The String Diaries

by Stephen Lloyd Jones

  At first Nicole talked, in a detached and emotionless voice, of leaving him, of packing a bag and disappearing. Later, after hours of tears from both of them, she suggested that they leave together: leave Oxford, leave the notoriety of his name, her new and unwanted publicity.

  Yet after all the talk, they had not, finally, done anything. They loved each other too much to be apart, and the foundations of their lives had been sunk in Oxford soil for too many years to consider a relocation.

  Although they remained together, their relationship had irrevocably changed. There was a carefulness now between them that had not existed before, a hesitancy before speaking, before acting. He mourned their old comfortable ways even as he castigated himself for their loss. They had not shared a physical closeness since that first fight. Nicole had not refused him. The truth was, he simply felt unworthy of her. It was what unsettled him most of all. That, and the fact he had not gathered the courage to admit his second act of betrayal – the piece he had written for the Mottram-Gardner Journal of European Folklore and Mythology.

  It was that article, published a month ago, that drew him to the botanic garden, walking its paths and searching for the bird-like creature that was Patrick Beckett.

  Charles found him on one of the benches that circled the water fountain. Beckett was wrapped in a woollen overcoat and hat. The man stared at the water lilies floating on the fountain’s surface, tapping out a complicated rhythm on his knees. A briefcase rested beside him.

  Beckett looked up as Charles approached. Age had not softened the academic’s mannerisms. He twitched with recognition and jumped to his feet. ‘Here he is! Professor Meredith, slayer of the almighty hosszú életek!’

  Charles shook his head. ‘Patrick.’ He was in no mood for Beckett’s theatrics.

  The man jerked back in surprise, then clapped a hand on Charles’s shoulder. ‘Why so glum, my friend? I expected triumph, jubilation, perhaps a hint of false modesty – although only the merest crumb. Certainly not this troubled visage that presents itself. Come, sit! The bench is damp but you may share my blanket.’ He gestured at a strip of tartan fabric lying on the wooden struts.

  Charles sat down. ‘You said you had something to discuss?’

  ‘Straight to the point as always. No taste for small talk.’ Beckett delved into a pocket and removed a silver hip flask. ‘Before that, though, I must insist on a toast.’ He unscrewed the cap of the flask, took a sip, clenched his teeth and swallowed. ‘To the success of your Germanic Peoples. And, even more exciting, your quite startling emergence as a folklorist. Birth and Death was a revelation, Charles.’ He proffered the flask.

  ‘You read it, then?’

  Beckett’s eyes glittered. ‘I devoured it.’

  Charles took the flask and swigged from the neck. The syrupy liquid lit a fire in his throat. He coughed, blinking tears. ‘Gods alive, Patrick, what have you got in here?’

  Beckett grinned. ‘You’ve not tasted Pálinka? A plum brandy, from Szatmar. It seemed a fitting tipple for our salute.’

  Charles handed back the flask and wiped his mouth. ‘I thought you didn’t like spirits.’

  ‘Tastes evolve, Charles, as one grows old. I had no idea you were so interested in the hosszú életek.’

  ‘It must be nearly twenty years since I first approached you about them. I suppose you got me hooked.’

  Beckett inclined his head. ‘How extraordinary. And here you are after all that time, an authority.’

  ‘I’d hardly say that.’

  ‘Now you’re being obtuse.’

  ‘It was hardly a shattering thesis, Patrick.’

  ‘Some of the material you referenced . . . I don’t know how you could have discovered it.’

  ‘The sources are all quoted.’

  Beckett raised his eyebrows. ‘Yet in most cases I haven’t been able to follow your trail.’

  ‘You’ve checked?’

  ‘Dear Charles, please don’t think I doubted their authenticity. You know I’m an addict for this stuff. I just like to read the texts first-hand where possible.’

  ‘Well, I’m flattered by your interest.’ He paused, uncomfortable. ‘You said on the telephone—’

  ‘Aha! I did, didn’t I? I said I had something to show you, something I thought would tickle you, and I do. I’ve been sitting on it for years. Your paper mentioned something that drew me back to it. The great cull of the hosszú életek – a genocide of sorts – at some point in the late nineteenth century. Abysmal episode.’

  Charles frowned. He disliked the way Beckett talked about folklore as if it were historical fact. ‘They’re stories, Patrick. Many individual renditions of the same basic premise. Those references to a cull appear in versions that originate around the turn of the century. You know my view on it. As society grew less superstitious – as supposed életek sightings dwindled as a result – it was a way perhaps of keeping the myth relevant. An explanation for the életek’s absence.’ Charles shrugged. ‘Who knows? It’s just a theory.’

  Beckett leaned forwards. ‘You didn’t discover any motive behind the cull?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘So what did you want to show me?’

  Beckett twitched again, rubbing his hands. He bent to his briefcase, snapped open the clasps and took out a cardboard tube. It was stoppered with a plastic cap, which he removed. From inside, he withdrew a scroll, its thick paper brittle and stained with age.

  Charles watched as Beckett unrolled the parchment. The handwritten text was Hungarian, and lavishly calligraphed. He spotted several mentions of hosszú életek. Three signatures lay at the bottom of the page, above a maroon wax seal faded to brown. The document was dated 3rd March 1880.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘See those signatures? That one is Emperor Franz Joseph’s, the reigning monarch. The second belongs to Kálmán Tisza de Borosjenö. He was Hungarian Prime Minister from 1875 to 1890. The third I haven’t been able to trace.’

  ‘What does the text say?’

  Beckett looked up from the paper, his eyes studying Charles hungrily. ‘It’s a Royal Decree. Quite a nasty one.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It grants authorisation for the immediate extermination of the Budapest hosszú életek. Not just the ruling classes. Every last poor sod of them. “Their stain to be forever cleansed from our society.”’

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  Beckett smirked. ‘Want to trade sources?’

  ‘Have you authenticated it?’

  ‘Oh, it’s real, Charles. I can promise you that. What do you make of it?’

  ‘I don’t know. What do you make of it?’

  ‘Buried in all these tales, perhaps there’s a thread of truth.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Imagine something happened back then. Something that upset the balance. We know from the usual sources that there was an uneasy alliance between the hosszú életek and Budapest’s nobility. They weren’t exactly cosy bedfellows. Perhaps a particular incident sparked the unrest that led to this Decree.’

  ‘And this is just your speculation?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You sound as if you believe all this.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  Charles glanced up at the academic, his unease growing. Beckett’s grin seemed to mock him. His eyes stared with intensity.

  ‘And here’s something else interesting,’ Beckett continued. ‘In all your research, did you ever come across mention of the Eleni?’

  ‘I don’t believe so.’

  ‘The Eleni was the organisation tasked with carrying out the cull.’

  ‘Eleni.’ Charles paused. Now he thought about it, perhaps he had seen the name in some of Anna Bauer’s diaries. He shook his
head. ‘No. Can’t say it rings a bell.’

  ‘Ah, what a shame. Never mind. They’re mentioned here. See? In the second paragraph. You know what I find interesting? There’s an Eleni Council in existence in Budapest to this day.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You’re right, of course. Just a coincidence.’ Beckett laughed. ‘There’s a Round Table club in Oxford but I suspect its members aren’t all chivalric knights.’ He looked back at the document in his hands, rolled it up and inserted it back into its tube, replacing the cap. ‘How’s Nicole?’

  His prickle of tension beginning to ease, Charles smiled. ‘She’s well.’

  ‘Been a long time since I saw her. We should arrange something. Dinner.’

  Charles stood. ‘Yes. Let’s set something up.’

  They shook hands, and Charles walked back along the path towards the Danby Gate. He glanced back at Beckett once on his way out. The older man was standing by the fountain, staring at the water lilies.

  CHAPTER 16

  Snowdonia

  Now

  Dusk had descended by the time Hannah, Gabriel and Leah arrived back at Llyn Gwyr. As the light leached from the sky, the temperature plunged. A numbing wind gusted around them.

  They rode into the gravel courtyard at the back of the farmhouse, the breath of the horses pluming before them. The building stood in violet shadow. A solitary light in the kitchen window guarded against the approaching night.

  Hannah brought the mare to a halt and dismounted. Her thighs ached, and she lifted each foot behind her, trying to ease the tension in her muscles. Gabriel watched her, sitting astride Salomon. ‘Saddle-sore?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘Thank you for today.’

  ‘The pleasure was mine.’ He turned to Leah. ‘Did you enjoy yourself, little miss?’

  Leah grinned, jumping down from the colt and rubbing its muzzle. ‘I loved it. Valantin’s a beautiful horse.’

  ‘That he is.’

  ‘Leah, it’s time to say goodbye to Gabriel,’ Hannah said. ‘Go on into the house. I’ll see you in a minute.’

  Once the girl was inside, Hannah turned back to him.

  Gabriel was staring at the windows of the farmhouse. ‘Is he inside?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The master of Llyn Gwyr.’

  ‘You keep asking about him.’

  ‘Curiosity, nothing more. I want to measure myself against the man lucky enough to call Hannah Wilde his wife.’ He laughed. ‘See how I stack up.’

  ‘You don’t.’

  Gabriel laughed harder. ‘Ah, you’re a cruel woman, Hannah.’

  ‘And you’re a terrible flirt.’ Hannah unclipped the reins from Valantin and Landra, and used a rope to hitch the two together. She walked over to his horse, passed him the rope, then offered him her hand. ‘We’re leaving soon, so I probably won’t see you. It was nice meeting you, Gabriel. Truly. I actually hope you don’t end up meeting those hounds.’

  Gabriel reached down and shook her hand. ‘The Cŵn Annwn won’t catch me.’ He winked at her. ‘Nice talking to someone with only two legs for once. Goodbye, Hannah Wilde.’ Clicking his tongue at the horses, he rode out of the courtyard.

  She watched him cross the river at the bridge and ride up the track to the main road.

  In the kitchen, she found Nate in an armchair beside the fire, eating corned beef from a tin. Leah sat at his feet, warming herself before the embers and chattering excitedly.

  Nate looked up as Hannah closed the kitchen door and locked it. ‘How was our friend?’

  ‘Strange,’ she said. ‘Stranger still, we went past Seb’s place. Our hermit friend had company.’

  ‘What? Who?’

  ‘Two men I’ve never seen before. They drove off in a big Audi 4x4.’ Hannah pulled down the blind above the glass in the door. She drew the curtains across the window. ‘Anything happen here?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘I don’t like this at all, Nate. Something’s going on. I don’t think we should hang around to find out what.’

  ‘What did Gabriel have to say?’

  ‘He asked a lot of questions about you.’

  ‘He did?’ Nate frowned, studied her. ‘Do you think . . .’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She blew out through her cheeks, trying to slow her heartbeat. ‘I’m pretty damn freaked out right now. I think we should leave.’

  ‘OK. Do you want to wait until first light?’

  ‘Not really. I’d like us to go this minute. But it makes sense. We need to pack up.’

  ‘We can secure this place for the night. Leave at sunrise.’

  She nodded. ‘We all sleep in the same room.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Mummy?’

  She turned to her daughter, dismayed to see that Leah’s face had paled. Hannah went to the girl, crouching at her feet. ‘Oh, scamp. Come here.’

  Leah clutched her. ‘It’s going to be OK, isn’t it? We’re not going to die?’

  Nate reached out and stroked his daughter’s head. ‘Absolutely not. That’s why Mummy and Daddy are here. To keep you safe. To keep us all safe.’

  ‘He got you. The Bad Man. He hurt you.’

  ‘And I’m getting better. We’ll be out of here in the morning. Just wait till you see the place your Mummy found for us. You’ll be safe there. The Bad Man won’t find us. I promise you.’

  Hannah cooked a stew, which they ate with the last of the bread. Afterwards, she put Leah to sleep in the master bedroom. She toured the ground floor of the house, checking locks, securing windows. She wanted to draw all the curtains, but with the lights off, she decided to keep them open. More chance of spotting intruders that way.

  Once everything was locked up, she helped Nate upstairs to the bedroom. Leah was already asleep beneath the covers of the four-poster.

  ‘I don’t think I’m going to get much sleep,’ Hannah said, her voice low.

  ‘Want to take shifts?’

  ‘I think that’s wise. I’m sorry, Nate. I just have this really bad feeling.’

  ‘Don’t apologise, I trust your instincts. Shall I take the first stint?’

  She shook her head, kissed him. ‘I’m far too wired to doze off. Get some rest. You’re still recovering.’

  ‘You’ll wake me?’

  ‘If I’m flagging.’ She knew she wouldn’t. A long journey awaited them, and in his current condition it would be tough on him.

  Nate was asleep in minutes. Hannah threw more logs on the fire. She moved to the side of the bedroom window, edging out her head for a look.

  The darkness outside was almost absolute. Buried behind invisible cloud, the moon was a faint pearl smudge. She could just see the outline of the lake, the stone bridge over the river.

  The land was still.

  Jakab was out there. She had no idea how close. No way of telling. She wondered what was happening in the next valley where Sebastien’s cottage stood. The sight of him talking to the two strangers had frightened her badly. He had told her he lived in isolation, had retired from the world.

  And what of Gabriel? Several times during their ride he had led their conversation into dangerous territory. She had discovered little of him in return.

  Perhaps it was all unconnected. Perhaps she was so exhausted that she was beginning to make connections where none existed. She looked over at the bed. Nate slept, his chest rising and falling under the blankets. Next to him, Leah had tucked her head into the crook of his arm. Hannah watched them, knowing that however exhausted she was, she would not give up. Could not.

  Damn the odds, keep fighting until you have nothing left.

  Her father’s words. The thought of him made her chest heave with pain. That last phone call had been the most difficult con
versation of her life. What had happened to him afterwards? The likelihood was that she would never find out.

  Despite knowing she had locked all the doors, that no one could get into the room without crossing her first, she felt horribly exposed. The darkness outside was oppressive. It pushed at the windows.

  She looked at the luminous dials of her watch. Twenty past three already. Four hours until sunrise. Three and a half hours until first light.

  The longer she stayed in the room, the more her unease grew. If anything happened outside, or downstairs, she would only find out about it when it arrived at their door. Realising that her unease wasn’t going to disappear, she stood up.

  The shotgun was leaning in the far corner. She picked it up and, out of habit, broke the weapon. She checked that the chambers still held two rounds. They did. Spare cartridges were still tucked into the back pockets of her jeans. Into her front pocket she slid the long shaft of the Maglite. Going to the door of the bedroom, she opened it.

  The hallway was a black void, from which faceless horrors could emerge. She wanted to use the torch, chase away the shadows. But she didn’t want the light to be seen from outside.

  Hannah stepped into the darkness, listening. Despite the fires she had kept stoked over the last few days, the air smelled musty, damp. The house creaked and settled. Wind rattled a window.

  She knew there was a loose floorboard halfway along the landing, and edged around it. At the top of the stairs, she passed the display case. She felt the eyes of the dead falcon on her. Even though she knew they were only glass, she prickled at the sense of awareness. Why hadn’t she taken the vile thing outside and burned it?

  Hannah tiptoed past the case and down the stairs, until she was midway between floors. Silently, she lowered herself into a sitting position and rested the gun on one knee, pointing the barrels down into the gloom. She took the torch from her front pocket and placed it beside her.