Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

  Things were looking grim.

  ‘How long will I have to stay?’

  ‘You will stay until Daniel no longer has any need of you.’

  Leon Simonetti reached for the phone. Jack knew he was being dismissed but for a few moments he simply stared at his parent. People always remarked on the strong resemblance between father and son and he supposed it was true. He had inherited his father’s Roman profile and they had the same colouring: black hair, blue eyes. They shared the same long-limbed build as well, although his father’s body had a softness to it, which his own had yet to acquire. Maybe, thirty years from now, he too would have a fleshy roll around the middle and a crumpled jaw like a Caesar gone to seed. And who knows—maybe he had inherited other traits as well. Perhaps, with the passage of time, he too would become a destroyer of worlds.

  His father looked up and lifted his eyebrows—an impatient, ‘is-there-anything-else’ expression on his face. Jack shook his head and stood up from his chair. But as he reached the door, his father spoke again.

  ‘Life is what you make of it, Jack.’

  He turned to look at his father across the wide expanse of the Aubusson rug separating them. Ordinarily, he would have shrugged off these words as just another platitude. But his father’s voice sounded strange: small, cold.

  ‘The choices you make, determine the life you lead. Remember that.’ Still that small, far-away voice. ‘You live with those choices … and die by them.’

  PRAISE FOR WINDWALKER

  ‘This hauntingly elegant tale of a doomed love between two lost souls is rife with Eastern mysticism, concepts of destiny, reincarnation and redemption through selfless acts.’

  Booklist

  ‘Always action-packed.’

  Publishers Weekly

  ‘The most touching, heartbreaking and romantic novel I have read in years … (this) wonderful novel will haunt me for a very long time.’

  Romance Designs

  ‘The cave-diving sequences are heart-stopping in their intensity. One has come to expect good writing and clever plotting from Mostert, and this book does not disappoint on either score.’

  Cape Times

  ‘One of the most original voices on the literary scene. A master wordsmith.’

  Glamour Magazine

  I dedicate this book to cave divers everywhere.

  And to Frederick, my love in this life and the next.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  WINDWALKER IS SET in part in Kepler’s Bay, an imaginary town wedged in between the cold Atlantic Ocean and the windswept dunes of the Namib Desert. Anyone who has ever visited Namibia will recognise in Kepler’s Bay many similarities to the tiny port of Luderitzbucht and the adjacent ghost town of Kolmanskop. I have certainly drawn inspiration for my book from these two places, and have considered carefully whether I shouldn’t use them as the actual setting for my story. In the end I decided to create my own town, Kepler’s Bay. It is a composite of a number of Namibian towns: tiny, wind-scoured outposts clinging to the edge of the world.

  The decision solved a number of problems. In real life, Kolmanskop and the surrounding area are sealed off and form part of the so-called Sperrgebiet, or ‘prohibited land’. Anyone who dares cross its barren wastes is considered a potential diamond-smuggler and will find himself in danger of criminal prosecution. In my book this would have posed great difficulties for my hero, who not only made his home in one of the deserted ghost towns, but wanders through the desert sands of the southern Namib at will. So in the world I’ve created, the artificial barriers of Diamond Area No. 1 do not exist. Still, Kepler’s Bay owes much of its eerie charm to the port of Luderitzbucht and the deserted hamlet of Kolmanskop, where the ghosts walk even during the day.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Praise for WINDWALKER

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 – Chapter 2 – Chapter 3 – Chapter 4

  Chapter 5 – Chapter 6 – Chapter 7 – Chapter 8

  Chapter 9 – Chapter 10 – Chapter 11 – Chapter 12

  Chapter 13 – Chapter 14 – Chapter 15 – Chapter 16

  Chapter 17 – Chapter 18 – Chapter 19 – Chapter 20

  Chapter 21 – Chapter 22 – Chapter 23 – Chapter 24

  Chapter 25 – Chapter 26 – Chapter 27 – Chapter 28

  Chapter 29 – Chapter 30 – Chapter 31 – Chapter 32

  Chapter 33 – Chapter 34 – Chapter 35 – Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Special photo section

  Acknowledgements

  Novels by Natasha Mostert

  Preview of Natasha Mostert’s DARK PRAYER

  ‘You may know the characters are absolutely doomed to some fate, but the characters themselves must be allowed to hope.’

  BRUCE CHATWIN,

  IN CONVERSATION WITH NICHOLAS SHAKESPEARE

  PROLOGUE

  HE WAS LOOKING up at the stars, his eyes wide open and shiny. The expression on his face was ecstasy. His arms were thrown wide as though he were about to hug the sky to his chest.

  His brother.

  For a moment the man hesitated, wondering if he should try to close the staring eyes, smooth the pale lids over the curved eyeballs. But as he looked down at his own hands they were clenched into fists and, try as he might, he was unable to open his fingers.

  The grass here was wet and sweet-smelling and the fragrant wisteria, with its drooping white petals, looked like a bride. The shaft of a sundial gleamed palely in the moonlight. A pleasant spot, this. He had always thought so. Turning his head slowly, he looked at the house with its smooth windows. Behind the glass panes there was only dark and quiet; the rooms not empty, but their occupants asleep. The house would be silent inside except for the secret sounds of slumber. Soft breathing, maybe the ticking of a bedside clock.

  He looked back at the figure in front of him. How pale the thin face with its ecstatic, frozen eyes. How still those long limbs. Only the fine hair at the hollow of the temples moved ever so slightly in the soft breeze. But the arms flung wide seemed almost carefree, stretched out in a gesture of abandon. A wristwatch gleamed gold at the edge of a snow-white cuff.

  Something moved at the edge of his peripheral vision and he whipped around, his heart beating wildly. He stared into the darkness. He sensed the presence of someone—something. For a moment he waited tensely, the adrenaline burning through his blood like acid. But nothing moved. No shadow detached itself from the surrounding blackness.

  Nerves. And now he was aware of the cold. The knees of his trousers were wet where the moisture from the grass had seeped through. His arm was suddenly on fire when he touched it, and even in the darkness he could see the black stain of his own blood.

  He got to his feet and, without a backward glance, he started walking. At first he walked slowly, with no haste. But as he crossed the wide, manicured lawn he stretched his stride. By the time he reached the edge of the mile-long avenue of trees, he was hurrying.

  The road stretched straight ahead for what seemed like a long, long way. The moon was directly overhead. The trunks of the beech trees on both sides of him threw slim black shadows across the path in front of his feet. For a moment he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. And the house with its tall chimney stacks, its beautiful bow-fronted windows and the three-pointed gables had never seemed to him more lovely. The stone walls glowing white in the light of the moon. The windows glittering darkly. A house serene and dreaming. A house at peace.

  But as he watched, a light suddenly stabbed from an upstairs window. He waited, his blood rushing through his veins, thrumming inside his ears. And then yet another light—like a warning, an alarm—turned the darkness yellow.

  He started running, his footsteps loud. The wind had sprung up and the branches of the trees danced. The wind chilled the back of his neck and the sweat in his armpits felt
cold. But he had almost reached the end of the avenue and he could see the elaborately curlicued ironwork of the gate in front of him.

  As he curled his fingers around one of the iron bars, he thought for a terrified moment that the gate was locked. He could feel his lips drawing away from his teeth in a snarl, and inside the cage of his chest were fist blows of rage and fear. But then—slowly, ponderously—the gate started to swing toward him.

  He stepped through the narrow opening and turned round. In the distance the house was ablaze with light. Light was pouring from every window. Light was pouring through the front door. The door stood wide open and a long tongue of light licked across the stone steps.

  A house in distress.

  A house in a state of mortal sin.

  • • •

  WITH HIS BACK to the sundial, a few steps away from the wisteria walkway, a shadow shook itself free from the darkness. For a moment the man who had stood there so motionless peered in the direction of the black wrought-iron gate. The gate was half-open, but the fleeing figure of the killer was no longer visible. He had disappeared.

  The Watcher glanced up at the house. Light from the windows was falling onto the lawn, the yellow glow not quite reaching the dead body spread-eagled on the moist grass only a few yards away from him.

  He would have liked to take a closer look, but he heard voices. He had no desire to answer questions, to describe what he had witnessed. The very idea filled him with panic. It was time to leave. But, unlike the murderer, he would not be able to escape through the gate. There was no possibility of walking down the avenue of trees without being seen.

  Swiftly—the voices were drawing near—he turned in the direction of the woods, which rose tall and dark at the rear of the house. There was no clear path through the woods and the terrain among the trees was rough, but he had no choice.

  He had reached the edge of the woods. Here the moonlight still silvered the leaves of the trees. A much deeper darkness awaited him inside the dense, moss-furred forest. A dank, bitter smell rose from the earth. He shivered. His features, blanched by the white light, showed indecision.

  The next moment, he stepped from light into darkness and was swallowed up by the night.

  ONE

  SHE MUST HAVE taken a wrong turn.

  Justine glanced at her watch and then at the road map on the car seat beside her. She had been making good time but, since leaving the motorway, she had found herself lost in a maze of country lanes bordered by towering hedges, tiny villages with evil roundabouts, and roads without names. People living in the country didn’t need road signs, of course: they knew exactly where they were. And no doubt it was considered part of the charm of living in the English countryside. But a bloody nuisance for visitors all the same. She would have to stop and ask for directions.

  She found a parking space in front of a small corner shop. As she slammed the car door, she could see the girl behind the till watching her through a window partly obscured by flyers and multicoloured stickers, her bored gaze taking in the battered, orange-coloured MG, the boxes piled high on the narrow backseat. When Justine entered the shop, the girl pulled a long piece of gum from her mouth. After looking at it intently for a few seconds, she skilfully reeled it back with the flick of a pink tongue.

  Justine spread open the map on the countertop. ‘I’m looking for Paradine Park.’

  ‘Yeah?’ A bubble popped slowly and the girl’s thin plucked eyebrows rose only the tiniest fraction. Around her neck she wore a silver chain with the word ‘Angelface’ in flowing script.

  ‘Could you direct me?’

  An elaborate sigh. A shrug. ‘You should have taken the turning two miles back. See, you have to drive through Ainstey and then continue for another mile and a half. It’s right here.’ She stabbed at the map with a finger that showed a graceful half-moon of dirt under the nail.

  ‘Thanks.’ Justine straightened and looked around the tiny shop. In the boot of her car she already had a box of shopping, but maybe she should take advantage of this opportunity to supplement her rations. She pulled a box of cereal from the shelves, a packet of sugar. A carton of long-life milk. A bag filled with some sickly-looking pink doughnuts. For a moment she hesitated before gesturing at the shelves behind the counter. ‘And a bottle of Johnnie Walker.’

  The girl rang up the total and watched as Justine pulled her wallet from the pocket of her jeans.

  ‘Nice shirt.’ For the first time there was some life in her voice.

  Justine looked down at the front of her long-sleeved T-shirt. ‘LIFE’S A BITCH. THEN YOU DIE.’ The letters were faded from continual washing. She was surprised at the girl’s enthusiasm. Even for the country, the slogan must be pretty old. But maybe she should try to reciprocate.

  ‘Nice necklace.’

  The girl touched the silver-plated lettering around her neck. ‘Yeah. “Angelface”—that’s what my boyfriend calls me.’

  ‘Sweet.’ And not at all apt, Justine thought as she peeled off a twenty-pound note.

  The girl took the money. ‘No use going that way, you know.’

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘Paradine Park. The house is empty.’

  ‘I know. I’m the new caretaker.’

  ‘Yeah?’ The girl looked impressed. ‘Wicked place, that. They used to throw some cool acid house parties down there. But they’re going to turn it into a hotel now.’

  ‘Spa.’

  ‘Whatever.’ The girl shrugged resentfully. ‘Real shame, anyway.’ She banged the till drawer shut and stared at Justine. ‘So you’ll be staying there by yourself?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just curious.’ Her voice was sullen. ‘Might not be such a brilliant idea, that’s all I’m saying.’

  Justine waited. The girl popped a defiant bubble. ‘Lonely down there.’

  ‘Well, thanks for the concern. And the directions.’ Justine placed the plastic bag on her hip. ‘Cheers.’

  As she left the shop she could feel the girl’s eyes following her. She glanced back. Angelface was watching her with a decidedly odd expression. Then, with startling abruptness, she turned her face away.

  But at least her directions seemed reliable. Ainstey was small: rows of postcard-pretty sandstone cottages, a truly ancient-looking parish church with a splendid tower, a cluster of modest-looking shops. And barely a mile farther a neat sign informed her that Paradine Park lay to the right.

  It was only just past five, but already the sky was acquiring a pewter sheen. There was sunshine on the green fields, still and golden, but the shadows were long. The wind bit at her cheekbones and nose. Summer was coming to an end. In another few weeks she’d have to put up the MG’s top.

  In the distance a dog barked once and she could smell the scent of smoke and burning leaves. She drove past a paddock and two horses, one grey, one black, galloped away on soundless hooves. And now a high sandstone wall was on her right, cutting off her view. She suspected that this wall formed the lower boundary of Paradine Park and, indeed, the road suddenly ended. As she turned the car through an impressive pair of open gates, her breath caught in her throat at the beauty of the long avenue stretching out before her.

  The road was narrow and ran straight and true for at least a mile. Beech trees stood on either side of the lane, their trunks slim and graceful, and through the branches she could see fragments of sky and racing clouds. There was a sense of both light and dark here: darkness close among the trees, sun streaking down through dry leaves and flashing bright at the edge of her peripheral vision. But it was the house that made this place seem not quite real. Small at first, growing ever larger as she drove toward it, it was set back from the avenue of trees by a green splash of lawn and it seemed like something from a dream; a dream filled with wonder.

  The walls were of sandstone, honey in colour, soft on the eye. The regularity and symmetry of the fenestration spoke vaguely of Palladian ideals. Three-pointed gables, flanked by solid chimney stacks, m
arked the middle section of the house. The ends of the house were anchored by the fine curves of two bow-fronted windows, the sun reflecting off their glass panes with a terrible brightness. Behind the house the woods rose tall and dark.

  She left the avenue of trees behind her, turning the car into the wide driveway with a sputter of gravel beneath the wheels. Another car was already parked at the front door. A tall, prematurely bald man was standing on the shallow stone steps. In his hand he held a leather briefcase. He was looking aggrieved and glanced pointedly at his watch.

  The disapproving mouth and sour expression raised her hackles. His impatience was unmistakable, but after killing the engine she stretched deliberately and unclipped the seatbelt without haste. Opening her handbag, she extracted a lipstick and carefully coloured her lips. Then she slowly drew a comb through her hair. By the time she got out of the car, the estate agent’s irritation was palpable and he looked more than ever as though he had bitten down on a lemon.

  ‘I was just about to leave. I didn’t think you would be coming any longer.’

  ‘I took a wrong turn.’

  He held out his hand reluctantly. ‘Edwards.’

  ‘Justine Callaway.’ His hand was bony, the fingers slack.

  ‘Is your husband following you?’

  Husband? For a moment her mind went blank, then she recovered. ‘Something came up at work.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘He works so hard, poor man. He’ll be here soon.’