The String Diaries

by Stephen Lloyd Jones

  By ten o’clock she still hadn’t appeared. By eleven, he persuaded himself that she was not coming. By quarter past eleven, he noted with dismay that he had produced no work all morning and had spent nearly three hours devising a pointlessly smug sentence to reel off to a girl he had met only twice. By midday he had wound himself into such a maelstrom of fury that he leaped up from the desk and scraped his papers back into his satchel. Deciding to abandon the campus altogether, he strode out of the library and crossed the street to where his car was parked.

  The Jaguar – a silver E-Type Series 3 indulgence – was where he had left it in front of a brick wall. Now he discovered that a dark green Hillman Hunter had parked horizontally behind it. His vehicle was trapped against the wall.

  Frowning, Charles approached. He bent to the driver’s side of the Hillman and peered through the window. No one sat inside. Nothing lay on the black vinyl seats that provided any clue to its owner. He rested his hand on the bonnet. It was warm, but it was also in the full glare of the midday sun. The car could just as easily have been here a minute as an hour. Searching around him he saw an elm tree, set back from the road and shading a patch of grass. Nicole Dubois was reclining against its trunk.

  Sighing, Charles walked over. ‘Let me guess. That car,’ he said, pointing at the Hillman, ‘belongs to you.’

  Nicole looked up at him, squinting in the sunlight. Her face remained impassive, her tone neutral. ‘Charles. What you did this morning was disappointing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was ungracious, unbecoming, ungentlemanly. Rather than playing by the rules, you used the advantage of your position to get what you wanted. I am not impressed.’

  He opened his mouth to protest and discovered with dismay that despite his morning rehearsing for their next clash, he was utterly unable to think of a retort. When she forced him, unexpectedly, to defend his behaviour of the last few days, he found he could not. Now that he was outside the sombre environment of the library, with the sun on his face, he was chagrined at just how irrational – how ungracious – he had been. And all over a table.

  She was waiting still for his answer. Casting about, he noticed the book she had been reading, a thumbed translation of Gesta Hunnorum et Hungarorum, by Simon of Kezá. ‘You realise that’s a work largely of fiction,’ he said.

  ‘Of course. And you will also realise that it’s one of the earliest texts available.’

  ‘What are you trying to find out? I might be able to help.’

  ‘If I need to locate a table, Charles, I’ll let you know.’

  He nodded. ‘OK, I deserved that.’

  ‘Yes. You did.’

  ‘Look, perhaps I could buy you a cup of tea. To say sorry.’ He blinked, aghast. Where on earth had that come from? ‘I meant, if you wanted to discuss a particular aspect of Hungarian history.’

  Nicole closed the book. When she jumped to her feet he was surprised to see that they were almost the same height. ‘No, Charles. I don’t want to talk about it.’

  He held up his hands. ‘That’s fine.’

  Rummaging in her bag, Nicole produced a set of keys. ‘I must go.’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ He stood back, allowing her to pass him, the awkwardness between them now painful.

  She unlocked the Hillman and threw her bag on to the passenger seat. Starting the car, she reversed into the street. Nicole wound down the window. ‘You need not worry, Charles. Tomorrow is the last you’ll see of me.’ Putting the Hillman into gear, she drove away up the street.

  Which brought him to Saturday morning, negotiating summer traffic on the way to the campus and asking himself whether she would indeed make a final visit. Apart from her name, he still knew nothing of her, or quite why it seemed so important that she left Oxford with a better impression of him. He did know that getting to the library before her and taking a seat at the wretched table would be disastrous, which was why he refused to allow himself near the building until just past ten o’clock.

  The library was quiet, with only a few readers occupying desks. He ventured into the stacks and found St Catherine and old Abbot gazing down at him.

  His table was vacant.

  Charles stood for a long moment, quite unprepared for the disappointment he felt. He pulled out the chair and sat down, thinking.

  He knew the girl’s name. And the fact that she was French. It was little more than nothing, really. He sat in the seat for a further half an hour, his mood gradually darkening, before accepting that she was not going to appear. He stood up to leave and as he passed the front desk, Pendlehurst called out to him, ‘That French girl left something for you.’

  Immediately, he felt his spirits lift. ‘She’s been in?’

  ‘She was here first thing this morning. Sat at your table for a bit, passed me a note for you and left.’

  Cursing, he realised he had missed her by just thirty minutes. Pendlehurst handed him a folded sheet of paper torn from a notepad. Quickly he opened it.

  Ki korán kel, aranyat lel

  It was Hungarian. But he could not translate it.

  ‘Did she say anything?’

  ‘Just that she couldn’t wait any longer and that she had to leave.’

  ‘Did she say where she was going?’

  ‘I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Damn it.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ asked Pendlehurst.

  ‘Do you know any Hungarian speakers?’

  ‘I think Beckett is your best bet.’

  ‘Can I use the telephone?’

  It took Charles ten minutes to locate Beckett, and only a further minute to get the translation.

  He who wakes early, finds gold

  A Hungarian variation of an English proverb: the early bird catches the worm. Charles found himself smiling for the first time that morning, and then an idea struck him. He tracked down Pendlehurst. ‘She must have contacted us in advance to access the library.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So you should have a record of her.’

  ‘I believe so. Professor, are you sure there isn’t something wrong?’

  ‘It’s imperative that I get back in contact with her before she leaves Oxford. Can you hunt out her details for me please?’

  Giving Charles a strange look, the librarian beckoned him behind the desk. He opened a box of filing cards and began walking his fingers through them. ‘Here we are. Dr Amélie Préfontaine.’

  Charles shook his head. ‘No, her name is Nicole.’

  ‘The tall girl? French accent?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Carried a big canvas bag.’

  ‘That’s her, yes.’

  ‘It says here Dr Préfontaine.’

  Charles realised that he was frowning, and that Pendlehurst was beginning to look uneasy.

  ‘If something odd is going on,’ said the librarian, ‘I think you should tell me. She was looking at some very rare manuscripts while she was here.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. I must have misheard her. Thank you, Pendlehurst.’

  The card details revealed an Oxford address and a local number. Charles walked across the street to a telephone box. It was sweltering inside the booth. He loosened his tie. Picking up the receiver, he pushed ten pence into the slot and dialled the number. It rang fifteen times before someone answered. He heard static on the line.

  ‘Oui?’ A female voice. But not the girl’s. This woman sounded much older.

  ‘Hello?’ He listened to the crackle and pop of the connection, framed by the woman’s breathing.

  The voice came back in heavily accented French. ‘Who is this please?’

  ‘My name is Charles Meredith. Professor Charles Meredith. I lecture at Balliol. I’d like to speak to Dr Amélie Préfontaine.’

/>   A pause. Then, ‘Je suis desolée. There is no Amélie here.’

  ‘Wait. What about . . . Nicole Dubois?’

  This time he heard an intake of breath, followed by rapid French in the background, too faint to make out. The woman on the other end of the telephone covered the mouthpiece. The muffled sounds of conversation continued. He could hear the alarm in both voices but not the words. The clarity of the line was suddenly restored.

  ‘Jakab.’ She spat the name at him.

  ‘No, this is Charles—’

  ‘Démon. Allez au diable!’ The line went dead.

  Charles recoiled from the handset, shocked at the vitriol in the woman’s voice. He stared at the receiver for several seconds before replacing it in the cradle. Despite the heat inside the phone box, goose bumps had risen on the flesh of his forearms. He opened the door of the booth and stepped out into the fresh air outside. Then, without understanding why, unaware of how his next actions would echo though every single day of his remaining years, Charles Meredith broke into a sprint towards his car.

  Phoenix Avenue, the address on the library card, was only five minutes through the centre of the city. Perhaps longer in Saturday traffic. But not if he was aggressive. A conviction filled him that if he did not act now, immediately, his chance to see her again would be lost.

  His car was parked near the same tree as the day before. Today, a Triumph Stag. After his shaming yesterday, he had left the Jaguar at home, uncomfortable at the degree of opulence it suggested. Right now he could have found good use for it. No matter. The Stag was still a powerful car.

  Charles slid in behind the steering wheel and slammed the door. After reversing into the street he accelerated along St Giles and past the Ashmolean on Beaumont Street.

  You’re insane, he told himself, as he sped through the city. You’ve met this girl three times. The one thing you thought you knew about her turned out to be a lie, and that telephone conversation was not just unusual, it was downright chilling.

  Arriving at a crossroads, he braked hard behind an Austin Cambridge held up by a red light. Phoenix Avenue lay to his left, a long tree-lined row of Victorian redbrick townhouses. As he waited for the lights to change he spotted a green Hillman Hunter at the kerb, a hundred yards along the avenue. It sat outside a decrepit-looking three-storey townhouse, the front garden overgrown to weeds. Nicole Dubois was hurrying down the front steps. She was guiding an older woman with a white shawl draped across her shoulders. Both of their faces looked drawn with fear. Nicole shepherded the woman into the passenger seat and closed the door.

  At the junction, the lights still glowed red, vehicles crossing from both directions. Nicole went to the back of the car. She threw two large bags into the boot, ran to the driver’s side and jumped in.

  Through the Austin’s rear-view mirror, Charles made eye contact with its driver, willing him to move. But there was nowhere for him to go.

  A belch of blue smoke erupted from the Hillman. Nicole pulled away from the kerb and headed away up the avenue.

  In frustration, Charles rammed his fist down on the horn. The driver of the Austin frowned.

  ‘Come on, come on.’

  The Hillman followed the curve of Phoenix Avenue and disappeared around the corner. In front, the stream of traffic ceased. The lights changed to amber, then green. When the Austin remained stationary, he hammered the horn again as the driver continued to frown at him.

  Charles ran out of patience. He hauled the wheel clockwise and stamped on the accelerator. Overtaking the car in front, he spun the wheel to the left and cut across it, foot flat to the floor, tyres protesting.

  Accelerating up the avenue, he followed it for two hundred yards before reaching a tail of traffic at a T-junction. The Hillman was nowhere in sight. The two cars in front of him pulled away, one to the right and one to the left.

  Sitting at the top of the junction, Charles slapped his hands on the steering wheel. Which direction? To go left would take him north, skirting anticlockwise around the city. Turning right would take him to the London Road and the motorway. He had no time to debate his options further. The latter seemed a sensible choice so he swung the Stag to the right and felt its three-litre V8 press his seat into his spine as he moved up through the gears.

  Within minutes, houses on both sides gave way to fields. He overtook a lumbering Talbot Sunbeam and found clear wide road in front of him. Charles watched the needle on the speedometer creep past eighty. He marvelled at his new-found recklessness. But Nicole – or Amélie, or whatever she was really called – was fleeing, and the only way he was going to catch her was by taking a risk.

  He saw the green glint of a car in the distance.

  Spurred on, Charles pushed the Stag harder. He quickly closed the distance between himself and the Hillman and had to brake violently as he came up behind her. He knew she would not be able to hear his horn at this speed so he flashed his lights instead. The distance between them was too great to see her clearly in her rear-view mirror. He jinked the car left and right, flashing his lights again to attract her attention.

  In front, the older woman strained around in the passenger seat. Then, instead of slowing, the Hillman began to gain speed. Both cars were rapidly approaching the rear of a large articulated lorry. The Hillman swerved out into the oncoming lane. It overtook the lorry and canted back in front of it just in time to avoid a collision with a car heading towards them.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  What was she doing?

  The artic swerved, rocking back and forth on its suspension. Its air-horn blasted.

  Hugging close to the back of the lorry, Charles was forced to wait for another three cars to pass in the opposite lane before he could overtake. It took him a further minute to close the distance to her Hillman again.

  She was not going to stop for his flashing lights, but his Stag was a far more powerful car. Checking the road ahead was clear, he pulled out to the right and accelerated. She anticipated the move, also moving right, and he braked just in time to avoid clipping the Hillman’s rear.

  Charles pulled back in behind her, swearing and shaken.

  Perhaps thinking that he was going to try the same move on her left, she swerved to block him. This time she reacted too aggressively and as the car rocked over, its left-side wheels drifted on to the grass of the siding. Brake lights flared red, and suddenly the back end of her car was weaving wildly. Charles went right to avoid the fish-tailing Hillman, which bobbed, slid, and veered off the road towards the field on its left. It tore through brambles, hit a bank. The front end reared up and the car lifted into the air, sailing clear of a hedgerow. It seemed to hang in the air for an age. Then the front end nosed downwards and smashed into the field’s sun-baked earth.

  The first impact tore off its front wheels. Glass shattered. Metal body panels sheared and spun away. The Hillman bounced, steaming and smoking. When it landed a second time, it slewed around to the right.

  With shocking and violent energy, the vehicle flipped.

  CHAPTER 3

  Snowdonia

  Now

  Hannah Wilde was still gripping Nate’s hand in the kitchen of Llyn Gwyr when something hammered against the front door of the farmhouse. Her stomach muscles clenched and she felt herself doubling over, as if reacting to a physical blow. Panic swelled in her, a tangible pressure in her chest. For a long moment she felt too frightened to think or move. Her eyes darted to the darkened hallway. They returned to her husband’s face.

  A single unvoiced question: who?

  For the space of three breaths, silence dominated. Then the hammering resumed. Four heavy resounding bangs that made her flinch as each one landed.

  Leah.

  Her daughter was still asleep in the back of the Discovery.

  Alone. Unguarded.

  Hannah
felt her scalp shrinking, her skin prickling.

  How could anyone have found them so soon? Even her father didn’t know their whereabouts. Hours earlier he had made Hannah promise not to tell him which of the safe-houses she was heading for. It meant he was less able to betray her, less likely to endanger them.

  Surely no one could have followed them here? She would have spotted their headlights. It would have been suicidal to attempt the winding mountain roads without them. Unless, of course, they had other means to follow.

  She needed to think. Act.

  It was pointless trying to pretend that nobody was home. Anyone standing outside the porch would see the glow of candlelight spilling into the hall. And she knew that whoever this intruder was, he – it would be a he, she was certain of that – would not be diverted simply because she refused to answer the door.

  While it felt monstrous, she thought Leah was probably safer in the car for now, wrapped in the darkness behind the house. If only she had locked the Discovery’s doors.

  Hannah disengaged her hand from Nate’s. She moved to the doorway of the unlit hall. Stepped through it. Kept close to the wall, balancing on the balls of her feet. All the while her fear maintained a physical presence in her chest, forcing her to take quick shallow breaths.

  Enveloped in shadow, she crept across bare wooden floorboards. Past a staircase leading to the first floor. Towards the end of the hall.

  The air here was frigid after the warmth of the kitchen. Beneath her feet, the boards flexed, threatened to creak. Ahead stood the front door. Solid oak, except for a bulbous glass pane. On each side, leaded half-windows allowed a trickle of moonlight to pool on the floor.

  Hannah eased closer until she had a view through the nearest window out to the porch.

  No one stood outside.

  She craned her head further. Held her breath. Kept the rest of her body concealed. She now had a clear view of the entire front drive. Still no sign of their intruder. But something else. Something just as frightening.

  An ancient Land Rover Defender now stood on the gravel a few yards from the door. This close, she could hear the tick of its engine as it cooled.