Through a Glass Darkly

by Bill Hussey

  ‘Miss Pryce? Mrs Malahyde wishes to see you.’

  ‘I’ll be back in a moment, Peter.’

  As she followed the nurse out of the room, she heard Peter sobbing quietly to himself.

  She followed the nurse through the main house and into Anne Malahyde’s bedroom. Anne was sitting at a dressing table, her hand resting on her stomach.

  ‘I don’t want you coming here anymore. I don’t want you seeing Peter.’

  ‘Look, Peter needs company. He needs …’

  ‘Then I should be the one who gives it to him. Not you. He didn’t even like you, he told me. He just felt sorry for you. I should be the one …’

  ‘But you’re not. You can’t stop me coming here just because it makes you feel guilty. That’s worse than not going to him yourself.’

  ‘I saw the way you looked at me,’ Anne said. ‘Filthy pervert in my house.’

  Oh, let her believe what she wants, Geraldine thought. Peter seemed so far gone that perhaps it was pointless to continue visiting anyway. She had to acknowledge that, in truth, she was thankful for this excuse not to return. How much longer would he last, and would she be able to look at him in the final days?

  ‘I’ll leave,’ she said. ‘But, Anne, if you don’t go to him now, you’ll have to live with the knowledge you abandoned him for the rest of your life. Can you do that?’

  ‘That, in there, is not Peter. I won’t sit by the bed of a corpse and watch it rot.’

  ‘I didn’t see Peter again. He died a few days after the New Year.’

  ‘How did you feel?’ Jack asked.

  ‘I didn’t like Peter very much,’ she said, after a moment’s thought. ‘I would never have wished on him a fraction of what he suffered, but I found it difficult to cry for him. When Brody gave me the news, all I could think of was my last memory of Anne Malahyde. When I left the house, I saw her standing at an upper window, looking out onto the forest. I think I knew then that I was seeing her future. She reminded me of Tennyson’s Lady of Shalott. You know the poem? The lady doomed to stay forever in her tower, only able to see the world through a magic mirror. That’s Anne: locked in that house. Inside her guilt. In her island in the forest.

  Four grey walls and four grey towers,

  Overlook a space of flowers

  And the silent isle imbowers,

  The Lady of Shalott.’

  ‘How did Peter die?’ Jack murmured. ‘Did they ever find out?’

  ‘He opened the room. But that’s Brody’s story. All I have left to tell is what I know about young Simon.’

  Geraldine opened her desk drawer, removed two pieces of card from a plastic sleeve and handed one to Jack. It was a school portrait, composed of the customary lines of pupils bookended by teachers.

  ‘That’s from 1994. Simon was nine years old. He’s third from right in the first row.’

  A small boy, with lank black hair and startling blue eyes, smiled from the photograph.

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘He was remarkable only in that he seemed to be a happy child. Quite an achievement growing up in that environment. Otherwise, he was very average academically, enjoyed sports, could play up occasionally. No different from any boy his age. A year after that photograph was taken, he changed. Suddenly. Terribly. This was taken in the summer of 1995.’

  Geraldine passed him the second photograph. It was almost identical to the first, except that the children were a little taller. Some of the teachers, a little wearier. And Simon Malahyde did not have a face. Jack recalled the lecture theatre scene from Doug Winters’ video.

  ‘The photographer developed several rolls of film; each was the same. He could not explain to me why Simon’s face appeared to have been rubbed out of existence.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Well, that’s the question. I remember he had been speaking about his father around that time, asking me questions. Mr Trent, all I can tell you is that one day I knew Simon Malahyde as a lively, cheeky little boy, and the next he was something very different. He seemed … Old. Old beyond reckoning … A week after this photo was taken, Asher Brody abducted Simon and took him to the clearing in the forest. That is all I know. That is all I want to know.’

  ‘But you must have some idea why Brody took him.’

  ‘Let me tell you about Asher Brody. I have got to know him well since Peter’s death. I have no faith, no belief in God or Providence, but Brody believes in those things, and it comforts me that he does. He took Simon to save him, Mr Trent, and I believe nobody else could have. He failed, that I know, but he tried.’

  There was finality in her voice. Jack got up to leave.

  ‘Mr Trent, you remember I spoke of the Crow Haven children being different? On your way out, you will find our Halloween gallery. The pictures drawn by the Crow Haven children are all on one board, I’m sure you’ll find them most…unusual.’

  Jack made his way down the corridor. Eventually, he came to the gallery which was bordered on each side by rows of little coats. On the main board, beneath bright orange letters spelling out OUR HALLOWEEN DRAWINGS, was the usual collection of pumpkins, witches, vampires and Frankenstein monsters. To the side was a smaller board with only twelve drawings. Whereas the other pictures were brightly coloured, these were done in pencil or charcoal. Each depicted the same scene: a cleared area amongst a grove of trees. Twelve identical stick-thin men stared out at Jack. Their arms were held out at their sides, their clothes, ragged and worn. Patchy hair was drawn standing on end.

  Jack felt suddenly cold. In each of the drawings the figure had been given dark holes for eyes.

  Thirty

  Father Garret was worried. This woman wasn’t a fool. He wondered how much she knew about what had happened in the clearing between Brody and the young ‘Simon Malahyde’. She could have easily found out about the abduction, he supposed, and it would appear suspicious if he did not tell her what he knew.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us that Father Brody had kidnapped Simon?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, it was years ago. And I wasn’t aware that Father Brody had anything to do with your investigation. If you want to know, what happened was that one day Brody just took it into his head that the boy was possessed. I believe he had prior experience as an exorcist, possibly in his ministries abroad. Exorcism is a little outdated in my book. It has been known to affect the minds of priests.’

  ‘But why do you think Brody centred his attention on Simon?’

  ‘I don’t know … Asher had known his father, and Peter Malahyde had died rather dreadfully. Perhaps that was the key. I must say, I lived with Asher and did notice a few signs. Forgetfulness, growing paranoia.’

  ‘In our reports, it says Simon was unharmed but Father Brody was injured.’

  ‘Self-inflicted, stigmata-type wounds. Confirmation of his mania, I suppose.’

  ‘Have you kept in touch with him?’

  ‘Christmas cards. He has quite lost his mind, you know.’

  ‘Do you think it’s possible that Simon might have developed a relationship with Brody? A kind of emotional dependency sometimes flourishes in these cases.’

  ‘No, I must say, I think your case in Brookemoor and Simon’s disappearance are quite unrelated. As for these poor murdered boys, well, I really can’t say.’

  ‘All right. Thank you for your time.’

  As she got up, Garret noticed that her eyes swept the room. Her gaze fixed on the wall opposite his desk.

  ‘Have you lost your crucifix, Father?’

  ‘I’ve had a clear out. Felt I needed some new things.’

  He did not care for the tight smile she gave him. He followed her into the corridor.

  She knows. Get her out before she …

  ‘Wonderful.’ She stopped beside the stairs. ‘I thought this house must have a cellar.’

  Didn’t close the door … Holy Jesus, I forgot to close the door.

  ‘I love the cellars in these old places,’ she said. ‘
All the horrible changes people make to these beautiful old houses; knocking through rooms, plasticky Swedish furniture … but they hardly ever touch the cellar. May I?’

  She was at the top of the basement steps. Beads of sweat sprang out at Garret’s temples and lathered his hair, making his scalp itch. A simple push. Then the scalpel …

  ‘No,’ Garret smiled as naturally as he could. ‘I’m afraid it’s not safe down there. Now, please, I have a sermon to prepare.’

  Once outside, Dawn reconsidered her ideas. She had no reason to suspect Garret of anything, but she could not shake that gut feeling about him. And then, seeing the cellar door, she had wondered ‘What if?’ The mortician’s words came back to her – My guess is that, for the last few months, he was kept in a damp, stone building. A cellar or outhouse.

  She tried to think of any reasonable argument that would convince a magistrate to issue a search warrant. There was none. The dead boys had no connection with Crow Haven and Father Garret had no connection with Simon Malahyde. She could not very well request a warrant just because Garret’s house had a cellar. In any case, it was imperative that she stuck to procedure. Jarski was on her back. It was becoming difficult enough to shield Jack’s eccentricities from the DCI, without her throwing the rule book out the window too. If she wasn’t careful both their careers could be up the Swanee.

  Still troubled, she looked back at the rectory. A crow, perched atop the portico, returned her steady gaze.

  Every muscle in Jack’s body screamed. He was unsure how long he had spent sleeping on the cold tarmac of the Master of Jericho’s parking bay, but the shooting pains in his back told of a few hours at least.

  Since he had been found by the uniform and the porter, it felt as if he had wandered in a daze. Coming to the school, hearing Geraldine Pryce’s tale, had been dreamlike, as if he were out of phase with reality. Just like the Yeager Library. Perhaps he was readjusting to the world after his escape from the reading room. And that was another thing: he still couldn’t remember just how he had escaped. There was no time to consider that now. He had sleepwalked through the morning, and it was only as he left the school that the stories of Yeager and Pryce sparked against each other.

  Jamie was not going to be murdered. Not in any conventional sense. His fate was actually far worse. Jack snapped open his mobile and called Bob Peterson.

  ‘Bob, it’s me. Do you have a hand gun?’

  ‘Don’t think I heard you right there, Jack.’

  ‘It’s a simple question. Do – you – have – a – hand – gun?’

  ‘Look, Jack, what do you want me to follow this kid for anyway?’

  ‘My business, Bob, as I told you. Now, for the love of Christ and all the fucking saints in heaven, do you have a hand gun?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll have a warrant issued, and if I find one in that flea pit you call an office …’

  ‘All right! Christ Mother! I’ve got a Walther P99 semi-auto. Takes the point 40 Smith and Wesson rimless cartridges …’

  ‘I didn’t ask for the specs. I want you to carry it with you when you tail Jamie. Whoever takes over your shift should have a weapon too.’

  ‘I can’t do that. I’ll lose …’

  ‘I don’t want to make trouble for you, Bob. Carry the gun. Use it if you have to.’

  ‘Je-sus … Is this kid Witness Protection or somethin’? Someone coming for him?’

  ‘Yes. Someone bad.’

  ‘Whoa, whoa, just a minute. Does the mother know?’

  ‘No. And you don’t tell her anything, got that? Now, where’s the boy?’

  ‘Hold the line, I’ll call through …’

  Jack heard Peterson swearing under his breath while dialling another phone.

  ‘Hi, yeah, it’s me. The boy? What? Why the hell haven’t you reported that? Tell you what, next assignment for you two butt-munchers: picking the sweetcorn out of my turds, reckon you could manage that? Jack? You there? The boy’s skipped school. Done a runner. It’s all right, though, my monkeys have found him. He’s at that new housing development near Ridgeby, you know it? Look, I’m sorry about …’

  Jack threw his mobile onto the passenger seat, started the car and drove fast out of Crow Haven. He adjusted the rear-view mirror and looked at himself for the first time that morning. His face was smeared with dirt and scratched in several places. He ruffled his hair and a shower of dust and a few stone chips fell into his lap. It was odd, he thought, that Geraldine Pryce had not commented on his appearance. Perhaps living in Crow Haven had inured her to the odd.

  He threw the car around the country lanes, reaching seventy on the straights.

  Thirty-one

  ‘How y’doing, buddy?’

  ‘Not great … Jeeze, Jack, you don’t smell too good.’

  Jack joined the boy sitting on the doorstep. He followed Jamie’s gaze to the dark blue Fiat Punto. The driver spoke into his phone and, a moment later, pulled away.

  ‘He’s been following me,’ Jamie said. ‘Is he a private detective?’

  Jack nodded and blew into his hands.

  ‘He’s crap, don’t you think …? Jack?’

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘I’m scared.’

  ‘Me too, buddy. Me too.’

  The boy bowed over and put his head between his legs. His shoulders trembled as he sobbed. Tentatively, Jack put a hand on his shoulder. He felt the ferocity of the fear working through the kid. For Jack, this demonstration of dependency was something entirely new. He felt proud, somehow, but it was pride tinged with uncertainty. Could he really save Jamie? Hadn’t he just been groping around in the dark, hoping to find answers and defences?

  ‘Come on, let’s get you inside.’

  He led the way to the kitchen and cleared a space at the table. Jamie was still trembling, so he turned up the central heating and Irished their coffees.

  ‘How did you know where I lived, J?’

  ‘I just knew. I keep seeing things … Bridges, doors, corridors. Every time I try to think about it, my mind kinda shuts off. Something happened last night … today. I can’t remember. All I had was this feeling that I had to see you. I needed to tell you that something was coming …’

  Bridges, doors, corridors. Hadn’t someone described Simon Malahyde as ‘Janus-faced’? Jack remembered his father, years ago, reading to him from a book of Roman myth: Janus, God of bridges, passages and doorways.

  ‘I saw this horror film once, where this guy thinks his wife’s a witch,’ Jamie said. ‘He becomes kinda manic and gets the whole town to hunt her down. They catch her and lay her on the ground and put a door on top of her. Then they start piling rocks on the door. It creeped me out … I feel like I’m being crushed, Jack. Like someone’s piling rocks on me. Pushing me out bit by bit …’

  Jack’s mobile rang. Jamie spilt his coffee across the table.

  ‘No-one’s gonna hurt you, J. I promise. Look, there’s a stack of old Green Lantern comics in the corner. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  Jack stepped into the corridor and flipped open his phone.

  ‘Yeah, Jack Trent.’

  ‘Mr Trent? Asher Brody, how are you progressing?’

  Jack kept the kitchen door open a crack. He watched Jamie pick through a box of old DC issues.

  ‘The picture’s becoming clearer, yes.’

  ‘Good. I know you’ve seen Miss Pryce. It’s almost time for answers. But first …’

  ‘It’s time for answers now. I won’t run around on some paper chase of clues. I know you think you have to introduce me gently; though I’d hardly call sending me to a library that might have imprisoned me for the rest of time the ‘softly-softly approach’. I know weird, Father. Believe me. I really don’t think you’re gonna shock me.’

  ‘I wonder. What do you think you know?’

  ‘Peter Malahyde couldn’t face the death that awaited him. He found out about the metempsychosis ritual. Before he died, he murdered two boys, performed the rite and p
ossessed the body of his unborn child. Simon Malahyde was a vessel for his father. My guess is that the possession is finite, seventeen years or so and dad has to vacate the premises. He organises a second ritual, kills Oliver Godfrey and another boy and sets his sight on a new vessel. How’m I doing?’

  ‘Metempsychosis cannot be worked in the way you’re suggesting. An unborn baby cannot be used as a vessel. It must be a child on the cusp of adulthood. But before we consider who or what Simon Malahyde was, we must see how things stand now. I’ve seen the latest news report; a second child has been found dead.’

  ‘Stephen Lloyd?’ Jack asked, remembering the name of the boy whose parents he and Dawn had arranged to meet last night.

  ‘That was the name,’ Brody confirmed. ‘The fat of both boys must already have been harvested. If we surmise Simon died last Monday, on the day he supposedly ‘disappeared’, then the spirit that possessed him has only two days left to effect a new metempsychosis. By Thursday, the ritual must be complete or the spirit will be too weak to invade a new body. We must locate the intended vessel and …’

  ‘He’s reading comic books in the next room.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Trust me, I know the boy he wants. What I don’t know, is how to protect him.’

  ‘I’ll take care of that. I’ll be in touch.’

  The phone went dead. Jack stood at the door for a moment and watched the boy. He had studied the changes that fear had wrought on his own face over the years. Subtle alterations around the eyes and mouth that only the truly fearful can recognise but, if asked, could never describe. He saw how fear was now beginning to eat away at Jamie Howard.

  ‘J, I think you should phone your mum, tell her where you are.’

  ‘OK … Mum won’t believe this, Jack. She’s not the sorta person who sees things.’

  ‘She’ll have to believe. Call her. Tell her I have to talk to her.’

  Jack waited at the kitchen table, flipping through the comic Jamie had been reading.