(1992) Prophecy

by Peter James

  He studied the bush for some moments again, as if he had not heard her, then continued along the track through increasingly dense shrubbery until they came down on to level ground, and Frannie could see water beyond a screen of reeds. The lake was a good quarter of a mile across and longer in length.

  She followed him along the bank towards a sorry-looking boat-house, its white paint stained green with moss and peeling away in chunks. Edward pulled open the rotting door with some difficulty and they went into the dank, shadowy interior. A cobweb brushed Frannie’s face and she jerked her head to one side, instinctively putting up her hands and feeling the sticky strands on her fingers. Her nostrils were filled with the unpleasant mushroomy stench of rot.

  ‘You get in first and sit down,’ Edward commanded, pointing to a narrow wooden pontoon.

  Dazed into compliance, she placed a foot carefully in the bottom of the boat, avoiding the oars. It rocked precariously and she grabbed the side with her hand, steadied herself, then brought the other foot in and sat down quickly.

  Edward untied the boat, pushed it forward and stepped in, sat down and fitted each of the oars into the rowlocks. They drifted out of the boat-house into the sunlight, now bright again.

  As the boy rowed, Frannie felt the pull of the little boat through the water and listened to the splash of the oars. Then Edward let the boat drift forwards on its own momentum, and she let her own thoughts do the same: Jonathan Mountjoy; ‘Is she the new nanny?’; Sarah Henrietta Louise Halkin. The onyx slab on the floor. 1963–1988.

  ‘I hope you’re not planning to sleep with my daddy.’

  Her mouth dropped open in amazement. Edward was leaning over to one side, staring idly at the water the way she had been, with a distant expression on his face. She watched him for a moment, wondering if she had misunderstood. ‘Pardon?’

  He did not look up or acknowledge her. His face remained blank and unreadable. Was it his mind that was disconnected or hers? she wondered.

  A fish rose near them and left behind an eddy of disturbed water that slowly broadened out until the surface was smooth again, as if the water had forgotten it had ever happened. Oliver had told her last night at dinner, when he had been talking about mathematics and gambling, that a coin could not remember which way up it had landed the previous time it was flipped. It was always an even chance whether it would be heads or tails the next time, regardless of how many times one or the other had come up before. Water had no memory either. Humans remembered everything – too much sometimes – Oliver said, so that at times it was difficult to look back clearly to both before and after an event had happened. The brain played tricks constantly, he said.

  She watched the small boy with the intelligent brown eyes and sad, freckled face, and tried to work out what trick her own brain might have just played on herself.

  Frannie was hot and sticky and her top was damp with perspiration after the climb back up from the lake. They emerged through a ride of giant beech trees at the rear of the walled kitchen garden. The intensity of light had gone from the sun and the caw-caw-kercaw of a pigeon carried through the air like the last post from a lone bugler.

  She felt uncomfortable, as if Edward was playing a game with her for which she had not been given the rules, and she wondered if he was deliberately trying to undermine her confidence. Yet he was only eight; surely he was too young to be that devious? His mood changes left her not knowing whether left was right or right was left. She couldn’t find her feet with the boy and she wondered if it was her fault or if there was another reason. She thought about the dog, wondering where it was now and whether its fury had been deliberately provoked by Edward for her benefit. She found that hard to believe because it had seemed so spontaneous.

  Edward had become chatty again in the last ten minutes. He asked her more about fossils and she explained to him how you could date the past from them, enjoying seeing the deep interest he took.

  As they reached the front door, he said to her: ‘Can you play ping-pong?’

  ‘I haven’t for ages.’

  ‘Would you like to have a game?’

  She smiled, feeling a bit weary. ‘All right, but a quick one. I’m tired.’

  He gave her such a mischievous look that she felt like putting her hand out and tousling his hair as a gesture of affection, but remembered the faint look of irritation on his face when his father had done that. Something else stopped her too: she daren’t.

  Before their game, they both went into the kitchen to make themselves a quick sandwich. Frannie finished hers first and she wandered off to look in the library as she waited for Edward. It was a surprisingly small and narrow room that seemed to double as a study. Several large hand-drawn charts were pinned to the walls either side of the desk. One looked like a family tree. Another was a mass of mathematical calculations. All the rest of the walls were lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, which she would have liked to look at instead of playing ping-pong but she felt that duty called.

  Her reverie was broken with the arrival of Edward who, worried in case she changed her mind, led her upstairs and along the dark corridor past her room. As they drew up to the next door, Edward said: ‘That’s my room. I’ll show it to you later if you like.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  They passed a couple more doors, then the passage dog-legged left. Edward climbed up a narrow staircase into a huge, gloomy attic-playroom that seemed to span the entire wing of the house and which housed the ping-pong table.

  She acquitted herself well at the ping-pong table despite losing. After promising to go with Edward to see the orchard the next day, she made her excuses to him and went to her bedroom. She closed the door, relieved to be on her own for a few minutes.

  Through the open window she noted that the visitors’ car park was empty and the windows of the ticket hut were closed. A crane-fly flew clumsily around the room, bumping against the window and the walls.

  I hope you’re not planning to sleep with my daddy.

  A bead of perspiration slid down her forehead and Frannie put her hand in her pocket, but could not feel her handkerchief. She dug deeper, but the pocket was empty. She remembered wiping her forehead during the game, and went back up to the attic-playroom. The meagre daylight coming in from the small dormer windows, too high for a child to reach, gave a prison-like feel to the room.

  A bird flew past one of the windows and its shadow skated along the wall. The total silence struck her. A floorboard creaked as she stepped on it and she moved forwards, treading more lightly so that Edward wouldn’t hear her.

  The handkerchief was lying on the floor beneath the ping-pong table and she picked it up and removed a bit of fluff from it. A sad room, she thought, staring around, and tried to imagine Edward playing up there on his own. There was an old rocking-horse, perhaps Victorian; it had probably been here for years, and generations of young Halkins had played on it. Oliver. Oliver’s father.

  She walked over to the bookshelves and looked at the titles. William. Jennings. The Famous Five. Biggles. Old books, some with their covers torn, others with no covers. There were some she used to read herself: Grimm’s Fairy Tales and Struwwelpeter and the Eagle Annual and the Beano Bumper Book. Then she noticed a photo album and pulled it out.

  It was heavy and she laid it down on the ping-pong table to open it. The first picture was a colour photograph of a naked baby lying on its back, gurgling, arms and legs raised in the air.

  ‘Edward. 2 days,’ was handwritten in black ink beneath.

  She turned the thick page. There were various photographs of Edward’s mother cuddling him in a hospital bed. She was fascinated to see this younger version of the Sarah Henrietta Louise she’d already seen in the kitchen collage. She noted the same poise, the same classic features, which made her feel rather plain in comparison. Her suspicions about Oliver’s motives in inviting her down began to return. She turned on, through scenes of Edward growing up. She studied them closely, also trying to see his expr
ession, searching for clues about his strange behaviour. Finding none.

  As she turned the last page, she saw, folded in the back, a newspaper cutting. Curious, she opened it. It was from the Mid-Sussex Times, and dated 10th August 1991. An article in the centre of the page had been ringed with a red pen. Its headline read: SUSSEX MAN SHOT IN US STREET HORROR.

  She began reading.

  A Sussex man has been shot dead by a mugger whilst on holiday in America.

  Jonathan Mountjoy, 25, a ceramics expert with Sotheby’s, had left his home in High Street, Cuckfield, last Friday, for his dream holiday.

  Neighbours were shocked by the incident. ‘He was a gentle young man who would not have harmed a fly,’ said neighbour Ann Wilson.

  A spokesman for the Washington DC Police Department said, ‘This was a particularly vicious crime perpetrated on an unarmed tourist. We are actively seeking the assailant.’

  Frannie stopped and went to the start of the article again to make sure her eyes weren’t deceiving her. Jonathan Mountjoy. But there was no mistaking his face in the photograph; it must have been taken around the time they were at university, or else he had not changed. The serious looks, almost gaunt with his high cheekbones and short black hair. A kind face. His colleagues were right; he was a brilliant young man, even if he had always seemed to be in a permanent dream.

  She remembered Seb Holland in the restaurant last night, telling her about Jonathan’s death. A curl of anxiety travelled through her as she remembered Edward in the kitchen earlier, scanning through the newspapers as if looking for something. Had he cut it out? Or was it Oliver, thinking it would be of interest to her? The print blurred. Confused thoughts whirled through her mind. Oliver cutting it out did not make any sense. He would have shown it to her if he had seen it in the paper, surely, not hidden it in his son’s photo album. And the article was a few weeks old.

  She folded it up again and replaced the album on the bookshelf. Then she decided to have a bath, hoping Oliver might’ve returned when she’d finished.

  CHAPTER NINE

  She had a quick bath, then combed her hair, tugging the tangles free. Dark olive eyes stared back from the mirror. Frightened eyes. They watched the reflection of the closed door behind her. Maybe Jonathan Mountjoy was a relative of the Halkins? A cousin? But if that was the case, why had Oliver not mentioned it at the time?

  Maybe it was just coincidence. Things happened that way sometimes. She remembered Oliver’s words: Coincidences make me uneasy … I’m not sure there is such a thing as a meaningless coincidence.

  She dabbed the shine from her nose. Some people were scared of spiders; some of flying; of darkness; of the number 13; everyone had something they were scared of. Oliver Halkin happened to be scared of coincidences. That did not mean she had to be.

  Oliver was waiting for her in the kitchen as she’d hoped. Captain Kirk was asleep on the floor in front of the Aga. ‘Edward finally released you?’ he asked, winking at her.

  ‘Just.’

  ‘I’m sorry you got lumbered.’

  ‘He’s been good company.’ She hesitated, wanting to ask Oliver about Edward’s strange silences but not able to think of a way of doing so tactfully.

  ‘Would you like some tea – or something stronger?’

  ‘I’d love some tea.’ Her eyes fell on the stainless-steel draining-board and she swallowed at the memory of the fingers that had lain there a few hours earlier on the bloodstained tea towel.

  ‘Ordinary or Earl Grey?’

  ‘Earl Grey, please.’ She watched his face. ‘Does the name Jonathan Mountjoy mean anything to you?’

  ‘Jonathan Mountjoy?’ He pulled a tea-bag out of a tin, dropped it into a mug and then poured from the heavy kettle. ‘Jonathan Mountjoy,’ he said again with a slight frown. ‘I think I recognize the name.’

  ‘Last night,’ she said.

  ‘Ah! Was it the name of the chap – your friend – who was killed by a mugger?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was nothing that she could read in his expression at all.

  ‘Why?’

  She blushed. ‘I – I got the impression that his name rang a bell with you, that’s all.’

  He shook his head. ‘So where did you go this afternoon?’

  ‘We went first to the chapel.’

  ‘Oh?’ Oliver pulled a tin out of a cupboard. ‘Like a piece of cake?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ She eyed the spaniel. ‘How old is Captain Kirk?’

  Oliver thought for a moment. ‘About three.’

  ‘Is he OK with Edward?’

  ‘Good as gold.’ He hesitated. ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought he was going to attack him this afternoon.’

  Oliver shook his head. ‘He has got a bit of a sharp streak – he had a go at some gypsies last weekend, but he wouldn’t touch Edward. He –’

  ‘May I watch a video please, Daddy?’

  Edward came in holding a Game Boy in his hand, and knelt beside Captain Kirk, who was stretched out on the floor, crooked his arm around the dog’s neck and pressed his cheek against him. ‘You’d like to watch a video, wouldn’t you, Captain Kirk?’

  ‘What do you want to see?’ Oliver said.

  ‘Terminator 2.’

  Frannie watched the dog warily, but it licked Edward’s face affectionately with no trace of its previous display. Oliver bent and tousled the boy’s hair. ‘All right. I’m going to show Frannie round the house. What do you want for supper tonight?’

  As he removed his hand, Edward tidied his hair with a faint look of annoyance. ‘Fish fingers,’ he said. ‘Captain Kirk likes them,’ he said, looking at the dog fondly. ‘Don’t you?’ He pressed his nose against the dog’s.

  Frannie looked at Edward curiously, wondering if the boy was being deliberately tasteless or not.

  ‘I think we’ve had enough of fingers for one day.’

  Edward looked crestfallen. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t even know if we have any.’

  Edward’s face fell further. ‘I want fish fingers; please, Daddy.’

  He stomped his foot and Frannie felt uncomfortable, as if it was her fault he was overtired.

  ‘OK. OK.’

  Tears began to trickle down Edward’s cheek. Frannie’s heart went out to him. Perhaps the loss of his mother was still affecting him. Maybe that explained his behaviour. But not the news cutting. She caught Oliver’s eye and he smiled wistfully back at her. A glint of sunshine slipped from an upstairs window across the courtyard, as if a light had been switched out. Edward cradled Captain Kirk tightly to him again, rocking backwards and forwards, tears flowing thickly. Oliver spooned the bag from Frannie’s tea and raised the milk bottle as if it were a question mark. She nodded.

  Oliver watched Edward for some moments, then rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Edward spoke without looking up at him.

  ‘I’m scared, Daddy,’ he said.

  ‘It’s OK,’ his father replied. ‘It’s OK.’ He handed Frannie her tea and gave her a weary smile, then he picked Edward up in his arms. ‘Who’s a tired boy? Sure you want to see a movie and don’t want to go to bed?’

  ‘See Terminator 2.’

  Oliver winked at Frannie and carried the boy out of the room and down the corridor. Captain Kirk followed, excited.

  Frannie sat at the table and blew on her tea, thinking of Edward’s strange remark to his father. Scared. She wondered what of?

  Oliver took Frannie round the downstairs first, starting in the basement, showing her the old, disused kitchens with their massive ovens and small high windows that reminded her of the ones in the nursery. She trailed along beside him, feeling slightly awkward, as if she were a sightseer; she was still very uncertain about her role. Upstairs, he showed her a bedroom with a roped-off four-poster where Oliver Cromwell had once spent the night. But it was the objects in the rooms that really captivated her. They seemed to be walking through an endless treasure trove. She recognized an Etruscan bronze mirror just for starte
rs.

  On the first floor they went into a long oak-panelled gallery. There were tapestried window-seats, elegant sofas, large tables on which open photograph albums of the family’s history lay. The rich pinky-yellow glow of the sun filled the room with an ethereal light that the polished oak floor reflected like the surface of a lake. Massive chandeliers hung above it, each arm ornately wrought into the shape of a wyvern.

  ‘Incredible,’ she said, stopping in appreciation. She breathed in the rich warm smell of the wood and was aware of the complete silence.

  ‘I think you’re incredible,’ Oliver said, putting his arm around her, surprising her.

  ‘Me?’

  He pulled her gently towards him. ‘Yes.’

  She turned to face him and smiled. ‘I’m not. I’m very ordinary.’ She watched his blue eyes that were staring straight into hers, and felt the strength of his arm around her.

  ‘I say you’re incredible,’ he said again. ‘And you’re very lovely.’ He squeezed her tighter.

  Frannie flushed with elation, and experienced a sudden, intensely erotic pang of desire for him. He released her to walk over to a glass showcase and she followed him. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I think you’re very lovely too.’ Their shoulders were touching and there was a peacefulness between them; the same easiness again now as there had been when they had left the restaurant last night.

  On the wall above them was a portrait of a man in seventeenth-century clothing. His head rose from the ermine collar of a purple velvet robe. The expression on his face was cold, preening arrogance. Thin lips were compressed into an inquisitor’s smile. His shoulder-length hair was brushed immaculately in King Charles curls and tiny hands, the size of a child’s, clasped a book to his chest. The same book, she realized, that now lay in the showcase on a velvet pad, its faded ink handwritten on what looked like badly preserved vellum. The writing was almost illegible, even without the failing light, and in a language she did not recognize.

  Oliver moved and his shadow fell across the glass and the book beneath. ‘That’s the one thing I really wish I did not own.’