Halton Cray (Shadows of the World Book 1) (7 page)

‘I didn’t even know if he’d heard me.’ She pressed
her teeth together. ‘But that bloody Daniel really stirred it up, because he
started repeating what I’d said to him.’ – Stacey here impersonated Dan in a
stupid voice: ‘“Stacey was just telling me how strange you are, Thom. She also
claims to have seen your doppelganger-
thing
. You’re not moonlighting at
the London Dungeons, are you?” He was laughing at me; had this big stupid grin
on his face!’

‘Which one?’

Stacey cocked her head and smiled stupidly.

‘No, silly!’ I nudged her. ‘Not which grin! Which
one
was grinning?’

‘Oh, both of them at first, they’re both horrible.
But Thom started to look serious. He was trying to make a joke of it, but I
could tell it bothered him. He went paler than normal, if that’s possible, and
asked me if I’d “Really seen his twin?” and “How exact a copy was it?” – I
didn’t know how to answer him; his question was
so
weird. I’m not even
sure what doppelganger means anyway, other than I think it’s someone’s
look-alike. Daniel started laughing a lot, so maybe Thom was winding me up. I
basically had to confess that it was just a pale-faced man in the Dungeons. I
didn’t say that he was pretending to be a dummy, but Daniel filled him in on
that too. It was
so
embarrassing.’

‘I bet.’ I giggled. ‘I’m a little embarrassed for
you.’

In less than a minute she was smiling awkwardly.
‘I don’t give a toss anyway. It’s not my fault they can’t take a joke! And
besides, that Daniel is
so
gay for him.’ Her eyes shifted artfully. ‘Do
you think Thom’s good looking?’

‘What? I… I haven’t really thought about it.’

‘What’s there to think about?’

‘Well… I don’t think he’s ugly.’

‘But he’s so scary!’

‘What is it with you and that word?’

‘But he is! He’s almost like deformed or
something.’

‘
Deformed
?’ I frowned at her. ‘Stace – what
a horrid thing to say! He’s not deformed.’

‘You know what I mean! There’s something odd about
him.’

‘But why do you keep saying scary?’

‘Because when he looks at me I feel like he’s
gonna kill me, Alex.’

I laughed.

‘So, then, you don’t think he’s good looking?’ she
fished again.

‘I try not to think of people straight off like
“wow, he’s good looking – oh, isn’t she pretty”.
He
might be a monster.
She
might be a cow. People become more or less attractive on the outside as a
reflection to what’s on the inside.’

She looked at me vacantly.

‘I wouldn’t have said he was particularly good
looking, Stace, no. Nor would I say anything to the contrary. That’s my opinion
on it. That’s the way my brain works.’

‘Why do you make it
so
complicated?’

‘Put it this way. Do you still think your ex, Ben,
is
yummy
? You did once, remember.’

‘Don’t make me sick.’ She scrunched her face up
like a child having it washed with a flannel. ‘He’s so butters! I can’t believe
I ever fancied him.’

‘Exactly. It’s nothing to do with his looks. It’s
just because your feelings have changed.’

‘I s’pose. Speaking of looking good,’ she said,
cringing back slightly. ‘I think you could try harder.’

‘Thanks, Stace! Has someone put you up to this?’

‘I just mean that you’re a makeup disaster! You
don’t wear anything on your eyes, and you could look so much better. Here –
I’ve got this mascara you can have. I picked up a brown one by accident and I
can
only
wear black.’

‘Thanks, but I’m not really into the stuff.’

‘You’ve probably never even tried it, Alex.’

‘Of course I have, I just don’t–’

‘Take it please! I’ll only throw it away
otherwise. Just keep it in case you fancy making your eyes stand out a bit.’
She cast a squinted look over me. ‘Not all the time, but today they look like
pinholes.’

I rolled my
pinholes
at her and put the
mascara into my jacket pocket.

‘How old do you think he is?’

‘Who?’

‘The ghost, silly!’

‘I don’t know, Stace – ask him. Somewhere in his
twenties, probably. Come on, we’d better get back.’

After lunch I returned to the front desk where, for
several minutes, my mind revolved on the subject of Stacey and her sudden
interest in Thom. Rather than believing her to pay genuine notice to him, I
much rather thought that something had been said to make her ask questions. I
had no doubt who that someone was. Whenever there was gossip, Stacey went to
Mrs Evans like a drunk goes to the bottle.

It started raining and the Cray filled with
shelter-seeking visitors. They kept me busy with questions, but not too
distracted from what I’d seen, or rather hadn’t seen, earlier today. I had only
looked for a moment, I told myself repeatedly. But with so many people around
surely someone else would have noticed. Or would they? How many times do you
look at a man’s shadow?

Eight

‘He moves like no other, just as the moon – and like
that symbolic sphere of lunacy he hides a dark side he’ll betray to no one.’

Some nights later a storm
woke me in the early hours. Thunder growled outside in beats and claps, while
rain pelted my bedroom windows. I wouldn’t be able to sleep through it, nor did
I want to miss a good storm. I got up and went to the window, opening it a
fraction. The smell of the sodden air awakened me. I grabbed my book
(Frankenstein, of all things) and sat there to read. Lightning struck under the
clouds in various quarters of the bruised sky, illumining every raindrop as
they fell long and vertical like millions of needles.

I soon found myself imagining what it was like at
the Cray with this beast of a storm raging through the deserted gardens. The
river would be running wild and black. I could almost hear the footsteps of the
ghost lady in the empty turret. Every chimney would let the wildness of it in.
How strange it must be to live there. Perhaps it suited Thom, or Thom suited
it.

Once back in bed I dreamt of Stacey trapped in the
Cray. Terrified, she screamed blue murder before suddenly becoming me, and the
sound of my own screams woke me in the form of my alarm clock.

The day was very fresh, as is usual after a storm.
That afternoon I found Mrs Evans had me down for the front desk. The Cray was
quiet. I could hear the hum of the central heating struggling to keep the place
warm. Since Mrs Evans regularly had the radio on here, I ran the risk of
listening to my MP3 with just one headphone in. I was miming lyrics to a
favourite song while drawing in my sketchpad. I didn’t see him standing in
front of me. I started. Thom slowly folded his arms across the desk and leant a
little over it, as if to snoop around. Instead, his black eyes just burrowed
into mine.

‘They do say that the first sign of madness is
talking to one’s self,’ was his opening line.

‘I was miming song lyrics.’ I pointed to my
plugged ear.

‘Always on the defensive! What more proof do I
need? Since they say that the second sign is denial,’ he added with relish.

If I weren’t insane already, I soon would be from
all the lambasting I got on the subject from this character. I wanted to look
away and adopt aloofness, but the competitor in me met his gaze with a childish
determination to win, viz. to make him blink first. I failed. He stood there in
a deep blue shirt, his eyes solidly fixed seemed to go on forever as a starless
night sky.

‘Has anything arrived for me today?’ he asked,
changing the subject, and releasing me from another staring competition.

‘Mrs Evans deals with the post on weekdays. I’ve
only just started my shift. She’s in the shop if you want to ask her.’

I went on sketching; he went on watching.

‘What are you scribbling at there?’

Reluctantly, I showed him. It was just a pencil
sketch of a horse set against a run of mountains. He surprised me by taking it
from my hand and examining it up close.

‘Hmm.’ He mused. ‘Is this really yours?’

‘No. I stole it.’

He mused longer. ‘These obscure eyes in the
mountains are vaguely familiar.’

‘What eyes?’ I frowned, looking over.

He pointed out two almond-shaped details, which I
could see resembled a penetrating stare framed by a rugged mountainous brow. I
didn’t realise I’d drawn them. He read my face.

‘Ah, perhaps the voices in your head told you to
conceal them.’

‘You’re just jealous,’ I replied, ‘because
the
voices
don’t talk to you.’

‘Bastards!’ He smirked, returning my sketchpad.
‘You’ve talent, Alex, and passion, but you lack precision. Practice can easily
correct that. Certainly, the mane is too fine for horsehair. Where are you
copying it?’ He inspected my desk.

‘From my head.’

‘Well, in that case, for a’ – he ran his eye over
me, uncharacteristically pausing for an epithet to call me – ‘for a
young
woman
, it is unique.’

‘Thank you, I think.’

How long was he going to stand there? I wanted to
listen to my music.

‘Are you sure there’s nothing back there for me?
I’m expecting something.’

The sooner I found the package he was after, or
verified it wasn’t here, the sooner he would move along before I was yet again
pronounced a lunatic. I began searching the desk, round the scarce items on it,
giving an involuntary sigh as I did so.

‘There doesn’t seem to be anything here.’

‘Well don’t torment yourself,’ he slammed in
unexpectedly. ‘It’s probably still on its way.’

‘Probably,’ I affirmed.

I unplugged my ear since he remained there and I
didn’t want to be rude. There was just no denying the extent of how he got
under my skin. I felt it like one of those itches that you can’t locate and so
find yourself scratching everywhere in vain to alleviate it.

‘You won’t score any points with Mrs E.’ He
pointed to my headphones as I wound them up.

I shrugged my shoulders confidently.

‘It’s your funeral.’ He stared darkly. ‘What does
that brazen smile mean?’

‘Nothing. I’ll take my chances.’

‘I’m sure you will.’

‘If the package you’re waiting for is urgent I can
go and ask Mrs Evans myself, or–’

‘Never mind that.’ He lent back off the desk. ‘How
are you enjoying working here?’

I took a deep breath. I had to be careful of what
I said.

‘It’s as good a place as any to work,’ I replied,
‘but better than most to be.’

‘How’s that?’

‘I’m very fond of this place.’

‘Really?’ His lips curled up at the sides. ‘I
shouldn’t be surprised. The general lack of padded cells and straitjackets are
no doubt comforting to you. Still, I would think you might find it a little too
lifeless?’

‘Not in the least.’

‘You don’t tire easily of the mindless chatter
that goes on between those who’ve nothing better to do?’

‘I couldn’t care less what they talk about.’

‘So in your opinion what’s worse,’ he went on,
‘someone talking badly of people or someone prejudging those on what’s being
said?’

After my trivial experience with Mark, I thought I
could empathise with him to some extent on the subject. I was also doing my
utmost to put aside what I had heard and not seen.

‘Neither is worse,’ I said, ‘because you shouldn’t
care what people think of you, nor what they say. It would in itself determine
whether someone is worth knowing.’

‘My sentiments exactly!’ He beamed.

I looked back to my desk. ‘Some people here I
might grow to like and some I might not. As I said, I’m fond of this place.’

‘You don’t find it eerie?’

‘I like eerie.’ I raised my head to meet his stare
full-on. ‘What’s wrong with eerie anyway? People are always complaining and
getting goose-bumps every time a door creaks. Anyone would think that the dead
were wandering about before their eyes.’

He half-smiled. ‘Perhaps you’re just untried. I
wonder what you would do if the dead appeared before you.’

‘I’d probably complain about the smell, since dead
things smell bad.’

‘Is that so?’ He laughed, showing his dimples. He
turned to face the empty corridor, as if expecting somebody. I couldn’t hear
anyone approaching. Then I caught Daniel’s voice speaking to someone as he
turned into the hallway and eventually came into view.

‘Speak of the Devil!’ he hollered, referring to
Thom, though addressing a brunette woman walking in very high heels at his
side. The lofty shoes made her appear almost as tall as Thom.

‘I believe you know this lady,’ Dan continued.

‘Of course he does!’ she snapped. ‘Silly monkey!’

‘Carla-Louise,’ he said deliberately, smiling,
‘would like to donate an antique banner to one of the period collections. Take
a look at this.’

He excitedly unfolded a black flag emblazoned with
a white flower, similar to a Tudor rose.

The brunette smiled keenly at Thom with plump rouge
lips and black-coffee eyes. A natural beauty. Next to her, no one would mistake
me for pretty.

 ‘It’s lovely to see you, Thom,’ she said,
softening her voice and flicking her sleek dark hair over one shoulder. An
exotic rich fragrance drifted from her as she moved.

Thom took a moment and then answered her. ‘Not as
lovely as it is to see you.’

Perhaps it was a special effort on his part,
because Dan’s face became a picture of shock, and her otherwise smooth
complexion creased with sudden delight.

Save for her footwear she had annoyingly good
dress sense, but a deal too much confidence. Perhaps she was in her
late-twenties.

‘I’ve been keeping this aside for you, Thom,’ she
added, stroking the flag, ‘since I read your magnificent article a few months
back in –.’ (I didn’t quite catch the name of the magazine.)

‘I appreciate the gesture,’ Thom returned
genuinely.

The phone rang on my desk. It was a booking for a
school trip. Mrs Evans insisted on dealing with these, so as instructed I put
all the details into the diary. The three of them, still chatting across my
desk, finally began to move along. As they did, Thom glanced my way and in the
next moment Carla-Louise followed his eyes. Perhaps it was merely because I had
dropped my pen while scribbling down the information. On finding it under the
desk, I came across a package addressed to the correct curator: Thomas Rues. I
could no longer see him, and I wanted to run it round to his office now while I
knew he was busy. Typically, a number of other things suddenly needed doing and
it was gone five o’clock before I could leave the desk.

I hoped to find his office empty and leave the
package there. With his door closed I didn’t want to knock. Instead, I tried
out Frances’s technique; peeling back the corner of the sign that papered over
the little window. I had to go up on tiptoes and crane my neck to see. He was
in there and alone, sat at his desk with his back to me. He seemed to be
writing something with his left hand. With his right, he was pivoting a
metallic looking ball, about the size of a small orange, around his hand and
between the ends of his fingers in slow rhythmic movements. He did this so
sinuously and precisely, like the object defied gravity. I’d seen jugglers do
similar and very skilfully too, but it was nothing compared to this. He paid no
attention to it with his head inclined towards the paper he was writing on.
Surely he was ambidextrous as well as incredibly gifted. It was quite hypnotic
watching this orb dance around his wrist and flow upward across the back of his
hand, seemingly of its own accord. I could see hardly any movement from him as
it looped his fingers in constant innovative patterns. A true Nijinsky of
juggling; and one to rival Moschen, since he was doing it blind.

I’d never been remotely interested in learning
more about this enigma of a man, but this gave rise to curiosity. I noticed
then the shadow of his hand cast by the ceiling lights. I felt like an idiot
for having questioned its existence. How ridiculous I’d been! As if he
possessed a shadow like Peter Pan’s that could detach itself for some
mischievous adventure. I was glad I hadn’t gotten so carried away with all
this, aided by Stacey’s silliness, to have gone looking for yet more evidence
of him being a ghost. Or worse, asked him about his missing shadow!

However, the answer to one mystery now left
another for solving. His shadow seemed to become involved in the dance. The
ball left his hand but did not drop to the desk. Between his hand and its shadow,
the ball moved independently between them as if suspended on invisible wires.
It was certainly some sort of chicanery. I must have been under the spell of
the ballet, because on wanting a closer look I found I had a grip on the door
handle, pushing it down slightly.

‘Alex!’ Mrs Evans called in a concerned pitch from
down the corridor. She snapped her fingers at me, breaking my trance. I fell
flat on my feet and backed away from the door without another glimpse inside. I
walked her way before waiting to see what she wanted. She didn’t speak; her
droopy eyes just moved between me and over my shoulder.

I held up the package. ‘It’s for Thom.’

‘It’s best not to disturb him when he’s working,’
she spoke anxiously, continuing to peer curiously behind me. I wondered if at
any minute she might ask what I saw. She seemed itching to tell me something,
but each time I thought she would speak, she took a deep breath and remained
silent. That must have been difficult for her to do.

She took the package from me insisting she’d get
it to him herself.

‘He’s been expecting it,’ I informed her,
anticipating some relief at not having to go in there and speak to him.
Strangely, it felt closer to disappointment. I couldn’t figure out if that came
from some newly aroused fascination with Thom’s eccentricities, or a simple
desire to defy Mrs Evans.

She beckoned me to go with her into the staffroom
in such a way I felt escorted. With a glance at Frances who was sitting with a
cup of tea on the sofa, she remarked that it was time for my tea break. I took
advantage of my captivity and made myself a drink. Mrs Evans was staring at me
suspiciously, which she broke by gasping a sound towards Frances and repeating
the following:

‘In his twenties, indeed!’

‘Sorry, Doreen?’ Frances was as confounded as me
by this outburst.

‘Thomas!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve been hearing that
people generally think he’s in his twenties!’ She looked at me and strenuously
pronounced, ‘He’s thirty-five!’

‘Oh,’ I said, not really knowing what to say to
this odd assertion. ‘Well, he doesn’t look it.’

‘Yes, but that doesn’t matter,’ she averred. ‘He’s
too old!’

‘For what?’ Frances took some offence here I
believe.