Halton Cray (Shadows of the World Book 1) (15 page)

‘Fine.
Sir
, it is. How often?’

‘Hmm’ – he drummed his fingers on his clean-shaven
chin – ‘at least once in every passing greeting, and twice every time we speak
or are in each other’s company for more than a few minutes. All that for the
duration of say two months from the moment I win this bet.’

I shook my head. ‘Two weeks.’

‘Two weeks? That equals only six days you’re here.
Your terms are that I quit something I’m particularly fond of forever!’

I folded my arms. I wasn’t calling anyone sir for
two months!

‘One month then,’ he determined. ‘I cut my span in
half, Alex, and doubled yours. It seems too much in your favour still.’

‘Okay. Done.’

He stepped forward and stared down at me. His
bewitching eyes fixed on mine. His hand sought my hand and he clasped it in a
handshake for the occasion.

‘It’s a deal then.’ His voice altered. It was lower.
Energetic. He pulled me nearer. ‘It’s a deal then, my feisty little maniac.
No–’ He put his fingers to my lips, still holding my hand in his other. ‘I’m
not sorry for that, Cassandra. I may not have long now to call you so. I must
be allowed a last few endearments.’

‘Is that what you call them?’ I asked nervously.

He was smiling because he knew that that’s how he
meant them, and really, it is how I took them.

‘If they’re endearments, Thom, I’m glad you’re not
cross with me.’

‘They are endearments only where there is
endearment. You may want to get attached to them, Alex.’

‘How many guesses do I get?’

‘An endless supply, but only a day to use them.’

‘Sounds reasonable. What if the loser doesn’t
stick to
his
end of the bargain?’

‘Then we’ll go for a suitable forfeit.’ He smiled.
‘Don’t worry too much on that score. You’ll be calling me sir before the week
is out. And I promise you,’ he said raptly, pulling my hand even closer to himself,
for he yet retained it. ‘I promise you, Alex, if it is so, I’ll speak to you
more often in a day than you think possible or even acceptable.’

Was that a threat? I rather hoped it was more of a
promise.

He let go of my hand quite quickly, as if he’d
forgotten it wasn’t his and must return it. I felt a little awkward standing in
front of him, waiting for this entertainment to begin. I retook my seat.

‘I’m going to put this lamp on,’ he said, leaning
over the desk to do so, ‘as those lights up there aren’t fit for guessing the
workings of a magician’s mind. I want to give you a fighting chance!’ He winked
at me, wet his lips a little, and then added his dimpled smile to this.
Immediately I thought, he’s trying to distract me – pay attention!

He picked up my bottle of water and unscrewed the
lid. Grabbing my coffee mug from the desk, he checked it was empty.

‘I’m pouring a little into your cup first, just to
show you it’s all above board. That I haven’t swapped the bottle for another.’

After doing this, he literally waved a hand over
the bottle, keeping it at some distance as he began tipping it up over my desk.
I prepared to jump out the way of the oncoming splatter – but the water didn’t
pour out. It just rushed to the neck of the bottle and remained there.

Inclining my head to look under it, I could see
the water surface at cap-level just sitting there, upside-down.

‘You’ve put a piece of plastic in the neck to stop
it?’

‘No, that’s not it, Cassandra,’ he goaded. ‘Use
your pencil there to check, if you like?’

I did, by inserting the pencil into the
upside-down neck of the bottle, pushing it in effortlessly. I swirled it about
in the water, unable to determine how, before pulling it back out to find the
pencil wet. The water still didn’t rush out. I looked round the bottle and up
to him. I had no idea how he’d done it. It seemed impossible. He read my face.

‘Do you want to hold the bottle? Perhaps it will
help you figure it out,’ he encouraged. ‘Or perhaps you’ve seen enough?’

‘I could never see enough of something so amazing.’
I got up to go round and look from his side. I took hold of the bottle,
brushing his fingers as I did so – his eyes widened, just for a second. I
patted the base of the bottle, as you would to shift stubborn tomato sauce. The
water inside rippled to my thuds, but still it didn’t budge.

‘This is an incredible trick, Thom. I’ve lost the
bet for sure.’

‘Now, now,’ he said, taking the bottle back from
me, ‘don’t be like that, my tender little bedlamite. You have a whole day yet
to guess correctly, an endless supply! Use your imagination, and more
importantly, don’t be afraid to.’

He turned the bottle up the right way and
immediately poured some of the water into my coffee cup again.

I had lost, without a doubt.

We chatted for a few minutes more, in which time I
wondered what Mrs Evans had a problem with exactly. It wasn’t just disdain in
her eyes when she looked at him; she had dread there, too. And was she harsher
with me just because I’d become friendly with Thom? I needed to pick somebody’s
brains about it, somebody who was helpful and reliable.

The next time I saw Frances, which was in the shop
while I covered Susan’s break, I asked her straight out –

‘Why doesn’t Mrs Evans like Thom?’

She turned pale and looked uncomfortable to
answer. After a few seconds of biting her lower lip, she gave a little shrug.

‘I don’t like to say anything,’ she murmured,
pushing her glasses further up the bridge of her nose. ‘It’s not my place. I
would only say that I believe there’s good and bad in everyone. Certain people,
or events, can bring out either one in a person. And sometimes people can’t
help what they are. Or what they’ve done.’

Hearing this, I became more fascinated to know
what it was. Convinced that Frances wouldn’t tell me, and considering how
uncomfortable it made her, I would have to work on Thom for the answer.

Susan returned from her break and I went for mine.
Having grabbed Thom’s shirt from the staffroom I approached his office
enthusiastically. His door was ajar and I could hear him on the telephone. It
sounded work related. From here all I could see was a fraction of the wardrobe
that seemed altogether out of place in an office, and a margin of the door that
led to the stairwell. I pushed his door open slightly so I could see Thom. He
was sitting at his desk with his back to me and the phone to his ear. I decided
to wait until his call ended. Presently he took notes. When he wasn’t writing
he was spinning the pen deftly between his fingers and about his hand as I’d
seen him do before with the ball. That was probably what first made me more
interested in him, I reflected.

The pen was long and looked heavy. The motions grew
faster than I’d seen before. It was just as mesmerising the way it glided
fluidly between his fingers, like contact wasn’t there. It swung in serpentine
veers until it dangled for a moment, as if suddenly magnetised. Then the dance
would recommence, looping his wrist, up over his knuckles. The sight of his strong
smooth hand made me keen to feel his touch again – the way he’d held mine, and
pressed his fingers to my lips. I found myself pushing the door open a little
more for a better view. By the change in his posture, he’d sensed I was there.
Without turning his eyes on me, he put the phone down suddenly, along with the
pen, though it didn’t sound like the call had actually finished.

‘I didn’t mean to interrupt,’ I said, as he turned
and got up. I blushed like my nan whenever my mum caught her at the brandy. ‘I
just wanted to return your shirt.’ I handed it to him. ‘Thank you, again, for
lending it to me.’

‘You didn’t interrupt,’ he insisted, placing it on
his desk. ‘And that was my pleasure.’

There followed a silence between us. He was
looking at me and I was looking at the floor.

‘Is there anything else?’

‘No.’ I met his gaze.

‘No more guesses?’

‘Not this second.’

‘There is something else.’ He leant back against
his desk, so that we were eyelevel, and rested his hands either side of himself.
‘Come on.’ He motioned.

I moseyed in. ‘I’d like to see that thing you do
with your pen there,’ I said quickly, trying to disguise the rapidity of my
heartbeat. ‘I’ve seen you do it before and– well, it fascinates me.’

Humour tugged at the corner of his mouth as he walked
my way, and passing me, he closed the door. I took this as a sign he was about
to show me. So I casually plonked myself on his desk.

‘I saw you playing with this.’ I picked up the pen.
It was rather heavy after all. ‘Can you show me?’

He took the pen, his fingers brushing mine ever so
slightly. Excitement rolled down my spine in a tingle, but so fast, it almost
made me shudder, like that notion of someone walking on your grave. I was soon
spiritually somewhere else, as he began spinning the pen in a new motion, quite
slowly, though with the same gracefulness as before.

‘Where did you learn to do that?’ 

‘I taught myself. Do you want to try?’ He caught
the pen still and pointed it at me.

‘I doubt I could even make it spin once.’

With that, he placed the pen on the desk and came
to stand before me. He took my good hand all of sudden in both of his. I
gulped, and to my embarrassment he noticed. His eyes seemed a little boastful.

‘It’s all about practice,’ he said, examining my
fingers. ‘Now, keep your hand bent like this.’ He positioned my hand and cupped
my wrist with his. ‘And keep your thumb out like that. Right, you’ve got one
job here!’ he taunted with wide eyes. ‘All you have to do is keep that
position.’

Taking the pen, he arranged it under my thumb and
spun it over the back of my hand. As the pen moved in the first spin, he turned
my wrist gently one way to guide it and quickly back the other to make it roll
over my palm, and back again, keeping the balance of the pen. It glided
smoothly enough in circular rhythmic movements. It wasn’t as stunning a display
as I’d seen him do alone, but it still looked remarkable. Overall, I didn’t
feel like the one in control. He caught the pen in his other hand and let mine
go.

‘Thom, what is it?’

His head had risen. He stood there motionless,
staring straight ahead towards the wall, abstracted, fixated on the nothingness
in-between. He stood in front of me, but he was not there. I couldn’t say where
he was. His eyes had glazed over, blacker too than ever. It was as if he’d
heard something. Though it might be more accurate to say he had
sensed
something that I had not, and could not. He didn’t stare out the window but I twisted
round to see if anyone stood there. I saw nothing. I turned back and Thom was
now looking at me.

‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ he apologised, pulling
away towards the door. ‘I have to be somewhere.’

He grabbed his coat and raced out. Though he
hurried back and walked right up to me, placing his hands either side of me on
the desk.

‘Stay here, if you like, Alexandra,’ he spoke
softly and stared warmly into my eyes. ‘But I can’t say how long I’ll be.’

He angled his head and brought his face close to
mine, before clenching his jaw and leaving the room.

Fifteen

‘Beware!’ spoke the amorous voice to Psyche in the
darkness. ‘Beware, my beloved! Seek not to discover my true face or shape, lest
thou shalt meet with a very great sorrow. For love cannot dwell where there is
no trust.’

I didn’t wait around. I had
to get back to work, principally before Mrs Evans returned from her
appointment. It was dark out. I sat at the quiet front desk for half an hour
before a cloud of smoke appeared on the pathway. Mrs Evans finished her
cigarette before heading to the shop. I paid her no attention because I was
absorbed in what I was doing – a new sketch, one of Halton Cray, using a
brochure for the basic outline.

A creak on the stairs made me look up. I couldn’t
see anyone there but the wood creaked again. I looked over, but saw nothing. It
was only in the reflection of the window, just on the turning of the staircase,
that I caught sight of a figure. It was waiting there. I became alarmed and
thought of the pregnant-bellied man hanging around in the house again. The figure
moved to climb another step, slowly and deliberately. Once I could no longer
see him in the glass, I got up for a closer inspection.

From the first step, I looked up and confirmed it
was the stranger with the muddy eyes. He was about to mount the next staircase
from the first floor to the second, which was off limits to the public. What
was he after? From my sightline below, I noticed he carried something under his
long coat. It was a long, possibly curved, suspicious looking implement. In
another movement I saw it glimmer. Debating whether to follow him, I decided
against it. The idea of being up there alone with him had shivers coursing my
spine. I heard him now ascending the top staircase. Perhaps I should let Mrs
Evans know so we could go together? Before I turned away, I heard a sudden
thump from the top floor, from the attic. Another great thump followed, louder
this time. A cracking sound accompanied this, of something solid like timber.
It was so loud and deep that I thought the house would shake, or the roof cave
in. Then a smash. I saw out the window a waterfall of glass as it descended into
the main courtyard. It crashed loudly to the flagstones. I heard words spoken
above, one voice so barely I couldn’t be sure it was the American. Then I distinctly
heard Thom’s voice retort in a sentence or two, though I had no idea he’d
returned. I wasn’t sure what he’d said, but it propelled me up the stairs to
see. I’d never been up to the attic on this side of the house before. They were
the oldest, nearly five centuries. Even in my early teens I never dared sneak
up the top flight, which was roped off. It was just too dark and disturbing.

It wasn’t quite as I’d imagined, having seen the
attic at the other end of the house. This was twice as large, of sepia colouring,
and speckled with dust. The stale airless space darkened into blackness not far
ahead of me. Sheet-covered furniture stood within a labyrinth of timber beams. The
lights being off I saw it only by the courtyard lamp, bleeding an orange glow
through the broken window behind me. To my right was a wooden staircase, which
I believe led up within the White Tower. The noises continued; the thumps and
breaking of wood. I saw figures – silhouettes – clamped together in some
scrimmage, hurling furniture about. They were fast. By the looks of it strong.
By the sounds of it irate.

As they fought I beheld something lifted. It
shimmered in the darkness, bouncing off whatever light it caught. It was the
shape of a crescent moon, held aloft, as if in a night sky. It fell fast as
lightning to reap nothing. For a split second the two figures separated and the
larger – with rounded belly – fell onto the floor, creating that deep thump.
The taller figure, of which I presumed to be Thom’s, then dove violently onto
the former. At that moment I heard Mrs Evans bellowing from the ground floor.
Her footsteps sounded up the stairs. Instinctively I ran down to meet her,
perhaps to stop her witnessing as much as I’d seen. I suppose because she had a
bad enough opinion of Thom. I don’t believe she heard what followed from above,
on account of at that moment shouting (to Susan I presumed) ‘Call the police!’ repeatedly.
But I had distinctly heard fierce growling. By the time I met her on the first
floor, the noise from the attic had ceased completely, with the swiftness of turning
off a tap. I noticed powder on the floor where the heavy thumps above had caused
dust to part from the ceiling.

Mrs Evans got to my side. ‘What the hell’s going
on up there? Do you know who it is?’

I shook my head, but she didn’t look at me, just hurried
past bellowing that Susan was calling the police.

‘There’s no need,’ came Thom’s voice from above,
his tone incredibly calm. He stood static at the turning on the stair, against
the window, as if he’d been standing there all along. His posture was that of
guarding something. Mrs Evans stopped still.

‘And what can they do anyway?’ he slammed. ‘It was
kids! Got up into the attic, made a mess. They smashed a window before I chased
them out.’

‘No kids passed me!’ she exclaimed. ‘Did you see
any kids, Alex?’

I felt lost as how to answer. Thom was looking at
me intently. I noticed a little blood on his lip – was he hurt? He stood with
his hands behind his back. Mrs Evans was staring at me, too.

‘Yes, they ran downstairs,’ I lied robotically,
‘just before you came up. I just thought they got scared. They must be gone
now.’

I felt shame. Not just for lying, but also because
I’m sure she could tell. I knew that whatever had gone on up there, it had been
between Thom and the stranger. But what, and why?

Mrs Evans instinctively leaned over the bannister
to look for the kids that never were. In this time I signalled to Thom to wipe
his mouth, so that Mrs Evans didn’t see it – because it was hardly likely a
child could have bloodied him. Thom wiped his lip, looked at his fingers and
back to me awash with dread.

‘But I could still hear banging when I came up!’ she
insisted.

‘Guilty!’ Thom broke in. ‘That was me picking up
fallen furniture.’

She put her hands on her hips. ‘Right, we’ll need
security cameras installed.’

‘Over my dead body,’ Thom declared fiercely, as he
came down a step. ‘If anything there should be a decent guardrail here to
replace this rope.’

‘I’m going to report it anyway, Thomas. The police
can search the house in case any kids are still–’

‘I’ve already checked,’ he interrupted. ‘Anything
more is a waste of time. If you’re going to report it to anyone it should be to
the estate manager – much use even that would do – for insurance purposes.’

‘I’d better assess the damage first.’ She passed
me and mounted the stairs. Thom didn’t move and she hesitated at passing him,
despite there being room.

‘Mrs Evans,’ he attempted a lighter tone, ‘I’m in
no humour to have anyone tell me my job, just as you would likely object to
being reminded of yours. Now, there’s broken glass, upended furniture, and the
lights aren’t working up there. You could get hurt.’

From her face, she seemed to take this as a kind
of threat. Though Thom on saying it produced one of his hands to show he’d cut
himself on something. A deal of thick blood ran across his knuckles and dripped
off his little finger onto the stair runner.

Mrs Evans began believing him.

‘Could it be the same kids I told off for luring
the geese into the courtyard?’ she muttered to me. ‘But that was a while ago!’ She
shook her head and looked back to Thom. I saw that new idea exit her mind and
the original re-establish itself there.

‘I’ve already started cleaning up,’ he said to her,
noticing this change in her expression. ‘So it makes sense that I continue.
They stole nothing and are gone now, but broken glass litters the courtyard.’

Mrs Evans huffed loudly. She took a deep breath
and hurried past Thom, avoiding physical contact as much as possible. Thom
turned and followed her up without a glance at me.

‘Alex!’ she shouted back. ‘Follow me! There must
be a flashlight around here somewhere?’

There wasn’t and Mrs Evans complained ‘She couldn’t
see a thing’ just as she was warned.

I anticipated many of the would-be responses from
Thom, but he was remarkably quiet. He followed her every step to the exact across
the attic floor, as if it was a minefield to which only she knew the layout.

She looked round what she declared to be a dresser,
then an old bathtub, and an overturned wardrobe, before uncovering chairs,
wooden units, and so on, finding nothing to keep her much longer. It was a
graveyard up there. Once she caught a glimpse of the broken window she
announced going down to clear the courtyard.

Thom followed her until she descended the stairs.
He waited at the top for me to follow, but wouldn’t look at me. I didn’t move
for the time being. I was trying to make out the dark space where I’d seen them
fighting. It was useless with no light and I could see nothing there now.

‘Are you badly hurt?’ I whispered.

‘Not in the least,’ he said lugubriously, with his
head bent down.

‘And is
he
badly hurt?’

‘
He
whom?’ he bit, wrinkling his nose.

‘The man you were fighting with!’

He shook his head and descended the stairs quickly
to avoid quarrelling with me, and probably as an indication for me to leave the
attic. I scoped the room once more, and, seeing nothing, left.

It felt like a long while I’d been sitting back at
my desk with these events replaying in my head. Not a sound could I hear from
two floors above. I knew Thom must be up in the attic, doing whatever he needed
to do without anybody’s interference. I knew very well that he could get by in
the dark, or at least, he knew familiar places well enough.

Mrs Evans was back and forth, from kitchen to courtyard,
clearing up, but mainly gossiping with anyone she met along the way. Each time
I heard the story related she’d added a new suspicion or attraction to it. I
knew that in her eyes I was in league with Thom; and I suppose, in a sense, she
was right.

I laid awake most of the night for thinking it all
over. It would be impossible to speak to Thom again without throwing some
questions his way. I needed answers.

On my next shift I sat at the front desk unable to
keep still, undecided on what exactly I would ask him. I didn’t set off to find
him – I didn’t venture near the attic. I just wanted to wander and distract
myself from the mounting questions. It seemed ridiculous to suspect that a
murder or something serious had taken place upstairs, under our very noses. It
was more likely I had invented seeing any fight at all, taking into account I
knew of no motive and it was so dark up there. But I was still going to ask him
of it, if opportunity presented itself.

I walked down the corridor on the eastside of the
courtyard, farthest from the gift shop and Thom’s office. I wandered into the
West Gallery, which was situated in the South East Wing. It was a large oddly
shaped room and very unlike the other galleries. Each of its main four walls
were painted in different shades: white, red, black, and an almost sickly pale green.
It held a mixture of replica and authentic antique weaponry, including a great sword
and a bow, as well as a large pair of weighing scales on the farthest table.
This held imitated old coins, such as crowns and shillings. A beautiful
painting on one wall depicted Cupid resurrecting his mortal wife.

Perhaps it was just by chance that Thom was also
in here, fixing something heavy to the wall. It was a scythe, made of a dark
wood. Its blade more curved than is regularly seen, almost like that of a sickle.
It resembled a crescent moon. I guessed that this was the missing artefact now
miraculously found, just as I guessed I’d seen that blade before. Thom’s dark
grey shirt, I noticed, highlighted the pallor of his skin.

I made no sound upon entering the room, but
without turning to look at me –

‘Would you mind handing me those loose screws on
the table?’

They were within his reach, but I went and picked
them up anyway, passing them to him and saying nothing.

‘I barely heard you enter the room, Cassandra. Are
you shod with velvet, you spy!’ He took the screws from my hand, smiling. It
was clearly his way of making peace with me.

I was about to say, ‘now it’s my turn to ask how
your
hand is?’ yet I could see it clearly from here. It looked healed beyond
recognition. He didn’t look as though he’d been in a fight at all. So instead,
I blurted out, ‘So this was the missing scythe?’

‘So this was the missing scythe,
sir
,’ he
repeated triumphantly.

I had forgotten all about our bet. I wasn’t in the
mood for this now, but no doubt I’d live to regret it if I didn’t get it over
with.

‘Very well,
sir
, that’s what I asked.’

‘The very one.’

He fixed the last screws into the brackets to hold
the thing up.

‘Where was it, in the attic?’ I was sarcastic; the
loss of the bet – no, the forfeit itself gave me nerve to be so.

He made no reply to this, just as I expected. I
now had the greatest opportunity to get as much pleasure from teasing him as
he’d gotten from me over months past. Adopting a casual tone, I went on –

‘How’d it get up there do you think? Oh, by some
ghost of the Cray I presume?’ – I saw the side of his face rise to evince a
smirk as he dismounted the ladder. – ‘Because it couldn’t have been kids could
it, sir? You know, I never saw anyone running out of here.’

‘Then why did you say you did?’

‘I thought you wanted me to.’

‘Why would you think that?’ He turned around but
didn’t make eye contact, keeping his eyes low.