Caitlin’s heart leaped into her throat, rendering a scream impossible.
Natalie was sizing up the lanky fellow, pointing at him with a quizzical look. “Why is Keith Richards standing in our doorway?”
Caitlin shoved Girl Wonder behind her. She stuck out her chest boldly, put on the bravest possible face, and spoke in an unflappable, harsh tone—despite her pounding heart. “Who the heck are you to come knocking on our door at this hour of the night?”
The old man smiled, causing the crevices in his face to sink deeper. Wind and leaves whirled behind him.
“I’m your great-uncle, Derek. Derek Blackshaw. Brother and bandmate of your deceased grandfather, Robert “Bobby” Blackshaw, the second born in our family. Uncle to your dear mum—and my beloved niece, Evelyn—also the second born in her family.”
His accent was unmistakably British, his voice scratchy in a bluesy kind of way.
“I’m Natalie—second born in the Fletcher clan,” Natalie quipped. “And I don’t suppose you brought a pizza?”
Caitlin shook her head. “What are you doing here?”
The man claiming to be her great-uncle smiled. Thankfully, it was a kind smile. “I’ve come back from Amsterdam to take you and your sister back to England. If you want to go back, that is. Been following your blog. Ever since your dad left to meet his maker.”
This could be my ticket home!
“I saw you at the funeral,” Caitlin said.
“Indeed, you did.”
“Why didn’t you come over and introduce yourself? You scared me half to death. I thought you were some zombie psycho.” As the words left her lips, Caitlin winced. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”
Derek Blackshaw’s corrugated face cracked a knowing smile.
“Five decades of . . . um, well . . . let’s just say time took a heavy toll.”
Natalie nodded suspiciously and folded her arms. “Uh-huh. I suppose you mean five decades of ingesting various plant substances, alcohol, and tobacco extracted a heavy toll.”
Derek Blackshaw’s eyes lit up. “Which reminds me,” he said, pulling a crinkled pack of hand-rolled cigarettes and a box of matches from a back pocket. “It’s been a while.” He popped the cigarette in his mouth, struck a match, and lit up as Caitlin and Natalie stared at him with contempt.
“Now, how about inviting your long-lost great-uncle inside?” he said, puffing leisurely in a cloud of smoke.
Caitlin politely stepped aside, but Natalie stood her ground. She even stuck out her arm to halt his progress. “ID first.” She opened her palm. “Driver’s license or passport. Need to verify you’re an authentic Blackshaw. And put out that disgusting cigarette.”
He sneered at Natalie as he blew smoke from the corner of his curled mouth. “I heard about you. IQ off the charts. Arrogant. Precocious. Smart as a whip.” He went from sneer to smile with a gravely chuckle. “A true Blackshaw to the bone—ha ha!”
“Half Fletcher, half Blackshaw,” Natalie corrected.
Derek rolled his eyes as he presented his passport. He then pulled out an old, wrinkled four-by-five-inch photograph. “Might wanna have a look at this as well.”
Caitlin snatched the photo.
“That’s your mum,” Derek said as Caitlin’s eyes drank up the photo. “When she was twelve.”
Caitlin’s eyes misted over as she gazed at her mom. She knew the photo well. Young Evelyn Fletcher, née Blackshaw, was absolutely adorable. She had an uncanny resemblance to Natalie.
Natalie examined the passport meticulously, then fired off a few questions like a customs agent.
“What’s your father’s name?”
“Edward Junior.”
“Mother’s name?”
Caitlin stamped her foot. “Natalie, you’re being rude.”
Girl Wonder’s eyes were glued on the passport as she responded. “I’m being thorough. You don’t let complete strangers into your home without proper identity verification. Now, what’s your mother’s name?”
Derek chuckled and said, “Claradine.”
Natalie’s brows narrowed as if she were about to pose a trick question.
“And what was the family surname before it was changed to Blackshaw?”
Caitlin flinched. “I didn’t know mom’s family had another name before Blackshaw.”
“Well, they did,” Natalie confirmed. “And I knew about it. But if this person calling himself Derek Blackshaw doesn’t know, it, I’m calling the LAPD.”
Caitlin huffed. “Nat—enough! You’re being totally offensive.”
Derek Blackshaw straightened his shoulders and responded as if he were talking to a border patrol agent. “The name was Thatch. Edward and Claradine Thatch.”
Natalie snapped the passport shut and handed it back to Derek Blackshaw with an assured nod. “We’re good here. You are who you say you are.” Then her face broke out in a wide smile. “Uncle Derek, so nice to finally meet you!”
Natalie flew into his arms.
Uncle Derek hoisted her up, embracing her in a warm hug while letting out a full, raspy laugh.
Caitlin’s face went blank and her shoulders slackened. She wanted to hug him even though he reeked of tobacco and looked like an aging Hell’s Angel. He was, after all, her mom’s uncle. He was blood. Family. She so badly needed to hug family right now.
Uncle Derek set Natalie on the stoop. Her eyes were watery. Then turned to Caitlin. He opened his arms.
“Well, young Cait? How about a hug for an old fart of an uncle?”
She hesitated. But then a warm smile forced its way onto her face. She strode over and hugged him politely. Uncle Derek kissed her on the forehead, then took a long drag of his cigarette.
“Really?” Caitlin said. “That God-awful smoke is polluting your polluted lungs!”
Derek nodded. “And, therefore, you should learn from my mistakes, young Cait. As I’ve always said, ‘Do as I say, not as I do.’”
“It was John Selden who said that,” Natalie noted as she dried her eyes with her sleeve.
“Who the bloody hell is that?”
“Legal scholar. Lived five centuries ago.”
Derek’s face soured. “The hell with him.”
* * *
Uncle Derek sipped a cup of lemon gingerroot tea that Caitlin had prepared for him. The two sisters were sitting around the dining room table with their uncle, eating the pizza that had finally been delivered and listening attentively to stories about their uncle and grandfather.
“Blackshaw was also the name of our band,” Uncle Derek said. “Bobby—your granddad—played lead guitar. As well as anyone, I might add. I played bass. The band was full of promise.”
“Why did your parents change their name to Blackshaw?” Caitlin asked.
Derek cracked an amused smile. “Good question. My grauntie, Shirley Thatch, suggested the change.”
“Grauntie?” Caitlin asked.
“Great-auntie—grauntie.”
Natalie giggled. “So you’re my gruncle—Gruncle Derek.”
He chuckled. “I suppose you can say that.”
“Why did Grauntie Shirley Thatch want to change the family name?” Caitlin asked.
Derek sipped his tea and responded. “The Thatch surname was a bit of a drag. Had its fair share of notoriety attached to it back in the day. Me mum didn’t want to burden us with it. So she changed it to Blackshaw. Which makes perfect sense, when you think about it.”
“Tell me about Blackshaw, your rock band,” Caitlin said.
Uncle Derek leaned back in his chair and crossed his leg. “Blackshaw came to be in 1961. Liverpool. The beginnings of the Merseybeat. Had a helluva fan following by sixty-three. One year before The Beatles crossed the pond to America.”
Caitlin’s eyebrows popped up. “You played at the same time as
The Beatles?”
Uncle Derek chuckled proudly. “Young Cait, would you believe that John Lennon once bought me and your granddad, Bobby, a pint of beer? True story. This was before Lennon and his mates found their fame in America. John had caught one of our sets in a sweaty, cramped club in Hamburg.
He really dug the way Granddad Bobby played the mouth organ.”
“Mouth organ?”
“Harmonica. John loved the harmonica. Pinched one in Arnhem once. In the Netherlands. Played it on ‘Love Me Do.’”
“Love me do what?”
“Never mind. Anyway, your gramps also played a mean harmonica.” Derek reached deep into his pocket. He pulled out an old, worn instrument. “Been carrying this with me since my beloved baby brother passed in sixty-nine. It belonged to your gramps.”
Caitlin’s eyes lit up. “Can I try?”
Uncle Derek smiled as he passed it to her. She blew a few notes of music as she exhaled her breath. The sound was bluesy. Then more musical notes sounded as she drew in a breath.
“How cool! Hey, Nat! Wanna try?”
Natalie’s face took on an expression like she had eaten a sour cherry as she declined. “Germs.”
A gleam had sparkled in Uncle Derek’s eye, but Caitlin sensed pain as well. “Gruncle, what’s wrong?”
Derek laughed sadly to himself. “You know Blackshaw was also booked to play on Sullivan. A few months after the four lads from Liverpool.”
Like Barton Sullivan?
“The Beatles’ Sullivan gig opened the door for a lot of British bands.”
“Sullivan?” Caitlin asked.
“The Ed Sullivan Show—an American variety program on the telly. Biggest bands played that show. Beatles. Stones.”
Natalie rubbed her chin. “Anyone ever tell you that you look like Keith Richards?”
Uncle Derek’s face curdled. “Now why would you say something like that?”
Natalie slouched. “Forget it.”
“So your band played on American TV?” Caitlin exclaimed. “That’s so freaking cool.”
“Hold your horses, young Cait. Things didn’t quite turn out as expected.”
“What do you mean?”
Uncle Derek exhaled wearily. The lines on his face
revealed years of regret. His glassy eyes betrayed deep-seated pain.
“Your granddad, Bobby . . . my transcendence-seeking second-born brother . . . got bloody wasted the night before we were to depart for America. Head trip. Fell over in a drunken stupor. Right arm shattered a nightstand. Broke his blasted wrist. A glass shard severed the radial artery. He started bleeding out quick. Pools of blood everywhere. Almost lost me brother. We missed the Sullivan gig, lost our record label, and Bob’s your uncle.”
“You mean Gramps—our granddad?” Caitlin asked.
Derek laughed. Natalie too. “No, young Cait. ‘Bob’s your uncle’ is an expression. Like ‘there you have it.’”
Caitlin smiled. “Got it.”
“Anyway, Blackshaw had peaked by sixty-five. But after that fiasco, the band started going on the skids. Bobby’s right hand would never again strum a guitar. Wrist does most of the work, you know.”
Caitlin listened, mesmerized, as Derek continued.
“But then your granddad received a genuine miracle. Started strumming chords, plucking guitar strings left-handed.”
“How did he manage to do that?”
“Like I said, it was a miracle. And me brother Bobby became the best damn guitarist I ever saw. Lord knows I saw them all. Had a child—your Aunty Gwen, firstborn and older sister to your mum. Poor old Gwen.”
“I don’t really remember her,” Caitlin said.
“Course not. You were just a child when she died. Freak accident.”
“What happened?”
“A few years back. Car accident. Flock of birds smashed her windshield on the motorway. Lost control of the vehicle.”
Caitlin spiraled a lock of hair around her index finger. “What kind of birds?”
“Ravens or crows, if I recall,” Derek said as he narrowed his eyes. “Why would you care what type of birds?”
“No reason. Just curious.”
Caitlin and Natalie exchanged uneasy looks.
“Anyway,” Derek continued, “the Blackshaw band got back on top after Bobby Gramps’s miraculous recovery. Except Bobby never did give up his indulgent quest for altered states of consciousness—if you get my drift.”
Natalie and Caitlin rolled their eyes in unison.
“My beloved brother bought the farm in sixty-nine. Just a few months after your mum was born.”
Caitlin sipped her tea and then asked, “What happened to you?”
“Solo career. European tours. Small clubs. Playing the old hits. Had a blast. Hell of a lot of parties along the way. Chatting up all the young lovelies. Blackshaw had loyal fans.” Derek laughed mischievously as the nostalgia gleamed in his eyes.
“You’re a hedonist!” Natalie declared.
“Indeed I was. But it wasn’t always about the partying.” Derek pensively stroked the stubble on his face. “We were connecting to something back then. Call it love. Peace.” He chuckled. “Does sound a bit lame today, don’t ya think? But we felt something in those days. As if we were making contact with something outside this universe, where music was already composed. In full.” The gleam in his eye intensified. “We felt like transistors in a radio. As if the finished song was being transmitted right through us. It simply poured out of our fingers as we played.” He took a final swig of his gingerroot tea and shook his head.
“Problem was, for many bands, power and fame went to their heads. And then the tap turned off. Major drag. So they found themselves needing a bit of help to reach that other place where music comes from.” He shrugged.
But it was a sad shrug. Probably intended for his younger brother, Bobby Blackshaw.
Caitlin massaged her chin as she eyed her gruncle.
Should I tell him what happened to me? This old rocker dude is such a crazy-ass oddball freak, it might just seem perfectly normal to him.
She pushed her hair back and planted her teacup hard on the tabletop.
“Nat, please clean up before Cousin Harry and Cordelia get home.” She laid on a thick mock British accent. “Old Gruncle and I are going for a stroll. And lock the door after we leave!”
Caitlin grabbed Uncle Derek’s hand and led him out the front door.
The winds had died down. The night air was cool but bone dry. Gruncle removed his cashmere scarf and wrapped it around Caitlin. She smiled appreciatively. Not a cloud obstructed the starlit Southern California sky. The street was bare, with only a few parked cars curbside. All the homes were quiet and calm. One nearby home was even burning a real fire in the hearth.
“Look,” Caitlin said as she and her uncle strolled, “I’m gonna tell you something, but I don’t want you to think I’m crazy or that I’m making this up. Because I think it might be related to my mom and dad. Indirectly.”
Uncle Derek winked. “Shall we light up a spliff?”
She shook her head along with an eye roll. “Won’t compare to what I experienced.”
Aging rocker Derek Blackshaw seemed genuinely intrigued.
“Speak up, young Cait.”
They rounded a street corner. “Do you believe in the supernatural? Like different dimensions not of this world?”
“I can’t say I believe other dimensions exist—that’s because I know they exist.”
Caitlin broke a smile, and there was a sudden spring in her step. “Really? How awesome. Because I know they exist as well. I’ve been there.”
Oops! Might’ve said too much too soon.
Uncle Derek turned and gave Caitlin a penetrating once-over.
“You say you’ve been there?”
/> Caitlin huffed.
Who cares—just spill the freaking beans!
“I was totally there.”
“And where is there?”
“Beneath the grave of Lewis Carroll.”
“You’re referring to Mount Cemetery? In Guildford? Where your Bobby Gramps and your mum and now dad rest?”
Caitlin nodded firmly. “Yes! The grave opened up like a wormhole. It leads to another dimension.”
Derek examined her with a probing eye from underneath his raised eyebrows.
Caitlin said, “You think I’m crazy?”
“Didn’t say that. Your old fart of a gruncle experienced quite a few strange trips back in younger days. Saw a lot of unexplainable things. But what is it you want to tell me, young Cait?”
The words flew out of her mouth helter-skelter. “There’s another universe. Where the fairy-tale kingdoms exist. But all the characters are dying—they’re decaying into ghouls and zombies. Cinderella . . . all of them. And the crows. And my dad. He didn’t just die of a heart attack.”
Uncle Derek’s piercing eyes glinted under the streetlight. He held Caitlin’s gaze as she rambled on.
“He was murdered. Mom too. And I need you take me back to London ASAP so I can prove it.”
Just then, a car passed them.
The screech of slamming brakes broke the calm of night.
Caitlin and Uncle Derek turned to look.
The vehicle had stopped.
Caitlin and her gruncle exchanged wary looks.
The backup lights lit up.
Uh-oh.
Tires squealed and burned rubber as the car screamed in reverse.
Caitlin clutched her gruncle’s arm.
The vehicle shrieked to a stop alongside them.
“Caitlin Rose Fletcher, what on earth are you doing out here? And who is this man?”
Cousin Cordelia was shouting out the car window from the passenger side. Cousin Harry leaped out of the vehicle and move quickly to stand nose to nose with Uncle Derek.
“And who might you be?” Harry asked, pushing Caitlin behind him.
“Derek Blackshaw. Brother of Caitlin’s granddad, Bobby Blackshaw. Uncle to Evelyn, and in-law to your deceased first cousin, Harold Fletcher, may he rest in peace.”
The Lord of the Curtain Page 9
