Elfland

by Freda Warrington

  It was dark by the time Sam approached Stonegate Manor. He was exhausted from the long journey. He half-wished he could have stayed on the Mediterranean for good—with sunshine, olive groves and casual work to sustain him—but an ever-stronger impulse drew him home. Family, guilt, the hope that things might one day get better. Images of a slender, curvy, beautiful girl with masses of plum-brown hair and bright silver-grey eyes . . . the hope that her contempt for him might have mellowed.

  There had been a couple of passing girlfriends and empty one-night stands. Finally he’d spent a disastrous few months with a stunning Greek girl, all honey skin and blue-black hair. Unfortunately she’d turned out to be a devotee of high melodrama, with a keen interest in shotguns and a tendency to fire indiscriminately at walls and ceilings when she was angry. In the end, preserving life and sanity, he’d fled.

  Never for one moment had he stopped thinking about Rosie.

  The late bus from Ashvale was long gone and there were no taxis to be found, so he’d walked the last few miles. The hill was as steep and the wind as cold as ever, Stonegate Manor looming like Wuthering Heights. He looked to his left as he walked up the drive but couldn’t quite see Oakholme from here.

  He thought of Rosie in her cozy house, which glowed like an inn on a Victorian Christmas card. Safe with her family around her, a fire roaring in the grate, all of them probably gathered around the piano having a bloody sing-along. His own house looked cold, dark and deserted. There were no lights on. Jon would be back at college and Sapphire in her apartment, perfecting her ashtanga yoga or whatever she did up there. His father would be in the library, brooding over whiskey.

  No—Sam checked his watch and it was gone midnight. With any luck they were in bed. Good. He felt even less like speaking to them than before he’d left.

  He detoured down the side of the house into the back garden, and let himself in through the kitchen door. The familiar arctic atmosphere wound around him and reeled him along the passage. None of Sapphire’s desperate renovation projects had dented it. As he entered the kitchen, something crunched under his boot.

  Broken glass.

  Sam was about to switch on a light when he heard the clunk of something falling, followed by a whispered curse. He could see in the dark better than any human, so he left the lights off and walked slowly, warily into the great hall. Freezing cold as always, full of crawling shadows. He felt the ghostly dysir sniffing at him, recognizing his scent, melting into darkness again. In the far corner to his left, beneath the upper-floor gallery, there was the door to Lawrence’s study. He saw a hunched figure lurking there.

  Sam wasn’t nervous by nature, but the intruder startled him. Even as a dark shape on blackness, it was plainly not his father. It was too bulky, and when had Lawrence ever worn sports gear? A tracksuit and black woollen hat made the man all but invisible—an effect marred by luminous green flashes on his trainers.

  Sam watched, grimly fascinated. The stranger was struggling with a bag, swearing to himself as he tried to hoist it onto his shoulder. The strap kept slipping off the synthetic material. Still fighting with it, the man sniffed loudly, glanced around and began to stroll towards the staircase like the squire of the manor.

  Why hadn’t the dysir done their work? Because . . . this was a human, and couldn’t see them.

  Sam wasn’t frightened. He was furious. If this moron expected him to cower while he helped himself, he was about to be severely disillusioned. The intruder reached the foot of the stairs and paused, scouting up the treads with the pencil-thin beam of a flashlight. Then he let the bag slide to the floor, and began to climb.

  Sam’s fury leaped into protective rage. Criminals these days would murder people in their beds for ten pounds. They thought nothing of raping, shooting, taking hostages. He must put himself between this bastard and his family, whatever it took.

  Silently he moved to the bottom of the staircase and watched the man climbing. For a couple of heartbeats he stared at the shapeless back. Then he cleared his throat. The burglar froze, turned, and stared.

  He was young, twenty at most; a potato-faced lad sweaty with nerves. His chin was unshaven, his eyes dull and soulless. The cheap tracksuit sparked with static in the darkness, and the thick woollen hat was pulled almost down to his eyelids.

  “Nice shoes,” said Sam.

  The intruder squared up to him, startled and dangerously poised. “You wanker,” he said, shining the torch into Sam’s eyes. He slipped his free hand into a pocket and the shape that formed in the fabric could have been a hammer, a gun, anything.

  “I wouldn’t go up there if I were you,” Sam said, blinking.

  “Fuck off.”

  “Trust me. My father keeps a gun under the bed.” He called out, “Dad!”—not loud enough to wake anyone, but loud enough to make the thief panic.

  He glared at Sam, glanced at the rucksack, and apparently decided to cut his losses. “Get out me way,” he rasped. His lips hung open around large front teeth. He looked desperate, blank-eyed with violence.

  “You’re not going anywhere, mate,” said Sam.

  “Get out me fucking way or I’ll cut you.”

  “With a flashlight?”

  “With this.” The burglar’s right hand appeared from the folds of his track-suit and in it he held a huge carving knife.

  The staircase was too wide for Sam to block. He was insane to try, but too angry to think about getting hurt. As he took a step and spread his arms, the man rushed him.

  The impact took Sam down and they rolled together. The attacker’s breath was loud in his ears and odorous. Sam felt the knife tip at his stomach, caught the wrist that held it. The arm was monstrously strong. He strained to force it back. Still he felt the blade trembling nearer, the tip nicking his shirt, a cold sting in his abdomen.

  Sam slammed his head into the intruder’s nose. Warm drops spattered. As the youth jerked in reflex, he wrenched the wrist and got the knife from him.

  They wrestled, struggling in a clumsy tangle of limbs to get blows in. Disarmed, the thief still wouldn’t stop. Panic or drugs made him ferocious. Sam found himself underneath with the man swearing and spitting on top, hands groping around his throat. Sam shoved upwards and felt a yielding sensation, like cutting into heavy sponge cake . . .

  The man gave a horrible choking yelp. He rocked back onto his heels and for a second he crouched above Sam, clutching his gut and staring at the dark liquid spilling out. “Jesus,” he hissed. Then he rose and staggered towards one of the tall windows.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Sam said, rising up after him. He was in a fever of rage in which he acted with calm, precise clarity. Glass smashed. The thief was hanging over the ledge in a mass of shards and twisted lead. He was screaming now. Sam seized a handful of his tracksuit and began to drag him back.

  He struggled, shrieking in terror. “Didn’t mean anything,” he squealed. “It were just a laugh. I’m a friend of Jon’s! Let me go!”

  “No, you don’t, you little shit.” Sam got his forearm round the throat, dragged him back, and squeezed until he felt the warm, struggling beast in his arms go limp. The weight slipped down to the floor, almost taking him with it.

  “Who’s there?” His father’s voice came from above. Lights flicked on, spilling weak amber radiance down the walls. The hall’s three great chandeliers made an anemic impact on the darkness.

  Sam stood back, gasping. The knife hung in his hand. “We had a break-in. I stopped him.”

  “Lawrence? What’s happened?” Sapphire came along the gallery behind him, tying a Chinese silk dressing gown. “Oh my god.”

  Lawrence was coming down the stairs quite slowly. Sapphire rushed past him. Sam held his hands out to stop her but she stepped around him and stared down at the youth. Blood was pooling under him. His mouth moved weakly.

  Sapphire looked from the intruder to Sam, her face dropping in horror. “Sam, have you done this?”

  “After he tried to knife me, yes.”
He could hardly find his voice.

  “He’s still alive. You stop the bleeding while I—” She turned and ran towards Lawrence’s study, blue silk flying. Sam had never seen Sapphire upset before. Was this what it took to dent her composure, a man bleeding to death under her nose?

  “Yeah, uh, we should try to stop it,” Sam said faintly. He grabbed a cushion, knelt down and pushed it into the wound. The lad groaned weakly.

  Lawrence only stood there, looking down without expression. “Are you hurt, Sam?” he asked.

  “No. Jon at college?” Lawrence nodded. “Thank god.”

  “It’s from the Abyss,” said Lawrence, staring fixedly at the man.

  Sam looked up with a frown. “What? He’s human.”

  “But the ice giant sent him, as it sent Barada.”

  “Dad?” A shiver went through Sam. Had his father lost his mind? This was a nightmare. Coming home was like stepping into hell. “He’s probably a junkie. Check his bag. He said he knows Jon, but everyone knows you’re loaded and you won’t even fit a sodding alarm system! If you will keep a million quid’s worth of precious stones lying around, what d’you expect?”

  Lawrence bent down to the man’s rucksack. He rummaged, then shook it until the contents came clunking out onto the floor. Hammer, chisel, crowbar, flashlight batteries, a packet of cigarettes and an empty potato chips bag. Lawrence stood looking at the sad debris as if he didn’t believe it.

  “There you go, he didn’t get anything,” Sam said hoarsely. “Your safe passed the test.”

  “But what was he looking for? This can’t be a simple thief.” He stood over the intruder and gave his shoulder a push with his foot. The swollen eyes came open. “Who are you working for?”

  The mouth moved, but the eyes were unfocused. He began to shiver.

  “We could torture him,” Sam said casually. Then, off his father’s gimlet look, “What? You’re the one kicking him. You really think I could do that? Is that what you think of me?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Lawrence. “You’re never here.”

  Sam turned his head away, biting down on his anger and frustration.

  Again Lawrence rocked the man with his foot to rouse him. “Who are you working for?” He bent down, suddenly shouting into his face. “Who sent you?”

  The man let out a grunt that could have been a word but was probably pain.

  “Dad, for fuck’s sake! He’s an opportunist, he got nothing!”

  His father ignored him. “I knew it,” he said, straightening up. “Brawth, Barada, Albin, all hand-in-glove. Of course. What did they tell you to do? What do they want? Answer!”

  The man’s eyes rolled under heavy eyelids, but he couldn’t speak anymore.

  “This isn’t working,” said Sam. “He’s still bleeding. Oh, shit.” Horror danced around him but he couldn’t connect to it, couldn’t feel anything. His mind turned over mad plans to hide the body and with each second he knew more clearly that nothing could ever be the same again after this moment. The enormity of it thundered around him but he couldn’t feel its weight. Not yet.

  Sapphire came back to them, looking pale.

  “I’ve called an ambulance,” she said. “I’ve called the police.”

  8

  Dumannios

  Rosie’s car tunneled through darkness. Sheets of rain swept over the windshield, sparkling in her headlights, mesmeric. The lane was narrow with high wooded banks on either side, making it impossible to drive fast. It was late on Sunday night and she was tired out, body and soul.

  She was glad to be returning to college. The last few days had been surreal; the sky behind Stonegate Manor blazing with blue lights and sirens one night, police swarming over the estate, a flow of horrible rumors—an intruder stabbed and strangled to death, Sam under arrest.

  Cloudcroft was in shock. Sympathy for his son’s arrest was tempered by dislike of Lawrence and Sam’s reputation. There were debates in the media about homeowners’ rights to defend their property. Weeping relatives appeared on the TV news declaring that “Gary was no angel, but ’e was trying to get off the drugs. ’E didn’t deserve to die.”

  Lucas had been restless and moody. Rosie had never known him to argue so much with Jessica as he had today. “I can’t understand why they won’t let me see Jon,” he’d kept saying. “He must be having a hellish time. Surely he needs his friends. What’s wrong with them?”

  “It’s their decision.” Even Jessica was frazzled. “If it had happened to us, I’d want to shut myself away, too. Let them deal with it. What if you and Jon had been at Stonegate that night? I can’t bear to think of it!”

  “Well, we weren’t,” Lucas had said defiantly, so unlike his usual self. And then Matthew couldn’t resist joining in, saying that the Wilders were all mad, a road crash waiting to happen, and the only wonder was that Sam hadn’t pulled a stunt like this before.

  In the end, Rosie had thrown her clothes into a bag and driven off. Her small Volkswagen, a birthday gift from her father, gave her that freedom; strange freedom, to escape the home she loved. But she needed peace, soil under her fingernails, rooks cawing and dryads whispering in the trees above her. Even their green-eyed gossip was preferable to her family at the moment.

  Much as Rosie distrusted Lawrence, she felt sympathy for him. And for Jon, of course, and Sapphire . . . even a little for Sam himself. What a hopeless, horrible mess.

  The car bounced on potholes as the lane wormed through the night. A shape moved, just beyond the range of her headlights. A deer in the road? No one would be out so late in this weather. She slowed down but saw nothing through wavering sheets of rain.

  Then a shambling figure peeled out of the shadows and staggered in front of her. She yelped and stamped on the brakes. In the eerie rain-light of her headlamps she glimpsed wild hair, a gaunt face. Swerving for good measure, she narrowly missed the man, skidding as he lurched aside. Disheveled and feral, the figure turned to watch her as the flank of her car slid past.

  Quickly checking her mirrors, she saw that he was still on his feet, unharmed. He swayed in the middle of the lane, shapeless in a dark overcoat, hair dripping. A tramp. Drunk or drugged, and staggering god-knows-where. Rosie put her foot down and accelerated away. She was too shaken and scared to stop. At least she hadn’t killed him, only given both herself and him a hellish fright. However, he was still out there, wandering towards the isolated cottage. Great.

  She pulled into the driveway. There were no other cars, no lights on. It looked as if her housemates wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. Checking that no one was lurking in the garden, she leaped out and locked the car, ran to the front door and struggled in a fumbling panic to get her key into the lock.

  She was inside. Door closed, locked—then she went around switching on every light. She took her bag upstairs; checked each small, crooked bedroom for intruders—feeling foolish, but compelled to do it. Downstairs again, she put music on, filled the kettle. No; wine was in order.

  It’s at this point, she thought, that someone cuts the electric and phone cables.

  No, she told herself, taking deep breaths. This isn’t a film. Calm down, idiot.

  Her panic eased, but she stayed on edge, aware of the false cheer of light and music, the size of the night. Please don’t let him come to the cottage, she thought. He might only want shelter, but there was no guarantee he was harmless.

  Trying to act normally, she pulled off her boots and settled on the sofa with a full glass. The familiar room with its flaky white walls, ancient rugs and sagging furniture felt cold and shabby.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Shit!” she yelped and shot bolt upright, spilling wine all over herself.

  Should she turn out the lights out and pretend no one was home? Too late. Her skin crawled. Perhaps if she passed him some money through the letterbox to go away . . . Another knock. She swore, angrily willing him to leave.

  “Rosie!” came a thin voice she didn’t recogni
ze. More thumping. “Rosie, open up, it’s only me!”

  Confused, she warily went to the door. She made sure the chain was on, took a breath, and opened it. The tramp stood on the doorstep. Shabby coat, stringy hair, rain running down ghostly skin, eyes deep with shadow.

  The tramp was Jon.

  “Can I come in?” he said. “Is it okay?”

  Speechless, she took off the chain and let the damp apparition over her threshold. He stood dripping on the carpet, sniffing and pushing his hand through his hair. He looked dreadful. His face was haggard, eyes sunk in brown shadow. He wasn’t drunk; just tired and desperate, perhaps ill. Rosie was so shocked she couldn’t move. “What are you doing here?” she said at last.

  “Is it all right? You don’t mind, do you?” He lurched toward the sofa, nearly tripping on the curled-up edge of a rug.

  “No, of course not—hang on, let me take your coat,” she said as he made to sit down in the wet garment. “It’s such a surprise.”

  The coat weighed a ton. As she hung it on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs, a smell of damp and smoke wafted from it. “Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

  “No, really, it’s all right. Was that you”—she waved at the outside world—“walking down the lane?”

  “Yeah. I couldn’t find a bus. Didn’t realize how far it was.”

  “Oh god, I nearly ran you over. I’m so sorry. If I’d known it was you, I would have stopped.”

  “ ’Sall right.” Jon dragged his hand through the strings of hair again, a nervous gesture. “I didn’t know where else to go,” he said, shaking his head. He seemed twitchy, one knee bouncing under his elbow.

  “Really?” she said cautiously. “Why on earth didn’t you come to Oakholme?”

  “You must be joking. I couldn’t face anyone there. Wasn’t thinking straight, anyway . . . I just went.”

  “Oh . . . Do you want a cup of tea?”

  “The wine looks good.”

  “No problem.” She rushed to fetch a glass and the bottle, nearly tripping up the step from the kitchen as she came back.