The String Diaries (15 page)

Raising his head, József forced himself to look at Lukács’s body, at the gashed throat from which blood still pulsed in an ever-weakening tide. A dark image. A nightmare image. But it was for the best, he thought.

No
.

Yes. It was. Kinder this way. Better for the boy.

You must not do this
.

Better for everyone.

NO!

Shaking, mumbling, he crawled back across the floor. Reaching his son’s side, he turned Lukács onto his back. The boy’s eyes were closed. His chest was still.

József placed his hands over Lukács’s ravaged throat, closed his eyes.

Pushed
.

He felt a stinging in the flesh of his fingers, a resistance, as if he were pressing his hands into mounds of broken glass. The pain intensified and then, suddenly, he was through. Heat rushed through his wrists. Clenching his teeth, joined now to the boy’s skin and muscle and flesh, he felt his blood surge out through his fingers.

‘Come back,’ he whispered. ‘Please, son. Come back.’

As the warmth drained from him, József began to shiver. Thirst raged in him. He felt himself grow weaker, felt his stomach tighten and growl.

Beneath him, Lukács twitched. His hands flopped against the floor and his legs kicked. Then he sucked in a huge lungful of air, sat up and screamed.

József tore away his fingers, sending up a shower of scarlet rain. Lukács’s throat was raw, dark handprints marking two patches stripped of skin. But even though the flesh beneath was livid, the gash had closed.

The boy opened his eyes, blinked. He stared at his father and József could not begin to imagine the thoughts that gathered behind them.

When Lukács spoke, his voice crackled like splintered wood. ‘Was it not enough to kill me once?’

‘Get out.’

His eyes were dreadful. They shone with terrible intensity. ‘You loved me, you say. Am I to be appeased by that? You tell me you love me and then you—’

‘Get out,
GET OUT!’
József shrieked.
‘
Curse me for being this weak but I cannot destroy my own flesh! They will hunt you for what you have done and rightly so. Leave now. Take what you must. I renounce you as my son. You are no longer
hosszú élet
. You’ve made your choice.’ He hissed the last word like a curse: ‘
Kirekesztett
.’

Lukács stared. He clambered to his feet. One hand to his throat, he stumbled from the room.

‘Balázs Jani is waiting outside, Lord.’

The
Főn
ök
took a breath and sighed it out, feeling his chest sink beneath his clothes. A week had passed since his first conversation with József. When the horologist returned to the
tanács
townhouse three days later, he came without his son and with an explanation of what had happened.

Quite how József could have been so convinced of his son’s guilt, without even any further investigation, had confused them all at first. But it was, in its way, particularly damning. That he had let the boy escape brought its own consequence, one that pained the
Főn
ök
almost more than he could bear. The events of recent days had been the most difficult he had faced, but the security of the
hosszú életek
rested with him. He
must
remain dispassionate.

Sitting at the great table in the
tanács
chamber, the
Főn
ök
turned first to his right and then his left, meeting the eyes of the two elders beside him. Both wore the official horsehair headpieces of office. He felt the weight of the periwig atop his own head. It was not a pressure that comforted him. ‘Are we in complete agreement, then?’

Pakov, to his right, cleared his throat. ‘We must do this, Lord. I feel for the boy, naturally, but it is not just tradition that demands our intervention. Dangerous forces are lining up against us. Public opinion is shifting. We act not to punish the crimes of a single son, but to protect the lives of all.’

‘The greater good,’ the
Főnök
muttered. He held out his hands before him, eyes tracing the network of veins, the liver spots, the age. How he hated this. How long had he served? And all of it meaningless if he failed now to navigate safe passage through the carnage Balázs Lukács had strewn in his wake.

He took a long breath, feeling the air filling his chest, listening to it rasp into his lungs, as if through dusty corridors and into forgotten catacombs.

To a chamber guard, he said, ‘Send him in.’

The door opened and Balázs Jani, first son of Balázs József, stepped into the room. He was dressed sombrely. Black suit, dark shirt. Still not quite a man, his eyes betrayed his feelings: silver flashes, green flecks. Fear, perhaps, tinged with anger; shame.

Jani approached the table, hands by his sides. He bowed his head. ‘Lord. My lords.’

The
Főnök
strained to his feet and held out his hand.

Jani’s eyebrows raised. He stared at the proffered hand for several seconds. Then he moved forward, bent and kissed it.

The
Főn
ök
took his seat. ‘Jani, I am glad you have come.’

‘You called me, Lord. What else would I do?’

‘Of course, of course.’

‘This is about my—’ he caught himself. ‘About the
kirekesztett
.’

The
Főn
ök
nodded. ‘Yes, Jani. That is correct.’

‘You asked my father to bring the
kirekesztett
to judgement. He failed to comply with your wishes. Lu— the
kirekesztett
 . . . has fled.’

‘We know that. Your father has told us what happened.’

‘And now my father is to be judged.’ A tear appeared on Jani’s cheek. It seemed to anger the young man. His jaw clenched.

‘Your father is a good man. Do not forget that. He has made a grave error, one that cannot easily be excused. But there is a graver matter here. More at stake. I wish to talk to you about that.’

Jani raised a hand and wiped away the tear. His face was set, determined. He gave a brisk nod.

The
Főnök
continued. ‘When I first spoke to your father, we had only first reports of what happened in Buda. Since then, we have gathered more information. The accused boy has been interviewed. The additional details he provided lend credence to his story. The girl, after questioning, has corroborated it. I’m sorry to tell you this, Jani, but the
ōrdōg
who raped Krisztina Dorfmeister was your brother.’

The young man bowed his head. ‘I know. Like my father, I knew it the moment I heard.’

‘So you also know what must be done.’

‘His blood must be removed from the line.’

The
Főn
ök
stared at Jani, studying him closely. ‘And someone, as a consequence, must be sent to complete that task.’

Jani frowned. ‘You’re not suggesting that I—’

Pakov, to the right of the
Főn
ök
, lurched forwards and banged the table with his fist. ‘You
presume
to instruct the
Örökös
Főn
ök
?’ he shouted.

‘No. Of course not! I did not mean—’

‘Enough!’ The
Főn
ök
held up his hand. ‘I will not have this degenerate into a brawl. Jani, you will listen and you will obey. If you do not, we will have no choice but to rule against the entire Balázs family.

‘The evidence before us is enough to rule
in absentia
. The
kirekesztett
formerly known as Balázs Lukács is cast out. His blood will be laid to rest. Your father has failed at his task. As the eldest son, that task now passes to you. You will hunt down the
kirekesztett
and bring him our justice. Do so, and the honour of your family will be restored. Until then, Jani, we have no choice. Your
végzet
judgement is suspended. You are refused rights to continue your courtship of the Zsinka girl. You will not see her, speak to her, communicate with her or her family in any way. Your brother Izsák is too young to aid you. Nevertheless, his future rights of
végzet
are equally revoked until this deed is done.’

The
Főn
ök
leaned forward in his seat. Jani’s face had blanched, eyes flickering in disbelief from face to face. ‘Balázs Jani, do you understand the obligation you have been served by your
Főn
ök
?’

Jani closed his eyes, opened them. The green flecks had chased the silver away. He pulled himself erect. ‘I understand, Lord. And I obey. The
kirekesztett
will receive your justice. I will stand before you again and you will return to my family the honour this
ōrdōg
has stolen.’

‘I pray that is so, Jani. Know that we do this not out of spite, nor out of punishment, but out of duty.’ He turned to the men who flanked him. ‘Gentlemen, we have ruled. The
hosszú élet
known as Balázs Lukács is no more. From this day, until our justice is served, the disgraced
kirekesztett
son will be known as Jakab.’

C
HAPTER
11

Snowdonia

Now

A
fter her encounter with Gabriel at the lake, Hannah hurried back to the farmhouse. She sent her daughter to feed Moses, checked on Nate, and quickly returned outside. Slate clouds still tumbled towards the valley from the mountains. The air was heavy with the electric scent of ozone.

Unlocking the Discovery, Hannah slid behind the steering wheel and pulled the door shut. The 4
x
4’s familiar battered cosiness was comforting, its muted strength reassuring. Until she remembered the blood.

The passenger seat was soaked with it, the grey upholstery stained brown where it had dried, and a sticky black where it had pooled so thickly it had still not fully congealed. It made her ill to look at it and she averted her eyes. Nate should have died in this car. How her husband still lived, she could not explain. How
anyone
could lose that much blood and cling to life was beyond her understanding. All she could do was thank God that Nate
had
clung on.

Hannah leaned over the ruined passenger seat and hooked the binoculars out of the door cavity. Crawling on to the back seats, she pointed them out of the rear window and raised the rubberised rims to her eyes.

The lake emerged out of a blur. She panned the binoculars across its surface. No boat rocked on its waters now. No uninvited visitors fished its depths. Sweeping around, she spotted the rowing boat on the far shore, pulled up on to the stony beach and slewed over on its side. Its oars had gone. She could see no sign of Gabriel. Hannah scouted the rest of the valley, angling the binoculars at the slopes. No one lurked in the trees that she could see.

Hearing the sound of an engine, she shifted her position and lowered the glasses as a battered Defender drove around the corner of the farmhouse. A steel trailer trundled behind it. Sebastien. As his vehicle approached, Hannah opened the back door of the Discovery and jumped down on to gravel.

The old man parked and climbed out. ‘Going to rain again,’ he said, looking up at the clouds. ‘Least it might keep the cold off us for a while. How’s our patient?’

‘Just like you said he’d be. Stiff, in pain, unable to move. But alive.’

Sebastien grunted. ‘That’s the main thing. I’ve brought you groceries. As much diesel as I could. Wood for the fire.’

‘You’re an angel from heaven, Seb.’

His emerald eyes appraised her for a moment, then a grin lit his face. ‘An angel of death, maybe. I brought ammunition too.’

Hannah helped him carry the boxes of groceries into the house: vegetables, milk, bread, crumpets, cheese, fruit. She eyed a huge slab of Cadbury’s chocolate. Lastly, Sebastien handed her two freshly shot ducks, which she hung on a hook outside.

In the kitchen, she put a kettle on the stove and busied herself putting away the groceries while Sebastien introduced himself to Leah. The girl was hesitant at first, until he got down on all fours and taught her how to make Moses roll over and bare his stomach for a rub.

On the sofa, Nate watched them play, eyes heavy with fatigue. Hannah handed him a mug of tea, smoothing his hair as he drank it. ‘We met someone on our walk,’ she said. When both men looked up sharply, she indicated with a flick of her head that they should talk carefully in front of Leah. ‘Just now, on the lake.’

Sebastien moved to the window.

‘He’s gone,’ she said. ‘He was in a rowing boat. Had a couple of fishing rods with him.’

‘What did he look like?’ the old man asked.

‘Tall, curly black hair. Irish accent.’

‘Gabriel.’

Hannah sagged with relief. ‘You know him. He said he lived across the valley. Comes down here sometimes to fish, and isn’t very good at it.’

‘I’ve bumped into him a few times. He keeps horses on his smallholding. Sociable fellow, always cracking jokes. Irritating as hell.’

‘I wouldn’t say that. But we don’t want him around here all the same.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘Not much. I gave him pretty short shrift. Told him he’d better find another lake to fish.’

‘Good. Gabriel’s harmless enough. Give him half a chance, though, and he’ll be over here poking his head into things that don’t concern him. Now, let’s get to work.’

While Leah took the dog into the living room, they checked Nate’s dressings. His stitches had held, and the wounds looked free of infection. They cleaned them again with swabbing alcohol and applied fresh bandages.

Outside, as raindrops began a slow beat on the car roofs, they unloaded logs and brought them inside, stacking them by the fireplaces in the kitchen, living room and master bedroom. They unhooked the trailer and wheeled it to one of the outbuildings. Lifting out a full drum of diesel, they rolled it inside and filled the generator’s reservoir.

Noticing that Sebastien was becoming breathless, she forced him to sit on an empty crate, knocking away his protests. They watched the raindrops fall with gathering pace as wind began to stir the trees across the valley.

‘I brought you something,’ Sebastien said. He dug into the pocket of his Barbour. When he removed his hand he was holding a dragon-shaped brooch. Its scales were red enamel set into gold.

Hannah gasped when she saw it. She took it from him and turned it over in her hands. ‘This is my mother’s,’ she said, wonderingly. ‘I thought it was lost.’

‘Your father left it with me once. Said he didn’t want to carry it around any more. That perhaps one day, if you ever needed my help, it might persuade you to trust me.’

Hannah slid her fingers over the bumps of the dragon’s enamelled scales. She looked up to see the old man watching her. ‘I do trust you, Seb. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been here.’

The lines of his face creased. ‘You would have coped. You’ve been doing it all your life. You’ll go on doing it.’

‘I don’t feel like I’m coping.’

‘I can see that. But you got Nate and Leah here safely. They’re alive thanks to you, so don’t forget it. This might seem an impossible situation, but you’re surviving, Hannah. You all are. There’ll be an end to this. We need to get your husband back on his feet. But then you’ll move on.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that. There’s another place. I need to make a few arrangements first but it’s safe, really safe. I set it up years ago. There’s no link back. Not even my father knows about it. But it’s a long trip. And until Nate’s ready to travel, we’ll have to sit things out here.’

Sebastien smiled. ‘See? Just what I said.’

Hannah dropped the brooch into her pocket. She ran her fingers through her hair, stared at the concrete floor. ‘My father—’

‘Don’t torture yourself, Hannah. You don’t know. I don’t know. Maybe we’ll find out, maybe we never will. Charles prepared himself years ago. He loved you – loves you, I mean.’

‘Don’t write him off,’ she said.

‘I won’t. But you need to accept—’

Hannah stood up and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jeans. ‘Let’s go inside.’

That afternoon, she taught Leah how to prepare the waterfowl Sebastien had brought them, immersing the birds in boiling water before plucking feathers, cutting off heads and feet and removing organs, entrails and crop.

As the clouds purpled and the day surrendered its light, Hannah cooked a dinner of roasted duck, dauphinoise potatoes, green beans and thick buttered slabs of granary bread.

Because Nate could not move from the sofa, Sebastien cleared the circular table in the kitchen and laid it with an odd assortment of cutlery, dinner mats and glassware. He built up the fire from the restocked log pile, lit two candles, opened a dusty bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and helped Hannah dish up four plates of food. While Nate, head propped behind cushions, fed himself from a tray balanced on his chest, Hannah sat with the others at the table.

Over dinner, Sebastien entertained Leah with folk tales. Hannah was thankful to him. She felt sapped of energy after a day caring for her husband, talking and playing with her daughter, and making plans. She had made a few calls that afternoon, in preparation for their move to the hideaway in southern France. She wanted to put as much distance, and as many obstacles, between Jakab and her family as possible. Not for the first time that day, Hannah caught herself thinking about her father and wondering where he was, whether he was alive, whether she would ever see him again. It was agonising – the not-knowing – but she forced herself to bury those thoughts. She could not allow herself to lose focus, to lose sight of her ultimate responsibility: keeping her daughter and her husband safe.

After dinner, Sebastien allowed Leah to fill a bowl with leftovers so that Moses could feed. Shortly after that, Hannah took the girl upstairs, filled the bath with hot water and scrubbed her until her skin glowed. In the master bedroom, she tucked Leah under the covers.

‘Sebastien’s funny, isn’t he, Mummy?’

‘Yes, darling. He’s a very sweet man.’

‘When I first saw him, I thought he was the Bad Man.’

Hannah stroked her hair. The quiet fear in her daughter’s voice filled her with sorrow. What kind of childhood was she giving the girl, that the simple act of meeting a stranger created so much anxiety? If a parent’s success was measured in the confidence they instilled in their children, she had failed utterly. Yet what was her alternative? Bring up Leah ignorant of the threat she faced? Grant her the happy childhood that she herself had craved, but leave the girl completely vulnerable if something did happen? Which was the greater betrayal?

‘He’s not the Bad Man, Leah,’ she said. ‘He’s got a dog called Moses.’

‘Daddy looks better.’

‘Yes, he does. I think he’s going to be all right.’

‘Are
you
all right?’

The question ambushed her, blurred her vision. Clenching her jaw, Hannah forced a smile and pulled her daughter into an embrace. She buried her face into Leah’s hair, wanting to lose herself in its clean youthful smell, yearning to be free of the decisions and the responsibilities she had to bear. After gripping Leah fiercely for some moments, she recovered herself and pulled away.

‘It’ll be OK, Mummy.’

Shame stole over her then, that she should sit here and accept assurances from a nine-year-old girl – that she would risk contributing to Leah’s anxiety even as she sought to deflect it. ‘Oh, will it now?’ she replied loftily, gathering herself. ‘Not for you, scamp, unless you get off to sleep. Come on, I heard Seb say he’d teach you a few tricks tomorrow if you got a good night’s rest. Now give me a kiss and lie down. I’ll be back in a bit.’

Downstairs, she found Sebastien had washed up the dinner plates and had settled in an armchair opposite her husband. He held a glass of wine.

Nate looked up. ‘Did she settle?’

‘Eventually. She’s scared stiff but she won’t admit it. And I hate myself for what I’ve put her through. For all of this.’

‘It’s not your fault.’

Hannah sat on the floor by his sofa. ‘It’s not her fault either. This . . . we have to stop this, Nate.’

‘We will.’ He reached out a hand and she took it. When he squeezed her fingers she was relieved to feel his renewed strength.

Hannah leaned forwards and touched her brow to his. ‘Oh, Nate, will we? Really?’

‘You couldn’t do more than you’re doing, Han. I know you feel like this is too much, that you’re powerless, but I’ve never seen anyone stronger. You saved me. Christ, you saved us all. I’m meant to be your Tarzan here, and you pretty much slung me over your shoulder and walked out of the jungle.’ He grinned. ‘If I hadn’t lost a couple of pints of blood, I’d probably be blushing.’

Suddenly she was laughing. Laughing and kissing him, feeling energised by both his conversation and the rush of love she felt for him. No matter how difficult their situation, Nate knew with uncanny precision the exact words needed to steer her out of her dejection, pick her up, dust her down and set her back on her feet. She loved him for so many things. Right now, his innate understanding of her, his ability always to know what to do or say to lift her, was the lifebuoy holding her above the water.

And then, breaking the spell between them, she remembered they were not alone, and that Sebastien was sitting at the table watching them. Laughing this time with embarrassment, Hannah found that she was the one blushing. ‘Sweet talker,’ she said, getting to her feet and slapping him on the arm. ‘Sorry Seb, we’re like a couple of teenagers over here.’

The old man grinned. ‘Want me to separate you?’

‘How about you pour me a glass of wine instead.’

‘Gladly.’

On the table, her phone started ringing.

Sebastien hesitated, one hand on the wine bottle, looking down at the black rubber-sheathed phone vibrating across the table. The old man scanned the read-out, and then turned to Hannah.

When she caught his expression, she felt her stomach twist with dismay. He wore a haunted look that she could not decipher. She snatched up the phone. The screen displayed a single word:
Dad
.

Hannah was unprepared for the explosion of emotion that detonated inside her. She could not think properly, could not for a moment even remember how the phone worked. Des-perate, she fumbled with it, nearly dropped it, finally activated it, and, gasping, aching, felt her voice crack as she asked, ‘Dad?’

Silence on the other end of the line. Then, ‘Hannah. Oh thank God.’

Her father’s voice.

Hannah’s sobs came in shuddering, heaving breaths. Tears streamed down her face. She sagged to the floor, bending over, pressing the phone to her ear, her forehead to the flagstones as she repeated her father’s name over and over. It was a long time before she calmed enough to hear his soothing sounds, hushing her.

‘Where are you?’ she asked. ‘What happened? I thought you were dead.’

‘There’s a lot to tell. But I’m fine, Hannah. I’m OK. That’s the main thing for now. I had to stay out of touch for a while. I won’t tell you where I am. It’s best you don’t know. There was . . . it was a mess, Hannah.’ She heard strain in her father’s voice, a note she had never heard before. ‘Such a mess.’