The Making of Gabriel Davenport

by Beverley Lee

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  He slid his hand down the rail by the wall, well aware of the drop on the other side. The health and safety in Tudor times had been severely lacking. Coldness leeched into the soles of his feet and into his bones. He wished he had put on shoes.

  Now he was in near total darkness. The light at the top of the stairs dimmed, as though a huge cloud had gone over the sun. His eyes searched madly for something to focus on, but it was his hearing that spurred him onwards. The whir from the vault burbled from the other side of the wall, tantalisingly close. Gabe wished that he had thought to count the steps as a boy, but scrabbling up them had been the only thing on his mind, jam pot in hand. After what seemed like an eternity, his feet found level ground. He felt his way forwards, arms outstretched, until his fingers found the bunker wall. An exhalation of breath rushed from his lungs. His eyes gradually became more accustomed to the dark. He could make out where the floor met the wall and the top of the stairs where the door stood slightly open. Had he pull it closed a little bit?

  The air bricks ran in a diagonal line from ceiling to floor every two feet. He stooped to peer through the nearest one but could only make out the edge of the wall housing the vault. Disappointment punched him in the gut. The wall was the wrong angle to have any view of the vault door.

  His only choice was to retrace his steps and go down to the cellar the main way—and that would be risky. He didn’t have any excuse to be wandering about that part of the house, especially if it was Carver. It had to be him, didn’t it? Tears prickled his eyes and he ran the back of his hand over them, angry at himself, angry at fate for dangling an opportunity in front of him, then snatching it away.

  He turned, his eyes smarting and swimming. Dust. Just brilliant. He had managed to rub grit in his eyes from the wall. Through the haze, he stumbled, finding the base of the steps with the side of one foot. His eyes burned. Even rubbing them with his t-shirt didn’t help. The climb seemed to take longer than his descent. The numbness in his feet made every step difficult. He wasn’t sure where the edges of the steps were and he sure as hell couldn’t see a thing.

  A horrible skittering sound swelled up from under the stairs—the same sound he had heard yesterday.

  Gabe took flight, scrabbling up the remainder of the stairs on his hands and knees. One shin hit stone, scraping off a few layers of skin. The sound rose, grew louder, and his legs gave way, sending him down on one hip, fingers desperately searching for something to cling on to. His eyes streamed. The top of the steps was only a few feet away, but it looked like miles. A blurred, dark shape shot into his line of vision from the boot room. Instinctively, he put up his hands to shield his face moments before it dived, beating his head with its wings. The rush of feathers swarmed over his skin, covering his nose and mouth. He flailed at it, but it was lightning fast. A ringing noise rose in his ears as he fought for breath, his spine digging into the unforgiving stone. And then he was flying. Falling.

  A scream tore out of his lungs.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The backs of Noah’s hands glowed blue in the false light. He hadn’t slept all night. Or at least it felt that way.

  Carver had insisted he stay over after dropping the bombshell about the box and Noah was glad he hadn’t refused. He was in no condition to drive. Carver’s words replayed in his mind on a continuous loop, and no matter how many times it went around, the cold hard fact remained that Noah would have to take the box under his own roof. He didn’t know how he would ever sleep again.

  A germ of an idea had sprouted some time before dawn in that pre-light quiet just before the birds began to sing. He didn’t have to keep it under his roof, not exactly. His church, which sat a hundred yards from his vicarage, would be a much safer option. Noah tried not to think about the fact that he might be using God as the ultimate baby sitter purely to overlay his lack of courage.

  He had asked Carver for the override codes to the vault before finally agreeing to take guardianship of the box. The curator had blustered, saying it wasn’t safe for him to know, that no one else had ever known, but Noah wouldn’t back down. Carver finally relented when he pointed out that ‘safe’ didn’t really come into it anymore. He wasn’t about to have any more secrets dumped on him. Carver had had the good grace to look fairly sheepish as they said goodnight.

  But as Noah lay there staring at the ceiling, he knew if he didn’t get up and put his plan into action, he might come up with an excuse to himself why he couldn’t do it. His car was on the driveway, waiting for him to grow a pair. The Lord’s Prayer fluttered into his mind. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. At that point, Noah had swung his legs out of bed quickly.

  But now, in the eerie light of the vault as he faced his fears, his courage had lost its voice. He steeled himself to pick it up, fully expecting the same sensations to flood through him as on that January morning fifteen years ago. The flat of his fingers touched the lid and he tensed, the thump of his blood in his ears incredibly loud in the near silence. He curled those fingers down the back. Nothing. All he felt was the muslin cloth covering. A sound welled up in his throat, half laugh, half groan.

  It was at that precise moment Gabe screamed.

  Noah jerked his head up, adrenaline coursing through his veins in an instinctive fight or flight response.

  ‘Gabriel!’ His feet stumbled as he shot out of the vault like a bullet from a gun. ‘Gabe, where are you?’ He listened, half needing to hear the boy scream again to locate him, but fearing that sound with as just as much need.

  The interior glow of the vault’s lights didn’t stretch very far, but it was enough to see that no one else was down here in this part of the cellar...and then he knew, sprinting down to the adjoining wall, searching for an eye-level air brick to peer through...it was nearly pitch black on the other side—all he could make out was the open door at the stop of the steps.

  ‘Oh God, Gabe...’ His whisper began in his throat and choked him.

  Noah ran. He launched himself up the cellar steps, hitting his elbow hard on the door frame at the top but barely feeling it. The corridor leading from the main house looked excruciatingly long as he sped through, eyes fixed on the door that separated him from the kitchen. He prayed, harder than he had ever prayed before. If anything happened to Gabe...he didn’t want to think about it.

  He powered through the door, sending it careering back to crash into the wall behind, and skidded into the kitchen. The stacked up dishes, the smashed glass on the floor...it did nothing to allay the heavy weight of fear in his throat.

  He found himself making bargains with God: if Gabe is okay, I’ll pray harder, stop drinking, start a charity. Anything to stop the image of what he might find at the bottom of the cellar steps. Why wasn’t the light on? Noah paused at the old door, the door with the catch Ella was always complaining about, the door with so many layers of paint, slices of life trapped forever between each layer. He swung it fully open to bathe the stairs with light. Another second of blinding fear.

  ‘Gabriel?’ His voice faltered. The boy he had been nurturing since infanthood had the name of an archangel. Surely God would look after him?

  ‘No!’ He ran down the steps, taking no care even though he knew how slippery they could be. The boy lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom, face down with his arms over his head. His feet were dirty and bare. Noah knelt down, his hands shaking as they searched for a pulse, shaking even more when they felt one. Very carefully, he eased Gabriel’s body onto its side. He raked his fingers through his hair. Recovery position? It had gone completely out of his mind.

  The boy’s face was covered in scratches and a deep graze ran along his right cheek. His eyes were puffy and red. But he was breathing.

  ‘Gabe, wake up.’ Noah cradled his head gently, wondering what had brought the boy down to the cellar at this time of the morning. He must have slipped on the stairs.

  Gabriel’s eyelids
flickered and he groaned.

  ‘Easy now. You had a fall, but you’re okay.’ Noah’s voice sounded more reassuring than he felt.

  Gabe tried to sit up, then covered his face with his crossed arms and flinched. ‘Is it gone? Tell me it’s gone.’ His voice shook.

  ‘What’s gone, Gabe? There’s nothing here.’

  ‘The bird. I think it was trying to kill me.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Edward Carver savoured being the first person downstairs in The Manor.

  His routine never altered. Pick up the newspaper from the front door (he paid an extra fee for having his name at the top of the delivery list), go into the kitchen and set up the coffee maker if Ella hadn’t done it the night before, then settle in the small library, which was in the east wing and which had the best light first thing in the morning. He was a proud man and disliked the limitation of glasses. This way, he could absorb the front page in all of its glory with no wire frame perched upon his nose. This was also his thinking time, before the rest of the house clattered down and another day swung into shape. The repercussions of yesterday played heavy on his mind and he wanted another chat with Noah before he took charge of the box. Even thinking about it triggered a bitter taste in his mouth. He was well aware of the danger he might be putting Noah in.

  The curator stopped dead in the kitchen doorway, newspaper folded under his arm. His gaze swept the room and the debris scattered on the floor. Wondering if Ella had forgiven him and made an even earlier start, he called the housekeeper’s name.

  Voices filtered through from the doorway that led down to the jam cellar, but it wasn’t Ella. Noah appeared out of the gloom with his arm slung around Gabriel. Noah’s lips were set in a thin line as he manoeuvred the boy into the boot room, both of them blinking at the sun pouring in through the window.

  Carver opened his mouth, half in alarm and half in confusion, but Noah interrupted before any words could come out.

  ‘Help me get him somewhere comfortable, Edward. I don’t think anything major is broken, but he’s had a knock to the head and he’s not talking any sense.’

  Shock glued Carver’s feet to the floor for a split second before he complied, sliding his arm around Gabe from the other side. He was deathly pale and covered in scratches. The graze along his cheek, studded with grit and dust, needed medical attention. The two men half carried Gabe into what was affectionately called The Snug, a small room to the left of the kitchen. In winter, the fire was always lit and at least one of the inhabitants of the house could always be found curled up in a chair, wrapped in a throw or two.

  ‘Easy, Gabe,’ said Noah as they lowered him down onto the worn sofa. They both saw him wince at the effort.

  ‘How? Why?’

  Noah spoke to him over the top of Gabe’s head. ‘I think he fell down the steps. I found him at the bottom, but the light wasn’t on.’

  ‘Don’t whisper. I can hear you. And I didn’t fall.’ Gabriel flexed one wrist back and forth and grimaced. He ran his tongue over his lips.

  ‘Can I have a drink of water?’ He curled his fingers into his palms and dabbed at a skinned knuckle with his tongue. ‘And I hold my hand up to the mess in the kitchen. I knew getting up early was bad for me.’

  Gabe’s attempt at humour fell flat. The two men exchanged a glance.

  ‘But what were you doing in the cellar?’ Carver knelt down. There was nothing in his voice but concern.

  Gabe hesitated. ‘I...I heard a noise so I thought I should take a look. I thought it was Ella at first, but obviously it wasn’t...’ his voice trailed off and his face became solemn. ‘There was a bird. I saw it on the lawn when I woke up. It just flew at me and started clawing and pecking. That’s why I fell.’

  Carver saw him look away towards the window and dab at the insides of both eyes with his thumb.

  ‘Okay, Gabe. We’ll take a look down there and make sure it isn’t still about. Maybe it had got trapped and you spooked it.’ His own explanation sounded feeble but he wanted to try and calm the situation down. Any hopeful ideas he had had about today being a better day were rapidly being torn to shreds—and they hadn’t even had breakfast.

  ‘Any headache, Gabe? Disturbed vision?’ Noah hovered, his hands shoved in his pockets. He looked exhausted. It seemed like no one had had much sleep at all last night.

  ‘I’m fine, honestly. There’s nothing broken but my street cred.’

  ‘Well, that can take quite a few knocks without any lasting damage. But,’ Carver held out one hand, forefinger extended, ‘I’m going to ring Doctor Phillips and get him to call in when he’s finished his rounds. It’s either that, or I run you down to A & E right now.’

  Gabe accepted the inevitable with a good amount of grace.

  Carver sighed. Any event in the cellar set off his internal alarm bells. There were still a lot of unanswered questions, but Gabe needed time to recuperate. Noah’s hand squeezed his shoulder.

  ‘I’m going to clean up that mess before someone does themselves an injury.’

  ‘Thank you. If you could find it in you to put on the coffee too, I would be forever grateful.’

  Noah turned, slightly bemused, ‘I’m going to apply for Ella’s job, or at least ask for privileges. By the way, where is she this morning?’

  ‘Probably still teaching me a lesson. I should know there are some battles I cannot win.’

  Not one of them had mentioned the box, but the weight of it hung heavy between them.

  ***

  ‘What happened in the kitchen?’ Ollie Taverner poked his head around the snug door, his hair rumpled from sleep.

  Carver was on his phone finishing off a conversation, blocking most of his view of Gabe. Ollie waited, aware of Carver’s serious tone and the fact that Gabe was up far too early. He wondered what trouble Gabe had got himself into this time and hoped it wasn’t anything to do with what he had been mentoring him on. Or even worse, his trip down to the cellar.

  Carver slid the phone into his jacket pocket. His face bore the expression of a man who had climbed out of bed and hit the ground running. He beckoned Ollie in and Ollie got his first full look at Gabe.

  ‘Jesus, Gabe.’ He rushed over and knelt beside the sofa as Carver had done only minutes ago. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine, don’t fuss.’ Gabe’s answer didn’t do much to ease his concern. He looked far from fine. Scratches spattered his face and the backs of his hands and a nasty graze glowered along one cheekbone.

  ‘I came down to find World War III in here. The kitchen looks like a herd of wildebeest stomped through, and you look like you got in their way.’ Ollie tried to lighten the mood as he slid onto the sofa. He mouthed to the older man.

  Carver shook his head.

  ‘What?’ said Gabe, who hadn’t missed the subtle communication.

  ‘Ollie was wondering if we had an uninvited guest.’

  ‘Of the poltergeist variety. The smashed glass, the mess in the kitchen...’ Ollie filled in for Gabe. It didn’t explain his injuries though. Most poltergeists didn’t attack people, only objects.

  ‘Gabe fell down the jam cellar stairs.’

  ‘I didn’t fall!’ Gabe’s voice rose an octave. ‘Or rather I did, but only because I was attacked by the bird. Why won’t you believe me?’

  ‘A bird?’ Ollie scratched his head. This whole morning was starting to go crazy.

  ‘Wasn’t Noah in the kitchen?’ said Carver.

  ‘Not when I looked in.’

  ‘Stay with Gabe. I don’t want him left by himself. Doctor Phillips is coming over later, but he’s not sure when.’ Carver headed in the direction of the kitchen.

  ‘Okay. Tell me what happened.’ Ollie slid one arm around Gabe’s slender shoulders and hugged him.

  Gabe nodded and swallowed, then bit his lower lip. He took an audible breath before launching into his explanation once again.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Noah’s smile disappeared as soon as he tur
ned into the hallway. Now that Gabe seemed to have sustained no lasting damage, the fact he had left the vault open to all and sundry sunk in and seemed to knock all of the light out of the day. He would have to change his plan. The whole idea was to take the box and stow it away in the church before he could get cold feet. Something else niggled at the back of his mind. Gabe had said he had heard a noise from the cellar. Could Noah have been seen? And if so, did Gabe know what he was doing there?

  Carver wanted the box as far away from Gabe and Beth as possible. Noah had seen the change in Gabe for himself and he knew adolescence could trigger any amount of preternatural energy. For the first time since his friend had explained the danger last night, Noah understood.

  Glancing behind him, Noah headed for the kitchen but veered off to the right, down the corridor he had sprinted along so recently, towards the cellar. The ultra violet glow from the lights and the whir of the vault’s internal fan greeted him. It sounded like a jet engine, but Noah knew that was only his guilt surfacing. Over the past twenty-four hours, everything had changed. There were secrets between them all, now. He should have been the one to fix it, not join in with his own schemes.

  Down the stone steps, the door to the vault yawned open. The air smelled sour, like a room that had been closed tight against the sunlight for decades. He prayed Carver hadn’t followed him, baying for his caffeine fix. It wouldn’t take long to slide the box away into its hiding place and close the vault door. Just a few minutes was all he needed...

  He stopped dead and blinked. He looked away, and blinked again. His heart dipped into his stomach as he covered his hand over his mouth in disbelief.

  The muslin shroud lay crumpled on the shelf. But the box was gone.

  ***

  Noah knelt on the floor in the kitchen, picking up pieces of broken glass and feeding them into a cereal box. He looked up as Carver came in.

  ‘I thought it was safer to put them in cardboard.’ He paused mid-way, orange juice dripping from a long shard.