The String Diaries (22 page)

He peered down into the valley. ‘Your closest neighbour,’ he said, nodding towards the cottage.

Hannah watched as the three men walked towards the Audi.

Had Gabriel purposely brought her along this route to show her this? She dismissed the thought as ridiculous.

Who the hell is Sebastien talking to down there?

In front of the cottage, the two strangers shook hands with Sebastien and climbed into the Audi. The car turned in a wide circle, kicking up mud, and headed along the track to the main road. Behind it, Sebastien raised his arm in farewell.

‘Do you know him?’ Gabriel asked.

She shook her head.

‘Really?’

‘Nope.’

‘That might be for the best,’ Gabriel said. When she turned back to him, all trace of his usual humour had vanished.

Ice crawled up her spine. ‘Why do you say that?’

C
HAPTER
15

Oxford

1997

Charles walked along the gravel path of the university botanic garden, searching its benches for Beckett.

The physic garden had always been one of his favourite places. He enjoyed its scents and its spectacle, its tranquillity and its history, its unique expression of the seasons. Usually a walk through its grounds was a tonic for his worries. But not today.

He had been feeling unsettled for weeks. Since the publication of his
Legacy of the Germanic Peoples,
with its jacket photograph of himself and Nicole, guilt had washed over him and the tide would not recede.

He recalled Nicole opening the book for the first time, the smile sliding off her face as she saw her image staring back at her. At first it had shocked her into paralysis. And then the anger exploded out of her. She ripped the book in two, flung away the torn halves, and launched herself at him with a scream.

How had he ever justified such a spectacularly selfish decision? The terrible irony was that he loved Nicole even more now than on the day of their wedding, yet with that one act he had blithely broken every promise he had made to her, had reduced the beliefs that framed her into a child’s fantasy, a stale bogeyman ripe for euthanasia.

I know best
, the photograph announced.
I’ve indulged your paranoia for eighteen years and now it’s time we buried it
.

He knew
why
he had done it: pride. Even eighteen years after meeting her, he still thought Nicole was the most fascinating, most desirable, woman he had ever met. After all their years of secrecy, he had wanted to broadcast their relationship to the world, to announce that he, Charles Meredith, had had the good fortune to have snared a woman as incredible as Nicole Dubois. The thought that something as worthless as his own vanity could become the knife that severed them was so appalling it left him wretched.

At first Nicole talked, in a detached and emotionless voice, of leaving him, of packing a bag and disappearing. Later, after hours of tears from both of them, she suggested that they leave together: leave Oxford, leave the notoriety of his name, her new and unwanted publicity.

Yet after all the talk, they had not, finally, done anything. They loved each other too much to be apart, and the foundations of their lives had been sunk in Oxford soil for too many years to consider a relocation.

Although they remained together, their relationship had irrevocably changed. There was a carefulness now between them that had not existed before, a hesitancy before speaking, before acting. He mourned their old comfortable ways even as he castigated himself for their loss. They had not shared a physical closeness since that first fight. Nicole had not refused him. The truth was, he simply felt unworthy of her. It was what unsettled him most of all. That, and the fact he had not gathered the courage to admit his second act of betrayal – the piece he had written for the
Mottram-Gardner
Journal of European Folklore and Mythology
.

It was that article, published a month ago, that drew him to the botanic garden, walking its paths and searching for the bird-like creature that was Patrick Beckett.

Charles found him on one of the benches that circled the water fountain. Beckett was wrapped in a woollen overcoat and hat. The man stared at the water lilies floating on the fountain’s surface, tapping out a complicated rhythm on his knees. A briefcase rested beside him.

Beckett looked up as Charles approached. Age had not softened the academic’s mannerisms. He twitched with recognition and jumped to his feet. ‘Here he is! Professor Meredith, slayer of the almighty
hosszú életek
!’

Charles shook his head. ‘Patrick.’ He was in no mood for Beckett’s theatrics.

The man jerked back in surprise, then clapped a hand on Charles’s shoulder. ‘Why so glum, my friend? I expected triumph, jubilation, perhaps a hint of false modesty – although only the merest crumb. Certainly not this troubled visage that presents itself. Come, sit! The bench is damp but you may share my blanket.’ He gestured at a strip of tartan fabric lying on the wooden struts.

Charles sat down. ‘You said you had something to discuss?’

‘Straight to the point as always. No taste for small talk.’ Beckett delved into a pocket and removed a silver hip flask. ‘Before that, though, I must insist on a toast.’ He unscrewed the cap of the flask, took a sip, clenched his teeth and swallowed. ‘To the success of your
Germanic Peoples
. And, even more exciting, your quite startling emergence as a folklorist.
Birth and Death
was a revelation, Charles.’ He proffered the flask.

‘You read it, then?’

Beckett’s eyes glittered. ‘I devoured it.’

Charles took the flask and swigged from the neck. The syrupy liquid lit a fire in his throat. He coughed, blinking tears. ‘Gods alive, Patrick, what have you got in here?’

Beckett grinned. ‘You’ve not tasted Pálinka? A plum brandy, from Szatmar. It seemed a fitting tipple for our salute.’

Charles handed back the flask and wiped his mouth. ‘I thought you didn’t like spirits.’

‘Tastes evolve, Charles, as one grows old. I had no idea you were so interested in the
hosszú életek.’

‘It must be nearly twenty years since I first approached you about them. I suppose you got me hooked.’

Beckett inclined his head. ‘How extraordinary. And here you are after all that time, an authority.’

‘I’d hardly say that.’

‘Now you’re being obtuse.’

‘It was hardly a shattering thesis, Patrick.’

‘Some of the material you referenced . . . I don’t know how you could have discovered it.’

‘The sources are all quoted.’

Beckett raised his eyebrows. ‘Yet in most cases I haven’t been able to follow your trail.’

‘You’ve checked?’

‘Dear Charles, please don’t think I doubted their authenticity. You know I’m an addict for this stuff. I just like to read the texts first-hand where possible.’

‘Well, I’m flattered by your interest.’ He paused, uncomfortable. ‘You said on the telephone—’

‘Aha! I did, didn’t I? I said I had something to show you, something I thought would tickle you, and I do. I’ve been sitting on it for years. Your paper mentioned something that drew me back to it. The great cull of the
hosszú életek
– a genocide of sorts – at some point in the late nineteenth century. Abysmal episode.’

Charles frowned. He disliked the way Beckett talked about folklore as if it were historical fact. ‘They’re stories, Patrick. Many individual renditions of the same basic premise. Those references to a cull appear in versions that originate around the turn of the century. You know my view on it. As society grew less superstitious – as supposed
életek
sightings dwindled as a result – it was a way perhaps of keeping the myth relevant. An explanation for the
életek
’s absence.’ Charles shrugged. ‘Who knows? It’s just a theory.’

Beckett leaned forwards. ‘You didn’t discover any motive behind the cull?’

‘No.’

‘Interesting.’

‘So what did you want to show me?’

Beckett twitched again, rubbing his hands. He bent to his briefcase, snapped open the clasps and took out a cardboard tube. It was stoppered with a plastic cap, which he removed. From inside, he withdrew a scroll, its thick paper brittle and stained with age.

Charles watched as Beckett unrolled the parchment. The handwritten text was Hungarian, and lavishly calligraphed. He spotted several mentions of
hosszú életek
.
Three signatures lay at the bottom of the page, above a maroon wax seal faded to brown. The document was dated
3rd March 1880
.

‘What is it?’

‘See those signatures? That one is Emperor Franz Joseph’s, the reigning monarch. The second belongs to Kálmán Tisza de Borosjenö. He was Hungarian Prime Minister from 1875 to 1890. The third I haven’t been able to trace.’

‘What does the text say?’

Beckett looked up from the paper, his eyes studying Charles hungrily. ‘It’s a Royal Decree. Quite a nasty one.’

‘Yes?’

‘It grants authorisation for the immediate extermination of the Budapest
hosszú életek
. Not just the ruling classes. Every last poor sod of them. “
Their stain to be forever cleansed from our society
.
”
’

‘Where did you get this?’

Beckett smirked. ‘Want to trade sources?’

‘Have you authenticated it?’

‘Oh, it’s real, Charles. I can promise you that. What do you make of it?’

‘I don’t know. What do
you
make of it?’

‘Buried in all these tales, perhaps there’s a thread of truth.’

‘Like what?’

‘Imagine something happened back then. Something that upset the balance. We know from the usual sources that there was an uneasy alliance between the
hosszú életek
and Budapest’s nobility. They weren’t exactly cosy bedfellows. Perhaps a particular incident sparked the unrest that led to this Decree.’

‘And this is just your speculation?’

‘Of course.’

‘You sound as if you believe all this.’

‘Don’t you?’

Charles glanced up at the academic, his unease growing. Beckett’s grin seemed to mock him. His eyes stared with intensity.

‘And here’s something else interesting,’ Beckett continued. ‘In all your research, did you ever come across mention of the Eleni?’

‘I don’t believe so.’

‘The Eleni was the organisation tasked with carrying out the cull.’

‘Eleni.’ Charles paused. Now he thought about it, perhaps he had seen the name in some of Anna Bauer’s diaries. He shook his head. ‘No. Can’t say it rings a bell.’

‘Ah, what a shame. Never mind. They’re mentioned here. See? In the second paragraph. You know what I find interesting? There’s an Eleni Council in existence in Budapest to this day.’

‘So?’

‘You’re right, of course. Just a coincidence.’ Beckett laughed. ‘There’s a Round Table club in Oxford but I suspect its members aren’t all chivalric knights.’ He looked back at the document in his hands, rolled it up and inserted it back into its tube, replacing the cap. ‘How’s Nicole?’

His prickle of tension beginning to ease, Charles smiled. ‘She’s well.’

‘Been a long time since I saw her. We should arrange something. Dinner.’

Charles stood. ‘Yes. Let’s set something up.’

They shook hands, and Charles walked back along the path towards the Danby Gate. He glanced back at Beckett once on his way out. The older man was standing by the fountain, staring at the water lilies.

C
HAPTER
16

Snowdonia

Now

Dusk had descended by the time Hannah, Gabriel and Leah arrived back at Llyn Gwyr. As the light leached from the sky, the temperature plunged. A numbing wind gusted around them.

They rode into the gravel courtyard at the back of the farmhouse, the breath of the horses pluming before them. The building stood in violet shadow. A solitary light in the kitchen window guarded against the approaching night.

Hannah brought the mare to a halt and dismounted. Her thighs ached, and she lifted each foot behind her, trying to ease the tension in her muscles. Gabriel watched her, sitting astride Salomon. ‘Saddle-sore?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘Thank you for today.’

‘The pleasure was mine.’ He turned to Leah. ‘Did you enjoy yourself, little miss?’

Leah grinned, jumping down from the colt and rubbing its muzzle. ‘I loved it. Valantin’s a beautiful horse.’

‘That he is.’

‘Leah, it’s time to say goodbye to Gabriel,’ Hannah said. ‘Go on into the house. I’ll see you in a minute.’

Once the girl was inside, Hannah turned back to him.

Gabriel was staring at the windows of the farmhouse. ‘Is he inside?’

‘Who?’

‘The master of Llyn Gwyr.’

‘You keep asking about him.’

‘Curiosity, nothing more. I want to measure myself against the man lucky enough to call Hannah Wilde his wife.’ He laughed. ‘See how I stack up.’

‘You don’t.’

Gabriel laughed harder. ‘Ah, you’re a cruel woman, Hannah.’

‘And you’re a terrible flirt.’ Hannah unclipped the reins from Valantin and Landra, and used a rope to hitch the two together. She walked over to his horse, passed him the rope, then offered him her hand. ‘We’re leaving soon, so I probably won’t see you. It was nice meeting you, Gabriel. Truly. I actually hope you don’t end up meeting those hounds.’

Gabriel reached down and shook her hand. ‘The
Cŵn Annwn
won’t catch me.’ He winked at her. ‘Nice talking to someone with only two legs for once. Goodbye, Hannah Wilde.’ Clicking his tongue at the horses, he rode out of the courtyard.

She watched him cross the river at the bridge and ride up the track to the main road.

In the kitchen, she found Nate in an armchair beside the fire, eating corned beef from a tin. Leah sat at his feet, warming herself before the embers and chattering excitedly.

Nate looked up as Hannah closed the kitchen door and locked it. ‘How was our friend?’

‘Strange,’ she said. ‘Stranger still, we went past Seb’s place. Our hermit friend had company.’

‘What? Who?’

‘Two men I’ve never seen before. They drove off in a big Audi 4x4.’ Hannah pulled down the blind above the glass in the door. She drew the curtains across the window. ‘Anything happen here?’

‘Not a thing.’

‘I don’t like this at all, Nate. Something’s going on. I don’t think we should hang around to find out what.’

‘What did Gabriel have to say?’

‘He asked a lot of questions about you.’

‘He did?’ Nate frowned, studied her. ‘Do you think . . .’

‘I don’t know.’ She blew out through her cheeks, trying to slow her heartbeat. ‘I’m pretty damn freaked out right now. I think we should leave.’

‘OK. Do you want to wait until first light?’

‘Not really. I’d like us to go this minute. But it makes sense. We need to pack up.’

‘We can secure this place for the night. Leave at sunrise.’

She nodded. ‘We all sleep in the same room.’

‘Agreed.’

‘Mummy?’

She turned to her daughter, dismayed to see that Leah’s face had paled. Hannah went to the girl, crouching at her feet. ‘Oh, scamp. Come here.’

Leah clutched her. ‘It’s going to be OK, isn’t it? We’re not going to die?’

Nate reached out and stroked his daughter’s head. ‘Absolutely not. That’s why Mummy and Daddy are here. To keep you safe. To keep us all safe.’

‘He got you. The Bad Man. He hurt you.’

‘And I’m getting better. We’ll be out of here in the morning. Just wait till you see the place your Mummy found for us. You’ll be safe there. The Bad Man won’t find us. I promise you.’

Hannah cooked a stew, which they ate with the last of the bread. Afterwards, she put Leah to sleep in the master bedroom. She toured the ground floor of the house, checking locks, securing windows. She wanted to draw all the curtains, but with the lights off, she decided to keep them open. More chance of spotting intruders that way.

Once everything was locked up, she helped Nate upstairs to the bedroom. Leah was already asleep beneath the covers of the four-poster.

‘I don’t think I’m going to get much sleep,’ Hannah said, her voice low.

‘Want to take shifts?’

‘I think that’s wise. I’m sorry, Nate. I just have this really bad feeling.’

‘Don’t apologise, I trust your instincts. Shall I take the first stint?’

She shook her head, kissed him. ‘I’m far too wired to doze off. Get some rest. You’re still recovering.’

‘You’ll wake me?’

‘If I’m flagging.’ She knew she wouldn’t. A long journey awaited them, and in his current condition it would be tough on him.

Nate was asleep in minutes. Hannah threw more logs on the fire. She moved to the side of the bedroom window, edging out her head for a look.

The darkness outside was almost absolute. Buried behind invisible cloud, the moon was a faint pearl smudge. She could just see the outline of the lake, the stone bridge over the river.

The land was still.

Jakab was out there. She had no idea how close. No way of telling. She wondered what was happening in the next valley where Sebastien’s cottage stood. The sight of him talking to the two strangers had frightened her badly. He had told her he lived in isolation, had retired from the world.

And what of Gabriel? Several times during their ride he had led their conversation into dangerous territory. She had discovered little of him in return.

Perhaps it was all unconnected. Perhaps she was so exhausted that she was beginning to make connections where none existed. She looked over at the bed. Nate slept, his chest rising and falling under the blankets. Next to him, Leah had tucked her head into the crook of his arm. Hannah watched them, knowing that however exhausted she was, she would not give up. Could not.

Damn the odds, keep fighting until you have nothing left
.

Her father’s words. The thought of him made her chest heave with pain. That last phone call had been the most difficult conversation of her life. What had happened to him afterwards? The likelihood was that she would never find out.

Despite knowing she had locked all the doors, that no one could get into the room without crossing her first, she felt horribly exposed. The darkness outside was oppressive. It pushed at the windows.

She looked at the luminous dials of her watch. Twenty past three already. Four hours until sunrise. Three and a half hours until first light.

The longer she stayed in the room, the more her unease grew. If anything happened outside, or downstairs, she would only find out about it when it arrived at their door. Realising that her unease wasn’t going to disappear, she stood up.

The shotgun was leaning in the far corner. She picked it up and, out of habit, broke the weapon. She checked that the chambers still held two rounds. They did. Spare cartridges were still tucked into the back pockets of her jeans. Into her front pocket she slid the long shaft of the Maglite. Going to the door of the bedroom, she opened it.

The hallway was a black void, from which faceless horrors could emerge. She wanted to use the torch, chase away the shadows. But she didn’t want the light to be seen from outside.

Hannah stepped into the darkness, listening. Despite the fires she had kept stoked over the last few days, the air smelled musty, damp. The house creaked and settled. Wind rattled a window.

She knew there was a loose floorboard halfway along the landing, and edged around it. At the top of the stairs, she passed the display case. She felt the eyes of the dead falcon on her. Even though she knew they were only glass, she prickled at the sense of awareness. Why hadn’t she taken the vile thing outside and burned it?

Hannah tiptoed past the case and down the stairs, until she was midway between floors. Silently, she lowered herself into a sitting position and rested the gun on one knee, pointing the barrels down into the gloom. She took the torch from her front pocket and placed it beside her.

Her eyes were gritty from lack of sleep. Her head throbbed. She just needed to get through the night. Tomorrow she would drive them away from here. Make sure they weren’t followed. Find a hotel. Pay in cash. Sleep.

Hannah blinked at the darkness, stretched her neck from side to side, drifted.

When she opened her eyes, disorientated, she almost overbalanced. The metal of the shotgun was hot where her hands gripped it, slick with sweat. Her eyelids felt sticky. Had she dozed off?

Christ, Hannah!

She glanced at her watch, frowning at the dials, trying to make sense of the time. Fifteen minutes past five. Still dark outside. When had she left the bedroom? Three? She must have fallen asleep sitting upright, her head resting against the banisters.

With a loaded gun in your lap.
Clever
.

Biting off a yawn, she forced herself to focus. Had something woken her? The house was silent.

A chill waft of air caressed her. She shivered. Much colder now. The only fire still burning was in the bedroom.

Hannah tensed, raised the barrel of the gun.

Before going upstairs she had checked all the windows and doors. Earlier that day she had boarded over the smashed pane of glass in the living room. The cold draught could not be explained by the normal movement of air inside the house.

She clenched her teeth. Felt herself beginning to shake.

Focus on Nate. On Leah. Your husband, your beautiful daughter. Don’t you dare let them down. Don’t you dare!

Someone was in the house with them. She knew it with a sudden dreadful certainty. Was it inconceivable that the intruder had already passed her while she slumbered? God, she didn’t know.

Her left knee popped as she rose to her feet. She groped out a hand, searching for the torch.

If it’s not there, I’ll scream. I won’t be able to help it
.

Her fingers closed on it. She slipped it back into her pocket.

Eyes straining into the abyss at the bottom of the stairs, Hannah pressed her back to the wall and crept down to the hall.

At the base of the stairs, she leaned around the banister. Weak light from the porch window cast murky shapes across the floorboards. The door to the dining room was closed. Had it been like that when they’d gone up to bed? She thought it had.

Padding along the hall, she felt the wood under her feet flex with her weight. The next door on her right led to the living room. It was ajar. Beyond it, the hallway took a dogleg to the left, leading to the kitchen.

Don’t leave an open door behind you.

Moving nearer the living room allowed her to see past the corner to the kitchen. Its doorway was a black cavity. Keeping it in her peripheral vision, she ducked her head inside the living room, sweeping it with the gun.

Empty, as far as she could tell.

The large sofas might conceal someone. A tall bookcase in one corner bred impenetrable shadows. But the windows were closed and locked. The board over the smashed pane was nailed in place.

She exhaled a shallow breath and turned towards the kitchen just as Sebastien loomed out of the darkness.

Hannah gasped, choking off a scream. She staggered backwards, raising the gun. ‘Jesus
Christ
! Get back!’

The old man hissed in surprise. ‘Hannah? Thank God. You’re—’

‘What the hell, Seb? Stand back there where I can see you.’

She could see his eyes shining in the dark.

‘Keep your voice down,’ he whispered. ‘He’s here.’

‘Jakab?’

‘You have to get Nate and Leah. We’re leaving. Now.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘He surprised me at my place. I got away. He’s
here
, Hannah.’

Her heart was thundering. She wedged the stock of the shotgun into her shoulder. ‘How did you get in?’

‘I have a key.’

She felt her lungs burning in her chest. Sucked down air. Strained to see him in the shadows. Strained to see his features. ‘Where’s Moses?’

‘He’s back at the house.’

‘You left him?’

‘Hannah, we’ve got to go.’

‘What breed is he?’

‘That’s good. You’re thinking. He’s a Vizsla. Come on, wake them up. We don’t have any time.’

Her skin felt as if lice were feeding on it. Her shaking was out of control. What if she dropped the gun? She fought the urge to wedge herself in the doorway.

Focus!

Her voice cracked. ‘Sebastien, listen to me. When you last met Nate. Before all this. Where was it? And what did he eat?’

The shape in front of her hesitated. And then it
lunged
. Away from her. Towards the kitchen.

Hannah pulled the trigger. The shotgun roared, slamming into her shoulder. Its muzzle flash lit the passageway as the thunder of the blast rang in her ears.

She jumped forwards. Cold air rushed at her as the door to the kitchen slammed shut.

Points of light danced before her eyes. Blood pounded in her ears. Animal rage had overtaken her fear. The opportunity to end this, here, right now, was suddenly a reality. She charged at the door and rammed it with her shoulder. It bowed open a few inches. And then something hit it from the other side.

‘You don’t have to do this, Hannah. I want this to end as much as you do.’

His
voice.

She heard a scrabbling. The pressure on the door ceased. Inside the kitchen, a table overturned with a crash.

Hannah stepped back and kicked the door open. ‘Then let me help you,’ she said, and fired into the darkness. She hadn’t braced herself this time, and when the gun kicked, the stock cracked against her collarbone. The kitchen windows exploded.