Dark Light

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘No,’ I said, wiping my face, ‘but it’s my home and I hate being driven from it. And I’m making friends. And it’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘But it’s not all you’ll ever have. And I’ll be with you, Cage. I won’t let anything happen to you. If that means anything.’

  ‘It means a great deal. Thank you.’

  ‘We’ll sort something out,’ he said comfortably. ‘No need to worry.’

  ‘But where would we go?’

  He sighed. ‘Doesn’t matter really, does it? It’s you, Cage. If I take you to a hotel – any hotel anywhere – long-murdered guests are going to start haunting the corridors. If I take you to a remote camping site somewhere, then the skeletons of fallen warriors will start pushing their way up through the soil demanding vengeance. If I take you to a cosy seaside B&B, the apple-cheeked landlady will come after us with a hatchet, intending to bake us into a pie. Face it, Cage, these things happen. To you, mostly. So we’ll jab a pin in a map, go there, and just sit down and wait for the next crisis, shall we?’

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  ‘Why don’t you have an early night?’ he said, taking my mug from me. ‘I’ll lock up down here and see you in the morning. We’ll go to the library, get an atlas, open it at page twenty-nine, stick in our pin, and take things from there.’

  I smiled and said goodnight.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Contrary to my expectations, I slept well. I did not dream of cottages sliding into the sea, or dread Cthulhu rising up out of the waves to consume us all, or pirates, or smugglers disguised as Dr Sorensen, or anything, really. I fell asleep to the comforting sound of waves breaking on the shore below, half-waking several times to listen to the far-off booming noise, before finally opening my eyes to another sparkling morning.

  There was no sound from Jones’s room upstairs, so I nipped into the kitchen to make him a cup of tea. The kitchen door was on the far side of the room and, yawning, rubbing my eyes and not looking where I was going, I walked slap bang into the old red armchair.

  I cursed, rubbed my shin, hopped about a bit and cursed some more. I would have given it a good kick but my feet were bare and I was in enough pain.

  ‘What on earth’s going on?’ said Jones standing in the doorway behind me, wearing a t-shirt and shorts and with his hair on end. ‘Why are you trying to attack that chair?’

  ‘I’m not,’ I said, with great restraint. ‘I’ve just walked into it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I didn’t see it.’

  ‘It’s huge, Cage. And red. And in the middle of the room. Should I take you to have your eyes tested?’

  ‘I didn’t expect it to be in the middle of the room. Why did you move it?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Well, I certainly didn’t. I can barely lift it.’

  We looked at each other.

  ‘Old house,’ said Jones. ‘There might have been a bit of a tremor in the night and it shifted the chair.’ He tried to lift it, grunted and somehow heaved the old chair back into its former position.

  ‘Mind your leg,’ I said warningly.

  ‘Never mind my leg, it’s my groin I’m worrying about.’

  ‘Poor grasp of priorities,’ I said, and went to put the kettle on, leaving him trying to line up the chair using the original deep depressions in the old wooden floor.

  ‘This is interesting,’ he called.

  I doubted it but played along. ‘What is?’

  ‘They don’t line up.’

  ‘What doesn’t line up?’

  ‘The marks on the floor. Whatever stood here before wasn’t this chair.’

  ‘Which chair was it then?’

  He looked around. ‘Don’t know.’

  I poured the tea. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Probably not. Are you doing breakfast while you’re in there?’

  ‘You’re the cook.’

  ‘I’m the invalid.’

  ‘OK. How about a tasty breakfast of wheatgerm and cod liver oil?’

  I was shouldered aside. ‘Eggs, bacon and toasted muffins all right?’

  I took my tea out to the bench in the front garden and admired the view while breakfast was got for me.

  ‘Any good ideas come to you in the middle of the night?’ he asked as we sat down to eat.

  I shook my head. ‘If they did they were wasting their time. I went out like a light. You?’

  ‘Actually, I had some rather useful thoughts.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, if Sorensen doesn’t want you then he probably has no use for me. Depends how vindictive he’s feeling.’

  ‘He threatened to imprison you over Clare. Or worse.’

  ‘He could try but I’m guessing he won’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He won’t be allowed to. Clare was a horrible mistake. Heads will – no, heads are already rolling for that and he was involved. Not hugely but it was Sorensen who did her psychological profile and he missed it. And then he wasted a lot of time pursuing me for it and that turned out to be a dead end, so my guess is that he’ll just let me drop. And you too. We’re both reminders of two of his rare failures and he won’t want to draw attention to that.’

  His words were comforting and I so wanted to believe him.

  ‘Anyway, we’re not going anywhere at the moment, are we?’ said Jones. ‘Owing to your lack of foresight in not having a passport. Really, Cage, if you’re going to embrace the life of a fugitive then the least you can do is be current with the paperwork.’

  He picked up our coffees and we wandered outside to sit in the sun and map out our day.

  I remembered what Jerry had said about his passports. Plural. ‘Can’t you find someone to make me one?’

  ‘Yes, but not in the next day or two, so I’ve had an idea, Cage. We’ll leave the country without leaving the country.’

  ‘Of course we will,’ I said soothingly, wondering if perhaps he envisaged taking up residence underground.

  ‘Scotland.’ He sat back triumphantly.

  I was almost certain Scotland was still attached to England and Wales and said so.

  He shook his head in exasperation. ‘Fishing.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ I said in admiration. ‘That’s brilliant. I’d forgotten.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been a bit busy recently and I’d forgotten, too.’ There was a pause and then he said quietly, ‘It wasn’t the best Christmas ever, was it?’

  I shook my head. Not even close. Mrs Barton’s voice came back to me. ‘All that angry snow.’ I pushed it away, saying as normally as I could. ‘So … fishing.’

  ‘You bought me a fishing holiday. Remember?’

  I did, yes. Our Christmas gifts to each other. He’d bought me a beautiful red bowl and I’d bought him a fishing holiday. ‘And,’ he continued triumphantly, ‘you said you’d come too, so I added a guest. You’re my plus one. It’s all booked, Cage.’

  ‘When for?’

  ‘The end of next week. I was going to ring and cancel it when I arrived here, but that’s not necessary now, is it? We’ll spend a peaceful few days in Rushby, then shoot up to the Arctic Circle – or Scotland as they refer to it these days – and decimate their fish stocks, while Jerry does the biz with whatever we need to persuade a hitherto friendly country to accept you, and then off we go.’

  ‘But my house …’

  He took my hand. ‘It won’t be forever, Cage. Just somewhere safe for you. For both of us. While we think about our future. It will only be for a little while. I promise.’

  I swallowed and nodded.

  We spent the rest of the day sitting quietly in the sun. I found a book to read and Jones just leaned back and closed his eyes. Occasionally I raised my eyes from my book to look around me. The colours were very simple, but very satisfying. The sea glittered, gulls were big and white against the blue sky, and the grass was a brilliant green. At that moment, I couldn’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be. Sore
nsen, Iblis, and the strains of the last weeks just faded away in the sea air.

  Whether it was the sea air or just general exhaustion, I could hardly keep my eyes open. Jones wasn’t much better and, by mutual agreement, we had an early night. He disappeared up the stairs to his very much better appointed bedroom, and I crawled thankfully between my own sheets. I’d brought my book with me, but found my eyes closing half way down the first page, so I tossed it aside, turned out the light and fell heavily asleep.

  I don’t know what woke me, but something did. I lay for a moment, wondering where I was and what time it was. Dawn couldn’t be far away. I could see the grey outlines of the furniture. Turning my head, I found myself nose to nose with a large red armchair. Literally. I was curled on the edge of my bed and it was no more than four inches away from me. A huge dark shadow in my bedroom.

  I shrieked. I couldn’t help it. I shrieked again and tried to fight myself free of the bedclothes. I was still struggling when the door crashed back against the wall and Jones was there – and he had a gun.

  I shrieked a third time and scrambled to the other side of the bed. As far away from the chair as possible.

  He was ranging the gun around the room – presumably looking for something a little more threatening than an old armchair. His colour was spiking red with adrenalin. Short, sharp bursts with every heartbeat. Ready for anything. Finding nothing, he shouted, ‘What? What’s wrong? What’s the matter?’

  My heart was hammering so hard I could barely speak so I pointed.

  ‘What?’ he said, staring round. ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘That,’ I said, pointing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Jones, are you blind? That.’

  ‘The chair?’

  Yes. Obviously the chair.’

  ‘You want me to shoot a chair?’

  ‘Yes. Now.’

  He lowered the gun and took a few deep breaths. ‘Bloody hell, Cage …’

  I finally got my legs free of the sheet and edged my way around the wall, making sure to keep the bed between me and the armchair, until I fetched up next to him.

  ‘You’re afraid of the chair?’

  No point in denying it. ‘A little.’

  There was just the faintest note of exasperation. ‘Then why take it to bed with you, Cage?’

  ‘I didn’t. It brought itself.’

  He sighed. ‘The chair moved from the sitting room into your bedroom. All by itself.’

  I opened my mouth to say yes and closed it again. ‘Well, I didn’t do it. Did you?’

  ‘Of course not. What sort of person gets up in the middle of the night and start moving the furniture around? Yes, I’ll admit I once had a girlfriend who did that, but she always maintained it was a manifestation of her deep-seated dissatisfaction with my role in our relationship.’

  ‘What? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Women who move furniture in the middle of the night. I think her name was Margot.’

  ‘Jones, I swear there is something seriously the matter with you.’

  ‘Whereas heaving an old armchair around and not remembering doing so is the height of normality.’

  ‘I didn’t. I’ve been asleep the whole time.’

  ‘Do you sleepwalk?’

  ‘Of course not’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I slept with Ted for years. He would have mentioned it. Do you?’

  ‘No idea. Trust me, there was always such a barrage of complaint coming from my girlfriends that something as minor as sleepwalking would never even have made it to the long list. Hold this.’

  He handed me the gun.

  I took it as if it was red hot and pointed it at the floor. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Put a stop to this.’

  He strode across the room, seized the chair and tried to get it back through the door. I was pleased to notice that he could barely lift it. And he had a real struggle to get it through the door, twisting it this way and that until, finally, with a huge amount of effort and even more bad language, he had it back into the sitting room.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I said, following him in and handing him back his gun.

  ‘Go back to bed.’

  ‘But … what about … I mean …’ I trailed away, not knowing what to say.

  ‘Exactly,’ he said, ‘but if you have any suggestions, now’s the time.’

  I shook my head. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Right then.’

  I stood still. I really didn’t want to go back to my room. Not knowing there was only a single door between me and … all right, an armchair. But an armchair with possibly hostile intent. And its own power of locomotion.

  It was if he read my mind. ‘Do you want to sleep with me?’

  ‘Um …’

  ‘In my bed, I mean.’

  ‘Will you be in it?’

  ‘Well, yes, obviously. I’m not sleeping down here with possibly peripatetic furniture.’

  I gave it up. ‘Yes, please.’

  He shut the door firmly on the possibly peripatetic armchair and we trailed back upstairs.

  ‘Which side do you want?’

  ‘The side furthest away from the chair.’

  ‘So you’re expecting me to confront whatever comes through the door?’

  ‘Absolutely. You’re the one with the gun. Where is it by the way?’

  He only grinned.

  His bed was still warm. I climbed in and pulled up the covers.

  After a while, he said, ‘Could you manage to relax a little, Cage? It’s like sleeping next to a plank.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m scared I’ll open my eyes and find it by my bed again.’

  ‘Explain to me how an armchair is supposed to get up the stairs.’

  ‘Explain to me how an armchair got into my bedroom in the first place.’

  ‘You’re asking yourself the wrong question.’

  ‘No, I don’t think I am.’

  ‘You should be asking yourself why was an armchair in your bedroom in the first place.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, do I? For all I know, it wanted to eat me.’

  ‘I think the number of reported cases of people being consumed by their own armchairs is quite low.’

  ‘What about being consumed by someone else’s armchair?’

  ‘I think you’re more likely to be attacked by your own furniture than someone else’s. I mean, you don’t often hear of someone being pursued down the road by a neighbour’s dining table, do you?’

  ‘I’m so glad you’re taking this seriously.’

  ‘Well, you have to admit it’s a little hard to believe.’

  ‘And I would be in complete agreement with you if I hadn’t woken up and found an armchair four inches from my nose.’

  ‘Good heavens, Cage, what sort of position do you sleep in?’

  ‘I was curled up on the edge of the bed,’ I said with dignity.

  ‘As opposed to lying rigid in mine, staring at the door. Seriously, Cage, I’d don’t think I’ve ever been in bed with a woman who’s stiffer than me.’

  I was just casting around for a suitably scathing reply when there was a dull booming sound from downstairs. And not the sound of waves breaking on the shore, either.

  I sat up. ‘What was that?’

  He was already getting out of bed. ‘Stay here, Cage.’

  ‘Not bloody likely.’

  ‘Then stay behind me and don’t get in my way.’

  There was no fear of that.

  He didn’t bother creeping about either, clumping his way down the stairs and into the sitting room. I peered anxiously around his bulk.

  ‘Hmmm,’ he said

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s moved.’

  ‘Told you.’

  ‘Can I ask that any future contributions from you are slightly more helpful, please?’

  ‘Of course you can. It won’t do you any good but you can certainly as
k.’ I paused. ‘So where did you leave it?’

  He pointed. ‘There. Where it was before.’

  I stared at the depressions in the floor. The ones that didn’t line up.

  ‘There’s been a chair there before, but not this chair.’

  He crossed to the chair, knelt down and examined the legs.

  ‘Careful,’ I said from the doorway.

  ‘I’m not sure what you think it’s going to do to me, Cage.’ He peered closely and said again, ‘Hmmm …’

  I panicked. ‘What?’

  ‘Woodworm.’

  He moved the chair slightly so one leg fitted neatly in one of the depressions. None of the other legs lined up. The marks were similar, but not quite exact. ‘So,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘a chair like this one, but not this chair.’

  ‘It was one of a pair,’ I said, enlightened.

  ‘A smaller one,’ he said. ‘His and hers chairs. This is his. Wonder what happened to hers.’

  He rocked the chair back and forth on the wooden floor. No booming noise.

  I pointed. ‘There.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Over there. That wall on the other side of the fireplace.’

  He squinted. ‘What about it?’

  ‘I can see the dents from here. And a scrape on the wallpaper. And there’s dust on the floor. And no skirting board and …’

  ‘Yes, all right.’

  ‘You said you wanted me to be more helpful.’

  ‘I was mistaken.’

  He heaved himself up and padded across the room to stare at the wall. ‘Yes, I see what you mean.’ He thumped on the wall, producing the same dull booming noise we’d heard earlier.

  ‘That’s it,’ I said. ‘That’s what I heard last night. I thought it was the waves. Was the chair banging against the wall? Why would it do that? Did it want to get in?’

  ‘Or,’ said Jones slowly, ‘was something trying to get out?’

  I couldn’t help it. I backed away. And then brought myself up short. What exactly was I afraid of? An armchair that could apparently materialise wherever and whenever it pleased was the answer to that one. I thrust away thoughts of it devouring me in my sleep because that simply hadn’t happened, had it? Yes, I’d been shocked and startled but not terrified. And I’d been no more shocked and startled than anyone would be on encountering an unexpected piece of furniture in their bedroom. I stepped back, closed my eyes and let my mind drift a little … and then pulled back.