Once (10 page)

Tour.’

‘Okay. How fit do you feel you are and what physically is bothering you the most?’

Thom gave her a quick rundown on his present condition, mentioning the ongoing weakness to the left side of his body, and the physiotherapist made notes, nodding her head and making sympathetic noises as she did so. Naturally having no wish for the state of his mind to be brought into question, he made no mention of yesterday’s little adventures, the naked girl in the forest, the floating lights, the attack of the wasp swarm (how the hell would he explain the lack of marks and bruising to his body?), and the loathsome things that had tried to crawl from the earth itself. No, he wasn’t that crazy - at least not crazy enough to tell anyone else.

As he talked, he noticed she was constantly laying down her pen to take more and more frequent sips of the drink he had given her, until finally she said:

“What is this stuff? It’s delicious. At first I thought it was apple juice, but now I’m not so sure.’

For some reason unbeknown even to himself he lied. ‘Apple juice mixed with mango.’ The invented ingredients almost seemed reasonable, given the unusual taste.

The therapist screwed up her face and held up the glass to examine the last dregs. ‘You could’ve fooled me. Doesn’t taste like that.’

Again, he lied, and again, he wondered why. Well, I’ve added something a little extra of my own. Secret recipe, you know?’

She gave him a mean smile and shook her head. ‘So I can’t get it in Tesco’s or my local health shop?’

He laughed with her.

The therapist took a few more notes as he resumed informing her of how he felt generally until finally she flipped the notebook shut and laid it on the table.

‘Good,’ she said with another reassuring smile. ‘I think you might be one of my easy clients. I’ve got to say, you already look pretty fit to me.’

‘Uh, one thing…’

Her eyebrows rose askance.

‘Did … have … have any other patients or, er, clients of yours - those who’ve suffered strokes, that is - have any had problems with, well, with their mind?’

Her attractive face became serious. ‘I’m not sure what you mean. Most - no, not most, all - have been a lot older than you, and some have become somewhat vague or slurred their words. Sorry, I know you want me to be frank. Not all recovered their full mental faculties after their original attack. But only one or two had second and third attacks, if that’s what concerns you.’

‘No, I really meant mental problems.’ There, he’d said it.

‘I’m sure your doctor has told you that often there can be speech impediment, or that simple things like reading or tying up shoelaces have to be relearned. A stroke can wipe clean certain parts of a person’s memory, but they’re likely to recover over a period of time. Time and patience, Mr Kindred, that’s what it’s all about. And exercise, of course -can I call you Thomas?’

“You could, but the name’s Thom, with an h, but no as.’

‘Mine’s Katy, with a y. And Budd has two d’s. So, listen, we’ll make a start day after tomorrow, but now I want to do a few simple tests.’ She reached into the sports bag by her feet and drew something out.

He was surprised to see it was a small dartboard.

She quickly looked around and spied the coat hook on the door leading to the spiral staircase. That’ll do,’ she said, rising and taking the dartboard over to it. She hung it on the hook and returned to the bag, dipping into it again and bringing out a transparent box containing three feathered darts.

‘D’you mind standing…’ she mentally measured a distance from the dartboard and pointed to a spot on the flagstone floor ‘… just about there.’

He did as she asked, bemusedly taking the offered arrows.

‘Aim for the centre,’ Katy told him. ‘Get me a nice bullseye.’

Thom suddenly understood the point of the exercise, for he’d tried something similar for his last therapist.

‘Left hand, I suppose,’ he said.

‘I’ve read your notes, but I’ve forgotten. The infarct was in the right hemisphere, wasn’t it?’

He nodded.

‘So the left side of your body is the problem, right? I ask because it isn’t noticeable to me.’

‘Not today, it isn’t.’ He was surprised himself, especially after all he had been through two days ago.

Tour previous therapist has done a terrific job,’ Katy commented.

He didn’t reply, raising the dart to eye level with his left hand instead. Depending on which side of the brain the haemorrhage took place, the recovering victim would favour a particular direction when throwing an object. In his case, when aiming for centre the dart would probably strike the right-hand side of the board. He released the arrow after only one flexing of his arm and it almost hit bullseye.

‘Hey!’ Katy exclaimed. ‘Good shot. Another.’

The second arrow was only slightly less accurate.

‘Another!’

The third hit dead centre.

Katy clapped her hands, but not in a patronizing way; he could tell she was genuinely pleased.

The next test seems hardly necessary,’ she said, still smiling. Walk the line for me, please.’

She was pointing at one of the long joins in the flagstone floor and Thom obediently paced it, aware that his tester was watching for left ‘foot-lift’ and perhaps anticipating a drift off course.

‘Okay, great,’ she said when he reached the other side of the kitchen without deviation from the line, ‘foot-drag’, or left foot turning inwards. She quickly put him through a few other exercises - foot extensions, outwardly rotating arm movements, shoulder protraction, upper arm and leg extensions, hand and finger extension - all of which he passed with flying colours, again even surprising himself.

Katy watched his breathing, made him stand on his toes, then his heels, tested his reflexes, and finally asked him to close his eyes and extend his arms at shoulder level. After a full minute she allowed him to open his eyes again and he saw for himself that both arms were still level, the left had not drifted downwards.

Tm not even going to ask you to climb on a chair, or watch you get into your car,’ she said with a further satisfied smile as she took down the dartboard and put it back into the bag, ‘because everything tells me your gross motor skills are fine. I understood from the medical notes they sent me that you still had some way to go. If you do, I can’t see it.’

This seems to be a particularly good day,’ he replied almost sheepishly.

“Well, we’ll see how you do next time. I think I’m going to work you quite hard, so be prepared.’

She produced a card from a pocket in her zip-up. ‘Here’s my number and address should you need to get in touch urgently. Mobile’s on there too. I’m just on the outskirts of Shrewsbury, so I can get over in no time at all. Do you think I could check your mobile number in case I have to reach you?’

As Thom wrote the number down on a scrap of notepaper he wondered if she offered the same service to all her clients; she wasn’t a GP after all.

Katy lifted the sports bag and glanced around the room again.

‘It has a lovely atmosphere,’ she remarked. ‘Quite peaceful. Serene, sort of. You’re a lucky man, Thom.’

Yeah, he thought, as if the notion had only just struck him. Yeah, I am. He smiled back at her and it turned into a grin.

Tm very lucky,’ he said.

RETURN TO THE BIG HOUSE

THE WEATHER had turned. Rain clouds had gathered in the east to be carried by stiff westerly winds across the country, now settling over the county in one scarcely drifting grey blanket. The climate was uncomfortably warm though, even humid, the occasional spot of rain having little effect, and Thom rested his elbow on the sill of the Jeep’s open window as he drove towards Castle Bracken so that fresh air blew into his face.

Questions continued to plague him, questions not only concerning the weird and exciting events just passed, but also as to why exactly he had lied to the physiotherapist, Katy Budd. That particular answer came soon enough: Because you didn’t want her to think you were going nuts.

Who would believe such a story? No one, and you’re sane enough to know that. So why let them think that the stroke caused some brain damage when you know it hasn’t?

You do know that, don’t you?

You’re not mad, you’re not suffering dementia (even if

you are talking to yourself like this; that’s something you’ve always done, and long before the illness, right?).

‘Right,’ he said aloud.

Thom steered across the road and took the Jeep into the rutted lane between the trees. So if you’re not crazy, he continued to ask himself, what the hell was it all about yesterday and the day before?

Of course, no answer came, but for the moment Thom was not unduly worried. He felt good. He felt healthy. He felt better than he had for four long, wearying months. Air coming through the open windows tangled his hair and ruffled the soft collar of the white short-sleeved polo shirt he wore over straight-legged jeans and soft loafers.

The Jeep bounced and bumped over the rutted surface, but was soon through the open gates and on to the smoother road leading up to Castle Bracken.

When he arrived at the front steps, Thom was surprised to see a black vintage bicycle resting against them, a shopping basket affixed to the handlebars and no crossbar to its frame; it also lacked alternative gears and appeared sturdy enough to bear a circus elephant. A real relic, Thom mused as he stepped from the Jeep. Hugo’s Range Rover was some distance away near the edge of the parking quadrangle, so he assumed his friend was at home. The old Bentley, no doubt, was parked inside the garage at the rear.

Thom climbed the steps up to the front door without realizing he had left the walking-stick behind in the vehicle, propped up against the passenger seat; he even failed to notice there was not the slightest hint of a limp to his stride. His thoughts were more concerned with the dilapidated state of the big manor house itself, something that had not quite sunk in the first day of his return. Certainly he had noticed the patchwork discoloration of the edifice, but not the crumbling of the stonework’s pointing, the cracked and flaking window-frames, nor the chipped and damaged mouldings. The stone steps, too, had hairline cracks, and their surfaces

were worn, uneven, as if trodden by too many generations of feet; faint hues of green mould discoloured them. The mansion was becoming shamefully run down, which was a great pity, for although as a child he had feared the place, he was equally in awe of it. Now Castle Bracken was losing its grandeur, growing old without grace. The change saddened him.

He was about to press the bell when the great door swung open and Hugo’s broad grinning face beamed out at him.

‘Hello, Thom. Saw you pull up. Wasn’t expecting you. Everything all right?’

Thom took the outstretched hand and shook it. Always formal on any occasion, his friend Hugo.

‘Everything’s fine,’ he said stepping over the threshold. ‘I just thought I’d pay my respects to Sir Russell.’

‘Ah. I see. Might be awkward, old son. Father’s resting right now.’

Bracken’s large entrance hall was in gloom, the long windows over the wide sweeping staircase north-facing, its unpolished oak-panelled walls aiding and abetting the lacklustre atmosphere. Thom remembered that the high chandelier was rarely lit during daytime, no matter how overcast the weather. Sombre portraits of previous tenants decked the walls and their faces appeared to be peering out from mysterious shadows. The stale mausoleum smell was instantly familiar and he wasn’t surprised he had always hated the place as a child - it had little appeal to him now.

Black and white tiles decorated the floor, although the white squares had turned a miserable yellowish-grey over the years, and many closed doors led off from the hall (he remembered how Sir Russell had always insisted that doors be left open. A proud man, he would never admit to anyone that he suffered from claustrophobia - he loathed confined spaces, and everyone knew it), a few plinths bearing small statues or busts standing against the walls between them. A

long oak settle with threadbare cushions nestled in the space under the stairway, the plain door next to it the entrance to the enormous cellar area built into the foundations of the house. Thom remembered how, when they were boys, he and Hugo once - and only once - had played hide-and-seek down there. Many years ago. God, a lifetime ago, it seemed…

It had been Hugo’s idea to use the labyrinth of underground rooms and corridors for the game, even though the basement was strictly out of bounds to both of them. But its mystery was appealing and Hugo’s entreaties had quickly overcome Thom’s trepidation. Given the ‘privilege’ of hiding first, he was sent on ahead, Hugo holding the door open for him and pointing challengingly at the darkness below. All the light-switches to the cellar area were conveniently banked together on a panel just inside the doorway and Hugo flicked them all on so that the darkness, though not all of the shadows, was immediately vanquished.

Warily, Thom went down the creaky stairway while Hugo, his face a mask of innocence, remained by the door; Thom caught his friend’s sly smile when he glanced back but, regardless, continued the descent, reluctant to be thought afraid, eager to impress. A long corridor led back beneath the house and doorless entrances to various chambers were set in the rough brick walls. Dusty naked lightbulbs dangled from twisted flexes and the smell of must and dirt that permeated the air seemed to penetrate his very skin.

Although hesitant at first, the sound from above of his friend’s slow count to a hundred urged Thom to venture further into the labyrinth. He was half-way down the corridor, peering through openings, seeking a suitable place to hide, when all the lights blinked off. From behind he heard the muted sound of Hugo’s laughter.

Thom’s natural impulse was to scoot back upstairs, feeling the corridor’s unfinished walls for guidance, but fear of Hugo’s teasing and his own determination drove him on. Okay, let Hugo find me in the dark if he has the nerve, Thom said to himself with forced bravado as he touched his way along the corridor. In truth, his heart felt frozen inside his chest and he had almost cried out, almost shrieked, when the lights had gone out. Now he was fighting to control his terror by withdrawing into himself, going into that inner retreat Bethan had told him of, the personal place, where nothing outside could ever enter, nothing else could ever touch, because it was the secret home of his true spirit, his true self. It was untouchable to anything beyond himself, she had said, because it was not part of this Earth, even though it governed everything he did and thought. His mother had never properly explained it, but had assured him that the bigger he grew, the older and wiser he got, and the more he believed in its presence, so he would begin to understand for himself. Only life itself, with all its outward influences, could dim the knowledge. He had been only six years old when Bethan had told him of this, and four years later -barely a month before she had killed herself - her words were still strong within him.

He moved further into the umbra, his hand feeling the cracks and the crumbling mortar in the wall, fingers floating in the terrifying empty space whenever he passed an open doorway, making his way towards an eerie light source that glimmered faintly up ahead.

By the time he reached the opening at the end of the corridor his eyes had grown used to the blackness around him and the pale beacon seemed clearer, stronger, with each step. He had began to wrinkle his nose at the coal dust in the air long before he reached the doorless end-chamber and when he stood at the portal he was able to discern a great hill of black rubble rising against a wall to his right. At its peak was a sliver of daylight, the light source itself,

a vertical crack that was the centre parting of a coal hatch. The coal fell away in a steep slope, its foothills held back by a five-foot-high partition wall and as Thom peered further into the vast room he could just make out a huge metal boiler, lifeless now, the fire that should have raged inside allowed to burn itself out so that maintenance work could be done on the piping. He saw the rectangle of its open coal flap, black and empty, as if the boiler’s soul had fled without closing it.

A noise behind him, Hugo beginning his search. Thom nervously looked around, seeking a place to hide. Gingerly he moved into the boiler-room, hands outstretched before him, afraid he might trip over some discarded tool or piece of junk on the floor, reaching for the top of the partition wall, then crawling around and behind it, crouching on the lower slopes of the coal hill. He tried to steady his breathing, his nostrils already clogged with black dust, tried to calm the rushed beating of his now unfrozen heart, afraid the sound might give him away. He didn’t like this game any more. In fact, it was a rotten game. And this was a rotten, dirty, smelly cellar. Even so, a jittery giggle escaped him when he heard footsteps coming along the corridor outside the boiler-room.

The footsteps grew louder, treading the stone floor with slow precision, as though Hugo knew exactly where to look for Thom, but was taking time to peer into each opening along the way just in case he was wrong. Thom wondered why his friend had not switched on the lights again, but when he stood to take a quick peek over the top of the partition, he saw a dull but warm glow coming from the corridor; it became brighter as the footsteps became even louder. In his nervous excitement, Thom failed to realize that those steps were far heavier than any boy, even one of Hugo’s plumpness, could make.

Suddenly they stopped and Thom could not help but giggle yet again at the thought of Hugo, candle in hand, pausing just outside the boiler-room, perhaps unsure now,

or disinclined to enter such a nasty smelly place. He clapped a hand to his mouth to suppress the sound and ducked back behind the partition.

In the quietness that followed, Thom heard breathing, heavy stuff, slightly laboured, and unlike the kind a boy would make somehow. Older breathing.

Thom’s eyes widened in the darkness. It wasn’t Hugo out there. Hugo would be giggling himself by now. And Hugo hadn’t had a candle when Thom had left him at the top of the stairs. And Hugo wouldn’t breathe like that. Or walk like that. And, in truth, Hugo would never go down into a horrible dark cellar without first making sure it was well lit…

Thom felt his body trembling from tip to toe.

A rock of coal shifted beneath his feet and he breathed a small sharp gasp, the tendons of his neck stretching as his head sprang up an inch or so.

He heard the person outside moving again and the ceiling above the partition brightened. Whoever held the candle, whoever’s footsteps were louder than any boy’s, whoever’s breathing was heavier too, had entered the boiler-room. Another pause and the candlelight’s reflection shifted on the ceiling, as though the seeker were looking around. Thom scrunched into himself as the footsteps grated against the stone floor and the deep shadow that protected him began to glide down the hill of coal. The light was not only coming closer, but it was also being raised higher.

He tucked his head between his hunched shoulders, his breath held, his body taut although still trembling, as the mantle of covering darkness shrank away.

Thom heard the wooden partition he hid behind creak as if someone on the other side were pressing against it. He sensed a presence looming over him, felt eyes inspecting his cowering body, saw the coal around him glinting warm diamonds of light. The breathing was drawn out, a slight raspiness to its edges.

Slowly, unwillingly, Thom lifted his eyes, afraid to look

and afraid not to. Hugo had once told him that rich people kept mad or grotesquely deformed relatives locked in attics or cellars, hidden away from those who would have them incarcerated in special asylums. Hugo’s daddy was rich. And Hugo had had a brother who was supposed to be dead …

Who would be wandering the cellars by candlelight?

Against his own will, he forced his gaze up the partition.

Thom shrieked and fell back against the coal rubble when he caught sight of the long cadaverous face watching him from the top of the wooden wall, its eyes dead, expressionless, tiny candle flames reflected in them, its lipless mouth set grim.

Bones - Hartgrove - had not spoken a word, Thom recalled. Instead, a thin hand, fingers extended like the claws of a funhouse lucky dip crane, had reached over to grasp him by the hair and raise him up, the pressure immense, the fingertips against his scalp icy cold. The iron grip had drawn him around the partition so that he was exposed, shivering before the tall, but stooped, thin man. In silence, Bones, who had obviously been down in the cellars before the lights had gone out using candlelight rather than electricity - the old, always frugal, manservant had odd opinions on wasting power), had released him and pointed towards the open doorway.

Thom had fled the boiler-room, not even stopping when he bumped into Hugo outside in the corridor, pocket-torch in hand. Ignoring his friend’s calls, Thom had scrambled up the creaky wooden staircase and burst out into the hallway, where he had continued to run, making for the main door. He had flung it open, then dashed down the stone steps, gathering momentum on the gentle slope that led to the bridge, thin legs barely under control, the sun bright in his eyes, the fresh warm air taking the chill from his flesh, but not from his heart.