by Peter James
She closed the oak door behind her with a heavy clunk, still shaken, wondering whether she should tell Oliver about her accident, and fretting about the damage to the hedge.
She called out ‘Hello!’ but there was no response. Motes of dust drifted silently, and the eye of a dead pheasant glinted from an oil painting on the far wall. She walked through into the kitchen; there was ham salad on the kitchen table and five places laid, together with a note from Mrs Beakbane saying that baked potatoes were in the bottom oven.
She collapsed on to the decrepit sofa, but the rubber bone that rolled on to the floor only reminded her of what Edward had called ‘the bad thing’. Her mind went upstairs to the cutting of Jonathan Mountjoy’s death in the nursery. Then to the glass showcase with the book written on human skin. The Maleficarium, or whatever it was called. She wondered if there was a curse on the family, and whether the violent death of Oliver’s wife could be explained by it. And if so, was she next in line for presuming to love him?
Declan O’Hare had told her there were mentions of the Halkins in quite a few books; she had been planning to go to the British Library all week but had not had the time. She now walked back down the corridor and across the hall, through the grand panelled door into Oliver’s library-cum-study.
There was a damp chill, as if the room had never been heated, and a strong smell of stale leather and decaying paper. The sky was darkening; through the window she could see heavy grey clouds. She glanced at the sheets of mathematical calculations on the desk and the charts with their hieroglyphics on the wall, then up at the bookshelves, scanning the titles, uncertain where to begin.
Winston Churchill’s History of the Second World War. The Canterbury Tales. Walter Pater’s History of the Renaissance Studies. Tomes and tomes of military history, political history, biographies. A whole section on mathematics, and several books on numerology. She hesitated, then went across to the charts on the wall. Numbers; algebraic equations; she noticed the number twenty-six at the core of a ring of concentric circles. But as she leaned forward to look closer, Frannie heard an electronic ting-tack-tang sound, and a shadow fell across the desk. She spun round in alarm and nearly knocked Edward over. He was standing right behind her.
‘God, you gave me a fright!’
‘I just got four thousand, Frannie.’ He showed her the Game Boy’s screen. ‘Score. On Level Four. Level Four’s the hardest. It’s my new record,’ he said.
‘That’s very good,’ she said, slightly lost.
‘What are you doing?’
She blushed. ‘I was seeing if I could find any books on your family history.’
He looked at her solemnly. There were dark bags beneath his eyes as if he had not been sleeping well, which she had not noticed before. Or was it just the lighting? ‘Can I talk to you for a moment, Frannie?’ he said. As he did so, he glanced around, as if checking there was no one else there.
‘Of course,’ she said, his expression making her feel nervous.
‘Can you help me, Frannie?’
‘Help you do what?’ She smiled at him, because he looked as if he was close to tears. When he said nothing for a while, she wondered if he was lapsing back into one of his silences. Then he spoke again.
‘Do you ever have funny thoughts about people, Frannie?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Like there’s some bad thing inside you that makes you do things you don’t want to do?’
She knew this was an important moment and she tried to handle it without fluffing. ‘I sometimes think of things I’d like to do which I know I can’t.’
‘No, I don’t mean that. I mean do you have something inside you that makes you want to harm people?’ He fixed his warm brown eyes on her, looking scared and vulnerable. ‘I have this bad thing, Frannie. I don’t want it.’
‘What does it do?’
‘It makes things happen when I just think about them.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Do you remember last Saturday when Dom got his fingers caught in the car door?’
‘Yes.’
‘I made that happen.’
‘But you were with me.’
‘I know; but I saw it in my mind first; I wanted it to happen. Except I didn’t after it happened.’
Impossible, she thought. It was impossible. Then she remembered the strange, almost suicidal feeling she had had in the Range Rover, as if she were high on a drug, indestructible, could do anything; and how vividly Edward had appeared to her. She squeezed her hands together, then picked at her nails. ‘How often has this happened?’
‘Sometimes it happens at school. And I got really scared just now, while Daddy was working on his aeroplane engine, because I had this bad thought about you.’
‘What was it?’ she said, conscious of the chill rippling through her.
Tears began rolling down his cheeks. ‘I wanted you to crash the Range Rover,’ he said.
She stared at him numbly. ‘Why, Edward?’
‘I don’t know. Sometimes there’s a bad part of me that I can’t stop.’ His eyes widened. ‘You can help me, can’t you, Frannie?’
‘How? Tell me more about it, about this bad thing.’
He said nothing, lapsing into a long silence.
She took a deep breath. ‘Did you have it when your mummy was killed?’
His eyes flashed at her, startling her; they had changed completely, seemed to be burning with venom.
He ran out of the library and the next thing she heard was the slam of a door upstairs.
She was left wondering if she should go up and apologize, calm him; but she felt drained. She sat down and tried to work out what on earth he’d meant. To make some sense. She lowered her face into her hands. All she knew was that Edward had been in the back of the Range Rover; she had seen him clearly.
Willing things to happen? Dom’s fingers? The wasps? Captain Kirk? Was it possible? With voodoo it might be, but not with an eight-year-old boy? His mother was decapitated. Why would he will that? Was it the bad thing inside him?
I hope you’re not planning to sleep with my daddy.
Was he possessed?
She tried to laugh the idea off but it stuck in her mind. Possessed. She barely noticed the sky darkening further as she sat engulfed in her thoughts, looking round unfocusing at the shelves of books and then looking up at the strange mathematical hieroglyphics on the wall, her mind churning, searching for logic.
She tried to tag everything the way she would on a dig, every fragment that might eventually help make an identifiable object, that in turn would build up an image of the site in which it was found, and the people who had put it there. In archaeology tiny fragments were all you needed. They were all she had now. Jonathan Mountjoy. Meredith Minns. Max Gabriel. Phoebe Hawkins. Susie Verbeeten. Edward. Oliver’s wife. The boy’s fingers. The wasps. Where was the connection? Was Edward possessed? Mad? Or psychic? Telepathic? Reading her mind? That might explain the Range Rover where something had definitely influenced her own behaviour, but not Dom’s fingers; or the wasps.
As she had done so many times recently, Frannie thought back to when she had first seen Oliver and Edward. In the café; the boy’s tantrum. Then at King’s Cross, and the tantrum again. Can you help me, Frannie? Something about her that he seemed to trust, to respond to. And at the same time hate?
There were stories about disturbed people having strange powers. Particularly children being psychic; disturbed children caused poltergeists, that was well known. Oliver had said Edward was disturbed. You could hardly see your mother being decapitated and not be.
Especially if you’d made it happen.
Her thoughts were broken by the sound of the front door opening and closing, then Oliver came into the library in grubby overalls, his hands covered in grease and streaks of it on his face. He kissed her lightly on the lips.
‘Hi, sorry to be so late.’ Then he gave a triumphant smile. ‘Got the plane’s engine running proper
ly at last!’
She reciprocated the smile. ‘Good. I’m looking forward to my first flight.’
‘Won’t be long.’ He looked at his hands. ‘Better go and clean myself up. Charles is on his way; he and I are going to skip lunch and shoot straight off – do you mind terribly having lunch with the boys?’
‘No, that’s fine,’ she said, hoping it would be.
‘How was your friend in Rodmell?’
‘She was OK. Up and down, I guess.’
There was a sharp rap on the front door.
‘That’s them,’ he said and went out. She heard the door open, then Tristram’s voice.
‘Uncle Oliver!’
‘Hello, little brute!’ Oliver said.
‘Hello, big brute!’ the boy replied.
Frannie went out into the hall. Oliver’s brother was a little taller than she remembered and more gangly. He was looking very much a farmer in an old shirt, worn-out grey flannel trousers and wellingtons.
‘You met Frannie last week,’ Oliver said to him.
‘Yes,’ Charles said. He pushed his fingers shyly through his straw hair, taking a step towards her. ‘Hi, nice to see you again.’ He gave her hand a rather clumsy shake.
Tristram stared at her silently, his small frame engulfed by a yellow Snoopy T-shirt that was a couple of sizes too big, and pink Bermudas that hung below his knees. She remembered last week his blond hair had been plastered down in an attempt to make him look neat for a party, but no such effort had been made this time; it flopped, unruly, over his forehead and it suited him better. She smiled at him warmly. ‘How are you, Tristram?’
He raised his eyebrows quizzically. ‘OK.’ He shrugged.
She heard the musical ting-tack-tang of the Game Boy again, and saw Edward standing in front of the suit of armour on the half-landing, looking down at them with a distant expression in his eyes, as if he was not registering them. He turned his attention back to his toy and slowly walked down into the hall without taking his eyes off the screen.
‘Uncle Charles and I are going in a sec, Edward,’ Oliver said. ‘You and Tristram are going to have lunch with Frannie.’
Edward continued concentrating on his game and did not acknowledge his father.
‘Did you hear, Edward?’ Oliver said, irritated.
Edward flapped a hand, equally irritated. ‘I’m busy.’
‘Aren’t you going to say hello to your uncle, or to Tristram?’ Edward looked up. ‘Hello, Uncle Charles.’ Then he looked at his father. ‘Can I show Tristram the aeroplane?’
‘No, I don’t think that’s a very good idea.’
His face fell. ‘Why not?’
‘The engine’s been running and it’ll still be very hot. We’ll go down there when I come back.’
‘Promise?’
‘As long as we’re not too late.’
The ting-tack-tang beat of the Game Boy resumed, and Frannie saw Edward pressing the buttons again, biting his tongue in concentration.
While Oliver went to have a quick wash, Frannie asked his brother how the cattle were. He told her there seemed to be some improvement but it was too early to tell, and explained the homeopathic treatment the vet was giving them.
Oliver came back out, wiping his still grimy hands on his overalls. ‘Right,’ he said breezily. ‘We’re off! Think you can handle these monsters, Frannie?’
‘OK, you guys, what would you like for pudding?’ Frannie said, clearing away the plates.
‘Ice-cream and hot choccy sauce!’ Edward said. ‘Can you make hot choccy sauce, Frannie?’
‘If there’s some chocolate.’
Tristram whispered in Edward’s ear and the two boys burst into giggles.
Frannie found some chocolate and made the sauce. When Edward had finished, leaving a brown-and-white trail around his mouth, he looked up at her and asked if he and Tristram could go out and play.
Frannie tried to engage his eyes, to read behind them, but could see nothing. ‘Wait until I’ve cleared up, and I’ll come with you.’ She was in charge of him and she felt he needed watching.
He dug his hands into the patch-pockets of his cotton trousers and his forehead furrowed in thought, making him look for an instant like an elder statesman. ‘I think we might go and see the horses. If you come with us we could give you a riding lesson.’
‘No, not today.’
‘It won’t be dangerous, Frannie, honestly. We’ll just go out in the field. If you ride Sheba she’s very gentle.’
‘I think your father should be with us if I’m going to have a riding lesson.’
‘Daddy’s useless with horses; he only knows about aeroplanes. It won’t hurt, Frannie. I’ll hold her by the reins.’
Tristram was absorbed in scraping his bowl clean. ‘I’ll hold him too, Frannie,’ he said without looking up.
She smiled, not wanting to seem a coward, but equally determined she was not getting on a horse. ‘I’ll just get ready then we’ll go down and have a look at them.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise I’ll come with you, but I don’t promise I’m going to ride.’
‘OK.’ The boys scrambled off, chattering excitedly.
‘Hey! Where are you going?’ she called, following them into the hall.
‘I want to show Tristram my Game Boy score,’ Edward said. ‘In my room.’
She returned to the kitchen, glad of a few moments’ quiet to try to collect her thoughts. The shakes were coming back in another wave of shock from the accident, and she was deeply disturbed by her visit to Susie Verbeeten. She switched on the kettle to make herself a cup of coffee, stacked the dishwasher and washed the remains of the chocolate from the saucepan.
She blew on her coffee, sipped it, and went out into the hall. The house sounded quiet; the boys were probably engrossed with Edward’s game. She went back into the kitchen, wiped the table clean, sat down and glanced through the ‘Weekend’ section of The Times. But she was unable to read more than a short way through any of the articles before her attention wandered.
She finished her coffee, then went up to Edward’s room, hoping they might have changed their minds about going down to the horses. As she opened the door she felt the first prick of concern. They were not there. And when she went up to the nursery they were not there either.
Her concern deepening, Frannie ran back downstairs, and out of the front door into the bright sunlight, but there was still no sign of the boys. She glanced at her watch. It was about twenty minutes since they had left the kitchen. There was a muffled bang in the distance. A few moments later she heard another, and she felt a sharp jolt inside her.
Couldn’t be.
Then another bang, followed by a blattering roar that died almost instantly.
No.
She was already racing down the gravel path before the noise had faded in her ears.
Faces blurred as she tore along the front of the house. She weaved through a group of visitors moving away from the ticket office and collided with a large man taking a photograph, who was as solid as a sandbag. Her mouth would not work; she apologized with her eyes, holding him at arm’s length as if to get her bearings, slipping past him, and sprinted up the road past the chapel, towards the noise. Again, there was an ear-blistering roar, much louder, an angry sound that rasped through the grounds, shattering the peace of the still afternoon.
She cut across the grass, then on to the asphalt path, the route Edward had taken her last Saturday, just a week ago. A week ago when she was unaware that Meredith was dead and that Max Gabriel was dying. When Phoebe Hawkins still had two arms. She prayed silently as she ran.
Please don’t let anything bad happen. Please let them be all right.
Past a huge cornfield that was all cut and baled up, she saw the tall, rusting corrugated iron barn ahead of her. There was a bang, a short, fiendish roar that drummed the walls of the barn, then silence. Rafts of oily smoke drifted towards her. Her speed quickened in panic. Then as she
hurtled round to the front she saw Edward and Tristram standing on two oil drums in front of the aeroplane, turning the propeller, that was much higher than either of them, with difficulty, having to stretch up and strain hard. Having a great game. Frannie stopped, horrified.
‘OK!’ Edward yelled, bracing himself.
‘OK!’ Tristram yelled back, bracing himself also, holding the propeller steady for a moment.
‘Edward!’ Frannie screamed. ‘Edward! Tristram!’
There was a clattering sound as they swung the propeller sharply downwards. Then it began revolving, slowly, on its own, and with a deafening noise the engine burst into life, picking up speed, the blades of the propeller vanishing into a transparent blur. Thick exhaust fumes billowed out. The biplane shook and the barn drummed with the din.
The boys were swaying, fighting to keep their balance in the vortex of suction from the propeller. Edward windmilled his arms desperately, the drum rocking crazily beneath him, pitching him forward; he was beginning to fall towards the propeller.
Frannie was half demented with horror. ‘Edward!’ she screamed but she could not even hear if her voice had come out. ‘Edwa –’
He struggled to get his balance back, grabbed Tristram by the shoulders and they both fell forwards, then rocked back, swayed forwards again. Then, suddenly, the drums pitched over, throwing them both backwards on to the ground. Tristram lay motionless. Edward covered his head with his hands and rolled clear.
Frannie never forgot what happened next. Tristram climbed to his knees, and remained there, dazed, looking directly at her. The plane began to creep forwards towards him. ‘Tristr –’ she choked on her own terror. Launched herself towards him. Her foot caught in a crack and the hard concrete slammed into her chest.
Winded, she saw movement to her left, someone running, it was just a blob. The blob became a man in his late fifties, wearing a soiled lumberjack shirt. But Tristram stayed on his knees, looking at her and at the approaching man.
The concrete tearing skin from her hands, Frannie powered herself forward to the little boy who was kneeling less than two yards in front of the propeller. She stumbled back to her feet, felt the air sucking at her, ‘TRISTRAAAAMMMM!’
