by Mark Cassell
“Good.” He gripped my shoulder. “Victor knew you would and said that you’re a worthy ally.”
“When did you guys speak?” Maybe there was an edge to my voice.
“A moment ago.”
I nodded. “Talking behind my back?”
Goodwin laughed.
“You two known each other long?” I wondered if he knew Lucas. They were all the same age—or thereabouts—and perhaps Goodwin could tell me more of their history.
“Too long,” Goodwin said. “Victor was there when the House first became what it is now. We shared ideas for its renovation and expansion. He and his brother had a hand in the first few years. Indeed, to get it established. They soon began to follow their own…er, lives.”
“What’s his brother like?” I imagined he was just as cranky.
“Stanley? I haven’t seen him in years, nor have I spoken to him since…” Goodwin moved closer to the window. Twilight deepened his frown. “Do you fancy going out somewhere tonight?”
CHAPTER 4
Tuesday
In contrast to the evening before, I squinted as sunlight glared from the parked cars. My boss jogged towards me, weaving between vehicles and bollards—no socks. His shoes splashed the remaining puddles. Water soaked his trousers and he didn’t seem to care.
“Good morning, my friend,” he said. He intrigued me; I couldn’t deny it.
“Hello, sir.” I didn’t know how to address the man.
“Call me Victor. No one calls me sir. Sounds awkward. False. I’m no larger than anyone else.”
He had a point. “Fair enough, Victor. Where’re we off to?”
“A little further than yesterday,” he said. “Out of the city. Heading down to Tunbridge Wells.”
I knew the journey, and as was often, I wondered if I’d ever lived there. No matter where I visited, memories still wouldn’t return. On that hour’s drive—unlike my first day as his driver—there was hardly any silence. After the standard exchange about weather, we soon spoke of my travels. Which was when I didn’t shut up.
Eventually, Victor asked me a simple question. “So, do you remember much of your past?”
I didn’t know how to reply. Half of me wanted to tell him to mind his own business, the other wanted to admit it scared the crap out of me. Slowing the car on approach to a red light, I stared too long at the road sign.
“This lane is fine, keep going,” he said without taking his eyes off me. “I know a lot about you. As much as Goodwin’s shared with me.”
The traffic light turned green and it failed to register, my focus pushing through the colour. The car behind me honked. In the rear-view mirror the impatient bastard, a mobile phone to his ear, frowned at me. I wanted to flick him a finger, but didn’t think it wise in front of my boss. Further back crouched a red convertible, whose driver was a pair of sunglasses in a blonde flurry. As I brought up the clutch, pain stabbed my knee and I stalled the engine, the traffic light changed back to red. Another look in the mirror and fury burned in the driver’s face. I didn’t give a shit, yet I still raised a hand to apologise, and quickly started the engine again…only to make three or four car lengths in progress before coasting to another red.
I wasn’t sure how to feel about Goodwin having shared information about my past. Not just that, but sometimes I’d forget that I’ve forgotten everything before the accident. It was strange to admit. “Then you know as much as me.”
This ended our conversation and I’d not meant it to.
Victor gave me precise directions, and when we reached the outskirts of Royal Tunbridge Wells, he explained we were not heading into the town itself. Again, I wondered if I’d ever lived in this area.
“An acquaintance of mine,” he told me, “Montelius. Next right. Just here.”
I swung the BMW off the road and took us down a driveway loosely paved between rows of gnarled trees. In front of us, smothered in ivy, stood a cottage beside a riverbank. In the rear-view mirror the convertible from earlier shot past.
On foot, gravel crunching, we strolled towards the front door. Before we reached it, a female voice carried across the generous colours of the garden: “I’m over here, Cubs.”
For a moment that name confused me, then I realised it was an abbreviation of Victor’s surname, Jacobs. From a row of box hedging a lady emerged, her smile shaded beneath a wicker hat. I couldn’t see her eyes, but what I saw of her face looked old. Cruelly, I thought she looked ancient.
Victor cut across the grass and I hurried after him.
Stepping around the hedge, the lady tugged off a dirty glove and dropped it. Her dress mirrored the flowers around her. With wrinkly hands and delicate precision, she stroked Victor’s face.
“Nice to see you.” Polly’s eyes focussed on something beyond us, into a space reserved for her. “And you’ve brought a friend.”
Her touch was as soft as those wrinkles suggested, and equally the warmth in her face proved welcoming. There was a faint smell of earth on her hands.
“Leo, Polly.” Victor winked at me. “Polly, Leo.”
“Good to meet you.” I stood rigid. It was surreal to allow someone you’ve never met before to stroke your face.
She lowered her hands. “You’re handsome.”
“Cut it out, Montelius,” Victor said. “He’s not here for you. He’s my driver. A friend of Goodwin’s.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Georgie.” Polly reached down and stroked a golden retriever. I hadn’t noticed it join us. The dog brushed against her legs as it led us into the cottage.
Inside Polly’s home, we came to a table underneath a painting of a Mediterranean landscape. It somehow filled the room with more warmth. I avoided taking the chair facing a magazine and a pair of spectacles. Victor sat beside Polly, the two of them at an angle from me. Georgie, back straight, sat by her feet. She tucked her chair in. I could smell furniture polish and cakes. Such an odd combination. A floorboard creaked from the hallway.
“Annabel,” Victor said, “how are you?”
A young woman walked around us to stand beside Polly. Her hair was pulled into a tight, short ponytail. Her brow creased as she took us in, spending a second too long on me. In contrast to Polly’s blank gaze, this woman’s eyes penetrated the core.
Her features were as thin as her voice. “Fine. Who is this?”
I felt more than uncomfortable, which irritated me.
“Leo’s my driver.” Victor wore an expression difficult to interpret.
I stood, and without wanting to, I offered my hand. Her shake was cold and limp.
“Annabel,” Victor added, “is Polly’s hired hand.”
She picked up the spectacles and the magazine. Her ponytail whipped as she left the room.
Polly’s smile wrinkled her face further. “Pleased you could make it.” She slipped on a pair of sunglasses and hid her floating eyes.
“I’d never turn down the offer of tea from you.” Victor beamed.
“But,” she added, “I’ve not had a good morning.”
“Oh?” Victor leaned forward. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been waiting on a delivery and now it’s not coming. I have to wait until the end of the week.”
Victor grunted. “What happened?”
“Lame excuse.” Her laugh was humourless. “Not enough hands apparently. The annoying thing is, they’re local.”
“Do you want me to help? What is it?”
“It’s okay, I can wait. It’s just some furniture. Not much at all, really.”
“No, honestly.” Victor glanced at me. “It wouldn’t be a problem for us to collect it.”
I nodded. “Of course. The Bee-Em is pretty spacious, you think it’ll fit?”
“I would ask Annabel,” Polly said, “but they’re heavy. Only a set of chests. They would fit in your car, yes.”
I drank my tea in silence while Victor and Polly talked. I didn’t mind too much, I was content listening. Occasio
nally they’d include me, but the conversation would soon resume between the two of them. Polly was thankful that we’d help her with the chests. It seemed that I wasn’t just a chauffeur, I was also some kind of haulage guy. It was still a job.
CHAPTER 5
Victor and I entered the antique shop, and from a threadbare sofa, an old man glared at us over a paperback: Treasure Island. I wanted to laugh; all around him suggested quite the opposite. Behind him a female mannequin pointed at the ceiling. The other arm was missing. She wore only a leather waistcoat, and someone had crudely drawn a smiley face on her. Dusty, inappropriate junk smothered the place. And it stank of old umbrellas.
“Can I help you?” He folded the book and dropped it on a cluttered table. His clothes were as old as his wares, and his face looked older than Polly’s by another century.
Victor strolled up to him. “I’m here on behalf of Polly Montelius, she—”
“Ah, yes.” The man grasped his knees and eased himself up. “About time I moved, I’ve been there all morning.”
“Apparently you have some chests for her?” Victor added.
“Yes, yes.” The old man waved a hand. “Terribly sorry I couldn’t get them out to her.”
On a sideboard was the mannequin’s arm, and wrapped around it was a row of watches. I liked one, so had a closer look. It was old, the face scratched, and the metal casing tarnished. Something about it made me pull it from the wrist and fasten it to my own. I lifted it to my ear, its ticking sounded different from modern-day watches.
As Victor explained our intentions, from the corner of my eye, I saw movement, and my stunned face stared back. The mirror, framed in split wood, was cracked in the corner. The filthy glass gave my reflection a strange darkness. It made me look tired. Perhaps even haunted.
The old man had left the room and Victor thumbed a yellowed comic. It looked close to disintegrating.
The door behind us crashed inwards and a stack of magazines tumbled to the floor. A violin shifted sideways and fell against a glass case. It played a sustained note as if to announce the arrival of the grubby man running into the shop. An overcoat billowed in his wake, and his bloodshot gaze speared us through tousled hair. He barged past me and rushed to the counter. A cloud of stink followed him.
“Where…” he began, and then coughed. “Where is he?”
Victor, having taken a step back, had a hand inside his jacket. His eyebrows twitched. “Who?”
“The man who owns this place. Who else?” He clutched to his chest a long and thin box, about the length of an average school ruler. There was dirt beneath his fingernails. His eyes darted around the place. The guy was a tramp, surely? Most likely drug addicted too.
“He’s out the back getting something for us,” Victor told him, still with a hand inside his pocket. It made me think he had a gun in there. Perhaps he did. How was I to know?
“William!” The tramp’s voice filled the shop. “I have something for you.”
My pulse quickened. I expected him to go crazy, to smash up the place. I didn’t like the way he shifted from foot to foot as though he trod on hot coals. And his eyes were on fire. Red raw. Maybe he’d been crying. I decided it could be nothing other than drugs.
From out back, William shouted, “Hang on! I need to send someone around with them. The damn stupid boy isn’t answering his phone.”
“What are you talking about?” The tramp’s filthy face twisted into a grimace as if in agony. “William, it’s me. I have something to sell you. I need to get rid of it.”
I exchanged glances with Victor and he shrugged, slipping an empty hand from his jacket. No gun. He wouldn’t have a gun—it wouldn’t suit him.
“I’ll be there in a minute!” William’s voice sounded muffled.
Again, I admired the watch on my wrist. I listened as it counted out more than a minute. When the old man came back, maybe I’d enquire about it. I now had a job, so I could afford a little welcome home present to myself.
When William returned and saw the tramp at the counter, his eyes shot from me to Victor. “Please, I have customers.”
The man clenched his jaw. “I don’t care.”
“Josh, you look terrible.” William’s voice softened. “What happened?”
They knew each other? Perhaps this guy wasn’t a tramp, and if not, why was he filthy? I took a step back, trying not to wrinkle my nose.
“I have to get rid of this.” Josh slid the box across the counter. “I don’t want the responsibility.”
“I can’t take it.” The old man knocked it away. “I want nothing to do with this.”
“You have to!” Josh slammed a hand down and the counter rattled. “They’ve killed the others!”
For a second, I couldn’t breathe. What the hell was this?
“I told you,” William said, “I want nothing to do with you.”
Josh’s hands curled into fists, the knuckles white. “You have no idea what I’ve gone through. I’m the last one. They’re all dead. The witch came.”
Victor grabbed the man’s shoulder.
“Get off me,” Josh screamed.
Victor didn’t flinch and that impressed me. He did oblige, however, and stepped back.
William looked worried. This wasn’t good for business.
“What do you mean by that?” Victor’s forehead wrinkled, eyebrows knotting. “You said ‘a witch came’?”
“It did,” Josh yelled, “because that’s what happened.”
Victor glanced at me as though he knew what was going on. He faced the man. “Who are you?”
“He’s no one,” William said. His breath sounded panicked, his face red. “Don’t listen to him.”
“Listen to me,” Josh whispered through brown teeth. “Take the thing.”
“I can’t take it.”
“They’ve all been killed!” He lunged across the counter, arms outstretched.
Victor yanked Josh backwards and whirled him around. “Leave him alone.”
The man leaned back and swung a fist. I was about to shout a warning when Victor blocked it. Another swing followed and Victor crouched, sweeping his leg in a blur. The man crashed to the floor.
Victor stepped aside, gloved fists raised in defence. “Leave.”
The man’s eyes burned into Victor’s.
“Now,” Victor added.
The watch still on my wrist, announced several passing seconds. Its tick filled my head. Still the man lay there wide eyed, his coat bunched around his neck, legs tangled. His chest rose and fell. Eventually, he moved and slowly nodded. He pushed himself up, and with a hung head, staggered towards the door. It was still open. I expected him to shout something, but he didn’t. He vanished into the street.
The black box remained on the counter and William, with his hands clamped against the back of his head, eyed it. “I don’t want this.”
Victor approached him. “Are you okay, my friend?”
“More to the point,” William replied, lowering his hands, “are you?”
Victor flicked his eyes at the box. “May I?”
William didn’t take his eyes from it. “If you wish.”
Victor reached out and paused. It was difficult to read his face, but he came across as both scared and excited. He stroked the top of the box and tapped a finger on its lid. He then traced its edges with a thumb, inward to the clasp, and flicked it with what I could only describe as respect.
The old man’s lips had tightened.
Victor lifted the lid and I glimpsed red fabric before he snapped it closed. He mumbled something.
“Keep it,” William said, his face blotchy. He pointed at me. “And you keep the watch.”
I’d forgotten I still wore it. I looked down at my wrist. “But—”
“Your chests will be in the car park. My son will be there shortly. Please leave.”
Victor nodded his thanks. “Let’s go, Leo.”
I followed him to the door, seeing the box disappear into an in
ner pocket of his jacket. William already sat in his chair, reaching for Treasure Island. Outside, beneath a warm sun, I kept pace with Victor. So, I was his driver, that was fine. The occasional lugging around of furniture wouldn’t be a problem either. I thought about that sweeping kick, his ninja move, and the possibility he had a gun. Thinking of that, I began to wonder if I’d made a good career choice. It wasn’t a career, it was only a job…temporary.
At least I didn’t need to be his bodyguard.
On the way back to Polly’s cottage, with the chests secured on the back seats, I drove in silence. Minutes after leaving the shop, Victor’s eyes had closed and he now gently snored. I wanted to wake him, and was thankful the journey wasn’t far—I doubted I’d last much longer. I itched to know what hid in the box, yet I managed to remain as professional as I could. I had no right to pry into his affairs. My curiosity returned to Josh, the guy in the shop who’d said people had been killed. What the hell was he talking about?
Although a short drive, it felt like a long one.
Once at our destination, I nudged Victor awake and we heaved the chests into the lounge. He remained thoughtful, with few words spoken. Soon, his anxiety turned to almost excitement. In the dining room, with tea at the table and Annabel now elsewhere, he leaned towards our host.
“Polly,” he said. “I have the athame.”
I frowned, misunderstanding him. I believed he’d quickly said, If I may?
He opened the box and I craned my neck to see. I had to know what was in there. As before, all I saw was red, only now I recognised it to be silk. I leaned further. Held between the delicate folds of cloth lay an ornate knife, its hilt a twisted knot of silver. The curved blade ended in a nasty point and reflected the red of its surroundings. The mirroring of the fabric made it appear as though blood coated it.
I thought of Josh saying something about witches. The guy must’ve been hallucinating. Totally loopy. Yet, there was something about that knife. And certainly, there was something in the way Victor held the box. Light glinted from the blade.
“What does it look like?” Polly’s lips were tight.