by Clare Smith
The side was swarming with pirates now and he had to do something, so he screamed his clan’s battle cry and threw himself forward into the oncoming hoard. Swinging his sword in a powerful, two handed grip just as his father had taught him he cut through the neck of the leading pirate sending his head spinning across the deck. He barged the decapitated body out of the way so he could reach the man behind, but when he went to swing the sword again, he froze.
The strength went from his arms, and all he could do was shudder as a sensation of iced water being thrown over him took his breath away. For a moment he thought he caught a glimpse of a man and a woman sitting around a camp fire, and then there was nothing.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
CHAPTER NINE
The Stalker
England
Tobrin smiled in satisfaction as he pushed the large metal gates open and stepped through. Every day for the last month they had creaked like something out of a horror film, but now they opened as silently as if they were brand new. The reason for the miraculous transformation was simple. Yesterday he’d borrowed his dad’s can of lubricating oil and had spent his lunch break knocking the rust off the hinges and squirting them with the liquid Richard swore was able to cure most things.
It wasn’t his job to mend things around the place as Jim Carter had employed a contractor to do that. However, there were so many things in Charnel House that needed attention that stopping the gates from squeaking hadn’t even made the ‘to do’ list. That was full of things like repair broken roof tiles, replace collapsed drains and rebuild the fallen chimney stack. Jim wouldn’t have minded him doing a bit of DIY though as long as it didn’t interfere with his unpacking and cataloguing, and after being inside all morning he’d enjoyed getting out of the house and into the fresh air.
As well as his success with the oil, yesterday had been quite a memorable day. He’d been working at Charnel House sorting through the crates of antiquities for a month and yesterday was pay day. It was the first pay packet he’d ever had, and despite the fact that he only earned the minimum wage it felt good to have money in his pocket again. That didn’t last long though. As soon as he stepped through the kitchen door his step-father had held out his hand for his board and lodging.
He’d never had to pay for his keep before, but he supposed that was because things had been different when they had lived in London. Then he’d been a schoolboy and Richard had a real job. Now his step-father played at being a farmer and he was the only one who had a job that brought in a regular income. It had come as a shock when his step-father had asked for the money, but he supposed it was only fair that he should pay his way.
The problem was he thought fifty pounds a week was reasonable, whilst Richard had demanded a hundred and fifty. Inevitably there had been an argument during which he’d called his father a cheating bastard and Richard had called him a spoilt brat. In the end though, he had no option but to hand over the money, although he’d threatened to pack his bags and leave. Richard had just laughed at that and pointed out that the only place he could go was to the local pub which had a few guest rooms where all his money would be gone in less than a week.
His step-father was wrong about that. With a week’s wages in his pocket he could go to London and join all the other teenagers who had left home because they were fed up of living with their parents. He’d seen them when he’d been coming home from his private lessons, living rough on the streets, and had wondered at the time what had driven them to such a desperate life. Now he knew and could sympathise with them.
Despite the life that they lived, he could still be tempted to give it a go, except that would mean leaving his mother behind and he couldn’t do that to her. Now she was away from London she was starting to get better, but if he left it would break her heart. Anyway, if he left now he would be letting Jim Carter down and he didn’t want to do that. The man had given him a job when no one else would, and whilst unpacking boxes, sorting and labelling piles of old junk might not have sounded the most exciting thing to do, he loved it.
He particularly enjoyed cataloguing the weapons, and now he was connected to the internet he could research their origin and age. As most of the weapons came from foreign lands he was also using his language skills, so instead of forgetting everything he’d been taught, he was learning faster than he had been at school. The only thing which was missing was the practical conversation, which was why he’d wanted to keep more of his earnings. He’d wanted to buy a self taught language course with CDs, but that would have to wait now until he’d saved up more money.
On top of that there were his fencing lessons. Jim Carter had only been there half a dozen times, but every time he came home he’d found time to give him a lesson and had left him with some exercises to practice. He’d always been good at sport, so using a foil had come naturally to him, and his lessons were something that he looked forward to. He still preferred tennis, and he missed not competing with his javelin, but fencing or even just messing about with the old swords he was cataloguing was the next best thing.
Today he had a whole rack of swords which he’d researched and labelled to move into the room that had been designated as the armoury. The only problem with that was the room was still half full of crates which hadn’t been opened yet. They needed moving out so he could put the weapons in some sort of order, but the crates were too heavy to shift without help.
Normally there would be people about like the gardener or the contractor, and they were always happy to stop what they were doing and give him a hand to shift a box or two. This morning, however, the driveway in front of the sprawling mansion was empty, although with so much work still to be done on the old house and grounds he expected that one of them would be along later. Then he could enlist their support in exchange for a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit.
As he climbed up the steps which led to the large double doors he realised this would be the first morning that he’d arrived before anyone else and he would have to open up the empty house on his own. The thought didn’t worry him that much as he spent most of his time alone in one room or another, and only occasionally bumped into the others if they came into the office to use the kettle. He was always last to leave at night, so was used to being there alone even if it was only for a short time.
He supposed the others had been delayed by the traffic which was often bad at that time of day, so he let himself into the house. It was dark inside after the morning sunshine, and it took him a few minutes to find the light switch by the door. When he did, the portable lights which the contractor had supplied lit up the centre of the cavernous hallway like daylight, but still managed to cast long shadows along some of the walls and left the far corners in darkness.
The giant chandelier which hung from the ceiling two stories above was one of those things on the ‘to do’ list which hadn’t been repaired yet. Despite being at the top of the list, it was likely to stay out of action until Jim Carter had saved enough money to employ an electrician to rewire the bedrooms and attics. So far the only room which had been rewired on the second floor was the practice room, which had been a priority for his employer.
That meant there were dozens of crates upstairs still, stacked in the darkness, which wouldn’t be touched until the lights were fixed. It wasn’t a problem for now as there were still piles of crates on the ground floor which needed emptying, many of them in the poorly lit hallway. He would get around to them as soon as he could, but for now he needed to concentrate on shifting the boxes out of the armoury.
Leaving the lights on so the contractor wouldn’t have to grope around in the dark, he made his way to what had once been the billiard room, but which had now been converted into an office. It was a pleasant enough place with wooden panelling that smelled of old wax, and there was an elaborately plastered ceiling with a coat of arms in the middle. The downside was that it had no windows, so if he wanted to catch the contractor before he started on his day’s work, he would have to listen out
for him.
The room was chilly, so he turned on the fan heater, put his sandwiches in the fridge and settled down in front of the computer. There were a few things he needed to finish from the previous night, and a couple of references he needed to look up about an unusual sword he was trying to identify before he could start on moving the weapons into the armoury. It would put him a bit behind schedule, but would give the contractor plenty of time to turn up and give him a hand with moving the packing cases.
He worked steadily, only stopping once when he thought he heard footsteps in the hallway, but when he put his head outside the door there was no one there. A little while later the same thing happened, but when he called out to see who was there, no one answered. As the time was getting on, he thought he might have missed the workmen arriving, so he stuck his head outside the front door just in case, but the driveway was still empty.
With a sigh of irritation he returned to the office. Those crates really did need moving out of the way and the swords put in their place if he was going to stick to the work schedule he’d agreed with his employer. Without someone to help him though, there was only one way he was going to do that, and that was to break into each crate, unpack them one by one and cart the contents away. That would be a tedious job, and would add to the chaos as he would have to find somewhere to store what was in the crates until he had time to catalogue them.
In retrospect it might have been better if he’d been able to unpack all the crates in one go when there had been someone there to help him. Then he could have sorted the contents into piles before he started the painstaking job of identifying and labelling everything. Jim had suggested it when they were agreeing the work schedule, but he’d argued against it as there just wasn’t the room, and apart from that, it was the research he really wanted to get stuck into.
He loved the research as it was just like being a detective, tracking down the origins of the old weapons and the other items that Jim Carter’s great grandfather had collected during his travels around the world. His own hopes of travelling the world as an interpreter had died when they had moved from London, but discovering where the old man had been was the next best thing. In any case it was far better than being a glorified removal man and shifting things from one place to another.
For a while he turned his attention back to the sword he’d been working on, but it proved to be impossible to identify, so he gave up and entered it into the catalogue as origin unknown. Unfortunately that was the last piece from that particular crate, so he had no option but to start moving things around, whether he had any help or not. With a sigh of resignation he shut the computer down, put on the thick leather gloves his employer insisted he wore when he was handling the weapons, and took the sword from the table where it had lain all morning.
It was a beautiful weapon with a slightly curved blade and a plain hilt. Unusually it had a long, sinuous dragon etched into the steel which always held his attention. In the bright light of the office it looked like the dragon was moving down the blade and gave him goose bumps, but as soon as he stepped through into the dimly lit hallway the dragon faded from view and the strange feelings it gave him subsided. By the time he’d reached the room on the other side of the hallway, the odd sensation had slipped from his memory.
Just inside the doorway he flicked on the lights, and the two naked bulbs which hung down at the end of the twisted wires lit up the room sufficiently for him to see the contents. To anyone else’s eyes it appeared to be full of junk stacked in piles, but to him it was the culmination of a month’s work, and each pile contained neatly labelled objects which were related by type or origin. He crossed to the long rack on the other side of the room and carefully placed the sword in its allocated slot.
It was this rack that he had to move, which was going to be a real pain, but at least it would leave room so that he could put the spears he’d finished labelling into the right order ready for displaying. He still hadn’t decided if he was going to display the collection of spears and javelins by date or origin, so he wandered over to have another look at them. There were over forty different weapons, but his favourite was still the lightweight javelin he’d picked out on his first visit to Charnel House.
The javelin was also the only weapon he’d not been able to identify, and so like the sword, he’d written ‘origin unknown’ in the catalogue. Unable to resist the temptation of holding it he took off his gloves, picked it up and tested its weight. As on previous occasions just holding the javelin almost overwhelmed him with the urge to try it out.
In his mind he could almost see it skim through the air and plough through the back of the slave who was running away from him. The image was so real that he thought he heard the man scream as the javelin knocked him off his feet and the metallic smell of blood filled his nostrils. The whole vision should have filled him with disgust, but it didn’t. Instead his heart pounded with excitement and he revelled in his strength and skill wanting more.
Still holding the javelin aloft he moved quickly across the room, his ears straining to catch the sound of someone moving outside. He was the hunter now, stalking the prey which would give him a glorious victory and make him the people’s champion. The crowd were silent, holding their breath as he ran across the arena building his momentum for the final throw. He leaned back, dropping his arm slightly and prepared to release.
“Fuck it boy! What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing? You scared the shit out of me!”
Tobrin stopped dead, absorbing the pent up power with a shudder and let the javelin drop to the floor with a clatter. He was breathing hard and felt sick and dizzy, but he looked considerably better than the contractor who looked like he’d seen a ghost.
“Sorry, Joe, I was just messing around.”
“Messing around? You looked like you were going to skewer me with that thing.”
“No, it’s okay, I was just testing it for weight. Anyway, what have you been up to, you’re late?”
“Yeh, the bloody van wouldn’t start.” Joe wiped his clammy hands down his overalls and gave him a look of concern. “Are you all right? You look a bit shaky.”
That was an understatement. Now that he realised what he’d almost done he felt like he was going to be sick. “I’m fine, it’s just that this place gets a bit lonely when I’m here on my own.”
“It’s damned spooky if you ask me. This place isn’t called Charnel House for nothing you know.” He gave Tobrin another look of concern. “Tell you what, let’s go and have a cup of tea to steady our nerves and then I’ll help you shift those crates you wanted moving.”
Tobrin nodded and looked down at where the javelin lay. He knew he should pick it up and return it to the rack, but for the moment it would have to stay there. Later he would fetch his leather gloves to remove it as he didn’t trust himself to touch it again.
*
“I’m off now, got to take the van to the garage and get it looked at. I’ve got a job over at Basingstoke in the morning and if I don’t turn up on time they’re likely to call in someone else.”
He stopped expecting Tobrin to at least say goodbye, but the boy was staring at the computer screen as if he hadn’t heard him. It didn’t usually bother him if people didn’t respond, but he’d spent half the day helping the boy shift crates around so the least he could do was acknowledge him.
“Tobrin, I’m going now.”
Tobrin jumped and looked up from the computer screen he’d been staring at for the last two hours. “Sorry, Joe, did you say something?”
Joe scowled in irritation, he hated repeating himself. “Yeh, I’m off now and won’t be back until Monday.”
“Oh, right, er, thanks for the help.”
Well that was something he supposed. He turned away and had almost closed the door when Tobrin called him back. “Joe, will you lock the front door behind you please?”
He raised his eyebrows in surprise, usually the door was unlocked all day and the last one out locked it
behind them. “Yeh, if that’s what you want.” He hesitated for a moment. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
Tobrin nodded. “I’m fine, but I’m a bit behind schedule, so I want to put in a few extra hours and don’t want to be disturbed.”
“Okay then but don’t work too late.”
He turned away and closed the door after him and Tobrin listened as he crossed the hallway, let himself out and locked the door before returning his attention to the blank screen in front of him. After moving the crates and putting the sword rack in place, he’d returned to the office intending to do some more research, but for some reason he hadn’t turned on the computer. In fact he’d been sitting there for the last two hours staring at a blank screen with an equally blank mind.
That was impossible though. He’d read somewhere that a normal, intelligent adult couldn’t just empty their mind, but was always taking in and processing information, however mundane that might have been. On the assumption that there was nothing wrong with him, then he should have been doing the same, although he couldn’t for the life of him remember what he’d been thinking about. It didn’t really matter that much, except what he’d told Joe about being behind schedule was true, and he would need to make up the time, but not now.
The excuse he’d made about wanting to work late had been a lie because he’d had enough of this place for one day. He’d also had enough of Joe, and knew that if he hadn’t made an excuse to stay behind the contractor would have offered him a lift home. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Joe or that he preferred to walk home, it was just that he wanted to be alone.
He didn’t like people talking to him and asking him questions about himself and expecting him to tell them things they had no right to know. His thoughts were his own and he wouldn’t share them with anyone. No one had the right to pry into his life and try to control him. Angrily he slapped his hands down onto the desk making the pens roll about, shoved his chair back so hard that it clattered against the wall and strode out of the office, slamming the door behind him.
