Halton Cray (Shadows of the World Book 1) (12 page)

I could have commented on why he was reading it. I
didn’t. Anything I said here would become his ammunition. I told him I’d give
it a shot with pleasure.

He continued polishing his shoes, looking disappointed
that he hadn’t managed to bait me with the remark.

‘Whose son is your stepbrother?’ he asked unexpectedly.

‘My mum’s husbands.’

‘And where are they?’

‘Not far. They live in Blackheath.’

‘And your father?’

‘He died when I was little.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said empathically, his eyes
hunting mine.

‘I don’t remember much about him,’ I confessed. ‘He
wasn’t home much, always on the road. Definitely not the most devoted of dads.’

‘How did he die, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘In a car accident. He fell asleep at the wheel.’
I said nothing more and from this he deduced that I didn’t want to go into
detail.

‘My father also died when I was… young,’ he said
dolefully, that last word sinking to a murmur. ‘Indescribable isn’t it’ – his
tone picked up as he began buffing his shoes again – ‘the way you believe that
people you love, those that are always around you, can go on forever? Then
suddenly they’re gone, and you never expected to have to live without them.
That is what we truly mourn, living without them.’ He stared at me with some
intensity.

‘You must miss him very much.’ I broke his gaze.

‘He was everything to me.’ He looked past me. ‘Not
a day goes by that I don’t think of him and miss him.’ He fell silent and after
a while he smiled as if he’d had a nice memory. I couldn’t help but feel
envious, the kind where you really don’t know what you’re missing.

‘And you’ve a sister?’ he continued.

‘Yes. Holly lives in Scotland. She’s older than me.
So is Adrian.’

‘Then, you’re the baby. The spoilt one.’

I shot him a look, with a smirk. ‘You would say
that. So what about you? Where are your family?’

‘Ireland,’ he answered quickly and said no more.

‘Oh.’ (I’d detected no accent.) ‘Do you visit
them?’

‘Occasionally. When I can.’

‘Do they come here?’

‘That would be difficult.’

‘How long have you been over here?’

‘Years.’

‘How come you came here to work?’

‘I needed a… change,’ he said slowly and
seriously.

‘Would you ever go back?’

‘I doubt it. This is my home. I have everything I
want right here.’ He paused and placed the brushes back in the box. ‘And it
suits me.’

His shoes now coated in a new sheen of black, he
put the box and newspaper away. Since he was answering me more relaxed than
usual, I wanted to see what else I could learn about him.

‘You’re pretty good with your hands; is that a
family trait?’

‘Define “Pretty good with your hands.”’

‘I mean I’ve seen you handle things, objects, in a
way that seems gifted.’

He got up and walked boldly over to me, so that
now I was looking up at him instead of down.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that in
conjunction with your mental instability, Cassandra, you also suffer from
hallucinations. I don’t suppose there’s any need to ask this, since it seems
clear to me already, but do you like illusions, magic tricks, that sort of
thing?’

‘Sure,’ I answered loosely, as found was best with
him. I’d gotten used to his traps and remarks. He remained in front of me to discover
more on what I actually liked.

‘I admit I’m not keen on card tricks.’ I smiled.
‘I think it’s overexerted. It’s tedious to me. I’m not denying the act per se
is clever. It just stops being impressive when the world and his wife are
performing it. There’s only so many times you can be entertained watching
someone guess which card a person is thinking of, no matter how many details change
in the turn.’

He laughed silently at my opinion and went to a
writing desk on the other side of the room, saying confidently –

‘In that case I’ve just the thing.’

He wrote something down on a piece of paper. Coming
back to me half-smiling, he folded the paper up and handed it over.

‘Read it.’

‘It says, “A true magician never reveals his
secrets!”’

‘And that is the truth.’ He beamed. ‘Now, fold it
back up and put it in your trouser pocket.’

I did, finding my pocket almost dry. He came
closer and reached his hand behind my head, as if to pull something from behind
my ear. His fingers gently brushed against my hairline and I felt a surge of
tingles ripple across my skin. I expected him to place his hand on my neck; I believe
I wanted him to, but he didn’t. Instead, bringing his hand round in a fist, he
opened it up with the folded piece of paper in his palm.

He handed it to me. ‘Is it the same?’

I unfolded it and examined the writing. It was the
very same. I quickly checked my pocket to find it empty.

‘That’s impressive, I grant you.’ My mind was
working away to figure out how he could’ve done it. ‘So how did you do it?’

‘Ah! You didn’t quite grasp what the paper says. Perhaps
I should go a step further to help you absorb it. Besides,
that
was no
prestige. Put it back in your pocket. – Well, go on! This time I just want you
to take it back out and look at it again.’

I did, unfolding it. Beyond any doubt the words
were in my own handwriting and not Thom’s I’d seen before.

‘That’s impossible!’ I looked at him.

He wouldn’t budge at any attempt I made to learn
how he’d done it. The only logical answer I could come up with was that two
pieces of paper existed to begin with, and he was capable of mimicking my hand.

He merely smiled, commenting, ‘I don’t like card
tricks either.’

I was very impressed.

It soon occurred to me that my bag was in the
staffroom and I would have to go downstairs to get it. My car keys were inside.
I was a little anxious at my appearance to walk about the house, and it showed
when I told Thom I needed to collect my things. To this he exclaimed –

‘You don’t give a damn what they think, even on
seeing you in my shirt?’

‘I don’t. I’d just rather not be asked a lot of
questions. You of all people should understand that, Thom; you’re always
evading answering questions.’

‘Am I?’

‘I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. I’d just
prefer not to be put on the spot, especially by Stacey or Mrs Evans.’

‘I’m sure you’d have no difficulty outwitting
them, Alex. Neither one of them is the sharpest nail in the coffin. Both are
about as deep as an ashtray. In fact, I’m convinced Mrs Evans
is
an ashtray
half the time. Good grief! There’s more soul in the glow from the light bulbs
than in either one of their faces. They’re well suited and beyond help, the
pair of them,’ he said with conviction. ‘Perhaps you were good friends with
Stacey once, but you’ve since grown apart. You’ve both matured – I’m giving one
of you the benefit of the doubt – at different rates and in opposite
directions. You’re waiting perhaps for the communication to simply die away,
where then any future accidental meeting can be passed briefly and in nothing
more than civility.’

There was sense in what he said, but I wasn’t
about to renounce her as a friend. I told him that.

‘You’re confusing
friend
with
acquaintance,’ he replied, taking a different book from one of his healthily
stocked shelves, and carrying it to his chair to examine it. ‘She is no more
your friend than Mrs Evans is mine. You know her, are civil towards her, and
happy to keep her as a contact, which would all amount to no more than an
acquaintance.
That
is the difference! Because you trust friends, Alex,
and can confide in friends.’

‘But I do care about her.’

‘Of course you do! You also care about stray dogs.’
His eyes fixed to the introductory pages of the book in his hands.

‘Stacey’s just a bit dizzy, and easily influenced.
That’s all.’

‘I wish I could agree with you, I truly do. But I
have no desire to be wrong.’

‘I know she has good intentions.’

‘And the road to Hell is paved with those!’ He
slammed the book shut, following this with a muttering: ‘I should know.’

‘How’s that?’

He looked surprised I’d heard him.

‘Obviously, because I’ve done things I never
intended to do.’

‘What kind of things?’

‘Terrible things!’ He gazed at me, before breaking
into laughter.

‘Well I disagree. I think intentions count for
more than what they’re given credit. Nobody’s perfect. We all make errors. I
think the difference lies in whether we’re bothered enough to acknowledge
them.’

‘Well that’s a nice thought, Alex; I admire you
for it. If only it was that simple.’

While he talked I was feeling my hair. It was half
dry and resembled straw. My trousers felt dry enough, so I told him I needed to
go.

‘Well, wait there.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll fetch your
things.’

He added that he’d be quick, but he returned with
my coat and bag in what felt like no more than a minute.

‘I’ll bring your shirt back with me later.’ I
picked up the book too, thanking him again.

He walked me to the bottom of the stairwell, but
turned and stood in front of the small black door. ‘You’re definitely coming
back today?’ he asked, putting his hands behind his back and leaning against
them.

‘I plan to.’

He nodded slowly and stared at me. Those eyes,
fringed with deep black lashes, penetrated mine.

‘I have to go out for a little while,’ he said. ‘I
won’t see you until your next shift.’

‘Oh. Well, I hope you have a nice evening, Thom.’
I smiled nervously.

‘You too, Alex.’

He remained there as like any fixture on the door.

‘So,’ I said, moving towards him.

‘So?’

‘Well, I should get going, if I plan to return.’

‘Yes.’ He puckered his brow, and shook his head as
if to wake up.  Then moved aside to open the door.

I virtually forced myself through it, almost
regretting my feigned willingness to leave. New tones were present in his
voice. I caught some glint in the faintly perceptible whites of his eyes. It
was strange to feel that being there with him had somehow compensated for the
downside of today.

I left and was back within an hour and a half –
probably a record for me. There didn’t seem much point in going back, but I
didn’t want to show unwilling.

‘Our heroine returns!’ yapped Mrs Evans when I
approached her in the shop. She eyed me suspiciously. ‘Stacey told me what
happened. I didn’t expect you back today, or at all from what I heard. But you
look well enough, and I can see you’ve still got all your fingers. There are
some big pike in that river. It’s very dangerous and stupid to go jumping in
there.’

She shook her head at me having disregarded why I went
jumping in there, before continuing her lecture.

‘Now, it isn’t my place to say who you should or
shouldn’t be friends with. But I think, as your manager, I really must.’ She
took a breath and found it difficult to keep eye contact with me. ‘I’ve noticed
you’ve become friendly with Thomas. I’m not going to say any more about that,
that’s your problem, if you like taking risks. But going up to his apartment!’

‘I went to dry off, Mrs Evans!’ I was somewhat
distressed at what she might be implying.

‘But you could have used the hand dryer in the
lavatories!’ She frowned. ‘Well, it’s done now. Like I say, it’s up to you who you
keep company with. Here –’ she said, pushing forward a notepad. ‘I’ve had to
enter today’s events in the
accident book
, so we have a record of it. I
just need you to sign it to say you agree with what’s been written in there,
such as you aren’t injured, et cetera.’

I took the book, which had a fierce odour of tobacco.
I looked over what she’d written convinced I’d find some awful narrative about
Thom. Surprisingly, it was fairly accurate, concise, and dispassionate. It read:

Small
child, boy, of own accord fell into river. Pulled from it alive and well by two
staff members: Thomas Rues and Alexandra Turner. Mother of boy took child home
without complaint or need for medical intervention. Staff OK.

I signed the thing and handed it back just as
Stacey entered the shop.

‘Do you want to do something later when we finish
here, Alex?’ she asked, desperately and excitedly at once. ‘We could have
dinner at The Jacobus? Oh, go on!’

I knew this was only to obtain from me what she
would call
the details
. I was glad I didn’t have to lie to get out of
it.

‘Sorry, I can’t,’ I said, forging some regret in
my tone. ‘I’ve got plans already. Another time though.’

I caught the sly look she gave Mrs Evans. Yes, I
knew what they were thinking. That I was meeting Thom for some secret
rendezvous. I had though already arranged to go to Beth’s straight from the
Cray. I wasn’t going to tell Stacey this because she’d invite herself along and
turn Beth’s lounge into an interrogation room. There’s difference enough between
lying and not volunteering information.

On my way to Beth’s I received a text from Mark.
The strange thing was his message didn’t appear to be for me. It read as if he
was in mid-conversation with someone else and he’d text it to me inadvertently.
The message also made him seem a ‘nice guy’. It was suspicious, possibly the
oldest trick in the book. A sure way to get someone’s attention and act aloof
at the same time. He expected me to reply so he could strike up a conversation.
On the off chance I was right, I didn’t respond.

I told Beth everything that had happened at the
river. Well, everything other than the misunderstanding on the riverbank
between Thom and me, and therefore anything that followed. Being a mother
herself she focussed on the main part of the event, which was the little boy
falling into danger. At least, she focused on that part at first.