CHAPTER 12
Zen awoke naked in the woods, feeling groggy and cold. The first thing he noticed was that night had dissolved into day.
Overhead, the sky looked like an enormous bruise, made up of purple and black clouds that fought for dominance.
Rain beat down, and the trees offered little in the way of shelter from the deluge. He heard it pattering on the leaves above. The air smelt fresh, invigorating, and he started to sit up, flinching at the burst of pain that arced across his back. He reached a hand behind him and ran his fingers along the zip-like crustacean of dried blood, opening the memory of the attack.
Jade. She had tried to kill him. The bitch.
He looked around and tried to spot the mysterious lighthouse, but it was gone, slipped back into whatever realm it had materialised from. He couldn't believe what he was thinking, but there was another world, a parallel universe; a dark place, a Shadowland. Whether the fourth dimension, the eighth or the eleventh, he didn't know. Didn't care. He just knew it was there, and that he never wanted to see it again.
Fighting the pain, he stood up and looked around; didn't have a clue where he was.
He could see a rock face rising in the distance, and using it as a landmark, he headed towards it.
Each step caused him to flinch as the cuts on his feet reopened. The skin around the wound on his back felt taut like a bad case of sunburn.
Another recollection struck him. Something Jade said: Tell him that it's his mother you want him to kill.
He was confused. As far as he knew his mother was still abroad.
What sort of mind games were they playing with him? As if they weren't messing him up enough with dark places and people who wanted to mutilate themselves. Why would Jade say they wanted him to kill his mother?
The money now seemed inconsequential.
The ground sloped down and he heard traffic in the distance. Through the trees, he could see the white painted brickwork of a house.
A low wall surrounded the building, and he followed it, ducking down out of sight. A bird sang in the branches of an oak tree near the gate, but its tune abruptly changed to a shrill alarm and it flew away when Zen approached.
The gate squealed in protest as he opened it. Zen flinched and hurried up the path to stand with his back against the cold wall. The building’s chilled exterior numbed his wound. But he didn't have time to revel in the momentary relief. He couldn’t feel his feet. If he didn't want to catch pneumonia, clothes were now a priority.
He crept around the house, noticed an open window, cautiously approached it and peered through.
The sound of voices drifted from inside, and he considered shouting for help. But seeing his reflection in the panes of glass he decided not to. If someone came to his house, naked and covered in scratches, he would tell them to bugger off. Out here, they would probably turn a shotgun on him or call the police, and that was the last thing he needed.
He warily lifted the window latch and opened the window as wide as it would go and peered inside. An item of clothing decorated the radiator below.
Zen grinned. Fortune smiled on him. He leaned over the windowsill, plucked the garment off the radiator and held it up. His smile disappeared. It was a dress. He couldn't believe it.
He looked back through the window and saw that apart from a pair of socks, there were no more clothes in sight.
Brilliant, he thought, holding the dress up again. It wasn't even a nice dress, and seemed like something an old woman would wear, blue V-necked with a white lace hem and puffy sleeves.
Zen needed a cigarette, but unfortunately, they were with his clothes in the lorry. He held the dress up again. It looked about his size, and with no better alternative, he pulled it over his head to find that it fit quite well and just covered his knees. In the city, he might have got away with wearing it, but in the country …. Zen reached back in through the window, grabbed the socks and pulled them on his feet. He winced at the resultant pain from the cuts and then quickly ran out of the garden. He wondered whether he would be better off running around naked than in a dress.
But at least it was warm and the socks offered a bit of protection.
A driveway led from the house to a road. Zen followed it.
He heard a vehicle approach and turned to see a grime-covered van. A young lad leaned out the window. “Hey up love” the lad shouted. Then obviously realising it was a man in a dress, he shouted a few profanities before speeding away.
Zen wondered how he could reach Trinity now. If the albino man could travel anywhere with his bloody lighthouse, why didn’t he just take him there? Who in their right mind would pick him up wearing a fucking dress?
The answer came in the form of a green Morris Minor that pulled up beside him. An old woman with glasses perched on the end of her nose opened the door.
“Do you need a ride, dear?” she asked.
Zen looked at her and wondered how she ever managed to see, never mind drive. But beggars couldn't be choosers.
“Yes, I'm heading for a place called Trinity.”
The woman frowned. “That's a deep voice you've got dear. Do you have a bad cold? Never mind, I had one myself recently. Left me feeling a little hoarse. Well, this is your lucky day. I'm passing through Trinity on the way to visit my sister. Jump in.”
Zen gratefully slipped into the car, wincing as pain flared across his back from the wound. He wondered whether he was doing the right thing accepting a lift after what happened last time. But surely a little grey haired old woman didn't pose a threat, did she?
Then she started driving, crunching through the gears and taking corners at speed. Her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth and a devilish glint radiated from her eyes. Zen put his seatbelt on. Perhaps she was trying to kill him after all.
He noticed the grey dress she wore looked nicer than his own did, and he shook his head, wondering how he could think such stupid things.
“I couldn't leave you standing at the side of the road in weather like this. A nice girl like you should have a man to drive her about.” She leaned forward, peering intently through the windscreen as the wipers tried their best to clear the rain.
Zen shook his head and rolled his eyes, his long dreadlocks whipping his cheeks.
The further they travelled, the bleaker the scenery grew. Sheep huddled against the elements. Rocks splintered the horizon. And the rain painted it all in a slick sheen.
A chevron sign indicated a sharp bend in the road, which the little old woman seemed to either ignore or not notice as she took the corner at speed. Zen felt the car begin to slide and he braced himself, but she managed to keep control and he sighed with relief when the road straightened out.
Almost an hour later, Zen noticed a sign at the side of the road: Trinity, and butterflies danced in the pit of his stomach.
They were here.
But now what?
The little old woman wanted to drop him in the high street, but Zen told her to drop him on the other side of town. He would rather get wet again than suffer the ridicule and indignity of being seen in a dress.
After Zen got out, the woman waved goodbye and drove off at speed, the wheels spinning.
Relieved to be alive, Zen clutched his chest as though to check his heart still beat.
From where he stood, he could see down into the town. The grey slate houses looked drab, the roofs wet and gleaming like crab shells. Behind the wall on his left, he heard a sheep bleat, making him jump.
Now what was he supposed to do?
“I'm here,” he said, feeling foolish talking aloud with no one around.
The wind carried his voice over the peaks, but no reply came back.
A Land Rover approached, and the wind playfully lifted the hem of Zen's dress. He smoothed it down, trying to retain as much dignity as he could.
The Land Rover slowed down and a bemused man wearing a flat cap peered out the window and shook his head before accelerating through a puddle, spray
ing Zen with muddy water.
“Thanks,” Zen shouted. He wiped mud from his face and watched the vehicle disappear around a corner.
None of this helped him.
He looked around, contemplating a course of action when he heard the clip-clop of horse hooves striking the road.
Where the Land Rover had disappeared around the corner, a large, dapple-grey horse appeared pulling a brightly painted caravan. The person at the reins wore a long skirt, cardigan and a blue scarf that hid her face.
Almost level with him, the driver reined the horse in and it stood there, snorting twin bursts of mist from its double-barrelled shotgun nostrils.
“So you’re here,” the woman said.
Zen frowned and looked up at the woman. “Do I know you?”
The woman lowered her scarf to reveal a hideously scarred face, and Zen recoiled as though punched.
The woman nodded. “Not yet. But I know you, son.”
CHAPTER 13
Zen’s stomach churned. He looked at the woman and shook his head. A hot flush spread across his cheeks and he opened his mouth to suck in more air. He couldn't breathe.
The woman grinned.
Intricate scars decorated the whole of her face. Some of the scars looked like strange symbols; others were scars on top of scars, accentuating the worm-like paths of lacerated flesh.
He noticed further scars running from the back of her hands up her arms, and he surmised that intricate patterns decorated her whole body.
Who was this monster?
Had he heard her right? Did she just call him son, or was it a colloquial term? In the distance, lightning flickered and a celestial drum roll reverberated across the fields.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I'm your mother, Melantha.”
“Do you think I’m stupid? Don't you think I know who my mother is? What are you playing at?” He didn't understand what was going on. Was it a trick? Was the albino man testing him in some way? Or was it someone else sent to kill him? A monster perhaps?
“You think you know. The people you call your mother and father, they're not your real parents.”
“Bollocks.”
“I don't care what you believe.” The horse whinnied in agreement and nodded its head. “I just want you to leave me to go about my business.”
“What's happened to you? Those scars ...” He shook his head. She looked hideous.
“That's none of your concern. Now how much did they offer you?”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re playing at—”
“I’m not playing at anything. If you weren't my son, they wouldn't have sent you to kill me.”
“Kill you!” Was this who he was supposed to kill? Although ugly, she hardly seemed to pose a threat.
“Don't play the fool.”
Lightning flickered overhead, a forked tongue that licked the sky. The image burned itself on Zen's retina, and as his vision returned, he thought he saw faces coldly regarding him from behind the caravan’s colourful motifs; dark faces that looked cruel and menacing.
“So how did you find me?” Zen asked.
Melantha cracked a smile; the scars on her face made it look more like a grimace. “I have my ways.”
“What, you got a crystal ball?”
Melantha pinched her lips. “Look, you don’t mean anything to me, so I’m warning you, don’t interfere with things that don’t concern you, otherwise you’ll regret it.”
Zen smiled to himself. He couldn't see this hideous woman posing any real threat, no matter what power she purported to have. Compared to the inhabitants of the Shadowland, she was a clown.
“You think that’s funny? Then I think it's time you saw for yourself what you're dealing with.”
“So what are you going to do? Hex me?” Zen laughed, but he faltered when he thought he saw Melantha's face change, the scars twisting like snakes. Putting it down to a trick of the light, he shook his head. What was he going to do? Why would they want him to kill someone who looked as if she couldn't hurt a flea? It didn't make any sense. He needed a cigarette.
“Climb up here. Come with me. I'll show you.”
Zen hesitated.
“Don't worry, I won't bite. Or are you scared of me?” She grinned.
Zen spat on the ground. At least the overhang on the front of the caravan offered a bit of shelter from the rain, so he hoisted himself up and sat beside her.
Melantha flicked the reins and the horse started trotting towards Trinity.
“There's a saying,” Melantha said. “Te na khutshos perdal tsho ushalin. Try not to jump over your own shadow. Do you know why?”
Zen shook his head.
“Because if you do, you'll find the Shadowland.”
Zen tried to stay impassive, but he couldn’t stop his heart racing. “The Shadowland?”
“Don’t play dumb. You’ve been there.”
“Well, I didn't go bloody jumping over any shadows to get there.”
“That's because they need you. They can open the door using nuances of light, the tower a beacon to illuminate the path; it's the source of their power.”
“Well why do they need me?”
“You already know why. Because they want you to kill me.”
Zen looked away and bit his lip. “But why me, and why do they want you dead?”
“Because you’re a blood relation, the Glamour doesn't affect you.” She held a hand up to interrupt his next question. “The Glamour’s a power that enables me to influence people. What other people see isn't what you see. My clan folk are similarly unaffected, but their bloodline has been thinned over the years, and their resistance isn’t as good.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re crazy?”
Melantha didn’t react.
Zen shivered. He wanted to believe she was madder than he thought, but he didn't think she was. “So why don't you just give them this Glamour thing back?”
“Because there’s nothing to give back. The Glamour’s a part of me.”
Zen didn't like the sound of this. “Look, I’m not stupid. What's this all about? Really?”
“I don’t care what you believe. The only reason I haven’t killed you is because you’re my son, and believe it or not, that means something. When you’ve lost everything, family’s all that remains.”
Zen didn’t understand.
“So how much did they offer you?” Melantha asked.
“Offer me?”
“To kill me.”
“Two hundred grand.” He felt guilty and he blushed. Even though he hadn't done anything, it sounded like a confession of guilt as he said it.
Melantha nodded and turned around in her seat. She dragged a plastic Asda shopping bag out from behind her and opened it. “Here's more than that if you'll join me instead.”
Zen looked at the money and licked his lips. He felt a bizarre echo of déjà vu. He'd been here before ...
“They said they'd kill me,” Zen said, feeling sheepish. He'd never welched on a bet in his life, but then he'd never put his life up as the stake before, either.
“They wouldn't dare risk anything if you're with me. As for the others: Te potshinen penge lajav. They must pay for their shame.” Her expression looked hard and cruel.
“Others?”
“The sons and daughters.”
Zen frowned. “You'll have to explain it to me in plain English.” He looked at the bag of money sitting between them and wondered if it was counterfeit. Why else would Melantha have so much money and yet be travelling around in a caravan. If it was real, she could afford to buy a bloody palace.
The horse trotted along, the melodic sound of its hooves as they struck the road almost hypnotic. The rain hid the vista, nature's watercolour painting, a hint of colour, the outline of a building, and the semblance of a figure running for shelter.
“My people have been persecuted throughout history. Do you know what it's like to be shunned wherever you go, called a vagabon
d and a thief?”
“Yeah, actually I do.” He gritted his teeth.
“It's not the same. They hunted, branded, hanged and mutilated my people, all because they were Roma. We’re still the only race of people that don't have laws protecting us.” She spat on the ground. “Do you know how that feels?”
“Look, you're missing something here. Look at me. The way I dress, the way I look. I'm different.”
“Yes, I guess dressing in women’s clothing is a little strange.”
“This isn’t mine. It’s a long story, but I lost my clothes.” He hesitated. Swallowed. “Did you send Jade to kill me?”
Melantha shrugged.
“Is that it? No remorse?”
“She didn’t succeed, so take that as a bonus.”
Zen clenched his fists as anger boiled in the pit of his stomach. “I've been attacked just walking down the bloody road because my face didn't fit. Gangs of lads have chased me out of pubs; that's if the bouncers let me in the pub. I'm covered in tattoos which people take as a sign that I'm a hard case, and they want to try their luck, impress their mates ... So don't tell me I don't know what being persecuted is like.” He pursed his lips. Even remembering some of the things felt painful.
Melantha nodded. “And what if you could pay those people back?” She looked at him, her green eyes sparkling. “How would you like to get revenge on those people?”
“Too damn right I’d like it.”
Melantha smiled. “Then we're more alike than you think, Zen.”
Although still unsure about everything, he saw where she was coming from, and he felt a connection. His adoptive parents always turned the other cheek, Zen couldn't. Perhaps that’s because they weren’t really his parents, but if he believed that, could he really believe the strange woman beside him was his real mother?
He sat with his legs parted, but as they rode into town he realised he offered an eyeful to anyone who looked up, so he closed his knees together. The fewer reasons he gave people to stare, the better.
Not that he had much to worry about as there was no one around, and when he did finally see someone, they bowed their head against the elements.
Dark Seduction Page 6
