by Jan Siegel
‘I really don’t know,’ Bartlemy admitted. ‘They’re bringing it to Thornyhill, where the – er – principal disputants will foregather. Rowena Thorn, the Graf Von Humboldt, and Alex Birnbaum. Also myself and Eric.’
‘We should be there,’ Nathan said. ‘We’re as involved as they are.’
‘Yes, but they don’t know that, and I have no intention of attempting to tell them,’ Bartlemy said reasonably.
‘Why is Von Humboldt doing this?’ Annie asked. ‘What does he hope to gain?’
‘There are wheels within wheels,’ Bartlemy explained. ‘Rowena, I infer, has convinced him that under these conditions she can persuade Birnbaum to waive his claim. He has a great respect for the cup’s historical background, the Luck of the Thorns and so on. If he thinks he is ceding it to Rowena, he will be prepared to back down.’
‘It’s true,’ Annie said. ‘He might.’
‘You’ve seen more of him than we have. Anyway, Von Humboldt believes it’s worth a try. Rowena has allowed him to think that once Birnbaum is out of the running she will countenance a sale and a division of the spoils. He wants to avoid a long, messy, and expensive court case at any price.’
‘That’s understandable,’ Annie said. ‘But what is Rowena up to? She’d never agree to sell the cup – would she? She couldn’t – seriously – be planning …? No.’
‘Robbery?’ Bartlemy smiled. ‘I don’t think so. I gather what she really wants is to get Eric to have a look at it. She’s been very impressed by him. People usually are. Whether she’s come to accept that he’s from another world I can’t say, but she’s no fool, and she must realize he isn’t mad. She wants him to see it – she wants it to be in situ. She’s gone to considerable lengths to organize it. I must admit, I had no idea she was capable of such duplicity. People are constantly surprising me – it’s really very reassuring.’
‘At your age,’ Annie said with a furtive smile, ‘I should imagine there are few surprises left.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ said Bartlemy. ‘The longer I live, the more I realize that no one is ever predictable. Just when you think you’ve got people worked out, they do something extraordinary. Human nature has amazing depths – and shallows, of course. Whatever Freud may say, there are no rules of human behaviour.’
‘Surely your genes dictate who you are,’ Annie interpolated.
‘Genes don’t dictate,’ Bartlemy responded. ‘You can be trapped by your heredity – or you can live up to it – or you can rise above it. You make yourself. How can genes make a poet out of a monkey who came down from the trees? I have told you about magic, of the powers of the Gifted few, but the true magic is in the soul of Man.’
‘Men can do terrible things,’ Nathan said, thinking of the interminable confinement in the Pits.
‘And wonderful ones. They are two sides of the same coin. The darkness and the light is in all of us. We make ourselves into who we are. We choose.’
‘What about environmental factors?’ said Annie.
Their conversation wandered down psychoanalytical byways, while Nathan slipped into his own thoughts. These were mostly concerned with the back door at Thornyhill, and Hoover’s reliability as a guard dog who would never bark at a friend …
Nathan hoped he would dream again about Kwanji Ley that week, but he had another dream about the sea, in a world where all land had been devoured, and then about a beautiful country which resembled his childhood image of Narnia. There were green hills and mossy rocks and streams which tumbled over tiny falls. The woods were even lovelier and somehow woodier than Thornyhill, with thickets of dogrose and honeysuckle, a red squirrel flickering through the leaves, and birds singing whose names he didn’t know.
Night came, with a giant moon seen through a lacework of twig and branch, and an owl cruising on silent wings. And then suddenly there was fear. The moonlight was crawling with it; the woodland floor heaved upwards into a wave. They were there, the Ozmosees – even there, in that beautiful wild place. He had no iron on him, no protection. He ran like a mad thing, pursued by the nightmare, until he stumbled over a tree-root and went hurtling down – and down – into the black depths of undisturbed sleep.
Afterwards, when he thought about the dream, he wondered if that was the place where he had found Woody, on some long-forgotten voyage of his infancy. It was a while since he had seen his friend, and so one afternoon he went into the woods alone, equipped with a gift of Smarties, and they sat and talked together under the trees, though he didn’t mention the dream. He told Woody about the coming of the Grail, and his own plans for Saturday. He wanted many eyes watching when the time came.
‘I will watch,’ said Woody. ‘But others watch also.’
‘You mean the gnomons?’ Nathan frowned. ‘I think – they are bound to the cup. I don’t know what they’ll do. They can’t enter Thornyhill: there’s too much iron, and silphium in the herb garden, and I expect Bartlemy could manage the light and sound effects too.’
‘I was thinking of the dwarf,’ said Woody.
‘What dwarf?’ But as he spoke, he knew.
‘The one you released from the ground. The prisoner.’
‘We can’t worry about him as well,’ Nathan said. But the worry remained, niggling at the edges of his mind, and he couldn’t shake it off.
At the bookshop, Alex Birnbaum came in to talk about the cup, and invited Annie for a drink. Michael arrived in time to hear her polite acceptance. ‘Your admirer,’ he said lightly, when Alex had gone.
Annie was conscious of an agreeable warmth about the heart. ‘He’s nice,’ she said. ‘I like him.’ She wasn’t cruel, but she was female, and Michael was still a married man.
‘I was hoping you’d have dinner with me,’ he said. ‘Friday.’ It was the first time he’d asked her to dinner, and his tone was uncertain.
‘Nathan –’
‘Nat can look after himself.’
She smiled, a little shyly. ‘All right.’
But on Friday morning, Rianna Sardou came home.
Michael telephoned to tell her, sounding both embarrassed and apologetic. ‘The Georgia tour was cut short – political unrest or something, too near Chechnya for comfort I expect. Maybe we could do dinner next week. She’ll be in London reading for a new production of Macbeth.’
Which role? Annie wondered. Banquo’s ghost? And which Rianna had actually ‘come home’ – the real one, or the spirit who wore her face? In addition, the idea of dining with Michael on the quiet, when his wife – or someone who might be his wife – was around, troubled her conscience.
‘It can’t have been her you saw in London,’ Michael added. ‘She’s been in Georgia all the time. I fished.’
Annie said something noncommittal, and hung up. After a minute’s reflection, she tried Bartlemy’s number, but he was out, probably finalizing arrangements with Rowena Thorn. When Nathan came in to lunch, he found his mother distracted. She told him Michael had cancelled, but not why, and she had never got round to describing the horror from the river. She was picturing it, going to the tower to sleep (did it sleep?), worse still, sharing a bed with Michael.
She had to know.
Michael had told her he would be out that afternoon; he was involved in a special project at the university run during the vacation for non-students. Around three, with one of Nathan’s door numbers in her pocket – though she didn’t know if iron would be any use against the water-spirit – she closed the shop and walked round to Riverside House.
It looked very quiet, sleeping in the sunshine, neither ominous nor welcoming, both picturesque and bland. It occurred to her that unlike most village houses in the pith of the afternoon it didn’t actually appear to sleep, it had too little personality – it was more like a show house than a real home, all façade and interior décor, no heart. She rang the doorbell and waited, her pulse thumping, listening for the sounds of an approach.
She heard nothing. No footsteps, no fiddling with handle or lock
– nothing. The door jerked abruptly open, and Rianna was there.
For a second – less than a second – Annie wasn’t certain. It looked like a woman, flesh-and-blood, jeans-and-sweater, bare feet with painted nails, dark hair swept up in a butterfly clip with long strands escaping down her neck. She knew a pang of guilt – if it was a woman – because a woman could be wronged, and hurt, whatever Michael had said about the state of their marriage. And then she looked into the eyes, and knew. There was a blackness there beyond iris or pupil, the dark of the ocean depths where no light has ever been since life began. And no human feet could have approached so noiselessly on such a quiet day – bare feet, where surely a normal person would have worn sandals, bare feet which had left faint damp prints on the rug behind her …
Annie felt her face whiten and knew she had betrayed herself. It was all she could do not to run. But her voice, when she found it, was steady enough. ‘I was looking for Michael. I’ve come across a book I think would interest him, a history of Victorian London. Is he in?’
‘No,’ said the thing, baldly. Perhaps it didn’t comprehend the significance of her pale cheeks; perhaps, even after the chase, it thought she could be deceived. ‘I’ll tell him you called.’
And then, in an altered tone: ‘How is your son?’
There was no threat in the question, rather a suppressed fever, a kind of greed. Annie felt an unexpected surge of anger, scattering her fears – the ancient, primitive rage of a mother protecting her child. She remembered Bartlemy’s gesture of dismissal when the spirit had appeared in the circle, the single word of Command. She forgot that she had no Gift, no power. She flung out her hand, cried: ‘Envarré!’ The thing that was Rianna Sardou seemed to flinch. It wavered, its substance changing, dissolving into a form of roiling water which reached out to seize her. She tried to resist, but her throat was held in a grip as strong as the currents of the sea, and fluid fingers streamed into nose and mouth, and water rushed into her lungs …
She came to, choking, vomiting a fountain onto the planks of the jetty. She was lying by the river, soaking wet and shivering, and Michael was bending over her with an expression of relief on his face, having evidently applied artificial respiration. ‘What happened?’ he said, giving her no time to answer. ‘I found you here – in the river. I heard a cry, and then I found you – I thought you were dead – I thought you were dead …’ His concern was so evident a warmth flooded through her that almost stopped the shivers. ‘Thank God I came back.’
‘Why –’
‘I’d forgotten a load of essays. No point in going without them. Thank all the gods …’
He carried her up to the house, saw that she could undress herself, provided her with bathrobe, blanket and hot sweet tea. ‘I don’t know where Rianna’s gone,’ he said. ‘I thought she was around this afternoon. What were you doing here? What happened?’
Annie faltered. She couldn’t lie any more – he was in danger – but he would never believe the truth. She would have to compromise. ‘I c-came to see Rianna,’ she stammered. ‘I wanted to ask her – about that time in London. I was so sure it was her. I thought if I asked her – if I saw how she reacted – I would know for certain. She opened the door – her manner was very strange. Then everything went black. I don’t even remember being near the river. She lunged at me – and everything went black …’ She hated deceiving him, even by omission, but she could think of nothing else to say. As it was, he looked at her in absolute bewilderment.
‘Rianna – are you saying – Rianna attacked you? But – she can’t have done. Not Rianna. She doesn’t care about me, not like that. We’ve slept in separate beds for years. Even if she was jealous, she’d be dramatic, she’d make scenes, but she’s not violent. She couldn’t … What did she say?’
Annie answered without thinking: ‘How is your son?’
‘What?’
‘She said: How is your son? Michael … this wasn’t – this isn’t about you. I can’t say – I don’t know any more. But it’s not about you.’
Michael stared at her, shock and concern slowly evaporating from his face, to be replaced by the contemplative expression of a scholar scanning some inscrutable antique text. When he spoke, his voice had acquired a new edge. ‘So what is it about?’
She didn’t tell him, she couldn’t, not without evidence to convince him of the impossible. He didn’t press her. She had nearly died – she was obviously shaken – so he took her home, saw she was all right and insisted on informing her doctor. If there was a shade of withdrawal in his attitude, only the most sensitive antennae would have picked it up – but Annie’s were very sensitive. He knew she hadn’t told him everything, he couldn’t believe ill of Rianna: all that was clear enough. Her only consolation was that Nathan didn’t come in till later, so she didn’t have to go through any complicated explanations with him. She would tell Bartlemy … when an opportunity offered itself. That evening, she cooked supper, and Nathan went to the video shop to hire a film, returning with a dark sci fi thriller which did nothing to cheer her up. She slept badly and woke late, to find a note on the kitchen table from her son saying he had already breakfasted and gone out. Panic struck: he could be near the river, pursued by the watery succubus with eyes that opened on the abyss. She phoned Bartlemy, pouring out her fears, but he seemed to think there was no immediate threat to Nathan, and told her sternly in future she was not to go looking for trouble. ‘Good thing Michael was there. Nice timing, coming back like that.’
‘He knows I’m lying to him,’ Annie said awkwardly.
‘Never mind. Women always lie to men: it’s part of the fun.’
Annie knew he only meant to lighten her worries, but she didn’t think it was fun at all.
Bartlemy returned to the preparation of a midday meal which would have induced conviviality between members of Hamas and Mossad, had they ever been persuaded to share it – though he was slightly less confident about the claimants to the Grimthorn Grail. Alex Birnbaum arrived shortly before noon, followed by Rowena and Eric. They assumed Dieter Von Humboldt was travelling with his property.
It had been decided in the end that the cup would come down from London by car, since a secure van would draw too much attention to it. The car in question was Julian Epstein’s BMW, driven by Julian himself, with a guard in the front seat and another in the back, handcuffed to a strong-box containing the Grail. Nathan would have been gratified to learn that both were armed. It drew up outside Thornyhill around one, reversing up the grassy track where Bartlemy parked his Jowett Javelin. The guards were invited inside, but Julian insisted that one remained by the front door. In the drawing room, Bartlemy served a choice of sherry, whisky, gin and tonic.
‘Where’s the Graf?’ Mrs Thorn demanded without preamble, as the newcomers entered.
‘We thought he was with you,’ said Epstein.
‘Well, he isn’t. We thought he’d be with you.’
‘Perhaps he’s delayed,’ Bartlemy murmured, though he considered it unlikely.
Hoover was sniffing the guard unenthusiastically, fixing his concealed holster with a whiskery stare. ‘He any good as a watchdog?’ the man inquired.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Bartlemy. ‘I’ve never asked him.’
Hoover gave a short, somehow pointed bark, ‘almost as if he understood,’ the guard told his wife later. He sat down, clutching the strong-box, and man and dog eyed each other in mutual suspicion.
‘Let’s get on with it then,’ Rowena said briskly. For all her business-like manner, Bartlemy could feel the knuckles of her determination underneath.
‘Not till the owner gets here,’ Epstein responded. ‘Who is this man?’
‘Sorry. Remiss of me. Eric Rhindon – Julian Epstein. Eric works for me. Think he might be able to help us learn more about the cup. Bit of an authority on these things.’
Epstein glanced from Eric to Bartlemy. ‘Everyone you know seems to be an authority,’ he murmured.
‘Hardly
surprising, in my line of work,’ Rowena breezed. ‘Come on, Julian. Von Humboldt’s fault if he’s late. No point in holding things up. The cup’s here: we may as well take a look at it. Then we can start talking.’
But Epstein was adamant. ‘I cannot open the box without Von Humboldt’s express permission.’
‘Surely he has already given it,’ Bartlemy said, pouring a soothing sherry. ‘He would hardly have organized this meeting and arranged for the cup to be brought here if he hadn’t intended it to be seen.’
Rowena opened her mouth to agree and shut it again when Bartlemy, moving across the room, paused to give her shoulder a meaningful squeeze. Julian declined the sherry – ‘I’m driving’ – and then accepted when his host suggested one of the guards should drive back. The guard drank fruit juice, manfully. Eric, in pursuit of new experiences, graduated from sherry to whisky. The alcoholic drinks of his world were clearly as limited as the food, though fortunately his capacity appeared to be up to the challenge.
By two o’clock, when Von Humboldt still hadn’t arrived, Bartlemy proposed starting lunch. Epstein tried Von Humboldt’s mobile without success, and reluctantly agreed. Everyone retired to the dining room, including the guard, who ate with the strong-box in his lap. It was a day of clammy heat and lowering cloud, when the air seemed to be squashed between earth and sky, and the old house offered a welcome haven of cool. Exquisite food and chilled wine did much to relax the ill-assorted party: the guard, mellowed by the atmosphere if not the wine, became indiscreet about former clients, Epstein teetered on the verge of admitting his dislike of the Graf and revived his old friendship with Rowena, and Eric struck up a new friendship with Birnbaum. Bartlemy took a picnic outside to the guard on the door, and kindly stayed to chat, admiring photos of a leather-clad boyfriend and three whippets before returning to the group indoors. It was only when silence fell that they were conscious of tension, not between each other, not any more, but beyond, creeping in from the woods, prickling at the walls of the house. In the sudden quiet Hoover padded to the window and put his forepaws on the sill, gazing out with ears cocked. ‘What is it, boy?’ Bartlemy asked.