by Rob Campbell
If anybody had asked, he couldn’t have given them a credible reason why he chose to carry on helping Turnbull. All he could say was that it felt like the right thing to do. The same applied to his choice to take the briefcase home and not drop it in the river. And, of course, his decision to take Sal’s hat – there wasn’t any logic behind it, but Big Sal’s hat felt right on his head, just as the briefcase felt comfortable in his hand.
These days, his actions were driven by a perverse need to feel like he was making a difference to the world. He remembered the feeling that he got when he returned from one of his little errands: that buzz, that little bit of youthful energy. It felt good like nothing had for years.
He remembered all those times in front of the mirror, staring at a face that hadn’t aged for years. He’d taken to dying his hair grey in an attempt to fool his wife’s keen eye. She’d often commented how it seemed like he hadn’t aged a day. Of course, he hadn’t, but he could hardly admit it to her, could he? Turnbull had explained that it was one of the benefits of the role that he’d taken on. Gooch hadn’t thought to press the matter further, and he’d welcomed the benefits of seemingly eternal middle age like he’d welcomed the feel of the briefcase in his hands.
A cold wind blew across the cemetery, whipping up dried leaves in a current that blew them towards the briefcase where it rested on the grass verge. The leaves scraped along the briefcase, their sound snapping him out of his reverie. He placed Sal’s fedora on his head. He still felt the cold; that was one thing that hadn’t changed.
“I’m sorry, Adele,” he said softly, reversing his decision not to say anything. Words he probably should have said many years ago but that had seemed so hard at the time. He thought back to the last time that they’d spoken – well, argued anyway.
Nineteen fifty-three. He remembered like it was yesterday.
* * *
“Late business meeting, was it?” Adele had said, barely disguised fury simmering beneath her icy stare.
“Something like that,” Gooch had replied, gently setting the briefcase down on the plush lounge carpet and loosening his tie.
Adele took a long drag from her cigarette, blowing the smoke in his general direction, causing him to turn away. “Do you have to do that?” he asked when the smoke had cleared sufficiently for him to see his wife again.
“You tell me, Charles. What else is there to do?”
“Don’t be like that, honey,” he said softly, making a move to touch her arm. She took a deliberate step back, her scowl increasing in intensity. She stared at him like he was something that she’d picked up on her shoe out on the street before stubbing the remains of her cigarette into an ashtray.
“Who is she?” Adele demanded.
“Who is who?” He suddenly realised what she meant. “Wait, you don’t think…”
“Late business meetings. Disappearing all times of the night. Secret phone calls. What else am I supposed to think?”
In some ways, it would have been easier admitting that he’d been having an affair. But how could he explain to his wife that he was in league with a man who believed that he could change people’s fate with random objects? Furthermore, how could he admit that he himself was controlled by something that he carried around in his briefcase?
“What? You think that because you carry that tatty old thing with you everywhere that I’m going to fall for the old business meeting routine?” She gave a humourless laugh, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You were never there, Charles. Never there for Milly, never there for Max.”
That hurt. He knew what was coming next, yet every time she said it, it was like a dagger in his heart.
“If you’d been more of a father then maybe Max wouldn’t have been inside, and maybe he’d still be here today!”
“That’s not fair. Max was his own man.” Maybe it was his wife’s incendiary outburst that made Gooch want to defend himself tonight. “I had no idea he was running alcohol, and it certainly wasn’t my fault he was in the wrong place at the wrong time during the riot!”
“He shouldn’t have been in jail at all!” she screamed in his face, turning away as if unable to look at him any longer. “No wonder Milly ran off to get away from you. I’m surprised she stopped in California and didn’t take to swimming.”
It wasn’t worth arguing with Adele when she was in this mood. He’d learned over the years that it was best to let the storm blow itself out and try to make amends in the morning.
“Don’t try to tell me that you were trying to save your business either,” she said, turning on him again. Even by her standards, this was a verbal assault of particularly epic proportions. “You’ve not cared about that place for years. Drew practically runs the place himself, so I hear.”
He was shocked at that. Not shocked to hear that his old number two ran the place – he knew that himself, of course – but he was shocked that his wife would know such a thing. Adele had never taken too much interest in his company, or so he thought. Next, she walked over to the coat rack and picked up her best fur. When she was done, she disappeared into the bedroom and reappeared soon afterwards carrying her suitcase.
The enormity of what was happening suddenly hit him. “Adele, wait, can we talk please?” he pleaded.
“Save it, Charles. Whoever she is, she’s welcome to you,” she practically spat.
It was twenty-nine years later, but that final image of her standing in the doorway, holding her tiny suitcase, would stay with him forever like it was burned on his retina. Whilst he’d found a way to stave off the progress of time, his wife hadn’t been so lucky. She still had a trim figure, but the lines on her face spoke of thirty-two years of marriage. Most of them hard years.
“You weren’t there for Milly, you weren’t there for Max, and you’ve not been there for me for a long time,” was her final riposte. With that, she was gone, the sound of her shoes on the staircase receding and finally fading to nothing. He didn’t have the words to stop her; he felt like a light had finally gone out inside him. Walking slowly to the sofa, he eased back into the comfortable upholstery, reaching reflexively for the briefcase that waited silently nearby. As his hand closed slowly around the familiar grip, the thing inside emitted a gentle vibration, so subtle that only somebody used to its touch would notice.
His new mistress.
* * *
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, looking down at the inscription on Adele’s headstone. He’d not even had a say in the choice of words – the funeral arrangements had all been Milly’s doing. He’d kept a respectable distance, and only after the last of the mourners had taken their leave had he approached the grave.
He stood there for an indeterminate length of time, regulating his breathing, trying his best to fight off the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He reached down and lifted the briefcase from the grass, its touch acting like a balm that soothed both his mind and his spirit.
He felt a reassuring hand touch his shoulder. He didn’t need to turn around to know who was there.
“We’re you’re family now, Charles. Don’t worry over things that you can’t change,” soothed Daniel Turnbull. The touch of the gloved hand on his shoulder didn’t anger Gooch in the way that it should, nor bring the comfort that the gesture had intended.
“So, where do we go from here?” he asked, turning to regard the man who had become his mentor.
Turnbull looked out across the vast expanse of the cemetery. In the distance, a flock of birds took flight, the sound of their cawing growing louder and then fading as they passed overhead and disappeared beyond a stand of trees into the frigid Illinois air.
“That guy I warned you about down in New Orleans. He’s getting too close for comfort. We need to move on,” Turnbull stated, gesturing in the general direction of the recently departed birds. “They have the right idea.”
“East coast?”
“Further. Time to take the fight back to Europe.”
“Europe?”
>
“You sound surprised, old friend.” Turnbull closed his arm around Gooch’s shoulders, pulling him closer as they made their way out of the cemetery. “We’ve come a long way, Charles. They won’t be looking for me back home anymore. And, after all, back home is where it all started.”
Many times over the years, Turnbull had talked to Gooch about his obsession with tracking down the objects that the artist Abernathy had created after the fateful night of the séance. When the leads that had suggested America was the place to look had run dry, Turnbull had suggested expanding the search, but Gooch had not thought for one minute that the path would lead them back across the Atlantic.
“You still hope to find them, Daniel?” Gooch asked, stopping in the middle of the path and meeting Turnbull’s eyes.
“The council is adamant – we all agree. Plus, we’ve had word from our man in Rome. He thinks he may be on the trail of The Sun.”
Chapter 22
It had been a busy week at college. With half-term approaching, there had been lots of assignments to hand in and, other than exchanging the odd text with Monkey, I hadn’t spoken to him since our trip to The Lamb and Shepherd last Friday. By Thursday, I was finally clear of homework that had to be handed in imminently, so I’d arranged to meet Monkey for a milkshake at the Beanfeast Café.
“Did you ask Victoria about the other night?” he said, sliding into the booth opposite the counter. I paid for most of our drinks when we were together, but tonight he’d insisted on paying for two extra-large chocolate milkshakes.
“She’s not said too much about it,” I replied before taking a long sip of the delicious shake. “Thanks,” I said across the table.
Victoria had been all business-like this last week at college. The fact that we’d spent a few hours in Lester’s company, away from the day-to-day drudgery of academic life, hadn’t seemed to alter her attitude towards me. I don’t know what I’d expected – maybe a brief discussion about what a fantastic house Lester lived in, or some comment about Abernathy’s paintings – but the most that she’d said was that she’d enjoyed it, and then it had been on with the lesson. I’d considered mentioning my theory about Abernathy and Abram being one and the same, but Victoria seemed a little distant, and each day, I had decided that it wasn’t the right time to raise the subject. I suppose it was understandable; it seemed reasonable that she’d want to keep her personal and professional life separate, though I couldn’t help but feel that she was giving me the cold shoulder.
For this reason, by the time that my meeting with Monkey came around, I was positively bursting with excitement.
“You’re still convinced that Abram was Abernathy?” Monkey stated when I brought the subject up.
“More than ever. I texted Lester and asked him to send me some photos of the Abernathy paintings. Here, look,” I said, pulling the photos from my bag. I’d printed the images of both the Abernathy paintings that I’d received from Lester and the Abram paintings that I’d taken in the pub, on A4 paper. I laid them out on the table in front of Monkey. “See the brushwork here and here?” I said enthusiastically, pointing at various key points on each of the images.
Monkey studied the photos, his brow furrowed in concentration. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I mean, I can see some similarities, but neither of us are art experts.”
“I know,” I replied, trying not to sound too deflated. “At some point, we’ll have to get an expert opinion on them, but for now, I’m going to assume that I’m right.”
Monkey laughed at that, stirring his milkshake with the red and white striped straw. I looked out of the large window at the front of the café, struggling to see the opposite side of the street through the misty rain. The traffic outside was thinning out now that it was nearing seven, and the rain had kept most people indoors. Not me though; I loved the rain.
Just as I was turning back towards Monkey, I caught sight of a familiar face passing by the window. His collar was turned up against the cold, and he forged on ahead, seemingly undaunted by the rain. He glanced sideways as he passed the café and appeared to be surprised to see Monkey and me sitting inside.
Dylan Fogg.
He broke stride and waved before altering his course and heading for the door. He waited for an old lady to leave, smiling pleasantly whilst holding the door open.
Whilst we waited for Dylan, I quickly gathered the pieces of paper from the table and stuffed them into my bag, not caring whether I creased them. “Not a word to Dylan,” I hissed under my breath.
By now, Monkey was becoming used to my suspicious and guarded nature; he probably would have said as much if he’d had the time, but Dylan was standing by our table in a matter of seconds.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked.
“No problem,” I said, sliding along the padded bench.
Dylan ordered a coffee – black, naturally – before sitting down next to me, his hands cupped around the steaming coffee. He blew the steam from his cup before taking a sip. “That’s better,” he announced, before asking, “What have you two been up to?”
“Not much. Had a lot of college stuff to work on,” I said noncommittally.
“Seen Lester recently?”
“Last week, why?”
“Just wondered.”
I waited for him to say more, but he seemed more interested in his coffee again.
“Come on. Did you just happen to walk by, or were you looking for us?” I asked, wondering whether Dylan was leaving something unsaid.
“Just walking by. Why would I be looking for you?” He sounded surprised.
“It’s nothing. Just a keen sense of paranoia that I’m developing.”
“Hanging around with Lester Hawkstone will do that to you.”
A healthy paranoia, or at least a sensible level of distrust of anyone and everyone, seemed about the right way to play things just now. The last year or so had been a whirlwind that had helped me take my mind off my dad’s death, but it also brought its fair share of darkness: Lester’s dire warnings about the Wardens of the Black Heart, the unfortunate Goofy Muldoon, a vicar convinced that his congregation was suffering from some communal apocalyptic nightmare, the plane crash, and of course the spectre of Charles Gooch. I wasn’t about to seek Dylan’s thoughts on the paintings that we’d been discussing before he arrived, but I thought that another matter in which we had a joint interest might be the best way to get him to open up.
“When we last spoke, you told us about that murder suspect in Durham.”
“Daniel Turnbull,” Dylan confirmed.
“That’s right. You said that he escaped to America on the Mauretania. Well, we did a bit of digging, and we confirmed that his name was listed on the passenger manifest.”
Dylan spread his hands on the table. “I already knew that. Are you saying you didn’t believe me?”
“Of course not,” I responded, perhaps a little too eagerly. “I mean, we were just interested in checking it out—”
“Seeing if we could find out anything else,” Monkey added.
“And did you find anything else out?”
“Not really. Just a big list of names.”
“That’s what a passenger manifest is,” Dylan said dryly.
“Did this Turnbull travel to America with anybody?” I asked.
“Not as far as I know. No known accomplices according to the police reports. Doesn’t mean he didn’t have help, of course.”
“You saw the list?” I pressed.
“I’ve got a copy of it at home, but like I said, I haven’t got any other names that I’m looking for. Obviously, I checked for the others who were at the séance with Turnbull, but their names weren’t there, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I was thinking that,” I lied. It was hard to tell, but Dylan seemed genuine. If he was answering truthfully, then he must have seen the name of Charles Gooch on the list and the name clearly didn’t mean anything to him. I felt a small sense of shame, blatantly ly
ing to Dylan whilst simultaneously analysing his words in an attempt to determine whether he was telling the truth. But that was the way that things were working out recently.
“Can I ask you a question?” said Monkey when everybody was silent for a few heartbeats.
“Sure,” replied Dylan amiably.
“Why do you hate Lester Hawkstone so much?”
Dylan laughed. “Hate’s a bit strong, Monkey. What makes you think I hate him?”
Monkey shrugged. “Just that we know you had a falling out, and you haven’t seen him for five years.”
“I haven’t seen my grandmother for five years, doesn’t mean I hate her,” Dylan quipped before his tone turned more serious. “There’s a lot of water flowed under the bridge since I parted ways with Lester,” he sighed. “Can I ask you a question?”
Monkey nodded.
“Has Lester decided what to do with The Frenchman yet?”
“Not yet. Still in the vault,” I said.
Dylan shook his head ruefully. “Same old Lester. Never changes. It’ll just sit there gathering dust while the world continues to burn.”
“What would you do with it?”
“Me?” Dylan sounded surprised at the question, but he had an answer all the same. “Try a few experiments. See if I could unlock whatever secret it holds.”
“Sounds like a vague plan,” I scoffed.
Dylan turned to look at me as if sizing me up. “Did I ever tell you what my new job is?”
“No. What is it?” said Monkey, leaning across the table with interest.
“I’m a man of means. I fund myself, and I try to crack the same mysteries that Lester has his army of cronies working on,” he said smugly. “Present company excepted, and no offence meant,” he added.
