by Mark Cassell
This was getting into the mad stuff again. “How big are these things?”
“A leaf? As large as your thumbnail. Maybe bigger.”
“And how does it contain a witch’s evil?”
“Alchemical properties in the sand itself. A person’s shadow, in the ethereal sense, is their darker side. A place of unbalanced morals, ethics and ideals. To collect such refined evils, they are made into shadowleaves.”
Five days ago, I would’ve laughed this off. It sounded like the biggest load of shit, yet I saw the truth behind it. I didn’t know how to reply, so I simply nodded.
Three dozen free-range eggs went into the trolley. Victor saw the look on my face. “A couple of those with a couple of bananas, added to milk, make a fantastic smoothie. Very good for you.”
I began to doubt having breakfast with him was a good idea.
“As a rule,” Victor explained, “the leaves can only be contained in a layer of dead flesh. Leather.”
“Same as the Fabric,” I said, and thought of Victor’s attempt to get his brother to wear gloves when handling it.
“Yes. So there is no life force to interfere with its dormancy. The pages in The Book of Leaves are leather.”
“Are there white leaves?”
“Black ones from witches and criminals. Anyone who’s sinned. There are no white ones on record. The only white ones would be from a nun, and no one has ever tried that as far as I know. Most people’s would be a light grey. No one is guilt free. No one is entirely innocent. The lighter the leaf, the less likely it could be stitched.”
“Ah, yeah, stitching.” I remembered Victor suspected Stanley of wanting to stitch the Fabric.
“I’ll get to that in a moment.”
I realised I gripped the trolley. With surprising reluctance, I let go. As I did, Victor pushed off round a corner and down another aisle. He still fought with the trolley and managed to steer it where he intended, then stopped.
“Every sentient being on this planet is charged with a life force,” he said. “The extinguishing of such contributes to the darkening of your shadow. All life is sacred, no matter how small. Even the accidental stamping of ants over a lifetime would contribute to grey flecks in the sand.”
I frowned. “Everyone’s leaf would be grey.”
“Not just committing a sin, but also nasty thoughts, unsavoury actions or intent, are also factors. So even if you’ve not killed somebody or something, your shadow would be nearer black. Depending on the level of immorality.”
With two hands, he took from a shelf the biggest jar of Marmite. “Now this stuff is great with radish and bacon.”
His shopping list annoyed me now. I just wanted to know about the Hourglass, and I certainly didn’t want to know what he had in mind for breakfast. Once we reached the cereal aisle, I intended to grab some Coco Pops or something.
“Okay,” I said, “you’re saying a shadowleaf can be a darker grey if you’ve committed small crimes like fraud and robbery. The stuff you just shouldn’t do, but no one’s harmed, yeah?”
“Yes.” Victor nudged the trolley sideways so not to scrape the racks. “For different crimes, those leaves would come out in light or dark greys. If someone is truly evil, it turns black. No one’s perfect. We would all reveal various shades of grey. Anyone with a sickness in their head tilts their shadow—and their shadowleaf—towards black. The sicker their thoughts, the more black grains of sand…so the blacker their leaf.”
“And you reckon Goodwin’s got it.” My mouth was dry. What was Goodwin playing at?
Victor stopped again, eyeing the tinned fruit. I waited for him to announce that pears or pineapple made a great accompaniment to Marmite and bacon. He didn’t. “It was assumed to have been destroyed in the Great Fire of London. Which I’ve always doubted. No one agreed with my arguments. Goodwin certainly didn’t believe it existed. Ever. In fact, he made a great effort trying to convince me.”
“If he had it all along, I guess he would do that.” I dropped my gaze, and when I looked up, I saw in Victor’s face a sense of betrayal. I felt sorry for him. He’d known Goodwin much longer than I. “Let’s get back to stitching, Victor.”
After a moment, he straightened and moved off. “Stitching is essentially what it suggests, only without a needle and thread. A person’s life force is the needle and thread. A stitcher, as he or she is commonly referred to, holds a shadowleaf in each hand. The potency of evil within those leaves drains the energies of that person, extracting the spark of life from their very being, absorbing every ounce of energy, eventually killing them. Sucking them dry. All that is left—”
“Is a dried corpse.”
“Yes.”
He didn’t have to say it. I knew the implications of our discovery at Stanley’s house. The corpse must’ve been the remains of someone who’d stitched shadowleaves. “Stitching the leaves together, they make the Shadow Fabric, right?”
“Yes.”
“How much can a stitcher stitch?” It sounded stupid, like a tongue-twister.
“One life force has the potential to stitch two leaves.”
“Stanley is finding people to stitch,” I said, and wondered who that corpse once was.
“Quite possibly. I don’t know where Stanley managed to get the shadowleaves from, though.”
“Does he have The Book of Leaves?”
“He got the Fabric from this Tulip Moon person, so he may well have found the book, too. Although we didn’t find any evidence to suggest that.”
I didn’t want to say what I said next. “You think Stanley and Goodwin are working together?”
Victor slowly shook his head.
“Think about it,” I said. “Goodwin has the Hourglass and can make shadowleaves, and he’s got something going on in that cave in the woods.”
“If Stanley has the Fabric and is stitching, then yes, it is possible.”
“He admitted Stanley came to visit him.”
“He did.”
“Why would he say that to us?” My jaw ached as I clamped it tight. “None of this makes sense.”
“It will soon, my friend.”
I wasn’t looking forward to that moment.
We made it to the cereal aisle and I stared at the shelves without actually seeing anything. “If Stanley has the Fabric, what’s stopping him from making necromeleons to stitch the leaves together.”
“The dead cannot stitch.”
“No life force.”
“That’s right.”
“So,” I said, and grabbed the trolley. The metal was cold beneath my grip. “Let’s get this straight. We have the Witchblade, now missing, that once belonged to a 17th-century Witchfinder. It’s the only weapon powerful enough to stop the Shadow Fabric. This is a type of entity. And it’s missing, though maybe Stanley has it. The Fabric can turn people into zombies…sorry, necromeleons, and not only that, is a gateway for other entities to cross over into this world. This is called ‘haunting’, and is possible once the Fabric absorbs enough life force. A man’s life force can be drained if he stitches a pair of shadowleaves. These shadowleaves are bad thoughts or wrongdoings turned into something solid, something of substance, and they’re extracted by using an Hourglass that’s been missing for centuries. Possibly Goodwin has this. Something else that’s missing is The Book of Leaves, a collection of shadowleaves from 17th-century witches. Finally, seeming to be the bad guy here, is your brother Stanley, who’s playing some twisted game, and no one knows the rules.”
Victor said nothing as I peeled my fingers from the trolley. He just stared at me.
Finally he said, “Yes.”
“I get it. I guess.” And I did, mostly. Except one thing. Goodwin’s role in all this.
Victor’s slow nod was a reflection of precisely how I felt.
“White shadowleaves,” I said, “aren’t evil enough to drain a stitcher’s life force.”
“That’s right.”
“And they’re not actually leaves.”
I didn’t know why I said that, because I knew they weren’t. I just had to say something else.
“They don’t come from trees.” He frowned. “They come from men, and we are all just like trees. We grow from seeds, we live, we die…some of us live a long time, watching others fall.”
“And,” I added, “some are chopped down.”
Victor’s phone rang, and I was thankful for the caller’s timing. My last comment had been morbid and pointless. He answered and listened, and…
“What?” he yelled and shoved the trolley. It crashed into the shelves.
He ran for the exit.
I wasn’t hungry anyway.
* * *
The two of us stood in the hallway outside Victor’s flat. He glared after the landlord as the lift doors closed, and we stepped into chaos. Afternoon sunlight drowned the room, highlighting the bedlam.
“What the hell is that woman searching for?” Victor demanded. The bookcases—those remaining upright—were empty, some of the shelves either broken or askew.
“You think it’s Tulip Moon?” This wasn’t a random burglary.
“Of course it is, Leo. She’s already tried to kill us.”
“She’s even torn your books up. Why would she do that?”
As well as books, cushions littered the place, and pieces of busted furniture poked between them.
Victor grunted. “This is hell.”
“I guess she’s under the impression you’ve got the Fabric.”
Victor’s eyes glistened. “She looked inside the violin case. She knew it was gone.”
“Stanley has the Fabric now.”
“There’s no proof he has it,” he said. “If he’s actually alive.”
“Goodwin said—”
“Can we trust Goodwin?”
That was a question often on my mind. I knew the answer, and as always, I pushed it aside. I nudged a cushion with my foot. “We can only guess that Stanley’s got the Fabric.”
“Assuming he has, how does Tulip Bitch know either way?”
“That’s why she’s searching for it. She doesn’t know.”
He picked up a hardback at his feet.
“Maybe no one believes our story,” I added. “Maybe they think you’re hiding something.”
“Why would I lie, if that’s the case?” His face reddened. “Would I lie about killing my own brother?”
“You didn’t kill him.” I hated being reminded that he stabbed Stanley. I hated the image that always followed: the Shadow Fabric taking the body. But then, I hated the mistrust I now had in Goodwin. Not to mention seeing a dried corpse and being in a car crash. I hated everything about this.
“I did kill him,” Victor murmured. “You saw him. He was dead.”
“Goodwin said he was alive. He said Stanley visited him.”
“And I said we can’t trust Goodwin. We found those invoices. You saw the handcuffed men in the woods, and you saw Goodwin there.”
I pulled up my sleeves. It was getting hot in there.
“Tulip Moon must be working with Goodwin.” He glanced at the book in his hands, then hurled it at a wall. “This is outrageous.”
I froze, not knowing what to say. My heart sank seeing him like that. Disregarding the missing cushions, he collapsed onto the sofa. He winced as his backside thumped.
“Polly.” He pulled out his phone. “I must call her.”
“Are you sure we can trust her?”
He looked up at me. “We have to, Leo. We have to.” He stabbed the buttons and put the phone to his ear. His eyebrows wriggled.
From somewhere down in the street a car honked.
“Still no answer.” He lowered his hand.
“Okay, Victor, let’s think about this,” I said. “According to your landlord there was no sign of forced entry.”
“Yes,” he mumbled.
I bent down and dragged free a couple of cushions. Books slid off them with a soft thud. I offered one to Victor, which he dismissed with a wave of a gloved hand. I shrugged, dropped it at his feet, and placed the other beneath me as I sat opposite him.
“Could it have been Stanley?” I said. “He disappeared in the shadows. Maybe he came here the same way.”
A smile tugged Victor’s lips. “Anything is possible when it comes to the Fabric. You’re learning.”
“Whoever did this is looking for something. Do you think they found it?”
“Apart from many first editions and the book of Necromeleons, nothing is worth taking. From what I can see, they’re still all here.”
“Then what were they looking for?”
He shrugged. “Whoever’s responsible, whether it was Tulip Moon or Stanley, is desperate. Things are coming to a head.”
I nodded. “Do they think you’ve got The Book of Leaves? They want the shadowleaves, maybe?”
Victor’s lips moved without uttering a sound.
Leaning into the sofa, I considered finding more cushions, but couldn’t be bothered.
“This is a total mess, Victor.” I didn’t mean his ransacked home.
Victor’s rounded shoulders quivered for a moment. Then he laughed, long and loud.
CHAPTER 18
Victor and I jogged down the pathway leading to Polly’s cottage. I still felt stuffed from the late, and very rushed, breakfast we’d eaten at a café on the way over. The morning had almost disappeared while we cleaned up the mess of the break-in. By the time we sat down, I was ravenous.
Victor pounded the front door. He’d only just rung the bell. Rain trickled down my neck and I pulled up my collar, which did little to stop it.
“Polly?” He peered through the window, his foot sinking into soft earth. It sucked at his shoe as he came back onto the path. “Polly!”
A quick thumbing on his phone, he tried her mobile and home numbers. Inside her house, we heard the shrill tone of an electronic warble, and then the deeper ring of a landline phone. His eyes darted around, settling on nothing.
“She’s still in there.” Victor tried the handle. It didn’t budge. “Either that, or something’s wrong. She never leaves home without her mobile.”
“Should Annabel be with her?” I asked. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the guy. Everything around him was falling apart, and he was beginning to doubt everyone. Just like I was.
“Always on weekdays,” he mumbled.
Attached to the cottage was a garage, its door not fully shut. I dashed to it, grasped the handle and pulled. The mechanism groaned and clanked, failing to open all the way. I ducked beneath it, Victor beside me, and a heavy smell of damp, oil, and paint washed over me. It was bare inside, save for a few rusty paint cans. The rest of the shelves held a layer of dust. One wall housed a door and Victor ran for it. Luck, it seemed, allowed him to open it and he disappeared.
I followed as he darted into each room, continuing to call Polly. I scanned for signs of recent activity, any evidence of her using the sink, sofa, coats, shoes. Anything at all. Georgie’s bowl was almost clean, with several crisp pieces of meat remaining. Hard to tell how long ago it had been used—I knew for certain I hadn’t been a detective in my old life.
Victor thundered up the stairs. He still shouted for Polly between the occasional creak of a floorboard.
I remained in the kitchen with a sense of déjà vu. First Stanley’s house, now Polly’s. Unlike the day before where the house was in a mess, this one was tidy. All things at hand—as it should be for any blind person. Walking around someone else’s home was strange, everything unfamiliar—stranger still to be in a blind person’s home. All appliances and gadgets had bumpy stickers attached to them. In the corner of the kitchen next to the microwave sat a small printer with a stack of paper protruding from it. It looked like an all-in-one scanner and printer. I nosed through some of the papers in ignorance—I can’t read Braille. This place had such a warmth to it; a real home, and it felt wrong to snoop.
“Leo.” Victor’s voice rolled down the stairs. It sounded faint,
yet eager. There was something in it which unnerved me. I thought again of the corpse in Stanley’s house. An image of those shrivelled eyes, gaping nostrils and wispy hair came to mind. I couldn’t handle seeing another dead body.
I took the stairs fast and followed the sound of rustling. Victor sat at a dated computer station, and hadn’t switched it on. The room looked like a study.
“It’s okay,” Victor said. “We don’t need to guess any passwords. I think we’ve found what we’re looking for.”
“Polly?” I said. “Where is she?”
Victor shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m really worried.”
“But—”
“All this paperwork belongs to Annabel.”
I scanned the room, and agreed. “She’s Polly’s assistant. This must be her office.”
“Yes, but it’s this which concerns me.” His eyebrows quivered as he held out a sheet of paper.
I took it from him.
“And that,” he added before I managed to read what he’d given me. He pointed to something behind me.
Underneath the small window which gave a view of trees and little else, stood a chair. Simple, wooden. Nothing special. Propped against it, however, was a violin—without its case.
That case was back at Stanley’s house.
My heart crammed my throat. “Victor?”
“Precisely, my friend.” He eyed the paperwork he’d given me. I’d forgotten I held it. It was a hire agreement for a Transit van rented from a Tunbridge Wells company, dating back to Tuesday, only three days before. At the bottom, the named signature was Annabel’s.
“What the—” I tossed it away. “You’re telling me Annabel tried to kill us?”
“This doesn’t prove it.”
“Victor, the bitch rammed us off the road.” Next to where the paper had landed was more proof. Red, like a beacon, it stood out in contrast to the black and white of the room, glowing amongst the collection of files and computer equipment. My feet were rooted and my knees locked. I wanted to pick it up.
“Leo?”
My eyes must’ve been bursting from my face, and I felt my cheeks redden. Finally, with a mental shove, I grabbed it. Victor mumbled something.