Dark Winter: Last Rites

by Hennessy, John

  “I don’t mind lawyers at all. It’s you I don’t like.”

  The man sighed heavily. “You’re not the first to react like this. My brother has a bad reputation.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Yes. I am not the man you think I am. My name is Danville Curie. Regrettably, I am sometimes mistaken for being Donald by those who know him – that is to say, knew him. Your reaction suggests you knew what happened to him.”

  If it had been anybody else he had been talking to, they would have taken a step back. Toril only ever took steps forward, but even when risk was involved, hers was a calculated one.

  “Donald Curie did have a brother, but his name was Malcolm, and he killed him for good measure. Nothing was ever said about you.”

  “Miss Withers, I am no more than I appear to be, someone who is an executor of wills. Donald was my brother – my twin, in fact. When we were younger we were split up by our mother. He’s tried to harm me when I was just an infant.

  I was a sickly child, and Mother couldn’t trust that if she left me at home with Donald, that I would still be alive when she would return. Even if she went from the kitchen to the garden, she constantly worried about what he might do. He was capable of anything, you see.”

  Toril listened to the story only because she wanted to see how much he would add to already what was well known in the town’s local history. All that was fact – just how had he managed to dip under the radar for all this time? She had never seen anyone who was the spitting image of Donald Curie, until today.

  “Are you trying to mess me about?” asked Toril, who fought hard to keep her anger in check.

  She was trying to make sense of a situation she would have to analyse and break down within a matter of seconds. For all intents and purposes, this man looked exactly the same as Donald Curie, the terror of Gorswood High School.

  Except….his hair was greying, but still had colour. His eyes were blue, not black like Curie’s. He was lacking Curie’s markings too – the scar above his eye was missing, and all his teeth appeared to be in perfect condition, whereas Donald Curie was missing at least five of his original teeth, plus one was chipped and in a poor state of decay.

  He looked like he was going to offer a reply. The real Donald Curie would have not hesitated to reply; throwing in an odd quip or there in a teacher’s earshot, just to let them know that he had the wayward schoolchildren under control.

  Toril thought an unkind thought for a moment. She felt that the world had enough Curies, and that the world certainly didn’t need another one. Still, she had to deal with the here and now.

  “I thought I was here for the reading of a will. I don’t care how many brothers you have. Donald Curie was an evil man and I hope he is rotting in Hell.”

  “So you do believe I am Danville Curie then?”

  “Frankly, I don’t care who you are.”

  “Maybe you will, after I read Jacinta’s will to you.”

  ***

  He ushered Toril upstairs. The place was old, very old, seemingly out of touch with the modern buildings that surrounded it. She only agreed to follow him because she had her wand and pentacle in her possession. He didn’t look like he presented any threat to her.

  The vein on his temple stuck out with three branches that looked like tentacles. He may act eccentric, he may or may not have been telling the truth, but the only thing he was being untruthful about was reading Jacinta’s will. Toril thought he would have a brain haemorrhage if he tried to climb more than three stairs. As she looked up, she counted fifteen before they ascended another flight.

  On her right side hung paintings of lawyers past and present. From the look of their clothes, most of them had actually passed on, with this curious man left to run things. Where were his business partners, and just how old was he? Donald Curie had been in his mid-fifties when Troy shot that bolt through his head, but the demon Dana had gotten to him before that, some say as much as ten years earlier, but it was more likely to have been fifteen.

  Even for her powers of deduction, solving three mysteries at once would be too much to handle.

  The room was pretty much as you’d expect for a lawyer’s office. A huge oak desk, rounded at the edges, separating the learned from the one who had come to learn. Whilst this man had age and supposedly experience on his side, Toril had youth and an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. In the case of a score-draw, Toril would almost certainly win on penalties.

  Toril looked at the books on his shelf. Mostly dry law texts. Contract law, criminal law, probate. He had probably read them just enough to pass the bar. He seemed an unremarkable man. Maybe that’s how he kept safe. Maybe that’s how he kept out of the demonic claws of his brother. Maybe-

  “Here we are,” he said, sounding the most confident he had been since first introducing himself to Toril. “Before I start, I’d like to set the record straight about how my brother ended up working at the school. I let him use my history as a reference, which I assure you, is completely unblemished. I thought I was giving Donald the one thing society would not give him – a second chance. I wanted to save him, but he was beyond saving.”

  He set a small bundle of paper onto the desk. Toril had accepted, for now, that the man was who he said he was. If anything, he was akin to a facsimile of Donald Curie – he looked like him, but his mannerisms and actions were quite different.

  At least she understood now how a man like Donald Curie could end up working at a school.

  Toril looked like she was going to speak, but the man had already activated the autopilot. She didn’t ultimately care how Donald Curie managed to work in the vicinity of children. She just wanted to know about her dearly departed friend, and listened intently as Jacinta’s final words were spoken through his mouth.

  ***

  “This is the last will and testament of I, Jacinta Eleanor Crow. As I have no living relatives, it is my final wish that all my worldly goods shall pass to my best friend, Toril Anne Withers, with the exception of one item passing to Bethany Saoirse O’Neill.”

  Toril heard the words. She didn’t want any of Jacinta’s belongings; she only wanted Jacinta. That was impossible, so she processed the last few words in her head. What in the world would Jacinta bequeath to Beth?

  “The first item is the most precious thing I own. A charm bracelet with the initials JC. The second is an amount of monies totalling £187,000.”

  Thank the Deity, thought Toril. What a little saver you were. But she regarded the money as a bequeathal to Jacinta via her own parents; a trust that must have been passed onto her. There was no way she could have saved that kind of money of a kind that most people will never see in their lifetime.

  “Did you know Jacinta’s parents, Miss Withers?”

  Toril shook her head. “They were already deceased when Jacinta and I became friends.”

  “I see.” He leaned forward in his seat, and took off his glasses. “How did you two become acquainted?”

  “Look, Mr….Curie, or whatever your name is – I know your game. You just heard £187,000 and thought you could extort some money from the little girl. I’m not paying you for your time. You called me, remember?”

  “I was just trying to engage in pleasant conversation.”

  “I’m sure your brother would agree,” snapped Toril icily. “Just do your job, and read the rest of the will. I have a job to do too.”

  “Is that what they call it? A job?”

  Toril did not like the direction of where this was going. She attempted to wrestle back the initiative.

  “The will. Read. It.”

  “So it is what they call it,” he said, sitting back once more in his chair.

  “You’ve read the will, haven’t you? And its contents?”

  “Miss Withers, you do have a low opinion of me.”

  “Clearly not low enough, it seems.” Toril believed any one of the Curie clan could crawl out from under a stone wearing a tall hat and somehow manage to emerge w
ith it still on their heads.

  “You poke jibes at me because you believe that item around your neck protects you. What if I were to tell you that it wouldn’t work here?”

  “Then you and I would have a disagreement. This whole thing has been a waste of time.”

  Toril stood up sharply and grabbed her bag.

  “Miss Withers, don’t act all hurt. I can see right through you. You hate anyone saying anything about your Wiccy beliefs.”

  “For the record, it’s Wicca, and you don’t know anything about my beliefs.”

  “Don’t I?” He looked almost hurt himself. “I’ve got all the information I need right here.”

  Toril had observed an envelope on his desk. It was Jacinta’s handwriting, or perhaps an elegant forgery. She tried to see if it had been tampered with.

  “You had better not have read that letter. It’s sealed, personal and not addressed to you.”

  “If I had not, how could I have found you? After all, the Circle looks after its own, doesn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that.” As Toril spoke those words, she wasn’t overly confident that she had convinced herself.

  “Oh but you will. I can it in your eyes. You want vengeance for your friend, and if that means getting yourself mixed up with some unsavoury characters, well – you’d do it, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’m going to give you ten seconds, then I’m walking out of here.”

  “A full ten seconds? My brother would say that was generous.”

  “Which brother? The dead one? Or the one everyone wishes would stay dead?”

  Toril kept her eyes on the sealed envelope. She couldn’t be for certain that it had been tampered with. It had definitely been created by Jacinta, so she felt she would have to let this play out, the way it was destined to play out.

  “If only your outward confidence was matched by your actions, you could check Jacinta’s last resting place, or my brother’s, if you really wanted to. But you won’t do that, will you? A witch that is scared of cemeteries is no witch at all.”

  Toril knew she would have to overcome that particular demon one day. But she was tired of the verbal sparring with this man.

  “Are you going to give me that letter or not?”

  He looked up at her. She looked too beautiful to be involved in witchcraft. He knew that meddling in such things would tear her apart one day.

  Just like it had torn her mother apart. Toril thought her mother left the Circle because she didn’t want her daughter to be indoctrinated into its Satanic practices. That much was true. As for the rest-

  “I’ve already read what you have been bequeathed. And of course I’m going to give you the letter. There is, however, an addendum. Your friend’s addendum, and as she was your friend, I’m sure you would want to comply with her wishes.”

  “I will comply. The letter – now.” Toril extended her hand towards the document, which was unusual as it had a wax seal and a wine coloured ribbon wrapped around it.

  He picked the letter up and waved it at Toril, taunting her.

  “A witch of any note and standing would already know what this letter contains. But you are an unremarkable witch about to be living in a most remarkable time. I wonder do you possess even a sliver of patience that your eternally resting friend now has in abundance?”

  Toril wanted that letter more than anything. But she would not steal it. There had to be some kind of justification. She could not think of any.

  “The addendum is simply this – you are not to open this letter until you find yourself unable to provide an answer to that which most troubles you. When you seek clarity, and the world around you does not provide it, then – and only then; may you read this letter.”

  Toril didn’t reply, but Danville Curie observed that she was taking in the room. A particular photograph had caught her eye. A man, dressed in the garb of someone from Victorian England, was sitting in a chair, a walking stick in his right hand. There was something odd about how he was holding it.

  “Miss Withers? Did you hear what I said?”

  “I heard you.” She gestured to the photograph, the frame of which had gathered some dust. It looked like it had not been cleaned for a long time, which was odd, because the rest of the office, and the building in general, was very clean. “Who is the man in that photograph?”

  “He was a friend of my grandfather’s.”

  “Is that all you have to say about it?”

  “Yes,” he said, closing the file on Jacinta Eleanor Crow, and pushing the envelope in Toril’s direction. “That’s all I have to say about that.”

  “He was already dead when the photograph was taken.”

  “No. You’re mistaken.”

  “I am not. Why would you have a picture of a dead man in this office, one where you receive clients? I can’t imagine I’ve been the first to notice that photograph. Though maybe I’ve been the first to comment.”

  “You are very perceptive, Miss Withers. Now, our business is concluded. The items will be sent to your address, the money to your account. You can….take that letter with you. Remember your friend’s wishes.”

  Toril was hardly likely to forget that.

  “How did you know, anyway?”

  Toril smiled. “So many things gave it away. The position of the walking stick in his hand – his fingers are not grasping it properly. His seated position looks at odds with how a real living person would sit. And then, there’s the other two people in the far background. They are not in focus, whilst he is crystal sharp. It was a feature of photography at that time – living people blurred the photos slightly. If your grandfather’s friend was not in that photo, I doubt people would be able to tell the difference.”

  “But you can. Because you’re a witch?” he asked.

  “Because I’m observant. I don’t miss a trick. I make them,” smirked Toril. “I’ll….look after this.” Toril waved the envelope at him before carefully placing it in her bag.

  She thought she could pick up the faintest of his thoughts. In them, he accused her of missing a trick where Jacinta was concerned, and whether he was right or not, Toril would have to live with the consequences of that for the rest of her life.

  The door to the building opened without issue. Toril thought she might have to use her wand, but Danville Curie would have loved to have seen her in action, and she was not about to humour him.

  She left the building quietly, and looked up to the window, half expecting him to be peering down into the cobbled street. He had already returned to his desk, sat down, and pulled out the drawer on his left side. Placing a small bottle of brandy on his desk, he looked at the photo before tipping it with his hand, sending it crashing to the floor.

  “Damn you Donald, for bring these times on us,” he said. “May that girl never have cause to open that envelope.”

  He shook as he picked up the photo frame, from which a smaller photo, inserted in the back, was emerging. A photo of Danville, Donald, and Malcolm. Three brothers plus their mother, Eloisa Curie.

  Danville was twelve years old, Malcolm was six. Donald was just four.

  Less than a year later, the demon would be inside him.

  Looking for Trust in All the Wrong Places

  3 years ago.

  I had kept my promise to Nan. Whatever was in the gift, it wasn’t the kind of item that would be one to cherish. It would have to be guarded, protected, kept from those who knew how to unlock its secrets.

  I didn’t think there was a kung fu lesson advanced enough to fight off demons. Nonetheless, my Nan thought keeping fighting fit was the way to go. As she got older, it saddened me to see her sharp mind fade a little. That’s the horrid side of me. I wanted her to stay as she was, and I knew even back then how selfish I was.

  On the key points, no-one was sharper than her. But after a while, she forgot who Bruce Lee was, and even when one of his films would come on TV, she would say things like, “Look Romilly, he’s doing what you do, isn’
t that nice?”

  Define nice, then. Bruce had just knocked O’Hara down twice, kicked him in the southern regions, broke one of his arms, then lined him up for a side kick.

  If it’s anyone else, it’s just a side kick. But this was Bruce.

  Bruce put his whole body into it. A man of 5,’7” in height, around 8 stone in weight, drops O’Hara like he is nothing. Then he launches himself into the air, landing two-footed onto O’Hara. The camera cuts to Bruce’s expression, which is a mix of hate, revenge, satisfaction, tinged with regret.

  He didn’t want to kill his enemy. But in that instance, he had no other choice.