Second Night (25 page)

The sun was setting in an angry red and black-barred sky. The wind was rising. Behind him, the old man groaned and muttered something under his breath. Jasper tensed.

Is he going to talk, or go? It'll be another one of us done with and dumped in the water when he does. Not that there were many to begin with. When did the Wyldes start getting themselves buried at sea, I wonder? It must have been a nightmare getting it all sorted before they had the crematorium, although I suppose it saves having headstones and graves that no one wants to visit. Fats could be right. Those two women in the churchyard could be long-lost relations and we'll never know.

He thought of the Pring family vault marked by the engraved brass plates set in the middle of the aisle in the church at home. G
uaranteed to slide a bride flat on her back if she wears the wrong shoes. There's no losing any of the Prings, however long they've been gone, but did it make them any happier? I don't think so.

He stood up and stretched. ‘I need air, coffee, chips and a choccy bar in that order, Grandpa. Unless you've got a crate of beer tucked away under the bed in which case we'll party.'
Do I detect a twitch of a finger, the lifting of a quizzical brow?
‘No, you never were much of a party animal, were you?'

The eyelids flickered.

‘Okay, maybe I'm wrong. We'll talk about it later.'

In a hotel room in the village under Rame Head, where the sea flowed into Plymouth Sound, Maddie and Jemima stood at the window watching the evening light deepening over the turbulent water.

‘I don't want to stay with Grandpa by myself,' said Jemima.

‘You won't have to. If he's still alive by tomorrow morning, you and I will go in together for a couple of hours to give the boys a break.'

‘Will he speak again, do you think?'

‘No. He's too far gone for that.'

The wind whipped at the tattered flag on the terrace. White waves were rolling up and crashing on to the beach… sucking back the shingle… rolling up and crashing down again. The lights of a small boat appeared, making full speed for the sanctuary of the harbour.

CHAPTER 42

Caz paced the floor in the hospital room. The walls were closing in at every turn and he was suffocating in the airless space. He stopped at the foot of the bed to listen to the irregular rhythm of the heart beating in the wrecked body of his father's father, searching in the ravaged face for any sign of likeness to his own.

Maybe in the mouth and in the line of the chin,
he decided.
That's all there is to show that I have the blood of a straw man in my veins.

He threw himself down on the chair by the window. Closing his eyes, he fought to free himself from the waves of claustrophobic madness that were overloading his brain. As he regained control over his breathing and the rhythm of his heartbeat, he tried sending his mind soaring out over the city. Above the clouds, the moon was rising and the raven was waiting. Joyfully, he stretched his wings and followed her, speeding under the stars towards the manor and the forest.

Circling lazily over Thunderslea, he saw Alan lighting the watch fire and feeding the flames from the pile of raked up leaves beside him. The old tree rustled its branches. Blue looked up and barked once, wagging his tail.

‘Got visitors, have we?' murmured Alan. He stepped away from the light, putting his hand to his sword hilt and gazing up into the tree. The raven called, reassuring him. He raised a hand in salute and went back to the fire.

Rain glistened on each of the bricks spiralling around the huge chimneys towering above the manor house. Sir Jonas was asleep in the chair by the fire in the study. The horses pricked their ears, whickering. Freyja paced the box, scattering her hay in the straw. The swans were hidden in the reeds next to the boathouse. Sara was safe at the lodge, curled up with the cats on the sofa in front of the television.

John and Daisy were at home in their cottage by the wood yard. Daisy was in the kitchen making cocoa and filling the hot water bottles, ready to go to bed. There were tears on her face as she leaned over the sink to close the curtains at the little window.

The rumble of the wheels of a loaded trolley stopped outside the door. The vision vanished. Caz opened his eyes. Two nurses came in to check their patient. The more senior of them looked surprised. ‘We didn't see you come in. Are you a close relative of Mr Wylde?'

The younger nurse reminded her. ‘Jas said his brother would be here later.'

Caz smiled.
Jas already! I'm impressed!
He introduced himself. ‘I'm Caz Wylde. I'm here for the night.'

The young nurse smiled and blushed. ‘Can we get you anything?' she asked. ‘Would you like another chair to put your feet on? Jas said you like coffee.'

‘I'm okay for now. Coffee in the morning will be fine.'

The senior nurse pointed out the button on the console for the bell. ‘If you are worried about anything, just give us a call.' She smiled. ‘And don't forget to let us know when you leave. Apart from anything else, we need to know who's in the building in case there's a fire.'

‘I won't forget.'

He sat silent. The straw man slept. The clock ticked faintly. Above the din of humanity closeted together in the grey block of a building on the hill above the city, he listened for the finer sounds… fingers tapping on a keyboard at the nurses' station down the corridor… one, two, three pills dropped into a plastic cup… a pen pushed aside on the desk.

When the hands on the clock moved past midnight, he spoke aloud. ‘At least you had the decency not to die on my birthday, Grandpa. Thank you for that.'

The old man stirred and turned his head in the direction of the voice. The mouth opened. Caz moved closer to the bed and a bony hand gripped his arm with surprising strength. A reedy voice gasped, ‘Is that you, Tom? Have you come back to help your old Dad, boy?'

Caz slipped into character.
Dad before the wheelchair... the set of the shoulders, crazy red hair, Dad when he's trying to get something out of someone, almost laughing, almost screwing your arm up behind your back… nice little touch of the Devon man accent.

‘Yes, I'm here. I'll help you out, Dad. What do you want me to do?' he asked.

The glazed eyes opened, staring unfocused at the ceiling. ‘You have to do what's right.'

‘What's that then?'

‘My old dad did it to us. He brought the curse down on our heads.'

‘How did he do it?'

‘He went back on a promise he'd made to his dad. You don't go back on promises you make to the dead.'

‘What sort of promise?'

The heartbeat surged and stopped. Caz counted... one... two... the regular pulsation picked up again. The voice whispered. ‘His old mother, she kept the money. She did all right by us, but old dad never did any good.'

‘What did he do?'

‘He went fishing, but he got into bad luck.'

‘How?'

‘He was always a boy for the bottle.'

‘So were you, Dad.'

A spasm of anger set the hollow face. The eyes closed. The mouth clamped shut. The face turned away.

Caz leaned both elbows heavily on the bed, speaking directly into the scabbed ear. ‘Then he got killed in the war, didn't he? Didn't he, Dad?'

The grizzled head nodded once. The mouth opened. A trickle of thick saliva stained the pillow. ‘Bomb took him.'

‘And then you went to live with your grandma.'

The hands clawed at the tight sheets, trying to free the pressure on the emaciated chest. The voice was faint through gasping breaths. ‘They came with fire and burned him up, and Mother too. He thought they'd forgotten about him, but Abigail warned him. He laughed at her, but she said, “Them they curse'll be reckoned with,” and she was right.'

‘Who was she?'

The old man spoke with a great effort. ‘My grandmother. You know that, boy.'

Caz leaned back in the chair, taking his weight off the bedcovers.
I do now.
‘So what did he promise?'

‘We came from a good family,' the voice cried querulously. ‘We had money in those days. She had money.'

‘What happened to the money?'

‘The curse took it, and them that cursed us. We're cursed, I tell you.'

You drank it, more like
. ‘What did your dad promise that he went back on?'

‘I don't want no bad blood between us, boy!'

‘There's no bad blood. Tell me, what did he promise?'

The voice sank to barely a whisper. ‘We didn't do like we was supposed to do.'

‘What was that?'

The jaw trembled. A tear trickled into the deep furrow at the corner of one eye. ‘We didn't do the watch.'

‘Is that why you burned the boat?'

‘So they wouldn't get us.'

‘Who are they? Who wants to get us?'

The jaw worked, trying to answer, but the face turned grey and the hands gave up their grip. The faint heartbeat lurched and settled, and Franklin Wylde sank into the mercy of unconsciousness.

Sometime before dawn his youngest grandson, still sitting in the armchair beside him, slipped into an uneasy dream. He was chained by the neck in the dark bowels of a great ship, wallowing deep in an endless sea. Bitter water gushed into his mouth. His lungs screamed. The ship pitched. His lungs drained. He had time to take in one great, gasping breath before the ship rolled and the bitter water flooded the hold again, and he was returned to the agony of drowning. At the point of death, the water fell back… his lungs drained… he took another breath… the ship rolled again and the water closed over his head.

They won't let me die!

The sound of the door being gently closed woke him. He wondered if he had shouted out loud and then he smelled the sharp, sweet tang of hot, black coffee left steaming on the table beside the bed. There was a note:
Your mother telephoned. She will be here to relieve you in an hour.

He sipped the coffee. The straw man in the bed was still breathing. He looked out of the window, watching the tiny figures struggling up the hill towards the hospital, their heads bowed as they forced their way against the wind. The sea raged under the heavy, grey mantle crushing the vanishing skyline.

CHAPTER 43

Out of habit, the boys turned away of the city centre in the direction of their old house. Jasper had the band on his mind.

‘We've got to expand, be more versatile. We should be doing live as well as air band stuff. I'll get Tris on to it, but we need a better place to rehearse. We need a stage. We'll never get anywhere stuck in his old man's garage.'

Caz sipped from one of the two newly replenished flasks in his backpack. ‘What about the old wagon shed in the wood yard? Al doesn't need it any more, now that he's got the Cadillac in the new garage by the cottage.'

Jasper slapped his forehead. ‘On the nail, bro! Why didn't I think of that?'

‘Too many distractions?'

Jasper rolled his eyes. ‘Not that many! But seriously, it wouldn't take much to get that old place sorted. We could put up a really decent stage and get the old fire lit and jam all night! What do you reckon?'

Caz grinned. ‘Sounds good to me.'

‘I'll get on to Al tonight.'

‘How are you going to do that?'

‘I'll call him at the pub. Si won't mind and the boys can get it all sorted by the time I'm back. Then we'll debut at the midwinter fest and get the old boss bouncing. You don't think he'll be after us for rent, do you?'

‘Hardly.'

‘That ballroom's our best venue for starting out new stuff on the public. Where else do you get a captive audience that's already fed, boozed and primed? Maybe Stat and Milky can get some backing stuff together. It's always good to have a bit of decent leg décor to brighten the line-up.' He raised an eyebrow in his brother's direction. 'And while we're on the subject of leg décor and distractions, mark my words and strike while it's hot with Titan. Take my advice bro, don't leave her simmering too long, or else she'll go off the boil and you'll miss the shot.'

Caz put away the flask. ‘Since when did I start advising you about your sex life?' he asked.

Jasper patted his shoulder. ‘It's just a bit of man-to-man concern, bro, in the absence of Dad. That's all.'

‘I'll manage without, thanks all the same.'

When they found the pub on the corner of their old street boarded up and advertised for sale, Jasper's face fell. ‘I can't believe it! Dad would be heartbroken! What did they want to go and shut it down for?'

The wind bowled an empty can down the broken pavement. A torn plastic bag caught on a spike. Caz picked up the can and dropped it behind a wall. ‘I wonder where all the kids are?'

‘They're where we would have been in rotten weather like this, bro, tucked up with a couple of bags of choccy bars in front of the telly.' He groaned aloud when he saw the impoverished, mid-terrace house that had been their childhood home. ‘Look at the state of the place. It's worse than ever.'

The slates were still loose on the roof and the narrow, north-facing windows were badly in need of replacing. It looked like someone had tried to tidy it up. The front door had been garishly revarnished and the flowerbed, crammed into the meagre space under the window, had been weeded. The low brick wall flanking the pavement had been recently painted, but the job had been abandoned, half finished, leaving the corroded iron railings to stain the wall red-brown in long, jagged streaks.

‘If nothing else, it was handy for popping down to the shops,' said Jasper eventually. ‘Not that we ever had much to pop down the shops with. Funny isn't it, how something bad like Dad dying can bring about something really good? Do you remember that night when we sat up so late waiting for Ma to come back? She hadn't told us where she was going and her phone went down and we thought she was dead too.'