Blood Memory: The Complete Season One (Books 1-5) (47 page)

Stan shook his head. His mouth was dry and he had to keep moistening it with a blistered tongue. “To start a new… a new family. That… That was what Mar… Mary said to me. The last… last thing she said… to me. Start… a new… family.”

“We will,” Jordan said. “Thanks to you and Mary.”

Stan’s hand slapped himself around the mouth. When the hand came away
the pill was gone.

“We love you,” Jordan said. “Sleep.”

Stan’s eye rolled back into his head. Jordan stood and left, unable to bear watching Stan’s body disintegrate into a purple puddle.

The wood was thick and dark, blotting out all but the most tenacious beams of sunlight. Jordan didn’t take a step without peering around at the thigh-high grass tickling their knees.

“
Can’t we go any faster?” Jessie said. “It’ll take forever to get back to the cat at this rate.”

“
If we get bitten by a Crawler,” Jordan said, using a stick to bend the grass to one side, “none of us will ever get back.”

Jessie sighed and swung a stick at wild flowers, decapitating them.

Jordan paused. He peered closely at something in the grass. It looked like a series of small twigs. Jordan poked them. The twigs reacted, snapping around Jordan’s stick like a Venus flytrap. A tiny child’s head rose from the grass, mouth wide open with pointy teeth. Jordan brought the thick stump of wood in his other hand down on the creature’s head. The child lay with its tongue hanging out.

Jordan looked over at Jessie, who shrugged.
“I would have gotten him anyway,” she said.

They pressed on. The wood became thicker, the tweetling bird calls replaced by the more sinister sounds of the wood. An owl hooted and swooped down from a tree. A large brown
rat hissed and them and ran into the undergrowth.

They came to a stop. The path split in two. One headed left, the other right. Both routes disappeared around sharp corners.

“Which way do you think we should go?” Anne asked.

Jordan squinted. After a moment he
pointed left and said, “This way.”

“
Why this way? Why not that way?”

“
I don’t know. It just… feels right.”

“
How does it ‘feel’ right?”

Jordan shrugged.
“I don’t know. How does a pigeon know where it’s going?”

“
They’re called homing pigeons. They only know where they’re going because they’ve been to the same place before.” Anne watched Jordan’s expression. “Have you been here before, Jordan?”

Jordan didn
’t reply right away. He put a fist to the middle of his chest and made a motion. “It feels like I’m being pulled by something. Something is attracting me, and it’s this way.” He put his hand down. “Maybe it’s the sea. Maybe it’s calling to me.”

Anne cocked her head to one side.
“Or on some level you’re remembering which way to go because you’ve been down here before.”

“
What difference does it make? So long as we get back to the cat it doesn’t matter.”

“
I’ve got no reason to think it’s the wrong way,” Anne said. “Let’s follow your feeling.”

“Should be close now,” Jordan said for about the hundredth time, his voice barely a croak.

But each time he ha
d said it, the road stretched farther out before them, seemingly without end. The lane bobbed and weaved, giving onto flat pastures of dwindling woods like sprigs of holly. Somehow they had managed to lose the ocean.

A hill reared up ahead.

“Do we have to go over it, Jordan?” Anne asked. “Can’t we go around it?”

“The hill will give us a good vantage point. Make sure we’re going the right way.”

Anne bit down her desire to say, “I thought you knew where we were going?”

Weak and weary, they began to climb. Half-way up the hill, panting like an old work horse, Anne heard something. She looked around to identify where the sound came from. She saw it floating above them, wings spread out wide, floating on invisible strings, beak pointing arrow-like toward the hill’s crest.

“It’s a seagull,” Anne said.

They shared a smile.

As they got to the top of the hill, the smell of salt weighed heavy on the air.

They crested the hill. Anne unshouldered her backpack and fell to her knees. She took in the fuzzy blue-white mass in front of her.

“We’re home,” she said, tears spilling down her cheeks. “We’re finally home.”

Barry’s Bikes was a small bicycle rental shop – little more than a shed, really – that perched atop the hill. Inside, the smell of rubber was over-powering. Row upon row of shiny new bikes stood to attention. They broke open the vending machines and gorged themselves on salty snacks and sweet beverages. Afterwards, they each picked a bike, checking the tyres and brakes. Jordan tucked a puncture repair kit into his backpack.

The sun had just begun its free fall toward the horizon when Jordan consulted a public route map in a plastic frame. He trailed his finger over the route they would take. “We’ll head north, along the coast and head back up to Great Yarmouth.”

“How long do you think it’ll take?” Anne asked.

“About four hours to the coast. We’ll find somewhere to sleep tonight, then arrive there tomorrow morning.”

Anne grinned. “We’re really that close?”

Jordan smiled. “I said we were, didn’t I?”

Anne looked down the steep slope with some trepidation. Jessie went first. She squealed as the bike picked up speed. Jordan went second, with a ‘Woo hoo!’ Anne edged the bike forward, the wheel balanced on the edge. She whispered a prayer and moved forward. Anne watched the ocean sink behind the thick green foliage of beech trees and giant laurels. The wind whipped her hair across her face as she picked up speed.

She hit the bottom of the hill in no time and flew halfway back up the next mound before she had to start peddling.

The waves tormented the sandy seashore, roaring with delight in blue-white spray. They followed the jagged trail as it wound its way round sharp corners, long bends, and precipitous drops.

Just as the sun kissed the horizon, they came to a stop. Before them, nestled between the ocean and rolling green hills was a lone beach house. The entire building had been pushed over at a thirty-degree angle, the wooden beams cracked in half. Even from that distance, Anne could see the windows had been smashed, the white exterior dirtied and chipped. But it was the first house they’d seen – possibly the only house they would see – before they hit the city.

Anne noticed Jordan was looking at the house with a peculiar expression on his face – thoughtful, with a hint of sadness.

“We’d best head down, don’t you think?” she said.

Jordan, eyes distant, nodded.

They wound their way down the steep winding path using just their brakes. At the bottom, Anne took off her shoes and socks and made fists with her feet in the hard gritty sand. She leaned her bicycle against the peeling porch of the house, shrugged the backpack from her shoulders and ran along the beach to the sea. Jessie overtook her and, squealing from the ice-cold temperature, dived below the surface. Anne did likewise, washing away the dirt, grime and mental scars of the past week. Anne straightened. The sea came up to her waist. She looked up toward the house.

Jordan stood there, still holding his bike firmly by the handlebars, as if mesmerised by the building.

Anne drew up beside him. “Jordan? Are you all right?”

He start
ed from his reverie and nodded.

“You ought to take a swim.
It feels great.” She beamed.

The semi-circular window in the attic was
so dirty nothing could be discerned through it, though Jordan seemed intent on trying.

“Come on,” Anne said. “Let’s get inside.”

Their footsteps echoed on the bare wooden floors. With the windows broken, the outside had found its way inside. The once-vibrant colours had become drained and pale, with puddles cupped in warped floorboards. Animal turds decorated every room, turning trips across the room into a game of hopscotch.

Jordan turned and went into the living room, as if pulled along by invisible string. An umbrella stand and lamp had been knocked over. The light bulb glass crunched underfoot. Jordan brushed his fingers over the objects in turn. He sat on the sofa, head in his hands. Anne sat beside him and laid a comforting hand on his back.

“Jordan? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“It’s this house,” he said, not looking up. “I’ve been here before.”

He raised his head and stared with haunted eyes.

“It’s the house from my dream.”

Anne watched Jessie collecting dry wood out the window. There was precious little to find out on the beach, which was precisely why she’d sent her out there in the first place.

After Jordan’s disclosure, Anne had checked upstairs. One bedroom still had the bright yellow wallpaper it’d been decorated with. Toys were spread all over the floor – a purple unicorn rocking horse and some transforming robots. The other bedroom door had creaked open like something from a horror film, the interior painted in a vibrant red hue until she realised it wasn’t paint at all.

Presently Jordan sat staring into space, a bowl of dry cereal before him. He hadn’t touched it.

“You ought to eat something, Jordan. You must be hungry.”

He didn’t reply.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head.

“You have to talk about it sometime, Jordan.”

“I can’t.” He looked at his hands. “Of all the houses we could have found why did we have to find this one?”

“You make it sound like it was unlikely.”

He frowned. “Wasn’t it?”

“Not if you suppose your subconscious led you here.”

“Here we go again,” Jordan said. “My subconscious. It’s more active than my conscious the way you go on about it.”

“It’s well
documented that sometimes our subconscious takes us places, bypassing our conscience altogether,” she said. “Haven’t you ever been out driving and arrive home without realising it?”

“So it led me here, now what? Am I supposed to have an epiphany? A moment of realisation?”

“In a manner of speaking. It wants you to discover something.”

“Discover what?”

“If we knew that we wouldn’t need to discover it, would we?”

Jordan reached into his pocket, took out his knife and the block of wood he’d been whittling. “Let me know when I should start doing something worth discovering.”

Anne looked at the figurine. It had a long nose and thick mane. Something protruded from between the horse’s ears on its forehead. Jordan shaved off another curl. Anne’s eyes settled on Jordan.

“What?” he said.

“Why do you whittle, Jordan?”

Jordan shrugged. “It soothes me. Some people smoke, some drink, I whittle.”

“But why a horse?”

“Stacey liked horses. I was making it for her birthday. I thought I might as well finish it.”

“Did she ever tell you that?”

“Tell me what?”

“That she liked horses.”

“She must have mentioned it at some point.”

“Don’t you remember?”

“We were at sea for a long time. I can’t remember every conversation we ever had.”

Anne took a seat opposite Jordan. “I remember a conversation with her about horses.”

“Well then,” Jordan said, taking another curl.

“She was thrown from one.”

Jordan froze.

“The doctor said she was lucky not to have broken her back. Ever since then she’s been afraid of them.” Anne placed her hand reassuringly on Jordan’s forearm. It was tense and hard.

“Then why am I doing it?”

Anne looked at him and drew a deep breath. “Do you know the story of the Trojan Horse?”

“Of course. Troy. Greeks. Giant horse. So what?”

“The Greeks built a giant wooden horse to sneak their men inside. I think this is your Trojan Horse.” Anne tapped the half-whittled object. “I don’t think it’s just a toy. Your subconscious is trying to tell you something. A message. Do you have any idea what it might be?”

Jordan shook his head.
“No.” His hands shook.

Anne narrowed her eyes. “Why a horse, Jordan?”

“It just came to mind.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“There’s always a reason.”

“Then I don’t know it,” Jordan snapped.

Anne took a deep breath. “What kind of horse is this?”