He languidly removed his clothing in his bedroom and caught his naked reflection in the full-length mirror. He had again lost weight during the month, his muscles appeared knotted and sinewy against his pale skin, he nodded knowingly at the comments he knew he would undoubtedly receive from his mother.
The shower failed to reinvigorate him as he had hoped and he dismissed the notion of shaving and if past occasions were anything to go by, he would not shave for many days to come. He pulled on his blue towel robe, returned to his desk, and poured another drink, which he downed in one gulp before immediately recharging his glass. The storm had arrived during his time in the shower.
Cavendish lit a cigarette and stood out on the wooden balcony, protected by the steep pitched roof of the apartment building. The rained poured off the roof, the gutter reverberating like a mountain stream in full flood and the torrential rain that escaped the guttering formed a curtain of water before his eyes, as if he was stood behind a crashing waterfall. A sudden flash of lightning lit Kofel and for an instant the peak was lit with a surreal majesty that quickened his heart.
His head twitched as he caught a distant clatter above the background clamour of the thunderstorm. He listened intently to the indistinct footsteps clomping inelegantly up the wooden staircase and the clicking of heels across the hallway. The mental picture of an umbrella being dumped against the wall by the coat hooks enveloped his inebriated mind.
“Christ, Marchy, I’m bloody soaked!” announced the woman exasperatedly as she entered the room.
“You’re late, I didn’t think you were coming, you never replied to any of my messages,” Cavendish shouted, as he remained standing on the balcony.
“I know, I know, I’d tried to get away early but you know how it is...”
Cavendish turned his back on the weather to face the woman at the opposite end of the room. “No, I don’t know how it is. How is it?” slurred Cavendish.
“Christ, you’re not in one of your bloody moods are you?” She unbuttoned her raincoat to reveal the sensible skirt and blouse she wore for school and tossed it on the armchair. Cavendish cringed at the untidy way the coat crumpled upon the furniture and scrutinised her as she shook her short hair, which was soaking wet despite the umbrella’s best efforts.
“I’m not in a mood,” said Cavendish assertively, “Slightly drunk, but not in a mood.”
“Shit, Marchel, you know you and booze don’t mix, how much have you had?” He stood ramrod straight as he made his clichéd reply.
“Not enough.”
“I can’t believe you’ve been drinking!” came the heartfelt rebuke.
“I really don’t care. I didn’t think you were coming, what else was there to do?”
“Was it that bad, did you not get your man?” she had crept to within a few feet of him to stand just inside the doorway, he remained ominously tall and powerful, silhouetted against the rage of the elements outside. He laughed at the simplicity of her enquiry.
“Do you care?” he asked scathingly.
“Of course I care, I’m your sister!” she was stung by the piquancy of his question.
“You are not my sister,” he declared forcefully, his hostility eliciting tears from the already tense Tina Kretschmer.
“Why are you being so beastly, Marchel, what have I done to upset you so much? I knew it was a mistake to come.”
“You never answered my bloody calls!” exploded Cavendish, his discretion negated by alcohol.
“I wanted to, but it didn’t seem right!” cried Tina.
“Why?”
“You know damned well why, don’t you remember Friedrichshafen?”
Tina’s tears rolled down her cheeks as her chin dropped to her chest. Cavendish stepped forward, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her tightly against his body. She felt damp and shivery.
He lowered his face to the top of her head, closed his eyes and breathed deeply as he took in the aroma of her damp hair. Tina turned her head so that it lay flat against his chest and slowly raised her arms to encircle his back.
“You haven’t been eating properly again,” she said fiercely, and then softly asked, “how was it?”
“It was, it was difficult,” admitted Cavendish. Tina leant back, raised her head to stare questioningly up at him, and watched fearfully enthralled as his face inexorably fell slowly towards her own.
“No, Marchel,” her protest was weakly rendered as his warm lips touched her rain-cooled cheek and tasted the tangy moisture of her tears.
“It isn’t right. If you need company, ring Dagmar, she’s in Garmisch.” There was little conviction behind her suggestion.
“I don’t want Dagmar Klum,” he whispered.
The air was rent by a colossal bolt of lightning and a simultaneous explosion of thunder that seared the Alpine village. Tina tasted the piquancy of the statically charged atmosphere as their lips met and rapaciously entwined.
“No, Marchel!”
Tina drew away from Cavendish’s embrace. Her eyes brimmed with tears but her face took on an expression of grim resolve.
“We can’t do this. I’ll love you, I’ll hold you, I’ll comfort you, but I won’t... It took me twenty-five years to find you; I won’t lose you for a moment of craziness. Put that bottle away and make coffee.” Cavendish stood meekly rooted to the spot, his eyes downcast.
“Marchel,” said Tina decisively. He looked up from the floor and furtively glanced at Tina. “Coffee, now,” she ordered, “I’m having a shower.”
Dusk came early that evening in Upper Bavaria. Tina was laying face down, wearing Cavendish’s spare white dressing gown, facing the foot of the bed and read Cavendish’s report for a second time. He lay on his side to her left, gently caressing the small of her back with his hand. He yawned, something he noticed he only did in Tina’s company, which she took as a reassuring gesture.
“I’m I boring you, Herr Cavendish. I can go home if you want me to?” declared Tina.
“No, sorry, please...”
“I’m only teasing, hun. You seem to have sobered up very quickly. Will Thomas be okay? I can tell by what you’ve said, or not said, that you’re very fond of him.”
“Yeah, he’s a good bloke, you’d like him. You know, most of my English comes from reading stuffy old books and despite what they may have thought; I struggled with their dialects most of the time. When they thought I was being inscrutable, I just didn’t have the foggiest what they were talking about. God knows what Thomas was prattling on about half the time. I’ll make sure he gets the best medical treatment. He’ll certainly need dental work and I’ll make sure he gets the best, even if it means bringing him here.”
“So was Emily pretty?” asked Tina coyly, “were you attracted to her, Marchel Cavendish?” She rolled onto her right hand side to gauge his reaction and briefly distracted Cavendish from his train of thought.
“She was very pretty,” reflected Cavendish, “in that English sort of way, not my type though. She spoke very nicely, clear and precise. She was the only one I didn’t struggle to understand, they all talk so bloody fast over there.”
Tina smiled at her half brother, noting the tiredness etched into his gaunt features. She had the innate ability to read him like a book and recalled how he had dreaded the prospect of working in England yet now he spoke with a fond reminiscence of his experience.
“I believe you, Marchy, many wouldn’t. So what will happen between Emily and Thomas?”
“No idea, they do seem to have a connection though, something that transcends sex, difficult to explain. He’ll find it difficult to return to his normal life. I suggested to Kate that she invites Thomas to the seminary for convalescence. If the she-devil Frau Beckett finds out about Emily it will hardly be conducive to his recovery. Once Hansel and Gretel get away from the witch, happy ever after.”
“They had to stuff the witch in the oven first, thickhead.”
“Is that some euphemism I’m unfamiliar with,” laughed Cav
endish. Tina poked her tongue out at him before continuing.
“Make sure you keep in touch with him this time. What about Estelle, what will happen to her?”
Cavendish recalled the strange, almost pointless, interview with Estelle in the company of Hugo Victor before visiting Beckett in hospital. He had not pressed her for any motive; as he always said, he was seldom interested in the ‘why’. Cavendish rightly assumed she had masterminded the whole scheme after being instructed to do so. But was it the whole committee or just a rogue individual who wanted to see Cavendish disgraced? And as Victor said, no one anticipated the involvement of Jasmine and Brad.
Forensics proved that it was Jasmine who had been with Brad in Wells. It was she who took pleasure in the murder of Slingsby. Brad’s mobile phone record revealed the call from Robert Patterson that led him to Plymouth where he shot his father, why he was prepared to commit patricide would remain a mystery but it was no doubt at Jasmine’s behest. Cavendish had asked himself why Brad had not shot him first instead of his father. His only conclusion was that Jasmine had not instructed Brad to do so.
“Estelle will be taken to Flash and will then go onto ‘Castle Dracula’ for a little therapy,” replied Cavendish.
“Castle where?” asked Tina sceptically.
“‘Castle Dracula’ is the name we give to the Schloss in the Carpathian Mountains. It’s a secluded monastery where we send our folk for treatment and rehabilitation. They’ll put together the full story. Someone certainly seems to have it in for me.”
Tina rolled onto her back and stretched as she too yawned. Cavendish smiled at the sight of Tina’s short body, lost in the voluminous material of his dressing gown.
“Are you in danger?” she asked quietly.
“Well, physically, not at the moment. But who knows what they might do next time.” A chill ran down Tina’s spine and she chose not to explore the topic further.
“What did Emily decide to do?” asked Tina as Cavendish lightly laid his hand upon her bare left foot.
“She’s now at Flash Seminary, a wonderful place by the way, I must take you there, I’m sure you will like it. Kate Watercombe will mentor her for a while. God help her liver. She’s in a bit of a state at the moment; her University has placed her on extended sick leave. Once she gets her head together, I’m sure she’ll join the firm. She is very strong willed; she’ll make a brilliant Untersucher and really piss off the old farts. You know the topping on the cake was when I found out her grandfather was German, made it much easier to push her case.”
“And it means you’ll be able to see a lot of her. I still reckon you fancy her,” said Tina teasingly.
Cavendish yawned again. “Hey, wakey, wakey,” chided Tina, “I have one last question for you, Herr Untersucher. What will happen to Zachery Asimov?”
“Zach will be released from Flash in due course, I don’t think he is in too much of a hurry, he’s another victim of the house’s seductive powers,” replied Cavendish absently. “He will be released into his natural environment, where he will no doubt regale his friends and associates with weird and wonderful stories. However, I reckon that poor Zach will not be taken very seriously. Hopefully, his anecdotes may earn him a drink or two in a bar in the small hours of the morning. Any more questions, Fräulein Kretschmer?”
“No, you have been most succinct, mein Herr, thank you,” said Tina grinning. She had her Marchel home and he would be hers for the next few hours. She felt content now, after weeks of self-doubt, and relieved that she had been strong enough to stand up to her brother’s ephemeral desires.
Cavendish slept until about two in the morning. He awoke suddenly with a start, his mind remaining crammed with the feverish disjointed images of his nightmare. Instead of the usual scenario involving Dieter Klaus, a cunning postscript had been added with the appearance of an additional cast.
Brad Patterson stood grinning beside Klaus. Both now possessed oddly oversized handguns that fired rounds the size of battleship shells. As he attempted to dodge the incoming shells, he was encumbered by the clinging bodies of Holger Ehlers and Thomas Beckett, who groped at his naked body whilst Dagmar Klum and Emily Spelman looked on as spectators, hysterically laughing at his predicament.
He climbed out of bed and walked through the lounge and out onto the balcony, grabbing his packet of cigarettes as he went. The storm had long since faded away and, as he stood naked on the balcony acquiring his night vision, his eyes settled on the imposing massif of Kofel. White cloud swirled around its summit like dragon’s breath. The usually benevolent rock face now took on the character of an imposing, ambiguous and threatening form. He could feel an ominous presence in the disturbed night air, the source of fairytales and superstitions.
He conceded he was not the same man who had reluctantly left Germany to visit the land of his father. He knew he would never be considered English, but the country of his ancestors had worked assiduously to change him, albeit almost imperceptibly, of that he was sure. There had been no moment of epiphany, simply a vague acceptance of the inevitable. Perhaps there was hope for him yet?
He heard the soft footfall across the wooden floor behind him. He remained fixed to the spot, only the rising smoke from his cigarette, drifting reluctantly in the dank night air, gave any sense of motion to the scene as Tina drew near. A pair of arms encircled his bare chest.
“I heard you scream. Come to bed, Marchy. You’ll catch your death out here,” said Tina softly.
She pressed her face gently against his back and tenderly kissed the clammy flesh, the white cotton of her nightshirt clinging comfortingly to his cold damp buttocks. Reaching for his cigarette, she took several slow draws before extinguishing it in the ashtray. “Come on, Marchel, come to bed.”
Tina took his hand and the equivocal, callous and lonely Untersucher allowed himself to be led child-like back to his bedroom. She put him in bed, pulled the quilt over him, and snuggled into the crook of his back.
“Sleep, my love, go to sleep,” she whispered. Tina gently stroked the back of Marchel Cavendish’s tousled hair, encouraging him to embrace the short-lived peace that sleep offered.
###
Thank you for reading 'Denied to all but Ghosts'.
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