“I’d pack and go home except I haven’t bought anything yet.”
He smiled at her and shook his head. “You mustn’t start thinking like that. No good ever came of giving in.”
She didn’t reply. She didn’t really know what to say. After a while she left him standing by the rail and went back into the hotel. In the lobby she met Ian Caldecott, looking bright-eyed and pleased with himself. “You gave me quite a run for my money, there, Sarah,” he effused. “You must let me buy you a glass of champagne to commiserate.”
“You really are a stupid old bastard, aren’t you?” Sarah retorted. “You could have agreed not to bid against me and we could have shared the profit. You knew how badly I wanted those chairs. Now neither of us have ended up with anything.”
“Just remember who taught you everything you know,” said Ian.
“I haven’t, and I never will. Because one thing I know now is that a pupil should never trust her teacher. Especially when her teacher grows jealous.”
She went upstairs to her room, and threw her prospectus onto the table. Outside her window, the gardens were dappled with sunlight, and even the mountains were clear, for a while. Seáth Rider was still leaning against the rail, but he wasn’t watching the water. He was watching her; although he was too far away to see if he was serious or smiling. She stood close to the curtains, so that he wouldn’t be able to see her, and she wondered who he really was, and why he took such an interest in her. Perhaps he behaved in the same way with every woman he met. But she had never seen him talking to any other woman the way he talked to her; and she had never seen him staring at any other woman’s window.
She began to feel that he was intimately connected with her, in an inexplicable way – that their futures were somehow intertwined. A nemesis, a shadow, a promise of unknown days to come. The kind of man you meet in dreams.
She came back to the window almost an hour later and he was still watching.
The next day was fresher and cooler and so she dressed in jeans and a white cable-knit sweater. After breakfast, she drove first to the little village of Sneem where she sat in O’Sullivan’s Pub with a half of Guinness and wrote postcards to all of her friends. Then she went on to the west, through the fields and the mountains, with bright sandy glimpses of the Kenmare estuary off to her left, and then the Atlantic Ocean, pale and green, listlessly heaping its seaweed onto the beaches.
She drove as far as the little town of Carhicvean and then she parked by the side of the main street and went looking for antique shops. She found a good prie-dieu with a Berlin tapestry seat; and a china display cabinet, a vitrine, which she bought for less than £400; a Sutherland fall-leaf table; and a beautiful papier mâché chair, an original Jennens & Bettridge, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and gilded with flowers.
She was leaving the last antique shop when she thought she saw her ex-husband Ken turning into a pub along the street. He couldn’t have been Ken; but he was wearing the same blue linen jacket that Ken always wore when he painted, and he had the same shock of brown hair, and even the same shoes, those awful tan-coloured Hush Puppies that he wore every day of the week.
Sarah turned back to the woman in the antique shop, and said, “Have you ever seen anybody dead?”
“Well, there’s a question,” said the woman, all pink-cheeked and flustered. “I saw my ma and my da in their caskets, of course; and my Uncle Joe.”
“But you’ve never seen anybody dead walking around the streets? Or anybody who couldn’t conceivably be there, dead or alive?”
The woman was wiping her hands on a tea-towel. She gave Sarah a peculiar, bulgy-eyed look. “I can’t say that I have. And I think if I did I’d run a mile.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sarah. “I’ll arrange for the shipping and let you know.”
She walked cautiously along the street. The afternoon was windy now, and the moving clouds were reflected in every window, like televisions in a television store, with all the same programme playing. The pub was painted liver-red outside, with decorative shamrocks. O’Hagans Pub & Restaurant, Guinness, Murphys and Caffreys, and those were just to quench you thirst before you started on the Bush.
She stepped inside. A single doleful man with grey hedgehog hair and cavernous cheeks was wiping up glasses. He looked like Samuel Beckett’s untalented brother.
“Are you open?” she asked. He turned and blinked at her as if he had never expected to have a customer, never, not of any early afternoon.
“Of course we’re open. How would you have got in.”
Sarah turned back toward the door. “I would have – yes, I see. I see what you mean.”
“We’re quiet of course. There’s not much trade on a Tuesday. Would you care for a drink?”
“Yes, yes please. A Guinness will do.”
She turned and there he was, sitting just in front of a strong triangle of sunshine, his hand on the table with its silver ring, a glass of whiskey in front of him catching the light. She left her Guinness on the bar to settle and walked across to him and dragged out a chair.
“Something’s going on,” she told him, before he could speak. “Something I don’t understand. I thought I saw my ex-husband coming in here, but now it’s turned out to be you.”
“You didn’t have to come in here,” he said.
“No, I didn’t. But I did. I don’t know how you managed to look like Ken. I can’t begin to imagine how you know what Ken looks like. But it was you, wasn’t it? And last night, out on the island, my father was you. You have a knack for it, don’t you? Knowing what I want, knowing what I need. What is it, hypnotism, something like that? Or do I make myself so bloody obvious that you don’t even need to hypnotise me? Is it a trick? What is it? And what do you want?”
Seáth Rider looked at her ruefully. “Why are you being so vexed with me, Mrs Bryce, when all I want to do is to please you?”
“What? By following me? By making me think that—”
“Please, Mrs Bryce. I’m not making you think anything. Whatever you think, whatever you want, that’s up to you.”
She said, “Anyway, I’m leaving tomorrow morning, first thing. I didn’t get the Daniel Marot chairs; but I think I’ve made enough to cover my expenses.”
Seáth Rider lifted his glass. “I’ll drink to that, Mrs Bryce.”
And for all that she didn’t understand him, and found him so strange and threatening, Sarah lifted her glass, too.
When she returned to her room at the Parknasilla, the chairs were there, waiting for her. She walked in and there they were, side by side, slightly angled, as if two people had been sitting in them, talking, only minutes before. She approached them in disbelief, and touched them, and they were real. Solid, carved, but brilliantly imagined, with tall backs and stretchers that curved as if they were alive. She was always amazed how few people realized that furniture – just as much as paintings, or sculptures, or music – didn’t begin to exist until somebody had imagined it, and turned that imagination into something that other people could see and touch. Yes, and even sit on.
She sat on her bed and stared at them. Surely Ian Caldecott couldn’t have been so remorseful that he had let her have the chairs. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have taken them up to her room, surely? Once they were sold, they were due to be crated and shipped directly back to London.
She had a strange feeling that Seáth Rider was involved in this. She had no proof, of course; but it seemed like his style. She just hoped that he hadn’t bullied Ian Caldecott into letting her have them; or something worse. She picked up the phone and asked reception to put her through to Mr Caldecott’s room.
“I’m sorry, Mrs Bryce, would you repeat the name?”
“Caldecott, Ian Caldecott. I don’t know his room number, but he’s one of the antique dealers.”
“Caldecott did you say? Well there’s no one of that name registered here.”
“There must be. I saw him this morning.”
“Are you sure he was
resident with us, Mrs Bryce, and didn’t just come for the auction?”
“Of course I’m sure. He even told me how much he liked his room. Listen – why don’t you put me through to the auctioneers? They may know where he is.”
She waited for nearly five minutes, listening to an electronic version of Greensleeves over and over again. Finally a cultured voice said, “O’Shaughnessy and Drum, Mr Drum speaking.”
“Oh hallo, Mr Drum. This is Mrs Bryce.”
“Well now, Mrs Bryce. What can I do for you. Congratulations on the chairs, by the way. You got yourself a bargain there, wouldn’t you say?”
“But I didn’t get the chairs, Ian Caldecott outbid me.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I was outbid by Mr Caldecott. But now the chairs have turned up here in my room.”
“Where you said you wanted them, Mrs Bryce, so that you could have a chance to admire them for a while before we packed them up for shipping.”
Sarah was so confused that she could hardly speak. “Mr Drum – there must be some mistake. I didn’t – I didn’t even—”
“I’m sorry, Mrs Bryce, did we misunderstand your instructions somehow? If you wish us to pack up the chairs directly, we will be only too happy to oblige.”
“But they’re not my chairs, Mr Drum! Mr Caldecott bought them!”
There was an embarrassed silence. Then Mr Drum said, “The records show otherwise, Mrs Bryce. There were two principal bidders, yes; and one of them was you. But the other was Mr James McGuinness, and he stopped bidding at £5,500, which is when the chairs were knocked down to you.”
“I’m going mad,” said Sarah. “Either that, or you’re going mad. What about Mr Caldecott?”
Another silence, even longer than the first. Then, “I’m sorry, Mrs Bryce. I hate to contradict a favoured client, such as yourself. But to my knowledge there was no Mr Caldecott present at the auction; and I have never heard of any antique dealer by that name. The only Caldecott I know of is the children’s book illustrator, Randolph Caldecott. And of course he died more than a hundred years ago.”
“You’ve never heard of Ian Caldecott?”
“No, Mrs Bryce. Never.”
Sarah lowered the receiver. She could hear Mr Drum’s tiny voice saying “Hello? Hello?” like an insect in a matchbox. She had seen Mr Drum talking to Ian Caldecott; she had seen him shake his hand. How could he possibly say that he had never heard of him?
“Hello? Hello?” Mr Drum persisted; so Sarah hung up.
She went back to the chairs and stood between them, with a hand on each one. They were beautiful; they were almost magical; and in some extraordinary way they seemed to be hers. But how? And what had happened to Ian Caldecott? At a stretch, she could imagine that Ian had felt guilty after outbidding her, and had let her have the chairs as a gesture of goodwill. But that sort of spontaneous generosity wasn’t really in his nature. She had seen him talk to another woman dealer for almost half an hour, dissuading her from buying a cane-seat Regency chair because it was ‘obviously fake’, and then buying it himself for less than half what it was really worth.
She was still looking at the chairs when there was a quick, sharp knock at her door. She went to open it, expecting the maid. Instead, it was Seáth Rider, looking pale but excited. He stalked into the room before she could stop him, and walked straight up to the chairs, although he didn’t touch them.
“There! They’re very fine, aren’t they! And are you pleased with them, now?”
“I think they’re beautiful. But they still don’t belong to me.”
Seáth Rider twisted around and stared at her, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What do you mean, they don’t belong to you? You bid for them fair and square, didn’t you? You paid for them?”
“Ian Caldecott outbid me.”
“Ian Caldecott? Now who would he be?”
“You know exactly who he is. God, you’re beginning to sound like all the rest of them now.”
Seáth Rider approached her and his face was very serious; almost tragic. “There is no Ian Caldecott, Mrs Bryce. There never was. You bought those chairs. Look at your chequebook if you want the proof.”
Sarah went to her purse, opened it up, and took out the Gucci chequebook wallet that Ken had given her for her birthday, after selling two paintings to the Oswald Gallery in Bond Street. That was probably the only time that he had ever had any money of his own. She opened her chequebook, and there it was, the checkstub, in her own handwriting, in her own distinctive violet ink ‘O’ Shaughnessy & Drum, 4,500, DM Chairs’.
“I didn’t write this,” she said, her voice wavering. She stepped up to Seáth Rider and shook the chequebook under his nose. “I didn’t write this!”
Seáth Rider shrugged, and said. “Take it to a handwriting expert if you wish. You bid for the chairs; you topped the bidding; and you took out your chequebook. Confident as any woman I’ve ever seen; a queen amongst dealers, I’d say.”
“Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” said Sarah.
“Happened? What would you mean by that?”
“Something’s happened to Ian Caldecott … you’ve bribed him, or you’ve threatened him, or something. He wouldn’t have given me those chairs for anything!”
Seath Rider said, “There is no Ian Caldecott. There never was.”
“I don’t understand you. I don’t understand any of this.”
“But it’s very simple, especially if you know your Irish legends. There was always magic here, of a kind, which people fancified and turned into stories of little people and all that guff. But there’s another world here, Mrs Bryce, there always has been; and there was a whole people, Lir’s people, the people of the Tuatha, back in ancient times, who disappeared from human view. Vanished!”
“I still don’t understand.”
“You will if you realize that the portals of the invisible kingdoms were never completely closed, and there were those who could travel with ease from one to the other, having friends and even lovers in both existences.
“The Fianna could do that. They were warriors, trained in every skill. Among them was Iollan, who kept a fairy mistress called Fair Breast. She was his heart’s desire, the most beautiful creature that you ever saw, and all Iollan had to do was breathe her name, wherever she was, and she would appear, and she would do anything for him, whatever he wanted. For all of the pleasure she gave him, she asked only one thing in return, and that was his fidelity.”
“What the – what the hell are you talking about?” Sarah demanded. “I want to know what’s happened to Ian Caldecott – not some ridiculous fairy story!”
“But that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” said Seáth Rider. “Iollan fell in love with a human woman, and married her, and made her. pregnant with twin boys. So when Fair Breast found out what had happened, she turned Iollan’s wife into a dog, and dragged her off to live with a man who hated dogs, so that she would be starved and whipped. And to Iollan she said: ‘I will turn her back into a woman, if you come and live with me forever, in the invisible kingdom.’ So what could he do, poor fellow, but agree?
“The only snag was that his sons, who had both been born as dogs, would have to remain as dogs for the rest of their lives.”
“All right,” said Sarah. “Tell me what it means. Tell me what you’re talking about. And where’s Ian Caldecott?”
Seáth Rider went over to the window and looked out over the gardens and the estuary. The mountains were plumed with clouds. “You can always have whatever you desire, Mrs Bryce; just as Iollan of the Fianna had what he desired. But somebody always has to pay the price. It’s the magical version of Newton’s Law, if you like. No action without a reaction. Maybe the reaction doesn’t affect you; but it always affects somebody.”
Sarah said nothing, but stood waiting for him to say what she knew he was going to say; her fists clenched, her heart beating fast.
Seáth Rider turned away from the window and said, �
��If there was ever a man called Ian Caldecott, he would have outbid you for these chairs, and taken them away. But now, there never was. Ian Caldecott was never born, and he never grew up, and he never went to university nor started a dealership. You will never find a photograph of him in the South of France; you will never find a school report or a dental record or a social security card. You will never find a tot that knew him, when he was tiny. You will never find a woman who kissed him at his first party. He has evaporated, Mrs Bryce, as if he never existed.”
“You’ve murdered him,” said Sarah. She was shaking with shock.
“Of course I haven’t. How can you murder somebody who never existed?”
“Then you’ve – Christ, I don’t know what you’ve done! What have you done?”
“I’ve expunged him, I’d say that’s the word. He’s not gone completely, if you get my meaning. Matter can neither be created nor destroyed. But, he’s certainly not here, that’s the message, and never was here, ever.”
“For two chairs? For two stupid chairs?”
Seáth Rider frowned at her. He looked hurt. “You said those chairs were your heart’s desire. What does it matter to you whether Ian Caldecott ever existed or not? He doesn’t mind: he never existed. His family doesn’t mind: they never ever knew him. People get killed every day. Shot, or drowned, or knocked down on pedestrian crossings because they were thinking about what they could eat for their tea, instead of looking. That never worries you does it, so why are you so worried about Ian Caldecott, you have your chairs, and everything’s hunky dory.”
Sarah had to sit down. “I can’t take this in. You erased his entire life, everything, just because you wanted me to have these chairs?”
“Oh no, Mrs Bryce. You wanted the chairs, not me. I’m an acquisitor, not a collector. But that was the price, yes. That was the only way to do it.”
“But how? How do you rub out somebody’s whole existence?”
Seáth Rider pointed to the mountains, covered in grey, thunderous clouds; and to the Kenmare estuary, sparking with sunshine. “If you want me to put it simply, Mrs Bryce, there are visible kingdoms and invisible kingdoms; and here in Ireland the doors are still open for those who know how to tread between. And, yes, it was me who watched you at the airport; and it was me sitting at The Russet Bull; and here, too, when you arrived.”
Faces of Fear Page 17
