White Trail (11 page)

‘But my boy... and Arthur,' he protested as he was dragged – ever so politely it seemed by the mute, smiling boys – out of the room.

‘Oh don't worry Cilydd. The boy can come too. In fact, you can both consider yourselves officially missing. As for Arthur, well – Arthur is – and always has been – a little bit of a nuisance as far as we're concerned.'

Cilydd was staring down another spiral of stairs. They were unlike the others he'd trodden before –they were rusty and creaked as he descended. He was being dragged further and further into the heart of the building. The surroundings became more and more stark, until they were travelling in shadow, damp filling his nostrils.

‘My son,' Cilydd said. ‘You've got my son. What have you done with him?'

‘Oh, he's fine. But he won't be running off with my daughter, I've made sure of that. You see, Olwen can't ever leave this place. Not while I'm still in the land of the living. The trouble is she knows everything. She's always known it. It's what she's grown up with, people coming, people going – she was born into it. I always wanted a child, you see. I suppose I was rather hoping that Culhwch might become mine, one day – but after what happened with Goleuddydd... well, I couldn't do it. You see, he was a horrid reminder of what happened and I had to send him away. But I wanted to make up for it. Never take on another pregnant woman – that's what my advisors told me. But I wanted to prove to them I could do it. That's just the kind of man I am. I mean, when I solved my first mystery it was like a light had descended on me. It was like I was gifted, special. And I couldn't bear never doing it again. I suppose that's why I wanted to gather up all those mysteries, solve them for myself. Be part of something. And it was the same when I found Olwen's mother. She wasn't like Goleuddydd, you understand. She was a timid little thing, just a child herself. Fourteen. Terrified of someone finding out about the pregnancy. So I took her in. She didn't have to pay, not like the others. Just give me the child, I said to her. I'll take care of it. All that time I was thinking of Culhwch, what a mess I'd made of things. Olwen was my way to put things right, you see. A lovely, natural birth it was. Her mother was so very brave. Not that Olwen has ever known that her mother is living here. She thinks it's just her and me – that was the arrangement. And you know there's something so very special about Olwen. The day she was born the fields around this place just lit up with white flowers. The purest, whitest flowers. It was like the ground forgiving me for what I'd done to poor old Culhwch. Such an unfortunate name – Culhwch – I know. But how can any of us really escape the circumstances of our birth? It's always there, you see. It was the one name we could give him. He carried the darkness of that pigsty within him – and here was Olwen, brimming with light, her name a white trail of flowers. They're so different. And I'm afraid, for that reason, they simply can't be together. This house, the house of the missing – it's her home. In some ways, she's always been missing – we never registered her birth, so technically, she doesn't even exist. And it was my hope that one day, Olwen would grow up and be part of all this. But your children, however conditioned they are, never turn out exactly how you planned, do they? When she fell pregnant – well you can imagine, it caused something of a stir in here. ‘Who was it?' I asked her. Turns out it was Ffercos son of Poch who'd forced himself on her. A grubby little thing. You can imagine how wounded I felt. I'm afraid I rather... I rather lost it. I suppose he was our first... deliberate fatality.'

‘The word you're looking for is murder,' Cilydd said.

‘Another vulgar term that is bandied about all too readily by journalists,' Ysbaddaden replied. ‘I suppose Culhwch fancies himself as some sort of father to this child now, but honestly, Cilydd, how can he be? He's been living in seclusion all his life. All he's ever known is birds and make-believe. He's just a little boy.'

‘That's because of you. Because you stuck him on that farm with two people who didn't even want to be his parents...'

‘Not at first, no. But I gather they both developed quite a lot of affection for the boy in the end. There were times, when we took our days out to visit them, that I glimpsed real happiness in them. Contentment even. They were happy with their farm, with their little family life – even if there was no love between them. Surgeons they were, both of them. I never anticipated they'd make me the offer they did. To give me all their money so I could buy this place in my own name, and hide them there. An odd proposition, I know, but when you're a man without responsibilities and someone offers you this enormous estate – well, you're hardly going to say no, are you? And one night when we were all settled, they got the idea that I could keep tracking people down, and offer them a safe haven. For free, at first. And time after time I was surprised by how much people wanted what I was offering. Not surprising though really. When I found most of them they were holed up in bedsits and hostels, sleeping rough. And there I was, offering them a room of one's own, away from it all. Safety. But then sure enough it started getting more and more costly and we realised that we had to make people pay to come here. They had to organise it. A little tricky, isn't it, advertising something you don't want anyone to know about? But we managed it. Friends in high places, that sort of thing. It's amazing actually how many people do know we exist, but keep it firmly under their hats. Take the police, for example. Turn a blind eye to every single case thanks to our connections with the force. I mean, how else do you think we were able to move a family into the farm, even as the investigation continued? Culhwch was moved in, right under their noses. And the business slowly started coming in. As long as we kept an eye out for suitable cases, we never struggled to fill the rooms.'

‘So you just picked Goleuddydd out at random?'

‘Hardly. Goleuddydd was more or less volunteered to us. I mean, she comes from a very powerful family.'

Cilydd's stomach churned as the truth dawned on him at last.

‘Oh my God,' he said. ‘Anlawdd. Anlawdd set her up.'

‘He just subtly informed her of our existence, that's all. He gave her the option, he never forced her...'

‘He killed her!' Cilydd realised he was shouting now, his voice deflating as the corridor around him seemed to narrow to a thin strip. ‘By sending her here he killed her, he must have known that. But then... it doesn't make sense... he was the one begging me to get Arthur on to it...'

‘Yes. Indeed. Arthur. Think about it. Arthur who'd been pottering around the streets selling hand-carved animals for half his life. Arthur the street artist. Arthur the carver. Arthur, who hadn't solved a single case in his life. Get good old Arthur on to it, Cilydd. Look, I know it's a shock. But Anlawdd isn't a bad man. It just... just didn't work out as he planned, that's all. We offered the boy to Anlawdd, to make up for things, but he didn't want him. It was too painful for him, as you can imagine. But he did stress in no uncertain terms that were we to give the boy to you, he would cut our funding...'

‘Funding?' His voice was no more than a pathetic whisper in the dark now. ‘Anlawdd... he funds you?'

‘He's not our only benefactor. There are others. Doged, for example. Like I said, you've got to have friends in high places to make an operation like this work.'

By now they had reached what looked like the dungeon of the building. A cast-iron door was wrenched open, and he was shoved hastily through it. When he turned his back he realised that this was where the journey ended, that he was being shoved into a cell. He turned around to face Ysbaddaden, as the guards walked away.

‘You can't leave me here,' Cilydd protested. ‘I won't be part of this! I need to be with my son.'

‘I'm afraid that's not possible, Cilydd. I'm sorry, I truly am.'

The door clattered shut, and the damp settled on him like a second skin.

*

He was awoken by the chattering of birds. Fitful, fantastic bursts of song. At first he couldn't fathom where the noise was coming from, but he soon realised that it was coming from everywhere, dark wings ruffling around him in every direction. The last thing he remembered was being weak with hunger, lying on the floor, thinking he was going to die. And yet, although he still had not eaten, for what seemed like days and days, his hunger had evaporated. He felt full and energised, like he'd just had a good meal. The dark gave way to a host of piercing orange eyes, all staring up at him. He felt his way around the feathery mass, brushing against their coats as the chatter grew louder and louder. But the beaks were perfectly still between his fingers, politely shut.

Something rattled. Suddenly the door that was sure never to be open to him again, was pulled back, and light flooded in. In front of him was Culhwch. His eyes, Goleuddydd's pale green eyes, were strong and determined.

‘Culhwch,' he said, feeling once again the urge to throw his arms around his son, to pull his flesh and blood towards him. ‘It's good to see you. I'm so glad you're... you're OK,' he added, resting an arm tenta-tively on his shoulder. ‘I thought for a moment they might have... well, you know...'

‘I'm absolutely fine,' his son replied. ‘They tried to lock me up but I'm fine. But we've got a chance now, a chance to get out of here. And we have to do it quickly.'

Birds hovered in the air between them, a rush of feathers in their faces.

‘What on earth are these birds doing? How did they get in here?'

‘I think Olwen must have released them through the air vents,' Culhwch said. ‘She told me to wait for a sign. The birds... well they seem to me like a sign. I don't know how they did it but they seem to have unlocked my cell. When I woke up I felt, well, like I've never felt before. Do you feel it too? A lightness. Yes, that's it, much lighter than before. Like I've never eaten anything in my life, and will never need to again. I feel I could do anything. We can leave now, can't we. We'll get Olwen and we'll leave.'

‘But Ysbaddaden, and the guards...' Cilydd said, hating to dent his son's bravado but finding himself adopting a grave tone, preparing his son for the worst. Wasn't that what real parents found themselves doing, time after time? Bursting their children's bubbles? He had never had to do it with Lleuwen. Gwelw did the disciplining, and then he cajoled her with hot chocolate and wan smiles in the aftermath. But now he felt it – an urge to be firm, to tell it like it was.

‘We're not going to get out. Not with those guards around the place. Or the security. I think we have to face facts here Culhwch.'

Culhwch shook his head, a laugh brimming across his lips.

‘No, you don't understand. It will be easy. Look. Just look.'

Cilydd followed his son out into the corridor. Right next to the door were Graid and Cubert. Slumped against the wall, curling into one another – a pair of sinking question marks. Eyes firmly shut. Emanating tiny, peaceful exhalations. He turned back to look at his son.

‘Everyone else in this building is asleep, Cilydd, everyone – the guards outside my cell were too, the guards at the top of the stairs – everybody. Everybody's asleep but us. It's Olwen's sign – she's calling us, giving us an opportunity to save her... we have to get her and leave. I promised her, remember?'

‘But why... I mean do you really think it's wise to go and get her? If we can get out, I think we should just get out,' Cilydd said, seeing, with sudden clarity, that Olwen was a mere nuisance. He had never wanted Olwen. He only wanted his son.

‘Olwen is the reason we came. And more than that – if you ask me – Olwen's the reason we're still alive. Ysbaddaden would gladly let us rot down here. Just trust me. You're... you're my father. I need you to support me in this.'

Father. The word jolted him, sending electrical impulses all around his body. It wasn't wholly unfamiliar – for Lleuwen sometimes called him
Father
, sardonically, wrinkling her nose at him – even Dad – but every time he heard it, he felt a pang of guilt, and could not help but think of her real
father 
– Doged, tumbling over the rocks. Now it was a free word. Free as a bird. And so he did what he thought a proper father should do and followed his son back down a dark corridor, back towards chaos and disaster. The birds followed them.

‘So you've seen Olwen?' he whispered into the back of his son's head.

‘Yes,' he whispered back. ‘Once you and Arthur fell asleep that trail sprang up again. I was becoming sleepy too and I knew if I didn't follow it right there and then it would all be over. Wherever the flowers were it seemed doors would open, gates would open for me, just like that. I just kept following those flowers until I was inside – and Olwen was waiting for me. She looked terrified. And so tired. ‘I can't have the baby here,' she kept on saying. So I tried to carry her. But we didn't make it very far.

Ysbaddaden and the guards, they were right behind us the whole time – teasing us, letting us think we could escape and then seizing us right at the last minute. Then he... I don't know. He took Olwen. Just before he took her she told me: ‘It's not over. The birds will help us. Wait for the birds. They'll know what to do.' Ysbaddaden seemed – well, not what I was expecting, really. Even as we were walking down here he was trying to assure me I was going to be reunited with you. But then he left me in that cell. Left me there to die.'

‘But what happened to Arthur?'

‘I don't know where Arthur went,' he said. ‘I haven't seen him since the forest.'

Cilydd tried to remember what Ysbaddaden had said about Arthur. Meddling Arthur would be punished, he had said. He shoved the thought to the back of his mind as they travelled further into the building. The quiet that surrounded them was not peaceful, somehow, but tinged with foreboding. He recalled something that Ysbaddaden had said about the birds. About them waking the dead. Was he dead? Was that it? The birds filled every corner with their feathers and noise. They came upon a large hall – chandeliers dangled from the high ceilings, white corridors splayed out in every direction, and portraits of the residents adorned the walls. Underneath each one was a note about their disappearance. As he rushed past he felt as though they were laughing at him, these great big oil incarnations of those tiny little photographs he'd held in the palm of his grieving hand, so many years ago. They paused suddenly in front of a face they both recognised.