Blood Bonds: A psychological thriller (22 page)

“I never wanted to be your enemy, Max,” I said lamely.

“You’re standing in it,” he said suddenly.

I frowned. My turn to laugh hollowly. “What are you on, Max?” I blurted.

He pushed by me and went through the doorway and into the back yard. I watched him strolling down the path and was reminded of that boy long ago, pacing about in the icy wind and rain, telling me he didn’t want to be himself, telling me he didn’t want to be Max. And, ironically, here I was thinking I didn’t want to be me, that I’d much rather be Max. If I were Max I’d be looking freedom in the eyes right now. How many times had I thought of myself as him, stared hard into the bedroom mirror and imagined my features melting like wax to become Max’s double? How many days as a child had I imitated his walk, his mannerisms, attempted to copy his dress, the way he drawled confidently to girls? It simply wasn’t fair.

Ruby touched my shoulder and jarred me back to reality. “Where’s Max?” she asked.

I pointed. “There.”

“He’s taking it bad,” she said.

“He’s – “ I began. “He’s upset.” We watched as he came up by the dustbin and lashed out with his foot at the broken chair. It collapsed like a house of cards into an untidy pile. For some reason I couldn’t get the image of the rat in the cardboard box out of my head. That and the switchblade. I picked up the knife from the draining board and I thought about Bernard’s blue-veined wrists and this same blade being drawn firmly across them, sinking into the soft flesh and the blood cascading from the lesion in a scarlet waterfall. And I imagined Max’s hand clamping the handle of the knife firmly, forcing it ever deeper, and he laughing as poor Bernard, overcome by drink, put up no resistance whatsoever. Then he was bundled into the cardboard box, alongside the rat, to dry out, to mummify.

I shook away the imagery. Or tried to. There was some of it sticking and refusing to budge. Max stood on the grass, at a point where we played as kids, his hands encased in his pockets, head bowed and studying a spot at his feet. “What’s he doing?” Ruby asked.

“Being Max,” I said.

“Are you going to stop for some dinner?” Connie asked when we went back to her. “It would be so nice, Collie, especially as we don’t know when we’d ever get another opportunity.”

We declined. It was all so cheerless.

But she was right. We never did get another opportunity. A few short years wiped it all away. It would be as if a ferocious hurricane whipped and screamed around me, protecting me in its tranquil centre while those close by and on the fringes of my life would be torn ruthlessly from me. And when things calmed down I would look around and observe a desolate and smashed landscape in which only I would trudge, stunned and completely alone, wondering where it had all gone. As for Max I wouldn’t see him again for many years. Not actually in person. Not until…

Not until I went to the island of Eilean Mor.

*  *  *  *

I laughed like mad. Laughed in his face. He didn’t like that, not one little bit. You should have seen his expression. I don’t think he expected me to take it like I did. What did he want? Tears? Hysterics? Begging? I’ll bet that’s what ran through his warped little mind as he said it.

Wise and his nameless companion were standing stock still in the corner of the yard when I emerged. As always. Like permanent fixtures. Like two pillars of icy blue flame in their clean, pressed uniforms. I paid him no attention, or pretended. I wouldn’t give him the pleasure, I thought. I didn’t want to play his silly game. I didn’t want stomach-ache. So I trudged almost nonchalantly, I thought, with a light skip every now and then creeping into my step. I caught sight of his worried little face once in a while, and I felt power surge back into my frame. Power that had trickled away over the years. It was the power of control. Of choice. I knew he was waiting for me to do the business, to pretend to have pains in my stomach so he could play his foolish game. I wasn’t playing. Not just yet. Let him stew. Let his skin grow ever more pallid. I didn’t give a toss.

But a cloud gathered over the Sun. It foamed and rose from behind the mountain, a huge bubbling beast that bubbled across the silvery disc of the Sun and shielded its heat from me. A grey gloom was thrown over the yard, the walls appearing deeper, thicker, higher, and it felt like I was walking on black ice, the cold seeping up through the soles of my feet. The wind crawled over the rim of the wall and fanned out across the barren yard, clutching at me with its chilled fingers and whispered to me of death. I looked over to Wise. His flame of blue was warm, inviting, drawing me. I grew scared. There came the sound of tortured trees bellowing deeply in the wind from beyond the wall. A thousand banshees were gathering. Circling. I wanted to call out. Wise! Wise! What is it? What’s coming? Can you feel it, too? Can you hear them?

Our gazes met. And I strode to the centre of the freezing yard, the shadow of scudding clouds, of life’s grey demons, brushing the concrete and cobbles. I stood there, unsure, looking at the sky. There appeared a rent, a bruise that erupted and spewed out all the creatures that fed on my terror; I felt them ram into me, causing my clothes to flap like loose skin, my skin to crawl, driving up my nose, around and into my ears, crashing against my dried eyeballs. And I crouched low, moaning, clutching my stomach, and I didn’t know if it was because I was doing what Wise had told me to, or if I really had a pain in my stomach. They’d found their way into me, were threading their way around my insides like tapeworms of the spirit, constricting, crushing.

My feather, I thought. Where is my white feather?

But when I put my hand to it there was no warmth. It had died. There was only the glacial sting of death, so sharp and excruciating that I withdrew my hand before it withered and snapped off. I gasped at the realisation. Howled in lament over my dead white hope.

Wise was there next to me. I reached up and clutched at the waving material of his trouser leg. I wanted to tell him I thought my feather was dead. I wanted to tell him. But he was Wise. I hated Wise. When I looked up at him, his face was grave. He knew it was dead. I could tell. But he wasn’t glad, as I’d expect him to be; he was looking as if he felt sorry for me. Wise! I moaned when a bolt shot through my system and I gripped the material firmer. What is it, Wise? What’s going on? What’s happening to me?

He bent to me, his face close to mine, so close I saw the pores of his skin, saw them open and close, heard them yelling at me. He had beautifully long eyelashes. Like a woman’s. When he opened his mouth I imagined I saw the demons slip out of it, swish across the small gulf between us and force their way into my own mouth; tasted their corruption, swallowed them down and felt them stick like twigs in my constricted throat. “He wants to kill you,” he said quietly in my ear. I saw his eyes flick this way and that, as if he was certain he’d been overheard by his companion, by whatever was out there to hear. “”Do you hear me? I said he’s planning on getting rid of you. I overheard him. I don’t want any part of it. I don’t want you dead. Understand? If they try, it’s not my fault. Understand? It’s not me. It’s him. If you get to the sickbay then maybe you could have escaped. That’s why you should have listened to me, but now it’s too late for all that.”

He lifted his head and waved to his companion.

“What is it?” I heard a voice call.

Wise yelled back. “Stomach, I think. He’ll be OK soon. Nothing much.” His hand touched my neck. He was as cold as a stone. A corpse. “Remember, it isn’t me.”

I faced him. The pains subsided, as if someone had poured a soothing ointment into my fiery insides. I looked at him. Deep into his hell eyes. I was so close I could have kissed him. Just like that. Our lips meeting. But instead I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. Spittle flashed out and struck him on his cheek, and he backed away a little, bewildered. I was in hysterics, the pains in my stomach giving way to the pain of laughter. It was all so ludicrous! Wise was ludicrous. The yard was ludicrous. I was ludicrous. I collapsed full length on the floor, shaking as if in a fit.

“What is it?” Wise’s companion asked anxiously.

“I don’t know,” Wise returned uncertainly above the screaming wind, which appeared to tear him away from me, for his leg was yanked clear of my hand.

The next thing I know there’s this pain in my arm, and I look to see Wise sticking in a needle. He’s not very good at it and it hurts. His companion is pinning me down. A powerful weight crushing me against the unyielding yard floor. Up this close I can see the flecks of bright green moss or lichen, the ravines and gullies decorating the cobbles. A boot is two inches away from my nose. I smell boot polish. I want to yell out and tell them that it’s all over. My feather’s dead. But I can’t. Someone has blocked my throat and mouth with cotton. It feels like that. It’s seeping everywhere, into my head, down into my chest, and then dripping down in front of my eyes. I want to go to sleep. I don’t want to wake up. Ever. I’m in the same tub of water Bernard’s in. I see him, his head lolled to one side. I slip under the red water, which grows thicker by the moment. So cloying I cannot move in it. It’s becoming darker, turning slowly from scarlet to crimson, to purple, to blackish blue. Bernard’s grinning at me. It’s OK, he’s saying. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Relax. I nod, or try to. Yes, I say silently. I am relaxed. And bubbles stream from my mouth; iridescent bubbles of blood that rise to the surface and plop thickly like Mrs Radunski’s goulash in a pan. Go to sleep now, Bernard tells me. I thank him. Is this it, I ask before I succumb? Are they killing me? You’re already dead! He tells me, grinning wider. Didn’t you know that? I thank him again and then knew no more.

It was a pity I had to wake up.

Whatever it was they pumped into me has left me feeling woolly-headed, as if on the verge of becoming drunk, with the unnerving sensation that my head might wobble from my neck at any moment if I’m not careful. Though my mind is clearing, it’s not too easy to describe my thoughts. I guess I should be frightened. After all, Wise told me I’m a dead man. But, as Bernard rightly put it, I’m dead already, after a fashion, so what is there to worry about? Do I really mourn missing my room, my yard, the tip of a mountain? See, I call it a mountain lately, whereas I recall describing it as a hill before. When does a high hill become a mountain? Is there a measurement for that kind of thing? I know there is. And why should I need to call it something it is not, something far grander, larger? Anyhow, hill or mountain, what is there left to hang onto life for? I should feel angry. What they plan on stealing belongs to me – it’s my
life
, for God’s sake! How much more personal can you get? But my life has never really been my own if I’m brutally honest about it. It was stolen from me and caged up here.

So how do I feel? Numb. But that could be the after-effects of the drug, which, I tell myself as some consolation, could have quite easily been a dose of something fatal, and I wouldn’t be writing this now. So is it practical to watch closely what I eat or drink in future? Do I bother myself over how it will be done,
if
it will be done? In truth, all this episode has done is to accelerate what we all muse on. How? Where? When? It’s just made it more obvious, more definite, more realistic, far harder to shove away till later. Of course, it was Wise who told me, and just because he told me doesn’t mean it will transpire. He is Wise after all. His face looked as if he believed it, but his belief is not necessarily the truth. Or I might be deluding myself. I could be dead tomorrow, and so perhaps I ought to apologise now for not finishing what I’ve set about telling you.

*  *  *  *

He flicked the key and the engine died. The only sound now was the sporadic clinks of raindrops falling onto the roof of the car, as if it couldn’t make up its mind whether to rain properly or not. He drew in a calming breath that didn’t calm him one iota, annoyed at the sound and feel of his own heart flapping manically behind his ribs like a panic-stricken bird, and annoyed at the churning of his stomach and the sting of bile in his throat. He knew he’d make an excellent coward.

To say the phone call had unnerved him was an understatement, though the ensuing conversation had, on the surface, seemed quite innocuous. The undertones had been more than intimidating, however. The manager of Overton Hall had been careful in his choice of words, had been adept at orchestrating his tone of voice, something, presumably, he’d had to master over the years. And Carl had managed to scare the shit out of him. He was a wreck the rest of the evening. This wasn’t happening, he thought as he took a shower, as if the scalding water might wash away the implications of the pone call. He hadn’t dared tell his wife, and she couldn’t understand why he’d yelled at her the way he had, flown off the handle without provocation. Or there again maybe she knew all too well.

Two days later and he still shook when he thought of it, though now some of that shaking was anger, at both himself and Carl. Who the hell did that little bastard think he was? Threatening him like that.

Only he hadn’t threatened, not directly. But he got the gist all right. He got the message.

The rain became heavier, more insistent, drumming on the roof like miniscule fists, as if to encourage him out: “Come on, Miller, what’re you afraid of?” it sang.

The night was thick with the smell of damp concrete, of car fumes, the air burdened with the constant drone of cars ripping along a wet main road nearby. He slammed the car door shut behind him, deliberately loud, so as not to show his fear and to assert his confidence. A cardboard confidence.

Before him was a thirties semi, ordinary looking, in an ordinary street, lined with mature, bare cherry trees, one to each ordinary garden. It had a red door, looking muddy-brown under the street lights, a brass horse-head door knocker in its centre, a brass letterbox beneath this. He envisaged the postman whistling his way up the garden path, the milkman rattling milk bottles on the doorstep, and carol singers at Christmas. He trod in their footsteps up to the door, the clutching fingers of a pruned, naked rosebush snagging his coat as he went by, as if wanting to drag him back. He had a choice. Ring the illuminated door bell that said ‘push’, or lift the horse-head knocker. He jammed his thumb fiercely at the button, but its cheery chimes appeared to forgive his brusqueness. “Been carol singing,” he muttered under his breath. “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen…”

The rain beat at the door, raindrops racing each other down the glossy surface. He used to be fascinated with them as a kid, betting which one would tear down the glass pane and reach the windowsill first. He heard the sound of someone shuffling about in the hallway, the scraping of a key in the lock then the drawing back of a bolt at the bottom. The doorknob turned with excruciatingly slowness. There was the feeling that a little old lady would emerge and ask him if he had come to service the gas boiler.

“Do come in, Mr. Miller? Do come in.”

“Evening, Carl,” he said, but his voice carried with it no warmth.

Carl executed a mock bow and gestured into the room with the flat of his hand. Gavin Miller stepped cautiously inside, wiping his feet on the mat. The interior still didn’t wipe away the feeling that the little old lady was somewhere present, waiting to dash out with a tray of scones and tea.

“Cold,” said Carl.

“More wet than anything,” Miller returned.

Carl closed the door, and the warmth from the radiators, obviously up full, ran down the narrow stretch of corridor to wrap its stifling folds around Miller, like a dog running to its master. He unfastened the first two buttons of his coat, and Carl held out his hand for the coat. Miller eyed the scrawny fingers, the scrupulously scrubbed and filed nails. He hadn’t intended staying, oh no, definitely not; long enough to take Carl by the neck and throw him against a wall, give him what for. Verbally, of course, but if it needed something else there were options available. He’d done nothing but think about them, throwing the possibilities into the cement mixer that was his skull and sending them swilling around until an answer was forthcoming. But there were no answers that had satisfied him, so now he found himself removing the coat and handing it over. He watched as Carl hung it carefully by its loop on the brass hook of an Edwardian coat and hat stand.

“It’ll be dry soon as anything,” Carl said, giving it a final brush down with his hand to remove the surface moisture. “Shall we go through? Let me show you my library.”

“I really don’t think…”

“You’ll like it, I’m sure,” he insisted lightly.

Miller sighed and licked his dry lips. “If you say so.”

“The place used to belong to my parents,” said Carl, obviously pleased he could perform this guided tour. “When they died it came to me. I had intended selling it, but somehow I never got around to doing it. That’s mum,” he said, pointing to a framed photograph on the wall. Bless her. 1986. Died a year later.” He straightened the frame, though it never looked crooked to Miller.

“Carl,” Miller said abruptly, pausing. “I’m a busy man…”

The man pushed down his spectacles a little, smiled thinly. “Indulge me,” he said softly, turning and walking down the hall, indicating with a flick of his hand that Miller should follow. “My library is quite special,” he said. “I’ve given your books pride of place, you know. Next to Nabokov.” He came to an abrupt halt by a door and removed a set of keys from his pocket. “I’ve spent thirty years acquiring this,” he remarked, inserting a key into a lock at the top of the door, snapping it open and then bending to another at the door’s base. “My life’s work, you might say. Hence the security.” He indicated a dark corner on the ceiling in front of them. “Security camera. Neat, eh? Everything’s wired up, alarmed: doors, windows, floor. The house was broken into about six years ago. They turned the place upside down and finally decided to take the video recorder and the television.” He chuckled. “Can you believe it? I have books worth thousands of pounds and they chose a cheap telly. Ignorant bastards. Not that I’m complaining, but I thought it best not to take any more chances; not with my life’s work. Can’t have anyone touching your life’s work, can you?”  He looked meaningfully at Miller. “Please, don’t stand on ceremony, Mr. Miller, go right in.” He flicked on the light switch and held open the door.

“Is this really necessary?”

“I think so. Please, Mr. Miller. I keep the room at a stable temperature and we’re letting in far too much heat.”

Miller entered the darkened room, the air chillier, the low-wattage bulb doing little to beat back the deeper shadows. He was confronted on all sides by walls of books that reached from floor to ceiling. Carl closed the door softly and the room was plunged into a little more gloom, the light from the hall shut out.

“By all means, have a closer look at them, Mr. Miller. Or should I call you Gavin? Surnames seem so formal, don’t you think, especially as we’re starting to get to know each other better? But before you touch them I insist you wear a pair of these cotton gloves.” He slipped his own fingers into a pair.

“Look, Carl, let’s stop this fooling around, shall we, and get down to what I came here for?”

“Sit down,” Carl demanded firmly. “Please.”

Miller hesitated and then slumped sullenly into an armchair. Let the little bastard have his fun while he can, he thought. Just keep calm. Everything’s gonna be OK. Don’t let him spook you; he knows nothing.

“Can I get you something to drink? Tea, coffee? You look like you could do with something stronger, but of course you’re driving. What will it be?”

“I’m not thirsty,” Miller returned. Pause. “Thank you.”

“Mother used to live on tea. She said it helped a mind relax. I’m a coffee man myself. I have recently acquired rather a taste for freshly ground coffee, none of that granule rubbish. I regret I have too many expensive habits of late, though I guess that wouldn’t bother you so much as someone like me, would it? A man of your standing. Reputation.”

“I get by.”

“Forgive me for saying so, but I wish I could get by like you do. It’s hardly the same thing, is it?”

“I’ve worked hard for what I’ve got.”

He held up a hand. “I’ve no doubt, Gavin, no doubt at all. You see, I’ve worked hard as well. I’ve worked extremely hard, day in, day out, slogging away for years in the hope that there will be an eventual reward. But the truth is there has been no reward. I still have no money, I have little respect and the future looks like more of the same. You do understand, don’t you?”

“There are professional people you can talk to about this,” Miller said, failing to hide his contempt.

Carl smiled thinly, turned and opened a cabinet door, taking out a book and holding it up for Miller to see. “A thing of beauty, don’t you think? Books have always been my weakness, as you probably know already. They give me such a thrill merely to hold them, especially one such as this. Because this, you might say, is very much a jewel in my crown. Conan Doyle’s
‘A Study in Scarlet’
. Some collectors would kill for a copy of this, Holmes’ first outing, in book form, that is. I could bore you with facts, but I’ll refrain. Of course, the first book by an author – in this case the first of a series – is generally the best, coming as it does fresh from an enthusiastic mind, full of ideas, unbounded energy, a mind with something to prove. That not so, Gavin? I guess you had something to prove as well, eh?”

“What’s your point, Carl?”

“I think you know my point well enough. But we’ll continue, if you so desire.” He returned the book to its former position, closing and locking the door on it. “I have your first novel, of course; I have them all, as you know, and each and every one of them kindly signed by yourself. But my favorite is the first. Your debut. ‘
Eilean Mor’
. But not only is it a favorite of mine, it was a favorite of the critics and public alike. An instant bestseller, the medieval character of Stephen de Bailleul already becoming a part of our literary folklore. You must be justifiably proud of yourself, Gavin, to have your creation stand alongside Holmes or Bond, so much a part of the public psyche that people flock to Bailleul Country to see exactly where he fits into the fabric of their history.”

“I don’t need a lecture on my own work, Carl.”

“No, of course you don’t. But think of it, a creation of your mind that has such power, almost as if the character really lived. To be able to do that, well, it’s a gift, a truly wonderful gift. And isn’t it true, that like Conan Doyle with Holmes you have also tried to kill off Bailleul? But they won’t let you, will they? You and he have become inseparable, no matter how much you hate writing about him.”

“He’s very much dead now,” Miller returned with the faintest of smiles. “In spite of what people like you think, I am his creator, I gave him life, I gave him death. End of story. End of Bailleul. I have other, far more satisfying projects to concentrate on.”

“But the fact remains that your success is built upon the Bailleul foundation.”

“I cannot deny that. He gave me my first break.”

“And at its best it is a very shaky foundation, wouldn’t you agree?”

Miller’s heart lurched. He rose as if in sudden response to it, his cheeks and neck flushing red. ‘This is ridiculous, Carl. I’m leaving,” he said, flustered.

“I don’t think so, Gavin. Not just yet.” He felt a rush of excitement as Miller froze, the hunter finally having the quarry in his sights. All that remained was to squeeze the trigger and this noble beast would collapse into a heap before him. But it was a shame to spoil it, to corrupt the moment, as it was just too exquisite to allow it to end. Hemmingway would have been proud of him, though. “You know as well as I what all this is about. Don’t try and play ignorant. Let’s say, quite simply, that the first Bailleul was hardly yours, was it?”

Miller shook his head, aware that his breathing was becoming quicker, more shallow, but he couldn’t get it under control. “That’s plainly ludicrous!” he retorted.

Carl’s features hardened. “Oh, don’t worry; I’m not disputing the validity of the remainder. You can have all those under your belt. But the first, the best, the one that brought Bailleul to life, well, that’s very much open to debate. In fact, there is no debate. It wasn’t your novel, was it?”

“Ludicrous!” Miller reiterated, but with less conviction in his tone, sitting back down when he felt his legs giving way.

Bang! Carl watched as Miller’s crumpled form sagged back into the armchair. Carl put his finger to his chin and stared at the wall speculatively. “Imagine it if you can, someone discovers that Holmes was not the creation of Conan Doyle, what might that do to his reputation? Or that Bond did not belong to Fleming but to another, an unknown. Think of the literary bomb blast that would cause. I would hate to be caught in the fallout, wouldn’t you?”

“You’re crazy, Carl. As crazy as those you work with in Overton Hall. What’s more, if you insist on pursuing this course then we’ll see what the courts have to say about it. Don’t forget, I have the money to be able to see this through. You have neither the funds nor the evidence to back up this pathetic, flimsy accusation. You’ll be seen for what you are, a sleazy opportunist.”