Once. Part 3

which the staircase spiralled. More memories came with the touch and in his mind he was a child again, in a time when his knees rose high to mount the steps that were thin at one end, broad at the other, his small hand pressed against the circular newel for balance, his head tilted upwards to look into the shadows above: on the first floor landing, the door leading off to the bedroom he had shared with his mother, as big and st.u.r.dy as the two below, as if they all had come as a job lot; the leaded window set high in the curved wall, too high for him to look through unless he was on the stairs just past it, always a pot of bright seasonal flowers or a plant sitting on its oak sill...

There were no flowers and no plant there now, just an empty vase, one that was unfamiliar to him. He could see through the window as soon as he reached the first step beneath it.

The bedroom door was already open and he peered in without entering, noting that this, too, had hardly changed: the same oak four-poster bed, large enough to accommodate himself and his mother, the dark brown sideboard with separate mirror on top that served as a dressing-table for Bethan, the stone fireplace with its heavy duty wooden lintel, the six-panelled windows on three of the angled walls, these too, leaded, their number ensuring the room was always bright, even on the dullest of days. He didn'tlinger too long, for it was the rooftop with its panoramic views over the surrounding woodland that he wished to revisit most of all.

There were even more cracks and holes in the stair-boards than he remembered, some of those holes as large as old penny pieces, and he recalled shining torchlight down them all those years ago. Somehow the beams had never been able to penetrate the seemingly endless darkness, even though the backing board could not have been more than a foot away. It was eerie then, the thought of it eerie now.

Yet that kind of thing had been part of Little Bracken's fascination: its warmth in summer, when doors and windows

could be left open all night, its winter coldness; its security and sometimes - only sometimes - its bleakness; its interesting nooks and crannies, built-in cupboards and bell-less belltower, places where a little boy could play hide-and-seek with an indulgent mother. Then there were the mysterious sc.r.a.pes and b.u.mps late at night, the distant yet somehow close-by sounds that would wake him from sleep, or interrupt one of Bethan's night-time stories as he lay by her side in the broad four-poster bed they shared, noises that would cause his eyes to widen and his shoulders to stiffen. Always his mother would give a little laugh at his fear, or perhaps just smile as she cuddled him close and told him there was never, ever, anything to be afraid of, not in this place, and not with her beside him. And sometimes, when he pulled away to look at her face for extra rea.s.surance, her soft features rendered even softer by the candlelight she always kept burning through the night on the mantelshelf opposite, he would catch a certain knowing look in her light-blue eyes, as if she was only too aware of the sound's cause and it secretly amused her.

She would explain it was probably a woodmouse rummaging around the kitchen below, or some other little creature from the forest that had found its way inside the cottage, or perhaps a bird or bat settling down in the eaves of the belltower's roof. Even the quiet clank of pot against pan, or the shifting of something across a worktop or table below failed to alarm her, and her unshakeable confidence would soon draw him in so that he was no longer afraid. Never once, though, did he suggest they go down to investigate, and never once did his mother show any curiosity herself.

Thom resumed the climb, boards creaking noisily beneath his feet. Normally, spiral staircases in castles and fortresses twisted to the right so that soldiers defending their ground had room to swing swords or thrust pikestaffs at advancing intruders whose own sword arms were disad-vantaged, but Little Bracken's original architect obviously had only peaceful purposes in mind when he designed the

banquet and its copycat tower, hence these stairs turned to the left. However, that non-military consideration had not prevented the boy Thom from engaging imaginary foes in battle there, his own short reach and wooden weapon unenc.u.mbered by the vagaries of architecture, the invisible villains easily beaten back by his ferocious attack.

He was smiling yet again as he quickly reached the short landing where the newel post ended and two thick horizontal rails served as a bal.u.s.trade. Directly above him was the empty - save for stout crossbeams - conical-shaped s.p.a.ce beneath the lead apex which, in truth, was never meant to house a bell. To his right on the landing was another door, this one considerably smaller than those below, which opened out on to the cottage's roof, and Thom lifted the latch, then pushed outwards.

The breeze hit him instantly, refreshing him and clearing the mustiness (compliments of the disused cottage) from his nose. Before he had even stepped through he was dazzled not just by sunlight, but bythe view itself, and he gave a small gasp of pleasure.

It was still as beautiful as he remembered; time had neither enhanced nor diminished the reality. The thousand hues of green were the same, the pale blueness of the distant, low hills was unchanged, the sheer vastness of the clear, open sky was just as impressive.

He walked out on to the flat rooftop, pausing each time to lift his left foot over the lead ridges, and approached the thick open stone bal.u.s.trade that ran round seven sides of the octagonal deck, the tower wall and door taking up the eighth angle. Thom leaned forward, resting both hands on the bal.u.s.trade's wide coping, and gazed out at the landscape.

Below, the woodland was like a deep, b.u.mpy carpet stretching far into the distance, its shades ranging from an intense jade to an exuberant lime and beyond this fields and gra.s.sland rising to gentle hills. Easily visible on its own rise was Castle Bracken, its walls washed almost golden

by afternoon sunlight that was beginning to mellow. Yet although from this viewpoint and in the scenic grandeur of its setting it truly did resemble a castle from a child's storybook, Thom could not remember ever having been in awe of it. Perhaps even as a boy there had been a dark side to his imagination, an aspect of his nature that had picked up on the misery contained within those stone walls and high-ceilinged halls. A sadness seemed to pervade the very air, as if past tragedies tainted everything that was to follow. In those days he had pitied his friend Hugo, for the older boy seemed crushed by the austere, even grim, atmosphere, and afraid of his own father.

Sir Russell had lost two wives in this place, his first dying swiftly from throat cancer, the second - Hugo's mother -even more quickly in a fall down the central hall's main staircase. (Apparently she was a heavy drinker - or had become a heavy drinker since her marriage to the knight -who had many bitter arguments with her husband. She had tripped at the top of the long staircase during a particularly heavy binge and after an especially nasty quarrel.) Then, Hugo's elder stepbrother, the son from Sir Russell's first marriage, had been blown to pieces by a b.o.o.by-trapped bomb planted by the IRA while he was serving with the British Army in Northern Ireland. It was little wonder that Castle Bracken seemed burdened by grief, shadowed with gloom, and not surprising that Sir Russell himself presented such a gruff, embittered figure. Only when he and Thom had played together outside in the grounds or down by the bridge had Hugo truly come to life, his humour and unbridled enthusiasm infectious, so that Thom, himself, would become boisterous and joyous, revelling in the companionship. The only minor hitch in their relationship was that Hugo would never enter the woods, no matter how much he was begged by Thom, who knew there were even greater adventures to be had and secrets to be discovered there. But Hugo had been forbidden by his father ever to wander

into the forest, intimations that he would become hopelessly lost and that nasty animals roamed the wildwoods enough to discourage the boy if Sir Russell's order alone was not sufficient.

Thom wondered how his old friend would cope with the latest in a long line of tragedies that haunted Castle Bracken: the impending death of his father. Would he succ.u.mb to the grief? Would he be lost without his father's - overbearing? -guidance? Or would he feel liberated, would he at last become his own man? It remained to be seen.

Thom heard a car's engine growing louder and looked below to see his Jeep emerging from the lanealmost opposite, its wheels b.u.mping over the rough unmade road, bodywork jolting as it pa.s.sed over the deeper holes. He caught sight of Eric Pimlet through the windscreen and raised a hand to wave, but realized the gamekeeper was concentrating too much on handling the vehicle to notice.

The Jeep came to a halt close to the front door and the horn sounded twice, upsetting a bird settled in a nearby bush. It took to the air, complaining loudly, and, as Thom turned from the bal.u.s.trade to make his way back across the leaded roof, he noticed another bird perched on the lip of the belltower.

The magpie studied him coolly - seemed to watch him coolly - apparently not at all intimidated by his closeness, and Thom felt sure it was the same one who had watched him approach the cottage earlier.

There was something eerie about its unblinking gaze, as if the bird were thinking dark thoughts, all of them about Thom. He suddenly clapped his hands together, sharp and hard, hoping to make the bird take flight. It didn't. The magpie did not even flinch. It continued to watch.

For a few moments longer, man and bird stared at each other, and it was Thom who broke first. Eric's waiting below, he reasoned, somewhat ruefully, and here am I trying to face down a b.l.o.o.d.y bird!

He shook his head and pa.s.sed beneath the magpie into the open doorway. The bird made a short hacking sound and Thom muttered, 'Yeah, and f.u.c.k you too,' as he began to descend the stairs.

Of course, it was in his own imagination, but the next cry he heard sounded like a challenge, as if the magpie were warning him off its territory.

Stupid, Thom, he admonished himself, very, very stupid.

NIGHT-TIME AT LITTLE BRACKEN.

HE HAD no idea what had roused him. A noise? He didn't think so. His sleep had been deep and he was sure that only a sound as loud as thunder would have woken him. It had been a tiring day - the drive up from London, the walk through the woods and the re-exploration of the cottage, then later helping Eric unload his gear from the Jeep and chatting with the old gamekeeper over steaming mugs of coffee, reliving past times, chuckling at most of them, until the sun had turned golden and begun to slip away.

For some reason, it had been a relief to find the gamekeeper had scarcely changed - perhaps it was because he represented a kind of constant in Thom's own changing life. In fact, whenever Thom looked back on pa.s.sing years, he always saw Eric as 'old', so that now the most that could be said was that the gamekeeper had 'grown' into his proper age: his abundant head of hair was overall white rather than a patchy grey as Thom remembered, his pale blue eyes, a

little watery these days, rheumy even, squinting so much more that they were almost slits, and the lines and wrinkles of his face, especially the 'crow's feet' that ran from the corners of his eyes to large,stick-out ears, had deepened, become more established rather than increased; thread-veins splayed his ruddy cheeks and hooked nose, and his thin lips were now a purplish colour with clefts at each side.

Even Eric's clothes appeared to be the same - baggy brown corduroy trousers held up by a thick leather belt, green tweed jacket with patched elbows and cuffs over woollen check shirt, knitted brown tie worn on all occasions, and green Wellington boots - although the major items must have worn out over the years to be replaced by exact copies which, due to the nature of his work, must have quickly worn in.

Thom knew that Eric had been married once long ago and that his wife had died before Thom was born.

He knew also that Eric was the last in a long line of Bracken gamekeepers, for he had no heir of his own, either male or female, to follow on the tradition.

After Eric had left, he had eaten one of those sad prepacked dinner-for-ones cooked in the mini-microwave he'd brought up with him, followed by a bath, knees and shoulders well above the waterline in the short tub and, finally, he'd taken the weary climb up the creaking stairs to bed.

If he had needed reminding he was still a convalescent, then the busy day had done the trick. When he'd pulled back the bedsheets he had been almost dead to the world. After taking his routine medication - aspirin to thin his blood, a mild and, by now, probably unnecessary dose of pravastatin to reduce his cholesterol level; he decided the diothiepin to help him sleep and ease any anxiety wasn't needed (night-time was always bad for stroke victims, for death was always closest when others slept and shadows seemed to beckon the invalid), because he was too exhausted not to sleep - Thom had turned off the bedside

lamp, laid his head on the pillow, and had been instantly out.

If he had dreamed, he could not remember, for the sudden awakening had wiped the dream-slate clean.

He regarded the underneath of the four-poster's sagging canopy, the corner curtains and pelmets restricting his view of some of the room, then lifted his head to glance towards the stone fireplace opposite the end of the bed. There was enough moonlight to tell there was no intruder - unless he was hiding, of course. But although he was tense, he could not feel another's presence, there was no shift in the atmosphere, no sneaking scuffles. There were, however, faint reflections on the part of the ceiling close to one of the stone-framed windows.

Subtle hints of colour gently moved against the greyness overhead, as if someone outside were playing weak lights through the leaded gla.s.s.

Thom rose from the bed, a slow and awkward movement because of the stiffness in his left arm and leg - it always took a little time for the muscles in both to loosen up, even after only a short nap. He shuffled to the window behind the bed and peered out, his feet cold against the bare floorboards. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision, not quite believing what he saw a short distance away.

A half-moon waxed in the night sky, providing enough silvery light to see the stretch of gra.s.s and scrub directly below, but it was what lay just beyond at the dark edge of the surrounding forest that had drawn his attention ...

Thom pressed closer to the window so that his nose almost touched the gla.s.s; his breath misted the thin barrier between himself and the night. He quickly cleared the vapour with a wipe of his flattened hand and looked again, this time holding his breath and squinting his eyes.

It was hard to tell from this distance, but the cores of the dancing lights seemed very small, only the halos around

them initially making them appear larger than they were. These surely were the same tiny creatures - beings - he had come upon in the woods earlier that afternoon, only now their colours were more intense, sharper, vivid - more beautiful. And there seemed to be many more of them, all weaving and diving in arcs and loops, with no regular pattern, yet without collision, their movement exquisitely synchronized.

The spectacle - the greens, the blues, the purples, and now the denser colours, the mauves, indigos, the deep blues - was astonishing ... and breathtaking. His chest was tight, his lungs frozen sacs, and he had to force himself to exhale, the gla.s.s before him immediately clouding once more. Again he rubbed at the window with the palm of his hand and the tiny gemstone lights reappeared, dancing among the shadows, some now flitting crazily, while others hovered, their light strong but flickering, as though it was movement that gave them puissance, their energy generating the luminescence.

Thom was unaware that he was smiling in the shadowy room, his face lit both by moonlight and the auroral ballet below, colour tinges fluttering across his whitened skin in faint playful shades, only the reflections in his eyes sharp and stunning.

Occasionally, he breathed a sigh or murmured a sound of wonder as if observing some splendid but silent pyrotechnic display, and soon he lost all sense of time itself. And next morning, he neither recalled dawn's arrival, nor leaving the window to climb back into bed.

NELL QUICK.

SOMETHING BANGED against the front door below. Then the iron bell-pull grated rustily and he heard the dull, wasted clunk of the long-neglected bell itself.

Thom had awakened only moments earlier, sunlight pouring through the bedroom's windows, dust motes dancing in the brilliant shafts. He had lain there pondering the lights, his face creased in puzzlement, bedsheet pushed down to his waist, not even the numbness tormenting the left side of his body distracting the thoughts. Twice he had seen them, these tiny glittering orbs, and he could only wonder at their source.

If he hadn't come across them in broad daylight, he might well have thought he'd only dreamed them last night.

Another bang against the front door, someone using the old bra.s.s knocker this time and, momentarily forgetting his condition, Thom attempted to whip back the sheet. He winced as the stiffness turned to a stab of pain and became still again, waiting impatiently.

An even sharper knock on the door now, as if someone was frustrated by the lack of response. He thought he heard a voice calling.

'Okay, okay,' Thom muttered, easing his legs over the side of the bed. He sat on the edge. 'Okay!1 he said aloud and irritably as yet another clunk of the bell, this time a looser sound, almost but not quite, a clank, came from below.

Leaning forward with a groan - Jesus, it felt like he had a hangover - he grabbed the cargoes draped over the arm of the two-seater settle close by the bed, mumbling curses as he dragged them on. One foot got caught up in a leg and he had to wriggle his ankle to free it, his curses becoming louder and more angry. Finally, he stood and hauled the stone-coloured trousers over his hips, snapping them shut easily because of the weight he'd lost recently, then reached for the white linen shirt hung over the opposite arm of the settle. Shrugging the shirt over his shoulders and slipping his arms into the sleeves, he limped across the room to the door.

As he began to descend the winding stairs, right hand slipping round the newel to steady himself, creaking floorboards cool beneath his bare feet, the bell rang yet again, clank becoming a hoa.r.s.e clang.

Light streaming from the stairway's window momentarily blinded him and he almost stumbled, saving himself by bracing his arms against the curved wall and newel post. He blinked rapidly, and as the haze cleared he thought he saw something small scurry across the ground floor landing to disappear through the slightly opened bathroom door.

Thom blinked again, not quite believing what he had seen. Imagination? Still half-dreaming? No, he was sure he'd caught sight of something scooting across the floor. Maybe a mouse. No, too big. Some kind of animal from the forest then. Oh G.o.d, not a rat. Please not a rat. Maybe it was to be expected, with the place being empty all these years. Who

knew what other creatures had set up home inside the cottage in the absence of human occupation?

He reached the foot of the stairs, the big oak door to the living-room in front of him, the doors to the cupboard and bathroom to his right. Cautiously, he pushed the bathroom door further open and peered inside. The little room was in darkness and he tugged at the hanging light-switch. A heavy double-click and light vanquished most of the shadows. There was nothing amiss though, nothing unusual, nothing out of place. Thom was about to step inside and search the nooks and crannies, anywhere a smallish animal could hide, when there was more rapping and ringing at the front door.

Torn between further investigation and answering the door, Thom bit into his lower lip, did another quick scan of the tiny room, then backed out, leaving the light on but the door closed behind him. He could do a thorough search later.

He called out as he went through into the octagonal-shaped room and the sounds outside ceased.

Drawing back the bolt at the bottom of the painted door (he hadn't bothered with the top one) and turning the long key in its lock, Thom yanked the front door open, ready to give the impatient caller a piece of his mind. Instead, he stood there open-mouthed.

She was stunning. Not quite beautiful in the conventional way, but nevertheless stunning. So stunning, in fact, that he gawped a moment or two more. Long black hair fell in wild tangles to her shoulders, and her eyes, set wide above high cheekbones, matched its darkness. Hollowed cheeks led to a firm but gently pointed jaw and her nose, while still feminine, was strong, the nostrils slightly flared. It was a striking face, handsome rather than pretty, and sensual perhaps rather than beautiful. She was smiling at him and there was an implicit challenge,

one that went with the gentle, amused mocking in her dark, gypsy eyes.

'Good morning, Thom,' she said, tilting her head to one shoulder to scrutinize his face. Just in those three words he could detect the slight Shropshire lilt that betrayed the county's closeness to Wales, this mixed with the faintest burr of the south-west counties, a fine, comfortable blend that was pleasant to the ear.

'Uhh ...' was all he could find to say.

She gave a laugh that came from deep within her throat, so that it sounded like a chuckle.

'Not quite awake then?' she said. 'I thought you might still be sleepin', s'why I banged on the door so hard and kep' at the bell.' The missing letters in her speech hardly mattered at all, for there was still something soft and pleasing in her accent. 'S'gone nine, you know.'

Her smile seemed to drink him in, the look in her eyes a little too knowing. It was seductive though, G.o.d, her whole persona was seductive.

She stood about five foot six and he guessed her to be in her late twenties, maybe early thirties. Her high b.r.e.a.s.t.s swelled against a plain, b.u.t.toned blouse and her skirt was long and loose, flimsy and gaily patterned. The blouse was short-sleeved and her bare arms were tanned a tawny-gold; that same colouring in her face enhanced the whiteness around her pupils - which he now realized were so darkly brown that they appeared black - and the perfect flash of her smile. She carried a large wicker basket, a red-chequered teacloth covering its contents.

'Hugo told me about your illness, but he never explained you had no tongue in your head.' She stuck a fist against her hip, her other arm looped under the basket's handle.

He brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, embarra.s.sed and a little perplexed. 'Hugo didn't tell me anyone was...' He stopped, vaguely remembering that Hugo had

mentioned something about looking in on him occasionally. He lightly slapped his head. 'Sorry, he did say ... I just didn't expect...' He was surprised, and annoyed, at his reaction.

'Uh, won't you come in?' He stood aside, waved a hand at the room behind him.

'Can't fix your breakfast without comin' in, can I?'

Still smiling, she brushed past him and dumped the obviously heavy basket on the centre table, while Thom remained by the doorway as if transfixed. There was a certain arrogant vanity about her, but then who could blame her for that? He had caught her scent as she went by and, although he was no connoisseur, it was unlike any he had ever known. It wasn't subtle, nor was it particularly distinct; itwasn't teasing, but it was ... it was strangely intoxicating, as though some mild stimulant was part of its mix. The perfume hinted at fresh forest air and musk, plus one other indefinable ingredient, Lord knows what.

Forgetting to close the door, Thom followed after the woman, noticing the thonged sandals she wore, the pleasing shape from lower calf to slim ankle. She was still smiling as she unpacked the wicker basket - fresh bread, two milk cartons, fruit, and other items to which he could pay no attention.

Glancing up at him, the woman said, 'Name's Nell Quick, and I'm very pleased to meet you, Thom.'

Her voice was low-keyed, husky in a whisky-and-cigarettes way. She stopped her task for a moment to study his face.

At least he had finally remembered to close his mouth.

You look very tired,' she said in her soft lilt. 'Is it the illness or didn't you sleep well on your first night home? I s'pose the cottage will take some time gettin' used to again.'

He returned her smile, even though he felt mildly uncomfortable under her bold, almost mocking gaze.