Knightley and Son (9781619631540) (32 page)

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Authors: Rohan Gavin

BOOK: Knightley and Son (9781619631540)

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Darkus looked at his father sitting across the dining table from his mother, and he couldn’t help wondering. Between the formal affair of Christmas dinner and the polite requests for salt, pepper, or gravy, there was an unspoken communication going on between Knightley and his son. There were many unresolved issues, on both the domestic front and the professional one. Knightley had refrained from even a passing reference to what he might be working on, or whether he required Darkus’s assistance. Darkus found himself feeling hurt that whatever it was, he clearly wasn’t going to be included.

Finally, although it was childish, Darkus wondered whether his father had brought him a Christmas present. He’d been too polite to ask, and his father didn’t appear to be carrying anything concealed on his person. Everyone else had brought him something—including Tilly, who gave him a customized multifunction pen that she promised to explain in private—but his father’s gift was the only one that mattered.

As everyone retired to the TV set, Knightley took Darkus aside. “Got a moment?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Shall we go to your room?”

Darkus led his father upstairs and across the landing to his bedroom. He was glad he’d taken extra care to tidy it up.

“Looks just like my office,” said Knightley, smiling.

Darkus shrugged, a little embarrassed.

Knightley fished in his inside jacket pocket, removed a slim package, and handed it to Darkus.

“Merry Christmas.”

Darkus unwrapped the green paper to find a stainless-steel business-card holder. He opened it up to find a stack of perfectly off-white, watermarked cards that read:

Underneath was an 0845 number.

Darkus looked up at his dad, speechless, then took the top card and turned it over in his hand. On the reverse side there was a small, embossed symbol: an eye with a blue iris, a black pupil, and a tiny mirror in the center.

“The evil eye,” said Darkus, recognizing the symbol with surprise.

“Not to the person holding it,” Knightley explained. “It’s
protection
. Like the gargoyles they put over doors and windows to keep out malevolent forces. Not all self-defense is physical; sometimes it’s mental, or even psychic.”

“If you believe in that sort of thing, yes,” Darkus said doubtfully.

“My father, Rexford—your grandfather—was in the same profession as us,” Knightley continued. “So you see, a lot can be predicted by cause and effect. He believed in myths and legends long before I did. Back then I thought there was a rational explanation for everything. You see, we’re not so different after all.”

Darkus replaced the card in the holder and put it in his inside pocket. “Thanks, Dad,” he said with a mixture of affection and fear.

“There is one more thing,” said Knightley, almost as an afterthought.

He led Darkus downstairs again, through the kitchen door at the back of the house, toward the shed at the end of the garden. Darkus was once again at a loss. He hadn’t noticed his father—or anyone else, for that matter—transporting anything to the back garden. This forgotten outhouse was only home to Clive’s jet washer and a small assortment of car-cleaning accessories. Knightley undid the catch and slowly opened the rickety wooden door.

Darkus heard a small whimper, but mistook it for the quick breath of his own anticipation. Then he saw two bright eyes watching him from waist height in the depths of the shed. They were surrounded by a soft halo of fur, two bat-like ears, and a long pair of whiskers. A small bone lay chewed in a corner. So this was where Uncle Bill had disposed of the extra turkey leg. A wet, black nose approached cautiously from the darkness.

“His name’s Wilburforce,” announced Knightley. “But you can call him Wilbur. He’s a former police dog.”

Darkus immediately identified him as a German shepherd, and not a puppy either. This dog looked long in the tooth, and was already graying around the temples. Darkus reached out to stroke his head. Wilbur’s tail wagged once, uncertainly.

“I thought you could use some company,” said Knightley. “I haven’t told Clive yet. Best we break it to him gently.”

They heard a heavy car door slam, and Wilbur started.

Knightley gently shushed him. “Post-traumatic stress disorder,” he explained. “He’s a bit jumpy . . .” He slowly attached a lead to Wilbur’s collar and handed Darkus the strap.

Darkus led Wilbur across the patio and up the alley to the front garden. They spotted Bogna carrying an oddly shaped duffel bag from the back of the black cab into the house. Moments later, a strange, discordant sound wound to life. Wilbur’s ears pricked up, then cowered. Darkus and his father looked at each other, unsure what to make of it.

They approached the front windows of the house to find the whole party gathered in the living room around Uncle Bill, who was now balancing a set of tartan bagpipes on his lap. He nodded in time, popping the blowpipe into his mouth and puffing out his cheeks. He and the instrument appeared to inflate as one, accompanied by a mounting drone. After a couple of wrong notes, his large fingers found the familiar strains of “
Amazing Grace
.” When the chorus of pipes ascended, Tilly nervously bit her lip, and Darkus thought he saw Jackie wipe away a tear.

As heavy snowflakes began to fall outside, Wilbur sat obediently, Knightley put a hand on his son’s shoulder, and they listened together. And old worries were, for the time being, forgotten.