by Gavin, Rohan
Darkus clicked through the pages, past detailed drawings of a lock barrel and the blueprint of a building, arriving at a sketch of an open hand with its palm up, and another with an extended fist.
The bluish glow of the computer screen cast a reflection of him in the front window. He glanced at his image, then peered through it to the outside. The fog was still rolling in around the neighboring houses. The single lamppost produced a small circle of light in the murk, illuminating what Darkus realized was a shape standing beneath it. He drew closer to the windowpane, looking out.
A massive, bulky man in a long coat and a homburg hat stood under the lamppost, watching their house. A tiny red ember flashed from under the brim of his hat and a plume of cigar smoke billowed up, commingling with the fog.
Darkus closed his laptop in order to watch unobserved. But the man had already seen him, for he turned and walked away from the circle of light with a heavy, waddling gait. Darkus quickly opened the window, letting in the cold, and poked his head out for a better look.
But the stranger had already vanished into the gloom.
Chapter 4
Uncle Bill
The following day proceeded without incident, but Darkus couldn’t shake the feeling that all was not as it should be. He did not have the empirical data to know whether the massive man in the homburg hat was in fact staking out the house, or there was a more innocent explanation for what he’d seen.
Darkus had a tendency to filter everything he saw through what he called his “catastrophizer.” It was a mental device that had announced itself quite out of the blue, at the exact moment he first heard his father had entered the coma. For Darkus, the catastrophizer was both a gift and a burden, his protector and his enemy. In the absence of certainty, the world provided only signs of what might be: signs that indicated a possible explanation for a particular question. Every sign the world provided him with, whether visual, aural, or otherwise, was fed into the catastrophizer, which always produced the worst-case scenario. Of course, the worst-case scenario was often not the case, but on the occasion that it was, the catastrophizer gave Darkus an almost clairvoyant ability to detect trouble. For the rest of the time, the catastrophizer was a nagging machine running in the background of his mind, giving him little chance to be an ordinary child.
For example, on his customary walk to the corner store, Darkus observed the local assembly of hoodies waiting across the road. Their leader always had his hands buried in the pockets of his sweatshirt, and sometimes Darkus thought he saw an angular shape through the fabric. The catastrophizer said it was a knife. Rationally, based on the statistics of his quiet neighborhood, Darkus knew it was more likely to be a cell phone. But when the catastrophizer spoke, Darkus had to listen. He knew it wasn’t exactly a positive device, but he couldn’t seem to switch it off.
He never spoke to anyone about the engine running in his head—except his dad, who, in his current state, was a great listener, but clearly wasn’t in a position to give much advice. He visited his dad every Saturday, traveling by bus to the hospice and spending several hours with him, telling him details of his life in no particular order. At first it had felt sad and forced, but after a few visits Darkus overcame his embarrassment and found himself having better conversations with his dad while he was unconscious than he’d ever managed to have with him when he was awake. Then, after discovering the hard drive, the conversation had progressed to a more professional level, with Darkus commenting on each case as he read it, often in great detail, harboring the secret hope that some key word or phrase might dislodge something in his father’s mind and wake him from his coma.
Today, although it was Sunday and Darkus had been at the hospice just the previous day, he felt an especially strong urge to see his dad again. Something about the bulky man’s surveillance of the house unnerved him, and his father was the only one he could talk to about it. Darkus felt that if he didn’t see him, something bad might happen.
As he returned home from the store, his train of thought was interrupted by a familiar figure in a black leather jacket with a backpack, blocking his path. Only now her hair was a violent shade of pink.
“Hey, Darkus,” Tilly announced.
“Hello, Tilly—”
“You cheated. You knew the spelling of abalone.”
“There’s no way you could possibly prove that.”
“Miss Khan videotaped the whole contest and uploaded it to YouTube,” she declared victoriously. “I saw your lips moving.”
“Ah.” Darkus fell silent, finding himself caught red-handed.
“If you’re lying about that, what else are you lying about? Huh? What’ve you got to hide?”
Darkus blinked. “I’m flattered you think I have anything worth hiding. But I can assure you, I’m an open book.” He sidestepped her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—” Then he stopped in his tracks, seeing a massive figure farther down the road, approaching them slowly but steadily, with a waddling gait: the man in the homburg hat. “I really must go now,” he added quickly, then ducked down a side street in the opposite direction.
Tilly watched him, baffled, then continued on her way.
Darkus turned back to see the man in the homburg hat crossing the street, now clearly zeroing in on him with ghoulish determination.
Darkus increased his pace to a fast walk, not wanting to betray his fear by actually running. Although the man in the homburg had a lumbering step, his legs were long enough to effortlessly reduce the distance between them with each stride.
On reaching the main road, Darkus found cars barreling past in both directions. He pressed the “Wait” button at the traffic lights, but the signals weren’t changing. Seeing no other option, he turned to face his pursuer, who was by this time towering over him.
“Darkus? Darkus Knightley?” his pursuer wheezed in a thick Scottish accent, clutching at his chest. Under the hat was a heavyset man in his fifties, the remains of a lit cigar balanced in the corner of his mouth, his plump cheeks puffing smoke, his eyes concealed behind them. His florid complexion and the billowing fumes gave the impression that he was almost on fire.
“What do you want?” demanded Darkus.
“Just a wee chat,” said the man, gasping for breath.
“I don’t talk to strangers,” answered Darkus. The traffic lights finally changed, and as the pedestrian tone started beeping he prepared to cross, until the man said something that stopped him.
“I’m a friend of yer father, a’right?” he blurted in his near-incomprehensible accent. Surely no one, not even the oldest Scottish Highland clans, could have such heavy intonation.
Darkus turned to face him. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Uncle Bill,” the man said, doffing his hat.
His face seemed familiar somewhere in the deep recesses of Darkus’s memory, but beyond that he had no reference. “I don’t have an uncle,” he said suspiciously.
“Not technically, no, laddie. But I’ve known yer father since our university days. Been through a lot together, him and me. Seen a lot of exciting and sometimes unbelievable things. And if you’re anything like Alan used to describe ye, well, I’m sure you’ve grown to be a rather special lad yerself.”
Darkus examined him skeptically. “What do you want?” he repeated.
Bill looked around. “This is not the sort of place for this sort of conversation. If ye’d feel more comfortable, we could gab at Jackie and Clive’s place?”
Darkus examined the mountain of a man once more, then reluctantly nodded. “If we keep to the main road, where everyone can see us.”
“Auld ah th’ horn choice,” said Bill.
Darkus had no idea what that meant. But his catastrophizer had stopped whirring for the first time that day, so he decided to trust his instincts.
The unlikely pair made their way to Wolseley Close in plain view, and when Jackie saw the bulky figure beside her son on the doorstep, she retreated in surprise.
“Uncle B
ill . . . ?” she faltered, her eyes flicking between him and Darkus.
“Thought I’d drop in for a cuppa,” he announced. “If you’re not too busy of course.”
“Of course. But it’s been . . . ,” she stammered.
“How long has it been? Four years, nearly five?” he mumbled, doffing his hat and bowing his head a little to enter the house. Once inside, the full size of the man became apparent. “Now, how about that tea,” he said cheerfully, attaching his heavy coat and homburg hat to a hanger in the hallway.
She forced a smile and headed for the kitchen. “I’ll go and put the kettle on.”
Clive emerged from another part of the house. “Jackie . . . ? Where’s all that smoke coming from . . . ?” Then he also recognized the visitor. “Oh . . .”
“A’right, Clive.”
“Uncle Bill,” recited Clive, looking a bit pale. “Er . . . what can we do for you?”
“Just a social call,” Bill explained, and followed Jackie through the house, trailing cigar smoke. He took a seat at the head of the table while Jackie took up position by the kettle.
“Milk and sugar?” she asked.
“Swit ’n Law, if ye have it,” replied Bill. “I’m watchin’ mah weight.”
Jackie wasn’t exactly sure what he’d said, but dug around in the cupboard for a sweetener.
Clive shifted on his feet near the corner of the room, his hands thrust into his pockets. Darkus couldn’t remember seeing either of them like this. He’d never known Clive to tolerate even the slightest inconvenience, let alone an impromptu visit from a giant Scotsman; and Jackie guarded her territory fiercely. And yet, for some reason, they couldn’t seem to refuse this “Uncle Bill.”
Darkus took a seat opposite their visitor, wasting no time. “Where exactly did you meet my father?”
“Freshers’ week at Oxford,” mused Bill. “Course, I was a lot younger, and lighter, than I am now. Would ye be so kind . . . ?” He extended his cigar in Clive’s direction, caked in ash.
Clive located an ashtray and placed it in front of him.
“Happier days, better days,” Bill said, ashing his cigar.
Jackie and Clive exchanged a worried glance.
“Do ye have any snacks by chance?” Bill asked. Clive sighed and reached into another cupboard. Bill waited patiently for what he would find. Clive set a jar on the table grimly. Bill shrugged. “Ginger snaps—that’ll do.”
“Darkus, maybe you should go upstairs,” Jackie suggested. “I’m worried about the second-hand smoke.”
Bill stubbed out his cigar. “On the contrary, I’d like him to hear this.”
Clive looked at Jackie, confused.
“Hear what?” said Darkus.
“What d’ye know about yer father, Darkus?” Bill inquired.
Darkus thought about it for a moment. “He was the most caring and generous dad anyone could ask for . . .” He paused, then added, “And he solved problems for people.”
Jackie swallowed hard.
“Aye, that’s the Alan I know,” said Bill.
Jackie and Clive remained tactfully silent.
Bill took his time, then continued. “He also solved problems for people who . . . shall we say, people with . . . less-than-ordinary problems.”
“Meaning?” asked Darkus.
“Yer father was a detective. A private detective. The best there is.”
Darkus listened, impassive. He knew full well what his father did for a living, but this was the first time he’d had it independently confirmed.
“It was his blessing and his curse,” Bill went on.
“Has this got something to do with why he’s unconscious?” said Darkus.
“No one knows why Alan entered that state. What I do know is that yer father’s mind was playing tricks on him. His investigations were becoming more bizarre, more outlandish. He’d gone too deep into the realm of possibility—far from the safe haven of reality.” Bill sighed heavily. “Everything became a sign to him. Everyone was to be suspected and mistrusted. Facts only colluded with each other to support his hysterical visions.” Bill massaged the smooth pate of his head. “Alan came to believe evil resides around us all the time, lurking in every shadow. I believe it drove him to the edge of sanity, and ultimately to his . . . episode.”
There was that word again. The one everybody used.
“It’s a documented medical condition,” insisted Darkus. “Somewhere between a coma and a narcoleptic trance.”
“Documented, aye, laddie, but never explained.” Bill dunked his ginger snap, took a bite, then washed it down with more tea. “When Alan was found at his office, there was no sign of blunt trauma, no sign of intoxication. No obvious reason at all why he entered this state . . .” Bill slowly set down his cup. “But what I do know is, for some reason, at approximately seven thirty p.m. last night, he woke up and left the hospice.”
“What?!” Clive burst out.
“I knew it . . . ,” said Jackie, betraying herself with a smile for a second.
Darkus suddenly felt nauseous and faint. His head began to spin from a cocktail of emotions that was part excitement, part disbelief. “Where is he now?” he demanded.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Bill replied. “I figured he’d show up here first. But it seems I was wrong.”
Clive cleared his throat nervously. “Is he considered . . . dangerous?”
Jackie glared. “Alan’s never hurt anyone.”
“No one appears to have been harmed during his departure from Shrubwoods,” explained Bill. “However, I strongly suggest ye inform me if he attempts to contact ye.” He slid a card across the table, showing only a phone number, nothing else.
“Why are you so interested?” asked Darkus.
“I’m a colleague and a friend,” said Bill. “Yer father’s welfare is of great importance to me and many others.”
“Which others?” said Darkus.
Bill got to his feet. “Be a good lad and do as I ask. I have other rocks to turn over. Thank ye for the tea, and the rather disappointing snacks.”
Clive twitched. Jackie ushered Bill toward the door.
As Bill hoisted his coat and hat on, Darkus appeared behind him, impatient.
“What if Dad was right?” Darkus asked.
Bill looked down at him and slowly removed a fresh cigar from his top pocket. “About . . . ?” he said, striking a match and lighting up.
“About evil lurking in every shadow . . . ,” said Darkus, holding his stare.
“Then we’d better hope there’s enough good to go around,” said Bill, puffing a particularly large cloud of smoke. “Cheerio for now.”
He ambled off down the driveway, noting the scratch on Clive’s Jaguar. He shook his head and continued on to the street, watched by Clive, Jackie, and Darkus forming a row on the doorstep. As if on cue, a silver Ford sedan pulled up, and Bill opened the rear passenger door. The driver paused as Bill slid himself into the backseat, then the Ford pulled away.
Chapter 5
The Unusual Combination
Despite Darkus’s best efforts at interrogation, Clive and Jackie refused to elaborate on Uncle Bill or what business he had with his father. Darkus found himself tantalized by the prospect that his dad was actually awake and very much alive somewhere, but troubled by the fact that he hadn’t thought to contact him, his only son. The evening passed heavily with the weight of so many unanswered questions.
Tilly returned home briefly without saying a word, then went out again. During dinner, Clive appeared to be watching the street a lot more than usual. Jackie appeared to be watching the phone a lot more than usual. Eventually they distracted themselves by watching TV even more than usual.
The ten o’clock news reported that a growing number of apparently ordinary citizens—all with no previous criminal records—were committing bank robberies, presumably as a result of the gloomy economic outlook.
“Probably on welfare too,” declared Clive unge
nerously.
In other news, there was a special report on customers suffering seizures at bookshops around the country. A medical expert blamed it on the difference in temperature between the cold weather outside and the overly warm shop floors. That, combined with long hours spent browsing, was evidently proving too much for some customers.
Darkus found the news pieces a little stranger than usual—and the official explanations oddly unsatisfactory—but he had bigger things on his mind.
He retired to his bedroom, where he was unable to read or sleep. Finding his mind whirring mechanically, he unlocked the filing cabinet and reconnected the hard drive. He clicked to open its contents.
Picking up from where he had left off, Darkus examined a diagram of what appeared to be a circular chamber surrounded by tunnels and a series of numbers that seemed to bear no relation to each other. Eventually the random arrangement of shapes and numbers lulled him to sleep, and he flopped in his chair with the computer screen on.
At some point, he heard Tilly arrive home. She ignored Clive’s muttered protests from the master bedroom and vanished into her quarters. Somehow Darkus found the energy to crawl into bed, still fully clothed. His head rested on the pillow, which muted the ticking of the clock on his dresser.
The world descended into complete silence . . .
. . . Until a light scratching noise intruded on the uppermost frequencies of his hearing, followed by a barely discernible click.
Darkus opened his eyes, staring into the pitch-blackness, seeing only the weird, random shapes his retinas were creating in the absence of any light. He concentrated his mind on the aural spectrum instead of the visual. And he heard it again: a clearly audible click, followed by the faint sound of something softly crushing the fabric of the carpeted stairs.
Darkus swung his legs out of bed, aware of the minute sonic vibrations his own movements would create. He stepped lightly toward his bedroom door and turned the handle as slowly and quietly as he could. The door didn’t make a noise as it opened—he kept the hinges well oiled for that very reason. He crept out onto the landing and heard a different kind of fabric sound: a faint brushing noise, accompanied by the clink of what sounded like metal hangers.