove, talking about different people at the party and anecdotes from parties past. Lydia recognised it for what it was – a wall of conversation to stop her from asking questions. She settled into the leather seat and looked out of the window, biding her time.

  A hotel carpark sign came into view and Charlie steered down into it. After they had parked, he led the way to a door marked ‘reception’ which opened into a stairwell and lift. He punched the button for the top floor and stood very still and quiet, arms crossed like a bouncer. Lydia sensed him putting on a cloak and she tensed herself, wondering what the hell was so important that Charlie would revert to work-mode in the middle of his Christmas. Having promised herself she wouldn’t beg Charlie for information, reasoning that if he wanted her to know where they were going, he would have told her, she could feel her resolve weakening. Before it broke, the lift doors dinged and slid open and Lydia was hit by a wave of Silver.