Barbara halted the vehicle. ‘Pev, are you all right?’
He put his hand over his eyes, pressed his forefinger and thumb into the sockets. ‘Yes... yes. I feel a bit... I have a headache.’
‘Do you want some paracetamol? I have some in my bag, I think.’
He shook his head. ‘No. Let’s find a pub. Is it too early for a drink?’
Barbara smiled, as she put the Land Rover into gear. ‘Not at all. It’s just the right time.’
They drove for another couple of miles, up into the hills, and away from the knots of tourists. Barbara parked the Land Rover in the car park of a pub called The Green Man, which was otherwise empty. Cloud shadowed fields sloped down behind the pub towards the river and Larkington. On the other side of the road, wilderness held sway, and the occasional dot of a walker could be seen, the red or blue of an anorak. Here, away from Little Moor, the air seemed more chill yet cleaner.
The pub was dark inside, low ceilinged and devoid of clientele. ‘Is it open, do you suppose?’ Barbara asked in a stage whisper. She called out, ‘Hello?’ After a few moments, a young, tired looking woman in a drab dress and cardigan came through a door behind the bar. Behind her, from the doorway, came the thin wail of peevish children. The woman directed a scorching glance at Barbara and Othman, hardly bothering to disguise the suspicion in her eyes that here was a moneyed middle-aged housewife out with her bit of rough. The suspicion was peppered with resentment and envy disguised as scorn.
Barbara decided to abandon her welcoming expression and assumed a more reserved mien. She ordered two pints of cider, and enquired about the whereabouts of the beer garden.
Outside, she and Othman sat at a picnic table, next to an ornamental pond. It was really too cold up here to sit outside, but the pub was too quiet for conversation to be conducted freely. Barbara commented on the koi carp swimming around in the pond and then grinned at Othman, saying, ‘Well, it was fairly obvious what she thought!’ referring to the woman who’d served them.
Othman raised his brows and sipped his drink. ‘Does it matter?’
Barbara laughed. ‘Not at all. In fact, I was quite flattered!’
Othman ignored the remark. ‘Have you seen Louis since Friday?’
Barbara shook her head. ‘No. In fact, he’s been avoiding me! However, I am going to see him this afternoon, come hell or high water. What did you do to him, Pev? He sounded strange on the phone this morning.’
‘I performed some healing on him, as I told you I would. It can be disorientating. He probably needed a couple of days to sort his head out.’
‘Will he really be completely healed? I find it hard to believe.’
‘Well, you’ll be able to judge for yourself later, won’t you?’
There was a few moments’ silence, while Barbara searched her mind for something to say to break down Othman’s reserve. ‘How are you feeling now?’
He shrugged. ‘Better. You’ll have to forgive me today; I’m not myself.’
Again, silence.
‘Well, do you think we should tell Lily about the painting we saw?’ Barbara chirruped.
Othman sighed through his nose. ‘It’s up to you.’
‘Pev, you might be feeling out of sorts, but you’re making this really hard work for me!’
He leaned his chin on his hands. ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I need to take my mind off my worries.’
Barbara laughed flirtatiously. ‘You mean you have worries? I am surprised! Do you want to talk about them?’
He ducked his head in a boyish gesture. ‘They’re quite ordinary, nothing more than anyone else has. Sometimes I wonder who I am and what my purpose is. I’m drifting through life, and it doesn’t feel real.’
‘But you’re a writer! Surely, that’s a purpose!’
‘It’s not enough.’ Othman drained his pint. ‘Come on, we’d better go. You don’t want to be late for Louis.’
Barbara stood her ground for a moment. ‘To be honest, I’d rather be here with you.’
Othman looked down at her. When he spoke, his voice was gentler. ‘You must see Louis. He deserves to see you. I think you know what I mean. But we can stop off on the way back to the village, if you like.’
Barbara stared up at him, unsure of whether she understood the implications in his words. ‘Stop off?’
‘You can drive the truck through the woods, can’t you? We can find a private place. That is, if you want to.’
Barbara stared up at him, unable to speak for a moment. She realised the path of her life had just reached a fork, the most important fork imaginable. It was as if she was given a glimpse of the future. If she declined Othman’s offer, her life would continue as normal, and when she saw Louis, he would not be healed. If she chose the other path, wonders would ensue, but her life could never be the same again. And there were shadows along this path, Barbara could tell. She wanted to bound along it, wild and free, like a doe, but she could sense the unseen guns, wicked amongst the undergrowth, the hunter’s weapons.
Barbara stood up, leaving her drink half finished. She picked up her shoulder bag. ‘Let’s go, then.’
‘Are you sure?’ Othman’s voice was a dark glitter.
‘Yes. Quite.’ She was prepared to accept whatever came to her.
Barbara found it difficult to concentrate on her driving as she and Othman travelled back to Little Moor. She felt both afraid and excited. No further words passed between them; in fact, Barbara felt drained of words. The sprawling shadow of Herman’s Wood appeared ahead of them, to the left of the road, which sloped downwards towards the village. Barbara had to wind down the window; heat held in the valley of Little Moor seeped through the glass, making the air almost painful to breathe. ‘I’m beginning to think this weather’s unnatural,’ Barbara said, a slight tremor of unease in her voice. ‘It was certainly colder up on the moorland.’
‘Valleys hold the heat.’ Othman put his hand on Barbara’s thigh. ‘Drive in here. Find a track.’
Barbara knew all the tracks that led off the road. It was here she’d often brought Louis on the way back from their shopping expeditions. All that seemed so long ago. No talk of TV programmes and poetry now, she thought. Othman kept his hand on her leg as they bumped along the track. The air was bright with swirling red and yellow leaves, which grazed the windscreen like unearthly insects. With each jolt, Othman’s fingers moved nearer to Barbara’s crotch. She felt as if it might burn up from the contact. Desire like this hadn’t seized her for a long time. Too long. They left the deciduous area of the wood and entered among the sombre pines. Here, Barbara pulled off the track and drove through bracken for a few yards. Othman’s hand lay between her legs now; she squeezed his fingers with her thighs. They did not look at one another.
Barbara applied the brakes and the truck stopped abruptly. Othman withdrew his hand, staring through the windscreen. ‘Here,’ Barbara said. ‘This is private enough.’ She opened the driver’s door, and was assailed by the smell of crushed fern. It made her feel dizzy. She jumped out of the truck and leaned against its side, breathing hard. What am I doing? she asked herself, then provided an answer: What you’ve been praying for.
Othman came round to her side of the truck. He put his hands against her face, pushed back her hair. His blue eyes looked faintly yellow, she thought, as if an autumn cast had come over him. He kissed her deeply, his long hands painfully squeezing her heavy breasts. When he drew back, she began unbuttoning her top. Beneath it, she wore a front-fastening bra. Othman flicked open the fastening, then stooped to nuzzle her flesh. He sucked and bit her nipples. Barbara, still leaning against the truck, threw back her head and stared up at the sky between the branches of the trees. This seemed so pagan, somehow. As if intuiting her mood, Othman lifted his head and said, ‘You are like an archetypal Venus. I would like to see all of you.’ He took her hand and led her away from the truck into the thick undergrowth of bracken. Ferns grew to shoulder height around them. Once the Land Rover was out of sight, O
thman turned round and kissed Barbara again. Then, very precisely and slowly, he undressed her, running his hands appreciatively over her generous body. She reached out to unfasten his clothing. Once naked, they left their clothes in a mingled heap on the loamy floor, and burrowed into the bracken. He pushed her back so that the fronds curled over them, hid them.
‘Pev, I have wanted this so badly,’ Barbara said, wishing she didn’t have to make that confession.
His hand stroked her thigh, moving up to massage her wet bush. He tore off a handful of bracken fronds and rubbed her with them, stuffing them inside her. She reached for his cock, uttered a sound of delight when she found it. After a while, she pushed his hands away, and manoeuvred herself onto hands and knees, her full buttocks pointed towards him. This was a position she especially liked, something Barney had always been reluctant to do, and certainly never did now. Othman kneaded her buttocks. She was waiting for penetration, but first came his mouth, his tongue pushing inside her, his teeth pulling out fern fronds. Then, he mounted her, leaning over to bite the soft skin of her plump shoulders. For a while, he teased her with gentle pressure, before a single, swift strike that felt as if it speared her to the core. His hands reached round for her breasts, pinching the nipples hard.
Barbara felt as if her spirit was leaving her body. It was as if she was looking down on the two pale bodies, rutting like animals, the pumping buttocks, the grunts and moans.
Then Othman stopped moving and her consciousness snapped back into her physical mind. The stillness was absolute. She knew that when he moved again, it would presage the climax, and for now, she was happy to be joined to him like this, locked together. Then, she felt him begin to grow inside her, until it seemed her body must split. That was something she’d never experienced before; how could he do it? Slowly, he withdrew, before slamming back into her. Her stomach ached, somewhere deep inside. She began to cry out, then to scream in ecstasy. She was delirious as he rode her, filling her to capacity. The orgasm, when it came, was like nothing she’d ever felt before, or would do again. Her head flew back as she howled, and bucked beneath him.
When he finally withdrew from her, her head sank to rest upon her forearms. She felt disoriented, delirious. Othman gently rolled her over onto her back, stroked her face. She blinked up at the trees. ‘What are you?’ she murmured. Then looked at his solemn face. ‘What are you?’
‘Grigori,’ he answered. ‘Like the Murkasters. I am not quite human, Barbara.’
She took his hand from her face, kissed the fingertips. ‘More than human.’ She believed it, now.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Tuesday 27th October: Little Moor
Verity faced her father for the first time since Friday night at lunchtime on Tuesday. She was in the dining room, dreamily polishing the gleaming table, when an unfamiliar tread sounded in the hall. Raven, who was sitting on the window-sill, uttered a soft, gibbering noise, and turned to face the door. Verity straightened up, the duster bunched in her hand. She was afraid it would be Othman invading her territory again. Half of her hoped it was. Then she saw her father standing there in the doorway. He said nothing at first, as if allowing her time to take in what she saw. He stood tall and straight. Even his face looked younger. Verity wondered if he expected her to comment. How could she? She was conspirator enough in his abominable act as it was. ‘Do you want lunch?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘If you’re making something.’
Verity could tell he didn’t know what to do with his hands. They were so used to leaning on sticks or reaching out for solid surfaces. Louis apparently noticed her disapproving scrutiny because he hid his hands in his trouser pockets. Verity didn’t want to walk past him. As if sensing her feelings, Raven leapt down from the window sill and trotted out of the room, tail aloft. Louis moved aside, and Verity was able to walk past him without getting too close.
‘Vez...’ Louis began.
‘Don’t,’ Verity snapped. ‘Don’t say anything. Will ham sandwiches do?’ She knew that if she relented and endured a few exchanges concerning what had happened, some kind of normal life could be resumed. Everyone in the village could be told that Louis had been seeing a healer, and that the alternative therapy had worked. Most would swallow the story, she was sure. And even if they didn’t, so what? Was it a punishable offence to be cured of disability? However, Verity shrank from allowing Louis that respite. She was angry at what he’d done, because he’d invited Peverel Othman into their lives. He might not be directly malevolent but corruption burgeoned wherever he trod. Verity had constructed a sterile world for herself; now it was shattered, undone. Assuming normality with her father would not help rebuild it, whereas silence and refusal to accept his condition might.
Louis followed her into the kitchen. ‘I’m expecting Barbara Eager this afternoon.’
‘Oh. I’ll bring your lunch into the study. Go and sit down.’
‘No!’ Louis shouted. ‘I’ve done enough sitting down to last a lifetime. Vez, look at me! Say something! We have to talk!’
Verity turned round, her expression icy. She wanted to screen out the image of this younger looking, upright man, and impose upon it the crabbed familiarity of infirmity. ‘I don’t want to discuss it. Talk about it with your friend, Barbara. I’m sure she’ll be interested.’
‘We can’t just ignore what’s happened!’ He took a few steps forward. His hair looked thicker, springing up from his head, very black.
‘I will not be part of this!’ Verity said.
There was a silence. Louis clawed his hands through his hair, and then walked out of the kitchen.
Raven uttered a demanding mew. Verity bent to pick the cat up. He was a comforting heaviness in her arms.
Barbara wanted to go home and change before visiting Louis, but shrank from seeing Barney. Even an unimaginative creature like him would be able to tell something had happened to Barbara. It would not be just the twigs in her hair, her flushed face or her green-stained clothes, but the expression in her eyes, the invisible colours radiating from her body.
Othman asked to be let out of the truck at the gates to Long Eden. He muttered something about looking round the place again. In the woods, he had seemed to have got over whatever had been nagging at his mind, but now, a cloud was coming across his face again. Barbara could both see it and sense it. She wanted to soothe him, but he had drawn a barrier between them.
‘Thank you,’ she said as he got out of the truck.
He smiled at her. It was a weary smile, brimming with an infinite sadness that made Barbara think of news reports of starving millions, of wars and insurrections, of a single broken heart nursed alone in a dingy bedsit. ‘Pev,’ she said, but he shut the door.
For a moment he leaned through the open window. ‘Take care, my Barbara. I will see you soon.’
Barbara watched him squeeze through the rusting bars of Long Eden’s gates, knowing she would never touch him again. Her body throbbed pleasurably in memory of his presence within her. As he walked up the tangled driveway, he turned once to wave at her, before the drooping arms of the exhausted trees hid him from view. Barbara pressed the horn before driving off. She must put Peverel Othman from her mind for the moment. There were other things to think about now.
A quick glance in the rearview mirror assured her she looked a mess, like a woman who had just stepped from a nest of passion. She could smell the forest on her, the salt-tang of sex, the musk of maleness, her own fruity, faintly bloody odour. In the driveway of Long Mede, she applied some powder to her face and attempted to brush her hair. Before she jumped down onto the gravel, she said, ‘Here goes,’ under her breath. As she pressed the doorbell, she was thinking, here I am, accepting the unacceptable. This house still stood as it had always stood, the village stretched away from it, in its regular lines and wayward curves, its fields and hedgerows as they always were, yet everything had changed. A veil had been lifted, a patina of concealing dust blown away. Far from being alienated from
the village by her experiences and the things Othman had said to her, Barbara felt as if she’d found a niche she had been looking for and was settling into it comfortably. That afternoon, she had become the woman of her fantasies.
Louis opened the door. His appearance did not surprise her entirely. In her heart, she had always seen him this way: virile, handsome and nervy with energy.
He and Barbara looked at one another for a few moments. She saw apprehension in his face at first, which quickly softened to relief. He could see what she had experienced in the forest.
‘Come in,’ he said.
She stepped over the threshold.
Peverel Othman walked around the walls of Long Eden. Occasionally, he touched the bricks, as if searching for heat, for a message of some kind. The house tolerated his brief caresses, but remained impassive. He could feel its attention, and something new: curiosity. He was thinking hard about what he should do. Half of his mind hung back, aghast, faintly whispering that he should leave this village, abandon whatever had drawn him here. This inner self sensed danger and exposure. What would be exposed? Othman held no illusions about himself, and no guilt. He did what he did to obey an inner compunction that shielded him from remorse, even as he committed acts which to some might be considered unspeakable. Now, he remembered the flashes in the sky, the reflected glare, that had summoned him to Little Moor. Only fools never paid attention to omens, and normally he would be wary of any lurement, whatever its form. But here, he’d become himself too fully, insinuated himself into the lives of too many people. It was reckless.
Throughout the world, there must be hundreds of places where Grigori had lived and loved, leaving their psychic imprint on the land. Othman had passed by many of them himself, but had never felt drawn to investigate them. What made Long Eden and the village so different? Was it simply Lily and Owen, the fledgling half-breeds? But surely, in those other places, in the most concealed corners of Eastern Europe and Asia, there were whole towns of half-breeds, abandoned and ignorant of what they really were. Dimly, Othman could remember such cases; the dark villages screened by pine forests, the soaring cliffs, the corrupted rites of Christianity in ancient, crumbling churches that mirrored ceremonies only half remembered in the genes of those who performed them. Those places had been far more mysterious and curious than Little Moor, with its open fields, its roads to civilisation, tarmaced and signposted. Maybe, then, the difference was in him. A time had come, or was coming. He could feel it drawing closer, feel its predator breath on his back. So he must face it, and perhaps take strength from the power that had awakened here. He must access it fully. Perhaps, then, the gate of his dreams and nightmares would open and the void he sensed within himself could be filled. The house could remain impenetrable; he no longer cared. The true source lay at the High Place, and it had less consciousness than the guardian of Long Eden. If the proper offerings were made, it would not be able to resist them. It would offer itself up to Peverel Othman, for a gift of blood and life-essence. His only dilemma lay in choosing the sacrifice. He had considered Emma Manden, for she was strong and vibrant. But she was also too wise, too aware, and would be brave enough to fight back. Barbara and Louis were not suitable either; they were worn, despite what Othman could offer them to heal their minds and bodies. Verity was a dark miasma, trailing ghosts. She would be unpalatable. Lily and Owen, he wanted to keep near him, and would not surrender them. That left, in his opinion, only one choice, which would be troublesome. Owen would object, but Othman would simply have to deal with that at the appropriate time. Daniel Cranton would be offered to the flame: the innocent, newly awoken, brimming with psychic energy, untapped and fresh. Daniel.
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