Black Light

by Bedford, K. A.

  Breakfast finished, newspapers read, dishes cleared away, I sat thinking about recent matters over a fresh cup of coffee. What was going on? Mysterious notes on Tuesday and Wednesday, but not today? Perhaps, I thought for a moment, there would be no further notes. That made even less sense. Where was the hook, the climax? It was hard to believe that someone in this town was going to a great deal of trouble over me, because they hated me so much — but now they were finished? Such things did not work this way. I suspected that the note-sender was not finished at all; he was preparing the next phase of his operation, whatever that might entail. Which led me to wonder about the long-term efficacy of Gordon’s protection charm. And about one Mr Ukresh Nor, with whom Julia got on so strangely well, to the point that they could chat about me and his summoner’s plans — at least to some extent. That all felt extremely wrong to me. I could not believe that a notional “good” person, under any circumstances, could be in contact with a notional “evil” person (such as I presumed Mr Nor to be) without suffering some sort of erosion of her … her very self, her, in this case, “Julia-ness”. Evil contaminated all it touched, even if the touch was only at the level of minds conversing. Evil tempted. It persuaded. As often as it presented itself through anger and hatred, it also presented itself as a form of love. Evil could show itself as the very last person of whom one would expect evil.

  Gordon, if he were here, would criticise me, as he had done in the past, about my use of such naïve terms as “good” and “evil”. He did not believe in either, he said, and that belief was a fundamental part of his studies in magic. All there was, he said, was what people did, and what people felt. It was why he believed that “innocent” children were capable of murder, why he believed that everyone was capable of the most grievous acts, under the right conditions. It was why, when he first told me about his protection charm, he had said that it would protect me from “malicious” entities, rather than “evil” ones. I wondered if this distinction offered more or less comfort. Then again, if it saved my life …

  I decided to spend the afternoon working on the novel and made reasonable progress. The calendar over my desk showed that today, Thursday, was the thirty-first of May. I still had two and a half months in which to complete Eastlake’s adventures. In ordinary circumstances — that is, without ominous questions from beyond the grave and the awareness of a genteel demon biding his time in a separate dimension before coming to kill me — I might have managed the task with time to spare, but now I was no longer so sure.

  Gordon telephoned shortly before dinner. We chatted for a few moments about nothing much before he said, “I think I may have found the property.”

  “You found the cellar?”

  “There are only two farms in the area, where Miss Templesmith had — ”

  “Are they occupied?”

  “One is, it’s, ah … ” I heard him rustling through pages of notes. “Wait a moment … ” There was more rustling. “Right. Yes. Here it is. The occupied one … do you know the Dawkinses?”

  “I think I’ve seen Frank Dawkins at the Commercial Hotel on the occasional Friday. Big chap. Very large beer belly. Squinty eyes that don’t miss anything. Looks like he could sling a bull over his shoulder without disturbing his beer. Looks after his chums. I think he has a wife and a horde of unruly children — I’ve never seen Mrs Dawkins.”

  “She’s a bit of a funny old stick, the Mrs of the piece. I see her sometimes when I’m doing the post. Always invites me in for a cuppa, talks my head off.”

  “What about the other property, the abandoned one?” It seemed at least reasonably obvious to me that our man would make use of an abandoned property, where he would not need to worry about encountering curious homesteaders.

  “It used to be a sheep station run by … ” He checked through his notes. “The Cahill family. They went back to Europe, and put their lawyers in charge of selling off the property for them. This was, ah, six years ago. I have no idea why they all left , nor why their lawyers haven’t been able to sell the place since.”

  “Wool market collapse?” I wondered out loud, but privately I wondered about the pernicious influence of local elves, perhaps poisoning Cahill’s land.

  “It’d be easy enough to find out. Current wool prices are listed in the newspaper each week. Perhaps a search through the archives might be worthwhile … ”

  I thought about this. It sounded promising, though what I wanted most of all at this point was simply to get out to these properties to look around. Searching the Dawkins property, however, would be tricky. Tonight I had promised to visit Julia again, too, which meant the earliest opportunity to look around would be either tomorrow, Friday night, or, possibly, much later this evening, after the hospital visit. Even as I formed the thought, I realised that it sounded like the thought of a desperate woman, someone who had taken leave of her senses. I suspect I was still keyed up after the outrageous letter from Father William. As for the prospect of sneaking around these two properties, after midnight, in this weather, with little notion of what I was trying to find, other than “a cellar” — it all seemed a little foolish.

  Then again, the little voice argued, what if doing so led you to information that could save your life?

  Oh yes, and what if, in the course of finding this information, I was apprehended? It was easy to imagine Julia loving the idea of sneaking about in the dark, searching for hidden clues; I was not so sanguine. I had a reputation, of sorts, to protect. The locals accepted me, more or less, even if they did think I was, one told me, “an odd sort of bird”. I did not want to be known instead for mysteriously lurking about on farms in the wee hours of the night with no good explanation for what I might be doing there. “Oh sorry, officer. I was just in the neighbourhood and had a feeling I might be able to locate a demon on this property. Yes, that’s right, a demon. By the name of Ukresh Nor, said to be a shy, retiring type, and also said to be planning to kill me in my bed any day now.”

  I told Gordon about these concerns. He said, without pausing, “Don’t worry about it. You’ll be fine!”

  Indicating I was unclear on what Gordon meant by this, he clarified: “No-one will know we’re there, I guarantee it. A wee little shadow glamour, combined with the protection charm you’re already wearing, and you could practically walk around naked in full daylight, and just about no-one would see you. They might have a feeling something funny’s going on, and it’s true that certain animals won’t like it, but you’ll be fine.”

  “Walk around naked, Gordon?”

  “Figure of speech, sort of thing. You know.”

  “So, this magic of yours is really that good, is it?” It seemed unlikely.

  “Hasn’t let me down yet,” he said, and I could hear him smiling.

  “What if we run into the demon-chap? What then? Could he see us?”

  “Ah. That is a different kettle of fish, that is. I would say, hmm, yes, absolutely. I mean, this little glamour thing, it’s just meant to keep regular people from seeing anything odd going on. And people are terribly unobservant to start with, you see, you’re only enhancing what they already have, or don’t have, so to speak … Most people wouldn’t notice if their trousers had fallen down, they’re so vague.”

  “I’m sure I’d notice,” I said.

  Later, up at Rockingham Hospital, Julia had some good news. “They’re letting me come home tomorrow!”

  I had not even sat down yet. “Tomorrow? That soon?”

  “Oh yes. The medicos have been giving me quite the going-over, and they can’t find anything wrong with me, or at least nothing that losing a few pounds wouldn’t fix, that is!” She beamed. I was surprised anyone would see Julia as “plump”. “They say they can’t find any trace of the peculiar brain-activity I was apparently showing before, and they feel I’m rather taking up a bed that could better be used for someone who’s actually sick. How about that, then!”

  “Are you sure they aren’t more concerned about their tea b
udget blowing out?”

  She smiled again. “Oh, Ruth!” Though, it must be reported, she was midway through a cup as she said all this to me. “And how has your day been, dear?”

  I told her about the letter from Father William.

  Julia was displeased. “He said that?”

  “He did. The price of my forgiveness would be a nice cheque, and suitable grovelling, no doubt at his very feet.”

  “I can’t believe a man of God would say such a thing to you!”

  “At this point, I would not be at all surprised to learn that our Mr Nor had been summoned by Father William, or someone in his employ.” I’d been thinking about this during the drive up to Rockingham today.

  “Do you really think so?” Julia said. “I can’t really see a harmless old man being your villain, dear.” After a moment’s contemplation she added, “And what’s new on the intrigue front?”

  “A harmless old man?” I said, remembering the look on his face that day as he sneered at me, and threw mud on my husband’s memory. “I hardly think so. I think he could be just bitter and miserable enough to be the culprit.”

  “Well, quite,” Julia said. To smooth things over, I explained that Gordon had identified two possible locations for the cellar. Julia, hearing of Gordon’s discoveries, beamed. “He’s so terribly clever!”

  “He certainly has his moments, I must admit,” I said, thinking about yesterday, and Gordon’s stunning suggestion that Antony and my father had been somehow involved in espionage. I was still trying to work my mind around that one. Of course, though, here I was talking to the lady who would be able to put all such ideas to bed for good.

  As though reading my mind, Julia’s next question was, “So how do you feel about dipping your toes into the deadworld?”

  “How do you think?” I said, and I must have looked rather amusing as I shuddered, because Julia laughed.

  “Ruth, you silly thing! It’s not like that at all! Not at all! You’ll be surprised at just how much it looks like this world, in fact. You’ll be wondering why you ever made such a silly fuss about it, I guarantee it.”

  “I do find that hard to believe, Julia, it’s just … ”

  “How would you feel about a small wager on the matter?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Just to make it interesting — and to show you I’m serious about this. I’m willing to bet one pound that you’ll be shocked at how ordinary it all seems, and embarrassed at all the fuss you put up over the years. How do you like that?” She stuck her pale hand out; it did not shake.

  “Julia … ” I did not know what to think. I certainly had not expected this development. And, I felt a sizeable part of my mind protesting, and fighting the idea that there could be anything “normal” or “ordinary” about what still seemed irredeemably ghoulish and macabre. There might be useful answers to some particular questions, but I also did not want actually to see members of my family, people whom I had long ago consigned to the deepest parts of memory. I had no desire to dredge all that up. It felt, in a word, like we were going to set out, all jaunty and merry, to exhume various deceased members of my family. The idea was revolting. I did not understand why Julia treated the entire thing like a trip to the zoo.

  She took away her hand, disappointed. “You’ll see. You mark my words, you’ll see.”

  This was part of what scared me about the entire thing. I did not want to see. I did not want to see that the realm of death was not so different from the realm of life. How could I explain to her that I was used to thinking of my family and lost friends as gone? To say nothing of all those soldiers, and, more recently, all those poor wretches who had died of influenza. Julia was talking about a whole teeming world of death. I could hardly stand the thought.

  Then there was a very specific fear: that we would go there, consult whatever records Julia said they kept, and we would find out that Antony was, indeed, not there. That he had never been there. Twelve long years I had spent believing in his death, and mourning for him. I still missed his body and his heat in bed. I still had some of his clothes; sometimes I wore his shirts to bed, and my own warmth would bring out his personal scent. For a dreamy while, on the edge of sleep, I could almost imagine he was still with me. Realising, of course, that he was not, and had not been for a long time, was a hard thing, and it was why I did not often do this. Could I really face that disappointment all over again?

  I worried, too, that we would find Father, and that he would know things that would be terrible for me to learn. I did not know if I could stand to find out that my father had been a traitor. What possible reasons could justify treachery? It was beyond rational thought, at least to my outraged mind at that point. This was my father, not a normal, vulnerable, flawed man. A man who perhaps did have his reasons, though they might not have been good ones, for doing what he did. I was not ready to have my memory of him destroyed like this.

  Julia was looking at me. She leaned forward and hugged me. She was warm, and she smelled comforting, almost the way my mother used to smell. Julia rubbed my back and told me it would be all right. She told me I did not have to go with her, if it bothered me that much. She could go by herself, or perhaps with Mr Duncombe, and they could report back with their findings. It would be fine, she said. I did not have to worry so. She would never make me do anything that I really did not wish to do.

  I did not sleep well that night. On the other hand, though I lay awake a long time listening to wind and rain in the trees, to the faint sounds of the old house settling into its foundations, I did not meet Mr Ukresh Nor. He, or whoever controlled him, was biding his time.

  21

  Rutherford woke me late Friday morning. I did not know how, but somehow he knew that I had neither slept well, nor for very long. The coffee that morning was extravagantly strong, and seemed to hit my brain like a mailed fist. As I dressed behind a screen, Rutherford said, “I must inform you, ma’am, that Mr Duncombe has delivered the day’s post — ”

  I bolted downstairs, still buttoning my shirt, still struggling with the waistcoat, feet still bare. The polished wooden steps were cold; their edges sharp. Rutherford came along behind, trying to get my attention. “Ma’am?”

  Vicky had left today’s bundle of post on the sideboard. Breakfast had not yet been served.

  Sorting through the modest bundle, I soon found it.

  The note-sender had returned.

  I slit the envelope with my thumbnail and retrieved the folded octavo note.

  There was that aroma again. Soap and … what was that smell?

  Opening the note, I saw there was more than the traditional stark question:

  WHY DID YOUR HUSBAND KILL YOUR FATHER?

  YOUR FATHER SIGNED A CONFESSION.

  IT IS VERY DETAILED, INDEED.

  WOULD YOU LIKE TO READ IT?

  WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW WHAT IT SAYS?

  COULD YOU BEAR NOT KNOWING?

  PLACE THIS LETTER IN YOUR LETTERBOX BY MIDNIGHT TONIGHT.

  INCLUDE ONE THOUSAND POUNDS IN CASH.

  WE WILL BE IN TOUCH SOON.

  I tried to telephone Gordon. The morning-shift operator, Val, told me, “No can do, love, sorry. Looks like some trees fell over last night, over Sloat Road way? ’S buggered up the whole works, I reckon.”

  “Can’t you do anything?”

  “Not much. Some blokes from up in the city are on their way to have a bit of a look at it.”

  It was easy to imagine the rest. “And they’ll take at least until tomorrow just having a look at the problem … ”

  “Sorry, love. Is it urgent?”

  I hung up. Rutherford said, “I shall ready the car, ma’am.”

  Gordon was in his workshop, in his oft-patched and filthy overalls, surrounded by a dizzying array of bits and pieces, all of them, he would have me believe, destined to one day form part of his elusive time machine. The whole place reeked of oil and electricity, a worrying mixture. Gordon looked as if he had been there all night. H
is face was a smear of dark smudges. And, as ever, too many dogs leaped and barked around me. Something looked not quite right about them, though, that was hard to spot. And in my haste to get here I’d forgotten to bring them any treats.

  He said, seeing the look on my face, “I’ll just get cleaned up. Be right with you.”

  This took a further twenty minutes, but when he emerged from the laundry room he was clean and fresh-faced, now reeking of the better odour of degreasing oil, wiping his large, pale hands on an old rag.

  As we waited for his old kettle to boil, I showed Gordon the latest note, and its envelope. He held each by corners and edges, and peered closely at every surface. “Smells the same,” he said. “What are you going to do about that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s wanting money.”

  The kettle boiled. Gordon set about making tea.

  “Do you believe it, this business about Antony killing your father?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. I don’t want to believe it, obviously. It’s just — ”

  “You need to know the truth.”

  “Julia’s coming home from hospital this afternoon.”

  He brightened, “That’s marvellous! What a relief that must be!”

  “Yes, and she’s planning to take me, and of course you’re invited, too, on a little jaunt to … ” I couldn’t finish the thought. It was still too much to face.

  “The deadworld?”

  “Yes,” I said. “The very idea curdles my blood.”

  Gordon was more philosophical. “From Miss Templesmith’s descriptions, it doesn’t sound too horrifying.”

  “Perhaps that’s exactly the problem.”

  “I expect it’s practically overrun with lost soldiers,” Gordon said, staring into his tea.

  “Yes.”

  “Still, I’m sure you’d rather, as it were, die than visit … ”

  “Quite. In any case, Julia says it’s the only way to find the truth about everything.”