Who Wants to Live Forever? (26 page)

***

“And do you believe it all?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but I was there. I saw her change before my eyes until there was nothing left but dust. I don’t want to believe it, but I have to.”

“But how could…? I mean, all those years…I don’t…and she wanted to meet me too, to…”

“I know, love, I know. But she’s gone now. You’re safe. Everybody’s safe.”

“So what are you going to do? Tell the police?”

“Tell them what? Even if I show them the diary, they wouldn’t believe me. This sort of thing just doesn’t happen in real life. Except it has.”

“What about the others? Trish and Louise? Are you going to tell them?”

I thought for a few moments. “Yes, I will. But not everything. They don’t need to know about the book, and they don’t need to know about what happened to…the aging, I mean. I’ll stick to my story that she overpowered me and escaped. The police can search for her, and that should satisfy everybody. They won’t find her, of course, and even if they realise her latest persona only existed for the last few years, they’ll never find out the real story.”

***

I left it until Julie had returned home before I contacted Trish. She had taken some time off work, trying to come to terms with the fact that a killer had been in our midst all the time, although I don’t think she fully appreciated what had taken place.

Louise was in hospital until the Friday, and Trish and I arranged to go and see her that night and return her key. As we arrived Roger was just leaving, and from the look on Louise’s face when we entered I guessed that he was the R… that she had mentioned.

After I’d recounted the story, we all sat in silence for a few minutes, lost in our own private thoughts. I had mumbled something about copycat killings as I could find no way of even attempting to explain the killer’s longevity, and Louise leapt to the conclusion that the killers must have been several generations of the same family. I said nothing to try and dissuade her from that idea.

Trish had been holding my hand throughout my narrative, and she made no attempt to let go of it now that I’d finished. I enjoyed the warm feeling, and hoped there would be many more occasions when we could be together like this. After what had happened, I welcomed the chance for some normality.

It was time to leave, as Louise still needed her rest. She confirmed that Roger would be coming to see her again in the morning, and we knew she would be well looked after. As she walked us to the door Louise grabbed hold of my arm. There was a frightened look in her eye, as if she’d just realised something that we’d all missed. “She got away. That means she’s still out there, somewhere. It might still happen.”

“No, it can’t,” I said, hoping to reassure her. The deadline has passed. It was yesterday or never.”

“That’s as maybe, but what about next time? In another eleven years?”

I hadn’t considered that. Thinking quickly, I replied, “There won’t be a next time. The ritual required a killing every eleven years. It didn’t happen last night as Debbie didn’t get away from me until after midnight. The cycle has been broken. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Nevertheless, I’m going to check the newspapers and see if there are any reports of strange deaths yesterday.”

I smiled as I left the flat. “I wouldn’t expect anything else of you, Louise. But it will never happen again. You have my word on that.”

Chapter Nineteen

Afterword – Summer 2022

I am alone in my new house; it’s nice to have some time to myself, for it has been a busy last decade. Ten years! It is hard to believe that so much time has passed since it all occurred. I’m old, now, in my seventieth year. But I’m content with the way things have turned out.

The events of that night were the catalyst that brought Trish and I closer together. We became a couple, and we bought this house only three months ago — I’ve even developed a liking for
Coronation Street
. Trish is away at the moment, as she’s gone to visit some friends in Yorkshire. She’ll be back at the weekend.

We keep in touch with Louise — it wouldn’t be natural not to, given what we shared — and we go out for dinner every November thirtieth. Roger is always Louise’s ‘plus one’, though he doesn’t understand exactly what the reason is for the get-together. We three are still the only ones who know what happened, and I’m the only one who knows the full story. Apart from Julie, of course. And Gary. Those two have no secrets from each other.

Julie still lives in Hampshire with her husband, and now they have two children, Freya and Dylan – I sometimes think she deliberately chose their names in defiance of the ‘eleven letters’ rule. All four of them came to visit us last week, and we see them several times a year. Trish loves the grandchildren almost as much as if they were the offspring of her own daughter.

Gary now lives in London where he teaches England as a Second Language to immigrant students. I think, deep down, he would still prefer to travel the world, but on his last visit to South America, five years ago, tragedy almost struck. While in the Peruvian jungle, he was bitten by a mosquito, and contracted a severe form of yellow fever. At one point, it was touch and go as to whether he’d survive until his return to England, but once back home he made a complete recovery. The incident caused him to reappraise his life, and he made the decision to stay in England and settle down. He married Abby, one of the other teachers in the department, last Christmas, so it might not be too long before we have more grandchildren to spoil.

As for Gail and Emma, I haven’t seen either of them for years. Louise told us that Emma moved out of the flats. I’ve no idea where she ended up, but I hope that, like Gail, she was able to rebuild her life.

I occasionally think about Eve, and everything that she wrote down. Was she deluded, believing in an impossibility, or was she telling the truth? I’ve always been something of a sceptic, but this time I know what seems impossible actually happened. After all, didn’t she turn to dust before my eyes? What could be more conclusive than that? She said the book is still out there, almost as if it is waiting for fulfilment; waiting for somebody to get it right.

She made mistakes; she knew that. She tried to make a game of it, leaving clues in case anybody was clever enough to solve them. And, at the last, that was what caused her downfall. Without the needless desire to make everything follow her neat pattern, nobody would ever have known what she was up to, not even after the deed had been done. I still shudder at the thought.

I occasionally think about the diary, although I haven’t looked at it for more than a year now. I kept it in my bedside drawer ever since that night, and that was where it remained until yesterday — we were burgled while I was taking Trish to the station to catch her train. Strangely, the burglar only took the diary, although he or she had rifled through the drawers as they searched for something of value. I haven’t reported the break-in. What’s the point? It’s time to let go of the past; the future is all that matters.

Chapter Twenty

Quebec — Wednesday November 30
^th
2022

Mike stands outside the office of HR Director Michael Ryan, waiting for his appointment to discuss a possible position with A&M Holdings (Quebec) Ltd. He has no interest in taking the job, and is there only to meet his namesake.

He doesn’t need to work. The last few years have turned out to be very profitable, ever since his first stretch inside following the incident with that woman from the college course. He had been amazed even then at how much he learnt when in prison; it was far more educational than any schooling he had undertaken. Breaking and entering was amongst the first of his new skills.

It is strange how everything seems to come back to that course. Who would have thought, when he burgled that house a few months ago, that it would belong to two more of those people? He never forgets a face, and he shivers involuntarily at the memory of seeing the photograph of them on their mantelpiece. How gross at their age! He knew from that second that he was going to enjoy stealing from them far more than he had from any of his other victims.

And then he found that diary in the old codger’s bedside drawer. Suddenly, nothing else mattered; he knew he had his hands on the one item of real value. He could almost feel the book calling to him across the ocean.

Looking out of the window, he sees the antiquarian bookshop where he found it all those weeks ago. It was exactly as the woman had described it in the diary. He doesn’t know what became of her, but the book still throbs with vitality, so he knows it is still as powerful as when she found it more than a century earlier.

Now he has made the pledge, and all is ready. In five more minutes, he will become acquainted with his first victim. And after that — well, when he broke into that house, he noticed the names of some of Hudson’s family amongst the papers he found in the drawers. Perhaps some of the others from that course will also have family that fulfil the criteria of eleven? It will be fitting to spend the next century continually wreaking vengeance on those who blighted him.

Who wants to live forever? Mike smiles. He does.

Enjoyed Steve Wilson’s
Who Wants to Live Forever?

Then turn the page for an exclusive extract from T. A. Williams’ new book
The Room on the Second Floor

Chapter 1

The campus clock struck four. She went over to the post tray and started collecting the day’s letters. As she bent forward, she sensed eyes on her. Turning round, her heart sank. She saw it was Edgar Lean, lurking at the open door of her office. She wasn’t the sort of girl who would ever want to be rude to anybody, but his habit of sneaking up on her had started to give her the creeps. Nevertheless, she managed to summon up a weak smile. Confrontation wasn’t her way.

‘Afternoon, Linda.’

‘Good afternoon, Edgar.’

‘Anything I can help you with?’ He was staring at her fixedly. His eyes were wide open, unblinking.

‘No, I’m fine thanks.’ As always, she felt uncomfortable in his presence. She nodded towards the pile of letters. ‘Sorry I can’t stop and talk. I’m afraid I’m busy.’ She turned her back on him, hoping he would take the hint.

All was quiet for a minute or two. Then, behind her, she heard steps. There was a movement and, to her horror, she felt a touch on her bottom. She squeaked with indignation and spun round.

But Edgar Lean had left. In his place, she was confronted with the tall figure of Roger Dalby, an expression of embarrassment on his face. Now, he was a very different kettle of fish. Her indignation left her and she gave him a warm smile.

‘Hi, Linda, sorry if I startled you.’ He was carrying a large cardboard box. The dog-eared label read,
12
^th
-century records
. The dust-covered box looked little younger than the contents. The corner that had bumped into her gaped open. Ancient sticky tape looked to be the only thing holding it together.

‘Sorry about that. I wasn’t really paying attention.’

Nothing new there. He rarely left the twelfth century. She leant forward to give him a hand. Just at that very moment, the box finally gave way.

‘Oh, blast.’

Papers cascaded onto the floor. He dropped to his knees and started collecting them up again.

‘Here, let me help you.’

She knelt down beside him and started picking up grubby old files, marked variously
Knights Templar
,
Bernard of Clairvaux
and
Cistercians
. He raised his eyes towards her. Her face was little more than a foot from his. So close, he could smell her perfume. For one crazy moment he wondered what would happen if he were to throw his arms around her and kiss her.

But that was not his way, either.

The papers all collected, she stood up again.

‘Roger.’

He looked up sheepishly from the floor.

‘This letter has just come in. It looks important. Maybe you should open it straightaway.’ She held it out to him as he pulled himself to his feet. He carefully placed his papers on the table before taking the letter from her, relishing the slight physical contact as their fingers touched.

The long, stiff envelope was marked Private and Confidential. To be opened by the recipient in person.

‘Very formal. Who on earth can that be from?’ He was puzzled.

‘It seems to be a firm of solicitors, if you look on the back of the envelope.’ She suddenly blushed. ‘Not that I’ve been…I mean I wouldn’t…’ Her voice tailed off, but he was quick to reassure her.

‘Of course not, Linda. Now let’s see…um… Henderson Brothers and Healy. A local firm. Definitely legal by the looks of it. Here’s hoping it’s not a summons.’

He took the proffered paper knife and carefully made an incision. Inside were a number of folded sheets. He opened the covering letter and read it. As he did so, his eyes widened. He broke into reading out loud.

‘
Acting in accordance with the wishes of Mr Eustace McKinnon (deceased), as expressed in his last will and testament…
My word, I don’t believe it…
Toplingham Manor…all the land and appurtenances…
Good lord, Linda, Uncle Eustace has died and he’s…he’s…’ His voice faltered. She leapt towards him protectively.

He slumped into his chair and took a big gulp of air before continuing in shocked tones, ‘I do believe Uncle Eustace has left me a fortune.’

Linda stood beside the chair and debated whether a peck on the cheek would be appropriate, given the circumstances. All her instincts were crying out to throw her arms around his neck and smother him in kisses, but, as ever, she controlled herself. In the end, she contented herself with a few words of encouragement.

The news went round the university like wildfire. Within a very few days, everybody had heard of Roger’s good fortune and the way this would affect his plans for the future. And theirs. Not everybody was pleased.

‘You’ve heard the news?’ Amanda could see she had.

‘Mmh.’ Rosie was staring miserably into the remains of her cappuccino. Term had officially finished and the all the undergraduates had fled. Along with a few other postgrads, the two girls were just about the only people in the coffee bar. ‘I heard yesterday. Linda told me. It won’t be the same place without him.’