by Mark Morris
‘Or maybe just some bloke trying to do a jigsaw puzzle. A massive jigsaw puzzle through time, of a picture that keeps changing, along with the pieces.’ I scowled at my own analogy. ‘Trouble is, how will I know when it’s finished?’
‘Maybe it never will be,’ said Clover.
‘Oh, thanks for that. That’s very reassuring.’
She gave a sheepish, clench-teethed grin. ‘Sorry.’
Churning with frustration at the hand I’d been dealt, I turned my attention once more to the flames. For a few seconds the scowl stayed on my face, and then I thought again of the moment I’d seen Kate – the real Kate – for the first time in what for me had been over two years, and how it had felt when she’d gleefully shouted my name, and run across the room to greet me, and I’d wrapped my arms around her.
As long as she’s safe, I thought, as long as she’s safe and well and happy, nothing else matters.
When I looked up, Clover was staring at me as if she’d been scrutinising every little change of mood on my face. ‘Sorry,’ she said again.
‘What for?’
‘For opening my big mouth. For not giving you more time to enjoy the moment.’
I waved away her apology. ‘It’s okay. It’s not your fault. And it’s not as if I wasn’t aware I’d have to go back to the trenches and finish the job at some point. Not to mention… well, all the rest of it.’
‘You do have a lot to do, don’t you?’ Clover said sympathetically. ‘I hope you’ve been taking notes.’
I patted my pocket. ‘I have. I’ve jotted it all down in my little black book. I just wish…’
‘What?’
‘Well, that I could do everything right now, get it all out of the way. Or better still, just press a button and make everything right.’
‘If only life were that simple.’
‘If only.’ I took another sip of my drink, then sighed and glanced up at the ceiling. ‘I can’t tell you how torn I feel about this whole situation. I mean, on the one hand I’m so happy to have Kate back, and it’s lovely to know she’s up there right now, cosy and safe and fast asleep in bed. But on the other hand it’s agonising to think that no sooner have I got her back than I’m going to have to bugger off and leave her again.’
‘We’ll look after her while you’re away,’ Clover assured me. ‘I’m a brilliant babysitter. She’ll be in the safest of hands.’
‘I know she will. And thank you. Though if it all works out, hopefully you won’t have to do much babysitting. Once the War’s over I’m planning to come straight back here. If I’m lucky, no one will even notice I’ve left.’ I saw her wince and held up a hand. ‘And before you say anything, I haven’t forgotten that I’ve got the Dark Man’s old, knackered, unreliable heart, and he’s got mine. Which means my first priority has to be to get my heart back.’
‘Any ideas how you’re going to do that?’ Clover asked.
‘No. But I am. I have to. And I will.’
‘I admire your determination.’
‘I’ll get Benny on the case,’ I said. ‘I might not be his favourite person in the world, but I don’t think he’ll turn my money down. I’ll look for the Dark Man everywhere. I’ll leave no stone unturned.’
‘And what if he’s not here? In this time, I mean?’
‘Then I’ll use the heart, and fuck the consequences. If I’m meant to find him, then somehow or other I will.’
Clover looked thoughtful – either because she was debating whether to tell me not to be an idiot, or because she had an idea brewing. Eventually she said, ‘Maybe you’re not the right person to track down the Dark Man.’
I frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Maybe, to find him, you need someone with a stronger connection to him.’
‘Like who?’ I said. ‘Tallarian?’
Clover shook her head. ‘I was thinking of someone closer to home. Someone whose every waking thought for the past five years has been dominated by the Dark Man and what he did to her. Someone who finds comfort and solace in the heart, and feels an affinity with it.’
The penny dropped. ‘Lyn?’ I said, surprised.
‘Lyn,’ she confirmed. She took a slow sip of her drink, allowing the suggestion time to take root in both our minds. Finally she said, ‘I know it’s a long shot, and I know it might come to nothing, but he was in her mind, Alex – right inside. I mean, surely, on that basis, it’s at least worth a try?’
FOURTEEN
FIND HIM
It was tough saying goodbye to Kate, but being an eminently adaptable five-year-old she took our latest parting far more easily than I did. She was thoroughly enjoying her ‘holiday’ with Adam and Paula – and most especially with her best friend, Hamish – and, of course, had no inkling of the two years or so of torture I’d endured searching for her. When, after an uproarious full English breakfast, I gave her a farewell hug, I found it hard to let her go. So hard, in fact, that in the end she started to wriggle like an eel.
‘Daddy, you’re squishing me.’
‘Sorry, peanut.’ When I opened my arms her cheeks were flushed and the static electricity from my jumper had made her hair stand up in wavering spikes.
‘Do you know what your problem is?’ I said solemnly.
She pushed out her bottom lip. ‘What?’
‘It’s that you’re just so incredibly huggable.’
Her frown dissolved into giggles. ‘And your problem is you’re a great big silly sausage. Will you be coming back soon?’
‘Very soon,’ I promised.
‘And when you come back, will we be going home and will I be going to school?’
I thought of the flat we’d lived in, torn apart by the Dark Man’s mob (unless, of course, I’d done it to maintain the timeline, in which case I’m sure I’d find out in due course), and of the house in Kensington I owned now.
‘Probably,’ I said, thinking it would be easier to explain all that when the time came.
‘Yay!’ cried Kate. ‘We like school, don’t we, Hamish?’
Hamish was chewing a slice of toast. He had egg yolk, ketchup and jam around his mouth. ‘I like drawing aeroplanes,’ he announced. ‘Mrs Mason said I drawed the best aeroplanes in the class.’
Kate wrinkled her nose. ‘Aeroplanes are boring. Tigers are better.’
‘Are not!’
‘Are!’
‘Are not!’
‘Talk to the hand,’ Kate said haughtily, showing him her palm, which made us all guffaw.
By 10:30 a.m. Clover and I were on the road. As we ate up the miles and put Kate and the Sherwoods further behind us, I felt hollow, shrunken, as if I’d left a major part of myself back in that little cottage, and what was left was like an unravelling ball of twine that was shrinking ever smaller.
After dozing in the chair by the fire for a while, Clover and I had finally crawled up to our separate beds at around 5 a.m., where, with rain dashing against the window like handfuls of pebbles, I’d managed to get three or four hours fitful sleep. When I’d woken up – to the glorious sound of Kate and Hamish whooping as if imitating police sirens – bright morning sunshine had turned the field outside my tiny bedroom window into a carpet of emeralds. Now, though, the clouds were closing in again, as if imitating my mood. I closed my eyes, which felt gritty and hot, and within seconds I was asleep.
Clover woke me at lunchtime, prior to pulling off the motorway so we could grab a bite to eat in a service station Costa, and then I spent most of the afternoon alternately staring unseeingly out of the window as the M4 unrolled before us, and drifting back off to sleep. In one of my wakeful periods I also called DI Jensen and told him Kate had been found safe and well, and that he could call off the police search for her. It was an awkward conversation, but he’d seen my future self on the beach, and eventually swallowed my rather sketchy explanation. After calling Jensen I called Candice, which was an altogether more pleasurable experience. When I told her the good news, she screamed in delight, then ab
ruptly burst into tears. In a rushed, blubbery, emotion-filled voice she asked me a ton of questions, but I managed to deflect them, telling her things were still hectic and that I had to go, but would give her the full story in due course (which I didn’t say would be when I could come up with an explanation she’d be likely to believe).
We hit pre-rush hour traffic on the M23 at around 3:30 p.m. and eventually drove in through Darby Hall’s imposing iron gates just before five. Clover cut the engine in the tree-lined car park behind the main building, and groaned and stretched before squinting at me.
‘How you doing?’
‘Okay.’
‘You haven’t exactly been scintillating company these past few hours.’
‘Sorry. Had a lot to process. Needed the head space.’
She told me she’d have a walk round the grounds to stretch her legs while I went up to see Lyn. Five minutes later one of the orderlies, a gangly black guy called Richard, was leading me up the wooden staircase towards Lyn’s room on the first floor.
‘Where’s Dr Bruce today?’ I asked, more to make conversation than anything.
Richard briefly wrinkled his nose as if at a bad smell. ‘She’s around somewhere.’ He gave me what I thought was a reluctant sideways glance. ‘I can find her if you wanna see her.’
‘No, that’s okay.’
Lyn was sitting by the window, reading a book by lamplight when I entered. Outside the sun was creeping towards the horizon, filling the room with pre-dusk shadows.
‘Alex,’ she said, closing the book and smiling up at me.
‘Hi,’ I said, and put out a hand to the light switch.
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘I like this time of day. I like to see the colours in the sky.’
The only colours I could see were grey and black, with maybe a hint of murky green at the horizon, but I let it slide.
‘How are you?’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Getting better all the time.’ She stood up, dropped the book on the chair and gave me a twirl. ‘What do you think?’
She did look better. Less scrawny, less hesitant in her movements. There was even a flush of pink in her cheeks, a suggestion of vitality in her previously lank hair.
‘You look great,’ I said. ‘Every time I see you, you look better.’
‘I feel great,’ she replied. ‘Well, maybe not great, but better than I was. Dr Bruce said she might even reduce my medication soon if I keep improving.’
‘That’s brilliant,’ I said, crossing the room towards her. I felt uneasy, though, because despite coming all this way I suddenly began to wonder whether asking her to help might not be the right thing to do. In the early hours of the morning, by the cosy glow of a cottage fire, and with several Southern Comforts inside me, Clover’s suggestion had seemed reasonable, even inspired. But now that Lyn and I were in the same room, facing each other, I was starting to have doubts.
Although her condition had improved dramatically in recent weeks – since I’d acquired the heart, in fact – that shouldn’t lull me into thinking she wasn’t still fragile and vulnerable. The main reason she was getting better, it seemed to me, was due to her interactions with the heart, to whatever succour it gave her when she held it, and to her belief that I had trapped the Dark Man within it, which meant not simply that he could no longer harm her, but that we now had power over him.
How would it affect her, therefore, if I showed her the now-crumbling heart? And if she discovered the Dark Man was not trapped, as she had thought, but still at large, and that I had come to seek her help in tracking him down? Would she have a relapse, retreat back into herself?
Convincing her that we were in a position of strength, and that the Dark Man would be running scared of both of us, was, it seemed to me, the way to go. Perching on the edge of the bed, I said as earnestly as I could, ‘Look, the reason I’ve come to see you today is because you’re the only person strong enough to help me. There’s something I need to do, and I won’t pretend it’ll be easy, but if we work together I know we can do it.’
I’d certainly grabbed her attention. She was all eyes. Nodding solemnly, she said, ‘If I can help you, Alex, I will. What is it you want me to do?’
I took a deep breath. ‘I want you to help me find the Dark Man.’ Before she could respond – almost before she had chance to assimilate what I’d told her – I said quickly, ‘He’s running and he’s weak and he’s scared of us. All I need is for you to help me find him and then I can do the rest. Can you do that? Will you do that?’
I looked at her steadily, calmly, but inside I was bracing myself, more than half-expecting her to freak out.
Her eyes, though, remained as calm as I hoped mine were. She regarded me for a moment, as though coolly assessing what I’d told her, and then she held out a hand.
‘Give me the heart.’
Just like that? I wanted to ask. Don’t you even want to know what happened, how he escaped? I didn’t know whether to feel alarmed or heartened by how well she seemed to have taken what could – and maybe should – have been a devastating piece of news.
Looking at her outstretched hand, though, I realised there may yet be a further hurdle to negotiate.
‘One thing I should tell you before I do,’ I said, ‘is that the heart is… not as you remember it. What I mean is, it’s damaged. But that doesn’t mean it can’t still be effective. And it doesn’t mean it can’t be renewed.’
She gave me an indulgent smile. ‘You don’t have to mollycoddle me, Alex. I know you’re trying to protect me, because you think I’m still liable to fall apart at any moment, but I’m much stronger now than I’ve been for ages. I’m genuinely getting better.’
‘I know you are,’ I said, with so much conviction that I only ended up sounding – to my ears at least – entirely insincere.
If Lyn picked up on that, though, she decided to ignore it. Still smiling she held out her hand again. ‘So will you give me the heart?’
I slipped my hand into my jacket pocket, wondering whether she had already come to the same conclusion I had – that her link with the heart might be the best way to track down the Dark Man – or whether she simply wanted to glean some comfort from holding it. Feeling I ought to clarify this, I said, ‘I will, but be careful in case—’
‘Just give it to me!’ she snapped.
I froze, startled. Okay, so maybe she wasn’t quite so sanguine and stable as I’d thought. But before I could decide how to respond to her flare-up, she was raising her hands, a sweet smile of apology replacing the momentary anger on her face.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘that was uncalled for. It’s just that—’
Something moved under the bed.
Instinctively I jumped up from where I was sitting, half-turning to look behind me.
‘What was that?’
‘What?’
‘Didn’t you hear it?’
‘I didn’t hear anything.’ That indulgent smile again. ‘I’ve never seen you so jumpy, Alex. Look, why don’t you just give me the heart and we can—’
Another sound from under the bed. Another scuffle-creak of movement. But it was accompanied by a groan this time. A decidedly human groan.
I took a couple of steps back from the bed, half-expecting someone – or something – to lunge out at me. I kept my eyes on the shadowy space between bed and floor, diverting my attention only for an instant to flick a glance at Lyn. The groan had been unmistakeable, and I expected her now to look as startled and alarmed as I felt. If anything, though, her face had become hard and blank.
‘Lyn, what’s going on?’ I said. ‘Who’s under there?’
Instead of waiting for an answer I dropped to my hands and knees and lowered my face to the floor. I felt horribly vulnerable, but I had to see.
Due to the gathering dusk, there was very little I could see at first. Only a vague, elongated shape smothered in shadow with a pale patch at one end. Almost immediately my eyes began to adjust, and I realised the pale patch
was a face. As I stared at it, the features formed through the murk, like the image on a developing photograph. Recognition suddenly hit me like a cold electric shock and I cried out.
It was Lyn.
Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open, but she was stirring, as if from a long sleep. As she drifted back to consciousness another low groan drifted up and out of her. By then my head was already snapping round to regard the woman sitting in the chair by the window.
‘You’re not—’ I began.
At which point the imposter’s body erupted upwards and outwards into a nightmarish mass of thrashing, tar-black tentacles.
The transformation happened so suddenly, so abruptly, that I registered it purely on a subconscious level. Recalling it later, I could only liken the sight to footage I’d seen of oil strikes, whereupon a huge geyser of viscous black liquid would burst under enormous pressure from the newly ruptured ground.
In this case, though, the ‘oil’ was alive, and it shot not just up into the air but outwards in all directions. Tendrils of it crawled across the ceilings and walls and smothered the window, blocking out what little daylight remained. It reminded me of a fungus, or a virulent climbing plant, which had somehow managed to condense many years’ growth into an explosive split second.
The ‘oil’ was the shape-shifter, of course, one of the Dark Man’s cohorts.
Before I could even think about how to react, several of the tentacle-like strands swooped down and smashed into me with tremendous force, pinning me face-first to the floor. The thickest of the strands was no more than the circumference of a broom handle, but each of them was nevertheless so incredibly strong that, try as I might, I couldn’t move a muscle. The strands had me pinned by my wrists and ankles, and there were also several pressing into my back – one of them exerting such effortless pressure on the base of my spine that I had no doubt it could crush my bones to powder if it wanted to.
Why the shape-shifter didn’t simply kill me I had no idea – though that wasn’t a question that occurred to me until later. Feeling movement around my hip area, I turned my head (the only part of me I could still move) and saw another of the black, rope-like strands delving into my jacket pocket, where I kept the heart. The Dark Man already had the ‘new’ heart, so why he should now want the old, crumbling one, which he had left me in return, I could only guess. Maybe it was to prevent us from tracking him down?
