A Rip in the Veil (The Graham Saga)

by Belfrage, Anna

  Agh! She hopped for a couple of steps, anything to keep weight off her foot. She had a stitch up her right side, she could taste iron in her mouth and her breath was coming in short gasps. Breathe normally! One, two, one, two. There, much better. Her foot – it was killing her, but she was too frightened to even consider stopping, dodging like a hare between boulders and shrubs.

  A long stretch of grass, a horse that came at them from the side, and Alex redoubled her efforts. Arms up, arms down. Feet, move your feet. Extend your stride, pretend you’re Michael Johnson or someone. Michael Johnson? He only did four hundred metres, the wimp, this was uphill and much longer. But she tried, pumping legs up and down. Useless; the ground dragged at her feet.

  The horse came closer and closer, and when she threw a look over her shoulder, she could see reflections dancing off a long blade. Bloody hell; she was going end up sliced to bits. She hiccupped, moved her arms faster – or tried to. The man cheered as he shrank the gap between them.

  “It’s her, it’s her! See? She’s wearing those breeches!” Oh shit; not him again.

  She tried to count them; two behind them, one on the far right, and then this enervating Smith character. Yet another shot, and Matthew yelped, limping for a couple of steps before regaining pace.

  “They got you?” A wheeze no more, but she had to know. He shook his head, but there was trickle of blood flowing down his calf. A ricochet of sorts; her brain grappled with this, happier to be solving this particular dilemma than the one of how to evade all these damned soldiers.

  Matthew pulled her along, plunging down one slope, up the other. It made Alex dizzy. She lost her footing, her hand slipped from his grip, a few decimetres became metres, and the horse was upon her. She tried to run, tripped and landed hard on hands and knees.

  Alex made an incoherent sound; it would kill her, those huge hooves would crush her back, her head, her everything. I’m going to die! No, I don’t want to, please, no, no, no, Pappa, help me, Pappa! No Magnus, but Matthew, leaping back towards her.

  The sword flashed, Matthew twisted out of range, rose to strike the horse across its head with his roll. The animal reared and Matthew pounced, grabbing the soldier by his booted leg and pulling him off. The man landed with a dull thud, flopped and went still.

  “Get up! Move,” Matthew gasped, heaving Alex back onto her feet.

  Yet another incline, more stones, more gorse, and Alex’s teeth ached with the effort, her lungs protested at every panicked breath, and still she could hear the soldiers behind them. She rushed up the last few metres, treading hard on Matthew’s heels.

  “Shit!” Alex came to a swaying halt, arms thrown wide to stop herself from falling down the sheer drop that yawned at her feet. She swallowed and looked at the small body of water, an uninviting black far below; what was this, ten metres?

  “I hate heights,” she said, and then irrationally began to laugh. He took her hand, motioning back to where the soldiers were urging the horses up yet another shifting scree slope.

  “We have to jump.”

  “I know.” Without further thought she closed her eyes and leapt straight out. She landed with a splash, thrilled to discover she was still alive, her limbs intact.

  “Can you swim?” Matthew’s head popped up beside hers.

  “A bit late in the day to ask!” A shot whizzed by and from above came angry shouts. Another shot, this one uncomfortably close and Alex squawked, her mouth filling with water.

  “Dive, swim for the willow.” And just like that he was gone.

  The willow? She was in a state of panic and he expected her to recognise a bloody tree? Well, wasn’t she the lucky one to have a botanist for a father. She submerged herself and swam for the further shore.

  “Matthew?” She surfaced under the trailing branches, gulped down air. “Matthew?” Oh God, oh God. They’d shot him and he was by now floating dead in the middle of the pool, and then what was she to do?

  “Here, Alex, I’m here.” He boosted her up the tree, urging her to climb higher. “We stay here until it’s dark,” he whispered once they were safely astride a branch that hung out over the water, his body like a protective layer round her. Alex nodded and unclenched her hand from around her little wooden doll.

  “They must be here somewhere!” There was an irritated tone to the voice Alex recognised as Smith’s. Persevering bastard.

  “Where do you think they’re hiding, under the gorse?” Smith’s companion asked.

  “No, but perhaps up a tree.”

  “A tree?”

  Alex bit her hand to stop herself from whimpering. And if they came looking, then what? Behind her Matthew had stopped breathing. Well, she hoped not, but it felt that way. His mouth came down to her ear.

  “Your feet. Pull up your feet.” So she did, and he whispered that she should stand, press herself against the trunk. With the agility of a monkey he clambered over to another branch, rose and flattened himself against the gnarly bark. Alex wanted to giggle – alternatively pee. Her toes, her calves, her thighs – all of her cramped with the effort of holding herself upright and still. She didn’t dare to look down. She didn’t dare to move her head, keeping her cheek and ear squished against the tree. She could hear her own pulse, loud but surprisingly steady. From below came sounds. Someone was shaking the lower branches, banging at the trunk. There was a loud curse.

  “Now what?”

  “I slipped. This tree grows more in the water than out of it.”

  “Afraid of water, Smith?”

  “I can’t swim, can I?” Smith did some more branch shaking. “Not here.”

  It was probably no more than five minutes before Matthew decided they could sit back down. It felt like half a century. Besides, there was no way she could sit down. Her limbs had gone rigid, shivers of tension rippling through the muscles of legs and arms. She’d sunk her fingers so hard into the bark the joints hurt. If she moved she’d overbalance and plunge to her death. She peeked down, swayed. Well; perhaps not death, but close – unless she landed in the water.

  “I’ve got you, aye?” A large hand grabbed hold of her arm. Slowly, centimetre by centimetre she slid down the trunk. Something tore at her cheek. With a little sob she resumed her previous sitting position. The branch swayed when he moved over to sit behind her.

  *

  By the time they made it down from the tree, they were stiff with cold.

  “Do you think it’s safe?” she breathed.

  “Aye, it’s hours since we heard anything last.” He straightened up and looked with disgust at his sodden roll. “We’ll walk, we need to get warm anyway.”

  Alex just nodded, fell into step with him. “They nearly caught us.”

  “But they didn’t, did they?”

  “What…” she broke off, took a steadying breath. “And if they’d caught us, what would they have done?”

  Matthew looked away. “I’m not sure about you, but me they would have clapped in irons – or hanged.”

  “Ah.” She didn’t feel like talking much after that.

  “How’s your foot?” he said a bit later.

  “Okay,” she lied. Every step was agony, and she was quite sure she’d cut herself on the scree, but she had no intention of slowing them down. Matthew pursed his mouth, but left it at that.

  All through the night they walked, Alex setting one foot before the other despite the constant, throbbing pain. She had to work hard not to limp, and it was with relief she sank down to sit once they stopped. He set water to boil and knelt before her to wash her feet. Just as she’d suspected, there was a deep cut on her instep, and he spent extra time on it, ignoring her little sounds of protests.

  “Thanks,” she said once he was done.

  “My pleasure.” For an instant the back of his hand rested against her cheek.

  *

  It took a long time for Alex to relax sufficiently to even consider sleep. All in all, this birthday had been excessively exciting. She closed her hand
around her little doll and wondered if John was thinking as much of her as she was thinking of him.

  Chapter 9

  “John?” Diane shook him. “It’s almost six. Aren’t you supposed to pick up Isaac?”

  He tore his eyes away from the blank computer screen and hitched his shoulders.

  “He’s with Magnus.” A pathetic attempt to distract Magnus from the fact that today was Alex’s birthday. He picked up his Rubrik cube and sat turning the faces. “Do you believe him?” he asked, keeping his eyes on his toy. It was the constant question in his brain these days, from the moment he woke to the second he fell asleep.

  “Who? Mr bloody Hector Olivares? Of course I don’t! Do you?”

  “I don’t know, but he definitely seemed to believe himself, don’t you think?”

  Diane exhaled and shook her head. “Maybe, but what worries me is that you don’t dismiss it as being totally impossible. Time nodes don’t exist, of course they don’t.”

  John swivelled on his chair and looked at her.

  “How would you know?” In fact, he’d come to the conclusion over the last fortnight that he did believe Hector’s time node theory, however borderline crazy.

  “Come off it. You can’t seriously believe anything he said was true. He’s a sick man with an overactive imagination.”

  “He’s a man who just lost his partner,” John corrected harshly.

  Diane looked away. “Sorry.” She reached over and took hold of his arm. “She’s gone, John. We don’t know how, but she’s gone.”

  John swallowed, ashamed of even thinking this, let alone voicing it. “She isn’t coming back, is she?”

  Diane sighed. “No, I don’t think she is.”

  John was on the verge of asking her if she thought Alex was dead, but desisted. He didn’t want to know what she thought – he had no idea what he himself thought. Now and then – now and then? Who was he kidding? More or less constantly – he pondered the possibility that this disappearance might somehow be linked to those months when she’d been gone last time, and at times it filled him with surging hope, because if she came back once she could come back twice, right?

  Mostly it made him hope there was no link, because he never wanted to see Alex as extinguished as she’d been the autumn of 1999. Pregnant and silent, almost inhumanly silent – during the days, that is, because at night she dreamed and screamed. Jesus; it had been a trial, for them both. A trial that grew exponentially worse with the advent of baby Isaac, fathered during those lost months by a man Alex refused to talk about, except to say his name was Ángel Muñoz.

  Those were the only two words she’d ever uttered about her experiences, and only because Magnus had insisted the boy had a right to know – someday. Isaac; all he had left of her now.

  “If…” Diane’s voice jerked him back to the here and now. “…if Alex is gone, what happens to Isaac?” What was she, a mind reader?

  “To Isaac? Why should anything happen to him?”

  “Well, he’s not yours is he?”

  For a moment John considered slapping her. Not his? Of course Isaac was his, had been from that dark December day when he’d been born. A hell of a lot more his than Alex’s – at least to begin with, because Alex had refused to feed him, touch him, have anything to do with him those first few months. Post-partum depression, the doctors had said, but John wasn’t that sure. Even now, with Isaac pushing three, there were moments when John would find Alex watching her son with speculation, an odd glint in her eyes. He frowned at Diane.

  “Of course he’s mine. I’m the only father he’s ever had.”

  “But as per the letter of the law —”

  “What letter of the law?” He could hear it, the panic in his voice, “I’m his dad – no one else. No one, you hear?” He slammed the door on his way out.

  John was still seething as he walked his way across the Princes Street Gardens, making for Fredrick Street and the shortest route to Magnus’ house up by the Botanical Gardens. He was behaving irrationally, and a small voice inside of him was telling him that he should phone Diane and apologise, because none of this was her fault. He stopped by a bench, sat down, and all energy drained away from him so fast it left him spinning inside. Alex, he groaned, rubbed his hand across his face, and began to cry.

  The odd passerby gave him concerned looks, one elderly lady pressed a paper napkin into his hand, but mostly people hastened by the man who sat crying his heart out in the August dusk.

  John cried until his eyes hurt, wiped his nose, cried some more, and finally felt the sobs subside. He jumped when his phone rang, bringing him hurtling back to the here and now and the fact that it was eight o’clock, and he’d totally forgotten Isaac.

  “John?” Magnus’ voice sounded hollow, and John pressed the phone harder to his ear.

  “What?” He closed his eyes as he imagined scenarios where Isaac had also disappeared. “Is Isaac okay? Is he there?”

  “Yes,” Magnus said, still in that strange voice. “He’s fast asleep.” He breathed heavily, a soft sound whooshing down the line. “Will you please come?” John had never heard Magnus sound like that, so he promised he’d be there in twenty minutes, rang off and set off at a run for the closest taxi stand.

  *

  “Keep the change.” John got out of the taxi at the entrance to Magnus’ street. He had his hand on Magnus’ gate when a sudden movement made him stop. He peered into the shadows. There; something moved, leaves rustled. A cat? John squinted in an effort to see. No cat; a man was standing below the window to Magnus’ study, most of him hidden from view by the huge rhododendron. The man grabbed hold of the sill and heaved himself upwards, as graceful as a Russian gymnast. Light spilled out of the window to illuminate his face.

  “Hey!” John broke into a run. Quick as a flash the intruder dropped back to the ground, rushing for the fence with John at his heels. The door banged open.

  “John?”

  John didn’t – couldn’t – reply, driving the man towards the wooden fence. He widened his arms and attempted to grab him. Hector Olivares sneered and kicked him straight in the gut. John folded together like a penknife, and Hector scaled the fence and vaulted over to the other side.

  “Hector Olivares?” Magnus helped John to stand. “Are you sure?” John scowled in the direction of where Hector had disappeared.

  “I’d know that face anywhere.” He straightened up and waved Magnus off. “I’m fine, perfectly capable of walking on my own, alright?” But he was glad to sink down into one of Magnus’ armchairs, a huge mug of milky coffee in his hands. “Thanks.”

  Magnus sat down opposite. “Why would he do something like that? Why…” He broke off. “Perhaps it’s him! That’s my burglar!”

  “You think?” John tried to match his indistinct memories of the burglar with Hector. Both of them slight, both of them agile and strong. Maybe. He sipped at his coffee, gave Magnus a concerned look. The tall man looked tired and irritated. He kept on looking out the window, as if expecting Hector to materialise there.

  “So what was it you called me about?”

  Magnus picked up a small, battered notebook and held it out to John.

  “I found it, in the studio. It was hidden under one of the drawers in the broken cabinet.”

  John took the book from him. Black waxed covers and rounded corners – the old-fashioned kind his gran wrote her recipes in.

  “What is it?”

  “I have no idea. I haven’t read it yet, I…well, I couldn’t.” Magnus’ voice creaked with emotion, eyes glued to the notebook.

  John looked from Magnus to the little book and back again.

  “Why not? It’s just a notebook.” He flipped through it; most of it was blank, here and there the odd sketch, now and then page after page filled with Mercedes’ distinctive, scrawled handwriting. Fountain pen, never ballpoint with Mercedes, and here the ink varied from a fresh black to a faded brown.

  “Look at the first page.” Magnus’ e
yes were extraordinarily blue in the lamplight.

  John opened the book to the first page. The Book of Ruth it said, but Ruth had been crossed over in red, replaced by a wobbly Mercedes.

  “Not that one! The next one.”

  John turned the page. A family tree. Isaac ben Daoud, Jacobo ben Isaac, Isaac ben Jacobo, Benjamin ben Isaac, Ruth bat Benjamin.

  “Strange names,” he said, “Jewish, aren’t they?” He frowned at Magnus. “Mercedes was Jewish? Is she this Ruth person right at the end?”

  “I have no idea; I bloody well hope not, given the dates.”

  John had to squint to properly see the numbers. “Fifteenth century? So not Mercedes then. Maybe this was just a new idea of hers – to write a book.”

  “I don’t think so.” Magnus retook the book, turned a few pages, cleared his throat and read.

  I am Mercedes Gutierrez Sanchez. My husband is Magnus Lind. And once I was Ruth bat Benjamin, but that was very, very long ago.

  “Jesus…” John said. “What is she saying? That she used to be a Jewish girl born in the fifteenth century?” He quelled an urge to laugh; sophisticated, cosmopolitan Mercedes a medieval Jewess? No, totally impossible.

  “It seems so.” Magnus handled the book gingerly.

  “Should we read it?” John’s eyes hung off the notebook.

  “I’m not sure.” Magnus fidgeted in his seat. “I need something to eat first.”

  *

  It was well over an hour later. No matter that Magnus had dragged out the cooking, done the dishes, wiped down the counters and insisted on more coffee, they were now back in his study, the little book a tantalising presence on his desk. Magnus wasn’t sure he wanted to read it, in fact he was regretting not having burnt it when he found it.

  “So,” John said, nodding at the book.

  Magnus made for the shelf where he kept his whisky. In silence he poured them both a drink, returned to where John was sitting.

  “I can read it if you want,” John said when Magnus made no move to pick up the book.