Tyme's End (18 page)

And the room flashed into being, filled with dazzling white light. It leapt out of the shadows, bleached and unreal, clear as a photo. For a split second it hung like an apparition in front of my eyes, branding itself into my retina, so bright it hurt.

I heard myself scream.

Not because of the blinding, unearthly light; and not because of the black darkness, thick as tar, that followed it. Not because of the crack of thunder that broke over the house like a bomb, so loud it drowned out my voice.

In the flash of lightning, I'd seen a figure by the window.

A man, still as ice, who stared straight back at me. A man I'd never seen before – not face to face, not in real life. But I knew him.

A man who'd been dead for sixty years.

And in his gaze a blind vicious malevolence that took my breath away, and a hunger that rooted me to the spot.

.

I squeezed my eyes shut. In the darkness it made no difference, but I stayed like that for what seemed like hours, shaking. The thunder faded and the rain gulped and spat at the windows. I was holding my breath. He was still there, in the dark, still with those eyes turned on me. There was nothing in my head except the unbearable press of fear. I fought it, trying to steady myself against the wordless, freezing rush of it. I held on. I held on until words began to float to the surface like wreckage after a storm.
I can't move. I'm too frightened to move.
And then, rising through the panic, came a smaller, steadier voice.

This is 1996. Whatever happened here has nothing to do with me. This is not my past. This is NOT MY PAST
.

I opened my eyes. The darkness was thinner, like worn fabric. There was something by the window that could have been a figure. But it could have been something else too: a curve in the curtain, a shadow.

It wasn't much courage, but it was enough to make me move.

I ran, stumbling and shaking. For the first few seconds I was sure I would feel a hand catch hold of me, dragging me back. As I went through the doorway something clung and stuck to my face, and I dragged it away frantically, on the edge of hysteria. I swerved towards the front door, and then away again, because I knew that if I tried the door and it still didn't open . . . Nothing could be as terrible as that. I turned the other way, up the stairs, keeping a step ahead of the fear. The drawing room was the heart of the house. Anywhere but there.

I went into the bedroom that I'd thought of as mine a few hours ago.
Mine
.
There were tears running down my face now, although I wasn't sure exactly why. I slammed the door and then spun round, horribly certain that he'd be waiting for me, smiling at my panic. But I was on my own, and there was enough light from the windows to see that everything was as I'd left it. I knelt down beside my rucksack and put my arms round it, burying my head in the jumper spilling out of the top. I inhaled the smell of home, the floral laundry powder Rosina insisted on using. It drowned out the odour of damp that came off the walls and the bed, and pushed the fear a little further away. London existed. 1996 existed. Rosina, and Adeel, and Granddad existed.

Granddad
.

I knelt up, suddenly feeling a draught of cold air on my face. My mobile was digging into my hip. With trembling, clammy hands, I dug it out of my pocket and turned it on. The display lit up, throwing a dim green light over my hands. It was after midnight. The phone battery was down to its last bar, and the reception was flickering on and off. I fumbled at it, trying to call up the text message Granddad had sent me with the numbers of all his hotels.

The phone beeped loudly.
1 NEW MESSAGE FROM: VOICEMAIL. YOU HAVE 9 NEW MESSAGES, CALL 901 TO RETRIEVE
.

I paused, struggling to think. I just wanted to talk to Granddad – I didn't care about anyone else. But what if he'd phoned to tell me he'd changed his plans, or –? I dialled 901. The phone made a noise like something skittering across a polished floor – the battery failing – but it connected me.

‘Olly, my boy, good morning, or rather good evening, congratulations on finishing your exams, I hope the History paper went well. Give me a call when you can, room 267 at the Los Angeles Hilton, I should get there tomo—'

I laughed shakily, because I wanted to cry. I skipped to the next message.

‘Olly, I expect after an evening carousing with your comrades the very mention of alcohol will be anathema for at least the next day or so, but I forgot to say that I put some bottles of champagne aside for you. They're in the cupboard under the stairs. Unless of course you've already discovered them –'

‘Olly, Heaven forbid that I should add onerous duties to what is no doubt a hefty hangover, but according to my calculations you should be surfacing in the next couple of hours and I should be grateful if you could contact me. It's the same number as before –'

‘Oliver, I have tried the landline several times, and I am beginning to be really rather concerned for your well-being. I'm sure I'm being foolish, but if you could possibly put my mind at rest by phoning me –'

‘Oliver. Please phone me. The number is the same as the one I gave you –'

‘Oliver, please –'

‘Oliver. Are you all right? Call me as soon –'

‘Oliver.
Are you all right?
Phone me.'

‘
Phone me
.'

His voice got harsher, terser, every time, but I was almost crying with thankfulness just to hear it. It would be OK. I should have phoned him before. He'd know what to do, he'd understand.
To return the call, press five.
I pressed five. As the phone rang at the other end I heard the low-battery tone again.

Someone said, ‘Good afternoon, Los Angeles Hilton. How may I help you?'

I said, ‘Could you connect me to room 267, please? Mr Gardner?'

‘Just one second, sir . . . Yes, I'm afraid Mr Gardner's reservation has been cancelled. I'm sorry about that. Is there anything else I can –'

There was a noise like a marble spinning across stone tiles: the noise of the battery dying.

I said, ‘Please – he's there – I think you've made a mistake. I need to talk to him, please,
please
.'

‘I'm sorry, sir, his reservation was definitely cancelled. Can I help you with anyth—'

And then the phone cut out.

.

I stared at the screen, waiting for it to light up again. I wanted to be angry with myself for letting the battery run down; I wanted to feel disappointed, or irritated, or afraid. But all I could feel was a kind of numb disbelief, as if I was watching something die. The storm rumbled outside, a long way away. I heard a gurgle of water as a gutter overflowed, and then the steady tick of drips falling from the ceiling on to the floor. I thought, without urgency,
I shouldn't be here
.
I need to leave
.

I pressed the power button on my phone, holding it down until the pad of my thumb started to hurt. Nothing. It made me think of the door downstairs that wouldn't let me out. It was no good. Nothing would be any good.

I closed my eyes and I could see the drawing room lit up by the lightning, and Martin standing by the window. I was frightened again, and I was so
tired
of being frightened. I wanted to go home; and I knew, helplessly, hopelessly, that I couldn't. Maybe not ever. I was trapped.

And I wanted Granddad.

I put my arms round my rucksack again and hugged it, like a little kid. I was knackered, but I was too scared to go to sleep. It seemed important, somehow, to stay awake. If – when – I fell asleep, that would be the end. I knew I wasn't going to get away; whatever the debt was, I was going to pay it. It was like being on a sinking ship: the past was leaking in, swirling icily round me like seawater. But there was nowhere to go. If I'd been able to talk to Granddad . . . but I couldn't. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

And after a while I started to cry weakly. I cried because I was afraid, but for other things too: for Dad and my little half-brother or sister; for Mum, although I'd never known her properly; for Granddad. I cried because I was reduced to this, crying alone in someone else's house, and because it was my own fault. And I cried because I was giving up, because I was letting the past win.

I curled up, blind and deaf with misery and fear, like an animal. And the rotten, flowery smell of the past rose around me, until the air seemed to be thick with it. I noticed it, but there was nothing I could do except breathe it in. I went into a kind of trance, hardly knowing where I was, or who. I waited, determined to hold on for as long as I could, but only just remembering what I was holding on to.

The storm slackened until the rain was soft, blowing against the windows like a curtain. Moisture slid down my face like a hand, and I didn't move.

After a long, long time I thought I heard someone saying my name. It was loud, demanding, like someone was calling me. I froze but nothing happened.

There were footsteps downstairs. The drawing- room door opened and the steps paused, then started again. I heard my name again. It seemed to echo, so that I thought there were two voices saying it: the old, sepulchre voice that made my skin crawl, and – another one. But I was too tired and cold to raise my head to listen. I kept my eyes closed and heard the silence swallow both voices.

Then, very faintly, I heard music.

It was scratchy and distorted, and it only played for a few seconds before it deepened and slowed grotesquely to a stop. But I thought I knew it, although I couldn't think of the name of the piece. It was classical – we'd done it at school. It made me feel uneasy, as if there was something I should have remembered. It was a sharp, nagging feeling, so unlike the dull weight of fear that I sat up straight and stared into the dark, wondering.

I stood up, wincing at the pain as the blood came back into my hands and feet. I didn't know why, but I needed to go downstairs again. There was something . . .

I opened the door and I heard voices. A voice. Or two voices; I wasn't sure. I drew in my breath slowly, listening.

The world reeled, fizzing and boiling with black, so that I swayed in the doorway, reaching out for something – anything – to steady myself. The nausea rose in my throat as if I was drowning in it. I felt the floor shifting under my feet, as if I were in two places at once. The dark sucked at me, pounding in my head like a heartbeat, beating at me like wings.

And from the room below, I felt something evil seeping up through the floorboards like mould or poisonous gas. It was worse than the malevolence I'd seen in Martin's eyes, worse than anything – and it was mixed with a kind of triumph that wasn't aimed at me.

For a moment I stood there disorientated, clinging to the door jamb. Such
evil
. I couldn't bear it. I dropped to my knees and curled over, covering my head with my arms as if I was bracing myself for a crash. I thought,
No, no, no –

And then it was gone.

It went suddenly, cleanly. It left nothing behind except a kind of emptiness and peace.

And the darkness was nothing but darkness.

.

It was a cool, bright morning. I opened my eyes, and I was curled up on the floor outside the bedroom. I sat up. My body ached all over, as if I'd been beaten up. It was hard to straighten my fingers, and it took me two attempts to get to my feet.

But . . . something was different.

I could feel it in the air around me: the peace that had come so suddenly last night. The peace of a paid debt, of finished business. What Granddad would call the
quietus
: quits. I walked slowly down the stairs, wondering at the emptiness in the air, the way Tyme's End was . . . only a house.

The front door was open, wedged on a clump of weeds on the doorstep, and the rain had blown in and soaked the floor. The air was fresh and clean, and I stood for a moment, breathing in the moist smell. I could have gone outside then, but I knew the door would stay open; that it would never close of its own accord. I turned and opened the drawing-room door.

And maybe I already knew what I'd see.

Granddad was sitting on the sofa, looking towards the window where Martin would have been standing. He didn't move, or say anything, or even glance at me. He carried on staring across the room. He'd taken his hat off and left it on the back of a chair, and his jacket was sagging and creased from the plane journey. His lighter and cigarettes were arranged on the table next to him, as if he'd been having a conversation with a friend. And in the ashtray beside them were the last blackened margins of his exercise book.

I wanted to sit down next to him, but I couldn't. I moved to the window and looked out. My footsteps on the floorboards jerked the gramophone into a split second of life and it sputtered into a bar of the music I'd heard the night before. I glanced at it, waiting for it to grind to a halt again, and it did.