Robin Jarvis - The Fatal Strand

‘Come on,’ he told the raven. ‘We’ll grab something to eat, then I honestly think I could sleep for the rest of the day.’ With the scraggy-looking bird casting a fretful glance over his shoulder, they made their way through the many rooms and galleries, towards the caretaker’s apartment.

When they reached a dreary passageway, ending at a door covered in peeling green paint, Neil hesitated and turned to his faithful companion.

‘Listen,’ he began. ‘My dad can be a bit funny sometimes.’

Quoth gave a hearty cluck and hopped up and down with excitement. ‘Thou art the son of a jester!’ he chirruped. ‘That is well, for this sorry chick is melancholy as a gallows cat. ’Tis most surely a great truth that the memory of joy doth make misery thrice times awful. Haste, haste, Squire Neil, let us to this worthy fool – I wouldst be made merrie!’

‘I don’t mean it that way,’ Neil groaned. ‘My dad can be a bit strange, that’s all.’

The raven nodded sagely. ‘Ah!’ he croaked. ‘Thy father is mad.’

‘Very likely,’ Neil couldn’t help smiling. ‘So don’t make it any worse. Try and keep quiet. He doesn’t like stuff he can’t understand and there’s enough gone on in here to last him a lifetime.’

Trying to make as little sound as possible, Neil opened the door and crept inside the apartment.

To his surprise he found that his father was already awake. Half-submerged in the padded blue nylon of his sleeping bag, Brian Chapman was sitting up on the shabby settee, his face turned towards the window.

He did not seem to hear his son enter and Neil eyed him quizzically. ‘Dad?’ he ventured.

The man continued to stare fixedly out of the window.

‘Dad,’ Neil repeated, ‘I’m back.’

Quoth craned forward to peer at the boy’s father more closely.

‘’Tis most certain an affliction of the moon,’ he cawed. ‘Never hath this poor knave espied such a muggins.’

At that moment, Brian Chapman gave a violent shiver and he whipped around – startled.

Taken aback by the sudden movement, the raven squawked in surprise and flapped his wings to steady himself.

‘What’s that?’ Neil’s father cried, scowling at the bird in revulsion. ‘Take it out of here, Neil. It’s vermin! Full of germs. You’ll catch all sorts!’

‘Don’t worry,’ Neil said hurriedly, seeing that Quoth was already clearing his throat to let loose a fitting retort. ‘He’s very clean and doesn’t bite.’

‘You can’t keep him.’

‘I don’t have to – he’s my friend.’

Brian pinched the bridge of his nose, a sure sign that he was growing impatient.

‘I hate this place,’ he grumbled, extricating himself from the sleeping bag whilst snatching his spectacles from the nearby shelf. ‘Always something peculiar happening. Never stops. Couldn’t sleep a wink last night. An absolute madhouse! One of those barmy women was screeching her head off till God knows when.’

‘One of them’s died,’ Neil said simply.

But his father wasn’t listening. He glared at the raven and shook his head resolutely.

‘Disgusting!’ he declared. ‘It’s bald and mangy. What’s happened to its other eye? Might have fowl pest or worse – you’ve got to get it out of here. I don’t want it anywhere near your brother.’

Unable to remain silent any longer, Quoth finally defended himself against these unwarranted insults. ‘Woe to thee – most ill-favoured malapert!’ he quacked. ‘Verily dost thou show how abject be the poverty of thine wits! No ornament nor flower may this morsel be, yet mine eye findeth no delectation in thine own straggled visage! Thou hast the semblance of a wormy turnip which yea, even the famined wild hog wouldst snub.’

Brian gaped at the bird, but anger swiftly overcame his astonishment. Lurching forward, he grasped hold of the raven and Quoth bleated in fright as he tried to escape. Neil’s father, however, held him firmly and marched to the door – holding the wildly flapping bird at arm’s length.

‘It’s come from upstairs hasn’t it?’ the man shouted. ‘For God’s sake, Neil – isn’t it bad enough having to live in this asylum without you fetching the freaks down here?’

‘Let him go!’ Neil protested, trying to grab his father’s outstretched arm.

But it was no use. Quoth was flung out of the apartment and ejected into the corridor.

For a brief instant, the raven found himself tumbling helplessly through the air. Then he crashed into an oil painting, slid down the canvas and fell to the floor with a loud squawk of dismay.

Sprawled upon the cold wooden boards, he glared at the now firmly closed door, looking like a tangled clump of half-chewed feathers which an idle cat might have abandoned. He puffed out his chest indignantly.

‘Toad-frighter and donkey-wit!’ he mumbled to the expanse of peeling green paint. ‘Clodpole and besom steward!’

Picking himself up, the bird shook his tail and inspected his wings before waddling closer to the door where he waited for it to open again.

‘Master Neil?’ the raven cawed expectantly. ‘Master Neil?’

Within the caretaker’s apartment, Neil Chapman struggled to barge past his father, but Brian pushed him backwards.

‘If he can’t stay, then I won’t either!’ the boy fumed.

‘Go to your room!’

‘You haven’t even asked where I’ve been or what happened!’

‘I’m not interested!’ came the cruel reply. ‘I’m sick to death of having to live in this nut-hutch with that old bag upstairs bossing me around all day. Well, it won’t be for much longer.’

Neil stared at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Time we left,’ Brian said with uncharacteristic resolve. ‘I’ll find another job.’

‘You can’t do that!’ his son cried. ‘Not now!’

Running a hand through his lank hair, the man grunted with exasperation. ‘Blood and sand!’

Neil turned away from him and stomped towards the bedroom he shared with his younger brother, Josh. ‘You never stick with anything,’ he muttered resentfully.

Barging into the room, the boy threw himself on to the bed and miserably wondered what he would do if his father tried to make him leave The Wyrd Museum.

‘I can’t go now,’ he told himself. ‘This place hasn’t finished with me yet I’m sure – and what about poor old Quoth?’

But his wretched reflections would have to wait, for all his energies were utterly spent and the softness of the bed proved to be too potent a force to resist. In a moment, his eyes were closed and he felt himself drifting off to sleep.

In the living room, Brian slumped back into the armchair and gazed fixedly up at the ceiling, insensible to the dejected chirrups sounding from the corridor outside.

‘Not long now,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Then I’ll be free.’

In the main hallway, still clasping Miss Veronica’s hand, Edie Dorkins knelt upon the hard floor, arranging the dead woman’s dyed black hair about her shoulders, whilst brushing the mud flecks from her shrivelled face. Miss Celandine was still yowling, but she had buried her head into her spade-like hands and so the shrillness was muffled and less unbearable than before.

At her side, Miss Ursula’s countenance was fixed and immovable as any stone. Upon Miss Veronica’s breast, Edie had placed the old woman’s cane, and at her side was the plastic bag containing the rusted spearhead.

‘It is well that you brought it here,’ Miss Ursula observed, her flinty aspect vanishing when she saw the gouts of blood which smeared the vicious-looking weapon.

Visibly wincing, she cleared her throat. ‘In all creation there are few artefacts which can do us injury. This, the Roman blade which pierced the side of He who perished upon the Cross, is one of the most lethal. I ought to have accepted it within the confines of the museum long ago, when first it was offered unto my keeping. Veronica is the price I have paid for that folly and most bitterly do I accept it now.’