“You kicked them? You killed them!” He groaned as he sat up. His shoulder!
“They’re not dead – at least I hope they’re not.”
“I don’t, I hope they’re very dead. Scum.” He got to his feet and scowled at Alex. “You should’ve given them the gold, you shouldn’t have tried to fight them. What if they’d knifed you?”
“But they didn’t, right? I knew I could take them out.”
Matthew mouthed ‘take them out’ a couple of times, eyeing the two prone bodies.
“You were lucky, they could have hurt you.”
“I couldn’t give them this ring, it’s my engagement ring, John’s ring.”
He was washed by a wave of jealousy for this unknown John, but restricted himself to a tight nod. He bent down to study the two men.
“They’re dead,” he pronounced, giving her an admiring look.
“Oh God, I’m not allowed to do that.” Alex paled, looking so greensick he worried she might vomit.
“What do you mean?”
Alex gnawed at her lip. “My mother insisted I had to learn self-defence, she said all women had to know how to fight their way out of tight corners.”
Matthew nodded his reluctant approval, dabbing at his bloody nose with the tail of his shirt.
“You should leave it to your men, but I’m glad you could fight for us both today.”
She hitched her shoulders. “I’m not supposed to kill, only defend myself. Not hurt someone else.”
Matthew laughed. “You think your mother sent you to learn to fight with the intention that you never use it?”
“Yes, I think she hoped I wouldn’t have to.” She inhaled and held her breath for a couple of heartbeats, did it again. “Let’s get out of here,” Alex said in a breaking voice. “I don’t want to stay close to…”
Matthew followed the way her eyes darted back and forth between the two dead men.
“Sit here, I’ll take care of it. We can’t leave them out in the open. Even dogs deserve to be buried.” He ignored the burning sensation in his shoulder and right arm, working one handed to heave the bodies down a small crevice and cover them with stones.
Once he was done he came over to where she was sitting.
“We’d best get going, I’d prefer it if we were well away from here before nightfall.”
She stumbled to her feet, eyes a very dark blue. “Will they hang me?”
“Hang you?” Matthew shook his head. “They’d have to catch you first.”
“Oh,” she squeaked, clearly not comforted.
“They won’t. No one will ever know.”
“But he —”
“The third one? I dare say he keeps well away from the long reach of the law.” He choked back a gasp when he settled his roll on his mangled shoulder and succeeded in giving her a small smile before leading the way up the closest slope.
Chapter 12
“Hi.” Diane looked very energetic, appearing at John’s door well before nine. She laughed at John’s bleary face. “The early bird catches the worm, remember?”
He swung the door wide. “Any particular reason for your visit?”
“No, not really.” She detoured to greet Isaac.
There was something so natural in how Diane approached Isaac, genuine liking colouring her voice as she talked to the boy – none of that cautious reserve with which Alex often treated her son. Isaac grinned up at Diane, handed her a piece of his crumbling Duplo tower, and scooted over to make room for her when she knelt down beside him.
“Coffee?” John asked.
Diane gave Isaac a parting pat, and moved over to where John was looking for clean mugs.
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to upset you the other day.”
“Upset me?”
“You know; about Isaac.”
“Oh, that.” Eons ago. When he was still trying to convince himself both Mercedes and Alex might one day resurface.
“And when you didn’t come in to the office yesterday or the day before, I thought…” Diane shrugged.
John blinked. He’d spent the last few days in Magnus’ garden, more or less zonked out of his mind.
“I was with Magnus,” he said, pouring them both some coffee. “In fact, I’m going there later today. Want to come?”
“Is he alright?” Diane sounded concerned. He threw her a look, wondering if her eyes had always been this green or if she was using contacts to enhance the colour.
“Alright?” John shook his head. “No, I don’t think he’s alright – and especially not after finding that notebook.”
“Notebook? What notebook?”
So John told her, deciding that Diane was an exception to the never tell rule they’d agreed on. Diane heard him out in silence, scepticism shining out of her eyes. She clouded when he told her of his run in with Hector.
“I don’t like him,” she said, “there’s something off about him.”
“But he does seem to be telling some sort of truth.”
“Truth?” Diane raised her brows. “Just because Mercedes has written something down, it isn’t necessarily the truth, is it? Let’s face it; there were days when she was very, very weird.”
No wonder, given her life, John sighed.
“We’re going to burn them,” he said. “The paintings. Today. Magnus wants to – just in case. I don’t think he’ll mind if you come along.” John had no idea really, but somehow having Diane’s cool intellect beside him helped.
*
Magnus seemed glad to see Diane, his eyes crinkling together when she hugged him. He was looking worn, the unshaven cheeks bristling silver in the sun.
“You’ve not been eating.” She frowned, poking him in the gut.
”No, it hasn’t seemed that important lately.”
Diane huffed and strode off to the kitchen, a very loud clatter indicating that they were all going to eat, soon.
Strangely enough, it was a relaxed meal – very much due to Diane, who pulled out all the stops and was a constant cheery presence, ensuring the conversation stayed well away from the subject of Alex and Mercedes.
Only once they’d finished their dessert did she ask to see the notebook. With a sigh Magnus went and fetched it, handing it over to her in silence.
“Well.” Diane closed the covers, looking rather pale. “Forceful.”
“You can say that again,” John said from where he was stacking the dishes into the dishwasher. He straightened up and wiped his hands. “We’d best get started.”
Magnus nodded and led the way to the studio.
Isaac looked round the large, light room, small hands reaching out to caress paint tubes and brushes, and the prepared but as yet empty canvases that stood stacked to one side.
“I want,” he said, grabbing a tube of cadmium yellow. He lunged and crowed happily at the tube of cobalt now also in his hand.
“Do you mind?” John asked Magnus. “Is it okay if I sit him down somewhere with paints and a brush? I’ll promise I’ll clean up afterwards.”
Magnus gestured at the paint spattered floor. “One more dash of yellow won’t show up. But these are oil paints and it will be quite the chore to clean him off.”
Isaac gave Magnus an offended look. “I know,” he said importantly and waved a brush at him.
John and Magnus shared a look. John shook himself. Fancies; all children liked to mess about with colours.
Once Isaac was settled at the large table, they turned towards the furthest wall and the long line of finished paintings, all facing inwards.
“How do we do this?” John said. “It’s not as if we can light a bonfire in your yard, is it?”
“Why not?” Magnus said. “Who’s to know?”
Diane looked at the paintings and back at him. “They’re very many, it’ll take ages to burn them.” Magnus just nodded and loaded his arms, making for the large windows. The pictures fell with splintering sounds as they hit the flags below.
“Magnus?” John went over to him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong! Everything’s great. My wife’s some sort of witch, and my Alex has apparently dropped through time. How can you possibly think that something’s wrong?” He glared at John, at Diane, and even at Isaac, before stalking out of the room.
“Oh shit, maybe we should do this some other time.” John looked at Isaac. “Come on then, Isaac. Let’s go home.”
“Don’t want to,” Isaac said, busy squeezing blue paint onto the table.
“But I do. Come to Jojo.”
“And what’s with that Jojo crap?” Magnus yelled, reappearing in the door. “Jojo, it makes you sound like a toy. You’re his father aren’t you?”
John stared at him. He’d never seen Magnus this upset, hair on end, blue eyes narrowed.
“That was Alex’s idea,” he said. Her way of getting her own back, jealous as hell of Isaac’s obvious preference for John.
“But she’s gone!” Magnus rammed his fist through one of the canvases. “She’s gone and she’ll never come back, and the only parent that little boy has is you. You’re his Dad, you hear? Not some fucking stuffed animal!” He sucked at his bleeding knuckles.
“Okay, fine; I’m his Dad,” John said soothingly. “Isaac, come to Daddy.”
Isaac shook his head. “No. Want to draw.” He held up one very blue hand and grinned. He looked at Magnus and then at John. “Offa,” he said, “Offa’s mad.”
“No,” John said, “I think Offa’s sad.”
“Huh.” Magnus wheeled away to stare out the window. “I want to do it now,” he said in a controlled voice after a while. “I’m sorry about just now, it got a bit too much.”
“Sure,” John said, “I understand.”
They started with the larger canvases, and Diane insisted that they should at least look at each picture before throwing it out the window, in some sort of belated gesture to Mercedes. Their sense of discomfort grew as canvas after canvas depicted the same thing; heaving blood red fire with something twisting at its midst.
“Her sister?” Diane asked.
“Or her father, calling out to his God,” Magnus said.
John had problems tearing his eyes away. “Don’t you feel it? How it sort of calls to you?”
Diane nodded.
“No,” Magnus said. “If I hadn’t read the notebook I wouldn’t even have seen it as a bonfire, more like someone experimenting with surrealist sunsets.” He bent down to drag a huge, framed canvas to stand. “Ugh!” he grunted. “This bloody thing weighs a ton!”
John came over to help him and together they manhandled the painting upright.
“Hector,” John said, “it is, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Diane agreed.
They studied the picture in silence; a serious man, fiery hair falling to his shoulders. Arched brows, a mouth that seemed undecided as to whether to smile or press itself together further, the upper lip bisected. And those eyes, hard and forbidding they stared back at them, gemstones on the point of exploding. His hand rested on the table beside him, a glove held casually in it, and on his head sat a magpie, beak half open as if it were laughing.
It was a strange picture. When they moved closer the image dissolved and reshaped, and suddenly Hector was naked, his face an anguished scream, small fires flickering around him. They drew back and the calm grandee stared back at them.
“Bloody hell,” Magnus said. “How does she do that?”
“I don’t know,” Johns said, shaken by the agony in that contorted face. Together they picked up the portrait and walked over to the window. “Poor sod; may you find some peace however big a bastard you are,” John said as they flung it down to join the pile below.
“Why thank you.” They whirled to find Hector leaning against the door, one hand resting on Isaac.
*
Hector eyed them with amusement, threw a look at one of the large bonfire paintings, and tightened his grip on the boy. He scanned the room. Several times over the last few years he’d sent men to this address to do some discreet breaking and entering, but each and every one of the canvases they’d brought back had been useless.
Twice he’d been himself, but ever since that idiot Charlie had bungled it so completely back in January, Magnus Lind had upped his security, making further trespassing somewhat difficult – as he well knew after his own attempt a few weeks back. Still, now he was here, and all of him quivered, his body straining towards the stacked canvases.
“Take your hands off my son!” John was halfway across the room.
“Now, now,” Hector said, producing a knife. “Let’s all calm down. And if we’re to be quite correct, this little bastard isn’t yours, is he?”
John snarled, baring his teeth in a primitive gesture of defiance. Hector laughed, and swung the boy up into his arms. The child yelped, a high-pitched sound that irritated Hector’s auditory nerves.
“What are you going to do? Burn them?” Hector said, holding the squirming boy under his arm.
“Yes,” Magnus said, “all of them. You know, like you made sure Benito and Dolores did.”
Now how on earth did Magnus Lind know that? Hector frowned at him.
“Benito Gutierrez was a false convert, crying out to his father’s God at the stake. It was just that they died, he and his daughter, and how unfortunate both daughters didn’t burn. I was only doing my civic duty, protecting my faith.”
“Of course,” Diane said, “how silly of us not to understand. Raping young women is always an indication of high religious values.”
Hector glared at her. The only person who knew about that was Mercedes. Had she left them some sort of message?
“Dolores was a little whore,” he said viciously. “For almost three years she met me in secret, received trinkets and flowers, shared my wine cup, my bed. And then…” He just shook his head. He had no reason to retell that long gone afternoon when Dolores had realised he had no intention of wedding her, or the subsequent fight. He fingered his upper lip, recalling just how close her eyes had been when she sliced the paring knife across his mouth.
“Let my grandson go,” Magnus said, advancing over the floor. “Set him down and leave before I rip your heart out.” Once again the blade shone in the lamplight, freezing Magnus to a standstill.
“You want the child, I want a painting. I’m sure we can reach an amicable agreement.” Hector turned the boy the right way up and studied him briefly. “He looks just like his grandmother.”
“Yes, and we can imagine just how much that thrills you,” Diane muttered.
“I can’t say it does.” Hector glanced at Diane, at the two men, and retreated a pace or two, making for the paintings. He moved quickly, the screaming child dangling under his arm. “I don’t even know if I have grandchildren.”
“Hopefully not,” Magnus said.
Hector gave him a cold look, changed his grip and the boy spluttered, legs kicking.
“Fragile, isn’t he?”
“Stop! Please stop!” Diane begged.
Hector released his hold and used his knife to beckon John forward.
“You,” he said, “I need you to flip through all those paintings.” He pointed at the stacks of postcard size paintings, hundreds and hundreds of them.
“Me?” John croaked, eyes hanging off his crying son.
“You.” Hector watched him stumble towards the small canvases, noted his reaction to each and every one. The young man looked about to faint, all of him trembling as he handled those squares of beckoning blues and greens. Interesting; like a human antenna, his whole body twitching in the proximity of so much magic. Hector took his time choosing, but finally he selected three and had John place them right side up on the huge table.
“I would suggest you back away, unless you want to be dragged along as well.”
“Isaac,” John said, “my son…”
Hector looked down, surprised at seeing the boy who still dangled from his arm.
“Go and stand by the door.” Once they’d complied he released the child, a small shape that flew towards the safety of his father’s arms.
*
Magnus was already moving to grab Hector, but Diane latched on to his arm.
“No, don’t get too close!”
The air around Hector shimmered, strands of colour dancing round him. Hector seemed to be praying, leaning towards the painting. A bright, white light poured out of the picture, and before their shocked eyes he sort of dove into the little square of twisting greens and blues and faded away, piece by piece. His head, his shoulders, one arm, the other…and all the time they heard him shriek, a disembodied sound that echoed through the room. With a rush of air he was gone, and on the table the bright turmoil of oils lay beckoning, whispering that they should come and look, look and drown in that white, elusive centre.
“He’s gone.” John gulped air, kissed Isaac’s head. Magnus nodded and approached the table, step by careful step. He swept together the paintings by touch alone, keeping his face averted.
“They burn,” he said “and no more looking at them, okay?”
John backed away, still clutching Isaac. “I can’t, I’m sorry, but I can’t bear to be close to them.”
Diane patted him on his arm. “Just sit there.”
John leaned back against the wall. What on earth had he witnessed? Impossible, he tried, entirely impossible. Diane filled her arms with small, brightly coloured canvases, and John could swear he could hear them whispering, begging him to come closer and look. He closed his eyes, and all along his arms and back sweat ran in small rivulets, ice-cold trickles against his overheated skin.
“Do you think he made it?” Diane dumped her pile out of the window.
“Made it?” Magnus asked, breaking a canvas over his knee.
“Well, yes; back to his time.”
Magnus gave her long look. “Frankly Diane, I don’t give a damn. I hope he rots in limbo forever.”
* * *
Hector landed with a painful thud, had to lie still for some moments while he forced air back into his lungs. All of him seemed whole, but he knew from past experience that he would be covered with bruises, the odd burn. Not that he cared, because at present his major concern wasn’t his health, it was where he was.
A Rip in the Veil (The Graham Saga) Page 13
