She found her house blissfully vacant of any alien entities, murderous men, or threatening stalkers. Only her guest, Sam's cat, ran out of the shadows when she entered the lobby with her bags.
“Hey, Bruich!” she smiled. “You have no idea how good it is to see your ginger butt, my friend!” The large feline, generally not the affectionate sort, spent a few seconds for some obligatory rubbing against Nina's legs before making for the kitchen as if he was hinting to being fed.
The kitchen was clear, the back door still locked, to her relief. By no means was she going to let go of all her defenses, but she did calm down somewhat after she’d put away most of the stuff she bought, which was still only half of what she was supposed to get. Every sound appeared suspect. Every creak, even familiar ones, were subject to consideration this time.
“God, I wish I could be as indifferent to the world as you are, Bruichladdich,” she sighed, shaking her head at the big ginger cat's nonchalant existence. He only cared about food and sleep, with no thought about prospective peril. Nina figured such was the privilege of predators.
When Nina woke up the next morning on her couch, she could hardly breathe. Quickly she turned her head to draw in air, just short of suffocation. The obstruction over her mouth and nose had cut off her oxygen supply and because last night's wine had knocked the shit out of her, she almost did not wake on time. A few rapid breaths later, Nina shoved Bruich away from her throat and chest where he’d been sleeping.
“Get off me, you stupid bastard! Geez, do you want to kill me? Huh?” she bitched really slowly with her recently awoken tongue. “Christ! Who do you think is going to feed your fat ass if you kill me in my sleep, hey? Who? Not your bloody owner, oh no, he is off gallivanting!” She spat cat hair in between her words. “Fucking hell, my skull is split open, I tell ya. I swear! I swear,” she whined at the equally drowsy cat as she stumbled to the kitchen for a lifesaver batch of black coffee. Bruich meowed, a long, drawn out, low-toned howl accompanied by a yawn. He leapt onto the kitchen chair as she raced through her coffee-making ritual, impatiently tapping her nails on the counter as the kettle took its sweet time.
Feeling guilty for her outburst a few moments before, she dared turn and look at Bruich. His green eyes stared at her from a face that expressed utter disappointment and hurt – cat-wise.
How could you?
“I'm sorry, honey.” Nina hastened to wrap him up in her arms, rocking from side to side with unintelligible mutterings only cat people would appreciate. With his ginger fur in her face again and one paw protesting against her cheek, she paced around the table until she’d completed her lap of penance.
Next, Nina and Bruich enjoyed a good full English before she hit the shower. Outside, the day was peaceful, unlike the day before, although the cool Scottish clime persisted. When Nina emerged from her bathroom, Bruich was already sound asleep on the unoccupied side of her bed. Shaking her head at the luxurious life of Sam's pet, she got dressed and straightened the bedclothes a bit to not look as unmade as the bed really was. She worked carefully around Bruichladdich so as not to wake him, before gathering up her car keys and locking the house.
Nina was still wary of who might be watching as she pulled out the car and closed the garage door. Her eyes surreptitiously combed the area as she reversed into the road. Before she drove off, Nina took one last look at her dark Victorian home and its historic charm, wondering how many previous occupants had felt this way throughout the centuries – feeling that the staunch and secure home could not protect them. Pushing aside this trinket of terror that would not stop presenting itself, she took off along Duanaran Road on her way to another patch of horror she’d sworn she’d never come close to again.
“Nina! I…we…are elated that you decided to help us!” Father Harper was smiling from ear to ear, keeping his grin plastered on as he looked at the ladies of the local Virtues for Vegans society gathered in the first pew off the pulpit.
“Oh Jesus,” Nina scoffed at the sight of the stuck-up housewives that she ranked as nothing but deluded, spoiled pets of Oban's wealthy with no concept of real life or the suffering of the homeless they claim to be helping.
“Nina,” Father Harper cried loudly to mask her blasphemous exclamation, knowing full well that it was too late. Nina heard one of the prissy snobs whisper, “What is she doing here?” and could not resist giving them precisely what they expected.
“Just dropping by to clean Father Harper's pipes for him,” she answered, somewhere between cute and catty that left the women gasping. Nina ignored the preacher's mild flush of panic. “Aye, I call it the Heretic Homily.”
Silence prevailed between the surprised churchgoers, and Father Harper was mortified. Nina felt sorry for using him to shock the stuck-up Bonny Bitch Brigade (as she called them when talking to Sam), so she moved right on with business.
“So, Father, which hymns would you like me to practice for Sunday?”
Relieved, Father Harper cleared his throat and skipped to usher her upstairs to the chancel where the large pipe organ from Ingram & Co. basked in the colors of the stained glass window on its right hand side. The sun was glowing against the church windows, transporting Nina back to a time she was not fond of at all. Memories prodded at her mind, but she denied them as she denied the doctrines enforced upon her inside this very old building as a child.
“I’m sure it will not take you long to master our organ, Nina,” Father Harper chirped, unusually delighted to have her back in his church. “There has been some damage to some of the stops, but our dirge will not need to utilize that part of the instrument.”
“Your dirge?” she asked.
He smiled apologetically. “Aye. I’m afraid we will be needing you to play…for a funeral.”
Nina caught her breath. “Excuse me?”
The preacher looked terribly embarrassed and she could see that he was afraid she’d abandon her assistance at the news. “I did not know myself until this morning. I do hope that you will not change your mind about playing for my service?”
Nina was hesitant. She hoped this was not his old bait-and-switch method to get her back into the church's talons. But looking at his face, it was clear that was not what he’d intended. Father Harper was quite sincere, in fact.
“I thought you had Mrs. Langley for those types of services, Father,” she sighed, crossing her arms across her chest. “I can do a Sunday service – this once – but I don't do funerals. I don't like them. I detest funeral ceremonies. You know this.”
“I understand,” he started to explain, but Nina cut him off. “Then get Mrs. Langley to do this one. Please.”
“I would, Nina, but, you see,” he hesitated, blinking profusely as he searched the floor with his eyes. “Regrettably, it is Mrs. Langley's funeral I need you to play at, my dear.”
Nina was stunned at the news. Her arrogance was disarmed instantly and she was thankful that the snobs in the pew had not heard their conversation.
“I'm so sorry to hear that, Father,” she responded, sounding contrite.
7
Call to the Past
Ex-MI5 agent Jonathan Beck was the type of operative who had no problem hiding in plain sight. In fact, his method of tracking was just so – overt. Through fourteen years of working for Her Majesty's Secret Service, Beck had learned that the most obvious of foes often stalked in shadows and lurked in the tracks of the quiet night. Those who did their nefarious deeds in the cover of dark or the obscurity of shaded places were often the most prone to suspicion.
He had always preferred to be visible, an active and pleasant participant in whatever little universe he was infiltrating. It served him well when the proverbial feces hit the fan too, because he would be just another face in the crowd, without being perceived a stranger. Without the label of outsider, Jonathan could easily join the mob of astonished onlookers to the very operations he facilitated.
Dr. Nina Gould would be one of his easiest assignments thus far, he reckone
d, because she had no social support system and she was by no means close to her neighbors, isolating her beautifully from those who could have made alarm had she gone missing. He had been watching her for a mere three days and yet she had only spoken to two individuals, if you counted the big orange cat at home. Beck found her fascinating to watch, not only because she was beautiful, but because she had such a peculiar way of doing things.
It was a pity, he thought, to disrupt the life of such an engaging woman for the sake of ensnaring someone else, but that was what he was paid to do and he had a reputation to keep. Times like these made him second guess his choice of career since he had resigned from the government, although the atrocities he had to perform and accept did not dwindle in magnitude against that which he was paid to do when in service at MI5.
Jonathan had only three more days to deliver David Purdue or the woman to Joseph Karsten and the Order of the Black Sun, otherwise he would surely join the fate of the billionaire explorer. Either way, Beck had no choice in what was to come. Walking down the main street he visited the florist, the butcher, and the local soup kitchen before having lunch at one of the diners, claiming that he was moving to Oban and looking for the best neighborhood to buy a home. The latter was Beck's favorite lie of all, making him seem nice and helpless while he charmed his way into the hearts of the people here.
It didn’t take him long to get invited to church after he beguiled the owner, Mrs. Hennessey, at the diner. Jonathan Beck had a special smile that exuded confidence and resourcefulness, the very two things mercenaries never lacked. He played his apple pie, dimple-cheek role splendidly to move closer to his prey. Beck sat sipping his Earl Grey in the diner, peering through the large window beside his table, the sea breeze bringing in saline air to the glass and making it hard to see through in detail. Looking at the passers by who each had their own mundane agenda for the day, he could not help but revel at the remarkable ease with which Dr. Nina Gould had strolled right into his web.
When the rather observant priest had spotted him, Beck had just tapped Nina's landline, gaining access to all communication running via the line, including her e-mail correspondence. He had also managed to hack into her cell phone service provider to locate her while sending all call information to his assistant at his office in Paisley, just a few miles south-west of Glasgow.
Maria Winslet, Beck's assistant and current lover, was running his covert office and keeping track of all digital and satellite taps he managed from several of his assignments, most of which involved merely basic intelligence gathering. Still, he kept her involvement secret from all his clients as a fail-safe for both of them. If he went missing there would be someone who knew who he had been dealing with, leaving a trail to rescue him from. At the same time, keeping her a ghost would not only protect her against the bad people her partner worked for, but also cover their bases in case they had to flee for their lives. Even without Maria's watching eye, though, Dr. Gould's presence made their mission easy.
But he was not prepared to share his windfall with his employer; oh no, because that would diminish Karsten's appreciation for him. It had to have looked like a feat of grand difficulty to have apprehended Dr. Gould. For now, he was going to bide his time until night when he intended to bag the pretty academic. He knew that she was at the church and that after this she would head home, a delightfully uneventful life that suited him perfectly.
“So, Dr. Gould, have you been playing long?” one of the snobs asked. She was a tiny, mousy creature with large brown eyes, not unlike Nina's own. Her name was Sylvia Beach and she’d fallen into the Oban Bitch Society by accident when she married the mayor's personal physician, Lance. Before that, she’d been an intern at Edinburgh's stately Napolitan Medical Research Facility, a prestigious organization for the education of the next generation of medical specialists. Nina guessed that this was where she’d met Lance Beach while he’d been on one of his lecturing tours in 2012.
“I started piano lessons when I was eight, but I haven’t played much since I was fourteen.” Nina felt obliged to participate in the impromptu conversation. Sylvia was an unintentional shrew. It wasn’t her fault that she’d ended up playing for the fishwife league. “But I confess that I’ve forgotten most of the pieces I used to play by second nature.”
The solitary Sylvia smiled genuinely as Nina rolled through the keys of various hymns and old laments she could rip from her carefully buried past as a young girl. Father Harper stood by listening in awe.
“By the sounds of it, you haven’t forgotten a thing,” Sylvia praised. She seemed truly captivated by Nina's playing, although she admitted that she herself had not a musical bone in her body.
“Thanks,” Nina smiled, trying hard not to surrender to the warm pleasantries of her former prowess and the exaltation that used to come with it. She didn’t want to get involved with this part of Oban again, so she kept her answers guarded and her humble thanks to reserved brief statements. A few mistakes later she halted her attempt and sighed, “Father, I’ll need some serious practice before tomorrow's funeral. I have the sheets at home.”
“Would you like to go and get them?” he asked. “Nina, we would appreciate it very much. If you wish, you’re welcome to practice here as long as it takes. I’m still going to be doing some administration in my office downstairs so you can practice until late.”
“I can come with you when you fetch the music sheets, Dr. Gould,” Sylvia offered.
“Oh no, please, there is no need for that,” Nina quickly objected as kindly as she could. But with the priest's urging she really had no choice but to take the latest member of the bitch squad with her. Father Harper spoke under his breath to remind Nina, “Just in case you’re being watched again, Nina. Take Mrs. Beach with you. You never know what wolves are salivating out there in this wicked world of ours.”
And so Nina and Sylvia drove to the historical house the historian owned to retrieve the music sheets for the funeral. It alarmed Nina how she was suddenly attending so many funerals after going through two decades without religion, church, or services pertaining to religious ceremony or dogma. She made a mental note not to allow the world of religion to seep through into her life and corrupt her as it had so many of her family and friends long ago before she found her purpose in life by pursuing true accounts of events that presented proof in archaeology and history.
“Here we are,” Nina announced when they stopped in front of her house. “I'll be quick.”
“Don't be silly,” Sylvia replied. “I’m coming with you.”
“My house is a mess,” Nina warned as she fled up the walk to her porch, keys at the ready.
“I have three children under the age of eight, Dr. Gould. Your messy house will not scare me,” Sylvia chuckled.
“Alright, then,” Nina cocked her head as she unlocked her front door. “It's your funeral.”
Pausing momentarily, the two women fully grasped the ironic humor in Nina's statement before laughing. Feeling guilty, they both brought it down to an apologetic giggle as they entered Nina's home.
“I'll be back in two shakes,” Nina said, and she made for the side hallway that led up to her once grisly little attic, now stylishly converted into a proper archive and library she often used as a study. In her wake Nina could hear Sylvia Beach befriend the cat, her high pitched gibberish permeating through the lobby and kitchen under Nina's floor where she was rummaging through her old music books and loose compositions.
“What’s his name, Nina?” the doctor's wife cried.
“Bruichladdich!” Nina called down. “Bruich, for short!”
Suddenly the mousy woman appeared on Nina's upper star landing, cuddling Sam's cat. Quizzically, she asked, “You named him after whiskey?”
“Aye,” Nina chuckled, “but it wasn't me. He belongs to my friend, Sam. I’m just cat-sitting for a bit. Sam loves whiskey almost as much as he loves his cat. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.”
“Ha!” Sylvia ex
claimed, pacing about the attic as she stroked Bruich's lavish coat under her well groomed fingers. “This is a lovely old house. They say it’s haunted. They say it used to belong to a warlock and that something out of H.P. Lovecraft lives under it. I’ve always wanted to see this house on the inside, Dr. Gould,” she confessed. “I have to admit it is part of the reason why I wanted to come with you.”
“Howard Lovecraft is my favorite fiction author, you know?” Nina admitted
, smiling and winking at her new acquaintance as she collected the sheets she’d finally located. Had it not been for semantics, the accusations toward her home may very well have been accurate, but such truth was something reserved for the less impressionable. “It’s only haunted by me and the cat, Mrs. Beach, but then again, I believe that it is the mind of the individual that fuels their perception. Maybe I just don't encounter specters because I deny them. Maybe they are here, for those who summon them by belief.” She held up the papers. “Got the music pieces.”
Sylvia put the cat down with a wavering nod. “Right, I'm spooked. Let's go.”
Just before they exited the lobby Nina's home phone rang. Perplexed, she frowned at the phenomenon. She used the line mainly for Internet access, although it was a phone line too. In all the time she’d lived here Nina had received no more than two phone calls on it. In fact, she was amazed that anyone would even have this number. She excused herself and while Sylvia waited outside in the midday sun Nina answered the mostly ornate device.
“Nina?” she heard a female voice on the receiver. “Is that Nina Gould?”
“Aye, this is she. Who is this?” she asked the caller.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe I got hold of you! Your cell phone number is inactive, did you know?” the woman said.
“I am aware,” Nina answered. “Listen, who is this?”
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