Shadows

by Thorne Moore

  ‘It’s been stimulating.’ I looked around. The room was tidy and suddenly much friendlier, as if a poltergeist had been exorcised. ‘I’m sure everything here is fine. How are the bathrooms? I gather they’d got into a bit of a state.’

  ‘They had, rather. I told RPR we’d better do something or you wouldn’t have us back again, so we’ve sorted out a rota.’

  I smiled. Vicky obviously knew how to handle her professor. ‘Any interesting finds since you arrived?’

  ‘Well, nothing like Bertie, although I mustn’t call him that in front of RPR.’ Vicky handed me a mug. ‘Poor man, you know what students are like. He wants them to study his spindle whorl and they just want to talk about the Bogman. Well of course they do. A real body is extraordinarily fascinating, whatever its date, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, fascinating.’

  ‘How do you think he came to be there?’

  ‘Who can say? So, what brought you on this dig, Vicky?’

  ‘Oh, you know, keeping up with the grandchildren. I didn’t want to them to think their granny’s stagnating quietly in the corner. We all went to Pompeii last year. Saw the bodies there, of course. Well, the plaster casts. Not quite the same as the real thing, is it?’ She caught my wince. ‘I don’t suppose you see it in the same exciting light, living here. Didn’t you have some walled-up bones too? Bodies right on your doorstep – can’t have been very pleasant.’

  ‘Not exactly pleasant. I’ll be quite happy if all you find from now on is pottery.’

  Vicky laughed. ‘And Hannah’s brush, I hope, or we’ll be in real trouble.’

  *

  ‘Hannah’s been turned out of Ronnie’s H.Q.’ I was taking a furtive break with Al, up in the woods. ‘And she is not a happy bunny.’

  ‘She never was.’ He shook his head. ‘Not happy, and definitely not a bunny. Something scaly. Maybe if she’s obsessing over lost brushes, she’ll quit berating Molly about the sacred well.’

  ‘Still at daggers drawn, then?’

  ‘Hannah is. Molly’s decided she’s a wounded soul, needs healing.’

  ‘Needs to go home, more like it. Why on earth does she stay, when everything makes her so miserable?’

  ‘Beats me.’ Al was sitting beside me on a log, while I idly plaited blades of grass and he worked on a detailed architectural drawing, on his laptop.

  ‘She wouldn’t come to our Fayre,’ I said, tossing the plait away. ‘So with any luck she won’t turn up at your party.’

  ‘Party?’

  ‘Tamsin tells me you’re expecting Joe and Padrig back from Peru, and you’re planning on throwing a wild celebration.’

  Al glanced at me, almost apologetically. ‘How do you feel about that?’

  ‘Fine. Should I mind?’

  ‘Not if you don’t.’

  ‘I’m sure Sylvia and Mike will be delighted. Sylvia loves a party.’

  Al opened his mouth to say more, then changed his mind.

  ‘At least it will give Hannah something to complain about; a wild bacchanalian orgy in the woods. Are we all invited? Dancing naked round the bonfire?’

  ‘Do I sense a lack of proper reverence, Mrs Lawrence?’ asked Al. ‘It’s our festival of Lughnasadh. A bit late but you have to allow for Peruvian adjustments.’

  ‘So is it a harvest festival, sort of thing? We could bring bread and wine?’

  ‘Perfect.’ Al shut his laptop, fished out a sheet of paper, and stood up. ‘I’ve got a drawing for Mike. Come on.’

  I eyed the solar-charged state-of-the-art laptop under his arm and thought of solemn pagan festivals. ‘Just how much of it do you believe, Al? Lughna-whatever and all that. Do you really believe in earth forces and ley lines and sacred springs?’

  ‘I’ve heard worse ideas. Is it any crazier than Creationism? Or a heavenly father inviting Abraham to cut his son’s throat?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ I smiled. I’d already known the answer; Al was a man who hoped to believe.

  ‘I’m not a dogmatic guy,’ he said.

  ‘You’re willing to try on every coat for size.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Above us, on its rock, as we walked down through the woods, stood the white Taranis shaft, greening now in the dampness of the wood. ‘I wonder what coat Mike would show me in?’ said Al, glancing up at it. ‘He does that, doesn’t he? Sculpt people. I always think of that one as you.’

  ‘Cold isolation?’

  ‘No. Reaching up to the light, out of the shadows.’

  ‘Oh. Thanks, I prefer that. Reaching up, even if I can’t quite touch it.’

  ‘Yes you can. Touch it and fly. You can, you know.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘So how do you reckon he’d sculpt me? I suppose he’d have me as…’ Al stopped as the trees thinned, offering a clear view down the track to the end of the workshops.

  A red sports car hovered there, a haze of fumes pulsating from its exhaust.

  Christian. My heart sank in anticipation of another explosion. Then I realised that he wasn’t alone in the car. Kim was sitting by him.

  Al thrust the laptop into my hands, then started forward again, not running but striding so fast I was left behind. Christian handed something to Kim as she opened the door. A package? She got out, turning with a look both guilty and defiant, as her brother descended on her.

  I heard a squeal of laughter from Christian as he pulled the door shut, revved up yet more, then spun the car round, churning the grass beside the drive, and roared away back to the lodge gates, while Al was still yards away.

  Al didn’t stop in his stride. Without a word or hesitation, he plucked the paper bag from Kim’s hand. Then he came to a halt and looked inside.

  She glared at him. The air burned between them. She held out her hand, and he returned the package.

  ‘He gave me a lift, okay? Leave me alone, Alistair!’ She pushed the packet in her coat and ran past me without another word, her face like thunder.

  Al looked up at the sky, raised his hands in a gesture of prayer and thumped the crown of his head.

  ‘Not drugs?’ I suggested.

  ‘Violin strings.’

  ‘Oh no. At least, that’s good of course, but—’

  He silenced me with a look.

  So it was just a man giving a girl a lift, and Chris hadn’t lingered. But he had entered the forbidden land again. Not to stay, not to beg or demand, just to demonstrate that he could.

  ‘You’d better go and make your peace with her,’ I said.

  ‘Can’t see that’s going to be too easy, with Christian Callister in the neighbourhood,’ said Al. ‘One of us is going to have to go.’

  *

  ‘Christian was here.’ I watched Sylvia’s expression run the gamut of pain, worry, guilt and nervousness.

  ‘Did he – where—’

  ‘He didn’t stay. He was dropping someone off. How is he? I expect you’ve been keeping an eye on him?’

  Sylvia looked sad. ‘Yes. I had to make sure he at least had a roof over his head. He can’t go home, you see, because, well, I think he has money problems. Debts. Quite serious. But he can’t come here. Not again.’

  I must have shown my surprise that Sylvia was so reconciled to the ban. I had suspected her maternal instincts were proof against any calamity.

  ‘Not after what he did, this time.’ Her wry smile made me want to weep for her. ‘I feel so guilty about that.’

  ‘Does Christian, though?’

  ‘He claims he really thought the dog was going to…’ She gave up. ‘No, he doesn’t feel guilty. Do you think he’s capable of it? Have I produced a monster, Kate?’

  ‘No,’ I said, which was absurd, because we were both internally screaming yes.

  At least, I thought, Llys y Garn was safe for a while longer. I had reckoned without the determination of the monster himself.

  At eleven on Friday night he was back.

  For once he must have driven up sedately, without a screech or crunch, because we heard not
hing until he walked into the drawing room, bag on his shoulder, hands in his pocket. Perfect timing; we were all about to go to bed. None of us were geared up for a fight with a sneering puppy.

  Michael frowned, his jaw stiffening, but he had no time to speak before Sylvia jumped up, her hand at her throat, already in an attitude of supplication.

  ‘Oh Chris, what are you doing here?’

  ‘And where’s my phone?’ demanded Tamsin. ‘Pig.’

  Christian gave a shrug and an almost conciliatory smile. ‘Got chucked out of my lodgings.’

  ‘Oh Chris! What have you done now?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He looked wounded. ‘They had other people booked in. Needed my room.’

  Michael looked pointedly at his watch. ‘You’ve had ample time to find somewhere else, I’d have thought.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s Bank Holiday, innit? Everywhere’s full up.’

  ‘Then go back to London.’

  ‘Sure, right.’ A touch of sarcasm. ‘In the morning. What do I do tonight?’

  I saw Sylvia’s hand close on Michael’s arm, the pleading squeeze.

  ‘You could sleep on the side of the road,’ suggested Tamsin. ‘Like where you dumped me.’

  Christian ignored her. He too had seen Sylvia’s gesture. ‘All I need is somewhere to kip for a few hours. I’m dead tired, okay? Otherwise I’d drive through the night. You don’t want me to cause an accident.’

  Michael’s lips were pressed together, but Sylvia was already lowering the drawbridge. ‘One night. That’s all. We meant what we said last time, Chris. We can’t have you back here.’

  Her caveats were irrelevant. Christian had the surrender he’d been angling for. She turned to Michael. ‘One night?’

  ‘Take your bag back to the car,’ said Michael. ‘Sylvia can find you a toothbrush, assuming you use one. No need to clutter the house with your luggage, whatever it contains. You leave first thing.’

  Christian grinned. ‘Sure. First thing.’

  *

  Of course, he didn’t. First thing the following morning, Sylvia was at his bedroom door with a cup of tea, only to find the room empty, his crumpled bed abandoned.

  ‘He’s gone,’ she said, the tea slopping as her hand shook.

  ‘I didn’t hear his car.’ I joined her on the landing and we peered, through the tall stair window, at the red Lotus, still parked in the courtyard. ‘Wherever he’s gone, he hasn’t gone far.’

  Michael surveyed the car, his expression inscrutable.

  ‘I can’t imagine where he’s got to,’ said Sylvia. ‘Maybe he’s gone for a walk, to clear his head.’

  Michael’s mouth twitched into a smile, despite himself. ‘I’m sure he’ll reappear. When he’s had his exercise.’

  ‘I’ll make him a packed lunch,’ said Sylvia. ‘To see him on his way.’

  But Christian wasn’t around to eat the packed lunch. Nor dinner. I knew exactly what he was doing. Nothing. He finally turned up at nine, threw himself on a couch and yawned. ‘Shit, I’m exhausted.’

  ‘You were leaving first thing.’ Michael didn’t waste time asking for the explanation Christian was clearly itching to give. ‘You’ve left it a little late, but you can be on your way now.’

  ‘You kidding? Have you seen the holiday traffic?’

  ‘Any traffic is coming this way, not going. Go now, please.’

  ‘Where have you been?’ asked Sylvia. She had to give him his opening.

  Christian looked hurt. ‘I had to get some cash, didn’t I? Someone’s nicked my cards, I’ve got one quid left and I’m just about out of petrol.’

  ‘You could have asked me,’ said Sylvia. I ground my teeth.

  ‘People owed me money, okay. I thought I’d collect – but I didn’t want to waste the little juice I’d got, so I walked.’

  ‘Oh you silly boy.’

  How far had he walked? Up into the trees, safely out of sight and spent the day gently snoozing, most likely.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve got cash for gas now, so I’ll go first thing tomorrow, okay?’

  *

  And of course he didn’t. The poor soul was so exhausted by his efforts that he slept on. It delayed his departure, but it also gave Michael the opportunity to rummage through the pockets of Christian’s discarded jeans for his car keys. I found him in the Lotus, starting the motor. I peered in. The petrol gauge twitched into life. The tank wasn’t full, but neither was it empty.

  ‘You’re not surprised, are you?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’ Michael switched off. ‘Is he capable of telling the truth about anything?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  Sylvia was at the kitchen door, watching as Michael climbed out. Clearly steeling herself.

  ‘I’ve been having a word with him, Mike.’

  ‘He’s awake, is he? Good. He has more than enough petrol to make it to the motorway.’

  ‘Now, I – has he? Oh good. But listen. He’s right, you know. It is the bank holiday. The roads will be terrible.’

  I laughed. ‘The roads will be terrible because people are on them. If families with screaming kids can manage, I’m sure Christian can.’

  ‘But that’s not the point, is it? He’ll only add to the traffic, and why make it worse for everyone else?’

  Michael tutted in exasperation. ‘That is ridiculous.’

  ‘All I’m suggesting is that he stay here until Tuesday. The weekend traffic will have eased by then.’ She must have realised the feebleness of her own argument, because her face crumpled as she took Michael’s hands. ‘Please, Mike. Don’t make me beg.’

  He heaved a sigh, pulled her to him and kissed her forehead. ‘Sylvia Callister, what am I going to do with you?’

  ‘Just till Tuesday.’

  ‘What you doing with my car?’ asked Christian. The bronchitic growl of the ill-used engine had hauled him down, half-dressed. He was still playing on his mother’s goodwill, so he tried to make it sound mere polite curiosity.

  Michael looked at him impassively. ‘I gather you are staying until Tuesday.’

  ‘Yeah, well, Mumsy suggested it.’

  ‘Oh I—’ began Sylvia, but Michael hushed her.

  ‘Assuming you behave, you can stay till then.’ He shut the car door, and locked it. ‘You won’t be needing the car until you leave, so I’ll hold onto the keys.’

  ‘You…’ Christian started and stopped. ‘What about my bag and stuff?’

  ‘We can let you have clean linen if you want it. The rest you can manage without.’

  Sylvia opened her mouth to object, then changed her mind. It was enough that Michael had been persuaded to let him stay.

  I could have crowed at the sight of Christian wrong-footed at last. But somehow it wasn’t enough. We were committed to having him on our hands for another two days. At least another two days. Would he really leave on Tuesday? I doubted it.

  Chapter 20

  I was sitting in the twilight, beside the sculpture of the leaping hare. Michael was in the house; there was no one to overlook me. A scouring pad might do it. No, it didn’t. I would have to try something else. Sandpaper? There must be some in Michael’s workshop. I got up and slithered down the slope.

  Al was standing on the drive, shielding his eyes as he gazed down towards the lodge.

  ‘Hello,’ I called softly.

  He turned, raised a hand and strolled towards me. ‘You haven’t seen Kim, have you?’

  ‘No, not today. Is she missing?’

  Al shrugged off any suggestion of panic. ‘Molly wants to discuss the festival with her. She’s usually back by now, but she was talking about going to Aber.’ He glanced at the pad in my hand. ‘What are you doing with that?’

  ‘Surreptitious repairs.’ I nodded up towards the arching hare. ‘Someone has done a bit of defacing. Started off with a penknife and finished off with felt tip. I’ve got rid of the T and most of the N. The C and U are defeating me.’

  ‘Show me.’ We clambered up and Al exam
ined the vandalism with disgust. ‘Let’s guess who did this.’

  I met his eyes apologetically. ‘Yes, Chris is here. The deal is that he leaves on Tuesday.’

  Al laughed angrily.

  ‘I know. What can I say? Michael’s confiscated his car keys till then, so I suppose this is Chris’s revenge.’

  Al took a deep breath, running the tips of his fingers over the damage. ‘He’s sick. But too lazy to make a good job of it. I think I can smooth it out.’

  He had, predictably, a Ray Mears knife in his pocket and he set to work, delicately shaving away the wood around the scars and scratches. ‘Not so bad.’

  ‘Thanks. I hoped Michael wouldn’t have to see it.’

  ‘No saving the other one, I imagine.’

  ‘The Windhover? No. Michael’s brought it back to the workshop, but half of it’s just matchwood now. God, what a mess.’ I watched Al eliminate the last scratch, then stand back to survey the job. ‘Can you come back to the house? Have a coffee?’

  ‘I really ought—’

  ‘Please. I’m beginning to dread stepping across the threshold, with Chris around. Give me some moral support.’

  He smiled in surrender. ‘Okay.’ He gave the repair a last wipe over, then took my hand and helped me back down to the drive.

  The kitchen was empty; no Christian. Of such brief moments of relief did happiness now consist. I filled the espresso machine, and took mugs down from the dresser.

  Sylvia’s voice wafted through from the drawing room. Judging by her tone – desperately jolly – Christian was with her. I paused, hand clasping a mug like a defensive weapon.

  Al delivered his moral support with a kiss on the back of my neck. ‘I’ll stand guard,’ he whispered.

  I laughed softly, leaning back against him. Then jumped as the doorbell clanged.

  ‘Front door.’ I put the mug down.

  ‘Jehovah’s Witnesses?’ suggested Al. He understood no one used the front door, but I knew one who did.

  ‘Hannah, more likely.’ I reluctantly made for the entrance hall, but Sylvia was already there, struggling with the door, so I shamelessly hung back.