Faces of Fear (23 page)

Seath Rider said, “There is no Ian Caldecott. There never was.”

“I don't understand you. I don't understand any of this.”

“But it's very simple, especially if you know your Irish legends. There was always magic here, of a kind, which people fancified and turned into stories of little people
and all that guff. But there's another world here, Mrs Bryce, there always has been; and there was a whole people, Lir's people, the people of the Tuatha, back in ancient times, who disappeared from human view. Vanished!”

“I still don't understand.”

“You will if you realize that the portals of the invisible kingdoms were never completely closed, and there were those who could travel with ease from one to the other, having friends and even lovers in both existences.

“The Fianna could do that. They were warriors, trained in every skill. Among them was Iollan, who kept a fairy mistress called Fair Breast. She was his heart's desire, the most beautiful creature that you ever saw, and all Iollan had to do was breathe her name, wherever she was, and she would appear, and she would do anything for him, whatever he wanted. For all of the pleasure she gave him, she asked only one thing in return, and that was his fidelity.”

“What the – what the
hell
are you talking about?” Sarah demanded. “I want to know what's happened to Ian Caldecott – not some ridiculous fairy story!”

“But that's what I'm trying to tell you,” said Seáth Rider. “Iollan fell in love with a human woman, and married her, and made her. pregnant with twin boys. So when Fair Breast found out what had happened, she turned Iollan's wife into a dog, and dragged her off to live with a man who hated dogs, so that she would be starved and whipped. And to Iollan she said: ‘I will turn her back into a woman, if you come and live with me forever, in the invisible kingdom.' So what could he do, poor fellow, but agree?

“The only snag was that his sons, who had both been
born as dogs, would have to remain as dogs for the rest of their lives.”

“All right,” said Sarah. “Tell me what it means. Tell me what you're talking about. And where's Ian Caldecott?”

Seáth Rider went over to the window and looked out over the gardens and the estuary. The mountains were plumed with clouds. “You can always have whatever you desire, Mrs Bryce; just as Iollan of the Fianna had what he desired. But somebody always has to pay the price. It's the magical version of Newton's Law, if you like. No action without a reaction. Maybe the reaction doesn't affect
you
; but it always affects somebody.”

Sarah said nothing, but stood waiting for him to say what she knew he was going to say; her fists clenched, her heart beating fast.

Seáth Rider turned away from the window and said, “If there was ever a man called Ian Caldecott, he would have outbid you for these chairs, and taken them away. But now, there never was. Ian Caldecott was never born, and he never grew up, and he never went to university nor started a dealership. You will never find a photograph of him in the South of France; you will never find a school report or a dental record or a social security card. You will never find a tot that knew him, when he was tiny. You will never find a woman who kissed him at his first party. He has evaporated, Mrs Bryce, as if he never existed.”

“You've murdered him,” said Sarah. She was shaking with shock.

“Of course I haven't. How can you murder somebody who never existed?”

“Then you've – Christ, I don't know what you've done! What have you
done
?”

“I've expunged him, I'd say that's the word. He's not
gone completely, if you get my meaning. Matter can neither be created nor destroyed. But, he's certainly not
here
, that's the message, and never was here, ever.”

“For two chairs? For two stupid chairs?”

Seáth Rider frowned at her. He looked hurt. “You said those chairs were your heart's desire. What does it matter to you whether Ian Caldecott ever existed or not?
He
doesn't mind: he never existed. His family doesn't mind: they never ever knew him. People get killed every day. Shot, or drowned, or knocked down on pedestrian crossings because they were thinking about what they could eat for their tea, instead of looking. That never worries you does it, so why are you so worried about Ian Caldecott, you have your chairs, and everything's hunky dory.”

Sarah had to sit down. “I can't take this in. You erased his entire life,
everything
, just because you wanted me to have these chairs?”

“Oh no, Mrs Bryce. You wanted the chairs, not me. I'm an acquisitor, not a collector. But that was the price, yes. That was the only way to do it.”

“But
how
? How do you rub out somebody's whole existence?”

Seáth Rider pointed to the mountains, covered in grey, thunderous clouds; and to the Kenmare estuary, sparking with sunshine. “If you want me to put it simply, Mrs Bryce, there are visible kingdoms and invisible kingdoms; and here in Ireland the doors are still open for those who know how to tread between. And, yes, it was me who watched you at the airport; and it was me sitting at The Russet Bull; and here, too, when you arrived.”

“I'm going to have to give the chairs back,” said Sarah.

“To whom?” Seáth Rider demanded. “Not to Ian
Caldecott, because there is no Ian Caldecott. Not to his family, because they won't know who he was. They're yours, Mrs Bryce. You bid for them, you paid for them, they're yours.”

“And what do
you
get out of this?” asked Sarah.

Seáth Rider smiled; a genuine smile this time. “I will get my commission, Mrs Bryce. Don't you worry about that.”

Unexpectedly, he kissed her on the cheek. It was a kiss like no other kiss she had experienced before: soft, yet positive; unusually salacious; a kiss that told her that he wanted more. For some reason she found it incredibly erotic, and when he left the room and closed the door behind him, she stood stiff and wide-eyed, her right hand straight down by her side, her left hand clutching her right elbow, rigid, like a woman who has just witnessed a serious traffic accident.

In the night she dreamed of her father. She was sitting on his lap and he was reading to her. She could smell tobacco and cologne and old tweed coat. Outside the library windows the sky was a bright shade of aniline purple, and the clouds moved as if they were cut out of cardboard. Sarah knew that she was safe for the moment, but she felt a small, nagging anxiety that when her father reached the end of the story that he was telling her, something terrible would happen; and so she kept begging him to read on and on and on.

The story was like no story that she had ever heard before. “The razormen came when the night was darkest and sneaked through the house calling and singing. Everybody knew they were there but nobody dared to open a door. They had razors in their fingers and razors in their backs. They had razors in the palms of
their hands. If they once took hold of you, why then you were blood all over before you knew it. They had razors between their teeth and they wanted to kiss you.”

She clutched at her father's prickly tweed lapel in fear; and for security, too. Inside his waistcoat his voice was a warm, reassuring rumble. She couldn't think why he was trying to frighten her so much. The razormen! She could see them crawling along the corridor, their backs embedded with two-edged blades, enduring the agony because nobody would dare to touch them when they emptied out your drawers full of jewelry or raped your daughters in a blood-drenched bed. She heard somebody screaming, and she felt somebody jump on the bed.

She woke up, abruptly, and caught herself kicking the mattress with her heels and making a peculiar gargling noise. She lay back, gasping and sweating, and took ten deep breaths.

A dream
, she told herself.
That's all it was A ridiculous, terrifying dream.
The moon was high and it shone between the curtains and illuminated the two chairs. She propped herself up on one elbow and stared at them. It was well past three in the morning and she felt exhausted and disoriented. She hadn't bought the chairs, she knew that. Somebody else had bought them. Somebody called—

Somebody called—

At first she couldn't think of his name. She could remember his face, but she simply couldn't think of his name. Ian Somebody. Ian Coldwell. Ian Cottesmore. Something like that. Her memory of him was fading like a photograph left in the sun. But she looked at the chairs and she could remember what Seáth Rider had done for her; giving her just what she wanted.

She climbed out of bed and went into the bathroom to splash her face with cold water. She stared at herself in the
mirror and thought that she looked distinctly different. Not older, but different. When you live with somebody, you use your partner's face as a mirror, instead of a real mirror. You see your smiles reflected; you see your anger rising before you even know yourself that you're angry. You see sarcasm, you see affection. But when you live on your own, you have to rely on glass mirror, with silver backs, and there was never a glass mirror with a silver back that ever told the truth.

Sarah's father had once said, “Mirrors are only good for one thing: to hold over a dead man's lips, to make sure that he isn't breathing any longer.” And that had scared her, too.

She suddenly thought of seeing her father out on the island; and the more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that she hadn't imagined it, and that Seáth Rider had been involved in conjuring him up. Maybe he had done it to tempt her; to excite her. But then again, maybe he had done it to show her what he was capable of doing. Maybe the chairs were nothing more than a teaser, a way of warming her up.

After all, if he had managed to manipulate history to expunge the man who had originally bought these chairs, this Ian somebody, couldn't he manipulate history to bring her something she wanted even more? Couldn't he alter time and events so that her father hadn't really died?

She realized that the thought was blasphemous. But she had seen her father, alive. Not an illusion, not a trick of the light. And if Seáth Rider could bring him back to her, the way he had brought her these chairs …

She went back to bed. It was only 4:00 but she wished it were morning. She was too tired to read but she was too excited to sleep. In the end, however, she
did
sleep, from
5:15 until way past eight. She talked constantly, strange unintelligible sentences, and once or twice she cried, and tears dripped down her cheeks.

She met Seáth Rider outside. The morning was misty; so misty that it was almost raining; but the only concession that Seáth Rider had made to the weather was to turn up his collar.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked her.

“No. I kept worrying about those bloody chairs.”

“Ah, you'll get used to them. They're housetrained.”

“As a matter of fact I kept worrying about you, what else you could do.”

He turned and stared at her in exaggerated surprise. “What
else
I could do? Now what do you mean by that?”

“I was just wondering if you could do other things … apart from making that man disappear, so that I could have my chairs.”

“Don't they always say that women are never satisfied.”

“It's not that … it's just that I saw my father, out on the island. I was wondering whether that was anything to do with you.”

“Your father's dead.”

“The man who bought those chairs was once alive.”

Seáth Rider wiped his face with his hand. “You're not trying to suggest that I've got any power over life or death? Because I haven't. All I can do is get you what you want.”

She stood beside him, watching him. She was afraid of him and the consequences of knowing him but her need was greater than her fear. “Supposing I want my father.”

He looked at her without speaking.

“Supposing
that's
my heart's desire?”

“Well, then,” he said, “that would be something of an acquisition now, wouldn't it. But of course it would cost you.”

“Is it possible? Is it really possible?”

“I didn't say that it was and I didn't say that it wasn't. All I said was, it would cost you.”

“How much?” she demanded.

Seáth Rider shook his head. “More than you could afford, I should say.”

“How much? I'll give you anything you want.”

“No,” he said. “You'd only welsh.”

“Mr Rider, if you could bring my father back to me, I swear on my life that I would never go back on my word, no matter what you asked me for.”

“I ask only what Fair Breast asked of Iollan. Your fidelity.”

“Are you asking me to sleep with you, is that it?”

“Nothing of the kind; unless you wish it. I just want your faithfulness, that's all.”

“I don't really understand.”

“Your father never taught you what fidelity was? Cleaving to a person through thick and thin; through rain and shine; staying true?”

Sarah was confused. She couldn't think what Seáth Rider wanted her to do. But all the same she said, “Yes, you can have my fidelity; if that's the price of bringing my father back.”

“For ever and ever?”

“Yes, for what that's worth.”

Seáth Rider shrugged. “Very well, then, if that's what you want.”

Sarah waited. “Is that it? Is that all there is to it?”

The rain dripped from the tip of Seáth Rider's nose, and trickled down his cheeks as if he were crying. “What more did you want. A flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder.” It still made her shiver when he said “tunder”.

“But he's going to come back?”

“You'll just have to wait and see, won't you. You can give me a kiss if you care to.”