The String Diaries (23 page)

A shout. Had she got him? A frantic shape danced by the back door. It wrestled with the handle. She ran towards it.

The shape yanked the door open and fled outside. Gravel chippings sprayed across the drive. Hannah skidded across the kitchen flagstones. The door slammed back against her head. Pain lashed at her. She ignored it. Opened the door. Ran out into the night.

Jakab had reached the side of the house. He launched himself around it. Hannah followed, shrieking with fury. She turned the corner. Saw him running down the path towards the bridge. Saw a line of trees on his left. The river on his right.

She came to a stop. Put weight on her left leg. A shooter’s stance. Lifted the gun. Tracked him.

Shotgun’s empty, Hannah
.

Swearing, she broke the weapon. Heard the spent cartridges jump out of the breech. Smelled the tang of gunpowder.

She fumbled in her back pocket for her spares. Slotted the first into the left-hand barrel. The second cartridge wouldn’t fit. She was shaking too much. It popped from between her fingers. Fell to the ground.

Forget it. No time. Jakab was getting away. She snapped shut the gun and raised it to her shoulder. Braced properly this time. He was a vague shape in the darkness. She drew a line to him. Closed her left eye. Fired.

The gun kicked. The air
cracked
. Up ahead, she saw only darkness. Heard the fading crunch of feet on stones.

Hannah lowered the gun. She was hyperventilating. Sweat streamed from her. Stickiness in her left eye. She lifted a hand to her face, probed her forehead. Blood. A long gash, from the bridge of her nose to her hairline.

Then, to her left, the undergrowth exploded with movement. As she staggered backwards, a stag leaped from the trees.

It skittered to a stop on the gravel, hooves scrambling for purchase. Head swinging towards her, its liquid eyes met hers and it froze. Its flanks heaved as it snorted, condensation blasting from its snout. Steam rose from its hide. The animal was huge, its rack of antlers like the branches of a tree.

Hannah raised the gun. Knew that it wasn’t loaded. Did it anyway.

The stag moved its head to one side, observing her. Then, incredibly, it bent its front legs and knelt. Hind legs tucking down behind it, the buck waited, prone.

Hannah stared at it, uncomprehending.

And then, slowly, she realised that the sounds coming from behind her, the sounds she had not even noticed until now, were the screams of her daughter.

C
HAPTER
17

Oxford

1997

A
thin mist of rain was beginning to fall as Charles parked his car two streets away from where Beckett lived.

A night had passed since their meeting in the Oxford botanic garden. Charles had not slept since, replaying their conversation as he lay in the darkness next to Nicole. At last, resigned to insomnia, he crept downstairs to his study. He pulled the drapes and sat at his desk. From a locked drawer he removed the diaries, their translations, and his indexed book of notes.

He cursed when he found three mentions of Eleni. Why had he never thought to check up on those references? Why also, he wondered, had he chosen to lie to Beckett about it? He thought back to the academic’s words.
The Eleni was the organisation tasked with carrying out the cull.

During his research, Charles had read several descriptions of the
hosszú életek
cull, including a memorable passage penned by Hans Fischer. In one rendition, the
életek
youth were barricaded inside their
végzet
venue and the building torched. In another, they were herded into the hold of a Danube river vessel, which was subsequently holed and sunk. The
életek
elders, when found, were hanged, decapitated, shot. Regardless of the individual methods, the result was the same: a massacre. Charles closed his notebook and went to his drinks cabinet. He poured himself a Glenlivet.

You’re starting to have doubts, aren’t you? Twenty years of having this tale drip-fed to you is beginning to have its effect. You’ve polluted your mind with it and now you can’t sort myth from reality
.

He returned to his chair, rolling the spirit around in his glass. Was he finally starting to lose his ability to reason? Taking a sip of whisky, letting the liquid trickle down his throat, he thought back to his meeting with Beckett. How could the academic have a signed Royal Decree in his possession? Why had he been so elusive about its origin? Throughout the conversation, Charles had felt Beckett’s eyes measuring him, had felt that the man he had called a friend for more than two decades was mocking him.

Has Beckett been supplanted?

Charles coughed, nearly choked. He sat up in his chair and put the glass down on the desk. Whisky sloshed on to his notes. ‘Get a hold on yourself, fool,’ he muttered. ‘You’ve been caught up in this too long. It’s wrecked Nicole’s mind. Now it’s wrecking yours.’

‘
How’s Nicole?
’

‘
She’s well
.’

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

Charles felt the blood drain from his stomach as the realisation hit him. He was suddenly certain: in twenty years, Beckett had never met Nicole, had never even asked after her. The man was a fanatical bachelor, renowned for his view that women were a distraction and a nuisance. As for going out for dinner, a bag of pork scratchings at the Eagle and Child was about as close as Beckett had ever previously come to suggesting a shared meal.

Charles stared at the spine of his
Legacy of the Germanic Peoples
on the bookshelf opposite – the copy Nicole had not torn in half. Next to it was the much slimmer
Journal of European Folklore and Mythology.
Inside that
, Hosszú életek: the birth and death of a Hungarian legend.

Had he, in an orgy of vanity, called down a monster upon them? Was there any chance that everything Hans Fischer and Anna Bauer had written about was true? Had Eric Dubois really been murdered by Jakab? Had Erna Novák really lost her life to a
Főnök
’s
Merénylő
?

His head throbbed. He drained the whisky and poured himself another.

That had been nine hours ago. Now, parked in the residential street a few hundred yards from Beckett’s apartment, Charles switched off the ignition and unfastened his seat belt. He glanced at himself in the rear-view mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, a legacy from too much whisky and a night without sleep. His cheeks were grizzled with stubble. It was probably the first time he had not shaved in years.

A leather holdall sat on the seat next to him. Was he really going to do this?

Yes, he was. He had to know. He owed it to Nicole. Christ, he owed everything to Nicole.

Unzipping the holdall, he took out a metal box and placed it on his lap. He snapped open the two clasps and lifted the lid. His father’s pistol lay inside, cushioned by strips of fabric. The weapon was a Luger 08, taken from a dead
Wehrmacht
officer in Berlin at the end of the war. Charles had no ammunition for it. Beckett, or the thing posing as Beckett, would not know that.

He cringed. How easy it was, suddenly, to believe. How frightening. Slipping the pistol into the pocket of his overcoat, Charles opened the car door and stepped out into the rain.

Beckett’s home was one of two apartments converted from a sprawling Victorian townhouse. Cars lined the street outside. Charles walked along the pavement, head bowed against the drizzle. He climbed the steps to the front door, gathered himself, and pressed the buzzer to the academic’s apartment. A minute later he heard footsteps descending a flight of stairs, and saw a shape appear on the other side of the glass.

The door opened and Beckett peered out. He broke into a grin. ‘Charles! What a delight! As a matter of fact, I was just thinking about you. A fortuitous coincidence!’

‘Hello Patrick.’

‘Well, don’t dally on the threshold. Come in, come in!’ Beckett opened the door and Charles stepped over a pile of pizza fliers into the hallway. On the tiled floor, two elderly bicycles leaned against a cast-iron radiator. A black umbrella, on its side, dripped water.

Charles followed Beckett up the stairs and into the flat. The place smelled of dust and rancid cat litter. The hall was crammed with bookcases. When the shelving had run out, Beckett had resorted to stacking books in haphazard piles on the floor. A threadbare crimson rug covered an ancient carpet.

Beckett disappeared through a doorway into his snug, and Charles followed.

A standard lamp in one corner gave the room a warm glow. Beckett folded himself into an armchair and gestured at a throw-covered couch. Charles sat down on it, feeling the springs sag beneath his weight.

Books were piled everywhere here, too. An eighteenth-century map of Oxford hung above the fireplace. On the mantelpiece stood a framed sepia photograph of Beckett’s mother. Beside it, on a wooden stand, a Gurkha knife. A unicycle was propped against a side table that held a black and white television. Three brightly coloured juggling skittles lay underneath it, thick with dust.

Beckett gasped, leaped to his feet. ‘Forgive me, Charles! You come to my home and I fail to demonstrate the most basic of hospitality.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Drink? Pork pie?’

‘Thank you, no.’

‘Mind if I do?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Great. Right, then. I will. Back in a tick.’ Beckett squeezed past a laden coffee table, upending a box of papers, and side-stepped out of the room.

Putting his hand into the pocket of his coat, Charles touched the cold metal of the Luger. Now he was here, the thought that Beckett could be an impostor was ludicrous. He watched as a cat padded into the room and jumped on to the arm of the couch. It regarded him indifferently, and yawned.

Beckett returned, holding a dimpled pint jug filled with ale. In his other hand he clutched a large pork pie, missing a bite. Noticing the cat, he cursed, spraying pastry crumbs. ‘Ramses, get down! Seriously, these bloody cats. Can’t stand the things half the time. Think I’m allergic, actually. Should have got dogs. Know where you are with dogs, don’t you. Silly mistake.’

‘How many cats do you have?’

‘Five. Four. No, three. Lost one. Or two. Neighbour downtairs hates them. Can’t say I blame her. Wish I’d known you were coming. Would have tidied the place up a bit.’ Beckett slurped from his glass. ‘Cheers.’

‘No Pálinka today, then.’

Beckett laughed. ‘Good point. We probably should, given your recent achievements. I have a bottle somewhere. But to be honest, I hate the stuff.’

Charles stared. Beckett met his eyes for a moment, then looked across the room. Charles followed his gaze to the machete on the mantelpiece. Their eyes met again and Beckett smiled, displaying his enormous teeth. ‘So, you’re here. That’s good. Nice to have a proper chat.’

‘I wanted to follow up on our conversation.’

‘You did?’

‘To start, I wanted you to tell me more about the Eleni.’

‘Ah.’ Beckett took a large swallow of beer, then bit into his pie. He chewed for what seemed like an age. ‘The good old Eleni. Should I say good? Or should I say downright bloody vile? The latter’s more appropriate, isn’t it? We thought Hitler was a sociopath. Well, he was. And so were the Eleni.’

‘Tell me what you know about them.’

‘You’re the expert these days, Charles.’

‘I’m interested nonetheless.’

Beckett settled back in his chair. ‘Secret death squad, set up to wipe the
hosszú életek
from the face of the planet. From the evidence, they must have done a pretty good job.’ He chuckled. ‘Unless you know something I don’t.’

‘And they’re still in existence today.’

‘Ha. Battle re-enactors probably. You know how it goes with this kind of thing.’

‘I’d like to see the scroll again.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Beckett blinked, looked over at Charles. ‘Sorry?’

‘The scroll. The one you showed me yesterday.’

The academic frowned. ‘My dear boy, are you pulling Patrick’s leg?’

‘The Royal Decree.’

‘Charles, frankly, I’m getting a bit old and a bit slow. I must confess I have no idea what you’re talking about. I was here all day yesterday.’

‘I met you in the physic garden.’

‘With my hay fever? I can’t even go there in the depths of winter. You think cats are bad. Try me with pollen. I sneeze out a lung even thinking about the place.’

Charles felt his chest tightening. ‘Patrick, when did you last see Nicole?’

‘Who?’ The academic scratched his head. ‘Is this some kind of initiation rite?’

Jumping to his feet, Charles sprinted through the flat, down the flight of stairs and out into the street.

Nicole was lying on the bed, a crocheted pillow in her arms, when the back door slammed and Charles called out her name.

‘Up here.’ Nicole heard his feet pounding up the stairs and when the door to the bedroom opened, she rolled over and smiled at him.

He looked terrible. For the first time since she’d known him, he hadn’t shaved. And his eyes looked different. Haunted.

‘Hi.’ He stared down at her, and then he noticed the journal propped open on the bed:
European Folklore and Mythology
. ‘You’ve read it, then.’

She shrugged. ‘Curiosity got the better of me in the end.’

‘It gets us all.’

‘Are you OK?’

He shut the door and came over to the bed. ‘I think we need to talk about some things.’

She patted the covers. ‘I think we probably do.’

‘Nicole—’ His voice cracked. He sat down, his head bowed.

‘Charles, are you crying?’

Wiping his eyes, he shook his head.

‘What is it?’ She propped herself up on one arm. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nicole . . . My God, Nicole. However did I have the good grace to find you?’

‘Overwhelming luck, probably.’ Reaching for him, she tugged him on to the bed.

‘If I ever lost you—’

‘You came spectacularly close.’

‘Do you really want to stay here?’ he asked. ‘In Oxford?’

‘Don’t you?’

He sighed, touched her face. ‘I love you so much.’

‘I know. You’ve a strange way of showing it sometimes, but I know you do. Come here.’

She pulled him to her. And then, for the first time in weeks, they made love. Afterwards, lying naked in his arms, Nicole reflected just how much she had missed their closeness. She had never seen him cry, had never seen him so vulnerable. It troubled her. She wondered what had caused it.

Stirring, Charles rolled on to his side and stared into her eyes. ‘I’ll do whatever you want.’

She reached out a hand, ruffling his hair. ‘I’m a lucky girl indeed. The great Professor Meredith, prostrate before me, prepared to grant my every whim.’

‘I’m serious. Whatever you want.’ He looked over at the bedside table, where the diaries of her ancestors lay in a pile. ‘What are those?’

Nicole smiled. She managed not to jerk away from him. Hoped that her face did not betray her. ‘Just some old books.’

He nodded.

Wanting to gasp for air, forcing herself instead to take a measured breath, she studied his face – the line of his jaw, the sagging skin at his throat, his bushy eyebrows, matted hair.

And then, as calmly as she could, Nicole rose naked from the bed. She felt his eyes on her body as she pulled on her dressing gown. When she turned back to him, he was smirking, a predator’s smile.

‘I’m going to make some coffee,’ she said.

‘I’ll join you.’

Nicole went out into the hall. She blotted two tears from her eyes.

Don’t let him see. Don’t let him suspect
.

Was Charles dead? Was it already too late? Down the hall to the landing. Down a twisting flight of stairs to the lobby. Through to the kitchen, where she filled the kettle, plugged it in and turned to see that the man who looked like her husband but might not be had followed her into the room.

Trembling, she opened a cupboard and removed two cups. Took the pouch of coffee from the fridge. Spooned grains into the cafetière. Fumbled the container trying to put it back in the fridge. Dropped it.

Coffee grains slid across the floor in a brown tide. ‘Jesus.’

The creature that might not be Charles shook its head. ‘Never mind. Is there a brush?’

‘I can do it.’ Nicole fetched the brush and swept up the grains, teeth grinding. She emptied the dustpan into the bin as the kettle boiled, then poured water into the cafetière. ‘I saw Sarah this morning.’