by Tim O'Rourke
I glanced sideways at Potter in the darkness of my small car. We sat so close that when I shifted down a gear, my arm would brush against his. I liked that feeling. It was maddening. Maddening that I couldn’t really touch him, to reach out, put my arm around his broad shoulders. Pull him close. Kiss his mouth. Tell him that I loved him. But this Potter who now sat next to me in my beat up old red Mini wasn’t mine. He belonged to someone else in this where and when. But I couldn’t dwell on that. I couldn’t let the fact that he was in love with another hurt me. I couldn’t let it start to tear my heart apart. I feared that if I did let such feelings consume me, then they might return – the Elders who had fed off my unhappiness for so long. Wherever my Potter was – the man I had loved and been loved by, was happy. Noah had promised me that. Noah had promised that when my friends got pushed back, they would have no knowledge that I’d ever existed. So, therefore, how could they ever feel loss – pain – if I had never been a part of their lives?
But perhaps then the man sitting next to me was that Potter. The Potter who had loved me? Perhaps he just didn’t remember. Perhaps in this where and when I’d never been a part of his life. I looked front and pushed those thoughts away. If I started to believe that this Potter was mine, then I would start to hope that perhaps one day he would remember what we had once shared. But if he were to remember… what would happen then? Would the world start to break apart like it had once before? And if that happened, what would come through those cracks? Would the Elders return, growing stronger once again on our misery and heartache? No! I had to push such thoughts from my mind – just like I’d pushed Potter and my friends away. I was happy that they were happy. Leading lives together. I tried to picture Murphy and Pen together – living happily with their daughters Meren and Nessa. I conjured pictures in my mind of Isidor and Melody Rose together at last. And I smiled as I thought of Kayla. Beautiful Kayla, with the red fiery hair and temper to match. But she could be so soft – gentle when it mattered. I tried to ignore any twinge of unhappiness as I thought of her. I told myself that I didn’t miss her. She had become like a sister to me. A younger sister, but equal all the same. I tried not to think of her, telling myself that she might not yet be lost to me. I had come across Potter in this new world already, so the chances were I might come across Kayla, too. I’d come across all of them eventually. They wouldn’t remember – wouldn’t know me - but I would remember all of them. How could I ever forget what we had all once shared? Perhaps then we would share new adventures in this when and where. Perhaps once again, Kayla would become something like a sister to me. Perhaps Isidor like a brother, Murphy like a father, and Potter… what would I become to him? One of Sophie’s bridesmaids, perhaps? I didn’t like the thought of that at all.
“This is the place,” Potter said, flicking his cigarette out of the window into the dark.
I peered through the mud-splashed windscreen as my old car rattled over the uneven road and toward the pub Potter had pointed to.
The Bucket, it said on the sign that jutted from the ivy-covered wall of the small building. The pub sat back from the road and I steered my car into the car park out front. There were only two other cars.
“What are we doing here?” I asked, turning off the engine.
“Meeting a client,” Potter said, pushing open the door and climbing out.
“You said something about being infected?” I asked, locking my car door, although I doubted anyone would ever want to steal it from here or any other place.
“Look, hot-lips,” Potter said, scowling over the roof of the car at me, “I only let you tag along on the understanding that you don’t go asking questions. Just sit back, watch, and learn.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m just meant to be filing and making the tea,” I said under my breath.
“What was that?” Potter said, shooting me a distrustful stare. “Did you say something?”
“Nothing,” I said, faking a smile, already wanting to punch Potter in his arrogant face. I came around the nose of the car, wobbling on the cracked tarmac in my heels. What I wouldn’t have given for a pair of boots or trainers. And what was with the pencil skirt and jacket? I couldn’t wait to slip into a pair of Levis and sweatshirt. Potter watched me as I came around the front of the car toward him.
“What?” I asked, not wanting to like his stare but doing so anyhow.
“Nothing,” he said, looking away and heading toward the pub. “C’mon.”
I teetered on my heels as I chased after him, fearing that at any moment I was going to fall and break my ankle, or worse. As I watched him go, I wondered if the Potter in this world was a Vampyrus. Were his wings hidden away deep inside of him, ready to spring out, along with his fangs and claws? Potter had said back at the police station – the offices of The Creeping Men – that he investigated vampires, werewolves, and the undead. I figured then, that he was in some way still connected to the world of the supernatural. A world of monsters that lived in plain sight of the humans.
Potter stooped his head as he pushed open the pub door and stepped inside. There was a bicycle resting against the ivy-covered wall next to the door. I followed. Like so many country pubs scattered across the remotest parts of Great Britain, the pub was snug and cosy-looking. And even though the evening was warm, a fire still flared up in the grate carved into the far wall. The pub, however, wasn’t busy with just a few locals gathered about a nest of tables. They looked up as we entered, then back down at their drinks and the card games they were playing.
“What would you like?” a ruddy-faced barman asked. He stood in front of a glass display that housed all kinds of bottles of different spirits, beers, and ciders. His hair was a fuzzy white mess, as was the beard that covered the lower half of his face. He looked more like a sea captain than a barman.
“Whiskey,” Potter said. Then glancing sideways as if remembering that I was with him, he added, “What about you?”
“Just a water. I’m driving remember?” I said.
With an eye roll, Potter looked back at the barman and said, “And a bottle of water for Miss Goody-two-shoes.”
“I don’t think it’s sensible to drink and drive…” I started in my own defence.
“Driving? Is that what you call it?” Potter grinned, more to himself than me. “Listen, sweet-cheeks, what you were doing I wouldn’t call driving. I’ve seen the condemned walk faster to the hangman’s noose.”
“Those roads were very narrow and very close to the cliff edge in places…”
“That car of yours couldn’t pick up speed even if it was pushed over a cliff.” Potter grinned.
“So you’ll be walking back to town later, will you?” I asked, placing my hands on my hips, smiling smugly back.
“Not if you want me to show you where the Crescent Moon Inn is,” he shot back just as smug.
I already knew where it was, but I couldn’t tell him that.
“I can always give you directions,” the barman cut in, placing a glass of whiskey and bottle of water down.
“Hey, butt out.” Potter scowled at him, placing a fistful of money on the bar. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“Sorry,” the barman shrugged. “I just don’t think that’s any way to treat your lady.”
“She’s not my lady,” Potter snapped, throwing his head back and downing the whiskey in one large gulp.
“No?” the barman asked in genuine surprise. “You’re arguing like an old married couple – like you’ve been together for years.”
“We’ve only just met,” I said, picking up the bottle of water. “He’s my new boss.”
“Yeah, and don’t you forget it.” Potter winced as the whiskey washed down the back of his throat.
“Maybe you should look for a new job,” the barman said, looking at me.
“What is your problem?” Potter glared at him.
“I was just saying…” the barman shrugged again.
“Well, don’t,” Potter said. “I know how t
o manage the likes of hot-lips here without any advice from you.”
“Kiera.” I scowled at him, hands still on my hips. “Kiera Hudson.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Potter sighed.
“No,” I said. “My name’s not Jesus, nor is it hot-lips, sweet-cheeks, or tiger…”
“I never called you tiger,” Potter cut in.
“Whatever,” I said, realising my mistake. “My name is Kiera.”
“Have it your way, Ky-era Hudson,” Potter said, turning his back on me and facing the barman again. “I’m looking for a woman.”
“You’re gonna struggle with an attitude like that, mate,” the barman said.
“And you’re starting to get on my fucking nerves, wise-arse,” Potter growled at him.
I stifled a grin.
“I’ve come to meet a client in this godforsaken place,” Potter told him. “Her name is Ms. Heather Locke.”
Scooping the money up that Potter had placed on the bar, the barman glanced over into the furthest corner of the room. I followed his stare and could see the vaguest of outlines of a person sitting in the shadows there.
“Thanks,” Potter grunted, stepping away from the bar. He headed toward the corner of the pub.
I had started to follow him when the barman said, “Hey, pretty lady.”
I glanced back. “Huh?”
“You’re boss has got it bad,” he said.
“He’s got what bad?” I asked.
“The hots for you,” he smiled, then went back to cleaning down the bar.
With pale cheeks flushing warm, and unable to stop my heart from racing, I followed Potter into the shadows in the corner of the pub.
Chapter Two
“Mr. Potter?” the woman asked, pushing her chair back from the table and standing.
“Yes.” Potter nodded back at her.
I could see by the way her hand trembled when she offered it to Potter to shake that she was incredibly nervous. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way her eyes kept furtively looking around the pub, as if she feared she was being watched.
“I’m Ms. Heather Locke,” she said, swallowing hard to hide the waver in her voice. She glanced at me, then back at Potter again. “I thought you were coming alone?”
“This is my associate Kiera Hudson,” Potter said. “You can speak as freely in front of her as you can me. We will both keep whatever you have to tell us in complete confidence.”
I was pleased to discover that this Potter could speak with a professional air when he needed – or wanted to. He didn’t always sound like an arrogant toss-pot. Cautiously, Heather Locke offered me her hand. I took it, giving a gentle but brisk shake. She was rake thin and wore a green coat buttoned up the front. A plain dress hung just over her knees, and I couldn’t help but notice that there were flecks of mud over her shoes and up her shin. I could see at once that it was her bicycle outside against the wall, and she had ridden it to meet Potter, mud spraying up as she had passed through some puddles. She had cycled, despite having access to a Land Rover 4X4. It was obvious to me that something had been troubling her deeply for the last few weeks. She had slept restlessly, had spent many hours reading and writing. Heather Locke was not married, despite being in her late forties.
“Perhaps we should all sit down,” Potter said, taking charge of the situation. “Can I get you anything – a drink, perhaps?”
“No,” Locke said, sitting back down, wringing her hands together. Again she glanced over in the direction of the door.
I sat next to Potter on the opposite side of the table from her.
“How can I help you?” Potter asked.
“I don’t even know where to start,” she said, fingering the Land Rover key fob that hung from her purse on the table.
“Why not at the beginning,” I said softly.
“Yeah, that’s just what I was going to say,” Potter said, placing his elbows on the table, trying to take up as much space as possible and nudging me into the background.
“Okay,” Locke said, swallowing hard again and focusing her attention on Potter. I sat back in my chair, arms crossed over my chest. Watching. Seeing.
“I am employed by Sir Edmund Lovecraft and live with him at his home Bastille Hall…” she started.
“Are you his lover… his mistress?” Potter asked, shaking a cigarette from the pack he had pulled from his jacket pocket.
Oh Christ, I sighed inside. Perhaps Potter wasn’t as professional as I hoped he would be when needed.
“No!” Locke balked, straightening up in her seat as if she’d been physically slapped.
“Just wondering – trying to get a feel of the whole situation between you and this Lovecraft dude,” Potter said, lighting a cigarette.
“There is no situation between me and Sir Edmund,” Locke said with a brisk shake of her head. “And there never has been.”
“Okay, if you’re sure,” Potter said, blowing cigarette smoke out of his nostrils. “But in my experience, it’s not often that a man and woman can live together without there being a little bit of jiggy-jiggy…”
“You’re not allowed to smoke in here,” I cut in, trying to save his arse before she slapped his face and marched out.
“What?” he glared.
“Look,” I said, pointing up at the wall. “See the No Smoking sign?”
Potter glanced up at the wall. Then leaning over the table, he opened a nearby window and inched his chair toward it. Looking at me, he drew deeply on his cigarette, blowing the smoke out of the window. “Happy now?” he said. But before I’d had a chance to say anything, he was looking at Locke again. “Where were we? Okay, right… you were telling us that this Edmund guy isn’t giving you one… so why are you living with him? Are you just friends, or what?”
“No,” Locke said, a look of disdain on her ashen face. And I suspected that if she wasn’t in such desperate need of help, she would have got up and left by now. “Sir Edmund is my employer.”
“He employs you to do what, exactly?” Potter asked, squirting another stream of blue smoke from the corner of his mouth, which drifted over Locke’s shoulder and out of the window.
“I have been his daughter’s nanny for the last sixteen years,” she said, her tired eyes beginning to look flushed with tears. She swallowed hard again, fighting them back. “I’ve been her teacher, carer – why, I’ve been like a mother to that girl.”
“Where is her real mother?” I dared to ask. Potter shot me a look, but I ignored it and wouldn’t meet his stare.
“Her mother died during childbirth,” Locke explained. “The child, Amanda Lovecraft, was just six weeks old when I was employed by her father to take care of her. I did everything for the girl. And because we spent so much time together, a part of me loved Amanda as if she were my own daughter, even though I knew in my heart that she wasn’t. But when you bring a child up, bathe them, pick them up when they fall down, nurse them when they are sick, teach them to read and write… you can’t help but become emotionally involved with them.” I watched Locke absentmindedly rub her bare index finger. The finger where most women of her age would wear a wedding ring or engagement ring at least. “I know it sounds unprofessional of me, but not ever having any children of my own and never been married, I grew to love Amanda as if she were my own daughter. And I believe that she looked upon me – loved me – as if I were her mother.”
“Where is Amanda now?” I asked, sitting forward in my seat now. “You keep talking as if she has gone…”
“She has,” Locke said, glancing up at me, eyes red-rimmed.
“Gone where?” Potter asked, as if reminding us both that he was still there - that this was his investigation and he was in charge of it.
“That I don’t really know,” Locke said back. “And that’s why I need your help, Mr. Potter. I need you to find out what has happened to her.”
“I’m sorry,” Potter said, flicking the butt of his cigarette out of the window and standing up. “Missing pers
on enquiries aren’t really my thing. Perhaps you should try speaking to the official police.”
“I can’t go to the police,” she said, a pleading look in her eyes. “If Sir Edmund were to discover that I’d spoken to you about this matter, let alone the police, he would dismiss me for sure.”
“Why?” Potter asked. “Isn’t he concerned about what has happened to his missing daughter?”
Locke looked up at Potter then across the table at me, where I still sat. Potter might not be interested, but every investigative fibre in my body was screaming with joy. I had a mystery to solve – missing person or not. Then dropping her voice to nothing more than a hush, Locke said, “Although Sir Edmund would never admit it, I think there is something very unnatural about what has happened to young Amanda.”