Halton Cray (Shadows of the World Book 1) (11 page)

Stacey stood behind me asking in astonishment if I
was okay. I couldn’t pay attention to her at this moment. In an instant, Thom
relaxed and began shaking his hair out like a dog. Sprays of river water made
it appear like a light mist of rain in the air. He’d pulled us both out
together, one under each arm. Not a strand of reed clung to him, as they did to
the boy and me.

‘How is he?’ I asked the boy’s mother, who was now
pressing him to her chest and rocking him.

‘I think he’s okay,’ she said shakily, combing his
hair back. She thanked Thom again, who leant over her, offering to fetch
towels. She shook her head decidedly, saying she’d get him straight home.

Thom responded, ‘I was glad to have been walking nearby.’

I must have looked like a half-drowned rat as I
shook with cold. My trousers and sweater stuck to my greased skin like a layer
of fishy-flesh. This only fuelled my annoyance at Thom for dragging me across
the riverbed. Autumn leaves blew about the ground and I felt every bit of that
chilling wind.

The mother got up and began stripping her son of
his jacket and jumper before wrapping him up in her own coat. His little teeth
were a blur with chattering. She picked him up like a ragged doll and carried
him away, while scolding him for running off. In this time I turned to Stacey
without answering any of her questions. Through clenched teeth I told her to
let Mrs Evans know what had happened; that I must go home to shower and change.
She hesitated, not wanting to miss whatever might follow, before running off,
rather too excitedly to communicate the story.

Thom stepped towards me brushing down his wet
shirt. I was furious. I stood up and felt my suppressed irritation about to
vent.

‘You nearly drowned me!’ I exploded at him,
pushing back a chunk of wet hair from my face.

He stopped. The corners of his mouth fell half an
inch. He looked me square in the eyes, but didn’t speak.

‘I didn’t need pulling out!’ I fired again.

‘Unbelievable,’ he uttered, looking away for a second.
‘I try to help you and–’

‘Help me?’ I choked on my words with coughing. ‘I
was fine until you tried to drown me!’

‘“
Tried to drown you!
”’ he quoted
sardonically. He took another step towards me. ‘Why you ungrateful little–’

‘
Ungrateful
? Being d-r-a-g-g-e-d backwards
underwater!’

Here I heard myself branded an ‘antagonist’ and
‘social misfit’. His hands muffled further insults as he rubbed his wet face. He
looked at me again and quickly composed himself, his tone suddenly perking up.

‘Oh dear, I’ve really done it now,’ he teased.
‘Does this mean you won’t accept my friend request on Twitbook?’

‘Laugh all you want! You could have saved the boy
and left me; I was fine!’

‘Alex, you were down there so long I thought you’d
developed gills! You were yards away from him.’ He pointed. ‘Besides, I’d have
only been left with that image of your pitiable attempt to dive. Which I might
add honestly gave me the impression you couldn’t swim!’

He saw that. Dammit!

‘If it didn’t endanger anyone’s life,’ he went on,
revealing those dimples of his. ‘I’d give my right arm to see that belly flop
again!’ He almost giggled, folding his arms across his large chest. ‘How do you
perfect such a manoeuvre as that?’

I ignored him while considering what to do. I
could hardly drive home in my wet state. I knew Thom wasn’t to blame for the
fact I was drenched. This seemed to pacify me a little, even as he continued to
fire me up.

‘You know, that temper of yours wants chastising
out of you!’ He was practically laughing.

Between chattering teeth I took deep breaths,
trying to calm myself. This was not the first time I’d been
swimming
in
the Shockers here, and so it wasn’t the first time I stood soaked on the
riverbank. When I was fourteen – around the time I was mucking around in the
topiary, or camping out to ghost watch – my friends and I had snuck a rubber
dinghy onto the grounds. We were still in our school uniforms when we launched it
near Westleigh Bridge, before jumping in recklessly. A couple of rangers went
berserk on the riverbank. They followed us downstream as we paddled along
laughing. Only we’d ended up calling for their help as we neared the bridge and
weir. The dams overflow was too fast and strong to venture down in a little boat.
On scrambling to grab on to reeds and thorny brambles, we fell in, popped the
boat, and then clambered onto the bank leaving the half-deflated dinghy to
course the Shockers alone. The rangers rebuked us as they aided us up the steep
bank. Of course, being the age we were, we just ran off laughing.

‘Are you having an episode?’ Thom’s goading tone
broke me from my reverie. ‘Do you need a doctor or something stronger perhaps?’

‘I ne–ne–need to get home and ta-take a hot
shower.’

‘Sorry, could you repeat that?’ He smirked,
leaning an ear towards me. ‘You need to dry off first! You’re ringing wet–’

‘How observant you are!’ I forced out my words to
cut him off. ‘Perhaps you have a t–t–towel handy?’

‘Hmm, let me check.’ He patted himself down in a
thoroughly sarcastic body search. ‘I do beg your pardon, my lady, but it would
seem I don’t have one of those on me.’

I was so stiffened with cold I daren’t cross my
arms. Thom began walking in the direction of the Sunken Garden. There he picked
up my coat and shoes from the grass and made his way to me. I held out my hand
for them but he walked behind me and put my coat over my shoulders. His face
had now settled into a gentle smile.

‘Unless you want to develop pneumonia, Cassandra, I
suggest you follow my lead.’

‘Where to?’

‘To that there nut house!’ He pointed. ‘Within
those elevated walls, residing in a dark attic space is a dark cupboard,
containing towels, warm and fluffy.’

With that, he paced away, confident that I would
follow like an obedient dog. Stubborn as I was, and annoyed as I felt to
comply, I’d begun to shiver uncontrollably. Drips of icy water trickled from my
hair to settle on my nape. My clothes clung to me like a wet shower curtain. He
was taking me to where he lived. I gave in suddenly, and with stiffened arms
trailed along after him, accompanied with the feeling of nervous curiosity.

Twelve

‘The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at
best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other
begins?’

– Edgar Allan Poe,
The
Premature Burial

Was it me, or was Thom
surprisingly almost dry by the time we reached the house? He didn’t shiver at
all. In fact, he hardly looked any different from usual, whereas I was drawing
a fair amount of attention from people we passed.

He opened the stunted black door, which faced the
river and sat to one side of the alley. Inside he went, inclining his head to
duck the lintel – an action not necessary for me to copy. I’d never been in here
before. It led straight into a narrow stairwell that was dreadfully dark. He
didn’t flick a light switch, though I anticipated he would as I closed the door
behind me. It went pitch-black and I could hear the echo of his footsteps
climbing the stairs.

‘Thom?’ I called out, my voice echoing in the
shaft. ‘Isn’t there a light? I can’t see a thing!’

I heard his footfalls returning down the stairs, a
little more hurriedly than when they went up – then nothing for a few seconds.
All I could hear was the sound of my own breathing, accompanied with the
chattering of my teeth. I assumed he was groping for the light switch. I had a
feeling however that he was just motionless, perhaps even that he stared at me.
Suddenly the room lit up with a yellow glow that made my eyes squint. His did
not; his pupils remained dilated as ever. He stood right in front of me with
his arm outstretched centimetres from my head, above my shoulder, and his hand
on the light switch behind me.

He gazed down at me. ‘Better?’

I nodded.

He didn’t move for a moment. His eyes remained fixed
on mine as though something strange had caught his attention. Almost certainly
the wet strands of hair falling into my face. He looked from my eyes to my
mouth and inclined his head a little towards me. I felt confusion with a racing
in my chest. Then he bit his lower lip, took his arm away and turned abruptly for
the stairs.

The light illuminated the dusty brickwork. Down
one side of the staircase was a doorway, probably that which connected to his
office.

‘I suppose you’re so used to climbing these’ – I
puffed on trying to keep up – ‘you hardly need a light?’

He didn’t answer, though I heard him snigger while
taking the steps two-at-a-time. These I guessed were the backstairs for which
the servants would have used in its heyday. Uncomfortable is an understatement
to describe what I felt climbing them in wet trousers. Each time I bent my
knees the cold saturated fabric restricted my movement and sent shivers through
me. I was a little breathless when we reached the top. He was not. He gave me a
remorseful look as I caught my breath.

I followed him through an open doorway that led
into a narrow corridor deprived of any natural light. I could make out the
eaves at one end, but to where the corridor ran I couldn’t tell. Only remnants
of light from the stairwell lit the jaggedness of the brickwork. It was warm up
here, just as you’d expect from an attic. A blatant contrast of smells greeted
me: a strong mustiness of brick and wood in a space deficient of fresh air. Thom’s
fiery scent beat this down, despite the fact he’d just been in the river.

He went forward and unlocked a door across from
the stairwell. I had no idea what to expect. I imagined it might be dreary
considering my surroundings now. The scent of him only increased when he opened
the door. So much that I could taste it. It tingled on my tongue, fiery at
first, with a coolness that followed, much like mint.

Daylight filled his apartment and it surprised me just
how cheerful and fresh the atmosphere was. The door opened on to a long open
plan living area with kitchen at one end. The roof inclined along the south and
west sides, only interrupted by dormer windows. Some of these were open with nets
blowing in the cold breeze. Thom went about closing them for me. I could hear
the river flowing down below. How lovely it must be to go to sleep at night
listening to that sound. Piles of books and short shelved cabinets full of more
books filled the recesses between the windows.

‘I always wondered what happened to the Cray’s
library. So many,’ I said, shivering.

‘Books give a room a soul, Alex.’

He closed the last window and watched me examine
his home. Photographs adorned the walls, particularly an open brick one that
ran the length of the room. I couldn’t see one picture that was not of the Cray.
Almost every room of the house was there, and at every angle from outside too:
of the river and gardens in spring, of the meadows covered in snow. Some in
colour, others in black and white. All spectacular. Those on sale in the gift
shop weren’t half as good. I noticed that a far corner table held various
pieces of camera equipment.

‘Did you take all these?’ I pointed to them.

‘I did.’

‘They’re–’ I was almost lost for a commendable
word. ‘They’re extraordinary. You must really love this place, to surround
yourself so completely with images of it at every prospect.’

‘Is it weird?’ he asked straight out, with a
crooked smile.

‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong with someone
taking pride in their talent, and their home,’ I added, seeing the obvious
obsession he had with the Cray.

The prints were professional, exact, and well
placed together. They weren’t just great shots. They perfectly expressed
feelings, too. Creation, passion, even loneliness featured strongly. One beautiful
scene was of a bedewed spider’s web at sunrise with the rockery and pond in the
background. I noticed that not one picture held any hint of fog, which was so
commonly present at the Cray.

‘Do you do anything with them, other than hang
them on the wall or upload them to Twitbook?’ I laughed.

He laughed back before shaking his head.

‘You should. They’re great.’

Nearer the open brick wall sat a burgundy leather
armchair with an open book on its seat. Under one of the south facing dormers
was a matching sofa. I noticed how tidy the place was. At the other end of the
room were doors, which I presumed led to a bathroom and bedroom.

He moved the armchair revealing a gas fire in a
brick hearth. Then pointing out his bathroom, he told me to use whatever I
wanted. I made my way in there, eager to rinse the river taste from my mouth
and wash myself. I switched on the light to find a windowless room, decorated in
old-fashioned wallpaper from floor to ceiling. I scanned his empty bathroom
thinking he must use another since this one looked like a showroom suite from
the seventies. Not one bar of soap on the avocado basin, nor toothbrush, not
even a hand towel on the vacant rail.

‘Don’t you have any towels?’ I called out to him.

‘Is there a cupboard in there?’ I heard him say
from the next room, without any strain in his voice to reach my ears.

It had been difficult to see where it was papered
over, camouflaging it with the wall. His voice rose an octave and in a singsong
he went on –

‘Initiative is a helping hand that can be found at
the end of your arm.’

I didn’t acknowledge this while going through his
cupboard. Stocked like the shelves of a shop, it contained toiletries still in
their plastic wrappers, such as soaps, gels, toothpastes, tissues – and a pile
of neatly folded towels filling the top two shelves. I grabbed one, some
shampoo and a bar of soap. On the wall above the sink, a large square marked
out where perhaps a mirror had been. There was no telling what I looked like,
but I could imagine. I jumped straight into the shower fully dressed – what did
it matter? At least I could rinse out some muck from my clothes before
stripping.

I could have stayed under the hot running water
for hours, but I had to get a move on. Grabbing the towel, I got out finding
that the one I’d taken from the cupboard was too small. I searched it again to
find nothing larger. I couldn’t appear before Thom in just this. I would have
to put my wet clothes back on to dry off in front of the fire. I wrung out my
trousers and sweater in the bathtub, then cringed as I stretched the wet fabric
back over myself. I wrapped my hair up in the towel and christened the sink
with the lathered bar of soap.

Thom wasn’t in the living area when I returned, so
I went and stood in front of the fire. I shuddered as the wonderful heat reached
my icy skin. A ghost of steam drew off my wet clothes and floated away from me as
if my soul was leaving my body. I turned to warm my back and taking down my
hair dabbed it with the towel. Out the window opposite, I had a fantastic view
over the western grounds of the Cray. Thom entered from the other door in a
change of clothes, holding another shirt in his hand. His hair was dry and he
looked a little flushed in the cheeks. I realised I was standing there soaked
through and freezing; I quickly folded my arms, mortified!

I’d never seen him with any colour to his pale
complexion. I recalled Stacey once asking me if I found him attractive. I
certainly did, more so than I knew before, despite the fact he wasn’t
especially good-looking. I felt this overwhelming desire to go right up to him
and study his face, touch him even, before feeling a little embarrassment for
the thought. He smirked as if he could hear my heart rhythm accelerating.
Confidently he approached and handed me his shirt.

‘Go and change into this,’ he commanded. ‘Your
jersey will never dry like that.’

‘Thanks. I couldn’t just borrow a bathrobe?’

‘You could, but I don’t own one.’

‘What kind of person doesn’t have a bathrobe?’

He pointed to himself. ‘Now take this. It’s the
best I can do. My jeans will never fit you.’

‘I’m only too glad,’ I replied, taking his shirt
bashfully and making my way back to the bathroom. It drowned me, but was warm
and dry. I tied a knot in it at my waist to allow my own trousers to dry off. Now
enveloped in his spicy scent I felt some desire to stay longer, though I knew I
needed to get going soon. He was waiting for me when I returned to stand before
the fire again.

‘What do you think?’ I said, exaggerating a pose
to fend off my own diffidence.

‘Very nice.’ His eyes went to the floor. ‘I don’t
have much else to offer,’ he said unembarrassed. ‘But if you’d like a cup of
tea or something I can fetch one from downstairs?’

‘Thanks, but I’m okay. I drank water from the
tap.’

‘I’m sure that was delicious. I suppose one
woman’s poison is another’s champagne.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far, but it beats a drink from
the river. I really better get going. Mrs Evans won’t be too pleased with me as
it is.’

‘She’s hardly any reason to be displeased with
you!’ he exclaimed. ‘Just warm yourself. I’m sure she’s happy enough with
whatever narrative your friend gives. What you did was brave. Ultimately they
cannot condemn you for diving – if it can be called that – into a river to save
a boy’s life!’

I felt horrible now for having shouted at him. Grateful
too that he was going out of his way for me. Despite my stubbornness to admit
fault, my conscience wouldn’t let it go unsaid, even if it came out in a
roundabout way.

‘Thank you,’ I said steadily, ‘for the shirt, and
for bringing me here to dry off. You didn’t have to do that, especially after I
had a go at you. I’m trying to say sorry for it.’

‘Did I scare you?’ he asked solemnly.

‘I was scared.’

‘Did you think that that was it? That you were
going to perish in the water?’

‘It crossed my mind.’

He looked glum like it had crossed his too. An
anxious look came over him while he stood very still by the window. It reminded
me of how he’d looked earlier, outside.

‘Who were you looking for at the river?’ I asked.
‘Right after you tried to drown me. You looked like you were expecting
someone.’

He scoffed, and in such a way, I knew I’d provoked
him and should now expect a ribbing.

‘I was searching for a scoundrel, as regular as
Birth!’ He forced back a smile in his usual way, maintaining that half-serious,
half-jesting style. ‘But
He Who Rides the Pale Horse
didn’t show, that
odious Grim Reaper! I felt– I
thought
you might be a goner, even as you
sat on the bank dripping like a mermaid. Now I think you must have had a
near-end experience in your life already, one where you laughed in the face of Death.
How that scythed end-bringer was no doubt reduced to a vegetative state by your
mental assaults, and gave up on taking you. Now of course when Death looks back
on
its
to-do list and your name crops up,
it
has a revelation to
let you live forever!’

He moved towards the armchair as he said this,
picking up the book and placing it to one side, he sat down. There was no point
harassing him for a straight answer. I knew well enough he wouldn’t give it,
and would only evade it further by giving me more of his talk.

It soon entered my mind that Thom was just teasing
me, and in reality had seen something odd, which distracted him. I recalled, of
course, the mud-eyed stranger, whom I had thought at the time may have been
lurking nearby.

Thom was meanwhile unpacking shoe polish and
brushes from a box to one side of the chair. Taking a pair of his large black
shoes, he began buffing them vigorously over some newspaper.

‘What are you reading?’ I asked, eyeing the book
on the armrest.

‘The Road Less Travelled.’

‘Never heard of it. What’s it about?’

‘Read it and see for yourself.’ He picked up the
book and put it on the arm of the chair nearest me. ‘I don’t want to scare you
off with a synopsis but I should probably warn you, it’s written by a
psychiatrist. Ha! But this is like handing a lollypop to a diabetic. I wonder
if you can swallow what it says without injuring yourself.’ He smiled. ‘The
good doctor had some very interesting philosophies, stories to tell, and lessons
to incite. You might get something out of it.’