Home Before Dark (28 page)

Not everyone is lucky enough to find the path. You have to
learn first to appreciate and accept the irony that lies at the
heart of all progress, which says that in the end there’s no
such thing. He only discovered his life’s true purpose when
the past he’d been encouraged to forget finally caught up
with him.
He understood now that however hard you try to become
another person, you never will. You can shuffle the cards
all you want and believe you have changed the hand you
were dealt; you can adapt to changing circumstances and
imagine that you’ve grown emotionally, morally, spiritually.
You can chase after wealth and happiness, follow gospels
of self-improvement and rebirth, you can wrap your faith
in a flag – but you’ll be deceiving yourself. You will remain
who you are and always were from cradle to the grave.
The only goal is becoming that individual. You know what I think? I think the need to seek revenge was
always there, always part of you . . . you just couldn’t admit it,
not while you were someone else.
Until two years ago he had another life – a low-key, reasonably
successful existence founded on a lie. He was invisible.
Nobody knew his real name, or the true story of his origins.
He had never spoken about what became of him in the
aftermath of his parents’ deaths; how he’d gone in what
seemed like an instant (the break was so complete) from
an idyllic boyhood in the bosom of a loving family to the
guardianship of a cold, childless couple. The way his new
'folks’ handled his arrival in their midst had been to make
a bonfire of the past. He could bring nothing with him from
his old life to the new. No photos of his former home or family, no books or letters, no toys … no reminiscences
allowed. He was forbidden to speak about what happened,
or grieve.
Something died in you that night . . . I know, buddy, I was
there and I heard it all before. Now can we get the hell out of
this mausoleum?
When his grandmother was dying two years ago, he’d
thought about flying over to New York to say goodbye (he
was living in Europe at the time), but in the end couldn’t
see the point. Why rake up memories that he had reassigned
to someone else? He spoke to her on the phone and, after
she passed, leaving him enough money to make a difference,
wrote to Grace Wilkes, who posted on to him some of his
grandmother’s personal effects.They included an unsent letter
in his mother’s hand, which the old lady had kept safe all
those years.
The letter changed his life.
Under the stairs, Ward shone his key-ring light inside the
broom closet where he hid that night. A brush and pan, a
pile of old Life magazines, some gap-stringed wooden tennis
rackets . . . the blue cone of light threw the dusty objects into
relief in turn. He placed the lead sash-weight just inside the
closet, leaving the door ajar.
The letter was a wake-up call. It gave him a new sense of
direction, showed him the way back to his long-lost self. It
called him home.
Crossing the hall, Ward entered what used to be the lounge.
The old cabinet TV in the corner was gone, but the two
armchairs hadn’t been moved. He stripped off a dust sheet
and sat in the one nearest the door, running his hand down
behind the seat cushions, searching for the remote. There
was nothing there.
Hey, guess what I found out.
The schwartze mentioned a disco, Scarlett’s, right? Well,
according to the Westhampton Beach Chamber of Commerce,
Scarlett’s stopped trading way back in the 80s? I mean, really,
how funny is that?
He removed his cell phone from the breast pocket of his
shirt and used it to mime pointing a remote control at an
imaginary screen, then turned his head sharply to his left,
looking at where the playhouse had stood, under the
window.
He called Grace back.

I caught a glimpse of Laura watching from the front porch
as the car turned left out of Campden Hill Place and slipped
into the westbound traffic on Holland Park Avenue, heading
towards Shepherd’s Bush. Michael said, over his shoulder,
'Marloes Road looks like our best bet.’ He glanced up at the
rearview mirror.
'Okay with you, Mr Lister?’ Trying to catch my eye.
He pulled into the turning lane and slowed down. I removed
my earphones and keyed my brother-in-law’s number on my
mobile.
'Mr Lister?’ When I didn’t respond, he threw the heavy

Mercedes into a U-turn.
Will, who was expecting my call, answered on the first
ring. 'Where are you?’
'On my way to the airport.’
'You sure this is wise?’
'You know why I’m going. I told you, Campbell has found
the house the drawings and website are based on – Ward’s
old family home in Connecticut.’
'That’s not what I’m talking about.’
When he first heard about the synaesthesia connection,
Will was sceptical of being able to identify a psychopath
though a little-understood neurological condition. But he had
to give Campbell credit for the fact that in a week we’d gone
from 'he could be anyone, anywhere on the planet’ to a name,
a location, soon perhaps a face.
'You’re right, there is something else.’ I took a deep breath.
'I’m concerned about the girl. I think she could be at risk.
Because of me.’ I didn’t elaborate. I didn’t feel like going into
it with him.
'All the more reason, I’d have thought, for leaving her well

alone.’
There was a silence. I imagined Dr Calloway sitting back
in his office chair, hands clasped behind his head, studying
the ceiling.
'Okay, I know how this must sound to you.’
I’d already admitted to him that my feelings for Jelena had
evolved.
'You say you’re “in love” with someone you’ve never met,
never laid eyes on? It sounds exactly like what it is, I’m afraid – an imaginary experience.’

'Maybe so, but it feels . . . like we’ve always known each
other. We know each other’s thoughts. I only have to think
about her, Will, and . . .’
'Ed,’ he cut me off, 'the sensation of being inside someone
else’s head is one of the commonest illusions in online relationships.
The internet has given “soulmates” a new dimension
that’s entirely consistent with the nebulousness of the
concept.’
I gave a rocky laugh.
'Does she feel the same way about you?’
'She won’t admit it, but . . . yes, I believe she does.’
'It’s easy to be misled by the strength of one’s own feelings,’
he said quietly. I could tell that my answer worried him. 'The
less you know about the other – the person you project your
idealised desires onto – the deeper the infatuation. Say you
find Island Girl, the danger is you won’t be able to see that
you’ve nothing in common.’ He hesitated. 'Or know when to
take no for an answer.’
It was a gentle warning and the closest Will came to suggesting
that my love for Jelly might be obsessive, verging on the
pathological. I realised then that I didn’t really want or need
his advice.
Neither of us spoke for a while. Then he said in a different
tone, 'You know what I think? I think this has got very little
to do with the girl – it’s about losing Sophie. You’re still
grieving for her, Ed. Go home to your wife and family and
try to work things out. They are the only ones who can
help you. They need your help as much as you need theirs.’
I felt a pang of guilt that would stay with me after I hung
up; but it didn’t change anything. I’d already made up my
mind and I had complete certainty that it was the right, the
only possible decision.
'I need to find her, Will,’ I said grimly, 'before he does.’

47

Campbell Armour ignored the call-waiting signal.
Sitting with his laptop between his knees on the floor of
his room at the Mountain View, he dragged the cursor through
the gate and up onto the porch of the virtual mansion and
clicked on the front door.
Still nothing. He tried again. He was on auto-pilot, repeating the procedure every half-minute or so while he talked to his
daughter on the phone and watched live coverage of the
second day at Wimbledon.
His visit to the real Skylands had left him feeling badly
shaken. He’d been expected up at the old house and, when
he thought about the hiking boots behind the front door they
could only have been Ward’s – and how close he’d come
to attempting to break in, it made him sick to his stomach.
The strange part was that he even felt uneasy now about
trying to access the homebeforedark website, as if he knew he
was expected here too at the virtual house.
'Hold on, honey,’ he said.
The ding-dong door-chime had startled him, drawing his
attention away from the centre-court action. He saw the front
door swing open.
'Yessss!’ Campbell punched the air, as if he’d hit a winner.
Pointing the remote at the TV, he pressed the mute button,
and said to Amy, 'Daddy has to go now, darlin’. Love you.
Tell Mommy I love her too, and I’ll talk to you both later.
See ya tomorrow.’
He flipped his cell shut and, stuffing a handful of Doritos
into his mouth, for the first time entered the virtual
Skylands.
The photos he’d taken earlier had established that the house
on his screen was an exact scaled replica of Ernest Seaton’s
childhood home. The graphics were not just impressive, they
were uncanny: confirming what Campbell had read about
the synaesthete’s gift for memorising spatial information. As
he crossed the threshold, activating the 'footsteps’ sound
effect Ed had told him about, the door closed behind him
and he found himself walking down the gloomy hall that he
had peered into that morning through the cat-flap. No dust
here though, or hiking boots. The interior of Skylands was
spotless. As it must once have been.
Not knowing how much time he had, Campbell dragged
the cursor swiftly towards the back of the hall, his footsteps
quickening as he did so, and positioned himself at the
bottom of the staircase. The 3-D image swivelled around
to meet him and there, straight ahead, rose the first flight
of stairs.
The program would only permit him to climb slowly, step at a time, until he reached the first half-landing. Then, as he
turned and continued upwards, the perspective changed and
his impression of the rising stair in front of him was replaced
by an overhead view, as if his eye had soared to the chandelier
hanging from the ceiling, and he was looking down on himself
from above.
There was something about the scene that was both familiar
and menacing, yet he couldn’t quite place it. He could hear
music now – the soft tinkle of a piano drifting from another
part of the house – as he climbed the second flight to a
galleried landing with four doors evenly spaced around the
central well.
He moved the cursor along the landing and paused outside
the door nearest to the stairhead. Reaching for the bag of
corn chips, he glanced over the top of his screen, watched
Federer serve another ace; then, smiling at himself for feeling
even mild apprehension, clicked on the handle.
The door swung back to reveal what could only have been
Ernest Seaton’s bedroom. As he took in the virtual contents
of the narrow room – the Yankees All-Stars poster over the
bed, baseball mitt on the foot-locker under the window, stacks
of Marvel comics, a first generation Star Wars light-sabre
propped in a corner, toy soldiers and cars, all neatly arranged – Campbell realised this was more than he could have hoped
to find inside the real Skylands. But apart from the austere
tidiness (another synaesthetic trait) there was nothing unusual
or revealing here – it was typical of any nine-year-old boy’s
room from a quarter-century ago.
The detective walked on around the landing, his footsteps
softened by a rug now, but here and there causing a floorboard
to creak. The second and third doors were locked. He was
about to try the handle of the fourth, when a light snapped
on inside the room and gleamed under the sill and around
the edges of the door-frame.
Campbell cracked his knuckles. He had a feeling he was
about to find out why Ward had finally decided to admit him
to the house. As he watched, intently now, a shadow darkened
the strip of light under the door. It was as though someone
had stepped up close to it on the other side.
He was waiting for the door to open, when his cell phone
rang.
'I’m in the departure lounge at Heathrow.’
'Can I call you right back?’
'This won’t take long. I’d like to meet up Thursday afternoon.’
'No
problem, I should be through here by then.’
'I have to go out to my wife’s grandmother’s place on the
Hudson for lunch, but with any luck I’ll be back by two . . .’
'Ed, I’m kinda tied up right now.’
'Okay, I’ll e-mail you the details. I take it you’re still in
Norfolk.’
'Yeah. Haven’t been lynched yet. It’s the house all right.’
'You’re doing a really great job, Campbell.’
'Big old place, all shut up, hasn’t been lived in for years.
Any chance of an advance on the bonus? Just kidding.’ He
thought of mentioning his possible encounter with Ward at
Skylands, but decided against it. Still watching the screen,
Campbell asked his client. 'By the way, the Seatons look at
all familiar to you?’
'No. Why would they? I thought I said that in my e-mail.’
He sounded a little defensive. 'We’re still trying to find a
connection, Ed.’
There was a pause. He could be lying, but what for? 'Did
you talk to the housekeeper yet?’ Ed asked.
'Holy . . . shit.’ Campbell froze, staring at the screen.
The fourth door was slowly being inched open. 'Hold on.’
'Is everything all right?’
The door opened all the way and out of the blaze of light
something emerged crawling on all fours. It lifted its head
and he thought for an instant it was a burning child, then
with startling speed the fiery icon scuttled across the hall
and, before he could be certain what exactly he’d seen, dived
into the boy’s room.
Campbell jogged his cursor and from nowhere the thin
black figure of 'Mrs Danvers’ appeared. He watched her
go forward and close the door to what he guessed was the
master bedroom, turn and come gliding past him along the
landing.
Campbell laughed. 'You caught me at a good moment,
that’s all.’
As a piece of theatre it was an anti-climax, perhaps intentionally
so, but as he watched, still absorbed, the hatchet-faced
avatar smoothly descended the stairs. At the half-landing she
stopped, looked back up and beckoned him to follow.
'Ed, I gotta go.’
'Just be careful.’