Dark Season: The Complete Box Set (9 page)

Rose Tisser

1959

This is wonderful! Jess is so jealous!

Why, she wants to know, does he come to
my
window? Why to
my
door? And never hers. Why, when she is undoubtedly the prettier, more interesting of the two of us, does he seem so much more interested in me? So used to being the center of attention, you would think she might spare me some sympathy and let me enjoy Patrick's attention. But no. She hates it!

I
do
understand, though. Patrick is a very peculiar type of man. For one thing, he never says a word. I have no idea why he remains silent, and whether he is unable or unwilling to talk. At times it can be frustrating, and Jess in particular complains. But I'm okay with Patrick the way that he is. He speaks in other ways. With his eyes. His hands. His actions.

It has been three weeks since we met him, and he has gradually become a central part of both mine and Jess's lives. When I wake each morning, I wonder when I will encounter him. I wish I had more control over our meetings, but the truth is I don't know where to find him, so he gets to make all the decisions. I get on with my day, and suddenly at some unexpected moment he will be there, right behind me.

But why does he scare me so much?

Sophie

Today

"Shit," my mother says, and then she flicks the channel with the remote control. "Shit," she says and flicks again. She stares at the screen, which is filled up with some kind of soapy drama. "Shit," she says and flicks while taking a big slurp from her milkshake. "Why don't they ever show anything good?" she asks.

"I'll be in my room," I say, getting up. It's getting late, and the last thing I want to do is spend the rest of the evening watching my mother get increasingly angry at the TV. Spotting a spider crawling across the wall, I swat it away. I swear to God, those things are everywhere these days.

"Look after your brother," my mother says.

My little brother Todd is sitting on the floor, ripping up the carpet. "Todd," I say, "if you want me to look after you, come and find me. I'll be in my room. Don't play with knives, and if you go outside, don't go messing about near the river, okay?"

Todd looks up at me and wrinkles up his nose. We both know he won't be coming anywhere near my room, but the brief exchange of words should be enough to keep my mother happy.

"House smells like a frying pan," I say as I leave the room.

"Then fucking clean it," I hear my mother say as I go.

I go straight to my room, the one room where the smell - if not absent - is at least avoidable. I light some candles. I don't like candles much, but they mask the smell. I can't really afford the damn candles, though, so I stick old bits of soap to them in an effort to make them last longer. It doesn't really work.

Rose Tisser's diary is on my bed, where I left it. I've been reading it on and off all day, but it's a real struggle to read her old-fashioned cursive handwriting. Tomorrow should be easier, however, as I've had an idea that should solve the problem in one quick stroke.

"Shelley," I say when I phone her up and she answers. "You free tomorrow?"

"Yeah," she says on the other end of the line. Good old reliable Shelley. Not only an expert in grammar and spelling, but also always available to meet up. "Can we talk about it another time?" She giggles.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"I'm with Rob."

"Having fun?"

"Watching a video. Dirty movie."

"Have fun with your porn," I say.

"I think you'd like it," she says. "It's about vampires."

"I hate vampires."

"It's called Bram Strokes Her."

We put the phone down on each other. It's late, dark outside, and cold. My mother says we don't need the heating on during autumn, and that if I'm cold I should put on a sweater or gain some extra body fat. Sometimes I think her answer to everything is to gain some extra body fat.

SLAM!

I turn as something hits the window. Walking over, I look out into the darkness. Fat chance of seeing anything. I wonder, just for a moment, if Patrick might be out there. In this light, he could be right on the other side of the glass, staring straight back at me, and I wouldn't be able to see him. Since the last time I saw him, I've been constantly wondering whether he might be keeping an eye on me. After all, it'd be pretty odd if he just left me alone. I look into the black of night and wonder... is he there?

Forcing myself not to dwell on things, I go through to the bathroom and brush my teeth. I normally don't bother, but I actually have a job interview in a few days so I figure I should try to freshen myself up a little. But as I'm brushing, I become aware of a distant sound, like a shuffling of fabric. At first I dismiss it, but then it occurs to me that given how my life has been developing recently, I shouldn't dismiss anything. I rush back through to my bedroom, and there he is.

Patrick.

"Hi," I say, feeling a knotted sensation in my stomach. He's by the window, as if he's just entered. As is his custom, he says nothing; he just stands there dressed in black, staring at me with those eyes.

"What do you want?" I ask. Is this it? Has he come to kill me? I start trying to work out how I can get away.

He looks at my bed. I follow his gaze to see Rose Tisser's diary on my pillow.

"Seen that before?" I ask. This is the first time I've ever felt like we're even vaguely on a level playing field. "Interesting book," I say. "I've been doing some reading -"

He steps towards the bed. I beat him to it and grab the diary, holding it firmly. He stops and looks at it, and then at me.

"You want this?" I ask.

No answer.

"Did you come here because you knew I had it?"

He stares at me. Still nothing. Damn it, I should have considered the possibility that the diary would in some way draw him to me. I've been hoping to avoid him. Still, Vincent told me that one day Patrick would kill me after I did something to anger him. I guess I'm safe for now, as long as I don't do anything dumb.

"You could always try asking nicely," I say, knowing that he never speaks. Not ever. "That's what people do when they want something. They ask."

He steps one pace closer and holds out a hand. Clearly, he expects me to just give him the diary.

"That's not what I mean," I say, a little bolder than I've ever been with him before. "If you want the book, you'll have to ask me politely. With your mouth. With actual words."

I can see he's thinking about what to do.

"Just say the words," I say. "Something like... Dear Sophie, I'd really like to borrow that book of yours, would you mind if I take a look please?"

I worry that I'm pushing his patience here, but what else can I do? I need to hang onto this book. I should have scanned the pages as soon as I got hold of it. At least then, if I'd lost it, I'd have still been able to go through it. As things are, I can't afford to just give it away. This book is my best, and perhaps my only, chance of learning a little more about Patrick's history.

"What do you want it for, anyway?" I ask. I look at the tatty diary. "I'll give you the book if you tell me who Rose Tisser is and how you know her. And Jessica Harper too. Tell me about them and I'll gladly give you this. I won't need it anymore, then, will I?"

He steps closer. I take a step back, unfortunately straight into my bedroom wall. I have to stand my ground now, whether I like it or not.

"What are you going to do?" I ask. "Steal it? Rough me up a little?" I look into his deep, dark brown eyes. There's a single freckle at the bottom edge of one of his eyelids, like a little tear mark. I'd never noticed that before. "I'm not giving it to you," I say firmly. "Not without you giving me something in return. So unless you -"

He reaches out and grabs my arm, holding me with a firm, determined grip. I can't help feeling this is a final warning. It's like I have to give him what he wants, or else!

"Let go," I say, but his grip just tightens more. My heart is racing. I've seen this side of Patrick before, but never directed at me. There's no way I'm giving him this book, though; not without getting something in return. "Let go of me," I say, and he tightens even more. I try to pull free, but he holds firm and I feel like my wrist is about to snap.

I put the book behind my back.

"If you fucking touch me, I'll tell everyone about you," I say. "I'll have you and your father being examined in Area 51 before you know what's hit you." I pause, realizing that maybe I'm going too far. The last thing I want to do is provoke him. "Seriously," I say, trying to stay calm, "let's just calm down and talk about this."

He leans in a little. What's he going to do? Kiss me? Bite me? I look at him, waiting for his lips to part so I can see his sharp fangs.

"I just want to know about you," I say quietly.

No answer. I twist and try to get away, but he still has my arm and there's no way I can get free. I fall onto the bed, still keeping the diary behind my back, and he falls on top of me, putting all his weight on my arm. I really think for a moment that it's about to break, but at the last minute he shifts a little and I wriggle out from under him. I look at him and his face is right up against mine, looking calm but menacing. I'm scared, but I don't think he's going to kill me over something as small as a tatty old book.

"If you think I'm giving you this thing," I say, "you're dead wrong." I try to act brave, yet I know he's holding me down despite probably using less than a tenth of his strength.

Okay.

One.

Two.

Three.

I push him away and almost get out of his grip, pushing myself across the bed. At the last moment, however, he grabs my shoulder, forcing me down, my mouth smashing against the corner of my bedside table. A horrible bursting pain immediately blossoms in my bottom lip and I lose all strength in my body, dropping the diary as Patrick finally lets go of me. I fall off the bed onto the floor, and then I roll onto my back and look up at him. I touch my lip and then look at my hand. I'm bleeding.

Patrick is holding the diary. He looks at me.

"Get out of my room," I say, filled with panic. "And give me the diary. It's not yours."

Ignoring me, he goes over to the window, which he opens before climbing out. He doesn't even stop to look back at me or to see if I'm okay. He's got the diary. He's got what he wants. And he's left me behind, bleeding on the floor.

"Hey!" I shout, hurrying over to the window. "Did you kill them? Did you kill those two girls? Are you just some kind of monster?" I stare out into the darkness, and I realize there's no point expecting an answer. Without that diary, I guess I'll never know the truth.

Rose Tisser

1959

Patrick is so gentle. I know what everyone thinks: I'm a young girl, fairly presentable and from a respectable family, and I'm spending far too much time with this mysterious young man. And he certainly has a scandalous look about him: dark-haired, tall and brooding, silent and serious, and nobody knows the first thing about his family, or where he came from. But I'm a modern girl and I simply won't be held back by old-fashioned tastes. This is 1959, after all, not 1859!

To be honest, I'm surprised he wants to spend so much time with me. It's not like I'm the most interesting girl in town. Despite the rumors that I
know
are going around, I never put out with him and he never asks me for anything. I'm not saying I wouldn't like a little kiss here and there, and I expect we shall do it eventually. But for now, it's nice to be with a man who isn't just after one thing. I look at the gossips and snipes, the ones who talk about me behind my back, and I know none of them can claim to be half the gentleman that Patrick shows himself to be every single day.

I do wish he'd talk, though. It's so hard trying to work out what he's thinking. If I didn't know better, I'd think he has nothing to say. But when I look into his eyes, I know there's some depth to him. I can see there's something burning inside. It's just that I have to work out how to unlock it. Certainly if I'm ever going to consider marrying him, I'll have to make some form of progress soon. I can't marry a man who never talks!

I can't deny, though, that there's a sense of mystery about him that appeals to me. He came to town a few years ago, and some of the local oldies say they think they remember seeing his father around. Apparently they look very alike, he and his father, although no-one seems to know where his father lived or where he is now. So much gossip! Sometimes I like being at the center of it all. Other times, I'm not so sure...

"Jess would like to go to the cinema tomorrow night," I say as Patrick and I walk through the suburbs to my parents' house. "I said I'd ask you about it, but to be honest I'm not so keen. What do you think?"

He doesn't answer, of course. Sometimes it's like talking to myself. That would infuriate me usually, but there's something about Patrick that suggests his silence is for a reason. A very good reason. And the truth is, I don't want to go and see a film with Jess because I have this awful feeling that Jess wants to steal Patrick away from me. I know she's jealous, and I feel she might be willing to offer him more than I'm willing to offer. She'd probably offer to kiss him, or perhaps more.

"I don't think we'll go," I say, as if we've discussed the matter. "I don't think there's anything good on, and I'd rather just hang out. We could go and get soda, if you like?" I leave a gap for his answer, even though I know he'll say nothing. The truth is, I'll make plans out loud and then I'll wait to see if he shows up at the time I've suggested. Usually he will, but occasionally not. "Around five," I say. "That'd be good. I can't be out too late tomorrow night. I have college in the morning."

We get to the driveway of my house, and we stop. I know he won't come in, but I still want to ask. "I'm sure there's some spare meatloaf," I say, hopefully.

He stares at me.

"Another time," I continue. "If you're serious about me, you'll have to meet my parents some time. Properly, I mean."

We stand back as a car turns off the road and parks in the driveway. My father, ever suspicious, quickly gets out. "Dinner's ready," he says, assuming my mother will have everything on the table the moment he walks in. He gives Patrick a suspicious glance, and then he takes his briefcase inside.

"If you come in some time," I say to Patrick, "he'll get to know you better and he'll like you more. Though I dare say you'll have to say a word or two." I smile, in a vain attempt to get him to smile. "Oh Patrick," I say. "If you don't want to talk to me, why do you spend so much time with me?"

"Hey!" calls a familiar voice. I turn to the house. My brother John is standing on the porch. "Dinner!" he says. Instead of disappearing back inside the house, he waits, watching me with Patrick.

"I have to go," I say. "Tomorrow, though," I add. "Or even tonight..." I turn and head into the house, hoping that perhaps later there'll be a knock at my bedroom window.