Blood Bonds: A psychological thriller

by Alex Matthews

  BLOOD BONDS

  ______________

  Alex Matthews

  Blood Bonds

  Copyright © Alex Matthews 2015

  The right of Alex Matthews to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, organisations, businesses, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Bay 6 Independent Publishing

  CHAPTERS

  Chapter One:

  Chapter two:

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Overton Hall

  He took his eyes from the road and glanced across at her. She was composed, as always. Rigid in her seat, face giving nothing away. Despite the heat she didn’t show signs of unease. His own forehead was awash. His shirt damp. She reached up and casually smoothed her hair over her ear and he tore himself back to concentrating on the road ahead.

  “Not long,” she said.

  “No. Not long.”

  He had to slow down, the country road narrowing, the corner taking him by surprise. His sudden braking caused them to lurch forward. She coughed lightly. “Careful,” she said gently, almost under her breath.

  He knew she was smiling faintly, the wrinkles at the corner of her eyes spreading out like rudimentary Sun’s rays, but he didn’t want to be drawn by it and kept his eyes forward. This wasn’t the time for smiling. He was only here because of a promise. It was only that, he reminded himself. No more than the promise.

  The promise.

  It had been easier in the early days to keep, and far easier to make. But as the years had gone by he felt it harder to bring himself to do this. As the time drew near he made the usual list of excuses in his head, some probable, most implausible, telling himself – convincing himself – that he would actually use one this time around, thus avoiding this wretched chore, this perverse pilgrimage.

  One year, one excuse, that’s all it took, he thought, and that might break the chain and he might never have to do it ever again. But she’d ring, as she always did, with disturbing regularity, when that particular time came around. And it was her voice, or the voice of his past, that he found he couldn’t fight against. No, sure I won’t let you down. I’ve told you, I’ll always be there. No problem. Well, yeah, I have other arrangements. But I can always find a way out of them. Usual time and place? Fine, I’ll see you then. It’ll be nice to see you too. Yes, it has been a long time…

  Yet it was never ‘nice’. It was the crippling weight of a fetter that joined him to the past, and as long as this ordeal was allowed to persist he knew he would never be rid of it. In spite of himself he was shackled to something he wanted to kick free of.

  She’d spoken hardly three sentences the entire journey. Ok, the usual pleasantries when they first met, about the weather, his wife, children, his work, but these empty smatterings had been a virtual torrent compared to the dribble of conversation they’d entered into since climbing into the car and heading for the hall. She hadn’t made it easy. He wanted to turn the conversation round to him packing in this journey every year but he thought the right moment would never show its head if the damn woman refused to open her mouth to speak. Now was the time. Now that she’d opened up, if only a little. This was the right moment.

  He sighed and squeezed the wheel tighter, his knuckles showing glaringly white.

  He knew he was kidding himself; there would never be a right moment. This had to go on and on and on. He couldn’t see an end to it, ever. There was no escaping it.

  And so he remained silent, the steady hum of tyres on tarmac and the hiss of wind by the wing mirrors the only sounds.

  Each year the same as the last, and each year he felt he’d scream at the silence, and scream at the woman, and scream at his shackles. And each year nothing much would change and he knew – he didn’t like to admit it, hell no – but it was certain he’d be here again the following year, and the one after that, until one or all of them had kicked the bloody bucket. Maybe then it would be truly over.

  He wasn’t even sure about that

  She started to hum to herself.

  How could she, he thought? How the hell could she?

  Overton Hall.

  The sign was old, in need of a lick of paint, the lettering fading. He felt himself stiffen at the sight of it, at the sight of the twin stone gateposts awash with shivering ivy, brooding and dark, standing sentinel. He was hit by the urge to drive on by, hit the accelerator. But instead he slowed right down, the shadows of the pillars falling over them.

  The car passed through the open double iron gates, and continued up a gravelled driveway squeezed on both sides by a tangle of laurel, coming to a rest in a tiny car park set some distance away from the buttery sandstone walls of Overton Hall, basking grandly and serenely in the glow of late autumnal sunshine. A tired old man, he thought. Past its prime a long time ago. From a distance so impressive in its Georgian splendour; up close it was flawed and sad and rotten. Like so many things, he thought.

  “We’re here,” she remarked pointlessly when the car’s engine was switched off and a painful silence engulfed them. She said it every year, but what the hell could he do about it? A promise was a promise. A deal was a deal.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “We’re here.” He hoped she’d read something into his jaded tone, but she had never been perceptive enough to spot those kinds of clues, so he couldn’t really expect her to start now.

  They vacated the vehicle, her eagerness never dimmed by the years, his movements by comparison heavy, almost cumbersome. He glanced at her. She still retained something of the good looks of her youth; the slim body was still in evidence; her face, though amply scored through with wrinkles and the skin not as firm as it once had been, held an indefinable something that shouted beauty. She was old and she was still beautiful, he thought. Here she stood, an aged lady, with grey, permed hair, sensible shoes and everything, and yet she was still captivating.

  She looked at him, smiling encouragingly. He wished she wouldn’t do that. She didn’t know what effect it had on him; on everyone. Even if that smile was now a tired shadow. He was helpless, the fight all knocked out of him. Ok, he thought darkly, let’s get this thing over with and I can get back to real life again. Or what passes for real life.


  He took her by the arm and led her gently up the sweeping worn stone steps, once grand and welcoming, but now pitted and crumbling, stained by the passage of time. She was heavy on his arm, becoming heavier as they broached the top.

  He noticed for the first time a small parcel in her hand. Must have been covered by the coat on her lap. She saw his attention. “A present,” she murmured, avoiding his eyes. She jabbed at the white plastic doorbell button. Chimes sounded, as if church bells rang in a distant county, a far off land, another world. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said presently, just as the door opened and a flood of warm air rushed out to envelop them. That and the faint smell of bleach and disinfectant. “But I can’t help it.”

  “Ah, Mrs Randolf. And Mr Miller. A pleasure to see you again, how are you both?”

  “Fine, Carl,” she replied wearily.

  “Would you like to go straight through now?” Carl asked, his gold-rimmed spectacles catching the lights, the lenses making the reflections look like a shower of frozen sparks. There was a pungent smell about him, strong aftershave or hand cream, something that irritated. He looked at Miller hungrily. “Or can I get you a coffee or something, after your drive?”

  “I think I will go straight in, Carl,” Mrs Randolf said quickly.

  “Fine. That’s fine. I’ll get Shirley to see you through. Hang on a moment.” He walked stiffly but with haste across the thick red carpet to the polished wooden desk, lifting a phone. They heard the quick chittering of his voice. Dvorak was playing through a speaker somewhere. Classic FM.

  Mrs Randolf folded her arms and shivered. “Are you cold?” asked Miller. “I thought it was quite warm. Stuffy even.”

  She shook her head. “This place makes me feel like that sometimes. I don’t rightly know what it is.”

  They both knew what it was, but he didn’t say anything.

  They heard the squeak of Shirley’s soft-soled shoes on the polished tiles long before they saw her skip energetically into view. “Good afternoon, Mrs Randolf. You’re looking good today. You too, Mr Miller,” she said briskly. “Do come through.” She smiled a wooden smile, holding her hand out and pointing down the corridor.

  Mrs Randolf made as if to follow the young woman’s direction, then hesitated when she realised her companion hadn’t moved. Concern registering in her eyes, she said, “What’s the matter? We can go now.”

  Miller cleared his throat, the noise too loud, appearing to bounce off the plain, hard walls and come back at him. He shook his head. “I…” he began, attempting once more to clear an already unblocked throat. “I’ll stay here. If you don’t mind?” he said, trying very hard to smile.

  She frowned. “But don’t you want…?”

  “Not today,” he interrupted. “Not this time.” Not this time, not any time, he thought.

  She shifted uneasily, tweaking the lobe of her left ear as she thought about the meaning behind all this. She blinked rapidly, confused, glancing at him, then at Carl, then at Shirley. “Are you sure?”

  He nodded. I can’t do it, he screamed in his head; I can’t do it, so don’t make me. Don’t fight me, not now. “I’m sure,” he replied evenly.

  For one frightening moment he thought she might confront him further, use her unique powers of persuasion, her inveterate hold on him, to force him to do it. Her eyes spoke volumes. Black, accusing volumes. Mercifully, she turned on her heel and followed Shirley down the corridor. Eventually the sound of their footsteps faded and Miller released a pent-up breath. He felt hot, drained with it. But that was a small victory at least. He’d not broken the link altogether, never would, but he reckoned he’d at least put a substantial chip in it, weakening the weld. It gave him strength.

  “Mr Miller,” said Carl quietly, and he again displayed those hunter’s eyes. “I couldn’t possibly ask you a great favour, could I?”

  He shrugged. “Ask away, I’ll see what I can do.”

  Carl reached down behind the counter and produced a brown paper parcel that he clutched as if his life depended upon it. He placed it gingerly on the desk, looking awkwardly at Miller as he peeled back the paper. Miller knew what it was and instinctively reached into his pocket for a silver pen he always kept there. “It’s a liberty, I know, but I expected you calling, as you always do, and I thought…”Carl left off speaking and pushed the book towards Miller.

  “That’s no problem, Carl,” he said, taking only a second to glance at the front cover. His name, Gavin Miller, glowered back at him in huge, gold block capitals. He cringed inwardly.

  “It’s an excellent novel, Mr Miller, if you don’t mind me saying,” Carl enthused as Miller scribbled away on the book. He closed it up and slid it back across the desk. “Wonderful!” Carl said, flicking it open and reading what Miller had written, childlike wonder lighting up his eyes. “That’s surely made my day!” he carefully rewrapped the book in its protective brown paper cocoon.

  “I’m glad,” Miller returned absently, sitting down heavily in a chair by the desk. He should have gone through with her. It was cruel to abandon her like that.

  “I read in one of the supplements that it’s to be your last Stephen de Bailleul. Is that true?”

  “Perfectly true,” said Miller bluntly. He was tired of the same question. “No more.”

  Carl shook his head, clicking his tongue. “That’s so sad. It seems such a waste, Mr Miller. They’ve been hailed as – ”

  “Yes, I know all that, Carl!” he snapped, then thought better of it when he saw Carl’s wide and surprised eyes, like huge white marbles behind his spectacles. “There’ll be no more,” he said. “The Eilean Mor Chronicles are history.” He failed to smile at the obvious pun. He didn’t want to hear how good the damn things were. He’d heard it all before. He was sick to death of hearing it.

  “One more thing,” Carl said. He marched over to a cupboard, and, with a cautious look down the corridor, opened the tiny wooden door. He took out a box. Returning to the desk he said quietly, “Here it is, Mr Miller, as I told you over the phone.”

  Miller stole a look down the corridor too. “She doesn’t know?”

  “Absolutely not, Mr Miller. You specifically told me not to tell her. I think you’re quite correct in assuming it would only upset her.”

  Miller sat the box on his lap, taking off the lid and lifting out the weighty file contained within. He thumbed through the manuscript.

  “I skimmed a few pages. It’s no different from the rest, as far as I can make out.”

  “You read it?” Miller’s eyes blazed.

  “Not read it exactly. I merely…”

  “You were not to read it, indeed you were not to read any of them. I thought I made that perfectly clear, Carl.”

  In spite of the angry barrage, Carl remained composed. “I read only a little. It is very difficult not to, as you can imagine.”

  Miller fought to regain his composure, convinced he read all manner of things into Carl’s expression. He took even breaths to calm himself. “Then please resist the temptation in future, Carl.”

  “What have you done with the other manuscripts, if you don’t mind me asking, Mr Miller?”

  There was an irritating confidence in his tone, Miller thought. Or imagined there was. “I set fire to them,” he replied tersely, closing the file and slipping it back into the box. “The same fate that awaits this one,” he said, this time with a little forced pleasantness in his voice. “Thank you, Carl, I appreciate it.”

  Miller went back outside to the car, stowing the box out of sight in the boot. He paused, meaning to go straight back in and wait for her, but something held him in check. He was loath to re-enter this mausoleum to past memories. Dark memories. He could walk around the grounds for a while, clear his head…

  “Mr Miller.” The voice had urgency wrapped around it. Carl was at the door, waving energetically. “It’s Mrs Randolf. I think it best if you come in a moment.”

  She was standing by the desk, her nose and mou
th buried in a flowing white handkerchief and turned appealingly to him when he came through the door. “I’m sorry,” she cried, collapsing into a fresh fit of tears and shoulder jerks. “I must…look a… perfect fool.” Shirley and Carl looked on helplessly while Miller marched up and put a comforting arm around her.

  “Is it that awful?” he asked, guilt stabbing at him with an ice-cold blade. You bastard, he thought, you should have gone in with her. You and your damn selfishness!

  “We did warn her,” Carl said with his hands held out. “I’m sorry, Mrs Randolf, but I did mention on the phone…”

  Mrs Randolf blubbered into Miller’s chest. “Why me? Have I really been so bad?”

  * * * *

  It sat on the coffee table. He’d wanted to destroy the thing straight away once he’d arrived home. He’d even taken it outside to the metal bin in which he’d only just finished burning one lot of autumn leaves, actually placed it amongst another batch of sweepings and determinedly struck a match. The flame had burned steadily down, till he felt the heat of it on his fingers and he wafted it out. “Shit!” he said aloud, retrieving the box from the bin, brushing away leaves and carrying it indoors again. And so it remained on the coffee table for three hours while Miller sat and sipped tea, ate sandwiches and stared coldly at it.

  What’s wrong? Why not simply burn it as you have done the rest? Do you sense something different about this one - is that it? Or maybe you’re afraid. Oh yeah, what of? Precisely – then burn the thing.

  Instead he put the box in front of him, carefully removed the lid, now smelling strongly of smoke, and hoisted out the file. Plenty of time to get rid of it, he thought. With a sigh he opened the plastic file to reveal the first white page.

  He began to read.

  MONDAY.

  I narrowed my eyes. They were the tiniest of slits now, and I squinted through the thin waving bars of dry grass…

  * * * *