by Mark Cassell
Such a small box and looked more innocent than the instrument case, though both housed something equally curious and dangerous. Of course a knife wouldn’t be as innocent as a musical instrument, if that was what had been inside it. No matter the ornate qualities and monetary value of the knife—the athame—its blade was deadly, and having seen the Fabric’s power, no wonder Victor had tried to persuade his brother to borrow his gloves, for whatever good they might’ve done. Victor apparently had some idea of what was going on. The Witchblade, the Shadow Fabric; I again wondered about coincidence of finding them. There was none of that here.
Victor hid the bloodied weapon from view and snatched his gloves from under the table. Finally, he saw my expression.
“Don’t worry.” He pulled the gloves on. “We can fix this.”
I tilted my head.
“I think,” he added, and stood up.
“Victor? Stanley…”
“I know, I—”
We both spun to the crash of the front door, the sound reverberating in the room. The light fittings shook. My immediate thought was that the Shadow Fabric had returned, and my breath stuck in my throat. Victor’s eyes bulged.
A hooded figure charged into the room. Perhaps the Fabric had manifested into human form, wearing black with something red across the head. No, this slight figure, feminine, was entirely real: black jeans and a black hoodie, red scarf and sunglasses.
She stopped and waved a gun in our faces. Knowing a bullet lurked a mere trigger-pull away, a coldness ran through me. So many things in my past remained hidden from me, and I was certain up until then, I’d never before been confronted by someone holding a gun, its muzzle a deathly O waiting for me to do the wrong thing.
The red scarf was taut over her mouth, sunglasses hiding her eyes. The only feature which stood out was a blonde wisp of hair that arced beneath the hood.
“The knife,” she said, her voice muffled. The gun moved from Victor to me, and then to Victor again.
My heartbeat pounded my ears. It tuned out everything. All I saw was the gun. In my head, I screamed for Victor to hand the damn thing to her.
His already slumped shoulders dropped further and he held out the box. She grabbed it, and with a flick of the thumb, it popped open and snapped shut. One swift movement, all without the barrel of her gun wavering. Leaning towards the table, her head tilted for a view into the violin case. Apparently satisfied with its gaping emptiness, she circled us and paced backwards, reaching the door.
As she left, she said, “Don’t follow me.”
Silence poured into the room.
I stood with Victor, a patch of blood at our feet. From outside, a car engine roared, followed by a screech of tyres. I snapped my head up and leaned towards the window as a familiar red convertible disappeared down the road. The bitch had been following us since yesterday, and most likely had been following Victor for a lot longer.
I squeezed the cash in my pocket and followed Victor’s gaze.
Blood.
CHAPTER 9
Wednesday
When we stare at something and don’t quite see it, lost in our own head and someone talks to us, we’re reluctant to lose that eye-locking trance. We’re conscious of our staring eyes, we look without seeing. At that moment, I must’ve appeared as though I scrutinised the poster on the wall. I’d been there for a while, waiting outside Goodwin’s office. Apparently, he was busy and would be right with me.
“Thinking of going?” a voice drifted over my shoulder.
I focused on the poster: New Tide Chamber Orchestra, this Saturday.
The resident beauty therapist stood beside me. An attractive girl with dark hair over slender shoulders. Her figure would make any man do a double-take. She continued when realising I wasn’t going to answer.
“I reckon it’ll be cool to go, and ticket sales have gone well according to Gina Godfrey. She’s one of my clients.” She laughed and added, “And a bit nosy.”
Her perfume filled me up. I tried to smile and doubted it reached eyes reflecting a night of duvet-kicking. After leaving Stanley’s house, I’d driven Victor home. The journey dragged with few words exchanged. I imagined a driving instructor would feel the same on the way back from a test centre having to drive a pupil home after a failed test. Wanting to say something—anything—to reassure him all can be fixed. No matter the tears, the frustration, the disappointment, all can be rectified with practice. As far as my drive went, there were no words of consolation. Things couldn’t be fixed with a few hours of practice. Someone had died. That someone—the man’s brother—was dead. And to top it all off, a cloud of shadow had essentially eaten his corpse.
Pretty fucked up.
As gorgeous as this young lady beside me was—Natalie had worked at the House for as long as I’d been there—her presence did little to reassure me of the nicer things in life.
“Not sure.” This was the first thing I’d said all morning. I had ignored Dean at reception. He’d seen me approaching the office and buzzed Goodwin for me, but I didn’t acknowledge the man. Even when he’d called across the foyer to inform me Goodwin would be with me, I didn’t thank him.
“It’s Wednesday. Mid-week. Was it a heavy night?” Natalie’s expression softened me.
“Could say that.” I nodded. “I’d like to go, yeah, but…”
“Need a date?”
I didn’t know what to say. Hunger stabbed my stomach.
She pulled her handbag tighter over her shoulder. “See you later.”
I watched her walk away and all I thought of was the Shadow Fabric taking Stanley’s body.
Dean was talking on the phone, something about the marquee and the concert. It was a big event for a village such as Mabley Holt.
Goodwin’s door opened and there he stood. Smoke plumed about his head like a deformed halo.
“How are you?” He waved his cigar into the room.
All morning, I’d rehearsed a kind of speech, to get the story out, to tell Goodwin of Victor’s family visit. Of course, faced with the only family I had, my tongue wouldn’t move. My lips twitched pathetically.
Goodwin’s eyes widened, the cigar halfway to his lips. “What’s up?”
I collapsed into a leather armchair.
“You don’t look yourself.” He circled the desk and sank into his chair. It creaked.
The words in my head were as swollen as my tongue. Finally, I managed, “Victor.”
He jerked his head back. “Everything okay with him?”
“Last night,” I sputtered, “we went to see his brother…Stanley’s dead.”
“What happened?” It was the first time I’d heard the man raise his voice. He pressed the stub of cigar into the ashtray and lit another.
“Victor’s fine.” I dragged a hand from my forehead to chin, squeezing my jaw. I’d forgotten to shave. “As fine as anyone can be after watching their own brother die. He killed him.”
“How?”
“Victor had a knife and Stanley had some black fabric. It came alive, Goodwin. I’ve never seen anything like it…it moved, took hold of Victor’s hand and made him kill Stanley.”
Goodwin nodded. I was conscious of biting my top lip.
“The Shadow Fabric took Stanley,” I added. “It folded around him and took the body.”
Goodwin’s thoughts wrinkled his forehead.
My fingernails continued to rake the stubble. “Never seen anything like it. Stanley’s body vanished into the shadows!”
“Leo, everything’s going to be okay.”
“The man should hand himself in. Shit. I should go to the police. I witnessed a murder, Goodwin. A man died. He was stabbed. Killed. He’s dead!”
“Yes, he’s dead, and you also saw him disappear into the shadows. That in itself should make you realise this isn’t an ordinary situation.”
“Murder is not an ordinary situation. It doesn’t happen every day.”
“Unfortunately, it does.” Goodwin glanced
at a photo on his desk. It showed a gentleman with familiar round features standing beside a Rolls Royce. “Mankind’s own evil killed the greatest human being I ever knew.”
A clock bounced the seconds around the office. It wasn’t often he spoke of his family. All I knew was that a young Goodwin witnessed the unmotivated murder of his father. I didn’t care about any of that right now. All I cared for was having seen Victor murder his brother.
“Goodwin, you know what I mean.”
He ground out his cigar. “Let’s go for a walk.” He stood up.
An invisible belt had been pulled across my chest, its buckle cranked to the tightest notch. Reaching out with shaky hands, I gripped the desk and hefted my body up. My legs were weak, my knee throbbed, and my heartbeat slammed in my skull. I paused, clenched my teeth, and stood straight.
“Come on.” Goodwin’s voice floated from the doorway behind me.
I plodded into the foyer, following Goodwin. We headed past the spa, the massage room, the gym and its adjacent studio, and made our way through the windowed portal along the pool area that took us onto the rear terrace and into the overcast morning.
The echoes of someone sweeping came to us and Goodwin slowed as we rounded a corner.
“Hang on, Leo,” he said, and then in a louder voice, “Suzy, please don’t leave boxes of products around.”
This annoyed me. I had more important things to discuss than a box of cleaning products.
The young face of one of the House’s newest employees appeared. She ambled over and threw me a toothy smile. “Hi, Leo.”
I nodded. There was a deadness in the corners of my mouth.
She faced Goodwin. “They’ve just been delivered and I didn’t see the point in taking them to the storeroom before I used one, and it’s not for long. These tables out here need a good scrub.”
Goodwin’s shoulders relaxed.
“It’s all good,” he said. “I don’t like seeing boxes hanging around, that’s all. It makes the place look untidy. Besides, the housekeepers have a habit of leaving cans of polish around.”
“That’s never me.”
“I know it’s not. You’re doing okay.”
We left the terrace and stepped onto a gravel path, while behind us the sweeping resumed.
“Fresh air,” Goodwin mumbled, and he led us between a row of laurel hedging. To our right a water fountain bubbled onto lily-pads, and on the left a stretch of grass featuring a sundial pointed to aged willows. The gravel path would eventually take us to the edge of the estate, beyond which lay open farmland.
We walked in silence for a while, my chest no longer tight.
“It was unnatural,” I finally said. “These things just don’t happen.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Our pace slowed.
“Yes, I do. Victor and Stanley, Polly and myself, we’re wrapped up in something which is supernatural.”
I thought of Stanley enveloped by the Fabric, its presence overwhelming as I’d stood helpless. And I wondered about the supposed witch and who else had been killed. Nothing was coincidental.
“We’re against it, please know this. We don’t relish being a part of it. It came upon us a long time ago, and ever since then, we’re involved. To the end.”
This was all new to me, making me wonder what else Goodwin had kept from me.
“Tell me what happened, Leo.”
I told him, sparing nothing, recounting even the smallest detail. It was important. From Stanley’s obnoxious who-is-this moment to the point where I had a gun in my face.
“Stanley is gone,” he said once I’d finished. “No one can survive the Fabric. It’s sad to know he’s dead, but of the four of us, it’s better him. He was too…he was too volatile. Especially after what he did.”
“What?” I doubted I’d be surprised by anything that man had done.
“Only Polly knows exactly what happened, but know this: Stanley was not a nice person.”
“Got that from the moment I met him.”
“Indeed. All I will say is that the three of us need you. You’re strong, Leo. You have a good head on your shoulders, no matter how strange everything yesterday appeared to be. I shall not lie to you, it is going to get worse.”
I stared at him.
“Stay with us,” he added. “Stay strong.”
I wanted out. I didn’t want to stay here. Perhaps I’d go travelling again. I watched my feet kick at the dirt. “What is the Shadow Fabric? Where did it come from? What’s the deal with the Witchblade?”
“Victor is the best person to speak with, he’s the brains when it comes to details. He has the literature.”
“He has.”
The pathway came to an end, and so did our walk. Spread before us, the countryside failed to provide any security. Having now experienced a total shift in perception, I couldn’t find peace where once I would. The two of us stood silent, yet my head was filled with noise. Too much, and I knew it.
“I think…” Goodwin chewed the words around an unlit cigar. “Victor is going to need you now more than ever. Don’t see him as just your boss. You’re more than just his driver.”
A tractor crept across a field, and I squinted to keep it in sight. My lips were pressed together, my jaw aching. It was almost as if Goodwin didn’t give a shit about Stanley’s death. What precisely had that bad guy done to Polly?
From the corner of my eye, Goodwin’s lighter flared. Smoking tobacco leaves snatched the fresh air away.
I needed answers to this madness, and maybe I drove too fast into London to Victor’s flat. By the time I stood outside his door, beating my fist against the wood, I fancied I could still smell Goodwin’s cigar.
It seemed like minutes had passed, yet likely only seconds, when Victor’s glazed eyes peered past me. At least he’d managed to open the door. The stink of alcohol pushed itself into the hallway as he staggered sideways. He mumbled and waved me into his flat. I guessed I’d have to wait for sensible answers.
Thin lines of sunlight leaked around the curtains. He slammed the door and after walking into me, dropped to where he’d evidently been sitting. The sofa shifted a small distance and knocked a stack of books. The top few tumbled. Several empty wine bottles rolled away from his bare feet and short-lived laughter erupted from his throat. His lips were stained purple, teeth black. Even his loose shirt—yesterday’s clothes by the look of it—showed a few splashes of the stuff. His head wobbling, he stared through me. The failed light in the room darkened his sockets and his chin glinted with silver stubble.
“It’s all shit, my friend,” he said. “We’ve lost. I’ve lost. The whole bloody human race has lost.”
Swearing didn’t suit this guy. I ignored him, went over to the window and yanked open the curtains. It sounded like wings taking flight, beating once in the air. The drapes flew against the bookcases.
Victor hissed and spat as though the sunlight burned him.
It was late afternoon and the sun was fierce, yet comforting. Ever since leaving the House, I’d been unable to stop replaying everything in my head. The moment which most haunted me was Stanley’s dead face being swallowed by darkness, the Shadow Fabric.
Victor pressed both palms into his eyes and mumbled curses.
“Too many shadows in here, Victor.” I didn’t mean it as a joke.
His laughter bounced around us, a humourless uproar that faded into a chuckle, occasionally repeating the word shadows.
I went into the kitchen, and by the time I finished making coffee, he was snoring. Placing the two mugs on the table, I switched off the lamp. Could his dreams be at all peaceful? I sank into the sofa opposite him and grabbed the large book I’d noticed when first meeting him. It creaked as I pulled it open. Sunlight illuminated the title page: Necromeleons. I’d never heard of it, and sure as hell didn’t know what necromeleons were. Perhaps once I did, and I’d forgotten. The word itself intrigued me, let alone this stained tome with its tat
ty binding. The title reminded me of the word chameleon. With an anonymous author, no publisher listed, nor a year of actual publication, this book cried for further questions.
Across from me, Victor snored into a cushion.
Turning a couple of pages, the not-unpleasant smell of old paper wafted up and I scanned the text. From what I could tell—given my limited knowledge of languages—it was a mixture of Latin, German, French…perhaps others. As I flipped another page, a single sheet of paper, torn perforations and dog-eared, slipped out. I snatched at it. Scribbled in pencil were two columns: one side was Latin, the other in English:
Necro – Corpse
Mortuus – Dead
Occultus – Hidden
Pedibus – Walk
Umbra – Shadow
Textum – Fabric
Folium – Leaf
Necro, meaning corpse? I flicked back to the title page again: Necromeleons. Necro-chameleon? A corpse that changes? My stomach churned. None of these words offered any reassurance. Maybe it was Victor’s handwriting, I wasn’t sure.
I put the piece of paper to one side.
Thumbing more pages of the book, it proved solid with text for the most part, and occasionally an illustration leapt out at me. Some were portraits of the average 16th- and 17th-century ladies and gentlemen, while others depicted orgies of creatures, bloodied and frantic in the rituals of feasting; burning witches at the stake; cats, frogs, dogs, and goats; each surrounded by diagrams. There were even a few images of the sun and moon and planets in alignment.
Voodoo, the occult, what was all this? I thought of the man in the antique shop. Witches and witchcraft? I wanted to laugh.
One image stood out, a full page sketch. It illustrated a man climbing from what I first saw as a tunnel or a mineshaft, perhaps. On closer inspection, I knew it to be a vortex of shadows. The way the artist had shaded around the figure, it appeared as smoke, but having seen the Shadow Fabric at work, I had no doubt what it was. This scene took place in front of a brick wall, its masonry sharp and precise. Not much detail, simple straight lines of any bricks and mortar structure. The artist had spent more time drawing the man himself. Smartly dressed, difficult to pinpoint the era which his clothes suggested; ambiguous, even down to the featureless shoes. It was his face—such incredible detail; his head abnormally stretched, pulled sideways and downwards, warping his appearance. The skin of his face drooped like it melted. It wasn’t so much the dripping skin that I scrutinized, it was the man’s expression. Was he actually smiling?
