“You know what? You ruined my cigarette and that’s the best you could do. Fuck you.”
The rain roared and became a tumult. The room filled with wind and rage and pouring, pummelling water until all that David Hill ever was washed away to blood and bone and memories.
*
Chapter Seven
John switched off the radio when it came to the news and weather. He knew the news in Norfolk, and he could see what the weather was doing. He drove in thoughtful silence through the high street, where foot traffic was lightening as the shops shut early for Friday. He got onto the one-way system, drove past the council building and into the small car park at the back, reserved for shop owners. He pulled into his parking space and killed the engine.
Then he just sat there, quiet, not really thinking. Not moving.
The clock on the dashboard caught his eye. He was surprised to see it was three p.m. Normally he was back in his shop by two at the latest.
He took the letter off the passenger seat and put it in his jacket pocket. He locked the door after him with the key fob. The indicators blinked twice behind him. He pulled his coat tighter around him as the wind picked up and walked briskly back to his shop.
The phone blinked at him as he stepped into his office in the back room. Even the office was full of books, stacked one on top of the other, right up to the ceiling. His desk was a little haven, his old computer and printer and phone on a battered desk pushed up against a wall. There were no windows in the room, so desperate burglars wouldn’t be tempted by his ancient computer. Bookshops weren’t ripe pickings for burglars anyway.
He pressed the playback button on the phone. It was an older model, with a small tape cassette inside. The tape whirred as the message played.
This is a message for John March. I got your number from the phone book. Erm … I … ah …
There was a lengthy pause. It was a man’s voice. An older man, by the sound of the voice.
John sat on his swivel chair and waited. He began to worry that the tape would give out before the caller got around to his message. If he lost another sale because of his stupid answer machine, he’d be in trouble when time came to pay the rent.
Let me start again. I’m sorry. I hate these things.
Come on, come on. Time’s a-wasting.
My name is Peter Fincher. I represent Wright, Fincher and Larner Solicitors. I’ve been instructed to inform you that you are the sole beneficiary of one David Hill …
“What?”
Our firm are executors of the will. It’s most unusual, Mr. March, but we have been instructed to call you at 2 p.m. precisely … today …
“But he’s not dead!” John shouted at the phone.
Oh, I fear I’m not explaining this very well. It is unusual. I’m sorry. It would be better if we could speak in person. Mr. March, I would appreciate it if you could call me back on …
He gave a number. John didn’t even attempt to write it down. He stared at the phone for a long time. Then he rewound the tape and played it again, to make sure it was real.
It said exactly the same thing the second and third time around. There was only one problem, though.
Mr. Hill wasn’t dead. He’d only been in the shop that morning.
*
Chapter Eight
It was a short walk into town to find the solicitors’ offices. John would have walked to Mr. Hill’s to check he was all right, but he had no idea where the old man lived.
The door to the offices was locked, and he couldn’t see inside, as the glass was frosted, but a buzzer and an intercom were set into the wall beside the door. He held down the call button and waited. The buzzer sounded off somewhere inside the building.
Hello?
“Hello. I’ve come to see Peter Fincher.”
One moment.
The door buzzed and clicked open. John went in, shut the door behind him. He followed a long corridor down to what must be a reception room. It smelled of strong coffee and cigarettes. Obviously, solicitors didn’t have to worry about the ban on smoking in public places.
A very attractive older lady was sitting behind a desk. She smiled at him.
“You must be Mr. March.”
“How did you know that?”
“It’s not every day we have something like this, you know.”
“Like what? I’m not entirely sure what ‘this’ is.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. March. I shouldn’t be gossiping.”
“No, please. Gossip away. Anything to enlighten me would be good.”
A door opened to John’s left, and the heavy smell of smoke wafted in. The receptionist hastily turned away, giving John a small private smile, and made herself busy.
“Mr. March? I’m Peter Fincher.”
John took the man’s hand, carefully. He was very old. His skin was like paper, and his bald head was covered with liver spots. He had watery eyes, but his smile was one of genuine pleasure.
Which, John thought, was extremely strange when you considered that Mr. Hill had died to bring him here. Everyone seemed so happy about it.
“Please come through, Mr. March. We have a lot to discuss.”
“I really don’t understand what’s going on,” John said as the door closed smoothly behind him. He had to screw his eyes up, as they immediately began to water from the smoke. A fat cigar was burning in an ashtray on Mr. Fincher’s antique mahogany desk. It was a far cry from his own tiny office.
“Take a seat, Mr. March. Coffee? Cigar?”
“I’m not being funny, Mr. Fincher, but I’m finding this all a bit … strange.”
“I’m sure you are, young man.”
“Well, I’m glad I’m not the only one. But perhaps you can tell me why everyone seems so chuffed to bits that a man I spoke to this morning has died and left me something in his will?”
Mr. Fincher coughed.
“Mr. Hill was my client for nearly forty years, Mr. March. We’re happy because he was happy. He spoke very highly of you, you know.”
“He did?”
“Yes, quite often. He was very fond of you.”
“Frankly, Mr. Fincher, that comes as a bit of a surprise.”
“Oh, I know that.”
John took the coffee that was offered to him and sat down with a thump. He didn’t understand anything at all. It was exactly like being dropped down the rabbit hole.
“How did he die?”
“I’m not party to that information, I’m afraid. Of course, I sent a policeman to his home to confirm his demise. I’m sorry, in a way, to be the bearer of … um … bad news. Hard man to get to know, wasn’t he?”
“You could say that. I hardly knew him at all. It still sucks, though.”
Mr. Fincher was looking at him kindly. Everyone seemed to be looking at him kindly today, like they all knew something he didn’t. Like he was the butt of a joke, like this day was the start of a riddle.
“Yes. I suppose it does.”
John hated riddles. He hated mysteries.
On top of a tough day, the last thing he needed was enigmatic solicitors and weird phone messages.
“Let’s make this nice and simple, Mr. Fincher. I don’t know what the hell is going on. I’m not going to play guessing games. At the risk of sounding rude, I’m tired and it’s getting late in the day.”
Mr. Fincher looked slightly taken aback, but John couldn’t find it in himself to care about some old man who took pleasure in someone’s death.
“I understand. Of course I do. So, to the chase.”
“If that’s what you call it, then yes.”
“I have been instructed to pass to you certain items from a lockbox intended for you, which is unopened, as per my instructions. Also, you are the sole beneficiary of Mr. Hill’s will, so once the estate is settled, you will inherit Mr. Hill’s fortune …”
“Sorry?”
“You are the sole beneficiary, Mr. March.”
“No. Fortune?”
“Ye
s, Mr. Hill’s estate is worth five-point-two million pounds. An estimate, of course. There are duties, bills to be settled, stocks to be cashed …”
John put the coffee on the floor next to him and put his head between his knees. He stayed that way for a long time, concentrating on keeping breathing, which seemed to be a problem. Spots of light danced over the carpet between his feet.
The word ‘million’ rebounded off the inside of his head. He didn’t hear anything else the solicitor had to say until, eventually, he put his head up.
“Mr. Fincher. I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Why are you all so happy?”
“Mr. March, this is what he wanted.”
“I don’t get it. He wanted to die?”
“No. He wanted you to have certain items in his possession. He wanted you to have the money. It was all he talked about.”
“At the risk of sounding like a broken record … he’s only known me for six months or so, and we barely spoke. ‘You want a book?’ I’d say. ‘No.’ Like that. The whole time.”
Mr. Fincher held up a hand to forestall any further questions.
“Then allow me to go some way toward clearing up your confusion. Mr. Hill wrote this will thirty-three years ago.”
“Oh, come off it.”
Mr. Fincher laughed and clapped his hands.
“Would you like to guess the day?”
John’s heart was pounding from fear, because he could guess, but this had to be some kind of elaborate joke. It had to be. What else could it be?
“No, I don’t want to guess.”
“The day that you were born, Mr. March. The very day that you were born.”
*
Chapter Nine
“Perhaps now you understand why we’re so pleased. Mr. Hill set this in motion on the day that you were born. He’s spoken of this moment for thirty-three years. I’m sure you don’t believe me. We didn’t believe him either. Honestly. I was in my forties when I first met Mr. Hill. I’m seventy-seven years old now. I’ve spent thirty-three years thinking Mr. Hill—David—was a sweet old lunatic. I’m as nonplussed as you are. But this is a once-in-a-lifetime event, for me, for you …”
“For Mr. Hill?”
The solicitor pursed his lips.
“Mr. March, you have to understand … Mr. Hill was looking forward to this day.”
“Nobody looks forward to dying, Mr. Fincher,” said John.
The solicitor nodded. “True. But he talked about you fondly for years. As hard as it is to believe.”
John shook his head and pushed himself up from his chair. He needed to keep moving. If he was moving, he couldn’t be dreaming. He wanted to kick the table, really whack his shin on it. Something good and painful. Just to let him know he was awake. You can’t bash your shin in a dream. You can walk about. You can dream about inheriting millions of pounds in a surprise will from some distant relative, but you can’t hit your shin on a hard mahogany desk in a dream. It can’t be done.
“Mr. Fincher …” he began. He started speaking, but that was as far as he got. He just didn’t know what to say.
“Mr. March. Please. If you’ll allow me, I have the documents, perfectly legal. Would you like to look at them?”
“I’m not a solicitor.”
“It’s a pretty straightforward document. I can explain anything you don’t understand.”
“I’m not sure I could take it in anyway.” John puffed out air and flopped down into the chair. The chair was pretty comfortable. Cushioned. The back was high enough to support a good slouch. Perhaps he’d sat in the chair, drifted off …
But then why was he in a solicitor’s office?
“I need to go.”
The old solicitor’s face dropped. “Please. Just take a look at the document. I have the keys to Mr. Hill’s house and the lockbox. It was Mr. Hill’s wish that you have them today. Obviously, the assets will take some time to liquidate, but the chattels are yours, as of today.”
“I can’t. I can’t deal with this. Not today.”
“It was Mr. Hill’s wish. Please.”
John stared at the swirl of smoke from the cigar on the desk as it billowed away.
Why today?
He didn’t know anyone. There wasn’t anyone to play a practical joke on him.
But five million pounds? Some old guy—sweet enough—left him all his money on the day he was born?
“Got anything stronger than coffee?”
The solicitor gave John a careful smile and nodded. His hand disappeared into some deep drawer in his enormous desk and came out with a bottle of brandy.
He buzzed and told the secretary to bring in a glass.
John didn’t see any of this. He sat staring at the smoke. Thinking. Thinking hard. Trying to see a way around something that wasn’t real.
He sat that way until Mr. Fincher put a glass full of sloshing brandy into his slack hand.
He knocked it back.
No family. His wife, his whole life, torn from him. He didn’t know anyone. He didn’t have anything to lose.
What could he lose?
“All right,” he said. “Let’s open the bloody box.”
The solicitor seemed pleased. He took a key from his breast pocket and opened a door set into the wood panelling. If you hadn’t known there was cupboard behind it, you’d never have found it.
“I took the liberty of removing the box from the safe earlier today.” There was no rust on the box. John had been expecting rust. Like some pirate’s long-buried treasure. It was just a plain metal box, painted grey. About the same size as a shoebox.
The old man passed it across the desk. His hands shook.
“You haven’t seen what’s in there?”
“No.”
John realised the man was desperate to see what was in the box. He’d been waiting for this all of John’s life.
“I’ll give you some privacy. The key,” he said, holding out a small key.
“It’s OK if you want to stay,” said John. Whatever was in the box couldn’t be private, and he couldn’t do it to the old man.
“It wouldn’t be proper.”
“I don’t care. Really. Whatever it is, it’s not personal.”
“Well, I am curious.”
John smiled at the understatement. The solicitor was dying to know what was in the box. The man had waited all this time. He could have opened it any time he wanted. He had the key all along. John tried to imagine the kind of patience that required. The kind of trust Mr. Hill must have had in the solicitor, and the kind of trust Mr. Fincher must have had in Mr. Hill, to hold the box so long, to never look, all the time thinking Mr. Hill was a nut, but being curious just the same. Thirty-three years of curiosity.
“I’m not surprised,” said John, and slid the key into the lock. He twisted it, and the lid clicked.
A small wooden box rested inside. The lid was beautifully carved. John took it out and set it on top of the desk.
Next, a gold pendant. Plain, entirely unadorned, and too big to have ever been fashionable. It was about three times the size of a two-pound coin. He weighed it in his hand. It was heavy. That was probably why it wasn’t on a chain. There was a thick leather thong threaded through a loop at the top of the pendant. John looked at Mr. Fincher, who was standing beside him, looking over his shoulder.
The old man shrugged his narrow shoulders.
John opened the clasp with his index finger and thumb.
There was a lock of black hair within. Nothing else.
“This day’s just getting weirder and weirder.”
“People quite often used to keep a lock of hair in a pendant. A keepsake of a loved one.”
“It doesn’t mean anything to me, though.”
“Nor me, I’m afraid.”
There was a jar in the lockbox too, about the size of a teacup, with what looked like a brass top. The glass and the lid were both green with age. It was full of water, or something similar, that looked brackish. There was somet
hing floating in it.
John shook it.
“Is that a tooth?”
Mr. Fincher held out his hand. John passed him the jar. The old man held the jar up to the light and shook it gently. A canine tooth jiggled in the heavy water.
“It does seem to be.”
There was nothing else in the box, save a letter at the bottom. It was addressed to the solicitor.
“This is for you,” said John. He passed it over.
“This is most unusual,” the solicitor said, but he sounded like he was having the time of his life. He slid his thumbnail under the flap and sliced the letter open.
John waited while he read. He picked the wooden box up and turned it in his hands. It was heavy, like the pendant.
He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with it. He wanted to open it, but he wanted to know what the letter said first.
He waited, jiggling his leg. Various ums and ahs came from the old man at his shoulder.
Eventually the solicitor walked round the desk and sat in his own chair with a sigh.
“None of my business, but …”
“Of course, Mr. March. The letter is instruction for me, that I have been left a considerable sum with a firm of London solicitors with whom I have worked in the past. I’m quite shocked. It is also a simple instruction for you. I don’t understand it at all, but perhaps there is something at Mr. Hill’s home that will shed light on the matter.”
“What is it?”
“The message simply says, ‘Blood and bone and hair and tooth.’”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it, and that you should keep these somewhere safe. Here, please. Feel free to read the letter.”
John took the letter and read it. He read it twice, but it was just as the old man said. There was nothing else.
He looked at the box in his hands. Caught Mr. Fincher’s eye. He raised his eyebrows. Popped open the lid and saw what appeared to be a human finger bone.
He didn’t pick it up. He put it on the table so that Mr. Fincher could see.
“A bone.”
“A finger bone.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well,” said John. “That makes two of us.”
RAIN/Damned to Cold Fire (Two Supernatural Horror Novels): A RED LINE Horror Double: Supernatural Page 3