The String Diaries

by Stephen Lloyd Jones

Leah glanced round at her mother, her expression betraying her scepticism. ‘I never heard of that before.’

  Hannah tossed the remaining logs onto the fire, and managed to coax a flame into life. At the sink, she filled the kettle with water, put it on to the stove and lit the gas.

  As the logs began to burn and the kettle boiled, Nate stirred and opened his eyes. He blinked, looking around the room to orient himself, then winked at Leah. ‘Hello scamp,’ he said. ‘Come over here and give me a kiss.’

  ‘We’ve got a dog called Moses, like God did,’ she told him solemnly.

  Nate laughed, choked, and launched into a fit of coughing. ‘Is that so?’ He looked up at Hannah. ‘How are you doing?’

  She took a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water, bringing it over to him. ‘I’m fine. We’re all fine. Worried about you but fine all the same. Here. I’m making tea, but sip this first. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Like I’ve been run over by a train,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think I can move.’

  ‘You’re not meant to. You should never have got up last night. That’s a battlefield repair Sebastien’s given you. I’m not doubting our friend’s handiwork but if I see you off that couch again I’ll have to knock you on the head with a frying pan.’

  Leah giggled at that.

  ‘Where’s Seb?’ he asked.

  ‘He went back to his place. Said he’d drop in later with supplies.’

  Nate nodded, drinking his water. When the kettle boiled, Hannah made tea for them both. She found a dusty can of Coke in the pantry and gave it to Leah, whose face lit up.

  ‘What are you going to do this morning?’ he asked.

  She rolled her eyes towards the back of Leah’s head. ‘I need to have a talk. Explain a few things. I thought we’d go for a stroll. Get some fresh air.’

  Nate nodded his agreement, then indicated the dog. ‘Do you want to take Mutley here?’

  ‘I’d feel better if he was here with you,’ she said.

  Hannah retrieved Leah’s coat from the car and waited while the girl shrugged into it before taking her outside. The wind had blown itself out overnight, but low grey clouds promised fresh rain. Water dripped from guttering. Moisture clung to the stems of plants and the gravel of the driveway. The chill air sliding down from the mountains brought a bite that made her eyes water but invigorated her nonetheless.

  Leah ran over to the cowshed and popped her head inside, disappointed to find it empty. Together they investigated the stone-built storehouse. Its roof had partially collapsed, just as Sebastien had indicated; the stacked logs of wood were soaked and useless. In the second outbuilding they found the generator clacking away. Nate had taught her how to maintain one, and she agreed with the old man’s assessment of its diesel reserves. Back outside, they walked past the abandoned stables and crossed the garden to the fence that delineated the farmland beyond. The fields attached to Llyn Gwyr had not been grazed in a long time. High grasses and wild flowers stretched before them, surrendering to scree, boulders and the rocky ascent up the mountain.

  Hannah crouched down beside Leah and pointed to the horizon. ‘You see that peak? That’s Cadair Idris, one of the highest mountains in Wales. It means Giant’s Seat.’

  ‘Does it have glaciers?’

  ‘Not any more. But once it did. Do you know what they say? If you spend a night at the top, the next morning you’ll either wake up a poet, or mad as a hatter.’

  Leah laughed. ‘That’s silly.’ She bent down and pointed. ‘Look at these.’

  Hannah followed the line of her daughter’s finger to the mud around the bottom of the fence.

  Animal prints. Lots of them.

  Odd to see so many in one place. Hannah spotted the hoofprints of deer, what could have been wild goat, fox, and others too tiny to identify. She pointed out all the tracks she recognised, as well as a harvest mouse nest clinging to a thistle.

  Leah noted it all with interest, and then said, ‘Is the Bad Man coming here?’

  Hannah stood up. She took the girl’s hand. ‘Come on, let’s go and look at the lake. We can talk as we walk.’

  She found it surprisingly easy to explain what had happened, and was encouraged to see how well Leah seemed to handle it. She knew the girl was worried by what she heard, despite Hannah’s attempt to remain upbeat – or at least neutral – in the language she chose. Over the last two years she had begun to use the diaries to tell Leah stories. While she had not bluntly divulged their content, she had used them to spin cautionary tales, fables she hoped would allow her daughter to grasp the broader implication of their situation without exposing her to the horrific detail.

  ‘Is Grandpa going to meet us here?’ Leah asked, as they traipsed past the outbuildings towards the lake.

  The question brought an agony of grief. ‘I don’t think so,’ Hannah replied. She’d left her father with Jakab; the chances of her seeing him again were remote.

  They had forged a tempestuous relationship during her adult years. Although she had not inherited Charles’s quick temper, he had passed on his stubbornness, and that had led them to some spectacular clashes. He had not been a perfect father, and she had not been a perfect daughter, but they had loved each other fiercely, even if they did not always get along.

  Hannah wrapped an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. They skirted a patch of boggy ground and found a path of slate and stones. Looking about her, she realised just how well her father had chosen this bolt-hole. The valley in which the farmhouse nestled made them invisible to anyone travelling the main road. If it had not been for the farm buildings behind her, there would be no evidence of human activity within sight.

  They rounded a rise and came upon the lake. The overcast sky had turned it to the colour of steel, a breeze dimpling it like a sieve. A flock of Canada geese flew in formation above their heads.

  ‘Mummy, a boat!’

  Hannah stared out across the lake, her skin prickling. Sure enough, a white wooden rowing boat bobbed on the water a few hundred yards from the shore. Two fishing rods jutted from its side. In the middle of the boat sat a man bundled up in a jumper and hat.

  She felt her heart beginning to race. The man was watching them.

  ‘Who is it, Mummy?’

  ‘I don’t know, darling. I’ve no idea.’

  She felt Leah wrap an arm around her waist. ‘Is it the Bad Man?’

  What could she say to that?

  The man lifted an arm and waved to them. Hannah stared back. Now he stood up. He pointed at himself, pointed to their side of the shore, and mimed the actions for rowing. This last act seemed to unbalance him, because the boat rocked violently beneath his feet. He leaned forwards and backwards in quick succession, trying to stabilise himself. Finally he lost his balance and tumbled into the bottom of the boat.

  ‘He nearly fell in the water!’ Leah screeched, laughing.

  The fisherman’s ineptitude had also blunted the sting of fear in Hannah. She watched as he recovered himself and threaded his oars. Putting his back to them, he began to row the boat towards the shore.

  Think, Hannah. What do you do?

  She had no option but to stand her ground. It was obvious where they had come from; Llyn Gwyr stood directly behind them. If they abandoned the shore before the stranger reached them, they would have no clue who he was, and would be trapped inside the house with questions they could not answer. Worse, they would doubtless leave him curious and puzzled by their behaviour.

  Don’t take your eyes off him.

  The boat was closer now. Hannah could hear the creaking of the oars in their rowlocks and their splash as they parted the water. She could only see the fisherman’s back. He wore a rope-knit jumper of cream wool, ragged at the sleeves and collar. A blue hat was pulled down over his head, and from beneath poked a sho
ck of jet-black curls. He was about Nate’s build. Perhaps not quite as broad.

  ‘Stay close to me, Leah. Do as I say. Don’t say anything about Daddy. Or the Bad Man. Do you understand?’

  The girl slid behind Hannah, mumbling her agreement.

  As the boat glided to the shore and nudged up on to the shingle, the man pulled in his oars. He turned, looked both of them up and down, and broke into a wide grin. The whiteness of his teeth was a shocking contrast to the pallor of the day.

  ‘Well, hello there, ladies!’ he said. His voice was rich with a musical Irish brogue. Blue eyes, a vivid cobalt shade, twinkled with merriment. When they failed to respond he hesitated, tilting his head to one side. ‘Ah, will you look at that. Caused offence already, I have, and before I’ve even known your names.’ He flashed them another sharp smile.

  ‘We weren’t expecting any company,’ Hannah replied, folding her arms. ‘I understood this lake belonged to the farm.’

  ‘Ah, but surely it’s God’s lake, is it not?’

  Leah burst out from behind her mother’s back. ‘We’ve got God’s dog!’

  The man threw his head back and laughed. ‘Have you now? Well, there’s a thing. God’s dog. And what do you call the fine animal?’

  ‘Moses.’

  He laughed again, looked up at Hannah and winked. ‘A fine name for a dog, that. Listen, I was only pulling your leg. It might be God’s lake but it also, by rights, belongs to your farm. Which makes me, for want of a better word, a poacher. But!’ He held up his fishing rods. ‘An unsuccessful poacher. So I’m sorry. For being on your lake. And not nicking your fish.’

  Hannah nodded. ‘And what’s a born-and-bred Irishman like you doing in the heart of Snowdonia?’ Despite all the alarms chiming in her head, she found herself unaccountably charmed by him, and knocked slightly off balance by his openness. The more sober part of her mind screamed one word.

  Danger.

  ‘Running away from Ireland, of course,’ he replied, laughing.

  ‘Were you running from something?’

  ‘Aren’t we all running from something?’ His eyes shone, and she did not miss the challenge they held. ‘Oh, but I haven’t introduced myself. Allow me. Name’s Gabriel. You can call me Gabe, if you like.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Gabriel.’

  ‘And I’m sorry for invading your privacy. I had no idea there was anyone staying at the farm. Renting it, are you?’

  ‘A holiday.’

  ‘Grand. Me, I’ve a place over the hill.’ He pointed. ‘Just myself, a smallholding, and the horses.’ He turned his attention to Leah and the flashing smile returned. ‘Do you like horses, little miss?’

  ‘Yes!’

  Gabriel nodded, then cast his eyes appreciatively over Hannah’s body. ‘And what about your ma now? Can she ride?’

  His lascivious double meaning was not lost on her; every sentence he uttered seemed to contain a private joke. She scowled.

  ‘Mummy’s the best. She used to compete.’

  Hannah laid a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, determined to curb the girl’s excitement before she let something slip. ‘Come on, that’s enough. It was nice to meet you, Gabriel. I’m sorry you haven’t managed to catch anything, but I gather there are plenty of lakes around here. Perhaps you’ll have better luck elsewhere.’

  Chastised, Gabriel flicked his eyes to Leah, then nodded his agreement to Hannah. He replaced his oars in the rowlocks. ‘Well,’ he announced brightly. ‘I won’t hold you up any longer. It won’t take me long to row back. I’ll be out of your hair before you know it. It was a delight to meet you both. Little miss. Tall miss.’ He pulled off his hat and raised it theatrically. Dark curls spilled out to frame his face. ‘Now, I wonder. Is there any chance of you ladies giving me a shove-off?’

  Hannah planted her boot on the boat’s prow and shunted it out into the lake. Gabriel lurched backwards. He gripped the gunwales and just about managed to keep his balance. Leah laughed.

  On the way back to the farmhouse, holding her daughter’s hand, Hannah glanced back at the rowing boat as it moved across the lake. Gabriel lifted an arm and waved.

  Turning away from him, she heard the same word echoing in her head.

  Danger.

  CHAPTER 9

  Gödöllö, Hungary

  1873

  The week leading up to the second végzet passed unbearably slowly for Lukács. His father, as was the custom, asked him nothing of his evening at the palace. Even Jani seemed content to leave him alone. Izsák had hounded him to share his story, but Lukács brushed off his little brother’s enquiries with an abruptness that sent the boy crying from the room.

  He could hardly work out how he had occupied his time prior to his journey to Budapest. Krisztina consumed his thoughts, consumed his blood. When he closed his eyes he could feel the soft weight of her breast pressing against his arm, the warmth of her skin as he traced his finger down her cheek, the suggestion in her eyes as she said goodbye to him.

  I look forward to seeing you again, Lukács.

  He needed to see her. It took him days of debate, but Lukács decided he would not attend the second végzet. Nor would he attend the others. The ambassador’s kurvá bitch daughter and her coven of privileged and pampered butterflies were welcome to their masked harlequins. Lukács refused to settle for the life prescribed for him. He would no longer allow others to dictate what he wore, what he thought, how he behaved. He would not observe the ridiculous social dance a millennia of conceited hosszú életek had designed for their offspring. Before his evening with Márkus and Krisztina, he had felt suppressed by fear: fear of rejection, fear of solitude. But the humiliation he had experienced at the végzet had been immediately counterbalanced by the acceptance he had received from the young couple. For the first time, he had mingled with low-born, and had found that he preferred their company by far to any sour-faced hosszú élet.

  Lukács was confident he would not be missed until the third végzet, perhaps even the last. At that point, of course, his absence would be obvious. The consequences for his position in the community would be catastrophic; his relationship with his father, his brothers, would be destroyed. But although József had tried to scare him with his talk of life as a kirekesztett, Lukács had now tasted a piece of that life. Far from fearing it, he coveted it. Yes, he would lose privileges, the easy passage through life his identity afforded him. For the first time, he would need an income, somewhere to live. But he would be free.

  He had made preparations. Already, a few valuable timepieces had disappeared from his father’s workshop. While he had not yet dared to remove any of the gold bullion from its hiding place beneath the drawing-room floorboards, he had calculated the value of the extraordinary quantity his father stored there, and discovered that it would fund him a luxurious life several times over. Although he would not leave his family destitute, he would feel no shame in taking what he needed when the day arrived.

  On the evening of the second végzet, his father drove him to Pest as before, and they visited Szilárd’s house, where Lukács changed into starched shirt, waistcoat and frock coat. This time a different mask awaited him on the dressing-room table. It was much lighter than the first, wrought from a delicate leaf of copper and polished to a high shine. Unlike the pewter mask that preceded it, this one covered less of his face – just a narrow strip above his cheekbones.

  He would not wear it for long.

  Looking at himself in the mirror and liking what he saw, he slipped his pocket watch into his waistcoat and walked outside. The journey from Szilárd’s house was farcically short. They did not cross the Danube this time, but pulled up instead outside a sprawling mansion in Pest that overlooked the water.

  ‘Make me proud,’ József said, as a porter opened the door of the carriage.

  Smiling, L
ukács patted his father’s arm and stepped down into the courtyard. He marched up the steps of the property and waited until József’s carriage had turned the corner. Then he pulled off the mask and walked back out of the gates.

  It was a warm evening, so he decided to cross the Széchenyi bridge by foot. He enjoyed the exhilaration of being so far above the water. The sun was setting, a glowing disc that painted the stone lions of the bridge with fire. Halfway across, he stopped and turned full circle, surveying the unified cities separated by the great river. Leaning out over the water, he fished the mask from his pocket. Whatever it meant to the hosszú életek hierarchy, to him it symbolised a shackle. On a whim, he launched the mask into the air, watching it spiral down, a glinting flicker of copper, towards the water below. He saw it touch the surface of the Danube, and kept sight of it a moment longer before it slid beneath the ripples. Lukács drew a breath, exhaled, and walked the rest of the way across the bridge.

  Márkus’s directions led him to a tavern as raucous and grubby as the first. Even though he had removed his coat and had rubbed grime into the front of his shirt before he entered, his finery still jarred. He felt hostile eyes upon him as he fought his way through the crowd.

  He found Márkus at a bench, nursing an empty tankard. Krisztina sat beside him. When they spied him, their eyes widened in surprise. Márkus jumped to his feet with a laugh and embraced Lukács, slapping him hard on the back. Krisztina welcomed him with a smile that made his heart pound and his stomach flip.

  It was strange seeing her without a fog of alcohol clouding his judgement. She aroused him still, but she was not as pretty as he remembered, nor as clean. His tongue left him and he mumbled a greeting at her, noting as he did that she wore the same dress as before. It was grubby and stained, but accentuated her curves no less as a result.

  He suggested drinks and Márkus congratulated him heartily. Soon Lukács was swigging back mouthfuls of beer and laughing as his friend related the week’s events, the highlight of which seemed to have been a riverside collision between a merchant and two sailors lugging a barrel of spoiled fish.