by Chris Ward
His father looks dead. No sound comes from his body; not even breathing is audible beneath the howling of the wind. His cries and pleas stopped some time before; Matt is unsure when, is unsure exactly how much time has elapsed since his anger clouded his senses and took control. Already snowflakes are beginning to cover Ian Cassidy, the snow a waiting grave.
Matt Cassidy feels a sudden, very real fear. He takes a step forward, intent on checking his father’s pulse, looking for breathing. He wants the man to die, but equally, he doesn’t want to spend his life in prison.
Ian Cassidy stirs. Not much, only a twitch of his chest, a clenching of his fingers and a groan somewhere deep in his throat. It could easily be a dying breath, but that doesn’t matter, it is enough to trigger flight in Matt, and he turns and bolts, sprinting towards the far end of the clearing, where the trail continues up through the wood towards the moors, the highway, and freedom.
As he reaches the edge of the clearing, he stops, takes one last regretful look back, at his mother’s half buried gravestone, and his father’s broken body. A mix of emotions rise in him, wretched sadness and boiling anger, but he chokes them down, turns and disappears into the trees, rucksack bouncing up and down as he runs as fast as he can away from that place.
Ian Cassidy watches through bloody, swollen eyes until his son is out of sight. His own tears choke him, for a few brief seconds causing the red curtain to part from his eyes, then his strength fails him and he slumps back into the snow. He tries again to rise, to no avail. He closes his eyes and lets his mind slip away, taking with it the pain and the anguish, leaving him to the mercy of fate. He doesn’t care if he dies; with Matt gone Bethany alone waits for him in this world, and he is unsure if she even knows his identity. Maybe, maybe not.
#
A light flickers beyond the protective walls of his eyelids, and he tries to force them open. Nothing moves, at least not of his accord, for a moment later soft fingers touch his eyes and face and light floods in, immediately blinding him. He cries out in pain, a howl like a weak, dying animal, and the fingers flinch away, plunging him once more into a darkness only punctuated by that peculiar half–light.
‘Ian. Can you hear me?’
The voice is soft, lilting; a woman’s voice with a dreamy, awayness in the tone, as though he is hearing her underwater. He recognises the voice, or thinks he recognises the voice, but the name or indeed any details surrounding the owner escape him.
‘Ian. We have brought you back.’
Like a harp melody, soft strings strummed by delicate fingers. A different voice this time, but somehow, still the same.
‘You are healed of your external wounds but your inner turmoil is beyond our reach.’
He tries to lift his head, feels a relaxing of tension at the back of his neck before his strength fails, sinking him back into soft cushions. Everywhere hurts – or does it? Everywhere aches. Two different things.
‘You must rest or death may still find you.’
The timbre of the women’s words, the way they are spoken without pause makes him feel like a cat stroked head to tail in one motion. He yearns to find the strength to open his eyes.
The women?
No –
‘We have healed you. We have used much of our strength to save you. You are indebted to us now and one day will repay us.’
Ian groans, feels muscles spasm as he tries to push himself up. At last he manages to force his eyes open, only to see a dim, grainy version of his own bedroom, the wall to the left shrouded in shadow, the door to the right – ajar, filled with the silhouettes of two figures – takes some effort to move his head far enough to see. He strains his eyes as they adjust, makes out two women, shoulder to toe in white robes, like priestesses – identical, the same, sisters –
‘No . . .’
‘We could have left you to die but instead we chose to save you. We will return to you one day to claim what belongs to us.’
His eyes lift to their faces just as they begin to turn away. Ageless faces flanked by long black hair, eyes like stoked fires, features carved from stone. Humourless, their expressions blank apart from their eyes; if he had not seen them move he could believe them statues.
Elaina and Liana Meredith. Of all the people in the world to come to his aid . . . Ian Cassidy thinks he might rather have died out there in the snow than spend the rest of his life indebted to them.
‘Goodbye Ian,’ they chime in chorus, and leave.
As the door closes Ian lies back in the dark, feeling the curves and twists of his body moving as he shifts on the bed, feeling the aches in the bones he knows were broken, the tenderness of torn skin now made whole. And his face, one hand lifts to find only a coating of dried blood. Swellings beneath his eyes have sunk, his split lip is just bruised and the nose he felt smash across his cheeks is repaired.
He always knew they had a link far closer to Gabrielle’s world than his own, and now he knows. He wonders briefly if, once, they had been like her.
Angels.
Now he owes them for his life. And what form his repayment might take, only perhaps Heaven knows. Maybe not even Heaven.
He hears the sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs outside, and Red, his closest friend, bursts in. The light almost blinds Ian, who cries out, and the door is subsequently closed with a grunt of apology.
‘They wouldn’t let me come up! Are you – are you okay?’
Ian nods, or thinks he does. Red comes closer to the bed.
‘Oh my god, Ian. I can’t believe –’ he punches the closest cupboard door, and it shudders beneath the impact. ‘I’m sorry, but I went after him. I wanted to – I wanted to . . .’ Red’s eyes are unreadable in the darkness, but Ian can sense such bleakness he fears being sucked forward into those black, empty voids. ‘I took my gun –’
A stillness forms inside Ian, fragile, set to break at any moment, like a frozen lake in his stomach. ‘Did . . . did you –’
‘No! Of course he was long gone.’ Red rubs his eyes hard, as though his fingers can cleanse them of the images he sees there. ‘I’m sorry, Ian. I would’ve . . . if I’d found him I would’ve . . .’ A choking sound begins deep in Red’s chest: sobbing.
‘Matt . . . he . . . had his reasons.’
‘No! He had none! He . . . had none.’ On the edge of Ian’s bed, Red begins to cry, perhaps somehow sensing a dark premonition for the future.
‘It’s over now. He’s gone.’
‘It will never be over! Never!’
Red’s words echo in Ian’s mind long after the man he regards more highly than any brother has gone. After the door has closed on him, and he is allowed to rest, to contemplate the day for the first time, he can only try to understand what has happened.
To find out what he has gained, what he has lost, and what he owes.
Red’s words linger like war dust, hung, like a funeral veil, in the air.
Part Two
Ghosts
1
Rachel thumped the wheel in dismay and shouted in exasperation at the cars in front, while behind her, no doubt others shouted at her own. She wound down the window to let the steam clear from the windscreen. Leaning out, she saw the queue stretching ahead seemingly forever, Junction 14 off the M5 into Birmingham still two miles ahead.
The radio told her a lorry had rolled, blocking all three lanes. Every so often emergency vehicles whizzed by on the hard shoulder, police, ambulances and fire engines, hurrying to deconstruct the sorry metallic mess which, somewhere beyond the next rise, was blocking the centre of the motorway.
According to the radio, she needed to leave at Junction 17 to avoid delays. Unfortunately, since she had already passed Junction 17, the information was useless. At least the road past Birmingham was clear. Or so the radio said, but then radios said a lot of things. She’d just have to hope.
Tamerton, Matt’s home town – she’d found it on a map in his study, about twenty miles north of Plymouth, nestled on the sou
thern edge of Dartmoor – lay about four hours ahead. She would be there by nightfall with a little luck.
She hoped she wasn’t too late.
2
Red took a step forward. A hand fell on Ian’s arm. He looked back towards the clearing’s edge, back towards Matt.
‘Hey, what’s wrong with you now?’
‘Matt?’
‘He’s bloody drunk again, that’s what,’ Red scoffed, starting to turn away.
Ian went forward, took hold of his son’s shoulders and helped him to his feet. He held Matt’s arm while the young man steadied himself.
‘Matt, what’s wrong?’
Matt’s eyes had glazed. He looked past his father, out across the clearing, at his mother’s grave, at the ground, untouched, around it.
‘She’s not dead, is she? This is all a lie.’
‘What?’ Ian stared at his son, incredulous.
Matt turned to look at him, face still blank, expressionless. ‘Bethany’s not dead, Dad.’
‘Of course she is!’
‘Matthew, what in God’s name are you talking about?’ Red shouted.
‘Shut up,’ Matt spat back. Red tensed, but didn’t move. Matt continued, his voice terrifyingly monotone. ‘I know she’s not dead. I’ve seen her. I thought I saw her last night. Upstairs in the house. I thought I saw her body, that you showed it to me. But I know that first time was a dream, because . . . because . . .’ He stopped, unable to bring himself to mention the hammering sound he remembered so vividly.
‘Ian, this is ridiculous!’ Red snarled. ‘Have some damn respect, Matthew!’
Matt pressed his hands against the side of his head and frowned, as though to drown out the static that confused him. ‘The second time, I know it was her. I didn’t see her face, but . . . I know it was her.’
Ian stared at his son, his eyes glistening. ‘She is here, Matthew. You’re right, we’re not burying her. I’m sorry if I misled you. But she is dead. I found her body. I called in the ambulance, waited with her for them to arrive. I can remember how she lay, on her bed, dressed in her bedclothes as though she were sleeping, that any moment she might wake. I couldn’t believe she was dead, even when I saw the empty pill jar by her bedside. But when I touched her, I felt the coldness of her skin.’ He paused and wiped a hand across his eyes. ‘Don’t disrespect her, Matt. Don’t disrespect me. Your sister is dead. I felt for her pulse, I tried to revive her, I held her cold body in my arms for half an hour as I waited for the ambulance. I know how dead she was.’
He touched Matthew’s face, gently turning it towards his own. A single tear trickled down Ian’s cheek. ‘Don’t ever talk to me like that again. You have no idea what I went through.’
‘Dad, I –’
Back across the clearing, Red had squatted down, his own face turned towards the ground, one hand on his brow and his eyes hidden from them.
Ian Cassidy stared long and hard at his son. ‘Matthew . . . you want to see your sister, then she’s here.’ He pulled something out of the satchel he wore slung over his shoulder.
Ian held out what looked a little like a vase with a lid. Grey in colour, made from China Clay, with decorative markings around its sides, images of the sun, the moon, the earth, revolving around each other in a triangular orbit.
An urn.
‘We had Bethany cremated last Thursday. We’ve come up here to scatter the ashes. Burials are a thing of the past, I think. It’s more dignified this way, than thinking of them, down there, in the earth.’ He frowned. ‘I thought you realised.’
Matt didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t think straight. Too drunk again, too fucking drunk. It’s supposed to be easier in here than out in the real world. Things are supposed to make sense in here.
‘Matthew?’
‘Huh?’
Ian sighed. ‘Last night, we talked, we drank whiskey, you fell asleep in the chair, I walked you home at about two. I told you about this, about everything.’ He shook his head in resignation. ‘I guess you were too drunk to remember.’
‘No.’
‘Matthew, don’t play this stupid game!’ Ian stood up and walked away from him, back across the clearing towards Red, who had now risen to his feet, his own eyes moist.
‘I saw her again, just now,’ Matt said.
Red scoffed again, hands gnarled as tree stumps planted on wide hips.
Ian’s eyes hardened.
‘Upstairs,’ Matt said. He pointed at the urn. ‘I don’t know who you’ve got in there, but it’s not my sister.’
‘I’m getting tired of this,’ Red growled. ‘You were drunk, you were seeing things. You’re still drunk now. You’re a fucking mess.’
Matt ignored him. ‘And a baby, she had a baby with her. Where did she get a baby?’
Matt glanced across at Red as the big man began to move. Something in his eyes was different, something had snapped. The big man strode forward, this time roughly shoving Ian’s arm aside, and struck Matt across the face with a backhand cuff. Matt grunted and fell to the floor, clutching his cheek. Ian stepped across as Red grabbed the front of Matt’s shirt and raised a fist to strike him again.
‘You insolent little –’
‘Red, that’s enough!’
Ian hooked his arm across the top of Red’s chest, and jerked the bigger man backwards. Red’s grip on Matt slipped and he fell backwards on to the damp ground. He glared at Ian with a mix of indignation and astonishment.
‘I don’t want people fighting here.’ Ian’s voice had a sonorous boom, the last defiant words of a dying king to his enemy. ‘Not here. Not anymore.’
Matt stumbled to his feet, legs unsteady but he leaned against the wall of the chapel to balance himself. He eyed his father warily, but his gaze finished on Red. ‘You know, don’t you? You know what I’m talking about!’
‘All I know is that Bethany is here.’ Ian held up the urn.
Matt stared down at the urn, then up into his father’s eyes. Images bloomed in his mind of that day, that day years ago when he had bludgeoned his father and left him for dead. The same anger began to rise, the same inherent violence, and he tensed, feeling the pressure building up within him, wanting to burst forth.
‘You’re a fucking joke,’ he muttered, and snatched the urn from his father’s grasp. ‘This is nothing . . . but dust.’
He threw the urn across the clearing.
Ian looked stunned. Red, still lying on the ground, didn’t have time to react.
The urn struck the edge of his mother’s gravestone and shattered. Ashes scattered everywhere, some blowing up in the wind, the remainder greying the wet grass.
All three men were still for a moment. Ian looked across at the shattered remnants of his daughter’s urn with a look of horror on his face. Red stared upwards at Matthew. Matt himself looked stunned, perhaps realising for the first time the severity of what he had done.
‘I’m sorry . . .’
Ian turned to stare at him. He just shook his head.
Matt looked down at Red. The big man’s eyes were bloodshot, and his fists had tightened around clumps of grass. Matt backed off as Red started to rise, his eyes filling with fear like the sun breaking through an overcast sky.
‘Matt, don’t –’ Ian started to say, but Matt had already backed away to the edge of the clearing, just feet away from the top of the path. Red pushed himself to his knees, just as Matt turned and bolted into the trees.
Red started to go after him, but Ian grabbed Red around the chest, holding him back. He could feel the pounding of Red’s heart, the tension of his muscles, the outrage in his eyes.
‘Red, as my oldest friend, for everything we’ve been through together, let him go,’ he pleaded. He didn’t want to fight, despite the strength he still carried in his body. Ian’s intensity had gone as he saw his daughter’s ashes violated, while Red’s anger had bloomed in the same instant.
Red’s body relaxed. ‘For you, Ian, and for her. But if I see him again you’d
better be there to keep me off.’
‘Come on, we have to say goodbye to her. It’s only right.’ Ian started to turn away.
Red didn’t move. Ian stopped, looked up at his friend’s face.
Red shook his head. He stared at Ian, and his mouth dropped open, the words that came out weak, disjointed.
‘How did he know?’ he murmured. ‘How did he know about my baby?’
3
Liana was glad for the warmth of the car as she drove back up towards the moor. She knew she shouldn’t take it with her, that it was safer to walk as she had less chance of being discovered, but, as her sister often reminded her, she didn’t have much control of subtlety. And she hated walking, especially in the fog and at night.
Last night she had come out in the car, parked it at the bottom of Ian’s drive, and slipped inside to look for Gabrielle. She had waited hours, nervous of Ian and Matthew downstairs, and hoping that her son’s presence back in the house might bring Gabrielle out of hiding. No such luck. She had waited a couple of hours for Ian to go to bed after Matthew had left, then sneaked out, only to find her sister must have come past, found the car and seen fit to steal it, to teach Liana a lesson. She wanted to believe Elaina had done it for that reason, but Liana knew her sister’s main motivation would have been her knowing that Liana hated the moors at night; even after so many years she still got spooked. Being a real bitch was just a part of Elaina’s nature.
So tonight Liana had parked it up on the edge of the courtyard, hoping no one would notice it in amongst the crush of mourners’ cars. At least Elaina hadn’t come and taken it this time.
It interested Liana that Matthew was back. She had always had a soft spot for him. As a teenager he had had such a sweet smile, and had been so well-mannered. It was a shame that life had twisted him so. She hoped it had nothing to do with Gabrielle. Such a horrible way to end; she wouldn’t wish it on anyone, but at least now Gabrielle was safe from further harm.
