Thom stepped towards me brushing down his wet shirt. I was furious. I stood up and felt my suppressed irritation about to vent.
‘You nearly drowned me!’ I exploded at him, pushing back a chunk of wet hair from my face.
He stopped. The corners of his mouth fell half an inch. He looked me square in the eyes, but didn’t speak.
‘I didn’t need pulling out!’ I fired again.
‘Unbelievable,’ he uttered, looking away for a second. ‘I try to help you and–’
‘Help me?’ I choked on my words with coughing. ‘I was fine until you tried to drown me!’
‘“Tried to drown you!”’ he quoted sardonically. He took another step towards me. ‘Why you ungrateful little–’
‘Ungrateful? Being d-r-a-g-g-e-d backwards underwater!’
Here I heard myself branded an ‘antagonist’ and ‘social misfit’. His hands muffled further insults as he rubbed his wet face. He looked at me again and quickly composed himself, his tone suddenly perking up.
‘Oh dear, I’ve really done it now,’ he teased. ‘Does this mean you won’t accept my friend request on Twitbook?’
‘Laugh all you want! You could have saved the boy and left me; I was fine!’
‘Alex, you were down there so long I thought you’d developed gills! You were yards away from him.’ He pointed. ‘Besides, I’d have only been left with that image of your pitiable attempt to dive. Which I might add honestly gave me the impression you couldn’t swim!’
He saw that. Dammit!
‘If it didn’t endanger anyone’s life,’ he went on, revealing those dimples of his. ‘I’d give my right arm to see that belly flop again!’ He almost giggled, folding his arms across his large chest. ‘How do you perfect such a manoeuvre as that?’
I ignored him while considering what to do. I could hardly drive home in my wet state. I knew Thom wasn’t to blame for the fact I was drenched. This seemed to pacify me a little, even as he continued to fire me up.
‘You know, that temper of yours wants chastising out of you!’ He was practically laughing.
Between chattering teeth I took deep breaths, trying to calm myself. This was not the first time I’d been swimming in the Shockers here, and so it wasn’t the first time I stood soaked on the riverbank. When I was fourteen – around the time I was mucking around in the topiary, or camping out to ghost watch – my friends and I had snuck a rubber dinghy onto the grounds. We were still in our school uniforms when we launched it near Westleigh Bridge, before jumping in recklessly. A couple of rangers went berserk on the riverbank. They followed us downstream as we paddled along laughing. Only we’d ended up calling for their help as we neared the bridge and weir. The dams overflow was too fast and strong to venture down in a little boat. On scrambling to grab on to reeds and thorny brambles, we fell in, popped the boat, and then clambered onto the bank leaving the half-deflated dinghy to course the Shockers alone. The rangers rebuked us as they aided us up the steep bank. Of course, being the age we were, we just ran off laughing.
‘Are you having an episode?’ Thom’s goading tone broke me from my reverie. ‘Do you need a doctor or something stronger perhaps?’
‘I ne–ne–need to get home and ta-take a hot shower.’
‘Sorry, could you repeat that?’ He smirked, leaning an ear towards me. ‘You need to dry off first! You’re ringing wet–’
‘How observant you are!’ I forced out my words to cut him off. ‘Perhaps you have a t–t–towel handy?’
‘Hmm, let me check.’ He patted himself down in a thoroughly sarcastic body search. ‘I do beg your pardon, my lady, but it would seem I don’t have one of those on me.’
I was so stiffened with cold I daren’t cross my arms. Thom began walking in the direction of the Sunken Garden. There he picked up my coat and shoes from the grass and made his way to me. I held out my hand for them but he walked behind me and put my coat over my shoulders. His face had now settled into a gentle smile.
‘Unless you want to develop pneumonia, Cassandra, I suggest you follow my lead.’
‘Where to?’
‘To that there nut house!’ He pointed. ‘Within those elevated walls, residing in a dark attic space is a dark cupboard, containing towels, warm and fluffy.’
With that, he paced away, confident that I would follow like an obedient dog. Stubborn as I was, and annoyed as I felt to comply, I’d begun to shiver uncontrollably. Drips of icy water trickled from my hair to settle on my nape. My clothes clung to me like a wet shower curtain. He was taking me to where he lived. I gave in suddenly, and with stiffened arms trailed along after him, accompanied with the feeling of nervous curiosity.
Twelve
HE WHO RIDES THE PALE HORSE
‘The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?’
– Edgar Allan Poe, The Premature Burial
Was it me, or was Thom surprisingly almost dry by the time we reached the house? He didn’t shiver at all. In fact, he hardly looked any different from usual, whereas I was drawing a fair amount of attention from people we passed.
He opened the stunted black door, which faced the river and sat to one side of the alley. Inside he went, inclining his head to duck the lintel – an action not necessary for me to copy. I’d never been in here before. It led straight into a narrow stairwell that was dreadfully dark. He didn’t flick a light switch, though I anticipated he would as I closed the door behind me. It went pitch-black and I could hear the echo of his footsteps climbing the stairs.
‘Thom?’ I called out, my voice echoing in the shaft. ‘Isn’t there a light? I can’t see a thing!’
I heard his footfalls returning down the stairs, a little more hurriedly than when they went up – then nothing for a few seconds. All I could hear was the sound of my own breathing, accompanied with the chattering of my teeth. I assumed he was groping for the light switch. I had a feeling however that he was just motionless, perhaps even that he stared at me. Suddenly the room lit up with a yellow glow that made my eyes squint. His did not; his pupils remained dilated as ever. He stood right in front of me with his arm outstretched centimetres from my head, above my shoulder, and his hand on the light switch behind me.
He gazed down at me. ‘Better?’
I nodded.
He didn’t move for a moment. His eyes remained fixed on mine as though something strange had caught his attention. Almost certainly the wet strands of hair falling into my face. He looked from my eyes to my mouth and inclined his head a little towards me. I felt confusion with a racing in my chest. Then he bit his lower lip, took his arm away and turned abruptly for the stairs.
The light illuminated the dusty brickwork. Down one side of the staircase was a doorway, probably that which connected to his office.
‘I suppose you’re so used to climbing these’ – I puffed on trying to keep up – ‘you hardly need a light?’
He didn’t answer, though I heard him snigger while taking the steps two-at-a-time. These I guessed were the backstairs for which the servants would have used in its heyday. Uncomfortable is an understatement to describe what I felt climbing them in wet trousers. Each time I bent my knees the cold saturated fabric restricted my movement and sent shivers through me. I was a little breathless when we reached the top. He was not. He gave me a remorseful look as I caught my breath.
I followed him through an open doorway that led into a narrow corridor deprived of any natural light. I could make out the eaves at one end, but to where the corridor ran I couldn’t tell. Only remnants of light from the stairwell lit the jaggedness of the brickwork. It was warm up here, just as you’d expect from an attic. A blatant contrast of smells greeted me: a strong mustiness of brick and wood in a space deficient of fresh air. Thom’s fiery scent beat this down, despite the fact he’d just been in the river.
He went forward and unlocked a door across from the stairwell. I had no idea what to exp
ect. I imagined it might be dreary considering my surroundings now. The scent of him only increased when he opened the door. So much that I could taste it. It tingled on my tongue, fiery at first, with a coolness that followed, much like mint.
Daylight filled his apartment and it surprised me just how cheerful and fresh the atmosphere was. The door opened on to a long open plan living area with kitchen at one end. The roof inclined along the south and west sides, only interrupted by dormer windows. Some of these were open with nets blowing in the cold breeze. Thom went about closing them for me. I could hear the river flowing down below. How lovely it must be to go to sleep at night listening to that sound. Piles of books and short shelved cabinets full of more books filled the recesses between the windows.
‘I always wondered what happened to the Cray’s library. So many,’ I said, shivering.
‘Books give a room a soul, Alex.’
He closed the last window and watched me examine his home. Photographs adorned the walls, particularly an open brick one that ran the length of the room. I couldn’t see one picture that was not of the Cray. Almost every room of the house was there, and at every angle from outside too: of the river and gardens in spring, of the meadows covered in snow. Some in colour, others in black and white. All spectacular. Those on sale in the gift shop weren’t half as good. I noticed that a far corner table held various pieces of camera equipment.
‘Did you take all these?’ I pointed to them.
‘I did.’
‘They’re–’ I was almost lost for a commendable word. ‘They’re extraordinary. You must really love this place, to surround yourself so completely with images of it at every prospect.’
‘Is it weird?’ he asked straight out, with a crooked smile.
‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong with someone taking pride in their talent, and their home,’ I added, seeing the obvious obsession he had with the Cray.
The prints were professional, exact, and well placed together. They weren’t just great shots. They perfectly expressed feelings, too. Creation, passion, even loneliness featured strongly. One beautiful scene was of a bedewed spider’s web at sunrise with the rockery and pond in the background. I noticed that not one picture held any hint of fog, which was so commonly present at the Cray.
‘Do you do anything with them, other than hang them on the wall or upload them to Twitbook?’ I laughed.
He laughed back before shaking his head.
‘You should. They’re great.’
Nearer the open brick wall sat a burgundy leather armchair with an open book on its seat. Under one of the south facing dormers was a matching sofa. I noticed how tidy the place was. At the other end of the room were doors, which I presumed led to a bathroom and bedroom.
He moved the armchair revealing a gas fire in a brick hearth. Then pointing out his bathroom, he told me to use whatever I wanted. I made my way in there, eager to rinse the river taste from my mouth and wash myself. I switched on the light to find a windowless room, decorated in old-fashioned wallpaper from floor to ceiling. I scanned his empty bathroom thinking he must use another since this one looked like a showroom suite from the seventies. Not one bar of soap on the avocado basin, nor toothbrush, not even a hand towel on the vacant rail.
‘Don’t you have any towels?’ I called out to him.
‘Is there a cupboard in there?’ I heard him say from the next room, without any strain in his voice to reach my ears.
It had been difficult to see where it was papered over, camouflaging it with the wall. His voice rose an octave and in a singsong he went on –
‘Initiative is a helping hand that can be found at the end of your arm.’
I didn’t acknowledge this while going through his cupboard. Stocked like the shelves of a shop, it contained toiletries still in their plastic wrappers, such as soaps, gels, toothpastes, tissues – and a pile of neatly folded towels filling the top two shelves. I grabbed one, some shampoo and a bar of soap. On the wall above the sink, a large square marked out where perhaps a mirror had been. There was no telling what I looked like, but I could imagine. I jumped straight into the shower fully dressed – what did it matter? At least I could rinse out some muck from my clothes before stripping.
I could have stayed under the hot running water for hours, but I had to get a move on. Grabbing the towel, I got out finding that the one I’d taken from the cupboard was too small. I searched it again to find nothing larger. I couldn’t appear before Thom in just this. I would have to put my wet clothes back on to dry off in front of the fire. I wrung out my trousers and sweater in the bathtub, then cringed as I stretched the wet fabric back over myself. I wrapped my hair up in the towel and christened the sink with the lathered bar of soap.
Thom wasn’t in the living area when I returned, so I went and stood in front of the fire. I shuddered as the wonderful heat reached my icy skin. A ghost of steam drew off my wet clothes and floated away from me as if my soul was leaving my body. I turned to warm my back and taking down my hair dabbed it with the towel. Out the window opposite, I had a fantastic view over the western grounds of the Cray. Thom entered from the other door in a change of clothes, holding another shirt in his hand. His hair was dry and he looked a little flushed in the cheeks. I realised I was standing there soaked through and freezing; I quickly folded my arms, mortified!
I’d never seen him with any colour to his pale complexion. I recalled Stacey once asking me if I found him attractive. I certainly did, more so than I knew before, despite the fact he wasn’t especially good-looking. I felt this overwhelming desire to go right up to him and study his face, touch him even, before feeling a little embarrassment for the thought. He smirked as if he could hear my heart rhythm accelerating. Confidently he approached and handed me his shirt.
‘Go and change into this,’ he commanded. ‘Your jersey will never dry like that.’
‘Thanks. I couldn’t just borrow a bathrobe?’
‘You could, but I don’t own one.’
‘What kind of person doesn’t have a bathrobe?’
He pointed to himself. ‘Now take this. It’s the best I can do. My jeans will never fit you.’
‘I’m only too glad,’ I replied, taking his shirt bashfully and making my way back to the bathroom. It drowned me, but was warm and dry. I tied a knot in it at my waist to allow my own trousers to dry off. Now enveloped in his spicy scent I felt some desire to stay longer, though I knew I needed to get going soon. He was waiting for me when I returned to stand before the fire again.
‘What do you think?’ I said, exaggerating a pose to fend off my own diffidence.
‘Very nice.’ His eyes went to the floor. ‘I don’t have much else to offer,’ he said unembarrassed. ‘But if you’d like a cup of tea or something I can fetch one from downstairs?’
‘Thanks, but I’m okay. I drank water from the tap.’
‘I’m sure that was delicious. I suppose one woman’s poison is another’s champagne.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far, but it beats a drink from the river. I really better get going. Mrs Evans won’t be too pleased with me as it is.’
‘She’s hardly any reason to be displeased with you!’ he exclaimed. ‘Just warm yourself. I’m sure she’s happy enough with whatever narrative your friend gives. What you did was brave. Ultimately they cannot condemn you for diving – if it can be called that – into a river to save a boy’s life!’
I felt horrible now for having shouted at him. Grateful too that he was going out of his way for me. Despite my stubbornness to admit fault, my conscience wouldn’t let it go unsaid, even if it came out in a roundabout way.
‘Thank you,’ I said steadily, ‘for the shirt, and for bringing me here to dry off. You didn’t have to do that, especially after I had a go at you. I’m trying to say sorry for it.’
‘Did I scare you?’ he asked solemnly.
‘I was scared.’
‘Did you think that that was it? That you were going to perish in th
e water?’
‘It crossed my mind.’
He looked glum like it had crossed his too. An anxious look came over him while he stood very still by the window. It reminded me of how he’d looked earlier, outside.
‘Who were you looking for at the river?’ I asked. ‘Right after you tried to drown me. You looked like you were expecting someone.’
He scoffed, and in such a way, I knew I’d provoked him and should now expect a ribbing.
‘I was searching for a scoundrel, as regular as Birth!’ He forced back a smile in his usual way, maintaining that half-serious, half-jesting style. ‘But He Who Rides the Pale Horse didn’t show, that odious Grim Reaper! I felt– I thought you might be a goner, even as you sat on the bank dripping like a mermaid. Now I think you must have had a near-end experience in your life already, one where you laughed in the face of Death. How that scythed end-bringer was no doubt reduced to a vegetative state by your mental assaults, and gave up on taking you. Now of course when Death looks back on its to-do list and your name crops up, it has a revelation to let you live forever!’
He moved towards the armchair as he said this, picking up the book and placing it to one side, he sat down. There was no point harassing him for a straight answer. I knew well enough he wouldn’t give it, and would only evade it further by giving me more of his talk.
It soon entered my mind that Thom was just teasing me, and in reality had seen something odd, which distracted him. I recalled, of course, the mud-eyed stranger, whom I had thought at the time may have been lurking nearby.
Thom was meanwhile unpacking shoe polish and brushes from a box to one side of the chair. Taking a pair of his large black shoes, he began buffing them vigorously over some newspaper.
Halton Cray (Shadows of the World Book 1) Page 11
