A Tailor's Son (Valadfar)

by Damien Tiller

  annoyed Harold but his hand slipped down to his trouser pocket,

  feeling for his wallet, which was still there. Only a couple of days

  before, Harold would have shared his father’s opinion but the girl had

  risked her life to save his.

  “She’s not a thief.” Harold said thankful that it was true.

  “Anyway, I’m sure she’s nothing to do with it. I saw who did it, I even recognised

  the man.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell the guard?” His father asked. He was

  unaware how corrupt the city had become. He still thought it was as

  prosperous as when William Boatswain was still governor after the war;

  he still thought the city guard did what was just and right. In other

  words Harold’s father was a man who refused to see the downfall of

  the city he had fought to join.

  “I did, they didn’t believe me. The man is dead, Father.” Harold said

  bluntly, wishing he had found a better way of saying it, but how many

  different ways are there of saying you saw a dead man running around

  as if he were still alive?

  “What the hell do you mean, the man is dead? You said you escaped. Did

  you see him die? Someone shot him maybe, serve him bloody right. Bet he was one of

  those immigrants. You mark my words, all those Drow are trouble.” His father

  grumbled. He was not very accepting of people. He was almost as bad

  as the inspector had been, before Harold watched him die. “No, Father. I mean he was found dead last week.” Harold said,

  knowing it sounded insane. If Harold had been his father, he would

  have put it down to the head wound. His father’s gaze froze and

  Harold could see he was investigating him, studying his face for any

  sign of madness, but he knew Harold had never been one to believe in

  fairy tales. Hell, as a child Harold did not even believe in monsters

  under the bed.

  “Are you sure, son?” His father asked, his tone quiet. The last

  and only time Harold had seen him like this was when their dog had

  died and he had to tell him when Harold was about five or six. “Yes, I am, but then I also know it is not possible.” That was the

  honest answer.

  “Sounds like total codswallop, lad, but I believe you. There is more to life

  than man knows, Harry. When I was a boy, I swear I saw a woman walking down

  our lawn, all dressed in white she was. She got as far as the stream that used to run

  towards the cliff and then just vanished. I got one hell of a hiding from my old man

  when I told him. I promised myself then that if anyone ever came to me with a story

  too unbelievable to be true, I would give them the benefit of the doubt.” His father

  had never told Harold that before. When he was younger, Harold’s

  father was a strong man, in every sense of the word, and Harold

  guessed sharing ghost stories did not really fit in with who he was.

  Harold’s father flicked the last of his pipe into the fire before laying it

  on the side of the armchair. “It’s late.” He said as the sounds of Saint

  Anne’s bell tower echoed across the city. After counting the chimes, he

  continued. “Rather it’s early, three already we’d better be heading to bed. Take my

  advice, Harry, and steer clear of the devil’s work. I don’t want any son of mine getting involved with walking corpses, thank you very much, and I’ll have no more talk about it. Once my chest has cleared up a bit, Harold, I will help sort things out with the guard, until then just stay home. I’ll get your mother to get Janet’s boy to mind the shop for us until this is over.” He said, before struggling to his feet once

  more and walking out of the room.

  Harold sat there for a while longer watching the fire flicker,

  but he was tired and went up to bed shortly after. Harold had not slept

  well for days and expected to collapse as soon as he crawled into bed.

  Harold did not, however, but instead lay there thinking how he had

  never had the courage to make the final move and actually move out of

  his childhood home. Harold knew his father wanted him married but

  housing was expensive and Harold could not afford it alone. The fact

  was that Harold had never found the right girl. They were either too

  self-centred or typical of the middle class or below his standing and

  Harold knew his father would never allow that. Now with his father

  sick, Harold could not see him leaving any time soon. As if to reinforce

  the point his father exploded into another choking fit down the hall.

  He would have to convince him to send for the doctor in the morning,

  Harold thought to himself, as he drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 10: Daybreak If Harold had hoped for a return to normality the following day, he was to be disappointed. The morning papers were filled with the news of the dead. The inside pages covered the missing sewer workers. The front page showed the picture of one Mildred Köln, left brutally murdered during the early hours. A young match girl had found her mutilated body outside the butcher’s shop where she had been visiting to collect scraps. The inside pages described the story. Mildred was not the only prostitute found dead. Two other working girls were killed in the city by the time the brass font of the printing press had been set. By Duwek night, the Times was getting a new story of more bodies found, ready to hit the streets the following morning, but it was the Midwek papers that horrified Harold. A whole brothel, clients included, was added to the list of those found dead. The broadsheet described how someone had managed to subdue all the occupants and feed on them in a cannibalistic way. The reports included the information that the vicious murders had all taken place after an attack on a guard transit transporting a known arsonist who had subsequently escaped. The guard were asking any witnesses to come forward and Harold knew then that the whole city thought that it was him who was responsible for these horrible and most heinous of crimes. Except, that is, for Muriel and his father.

  Harold did not know what really happened to the poor victims William took, but if he had known what William was becoming, then he could have hazarded a guess. William was losing who he was. Hearing Paul talk of his family had sent him into a rage and he had wanted to rip that little balding man limb from limb, but he knew that Paul was his only hope of finding a cure. After the incident with the guard wagon William had skulked around the city streets in his search for somewhere to hide and fight the hunger. Somewhere before he made it back to his hide away, Mildred Köln must have crossed his path and made the mistake of trying to arouse him, hoping to make a last bit of money before heading home to bed. Instead, she ended up satisfying his hunger. William had waited with her cooling body, distraught at what he had done. He was not pure evil, not yet anyway, and he wept for the young girl, knowing he had taken his youngest victim yet. The youthful girl’s body lay in the gutter, with what little blood William had not fed on, trickling away. William had been there when the girl had found her and heard her scream. He prowled towards the girl, wanting to feed again. He moved slowly so as not to startle his prey and could hear the girl’s heart beating. The sensation excited the beast within his chest but, before William managed to grab his new victim, a crowd had started to gather on the empty streets, the girl’s scream obviously rousing those from the houses close by.

  William waited while he watched the sketch artist from the Times setting up for the moment to be captured. The child, promising such a sweet feast, was worth waiting for, but William was left disappointed. The girl was taken inside the butcher’s by the guard who wanted to talk to her and William could not wait any longer. Escaping the s
cene before the hunger drove him to make a mistake in front of so many people, William ran into the other prostitutes to be killed on their way home. As daylight approached his strength was weakening and he seduced them into the side alleys with the promise of money. They died easily, and there was something satisfying about feeding on the blood of these young women. Unlike the sewer workers or the damnable rodents William felt passion inside, a sexual excitement at their weakening murmurs. It was this drive, combined with the thrill and peak of energy inside, that had led William to the brothel.

  After crawling out of whatever sewer grate he had been hiding in during the day, William waited in the streets opposite the brothel, his back resting against the wall. He remembered it from his old life, having visited once before he married. He waited in the growing shadows, patiently biding his time until the last rays of the sun fell out of view. He knew he had to be fast, strong too. There would be men inside who would try to fight back, and William was sure the women would not give in to his hunger willingly. He had learned already that the beast inside was so much stronger once the light had faded, and the time outside had given him a chance to think about what Paul had said. He even spared a fleeting thought for those he’d killed, but mainly he thought of his family. Why was it that he could not even picture what they looked like anymore? It seemed to him that they were shadows, or hidden behind water, their images distorted. Every time his mind tried to focus on them the image warped and flickered away. William had forgotten how long it had been since he had last seen them. Giving up on his trail of thought the darkness swept over him like a drug and William made for the door. The longer the Rakta Ishvara lived inside him the more like a wild beast William became. He shared more traits with a lion Harold’s father’s ivory pipe represented, than the man he once did.

  Chapter 11: SWALK While staying home and in between reading the horrors retold in the newspapers Harold received a crumpled letter from an unexpected woman. William’s widow. Harold so wanted to throw it into the fire, but he did not have the heart. Their hardships only added to his heartache. Harold had no idea how they found his address and his only guess was that they somehow had access to the guard reports. Perhaps they read about his testimony claiming that William had set the fire. Either way, the letter arrived at a time that would prove crucial for him. Harold planned to wait for his father to approach the guard, but during the night, he took a turn for the worse. By Midwek the stress of it all weighted down like the weight of so many full kegs and Harold barely spoke, apart from to read his father the news. His mother was too worried for his father’s health to even notice Harold’s return. Only exchanged glances letting him know she was glad he had come home.

  Harold tried to convince his father to go to the doctor, but he was a strong and proud man, which also meant that he was as stubborn as a mule. When Brunwek morning came his father remained in bed and Harold had to read the news to him yet again. He was far too weak to manage the stairs or the cold of the dawn, so Harold sat at the end of the bed with the curtains pulled closed and read to him. Afterwards Harold left him to sleep and alone in the lounge Harold started to stoke a fresh fire from within the ashes of the previous night.

  It was not as cold as it had been but Harold could not sit in darkness. The ashes were barely smouldering when there was a knock at the door. For a second Harold suspected it was the guard and prepared to run but there was only one way in and out of the family home and that was the front door. The knock came again and Harold had no choice but to open it. Relief flooded over him like the ocean over the beach on a stormy night when Harold saw the uniform of the postal worker. He gave him just one letter, written in a hand Harold did not recognise at the time, but has grown to know so well. It was a letter from William’s wife, or rather his widow. As Harold closed the door, he knew that he had to leave the house soon. Next time a knock came rapping against the woodwork Harold might not be so lucky.

  He had a few choices where to hide. The shop, the family cottage in Port Lust, but it was Muriel that Harold wanted to go and stay with. He had to see her again and anyway, Harold had promised that he would go back to see her. His hands reached for the letter opener and prized the wax seal off the browned paper. Alone and in the slowly warming room, Harold started to read. It was a long letter and Harold could see from the smudged ink that the paper had been moistened, probably by tears as it was written. Harold read the letter over and over, his tired eyes making sense of it, a little at a time. One line stood out, saying that she had seen William and she knew that he was alive. His widow had seen William in a newspaper drawing of the crowd outside the butcher’s shop. Harold was relieved that someone else believed him and could confirm what Harold already suspected.

  Harold dropped the letter and scrambled for the paper, left unread on his father’s armchair and flicked through the pages until he found the picture. True enough William was there. His cold eyes seemed to stare right through the page into Harold’s own. Harold dropped the newspaper, feeling an uncomfortable dry uneasiness and slumped into the chair. Harold closed his eyes. He had no real clue how William’s wife found out his name, but she knew Harold had seen him too. Her letter begged him to explain what was happening, she wanted answers for her children. It was hard for Harold to remember William as being human and having children, as he now seemed nothing but a monster. Harold couldn’t imagine what could be going through his children’s minds, but prayed his wife kept them protected from the truth. Her words hurt him so much that Harold wanted to hurl the letter into the fire there and then, but he could not. Instead, Harold folded the letter and put it in his inside pocket, planning to reply one day and explain as much as he could. The letter mentioned that William’s body should have rested in the catacombs of Saint Anne’s but it bypassed him at the time, as it did when the inspector had mentioned it before. Harold already had too much on his mind and although educated, he was far from detective bright; he was after all is said and done, just a tailor’s son.

  Chapter 12: All Moved Out Harold knew the guard would be looking for him and the letter from William’s wife made him realise people knew where to find him. It surprised him that he had managed to spend a few days at home without the guard battering down the door but it should not have shocked him too much if he spared any thought on the matter, after everything was said and done the city guards were little more than rogues with a badge. Apart from a few rare and fame seeking heroes, for a pound a week they would not risk their lives and as they blamed Harold for so many bloody and brutal murders, it would be some time before they darkened his doorstep. Harold took advantage of his reprieve by thinking about his next move in the twisted game of chess he had unwillingly been dragged into by William. The board was stacked against him and all the pieces were black and Harold could feel himself getting trapped in a corner. It fell on him to prove his innocence and the only way Harold could think to do that was to find William. If Harold could somehow get William to admit to his crimes then he could go back to his normal life.

  His first task was to get out of his father’s home, but it was not easy saying his goodbyes with his father’s poor health. Harold may seem cold and unsympathetic but he loved his family and he knew the words he said could be his last chance to say goodbyes. Harold told his mother where he was going and made her promise not to tell anyone. She agreed without question. Harold looked into her face and he could see the beauty she once had now masked behind cold eyes. Unmoving and showing no real emotions her face reminded Harold of the porcelain masks the theatre actors wore on stage. Harold heard a snivel from her as she turned away from him and her shoulders sagged but Harold knew she was a strong woman. Her mask was there for a reason, for his mother would not let him or his father find out how shattered the prospect of losing her loved ones had left her. Harold thought about going to her and holding her but if he did, her resolve might fail and she would fall into a sobbing mess in his arms. As much as he wanted to comfort her Harold knew that he had to go now or h
e may never be able to.

  After leaving his father’s room Harold made the short journey into his own room all the while fighting the tears trying to build up in his own eyes. He tossed his travel bag onto the bed and suddenly found himself filled with a renewed urgency and began gathering up what few clothes he could carry. Harold placed in two pairs of tan trousers, a couple of clean shirts, one white, one off-grey, his spare tanned tunic and his top hat made from the softest of rabbit fur. It lay uneasily on the top of the pile. Harold was almost ready to leave when he remembered that he had less than a farthing in his coin purse. Harold pulled the travel bag shut and dropped it to the floor with a thud that shook the old floorboards and for a moment, Harold half expected it to go crashing down into the lounge below. Once he realised this was not going to happen he slid the mattress aside revealing a small fluff covered satchel. Harold was relieved that his savings were still there. For the last year and a half he had been putting aside a little of money each week. Even throughout the hard times he kept quiet about his nest-egg and had managed to set aside almost thirty pounds. Harold needed the money if he had ever planned to leave home but for now he doubted he would still be free to walk the streets let alone buy land of his own. Reluctantly, and with more than a pang of guilt, he took the satchel from its resting place and with it ended his day dream of leaving the nest.

  Harold sat and counted out half of the money, he was to give it to his mother before he left. The money, Harold explained to his mother who had at first refused to take it, was to maintain the house while the shop was shut. Harold knew she needed it and was relieved when she finally accepted it. He hid the rest of his savings under his hat and made for the door, out into the busy morning.

  Harold decided to stick to the main roads as he figured that fighting his way through the crowds was his best way to remain hidden. It sounds a flawed plan but it is often harder to see something in plain view than it is something that is hidden. It was out of his way but Harold stopped by the shop. It looked so empty, so devoid of life, even the mice seemed to have deserted it. Since Harold locked its door on the night of the fire the only sign of movement inside a building that usually bustled with life was a spider’s web. Harold found himself impressed by the speed of the little creature as the web already stretched from one of the manikin in the centre of the display to the other side of the window. The fine threads and almost perfect lacing were of a far better quality than his father or Harold could ever hope to create. Harold wondered if they could hire the little feller. It made him smile, if only for a second.