by Ian Somers
I cast off the duvet and climbed out of the bed. My mind was too busy for sleep, so I wandered the house aimlessly for a while, then tried to read one of Cathy’s books. I couldn’t concentrate on the words and soon placed the book back on the shelf and began roaming the rooms once more.
Eventually I found myself standing in the crisp night air. Sometimes when I couldn’t sleep, I found that a stroll along the nearby beach had a calming effect on me. I was free of the deathly silence when I climbed over the dunes and onto the hard sand of the beach. A wind was rolling in from the great Atlantic and the sea was at war with itself. I stood watching it for a time. White explosions were erupting from the dark depths, creating shimmering shapes that caught the moonlight. But always the black water reached out and swallowed these livid white forms. It seemed the view was reflecting my own inner struggle. My true self was trying to break free. The blackness beneath kept dragging the real me back into the shadowy depths.
I stood there until the wind gusting in from the west became too icy to face. I turned my back on the raging waves and headed for home, following my own faint footprints in the frozen sand. In all the time I’d lived out there, mine were the only footprints I ever saw. That was how remote that place was. I doubted that anyone else had walked that stretch of coast for years.
I stalked up the dunes and took one last look over the vast, violent waters. As I turned away I saw a black spot on one of the distant cliffs. I watched it for a few moments, trying to ascertain if it was a person, or simply some rogue farm animal with a death wish. Eventually it faded from sight and I was left guessing whether my mind was playing tricks on me. After all, I was on the verge of a breakdown. I’d probably be babbling to myself and foaming at the mouth within days.
It was more morning than night when I returned to my bed. A sleep terrorised by evil dreams followed.
CHAPTER THREE
The Proposal
I opened my eyes and extended my arm across the bed to find it cold. That was always the first thing I did each morning: Reach out to Cathy, pull her in tight to me and hold her. It felt strange to be alone. It was the first morning in almost a year that Cathy and I had not spent the night together.
A lonely day was surely ahead of me. Without Cathy I had absolutely no one in the entire world that I could talk to. I’d spent much of my teenage years alone and I should have been used to isolation. My life had changed, though, when I met Marcus Romand. Through him I had been introduced to the most colourful characters imaginable, I had played my part in stopping two of the most sadistic killers the world had ever seen, and I had met the girl of my dreams. All of that had been withered away over time. I was back to being the lonely weirdo who wasn’t worthy of friendship.
‘Enough!’ I shouted out as I got out of bed. ‘Enough dwelling on the past. Today is a new day. Today will be different.’
I needed to busy myself and to lighten up. I threw on some clothes and made myself a strong coffee – a little habit that I’d picked up from the time I spent in the Scottish wilderness. I took a step into the back garden and showed my face to the solemn winter sun. I was trying to figure out a plan for the day when a black shape emerged from the bushes at end of the garden. It burst from the undergrowth, across the flagstones and came towards me at a phenomenal speed.
‘Nightshade, goddammit,’ I shouted as Cathy’s pet cat meandered past me and disappeared into the shadows under the kitchen table. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack!’
I wished Cathy had taken the stinking feline with her. The cat was my tormentor in chief. Almost every morning I found a small dead animal on the doorstep, like some sort of twisted offering. Or maybe Nightshade knew I was under a lot of strain and thought the sight of dead animals each morning would tip me over the edge. She watched me very carefully from behind a chair and made a deep noise through her nose.
Cathy had practised her mind-switching gift with the cat daily for many months and that made me feel very uncomfortable. I had learned a lot about the gift of mind-switching when I was staying at the Williams estate. Mr Williams owned an animal sanctuary and one of the inhabitants was a gorilla named Argento. Cathy had tried to tame the beast by switching her mind into his body. The more she tried, the more intelligent Argento became. It was as if a trace of human intelligence and emotion was imprinted upon him; it was disconcerting how humanlike he was. It was unnatural. And she’d only practised the mind-switch with Argento for a few weeks. Cathy had been using the same technique with Nightshade for almost a year. The cat often sat with her on the couch at night and was enthralled by the TV. She sometimes sat on Cathy’s lap when she read books, and her focus was entirely planted on the pages, as if she was reading the stories with Cathy. And that wasn’t the most disturbing trait that the cat had picked up – recently Nightshade had made clumsy attempts to speak.
‘I should have let you freeze to death last year,’ I said to her. ‘I was the one who saved your life and all I get from you is guff!’
Then Nightshade did the thing that made the hairs stand on the back of my neck. She started to meow over and over again, like she was talking to me.
‘Stop that,’ I insisted. ‘You know I don’t like when you do that.’
The meowing grew louder and more intense.
‘I don’t care what you have to say! You can’t speak like a human, you horrible little freak. That means I can’t understand you, so stop it before I make you into a hat!’
The sounds coming from the cat became more and more aggressive until she was hissing wildly at me.
The strangest thing about the little confrontation was that I was lying to Nightshade. I knew exactly what she was trying to say: ‘Where’s Cathy?’
I usually tried my best to avoid any form of conversation with Nightshade. On that morning I quickly caved in.
‘She’s gone away for a while, right? No need to be getting so upset about it. I’ll feed you every day and I promise I won’t make you into a hat.’
This appeared to appease the cat and she left the shadows under the table and nestled into her cushioned wicker basket in the corner of the room. My life had become very odd. Was it any wonder that I was going mad?
After finishing my coffee, I had a modest breakfast, then fed the nightmarish feline before getting ready for a jog along the coast. I walked along the narrow path that led from the cottage to the beach, then went down to the water’s edge and picked up the pace. I was lost in daydreams as I jogged and went a lot further than I planned to. I got tired on my return and ended up walking most of the way back. I did some stretches when I was nearing the cottage then made my way towards the dunes. That’s when I noticed something out of the ordinary.
I had spotted the footprints I’d made the night before when I took a stroll to settle my nerves. The prints were still clear to see, but they were now twinned with another set of prints. These were made by someone with very big feet and a heavy build judging by how deep the impressions were. The odd thing was that these second set of prints perfectly matched my own. It was almost as if someone had picked my trail and followed me to the cottage. Anxiety was rising from the pit of my stomach when I recalled the dark shape I’d seen on the cliffs the night before. Had someone finally found me? Had the Guild tracked me down? Golding’s assassins? The authorities?
‘I’m being paranoid,’ I cursed under my breath.
I took my time getting back to the cottage and watched out for any sign of trouble. The landscape was as empty and bleak as it always was. I was cautious when I stepped inside my home, but found it empty, just as it should have been.
The afternoon rolled in at a stubborn pace. I sat by the window in the front room and watched dark clouds rolling in from the sea. I could think of no way to entertain myself and boredom soon set in. This was followed by a tingling of nervousness that eventually evolved into an anxiety attack. I stood under a cold shower for half an hour but I couldn’t shift the heavy fear pressing on my chest. I felt like I was g
oing to die … I longed for Cathy. I longed for any friendly face. I was so alone.
The only way of combating these awful sensations was to meditate. Back when I was living with Peter Williams, I would often practise shield creation – a little psychokinetic trick that saved my life when I faced Edward Zalech. I found that creating prolonged energy shields was also a form of meditation, and that I slipped into a kind of trance that kept any anxiety at bay. I paced into the bedroom, sat on the bed, bowed my head and began to form a circular shield around my body. The anxiety soon drifted away and I was at peace once more. I was saved from myself for a while longer.
This form of meditation was great at countering anxiety and depression, but it brought about something even more difficult to deal with: hallucinations. Whenever I broke off the shield, I would see the phantoms of friends and family who were long dead. That afternoon I allowed the shield to evaporate and found myself staring at Marcus Romand. He was standing near the window, his skin opaque, his eyes luminous. He looked almost real. I knew, though, that my mind had created him. He was nothing more than a figment of my imagination. Was it because I was so alone that my mind conjured up these familiar shapes? Was my mind trying to save me? Or was I simply going nuts?
I spoke to Romand. He just stood there looking out the window with a tense expression on his face. My mind was breaking apart. I was still sane enough to realise I was going insane – that was a most peculiar sensation.
The hallucination soon faded and I left the cottage and went to the garage out back. I needed something to busy myself with and decided on cleaning the front garden. There were trees at the side of the cottage and the leaves they shed throughout the autumn were scattered across the front garden and in a state of slow decay. I took a leaf rake and a yard brush from the garage, went to the front garden and got to work.
After half an hour my arms were aching and I was tempted to use psychokinesis to finish the chore. I fought the urge. I’d promised myself that I would only employ my gift for meditation, or if my life depended on it – and aching arms weren’t going to kill me. I dragged the rake back to the front door and took the yard brush in hand. I’d only started pushing the brush across the paving stones when I noticed a shadow by the end of the garden, next to the gate. It was a big shadow and there was nothing by the gate to cast it.
I retreated towards the cottage as casually as possible, and watched as the shadow crawled ominously over the path towards me. It had to be a light–tuner. That meant either the Guild or a gifted assassin had found me. I didn’t want to wait to find out if it was friend or foe. I drew in energy to fuel my powers and prepared to use it to defend myself. I would have to be accurate; the gifted rarely get a second chance in a duel.
My heart was pounding hard. Sweat was leaking from the back of my neck. Anxiety was choking me. My power was rising fast. I hadn’t felt like this since I struck the blow that killed Edward Zalech a year earlier. It almost felt good.
Then I suddenly relaxed. I simply shook my head and laughed as I caught the sweet scent of cigar smoke on the chilled winter breeze.
‘You’re losing your touch, Hunter,’ I chuckled. ‘A light-tuner of your experience shouldn’t forget to hide his shadow when he cloaks himself. And there is always the sense of smell, you know.’
‘Do you honestly think I’d make such an elementary error, Bentley?’ he replied, a playfulness in his deep voice. ‘I simply wanted to see if you were staying alert.’
‘I have no reason to be on the alert.’
‘The gifted must always remain vigilant.’
‘So I’ve been told.’ I cast the yard brush aside and rested my hands on my hips. ‘What are you doing here, Hunter?’
‘This is no way to greet an old friend,’ he said as he became uncloaked. He was only a couple of yards away, standing next to the garden wall with his arms folded. He looked a lot healthier than he did the last time I saw him, and was wrapped up in a heavy coat that stretched down to his knees. That intimidating aura of his had also returned. ‘Do you forget old friends so quickly?’
‘I’ll treat you as an old friend as long as you’re here only as a friend.’
‘I am here as a friend,’ he said, stepping forward and towering over me. ‘A friend who needs a favour.’
‘Good Lord,’ I sighed. ‘I don’t think I want to hear this.’
‘Remember, Bentley, you owe me a favour.’
‘What kind of favour?’ I asked, eyeing the big Scot suspiciously.
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Give me the short version.’
‘I will. Let’s go inside,’ he motioned at the cottage with his chin, ‘and I’ll try to make it as short and simple as I possibly can.’
My instincts were telling me to refuse him entry. He’d only want to draw me back into the dangerous business of the Guild. And because of the tedium of my life, I’d be very tempted to allow myself to be drawn in. Did I really need this trouble entering my life once more? Could my nerves even handle a conversation about Guild business?
‘Well?’ he asked impatiently.
I relented and moved to the door. I owed Hunter for not taking me back to the Guild when he’d found me the previous Christmas, and the least I could do was hear him out. I pushed open the door and led him down the narrow hall to the kitchen. I gripped the back of a chair under the table and slid it out for him as he followed me inside, then stood uncomfortably by the counter, facing him as he sat.
‘Moving furniture with your hands, eh?’ he said with a mocking grin. ‘Cathy has you house trained, I see.’
‘I’ve gotten into the habit of hiding my gifts again. It’s safer that way.’
‘Safer?’
‘So I don’t forget myself and use them in public. I don’t want to go drawing the wrong sort of attention to myself or Cathy.’ I didn’t want to tell them that Cathy was gone. This would only encourage him if he was here to talk me back into the ranks of the Guild.
‘How very sensible of you,’ he grinned. ‘Where is Cranky – I mean Cathy.’
‘Give it a rest,’ I said over his laughter. ‘For your information, she’s gone away for a couple of months.’
‘Oh, while the cat’s away the mice shall play,’ he laughed. He stretched out his left leg and rubbed his knee, wincing. ‘Damned leg is acting up again. Always like this on cold days when I do too much walking.’
‘You’re lucky to be walking.’ I thought back to how his legs were practically crushed in the car crash a year before. ‘In fact, you’re lucky to be still breathing.’
‘It’ll take a lot to do me in,’ he boasted.
‘Yeah, so I’ve noticed. I thought you’d have recovered fully by now – it’s been a year since the accident.’
‘There was nothing accidental about that crash.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘It takes longer to recover from injuries once you pass forty years of age. Especially two badly broken legs.’
‘You should retire if you’re feeling the pace,’ I said sharply. ‘It’s a much better way of life.’
‘I’m not ready for the retirement home just yet. I’ve got a few good years left in me.’
‘I think it’s best to choose retirement before someone else chooses it for you.’
‘Oh, like how Cathy chose it for you?’
‘Funny.’ I took the kettle to the sink and filled it. ‘You want a cuppa? It’s the least I can do for a weary old traveller like yourself.’
‘I’ll have a coffee if you’re offering.’ He took a cigar and a lighter from the inside of his coat and showed them to me. ‘You don’t mind if I …?’
‘No. Just open a window so that –’
The window unlatched itself and was pushed open a couple of inches.
‘I still use my gifts,’ Hunter said with a wink. ‘You almost looked surprised, Bentley. You’re starting to think like the normal folk.’
‘Normal is good. People you care about don’t g
et murdered when your life is normal.’
‘That might be true.’
‘I believe it is.’
‘But you’re not normal, are you, Bentley?’
‘Not as long as I have you around to remind me, no.’
‘I’m hardly lurking around every corner.’
‘Some times I get the feeling you are.’
‘You always were a little paranoid.’
‘Just a little.’ I turned and narrowed my eyes on him. ‘Was that you on the cliffs last night?’
‘Possibly,’ he said, trying to keep the smile from his face.
‘You stalker. I thought I was losing my bloody marbles.’
‘It was a little late to have this chat. I thought it would be best to do this at a decent hour.’ He blew a cloud of smoke over his head and watched me carefully. ‘Tell me, how have you been?’
‘I’m all right.’ I only now remembered that he too had lost people close to him at the hands of Zalech. Peter Williams had been his friend for over two decades. There was also Linda Farrier, who he never admitted having feelings for, but I knew her death had been hard for him to deal with. ‘How about you? How have you been since all that … trouble?’
‘Same as ever.’
‘You must be a cold hearted swine if what happened had no effect on you.’
‘I don’t usually talk about it.’
‘I was only asking, Hunter. It’s fine by me if you’d rather keep it to yourself. I know I’ve not been right since all that trouble.’
‘Hardly surprising. You were dragged through hell and back.’
‘Dragged through hell is right. I’m not sure about the “and back” part …’
‘You’re still suffering?’ he asked, a genuine tone in his voice for a change.
‘I’m not myself, Hunter. I’m something more than I used to be.’