Читать книгу The Fatal Strand - Robin Jarvis - Страница 12

Hearing those words, Neil jerked his head back and blurted out a great, glad cry. Standing over him, with the flame of his cigarette lighter bowing in the draught which coursed through the passageway, was Austen Pickering.

‘What happened, lad?’ the ghost hunter cried, seeing the fear graven in the boy’s face. ‘Are you all right? Did you fall and hurt yourself in the dark?’

‘Mary-Anne!’ Neil shouted, staggering to his feet and lunging from the alcove. ‘How is she? Where are the others?’

Stumbling up the corridor he whisked around but could see nothing in the darkness that had returned. Snatching the lighter from the old man’s hand, he hastened forward, then halted and came running back.

‘Others?’ Mr Pickering repeated. ‘Who do you mean – who’s this Mary-Anne?’

Neil rushed to the wall opposite his hiding place and held the wavering flame above his head whilst he ran his fingers over the worm-ridden wooden panels. But the gas lamp was not there and all he found was a tarnished brass fixing that had not been used for many years.

‘It was here,’ he murmured faintly. ‘She was here – Mary-Anne Brindle.’

An envious smile formed on the old man’s face. ‘You’ve seen something, haven’t you?’ he marvelled. ‘What was it? Tell me everything – I have to know each detail.’

The boy stared at him blankly. ‘But you must have heard them!’ he exclaimed. ‘They were just here, they chased her down …’

His protestations trailed into silence and he took a nervous, sampling breath. ‘That disinfectant smell,’ he muttered. ‘It’s gone as well.’

‘An olfactory emanation!’ Mr Pickering declared. ‘Of all the luck!’

Neil scowled at him. ‘It was nothing to be jealous of, I promise you.’

‘Even better!’ the ghost hunter exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. ‘Let’s get back to The Fossil Room – I want to record this.’

Neil drew a hand over his face. ‘But it was real,’ he whispered.

‘I’m not suggesting you imagined it.’

‘No. I mean they weren’t ghosts – they were actually here. And back there, in the Neo—’

The boy’s insides lurched as he suddenly remembered and went charging back to the Neolithic room.

‘QUOTH!’ he yelled.

Bursting in, he swung around and slapped his hand across the light switches. The sudden flaring of the electric bulbs was blinding and the boy screwed up his face as he rampaged inside, jumping over the table he had crashed into in the dark.

‘Quoth!’ he called again. ‘Where are you?’

Neil threw himself upon his hands and knees and scuttled through the room, searching under the cabinets until he heard a frail, bleating cry.

‘Fie, Sir!’ the familiar tones trilled in a delirious, hiccoughing prattle. ‘Ne’er hath this riddled bucket met with such a boggling – a tree-nesting milche cow! What prodigious eggs thou must be blessed with.’

The raven lay at the foot of the tallest display case, blearily gazing up at the ceiling. His bald head was lolling to one side, his legs split beneath him, one wing raised in the air and the other twitching erratically.

‘Alas, this goodly knight cannot sup with thee. A feast of running cheese and malmsey awaits him. Good Sir Geoffrey, see to mine steed, the rose-cheeked damsel beckons.’

Neil hurried to his side and gave a worried glance at the large crack in the glass where the bird had struck the case. ‘Quoth …’ he ventured.

The raven wagged his head as though he was drunk and Neil touched him gingerly.

‘M’Lady!’ Quoth objected. ‘’Tis most unseemly amid the crocks and dishpots!’

‘Is the poor thing injured?’ Austen Pickering spoke up as he joined them.

‘I don’t think anything’s broken,’ Neil answered. ‘He’s got a huge bump on his head, but – he doesn’t seem to know me.’

Lifting the raven’s limp body off the ground, the boy held him in his arms and the bird’s one eye rolled in its socket.

‘Does look a bit dazed,’ the ghost hunter observed.

Neil bit his lip nervously. ‘Will it be permanent do you think?’

‘Dunno, lad. I’m no vet and I’ve never kept so much as a budgie before. Hang on, this might do the trick.’

From his pocket, the old man pulled the small bottle of smelling salts and wafted the pungent vapour under the raven’s beak.

The result was swift and startling. Quoth bolted upright, spluttering and squawking. ‘Pickled toad stink and squeezings of sourmost mordant fish!’ he gasped. Blowing down his bill to dispel the noxious fumes, he stared accusingly about him until he caught sight of Neil’s face and his belligerent expression transformed to one of joy.

‘Master Neil! There is a remedy for all hurts, save death, and its name is thine.’

The boy laughed. ‘You’re back to normal,’ he said.

Quoth nuzzled against him, then tugged his head aside to glare and squint down at the floor.

‘The imp!’ he cawed, remembering the fiend that had attacked them. ‘Hath it fled hence? Didst thou despatch it?’

‘What’s he talking about?’ Mr Pickering asked. ‘He’s still rambling.’

Neil turned to him. ‘No,’ he replied gravely. ‘When the candles went out, something came after us in here. I don’t know what it was, but it was definitely no ghost. Couldn’t you hear us?’

‘I thought you’d tripped, that’s all,’ the old man answered. ‘I know I did when I came to find you.’

‘So you didn’t see anything either?’

‘Not a thing. Was it some kind of animal?’

Before Neil could reply, Quoth uttered a mortified croak and they lowered their eyes to where the raven pointed with his beak. Lifting one foot in the air, the bird flexed his talons and a splintered shaving of wood dropped on to Neil’s outstretched hand.

‘Behold!’ Quoth announced in a quavering voice. ‘’Tis a token gouged of the demon’s brow.’

Mr Pickering eyed him doubtfully. ‘What’s he saying?’

Neil stared at the evidence upon his palm. ‘No animal was in here tonight,’ he said, hardly believing his own words. ‘Whatever it was that attacked us wasn’t flesh and blood.’

A little while later they were sitting in The Fossil Room, discussing all that had happened from the moment the candle flames were extinguished. Not content with recording Neil’s experience on tape, Austen Pickering also took pages of notes, then went back to the scene of the visitation to see if any clues had been left behind in his scatterings of flour.

‘What a pity,’ he sighed on his return. ‘The marks were too confused to tell me anything. The only clear tracks I could find were a neat little set of raven footprints.’

Quoth gave a mournful cluck but the ghost hunter was not disheartened. ‘Better luck next time,’ he assured them. ‘I’ll put some more flour down later.’

‘I don’t think I want to see the next time,’ Neil put in.

Mr Pickering took out his handkerchief and polished his glasses. Peering at the blurred boy in front of him, he tutted and said, ‘Don’t say that. I’m counting on you, Private Chapman. I know you were scared, but there really was no need. I’ve never heard of a case where the departed harmed the living – fear alone does that.’

‘You don’t understand!’ Neil insisted, smacking the glass counter he was leaning upon. ‘That thing back there and those people I saw, they weren’t ghosts – they were as solid as I am.’

‘They might have seemed solid …’

‘Listen to me, they were! How else do you account for that splinter of wood?’

The ghost hunter replaced his spectacles and browsed through his notes. ‘Your little friend could have scratched one of the tables by mistake. It was pitch black in there. As for the woman in the passage, how could she be real? This confusion between this world and the next is very common, lad. Those who witness such events are often so caught up in the tragedies unfolding before them that their perspective on reality is altered, and they believe that what they are seeing has substance, when in fact it does not.’

Neil scowled and folded his arms. ‘She dragged me halfway down the corridor,’ he said emphatically. ‘I’d call that pretty substantial, wouldn’t you?’

‘You thought that she did,’ Mr Pickering persisted. ‘I’m a trained observer of this kind of phenomenon, lad, trust me.’

‘So what do you think it was then?’ the boy asked.

The ghost hunter put down his clipboard and leaned forward across the counter. ‘Most definitely an incident that happened way back in this building’s past. Judging from what you’ve told me, my first guess would be that it occurred in the time of the lunatic asylum, but we must wait until we have all the facts before we can be certain.’

‘That would explain the awful smell,’ Neil agreed.

‘Think of this place as a vast camera, and the air that fills it a photographic plate. Just like a camera, that plate is very sensitive – not to light in this case, but to certain actions and emotions. What you saw was a moving projection of some horrible, violent act that was so severe it imprinted itself on the atmosphere within that corridor. And, unless someone can release that unfortunate lady’s suffering, that scene will be replayed over and over forever.’

Neil wasn’t so sure. ‘But it wasn’t like that,’ he protested one final time. ‘It was more like I had slipped back in time, gone back to the past.’

Austen Pickering gave a humouring chortle. ‘Now, that is preposterous! I’m sorry, lad, but when I write this up for the psychic journal I can’t put that down – I’d never be taken seriously again. Time travel indeed.’

The boy realised it sounded ridiculous, but he also knew that within The Wyrd Museum anything was possible. He could not help smiling at the thought that Austen Pickering would undoubtedly have to eat a great many of his words before his investigations were over.

‘Master Neil!’ Quoth interrupted, pulling the boy’s sleeve to get his attention. Still grinning, Neil turned to him and saw that the raven was jerking his head towards the doorway. Before he could swivel around on his chair, there came an awkward cough.

Standing behind them, looking embarrassed and abashed, was Brian Chapman. ‘It’s gone nine,’ he muttered in a small voice. ‘There’s a bit of supper in the flat. It’s a school day tomorrow.’

Neil realised that his father was trying his best to make up for what had happened earlier. ‘So was today,’ he admitted.

‘Well, you got back late last night – and I got up late. One day won’t matter.’

Austen Pickering regarded the lanky, dishevelled man with mild interest. The boy’s father was the opposite of Neil; he didn’t appear to be capable of looking after himself, let alone two children. The ghost hunter’s critical, observing eyes flicked over the gangly figure before him and made a quick mental appraisal.

Brian had not shaved since yesterday, his greasy hair curled over the collar of his unironed shirt and wiry bunches spiked from his nostrils. A wide gap between the top of his scuffed shoes and the bottom of his ill-fitting trousers betrayed the fact he was wearing odd socks, and his slouching stance suggested that he was trying to pretend he wasn’t there. Mr Pickering had never encountered anyone who was so uncomfortable in his own skin before, and he pitied the boy for being afflicted with such a parent.

‘I brought you this,’ the caretaker said, shyly bringing his hand from around his back to reveal a thermos flask filled with hot water. ‘Didn’t mean to snap before. Been a bad few days.’

Austen Pickering smiled disarmingly. ‘Don’t mention it,’ he said and meant it. ‘Thank you for this – I could do with a cuppa right now.’

‘You … you could come and have something to eat if you like,’ Brian offered, not meeting the other man’s eyes.

The ghost hunter grinned but declined with a polite wave of his hand. ‘Appreciated, but no thanks. I’ve some satsumas and an instant soup if I get peckish later. I might take you up on it tomorrow, though, if the invite still stands. Lot to do tonight, got to get stuck in.’

‘Not found any spooks yet, then?’ Brian inquired, forcing a strained laugh.

Neil shot the old man a look which was loaded with meaning. Mr Pickering understood and a difficult silence followed that was broken only when Quoth shook his wings and cawed softly.

‘Haven’t made a proper start yet,’ the ghost hunter said evasively.

Brian nodded and backed clumsily to the doorway. ‘Well, see you in the morning, then,’ he mumbled. ‘See if your hair’s turned white.’

‘Not enough of it left for that,’ the old man joked.

Neil hesitated before following his father.

‘Dad,’ he called. ‘What about Quoth?’

At the mention of his name, the raven flew to his place at the boy’s shoulder and let out a sorrowful croak.

‘Oh, well – bring him along then,’ Brian relented, seeing how downcast and forlorn the mangy bird appeared. ‘But he’s not to sleep in your room.’

‘Zooks hurrah!’ Quoth sang.

Neil thanked his father and said goodnight to Mr Pickering. ‘Be careful,’ the boy warned him.

When he was alone in The Fossil Room, the ghost hunter gave a slight shiver and inspected one of the thermometers.

‘Down five degrees,’ he commented aloud, adding the information to his notebook.

The next half-hour was spent sprinkling more flour in the adjoining rooms, relighting all the candles and switching off the electric lights again. When it was done, the old man made himself a mug of strong black coffee and eased himself into his chair.

A brooding silence had descended over The Wyrd Museum and Mr Pickering took time to gaze about him. Like a dark sea, profound shadows lapped the walls and ceiling above him, and he lightly closed his eyes, trying to assess the building’s mood.

‘Nothing,’ he murmured. ‘Having a bit of a rest are we, or is it the sulks? Well, let’s see what else you’ve got up your sleeve, or should I say drainpipe?’

His voice echoed hollowly into the empty gloom and he shrugged. ‘Maybe you just prefer frightening children. You’ll not upset me so easily.’

Placing his Bible upon the counter, he took a swig of coffee and chose a book from one of the suitcases.

‘Billy Bunter!’ he proclaimed to the watching night. ‘A perfect read for the small hours. You’ll love it.’

Turning the pages, he moved the two central candles a little closer and started to read aloud. The beetle-black canopy enclosed around him and the ghost hunter reflected that it was going to be a long, but hopefully eventful, night.

Obscured behind thick, impenetrable cloud, the moon imparted little light upon the unlovely shape of The Wyrd Museum. Yet what drizzled through the large square windows was far brighter than the hoard of shadow with which the building clothed its galleries.

Those rooms facing out on to Well Lane benefited from the extra glare of the street lamps. Their stark, sodium glow diffused through the cluttered spaces in an unnatural, sulphurous daubing and, up on the first floor, Edie Dorkins meandered through The Separate Collection, the silver tinsel in her pixie hood glittering with small orange sparks.

After the Chamber of Nirinel, this was her favourite place. She loved to stare at the exhibits, wondering what they were for and, in some cases, who they had been. The headstrong and enigmatic little girl revelled in the delicious oblivion that the dark afforded and relished the musty, decaying smells of the museum which were always stronger in the lonely, shadowy murk.

Standing on a box, she pressed her nose against one of the glass lids and her mouth watered at what she saw inside. A large golden locket, bigger than her fist and curiously shaped, lay upon a cushion of faded purple velvet and Edie traced the snaking loop of the fabulous chain with the tip of her tongue.

Staring at the accompanying label, she almost wished that she was able to read what it said, for who could have worn such a heavy, prodigious pendant?

‘It contains the heel bone of Achilles,’ Miss Ursula’s voice sounded at the entrance to The Egyptian Suite.

Without taking her tongue from the glass, Edie raised her eyes. The eldest of the Websters was standing in the semi-darkness of the threshold to that midnight, windowless room, but the girl could only make out a black shadow shape which glinted when the jet beads of the woman’s evening gown caught the glare of the street lamp.

‘You can remove it from the case if you wish, Edith.’

With an impertinent toss of her head, the girl jumped from the box. The lumpy locket had lost some of its appeal now that she had been given permission to wear it and she ambled over to another cabinet.

The figure in the doorway remained in the masking gloom. ‘Soon you will know the history of each exhibit,’ she promised. ‘Remember that you are to succeed my sister and I as custodian of these precious and perilous objects. Ask of me what you will, before my mind collapses into the dementia of Celandine and Veronica before her.’

Peering into the recess of this larger case, Edie inspected the contents. Balanced upon a roughly-carved granite plinth was a great globe of worn and crackled leather. Over the irregular bumps of its scarred and weathered surface, the mustard-coloured light curved softly, making the pummelled and dented sphere look like a giant, mouldering apricot.

‘Big football?’ the girl speculated. ‘Break yer toes kicking that round the park.’

‘You know very well it is nothing of the kind,’ Miss Ursula’s floating voice upbraided her. ‘It is the Eye of the Fomor.’

Edie studied the huge, swollen globe anew. ‘A real eye?’ she breathed, misting up the glass. ‘It’s massive.’

‘The Fomorians were monsters who plagued the Ireland of ancient time,’ the old woman began in a whispering chant. ‘Yet even amongst their hideous company, Balor, the son of Buarainech, was as a mountain. All feared him, for one of his eyes had the power to wither and kill at a single glance. Such was its dreaded strength that he was compelled to keep it firmly closed and covered. But when the Fomorians rode across the plain to meet their enemies, the attendants of Balor would raise his eyelid with a great hook and entire armies fell before its destroying gaze.’