by Darren Shan
‘Very thoughtful of you,’ I snap.
Silence descends. I mull over what Andeanna has told me. It’s too insane to be true. I want to reject it out of hand. But what’s the alternative? Andeanna Menderes was murdered twenty years ago — fact. I fell in love with a woman who shares her looks — fact. I have it on good authority that the woman’s ghost has roamed the halls of her home since her death — fact. That woman is now speaking to me through a medium — fact.
Too many facts to ignore. When there’s no sane answer, a man must accept the insane. As impossible as it is, as crazy as it sounds, the truth is undeniable. ‘I fell in love with a ghost,’ I groan.
‘Yes.’ Andeanna smiles sadly. ‘And a ghost fell in love with you.’
Incredibly, my mood is lifting. The truth has been revealed. It’s an awful, twisted truth, but now I can begin to deal with it. It won’t be easy, but I don’t have to chase around wildly any longer, pursuing false threads, driving myself mental in search of an answer.
‘It’s asking a lot,’ Andeanna murmurs, ‘but do you think you can forgive me?’
‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘This has thrown my world out of whack. I don’t know what I feel for you, or what I’ll feel a week from now, a month, a year. If I said I could, I’d be lying.’
‘That’s fair,’ she nods.
‘I was always fair with you,’ I note pointedly.
‘And I wasn’t with you,’ she agrees.
‘So.’ I settle back, studying the face of the channelling mystic. ‘Where do we go from here?’
‘Our separate ways,’ she answers promptly.
I feel a strange pang of regret. Even after all she put me through, I still love her, and the thought of parting for ever fills me with dread. ‘Can’t we . . . isn’t there some way we can . . . ?’
‘No,’ she says softly. ‘I have to move on. Mikis’s death released me. I’m being called. There’s another world or dimension where I’m supposed to be. I have to go. I want to go. I think I’ll enjoy it.’
I feel something running down my cheeks. At first I think spiders have dropped from the ceiling. But as I blink, I realize they’re only tears.
‘Can’t you come back?’ I weep, managing a weak smile to show I know how dumb my request is. ‘On a weekend pass, perhaps?’
‘I doubt they have those where I’m going,’ Andeanna giggles. ‘But if they do, I’ll apply for one.’
I wipe my right sleeve across my cheeks, careful not to break contact with the medium, wishing the tears had held off for a while, so that I could focus on Andeanna’s face, clearer than ever in the features of Etienne Anders.
Andeanna puts her lips to my cheek and removes a tear with the tip of her tongue. I moan, and she draws back from me, her smile fading. ‘I have to go now. Etienne can’t maintain this link indefinitely.’
‘Just a few more . . . ’ I begin, but she shakes her head slowly.
‘Before I leave,’ she says, ‘can I make a final request?’
‘Sure,’ I reply, fresh tears falling.
‘One last kiss, Ed?’
‘I could never refuse a lady,’ I laugh brokenly.
‘But promise you won’t tell Etienne.’ She smirks. ‘I don’t want her thinking we took advantage of her body.’
‘I’ll never tell anyone about tonight,’ I vow.
‘Not even Joe?’
‘I’ll fill him in on the essentials. No more. He deserves to know the truth – he guessed it before I did – but I won’t discuss it in depth with him. I couldn’t.’
‘I’ll go with the kiss, Ed,’ she says, leaning forward. ‘No prolonged goodbyes. One last kiss and – puff – I’m fairy dust.’
‘I love you, Andeanna,’ I cry.
‘I love you too,’ she whispers, then thrusts her lips against mine, devouring them with a hunger born of impending finality. I clutch her to me, holding her as close as I can, our fingers linked, tears splashing down my face, wishing I could vanish into her lips and make her journey with her, praying that one day I can follow and taste her sweet flesh again.
Then it’s over. I feel it before we break, the way she goes limp, the fluttering of her eyelashes against my cheek, the diminishing action of her lips. Slowly I let her go, and she sinks back in her chair, Andeanna no more, just Etienne Anders, medium, channeller, bridge between worlds.
‘Goodbye,’ I whisper. And maybe it’s an echo, or my imagination, or wishful thinking, but it seems to me that the air shimmers and the faintest voice carries to me on the lightest of breezes.
‘Goodbye, Ed.’
Then she’s gone. It’s over. And although I feel wretched, I feel wonderful too, because I’ve been touched by the miraculous and I know that no matter how lonely I get, I’ll never be truly alone again. Our loved ones don’t leave us. They just move out of sight for a while, and wait . . . in the shades.
PART FIVE
NINETEEN
I’m ready to transfer all of my savings across to Etienne Anders, but she only laughs when I mention a fee and says the first time is free. I protest vehemently, but she’s adamant. She says the joy in my expression is payment enough and suggests I make a charitable donation if I feel strongly about it.
‘It went well, didn’t it?’ she notes as I dry my face with a fistful of tissues. ‘I could tell you were miserable. Your pain was dragging behind you like an anchor. Now I see plain sails blowing in a soft wind.’
‘A nice turn of phrase,’ I compliment her.
‘Guff like that is my forte, love,’ she grins. ‘But it did help, didn’t it? You got through to her?’
‘Yes.’ I lower the damp tissues and beam.
‘She must have been very special, judging by the effect she has on the men in her life. Greygo bawled like a baby the first time he made contact.’
‘I wouldn’t say I was bawling, exactly,’ I grunt.
‘Of course you wouldn’t,’ she laughs. ‘Men like to act tough. But a man never truly fools a woman, not if he lives to be a hundred.’
She invites me to stay for a cup of tea, but I’d rather be alone. I want to replay my conversation with Andeanna, commit every last word and nuance to memory. Etienne escorts me to the front door and tells me to come again any time. I know I won’t be returning, but I thank her and promise to deal with her exclusively in future if I have need of a medium.
Then I depart, heading out into the night and the rest of my life.
I drive back slowly to the hotel through the misting London rain. I think I’ll leave this city soon. It holds too many memories. I’ll visit again one day, check out the restaurants and pubs that Andeanna and I frequented, take a boat ride down the Thames and reminisce about the wine glass that started it all, but for the moment I want to get far away and unwind. Maybe somewhere tropical, where I can relax on a beach, go for long swims and dream of Andeanna. Spirit of the Fire will have to wait. I’ll call Jonathan in the morning and tell him to cancel the contract. I might trickle back to it a year or two from now, or to some other story, or maybe I won’t. Maybe I’m done writing. Why chase wonders in print when you’ve experienced them first-hand in real life?
I smile in my rear-view mirror at the glowering ghosts. I hold nothing against them. I feel sorry for the seven shades, seeing them for what they truly are, trapped, tormented souls. Now that I know they’re real, I can look for some way to release them, to set them free from their earthly chains, so they can follow Andeanna’s spirit into whatever lies beyond. My priority to this point has been proving my sanity. Now that I no longer doubt the stability of my mind, I can focus on helping those I’ve unwittingly tied to this physical realm.
The cheerful hotel doorman, Fred Lloyd, is sheltering from the rain inside the foyer. I wave to him as I drive past, but he doesn’t see me. I must ask if he knows any good beaches. I’m sure he’d be able to make some interesting suggestions.
The underground car park is quiet. Strong yellow lights press back the gloomy shadows, and the
smell of gasoline is subtler than usual, which means the floors have been washed recently. I pull into an empty spot and slide out of my car. A sky-blue BMW slots into a space a little further up and a tall man gets out. He sees me approaching and nods politely. ‘Evening.’
‘Good evening,’ I reply, only barely glancing at him as I pass, mind dancing, marvelling at what the night has brought.
When the man steps up behind me and trips me, I think it’s an accident. I get ready to wave away his apology with a laugh. Then he shoves me to the ground and hurls himself on top of me.
My first thought — he’s a mugger. Then — no, he’s driving a BMW. I don’t waste any more time considering it. He has me pinned, but not securely. My right hand is free. Making a blade of my fingers, I drive them back over my shoulder and connect with his cheekbone. My nails cut into his flesh and slice up towards his eye. He jerks back a fraction. I throw him off and elbow him aside.
While my assailant flounders, I leap to my feet and turn to kick him if he draws a gun or a knife. But he’s just cowering, patting the scratch on his cheek, wincing like a child.
‘Who are you?’ I snap, nudging his lower legs to attract his attention.
‘Fuck off!’ he shouts, kicking back.
‘Tell me who you are or I’ll –’
‘That’s enough, Mr Sieveking,’ a voice says behind me.
I don’t turn and gawp. I know better than that. Instead I swivel to my right, meaning to dive behind the nearest car for cover. A bullet spits up the floor in front of me.
‘I won’t miss with the next. Hands behind your head, Mr Sieveking, then drop to your knees.’ Grimacing with disgust, I do as he orders. The decoy gets to his feet and steps forward, meaning to let me have a fist or knee in the face. ‘There’s no call for that, Officer Langbein.’
‘You said my name!’ the officer yaps.
‘It doesn’t matter. He won’t be telling anyone.’
Langbein glares at me, fingers flexing by his sides, but stays where he is.
‘Fetch the chloroform, Alan,’ the man with the gun says, and Langbein shuffles off to the BMW. ‘We’re going to put you to sleep for a while, Mr Sieveking. I’d wish you pleasant dreams, but we both know it’s only nightmares for you from here on in.’
‘Who the fuck are you?’ I ask, expecting no reply.
‘You’ll see soon enough,’ he purrs.
Langbein returns with a small bottle, which he opens and tips into a cloth. A dark stain spreads from the centre.
‘I’m sure you’ll hold your breath and feign unconsciousness,’ the man behind me says, ‘but I won’t lower my guard until I’m sure you’re out.’
‘If money’s an issue . . . ’
‘It isn’t.’
‘Care to tell me what is?’
‘Soon, Mr Sieveking, soon.’
Langbein jams the handkerchief over my mouth and nose and holds it in place, clasping the back of my head with his other hand to stop me pulling away.
As the fumes set my senses spinning, the man with the gun steps in front of me, revealing his face. It’s a calculated move, designed to make me gasp and draw in the noxious fumes more quickly. The last thing I hear before blacking out is my captor murmuring, ‘Night-night, Severs.’ And the last thing I see through watery tears is the distorted face of Sebastian Dash as he bends over me and laughs.
Then it’s just blackness.
Consciousness returns slowly. At first I think I’m safe in bed. I wonder why it’s so dark, why the bed is rocking and what the strange growling noise is. As my brain clicks into place, I recall the grinning face of Sebastian Dash, and moments later everything is clear.
I’m gagged and my hands are tied behind my back. I try rotating my fingers, in search of the slightest slack, but Dash knows his knots as well as I do. We learnt from the same teachers. I’ll go on testing the ropes – nothing ventured, nothing gained – but Dash isn’t the sort who lets a fish wriggle free once it’s hooked.
I’m in the locked trunk of a moving car. I’ve no idea how much time has passed since I was knocked out. I don’t even begin to guess where he’s taking me.
As well as the rope around my hands, another binds my ankles. They’re linked by a third length, further limiting my movements. There’s also a long, thin noose around my neck, connected to the other ropes. It tightens when I struggle. I’m certain Dash has rigged it so it won’t choke me to death – he wants me alive until he’s had time to play with me – but it could cut off my oxygen supply long enough to force another blackout.
While I seek a weakness in the ropes, I probe the puzzle of how I’ve fallen prey to Sebastian Dash. He must not have fled when the Turk was killed. He hung around, despite the danger, to search for the person who framed him. He couldn’t do that personally while Bond Gardiner and his crew were hunting him. So he must have had help — the decoy, Alan Langbein. Dash probably recruited him to do the legwork, ask questions, stake out pubs. Langbein must have heard about the journalist who was writing a book, checked up on me, maybe followed me and took photos.
I’ve only myself to blame for this. I should have been more careful. I never looked for a tail. I thought Dash was out of the equation. I fucked up, plain and simple, and now I’m going to pay with my life.
I go on working at the knots and plotting ways out of this mess — I’ll head-butt him in the stomach when he opens the trunk, spit in his eye, maybe latch on to his nose and bite. But I know it’s hopeless. Hollywood heroes blast their way out of tight spots like this week in, week out, but that’s not how it works in reality. When your arms and legs are tied, and there’s a rope around your throat, and you’re languishing in the trunk of a killer’s car, you’re finished, roll credits.
My ghosts know it’s the end of me. They’re crouched close around. I can sense them, even though I can’t see clearly, crowing with laughter, knowing their time of release is far closer than I believed it was. They don’t need my help to escape the pull of this world. A bullet through my brain, courtesy of Sebastian Dash, and all their worries are behind them. Their ordeal is almost over. Mine, on the other hand, is just beginning. Where do the souls of the guilty go when they cast off their mortal coil? Nowhere good, I’m guessing.
The car slows and takes a left. By the bumping that follows, I figure we’ve left the main road. Heading somewhere nice and quiet.
Finally the car draws to a stop and I hear the driver getting out. No further sounds, meaning one of them is either still in the car or hasn’t made the journey. A key is inserted into the lock of the trunk and it swings open. My captor nimbly steps back out of the way, in case I’ve managed to work myself free of the ropes.
Although it’s brighter outside than in the trunk, it’s a dark night and it takes my eyes a few moments to adjust and focus on Sebastian Dash, gun in hand. I glare at him, filled with loathing. He chuckles at my foul expression, makes sure I’m still tied tight, then leans forward to remove my gag. ‘It’s been a long time, Brad.’ I don’t reply. ‘You’ve put on a bit of weight, but it suits you.’ Silence. He sighs theatrically. ‘Are you sour because of Antonia?’
‘Fuck you,’ I snarl.
‘Ah. He talks.’ Dash laughs bitingly, then squats and locks gazes. ‘You made the biggest mistake of your life involving me in this shit,’ he says coldly. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t come looking for the son of a bitch who set me up?’ He waits for me to answer. I let him go on waiting. ‘What drove you to this madness, Brad? You’ve hated me a long time, but you weren’t dumb enough to come after me when you could have maybe taken me, when you were sharp and in shape, so I assumed you never would. I thought our quarrel was behind us.’
‘It’s not a quarrel,’ I retort.
‘No?’ His smile returns. ‘What, then? A vendetta?’ I don’t answer. ‘No matter. We’ll find out soon enough. It will all come out in the wash.’ Standing, he raises a cell phone – my phone – and dials one-handed. When he connects, he says, ‘Are you ready
?’ A pause. ‘Alone?’ Another pause. ‘If you pull anything stupid, the deal’s off and you’ll never know.’ A long pause, then he grunts, hits disconnect and dials a new number. ‘He’s there. He says he’s alone and unarmed. Remember what I told you. If it feels wrong . . . ’ Dash listens, grunts again, hangs up.
‘What’s going down?’ I ask.
‘You are,’ he smirks. Then he slams shut the roof of the trunk and plunges me back into darkness.
When the roof lifts again, Alan Langbein is standing beside Sebastian Dash. The two men haul me out of the trunk, Dash wisely taking my head in case I lash out with my bound feet. They drop me to the floor. We’re in an oak-surrounded glade. As I roll on to my back, I spot a third figure behind the others — Bond Gardiner.
‘This is the man you claim killed Mikis?’ Gardiner rumbles.
‘Ed Sieveking, the one and only,’ Dash agrees.
‘He told me his name was Edgar Sanders, that he was writing a book.’
Dash laughs. ‘That might not have been total bullshit. This is the famous Ed Sieveking. Surely you’ve read about his critically acclaimed work in the Times or the Guardian? Modern classics like Nights of Fear and Winter’s Shades.’
‘Summer’s Shades,’ I correct him automatically.
‘A regular on the best-seller lists,’ Dash presses on. ‘The most successful horror writer of his generation.’
Gardiner grunts. ‘I’m not much of a reader.’
‘I’ve never heard of him either,’ Langbein frowns. ‘And I read a lot of horror. Are you sure he’s a best-seller?’
Dash rolls his eyes. ‘I was taking the piss, Alan. This poor fucker couldn’t even give away copies of his lame potboilers, could you, Brad?’
‘Fuck you,’ I grunt.
‘With a limited vocabulary like that, one hardly need wonder why,’ Dash grins, then addresses Gardiner again. ‘I didn’t expect you to recognize his pen name. I bet you know this one, though — Elland Severin.’
