The String Diaries

by Stephen Lloyd Jones

  Hannah screamed again, guttural and forlorn, when Sebastien pushed her away, picked up his spade and continued to shovel. She watched, gulping down air in disbelief, as the level of earth grew up over Nate’s chest, around the tops of his boots.

  The soil buried his right hand first, the hand that had held her as she panted and heaved and brought Leah into the world. She wept a goodbye to the fingers that had caressed her face, massaged her feet. His left hand disappeared next, absent of the wedding ring she had hung from the chain around her neck.

  It took three shovels of earth to cover his face. Lips that had kissed her – had laughed with her, had spoken vows to her – surrendered to wet mud and worms and stones. Eyes that had watched their daughter grow, ears that had heard her profess her love for him, all succumbed to the cold press of earth. A lock of hair and a pale strip of forehead was the last she saw of him.

  As Sebastien hammered a simple wooden cross into the soil, Hannah felt her vision flickering, her scalp prickling, and she slumped to the ground, useless and spent. Hollow and lost.

  Of their journey from Llyn Gwyr, she remembered little. Sebastien carried her to the car while she mumbled and shuddered and told him of her plans, the whereabouts of their documents, their passports, their money. As he drove them over the stone bridge, her grief overcame her. She flung open the door of the Land Rover and tried to launch herself out of the seat, the tangle of her seat belt the only thing stopping her from plummeting into the river below.

  He sedated her then. Something powerful from his canvas military kit that wrapped pillows around her pain and dropped it into a well, leaving her pliable, awake, yet virtually idiotic from its effects. Had she seen her father’s corpse, propped beneath the painted sign for Llyn Gwyr, his frozen hands clutching a copy of his last work? Or had that been a macabre hallucination gifted to her by Sebastien’s drugs?

  She recollected a cottage, somewhere in Snowdonia, the faces of men she did not know, their features molten in the soup of her thoughts. An aeroplane interior, its fuselage shorter and narrower than of any aircraft she had travelled in before. Another car journey, this one by night. Whispered conversations, the agony of her daughter’s quiet sobbing, the guilt as she lay senseless and anaesthetised, too selfish to lift her head from the mercy of the sedative’s embrace.

  Someone opened the car door and carried her across a crunching gravel path. The night air was warmer here. A different country now, a different life. A key turned in a lock. Footsteps echoed on flagstones. Scents of ginger, cinnamon and cloves. Upwards to a dark room, starched sheets, shuttered windows. Silence. Sleep.

  She woke in the night, eyelids gummed shut and mouth like chalk dust, and stumbled down a bare staircase to a kitchen with simple wooden furniture and whitewashed walls. Sebastien sat in one of two armchairs clustered around an unlit wood stove, reading a newspaper in the light thrown from a table lamp. Hannah searched through cupboards until she found what she needed – a bottle of brandy and a single glass. She poured herself a shot, swallowed it and poured another. Sebastien put down his newspaper, folded his hands in his lap and opened his mouth to speak. She shook her head at him, threw back another shot and carried the brandy bottle back to her bed. When she woke next, light was filtering through the gap in the shutters, and a congealed breakfast of eggs and toast sat on a tray beside her bed. She gulped brandy from the neck of the bottle and embraced unconsciousness once more.

  When she next opened her eyes, night had returned. Head thumping and stomach clenching, she didn’t manage to reach the bedroom door before she vomited a bitter and stinging stream of bile on to the floorboards.

  Staggering back down the stairs, she found the kitchen empty. The smell of roasted chicken hung in the air. Dishes stood drying on the rack. Someone – probably Leah – had been drawing pictures at the table. A man lying down. Flowers on his chest. A woman and a girl holding hands. A sun. A bird. A mountain.

  The french windows were ajar, and Sebastien walked into the kitchen while Hannah was searching for another bottle. There was no more brandy, and by the time she found wine and a corkscrew, her hands were shaking so badly that she slipped and cut a gash in her thumb and dropped the corkscrew and started crying.

  Silent, Sebastien took her hand and led her to the sink. He ran her thumb under the cold tap, wrapped a kitchen towel around it and lowered her into a chair. He boiled a kettle and made her a mug of tea, and when she took a sip of it, scraping her hair away from her face, he said, ‘She needs you.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘There’s no one else.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘She’s an incredible girl, Hannah. But she can’t cope with this without you. She needs your strength.’

  ‘And what do I need?’

  She cringed, shamed by the brutality of her words. Lifting her head, she was shocked at the strain she saw in Sebastien’s features. His skin was waxy and shadowed, his eyes dull and laced with red.

  ‘You lost a husband,’ he replied. ‘She lost her father. Will you let her lose her mother too?’

  ‘There’s no hope.’

  ‘That’s letting him win.’

  ‘He has won. Look at us. Look at what’s left.’

  ‘You’ve still got a daughter.’

  ‘For how long?’

  Swearing, Sebastien strode to the kitchen counter. He snatched a glass from the draining board, found a half-litre bottle of gin in a cupboard she hadn’t checked, and filled the glass to brimming. He thrust it in front of her. Spirits slopped on to her legs. ‘Go on, then, if you must! Take the easy way out. It’s not what I expected of you, but everyone disappoints if you give them long enough, don’t they? I thought—’

  ‘He’s dead, Seb! He’s DEAD!’ she shrieked, batting the glass out of his hands. It shattered on the floor.

  ‘I know! It’s horrific, and nothing you or I can do will change that! But you have a little girl that needs you, so pull yourself together and think about that instead! How did you feel when your mother died? What did you need? Did Charles abandon you to a bottle of brandy? My God.’

  Hannah placed her hands over her ears as the tears coursed down her cheeks. ‘Stop, please stop,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry, Seb, I’m sorry, just please . . . stop.’ Rocking back and forth in the chair, she hugged herself. Shivered. ‘What am I going to do?’

  Sebastien turned his back and walked out of the room. When he returned, he was carrying a blanket. He draped it across her shoulders. ‘You’re going to survive, that’s what. Bury this grief for now. Turn it into anger. You have to.’

  ‘When you sedated me, back at the farmhouse. I thought I saw . . .’ She raised her eyes to him. ‘Did I see my father?’

  Sebastien bowed his head. ‘I’d hoped you wouldn’t remember that.’

  ‘I hoped I’d dreamt it. I’ve lost him too, and I can’t even summon any more grief. I’m empty.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Jakab placed him there to taunt me, didn’t he? To punish me. He propped him up with that damned journal in his hands. Do you think it was quick?’ She shook her head, dismissing the question. She really didn’t want an answer. ‘That creature killed my grandfather, my mother. Now he’s taken my father and my husband.’

  ‘I’ve said it once before, but it’s an evil thing, this. It has to end. I’ll do everything I can to make sure it does.’

  ‘We’re at the endgame now, aren’t we?’

  ‘It feels that way.’

  ‘If it comes to it, and I don’t survive, will you make sure that Leah is looked after?’

  ‘You don’t need to ask me that.’

  ‘But I do need to hear it from you. I’ve a feeling we’re close too, the last throw of the dice. If I have a chance to kill him, and if that chance means my life, I’ll take it if I know she’ll be all right. I’m
sorry. There’s no one else to ask.’

  Sebastien crouched in front of her and enfolded her hands in his. ‘If it comes to it, Hannah, I’ll ensure Leah is provided for. And not just by me. You won’t be abandoning her to a solitary life in the mountains. She’ll be safe. Loved.’

  ‘Thank you, Seb. Thank you for everything.’ She raised one hand to her mouth. ‘We didn’t even bury him. Is he still under that sign?’

  ‘I have people dealing with it.’

  ‘Your old contacts.’

  ‘Some of the good ones.’

  ‘Did we go to see them?’

  ‘Briefly.’

  She nodded. And then something else occurred to her. ‘Gabriel.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I don’t know. Do you think it was odd, him riding off like that?’

  ‘After you threatened to kill him, and then knocked him unconscious?’

  ‘Another mistake. I’ve made so many of them, haven’t I?’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘It just doesn’t make sense to me. If he was trying to escape, surely he would have taken a different route?’

  ‘Rather than one that took him right past you, right into the path of your shotgun.’

  ‘It seemed more as if he were chasing Jakab, rather than trying to get away from us.’

  Sebastien grunted. ‘I’m a bloody idiot. I hadn’t even considered that. Now you mention it, I can’t disagree with you.’

  ‘I always felt he was laughing at me. That he knew something. At the time I put it down to paranoia. I should have trusted my instincts. I wonder where he is now.’

  ‘I’m right here.’

  Gabriel walked into the kitchen and closed the french windows behind him. He paused at the far end of the room, watching their reactions with eyes like blue azurite. In his right hand he held a duffel bag, which he dropped to the floor. Stubble grazed his cheeks. His face was grave, absent of all humour.

  Hannah surprised herself with her lack of movement. Perhaps it was the lingering effect of Sebastien’s sedative, or the alcohol, or both, but she felt anchored to the chair. She glanced around the room, searching for weapons. She could see none. The kitchen worktop held only a kettle, a coffee maker and the dishes stacked on the drainer. A basket stood next to the wood stove, but it contained no logs.

  Hannah looked up at him. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to help you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of the tragedy that’s found you. Because I began to like the woman I met in the mountains. Because it’s the right thing to do. Because there’s no one else who can.’

  Aware that Sebastien’s hand was creeping towards the pocket of his trousers, aware that she needed to hold Gabriel’s attention, Hannah asked, ‘How did you find us?’

  ‘It wasn’t that difficult.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  Gabriel moved further into the room. Hannah climbed to her feet. Next to her, she felt Sebastien rising.

  ‘I’m guessing that’s a blade you’re reaching for, old man,’ the Irishman said. ‘Please, don’t. I’m very tired. I’m not here to hurt anyone.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Hannah repeated.

  Gabriel studied her face. Finally he said, ‘I’m hosszú élet.’

  His words were like a fist in her stomach, driving the air from her lungs. She sucked in a breath. ‘What happened to Gabriel? What did you do with him?’

  The man before her frowned, and then his face softened. ‘Hannah, I am Gabriel. That same guy. I can understand, based on your experience, why you’d think we’re all as monstrous as Jakab, using and discarding people as if they were little more than a fresh set of clothes. But I assure you we’re not.’ He glanced away from her. ‘I think even Sebastien would agree with me on that.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what I think,’ the old man snapped. ‘You have no idea who I am, no idea at all. And if you were really hosszú élet—’

  ‘You’re Sebastien Lang,’ Gabriel interrupted calmly. ‘You were born and raised in Vienna and you studied medicine at Semmelweis University in Budapest. While you were still an undergraduate you met a hosszú élet woman named Éva Maria-Magdalena Szöllösi. Éva mistook you for one of us. The Eleni cull was still fresh in her memory and secrecy remained the watchword. By the time she revealed herself to you and discovered her mistake, you’d both fallen in love. She admitted the truth, and then she fled.’

  Sebastien stumbled to the armchair and fell into it. He raised shaking hands to his face, covered his eyes.

  ‘Éva pleaded with you to forget her but you were heartbroken, devastated. You began researching the hosszú életek. Everything you could read, everything you could hear. Finally you stumbled across the Eleni. The organisation tasked with wiping out the hosszú életek was searching for its few survivors. Not to kill, this time: to exploit. But you didn’t care about any of that. You just wanted to find Éva.’

  ‘I did care,’ Sebastien croaked.

  ‘You rose up through the ranks and finally became signeur, right hand to the Presidente and responsible for finding the hosszú életek using whatever means possible. During one of your botched attempts, a young hosszú élet girl was killed. She was one year away from her first végzet. She might have met someone and fallen in love. She might have had children. She might have delayed the inevitable for another generation or more.’ Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. ‘So tell me again, Sebastien Lang. Tell me that I have no idea who you are.’

  ‘That girl was never meant to die,’ he whispered, raising his head to reveal eyes wet with tears. ‘It should never have happened. The whole thing was a disaster from the start.’

  ‘A disaster for us.’

  ‘You think I don’t know that? Why do you think I walked away?’

  ‘I’m not here to answer that,’ Gabriel replied. ‘I’m here to help Hannah.’

  Hannah laid a hand on Sebastien’s shoulder. She didn’t like the animosity that was building between the two of them. To Gabriel, she asked, ‘How do you know so much about Seb?’

  ‘When your family – your society – is obliterated in a genocide that history charmingly labels a cull, you tend to keep a close eye on those who choose to do you harm.’

  ‘I never wished to do you any harm,’ Sebastien said. ‘God’s sakes, I was in love with her. I just wanted to find her again.’

  As if he had never spoken, Gabriel said, ‘We don’t know the identity of all the Eleni Council members. But the ones we do are watched. When he relocated to Snowdonia, I agreed to keep an eye on him. I moved into a place across the valley from his cottage.’

  ‘How long ago?’ Hannah asked.

  ‘About eight years.’

  ‘Eight years? That’s a hell of a long time to live alone in a place like that, just to monitor the comings and goings of one old man.’

  Gabriel shrugged. ‘Eight years isn’t so bad. It was an important thing to do.’

  Hannah recalled how desperately lonely Gabriel had seemed during their ride up Cadair Idris. She wasn’t sure she agreed. ‘How do I know that any of this is true? How do I know that you’re not Jakab?’

  ‘Can we sit at the table?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If you’ll grant me just two minutes of grace, I’ll show you.’

  Hannah looked from Gabriel to Sebastien, and then back to the Irishman. ‘Why should I trust you?’

  ‘You shouldn’t. But what have you got to lose?’

  After staring at him a moment longer, Hannah pulled up a high-backed wooden chair and sat down at the table.

  Gabriel sat opposite her. ‘There’s one thing you might not know about Balázs Jakab. A birth defect. Rare, and unfortunate.’

  ‘His eyes,’ she replied. ‘
He couldn’t control their colour.’

  ‘Full marks. You’ve done your homework. But the lélekfeltárás – our term for it – is more than just a colour change, a means of disguise. It’s how we reveal ourselves to each other. You could say it’s our most intimate form of expression. There are different levels, of course. A full lélekfeltárás is shared only between lovers. Or potential lovers.’

  ‘Show me.’

  He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself. Show me.’

  Gabriel reached out and took her hands. She flinched at his first touch, forced herself to relax. She had to know. Had to see this.

  His grip on her was soft, the tips of his fingers warm. ‘Look at me,’ he said. ‘Don’t think, don’t tense. Just open your eyes, and look into mine.’

  Hannah gazed into pupils encircled by startling blue irises. She had read about the lélekfeltárás, having discovered a rambling passage on the subject in one of Hans Fischer’s diaries. As she concentrated, she noticed that the cobalt hue of Gabriel’s eyes was actually the dominant colouring of three distinct shades of blue. Deeper notes, of ultramarine and navy, were confined to the outer edges.

  His eyes seemed to flare, to pulse, and as she watched, a wheel of golden points began to emerge around the borders of his pupils. The dots of fire grew brighter, detached themselves and floated like Chinese lanterns across an ocean towards the white of his sclera. She felt her heart quicken, her skin begin to tingle. Another ring of golden lights surfaced, broke loose and floated across Gabriel’s eyes. The cobalt hue began to darken, blushed with mauve.

  Hannah’s hands tightened on his. The top of her head prickled. Her cheeks burned. Her breath came in quick shallow gasps. She was suddenly aware of every nerve ending in her body. She could feel the caress of the night air on her lips, the rub of her clothing against her breasts, the cold press of the chair upon her legs.