Thicker Than Water

‘I mean,’ I said, ‘don’t get me wrong here, okay? If this is another of those off-limits topics, just tell me. But if it’s not, I wouldn’t mind knowing. Does this thing that makes people cut themselves into ribbons so it can nest in the torn flesh go way back with you? Is it a friend of the family? Did it bounce you on its knee when you were a little girl?’

We’d gone another couple of miles before she spoke, and I’d stopped waiting for an answer.

‘They’re called the Oleuthroi. And I’ve never met this one before. In fact, I haven’t seen any of his breed for twelve centuries. And the last one I saw was an adult, very old, enormous, that I and my sisters rousted up in the fields of Varhedre and killed for sport.’ Juliet’s voice was eerily distant, as if thinking about the past had carried her back there in some way.

‘They’re very rare,’ she said, and then paused. ‘Now. Now they’re rare. It wasn’t always so.’

‘And what, you’re into conservation? They’re an endangered species?’

Juliet was silent for a while.

‘I tried my hand at exorcising this thing before I came away from the estate,’ she said at last, returning her gaze to the road ahead. ‘Without result. I’ve told you what I can, Castor. More than I should. Be grateful. Or at the very least, be quiet.’

We said no more to each other. When I pulled up in front of Susan’s house, Juliet got out without saying a word: I thought, but couldn’t be sure, that I saw her turning away from Susan’s door and heading off into the night, which embraced her as eagerly as ever.

By the time I got back to Pen’s, it was after midnight. I called Jean Daniels, which I should have done from the hospital: to explain why I hadn’t been in touch and to ask her how Bic was.

More or less the same, was the answer. He slept a lot, and when he was awake he drifted in and out of his right mind - talking in his own voice one moment and in a strange polyglot growl the next. He hadn’t tried to hurt anyone, but he was unmistakably still possessed.

‘And now you’re going away?’ Jean asked, dismayed.

‘For a day,’ I said. ‘Two days, tops. I’m looking for Anita Yeats. I think she might know something that could help both your son and my brother.’

‘Know something about what, Mister Castor?’ Jean demanded. She sounded plaintive, and it made my stomach churn to be letting her down like this.

‘Two separate somethings,’ I admitted. ‘About Kenny’s death, and about Mark’s hobby. She’s the only person I haven’t managed to talk to, and there’s one obvious place where she might have gone.’

‘Which is?’

‘Home. Liverpool. But I’ll come and see Bic as soon as I’m back. Unless you want to get someone else in, which I’ll understand. I swear to God, Jean, I’ll see this through if you still want me to. I just - have to do this other thing first.’

‘We can’t afford to get anyone else,’ Jean said, her tone bleak. ‘Come as soon as you can, Mister Castor.’

She hung up, and I finished packing, wondering how late the last train would go. They’d probably run through the night, I thought. But then I was overcome with weariness: my brain felt like it had been scraped clean with wire wool, and my chest was throbbing again. I had to sit down until the pain and weakness passed.

I woke late in the morning to find Pen putting a cup of coffee on the bedside table - next to a double chocolate muffin with a lit sparkler embedded in it.

‘Welcome home,’ she said.

‘Thanks,’ I muttered, sitting up slowly. Christ on a crutch, I thought. Losing half a day wasn’t an auspicious start to the quest.

‘You slept in your clothes,’ Pen observed.

‘Didn’t mean to sleep at all,’ I muttered, taking a scalding sip of coffee.

I told her about Matt, and she filled the pauses with expletives. ‘Murder my arse!’ she said when I’d finished. ‘Your brother would do ten Hail Marys if he farted in a lift!’

‘True,’ I admitted.

‘So what are you going to do about it?’

‘I’m going to find Anita Yeats,’ I said. ‘All I’ve got is random facts that don’t connect. I think she might be the one person who can join the dots for me. Can you lend me some cash, Pen?’

There was a square tin box in the kitchen that had once contained tea, or at least said it had. Now it contained ten-pound notes, stored up by Pen against a rainy day. She assessed the current storm at a hundred quid, counting the notes into my hand one at a time. Then, after a short tussle with her conscience, she forked over the rest. ‘Just bring me back what you don’t spend,’ she said.

She dropped me off at Turnpike Lane station, and from there it was a short hop down the Piccadilly Line to Kings Cross. Trains for Liverpool were three or four to the hour, according to the Virgin Trains website, so there was no need to book.

Can’t help? I thought.

Fucking try me, Matty.

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