Chapter 8

Chapter eight

Ron did not know what to think, but he did have a pretty good idea of what was happening to him: he was going crazy. That had to be it! He sat at the foot of a staircase towards the back on the school building, near a door which was frozen shut during the winter season. He thought he would have some privacy there. He held the light purple paper in his hands, turning it, cursing it a thousand times over. His dad had been unable to read it, or even make out the words when Ron read it aloud to him. The paper had performed a disappearing act the day before when he had tried to show it to Lincoln, and then Ron had feinted. He felt a frustrated tear roll down his cheek. He wiped at it roughly with the back of his hand, felt trapped, alone, but he needed to be alone to think. He checked his watch- thirty minutes. Thirty minutes until the day’s lessons began, thirty minutes of thinking time. He groaned, placed his elbows on his knees and rested his forehead in his hands. The faint boom of footsteps on the stairs began when a door somewhere at the top of the building slammed shut. They got louder and closer, echoing and barking at Ron to move from his seat at the foot of the stairs, to find a new hiding place where he could spend the remaining time until his first lesson began. He had Gothic History. Not the most thrilling of subjects, but not the dullest. It was a humanity subject, and he was required to complete a humanity course. On first glance, Ron had been interested and had thought it would be an easy enough grade- Vikings, sex, death, mythology. That was what he had thought. The first unit he had to do was the coursework unit- the history of Gothic literature. He remembered talking to Matt about it:

            “You’re lucky you’re doing that,” Matt had said with a jealous look in his eyes, “I’m stuck doing Lit Studies instead of actual English!”

            “Aren’t they the same?” Ron had asked.

            “Lit Studies is where you look at literature seriously, like if anything in the story could ever happen and how it can relate to the real world,” Matt had explained, and then sighed dejectedly, continuing: “English is where you cover a broader range and look at it from a theoretical point of view. My teacher sucks- he’s lazy, boring and cruel. I wish I had opted for Gothic History.”

            “It’s a secondary school course,” Ron had said, feeling sorry for Matt. Looking at him, Ron wondered what it would be like if he attended Matt’s college on the Lit Studies course and ended up with this ‘Mr Henshaw’ Matt complained about.

“You wouldn’t like it, anyway,” he continued, “the coursework unit dragged for six months; the Viking unit was more ‘how and why’ than ‘what and when’; and we spent barely two lessons on attitudes towards sex and death in Gothic art, and even those lessons where more suited for Psycho-Religious Analysis than History. What are you doing in Literature?”

            “Supposedly,” Matt had said with some disgust, “a unit looking at Norse epics and Greek tragedy, but we’ve spent a month working on the damned Hávamál. We were supposed to be finished with it in a week, but no. Mr Henshaw decided that he needed to make our lives complicated, and kept setting us stupid tasks- seriously! How can you fit the Hávamál into real life when you spend most of your time writing alternative passages for it? I hate him.”

            “‘Hate’ is a strong word,” Ron had said, “but it’s how I would describe my relationship with Gothic History.”

            “How did you do in your coursework, anyway?”

            “I got an ‘A’.”

            “Nice.”

            “If I had made a timeline like the other students,” Ron had said regretfully, “I may have gotten a higher grade.”

As Ron sat, pondering this conversation, the footsteps stopped behind him, and somebody cleared their throat. He looked up and saw a middle-aged woman with curly hair and brown eyes looking at him.

            “Why aren’t you in your lesson, young man?” she asked.

            “I have half an hour,” he answered.

She smiled, lifted her wrist and looked at the large gold watch which seemed more decorative than realistic.

            “You’re right,” she said, sounding pleased. She looked at him with a kind smile, stepped around him and sat on the step.

“My name is Anna,” she said, “but the students and staff know me as Mrs Jackson. I prefer Anna, though.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Ron, “why haven’t I seen you before?”

“Do you take Social World?”

“No.”

“That’s why you don’t know me,” she said, with a small laugh at the end.

“What’s Social World?” Ron asked, more to fill silence and time than from interest.

“It’s like Anthropology,” she said, smiling sheepishly, “but condensed to GCSE form.” Anna squinted and looked at Ron.

“What are you looking at?” he asked, feeling slightly nervous. He checked his watch. Twenty-five minutes.

“You look familiar,” she said, sounding distant. She bit her bottom lip and looked at him a moment longer before shrugging and waving a dismissive hand. “No, no- I’ve probably seen you around a lot. Although… No, no. I’m sorry- I have to go. Photocopies to make.”

She stood up and hurried down the corridor, taking long strides.

***

            “You said you would have him back by six yesterday evening,” Richard said, keeping his voice even. He kept his mobile phone tightly to his ear, “and it’s nearly eight in the morning. Where is he? Where are you?”

            “Calm, calm, Mr Amsterdam,” she said, “young Kevin in fine. We missed our train- didn’t you get my message?”

            “What mess-?”

            “That’s a ‘no’,” she sighed. “Kevin needed to use the bathroom and by the time we arrived at the platform, the last train had gone. Given the bomb threats, trains and tubes have been restricted. The buses have been hectic what with the bombings, so there was no point in taking one given how long it could take for one to come, and a cab was out of the question- I haven’t enough money to come from the British Museum to Rotherhithe.”

            “I would have reimbursed you,” Richard said, his patience wearing thin.

            “I would have felt guilty,” she replied, “feeling that I owed you for the cab.”

            “You wouldn’t owe me- I would owe you. That’s why I’d reimburse you.”

            “Moving on,” she said, “we will be leaving on the first tube-train. We are at the station now,” Richard could hear the background sounds of commuters, “and the first train will arrive in ten minutes. Kevin is holding on for dear life at my side, bless the little cub. We should be around an hour- do you wish to meet me at the station, or should I just drop him at your home?”

            “Just- just drop him by. I’ll pay you extra if you- if you get him here quicker. Please.”

            “As you wish, Mr Amsterdam.”

Richard hung up and placed his phone on the kitchen counter. He went to the fridge, but didn’t open it. He stared at the door for a few moments, sighed, turned and left the kitchen. He walked down the corridor and looked over at Matthew and Ron’s bedroom. The door was closed. He could smell salt water.

He stepped gently towards the room and opened the door to find Matt in Ron’s bed. The salt water smell was strongest in here.

Thomas.

Thomas!

Yeah?

What did you do?

To what?

To my son!

Oh, right, Thomas made a noise which sounded like a sigh. Freyja knows what he’s doing to himself… I did my job- I sorted out the world; made sure the mortals are unaware of our existence while remaining constrained to my current abilities.

Ah, fine, fine, Richard thought, and why did you put Matthew in Ron’s bed?

Huh?

You put Matthew in Ron’s bed. What were you thinking?

I thought that was his bed! He’s the kind of kid who looks like he likes purple. Thom sounded defensive.

Sorry, Thom, he likes black.

Crap! Well, can you move him for me?

Okay, Richard thought with a slight mental sigh, just do me one small favour.

What’s that?

Quit going to the beach- you stink.

Hey!

Thom- I can smell the sea, Richard thought, matter-of-factly, and it’s pretty strong. What do you suppose Matthew would think if he woke up and smelled the sea? In the midst of winter, at that?

Thom was silent, but Richard could still feel the connection.

See you later. Richard thought, then snapped the connection.

He looked over at Matthew and set about putting him in the right place. Within a few seconds, Richard was making up Ron’s bed and then tucking in Matthew. He stroked his son’s hair and stared at the boy for a few moments. Richard recalled a time when Matthew was five, when he had a very bad bout of the flu. Richard had stayed up all night hugging and soothing his boy, kissing away the painful coughs and scary noises which only Matthew could apparently hear, shading the sights that only Matthew could apparently see. Richard had been his son’s protector, but in a few weeks Matthew had returned to full health only to be struck down again by tonsillitis.

The smell of salt water stung Richard’s nostrils. Something would have to be done to cover the smell, and Richard had one idea which made his stomach clench. He went to his own bedroom and returned with a glass bottle filled with a red liquid. He held it tightly in his right hand and felt a lump form in his throat. He shut his eyes and blindly pressed the nozzle, waving the bottle about. After a few sprays, he opened his eyes and took a cautious breath.

Salty strawberries.

It would have to do.

Feeling like a failure, Richard returned to his room and returned the bottle to its rightful place: on the shelf above his bed. The shelf was dusty, and the bottle had picked up a little bit of dust, too. It had rubbed off on his hand, which was moist with sweat. He wiped his hand on his trouser leg and coughed. There was a cavity in his chest, a sickly feeling in his gut.

Do not despair, said a young, wise voice.

Cassio?

The very same. There was a smile to the voice. How have you been keeping? One moment- judging by your current mental state, not very well at all. Ah, and there she is- she’s rather pretty. And who are the boys? Your children?

Richard’s eyes widened. He clenched his fists and stood perfectly still.

Don’t worry, Richard, thought Cassio, you are in no harm.

            “Get away from me!” Richard threw himself at his bedside table and grabbed the heavy, dome-based lamp. He held it in his hand for a moment before hitting himself repeatedly over the head.

RICHARD! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Cassio screamed inside Richard’s head.

Richard paid no attention to the voice, to the heavy blows he dealt himself, to the blood as it trickled from the cuts. He would have bruises in the morning.

RICHARD! STOP!

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

For crying out loud- you’re killing yourself!

He was hearing voices...

Was he finally going insane? Stephen always said he would. Ran in the family, apparently.

Richard! It’s Thom- stop what you’re doing!

Another self-inflicted blow to the head, and lights began to dance. Time slowed down.

Richard...

Richard...

Richard.

Anora. His mother. Tall, thin. Square-ish face, green oval-shaped eyes. Rosy skin, red lips, black hair. Standing in front of him, imposing and authoritative. Although they were both standing, both the same height, Richard felt like he was kneeling, staring up at her. She was wearing a simple black dress, a black veil and a fascinator. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead, staring through him. The room was filling with mist. A chill ran down Richard’s spine, the icy fingers of the ferryman come to collect a premature soul.

Richard didn’t even have any eye coins...

A cruel smile crossed Anora’s lips as she lowered an eyebrow in malice.

Richard ran his tongue across his teeth. Molars, premolars, incisors. No canines.

Anora smiled. Her teeth glinted in the dim light. Incisors, some of her molars were visible from the sides of her smile. No canines.

Richard...

She lunged at him, grabbed the front of his shirt and dug her nails into his skin. He cried out, tried to wrestle her off, but she had him pinned to the floor, with one hand on his chest and the other clasped around his throat. Both hands were digging into his- the left reaching into his heart, the right tightening around his throat with razor-sharp nails breaking the delicate skin. He struggled to breathe, felt a warm, heavy trickling form on his skin. An alien sensation crept around in his chest.

He woke up sweating, panting. He was shirtless, cold and shivering. He surveyed the room, gathered that it was morning. He placed a tentative hand on his neck and felt for any ‘indentations’. He had expected to feel congealing blood, but all he felt was unbroken skin. Next, he felt his chest. Again, he felt nothing but unbroken skin, and his nipples. His heart was beating frantically as he lay down and took long, deep breaths to calm himself. All these years... all these years and she still haunted him. Wasn’t it enough that she had admitted to never loving him as her child? Was it imperative that she haunt his psyche years after he had left her?

He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. An hour went by when he heard the doorbell. He groaned- who was it at this hour?

He got up begrudgingly and called “Coming!” as the doorbell was pressed twice more. He grabbed his bathrobe from its position on the door and pulled it on as he took long strides to the door. He tied up the cord and checked the peephole: Kevin!

Richard pulled open the door and hugged his boy.

            “Kevin!” he said, clinging to his youngest son. “Where have you been?”

Kevin hugged back.

            “I told you, Mr Amsterdam,” said a female voice. Richard looked up and saw Diane standing over him, smiling.

            “What did you tell me?” Richard asked, letting go of Kevin and ushering him inside.

            “That we would be here in an hour,” she said coolly.

            “Right.” Richard said quietly as Diane moved past him and walked down the corridor. He watched her as she turned into the living room. Richard followed.

            “So, how much do I owe you?” he asked, finding his coat strewn on the armchair. He searched the pockets until he found and pulled out his wallet. He opened it and started counting notes.

            “I charge five pounds per hour,” she said.

            “And you two have been...?”

            “Twenty hours.”

            “Okay, that’s fine.” He counted the money, added London weighting and reimbursed her for any overnight arrangements she had made.

Diane took the money and smiled, thanked him. Then she left.

When the door had closed, Richard looked for Kevin. He found the boy in his bedroom, curled up on the bed and hugging a pillow.

            “Hey, son,” he said, entering the room and sitting on his son’s bed, “did you have a good time with Miss Diane?”

            “No!” Kevin squeaked.

Worry touched Richard’s heart.

            “Why?” he asked. “What happened?”

            “Miss Diane said not to say!”

The worry slithered up his heart and began to spread through his chest.

            “I won’t tell,” Richard said, placing a hand on Kevin’s shoulder. “You can trust me- I’m your dad.”

Kevin looked up at him with small brown eyes, and Richard felt the worry deepen. There was one time when Richard had seen the same emotion in another person’s eyes, and even now it felt like Richard’s heartstrings were being played by a maverick mandolin player.

            “For a twelve-year-old,” Richard said, “you’re very quiet. When your uncle Jared was twelve, he wouldn’t shut up.”

            “What did you do when you were twelve?” Kevin asked.

            “That’s not important,” he said with a shrug, “but what happened? Did something scare you?”

            “Not gonna say!” Kevin squealed, hugging the pillow even tighter.

Richard took his hand from his boy’s shoulder. “That’s okay,” he said, “when you’re ready-”

            “Never gonna be ready!”

            “Well, in case you ever are ready, just let me know and I’ll listen. Okay?”

Kevin shrugged and buried his face in the pillow.

Richard got up and left the room, the worry still clinging to his chest. What had happened while they were out? Of course, Richard suspected the worst: that Kevin had witnessed a bombing. On the other hand, in addition to the bombings there had been an exposé on private tutors and privatised institutions which handled children under sixteen... No, Diane couldn’t be one of them! She adored Kevin- she wouldn’t hurt him like any of the people Richard had seen in the exposé... Would she?

Richard shook his head and took a deep breath. She wouldn’t- she was a professional. He went into the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee, pulling out the orange spoon to look at while the kettle boiled. He replaced it when the kettle’s light switched off.

He went to the living room and sat in his armchair, holding the hot cup in his hand and thinking, trying to connect with other members of the team Loki had organised.

Izzy? He called mentally. Thom? Delores?

Hey, Richard, a male voice thought.

Thom?

Morgue, he corrected, honestly! We don’t sound that alike!

You certainly act alike.

What’s wrong? Morgue asked. Why did you forge a connection?

I need somebody to keep tabs on someone for me.

Who and why?

Diane- Kevin’s private tutor. I’m worried- Kevin’s not telling me anything, and they were gone for twenty hours.

Twenty hours? Morgue sounded sceptical.

They literally got back a few minutes ago- Kevin’s in his room, hugging a pillow and curled up like a cold puppy. Richard explained.

And what about her?

She took her payment and left.

How much did it come to?

Richard didn’t tell him.

Your silence is understood, Morgue said evenly, has she done anything like this before?

Well...

Say no more, Morgue told him, I’ll ‘keep tabs’ on her for you. If you find out from Kevin before I find more about her, let me know and we can figure out what should or could be done next. Agreed?

Agreed.

Richard snapped the connection and took a drink of his coffee. It was still hot as it scalded his tongue and throat, but he drank it nonetheless. Soon, the cup was empty. He placed it on the table beside the armchair and sat back, asking himself if he had done the right thing by asking Morgue to keep tabs on Diane. He felt guilty, but he assured himself that he was right. Then again, there was that niggling sensation in the back of his mind, that dull gnawing at his gut, which told him that something far deeper was going on. There was one way to find out the truth, but Richard did not want to do it. He had done it once to Matthew, and once to Ron. Once was more than he could handle, but twice had nearly killed him. A third time would render him soulless. Besides, he had a vivid picture of what he might see if he did a psyche-search on Kevin, and Richard was unwilling to take the risk.

Richard looked at the wall clock which hung above the deactivated hearth and was shocked to discover that it was the middle of the day. He jumped up and rushed to his bedroom, where he threw on a pair of jeans, trainers and a loose-fitting t-shirt. He ran out of the bedroom and ran for the door- checking, of course, on Kevin, who was sound asleep and cuddling his pillow- grabbing his keys and coat along the way. He didn’t bother to make sure the front door was closed quietly as he sprinted down the balcony, nearly knocking over Mrs Winter. After a brief, rushed apology, Richard leapt down the stairs, pulled on his coat and charged at full speed. It was here that his instincts would take over: running at the speed of sound; closing off his hearing so as not to damage his ear drums; leaping over roads; and weaving through the crowds. The only trouble was the snow, for two reasons: if he ran too fast, he would slip and do some serious damage to the surrounding area, and possibly himself if he wasn’t careful; there was the possibility that his speed would create heat, which would melt the snow and almost certainly lead potential enemies to where he was heading. On the other hand, Thom and the other Trackers would be able to cover that up- more snow was forecast overnight. Maybe even some rain or sleet. Richard would have to ask Thom how it all worked- the Agents wanted to know what the Trackers actually did.

Eventually, Richard began to slow down and his instincts began to unwind: his hearing gradually returned; his leaps became equivalent to hops; and the crowds thinned so there was little to no need of stealth. He came to an abrupt halt outside the Canterbury Cathedral. It was a large, picturesque building which Richard thought similar to a castle. A layer of snow had settled and lay unperturbed on the roof, and a two-metre radius of snow surrounding the Cathedral rested, any other snow beyond that boundary a mess of muddy slush. Richard felt uneasy as he stood by the Cathedral- he felt like he was being watched.

He stood there, in the same spot, for twenty minutes. During that time, fat flakes of snow began to appear in the air. The gaps between the flakes were initially large, but soon the snow fell quickly and filled in the gaps between puddles and lumps of slush, footprints in the tainted snow. Richard himself was soon covered in the delicate white ice. He shivered, feeling the cold seep through his coat and begin to turn him numb. He felt a hard tap on his shoulder. He turned around looked, only to see more whirling snowflakes. He turned back to his original position and wished that he had pulled on a jumper, or at least pulled on an extra layer before coming out.

            “The first mistake a man might make,” said a familiar female voice, “is when he leaves his post for some menial distraction.” The voice was coming from behind him, and he smiled knowing that she had not forgotten. She appeared from underneath a snow-covered bush. She was roughly the same height as Richard and had roughly-cut brown hair with the tips dyed purple. Richard advanced, staring directly into her violet eyes. He stopped a few inches away. She grabbed his shoulders and hoisted herself onto his back.

            “Ready, Marcella?” he asked.

            “Ready.” she said.

With that, Richard began to run- with some effort after the addition of Marcella’s weight- home. They were there within minutes and in his bedroom within seconds. Richard erected a sphere of silence around the room, encasing the walls, door and windows in a soundproof barrier so that he wouldn’t wake his boys up.

They undressed and were soon entangled on the bed, grasping and groaning beneath the blankets. Richard felt a welcome sense of relief and relaxation when he hit his climax, and he was sure she felt the same. He rolled off of her and closed his eyes and wiped his forehead. Marcella lay next to him for a few minutes until she had recuperated her strength before she got up and began to dress.

            “You really need to find a new hobby,” she teased him.

            “Who else can I do?” Richard asked with a short laugh. He looked over at her. “Where are you headed now?”

Buttoning her shirt, Marcella replied; “I’m an International- I go where the wind takes me!”

            “And the wind took you to my bed.”

            “Oh, Richard,” she said, having finished with her shirt, “we’re friends with benefits.” She placed her hands on her hips. “And if I recall, the wind took you to my bed for our first ‘benefit’.”

            “But where are you off to now?”

            “Hard to say,” she said, pulling on her underpants, “could be Cairo or Libya, although I am hoping for Morocco.” She grabbed her jeans and pulled them on.

While she grabbed her socks, Richard said; “So who’s turn is it?”

            “Mine,” she said, pulling on her left sock, “so I will let you know where I am and where to meet me. I assure you that there will be plenty of bushes, and we will not meet by a cathedral!” Marcella had pulled on her right sock and tied her shoes. She picked up her jacket and left his bedroom. He knew she was gone when he heard the front door close. He dismantled the sphere of silence and lay in his bed, feeling refreshed and clear-headed. He remained there for about half an hour, then got up and dressed. He went to the kitchen and opened the fridge, pulled out a jar of mint sauce. He popped it open and took a quick drink from the small jar as though it were a wine glass. He capped the jar, replaced it and closed the fridge. He licked his lips. He would have to wake up Matt soon- he didn’t want his boy to miss the whole day. On the other hand, had Thom cast a sleep charm on him? When Richard had moved his son from one bed to the other, he hadn’t even flinched. He was out cold. With a suspicious mind, Richard marched into his sons’ shared bedroom and took a look at Matt, and for the first time noticed how pale he was. Matt’s eyes were heavily sealed and his lips were almost white, twisted in a fearful grimace.

Richard’s heart plummeted. In a fit of panic, he rushed to his son’s side and held his hand. Looking into his mind, Richard was initially unperturbed by what he saw... until he realised what he was looking at.