They'd spent nearly two hours hoping the rain would relent, but it hadn't. Now Matthew had taken the decision to press on regardless. Why the rain should be a problem, Jed didn't understand. But then the proprietor had called them to say there was an urgent telephone call for Matthew. Jed was intrigued. “Who was it?”
Matthew stared at him blankly. “Sullivan.”
“Sullivan? How did he know you were here?”
“I called in to the station. I have to. If not, they would become suspicious and then the whole bloody world would be coming down on us.”
“What did he want?”
“To tell us he'd found out something about Jonathan Kepowski. Something which you're not going to like.”
“There can't be much more that is going to shock me, Matthew. My brother's in the drug-squad. It doesn't get much better than that.”
Matthew ignored the caustic sarcasm, turned and went into the back room to pay the old lady for their night's stay.
“It'll be blowing over soon,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron as she emerged from the darkened room. Jed seemed to recall she said the same just after breakfast.
They ran out to the car and clambered in, throwing their holdalls onto the back seat. The car rapidly steamed up and Matthew opened the side window slightly. As the rain hit his face, he quickly wound it up again, turned on the engine and rubbed his hands together, putting the heater's fan on full-blast. “That'll clear it.”
“Matthew. What the hell did he say?”
Staring straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly, Matthew closed his eyes. “Kepowski has got mum.”
The wind battered the little car as they ploughed through the rain. Around them, the landscape ached with its untouched beauty. Even though the colours were smudged and indistinct, Jed had the feeling that he was travelling across the most wondrous, desolate countryside he would ever experience. But even though the beauty was breathtaking, there was a hidden menace lingering amongst the heather and across the hills. This was a land scarred by suffering, its history once steeped in violence and betrayal. Tales of Highlanders and Redcoats mingled with butchered families, raped women, torched homesteads to create a canvas of despair. The building of an empire. The deaths of the innocents.
They'd stopped for lunch not long after leaving the little bed and breakfast. Matthew was in contemplative mood and didn't speak, just gazing out of the window. It had been a leisurely lunch and Matthew didn't seem to be in any rush to continue. Afterwards they spent some time window-shopping in the little town. It was as if Matthew had an appointment to keep and was merely waiting for the right time. Jed wondered about that, thinking that perhaps it had something to do with Sullivan's phone call.
A few hours later, they finally set off again. It was still raining and Jed grew bored with the dismal weather now. He shuddered, folded his arms across his chest and sank down in his seat, trying to find refuge in sleep.
He may have slept an hour, possibly three. It felt like two minutes when Matthew struck him on the knee, rousing him. Jed sat up, rubbing his eyes. Matthew had parked the car and was already checking his gun. Not for the first time, Jed's throat became constricted. He tried to swallow, but he couldn't. “What are you doing?” he managed, in a small, frightened voice.
“We're here.” Matthew pulled out the crumpled piece of paper that Janet had given Jed all those years ago in Woolworths. “This is the place.” Matthew looked at his brother. “What are you going to do? Stay here, or help?”
“Matthew…don't you think we should—”
“What? Go and knock on the knocker, ring the bell? Invite ourselves in for tea and crumpets? Jed, he's got our mum in there, the bastard. Don't you know what's going on, haven't you worked it all out yet?”
Jed shook his head dumbly. How could he know what was going on, he was sixteen years of age, in the middles of his GCEs. What did he know about drug-pushers and the criminal underworld? That was Matthew's domain, his life. Why should he understand any of it?
Matthew sighed loudly. “In the boot, there's a bag. I want you to go and get it.”
Jed gaped at him. He was so matter-of-fact. What was he planning on doing?
“Go and get it!”
Jed jumped at his brother's tone and quickly scrambled outside. It was bitterly cold, the wind raging, but at least the rain had dwindled into nothing more than a light spattering. Huddling himself into a ball, he went to the boot, pulled it open and grabbed the holdall. It was heavy. Very heavy. Moving round to the passenger door, he opened it and put the bag on the seat. “What is that?”
Matthew didn't answer, simply stuffed the pistol in his waistband and reached over to the bag. He tugged back the zipper and opened the top with a jerk. Jed gasped.
“You've got to be out of your mind!”
“Recognise them, then?”
“I've seen the films, Matthew. What the fuck are you going to do?”
“End it,” he said simply and weighed the sawn-off pump-action shotgun in his hands, working the action with expert precision. “End it right here.”
It was late afternoon, gone six. Although it was May, the atmosphere, so murky and drab, felt like November as they moved across the open moor, bent double, keeping themselves small, close to the ground. Matthew was an expert, weaving this way and that, hitting the ground every now and then, finding shelter behind a little hummock, or a scrap of thistle. Amongst an outcrop of jagged rocks, he stopped to check the shotgun for the umpteenth time. Jed crouched down beside him, gulping in the air, the second shotgun in his hands. He had no idea how to use it, until Matthew had shown him. “It's deadly simple,” he'd said. Jed didn't doubt it. What he doubted was his capacity to use the damned thing.
“We'll wait here a while,” said Matthew, leaning back against the rocks and peering up into the sky. “When it gets dark, we'll move in.”
“Move 'in' where?”
Pulling open the holdall, Matthew produced a small pair of field binoculars. He handed them over to Jed, who grunted, “You've come well prepared.”
“Always do.” Matthew grinned. “Look out across the moor, in the direction of about one o'clock. You'll see a large house, very black, very scary looking.”
Jed found the building almost immediately, appearing like something out of a gothic novel, with tall, spindly towers on either side, pointed gables, large door, steps leading to it from a winding path. The impressive gates at the front of the path appeared open, but as he strained to see, he realised they were broken. Taking the binocular away, Jed rubbed his eyes, then looked again, this time more carefully. He gasped. Everything was broken – windows smashed, tiles dislodged, the whole edifice crying out in anguish, disowned, abandoned. “It's a ruin,” he said, sliding down next to his brother.
“Yes.” Matthew absently stroked the smoothed down stock of the shotgun. “But only the exterior. Inside, everything else is as it always was.”
Looking at his brother for a long time, he understood now why Matthew had given Janet's note a cursory glance. He already knew it. “My God, Matthew, you've been here before!”
Turning, Matthew's eyes were wet with the memory. “Oh yes, Jed. I've been here before.”
35
He must have been five, perhaps a little older. Living with Gran was now normal, because she was his mum. She did everything for him and, when he'd started school that previous September, she'd gone with him, staying throughout the morning. Park Infants. It was a new building; he remembered the smell, everything so clean, bright and shiny. Mrs Butler, a formidable looking woman, was no match for Gran and they did not get on well. Despite this, everything went fine, until that first Christmas.
He remembered the man at the door, his big beaming face pressed against the glass. He came in and spoke to Miss Treacher, his class tutor. She didn't seem convinced at what he was saying and the man became a little angry. Mrs Butler appeared and silence settled as everyone in the classroom strained to list
en, intrigued at what was going on. Then, without warning, Mrs Butler moved to Matthew's desk. “You're going to Liverpool,” she said. “Christmas shopping. Off to see Santa in his grotto. You'll tell us all about it, won't you Matthew?”
Taking him by the hand, the man led him outside to a car waiting at the gate. A large car, white with four doors and red seats. They smelt warm and comforting, as did the woman leaning over towards him, smiling.
“We're going to have a lovely time,” she said. Matthew saw that she held a baby in her arms. Not a newborn, maybe nine months. The baby stared at him, nose clogged with snot. Matthew turned away. Where was Gran?
They travelled for ages, the constant bucking and bouncing causing Matthew to throw up twice, once on the seat next to him. The woman got angry at that and hit him. It hurt and he cried. The man swore loudly and they stopped the car. He tore open the door and dragged Matthew out into the cold, miserable day, the pouring rain instantly soaking Matthew right through. The man pushed an old rag in his hand and ordered him to clean the seat. Through his tears, Matthew did as he was told. Then it was back inside and the journey continued.
He begged them to stop so he could go to the toilet.
“This was a bloody mistake Frank!”
“Shut it!” Matthew remembered how they screamed at each other and he also remembered he wet his pants.
When they stopped hitting him the second time he decided it was best just to lie down and try to sleep. Perhaps when he woke up he would be at Santa's grotto and Gran would be there. It would have been a dream.
But it wasn't.
When he woke up they were in a place he had never seen the like of before. A huge, monstrous house loomed over him like something from prehistory, an age when giants roamed the land and dragons wheeled across the skies. Matthew felt frightened and very, very small.
The man lugged suitcases from out of the boot whilst the woman strode up to the main door and opened it with a heavy looking key. The doors creaked open, as they do in all the best horror films, and she cried out when she stepped over the threshold, “It's good to be home!”
Home? Matthew span round, eyes wide with fear. Home? What did she mean, 'home'?
The man puffed past him, struggling with the two large suitcases. Even to Matthew's young eyes, he could tell these people were planning on staying for quite some time.
“I want my mum!” he screamed.
The woman emerged from the house, this time without the baby. She gave him an evil leer. “Don't we all,” she said as she picked him up by the shoulder and hauled him inside.
He spent those first few hours sitting on a window seat, gazing out across the desolate moor, waiting for Gran to come down the broad path that led from the great, wrought-iron gates. Gates that shut out the world, said to it, 'Keep out!' She'd be here soon, he knew she would. Gran would never leave him with these people, whoever they were.
But Gran didn't come. He waited all day, hoping. But Gran didn't come.
By the second day he summoned up the courage to ask them who they were. Both of them laughed. “I'm your old dad,” said the man and, as if these words caused even greater amusement, the two of them rolled about in fits. Matthew didn't understand. His 'old dad'? What did that mean? He looked down at the little, snotty boy who was crawling around on the floor. This must be his brother, then? “Who's that?” he asked, just to confirm it all.
The woman reached down and picked up the little boy, kissing him loudly on the cheek. “This is your little brother – Jonathan. Say 'hello', Jonathan.”
But Jonathan didn't say anything and Matthew wasn't listening anyway. Matthew was crying too loudly.
He had no way of knowing how long they kept him there. It might have been weeks, even months. Perhaps years. As time moved on, the memories blurred. Snatches, little snippets would come into his mind and he replayed them over and over, trying to make sense of them, fuse them into his consciousness. He recalled people coming to the house, many people, strange people. They never spoke to him. Always they wore dark clothes, which matched their sombre faces. They would shuffle through to one of the large rooms at the rear, where the curtains were always closed. The woman, whose name he learned was Gladys, would welcome them with a slightly bowed head, hands clasped in front of her. She always wore the same dress when they arrived. He remembered that dress. Light blue ground, upon which dark blue flowers formed an interweaving pattern. He hated it.
With them all inside, the big door would close and he would hear mumbling. Jonathan would tug at his sleeve, the signal for them to go and play. Jonathan could walk by then. What would that make him, two? Eighteen months?
They locked him in the outhouse sometimes. He didn't understand why, there didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to it. Not Jonathan, though; never him. Frank would drag him to one of the large wooden houses at the back, too big to be called sheds. Throwing him inside, Frank would stand with his fists on his heaps, growling, 'Keep your mouth shut!' He'd slam the door shut, leaving Matthew in the dark, with only the rats for company.
One day a woman came whom he had never seen before. She wasn't like the rest. She was kindly and she spoke to him. When Frank turned on her, she rebuked him, called him 'evil'. Frank didn't like that. He tried to throw her out, but she was a tough little thing and she fought back. Later, when the lady left, Frank put him in the wooden house again only this time he didn't come and let him out.
He was cold in there. Cold, hungry and afraid. When at last the door creaked open, he heard the gasps and the little lady came inside, picked him up and hugged him close.
There was no one in the house, of course. They'd all gone. The lady took him back to her house and gave him porridge. He always remembered that first taste, how salty it was. He marvelled at how the combination of sugar, milk and salt tasted so good. He had never forgotten that taste, always loved it.
The police came and shortly afterwards Gran. He didn't recognise her at first, his memories of her sketchy, uncertain. Soon, it would all come back. The love. The care.
There were never any questions. At least, he didn't think there were. Life just seemed to fall back into place. He went to Poulton School and everything became lost as time trundled by. Nothing like time, Gran would say, for healing wounds.
Except they didn't heal.
Jed sat in silence for a very long time after Matthew stopped talking. The recounting had obviously had an effect on his brother, who sat sullen, stirring through a little puddle with the barrel of the shotgun. At last, summing up the courage to speak, Jed said cautiously, “Is that what all this is about Matthew?” His brother didn't flinch. “You're here, for revenge?”
The word seemed to jump-start Matthew into life again. He looked up, and Jed could see the tear stains on his face. “Revenge. Is that what you think, Jed? Revenge?” He shook his head. “They took me away and treated me like I was dirt. I've never understood why. My father was always an abusive man, you can ask mum about that. The way he hit her, the way he treated her. What he did to me was revenge, Jed. Him and that wife of his, the bitch. They suited each other, those two. She was a Medium. Do you know what that is?”
“A Medium? Is that something to do with ghosts and stuff?”
“Ghosts…yeah. All those people, in their dark mourning suits and dead eyes, they came over for séances, hoping to gain an insight, some comfort, a message from beyond the grave. But she was a bloody charlatan, Jed. A cheat, a liar. She took their money and dimmed the lights and dad, he'd perform his trickery.”
“Didn't anyone ever guess?”
“Oh yeah, someone did. That old lady, the one who got me away from there, she knew. She showed them up for what they were. She told me all about it, whilst she cared for me. She was the one who found Gran, got us back together. Bless her, an angel she was. A light in all that darkness. She told me all about them, how she'd suspected them for years. Because she was real, you see. The genuine article.”
“So, she could actu
ally speak to the dead?”
“Yeah. Weird it was. Sometimes, she'd be talking, then she'd change, her face coming over all blank and she'd start telling me stuff. Stuff that I couldn't understand. Not then.”
“What happened to her?”
“She's still alive. Runs a little tea-room somewhere up in the Highlands I think.”
“The Highlands?” Jed stared down at his feet for a long time, feeling strangely light-headed.
“Are you feeling all right?”
Grunting, Jed drew in a breath. “So, she'd know all about this kind of stuff. Possession, hypnotism.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“What about drugs. I don't mean cocaine and the like – drugs that can change your way of thinking. Hallucinatory ones?”
“I suppose so, but she must be – God, she must be all of eighty now. She still rings me, every week. We chat, but it's like she already knows everything I've got to say. It was she who first told me about Jon Kepowski. Because, Jon Kepowski was that little boy I used to play with. And now, he's up in that house and he's got mum and it's he who wants revenge, Jed. Revenge for his dad.”
Jed put his face in his hands. It was dark and cold and the hunger gnawed away at the pit of his stomach. He couldn't remember the last time he'd ate. He gently propped the shotgun against the rock and hugged himself, numb with cold, barely able to feel his fingers, bones turned to ice.
The revelations, however, cut through him deeper than any cold, penetrating into his very soul. “Revenge for his dad…Matthew…” He had the thought in his head, but not the will to voice it. He was too numb, with the cold and the overload of information.
“Frank, my dad, was desperate to maintain control. Control of everyone and everything. After mum walked out on him, he went nuts. He tried to get her back, and failed. He tried to get me back, but Gran stepped in. When he remarried, for a while it all seemed fine. I'd go and visit. You would come and visit, much later. No one knew, you see. No one knew because no one believed it. Why would quiet, respectable Frank, who had married such a sweet young thing and had himself a little boy, why would he do resort to kidnapping me – the notion was simply ridiculous. No one said anything, not me, not dear old Edith.” Jed frowned. “Edith. That was her name, the lady who'd rescued me from that damnable place. Bless her. She never told anyone because, as she said years later, it would do no good. Frank would go to prison and serve, what…six months? What was the point. So later, much, much later, after I'd joined the force, I tracked him down. I'd jot everything down, keep all the notes. He became my obsession. I knew he'd make a mistake, knew he'd slip up. Him and that wife of his. And, sure enough, they did. They'd started their little scam again. And others besides. Jon had moved away, changed his name. Perhaps he knew, perhaps he didn't care. Edith told me that he had 'the gift', that he could bend people to his will. He could hypnotise anyone into believing he was their friend. He had a real power of persuasion, she said. Something he might have got from his mother. Because, she had something, some power, but it wasn't all that strong. Except for the night when I called around.”
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