Dark farm, p.32
Dark Farm, page 32
Kane stood too. Arika didn’t move, and he found himself standing so close he could feel the warmth coming off her body. She appeared slightly flustered, and he considered for a moment whether to lean in for a hug … it seemed the natural thing to do after sharing their stories of loss. And wasn’t hugging the thing you did when someone close to you was sick in hospital? But he thought about it for a second too long, and Arika took the opportunity to back away. She rummaged in her bag for her car keys.
“You don’t really have to go, do you?”
“I have to get home some time.”
“I want you to stay,” he blurted out, so loudly a man sitting opposite jerked up his head in surprise.
A look of embarrassment flitted across Arika’s face. She smiled into her bag and said, “Well … I do hate driving at night. Especially all that way.”
“You could stay here,” he offered, lowering his voice, ignoring the man, who was staring at them like they were performing an impromptu play. “At, um, our place. There’s plenty of room. A spare room, we have. Like a hotel. A sleepover.”
Arika seemed amused by his little-boy way of suggesting it. “I don’t have a change of clothes.”
“I’m sure we’ve got something that’ll fit.”
Before she could answer, the nurse who walked past a few minutes ago returned. “Mr Gates,” she said, “your brother is awake.”
“Oh, great. Is he … okay?”
“As much as can be expected. A little dazed, but he recognises who he is and why he’s here.”
“Thank Christ. I suppose you still don’t know what happened to him?”
The nurse shook her head.
“And you don’t know if he’s back to normal?”
“You’re probably the best person to answer that. Let’s go see him.”
“He’ll get through this, Kane,” Arika reassured him, placing her keys back in her bag.
“He has to. The rest of my family is dead. He’s all I’ve got left.”
40
Interloper
Throwing open the door, Kane stood aside and waited for his brother to go in. The house looked the way it had when their mother was alive, thanks to an army of cleaners he’d marshalled first thing that morning.
“Like the house?”
He stared blankly at him.
“It’s clean!”
“Yes. Very.”
He walked around peering into each room, as if seeing them for the first time. “Nice,” was his only reaction.
Kane followed him, concerned his brother might have sustained a head injury in addition to the concussion. The doctor had warned him to keep an eye out for short-term memory loss, slurred speech, dizziness, fatigue and confusion, and so far it was three out of five.
“Arika stayed last night,” he said, trying to make conversation. “She was worried about you too. She had to go back to work this morning, or else she would have been here. Nothing happened,” he rushed to add. “I don’t think she likes me that way.”
His brother was frowning at something in the dining room.
“Not to worry. There’s always Janny!” He laughed awkwardly. “Or not. Can I get you anything, Dylan?”
“No … nothing.” He went to the stairs. “Would you help me to my room?”
“Huh? Oh. Right. You wanna rest?”
“My head is killing me.”
Headache – that was another sign. Four out of six.
“Did you want another pill?”
“A rest is all I need right now.”
Kane placed a hand on his brother’s back, and together they made their way up the stairs. At the top, he turned to go the wrong way. “No, this way,” said Kane, and steered him towards his room. He watched at the door as his brother walked to the bed, sat down, and then, with a soft sigh, fell back.
Kane went up, lifted his legs onto the bed, dragged him towards the bedhead, placed the pillow under his head.
“Listen, Dylan, I need to get back to work. Will you be okay for a few hours?”
He opened his eyes. “Eh?”
“I need to –”
“– work. Yes, of course. Go. I’m not a baby.”
Kane watched him, thinking about yesterday, when Dylan was at the station claiming Wilfred Waite was trying to get back inside his head. But that was impossible. Not when Wilfred was dead. His brother was acting weird, but it was the kind of weirdness the nurse said should be expected after a concussion. Still, he determined to keep a close eye on him over the next few days, stock up on fresh fruit and vegetables, keep his mind occupied, make sure he was strong enough to recover from whatever was happening to him.
“Is there something more?”
“No.” He stepped back. “I’ll leave your medicines in the bathroom.”
He closed his eyes.
“By the way, I moved the Necronomicon to a new hiding place.”
His eyes sprang open. “What?” He got up on his elbows. “Why?”
“I thought –”
“Where is it?”
“Don’t you worry about that.”
“Why did you move it?”
“When you told me about Waite coming back, it got me thinking about his cronies and how they might come after you. Thought it safer if you didn’t know where it was. There’s only me … until we can decide what to do with it.”
He sat up. “You need to tell me where it is.”
“What did I just tell you? It’s safest if I’m the only one who knows.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“It’s for your own protection.”
“I don’t need your protection. Can you please tell me where it is?”
“We’ll talk about it tonight. I’m thinking of just giving it to the NSO, and to hell with it.”
“No, no. Don’t trust anyone. We’re the only ones we can trust.” He leaned forward. “You haven’t spoken with them, have you?”
“Course not.”
“Have you spoken with anyone?”
“No … just Arika.”
“You can’t give the Necronomicon away, not to anyone.”
“We’ll talk about it tonight.” He pointed his finger. “Get some rest.”
Kane turned and went downstairs. The cleaners did a great job, he thought as he looked around. He could almost imagine his mother coming out of the kitchen, having heard his footsteps, a packet of her favourite Monte Carlo biscuits in hand – her sweet reward after finishing a spring clean. It was a shame, in a way, they wouldn’t be here long enough to enjoy it. The minute Dylan was able to travel, they’d be leaving Quorn for good.
Pulling his phone from his pants pocket, he rang Arika. The call went to voicemail. “Hey,” he said, “it’s me: Kane. Kane Gates. I … just wanted to talk to you about concussion. It’s Dylan … of course. Just wanted to run a few things past you. Anyhow … call me. Or I’ll call you. I, um … I … ah … Speak soon!”
Hanging up, he frowned at the ceiling, frowned at his phone, shoved it back in his pocket, then went to collect his keys.
The kitchen looked like a hurricane had swept through it. All the cupboard doors were open. Pots and pans and cleaning products were strewn across the floor.
Dylan’s head appeared from under the sink. He swore under his breath and glanced around for somewhere he might have neglected to look.
“Where would that worm hide it?” he asked himself. “Where, where, where?”
Standing, he moved to the living room, which was in a similar state.
Frustration spewed up inside him. “You stupid, interfering, useless maggot!” he growled, clenching his fists. “Looks like we’ll have to do this the hard way.”
He pictured his array of torture equipment, and a thrill passed through him. It had been a long time since he practised his art of interrogation on a living person, a long time since the blood flowing from the cuts he made had run rich and hot. It would be like spending years eating margarine and then tasting real butter again. His mouth watered at the thought.
“I warned you not to cross me,” Wilfred muttered, a smile twisting Dylan’s lips. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Going back to the kitchen, he began replacing pots and pans in the cupboards.
Approaching the end of the drive, he spied an unfamiliar car parked by the farmhouse gate. It was an early sixties’ Bentley, if he wasn’t mistaken. Well maintained, recently polished; it looked like a collector’s car.
Parking the Honda beside it, he tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. Clearly it wasn’t the car of a police officer or soldier, he thought with relief. It was an old man’s car. It was empty, so whoever owned it must be inside the house. He could hear the dogs barking from behind the house, so the car’s owner must have found a way to overpower them and lock them up.
“Cockroaches,” he muttered. “Dirty, disgusting, filthy cockroaches.”
He pulled out Dylan’s phone to ring Kenny Snyder, then thought better of it. Kenny was getting too big for his boots. He’d come to his rescue after the encounter with the Gates boys, squirrelling him away at the shop, cleaning up Arlene’s mess (or rather, the mess that was Arlene), locking up everything – and since then, he’d begun getting airs, as if Wilfred owed him something. During the time Wilfred was making preparations to regain possession of his young body, he forbade Kenny from going anywhere near the farm (a precautionary measure to stop him nicking anything) and it wouldn’t look good to ask for his help now, at the first sign of trouble.
Replacing the phone in his pocket, he pushed open the door. He had a stash of rifles, pistols and swords in the chapel, hidden in one of the coffins near the trapdoor. He’d get rid of his visitor the old-fashioned way.
Creeping up to the house like a commando, shotgun at the ready, Wilfred wondered who the Gates boys had revealed its secrets to. There were no signs of the police or armed forces, so he figured Kane Gates was telling the truth when he said he’d stayed mum – except, of course, for the owner of this car. It was no doubt some relative or friend, out here looting the place while the oaf was busy at work. It was exactly as he predicted: the young upstarts were acquiring his many treasures, intent on taking his place. They had the Necronomicon, they’d rummaged around in his hidden chambers, and the power would soon be in their grasp to control everything he’d resurrected, tamed and built. He seethed with rage at the thought of all the things he’d gained being purloined by imbeciles.
He went inside, shotgun raised, expecting to find a stranger going through his things. Instead, Simon Orwell was there, lounging in his favourite armchair with the grimoire of Theodosius in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.
“Wilfred, you naughty boy!” he cried, looking Dylan’s body up and down. “You found Jonathon Dark’s farmhouse and didn’t tell me!”
Wilfred felt a wave of revulsion pass through him. “Simon,” he groaned, lowering the gun. He glanced around to see if anything was missing. “It’s been … forever.”
“Not quite forever. Just a lifetime.”
“And now you’re back.”
“Yes, Wilfred old man. You too … back from the grave, so to speak. I heard you were dead and buried.”
“Unfortunately, you don’t always get what you hope for.”
“On the contrary, my dear man. I very much hoped young Gates was mistaken. I’ve missed you.”
“Missed thieving from me, you mean.”
“You always did hold a grudge. But I forgive you.”
Wilfred’s body tensed. “It was you who crossed me!”
“Let’s not squibble over old wrongs –”
“You stole my Borellus.”
“Borrowed, dear Wilfred.”
“You’ve had it for sixty years.”
“What’s sixty years between friends? Anyway, if I understand correctly, you don’t need the Borellus anymore. You have the Necronomicon.”
Wilfred stared contemptuously at him.
“Or maybe you don’t,” smiled Simon. He stroked his beard. “I heard the tome has been whisked away by some young rascals, who somehow managed to outwit you. Tsk, tsk, old man. You’re losing your touch. Beaten by babies. Who would have thought?”
Wilfred squeezed his fists. “They had a bastardly run of luck! No one outsmarts me!”
“The fact remains, old cock: they have it and you don’t. You should hear them gloat about it. They’re positively gleeful.” Tactfully, he decided to change the subject. Running his eyes over the young body, he said, “Tell me, Wilfred: how did you survive the attack of the killer zombie? Kane Gates was certain you were a goner. I was expecting to come here and find you squashed in a pool of guts on the floor.”
“Hoping, you mean.”
“But no, you managed not only to survive against all the odds, you also regained that delectable body. I’m impressed. Bravo, old man.”
Despite himself, Wilfred felt his face warm at the praise. The competition between them was as strong as ever after all these years, and it was clear, just by looking at the two of them, who was winning.
“It pays to have friends,” he remarked, raising his chin. “Loyal friends,” he added with a sneer, “not the back-stabbing type.”
“It pays to pay protectors. Was it that Snyder creature I heard about? He sounds like an unpleasant character.”
“They’re the most trustworthy kind.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that. But I don’t know him.”
“He worships the ground I walk on. That’s the most precious kind of friend to have.”
Simon had a little laugh. “We have very different interpretations of the word ‘friend’, old man.”
“That we do.”
Simon stared at him with a Mona Lisa smile. He shook his head, dislodging some private thought. “We were such good friends for such a long time, dear Wilfred. I miss those days of gallivanting around, creating mischief.”
“The good times ended a long time ago.”
“More’s the pity.”
“I told you to return my things, and you decided to leave the country instead.”
“I had urgent business to take care of.”
“For sixty years?”
“What’s sixty years to an immortal?”
“You stole some of my most precious possessions! It took me years to recover!”
“And look at us now: reunited after all this time. The deadly duo is back in business.”
“What are you doing here, Simon?”
He raised his palms. “I was hoping to find you here and join you in your little excesses.”
“You just said you thought I was dead.”
Simon was nonplussed. “I knew it would take more than a mindless zombie and a rag-tag band of adolescents to end you. I know your talents too well, old man. But … if by some miracle they had achieved the impossible, then in that case I would have continued your work; delivered on your legacy, so to speak. No point letting all your remarkable work go to waste, not with the riches of the Dark farm exposed at long last. And who better to pick it up than little old moi?”
“You’re like a scab in the middle of my back, an itch I can’t seem to get rid of.”
“You found the farm and you found the book. Good for you.”
“I found the book and it’s mine. You won’t get your thieving hands on it.”
“Of course not. Because, alack and alas, you lost it. And now we’re back to wishing and hoping.”
“I’m getting it back. Sooner than you think.”
“Wishing and hoping.”
“It’s only a temporary setback.”
“Wishing and – Oh goody, a plan! I knew you’d have something in the works.” He leaned forward, hands clasped. “What is it?”
Wilfred smirked at him. Typical Simon, trying to pump him for information. It was patently obvious he was here to steal the Necronomicon – and whatever else he could get his hands on. The thought raised a small panic in him that Simon had already appropriated half his things. There was nothing much of value here, but downstairs was a different matter.
“Let me guess … a little torture in the afternoon?”
Wilfred gave him a tight-lipped smile.
“I’m sorry to thwart your little excitement, but that would be the worst thing you can do.”
The smile disappeared. “What do you mean? When is torture not the shortest line between two points?”
“When it would bring the whole security force down on your head.” Simon inspected his fingernails, which he still kept long, no doubt with the sole aim of irritating Wilfred: he knew how much it irked him. “So far I’ve kept them from your door by telling the youngsters I am handling it. If Kane Gates were to go missing, I don’t think I will be able to hold my assistant back from going straight to them.”
“I’ll do both of them then.”
Simon stiffened. “No, no, no. No, you won’t. I’ve already had a visit from the National Security Office, thanks to that errant Messenger of yours. How will it look if my assistant goes missing, along with the brother of the boy who witnessed the murderous creature? No, Wilfred, we can’t risk that.”
“We? There is no ‘we’.”
“Of course there’s a ‘we’. There’s been a ‘we’ for … what is it? – one hundred and sixty – no, seventy years. Since ever since you were my apprentice.”
“Your slave, you mean.”
“Everyone has to start somewhere, old cock. We quickly became friends back then, if you recall. I shared my magics with you, including the magics that have allowed you to stand here today. We had a mutual enemy; we raised some of the most famous and infamous men who have ever lived; the world was at our feet.”
“Strange how things turn around.”
“We had a mix-up. An unfortunate misunderstanding. Let’s let bygones be bygones. There’s so much we can achieve together.”
When Wilfred didn’t respond, Simon picked up a hand mirror from the side table. “Have you been staring at yourself much, Wilfred? I certainly would, if I looked like you do now.”
“How did you know it was me? When I walked in?”
