Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

  But she had lost faith in him. Again. She probably wished she had never asked for his help with Robbie’s disappearance.

  I won’t stop searching for your son until you do. His promise to William Whittington. He still did not understand why he had made that promise. He had just about decided to tell Whittington tonight that he was quitting.

  In his mind’s eye he saw Whittington’s face. The taut papery skin. The intelligent eyes. The bone beneath the flesh glowing like a holographic omen.

  This was a man in danger.

  Warn Frankie.

  Danger? The thought had simply floated into his mind from nowhere. Whittington was a sick man. A man who was close to dying. But ‘danger’ hardly seemed the appropriate word. And it was no use upsetting Frankie. She already had too much to deal with.

  A gust of wind pushed gently against the curtains as though an invisible hand was trying to find a way in. He pulled the covers over his shoulders and closed his eyes. Tomorrow was Minnaloushe’s birthday and the sisters had invited him to Monk House for a private celebration. A celebration for three. Waiting for him at the birthday table would be his love.

  And his foe.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Whenever Gabriel tried to remember that last evening at Monk House he would be unable to give a chronological account of the night’s events. The details were as blurred as a badly developed photograph. Did they start the evening with dancing, or did that come later? Was Morrighan’s dress green or blue?

  He’d arrived to find the living room illuminated by candlelight. Incense burning in earthenware pots. Champagne on ice. A birthday cake made of ice cream, which, on a whim, they decided to eat before the main meal. He and Morrighan singing ‘Happy Birthday’ while Minnaloushe opened her presents. He had bought her a signed volume of Leonard Cohen’s Stranger Music and she seemed delighted with the gift.

  ‘And we have something for you too.’ Morrighan handed him a small package wrapped in blue tissue paper tied with silver tinsel.

  ‘For me? Why?’

  ‘Because.’

  ‘That’s not an answer,’ he said lightly. He was holding the package between forefinger and thumb, strangely hesitant to open it.

  ‘OK. Because pigs might fly.’

  ‘And zebras wear pyjamas,’ Minnaloushe added.

  ‘Take a look.’

  It was a locket on a silver linked chain. Engraved on the outside was the Monas. The craftsmanship was superb. Inside were two strands of silken hair, the shiny filaments intertwined. Red and black. Curled in the shape of a question mark.

  He rubbed his fingertips across the surface of the locket, feeling the scored lines of the engraving. He had never been one for jewellery but as he looked into their expectant faces he felt almost emotional. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I shall treasure this always.’ And they smiled.

  Later he could not recall much of the birthday meal. But he remembered how his glass was filled again and again—first with champagne, then with Morrighan’s berry wine. He supposed he should have paced himself, but it was a party after all, and he was gripped by an odd feeling of recklessness.

  There was dancing, he recalled, Chris Isaac singing ‘Wicked Game’, and he remembered partnering Morrighan, while Minnaloushe looked on. Morrighan smiling at him with her blue eyes, her lovely mouth aglow. Her hip and thigh brushing his, his hand resting on her bare back, feeling the fine muscles of a true athlete underneath his fingertips as they moved from one end of the room to the other. ‘Wicked Game’ giving way to ‘Heart-Shaped World’. The songs to which they danced, forever after locked inside his mind with the memory of looming, distorted shadows flitting across the wall.

  It was then that the events of the night started to run into each other, dissolving into a blur of crazy colour, fantastical images and heightened emotions.

  He had a fractured recollection of lying supine on the couch with no idea of how that came to be. The two women bending over him. The fragrance of their hair and the scent of their skins mingling with the maddeningly sweet smell of the smouldering joss sticks. Minnaloushe’s hands running through his hair, Morrighan’s fingers stroking the inside of his wrist. Soft hands undressing him. The inside of his mouth tasting of berries. His tongue thick and sluggish.

  We want you to play with us, Gabriel. We want to show you heaven.

  Was he dreaming? Was this just a lustful, alcohol-hazed dream? Fingers like velvet, their touch firm, undoing the buttons of his shirt, quite unhurriedly. Pale hands in the almost darkness, stroking, cupping. Minnaloushe’s hair silken bonds round his wrists. Morrighan an ephemeral vision of porcelain skin and blue-gemmed eyes. The wet pressure of slippery lips of flesh. The bonding of damp skin with damp skin. Who was in his arms? Morrighan? Minnaloushe? The fluttering of a wet tongue across his body, small tiny flicks driving him mad. He groaned, his skin unbearably irritated. She was kissing him, drawing him inside her wet slick mouth.

  Look into my eyes…

  And at that moment he knew he was being scanned. He sensed her presence, her signature. It smelled of frangipani and musk. A tiny portion of his mind was screaming at him to man the boats, pick up arms, guard himself… but he was powerless. Unlike the blunt force power of the previous scan, this was a languid, slow probe. He could feel his inner eye opening. Slowly, slowly widening until it was at its fullest extent. He tried to clamp down but he was paralysed. No control. No protection reflex. His inner eye was slack, wide open, completely vulnerable. As vulnerable as a normal eye staring into a dust storm without the ability to blink.

  Someone was walking through his mind calmly, softly.

  Don’t fight it, Gabriel.

  Why? The question formed sluggishly inside his head.

  Follow me…

  Her invitation a gentle caress. So good. His groin tingling, his legs heavy, his mind soft, soft, soft. The softest wax.

  Who sent you, Gabriel?

  ‘William Whittington.’ No hesitation.

  As long as he’s alive, the search continues?

  ‘Yes. As long as he’s alive the search continues.’

  No response from her this time, just a lingering feeling of regret and disappointment enfolding his thoughts like a thin fog.

  Such a waste. It could have been good. We could have played with you, Gabriel; given you your true name. We could have changed your life.

  ‘Changed my life. Changed my life.’ The thought repeating itself in his head like a needle stuck on a vinyl record. ‘Changed my life.’

  Let me show you. Look. This could have been yours.

  He groaned. Sounds and images streaming through the receptacle of his inner eye unhindered, an avalanche of sensation.

  Do you like it?

  Oh, God. Such wonder. So incredible.

  He saw a sparrow fall a thousand miles away, heard the moan of solar winds. The sky above his head a blue apocalypse, his feet standing on a million unborn suns. He heard the rush of angels’ wings and round his ankles curled serpents with velvet eyes.

  He knew he was close to understanding the speech that cannot be grasped. He was about to meet the mute who does not speak but whose multitude of words is great. And still his consciousness kept expanding. He was flying, soaring. How wonderful to possess the power of flight. He found himself giggling uncontrollably like a patient on laughing gas.

  But now he was suffused with great sadness. The sadness of the suffering endured by millions of souls. Grief poured into his mind, obliterated him, a vast ocean of sorrow drowning him, and he sobbed. His heart was breaking.

  It’s all right, Gabriel. Don’t cry.

  Comfort. He reached out to the woman who was lying with her back to him. He wanted her to turn over so he could place his head against her breast.

  Her skin was deathly white. He placed his hand on her flaccid shoulder. As her head flopped round he saw it was Melissa Cartwright. Ash-blonde hair dirtied by mud and dried blood. Behind her violet eyes a darkness. He shrieked, tried to ro
ll away from the weight of her lifeless body, which was on top of him now, and his mind went black with horror.

  And then he was suddenly alone, a stick figure drawn on a blank white page.

  I’m sorry, Gabriel. I have to go.

  She was disengaging; he could feel her withdrawing. The fragrance of musk and frangipani was fading. This was even worse than coming face-to-face with Melissa Cartwright’s dead eyes. Loneliness: he had never felt such terrible abandonment.

  ‘NO!’ It burst out of him, the word filled with desperate longing. ‘Stay with me.’

  But she was gone.

  Now he heard voices quarrelling and a woman weeping and a long time later someone standing next to him. He could barely see the outline of her figure in the dark. As she placed a light blanket on top of him, he struggled to sit upright but his limbs were still scarily numb. ‘Shh.’ He guessed rather than saw her hold a finger to her lips. ‘Go to sleep, Gabriel. It’s over.’ She was whispering.

  He closed his eyes like a child, feeling greatly comforted. His mind was suddenly still. At peace. Outside was the moonless night, trees rustling in the cold wind. Small creatures burrowing in the underbrush. A night bird singing.

  • • •

  He woke up to the most horrific hangover he had ever experienced in his entire life.

  Opening his eyes was painful. Running his coated tongue over his parched lips was painful. Lifting his head was incredibly, horrendously painful. And he hadn’t experienced hangover nausea like this since his student days.

  He sank back against the cushions again and took stock. He was lying on the couch in the living room of Monk House. A pink throw with tiny purple flowers covered his body. The windows were closed and the air was musty with the smell of faded incense and alcohol. Even the sunlight seemed stale.

  It was quiet. From the opposite wall, Minnaloushe’s masks stared down at him through an ephemeral veil of slowly twirling motes of dust. In his glass box Goliath rested, motionless.

  Slowly he raised himself upright, swinging one leg gingerly over the edge of the couch to steady himself. Shit. The slight movement brought on a fresh wave of queasiness. He squinted at his watch. 11.04 A.M. The day was almost half over already.

  His bladder was bursting. He got to his feet, slightly surprised to find himself barefoot, and started in the direction of the guest loo, weaving across the floor like a sailor who was trying to adjust to dry land after months at sea. The guest loo was located just off the dining room and next to the kitchen. The door to the kitchen was closed but as he approached it he heard a low murmur of voices. He turned the knob.

  Minnaloushe and Morrighan were sitting at the kitchen table. As he opened the door they looked up at him.

  He hesitated. He suddenly realised that his shirt was flapping open and his trousers had no belt. A blush crept across his neck and warmed his ears and he felt as awkward as a teenager. His fingers started to button his shirt automatically.

  The women were watching him with cool impersonal eyes.

  ‘Good morning.’ That was Minnaloushe.

  ‘Good morning.’ He looked around him. The kitchen still showed the ravages of the previous night’s feast. Unwashed plates and glasses. A half-empty bottle of berry wine on the kitchen table.

  ‘Have a seat.’

  He gestured with his thumb behind him in the direction of the guest loo. ‘I’ll be right back. I just need—’

  Morrighan cut him off. ‘There’s a fresh towel and soap in the cupboard.’

  In the tiny loo area he looked at himself in the mirror and shuddered. Bloodshot eyes. Black stubble on his jaw. Sweaty skin. He breathed against his hand and almost gagged at the smell.

  For a moment he closed his eyes and steadied himself against the washbasin. Echoes of the previous night’s happenings were stirring in his memory, but did it all take place? Or was it just one hell of a wet dream? He touched the locket round his neck. At least that was real.

  But he couldn’t stay shut away in the loo all morning trying to work out what had happened. Turning the cold water tap, he splashed his face with water and rinsed his mouth. He had no comb, and running his fingers through his hair made it stand on end even more. Very attractive.

  When he returned to the kitchen he found Minnaloushe still sitting at the table and Morrighan pouring boiling water from the kettle into a mug. Reaching up to one of the shelves, she took down a slim test tube and emptied the contents—a pinkish powder—into the mug.

  ‘Here.’ She held the mug out to him. ‘Drink this.’

  He hung back. ‘Come on,’ she said impatiently, ‘it’s only rosehip and camomile. Best cure for a hangover. You’ll feel better.’

  As he brought the cup to his mouth, his hand was shaking. But after a few sips he did indeed feel better. He wasn’t sure if it was only the power of suggestion, but he was feeling decidedly more clear-headed. Not well, mind you, but at least he was able to focus on the world around him without wanting to narrow his eyes into slits.

  For the first time that morning he took a good look at the two women. They were dressed almost identically in black trousers and jerseys. No make-up—innocent lips and eyes—hair tied back in loose knots.

  And there was tension in the air. But whether it was tension between the two of them, or hostility directed at him, he wasn’t certain.

  It didn’t take him long to find out.

  ‘We’d like you to leave.’ Morrighan’s voice was low.

  ‘And we don’t want you to come back.’ Minnaloushe.

  The words hit him between the eyes like a hammer blow. ‘Why?’

  ‘You really are nothing more than a common snoop, aren’t you, Gabriel? No, don’t bother denying it. We know it’s you who’s been hacking into our computer. How could you? You’ve abused our trust. Our hospitality… our friendship.’

  The contempt in Minnaloushe’s voice made him cringe. But the next question literally took his breath away.

  ‘Do you really think one of us killed Robert Whittington?’

  He was so shocked he couldn’t find his voice. They knew he was investigating them. That he suspected one of them of murder. How had they found out?

  Only one answer to that question: the scan last night had revealed everything.

  ‘Did you?’ he asked challengingly, suddenly angry.

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ Minnaloushe’s voice was trembling.

  ‘I’m someone who wants answers, someone who is tired of being led around by the nose.’ His anger was growing.

  ‘We loved Robbie.’ Morrighan leaned forward, palms pressing down on the table in front of her. ‘We helped him find what he was searching for.’

  He made a disgusted movement with his hand. ‘Yes, I know. You “played” with him. I’d like to know what kind of game.’

  ‘Of the most sublime kind. Robbie was a seeker, on a journey to transformation. We assisted him.’

  ‘Transformation. Really.’ His voice was heavily sarcastic.

  ‘We could have done the same for you.’ Morrighan stared at him, her eyes glacial, the pupils narrowing to two tiny points of black.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ He uttered the words through clenched teeth. ‘Excuse me, but I don’t recall asking either of you to be my spiritual guru.’

  ‘If there’s anyone who needs help it’s you, Gabriel. Your arrogance is breathtaking.’

  ‘If I’m arrogant, that’s my business and no one else’s.’

  ‘It’s not when people get hurt.’ Minnaloushe’s tone was challenging. ‘Like Melissa Cartwright.’

  So they knew about Melissa as well. How the hell had they scanned him so thoroughly? He was a master at blocking. One of them had accessed his mind with the ease of a key turning a lock. How? Even as the question formed in his mind, his eyes fell on the empty wine glasses in the sink. The glasses were unwashed, red rings staining the bottoms.

  ‘You drugged me.’ He spoke slowly, but his anger was now
so great, he felt light-headed. Picking up the half-full bottle of berry wine which stood on the kitchen table, he sniffed at it.

  He glared at Morrighan. ‘Did you lace this with one of your potions?’

  No answer.

  ‘But it wasn’t just the potion, was it? Tell me, who is the remote viewer?’

  ‘Remote viewer? What are you talking about?’ Morrighan.

  ‘You’re delusional, Gabriel.’ Minnaloushe.

  The sound of his pulsing blood filled his ears. He tried to steady his voice. ‘I need to know one thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Whose diary is it?’

  Silence.

  He felt like throwing the bottle against the wall, but forced himself to breathe slowly. ‘Please. Please tell me.’

  No change in their expressions. Smooth mask-like faces.

  ‘Is it yours?’ He turned to Minnaloushe. She stared at him unblinkingly with limpid green eyes. They gave nothing away.

  ‘Or yours?’ His eyes fixed on Morrighan. ‘Tell me, damn you.’ He grasped her violently by the wrist, and felt her bones creak beneath his fingers.

  ‘Don’t.’ One word only but it stopped him like a bullet. Wisps of black hair fell across her forehead, which held the slightest sheen of sweat. There was something in her eyes that made him feel sick with shame.

  He released her and stepped back. His mouth was stale with misery.

  Morrighan cradled her wrist in her hand. ‘Now go.’

  He tore at the locket round his neck and threw it onto the table. ‘It doesn’t stop here. I’ll keep looking for that boy. His father deserves to know what happened to him.’

  Silence. Two pairs of eyes watching him inscrutably.

  He stumbled a little as he turned away. There seemed to be a haze in front of his eyes as he made his way through the living room. When he opened the front door, he blinked. The soft autumn sunshine seemed oddly harsh. Everything outside appeared sharp-edged; every blade of grass a razor blade.

  He resisted the impulse to look back over his shoulder to see if they had followed him. In his heart he knew they had not. They wanted him gone.