Moon

by Herbert, James

  Grace Duxbury had overheard their conversation. ‘We’ve always been a prized possession, Monsieur Vigiers, for more than one nation.’

  ‘I hope my country has never caused you distress,’ he responded, humour in his eyes.

  ‘Distress?’ laughed Paul Sebire. ‘You’ve tried to invade us more than once, and your pirates never left us alone in the old days. Even Napoleon had a crack at us in later times, but I’m afraid he got a bloody nose.’

  Vigiers sipped his wine, obviously amused.

  ‘We’ve always appreciated our French origins, though,’ Sebire continued, ‘and I’m pleased to say our associations have never been relinquished.’

  ‘I gather you do not have the same warm feelings towards the Germans.’

  ‘Ah, different thing entirely,’ Platnauer voiced gruffly. ‘Their wartime occupation is recent history and with their pillboxes and damn coastal fortresses all over the place, it’s hard to forget. Having said that, there’s no real animosity between us now; in fact, many veterans of the occupying forces return as tourists nowadays.’

  ‘It’s rather strange how attractive this island has been to man from far, far back,’ said Sebire, indicating his preference for the souffle´, too. ‘In Neolothic times, he made his way here to bury his dead and worship the gods. Massive granite tombs still survive and the land is practically littered with megaliths and menhirs, those standing stones they paid homage to. Aime´e, why don’t you show Edouard around the island tomorrow? He returns to Marseilles on Monday and hasn’t had a chance to take a really good look at the place since he’s been here. What do you think, Edouard?’

  ‘I should like that very much,’ replied the Frenchman.

  ‘Unfortunately Jon and I have made plans for tomorrow.’ Amy smiled, but there was a coolness in the look she flashed her father.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Sebire persisted, conscious of her annoyance, but undeterred. ‘You see each other all the time at the college, and most evenings, it seems nowadays. I’m sure Jonathan wouldn’t mind releasing you for a few hours considering how little time our guest has left.’ He looked amiably along the table at Childes, who had been engaged in conversation with Vivienne Sebire, but whose attention had been drawn at the mention of his name.

  ‘I, uh, I guess it’s up to Amy,’ he said uncertainly.

  ‘There you are,’ Sebire said, smiling at his daughter. ‘No problem.’

  Embarrassed, Vigiers started to say, ‘It really does not matter. If—’

  ‘That’s quite all right, Edouard,’ Sebire cut in. ‘Aime´e is well-used to helping entertain my business visitors. I often wish she had chosen my profession rather than teaching; she would have been a remarkable asset to the company, I’m sure of that.’

  ‘You know I have no interest in corporate finance,’ said Amy, disguising her chagrin at having little choice but to accept her imposed role as tourist guide. Jon, why didn’t you help me? ‘I enjoy children, I enjoy doing something useful. I’m not criticizing, but your way of making money wouldn’t be fulfilling enough for me. I need to see some tangible evidence of success for my efforts, not just figures on balance sheets.’

  ‘And you find this with your students?’ asked Vigiers.

  ‘Why, yes, with many.’

  ‘I’m sure with most, with you as their tutor,’ Sebire put forward.

  ‘Daddy, you’re being patronizing,’ she warned menacingly.

  The two men laughed together and Grace Duxbury said, ‘Pay them no mind, Amy dear. They’re both obviously of that near-extinct breed who imagine that men still rule the world. Tell me, Monsieur Vigiers, have you tried many of our restaurants during your stay? Tell me how you found them compared to some of the excellent cuisines of your own country.’

  While the conversation went on, Amy glanced over at Childes. She tried to convey apology for the next day in her expression and he understood, shaking his head imperceptibly. He raised his wine glass, tilting it slightly in her direction before drinking; lifting her own glass, Amy returned the toast.

  Helen had returned to the kitchen and was already loading the dishwasher with plates and cutlery from the sink. She was pleased for her mistress that the dinner party appeared to be going so well. Miss Amy was lucky to have two men in attendance and Helen wondered how she could resist the smooth, cultured Frenchman, with his French ways and his French looks and his French voice . . . irresistible.

  She shivered and reached over the work surface near the sink to close the window. The night had turned chilly. And it was black out there, the moon but a thin sliver. Helen pulled the window shut.

  There was laughter around the dining table as Duxbury who, as well as being a commodity importer to the island, supplying local companies with office furniture, equipment and generally whatever else they needed, also arranged sales conferences for outside organizations, regaled his fellow guests with one of his long-winded but generally funny conference-mishap stories.

  Childes took a spoonful of the souffle´ and made an appreciative face at Amy. She mouthed a discreet kiss in return. He had felt on edge at the beginning of the evening, unsure of Paul Sebire, aware that he would be put through some devious kind of test by him, a judgement of character and perhaps of his worth now that it was evident Amy was becoming seriously involved. Yet the financier had been more than cordial throughout, the curtness of previous meetings gone or at least held in check. Still Childes had not relaxed, gradually becoming aware that the younger Frenchman was not just another dinner guest, but introduced by Sebire as a potential rival; the Sebire-inspired outing for Amy and Vigiers the following day had confirmed his suspicions. It was both obvious and disingenuous, but Childes had to admit he did look a little shabby against Vigiers.

  On the other hand, Vivienne Sebire had been gracious and attentive, genuinely welcoming him and, like the perfect hostess, making him feel a valued guest. She was the ideal counter to her husband’s general brusqueness.

  He joined in the laughter as Duxbury reached the climax of his story, the importer barely giving them all time to recover before launching into another. Childes reached for his wine, and as he brought it towards him, he thought he caught a glimmering in the glass. He blinked, then peered into the light liquid. He had been mistaken: it must have been a reflection. Childes sipped and was about to place the wine glass back on the table when something seemed to stir within it. He looked again, bemused rather than concerned.

  No, just wine inside, nothing else, nothing that could . . . nothing that . . .

  An image. But not in the glass. In his mind.

  Suppressed chuckling as Duxbury continued his yarn.

  The image was unreal, unfocused, like the nightmare, a shimmering blur. Childes set the wine glass down, aware that his hand was shaking. A peculiar sensation had gripped the back of his neck, like a hand, a frigid hand, clasped there. He stared into the liquid.

  Amy giggled, suspecting Duxbury’s story was building to a somewhat risque´ ending.

  The image had become images. They were slowly swimming into focus. The warmth of the room had become suffocating. Childes’ other hand unconsciously went to his shirt collar as if to loosen it.

  Grace Duxbury, having heard her husband’s story on numerous other occasions in different company, and knowing the punchline, was already twittering with embarrassment.

  Childes’ vision had shifted inwards; he viewed a scenario inside his mind, an event that was beyond the confines of the room, yet within himself. He seemed to be moving closer to the ethereal activity, becoming integrated with it, a participant; but still he was only watching. Soft earth was being disturbed.

  Victor Platnauer’s rasping chuckle, a low rumble about to erupt, was infectious, and Vivienne Sebire found herself laughing even before the story was concluded.

  Blunt, stubby fingers, covered in damp soil. Scraping against wood. The effort renewed, frantic. The wood cleared of earth so that its shape was revealed. Narrow. Rectangular. Small. Childes shuddered, spi
lling wine.

  Vigiers had noticed, was staring across the table at Childes.

  The coffin lid was smashed, splinters bursting outwards under the axe blows. Jagged segments were ripped away, the hole enlarged. The tiny body was exposed, its features unclear in the dismal light. Childes’ hand tightened on the glass. The room was shifting; he could barely breathe. The invisible pressure on the nape of his neck increased, squeezing like a vice.

  For a moment, the hands, seen by Childes almost as his own, paused as if the defiler had sensed something, had become aware of being observed. Sensed Childes, himself. Something deep inside his mind was coldly touched. The moment passed.

  Tilly Platnauer knew she should not be enjoying the tale, but Duxbury’s bluff rendition was compelling. Her shoulders were already beginning to judder with mirth.

  The little corpse was torn free from the silk-lined casket and now Childes could see the tiny open eyes that had no depth, no life-force. The boy was laid on the grass beside the pit, where the night breeze ruffled his hair, blowing wisps across his pale, unlined forehead, giving an illusion of vitality. His clothes were cut free and pulled aside so that the body was naked to the night, white marble in colour and stillness.

  Metal glinted in the thin moonlight. Plunging downward. Entering.

  Slicing.

  The glass shattered, wine mixed with blood spilling on the lace tablecloth. Someone screamed. Childes had risen, knocking over his chair, was standing over them, swaying, his eyes staring towards the ceiling, a glistening wetness to his lips, a light sheen moistening his skin.

  His body shook, went rigid, even his hair appeared brittle. With a desolate cry he fell forward onto the table.

  Gloatingly, it bit into the heart of the dead child.

  Amy clenched her fists and closed her eyes against the reflection of her father.

  They were in her bedroom, she white-faced with eyes tear-puffed and red, sitting miserably at her dressing-table, Paul Sebire agitated, angrily pacing the room behind her. She could not clear her mind from the sight of Jon when he had been led away from the house by Platnauer, the conseiller helping him into his own car, refusing to allow him to drive himself home, despite his protests: Jon’s face had been so taut, so stricken.

  He had refused a doctor, had insisted that he was okay, that he had just suffered a blackout, that the heat of the dining room had overcome him. They knew that the night was cool, that the house was merely warm, not too hot, but hadn’t argued. He would be fine as soon as he could lie down, he had told them, as soon as he could rest; he strenuously declined Amy and Vivienne’s offer of a bed for the night, saying he just needed to be on his own for a while. His distant gaze had frightened her as much as his ashen face, but it was useless to argue.

  She had held him before he left, feeling his inner trembling, wishing she could soothe it away. His cut hand had been treated and bandaged, and Amy had brought it to her lips before letting him go, kissing the fingertips, careful not to hold on too tightly. Childes hadn’t allowed her to go with him.

  Paul Sebire stopped pacing. ‘Aime´e,’ he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. ‘I don’t want you to be angry, I just want you to listen to me and to be rational.’

  He stroked her hair, then let his hand fall back onto her shoulder. ‘I’d like you to end this relationship with Childes.’ He waited for the outburst, which never came. Amy was merely staring coldly at his reflection in the mirror and, in a way, that was more unsettling. He went on, his tone cautious: ‘I believe the man is unstable. At first I thought tonight he was suffering from an epileptic fit of some kind, but soon realized the symptoms were not the same. Aime´e, I think the man is heading for a mental breakdown.’

  ‘He’s not unstable,’ Amy said calmly. ‘He’s not neurotic and he’s not heading for a breakdown. You don’t know him, Daddy, you don’t know what he’s been through.’

  ‘But I do, Aime´e. I just wonder if you’re fully aware of his background.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She had turned towards Sebire, his hand sliding from her shoulder with the movement.

  ‘Something rang a bell for me a long time ago when you first started mentioning his name; I couldn’t put my finger on it, although I was bothered for quite some time. More recently, when I began to suspect you were becoming seriously involved with him, I did some checking.’ He raised a defensive hand. ‘Now don’t look at me like that, Aime´e. You’re my only daughter, and I care more about you than anything in the world, so do you really think I wouldn’t pursue a troublesome matter which concerned you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t it have been possible to ask me about Jon?’

  ‘Ask you what? I had a feeling, that was all, a nagging doubt. And I couldn’t be sure of how much you yourself knew about Childes.’

  ‘And what did you discover?’ she asked caustically.

  ‘Well, I knew roughly when he had come over from the mainland and that he had a career in the computer industry before. I asked Victor Platnauer, as a member of the Island Police Committee, to make a discreet – I promise you it was discreet – investigation into Childes’ background, whether he had had any dealings with the police in the past, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Do you imagine he would have been employed by any of the colleges if he had some kind of criminal record?’

  ‘Of course not. I was looking for something else. I told you, his name was somehow familiar to me and I didn’t know why.’

  ‘So you found out what drove him away from England, why he was forced to leave his family.’

  ‘You made no secret of his divorce, so that didn’t come as a surprise. But what did was the fact that he had been under suspicion for murder.’

  ‘Daddy, if you had him thoroughly investigated you must be aware of all the facts. Jon helped solve those crimes. The penalty he paid was false accusations and relentless hounding by the media, even for long afterwards.’

  ‘Officially, the murders were never solved.’

  She groaned aloud, half in despair, half in anger.

  Sebire was undaunted. ‘There was a series of three murders and the evidence indicated the killer was the same person. All the victims were children.’

  ‘And Jon was able to give the police vital clues.’

  ‘He led them to where the last two were buried, that’s true enough. But everyone wanted to know how, Aime´e, that’s what caused the outcry.’

  ‘He told them, he explained.’

  ‘He said he witnessed the killings. Not physically, he hadn’t actually been there when the crimes had been committed, but he had “seen” them happen. Can you blame the police, the public, for wondering?’

  ‘He has . . . had a . . . a kind of second-sight. It’s not unusual, Daddy, it’s happened to others. Police have often used psychics to help them solve crimes.’

  ‘Whenever a particularly gruesome series of murders is reported, any number of crackpots always contact the police saying the spirits have told them what the murderer looks like or where he’ll strike next. It’s common and pathetic, and a total waste of police time.’

  ‘Not always, it isn’t always. Crimes have been solved by such people many times in the past.’

  ‘And you’re telling me Childes is one of these gifted persons.’ Sebire made the word ‘gifted’ sound like a sneer. ‘That’s what the newspapers reported at the time.’

  ‘That’s just the point: he isn’t. He’s not clairvoyant, he’s not psychic in the usual sense. Jon had never experienced such an insight before, not in that way. He was just as mystified and confused as anyone else. And frightened.’

  ‘The police held him on suspicion.’

  ‘They were staggered by what he knew. Of course they suspected him at first, but he had too many witnesses testifying he was elsewhere at the time of the murders.’

  ‘It was still felt he was involved in some way. He was too accurate with his information.’

  ‘They eventually traced the murderer and proved that Jon
had no connection with him.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but that’s not on record. The killings were never solved.’

  ‘Check with your sources, Daddy. You’ll find they were – unofficially. The madman cut his own throat. The case was never officially closed because he left no suicide note, nothing to admit he had murdered the children. All the authorities had was very strong circumstantial – no, conclusive – evidence against him. They hinted as much at the time, and so did the newspapers, but no one could officially announce the fact; the law, itself, prevented them from doing so. But the murderer killed himself because he knew they were closing in; Jon had given the police enough information for them to pinpoint their man, someone who was known to them as a child-molester, who had spent time in prison because of it. The killings stopped when he took his own life.’

  ‘Then why did Childes run away?’ Sebire was pacing the room again, determined not to leave until he had made his daughter see sense. ‘He deserted his wife and child to come here. What could make him do such a thing?’

  ‘He didn’t desert them, not in the way you’re suggesting.’ Amy’s voice had risen in pitch. ‘Jon begged his wife to come with him, but she refused. The pressure had been too much for her as well. She didn’t want either herself or Gabriel, their daughter, to be subjected to any more innuendo, phone calls from cranks, the media at first pointing the finger of suspicion and later trying to build Jon into some kind of super-freak! She knew there’d be no peace for them . . .’

  ‘Even so, to leave them . . .’

  ‘Their marriage was in trouble before that. Jon’s wife was a career woman when they were first married. When their daughter came along she took up all her time; Fran became sick of being a housewife, always living in his shadow. She wanted her own life before these incidents took place.’