скачать книгу бесплатно
‘Was it awful? I gather she was there for months, slowly decaying, while her husband lived on in the house with his mistress, who was pretending to be her. I suppose he’s in an asylum now … and they never caught the mistress, did they? I expect it was all her idea. Mind you, I don’t really see the necessity – I mean, everyone gets divorced these days, it’s as normal as eating your dinner. I’ve had two and Donny’s had one and the kids are totally well adjusted. They say more parents mean more presents at Christmas and birthdays! Are you divorced?’
‘Widowed,’ Annie said.
‘Oh dear. And then to have to go through all that … you poor child. You must have been in therapy for months. Bereavement and then post-traumatic stress …’
‘My husband died fifteen years ago,’ Annie said. She and Daniel hadn’t been married, but she’d taken his name anyway. ‘And I don’t have post-traumatic stress.’
‘But … you did find the corpse, didn’t you? You found Rianna Sardou?’
‘Oh, that.’ Annie was unable to resist lapsing into nonchalance. ‘Of course, it was rather unpleasant, but …’
‘Unpleasant? I heard she was lying in the bed, little more than a skeleton, with her hair all spread out – it goes on growing, doesn’t it? – and—’
‘In a village,’ Annie said serenely, ‘you learn to take these things in your stride. Part of the great cycle of life and death, you know. I expect it’s much the same in Islington.’
‘Well …’ Disconcerted by Annie’s composure, Ursula’s gush of words ran down. ‘Not – not exactly …’
Annie took pity on her. ‘Would you like some coffee?’
While the contents of the cafetiére were brewing, Ursula Rayburn filled in the details of her extended family. Her two exes, plus new wife/girlfriend/offspring, all on very good terms – ‘We wanted a big place where everyone could come and stay’ – and Donny’s ex and mother, ‘frightfully bitter, even after four years – they bossed him around all the time, and now they’re like two cats without a kitten.’ There were five resident children, all Ursula’s by previous fathers: Jude, Liberty, Michael, Romany and Gawain.
‘Michael?’ Annie queried, before she could stop herself.
‘His father insisted,’ Ursula explained, more in sorrow than in anger. ‘His first name is Xavier – I always called him that when he was little – but now he’s a teenager he’s gone so peculiar, he won’t answer to anything but Michael. Or Micky, which is almost worse. And the psycho’s name was Michael, wasn’t it? I told him – I said it’s ill-omened – but he refuses to go back to Xavier, no matter what I say.’
‘I shouldn’t worry,’ Annie said. ‘Lots of people are called Michael, and they don’t go around committing murders.’
‘Of course not. But in this house, with the atmosphere …’
‘Frankly,’ Annie said, ‘I never thought it had any. It’s an old building, but the renovations made it so bland inside, all shiny new paint and unused furniture. Rianna was dead, her husband was so busy pretending to be normal his personality never made any impact, and the – the mistress was hardly ever there. I’m sure, with so many of you, you’ll find it easy to change the feel of the place.’
‘Oh, but you can’t wipe out the past,’ Ursula said. ‘I don’t believe in the kind of ghosts that come with clanking chains, naturally, but there are vibrations. I won’t use the tower room till it’s been purified – I’ve got crystals hanging there now – and Melisande wouldn’t even go through the door. She’s my cat, pedigree Burmese, so sensitive. I know it’s a cliché but animals do feel things, don’t they? They’re so much more telepathic than people.’
Annie said something noncommittal and dispensed the coffee.
‘They never found out her name, did they?’ Ursula went on. ‘The mistress, I mean.’
Nenufar, Annie thought. Nenufar the water-spirit, the primitive goddess from the dark of the sea …
‘No,’ she said.
‘Strange, that. Nowadays they seem to have files on everyone – d’you know the police keep your personal details even if you were just caught smoking dope twenty years ago? It’s an abuse of human rights. I’m a member of the campaign for civil liberties, of course … But it’s curious they couldn’t even find a name for her. Names are so significant, don’t you think? We’re not going to stay with Riverside House. It’s really a bit ordinary. I thought Rivendell, but that’s been done to death lately. Perhaps Hesperides … there are apple trees in the garden.’
‘Dundrownin’?’ Annie hazarded. She wondered if she had overstepped the mark, but after a tiny pause Ursula burst out laughing.
‘Still, Rianna didn’t drown, did she?’ she resumed. ‘It was some old woman who drowned.’
Annie couldn’t recall if they’d been able to prove how Rianna died, but she knew.
‘You have to be careful of the river,’ she said. ‘It’s not deep, but there are treacherous currents.’
‘Oh, I know,’ Ursula said. ‘I hoped the children would be able to play there – I had this mental picture before we came: rustic bliss, swimming in the river, maybe a boat. There’s a mooring place, but everybody says boating’s a bit chancy unless you’ve got experience.’
‘Why did you buy the house?’ Annie said. ‘If you don’t mind my asking. Since you know its history …’
‘It was cheap,’ Ursula said candidly, ‘and it doesn’t need work. Just re-painting – like you said, it’s white all through, very boring. We’ve been looking to move out of London for a while. And I thought the murders would give it character …’
Annie opened her mouth and shut it again, saying nothing.
‘Actually, there is a bit of a problem,’ Ursula continued. ‘Do you know a good plumber? The surveyor didn’t pick up on it – he said everything was fine – but we keep getting leaks from somewhere. There was a puddle – really a puddle – in the living room only the other day. I don’t know where it came from. No, of course it wasn’t the cat – it was water, not pee. I said to Donny, if the surveyor missed something major, we’ll sue. Anyway, I need a plumber to come and check the pipes.’
‘Yellow Pages?’ Annie suggested.
‘Isn’t there – you know – a little man in the village? One of the natives who’s brilliant and inexpensive and does all the jobs round here?’
‘There’s Kevin Bellews,’ Annie said. ‘He’s brilliant but he charges the earth. He only works for City ex-pats – none of the locals can afford him any more. Besides, he’s always on the golf course near Crowford.’
‘The country isn’t what it used to be,’ Ursula mourned. ‘What happened to – to rural innocence, and all those nice dumb yokels in stories?’
‘They got smart,’ Annie said.
It was only after Ursula had gone that she found herself growing uneasy. There was never anything wrong with the plumbing at Riverside House before, she thought. Leaks … leaks meant water.
Water…?
‘Jude’s at uni,’ Hazel volunteered. ‘He’s at least twenty. The next two are at the Tertiary College up the road from Crowford Comp; Micky’s seventeen, Liberty’s sixteen. George fancies her, but she wouldn’t look at him: she’s far too grown up. The point is, they’re none of them our age, so nobody can expect us to be friends with them.’
‘Ageist,’ Nathan said. ‘What about the younger ones?’
‘They’re just kids.’ Hazel was dismissive. ‘They’re still at primary school. They’ve got a different surname – Macaire – it sounds Scottish but I think their dad must be black. They’ve both got dark skin and fuzzy hair.’ Mixed-race children were still an innovation in Ede, though the villagers had finally got used to Nathan, with his Asiatic colouring and exotic features.
‘Coming to think of it, Mum said the little girl was adorable,’ Nathan commented, tolerant of maternal sentiment. ‘Anyway, you don’t have to be so hostile.’ Hazel, he knew, was using the old-fashioned village mentality to shield her own space and the people she didn’t want to share. ‘We should try to be friendly, at least to the two at Tertiary. I can handle the age gap. They’re our neighbours, after all.’
‘I suppose you fancy Liberty too?’ Hazel said.
‘I haven’t seen her. Is she pretty?’
Hazel shrugged. ‘Ask George.’ George Fawn had formed part of a threesome with them when they were younger, though they saw less of him now. ‘She’s thin – long legs – tight jeans. She has this don’t-care attitude, like she’s way above anyone else. Probably ’cos they come from London. London people always think they’re so cool.’
‘Maybe you’ll live in London one day,’ Nathan remarked.
‘You might; I won’t. I’m not clever enough.’
‘You don’t have to be clever—’
‘You know what I mean!’ Hazel flashed. ‘To live in London you need a good job, and to get a good job you need to pass exams, and everyone knows I’m going to eff up my GCSEs. So don’t talk to me about living in London, okay?’
‘I thought Uncle Barty was helping you with school work and … stuff?’
‘Sometimes,’ Hazel said. ‘When I can be bothered.’
‘Bother!’ Nathan gave her a dig with his foot, almost a kick. Best friend’s privilege. He didn’t say: Do you want to be stupid? because he knew that in a way she did, being stupid was her protest in the face of the world, her little rebellion against education and convention, her insurance against any expectations he or others might have of her. I’ll donothing, I’ll go nowhere, I’ll be no one. I’m stupid. That’s that. He wanted to tell her it was childish but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. ‘What about the witching?’ he asked. ‘Have you done any of that?’
She hunched a shoulder, tugging her hair over her face in a gesture she had still to outgrow. ‘You know I don’t like it.’
‘You tried it yourself last year,’ he pointed out, brutally. ‘You made a complete mess of it, too. Ellen Carver nearly got killed and so did I. Uncle Barty said—’
‘All right, all right, I’m learning it.’ She pushed her hair back again, and some of the sullenness left her face. ‘He taught me how to make the spellfire the other night.’
‘Wow … What did you see?’
‘Smoke,’ Hazel said.
‘Just smoke?’
‘Pictures,’ Hazel conceded. ‘Smoke-pictures. The past, the future – it’s all mixed up and you can’t tell which is which, and Uncle Barty says there are so many possible futures, you don’t know if any of it’s true, so what’s the point of looking? Magic is all shadows and lies: you can’t trust it. Anyway, I saw scenes from your life, not mine – the Grail, and some kind of sacrifice, and people from another world.’
‘Our lives run together,’ Nathan said. ‘But … you’re not supposed to see other worlds in the smoke. The magic can’t look beyond the Gate. Uncle Barty’s always told me that. Are you sure—?’
‘I’m not sure of anything,’ Hazel said irritably, ‘except that I’m hungry.’ They were in her bedroom, and her private store of crisps had run out. ‘D’you think your mum would have anything to eat?’
They went round to Annie’s, and although Nathan pressed her, Hazel wouldn’t be any more specific about what she’d seen.
Annie supplied them with cereal bars (‘I don’t like those,’ Hazel muttered. ‘They’re too healthy.’) and the information that the Rayburns were having a Christmas party the following month, holding open house for anyone from the village.
‘They’re not the Rayburns,’ Hazel said, nitpicking. ‘I told Nathan, the two little ones are Macaires, and the husband’s something else too. Coleman, I think.’
‘Donny Collier,’ Annie said. ‘Boyfriend or husband. Let’s keep it simple – just call them the Rayburns. Go with the majority. Anyway, it looks like they’re planning a pretty lavish do. At least half the village disapproves of them, but I bet they’ll all go.’
Hazel was surprised into a laugh.
‘Stay for dinner,’ Annie went on. ‘It’s cauliflower cheese.’
‘That’s healthy too,’ Hazel quibbled.
‘Are you sure there’s enough?’ Nathan said. ‘I’m not going short – that’s my favourite.’
‘I’ll stay,’ said Hazel.
Annie allowed herself a secret smile.
Once in a while Bartlemy had visitors not from the village, strangers whom few saw come or go and fewer still remembered. The man who hurried through the November dusk that year was one such, a tall, stooping figure as thin as a scarecrow, in a voluminous coat and hood that had seen better days, probably two or three centuries ago. Under the hood he had wispy hair and a wispy beard and a face criss-crossed with so many lines there was barely room for them all, but his eyes amidst all their wrinkles were very bright, and green as spring. A dog accompanied him, a wild-looking dog like a great she-wolf, who trotted at his heel and stopped when he stopped, without collar or lead or word of command. She never barked or panted, following him as silently as his own shadow. The man came striding along the lane through the woods on that chill winter’s evening, too late to have got off a local bus, too far from the train, and the dead leaves stirred behind him, as if something waked and watched.
There was a patter of pursuing feet on the empty road. Neither man nor dog looked back, though the hackles rose on the beast’s nape and her ears lay flat against her skull. When Bartlemy opened the door, the visitor said: ‘They are out there. I fear I am not welcome.’
‘You’re always welcome here,’ Bartlemy said, ‘though I could wish you would change that coat.’
‘It has travelled far with me,’ the visitor retorted. ‘It smells of the open road and open sky.’
‘Not quite how I would have put it,’ said Bartlemy. ‘Take it off for once and sit down.’
‘I expect,’ said the visitor, ‘you were just making tea.’
‘I am always just making tea,’ Bartlemy admitted.
In the living room, the two dogs surveyed each other, acknowledging past acquaintance, exchanged a sniff, and lay down on opposite sides of the fire. The wolf-like dog was big, with a wolf’s elegance and poise, but Hoover was bigger, shaggier, shambling, somehow more doggy. They both knew she would have deferred to him if he had made an issue of it, so he didn’t.
‘What brings you to my quiet corner of the world?’ Bartlemy inquired over the tea-tray.
‘I heard it was not so quiet of late,’ said the stranger.
‘You heard … from whom?’
‘I am not too much an outcast to read the newspapers,’ the man said. ‘There was the reappearance of the Grimthorn Grail – a few murders – an arrest but not, I believe, a complete solution. These are matters of interest to people like us.’
‘Indeed,’ said Bartlemy, ‘but that was two years ago. Why come now?’
‘It’s a long walk from the north. I no longer have the power to put wings on my feet.’
‘Your power may be worn out,’ Bartlemy responded, ‘but you can still move swifter than any of us, at need. Don’t fence with me, Ragginbone. You’ve always claimed to be a Watcher: what have you seen?’
‘I saw a peacock with a fiery tail,’ Ragginbone quoted. ‘I saw a blazing comet drop down hail. I saw a cloud … There have been omens and portents, some too strange to be easily read. There is a pattern in the stars pointing to a time of great significance, but whether good or evil is unclear. And more than that, there are whispers among the werefolk, tales of a Gate that will open at last, a loophole in the Ultimate Laws – a chance to snatch at power unguessed. No one knows quite when, or where – or how – but I heard you named, as a guardian, or an obstacle.’
‘Who—?’
‘I cannot be sure. They were voices in a crowd, on a dark street, and it was not a place where I wished to linger. There are many streets in the city, some darker than others, and not all those who use them are as human as they look.’
Ragginbone was not obviously a man of the city, even without his coat, but Bartlemy knew better than to categorise him.
‘Your wanderings take you to strange places,’ he said.
‘There are strange places round every corner, if you walk on the dark side,’ Ragginbone said. ‘Belief creates its own kingdoms, even in this world. As the legends change so do the pathways, but the shadows linger as long as memory, and the shadow-dwellers are always there. Some of them may be coming your way, or so rumour has it. Some may be already here.’
‘Nenufar,’ said Bartlemy.
‘The name I heard was Nephthys, but it is the same. She is old, and cold, and forever angry. Once, men sought to soften her with worship, but she could not be softened, not she. Now, she has been sailed and chartered, polluted and abused, netted and dragged and mined, and the tale of her grievances is the lullabye she sings to the storm. What she may hope for, should the Gate open for her, I do not know, but the drowning of all humanity is in her dearest dream.’
‘You’re well informed,’ said Bartlemy. It was almost a question.
‘I have heard her in the scream of the wind, in the roar of the waves,’ Ragginbone said. It was not an answer. ‘And there are those who flee from her, bringing word of her wrath.’
‘The word on the street,’ Bartlemy concluded. ‘Have you come to offer help?’
‘I have no help,’ the other said. ‘My spells have all gone stale. I came to warn you – and to wish you well.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bartlemy. ‘I need all the wellwishing I can get. Or rather, Nathan does.’
‘Who’s Nathan?’
