by Simon Clark
CHAPTER 11
10 a.m. Saturday.
Bernice Mochardi killed time. She’d decided after all that the blue nail varnish made her look fifteen and she’d taken it off with remover.
Then she’d mooched downstairs to the Dead Box, half hoping there might be another piece of luggage belonging to Mike Stroud, the film maker with the blond hair and glasses. She’d found nothing but the usual stacks of cheap suitcases and the ancient vacuum cleaners lined up against the wall.
I promised myself I’d watch the video in daylight, she thought; I could do that now. Would it be different? After all, it never seems exactly the same twice. As if someone secretly sneaked the tape from her room to add more footage or edit out earlier scenes.
Instead, she drifted through into the public bar. At this time of day the hotel served coffee and sandwiches to elderly shoppers.
Unable to settle there as she sometimes did with a coffee and a magazine, she moved back into the lobby where she eyed the door to the basement like a child eyeing brightly coloured berries on a bush. Like that child wanting to eat one of the shiny red berries, she wanted to go down into the cellar. But as berries on ornamental bushes are probably poisonous so that cellar door emitted danger signals too. She could feel them coming to her in cold waves.
She looked at the clock above the reception desk. Ten-thirty.
Already she’d decided to confide in Dr Leppington. Now she wanted desperately to tell him what she’d experienced in the hotel. At the first opportunity she’d suggest that they watch the videotape together.
Bernice mooched across to stand on the steps of the hotel where she gazed out at the hills, imagining what the doctor’s reaction would be when he saw the young man in glasses being dragged from the room.
The wind gusted, sending sheets of newspaper gliding across the market square. She shivered and walked back into the hotel.
2
Rain had begun to fall by the time David reached his uncle’s house. Well, it didn’t so much fall, he thought, as fly horizontally in the stiff breeze gusting up the valley. Rain drops cracked against his coat like bullets.
The moment he saw the three-storey house he felt that tingle of recognition. Like most of the older properties in the area it was built of stone beneath a roof of orange and red pantiles. But this one resembled a fortress. A high wall, probably higher than he could reach with his fingertips, surrounded the house and gardens.
He pushed open the heavy iron gate (that’s the kind of gate to keep folk out, he thought — or your lunatic cousin in), and walked into a garden that was neat without being fussy. Rose bushes were pruned almost to the black earth; a dozen apple trees shifted restlessly in the wind like they had secrets that they needed to get off their chests.
Behind the house a hill rose almost as steep as a cliff. The top of the hill was smothered in black cloud. As he walked up the path he saw that to one side of the house ran a fast-flowing stream; he guessed this was the stream that had once powered the mill itself, although there was no sign of the mill building now.
The rain struck him harder, stinging where it hit bare skin.
Hell of a fine day for a walk, he told himself, as he hurried along the path to the front door. You should have taken the taxi after all. And missed the fun of finding that old drain again? And remembering how you’d once seen all those white footballs floating through the darkness?
He smiled and shook his head. Memory can play strange tricks.
He was probably muddling reality with a dream he’d had when he was a child.
Didn’t he used to dream he was being chased down a long dark tunnel by a man — or at least a great shadowy figure? The dream used to come as regular as clockwork — probably after a supper of cheese on toast, he shouldn’t wonder.
He paused at the front door. Hell, it must be a long time since I had that dream. Probably the last time was at university.
Fixed high on the door was a heavy black iron ring. He raised it and let it fall. The huge sound it produced went echoing into the deepest recesses of the house.
Enough to wake the dead, he thought with a smile. Come on, Uncle George. Don’t leave your nephew out in the cold.
After the knocking for the third time he realized there was no one home. He had sent a brief letter a few days ago to let his uncle know he’d be there for ten-thirty. He’d even followed it up with a couple of telephone calls. Only there’d been no one there. Still, he’d left messages on the answer machine.
Half an hour ago he’d been relaxed about the idea of strolling up here on the off chance his uncle would be in, but the walk had turned into more of a hike up the steep lane out of town. Now, with the rain coming down, he realized this wasn’t going to be fun. Not one little bit.
Maybe the old man’s at the back of the house? He must be eighty if he’s a day. He imagined a wizened old man, shuffling round the kitchen in baggy checked slippers, perhaps taking the weight of his ancient bones on a Zimmer frame.
Then again, he might even have had a fall. Maybe he was lying flat out at the bottom of the stairs, too weak to haul himself to his feet or to cry out when anyone knocked.
He clattered the iron ring against the iron stud in the door.
Damnation. Now his imagination had supplied the picture of the old man lying half dead, perhaps with a fractured hip, David knew he would have to satisfy himself that there really was no one home.
So much for duty visits.
Forget it, Doc, said a voice in the back of his head; just turn round and head down into town; remember those lovely gooey buns in the cafe. Treat yourself to one. You can always come again. Better still, just tell your father that whenever you came up here there was never anyone in. He’ll understand.
David sighed. No. He couldn’t just walk away. He’d have to nose round the back first to make sure nothing was amiss.
Hunching his shoulders against the rain, he followed a stone-slabbed path to the rear of the house.
Through the windows he could see tidy but gloomy rooms — a sitting room with cream leather suite, a stuffed owl on the windowsill; then a kitchen — quaint farmhouse-style worktops with an iron range that combined open fire and oven. The back door was locked.
Bugger.
Cold rain trickled down his neck.
Then he noticed a row of substantial outbuildings built of the same stone. From one pantile roof poked a chimney. Blue smoke puffed out in distinct round clouds.
David headed for it.
He was met at the doorway of the building by a man. He was carrying a long sword whose tip glowed orange. When the drops of rain hit it they sizzled and turned to steam.
David was suddenly unsure what to say. ‘George Leppington?’
The old man nodded, then turned and walked back into the building.
For a moment, David stood there; perhaps the old man didn’t want to see him after all? It was a good twenty years since they’d last met.
More than once recently he had wondered if there was any ill-feeling between his father and George Leppington. His parents sent the old man Christmas and birthday cards but there were never any cards in return.
Uh-oh, big mistake, David, he thought. Perhaps you should just sidle out of the garden and head back towards town. Console yourself with a whacking great bun in the cafe.
Then he heard a surprisingly low voice from the outbuilding. ‘You know, David, it’s drier in here than it is out there.’
That seemed something approximating an invitation so he went inside.
3
His uncle stood in the centre of a blacksmith’s workshop. There was an anvil, leather bellows, a forge glowing yellow with coals — the fire cast out a wall of heat that pressed against the front of David’s body like it was a solid thing. A great iron hood drew away the smoke. On the walls hung all kinds of tools that David wouldn’t in a month of Sundays be able to put a name to, with the exception of a dozen or more hammers of differing sizes — from a tiny
pee-wee-sized one that looked good for nothing more than breaking toffee, to a huge device that looked as if it could hammer down the gates of Hades itself.
The old man lifted the sword he was making and examined the point with a look of fierce concentration. ‘Well, the beastie’s taking shape, but it’ll take a lot of work yet.’
He rested the sword down on a workbench and took off his leather apron.
‘You look cold, great-nephew. Come and sit near the fire.’
Any closer and I’ll burst into flame, thought David, his face tingling from the heat. Nevertheless, he sat down on the stool his uncle had pulled across the dirt floor. He watched his uncle as he hung the leather apron on a nail in the wall. He was a giant of a man and showed none of the shrivelling entropy of a man of eighty-four. At that age the hands should be frail, possibly arthritic, certainly liver-spotted; those were the hands of a man half his uncle’s age. And the man was bursting with vitality and energy. He looked strong as an ox. His face was lined and weather-beaten, but the blue eyes shone with a fierce brilliance beneath a pair of shaggy white eyebrows. And falling down over the forehead was a thick fringe of that same pure white hair. If there was an elixir of life then this man took a damned good swig of it every day.
‘Well, you look like a Leppington. So, there’s life in the old gene yet. How’re your parents?’
‘They’re fine. They’re taking the boat down to Greece this week.’
‘Sailing it down?’
David nodded. ‘It’s been in dry dock over the winter. My Dad was itching to get back to sea.’
‘Ah, that’s the Nordic blood in his veins. It’s in mine and yours too. Good red Viking blood. Tea?’
‘Please.’ David watched the old man take a heavy black kettle and sit it amongst the glowing coals. As they waited for it to boil the old man would ask questions — the polite sort you’d ask a distant family member. He didn’t smile, and spoke in a bluff no-nonsense way.
David found himself answering guardedly.
The old man asked, ‘Sugar? Milk?’
‘Just milk.’
‘You don’t want a slice of lemon in it?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Good. If you’d said yes I’d have picked up that sword over there and taken your head clean off with a single swipe.’
David stiffened, and shot a look at the door.
For the first time the old man smiled. ‘Pardon my sense of humour, great nephew. But I expected you to come here dressed in a pink tie and flimsy little loafers and reeking of pissing aftershave.’ He shot David a keen-eyed glance. ‘They didn’t ruin you by taking you off to the city, then?’
‘Liverpool? Well, we lived on the outskirts of it. And after all Liverpool isn’t Paris or San Francisco.’
‘Glad to hear it, great-nephew.’ He spooned loose tea into a pot. ‘By the way, I can’t keep calling you great-nephew, can I now? Should it be Dr Leppington?’
David smiled. ‘No, just David.’
‘And don’t call me bloody Uncle or I’ll be swinging that sword again,’ the older man said gravely. ‘You’re a man now. Call me George.’
He strode across the floor and thrust out his hand. David shook it. The man’s skin was hard and the grip like iron.
‘George.’ He nodded, smiling.
His uncle — George, David corrected himself, call him George — nodded at the sword. ‘I started making those when I sold up the business a couple of years ago. I wanted something to keep me busy. I didn’t want to start to rot before my time. What would the medical advice be for that?’
Good God, he only retired two years ago — when he was eighty-two? David warmed to the man. He smiled. ‘You’re obviously healthy enough, and if you enjoy it, do it.’
‘My feeling exactly.’ George spoke heartily. ‘I couldn’t let myself seize up until you got here.’
‘Until I got here?’ David looked at the old man, puzzled.
‘You are coming to live here?’
‘Well, I’m here on holiday.’
‘Yes. But you got the letter from Pat Ferman, the GP?’
‘Yes. He was inviting me to consider taking his practice.’
‘He’s a she, by the way.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Dr Ferman is a woman. But then, most professional titles don’t reveal gender, do they?’
‘No…but…’ Suddenly David felt as if he’d lost some significant strand of the conversation. His uncle was talking as if he should have received some long letter of explanation. Only it had never arrived. ‘You’re taking the practice? You’re coming to live here?’
The old man locked his blue eyes onto David’s. The force of the stare was almost shocking.
‘It’s early days yet,’ David said, taken aback. ‘I haven’t decided anything.’
The old man stared hard at David. The wind blew, drawing the fire with a roar. The heat hitting David in the face made his skin smart.
Then the old man broke the stare with a sigh. He turned his back on David as he poured boiling water from the soot-black kettle into the teapot.
‘I should have known,’ George said in a low voice. ‘Your father was never one for meeting a challenge head on.’
‘I’m sorry?’ David felt as if he should defend his father. But from what?
‘Your father should never have taken you away from Leppington.’
‘But he —’
‘Yes, yes. Went where the work was. I know the reasons. Or at least I heard the excuses.’
‘Look, George. You’ve lost me completely.’
‘No. We lost vow. Your mother’s made of something harder than this.’ He picked up the sword and tapped it against the steel vice. ‘She came from outside and cut your father’s roots.’
‘Look, I think it might have been a mistake coming here. My father passes on his best wishes. But I’ll have to be getting back to —’
‘Sit down.’
‘No. The rain’s stopped. If I go now I can —’
‘Sit down.’ George’s hard voice suddenly softened. ‘Sit down, son. Drink your tea.’
David was ready to walk away but something in the old man’s voice made him pause. There was a note of sadness mixed in with the gruff no-nonsense tones. ‘Please, David. Have a cup of tea with me first.’ David nodded, but he knew his body language was telling the old man that he’d politely drink tea with him, then he’d leave.
‘There you go, David.’ He handed him a mug of tea that looked brutally strong. ‘You know, son, the last time I gave you something to drink was at the Station Hotel down in the town. You and your mother and father were early for the train.’
‘I think I remember,’ David said in a low voice. ‘You bought me a ham sandwich.’
The man nodded, the tough expression softening. ‘Your mother was in such a hurry to rush the pair of you out of town that she hadn’t had a chance to get you any breakfast. By heaven, you wolfed that sandwich down like there was no tomorrow. Although I had to do some verbal arm-twisting to get them to spend a few minutes with me in the hotel. Your mother was adamant she’d get the pair of you onto that train and away from here for good. Remember?’
David shook his head and gave a small smile. ‘Sorry, I only remember the ham sandwich.’
‘You were a good lad. Remember when you rode on my shoulders all the way up to the top of Berrick Crag? Pissed it down all the way back, ha!’
Again David shook his head, his smile broadening. ‘I don’t remember that, either.’
‘Ah, all those memories are in there somewhere. They’ll come back.’
‘I remember you carrying me out of the house one night to look at the chimney.’
‘By God, yes! I remember. The thing caught fire.’
‘It looked like a firework. Sparks were shooting out of the chimney pot.’
‘Aye, and they even set fire to the grass in your neighbour’s back garden. Anyone else and they’d have complained to high heaven.’ David shrugg
ed, puzzled. ‘Why didn’t they complain?’
‘Because we’re Leppingtons. They’re frightened of us.’
‘Frightened?’ He shook his head with a puzzled smile. ‘Why?’ George sighed sadly. ‘They’ve told you nothing at all, have they? None of the family history?’ He took a swallow of his powerful brew of tea. ‘I used to talk to you a lot when you were young. Right from before you could talk. Remember anything of that?’
David shook his head, even more puzzled than he had been a moment ago. He sipped the hot tea as his uncle gazed thoughtfully up at the ceiling, blue eyes impenetrable beneath the thick white eyebrows.
Then he nodded slowly, reaching a decision. ‘OK. I’ll tell you. Only there’s one thing.’ He shot David a stern look.
‘And what’s that?’
‘You smile too much. Leppingtons never smile. At least, not in public.’ Then the old man laughed, a deep rich sound that trickled down to vibrate the soles of David’s feet.
Was that some old Leppington family joke? he wondered, unsure of whether he was supposed to laugh along with it or keep stone-faced.
George stopped laughing and rewarded his nephew with a suddenly broad grin. ‘OK, David. Pin back your ears and listen to this.’
CHAPTER 12
George Leppington sat on an upturned crate, facing David. He rested one booted foot on the anvil, the mug of tea gripped in both his hands. Whenever the wind surged up the valley the fire roared in its grate, and the coals turned from red to an. incandescent yellow.
David sipped his own tea, trying not to grimace at its strength. He found himself wanting to avoid giving his uncle the impression that he was some kind of soft, dandified city fop. He also found himself liking his uncle. He reminded him of a robust, outspoken version of his father.
George spoke with blunt strength. ‘David. Did you know that in the slaughterhouse there are sixty-four drains that take the blood from the killing floors straight down into tunnels under the town?’
David shook his head, feeling bewilderment begin to creep back in. George continued, ‘Your great-great-grandfather designed the slaughterhouse himself. Every day something like five hundred gallons of blood goes gushing down the drains, right under the town.’