The String Diaries (3 page)

She was waiting still for his answer. Casting about, he noticed the book she had been reading, a thumbed translation of
Gesta Hunnorum et Hungarorum
, by Simon of Kezá. ‘You realise that’s a work largely of fiction,’ he said.

‘Of course. And you will also realise that it’s one of the earliest texts available.’

‘What are you trying to find out? I might be able to help.’

‘If I need to locate a table, Charles, I’ll let you know.’

He nodded. ‘OK, I deserved that.’

‘Yes. You did.’

‘Look, perhaps I could buy you a cup of tea. To say sorry.’ He blinked, aghast. Where on earth had that come from? ‘I meant, if you wanted to discuss a particular aspect of Hungarian history.’

Nicole closed the book. When she jumped to her feet he was surprised to see that they were almost the same height. ‘No, Charles. I don’t want to talk about it.’

He held up his hands. ‘That’s fine.’

Rummaging in her bag, Nicole produced a set of keys. ‘I must go.’

‘Yes. Of course.’ He stood back, allowing her to pass him, the awkwardness between them now painful.

She unlocked the Hillman and threw her bag on to the passenger seat. Starting the car, she reversed into the street. Nicole wound down the window. ‘You need not worry, Charles. Tomorrow is the last you’ll see of me.’ Putting the Hillman into gear, she drove away up the street.

Which brought him to Saturday morning, negotiating summer traffic on the way to the campus and asking himself whether she would indeed make a final visit. Apart from her name, he still knew nothing of her, or quite why it seemed so important that she left Oxford with a better impression of him. He did know that getting to the library before her and taking a seat at the wretched table would be disastrous, which was why he refused to allow himself near the building until just past ten o’clock.

The library was quiet, with only a few readers occupying desks. He ventured into the stacks and found St Catherine and old Abbot gazing down at him.

His table was vacant.

Charles stood for a long moment, quite unprepared for the disappointment he felt. He pulled out the chair and sat down, thinking.

He knew the girl’s name. And the fact that she was French. It was little more than nothing, really. He sat in the seat for a further half an hour, his mood gradually darkening, before accepting that she was not going to appear. He stood up to leave and as he passed the front desk, Pendlehurst called out to him, ‘That French girl left something for you.’

Immediately, he felt his spirits lift. ‘She’s been in?’

‘She was here first thing this morning. Sat at your table for a bit, passed me a note for you and left.’

Cursing, he realised he had missed her by just thirty minutes. Pendlehurst handed him a folded sheet of paper torn from a notepad. Quickly he opened it.

Ki korán kel, aranyat lel

It was Hungarian. But he could not translate it.

‘Did she say anything?’

‘Just that she couldn’t wait any longer and that she had to leave.’

‘Did she say where she was going?’

‘I didn’t ask.’

‘Damn it.’

‘Is everything all right?’ asked Pendlehurst.

‘Do you know any Hungarian speakers?’

‘I think Beckett is your best bet.’

‘Can I use the telephone?’

It took Charles ten minutes to locate Beckett, and only a further minute to get the translation.

He who wakes early, finds gold

A Hungarian variation of an English proverb:
the early bird catches the worm.
Charles found himself smiling for the first time that morning, and then an idea struck him. He tracked down Pendlehurst. ‘She must have contacted us in advance to access the library.’

‘Of course.’

‘So you should have a record of her.’

‘I believe so. Professor, are you sure there isn’t something wrong?’

‘It’s imperative that I get back in contact with her before she leaves Oxford. Can you hunt out her details for me please?’

Giving Charles a strange look, the librarian beckoned him behind the desk. He opened a box of filing cards and began walking his fingers through them. ‘Here we are. Dr Amélie Préfontaine.’

Charles shook his head. ‘No, her name is Nicole.’

‘The tall girl? French accent?’

‘Yes.’

‘Carried a big canvas bag.’

‘That’s her, yes.’

‘It says here Dr Préfontaine.’

Charles realised that he was frowning, and that Pendlehurst was beginning to look uneasy.

‘If something odd is going on,’ said the librarian, ‘I think you should tell me. She was looking at some very rare manuscripts while she was here.’

‘No, it’s fine. I must have misheard her. Thank you, Pendlehurst.’

The card details revealed an Oxford address and a local number. Charles walked across the street to a telephone box. It was sweltering inside the booth. He loosened his tie. Picking up the receiver, he pushed ten pence into the slot and dialled the number. It rang fifteen times before someone answered. He heard static on the line.

‘
Oui?
’ A female voice. But not the girl’s. This woman sounded much older.

‘Hello?’ He listened to the crackle and pop of the connection, framed by the woman’s breathing.

The voice came back in heavily accented French. ‘Who is this please?’

‘My name is Charles Meredith. Professor Charles Meredith. I lecture at Balliol. I’d like to speak to Dr Amélie Préfontaine.’

A pause. Then, ‘
Je suis desolée.
There is no Amélie here.’

‘Wait. What about . . . Nicole Dubois?’

This time he heard an intake of breath, followed by rapid French in the background, too faint to make out. The woman on the other end of the telephone covered the mouthpiece. The muffled sounds of conversation continued. He could hear the alarm in both voices but not the words. The clarity of the line was suddenly restored.

‘Jakab.’ She spat the name at him.

‘No, this is Charles—’

‘
Démon
.
Allez au diable
!
’ The line went dead.

Charles recoiled from the handset, shocked at the vitriol in the woman’s voice. He stared at the receiver for several seconds before replacing it in the cradle. Despite the heat inside the phone box, goose bumps had risen on the flesh of his forearms. He opened the door of the booth and stepped out into the fresh air outside. Then, without understanding why, unaware of how his next actions would echo though every single day of his remaining years, Charles Meredith broke into a sprint towards his car.

Phoenix Avenue, the address on the library card, was only five minutes through the centre of the city. Perhaps longer in Saturday traffic. But not if he was aggressive. A conviction filled him that if he did not act now, immediately, his chance to see her again would be lost.

His car was parked near the same tree as the day before. Today, a Triumph Stag. After his shaming yesterday, he had left the Jaguar at home, uncomfortable at the degree of opulence it suggested. Right now he could have found good use for it. No matter. The Stag was still a powerful car.

Charles slid in behind the steering wheel and slammed the door. After reversing into the street he accelerated along St Giles and past the Ashmolean on Beaumont Street.

You’re
insane
, he told himself, as he sped through the city.
You’ve met this girl three times. The one thing you thought you knew about her turned out to be a lie, and that telephone conversation was not just unusual, it was downright chilling
.

Arriving at a crossroads, he braked hard behind an Austin Cambridge held up by a red light. Phoenix Avenue lay to his left, a long tree-lined row of Victorian redbrick townhouses. As he waited for the lights to change he spotted a green Hillman Hunter at the kerb, a hundred yards along the avenue. It sat outside a decrepit-looking three-storey townhouse, the front garden overgrown to weeds. Nicole Dubois was hurrying down the front steps. She was guiding an older woman with a white shawl draped across her shoulders. Both of their faces looked drawn with fear. Nicole shepherded the woman into the passenger seat and closed the door.

At the junction, the lights still glowed red, vehicles crossing from both directions. Nicole went to the back of the car. She threw two large bags into the boot, ran to the driver’s side and jumped in.

Through the Austin’s rear-view mirror, Charles made eye contact with its driver, willing him to move. But there was nowhere for him to go.

A belch of blue smoke erupted from the Hillman. Nicole pulled away from the kerb and headed away up the avenue.

In frustration, Charles rammed his fist down on the horn. The driver of the Austin frowned.

‘Come on, come
on
.’

The Hillman followed the curve of Phoenix Avenue and disappeared around the corner. In front, the stream of traffic ceased. The lights changed to amber, then green. When the Austin remained stationary, he hammered the horn again as the driver continued to frown at him.

Charles ran out of patience. He hauled the wheel clockwise and stamped on the accelerator. Overtaking the car in front, he spun the wheel to the left and cut across it, foot flat to the floor, tyres protesting.

Accelerating up the avenue, he followed it for two hundred yards before reaching a tail of traffic at a T-junction. The Hillman was nowhere in sight. The two cars in front of him pulled away, one to the right and one to the left.

Sitting at the top of the junction, Charles slapped his hands on the steering wheel. Which direction? To go left would take him north, skirting anticlockwise around the city. Turning right would take him to the London Road and the motorway. He had no time to debate his options further. The latter seemed a sensible choice so he swung the Stag to the right and felt its three-litre V8 press his seat into his spine as he moved up through the gears.

Within minutes, houses on both sides gave way to fields. He overtook a lumbering Talbot Sunbeam and found clear wide road in front of him. Charles watched the needle on the speedometer creep past eighty. He marvelled at his new-found recklessness. But Nicole – or Amélie, or whatever she was really called – was fleeing, and the only way he was going to catch her was by taking a risk.

He saw the green glint of a car in the distance.

Spurred on, Charles pushed the Stag harder. He quickly closed the distance between himself and the Hillman and had to brake violently as he came up behind her. He knew she would not be able to hear his horn at this speed so he flashed his lights instead. The distance between them was too great to see her clearly in her rear-view mirror. He jinked the car left and right, flashing his lights again to attract her attention.

In front, the older woman strained around in the passenger seat. Then, instead of slowing, the Hillman began to gain speed. Both cars were rapidly approaching the rear of a large articulated lorry. The Hillman swerved out into the oncoming lane. It overtook the lorry and canted back in front of it just in time to avoid a collision with a car heading towards them.

‘Jesus Christ!’

What was she doing?

The artic swerved, rocking back and forth on its suspension. Its air-horn blasted.

Hugging close to the back of the lorry, Charles was forced to wait for another three cars to pass in the opposite lane before he could overtake. It took him a further minute to close the distance to her Hillman again.

She was not going to stop for his flashing lights, but his Stag was a far more powerful car. Checking the road ahead was clear, he pulled out to the right and accelerated. She anticipated the move, also moving right, and he braked just in time to avoid clipping the Hillman’s rear.

Charles pulled back in behind her, swearing and shaken.

Perhaps thinking that he was going to try the same move on her left, she swerved to block him. This time she reacted too aggressively and as the car rocked over, its left-side wheels drifted on to the grass of the siding. Brake lights flared red, and suddenly the back end of her car was weaving wildly. Charles went right to avoid the fish-tailing Hillman, which bobbed, slid, and veered off the road towards the field on its left. It tore through brambles, hit a bank. The front end reared up and the car lifted into the air, sailing clear of a hedgerow. It seemed to hang in the air for an age. Then the front end nosed downwards and smashed into the field’s sun-baked earth.

The first impact tore off its front wheels. Glass shattered. Metal body panels sheared and spun away. The Hillman bounced, steaming and smoking. When it landed a second time, it slewed around to the right.

With shocking and violent energy, the vehicle flipped.

C
HAPTER
3

Snowdonia

Now

Hannah Wilde was still gripping Nate’s hand in the kitchen of Llyn Gwyr
when something hammered against the front door of the farmhouse. Her stomach muscles clenched and she felt herself doubling over, as if reacting to a physical blow. Panic swelled in her, a tangible pressure in her chest. For a long moment she felt too frightened to think or move. Her eyes darted to the darkened hallway. They returned to her husband’s face.

A single unvoiced question: who?

For the space of three breaths, silence dominated. Then the hammering resumed. Four heavy resounding bangs that made her flinch as each one landed.

Leah
.

Her daughter was still asleep in the back of the Discovery.

Alone. Unguarded.

Hannah felt her scalp shrinking, her skin prickling.

How could anyone have found them so soon? Even her father didn’t know their whereabouts. Hours earlier he had made Hannah promise not to tell him which of the safe-houses she was heading for. It meant he was less able to betray her, less likely to endanger them.

Surely no one could have followed them here? She would have spotted their headlights. It would have been suicidal to attempt the winding mountain roads without them. Unless, of course, they had other means to follow.

She needed to think. Act.

It was pointless trying to pretend that nobody was home. Anyone standing outside the porch would see the glow of candlelight spilling into the hall. And she knew that whoever this intruder was, he – it would be a
he
, she was certain of that – would not be diverted simply because she refused to answer the door.

While it felt monstrous, she thought Leah was probably safer in the car for now, wrapped in the darkness behind the house. If only she had locked the Discovery’s doors.

Hannah disengaged her hand from Nate’s. She moved to the doorway of the unlit hall. Stepped through it. Kept close to the wall, balancing on the balls of her feet. All the while her fear maintained a physical presence in her chest, forcing her to take quick shallow breaths.

Enveloped in shadow, she crept across bare wooden floorboards. Past a staircase leading to the first floor. Towards the end of the hall.

The air here was frigid after the warmth of the kitchen. Beneath her feet, the boards flexed, threatened to creak. Ahead stood the front door. Solid oak, except for a bulbous glass pane. On each side, leaded half-windows allowed a trickle of moonlight to pool on the floor.

Hannah eased closer until she had a view through the nearest window out to the porch.

No one stood outside.

She craned her head further. Held her breath. Kept the rest of her body concealed. She now had a clear view of the entire front drive. Still no sign of their intruder. But something else. Something just as frightening.

An ancient Land Rover Defender now stood on the gravel a few yards from the door. This close, she could hear the tick of its engine as it cooled.

Claws of panic punctured her skin, clenched her intestines. Twisted. Whoever the driver of the Defender was, if he wasn’t outside the front of Llyn Gwyr, he was probably moving around the side of the farmhouse.

Back towards the Discovery.

And Leah.

A moan escaped her. Breaking cover, all sense of stealth forgotten, she sprinted down the hall to the kitchen.

‘
Han!
’

On the sofa, Nate had removed the oxygen regulator. His face was translucent. A death mask. As she passed him he reached out and his fingers closed on her wrist, his strength as delicate as cobwebs. When he pulled her to him, his voice was little more than breath against her cheek. ‘Pantry . . . left shelf.’ His eyes rolled with the effort of talking. ‘Shotgun. Loaded last time I checked.’

‘Leah’s outside.’ Hannah heard herself sob. A wretched sound. She was losing her husband. Perhaps her daughter too.

‘Go.’

She stepped towards the pantry door. Sensing movement, she glanced around at the kitchen windows and saw something butt its face up against the glass.

The candlelight had transformed the windows into flaming mirrors, reflecting everything except what lay directly behind them. In the window beside the door, a large dog stared in at her, front paws resting on the sill. Hannah halted halfway across the kitchen, locked into the gaze of its rust-coloured eyes. Although the transforming effect of the candlelight disguised its true colouring, she saw a muscular chest covered by a short, thick coat.

Hannah remained motionless until another face appeared behind the glass. This time she gasped and took a step backwards as she saw not another dog, but a man.

He was ancient. At least eighty. Tall in defiance of his age. Deep lines and creases ran in patterns across his face. Little fat or flesh clung to his bones. A fuzz of white hair, cropped close, covered his head and a mist of stubble sprouted on hollow cheeks. His eyes startled her the most. They shone bright, green, and wicked, sparkling with the flicker of reflected flames. The instant he noticed her he froze, and they stared at each other, both of them still.

The dog skittered a paw across the glass and tilted its head. It barked once and began to whine, the thin sound discordant over the wind’s voice. Without taking his eyes off Hannah, the stranger raised a hand and caressed the animal’s ears. Immediately it fell silent.

Hannah retreated a step towards Nate, grateful that the high back of the sofa concealed his presence. As if sensing her thoughts, the dog glanced over at where he lay.

The old man lifted up his hands. ‘Didn’t mean to startle you,’ he shouted. His voice was strong, as dry as straw, and his accent was strange: an influence of Welsh laid over something less identifiable.

Could this really be him?

She could think of nothing that would have allowed him to find them so quickly. Had he simply made a fatefully lucky guess?

‘What do you want?’ Hannah surprised herself with the steel in her voice. She forced herself to avoid looking down at Nate. There was nothing he could do; she was in this alone.

‘Saw your lights approaching from my place. Just seeing if everything’s all right, is all.’ The old man moved towards the door. As he passed the window she risked a glance down. Nate had lapsed back into unconsciousness. The oxygen regulator lay useless on his chest.

Her eyes snapped back up. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘Not been people at Llyn Gwyr for a long while. Sometimes when a place lies empty around here, you get trouble turning up. Making itself at home when it’s got no business doing so. Damn fool time of night to be making a visit, if you ask me.’

‘I wasn’t.’

He continued to stare at her, his intentions unreadable in the furrows of his face. ‘There’s a young girl sleeping in your car. She yours?’

Hannah felt a scream building. At least it would relieve some of the pressure. Nate was waning, his life trickling away every moment she delayed. Leah was stranded in the Discovery, cut off from Hannah by this outlandish stranger and his creature. Her throat throbbed with clenched emotion. ‘My daughter.’

‘Are you trouble?’ he asked. If truly this was Jakab, the odd exchange of words was nothing she had previously contemplated.

‘No. We’re not trouble.’

He nodded. ‘Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. Maybe you are, and just don’t know it. For a moment I thought you might be robbers, or at least people up to no good. But now I’ve seen you. Well, there never was much of value here to start with, I suppose.’

Hannah sorted through her options. She had no weapon to hand. Nate had told her of the shotgun, but the kitchen door was unlocked, and in the time it took her to get into the pantry, he would be inside the house. If she needed more than a second to locate the weapon, or if Nate’s recollection was wrong, then it would all be over. Yet what if the old man was genuine?

He turned his eyes up to the skies, as if losing interest. ‘This storm’s going to roll in any moment. Just figured if you were alone, you might need help getting the power on.’

Hannah forced herself to make a decision. She could not trust this stranger’s identity or his intentions. But if he was really from a neighbouring farm out on a mission of charity, she could not risk rousing his suspicions. More than anything, she needed help.

You have to take a chance. Please God let this be the right one.

Senses screaming, she walked to the kitchen door, and before she could change her mind she opened it. Wind eddied into the room, baring teeth of ice. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You just startled me. Let’s start again. It’s good of you to check up.’

Fanned by the air rushing into the room, the flames in the hearth set emeralds dancing in the old man’s eyes. ‘Don’t need an apology. Sometimes when you live out here alone, you forget how to treat with people.’ He held out a hand, the skin around his eyes crinkling. ‘They call me Sebastien.’

Hannah hesitated. She focused on steadying the shakes that tried to betray her. Reached out her hand.

If he grabs me, I’ll scream. But it won’t matter. It’ll be too late. I will have failed them
.

She felt the old man’s fingers close on her hand. His skin felt like soft denim, dry and warm. He gripped her hand. Tight.

And then he let go.

Sebastien indicated the dog. ‘This here’s Moses. It’s been a time, but there used to be a diesel generator in your outhouse. If the motor hasn’t seized, I could try getting it started for you. Won’t give you any hot water but at least you’ll have light. Why don’t you get your little sprite inside while Moses and I go and take a look?’

‘You’re very kind. Thank you.’

She didn’t know nearly enough about who he was and why he was here, and something about him unsettled her. But that would have to wait. Hannah watched as he whistled to his dog, pulled up the collar of his Barbour and turned away. He walked out of the candlelight towards the stone buildings.

Whatever happens, don’t leave him alone with Nate
.

If she allowed that, she faced losing the one thing to which she could cling: the knowledge, the utter conviction, that the man lying on the sofa was the father of her child, the man she loved, her confidant, her friend. Hannah opened the kitchen door, ducked outside and ran towards the 4x4.

The wind battered her, furious, and tried to push her back inside the house. Gusts flung squalls of stinging rain. She lifted an arm across her face, screwed up her eyes. Peering through the darkness at the car, she wondered what she would do if her daughter wasn’t inside. The thought nearly made her retch.

Don’t think about it. Not yet
.

Moving to the Discovery’s rear door, she wrenched it open and found Leah illuminated in the milky glow of the overhead light.

Relief. Joy. Anguish.

What would you have done if she’d gone? What would you have done, Hannah?

Trying not to wake the girl, she unfastened the seat belt, gathered her daughter into her arms and carried her across the driveway to the house. In one of the outbuildings, she saw torchlight and heard the clacking of a hand crank.

Back inside Llyn Gwyr’s
kitchen, she lowered Leah into an armchair. The girl opened her eyes, blinked. Hannah hushed her, pressing a cushion into her arms. She smoothed her daughter’s hair until Leah closed her eyes again and curled up.

She turned to Nate. Lifted back his blanket. Spots of blood had begun to stain the bandages that bound his dressings.

The kitchen door banged open and before she could cry out to stop him, Sebastien walked inside, wiping his feet on the mat. He flicked the light switch. When the overhead bulb winked on, he nodded to himself. ‘Reckon you’ve got enough diesel to get you through two or three nights. Tomorrow you need to check your LP tank. You might have warmth now, but there’s not much wood in your store and with the roof blown in, what you’ve got is soaked. If there’s any left, the gas should give you hot water. If there isn’t, you need to order some. Not wise to be unprepared up in these mountains. Especially when there’s little folk around.’ He turned towards the door. ‘Moses, come. Let’s get this door shut.’

Hannah rose to her feet as the dog trotted inside. When the old man closed the door, she felt her muscles tense. He opened his mouth to say something further, and then he seemed to notice her alarm. This time her eyes betrayed her. She glanced down at her husband.

Sebastien leaned over the sofa. He stared down at Nate. At the blood dried to his milk-white face. At the oxygen tank. The regulator.

Without a word, he reached out and laid two fingers against the pulse point on her husband’s neck.

He looked up at Hannah. ‘Thought you weren’t trouble.’

‘We’re not.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I reckon you need more help than I thought.’ He licked his lips. ‘You want to be straight with me. Pretty quick. This boy’s as good as dead.’

She sobbed. ‘Don’t say that.’

‘Doesn’t mean he
is
dead.’ Sebastien rounded the sofa and knelt down at Nate’s side, knees cracking. He lifted back the blanket and surveyed the dressings. ‘You want my help?’

‘Yes.’

He raised his head and his eyes pierced her. ‘You’re willing to do as I say and tell me exactly what I ask?’

‘Anything.’

‘What happened?’

‘He was stabbed. Twice.’ Tears streamed down her face. ‘I don’t know if his lung is punctured. I can’t tell.’

‘When did it happen?’

‘Five hours ago.’

‘And you didn’t take him to a hospital? You’re a bloody fool.’

‘I know. I
know
.’

‘As good as killing him.’

‘Don’t. Please.’

‘Who stabbed him?’

‘I . . .’ She hesitated. How could she explain that?

‘I said be straight with me,’ he snapped. ‘Never mind. You can tell me later. For now, stay here. Moses?
Légy résen.
’

The dog moved around the sofa and sat down on its haunches, close to Nate.