What did he care if he slept with his socks on? He was writing a book. He had a date with a pretty girl. Amazing, he thought as he drifted into sleep. Twelve hours ago he planned to flee Campbell’s building under cover of darkness and now he had every reason to stay.
Things were finally going his way.
Danyl balanced on his crutches, rummaged around in his backpack and took out a packet of tissues. He handed one to Campbell who accepted it and blew his nose.
‘Thanks, traitor.’
Danyl dropped his backpack to the ground and leaned against a tree. ‘What are you doing out here?’
‘Why should I tell you anything, writer? Judas. Enemy of humanity.’ Campbell had leaves and twigs in his hair, and his robe was daubed with mud. He wore a rag tied around his left hand like a makeshift bandage. He blew his nose again. ‘I need another tissue.’
Danyl handed him the packet. ‘Have you been here all night?’
‘Just go away.’
‘And what’s with this ridiculous robe?’
Campbell gave the hem an imperious flick. ‘This robe symbolises concepts you could never comprehend. Fraternity. Loyalty. Dedication to a higher cause.’
‘What cause?’
‘We call ourselves the SSS.’
‘The SS?’ Danyl moved back, disgusted. ‘You mean you’re a Nazi now?’
‘Not the SS, imbecile. The SSS. It stands for Sapiens Sapiens Sapiens. We’re just a paramilitary philosophical society—it’s nothing to do with the Nazis.’
‘And why do you all wear those stupid robes?’
‘That’s classified. They’re not stupid. You’re stupid.’
Danyl said, ‘Well your robe-wearing goons have been running all around the valley searching for someone. Are they looking for you?’
‘My brothers?’ Campbell looked up at him; his eyes filled with pain. ‘They seek me?’
‘They seek someone.’
And Campbell burst into tears again. ‘My loyal SSS disciples,’ he wailed. ‘What will I tell them?’
Danyl reached out to touch Campbell’s arm, to try to reassure him, but changed his mind and withdrew. Mighty sobs racked Campbell’s body; ropes of mucus hung from his beak.
Danyl dithered. What should he do? Here was a man in pain, but the man was also his enemy. How should he behave? Mock his foe or give comfort to him? He said, ‘Campbell—’
‘Shut up,’ Campbell hissed between sobs. ‘Leave me. Just go.’
‘Fine.’ Danyl took a step towards the path, and then turned. ‘I’ll tell your goons that you’re out here. Take care of yourself.’
He crossed the clearing; he did not look back. Behind him the sound of Campbell’s crying continued, then stopped, suddenly. Silence.
Danyl paused, then shrugged and continued up the path. Had he done the right thing? Did he care? Not really. His foot hurt; the crutches dug into his armpits; all he wanted was to go home and sleep. He hurried through the trees, breathing heavily.
A shout rang out behind him.
He paused again. Was that Campbell? Did Campbell just yell Danyl’s name? The rustling leaves generated a white noise that muted and distorted other sounds. He listened. Maybe he’d call again.
A few seconds passed. Silence. And then he heard the beating of footsteps on the hard dirt path. Were they coming this way? Yes—at least, they were getting louder. And now came the sound of breaking branches. Someone was running towards him.
Danyl looked about. Should he flee? Hide? The bush wasn’t dense enough, and he was still too far from his house. He bent down, grimacing, and picked up a broken tree branch, ready to defend himself. He could see the source of the noise now: it was Campbell, cowl bobbing, coming up the path at speed, his black robe billowing behind him. He saw Danyl and decelerated. Danyl braced himself, gripping the stick.
Campbell came to a stop directly before him, smiled and held up Danyl’s backpack. ‘You left this back in the clearing, writer.’
So he did. Danyl took it, a little astonished, and said, ‘Thanks.’
Campbell motioned at the branch Danyl clutched in his hand. ‘Ha! Did you think I was after your blood, writer? That I would attack you? Leave you broken and crippled? More so?’
‘We are enemies.’
‘Yes.’ Campbell was composed now; his eyes were raw but dry. He tried to smile. ‘Of all the people in the valley to find me, it had to be you. My enemy. The great traitor. And then, worse still, you were kind to me. The shame! The humiliation! But then, once you left me to my grief I asked myself: why this hatred between us. Oh, we’ve had our difficulties in the past. You betrayed me and I swore to destroy you. And I would have if you weren’t . . . protected. But that was a long time ago. My life is about different things now. No doubt yours is too.’
‘It is,’ Danyl replied. ‘Verity and I—’
‘Great,’ said Campbell. ‘Just great. So let’s put our disagreements behind us and let the past remain the past.’
Campbell extended his hand. Danyl wedged his stick between his crutch and his armpit and shuffled, awkwardly, to shake it. ‘Agreed,’ he said. ‘So you no longer swear to destroy me? We’re friends?’
Campbell laughed. ‘Not friends. Some things once broken can never be mended. But let us say we are no longer enemies, and that I will not destroy you.’ Campbell kept shaking his hand and nodded at his crutches. ‘Besides, you seem to be destroying yourself well enough without me. Ha ha.’
‘Ha ha.’ Danyl slung his backpack over his shoulder and said, ‘Then I suppose this is goodbye.’
‘That it is. And, writer, let me give you one last piece of advice.’ Campbell pulled his cowl up over his head and said, ‘You were at the EZ Wellness Centre yesterday morning.’
Danyl’s bowels clenched. Did Campbell know about the tracks in the mud, and the urine in the campervan? Was all this talk of truce a ruse? ‘Oh?’ he said.
‘Stay away from there. And stay away from the girl, Stasia. The healer. I’m not threatening you. I’m trying to help. The girl’s a liar. She’s dangerous.’
‘Dangerous?’
‘Very. She is more powerful than you could imagine.’
And with that Campbell released his handshake, turned and headed back down the path, a tall ugly man in a black, silver-trimmed cloak disappearing into the trees.
Home. Finally. Danyl lumbered up the stairs, heading for his bedroom, but paused on the landing when he noticed the door to his spare room was ajar and the light was on.
He frowned and hobbled over to investigate. The spare room was a smaller copy of his bedroom. It was located at the back of the house with windows overlooking the garden. It was filled with sundry items of broken or ugly furniture that Verity refused to throw away, or take with her, or even allow Danyl to throw away now she’d gone. Danyl never entered this room: the door was always closed. Why was it open?
He nudged it. It swung inwards, revealing the piles of junk—including a particularly hideous couch with a silk print cover, which was decorated with eyes that had vaginas for pupils—along with a fireplace built into the far wall and a single bed Verity had slept in, not infrequently, in the weeks before she left.
He stepped inside and looked around. Everything looked as it should. Should he search it? He grunted. To hell with the spare room. Danyl had other concerns: his maimed leg; the stolen box; Sutcliffe Parsons; Wolfgang Bludkraft. And, most awesomely, his recent diplomatic breakthrough. Peace with Campbell! Peace in our time! His heart soared. He switched off the light and closed the door and tottered towards his bedroom, eager to celebrate.
Afterwards he lay on his back, languid and spent and content, his penis limp, his seed drying on the downy fur of his belly.
That hit the spot. The mid-afternoon sun found the room and warmed the air, and Danyl dozed while the sunlight confused the shadows. H
e drowsed through the afternoon, sprawled out naked above his bedclothes while the sun dipped behind the hills and the room cooled. At length something woke him—movement? A sound? He stirred and opened his eyes.
Stasia stood above him.
9
The Very Secret Pact
She turned her back to him and faced the window. ‘Back door was unlock. I call for you but no reply. So I think: maybe there is trouble? I come inside to look for you. I find no trouble.’ Stasia glanced around and smiled at him. ‘Not much.’
Danyl sat on the edge of his bed, tugging his underpants on. He said, ‘Can I have some privacy, please?’
She turned back to the window, a smirk dancing behind her serene expression. Danyl stood up and reached for his pants, but his ankle buckled beneath him and he tipped forwards, arms spinning wildly, and collapsed on the floor. Carefully and with terrible dignity, he crawled onto the bed and lay on his back gasping for air: a magnificent, dying buffalo.
‘Can turn around now?’
‘Fine.’
‘How is leg?’
‘Leg is bad.’
‘So. I heal now.’ Stasia stepped towards him. Danyl held up his hand.
‘No. Wait. No heal. I want explanation.’
‘No heal?’ She took another step. ‘You like crutches? You like pain?’
Was she flirting with him? He met her gaze: there was a coy playfulness in her eyes. She wore the same red silk ninja outfit she wore yesterday. She was, as far as he could tell, not wearing a bra. Very impressive. But—he shook his head—a distraction from the real issues. Concentrate. He looked up at the ceiling.
‘I don’t like pain,’ he replied. ‘But I do like to know what’s going on. What happened yesterday? Why did you throw me out of your Wellness Chamber then slip me that note on the street?’
‘Questions later. I heal now.’
‘No.’ Danyl sat up. ‘Questions first. How can I trust you? Who are you?’
‘I am Stasia,’ said Stasia. ‘I am healer.’
‘Someone warned me about you, Stasia the healer. They said you were dangerous. They said you were a liar.’
‘Liar?’ Her eyes went flat and hard. She said in a too-calm voice, ‘Who is saying this?’
Danyl hesitated. What was Stasia’s relationship with Campbell? There was the hidden path linking his tower with the EZ Wellness Centre. Were they allies? If so, why did Campbell call her a liar? Unless Campbell was the liar. Should he tell Stasia that Campbell maligned her? No, Danyl decided. It might threaten their new truce. Best to say nothing. ‘I can’t tell you his name,’ he said. ‘But I was warned not to trust you by someone I don’t trust.’
‘Ah.’ She sat at the end of the bed. ‘Verification problem. Complicated for you. Who to believe?’
Danyl did not answer. They sat in the twilit silence. Stasia looked around his room, taking in the piles of laundry and stacks of books. ‘You have good house. Big. Old. You should clean one day, would look nice, I think.’
‘It did look nice. My girlfriend left me a week ago, so—’
‘So you are bachelor now. Living alone, wallowing in filth.’
‘Something like that.’
She fixed his gaze again. Danyl’s heart beat faster. She was so lush; so perfect. And she was right there at the end of his bed, just out of reach. ‘Tell me something true,’ she said, her voice soft again. ‘Do you believe I can heal you?’
‘I—’ He cleared his throat. ‘I believe you believe you can.’
‘But you do not. You are septic.’
‘Sceptic.’
‘Yes. So, septic. I will make with you a pact. I say I will heal ankle. Here. Tonight. Now. You will walk again. Feel no pain. You would like this?’
‘Sure. But you can’t—’
‘If I fail, I will give you explanations. I tell you why I make you leave clinic. Why I write you secret note. I will tell you why some people think I am dangerous. You will hear my story then make up own mind about whether to trust me. Yes?’
‘What’s in this for you?’
‘You are wise to be cautious, crippled Danyl. This is other side of pact. If I heal foot then you will perform for me a task. This task will be difficult. Dangerous. More than this I cannot say. Task must remain secret unless you agree to pact.’
‘If you heal my foot I have to perform a secret task.’
‘Is good deal, yes?’
Danyl considered this. Was it a trick? She looked sincere. Was she crazy? Sincerity and insanity often walked hand-in-hand. Obviously she couldn’t actually heal him, and if she tried to cheat him somehow he’d just refuse to perform her secret task. If there was a loophole in the agreement he couldn’t see it. ‘All right, Stasia. You got yourself a secret pact.’ He held out his hand and she shook it.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘So. We begin.’ She held out her other hand. On her palm was a small vial containing a clear liquid. ‘Drink.’
Danyl held the vial up to the light. ‘What is it?’
‘Extra-celestial water. This will hydrate you. Correct pH and osmotic pressure vital to healing process.’
Danyl uncapped the vial and sniffed it. Odourless. A drug? Poison? Or just plain water? He shrugged and drained the contents of the vial. What was the worst that could happen?
‘Good.’ Stasia sat beside him. She smelled of sandalwood. Her silk outfit rustled, and something about the contours of this moment triggered Danyl’s memory.
‘I dreamed about you last night,’ he said, remembering. ‘Not erotically,’ he added quickly. ‘No. I remember seeing you standing alone in a ruined building. Someone had stolen something from you. You were angry.’
‘This is very interesting dream.’ Stasia stared at him, her green eyes gleaming, her expression unreadable. Danyl’s heart pounded. She was so close! She leaned forward, even closer and, to his astonishment, she kissed him. His heart beat faster still: a terrible roaring filled his ears. Her lips were hot, almost uncomfortably so.
She put her hand on his shoulder, kissed him harder and then pulled back and turned away. ‘I sorry,’ she gasped, her incredible breasts heaving with emotion.
‘Sorry?’ said Danyl. ‘No—’
‘Yes. This was wrong. I come here to heal, not to make love.’
‘Both seem—’
‘No.’ Stasia stood. ‘No more talk.’
‘Hey now.’
‘Don’t speak. Time for heal.’ She pushed him back against the bed with surprising strength and clasped her hands against the bare skin of his wounded ankle and said, ‘I begin.’
Her hands were deliciously warm. Danyl said, ‘That feels really good.’
‘Now you will suffer terrible pain,’ she replied. ‘Terrible, terrible pain. But once we start cannot stop. Understand?’
‘Not—’
She gripped his ankle, her hands pressing deep into his flesh, her fingers probing his sore, swollen joints. The heat from her palms flowed into his muscles, radiating through tissue, through bone.
Danyl gritted his teeth. How was she doing that? Some neuro-muscular trick? A chemical on her hands? Also she definitely wasn’t wearing a bra. Whenever she leaned forward the outlines of her nipples pressed against the fabric of her shirt. They were impressively erect. Her lips moved but made no sound.
The heat intensified. Danyl gripped his bed sheets, digging his fingernails into the mattress. The pain was awful. It felt as if the muscles and tendons in his ankle were moving, coiling beneath Stasia’s touch like snakes in a nest.
He couldn’t take it any more. Danyl was about to cry out and snatch his ankle from her grasp when he felt suddenly detached, far away, the pain still there and still agonising, but somehow less urgent.
What was happening to him? Was he drugged? Did it matter? Not really. Stasia was looking at him, talking to him, bu
t the words weren’t audible. They sounded like echoes from a distant room. A red haze graded the periphery of his vision, and now he saw Stasia and her long, erect nipples down a pale red tunnel that narrowed and spun and receded into light.
Danyl slept. He dreamed.
He dreamed of a dry tomb. A man in a mask. A babble of voices. The sound of insects and a house collapsing, and behind these dreams was the dream of a figure watching him from the high window of a house, its face obscured by sunlight . . .
He woke, coughed and sat up. The room was dark. Stasia was gone.
His head ached. His throat was dry, his bladder engorged. He groped his way to the door, heading for the bathroom, but stopped midway and frowned.
That was odd. The light in his spare room was on. Again. The door was closed, but backlit. A thin line of debris ran along the floor in the light spill below the frame.
What the hell? Danyl stepped closer to the door. The debris beneath it was sawdust.
He called out, ‘Hello? Stasia?’
Silence.
‘Verity? Steve?’
Nothing.
He strode across the landing and flung open the door to the spare room.
And gasped in amazement.
Danyl was speechless. He had no speech. He looked at the room in stupefied awe, his urge to urinate gone. A strangled, gargling sound escaped his throat. He waved his hands in the air before his face, to test that the sense data from his eyes was not hallucinatory. To his great regret the data was valid: the scene before him was real.
The air was thick with plaster dust. The windows in the far wall were barely visible. The floor was not visible, because there was no floor: the boards had all been sawed into pieces and pulled up, and Danyl could see directly through the network of structural beams into his kitchen below, which was covered in sawdust and broken planks and huge chunks of discarded plasterboards that had been savagely cut away from the walls and ceiling and tossed down. The entire room was gutted.
Unspeakable Secrets of the Aro Valley Page 9