He put the box down and kicked it on its side. The white envelopes spilled out and were immediately swept up by the wind. Like a swarm of pale butterflies they fluttered away into the dunes, his words—thousands and thousands of words—scattered into the wind-filled darkness.
TWENTY-TWO
THE ENTRANCE to the cave was right ahead. Yuri Grachikov stopped and wiped his hand across his forehead. His breathing was ragged from the effort it took to walk through the thick sand, all the while pitting himself against the force of the wind. His teeth felt gritty. There was even sand underneath his collar.
About a half an hour ago, he had thought he’d lost his way for certain. He had been this way before, the two times he had followed Adam Williams, but in the darkness everything seemed suddenly strange. And it wasn’t as if this landscape stayed the same. The wind changed the face of the desert every day.
What a hellhole of a place. Kepler’s Bay itself was like a terminally ill patient and he sometimes thought the people who lived here were the walking dead. The lethargy of the inhabitants made him crazy. They had no drive, no initiative. They had given up: there was no urgency in their step or spark of enthusiasm in their eyes. Here he was about to help them inject some economic prosperity into their miserable lives, but instead of recognising the advantages his hotel would bring, these people were signing petitions left and right, following the saintly Dr Mark Botha like sheep.
For a moment he felt intensely melancholy. He missed home. In his mind’s eye he was back in Moscow, watching the lamplight gleaming on Susanna’s thick black hair. His sister’s fingers delicately clasping the violin’s bow, her eyes closed as she followed the lead of his cello. Borodin’s Second String Quartet—it had always been their favourite, especially the third movement nocturne with its sublimely romantic melody. How many times had they played thus—brother and sister, shoulder to shoulder—the cello playing first, the violin following in close imitation. The room bathed in light, the smell of his cigar burning in the ashtray and the feeling that all was at peace in the world.
But when had he last played the cello? He couldn’t even remember. Music belonged to a different time in his life, a sweeter time, he thought, suddenly filled with self-pity.
He started walking again, keeping his head low. He didn’t like being out here in the darkness, but he didn’t really have a choice. Windwalkers walked at night. The best time to find the cubs alone and defenceless was when their parents were out hunting. And he needed to do this while the rage still burned coldly inside his blood.
He thought back to his confrontation with Adam Williams earlier that evening. It had been a battle of wills and he was the one who had blinked first. The others may not have noticed, but he knew. And Adam Williams knew. He felt the bile rise in his throat.
And that was why he found himself here, at the cave where the strandwolves lived. He had followed Adam Williams to the lair twice in the past month, part of his plan to find out as much as he could about the man. He was puzzled by Williams’ obvious fascination with these scavengers. Williams would spend hours on his stomach, binoculars against his eyes, simply watching. He obviously admired the animals, had a real affection for them. But then, there was a decidedly lupine quality to Williams himself. It had struck him afresh earlier tonight—something in the man’s eyes was feral. Very few men indeed had the power to make him hesitate, but Adam Williams was one. The man made him lose his cool every time. He sensed a rage in Williams. It was reined in, banked down. But, if let loose, it could probably equal in ferocity anything he, Grachikov, could come up with—and more.
Which was why he had decided on this course of action. The time was not yet right for a full-scale war, but he needed to decompress and take care of his frustrated anger.
He felt with his hand against the side of the cave. The last time he had watched the cubs, they had been sunning themselves just outside the cave entrance. But tonight they were nowhere to be seen. They must be in one of the inner chambers.
It was a relief to enter the first chamber and escape the wind. He switched on his torch and the yellow beam played across the weathered rock. There was a powerful scent of musk and urine in the air. He moved cautiously. If one or both of the parents were in the cave, he was in serious trouble. The cubs were now big enough that they did not need constant supervision, but the mother could very well be lurking inside the cave as well. He touched the large hunting knife in his waistband.
But the cubs were alone. As he entered the second chamber, the three pairs of eyes gleamed in the artificial torch. They were watching him without any fear at all. They had probably never seen a human being before. One of the cubs, a little runt with a gammy foot, was even hobbling toward him curiously.
He propped the torch against a ledge in the cave wall. Stooping down, he grabbed the cub by the scruff. It was a cute little thing, really, with its long hair and soft ears. He slid the hunting knife from his belt. Placing his thumb against the softest part of the animal’s neck, he sliced cleanly through the pulsing throat muscles.
He dropped the small lifeless body into the cool sand and reached for the second cub. This one squealed like crazy, a high-pitched scream, which agitated the other one as well. He grabbed the cub by the loose skin at his neck. The animal was barking, snapping at his wrist, already displaying the power of what was destined to become one of the strongest jaws in the animal kingdom. A full-grown strandwolf could snap your hand right off your arm with a single bite. But this one was still several months away from adulthood and his knife was large and the blade sharp.
Maybe he should spare the life of the last one? He stood, considering, looking down at the snarling animal. Then, calmly, he reached down and picked it up. A female, this one. For a moment he and the animal were face to face. He imagined he could see a tiny picture of himself in the gleam of her eyes.
A sweep of the blade against the throbbing throat. The blood spurting warm and sticky onto his hands, running down his wrists and forearms. Without another glance at the three bodies, he turned away. He felt suddenly tremendously energised; it was almost as though he could feel power surging through his body.
As he stepped out of the darkness of the cave into the starry blackness of the night, he threw his head back and screamed into the wind. He unbuttoned his trousers and urinated against the rock wall, the yellow liquid steaming and pungent.
His scent. His territory.
TWENTY-THREE
WINTER HAD COME to Paradine Park. One morning the day was still tepid with autumn sun and the next Justine woke up to find a thin haze of white covering the lawns and the black-skinned trees.
And as though the advent of cold and mist was a signal, she withdrew behind the walls of Paradine Park even more decisively than before. She stocked up on food and rarely went into the village now. And when Mason and his grandson told her that, during the winter months they tended the gardens only once every three weeks, it felt right.
Every now and then she would make a call to Barry and to her mother—not from a sense of duty but because she knew a protracted silence would alarm them. It might even compel them to drive over from London, and that she could not allow. She did not understand where it came from, this sense that now, more than ever, she must keep the place undisturbed. Paradine Park should remain inviolate. The drawbridge up, the walls fast.
Outside her window the landscape was wreathed in mist. Every sound deadened. The sky opaque. She would wake up and find the fog pressed up against the panes so closely that she could not even see the wrought-iron gate guarding the entrance to the avenue of trees. But inside the house the light appeared strangely translucent. The days in here passed one after the other as cold, hard and clear as marbles made of glass.
Day followed empty day. Her cameras lay untouched. She hadn’t entered the darkroom in weeks. She had given up trying to capture the wolf within the camera’s snare of light. She was searching for him in the world of sleep now, but he had disappeared from her dreams.
Wepwawet. Opener of the ways. Man, wolf. They were connected. Her heart knew, her mind was accepting. If she found one, she would find the other.
She studied the photocopy of his face. Not even the graininess of the poor-quality photograph could blunt the intensity of that gaze. The Face of a Killer.
Fratricide. The very word sounded malevolent. She should be repulsed, outraged by his crime. But she touched his face, her hand lingering against his mouth.
Where was he? Where had he found a hollow for his foot? Some of the newspapers told of sightings in Australia and the USA. Was he hiding out in the anonymity of a big city, or had he slipped into an unremarkable life in a featureless suburb? White picket fence, children, a wife unaware of the mental darkness of the man with whom she shared her bed?
Or maybe he had died. Justine felt suddenly cold. Maybe he had died far from home with no one to care or be curious enough to find out who he really was. Just another drifter dying in a cheap motel. The terror of the image paralysed her mind, turning her thoughts ragged, like peeling wallpaper in a derelict room.
She wondered if she had a fever. She wondered if she were insane. She was in love with a ghost. Sometimes she felt as though she were a ghost herself. She’d say her name out loud. ‘Justine. Justine.’ As if the mere sound of vowels and consonants would prove she did exist. She looked into the mirror, not expecting a reflection. But there she was: pale face and hungry eyes. The face of a greedy woman. A woman whose heart was a dark hollow, her longing a luminous, bright-edged, all-devouring thing.
She spent hours in the bathroom. Scented foam, perfumed water, brushing her hair, creaming her body. A body that had not been seen by anyone but herself for a long time.
Waiting. Waiting. Like a princess languishing in a tower. Waiting for a knight whose heart was brave and true. Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Banner streaming, pennant pinned to his chest. A white horse with wild eyes and flying, blood-soaked mane. A rider fresh from battle, the smells of carnage still clinging to his hands. Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
The day she found the toy aeroplane. A small biplane made of balsa wood. A young boy’s plaything, brightly-coloured, the word Valiant written on the side in a childish hand. Her heart beating with such excitement she thought it might burst. She threw the plane into the air, but it hardly took flight. It fell down, and when she picked it up the wing was broken.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, drawing on a piece of paper, the tip of her tongue sticking out of her mouth in concentration. The pencil scratching busily against the paper’s surface. A heart. She was drawing a heart. A big luscious heart impaled with an arrow from which dripped fat drops of blood. In one corner of the heart the letter, J. In the other a lopsided A.
She stared at the banal image, suddenly ashamed. How inane. How pathetic.
• • •
THE SKY was deepening in colour from gentian to bullet-grey. Gusts of wind hinted at turbulent weather to come. But it wasn’t until after nightfall that the storm that had threatened all day finally broke loose. Justine slammed shut the window to her bedroom just as the heavens opened and drops of rain spattered viciously against the glass pane. At that very moment, all the lights in the house went dead.
The darkness was all but complete. With her fingertips lightly trailing against the side of the wall, she felt her way downstairs, intent on retrieving the torch in the kitchen. But when she found it where she had left it on the windowsill, she was disappointed. The batteries were dead.
She remembered seeing candles in the larder. She shuffled over and opened the door. It was pitch-black in here. Her groping fingers grazed the smooth surfaces of bottles, touched the metal edges of cans and tins. Something fell over and a sticky substance covered her palm. But then her hand closed around an oblong package and she could feel through the waxy paper the unmistakable shape of candles. And, sitting neatly next to the package of candles, a box of matches.
She struck a match, but it took several tries before the candle started to burn. Holding the candle upside down, she dripped wax into a coffee cup and planted the candle firmly inside.
The switchboard was situated underneath the stairs. She flipped the master switch on and off a couple of times, but the lights stayed dead. She picked up the phone and called the electricity helpline. A taped message clicked in immediately. Storm damage. Downed lines. Vague assurances of remedial action.
After a supper of bread and cheese, she decided to go to bed. There really was nothing else to do.
She creamed her face and brushed her teeth in the light of the candle gleaming off the tiny mirror in the corner of her room. Her face seemed strangely mottled in the uncertain light, like the face of a drowned woman. As she dropped the toothbrush back in its glass she noticed how worn the bristles were at the outer edges. She should remember to buy a new one.
For the past few days she had started sleeping in different parts of the house. She harboured the forlorn hope that she would have more success in enticing the wolf back into her dreams if she explored the entire house. So every night she dragged her mattress and blanket into a new room—rooms that had not been used in years. Stretched out on the floor, the smell of old dust in her nose, she’d watch as the moving clouds drifted past the window.
Tonight she had chosen a tiny room at the very end of the wing that held the nursery. In years past, it had probably been the room of a maidservant or a governess; it had that make-do feel to it. It was only half the size of the other rooms and the panelling was humble pine.
For a while she lay on her back, watching the candle’s shadows dancing against the walls. Then, pushing herself to her elbow, she blew out the tiny flame very carefully and pinched the wick between her fingers. Her thoughts dimmed, her eyelids closed. Turning on her side, her legs drawn up close to her body, she went to sleep.
• • •
THE WATCHER EASED himself through the door of the coal cellar and stepped into the corridor leading off the kitchen. He stooped and took off his shoes. He didn’t want to leave wet footprints everywhere.
It was late. By this time she would be asleep. And she’d have drunk a few glasses of her favourite Johnnie Walker now, wouldn’t she? So a deep sleep for his Justine. And it was storming something fierce outside, so she wouldn’t be able to hear much, anyway.
Softly he walked into the entrance hall. The sound of the wind was loud. The tree outside the window was swaying back and forth like a giant black hand. The windowpanes seemed almost white. He turned toward the staircase, taking the shallow steps two by two, his hand hooding the tiny beam from his penlight. Not that he really needed the light; by this time he knew his way around.
When he reached the landing upstairs, he stopped. He needed to calm his breathing. His heart was beating too hard.
More than a week had passed since his last visit. And the day after tomorrow he would be taking his mother away on their annual holiday. Usually he looked forward to their going away together, but this time he wanted desperately to stay at home. But there was no escaping his filial duty. For the next two weeks he’d be playing backgammon and taking brief, bracing walks with his mum at their usual place near Fort William. Scotland in winter was always daunting, but his mum liked the snow.
Before leaving for Scotland he had decided to give himself a special treat. Up to now he had been very careful not to get too close to Justine whenever he visited the house. They had never been in the same room at the same time. But tonight, for the first time since the game started, he would go right up to her bed. Touch her hair, maybe. He was scared but excited all at once. There was too much saliva in his mouth. He couldn’t stop swallowing.
It was a risk. If she woke up and saw him that would be it. Game
over. But he needed to actually touch her. One part of his brain was dead set against it. He still remembered what had happened the previous time he had given in to his compulsion to make physical contact. But the other part of his brain was already sensing her breathing against his hand, imagining the silkiness of the hair at the nape of her neck…
This was it, her room. The door was wide open.
She wasn’t there.
For a moment he stood rooted to the spot, his head moving from side to side; his eyes following the beam of the penlight as it probed the corners of the room. But there was no sign of her. One bed was all made up. The other one was empty, with not even a mattress.
It was such an anti-climax, he could feel his body go soft. He left the room and walked down the passage, peeking into a few rooms leading off the corridor. They were empty.
Her car was in the driveway. She had to be in the house.
Where was she?
• • •
WHEN SHE WOKE up, her mind was as alert as though she had never gone to sleep at all.
Something must have woken her up. For a few moments she lay quietly, trying to identify what had pressed the warning button deep within her unconscious. But it was still storming outside and the onslaught of rain against the windows was so strong, she could hear little else. Moving carefully, she got to her feet and flicked on the light switch. The power was still out.
She fumbled with the matches. The first match she struck died immediately. The second burned all the way to her fingertips before the wick took to the flame, trailing black smoke and an acrid smell.
Cupping her hand around the uncertain flame, she stepped out into the hallway.
• • •
SHE APPEARED so suddenly at the end of the passage he almost lost it. One moment, nothing—and then she was standing there. Like a ghost. It took him by such surprise, his nerves were suddenly gone. Any moment now, she’d look up and see him and her eyes would widen in recognition. And then she’d scream…
Writ in Water Page 82
