by Andy Tilley
‘Awe now don’t tell me I’ve missed another one! That’s three already. Whereabouts was it princess?’
Dad is meant to be scouring the sky for shooting stars. This is something that father and daughter have done now for the past two nights, since Christine demonstrated beyond doubt that somehow her blind mind could feel when they appeared. The first experience of this emerging ‘super sense’ had been during a routine evening stroll, just before bedtime. Thomas had led Christine to her favourite place behind the lighthouse where seals liked to rest occasionally. There had been no seals that night but on the way back Christine had become very excited, claimed that she had sensed a shooting star. Thomas had had to pick her up to calm her down only to be dumfounded when, just as she was settling in his arms, he spotted another star streaking over head at the very instant Christine swished a finger directly along the path of the meteor. They had waited another hour that night and although no more appeared the time wasn’t wasted for if nothing else the empty sky demonstrated beautifully that Christine hadn’t been simply guessing or messing round.
This is why Thomas is sat on the beach at midnight with his sightless daughter cradled in his lap, wrapped tightly in blankets and waiting for shooting stars. Not because the tests continue, but because for the first time in her life his daughter can enjoy a sense other than smell, sound or touch and share it with her most favourite person on earth.
‘Well why don’t you stop texting then and help me find them daddy!’
‘Okay okay! Honestly you are so impatient these days madame.’
Thomas jiggles her belly playfully but ends with a serious note.
‘But we have to be quiet darling, or we might wake Ruby and you know how upset she can be don’t you?’
His warning is heeded immediately and drops Christine’s thrilled voice to a whisper.
‘Oh sorry daddy, I forgot. Because we definitely don’t want cry baby eyes do we? I want happy eyes.’
‘And so do I so let’s settle down again and finish your chocolate drink. I think fifteen more minutes then we will get inside.’
With his child settled Thomas returns to the news he has received on his phone. It’s bad, complicating news that he can do without but has no option but to deal with.
Damn it. Just keep him there and no more mistakes. Get Tom on the paper work. Take the suicide angle but wait a couple of days until after his sisters body turns up.
Send.
Thomas sighs, deeply frustrated at the news he’s received from the manor and tired of waiting for his son to arrive. He feels sure that Setantii will be here soon but as for Cristian, well that still remains uncertain. Based on Uncle John’s observations Thomas is hopeful that the boy will make the journey. And there are eyes that glow in the black winter swell too now, more each day. This steady increase in activity further buoys his confidence that his son will come but that said, the silkies in the seals still aren’t welcomed by him. Thomas abhors their presence here. They have to be the reason why Christine has suddenly become so sensitive to the world but more than this they serve as a constant, awful reminder of what his daughter has been infected with.
‘Damn silkies.’
There’s no immediate threat to Thomas but still, as he mumbles their name, a hard wired instinct causes him to tap eyeballs and pockets to ensure that the diamond lenses are in place, as a catholic might touch the points of an imaginary crucifix before praying.
‘Come on Cristian, where the hell are you? I’m relying on you son so don’t let me down.’
Thomas closes his eyes and tries to relax but it simply isn’t possible, being so close to achieving what he has worked so hard for over the past ten years. Naturally, Cristian isn’t aware of his estranged father’s plan or indeed the role that he’s playing in it. Only yesterday for example, he had unknowingly been manipulated by it, walked into a scene and been nudged towards Sule Skerry by one of the lead players. That gentle tug of intrigue had been carefully hooked into Cristian’s thoughts by Jack Noble. Thomas allows himself a self congratulatory smile as he thinks about Jack and what they had accomplished together.
Ten years ago, without Jack’s guidance, Thomas Chevalier would surely have been lost in a swirling hopelessness that flooded the void created by Setantii’s departure from him at the ferry port. Fortunately however, swept along with that despair there had been a life line for it happened that, during the silkie’s panicked (and rather ill conceived) occupation of Thomas, Setantii had opened a handful of her own secrets. Amongst them had been a deeply maligned name. It had taken Thomas over a week to tease it from out of his confusion and then another to fully understand that a man called Jack Noble would perhaps be his only hope. Having deciding this, finding Jack had been easy and so that fraught father wasted no time in coupling together his financial power with Jack Noble’s wealth of silkie knowledge. Together the men took Jack’s muddle of fairy tale ideas and wrought from them a complex scheme, designed not only to rescue the Chevalier children but also bring about the end of silkie’s dominion over mankind.
For their ambitious plan to work the men would need to take huge and challenging steps over the next decade. To begin with, and before anything else could be done, Jack insisted that there had to be research. ‘Defence is the best form of attack’ he had repeated, over and over until finally a reluctant Thomas relented and agreed to contact a trusted friend of his. Dr Jeremy Hill was to be brought in to the fold and tasked with designing those crucial, diamond impregnated contact lenses that would in future shield them from silkie contagion. Alongside this Jack had another, far more conceptual idea for a weapon of sorts (‘a vein purging, silkie poisoning, carbon based kind of transfusion’) and this too had to be investigated, handed over to Hill for research. ‘Okay but I’m going to need facilities you know. Expensive and secret ones too’ was the thrilled demand that had signaled Hill’s acceptance. Thomas had immediately remembered an abandoned coal face under the grounds of his estate; a very private mine which in previous eras supplied fuel to the manor’s fires and stoves. It would be perfect, over sixty feet deep and encased in partially worked seams of impenetrable black carbon.
Five years of hard graft later and with phase one all but complete Jack had finally been happy for the next stage to begin, that being to make sure that Cristian would choose to become silkie. Initially Thomas had been appalled at the suggestion, protesting vehemently that he would never abandon his son to such a demonic fate. It had taken time for Jack to calm him. ‘Cristian will simply have to wait a little longer that’s all. Remember, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush’ Jack had said, seemingly having a proverb for every occasion. What he was explaining to Thomas did have impeccable logic though because the only chance that he had for a normal and safe life with his daughter was for her brother to ascend. This had to be seen to be done if a proud Setantii was to deliver on her side of the bargain and leave Christine alone to the care of her father. Naturally, once the girl was safely underground, the doctor and Jack would conduct the procedures necessary to replace her shattered eyes and create an exit through which the chemical exorcism of the underdeveloped silkie could be completed. That would be the time when they would renege on the deal and turn their attention to Cristian. His redemption was by no means guaranteed but still, Jack was hopeful that some essence of humanity would linger (for a while at least) after his ascension and that may be there would be enough there to bring Cristian back.
It went without saying that to steer this plot safely through to fruition would require the conspirators to keep their clandestine maneuvering well hidden from Setantii. Not an easy thing to do considering that they were dealing with a creature that could enter minds and steal thoughts amongst other things. Their best chance of success here would be to distract the beast, maintain her focus on Cristian’s care. Thomas’s fortuitous placement of the boy down at poor Aunt May’s and miles from Hartford had been an excellent start and the longer he stayed on the Isle of White the
better. That said, it had also been agreed that nearer the time Cristian should be brought back to Hartford where he could more easily be influenced and watched over. It had been left to Uncle John to arrange this and so as Cristian (already a successful and renowned business man) approached his twenty third birthday his uncle set about laying down a trail of crumbs that would lead to Hartford Manor. ‘I tell you what Cristian, someone of your stature really should have a place to call home by now. Somewhere impressive and grand. For networking as you people call it, all that hunting and other stuff that comes with the territory.’ Uncle John had done a fine job too, although he did let himself and the team down right at the last when he wobbled and tried to save Rose. Dear Rose. In all these years it could honestly be said that she had been the only real threat to the master plan, barging into Cristian’s life, full of love like that. Tom and Jeremy’s attempt at scaring her off had been, well frankly pathetic but thankfully her influence was in the past now and Cristian had said goodbye to her.
‘Daddy! Two together! Did you see them?’
Thomas hadn’t seen the shooting stars but he says that he has and uses their arrival as a sign that it’s time to call it a night.
‘Come on lady, let’s get you into bed. I have a feeling we’re going to have a very special day tomorrow and I don’t want you to be too tired princess.’
Thomas gathers his daughter up into his arms and walks carefully across the rocks back to the lighthouse. As he stoops to open the door Christine reaches up and kisses him on the cheek.
‘Cristian is coming tomorrow daddy.’
‘Well I hope so darling. But don’t you worry and…’
‘No, he is coming. The seals said so.’
At last Thomas Chevalier knows for certain that he stands on the eve of the final day of his ten year struggle. All that remains is for him to finally meet his son and remove any lingering doubts that Cristian might have about letting his human self go, if only for a week or two.
Chapter 23
There are very few towns in the United Kingdom that sound like they feel. Less than thirty miles from Hartford can be found the eternally damp and drizzly village of Little Peeover. This is one such place. Scrabster (the highland ferry port where I spent the last four hours sleeping in my car) is another. Not that scrabster is a word of course, but when said with a husky, morning voice the place makes a sound that describes perfectly how I feel this morning. Exactly how I do feel (other than ‘scrabby’ that is) is a damn good question actually. Having driven through the night, almost five hours continuously since the fir tree, I am feeling more than a little spaced out. My head banging fatigue makes me wonder if the fir tree thing happened at all or whether it was simply a hallucination, played into my semi dream state during a toilet break. The gull tap tapping on the windscreen and staring into my car is evidence to the contrary. He’s very agitated about something, tapping and scratching around on the bonnet then flying over to the docks occasionally before returning and starting his annoying little routine all over again. I wish he’d leave me alone, just allow me to grab another couple of hours sleep. It’s bad enough that the bloody ferry man insists on blasting his horn every thirty seconds. Yes, we get it! You’ve got a big boat now do you mind shutting the fu…damn it, the ferry’s here!
The ensuing morning dash across a stretch of pot holed, mud puddled tarmac is worth both the pain in my head and the mess splashed on to my jeans because the ferry man does indeed have a big boat, unexpectedly plush too. I’d been expecting some grotty old, open decked commuter sloop but this thing is huge, almost budget cruise standard. I’m almost disappointed that the journey to Stromness will only take an hour or so and therefore deny me the opportunity for a good kip curled up on one of the comfy settees in the rest area. Instead I take my coffee to a seat towards the bow and settled down looking out onto the Pentland Firth. This stretch of water has a fierce reputation and on a day like today who am I to argue; the North Sea angrily lashing out at the invading Atlantic tides leaving a foaming cap on each rolling swell. Now the boat is humming loudly, swinging around and edging toward the mêlée as the huge propellers are commanded to churn harder by the captain. Satisfied that his course is set the captain now takes a moment to drool his thick Orkney accent through the personnel address system and welcome his passengers aboard. He explains some of the highlights of our short voyage (one that will barely leave sight of land) and finished with an apology for his late departure, explaining that the flock of seagulls that had been obscuring the bridge has now dispersed. Perched in the wind on the bow rails I can see a number of the loutish gulls innocently preening themselves, unaware that they had delayed the ferry or what had made them do it.
I can’t help marvelling at this, how magical it all suddenly feels to be in a world where animals help me on my journey! Jack would have relished the imagery; a fairy tale world where the woodland creatures sweep Snow White’s floors, clean her dishes and shake Christian Chevalier’s ass out of bed to make sure that he catches his ride. My smile lasts only as long it takes for a question to surface; how much of this childish wonder will be lost when I become the puppeteer?
Chapter 24
At the side of the road there are nine cats; five black and four white. They are sitting patiently in a line with their backs turned on a steep bank where meandering road and river almost collide. It’s raining hard but their instinct to slip away into the night and find shelter simply isn’t powerful enough to move them. So they sit, in a narrow picnic area where by day sightseers stop to munch and view the river below.
Uncle John is very tired. His eyes are sore and his glasses irritate his nose. He scratches beneath them but it doesn’t help much. This man’s whole demeanour is one of an agitated old fogy who is sick of today and should have been in bed hours ago. The unfortunate business at the lab has upset him more than he let on to the others. A gentle man, John Saunders has a well deserved and cherished reputation amongst his friends and family for being a peace maker, the voice of reason should debate become heated. There isn’t one amongst them who wouldn’t choke on their scone if they discovered that he is also a man capable of smashing an iron bar into a young boy’s head. John rattles his own head in self disgust and the action sets his nose tingling again.
‘How far is this bloody place!’
John shouldn’t allow himself to get so wound up, bang the steering wheel like that. For one thing it isn’t good for his blood pressure but more importantly he really should be taking more care of his driving; too fast for the conditions on such poorly lit roads that are trying hard to freeze a steady rain. And there’s no need for speed either. His lodgings are less than three miles further along this main road that connects Hartford to Chester. What’s more, only an hour ago the land lady promised him faithfully that she will wait up and have supper prepared ready for him, despite the lateness of his arrival. John’s going to need a good night’s rest too because tomorrow he will return home to the Isle of White, spend a couple of days outside of that vicious inner circle which he has come to despise over the last few years. This is the reason he isn’t staying with Hill or Young tonight, even though they both offered him a bed; the last thing he needs is to be in the presence of people who constantly remind him of what a terrible business he is mixed up in. Still, if things go to plan, all this should be behind him in a week or so and then Uncle John can finally set about rebuilding his life, answer that more righteous (and hopefully cleansing) calling to care for what remains of his beloved May.
‘I’m doing this for you darling, not for those damned Chevalier’s’
This simple truth is the crutch that supports John Saunders through what he refers to as his dark decade. He repeats it often when alone.
Up ahead, on the right hand side of the road, there is a field. Access to this rutted pasture is afforded by a heavy black iron gate. Perched on the gate post there are two thrushes. Together they peck and tug at a loop of loose chord that the farmer has used to tet
her his gate closed. The birds have picked at bits of this rope before (collected its fluffy strands to soften nests during spring). Tonight though, they won’t stop tearing until the strands are broken completely through. The car’s headlights can’t be seen yet, nevertheless there isn’t much time to spare when eventually the rope fails, separates and coils onto the floor. The gate opens but only three or four inches before juddering to a stop on a clump of muddied grass. It takes a second, determined nudge from the horse to overcome this resistance and swing the gate fully out into the road.
‘The Hungry Horse restaurant/B&B welcomes you’ says the sign and finally a weary traveller can begin to relax. John smiles. On the sign there is a picture of a horse’s head and in-between its pricked ears are three very gold and very dubious stars. Still, no matter what the real rating of the place is, surely even the most incompetent of kitchens can make a cup of tea and a plate of toast. That’s all John wants right now, tea and toast and as for the room, well he doesn’t intend to see much of it anyway through his steadily leadening eye lids. All he wants to do is get there, warm up a little and then hit the hay. What John mustn’t do though is hit the gate. Shocked from his semi-dream state by the sudden appearance of a black iron frame just beyond his head lamps he slams on the brakes, at the same time yanking the steering down hard left. The car begins to skid but John knows the drill, backs off the brakes a little and corrects his wheels to face into the slide, confident that he can hold enough of the road and straighten up in time to slip through, pass the gate on the opposite carriageway. He would have completed this text book manoeuvre too had it not been for a huge brown mound that materialises from the dark to block his way completely leaving no room between it, the open gate and the fencing on the opposite side. Brakes jab back on and this time they do grip too fast, lock up and turn the car around, set it to drift ominously backward out of control. John grips the steering wheel and waits but the mound isn’t as solid as he’d feared. As the car jerks to a halt there is no crunch or tinkle, just a soft yielding thump at the back of his car.