He interrupted. ‘Of course, you had your exhibition there recently. I read about it in the paper. Did it go well?’
‘Yes... It attracted many members of the family.’ She risked a smile. ‘My best customers, of course.’ She paused. ‘But there was one... I had not met him before. He said he’d been travelling abroad.’
Even now, several weeks after the event, her heart had begun to race as she started to recount her story. She had told everything to her cousin Noah before of course, but still, it made her feel cold. She could not speak without shaking. This, more than what she had witnessed and experienced, unnerved her. Normally, she always felt strong, nothing could ruffle her feathers. What naiveté!
Aninka’s story: Cresterfield, July
The gallery had been one of those austere, over lit places, not to her taste at all. As usual the opening night had attracted the art elite of the town, a breed Aninka despised. She smiled at them pleasantly, nodded at their conversation while thinking of more interesting things. Noah and two other cousins, Tearah and Rachel, had come to offer support; she’d been seeing a lot of them recently. There had been plans to move on to a Thai restaurant later — just the four of them. They were confident they could sneak away without having to take Leonora Ramwithe, the gallery proprietor, and her excruciating husband, with them. Then he had arrived. His height alerted Aninka to the possibility he might be Grigori immediately, and she had whispered to Rachel, ‘Who’s that? Ours, by any chance?’
Rachel had not known him either.
He had not come over to them directly, but had wandered around, wine glass in hand, to inspect Aninka’s paintings. She winced as he paused at the piece she considered the weakest. He was certainly her type: rather forbidding in appearance, dressed in tight black leather trousers and a loose dark shirt. His dusty looking fair hair hung unbound down his back. ‘Go and speak to him,’ she said to Rachel.
Her cousin, a willowy, frail looking girl, gave her a quizzical glance. ‘Am I to be your procuress tonight?’ she teased. ‘What about our private meal?’
‘I am curious. I was not suggesting we break bread together,’ Aninka answered.
Rachel shook her head. ‘He is clearly one of us. He’ll come over himself shortly.’
But what if he didn’t? Aninka noticed Leonora glide over to the new arrival in her bloated cloud of chiffon. The gallery owner gestured widely as she spoke about the paintings. A proprietorial paw touched the newcomer’s shoulder. Aninka could tell he would soon be gathered up and sucked into Leonora’s clique for the rest of the night. But then, the moment had to come. Leonora looked in her direction. He had asked her about the artist. Presently, a billowing descent, newcomer in tow.
‘This is Aninka Prussoe,’ said Leonora, as if the artist was a fitting of the gallery, fixed to the wall.
He had smiled. ‘A pretty name. Are you foreign?’
‘Yes, very.’
He had taken her hand, kissed it. The gesture was corny, if not vile. Still, she felt elated. His beauty, at close hand, was ever more stunning.
‘Your work is interesting,’ he said. ‘A Pre-Raphaelite revival? Should sell a lot as prints.’
Am I supposed to care you disapprove? she thought, instinctively bridling. ‘I paint what I like. This is what I like. Modern art does little for me.’
‘Aninka is very successful,’ Leonora added, needlessly. It was clear the newcomer had dismissed the woman from his attention.
‘And you are?’ Tearah demanded. She was more imperious than either of her female cousins, and more heavily built. A Grigori Amazon with chestnut hair, which she wore cropped, for some reason.
He’d bowed to her. ‘Othman. Peverel Othman.’
Inevitably, he’d accompanied them to the restaurant. The cousins had been guarded, unable to decide whether Othman was Grigori or not. At times he seemed to drop hints, yet when a carefully probing question was delivered, gave the unexpected answer. Rachel and Aninka decamped to the Ladies’ Room. Here, they discussed Othman. They could reach no clear conclusion. He appeared to be Grigori, having the same dress sense and appearance, yet he might simply a be a tall outsider who was drawn to the Look. Many people were. It had been quite in vogue for nearly two decades now.
Othman had told them he’d been travelling, and had spoken of the places he’d visited: India, Norway, France. There seemed no pattern. He’d asked Aninka a lot of questions about her work, especially the subject matter. ‘You clearly emulate Waterhouse and his ilk, yet you have painted mythologies they rarely touched.’
‘I am not a plagiarist,’ Aninka answered. ‘Babylonian mythology interests me a great deal. I feel there is much to be learned from it about the current world.’ That was a big enough hint, surely. He did not seem to recognise it as such.
‘It’s all very Biblical, though. Are you a religious woman?’
‘It’s pre-Biblical, actually,’ Aninka said. ‘The stories of those times are very colourful. It has nothing to do with Judaeo-Christian religion.’
Still, he did not respond. He could not be Grigori, then, surely, unless he was playing with them.
At the end of the meal, he asked if he could call her. She gave him her phone number. ‘Are you staying here long?’
‘Depends on what I find to interest me,’ he’d answered.
He did not call her for over two weeks, by which time, she’d given up on him.
Enniel paused Aninka’s discourse at this point. He went to his desk and pressed one of the buttons on a tape recorder. Aninka hadn’t realised he’d been taping their conversation. ‘This is only the beginning,’ she said. ‘There’s so much more.’
‘I know that,’ Enniel replied, ‘but I don’t want to tire you. I want you to recall everything in detail, and there’s no rush.’
Aninka rubbed her forehead. A headache was starting. ‘Do you never think about what a burden our heritage is to us?’
Enniel laughed. ‘A common complaint of the young! My dear, if you insist on spending so much time among humans, you will start thinking like them.’
Aninka felt a hot surge of irritation pass through her. ‘I’m claustrophobic amongst family. To be honest, most of the time I want to forget what I am.’
‘And it seems you have been unusually successful,’ Enniel remarked lightly, ‘otherwise you wouldn’t have found yourself in that unsavoury situation.’
Chapter Four
Saturday, 17th October, Little Moor
On Saturday morning, the traveller rose up from his bed of ferns and heather. He looked around himself, hunting for signs. There it was: the flash of light. He moved without stiffness towards it; a star in the sky, the reflection of light on glass. Mid-morning, he found a cluster of houses nestling in the cupped hands of a valley. The road that led to it was hewn into the land itself, its high banks thick with seeding grasses. There was a deep, loamy smell, as if some elemental creature was breathing hard beneath the soil. He came to a crossroads where a black and white sign pointed towards the houses and said, ‘Little Moor’. Little more than what? wondered the traveller, smiling to himself. The other roads, it would seem, led to nowhere.
Verity Cranton was roused from peaceful sleep by the insistent ringing of the doorbell. For a moment, she was disoriented and couldn’t remember what day it was. She glanced at her bedside clock; eight-thirty. Early for someone to come calling. Strange. Louis was generally out of bed by eight every morning, so she lay waiting for him to answer the door. Some quality of the ringing had awakened a memory within her. The urgency of it. She thought of heralds, news, bad news. The ringing came again. Where was her father? Reluctantly, Verity got out of bed. She shrugged herself into her dressing-gown as she walked across the landing. Whoever was at the door now had their finger pressed continuously on the bell.
‘All right, all right,’ Verity muttered beneath her breath. What could be so urgent? She wondered, briefly, whether something could have happened to Daniel, and then ran down the stairs, filled wi
th a brutal optimism.
A whey-faced man in a grey suit stood in the porch. ‘Miss Cranton?’ he said.
Verity pulled the collar of her dressing-gown together. The air was chill, the garden beyond the door still and empty. There was a strange, static quality to the morning. The moment before she answered the question seemed abnormally long. ‘Yes. What do you want?’
She was waiting for it. Is Daniel Cranton your brother? She was almost smiling.
The man was clutching a briefcase. ‘I am Oswald Grise.’ He proffered her a business card, which revealed he was a solicitor. ‘I have come to collect you. You were notified.’
‘No, I wasn’t. I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’d better explain.’
The man frowned in slight impatience. ‘Miss Cranton, I think you’re aware of why I’m here. You did sign the contract. And you were notified of the date.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We have two hours’ drive ahead of us. Perhaps I could come in and wait while you get ready to leave?’ He made to step over the threshold, but Verity would not let him pass.
‘There is obviously some of kind of mistake. I really don’t know what you’re talking about. What contract? What date?’ She had begun to feel uneasy, even threatened, to the point where she wished Louis would make an appearance.
‘The marriage,’ said the man. ‘Your marriage.’
Verity uttered a shocked laugh. ‘You have the wrong person, I’m afraid! I’m not getting married. You’ve come to the wrong house.’
‘I’ve come to the right house. Please don’t delay any longer, Miss Cranton. We’re cutting it fine as it is.’
‘This is a joke,’ Verity said. ‘Just who am I supposed to be marrying?’
Grise looked at her in disbelief. Verity realised he thought she was lying, covering up. This was absurd.
‘You are due to marry Mr Ambleton at 12 noon today. Mr Anthony Ambleton. Surely you remember.’
Verity’s vision went momentarily black. She could not draw breath. For a terrifying few seconds, she wondered whether she really had signed some kind of contract, and subsequently erased the memory of it from her mind. Was that possible? Then, bewilderment and fear were replaced by anger. ‘Go away!’ she hissed. ‘Get off my property!’ She made to close the door in Grise’s face, but he stepped forward quickly and prevented it.
‘Now, Miss Cranton, please don’t make any fuss. You’ve had the money, you signed the contract, now you are required to fulfil your part of the agreement. Should you refuse, you will find yourself in trouble.’
‘I don’t care!’ Verity cried. ‘If you don’t leave now, I’m calling the police. Ambleton’s mad! I never signed a contract, never! I haven’t seen him for over a year. This is ridiculous!’
‘Mr Ambleton is absolutely sure you agreed to marry him, Miss Cranton.’
‘I signed nothing! Get out of here!’
‘Vez?’
Verity turned in relief. Louis had come down the stairs. Strangely, he was dressed in a dark suit and tie. ‘Dad! Tell this man to go. Get rid of him.’
Louis smiled, that crooked, wry smile. ‘Come on now, Vez. Run upstairs and get dressed. We don’t want to be late, do we?’
Verity froze. ‘Dad?’
Louis limped forward, and smiled at Grise. ‘I’ll have her ready in a moment or two.’
‘No you bloody won’t!’ Verity snapped. ‘This is crazy! I’m not marrying that creep! You can’t make me!’ He wants to be rid of me, she thought. He’s in on this. He wants to get rid of me.
‘You will marry him,’ Louis answered in an even tone. ‘You have no choice. It’s all arranged. It’ll all work out. You’ll see.’
‘No!’
In horror, Verity tried to pull away as her father took hold of her arm, but his grip was surprisingly strong. Grise stepped into the house, taking her other arm in a firm grasp.
‘Don’t play up, Vez,’ Louis said. ‘You’re going to be a bride. He’s waited for this. He went through so much. Now he’s much better and you’ll be happy with him, Vez. For ever.’
Together, the men frog-marched her back towards the stairs.
Verity kicked and struggled, but could not escape. She began to scream.
The doorbell woke her up.
For a few moments, Verity could only gasp and splutter on the bed. She was drenched in sweat, her heart racing. She wanted to cry. A nightmare. Thank god, a nightmare! Perhaps it had all happened in an instant in her dreaming mind. Someone really was ringing the doorbell, and it had conjured the ghastly images in her head. One thing she was sure of, she would not answer the door this time. However, it seemed Louis wasn’t going to either, and it was doubtful Daniel could be raised from his senseless slumber. Easier to raise the dead. Verity lay still, listening to the insistent rings. Oh, for God’s sake!
Impatiently, she got out of bed and put on her dressing gown, firmly quelling any trepidation in her mind. Purposefully, she went down to the front door and flung it wide. A young man was slouched in the porch. He looked unwashed, his long, lank hair hanging over his eyes, hiding his face. He looked as if he could be some unsavoury friend of Daniel’s, who’d been sleeping rough for a year.
‘Verity,’ he said. ‘Oh, Verity.’
‘Who the hell are you?’
He brushed back his hair, so she could see his face. He was pale, filthy, his eyes clouded and rheumy. Her flesh chilled. ‘It’s me, Pete. I’ve come such a long way.’
This is a dream, Verity thought, another dream.
‘I love you, Vez,’ said the man. ‘Let me in. Let me show you how much I love you.’
‘You don’t exist,’ Verity said.
Before she could shut the door, the man held out his dirty arms to her. ‘Look,’ he said.
She caught a glimpse of the wounds on his inner forearms, long, vertical, gaping wounds from wrist to elbow. They were drained of blood now, after all this time. Verity slammed the door shut. ‘Wake up,’ she told herself, ‘Wake up.’
The doorbell rang again. ‘Vez, let me in! I love you.’ His voice was muffled.
Wake up, you stupid bitch! Wake up!
He started to hammer on the door. ‘I won’t leave you. I’ll stay here! I love you!’
‘You’re dead!’ Verity screamed. ‘Go away! You’re dead!’
‘And you are the Guardian of the Dead,’ said a soft voice at her shoulder.
She jerked awake.
When the doorbell rang again, she cried out and put her pillow over her ears. ‘No! No!’ Would this nightmare ever end? She would not get out of bed this time, no. She would will herself into another dream or true reality. After a few moments, she calmed herself. The doorbell was still ringing intermittently. Then it fell silent. She thought she heard voices outside. Verity held her breath, her whole body tense. Something tapped her window. She yelped and pulled the duvet over her head. ‘Go away! Leave me alone! Go away!’
‘Ve-ri-tee!’ The voice came from outside, then something else hit her window. She realised it was a handful of stones, or at least sounded as if it was.
‘Vez! Wake up! I’m locked out!’
Daniel! She lunged upwards and knelt on the bed to look out of the window. Daniel and Owen Winter stood in the drive, looking up at her.
Verity opened the window. This felt real, now. Yes. It was safe, wasn’t it?
‘What the bloody hell are you playing at, Daniel?’ she demanded, conscious of the odious Winter boy’s eyes greedily inspecting her thin night-dress.
‘I’ve lost my key,’ Daniel said in a placatory tone. ‘Let us in.’
‘Hang on.’ Verity was just about to go downstairs, when a tremor of fear shivered through her. No. Nothing would induce her to open that door again. She found her handbag at the bottom of the bed and delved in it to find her key. ‘Let yourself in!’ she said, as she threw it out of the window.
Lily Winter woke up and knew that her brother Owen had not come home yet. The house felt empty around her, and cold. This
was not just a metaphysical coldness, but because Owen always got up earlier than she did and lit the stove in the kitchen, so that there would be hot water ready for her when she got out of bed.
‘Damn!’ Lily rolled over and glanced at her clock. Nine-thirty. She had woken up half an hour earlier than usual. Three cats were positioned around her bed, which signified they had not been fed. ‘All right,’ Lily said. ‘Don’t look at me like that!’
She got out of bed and put on her dressing gown. After going to the toilet and throwing cold water on her face, she padded barefoot downstairs, grimacing at the stove as she ventured into the kitchen. She hated having to light the thing. The cats had begun to mew and rub around her legs in anticipation. Lily pushed her unbrushed hair back behind her ears and opened up a tin of cat-food. All the cats’ bowls were dirty. Lily forked new food onto the dried remains of last night’s meal and covered the reeking gobs of meat with a sprinkling of cat biscuits. The cats’ ravenous passion gave voice to new frenzy as Lily began to put the bowls down on the floor. Presently, their cries were silenced, and Lily was able to pick her way through the crouching furry throng to put the kettle on. Then, she picked up the mail lying on the doormat beside the back door — all of it looked boring — and sat down at the kitchen table to open it. Before the kettle had boiled, the back door opened and Owen walked in. She felt annoyed with him. This was the first time he hadn’t been in the house on a Saturday morning when she woke up. She did not approve of this new development in his habits. She did her part of the domestic chores; he should do his.
‘Good morning to you!’ Lily said. ‘You neglect your duties, sibling. Where is my lit stove?’
Owen grinned at her and shrugged off his coat. ‘You are a lazy bitch,’ he said good-naturedly.
‘I know, but that’s not the point. I do the cleaning and cook most of the meals. You see to the stove, feed the cats and do my breakfast on Saturdays. I spent hours tidying up last night! And most of the mess was yours! Is it too much to expect the stove to be lit this morning? No! You’re so selfish sometimes!’