‘Congratulations . . . Goodbye, Alex.’
Helplessly, Alex watched Evelyn walk from the room. He picked up his briefcase and followed his son into the hall. He had already reached the top of the staircase.
‘What’ll you do?’
Evelyn didn’t look back. Mounting the stairs, he said, ‘Don’t know, not thought about it yet.’
‘If you need me, you know where I am.’
Evelyn laughed softly, and his reply was almost inaudible. ‘Yep, you’ll be at the office with your partner.’
Neither of them was able to say what he felt, they could not even hold each other. The front door closed softly after Alex.
Evelyn lay down on Edward’s bed. He felt drained, squeezed, wrung out. Dewint coughed politely.
‘Excuse me, sah, but I was packing my possessions and, well, there’s a few things Mr Edward left in ’ere . . . I found this.’
He handed Evelyn a small, brown envelope. Inside was a worn, flat book, stamped across the front. It was a Post Office Savings book, the copperplate handwriting faint over the stamp, looped and old-fashioned. It was dated May 1921, and bore the name of Evelyne Jones. Between the pages was a photograph that Evelyn remembered being taken the Christmas he had stayed at the manor.
‘Who’s Evelyne Jones?’
‘I don’t know who she is, sah, there was never anyone called Jones livin’ ’ere. Will you be staying on? Only, I’m almost packed, be off in the morning. Goin’ to Bermuda, sah, I’ve always fancied it.’
Evelyn smiled at the old man. ‘Well, you have a good time . . . oh, and Dewint, if there’s anything you want from the house, take it, take anything you like.’
Dewint gave one of his formal little nods, and paused at the door. ‘Thank you very much, sah, an’ may God bless you.’ Evelyn’s dark eyes and black hair made him want to weep, he was so like Edward. His high-pitched voice broke, and he swallowed. ‘He loved you, sah, always loved you.’
Bowing out for the last time, Dewint went to finish his packing. Evelyn stared at the ceiling, unconsciously holding the small savings book. He turned it over, then opened it.
In Edward Barkley’s handwriting was a neat list of bank account numbers. They belonged to his first-class Swiss accounts, and they were now made over to his son. The old legacy, left to his grandmother, Evelyne Stubbs, then passed to her son, Edward, still contained one pound, fifteen shillings and sixpence to be withdrawn. Evelyn Barkley held in his hands not only the original legacy, but also access to the vast personal fortune of his blood father. One billion in cash, no strings attached, no partnerships, no ties, just a short scrawled message:
‘This is your freedom.’
Epilogue
One year after the death of Edward Barkley, the Barkley Company, with Juliana and Alex at the helm, was well respected and had moved into legitimate share-trading, reaping vast profits. But the nightmare of the City crash in October 1987 looked set to destroy all they had built.
Panic reigned in the City and within the Barkley organization. The pair worked frantically to salvage their tumbling shares. Alex poured his personal fortune into the failing company until he was at breaking point, but the slide continued until it became an avalanche of loss.
The Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce parked at the edge of the gypsy camp. A filthy, ramshackle, heartbreaking place, hemmed in by iron fences, it snuggled under the foul, fume-filled motorway without a single blade of grass in sight.
George Windsor had driven Alex to the camp on three consecutive nights. Each time, after driving slowly past, Alex had ordered him to take them home. But tonight Alex had made up his mind to go in, even though Windsor had warned him not to.
Threading his way among the broken-down cars, caravans and trailers, Alex finally reached the main semi-circle of wagons. From within could be heard the sounds of television sets and muffled voices. He stood in the darkness, unsure of what to do next.
A hand grabbed him by his fur collar and whipped him round. ‘What the hell do you want, man?’
Two more surly-looking men appeared from the gloom. Shaking with fear, Alex put his hands up, thinking the man was about to hit him. ‘Please, I mean no harm. I need to speak to a dukkerin.’
He was pushed roughly between them as they jeered and laughed at him, pushing him back and forth, their voices rising.
‘Need a what? What the hell you want, man, eh? Eh?’
Lights came on, doors opened and voices yelled for the men to keep quiet as there were kids sleeping. ‘Get out, man, go on, get out!’ Hands touched him, patted his pockets, almost took his wallet. A woman’s voice screeched, ‘What you men doin’? Gerraway from him! You! Come here.’
The woman had an instant effect on the men, and they released Alex.
‘What you want, mun? What you come here for?’
Alex moved nearer, his hands up in a gesture of submission. ‘Please, I need to speak with a dukkerin, is there one among you? A fortune-teller?’
The men behind him laughed, mimicking his voice, but the old woman scrutinized him, sucking her lips into her toothless mouth.
‘Please help me, my father was a Romany . . .’
‘Bring him in, lads, then leave him be. An’ if yer got his wallet, give it back.’
She sat in a creaking armchair and waved him to another. Her hands, with rings on every finger, were arthritic, gnarled, and she was more lined than any woman he had ever seen. Her holed stockings were as wrinkled as she was, but her eyes, black, small eyes, were bright and young in her strange wizened face.
‘Dukkerin, eh? Where you learn the old language?’
‘My father was Freedom Stubbs.’
She shrugged, and if she knew the name she gave no hint of recognition. ‘Why you come here? What you want?’
Alex tried to explain, feeling helplessly inadequate and near to breaking point, the tears constantly prickling his eyes. In a halting voice he told her of his father, of Edward. Then he put his head in his hands and wept, unashamedly.
‘I always believed Edward was a lucky man, just a lucky man, but now I don’t know. It’s as if he’s still alive, but turning everything rotten. I don’t know if it’s his face I see or my father’s, but I can’t sleep . . .’
‘He’s haunting you, is that it?’
The relief that she said it so simply was astonishing, and he nodded, licking his lips. He reached out to hold her hand.
‘Yes, yes, that’s it exactly, but I can’t tell anyone, they’d think me crazy. I feel him around me all the time . . . I’m a rich man, I’ll give you anything you ask if you can help me.’
She held his hand, looking into his face, then she touched his forehead. ‘You got the Romany blood in you. You get us a decent camp, mun. You get us moved to a decent place.’
‘I’ll do whatever is in my power to help you, I give you my word.’
She released his hand and settled back in her chair. ‘You have something of his with you?’
He shook his head, then he remembered. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, and took off the gold medallion.
Evelyn Barkley returned to Wales to discover more of his background. When he learned of the Barkley Company’s losses, he wrote to Juliana with permission to sell the manor and all its contents. The land alone would be worth a quarter of a million on the property market.
No one had entered the manor since the reading of the late Edward Barkley’s will. The house was in a state of ruin; during the hurricane of November 1987, a tree had crashed through the south end of the roof.
Juliana began to check the house for items that could be auctioned. Intent on her work, she remained until evening. As it grew dark she tried the light switches, but the electricity had been cut off, so she fetched a candle from the kitchen.
As she passed through the hall she noticed the door to the dining room was slightly ajar, and she paused a moment, feeling drawn to the room.
Her father’s portrait faced her. Water had seeped through
the ceiling and run down the gilt frame. It had dripped down his cheeks, leaving stains that looked like tears. She stood looking up into her father’s face, without fear, without hatred.
Putting the candle down, she made a note of the table and the ornate chairs, then opened a large Victorian dresser. She added the solid silver cutlery to the inventory and bent to open the lower drawers, where she found silver serving dishes, wrapped in damp newspaper that was yellow with age. At ten-fifteen she paused. The candle was burning low and she was uncertain whether or not to continue, but there was only the drawing room left.
Shielding the candle flame, she inched open the heavy double doors into the room. The room had been left untouched with the ashes of a fire still in the grate.
There was writing, still legible, scrawled on a window overlooking the river: ‘My son, my son Evelyn’. The candle flame flickered and sputtered. Above the mantelpiece, in the centre of the dark-edged space where the mirror had hung, was a strange, red-brown stain that resembled a necklace. The room felt icy cold and Juliana shivered, almost dropping the candle in fright when she heard footsteps, slow footsteps . . . She turned in terror as the door creaked open.
‘Oh, God, Alex, you almost gave me a heart attack! Why didn’t you call out? This is the last room, I’ve done all the others. I’m afraid there’s not much worth selling, but at least we’ll get a good price for the land. They can build a tower block of apartments, great view over the river. I reckon we can ask more than we . . . Alex?’
He was standing directly in front of the fireplace, staring at the stain on the wall. Fishing a box of matches from his pocket he struck one, held it above his head. ‘It’s like my mother’s necklace, the shape.’
‘I suppose it must be water, every room’s got water stains. Anything worth selling has been ruined.’
Alex still stared at the stained wall.
‘He took it from her grave, he should never have done that. He had the medallions made from the gold. What did you do with Edward’s?’
Juliana was bending to peer into a glass cabinet filled with ornaments. ‘These are junk – what did you say?’
‘The medallion I gave you, the gold medallion.’
‘Well, funnily enough I wear it. You always said my father had the Midas touch, I thought it would bring me luck. How wrong can one be? Right now our luck’s running out so fast . . .’
Alex took his own chain from his pocket and walked over to her. ‘Give it to me, take the damned thing off. Take it off!’
She backed away from him, her hand to her throat. ‘Don’t be stupid, Alex . . . The candle, mind the candle!’
The stub of the candle rolled across the floor, spilling its wax, but he ignored it. He held out his hand for the medallion as she unclasped it from her neck. When he looked again, the candle was lying against the side of the sofa, still alight. He picked it up and walked out of the room, calling for her to follow.
In the hall were three cans of petrol. ‘Start in the master bedroom, pour it over everything. I’ll begin down here. We’ve got to set light to the place, it’s got to burn down.’
‘Are you crazy? What about the silver, the furniture?’
He had already opened one of the cans. ‘Everything worth anything must burn.’
‘Why? Insurance? Is that what all this is about, insurance?’
Alex was pouring petrol along the hallway. He pushed open the door to the dining room, splashing the strong-smelling liquid everywhere.
‘Alex, answer me. Are you doing this for the insurance?’
‘No, but the flames will take away his evil, and they’ll scorch his pain . . . We’re burying a curse. Think me crazy, think whatever you like, but don’t try to stop me.’
She stood watching him, helplessly, as he emptied the can of petrol. Tossing the can aside, he held out his hand to her, looking up at Edward’s portrait. ‘Come here, it’s all right. Look at his face, his eyes . . . Same eyes as my father, Romany eyes – black eyes that never let you know what’s behind them, what they’re thinking.’
Standing a little distance from Alex, she looked up at her father’s face, then turned. Alex seemed transfixed by the painting, and she looked again. Her father’s eyes seemed alive, the water-stain tears distorting his face. When Alex spoke she could barely hear him.
‘I never noticed before, but you can see it in his face. He did a terrible thing, it wasn’t premeditated, but it was done in terrible anger. Long, long ago he killed your grandfather, my father . . . His name was Freedom, Freedom Stubbs. The name engraved on the medallions is our real name. Edward changed it to Barkley, but Freedom wouldn’t let him go – he couldn’t, because the gold in the medallions was taken from the grave. I don’t think he even knew what he had done – the gold was Freedom’s talisman.’ Alex paused, closed his eyes. ‘We were brothers, but only Edward inherited the powers, and I believed he was haunting me, trying to destroy me from the grave. But I was wrong – he’s warning me, for Evelyn’s sake, for his son. Edward was cursed, and it will pass to Evelyn.’ He held up the two gold medallions and repeated the last lines of the Romany curse:
For who steals the charm of a dukkerin’s son,
Will walk in his shadow, bleed with his blood,
Cry loud with his anguish and suffer his pain.
His unquiet spirit will rise up again,
His footsteps will echo unseen on the ground
Until the curse is fulfilled, the talisman found.
They both stood close to the jetty, right at the water’s edge. From there they watched, knowing that any moment the flames would begin to show. They could see the black, curling smoke; had seen it for almost ten minutes.
It exploded like a bomb. The boom! as it caught the heart of the house could be heard for miles around, but they did not leave until they were sure that the fire was unquenchable. Edward Barkley’s soul burned.
Alex struck the wood of the coffin lid. From his pocket he took the two medallions – his own and Edward’s. He laid them, with their chains, on the coffin in the sign of a cross. The gold talisman was given at last to the grave.
When he had shovelled back the earth, he knelt in prayer. ‘Rest in peace, Freedom, peace be with you both. It’s over, Edward, it’s over now.’
As he walked away from the grave he felt the oppressive weight lift from his shoulders. It was as if it had always been there – but now he felt light, he was free.
Evelyn was waiting at the gates of his small, rented farmhouse. He had been waiting ever since Juliana had called, even though he knew it would take at least four or five hours for them to get to him, sitting impatiently on the five-barred gate.
The Rolls-Royce sparkled in the early morning sun as it came over the hilltop and along the small country lanes. Evelyn ran to meet it, shouting, arms held wide.
Alex stepped out of the car, hesitant at first, then sprinted the last few yards to his son and clasped him in his arms. Overcome with emotion he fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief, then gave up and wiped his face with the back of his hand.
‘Some tycoon, eh? Crying like a baby . . . You know, this is the first time I’ve ever wept because . . . because I’m happy. Will you come home?’
Juliana stepped from the car. There was such a gentleness about Evelyn, such a genuine warmth, that Juliana threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. His response was a little bemused, but then he tilted his head back and laughed his wonderful laugh . . .
Alex shouted, pointing across the fields between the hills. His delight showed in his face like a child’s as he said, ‘It’s the mountain, it’s the mountain . . . It’s my mountain!’
Rising up against the brilliant dawn sky, lit by the bright sun, was the mountain from his dreams that had always been beyond his reach, that the black rider had leapt, passing by the outstretched hand of the young boy. Now it was before him, no longer a dream but tangible, real, waiting and beckoning him to climb to the very top. He turned to them, his face shining,
more alive than either of them had ever seen him. The years seemed to drop away and his handsome face was youthful, vibrant, and his clear blue eyes were those of a young boy.
‘I want to climb that, go right to the top.’
They stood together at the very top of the mountain, their arms linked. Alex gently brushed Juliana’s cheek with his hand. She opened her eyes and they both looked at Evelyn.
He too held his face, as they had done, to the sky. They were transfixed, mesmerized by him – he was in a world of his own, his eyes closed, his long, dark lashes shadowing his cheeks. His hair flew in the wind . . . Slowly, he lifted his arms and breathed in the sweet, clear air and smiled, his perfect face softening as he whispered, ‘Freedom . . .’
The whisper echoed round the mountain, and he opened his eyes and laughed.
Alex felt as though his heart would burst. He was at the top of his mountain and, even if Evelyn hadn’t meant to say his grandfather’s name, it was the culmination of his dream. It no longer mattered that the boy was of Edward’s blood, because their blood was one. They were bound together, and at last had come together in peace. He reached out and took their hands, whispering joyously, ‘I am a lucky man.’ Then he lifted their arms high and shouted to the mountain, ‘Freedom . . . Freedom . . . Freeeeeedooooooooommmmm . . .’
Lynda La Plante
Backlash
Two unsolved murders. Three confessions. One suspect.
But is the man in DCI Anna Travis’s custody a serial killer . . . or just a compulsive liar?
It is late at night on a notorious council estate in east London when the police pull over a van. Inside, they discover the body of a young woman.
The driver confesses, not just to one murder – but to three.
Five years earlier, a 13-year-old girl disappeared in broad daylight on a busy London street. The unsolved case has haunted DCS James Langton ever since. But when the case is reopened, it falls to Anna to investigate and bring the killer to trial.
The Talisman Page 74
