The Beast of Seabourne

by Rhys A. Jones

  Caleb nodded. “For years, Gerber had been searching, looking for the pieces of the jigsaw that fit together to give him the answers he so desperately seeks. Why, for example, did the artefacts choose Bunthorpe of all places? Morsman was close to finding out, but in the end, he didn’t really know, though I expect Gerber ripped out every drop of knowledge from him.”

  “And my dad?”

  Caleb couldn’t return Oz’s fierce gaze.

  Oz wouldn’t let it lie. “He did it, didn’t he? He did it and tried to make it look like Dad did it himself because—”

  “That’s the sort of twisted monster he is,” Caleb interjected. “He doesn’t care how much pain he causes by doing the things he does. I know what it sounds like, but I’ll say it anyway. That’s what evil is, Oz.”

  Anger burst in a shower of red sparks behind Oz’s eyes. He pushed himself away from the desk jerkily. The sheer injustice of it suddenly made him feel like his head might explode. All those years of having to endure the tainted pity in people’s eyes while his father’s killers had been free to operate unchallenged. It was so unfair.

  “Oz, listen to me,” Caleb said.

  Oz threw him a wild glance, his breath churning in his throat. He could hardly hear the words as his imagination ran riot in his head. How had they done it? Had they drugged him? Had they threatened to come after his wife and child? Then he felt Caleb’s tight grip on his arm and heard more words. “Listen. To. Me.”

  Oz’s focus came back, and he blinked rapidly.

  “There is no proof,” Caleb said. “This is just one twisted maniac’s taunting. You have to control yourself, Oz. The authorities…”

  “Still believe that my dad committed suicide,” Oz blurted through gritted teeth, the words like nettles in his ears.

  Caleb nodded calmly. “And we know that he didn’t. But without concrete evidence, what chance do you have of convincing anyone that murder was involved? Think of what even suggesting that would do to your mother.”

  The pulsing anger died like a doused campfire inside Oz. Caleb was right. Telling his mother all this would only make everything a hundred times worse. Reluctantly, Oz nodded, and found some moisture in his mouth with which to swallow.

  Caleb broke the wordless stalemate that followed. “Ellie and Ruff, are they both okay?”

  “Yeah, they’re okay,” Oz said, relieved at being able to talk about something else. “Ruff worked out the reference points for the cave, and Ellie trapped Niko. I couldn’t have done any of it without them.”

  Caleb nodded, and a ghost of a smile at last played about his lips before he leaned in once again with another warning.

  “Oz, you must see what sort of men Gerber and his lot are…”

  “Yeah, I do. But how many more Nikos and Richard Worthys are there going to be if we don’t stop him?”

  A spasm of anguish crossed Caleb’s face.

  Oz shook his head. “I hate them,” he muttered.

  Caleb’s troubled eyes suddenly sharpened. “Have you ever wondered what the world would have been like if the artefacts had not appeared, Oz?”

  “Not really,” Oz said.

  “I have a mathematician friend who is an expert in chaos theory.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Chaos. We use it to mean a condition of disorder and confusion, but in theoretical mathematics, it’s all to do with how small differences are important. For example, it’s possible to show, mathematically, that the presence of a devastating hurricane in one part of the world might theoretically have been the result of a butterfly flapping its wings five thousand miles away.”

  Oz looked at him. “That doesn’t sound right.”

  “No, it doesn’t. It’s extreme, but it is mathematically provable. What I’m saying is that tiny events at any given point in time can cause huge differences later. If the artefacts hadn’t been found, if Shoesmith had destroyed the shell, if Soph had burned in the Bunthorpe barn fire, things would be very different now. We can’t imagine the difference. Maybe there’d be flying cars. Maybe the Japanese would even have landed a man on the moon by now—”

  “But you could say that about almost anything,” Oz protested.

  “You could, but the artefacts weren’t just anything. They clearly don’t belong here. They’re from elsewhere. Their appearance was a singular event, without any previous history. Just imagine—”

  “But what’s the point? No one’s landed on the moon, have they? That’s just science fiction,” Oz said. He was confused and irritated by Caleb’s ramblings. What was he trying to say?

  Caleb nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just a fascination of mine. Obex considered the artefacts a gift from the gods. I was not allowed to question the possibility that they aren’t.”

  “But Soph is here and she’s real, and so are Gerber and Heeps.”

  Caleb nodded again. “And the one thing they can’t control is you and your link to the artefacts. Like it or not, Oz, you’re the butterfly that ripples the wind.”

  Oz shook his head.

  “I know how hard this must be for you.” Caleb’s dark eyes glittered. “I know the awful things that Gerber does. But they don’t know what to do about you, Oz. Just like your dad before you, you’re a ten-inch-long thorn in their side.”

  “But how do we beat them?” Oz asked, searching the historian’s face.

  It was several seconds before Caleb replied. Twice he made as if to answer, and twice he thought better of it. When he did speak, there was honesty but little comfort in his words.

  “I don’t know,” was all he managed to say, and he dropped his gaze to seek refuge in his fidgeting hands. “I just don’t know.”

  Chapter 24

  The Insect And The Cuckoo

  Oz left a pensive Caleb in the library and made his way to the kitchen, composing himself as he descended the staircase. Mrs Chambers looked up from ladling out penne and Bolognese sauce as he entered.

  “Feeling better?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” Oz lied, and kept his gaze away from his mother’s. He sat at the table and watched her surreptitiously. In the bright light of the kitchen, the dark smudges under her eyes were more obvious, and he felt his concern of earlier return.

  “Everything all right, Mum?”

  “Now that you’re back safely, yes, it is,” she said with a brave attempt at reassurance. But Oz was too well-practised at reading his mother to let it go.

  “You look a bit…stressed,” he persisted.

  “Do I?” Mrs Chambers said. “The builders rang to say that they don’t know when they can come, because two of them are on holiday. But there’s water still coming in around the chimney breast in the front room.” She spoke in an overly bright manner dripping with sarcasm. “They suggested we put some polythene on the rugs. So that’s all right, then, isn’t it?”

  “But the scaffolding’s been up for ages.”

  Mrs Chambers shrugged. The builders had been giving them the runaround for weeks, so it came as no surprise to hear this new excuse. Oz remained unconvinced. Tardy builders were a pain, but they didn’t cause sleepless nights. He looked across at the calendar on the fridge. Was that the tiniest tip of a black dog’s ear he could see behind it?

  “Otherwise,” said Mrs Chambers, unconvincingly, “things are about the same as…”

  She got no further.

  “Cooee. It’s only me.”

  The voice came to them from the hallway, and a moment later, Rowena Hilditch breezed in, red-streaked hair flowing, green eye makeup freshly applied, today’s get-up a high-necked blouse covered in straps and lace. “Let myself in with the key under that broken vase.” Her eyes registered Oz’s presence, and her face crumpled in a sympathetic pout. “Oh, poor you. Your mother told me about what happened. It sounds as if your trip was a nightmare. Are you okay?”

  Oz looked from Rowena to his mother. Mrs Chambers did not return his questioning look.

  “I’m fine, but�
�” Oz began in a terse voice, still looking at his mother.

  Rowena Hilditch plunged on, cutting Oz off mid-sentence. “Good. Just wanted to check out the electrics in the dorm for Saturday night. Forgot to count how many plugs there were. We need at least half a dozen for the PA system and the lights. Atmosphere is so important for psychics.”

  Oz frowned. “Someone’s going to be reading people’s minds?”

  “Yes, I am. And helping them contact those they’ve lost.”

  “Is this your soiree? I thought you were just going to be talking about your books.”

  “That as well. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a lot to do.” She left, heading for the door to the old orphanage as if she owned the place.

  Oz watched his mother as Rowena Hilditch left and saw her squeeze her eyes shut, as though suddenly in the grip of some dreadful pain. When she turned back to Oz, however, the look had been replaced by the brave but tired smile she’d worn since he’d got back.

  “Don’t say it,” she said, her eyes shut as if to ward off an expected onslaught. But she delivered the remainder of her sentences in a staccato burst, as though wanting to get the words out before Oz could stop her. “I did try and speak to her, and we’ve agreed to reassess the situation after Rowena’s soiree. She’d already put a lot of work into it, and…” She finally opened her eyes and looked at her son.

  “Mum,” Oz said, his penne with Bolognese sauce going cold on the plate, “are you okay? Really okay?”

  “I will be. Once this blasted soiree of Rowena’s is over—”

  Oz didn’t let her finish. “If you don’t want it to happen, why don’t you just say no?”

  Her reply rang hollow. “She’s gone to so much trouble—”

  “She’s poison,” Oz said. “You heard what Pete Williams’ mum said.”

  Mrs Chambers grimaced at the memory. “I did. We all did. But she denies it. She says they made a mistake and that it wasn’t her—”

  Oz cut her off again, unable to quite believe his mother’s defensiveness. “If you think she’s going to pull her claws out after Saturday’s mumbo-jumbo party, you’re dead wrong. She’s a cuckoo, Mum.”

  Maybe it was the image of Rowena Hilditch as a fat greedy bird that did it, but Mrs Chambers dropped heavily onto a chair, her face draining of all colour, her eyes fixed on Oz.

  “Oh, Oz,” she whispered hoarsely, and started worrying at the wedding ring on her finger, a sure sign something bad was brewing. Oz had seen these signs before, and they were never good. He threw another glance over at the fridge and the tip of that black dog’s ear.

  “Mum, tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I think I’ve been rather stupid, Oz,” she said in a tremulous voice.

  “How?”

  “Your dad would be so angry with me…”

  “Mum, just tell me,” Oz demanded through clenched teeth. He was growing more anxious by the second now.

  “I can’t. I feel so foolish. I…”

  “Mum, when we were away, stuff happened. Bad stuff to do with the artefacts and Soph and Gerber. But this is making me feel much worse than seeing Skelton point a gun at me.”

  “Skelton? A gun?” Mrs Chambers looked aghast.

  “I’m not saying another thing until you tell me what’s going on here,” Oz said, and there was a grim resoluteness to his tone. His mention of a gun jolted Mrs Chambers out of her indecision. She took a deep breath and spoke, her eyes still on the ring she was playing with.

  “Rowena and I… She’s…she knew things, Oz. When she came, she knew things about me and you and Michael that it wasn’t possible for anyone to know unless they’d virtually lived with us or were…psychic.” She let the word hang in the air like a bad smell.

  “What?” Oz breathed.

  “I’d never met her before, but she was able to tell me such intimate things about us. So we made a deal. I said she could use the dorm if she…if…if she put me in touch with your dad.”

  Oz felt a sudden sick churning in his stomach. What did she mean, “in touch”? And then, at last, understanding pierced the fog of his momentary confusion like a steel blade. He grabbed his mother’s arm and stared into her eyes.

  “You mean in touch with Dad’s ghost?”

  Mrs Chambers flinched at the derision in Oz’s voice. “She says she’s a medium. And there are things I would so much like to have said to your father—”

  “That’s why you borrow Soph, isn’t it? To watch the holotrack of him in Achmed’s?” Things were dropping into place. The holotrack was what had convinced his mother that Michael Chambers could not have committed suicide. It was vivid and touching, and Oz had been a fool not to realize how potent it was.

  “It’s so real,” Mrs Chambers whispered. “It’s almost as if I could touch him. I can’t sleep for thinking about it. There is something I so desperately want to tell him, Oz.”

  “Can’t you tell me instead?”

  Mrs Chambers shook her head. “No. I can’t. It’s not… It’s between me and him.” She stopped and took in a ragged breath, as if to compose herself. “But after hearing Janet Williams tear Rowena off a strip, I realised how ridiculous it all was. I did try and talk to her, but…”

  “But what?” Oz asked.

  Mrs Chambers squeezed her eyes shut, and her lower lip started trembling. “But she says that there’ll be consequences. She says that she knows ways of bringing bad luck so that no lodgers would ever come here again. And I’ve told her things. Things that you shouldn’t have to hear.” Mrs Chambers’ voice dropped to a moan. “She’s threatened to tell you if I don’t…cooperate.”

  Oz felt anger roar in his chest, and fire up his cheeks. He could hear the grinding of his own teeth. This was worse than he’d even dared imagine.

  “If only Michael were here,” she said finally in a desperate whisper.

  “If Dad was here, she wouldn’t be,” Oz said, Pete’s mother’s warning ringing loud and clear in his ears. He pushed himself up and away from the table.

  “Oz?” said Mrs Chambers in alarm. “What are you doing?”

  “Sorting this out,” Oz said.

  “But Oz, Rowena…she’s very headstrong.”

  “Keep my supper warm, Mum. I won’t be long.”

  Oz found her in the dorm taking old photos off the wall. The room had been swept, and several rows of chairs had been arranged to face a small dais.

  “Ah, Oz,” she said, not bothering to look at him as she lifted down another print. “Come to help?”

  “No, just wanted to show you something weird. Thought you’d be interested, since you’ve been asking.”

  “Ooh, I do like weird.” The Cuckoo beamed at him.

  “It’s in one of the old classrooms below us.”

  “Where you found the mad Lucy Bishop, is it?” She made pretend-scary eyes at Oz.

  “Uh, yeah, that’s it.” He led the way down one flight to the room with the new door. He put his hand on the handle but, before depressing it, turned to the Cuckoo. She still wore a smug smirk on her face.

  “You’re sure about this? It is pretty weird in there.”

  “Oh I’m sure, all right,” the Cuckoo said, and Oz saw she was fighting back laughter. After having spent years of pretending to see ghosts and peddling flavoured water as a cure for everything, she was obviously confident that she knew all the tricks and wasn’t worried about anything “weird” Oz could throw at her.

  “Okay,” Oz said, and opened the door.

  The room was exactly as it had been—a few piled-up desks and chairs covered in dust sheets, the large windows smudged with window-cleaning fluid, such that a sombre light was all that illuminated the murky interior.

  “Oooh,” she said, striding inside. “Very spooky. Very spooky, indeed. We could sell this as a haunted classroom. Dare people to stay here overnight? They’d pay a fortune. And what’s under those dustsheets, eh? Let me guess. Is one of your little friends going to jump out at me and make horribl
e noises? Or is there a clown-faced jack-in-the-box ready to spring up under there? A boggart in the wardrobe?” She laughed heartily and turned a pair of glittering eyes towards Oz.

  “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, little Ozzie. But I’ve eaten far cleverer and trickier oiks than you for breakfast. It’s your mother that deals with me, okay? And believe me, there are going to be some changes around here. Your mum likes to talk to me. She tells me all her pathetic little secrets, all her hang-ups, the stuff about your father and the other things she’s lost. Things you haven’t got a clue about.” She looked satisfied with herself at Oz’s troubled expression. “Oh, no. This place is a gold mine.” She started walking towards the dustsheets, smiling to herself as she did.

  “And you know what? Regardless of what you and your little friends think, and no matter what any of those prissy parents from the school say, Rowena Hilditch has landed on her feet, and I am going to squeeze this place for all it’s worth. So, get used to it, little Oscar the half-orphan. There are plenty of people out there desperate enough to listen to me, even if you don’t want to.”

  She grabbed the sheet and pulled it off with a flourish. There was no jack-in-the-box, no one dressed up as a ghoul or spectre. In fact, for a moment there seemed to be nothing there at all. If she noticed the light in the room dimming even more, she said nothing as she peered into the dark space between the chairs and the desk. However, something did stir as she disturbed its peace. A diaphanous shape shifted slightly in the dense shadow, then unfurled. Oz took a step back into the darkness of the corner to watch.

  “Hah, what is it we have here? A little wind-up doll with an evil face?Or some sort of pathetic fairy-winged elf? You see, Oz, I’m not scared of stuff like this, because I know that it doesn’t exist. In fact, I can honestly say that I’m not scared of anyth—uunnngghh.” Her words ended in an involuntary groan of horror as she stumbled back, knocking over a chair in the process, mouth open in a silent scream as she watched the thing from under the desk extend out of its dusty nest. A cobwebby shape fluttered up on dark gossamer wings, six feet tall in an instant, legs dangling as it moved across the room, a dreadful dry clicking accompanying its progress. He heard a choking sob escape the Cuckoo’s throat as one of its grey appendages almost brushed her face.