The Shadow Fabric

by Mark Cassell

  “Katrina,” Victor said, “I think I need it.”

  They hugged. Brief, almost awkward.

  Behind Katrina, the girl tugged out an earphone. “What else is there to do round here, daddy?”

  “Whatever you want.” The man had round shoulders and a red face. There was a likeness between the two; father and daughter at a guess.

  Shrugging, the girl popped herself back into the music. The man sighed and his eyes seemed to retreat into their sockets.

  “Last few weeks have been quiet, Vic,” Katrina said. “Missed you last week.”

  I looked at Victor. It didn’t surprise me he was into yoga. After all, he’d displayed remarkable agility with his ninja move at the antique shop. And I found it interesting he hugged his yoga instructor.

  “I’ve a lot going on,” he said. We both had a lot going on: Goodwin was expecting us. He’d arranged a meeting with Polly. I’d been invited too.

  Katrina looked at the pair who stood next to her. They didn’t look interested. “Everyone has an excuse.”

  The man tried to smile in reply, but failed. He eyed his daughter.

  Victor started to walk off and apologised to Katrina.

  She and her two followers remained in the centre of the foyer while we headed for Goodwin’s office. From behind us, Katrina said, “You always have a lot going on. See you tomorrow.”

  As if knowing we were there, Goodwin’s door opened and he greeted us, an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. He nodded, then his gaze shot over my shoulder. I didn’t realise Polly had entered the foyer. She wore the wicker hat and sunglasses. About five paces back was Annabel, her face set. Georgie was in the lead, being the guide dog he was. It seemed we were all on time.

  When Goodwin shook Victor’s hand, there was an unspoken exchange…and something else from Goodwin. I sensed Victor’s previously re-energised self dwindling, being there with both Goodwin and Polly must have reminded him again of the loss of his brother. Even though Stanley had betrayed the others in some way, the group was now broken beyond repair. The link these guys once had would never be the same.

  I’d never be the same.

  After pleasantries, we entered Goodwin’s office. As the last to enter the room, Annabel pulled the door closed and stayed there. I lingered near the window as the others sat around Goodwin’s desk. He’d tidied it. The windows were open, fresh air failing to eliminate the smell of cigar smoke. Birdsong drifted in, but was drowned by the sound of scraping chair legs.

  Of everyone, Victor was the smallest. And it wasn’t only his slight frame giving that impression—everything smothered him.

  “Victor.” Polly turned her head in his direction. “I’m sorry to hear about Stanley, I truly am. If there’s anything I can do…”

  “Thank you.” Victor’s frown somehow dragged at his mouth.

  Goodwin inhaled and rubbed his head. It was difficult to read his face.

  “However,” Polly added, “I’m uneasy with your driver being here.”

  What the hell? I was about to defend myself when Goodwin said, “You have a problem with young blood?”

  “Not at all.” She shook her head. “I’m uneasy that—”

  “Leo deserves to be here.” Victor straightened his back. “He stays. Besides, not too long ago we had a similar discussion about Annabel.”

  Across the room, the woman in question showed no response.

  Victor’s forehead creased. “On top of that, he witnessed the Fabric’s power first hand. It made me kill my own brother.”

  No one said anything.

  He flexed his fingers and pulled each glove tighter in a slow, exaggerated movement.

  “It did,” I mumbled.

  “Plus,” Victor continued, “I’ve told him much already. He’s in this with us, and has agreed to help. With everything.”

  Goodwin raised his chin.

  “Very well.” Polly’s lips tightened. “Apparently the Fabric has turned up, finally.”

  “It has.” Victor nodded.

  “And Stanley’s death…” she added, and paused, “shortly followed its appearance? Is that right?”

  Victor gave a breakdown of Tuesday evening’s events. His voice was soft, and when he spoke his brother’s name, his hands curled into fists.

  “And after the girl took the athame,” he concluded, “she looked into the case, satisfied the Fabric was no longer in there. Then she left.”

  Silence clung to every surface in the office, and eventually, Goodwin coughed.

  “Um…” He ground out his cigar. “Stanley visited me this morning.”

  Victor’s head snapped up, his gloves now tight balls of leather. “What?”

  “He isn’t dead, Victor.”

  Polly kept silent. Again, her lips whitened.

  “Impossible.” Victor’s eyebrows quivered. “Goodwin—”

  “I saw him. He came to my office and sat where you are now.”

  “I—”

  “And his handshake was as real as you and I.”

  “But—”

  “That man was dead, Goodwin.” I shook my head. “I told you. I watched him disappear into the shadows. Dead. The knife wound was deep.”

  Victor nodded once.

  “In the chest,” I added. “Didn’t miss his heart. No way.”

  “He was here.” Goodwin frowned. “He’s alive.”

  “What was said?” Victor pulled at his gloves and wriggled his fingers.

  “He told me he was sorry he’d not contacted me. Any of us. He understood why no one had contacted him. He said he was sorry for everything but I didn’t believe him, of course.”

  Polly fidgeted.

  Victor pushed back his chair, dug in his trouser pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. After rapid thumb movements, he jammed it to his ear. His eyes darted from person to person and lastly fell on me. None of us moved, and after several seconds, he lowered the phone. “Straight to voicemail.”

  I thought of the folds of shadows, and the man’s dead eyes vanishing.

  “If he’s back,” Polly said, “then he’s a necromeleon.”

  “No.” Victor still gripped his phone. “Necromeleons are cold, walking dead things. With dead eyes. Black like bottomless pits.”

  “His eyes were Stanley’s eyes.” Goodwin tilted his head. “Nor did he act like I’d imagine a necromeleon would.”

  “You’d know if you saw one. They walk how a dead man should. Stiff-limbed and cumbersome. Not slow as such. Kind of lethargic. Sleepy.”

  Goodwin shifted in his chair. “Is it possible the Shadow Fabric can bring the dead back to life? Actual life, and not undead life?”

  Victor chewed his lip. “There are passages in that book I’m failing to decipher. Confusing texts of haunt, the vessel that the Fabric could be. Haunting. Also tongues. Something about tongues. The Fabric is powerful, certainly. That is evident. It was a small roll of Fabric which came out of the case, yet its power is immeasurable.”

  “And it disappeared with him,” Polly said.

  “We’re back to square one.” Victor nodded.

  Goodwin leaned forward.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s Thursday and this weekend is a big deal for the House.”

  Polly’s eyes shot towards Goodwin. “Victor thought his brother was dead, and all you can think about is—”

  “It’s okay, Polly,” Victor interrupted. “Really.”

  “Polly,” Goodwin added, “you of all people—”

  “Goodwin!” Victor’s voice filled the room.

  For a moment, no one said anything.

  “So,” Goodwin murmured, “where did Stanley find the Fabric?”

  “He never told me,” Victor said.

  “He’s alive.” Goodwin lit another cigar. “That’s why I’ve brought you all here. He told me he has the Fabric, but didn’t wish to reveal his supplier.”

  “What else was said?” Polly asked.

>   “It was a short visit.” Goodwin frowned. “Though he also told me he no longer trusts you, Victor. And for me to do the same. You’re not to be trusted either, Leo. You’re a liar, apparently. Everything you told me yesterday was fabricated bullshit.”

  “Goodwin, he—” I began, not really knowing what to say. Stanley was such a bastard, what was his problem? And I thought he was dead.

  “Of course,” Goodwin added, “I don’t believe a word of what he said, saying the pair of you attacked him, threatening him with the Witchblade when he revealed the Fabric.”

  “What?” Victor shouted. “That’s—”

  “I know, I know.” Goodwin raised a hand. “Don’t worry, I told you, I don’t believe a word. Anyway, he said he wrestled you both and escaped. That was about it.”

  I shook my head.

  “Do you…” Victor swallowed. “Do you think he wants to stitch?”

  “That’s what I’ve been thinking.” Goodwin pulled at his shirt collar. “And if so, we must stop him.”

  * * *

  I shoved the car into first gear. As I pulled away, the tyres lost traction and the BMW wheel-spun on the gravel. We headed away from the House a little too fast.

  “Okay,” I said, “let’s get back to the Fabric. Why’s it so important to find? And what did you mean by stitching?”

  “You need to know more about the Fabric.” Victor slipped his mobile back into his pocket. He’d tried Stanley again, without any answer. That’s where we were heading, to his house.

  “Well, tell me.”

  “Before there was light, there was the primordial darkness, and that was all and everything. The universe was simply one big nothing. And then there was light. The creation of the Earth. Fish. Ape. Man. Whatever you want to believe, whichever religion you follow and whatever your god, it doesn’t matter. Before us, there was a darkness and then there wasn’t.”

  Driving with one hand, I rummaged in the glove box for my sunglasses.

  “No one knows when it first became substance, morphing into the Fabric itself,” Victor continued. “As I said earlier, it was the concentration of evils from the witches of the 17th century that put the thing into overdrive. There’s a power—a force—within the Fabric, which is all evil. The larger it is, the more powerful it becomes.”

  I glanced at him.

  “Its power influences everything and everyone around it,” he said.

  “That’s what I felt when Stanley opened the violin case. It was sickening.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve never seen the Fabric before?”

  “That’s right. We’ve been searching for it since the 70s. Since we first came together. Our group was a little larger then.”

  “How many others were there?”

  “A few. But that’s another story.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t want to know about anything else. Not yet, anyway. There was a lot going on and I was still trying to accept everything. This madness.

  “Not only does it have mental and physical influence over man and animal, it can also charge actual shadows in its close proximity.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It can make our everyday shadows move of their own accord. Shadowplay.”

  “This gets even more incredible, Victor.”

  “Remember, I’ve been deciphering this for nearly forty years, and haven’t been in the presence of the Fabric until the other day. That was the first time I felt its influence. Makes you think some odd thoughts.”

  “Yeah.” I grimaced, remembering how I’d felt as though death was moments away.

  “No one knows the range the Fabric has to control normal shadows without even touching them. It influences the shadows around it, manipulating them, no matter how weak they are.”

  “The Fabric is potentially dangerous wherever it is.”

  “Certainly. Such control over individual shadows only lasts a little while…the charge, or life, gradually ebbs into nothing.”

  “Control? Why didn’t the Fabric move any of the shadows when Stanley pulled it from the case?” I opened my window a fraction and fiddled with the climate control.

  “It wasn’t strong enough maybe.” Victor pulled his gloves tighter. “I’m not sure. Its intentions were clear.”

  “Yeah.” I thought of the blade slamming into Stanley’s chest, remembering his dead eyes.

  “Immobilising the shadows is a problem. Holding them at bay is achieved with the Witchblade or a blazing fire.”

  “I remember, and you also said the blade heightens your fear.”

  “And hatred. But it can still be used to restrain the shadows. To pin them down and immobilise them. The athame would absorb the remaining energies from an individual shadow and render it impotent. Lifeless. Back to normal.”

  “Using fire or the knife can hold back the Shadow Fabric,” I said. Was I accepting all this? Perhaps…

  “Yes.”

  “This is all theory, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “The knife can stop an individual shadow, but can it stop the Fabric?”

  “It can temporarily restrain it, certainly…”

  “Actually stop it?”

  “I’ve come across no evidence of that.”

  “As you say, the larger it is, the more powerful it gets. Can the Fabric get any bigger?”

  A white van took up the rear-view mirror. The driver wore a red cap pulled low over the eyes.

  “Oh, yes. Most certainly,” Victor was saying. “It has the ability to drain life, making it much larger. So it can sustain itself, if you like. In the meantime, the only way it can grow is to be stitched.”

  “Ah, right.” Again, I flicked my eyes at the mirror.

  “This is where The Book of Leaves comes into it,” Victor said. “Finding the book and destroying it is imperative. It contains the most concentrated evils in shadowleaf form.”

  “Shadowleaf?”

  Victor began to say something when the roaring of the van distracted him…and it smashed into us.

  I fought with the steering, the rear end swinging out. I managed to bring it round, but the front wheels caught a collection of potholes and the car bounced. It jerked us in our seats as though a giant shook the car. A wheel thumped downwards and then up, and my arse lifted from the seat. The steering went light.

  A tree surged from the woods: wide trunk, brown and green everywhere.

  After the explosion of airbags inflating, silence rushed into the car.

  CHAPTER 12

  Being in a car accident is an awful experience. Regardless of blame, the lump in the pit of the stomach and the few seconds which follow, both mess with the head. Although I remembered nothing from my accident two years before, this one felt a thousand times worse. I couldn’t think why, which was odd. It was as though this was my first. I had an impressive No Claims Discount somewhere. Amnesia is a bastard.

  Victor said, “You okay?”

  The airbags had deflated and the smell of fireworks and foliage stuffed my lungs.

  I rubbed my head. “Um. Yeah. You?”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

  My head was fuzzy, a little confused as to what precisely happened. All I remembered was how dangerously close the van had been. Did he ram us?

  Both of us alive, the engine dead and the windscreen a mass of white splinters, the car sat crooked against an embankment. Victor’s window was gone and glass sprinkled his lap and the foot well. He was lucky not to have any cuts. Brambles bulged into the car and a thick stem of thorns rested against his chest.

  Subconsciously, I yanked up the handbrake and twisted the key to switch off the already silent engine. I popped my seat belt and shrugged out of it, tugged the door lever and shoved the door wide. Given the angle of the car, gravity swung it back and I managed to stop it with my palm before it slammed shut again.

  “Shit.” I hooked out a leg and clambered from the car, still with one hand against the door. Once steady on my fe
et, I prevented it from swinging closed with the backs of my legs.

  Victor brushed aside my offered hand as he climbed out. He grunted. His face sported a scratch on his left cheek. I’d missed it before because it was along the jawline, where I sometimes miss when shaving.

  “Bloody hell,” he said.

  “Victor, I—”

  “Oh, it’s not your fault, Leo.” He waved a hand at me. “You couldn’t have done anything.”

  “But—”

  “This is getting out of hand, and it’s going to get worse.”

  I watched him as he pulled his phone from a pocket.

  There was no sign of the white van.

  CHAPTER 13

  Victor made some calls. The first couple were to personal contacts. One for a replacement car, and the other to a guy to drag our wreck from the bushes. While we waited, Victor spent the whole time on the phone, quietly talking. I didn’t overhear much. I sat on a tree stump and stared at the ground. I knew I was getting deeper into this. Whatever this was. And as the week went on, I found myself accepting it. Accepting everything, including what I’d always believed was impossible.

  The response time was excellent. No more than half an hour passed and we had an identical replacement car. Another half hour after that, Victor and I stood in the shadow of his brother’s house, hip deep in nettles. There was a cat flap. I couldn’t imagine Stanley owning such a pet. A snake, maybe. Or a tarantula.

  “Stanley would go mental if he knew I had this.” Victor twisted a key in the lock. The man’s resolve was admirable—someone had tried to kill us. The only injury he appeared to have was the scratch along his jawline, whereas my neck ached and my knee throbbed.

  With a gloved hand, Victor shoved open the door. “Are you okay?”

  “We’ve just had an accident. You haven’t said much about it.”

  “Neither have you.”

  “True,” I said.

  “You drove us over here with a large scowl on your face, my friend.”

  “Who was it, Victor?”

  “The van driver? We can only assume it was our mystery girl.”