The Eidolon (11 page)

“Alright, then.” The words have left my lips before I have time to consider them.

“Very good. One of my associates will meet you here at 6am tomorrow.”His glacial eyes hold mine as he extends a gloved hand. “This is an exciting opportunity for both of us, Mr Strong. I look forward to our discussion in the morning. Please ensure that this offer remains between us.” I find myself shaking hands with him before he walks away. He’s only taken a few steps before he stops and turns. “And my condolences for Mr Casimir. He was a fine man.”

The chauffeur steps out and holds open the car door, and tips his hat as Amos steps inside. He knew Casimir? The car slips past me and away from the village.

I don’t know how long I stand there, looking along the empty road. Miniature snow tornados spiral around my feet as the wind blows in from the north. I’ve had some publications over the years, and being headhunted for the temporary lecturing post was flattering while it lasted, but a hundred grand? I’m good, but I’m not that good. What’s the catch? Maybe there isn’t one.

The snow falls again in large, fluffy flakes, but it’s some time before I notice the cold seeping into my bones. I walk towards the Stone Circle, but hesitate as my hand rests on the door handle. I need some time to think. I’ll see Cora later
.
Turning away, I walk home.

I
SIT FOR
a long time in front of the fire. The smell of burning logs suffuses the living room, with its low timber ceilings, its white walls hung with my mum’s tapestries and, on either side of the fire, faded but comfortable armchairs. We didn’t speak much over dinner. My mum pushed her food around the plate and I wasn’t hungry.

My mind churns with thoughts that seem to go round and come back to where they started. No more conversations with Casimir. The hollowness in my chest reminds me of that. I could do with one now, more than ever. What would you say, Casimir? Would you go for it? I stare at the flames, hissing and coiling like angry, red snakes.

I thought I was one of those people who didn’t care that much about money. Told myself it didn’t really matter, as long as I had enough to get by. So how come I’m so excited?

It’s a funny thing, money. They don’t look like much, those small rectangles of paper. But they’re more persuasive than religion. Money means choice. A promise of something more. The prospect of prosperity is not something I’d considered before, and now that it’s on the table, I can feel my principles shifting. More travel. More time. New motorbike. Just the idea of more cash is opening doors in my mind that I didn’t even know existed.

The flames are stuttering. I watch them dying. People don’t just walk up to you and offer you thousands of pounds for doing what would normally earn you only a mediocre income.

But is it all about the money? I was singled out. Maybe this project is for the good of the planet, like he said, and I could help with it. I am good at what I do, so why not use it? That depends on what he wants me to do.

My mum comes in from the kitchen with two glasses of whisky and hands one to me, before settling into the armchair opposite. She sighs heavily. “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

I say nothing at first, and she doesn’t push me. I swivel the glass around in my hand; the peaty scent wafts up to my nose. “I’ve had a job offer that might be too good to be true.”

“Then it probably is.”

“The man who came to the door the other day – he came back.”

“And he offered you a job?”

I nod.

“Well, that’s great, isn’t it? In research?”

“I don’t know the details yet. I’ll find out a bit more about it tomorrow, but it’s the kind of offer that’s hard to refuse. I don’t think I’ll get an offer like this again. Not ever.”

She takes a sip of whisky. “Your father was once offered a job that seemed too good to be true.”

This makes me sit up. “Really? What happened?” I say it before I can stop myself. God, I hope she doesn’t cry. The subject of my dad has been taboo for most of my life. I know he was a physicist, I know he worked in Cambridge, I know he loved us both. But beyond that, she got upset whenever I asked. Over the years I learned to stop asking.

This time, she remains composed. “Shortly after his first job, he was offered a prodigious post in a European laboratory along with a very healthy paycheque – it was an incredible break for him. Much more than he could have hoped for, at such an early stage in his career.”

“Did he take it?”

She pauses. “He... didn’t get the chance.”

There’s a knock at the door. I get up and cup my hands to the glass, peering out into the darkness.

“Cora?” I open the door and the night brightens a little. She’s standing on the bottom step. Her hair is wet with snow, her arms wrapped around her in an effort to stay warm. Large white flakes settle on her head and melt. “Come in,” I say and she steps inside. “You look frozen. Are you alright?” Before I can think about it, I put my arms around her to warm her up, but she pulls herself away, gently.
Well done, Romeo. You don’t get to do that anymore, remember?

I show her into the living room. “Have a seat by the fire.”

My mum stands up and kisses Cora on the cheek. “I was just on my way to bed,” she says. “It’s been a long day.” She smiles and leaves the room. Always tactful, my mother.

“Do you want a drink?”

“Alright,” Cora says, and smiles, but I can tell she’s nervous.

I go into the kitchen to get the bottle of whisky and another glass. I want to tell her about Amos, but I think I know what she’ll say. I check my face in the mirror and try to bring the unruly hair into some semblance of order. It doesn’t comply.

“Thanks,” she says, holding the glass while I pour. I sit down in the seat opposite and watch the firelight dance on her cheekbones. Her brow is creased into a frown and she bites her lower lip. I hope this isn’t about Sarah. I don’t need another nightmare tonight.

“So what’s up?”

“That man you spoke with today...”

“Yes?”

“Who is he?”

“He... he runs a science project. He offered me a job. It’s great isn’t it? Just like you said – something would come up.”

“Yeah. But there’s something not right about him.”

I don’t say anything.

“You know how you get a feeling about some people? Like when we wanted to rent the flat on Holloway Street, and then we met the guy who owned it?”

“Yeah, there was something dodgy about him.” There was. My gut feeling had been vindicated when we read in the paper later that he’d been given eighteen months for fraud.

“Exactly. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but you knew there was something wrong.”

“So...”

“Well, I got the same feeling about the man we met today.”

“Oh, I think he’s alright. He’s just a businessman. They’re often a bit up themselves.”

“No, it’s more than that. God, Robert, this is difficult, after everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, I never told you this.” She takes a gulp of whisky and watches the glass turning slowly in her hands. “I can pick up things about people that not everyone can.”

“You’re just empathic. That’s a good thing.”

“No, Robert, I can see things that not everyone can. I can see auras.”

“Auras.”

I stare at her, waiting for her to tell me she’s joking. But there’s not a hint of it in her face. She means it. She has gone off the deep end.

And you heard a dead man speak to you.

“Yes, auras. I never told you because I knew how you’d react, and it didn’t really matter before. It’s just something I’ve always been able to do.”

“You mean like lights – colours – around people?”

“Yes, that tell me something about them.”

“Okay... so what’s mine like?”

“Yours is...” She sits back, studying me. “Yours has changed, actually. It’s darker than it used to be.”

I’ve been flirting with madness, but at least I know the things I’ve been imagining are a direct result of too much pressure. She doesn’t – she believes they’re real. She has no insight. I feel my gut twist, but remember that it doesn’t need to bother me anymore; her tenuous grip on reality isn’t my problem now. So why am I feeling like I’m stepping into quicksand?

“Okay, okay. So what does this have to do with the man I spoke to today?”

“That’s why I’m here. He doesn’t have one. He doesn’t have an aura.”

“So... what does that mean?”

“I don’t know – I’ve never seen it before. Everyone has an aura. Everyone except him. I don’t know what it means” – she sits forward, her green eyes level with mine – “but be careful, Robert.”

Oh, come on, Cora. Bloody auras?
“Alright,” I say. “I’ll be careful. But it could be a really good opportunity.”

“Robert, you can’t trust him.”

“I can’t pass up a chance like this, Cora. I’ll never get another one like it. I lost my job, remember? I appreciate your concerns, but I can’t just walk away from this because you think he doesn’t light up like the rest of us.”

She watches me for a moment then stands up. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you before.”

“No, wait, I’m sorry.” I get up and reach out to her. “I know you’re just trying to help.”

She holds her head high, but a frost has settled about her. “It doesn’t matter whether you believe me or not,” she says, her voice measured and composed. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

She still cares. I feel a little lighter.

“I will.”

She lowers her eyes and moves to the door.

“I’ll walk you home if you like.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ve got the car. I’ll see you later.” And she leaves into the snowy, still night without looking back.

I think I still love her, even if she is wired to a Mars Bar. I close the door and go to bed.

When I get to my room, I open the top drawer in the chest of drawers. Same old clothes, a set of earphones and a walkman, a Swiss army knife. Unchanged since I moved out, fifteen years ago. I lift them aside to see if it’s still there. Tucked underneath a few T-shirts is an envelope, once white, now faded by time. I open it carefully and take out the photograph. It was taken in the cloisters of Cambridge University. My dad is wearing graduation robes and my mum’s in a long red dress, and they’re holding me up, aged three, between them. My mum’s laughing at the camera and my dad’s smiling at me like I mean everything to him. I used to have it in a frame on top of the chest of drawers, but when I left, my mum put it away, like she did with all of the other photos of him. But I like this one. It reminds me that he was there, once.

Chapter Six

W
HY IS IT
that when you need to sleep, your mind decides that this is the best time to bring to the surface all those things you can do nothing about? It’s like it’s been waiting until you can hardly string a thought together to spring them on you. I toss and turn for hours, beneath a pendulum which swings between Victor Amos and Cora. Why does she have to be so bloody crazy? It’s like she’s beckoning me from an island I can never hope to reach.

But what if she’s right about Amos?

I glance at the clock: 05:25. I get up and dress in jeans and a white shirt. Dressing for interviews was not part of the plan when I packed. I lift my mobile from the bedside table. I’ve got a message.

“Robert... eh, I know I’ve just spoken to you,” says Cora, “and you’re probably in bed by now, but... I wanted to ask...” Silence. I stare at the blank screen. It’s run out of charge. I grab the charger from the bedside table and stuff it in my rucksack. After leaving a note for my mum on the kitchen table, which explains what she already knows, I take my grey coat from the hook in the hall and open the door quietly. It’s still dark and the crisp air catches in my throat. A blackbird is singing like today is its last.

There’s no sign of dawn. The stars blink down in patches through dark gaps in the clouds, blending with the mountains that loom up from the edges of the glen. I make my way down the road to the main street over the glistening, frosted ground, through the sleeping village.

As I pass the kirk, a car engine starts up across the street. Headlights from a VW Golf cut into the dark and the passenger door swings open.

“Robert Strong?” The man leaning across from the driver’s seat looks about the same age as me.

I get into the car.

“I’m Peter Banks. Good to meet you.” We shake hands. He has a square face, cropped dark hair and an Irish accent.

“So where are we going?” I ask.

“We’re heading towards Perth.”

He U-turns the car and I watch Kildowan retreat in the side mirror.

“So do you work for Victor Amos?”

“I’ve worked with him on a few projects. I’m a prospector.”

“Is that what he does? Mining?”

Banks glances at me. “That’s part of it. It’ll make more sense when you speak to him. I hear you’re a physicist?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought about geophysics myself, but I prefer being out in the open. It’s long days, but I like the travel, and I get a decent amount of time at home between jobs.” He reaches behind his seat and pulls out a paper bag. “Donut?”

As we turn onto the A85, the red dawn swells in the east. It catches the scar on his left forearm, which snakes up to disappear under the sleeve of his black T-shirt. By the time we see the signposts for Perth, I’m still none the wiser about Amos. Banks is amiable, but skilled in nudging the rudder of a conversation. He talks a lot and tells me nothing. He takes the turnoff for Crieff.

C
HILDREN IN GREY
uniforms straggle to school along the pavements. We turn through a series of streets to the edge of the town and pull up beside an old stone, semi-detached house. A woman in a suit and holding a schoolbag and lunchbox is ushering a small girl out of the front door.

“Is this where we’re meeting Amos?”

Banks turns to me, ignoring my question. “You’re a business associate. Don’t say any more, and they won’t ask.”

He gets out of the car. I hesitate, but Banks gestures for me to follow.