by David Scott
“Thank you for tonight, Dan. It was exactly what I needed.”
“Me too, Luke. Me too.”
And then Dan’s phone rang, as if on cue, and the outside world came rushing back in to end the moment. Dan recognised this was a special time, and tried desperately to hold on to it, ignoring the call. The phone rang again.
“Hello Diana. No, no. You’re not disturbing me at all. I told you to call any time.”
Luke came closer to listen in, their cheeks nearly touching. Diana’s high-pitched voice came squawking out of the speaker.
“So, the steel remnants that I retrieved from our Romeo. The ones I mentioned to you. Well, it turns out that it is a rare Damascus steel. The metallurgist tells me that the techniques used to compose this grade could only come from a limited number of sources, and it is pretty uncommon. He’s not sure if it is a modern piece, or something older. It’s going to take some time to analyse fully, and then track down the suppliers, and owners, but this is a lead, Dan, and a good one at that! You can save the thanks for later. I am emailing you through the report.”
“That’s great, Diana. Thank you.”
“That’s my pleasure, Dan. Oh, and by the way, I have asked to be allocated full-time to the team working on the Pulcinella murders. So, you haven’t got rid of me yet!”
“I’m pleased to hear that, Diana. You have been a great help so far. If you find anything else …”
“Yes, I know,” Diana said, cutting him off, “Call me straight away. Will do. Speak later.”
Dan and Luke grinned.
“We’ve got a lead, Luke. At last! This could be the break we need.”
ELEVEN
A tired house stares out across a bleak garden, watching and waiting for something to come. It feels an evil lurking, moving slowly towards it.
The grass on its front lawn is browned and dying; even the weeds look sick from their efforts to escape the hard, dry soil.
An aged swing creaks and contorts in the winter breeze, shedding rust flakes with each sway, wishing for the snow to come to hide its shameful excretions.
Remains of roses, which had climbed boldly around the front door in the summer, hang dead and faded, ready to drop. Old, perennial Marigold plants have withered and buried their roots deep into the ground to hide away, waiting for sunnier times. Nothing else grows nearby, except thistles and thorns from plants bearing dark fruits or poisonous berries.
An orange light glows dimly through the old casement window, as the embers in the fireplace ignite, and continue their fight to warm the cold interior.
A man in his early fifties kneels by the large mantlepiece, his bones sore from resting on the stone hearth, blowing life into the infant flames, whose golden tones contrast starkly against the obsidian coals from which they birthed.
Simon stands behind him, with his hands on his slender hips, glaring at the back of a thick head of dark brown hair. His tall frame looming large over his father, casting the shadow of an impatient giant on the exposed brick wall.
“I really don’t see what the issue is, Dad. You will be out. You are always out, with the cows, in the shed, milking. And even when you are in, you just sleep.”
No answer. Simon knew how to provoke a response.
“Jeff. Did you hear me? Jeff?”
His dad hated being called by his first name. It reminded him of being told off by his authoritarian parents. It also felt cold and impersonal when used by his son. Simon reasoned that sometimes landing a low-blow was necessary.
At heart Jeff was a decent man who just never made it work with people, always preferring the uncomplicated company of the farm animals. He freely admitted this, and it was a hard truth to hear for an over-emotional son.
Jeff stood up slowly, knees creaking, and started to walk away from Simon, the dirt on his green wellington boots licking at the floor as he moved. He turned around and glanced at Simon.
Simon looked at his face, his dad was looking old and his deep blue eyes pierced right through him, but there was a flicker of love in them. Or at least Simon hoped that he could see love; maybe it was only his over-active imagination.
Jeff ran his dirty hands through his matted hair and sighed. The canyons of his forehead deepened. The rivers of dirt seemingly engrained in them only served to emphasise their depths.
“I guess I will be in the shed calving most of the night. Ok. You can have your party.”
“Really?”
Simon was genuinely surprised, having expected a battle, and defeat. Pushing to have a dozen people around to stay in the house on a Saturday night was really just a try on. He never thought his dad would agree.
In truth, Simon was not sure that he wanted permission. He was not a natural socialite, and the thought of hosting a party was unappealingly stressful. There was also the fact that he had few friends, so was not sure who to invite or whether anyone would actually turn up. But he was determined to change his situation. No one was going to do it for him. He needed to make an effort if he was ever to get out of his lonely rut. He was 21 now, and could not wait any longer.
“Are you sure, Dad?”
Simon urgently wanted him to change his mind. He was ready to give in gracefully but still be able to console himself that at least he had tried.
“Simon, I know you want this. It’s fine.”
And with this final decision still ringing in the air, his dad set off for work. Simon watched him walk over the grey-gravelled yard at the back of the house, past the window, and on to the farm buildings.
Simon remembered how as a child he would sit on the kitchen bench and stare through the window, anxiously waiting for his dad to come back home from the parlour. Worrying something might have happened. Nothing did, but he always thought it would.
Really, it was Simon that should have been concerned. If anything was going to happen it would have been in that house, not outside it.
It was common knowledge that the farm house had been built atop an ancient burial ground; and this was the truth, not just some horror story made up to scare him, he had seen the old plans. Investigated journals at the library. And, of course, checked various internet sites with the assistance of his sage adviser, ‘Google’.
However, Simon had only found this out following a series of unexplained happenings. The large chest cabinet in the dining area, housing hundreds of relic plates and dusty glasses, which took two or three people to move, shifted nightly; not significantly, yet enough to be noticed, with changing indents in the carpet. The thick velvet curtains in the living room occasionally took flight; lifting to a right angle without any natural agitation. Drafts sealed away. The water system was heated by the fire, without a thermostat to stop it from over-heating. The boiling bath water would produce a fog of thick steam. And yet the bathroom would turn icy cold in an instant before quickly returning to its hot-humidity. Bangs, knocks, and strange smells were common. Shadows roamed the bedrooms upstairs, not harming anyone but present and seen. Occasionally touching.
The catalyst for Simon’s research came due to the feelings he had, less tangible or physical, yet as striking as any other ghostly event. For no reason, he would feel fits of rage, or sadness, or joy. They came and went, fleeting fancies playing with his emotion. Of course, this could have been symptoms of puberty and growing up but Simon was convinced it was something more. He felt his very being fade into the background during such moments.
This was another reason not to invite guests to stay; Simon did not want to present the spirits with any more playthings to torment.
Simon set about preparing for the party, pushing aside any thoughts of the unholy house. He set up a social media group on his phone, and typed out the invite:
“Hi everyone! Party at mine this Saturday. Food and drink provided. You can stay over, but please bring a sleeping bag. Luxury not included. RSVP.”
Simon’s smart phone reported that most of his invitees had read his message. He watched the screen, anxiously awaiti
ng a reply. No one commented for a good ten minutes. Simon began to fear the worst, that no one would be interested in his party, but then Molly replied:
“Awesome Si. I will be there. I will bring a couple of friends too. Trust that’s ok but let me know if not. Look forward to seeing you soon.”
Molly was the most popular person in the group. She was a traditional beauty, with long blond hair and over-large blue eyes, but was also smart, witty and generally personable, with a kind soul and infectious laugh. This guaranteed her success in any social circle, and people swarmed around her. Now that Molly had agreed to come everyone else was sure to follow.
Simon thought about the time when he had first met Molly. It was only a couple of years back but it now seemed like ages ago.
Their college had arranged a trip for their graduating students to go to Dublin, allowing them a chance to commemorate finishing their exams. For many, it was also a good opportunity to mark their eighteenth birthdays, and there was much excitement about the chance to get away alone, without any parents, to celebrate.
Simon had always been somewhat of a loner, lurking in the background of college life, and didn’t know anyone that well. The thought of going abroad and spending a month with the people in his class filled him with anxiety. So much so that, despite wishing he had the courage to go, he reached the decision that he would stay at home. When he casually mentioned it to his dad, he was met with an unexpected reaction. His dad was not a forceful character but, for some reason, he set out to persuade Simon that he should go. The force of his dad’s conviction surprised Simon and, eventually, he acquiesced. Simon did not want to disappoint his dad and, deep inside, he knew that he would regret it if he did not go.
The accommodation was a number of rooms in a youth hostel. Fortunately, they were all single rooms, so there was no sharing; although there were communal showers and toilets. It seemed an acceptable compromise. At least Simon would not have to worry how he looked in his sleep or what humiliating noises might escape him in the night. He would also have a place to hide-away; his own small sanctuary.
The room was actually quite nice, with a relatively large single bed, decent mattress, and a wash basin, which was disproportionately large compared to the size of the room. The walls were cream, and the floor was varnished wood. There was a little bedside table and a lamp.
Simon had just been admiring the room and thinking he would have an early night, when he heard a loud rapping on his door. Simon had arrived a few days after most of the others, as he had taken a later flight to benefit from a cheaper mid-week price, and so he could not think who might be calling on him. At first, Simon even thought that the ghouls from his home might have followed him to Dublin, but then he heard Molly’s voice calling out.
“Hey Si. Si! Come on. We are all going to Flynn’s, they are having a Saint Patrick’s Day party.”
“Err, no thanks Molly,” Simon replied hesitantly, standing close to the door but not opening it, “I’m fine.”
Simon had not really spoken to Molly before but easily recognised her golden tones.
“Si! I won’t take no for an answer.” Molly said forcefully, knocking again on the door, “We are all going. You have to come.”
Simon really did not have an excuse not to go, and did not have time to think of one, so he reluctantly agreed.
“Great!” Molly said, sounding genuinely pleased, “See you there!”
Little did Simon know that this decision to attend would end in the deaths of his as yet unknown friends. Or maybe it was all preordained, so this outcome was inevitable. From Simon’s first gasp of air as he screamed out of his mother’s womb, this would all happen. Perhaps destiny is real, and there is no defying her. The movie of Simon’s life had already been cast, scripted, and made. It could not be changed.
It was exactly the type of situation which Simon dreaded. Flynn’s Bar was full. People crowded beside the bar, pushed together in the middle of the room, and stood overly close to any seat, glaring at the occupants, hoping that they would leave. The edges of the room were lined with drinkers leaning against the walls. There was no space at all.
Simon pressed in as best he could, and stood on his tip-toes, still near the entrance, scanning the bar for a friendly face. He could see nothing except a sea of heads; differing colours and styles, bobbing up and down, excitedly moving to the over-loud background music.
Several people pushed past him. The desperate searching, coupled with his inability to move due to the crowd, exaggerated itself in Simon’s mind. It was excruciating. He thought about turning around and leaving, but he didn’t. Instead he slowly made his way to the bar, and waited in line for a beer. This reduced his feelings of awkwardness, as he now at least looked to have a purpose.
While waiting for his drink, Simon saw a couple of people he recognised. They sat alongside one another on a bench. It was over-crowded already; red faces and smiles, nervous laughter bellowing out from alcohol-fuelled farce. Simon eventually was served, and gingerly took his beer over to them; he smiled at the person at the end of the bench, and somehow managed to sit down, perched precariously on the edge of the hard, wooden seat.
He gulped down his strong beer for courage. It wasn’t that Simon wanted to be unsociable, he just didn’t know how to start a conversation. Small-talk was a skill that he did not have. How do you just start talking to a random person? Social engagement was an unsolvable puzzle that muddled Simon’s mind.
As he was looking at the side of a pretty, ginger-haired girl’s freckled face, about to make his grand entrance with a simple hello, he felt a tap on his shoulder, and looked around.
“Hey, Si!” Molly said cheerily, “I’m pleased to see you made it. Do you mind if I try to squeeze in here beside you?”
Simon wasn’t sure why Molly would want to sit next to him, or why she was being so nice. Maybe she had no money, and wanted him to buy her drinks. Or maybe she wanted to toy with him in front of her friends to rouse laughter at his expense. Perhaps she was just a nice person. Frankly, he did not care. He was just happy that someone had spoken to him.
A surge of relief broke over him as his nervous anxiety drifted away. He felt the beginning of a sense of belonging simply from sitting next to someone he vaguely knew, and could have some sort of conversation with.
“Yes, of course, Molly. Here, let me make some space for you.”
He stammered a little as he spoke, and spilt a little of his pint, as he pushed it along to make room.
Molly immediately started talking, quickly engaging most of the people sitting around them, even those she didn’t know. She hardly seemed to stop to breathe. The inconsequential words all blurred together into a popular monologue.
Simon continuously sipped at his beer, a reasonable excuse for not interjecting Molly’s flow. The sweet-tasting beer streamed down his throat as quickly as her voice flooded the air.
He watched those around him and carefully smiled when they did, laughed at the right time, and nodded furiously with any statement that seemed to require affirmation. This became an easy act for Simon as intoxication took hold of him.
Maybe he was enjoying himself, certainly the stories seemed more entertaining as the night went on. Or maybe it was simply the relief of not having actively to make conversation himself.
Others were not so fortunate in forming new connections and, as the night wore on, people around the table started to disperse, leaving a little more room to move.
Simon noticed that a number of people were now heading upstairs towards the source of the music, heralding the raucous St Patrick’s day celebrations. The pied-piper played loudly to entice the inebriated mice to come and dance to his tune.
Molly factually informed him that they would be going to this disco later. No questioning or discussion, it was simply going to happen. Simon was ok with this; although he hated dancing, the beer had numbed any nerves, and the seeds of self-belief had started to germinate in his boozy soils.
&nbs
p; The bar doors opened with a crash, such was the force of entry, shortly followed by loud laughter and excited, high-pitched chatter.
Molly’s head turned sharply. She clearly recognised the voices. Her eyes lit up with an authentic sparkle for the first time that night. She jumped up from the bench, and waved fanatically at the newcomers.
“Hey Vaughn, Carl, over here!” Molly shouted.
Simon turned around in the direction Molly was looking and saw two young men, with their arms draped over each other, smiling widely, walking confidently towards them.
They had a similar appearance, except one was taller, more muscular and serious looking, with a traditionally handsome, angular face, whereas the other had softer features with large, carefree eyes. Both had dark, thick hair brushed out at the front, with deer-brown eyes and tanned skin. Simon inhaled deeply, bracing himself for their arrival.
The tall one looked at Molly for a moment before kissing her tenderly on both cheeks. Simon was well known by his family for being observant, seeing things that others wouldn’t, and it was immediately obvious to him that this was more than a friendship.
Simon was slow to notice that his companion was holding out his hand to him, too busy watching Molly. Simon took it, careful not to shake it too hard, noticing that he was thin-wristed, with an over-sized leather bracelet snaking around it.
“Hello! I’m Carl.”
Simon took in his face. Eyes looking up at him, wide and hopeful. Long, delicate eyelashes. Lips thinned due to the width of his smile. Chubby cheeks. A cute, little, button nose. Clean shaven. He liked him immediately.
“And you are?” Carl asked, after a slight pause.
Simon realised that he was still holding Carl’s warm hand but had not responded. Hopefully, Carl would simply think that the alcohol had dumbed his reactions; which was partly true.
“Sorry.” Simon quickly replied, “I’m Simon. Nice to meet you, Carl, was it?”
Simon recalled that the young man’s name was Carl but did not want to come across as being overly interested. Protectionism guarded Simon’s soul, just in case it might be exposed to some future pain that might be avoided through caution.
