The Shadow Fabric

by Mark Cassell

  We were halfway up the stairs when Katrina blocked our ascent. She took hold of Victor’s arm and the pair came to a standstill. She wore jeans and a shirt, no longer looking like the resident yoga instructor, and her hair flowed over her shoulders in a wave of auburn.

  I leaned back against the banister, looking up at them.

  “Victor.” Her smile faltered. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s been a long day, Katrina.”

  Below us, I heard Dean talking about the orchestra’s arrival on Saturday.

  Katrina frowned. “All the more reason for you to come to my class tomorrow.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Victor, come on. Dwindling numbers over the last few months has got me thinking that Goodwin will get rid of me.”

  His mouth curved up slightly. “That won’t happen.”

  “And I’ve always relied on you being there.”

  “I know.”

  “Be there at eight?”

  “I’ll try.” He rubbed his cheek. “I can’t promise anything, though.”

  “What did you do to your face?”

  “I’m okay. Long story. Long day.”

  The two of us must’ve looked weary—I wanted to lay down and close my eyes, even for five minutes. And I wished this woman would piss off.

  To me, she said, “You look after him.”

  I stepped aside, allowing her passage.

  “See you tomorrow,” she called over her shoulder. “And bring your friend.”

  On the way to my room, Victor phoned Polly. With no answer, he tried Stanley. “Nothing.”

  I wasn’t surprised about Stanley not answering. But Polly? Could we trust her? And Victor? Was I able to trust him? Goodwin proved to be hiding secrets, yet what was Victor’s deal? Was he one of the good guys? Was I still a good guy?

  We reached the Vivaldi Suite, my sanctuary. As I slipped the keycard from my wallet, I paused at the door. Busy with his own thoughts, I doubted Victor noticed my hesitation.

  Was I on the ‘good’ side? I had no memory for most of my adulthood, remembering only the past two years. Before then, nothing, other than scraps and flashes. Nothing whole. That was worrying, to lose trust in yourself. Not good. Trust? If I couldn’t trust Goodwin, and definitely not Stanley, whom could I trust? Fair enough to doubt Polly, as I’d not learned much about her, but Victor?

  Dark shadows clung beneath his eyes.

  I thumbed the keycard into the slot and the light changed from red to green as the mechanism clicked.

  “What would you say to Stanley if he answers?” I opened the door and he followed me in.

  Victor remained silent and headed for an armchair by the window. He’d already taken his shoes off and, with one foot tucked beneath him, sank onto the cushions. He passed his phone from hand to hand.

  “When you’re ready,” he said, “please take me home.”

  “Give me a few minutes.”

  I went to the bathroom and left him sitting there looking how I felt: beaten and drained. And he was supposed to be used to this kind of thing.

  Pulling the light cord, I reached behind me to lock the door and went to the basin. I gripped the edge, puffed out my cheeks and let out a long hiss. My reflection came across as troubled-looking as Victor. I didn’t know what to make of the information we’d found in Goodwin’s office. A man I’d trusted for the last two years, who’d taken me into his home, and proved a true friend, hid a big secret. Syringes and tranquillisers, and a list of medical supplies an average business owner—for a place like Periwick House—would not have any use for. But a mental hospital?

  I’d had enough for today. I wanted to talk about it, and knew I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. My ears were ringing. Taking Victor home sounded like a good idea. When I joined him, he hadn’t budged, rooted in a trance.

  We stayed in my room for a while longer, each with a glass of water. Victor sipped his like it was vodka. Maybe he needed something stronger. I knew I did.

  CHAPTER 16

  Friday

  Goodwin laughed at me. All teeth, eyes closed. Black smoke billowed around his head, and with the moon full and flanked by storm clouds, his bloated silhouette engulfed the view. Lightning stabbed the darkness and a crack of thunder drowned his bellows. His fingernails shrieked down the window, slow and deliberate, sharp to the ears. Louder than his laughter, more intense than the lightning. Chipped glass sparked as though energised by the electric atmosphere, the sound as relentless as an angle grinder.

  And yanked me from sleep.

  Ten seconds—maybe ten minutes—passed as the hammering in my chest subsided. My ears still hummed from the echoes of the dream.

  I kicked off the clinging bed sheets. Hooking my legs out, I blinked at the alarm clock: 3.33 a.m. I’d only had around four hours of sleep. My back ached and my head buzzed. Many thoughts kept me awake the night before. Evidently my tired brain eventually shut down and took the anxiety into my dreams.

  I got up, pulled my combats on and opened the doors to the Juliet balcony. As I leaned out, the air rushed into my senses. The patchwork of woodlands and fields stretched away in a grey weave, and above it a bright night’s sky. No light pollution here. Stars were sharp points in an almost cloudless expanse, with a low moon covering the countryside in a soft ambience.

  A shiver ran through me, but I welcomed it. It cleared my senses.

  I didn’t know what to think anymore, I didn’t know whom to trust. Digging hands into my pockets, I scanned the heavens and recognised a few constellations. Goodwin had educated me once, shortly before I’d set out on my travels. Sitting on his balcony we shared a few beers and he identified the sky’s more interesting ones, giving me a brief insight to the mythology behind each: Perseus, Andromeda, Cassiopeia. Goodwin proved educated in many respects, and precisely how educated was yet to be learned. Syringes? Tranquillisers?

  The countryside of Mabley Holt was quiet no matter what time of day, and often the only movements were of animals and farmers—the village, given the surrounding maze of lanes, was lucky not to be a place to simply pass through.

  A faint rumble of approaching vehicles floated on the night. Two pairs of headlights—several miles to the east—approached from the direction of Sevenoaks, and came to a crossroad that led to the next village, or down towards Mabley Holt. The other headed directly to Periwick House, which is where they turned. Halfway along the lane, with woodland on either side, they stopped.

  I leaned over the railing and squinted. The iron chilled my hands, and my breath plumed. What were those vehicles up to?

  A car and a mini-bus pulled up, the moon reflecting from their windows. The car’s headlights shut off and two people got out. Moments later, the mini-bus manoeuvred away from the car. Its headlights jerked as it entered a field and approached the woodland on the perimeter of the House grounds. It came to a standstill, its lights spearing the trees. Drenched in moonlight, a number of people climbed—or stumbled—from the rear, while a pair of statue-proud men stood on either side. The car headed back to the crossroad.

  This wasn’t right. I toyed briefly with the idea of waking Goodwin, then thought of the man’s doodle, crazy as that was. But what was going on down there in the woods? I made a swift decision. I’d make it to the copse in little more than three minutes.

  I wedged my feet into a pair of trainers, struggled into a t-shirt, and grabbed a jacket. I snatched my wallet and phone, and wrenched open the door. Ten seconds passed and the soles of my trainers slapped the stairs in a two-at-a-time descent. Remarkably I felt no pain—not even a twinge—from my knee. Somehow, I managed to get my jacket on.

  Reception was quiet, and soft lighting paved my sprint into the gardens. Thirty seconds more took me between rows of Neil’s immaculate lawns and flowerbeds. Their fragrance filled my nostrils. I charged over loose gravel and the occasional stretch of paving. My arms pumped forward and back, and another minute found me hurtling towards the far reaches of the grounds. I l
eapt over a low wall and out amongst the orchard, careful not to lose footing on the lumpy ground—at least it was spring and there wouldn’t be any fallen apples hiding in the shadows.

  My head thumped, the cold air rushed into my lungs in short bursts. I charged with the end in sight. At the edge of the orchard, ducking a low branch, I made it to the fence and without hesitation, hurdled the wire. Rusty barbs and rotten posts shot beneath me as I crashed to the ground in a squat. My thighs absorbed the impact before I straightened.

  My knee still didn’t hurt.

  Breath controlled, head hammering, my veins fired with adrenaline, I scanned the terrain ahead. Drenched in blue shadows and moonlight, the trees and the mini-bus were no further than another thirty-second sprint.

  Gritting my teeth, I ran low. Hunched, keen to remain out of sight, I made it to a reasonable distance, keeping to the shadows on the fringe of woodland. As quiet as my shaking legs allowed, I shimmied from tree to tree, keeping one eye on the activity, and the other on where I placed my feet, careful not to snap twigs.

  Beside the copse rose a steady hillside, and in places, vertical spears of rock jutted between tufts of grass and brambles. The line of trees ended at the hill, and on the other edge the mini-bus sat. The passengers, all men—at a quick count a dozen—were handcuffed and being led into the woods. They wore identical overalls. Four more men flanked the group. Each held a torch in one hand, and an automatic weapon in the other.

  My mouth was dry. Guns?

  The mini-bus still rumbled and drowned what was being said, yet I could tell there was a lack of hostility. Even though held at gunpoint the cuffed dozen didn’t seem reluctant in any way; they trundled along, restrained, passing through the torch beams. With each footstep the torchlight broke off for a moment, and then continued to lance into the woods, only to repeat the process. All the while, the four men held their weapons horizontal and directed their captives towards the hillside.

  I had no idea where they were being taken. As far as I knew it was only grass and trees out there. Though clammy from the sprint, a coldness crawled up my spine. None of this made sense, all so close to Periwick House. I thought of traditional war movies, the ones where prisoners are taken out into the fields for execution. I shuddered—I didn’t want to see that.

  A yellow light spewed from the hillside and burst into the woodland. I squinted into it. What was going on now? A mechanical hum emanated from the hill. The headlights and torches paled in comparison as the light grew. The prisoners shielded their eyes with cuffed hands.

  A gruff command urged them onwards.

  The hum stopped and I saw a widening doorway—an entrance into the hill, something I’d never known existed. I still squinted into the light, my heartbeat in my ears, and I realised I held my breath. I slowly released it. From within the light, shadows moved. Something was emerging. I thought of the Shadow Fabric, and wondered if this was where it hid. My pulse quickened. The shadow blotted the entrance to the cave. Here amongst the trees near Periwick House a group of prisoners were being taken to a secret cave. Was the Fabric going to take the men into its folds? No. No Fabric; it was a man. Nothing supernatural here. Someone had stepped onto the threshold between the cave and the copse. A bulky someone, an unmistakable frame silhouetted in the entrance to that cave. Round, proud and familiar.

  A plume of smoke billowed around it, creating phantoms in the near-blinding light—Goodwin. That man kept a lot of secrets.

  I crouched lower, dug in my pocket, and yanked out my phone. I thumbed Victor’s number.

  CHAPTER 17

  The automatic doors slid aside and I looked at my watch: just after 7 a.m. and already the supermarket hummed; mostly men in overalls grabbing a newspaper, crisps and a can of Coke. Victor had suggested meeting there first thing. It was a short distance from his flat.

  He rounded the corner and saw me. He pushed a trolley containing several bunches of bananas and a copy of Fortean Times.

  I walked over to him, resisting the urge to run. “Half of me wants nothing more of this,” I said.

  His eyes narrowed. “And the other half?”

  “Since I’ve been back, more and more shit has happened to make it difficult to walk away. And now, what the hell’s going on with Goodwin? You have any idea?”

  “Leo, trust me, I don’t know. Really. You said those men followed him into that cave?”

  “Yeah.”

  He continued further along the aisle. “We’re getting deeper, you know we are.”

  “And that’s why I can’t leave,” I whispered, not wanting a lady beside me to overhear. Bread rolls packed her basket. “I’ve seen too much.”

  “My back’s killing me,” Victor mumbled as he grabbed some radishes. “Tulip Moon ramming us off the road.”

  “And yeah, that. Why hasn’t there been another attempt on our lives?” I asked.

  “Just mine, Leo. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m in this too.” I was. To the end.

  “You are.” His trolley veered to the left and crashed into the display racks. “Bloody wheel.”

  It wasn’t just the trolley he swore at, his frustrations reflected my own.

  “Really didn’t want to drop you off last night,” I told him. “Knowing Tulip Moon is still out there.”

  “It’s okay, I stayed at a friend’s.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.” He glanced at his shopping list. “Remember the woman with me when you first came to my place?”

  “Yeah.” I remembered her patterned fingernails and the way she’d avoided eye contact.

  “I slept at hers,” he said.

  “You amaze me, Victor.”

  “Pass me four of those.” He pointed to a row of semi-skimmed milk. “The large ones.”

  “Tell me more about Goodwin’s doodle. After last night, I need to know more.”

  “I don’t know everything.”

  “You know more than me.”

  Victor shrugged. “The doodle was of the Hourglass. A contraption suspected to have its alchemical roots in the early 17th century. Constructed by Robert Fludd for his experiments.”

  “The guy who wrote the book with the longwinded title.” I guessed this was heading for another history lesson.

  “Yes. Fludd, the philosopher and scholar. His illustration of the primordial darkness, And like this to infinity, is said to be linked to the Hourglass. A black square no less, yet often compared with a shadowleaf.”

  I thought about the car accident. “You were talking about shadowleaves when we got rammed off the road.”

  “What would you like for breakfast?” He managed to pull the trolley away before it hit the bacon chiller.

  I’d lost my appetite these last few days. “I’m good with whatever. Keep talking.”

  He threw a packet of smoked bacon into the trolley. “Fludd was a remarkable man behind many historically influential works: science, medicine and philosophy. He journeyed throughout Europe seeking the knowledge of mystics, scientists, musicians, physicians. And alchemists. With the wisdom he gained on his adventures, it is said that he constructed a piece of apparatus to harbour a person’s evils. He succeeded with the Hourglass.”

  “Harbour?”

  “To contain it in solid form. A kind of physical projection.”

  “And Goodwin’s doodled it on a notepad.” Doubt dripped from my tongue.

  “I believe he’s found it.”

  “Thought you guys were a team.” I remembered the cave mouth as it opened, giving way to Goodwin’s silhouette. Victor moved off and I stared at the back of his head. I dragged my heels like a kid.

  “From what I’ve learned of the Hourglass,” he continued, ignoring my comment, “I understand that strapping it to a witch would create a shadowleaf. The most powerful kind of shadowleaf. Solid black. Absolute evil.”

  In my first history lesson back in Victor’s flat, I learned about the Witchfinder General and his cruel ways at collecting the shadowleaves.
“This has something to do with the Witchfinder.”

  “Precisely. Each shadowleaf, an essence of their evil—a token of badness—was collected by him and his assistants.”

  “The Book of Leaves. I guess it contains all the shadowleaves from the witches?” I couldn’t believe I was going down this route again, yet I’d seen the Shadow Fabric’s power…and so much more.

  “Yes.” Victor grinned, but it was short-lived. The trolley’s wheel shuddered and shot sideways, and he managed to avoid the legs of a guy with muddy boots. He was almost twice Victor’s size. “Sorry, my friend.”

  “It’s cool,” the man said in a voice tiny in comparison to his chest. It surprised me.

  Once out of earshot, Victor said, “The shadowleaf of a witch was attached to each page to document every successful trial. There were hundreds collected during the Witchfinder’s career span.”

  “Why would someone want to keep them? And how did the Witchfinder come by the Hourglass?” I also wanted to know why Goodwin had drawn the damn thing and how he’d found it, if indeed he had. And, what the Hourglass meant to me, if anything.

  “No one knows how the Witchfinder came by it. Nor why he’d want to keep such things. That, along with the Witchfinder’s death, remains a mystery.”

  “How does this Hourglass work?”

  “According to sources, of which there are very few, the Hourglass is strapped to the hand. Turning it over as you would any ordinary hourglass, the sand runs from one bulb to the other. Only difference being, the white sand runs darker. From a special compartment inside, you will find a shadowleaf.”