The Hunter's Prayer (5 page)

‘Yes.’

‘What does the S stand for?’

‘Stephen.’

‘Amazing. I don’t know why but I assumed Lucas was your first name.’ She thought about it for a second and said, ‘Can I call you Stephen?’

‘I’ve always been Lucas. One person years ago insisted on Luke. Never Stephen.’

‘What about your parents? Surely they called you Stephen?’

‘It’s always been Lucas.’ She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but it was clearly something that wasn’t up for discussion.

‘You have a lot of books,’ she said, looking for an obvious way out.

‘You should see the bedrooms.’ It was Chris, emerging from the stairs.

Lucas laughed and said, ‘It’s my passion. Not special editions or anything, just books. I love to read.’

‘This is a great house,’ said Chris.

‘I like it.’ He looked around, uncertain, possibly even uncomfortable. ‘Like I said, make yourselves at home. I’ll cook some pasta or something. Tomorrow I’ll make some phone calls, see how the dust has settled. Hopefully the next day I’ll take you into Zurich.’ He nodded as if to himself and walked away into the kitchen area.

Ella looked again at the unopened mail, wondering when he’d bother to look through it, when he’d check his answering machine. He gave the impression of someone who lived like a ghost, the demands of everyday life no longer registering with him.

Chris walked out onto the balcony and she followed him, looking at the view that was slowly closing down in front of them: woods turning into solid blocks of shadow, swaths of pasture floating hazily. On a clear day there were probably distant mountains but this evening the sky had fallen, smothering everything.

They stood at first without saying anything, but then Chris said, ‘I’m sorry if I haven’t been much good the last day and a half. It’s just been like one shock after another but I should have stopped to think, how it’s been . . .’ The last word caught in his throat. She turned to look at him and he smiled, clearing his throat before saying, ‘I’m just saying sorry for being a prick.’

She shook her head and held him, drawing in tighter against him as he put his arms around her. She felt like this was all she needed, all the security she needed—to stand here enfolded in his arms, his breath hot on her neck, hands gently rubbing her back.

She listened to the sound of the water dropping from the eaves and the trees, a dog’s bark carrying from a long way off, and behind them, equally faint, the comforting domestic sound of food being prepared. That was where her thoughts ran aground, because the man preparing that food was Lucas, and the sense of respite she felt here was false.

Lucas simply continued to read his book as he ate his dinner. Ella and Chris sat opposite each other further down the table, silent, and they waited till Lucas had finished before complimenting him on the meal. He thanked them and refused the offer of help with the dishes.

When he came back to them, he said, ‘Do you play chess, or backgammon?’

‘I play chess,’ said Chris. ‘We both play backgammon.’

Lucas nodded, went to a cupboard and took out a large leather backgammon board, opening it on a coffee table between the two sofas. ‘Help yourselves to drinks,’ he said and took his book to a chair on the other side of the room, close to the windows that opened out onto the balcony.

They played backgammon, almost totally ignored by Lucas. Ella couldn’t concentrate, the game not offering enough of a diversion from the thoughts waiting to grind back over her. Distant thunder sounded on and off throughout the evening and occasionally a heavier roll would cause them to stare out beyond the windows.

The storm was still hovering when Ella woke in the early hours. She’d been startled awake by a lurch in her dreams, a heaving sequence of violent flashbacks, her jaw tight when she woke, heart fighting.

She looked up at the felt blackness of the room, listened to Chris breathing next to her, remembered where she was. It was the second time she’d woken since hearing the news and already it came as less of a shock to remember what had happened, more a leaden realization that this was the truth now, that her old life had been a dream.

Hidden away there in the night, she allowed herself to think about it, picturing their faces, trying to take in that they were no longer simply far away but gone. But as soon as she thought of Ben, the tears started to gather in her eyes and she felt like she’d collapse in on herself.

Why was it Ben more than her mum and dad? She’d loved them all equally but it was his loss she felt, perhaps because it was the one she’d never once contemplated, and because he hadn’t even lived—college, traveling on his own. He’d never even had a real girlfriend.

She jumped up from the bed, eager to escape the snare of thoughts that lay in wait there. She found her way into the bathroom and washed her face, then jumped as a roll of thunder cracked overhead, the wooden frame of the house vibrating with it.

She turned to walk back out and smiled as she noticed two neat white bathrobes hanging on the back of the door, like in a hotel. It made her wish she was majoring in psychology, to know what it meant for a man who wasn’t used to visitors to put this much effort into his guest room.

Putting one of the robes on, she stopped to listen for Chris’s slow, rhythmic breathing before continuing out of the bedroom and up to the living room. A small lamp was on up there and as she reached the top of the stairs, she could see Lucas standing out on the balcony.

Ella saw him turn to check who’d come up before switching his attention back to the storm. She walked over to him and said, ‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’

‘No.’ She automatically expected him to ask a typical small-talk question, like why couldn’t she sleep; it was still catching her out, the lack of conversational glue in his speech. For a second, they were both illuminated like they’d been hit by a strobe in a nightclub. The thunder exploded overhead, the long aftershock of a plane going through the sound barrier.

When the noise had died down, Lucas said, ‘It was during a storm that Mary Shelley started
Frankenstein
. Lake Geneva. The same evening, Polidori started work on one of the precursors to
Dracula
.’

‘Yeah, I knew that. It was Byron’s idea. Some people think Byron wrote the Polidori book.’

‘Oh.’ He turned, captured, it seemed, by a piece of information he hadn’t heard before. ‘I haven’t read
The Vampyre
. Didn’t like
Dracula
much. I loved
Frankenstein
.’

‘Really? I found it hard work.’

He didn’t respond at first but then, as if remembering his responsibilities as a host, he said, ‘Would you like a glass of milk or something?’

‘What’s that you’re drinking?’

‘Cognac. Want some?’

‘Please.’ He went back inside and she walked in and sat within the pool of light that came off the small lamp.

There was a photograph in a simple frame next to the lamp, inconspicuous, but she noticed it now because the rest of the room was dark. It was a girl of about her own age, maybe a little older, very pretty, long fair hair. It had been taken on a beach or at least near the sea, the girl’s smile carefree, like she’d been caught in the middle of a laugh.

It was the only thing she’d seen in the whole house that was suggestive of him having contact with another human being, attachments, people who mattered to him. When he came over with the drink, she thanked him and said, ‘Is that your daughter?’

He looked at the picture and said, ‘How old do you think I am?’ She wasn’t sure. He didn’t look that old but he’d talked about her father and she’d started to imagine them being the same age, which they obviously weren’t.

‘How old are you?’

‘I’m forty-two, and she’s an old girlfriend. Someone I knew a long time ago. I don’t even know why I keep it.’

She looked at the picture and back at him, daring to tease him a little.

‘Perhaps because she still means something to you?’

‘Maybe. Maybe you don’t know me well enough to analyze me.’

She shrugged it off and sipped at the cognac, fiercer in the mouth than she’d expected. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Madeleine,’ he said, sitting down.

‘That’s a nice name.’

‘Yes, I think of Proust every time I look at her.’ She could tell he’d made some kind of joke but she didn’t get it and couldn’t see how it was meant to be funny.

‘Sorry?’

‘Nothing.’ He looked apologetic, maybe acknowledging that it hadn’t been that funny. ‘She was French, and that picture was taken a long time ago. I haven’t seen her in fourteen years or more.’

‘Wow.’ She wasn’t surprised, but it seemed like an appropriate response. ‘You’re single now?’

He laughed as he said, ‘Yes.’

‘Do you have any kids at all?’

‘You ask a lot of questions.’ There he was, backing off again, but she felt confident enough to pursue him.

‘It’s what people do when they’re getting to know each other.’

‘Why would you want to get to know me?’

The question was close to being hostile but she said, ‘Why not? You’re worth knowing, aren’t you? You’re smart, you read, you kill bad guys.’

He smiled, but to himself this time, and looked lost in thought. The room crackled with light again, the thunder following after a few seconds.

‘It’s moving away.’

She turned briefly towards the window as if there were something to see, but came back to him, saying, ‘So? Do you have kids?’

He looked mildly exasperated. ‘I can’t see why it’s so important to you but yes, I have a daughter, with Madeleine. I’ve never seen her.’

‘How sad. You haven’t had any contact at all?’

‘Nothing. She didn’t even want my money. She was wealthy anyway, but I think she’d have lived in the gutter rather than take it. She made me promise to disappear, never get in touch.’

‘But why?’

‘You don’t get it, do you? See, I
am
the bad guy. Madeleine didn’t get it either, not until too late. I’m not someone who’s good to be around, especially a child.’

She didn’t want to know about this. Until now she’d pictured him as a bodyguard, working in the underworld maybe, but not a criminal himself. The kind of person who averted misery, not inflicted it. Surely her dad wouldn’t have employed him otherwise, and her dad knew him.

‘Tell me how you met my father.’

His spirits appeared to pick up.

‘Windhoek. 1982. Windhoek—it’s in Namibia. I had a lot of attitude back then, arrogant, but Hatto was a cool guy. He asked me to do some work for him. That was it. We never became friends or anything; we just hit it off. I trusted him.’

She was still trying to take in the description of her father as a ‘cool guy,’ a sentiment she’d heard a couple of times before from Simon, from her mother, people whose opinions hadn’t carried much weight. Ben was pretty cool, though, so maybe he’d been cool like Ben.

There was another flash of lightning, the room theatrically lit for a moment before the dark closed in again around the lamp and the two of them sitting there. She counted to four before the thunder sounded, and felt a little sad, the way she always did when a storm retreated.

She sipped at her cognac, growing accustomed to it, and then as the thought occurred to her she said, ‘I should make a will.’

He nodded, saying, ‘I suppose so, when you get back home.’

‘Don’t you know anyone here? What if my plane crashes? What if someone else tries to kill me?’ It was something she’d never thought about before, making a will, but suddenly it felt urgent, even though there was no one to leave anything to except her uncle or her two young cousins. She didn’t even know what she’d be leaving; only the hazy phantom fortune Lucas had suggested.

‘It’s Sunday tomorrow. But I might be able to arrange something, just to put your mind at rest till you get back.’

‘Good.’ She finished her drink and nestled further into the sofa. ‘You should write to your daughter.’

‘How can I? I don’t even know her name.’

When Ella woke, she was still on the sofa, a blanket over her. It was light, a clear blue sky visible through the windows. She could hear sounds coming in from the kitchen, and she could smell coffee. She sat up, but it was Chris in the kitchen, not Lucas.