The Cursing Stone: a gripping mystery and family saga

by Adrian Harvey

  35

  The dreams were becoming still more vivid, such that some mornings Fergus was not entirely sure whether he was waking or falling asleep, whether the alarm clock beside his bed was real or simply the signal of the coming dreamscape of the day. At this time, the city also became less intelligible: the longer he was there, it seemed, the less well acquainted with it he became. Navigating its streets and its social mores became harder, not easier as Fergus had expected. Familiarity with its complexities did not simplify the city; it simply made things more complex.

  The snow was clearing, but the day still hung slow and greasy, and the melting slush accreted its dampness in small pools that gathered across the patchwork pavement, fragments of brown broken glass. Fergus had left Matt and Ruby working in the house, to take some air, the aches and sickness of the night before having withstood the combination of tea, water, painkillers, fried eggs and apples. Jacob had driven off to Highbury around mid-morning and the living room had become increasingly silent. Despite the damp, being outside had become irresistible.

  The goats of the City Farm had refused to be coaxed from their shelters and the gate was in any case locked. On an ordinary Thursday, the farm would be open to visitors according to the sign, but Fergus realised that in this city, snow made any day extraordinary. St Dunstan’s had similarly provided only brief distraction, so Fergus headed east, to the canal, to follow its towpath to Limehouse Basin. Much of the snow had already melted and, since lunchtime, the sky had lifted to reveal a murmur of the spring it had interrupted. But the path was still wet and slippery, the air still chill, and Fergus dug his hands deep into the borrowed pockets of Matt’s waterproof jacket.

  He made slow progress on the treacherous path and his mind wandered into the near future. Victorian terraces and postwar blocks peeked over the towpath wall but along the sunken course Fergus felt almost entirely apart from the confusion of the city. Yet the calm did little to soothe his hangover or to settle his swirling uncertainty: despite Matt’s boyish enthusiasm and the absence of alternatives, he could not escape the conviction that his plan would end badly. Absently, he entered the darkness beneath a low bridge.

  ‘Wanna come past, you gotta pay the tax. ‘Else.’

  With a flick of his head the boy indicated the canal. He was younger that Fergus, but tall and broad and his youth rendered him no less intimidating. Fergus had no recollection of approaching the bridge under Salmon Lane, but by now he was obscured under its span to all but the fish and the boy. And whoever it was that now stood behind him; an accomplice no doubt, greeted with another, friendlier nod.

  He did not understand for some moments and his assailant grew impatient. He demanded whatever money the gangly Scot was carrying; he in turn claimed he had none, nor a phone, nor anything that the thief would find of value. This was almost true: but while he had used most of the roll of notes that his father had given him, something over £50 remained, the notes and coins stuffed into his jeans pocket. He cursed his decision to bring the money with him, rather than leave it in the safety of the house.

  ‘Are you fucking with me? I warn you, do not fuck with me or I’ll cut you. Do you get me?’

  Fergus felt an arm wrap around his throat and his own arm twist painfully behind him. Immobilised and suddenly more scared than he had been in over a decade, he waited while his assailant approached, brought his face very close to his own. The boy was shorter than Fergus, and his hard grey eyes were barely level with his victim’s chin; Fergus could smell the nicotine on his breath, the sticky aroma of whatever the boy had used to cement his short bleached hair into a little, brittle flick that rose like a fence from his forehead.

  With his free hand, Fergus wrestled into his pocket to retrieve the cash. Holding it out in front of him, loose in his upturned palm, he watched the boy’s face crack in to an ugly smile that revealed a snaggle-tooth rising from his lower jaw, felt the boy’s nail rake across his hand and close around the last of his money.

  ‘See? Easy, isn’t it?’

  Fergus wasn’t sure if the boy was talking to him or to his accomplice, who still held him from behind. He wondered if he should say something, acknowledge the situation, explain that this wasn’t easy in the slightest, until he felt the grip around his right wrist tighten.

  ‘It’s only fifty quid, so you owe me, right? And I don’t want none of your shit next time.’

  Were the boy taller, his mouth would have been an inch from Fergus’s face, but even so the snaggle-tooth and nicotine were close enough to make him tremble in an involuntary quake. The boy took a step backwards and launched a short punch into Fergus’s soft stomach; he strained against his restraint to bend and double against the pain, the dull spreading pain, and when the unseen assailant released his grip, he stumbled to his hands and knees, and coughed and wheezed and tried not to vomit. Through his tears and his hair, he could see four legs walking away out into the light beyond the bridge; he could hear their laughter, its malice and cruelty. Then they were gone, and there was only Fergus, the cobbles and the pain.

  36

  Fergus shifted fractionally in the armchair, as far as the slow hot pain would allow. Matt began another iteration of what he insisted on referring to as the plan. Steve watched the slow traces of bubbles rising through his glass of beer, his faraway smile almost obscured by a knot of hair that fell across his face. While Matt spoke, explaining how they could gain entry to the tower through the car park, that Steve had done precisely this on a number of occasions previously, Fergus sought hints about the character of his unexpected guide from the tattoo that slithered down from the sleeve of his t-shirt.

  The t-shirt, like the tattered cargo shorts, had once been black, but was now fading into a purple-ish grey. Matt had met Steve one summer, while he had worked as a bicycle courier to save some money for the following term. Steve had not been on summer vacation, had not gone to college; his work had not been an interesting diversion on his way to somewhere else, but was what he did, would do, until something happened to prevent him from doing it and he had to find another way to make a living. Steve lacked the advantages of Matt and Jacob, but found them both amusing; he had found Bridget to be both amusing and alluring and it was through his curious friendship with Matt that the conditions for Lou’s birth had been established.

  He had been to the top of Lauderdale Tower, and many other buildings in the city, not to steal, but to take pictures of the night-time vistas. These he would post on websites under the pseudonym of Harpy. There was a community, apparently, of similar adventurers whose only reward for risking arrest or worse was to gain access to places that ordinary people never could: abandoned hospitals; the skeletons of new towers; tunnels under the streets, connecting hidden stations and secret control rooms; other people’s apartments.

  Maltravers’ apartment would be empty the following evening: Matt had already called the Half Moon Gallery and been able to elicit from the young woman on the phone that Maltravers would be unable to give an opinion that weekend on Matt’s fictitious painting, since he was away at his parents place in the country, as he was most weekends. Not only did this mean that the coast was clear for the next day, it also meant that Fergus would have a two day head start before the alarm was raised. Fergus had no more objections, nor needed further clarifications, but Matt ran through the plan once more, elaborating on the details in excited anticipation until even he had become tired of their repetition and instead raised a toast to the success of their endeavours. Three glasses clinked softly.

  ‘Shall we pop out for a pint, then?’

  Fergus winced as he settled back into his chair, certain both that he had no desire to leave the house again that day and that he had not the means to buy a drink. He shook his head but suggested that the others should feel free to do so. Steve pushed himself upright from the suction of the sofa and put his head around the kitchen door to say goodbye to Ruby and Bridget and his son. Lou raced out into the living room, throwing himself at Steve
who hoisted him high into his arms.

  ‘Why don’t you two come out for a drink?’

  Fergus was relieved that Ruby at least declined Steve’s invitation, offering instead to watch Lou, and he was happy in the calm of the house once the others had gone, and Lou had been put to bed. Ruby returned from story-telling and, having fetched a couple of beers from the kitchen, sat next to Fergus on the sofa. She studied him for a moment then clicked the TV into darkness.

  ‘It’s stupid, you know that don’t you?’

  At first, Ruby had been vocal in her opposition to Matt’s plan, objecting both to its morality and its wisdom. But then Steve had arrived and Fergus had stopped listening, so she had withdrawn sourly to the kitchen, where she had been joined by Bridget and Lou while the men plotted in the living room. All the while she had held her tongue she had wished that Jacob was home, to bolster her objections. But, with Jacob out with friends and Bridget pretending not to care, she had been a lone voice of sanity.

  He knew that her raising it now was less an attempt to sway him from the decision, more a simple distancing, a reminder that she did not approve, did not support the plan; that Fergus was about to disappoint her. He was surprised by how much this hurt him. He tried to explain that he had no choice, that he had tried legitimate means, and would have continued with them had the news from home not made things so urgent. It felt as if everything was conspiring to drive him from the city: from the need to return to his grandfather’s side to the fact that he no longer had any money. He had run out of time and out of options. Only Matt’s plan remained, and he was following it without joy or enthusiasm.

  ‘Look, if it’s the money, we can sub you, you know? No need to race away because of that. You’ll be missed, whatever.’

  He looked close to tears. To comfort him, she reached out a hand and rested it on his shoulder. That he flinched in response was unexpected.

  ‘Are you OK? I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry.’

  With a grimace, Fergus rested his own hand on his ribs. His eyes squeezed shut for a moment, before his face settled back into its former composure. Ruby was watching him, with concern, with suspicion.

  ‘It’s nothing. Just some lads. This afternoon. They took my money, and one of them gave me a whack for my trouble.’

  It was as he’d feared. Ruby started fussing over him, gently lifting his t-shirt to inspect the site of the pain. He tried to tense his muscles, for vanity’s sake, but the pain would not allow it and his torso sagged under her gaze. Gently she ran her fingers over the reddened glut of pain, exploring its centre with the most tender pressure. His face twitched, but she did not see it.

  ‘Thank god, it’s only a bruise. But it’s going to hurt. Christ, why didn’t you say anything? You’ve got to report it.’

  She leant forward to rummage through the objects heaped on the low table, finally retrieving her phone, holding it out to him like an accusation. Fergus focused instead on pulling his t-shirt back down, gingerly edging the fabric over the gathering contusion. The phone was still there, although Ruby’s outstretch arm had begun to waver.

  ‘I don’t want to make a fuss. It was only a few pounds, anyhow. And they’ll not get it back. Plus, if I call the police, they’ll want statements and the like and I don’t have the time to hang around for things like that. With what’s going on tomorrow evening, I don’t think I really need to be drawing attention to myself with the police. They’ll be wanting to talk to me soon enough as it is.’

  She laughed despite herself and her eyes sparkled, their light dissolving her concern and indignation, the weight of responsibility. Fergus laughed too, less forcefully but with no less relief. It felt good to have her laugh with him, rather than to judge him.

  ‘You’ve had a crap few days, haven’t you love? Come here – I promise I’ll be careful.’

  Gently, ever so gently, he felt her arms wrap around his shoulders, draw him to her, felt her warmth and softness cloak him from the harshness of the world. His cheek brushed hers, and his skin prickled with questions, uncertainties, and possibilities. He wondered why he had not thought of Shona for days, why he did not want to think of her now, why his own hand was now resting on Ruby’s shoulder, why that should thrill him in the way it did. And then the front door slammed and he pulled away with a jolt, muttering apologies.

  Bridget was in the doorway almost before the sound of the lock had died. She looked at them, on the sofa, at Ruby’s smiling, open face and at Fergus, his flushed cheeks and the way he stared at his hands. She winked at Ruby.

  ‘Sorry if I’m disturbing anything. I just couldn’t stand being around Steve any longer, he was doing my head in. Anyway, sorry again. I’ll be in my room. With the door shut. So, you know, as you were.’

  37

  The city stretched beneath him under a clearing sky. The nearby towers jumbled like a forest, pushing hungrily into the light; but for the most part the buildings shrank until they formed a long low carpet that rolled out to its hazy edge. It did not peter out, even as it became more frayed, but simply ended. When he drove out from its precincts in a few hours, this border would not be apparent, would be lost in the transition to other towns and settlements, places that were not London. But now, from this vantage point, the end of the city was obvious and distinct.

  By the time he reached Dorset, he would become the other person again, the one who was not London. He would again belong to the past, to his family and their land. He would become someone for whom marriage to Harriet Norden seemed plausible, necessary. The crush and hurry of the city would become briefly alien and unwelcome. He would unfurl himself.

  The wind that drove the last clouds bit into his cheeks, reminding him that spring still carried the memory of winter. He pulled the cardigan more tightly around him and looked over the parapet to the street below. Life still pulsed, but the vehicles moved with a timid compactness quite unlike the fury of street level; the city’s voice was stretched and buffeted on the wind, dreamlike.

  His coffee was cold. He was cold. And it was nearly four o’clock. With a last look up to the hills of the north, Nicholas left the balcony and slid the door shut behind him. The sounds of the world became whispers and he stood for a moment in the hush, cataloguing his last eight years in the acquisitions that surrounded him. These relics of himself were predominantly sacred and ancient. There were no works of the secular or the modern, to which he felt no affinity despite himself. Nor was there doctrinal coherence: the symbols of early Christianity nestled alongside the totems of animist fertility spirits; Hindu dancing girls tilted their heads to angry Buddhist deities. Each had been emptied of meaning when it had been bought, but in their totality they seemed to speak of something unintended.

  The moment passed and he shrugged. Another look into the cup convinced him to cross to the kitchen and, as he passed the sofa, he patted the hump of a seated bull, carved from polished black stone. The cold coffee swirled in the sink, settling quickly into ragged blotches on the steel. Nicholas refilled his cup with what remained in the little metal pot and swallowed it with one gulp. The cup rattled in its saucer as it met the cool stone of the counter.

  At the front door, Nicholas looked again at his watch. He would be at the house in time to change for dinner. Harriet would be wearing a new dress and he wondered if, this time, it would help. He picked up the holdall and slung it over his shoulder, pausing only to key in the alarm code.

  He had seen the three towers of course: their jagged edges rose like bread knives above the city. But the blank starkness of the walls still startled Fergus. They rose from the pavement like a fortress, impenetrable at first sight. Through gaps, he could glimpse lush gardens and placid lakes, and the garlands that hung from the windows of the lower blocks. All this was hidden from the noise and clamour of the city outside, the province of the citadel within.

  In the pub, while they waited for Steve to arrive, Matt and he had exchanged broken sentences, each uneasy at the prospect of night fall and
their task. Surrounded by dark wood and the chatter of office workers, he had listened to Matt’s stories of his previous adventures with his friend into the forbidden places of the city; the thrill of clandestine exploration and the times they had almost been discovered. These stories had not reassured him and he had found himself clutching at the little golden pendant that hung around his neck.

  ‘Is that from your girl?’

  Matt had broken off from his description of his night in the condemned hospital, the unfathomable shapes frozen in the sample jars that lined the shelves of the abandoned laboratory, to watch Fergus turn the trinket in his fingers. At first confused, as if waking from a dream, he shook his head, then grudgingly allowed Matt to look, to read the inscription.

  ‘It looks like a love token. You sure you’re not secretly seeing another woman?’

  His flippancy irritated Fergus. Wordlessly he took back the pendant and returned it to his neck, slipping the metal under his t-shirt. Icily, he said simply that Peggy was his grandmother.

  ‘Sorry mate. Fair enough. Is it your grandfather’s then? Like, a good luck charm for your trip?’

  His answer stalled on his tongue. His mouth hung open, waiting for words that would make sense, resolve the questions into coherence, but none came. A burst of laughter and shouting broke from across the bar, and the need to speak passed. Both young men turned to the source of the disruption, but only one in gratitude.