D. Mitchell - The King of Terrors

There was an assortment of gold necklaces, brooches, rings — some of it quite hefty. Even as a non-expert he realised some of this was quite old, a couple of rings in particular and a bangle, all in bright yellow gold, one of the rings having a single small emerald, rough cut, sitting in an unassuming plain setting. He rifled his fingers deeper through the sea of gold. One brooch snagged his attention and he took it out. He’d no idea of date, but it was oval in shape, a large sapphire encircled by diamonds. If these stones were real, he thought, this alone must be worth a small fortune.

Where on earth had she gotten all this? Were they stolen? She looked like she owned very little, judging from her threadbare appearance. Yet he could not believe she was a thief. Or perhaps he didn’t want to believe it, he thought; perhaps he’d fallen under her spell a little. Become blinded.

It was then he saw the simple leather cord, incongruous because it was the only thing not made of precious metal. His finger hooked it and pulled it out. He almost dropped the box from his lap.

What hung from the end of the leather cord, blinking in the harsh glow of the bedroom light, was half a silver coin.

The missing half to the one he had back home. The one he’d had with him when he’d been found as an abandoned baby.

When he stepped out onto the street the following morning there was no question in his mind about what he should do.

Overnight snow had caused the usual mayhem on the roads. The drifts were high, the only vehicle attempting to go anywhere was a lone snowplough, and even that looked to struggle with the conditions. A rag-tag rope of sorry-looking cars followed close, if slowly, in its wake, but they could hardly keep on the road, their wheels finding little traction.

He shook his head at their attempts. He wasn’t going to risk it in his Land Rover. OK, so it was supposed to be made as all-terrain, but it was vintage, a classic, and he wasn’t about to risk taking it anywhere just yet, especially amid those maniacs trying to slalom their way to work. To be on the safe side he booked another night at the hotel.

But of course that wasn’t the real reason he was going to hang around. He was going to see the woman when it came round to visiting time, and not just because he was worried for her health. Finding the coin came almost as a body blow to him. A bizarre coincidence? And though he didn’t have his own to hand to compare he’d looked it over too many times to be mistaken that the one the woman had in her box was the missing half to his. Then, of course, doubts shrugged their way in and he admonished himself for being a fool. They couldn’t be part of the same coin. The thoughts plagued him through the remainder of the night and well into the morning. When he awoke he snatched the leather-threaded coin from the dressing table, just to reassure himself he hadn’t been dreaming the entire thing. In the cold light of day he knew he wasn’t mistaken.

He hung around till 2pm at which time the hospital was open to visitors. He was at the head of the tiny wave of heavily wrapped people that washed onto the ward to see their loved ones. For some reason he was relieved to see her there, as if half expecting her to be a smoky dream that had been torn to nothing by the fingers of morning. She looked as if she were asleep, arms laid out on top of the bed, head propped up slightly, her head encased in a bandage from which beneath sprouted a few tufts of blonde hair. The ward was hot, stiflingly so, and began to throb to the hushed voices of the visitors who sat in conversation with people in various stages of recovery from traumas and illness. Gareth Davies wasn’t particularly keen on hospitals and didn’t relish being there.

He pulled up a chair and sat down beside her bed. The metal chair creaked. She opened her eyes to the sound, and at first, only for an instant, he saw fear painted there, her body visibly stiffening. But it vanished quickly. She stared at him, half suspiciously, half expectant.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said. She didn’t reply. He was momentarily captivated by the blue of her eyes. ‘We’ve bumped into each other before,’ he quipped, trying to make light of things, but it prompted an icy glare of incomprehension. He could see her mind working on the comment. ‘I’m the one who knocked you down last night, remember?’ he explained. ‘In the lane?’

She swallowed, glanced at the jug of water and glass on the cabinet beside her.

‘Are you thirsty?’ he asked, reaching for the jug. He poured a little water and handed the glass to her. She took it and sipped. ‘My name is Gareth Davies,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Gareth Davies,’ she said huskily. He waited but she remained silent.

‘I was wondering if you felt better,’ he said. He could have done with a drink too — he felt like he was drying up like a slug caught out in the sun. He pointed to the bandage. ‘It could have been worse, you know; I could easily have killed you.’

‘But you didn’t,’ she said quietly.

‘No, not quite. What’s your name?’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t remember,’ she returned shortly. ‘Like I told the police.’

‘Look, I don’t care what you were doing last night…’

‘I might not have been doing anything,’ she said.

‘How do you know? You can’t remember.’

She narrowed her eyes. Placed the glass on the unit and they both watched the water inside it tremble for a second. ‘True enough,’ she conceded.

‘The police interviewed me too,’ he said. ‘Routine when there’s been a traffic accident in which someone’s been hurt.’ She gave him a vacant look. ‘Knock to the head, does strange things, eh?’ he said. ‘Look, I came because of two reasons: the first, to see how you are — you came running from the hedge like the devil was at your back, I nearly killed you, you had no ID, you weren’t even dressed for winter and I was concerned for you. The second…’ He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the coin on its leather cord. He saw her eyes widen and she turned away. ‘I could mention the box full of gold, which in itself looks a trifle dodgy to say the least, but it’s this I’m more interested in. Where did you get it? Is it yours? Is it stolen?’ He found his voice was getting more animated and he had to stem the flow of words. He let the coin dangle there.

‘Put it away,’ she said.

‘Tell me where you got it.’

‘Not here,’ she said. ‘Put it away.’

He sighed and stuffed it back into his pocket. ‘I have one just like it. Mine though is the other half. I’ve had it since I was a baby. My mother left it with me. Weird, don’t you think, that you turn up with this? All I want to know is where you found it.’ He bowed his head, his hands working together on his lap. ‘I never knew my mother. The coin is the only link to her. I’d like to find her.’ He found it strange to be uttering the words as he had always professed the opposite.

‘You can’t,’ she said pointedly.

‘That’s for me to decide.’

‘She’s dead, Gareth,’ she said, turning to him.

He found it cut straight into him. Even though he’d hated the woman for what she did to him, he did not want to hear this. ‘How do you know? How can you be certain? Did you know her?’

‘I’m your sister, Gareth,’ she said. ‘I’m your sister, Erica. That’s how I know.’

For a moment he received it as if she were joking, and even smiled a little. Then the smile collapsed into a frown. ‘Erica, huh? What are you trying to pull here?’

‘We’re twins.’

‘OK, when’s my birthday?’ he asked sceptically.