Banquet for the Damned

by Adam L. G. Nevill

  Jason nods again. 'I thought they would blame me. We didn't get on. He was a messy bastard. Awful to live with, but I wouldn't have wished that on my worst enemy.'

  'What exactly?'

  'There was someone in the loft with him.' Jason's voice dies. He covers his eyes with his hands.

  'You saw it?'

  'Sort of. It was . . . It was . . .'

  'Go on.'

  'It was eating him.'

  Hart stares at Jason's face for a long time before he pushes his stubby fingers behind the lenses of his glasses, to rub his own tired and red eyes. Jason stares at Hart, whose turn it is to be distracted and pale in the face. 'You seem to know a lot about this?'

  'That's why I'm here. It's something I've been researching for a long time.'

  'You believe me then?'

  'Wish I didn't.'

  'Who is it?'

  'I don't have a clue. Not as to specifics. But I think something has returned to this town. Something old that most people would never believe in.'

  'You mean like the devil or something? I mean hang on, that must have been a man I saw up there.'

  Hart sighs. 'Did it look like a man?'

  'No.'

  Hart raises an eyebrow. 'Well then. It's all too much for people to believe in, Jason. They need colour footage these days. I don't even bother explaining anymore. Just keep things to myself, mostly.'

  'Amen to that,' Jason replies. 'It's so crazy, though. I thought I was going to be arrested for murder. Especially after what I said last night in the pub about Rick. I didn't have an alibi, I had a motive, I was drunk. But the police only slapped my wrists about making prank calls.' Jason starts to laugh with disbelief.

  'Jason,' Hart says, his voice low, his stare fixed on the young man. 'Did you see anything before last night?'

  'Like what?'

  'A shadow. Near Rick's room.'

  'No. Nothing. I spend most nights at my girlfriend's place. I couldn't stand being around Rick. I was ready to . . . Well, you know.'

  'He got under your skin.'

  Jason nods. 'Messy bastard. Poor sod.'

  'Place looks fine to me.'

  Jason smiles, sadly. 'I cleaned it this morning for the last time. We all lost our deposits because of Rick. But the least I could do was wash his dishes one last time. A kind of goodbye.'

  Hart turns his tired face to look up at the ceiling.

  'You want to go up there?' Jason asks.

  'I better.'

  'You're on your own.'

  'That's fine.'

  'I'll give you five minutes and then I'm out of here. I've got to lock up and post my keys through the warden's door. And anyway, you won't see anything. I went in with the police. There's nothing there. Not a drop of blood that I could see, and the police didn't look too hard once they'd found the acid. I've begun to wonder myself, now, whether I actually saw anything. Maybe it was like my subconscious or something.'

  'Do I need a ladder?'

  'No. Just go up the stairs. Then go through the fire door and turn right. It's at the end of the hall.'

  Hart leaves Jason to his packing and makes his way up to the attic. After he has opened the loft door, he has to fumble for the light switch. With the light on, he moves into the narrow storage space and crouches down on the dusty floorboards. Peering under the boxes scattered about, he notices several dark patches on the wooden boards and fragments of carpet. Could be oil, and the stains look old. Maybe there is something for forensics, but Hart is relieved the police have not taken samples. They would immediately start looking for a serial killer or something – wasting their time and getting in his way. When the time comes to act, the police will be useless. Hart shudders. Then it will be time to forget a rational approach. If he's learned anything from South America, it will be a time to act quickly and to go somewhere insane. Can he?

  Hart lifts his face and squints at the low ceiling. 'Who are you?' he whispers. 'Why are you here?'

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  South Street is deserted. The disintegrating cathedral at the top of the street surveys all of which it once was master. And at such a quiet hour, the sight of so many blackened chimneystacks above the houses, shops and college halls, with their attic gables ominous atop worn stone fronts, makes Dante's neck tingle with excitement. He checks his watch under a streetlight and realises he is five minutes early.

  From a tourist-office map he located St Mary's College, and walked from the flat on the Scores to find it tucked behind the walls of upper South Street. An arch leads to the college buildings and the court they surround. It has been burrowed into a plain stretch of stone wall, obscuring the actual court from the street outside. One of the iron gates in the arch is unlocked. Dante steps into a narrow brick annexe and the courtyard opens out before him. Dim globes light the paths, and subdued nightlights glow within the ancient buildings to create an enticing gloom in the court.

  Hesitantly, he makes his way forward, until he stands before the oak tree at the head of the main lawn. Around the wings of the court, like a smaller version of the Quad, a ring of academic halls creates shade and protects the hush of the garden. There are cupolas and decorative turrets, worn plaques and coats of arms above the archways and broad windows, whose panes of glass are divided into little squares. Dante thinks of his guitar. He would like to sit down on a bench in the stillness and dark, to allow the impressions and contours of history to press in on him. He wonders what he could find on a fretboard to capture the atmosphere of the court. Blues scales were not cold enough. He'd have to brush up on classical arrangements.

  'Dante.' Beth's voice startles him. It drifts from out of the shadows in a corner untouched by the orange lights that create a tarnished sheen on the black grass. Dante walks toward the belltower, its walls blanketed with ivy, from where the voice has risen. He peers into the murk around the tower but can't see Beth. 'Beth, where are you?'

  He hears a giggle and stops walking. Squinting, he peers through the fountain of spiky tree branches that falls away from a skeletal thorn tree, next to the belltower. From behind the blackened tree trunk, Beth unwraps herself, smiling. Swathed in her dark coat, she approaches him, slowly, and seems to glide and pour through the gnarled branches and twigs until she reaches the edge of the lawn. Her feet never make a sound. She laughs again and wrinkles her nose with delight. 'This is my favourite tree. Mary Queen of Scots planted the little shoot in the soil.'

  'It's kind of an ugly tree, though.'

  'Ugly, Dante? Isn't there beauty in age?'

  'I guess, but it's tilting to one side and has that calliper thing at the bottom, to hold it up.' Dante pauses when he sees Beth's expression change to disappointment. 'Sorry, Beth. I shouldn't knock your favourite tree.'

  She smiles and lowers her eyes. 'It's one of my only friends here, and you should be nice to her.'

  'I promise. And this place is, like, beautiful.'

  'Isn't it. So little has changed. Walk with me and I will show you things.'

  For balance, she removes her hands, gloved in leather, from the deep pockets of her coat and steps over the guardrail that protects the tree. Dante holds out an arm and she takes his fingers to steady herself. For a moment, as she raises a leg, her coat parts and reveals a long limb encased in patent leather to the knee. Immediately, Dante's eyes are drawn to a glimpse of slender thigh, shimmering beneath a thin gauze of nylon, before the heavy drapes of her coat sway shut to conceal it from his eyes. Beneath her coat, the rest of her body is clothed in black too: a leather skirt on her slender hips and a black woollen rollneck sweater to hide the pale skin of her throat.

  'Thank you,' she says, and stands close to him on the gravel path. Dante's chest tightens when he looks into her eyes, wide and laughing beneath heavy lashes. His face reddens and he becomes glad of the dark. 'I'm so pleased you came,' she says, and slips an arm around his elbow. 'Shall we walk?'

  Dante fumbles for his cigarettes with his free hand. 'Love to.'

  Gen
tly, Beth tugs him down the gravel path where the loose pebbles crunch and slide beneath their feet. But when he ignites his Zippo she pulls away. He glances at her and watches her face and how it has become wary of the flame. Disapproves of smoking, he guesses. Or maybe he is spoiling the effect of the dark. In any case, he lights his cigarette and quickly douses the Zippo's blue-yellow fire.

  'See the little sundial, Dante?'

  'Oh yeah.'

  'And this is St John's Arch.'

  'What's left of it.'

  'A ruin has its own magic. Old, forgotten things do.'

  'They do. I'd like to try and catch this on my guitar. We usually play blues and Tom's the wizard, but I think we could get something from this.'

  'Are girls impressed by musicians?'

  Dante's jaw hangs slack. Beth throws her head back and laughs. Then she squeezes his arm and Dante is hit by a cloud of perfume as the scent disperses from the fur collar of her coat. 'We were thinking of a gig somewhere. Is there like an alternative pub in St Andrews?' he asks, trying to recover lost ground. Beth stays silent. As if his babble is of no consequence, she just smiles up at the looming heights of wall and mildewed roof-tile above them.

  'Does Eliot know you're here?' Dante asks, hesitantly.

  'Down here, Dante.' They leave the courtyard and walk into a narrow wynd where the dark air feels heavy. Chestnut trees form an arch overhead to blot out star and moonlight, while the hedge shields the gully from the court lights. On their right, the wall is smothered with ivy and occasionally indented with an indistinct doorway. It prevents the distant town lights from intruding upon the court.

  'Can't see where I'm walking,' he says.

  'Let me be your eyes, Dante. I know this well.'

  'You spend a lot of time here?'

  'When I can. This is my favourite place. One of my family died here.'

  'You're joking.'

  'No. They took her from Parliament Hall and stoned her in the street.'

  'When?'

  Beth laughs and cuddles into Dante's shoulder. 'Long time ago. Look here, we go past the fur tree and the path takes us back to the courtyard.'

  Despite the delight of having Beth's lean body pressed into his own, he misses the light, so he can look at her again.

  'The night frightens you,' she whispers.

  'No, I love the night. Spent most of my life in clubs. But all this would be clearer during the day. Why couldn't we have seen this earlier and then had a drink? Made a night of it.'

  'Too many people. What about the solitude you can find at night? That's the best. It excites me.' Dante feels his groin immediately stiffen. In the company of this beautiful girl, he feels curiously powerless. Could he refuse her anything?

  On their way back to the courtyard, they pass a mediaeval building with a little brass plaque on its door: BIOLOGICAL AND MEDICAL SCIENCES. 'This is the old library,' Beth says, and she pauses by the wooden door, which is studded with iron bolts. 'And next to it is the Lower Hall. It was once the Parliament Hall where the estates met. It's changed since,' she adds in a sad refrain.

  'It's all great, Beth. I'm used to wet concrete and council estates. You know, I was amazed that there is no litter or graffiti in St Andrews. But the age of this place, it's kind of eerie. Don't you miss nightlife and stuff?'

  Beth never answers. She releases Dante's arm and walks across the central lawn. She sits on the wooden bench before the monument. Sheltered beneath overhanging oak branches and huddled on the bench, her shape becomes undefined. It is thin, and blends into the black-green ivy that covers the stone and brass behind her.

  After sparking up another cigarette for the fragile comfort its glow offers, Dante follows her to the bench.

  'Tell me about your friend?' she asks, as he sits down, near but not against her.

  'Who, Tom?' he replies, and fights to conceal his disappointment at her inquiry.

  'Umm, Tom,' she murmurs, releasing the sound of his name from her lips with a little pout.

  'Well, he's my best friend. More of a brother really. We go way back.'

  'Does he have pretty hair like you?'

  Dante chuckles. 'Yeah, right down to his bum. Hides behind it.'

  'You must have so many girlfriends.'

  'Hardly. The band was popular once. We were big fish in a small pond. Although, at the time it felt like we were at the centre of the universe. But things change. It was time for a new start,' he adds, sadly.

  Beth crosses her legs and her coat slides off her knees. The hem of her leather skirt slips back and Dante's eyes catch the glimmer of something pale. 'I like –' the words stick until he's cleared his throat. 'I really like your style, Beth.'

  'My style?'

  'The way you dress. It's very chic.'

  She smiles and looks down her body, distractedly. 'I wanted you to like me. I was so keen to meet you and very nervous the first time. I get so used to my own company.'

  'Do you have any friends here?'

  'Some.'

  'Do you go out much? I mean, shopping and things in the day?'

  'Not really.'

  'Why?'

  'I'm needed.'

  'By Eliot?'

  She moves against him. 'Sometimes.'

  'Like as a nurse.'

  'No.'

  'Evasive creature, aren't you?'

  'Maybe you would run away if I told you everything.'

  'Try me.'

  But Beth laughs: at him, he thinks. He removes his eyes from the girl it hurts to look at. It's the only way to keep his head straight.

  'So where do you and Eliot live? I only had the address of the school.'

  Her face turns toward him. 'Out on the west side.'

  'Nice out there?' Dante asks, feeling as if he is fighting with a blindfold, desperate to peek over the top and see her again, to enjoy even a moment when her eyes are upon him. But Beth stays quiet.

  'Did Eliot say when he wanted to see me next?' he asks, looking down at his boots.

  'No.' The sound of her voice is closer now.

  'How shall I approach things with him?'

  Her breath cools on the side of his face. 'Have patience, Dante.'

  'I'm not knocking your boyfriend, Beth. I just want to know what's going on.'

  'Don't call him that.'

  'What?'

  'My boyfriend,' she replies, and it seems to have been an effort just to say the word in relation to Eliot.

  'Isn't he?'

  'You've been listening to gossip. Idle tongues should be cut out.'

  Elation at her not being romantically connected to Eliot should be rising and warming through Dante, but that comment about cutting tongues out makes him uncomfortable. Her voice went deeper too when she said it, at odds with her beauty. 'Look Beth, I don't want to pry into your private life, but –'