The Four-Fingered Man
TABLE OF CONTENTS
In the last moments before dawn, a man in a black trench coat slipped out from the
shadow of the old hotel. The grass was wet against his legs and the silence around
him was broken only by the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below.
He hurried.
If anyone was watching, they would have noticed how heavily his coat sat across his
shoulders, how his back stooped under the weight, and how the bulging pockets bumped
against his legs with every step. They may even have seen when – unnoticed by him
– a small glinting object and a flurry of eucalyptus leaves fell from the man’s pocket
and landed in the long grass.
But no-one was watching. Not even the sound of birds broke the spell as he stepped
into a grove of ancient magnolia trees and disappeared into their shadows.
He was a tall man, but so thin and angular the leaves hardly crackled under his feet.
As he walked, his hands kept straying to his pockets, patting them gently as though
reassuring himself that his cargo was still safe.
Hidden in a clearing beyond the magnolias was an old tin-roofed cottage – so run-down
and shabby it was really more of a shack. The man slowed, looking around carefully,
before stepping out from the trees and striding towards the cottage.
Before his hand reached the door it swung open from inside, and a scowling face with
a mess of grey hair appeared through the gap. ‘Where have you been?’
The man in the coat hurried inside, brushing past the grey-haired man, who locked
and bolted the door behind them.
‘You’re late,’ the grey-haired man grumbled.
‘Nonsense. My connection shall arrive momentarily.’
‘It
should
have arrived already. According to my charts –’
‘Your charts are wrong, Tom,’ said the man in the coat. ‘And they’re only going to
get worse. I, on the other hand –’
He paused as a deep shudder ran through the cottage, rattling the windows.
‘– am right on time.’
Tom opened his mouth and closed it again, a look of frustration passing over his
face. The cottage shuddered a second time, and a deep groan came from the far room.
Or not
from
the room: somehow, the sound came from under it.
Tom’s eyes narrowed. ‘Show-off.’ Then he held out a weathered hand. ‘Give it to me.’
The man in the coat nodded and put a hand to his throat. No, not to his throat –
somehow he slid the tips of his fingers
into
his throat and felt around inside his
own neck. There was a clicking sound, a fizz, and the man’s face flickered as he
delicately plucked a small black and bronze cylinder out of his neck.
The moment he dropped it into Tom’s hand – the moment his own fingers lost contact
with the object – the man in the coat was no longer a man. He still wore the trench
coat but his pale skin and black hair had vanished, replaced by the glittering, metallic-blue
shell of an insect. His long white fingers had become the curved black hooks of a
beetle, and iridescent wings twitched beneath his coat.
Tom scowled at him, and then at the device in his hand. ‘Hey! This isn’t mine! Where’s
the one I gave you?’
The insect patted at its coat pockets and chittered, clattering its mandibles.
‘Fine, fine, you don’t have time to worry about that. You don’t have to convince
me
that the Krskn issue is more important. But you do realise the new owners arrive
today? Last thing I need is for them to find any clues that you’ve been here.’
The insect started to move towards the other room, picking its way through a bizarre
clutter of broken cuckoo clocks, wind-up toys and stacks of leather-bound books.
A gust of hot air swept through the cottage, and that terrible, abysmal groan sounded
again.
‘It’s here!’ said Tom. ‘Go on! Not that you’ve ever been bothered to wait for a connection
before …’ he added in a mutter.
The insect buzzed harshly.
‘No, I’m
not
asking any questions. Just go!’
The room beyond the doorway was empty. Bare floorboards amplified the noise of the
insect’s feet as it scuttled over to the hole in the far corner of the room. That
hot, rank wind blew again, gusting up the stone steps that disappeared into the darkness
beneath the cottage floor. Then, as though giant lungs were hidden down there somewhere,
the wind turned and sucked back down the stairwell.
Tom was still standing in the other room, clinging so tightly to the edge of his
desk that his knuckles were white. The knuckles he had, anyway – one of his fingers
was missing, a shiny patch of scar tissue in the gap.
The insect gathered up its coat, and scurried down the steps.
There was the sound of a door opening, a stronger smell of sour air and then a flash
of light, and the door banged closed.
Tom sagged against his desk in relief. ‘Gone!’
It was Dad jerking on the handbrake that woke Amelia up. Her forehead bumped against
the car window, and she suddenly realised three things: her neck was stiff, her mouth
tasted like plastic and they were
there
.
Great.
She peeled long strands of red hair off her cheeks where she’d slept on them, and
undid her seatbelt.
Dad was already out of the car, bouncing along the gravel driveway in the thin grey
light of the extreme early morning. It was chilly, grim and silent but Dad flung
his arms out in delight like he wanted to give the place a hug. Like he hadn’t just
driven all through the night to get here. Like he didn’t have two kids in the back
of the car who wished he’d just get back in and drive them straight home again.
‘Come on guys!’ Dad beamed back at them. ‘Isn’t this fantastic?’
James unfolded himself from the car, his long legs getting tangled in all the chip
packets, headphone cords, plastic bags, jumpers and blankets in the back seat with
them.
‘Fantastic,’ James muttered. ‘Fantastically old. Fantastically ugly …’
Mum ignored him, and got out of the front passenger seat, but Amelia thought he had
a point.
When their parents had told Amelia and James they were going to leave the city and
move out to live in a big hotel by the sea, in a little country town nobody had ever
heard of before, it had sounded …
‘Fantastically mental,’ James grumbled on.
But Dad was sure it would be a huge adventure.
‘Just imagine,’ he’d said. ‘Mum and I will both be working from home – we’ll get
to be with you guys all the time. No more afterschool care. No more vacation care.
And we’ll have so much
space!
Acres of lawn and gardens and bush, and right next
to the beach! In fact …’
Here Dad looked at Amelia and said those magic words that had convinced her it would
all be worth it. Worth moving school, leaving friends and giving up gym. Worth selling
the flat where she’d lived ever since she was born, with neighbours she’d known her
whole life.
‘Amelia, there will be so much space, you’ll be able to get a puppy.’
‘Once we’re settled in,’ Mum had added quickly.
Now they were here, though, Amelia wasn’t sure a puppy would be enough. Maybe not
even eight puppies would be worth
this
.
The hotel was a huge, old-fashioned white building, with vine-covered pillars and
a roof edged with iron lace over the grand entrance. It was built on the end of a
headland, and seemed to be floating in the sky. All around was the sound of the sea,
waves exploding on the rocks far, far below. Tall cliffs fell away on all sides,
and maybe it
could
have been kind of lovely, but somehow the whole place felt wrong
to Amelia.
Obviously, she wasn’t some silly, superstitious little kid who believed in ghosts
or any of that nonsense but … if ever ghosts
did
exist, this was exactly the sort
of place they would be.
Amelia looked around her, trying to ignore the chill prickling over her skin. The
hotel must have once been beautiful, but now it was a mass of peeling paint, cracked
window panes, spider webs and abandoned wasps’ nests.
The grounds were huge and badly overgrown. The garden beds were so shaggy, they almost
merged with the thick bushland beyond them. There was nothing except the long driveway
she was standing on to connect them with the rest of the world.
In this case, the rest of the world meant a tiny beach town called Forgotten Bay.
‘Well.’ Mum put her hands on her hips. ‘We’ve certainly got our work cut out for
us.’
‘Right,’ said James, sarcastic as ever. ‘Home, sweet home. How do we get in?’
‘Um,’ said Dad. ‘I thought the caretaker was going to be here to meet us …’
‘The
caretaker
?’ said James. ‘This place has a
caretaker
?’ He looked around at the
missing floorboards in the wide veranda that circled the hotel. He looked at the
possum poo lying all over the old swing seat, and made a face of fake admiration.
‘Wow. Lucky us. Imagine what a dump this place would be without someone taking
care
of it.’