The Kings of Eternity (37 page)

I paused before the door of the coach-house, aware that I had to go through with this. I entered, and set about retrieving the few items I wished to save from my old life. Again and again I came across small reminders of Tara’s presence: her toothbrush and cosmetics, a pair of shoes, a blouse... I bundled them all into boxes and left them outside beside the bins.

I made the rounds of the few acquaintances I had in the village, and told them that I was moving to Scotland for a while. I felt, oddly enough, guilty at telling this untruth. I walked back to the Grange with a few possessions in a rucksack, and the rest back at the coach-house boxed up in preparation for storage.

Charles and I returned to London to meet Vaughan and collect our new identities. Then I fled Europe and settled on the island of Antigua in the Caribbean. For years I rarely ventured abroad, and kept my own company. It was a quiet life, untroubled by the Vark.

The above record is an accurate account of what happened in Hopton Wood, Cranley Grange, and over the course of my life since. Perhaps my record has not quite caught the despair into which I was plunged from time to time, but it is so very difficult to write about despair, especially one’s own.

The year is 1990, and the time has come, once again, for me to assume a new identity. I will meet Vaughan in London and take on another disguise. I feel the need to travel again; maybe Asia. I could call in and visit Charles at his monastic retreat in Bhutan, and from there head north.

And after that?

I like small islands - there is something about them both secure and microcosmic, the world in miniature - and I have been considering a new life somewhere in Greece. I might renew the writer’s life again, but who can tell what the future might hold?

I might even take the name of Daniel Langham. I will keep the Christian name of Daniel - I liked the way Sam said it with her soft Canadian burr - and if a Vark assassin should come hunting for me, then so be it.

Chapter Sixteen

Kallithéa, July, 1999

Langham awoke early in the morning, pulled from sleep by the sunlight slanting in through the window. He lay and watched Caroline for a while, admiring her face as she slept as if she had not a care in the world. How different she would be when she awoke, and the realisation of her condition flooded into her stirring consciousness.

He slipped from bed and showered, and she was still sleeping when he returned. He fixed his usual breakfast of black tea, yoghurt and honey, and carried it out onto the patio. This was his favourite time of day, usually, as the sun warmed the air and he contemplated his novel, but today he could not concentrate for considering how he might go about telling Caroline that she need not despair.

She was still asleep thirty minutes later when he returned the dishes to the kitchen, so he took the opportunity to try and write. Much to his surprise, the words came. His subconscious produced its magic and the characters that existed nowhere but in his mind were made real through the medium of fiction.

He surfaced at twelve with a start of guilt, closed his manuscript book and hurried into the bedroom. Caroline was lying on her back, blinking up at the unfamiliar ceiling. She turned her head and gave him a dazzling smile when he entered the room.

“Wondered where I was for a minute then,” she whispered. “Could you help me up?”

He assisted her upright, and before she could take a step he enfolded her in his arms and hugged her for a minute, as if to invest her with his strength.

She took small, pained steps to the bathroom, and he left her standing before the basin. “Something to eat?”

“Just an orange juice, and maybe a piece of toast. I’m not a breakfast person.”

“Give me a shout when you’ve finished, okay?”

While she washed, Langham toasted a slice of bread and poured an orange juice. Something about the simple domestic task of preparing food for someone else struck him as tremendously gratifying, and he realised that this would be the first of many such occasions.

He carried the tray out to the patio, sat on the sofa and awaited her summons. It never came; instead, she appeared at the kitchen door, weak but smiling, and walked slowly towards him, gesturing him to sit down when he jumped to his feet to assist her.

“I’m not a complete invalid yet, Daniel.”

She joined him on the sofa with a sigh of satisfaction. “Oh, it’s beautiful,” she said. “You’re so lucky, waking to this every morning.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Physically weak. Mentally, having stopped lying to you, not too bad.”

He took her hand. “I understand why you said what you said. Don’t let it worry you.”

She smiled. “Do you know something, Daniel? The mornings aren’t too bad, or the days, really. It’s the nights. The darkness. When the sun goes down... I know it’s supposed to be beautiful, but for me it’s too... symbolic.”

He said, “There speaks the painter.”

And he knew, then, when he would divulge his secret. He would wait until the sun went down, and the stars appeared in the heavens, and only then would he tell her that he intended to save her life; it would restore her admiration of sunsets, and perhaps even give her, like him, an appreciation of the stars as symbols of hope.

She drank her juice, but could not eat.

“I wonder if you could do me a massive favour, Daniel?”

“Of course, anything.”

“Next time, would you come to London with me? It’s so lonely on my own. I know no-one. And to have you there... I know it’ll be terrible for you, but-”

He silenced her by taking her fingers and applying gentle pressure. “Shh,” he said. “I’ll do anything you want.”

She closed her eyes and rested her head on the cushion. “You don’t know what a relief that is. I was really dreading the next trip.”

“There’s no need to think about it now,” he said.

She was silent for a time, eyes open and staring at the sea. He wondered what she saw; did she see the ocean with a painterly eye, appreciate the aesthetics of its silver-scaled surface, its majestic breadth, or was the ocean a reminder of the many beauteous things she thought she would soon be denied?

“Do you know what I dread, Daniel?” she said in a small voice.

He wanted to tell her to be silent, to dread nothing. I am immortal, he wanted to tell her, and soon you will be, too - but the declaration seemed ludicrous and unbelievable in the harsh light of day.

“I dread,” she said, “not being around to watch the boys grow into men. So much of our love for other people is an anticipation of our future with them, our hopes for how things might be. You... I want to see the publication of your next novel. I want to read it, and the one after that, and... and I really want to be able to love you. It seems so cruel - not for me, but for you. If I hadn’t come along when I did-”

“If you hadn’t come along, I’d still be the old miserable, misanthropic Daniel Langham. What you’ve given me is inestimable.”

She smiled, seemingly close to sleep. “What a lovely, writerly word,” she whispered. “Inestimable.”

A while later he said, “I’ll prepare lunch, okay? You’ve got to eat.”

She nodded. “Okay. The mackerel was delightful. I don’t suppose...?”

“There’s some left, yes. With salad?”

She reached out suddenly as he made to rise and go to the kitchen. She clutched his hand. “You’re a wonderful person, Daniel.”

He prepared the salad, taking more care than he would were he making it for himself. That would go for his life in general, from now, he realised; everything he did would be invested with the fact that he was doing it for Caroline. Every word he wrote, every meal he prepared, every sight he saw and observation he made, would be made special by being shared with the woman he loved.

He carried lunch out on a big tray and placed it on the coffee table before her. He was gratified when she ate, and expressed enjoyment of the food.

“I honestly don’t know how I might have coped on my own,” she said, “and the thought of some hospital, and then a hospice...”

She was silent for a while, eating. Then she paused, staring at her salad. She replaced her fork on the plate. “I know you don’t want to talk about this, but I’d rather get it over with now, when I’m able.”

“Caroline...”

“No, please, Daniel. I’ll say it now, so I don’t have to make you hear it again. What I fear, near the end, is being alone. Promise me you’ll be with me.”

“I promise.”

“And I don’t want to be buried. Can’t stand the idea of being locked in a box.” She frowned. “And there’s something else: my paintings. I want you to select a dozen, for yourself. And I want you to have
Contemplating the Future
.”

He would have said that he could not accept it, knowing that for Caroline it represented her fear - but the simple fact was that the painting might come to symbolise hope for her, very soon.

They continued eating in silence. After a while, Caroline said, “Daniel, are you calling in at the post office today?”

“I could, if you want me to.”

“Only I’m expecting letters from the boys. If you could see if there’s anything for me...”

“I need to check my own mail, too.”

“I think I’ll sleep this afternoon.” She smiled at him. “I feel so tired. I’ve gone downhill so bloody fast!”

“Shh,” he said, taking her hand.

After lunch, she did sleep. Langham watched her for a while, planning his afternoon. He would stroll into the village, check the mail, apologise to Georgiou for his absence two days running, and then return and prepare something for dinner. And, later, when the huge red sun plummeted into the ocean, he would produce his journal, and the serum pistol, and tell her the fantastic story of his life.

He moved from the sofa, collected his sun hat, and left the patio.

He passed Caroline’s villa, and recalled meeting her just three weeks ago. Christos had dropped the crate outside the house, and she had been sitting upon it, contemplating how she might get it inside. If not for the lethargy of Christos the donkey man, he thought, I might never have met Caroline Platt.

He realised, then, that he was truly happy for the first time in... how long? He had been happy in Tangier for a brief while, with Sam, and then again in Lower Cranley with Tara. Was his happiness dependant upon having a women to love, he wondered? Whatever, he was happy: the future, the vast stretch of the future, beckoned him and Caroline, and the prospect filled him with joy.

When he reached the village and crossed the waterfront, Georgiou rushed out and shook his hand. “We were worried! Two days! I said to Maria, ‘Never before has Mr Langham missed a single day. Never! And then two!’ We thought you were ill. I was going to come up and check on you, but Maria, she says that you and the English lady...”

Langham smiled. “Caroline’s ill. I’m looking after her for a day or two. She’ll be fine.”

“Say hello to the lady,” Georgiou said, releasing his grip on Langham’s hand and allowing him to continue.

Yannis had seen him coming and the old, worn teak box was out on the counter.

“Yassous, Mr Langham. We thought you were dead!”

Langham smiled. “Not yet, Yannis, but thanks for your concern.”

He leafed through the envelopes, checking first the Ps for Caroline’s post - she had none - and the Ls, on the off chance that there was something for him.

He stopped, heart thumping, when he saw the distinctive long, sky blue envelope distinguished by the florid hand of Edward Vaughan.

He ripped open the envelope and pulled out the single hand-written sheet. He read the message, not taking it in, and then began again, working to calm his breathing.

Dear Daniel,

I am writing again as you failed to acknowledge my first letter. In case you didn’t receive it, I’ll repeat here what I wrote: Charles and I will be arriving on Friday the 24th. Charles is flying in from India tomorrow (the 16th), when we will set sail. Jasper contacted me a week ago with much news. He is opening the shanath when we are all together, then he will tell us more.

By the way, the mereths no longer work - or, rather, the Vark have discovered a means of rendering them ineffective; so be warned, beware.

We’ll see you on the jetty at Xanthos around one o’clock on the 24th, all being well.

Signed, Edward Vaughan.

PS, Jasper sends his regards - prepare yourself for revelations.

Langham tried to concentrate. He read the note a third time, and his stomach turned.

What ‘first letter’, he wondered?

He turned to the post master. “Yannis.” He waved the blue envelope. “Was there another letter just like this one, a few days ago? Can you remember seeing a sky blue envelope?”

Yannis stared at Langham as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “Mr Langham,” he said with infinite patience. “You came in and picked up the letter yourself, two, maybe three, days ago... You said it was an important letter from a good friend. Mr Langham, are you ill?”

His head throbbed. He leaned against the wall. He knew, of course: he knew what had happened, and he stifled a cry.

The mereth were no longer effective...

Forbes was a Vark!

He read the letter yet again.
Arriving on Friday the 24th... We’ll see you on the jetty at Xanthos around one o’clock...

“Yannis, what’s the date today?”

The post master indicated a big digital calendar on the wall. Today was the 24th. Langham looked at his watch. It was one-thirty.

He ran from the post office. One of the village’s three taxis was parked outside the barber’s shop. The driver was in the process of extricating himself from behind the wheel and heading to the shop when Langham called out. “Taxi! Xanthos!” in his execrable Greek. “But first, up the track as far as you can go!”

He jumped into the back of the car and closed his eyes. He would be too late, of course. He would arrive to find that the Vark assassin had discharged its duty, killed Vaughan and Charles. At this very second, it might be returning to Sarakina to finish its tour of duty by eradicating him...