FORBIDDEN
All fallow fathers deep beneath the woods,
All follow daughters grubbing for their goods,
All swallow water, dark with soil,
All wallow summers while winter finds their toil.
All fallow fathers deep inside the wood,
All follow daughters, whether or not they should.
All shallow crouching howling, howling in retreat
All sorrow's passing in the greasy joy of meat.
Chapter 1:
(For those who do not remember the profound shock of the opening
months of 1965, or have somehow missed the huge media blitz
concerning the events that took place on the Fullen Reserve, I must
preface this text with an overview of the facts. In May 1964 Alexander
Fullen learned that he had inherited not only a sizeable sum of money,
but had also come into possession of a large amount of property. After
taking possession of both the cash and the Fullen Reserve, Alex Fullen
seemed to maintain a life style befitting one of his standing and as his
relatives would have had it, luck. However, all this began to change
towards the end of 1964 when he began to develop something of a
reputation for being a recluse. Due to his growing isolation little is
known of him, until he was thrust into the public spotlight in the opening
months of 1965, the figurehead of the biggest media horror of the year
and facing at least five counts of murder. What follows is ...)
A true account of the events of the case? Impossible! No one knows
them. No one except Alex Fullen and he's dead or dead enough not to be
able to publish his own account in the face of the media storm directed
towards his fiendish public persona. Overnight he became an
international monster, just as at one time, he had become a millionaire
overnight. So what made him so damn lucky in both cases? Maybe some
people are born to it, perhaps it is deserved by endeavour but at any rate,
Alex Fullen got off light both times. He had never been much to look at,
the slightly under-grown heir to a well off branch of a fabulously wealthy
family, certainly not the type that deserved pride of place in the glittering
firmament of twentieth century thugs. He also got off light because his
case never got to trial, luckily enough, considering the mountain of
evidence the prosecution had and the fact that Alex hadn't spoken an
English word in all the time since his capture. He was found dead in his
cell two days after his arrest. Who knows where he got the cyanide? Just
lucky I guess.
Certainly, as a member of the Fullen clan, he had every right to expect to
be born lucky; his family had made it out of a crumbling Empire and
survived both war and the financial catastrophe that consumed so many
others, without blinking so much as a highly preened eyebrow. They had
strolled across the pitfalls and mires of centuries, usually using the heads
of those who had fallen in front of them as stepping-stones and relieving
their unwilling benefactors of any remaining wealth in the process.
Never, even during the most copious bloodlettings in history, had they let
fear or excitement stain their starched upper lips with carefully sipped
pink gin. They'd never liked Alex, they'd not really liked his parents
either, the rest of the family was always distrustful of them. 'Too, well
without mincing words, middle class.’ Worse still they were contented
middle class. It should be plain that despite the collapse of the old social
orders in the country, Alex's family had done their best to ensure that
others knew the depths of their disapproval. This disapproval was most
strongly felt by Tomas and Sara Fullen. Whose easy union, refusal to
have the traditional second child and shameful mismanagement of funds,
could only have served to twist Alex into the wretch he was at the time of
his inheritance and the public wretch he was to become.
No one could fathom why Sir Richard Horis, 'Hory' to his most bloated
friends, would single out Alex, the child of a now broken home, to inherit
the fortune that he had accumulated over his long life. Perhaps it was
because he stood out from the others, though not in a good way surely?
Besides he had only encountered Alex three times in his life, but the will
had been changed to make Alex the sole beneficiary in 1938, which was
odd because at that stage Sir Richard definitely had not met him, except
at the Christening. There had been a lot of whispering about challenging
the will, but Alex was more than old enough to legally inherit and it
would be hard to prove senility was present over twenty years ago. So
Alex got it all the cash, the cars and the house... it was the first time he
had really been unlucky.
*
“Far from London”, if the Fullen Reserve had been advertising itself as a
hotel, Alex would have found this its most attractive feature. Though in
this case, the fact that he owned the place was far more of a draw. The
once struggling artist was now grinning through the last few miles of the
car journey that would bring him to the first part of his inheritance. The
only actual property he would receive, the rest was still being liquidated
to provide the huge amounts of raw cash that been stipulated in the will.
Quite a property though! An island unto itself, nearly half an hour from
the mainland, it was home not only to the Fullen mansion but had its own
private game reserve, spanning the entire Island. The property had been
held in the Fullen family for over ten generations and the Reserve itself,
had been stocked in the heyday of the Empire with anything exotic, yet
hardy enough to survive the climate. The Island was no doubt charted on
some of the more studious maps of the area, but the Reserve had never
been open to the public and thus never earned the name its extensive
collection might deserve. It is also doubtful whether the small population
of Onlop, the nearest thing to it that is on the map, would have been much
interested in it anyway. They are more interested in the dwindling catch
and their dwindling sons, ever too mindful of the world beyond the
village, to need reminding that even in the worst storms no fisherman
would put in at the Fullen Isle. Why is as lost in tradition as the village
fathers themselves.
Last light catches the sheen of the car as it breaks the curve of the hill
above the village. Turning the black monster into a bolt of dying flame
before it slips back down again into the shadows beneath the low hills
where the sun has already all but set. The driver is bored, intent on the
road and debating using his headlights, but Alex turns bright eyes towards
the last slim illusions of the dying light on the hill top behind him. His
eyes are painter’s eyes, quickly sizing nature down to its basic shapes and
colours. On the receding hill the blasted trees sway in a sudden gust of
wind causing a sporadic spray of leaves to flutter free, leaving their
brothers still straining for release. Alex takes it all in eagerly, catching
each play of light and shadow. Amid the tangled branches on the hill, a
single stone carved or rubbed smooth by unknown and ancient hands
casts a long shadow into the grim twilight of the valley ahead. The last
colour fades from the scene as the car passes beneath, replacing Alex’s
interest with an unexplained shiver.
“Gets dark pretty early around here.” He murmurs to himself, as he
swivels back into his seat and looks out over the village and its tiny
cluster of newly lit lights to the distant shadow of what must be his
Island.
*
It’s getting dark, though not too dark for hunter’s eyes. He is that, a
Hunter, the stone resting so cold and hard in his palm tells him this. The
strength of the moonlight tells him the spirits he holds at his belt are
happy; the smell of the three goats ahead tells him he’s hungry. Upwind,
always upwind, it would not do for them to smell his blood, not them or
the prowlers. He is a hunter but no hunter is ever alone; it has been a long
time since the night spoke, a long time to build hunger. He is not the only
Hunter abroad this night, but he is one of the best. His legs bunch under
him, his hunt mate has thrown the first stone. The goats break, scattering
through the low bushes. With a shout he is on the slowest. The rock blade
punctures the creature’s side, sliding off ribs until it finds the soft give of
the belly. He pushes deeper, driving back up under the rib cage. As any
hunter must, he ignores the scrapes inflicted by the dying animal’s horns.
Blood, thick with the heat of the inner wells, pours over him. His hunt
mate is near. He can hear his approach. Quickly, before the beast has
even breathed its last, he is tearing off the valuable skin with his blade.
Warily he eyes his companion, not sure if he will have to fight for his
prize. His hunt mate growls low in his throat, he growls back. Neither can
remember who last took the skin. The Hunter knows, though, that he
made the kill and that his child is cold. The darker man standing over him
drops his own weapon and motions with a hooked hand. The Hunter’s
own nails snake out in a quick warning strike. It is not the first time the
two have fought, the battle is far from serious. Both hold their bodies taut,
one trying to outsize the other. Then a light breaks in the distance, a
ghostly luminescence that widens both sets of light sensitive eyes. Both
combatants shrink close to the ground. Then, leaving no tracks they are
gone, their prize forgotten. Neither needs to be told the meaning of the
light. Tonight the new god was come and all but the Blue-tooth would
wait his pleasure.
Headlights stab through the ghostly trees, silver hands, stark in a forest of
shadows. The uneven road jerks Alex awake, he can’t remember when
sleep claimed him, probably in the rolling passage of the ferry. Ahead is
the house, his house. Low lit and waiting his coming, a few lights in the
gardens ahead splash green over the thick black of the low rise beyond.
The Manor is immense even in the darkness, almost a castle with various
towers jutting from its square body, seemingly at random intervals.
Statues loiter in the sporadic lights of the garden; pale figures guarding
the road. One light in the doorway greets the travellers.
“All very dramatic, Horis but it's got to go before we throw any parties
here.” Alex mutters to his deceased ancestor.
“Guv?” the driver grunts enquiringly.
“Nothing, just speaking to myself.”
Another light winks on inside the house and then another as the light and
noise of the car summons its inhabitants. The front door opens and a bent
figure is ready to open the door when the car stops.
“Good evening, Mr Fullen, we didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”
“What can I say? I couldn’t wait...?”
“William, sir, “ the middle-aged man supplies.
“William. Right.”
“William Douglas, sir. It has been my honour to be the housekeeper at
Fullen house for the past twenty or so years.”
“Great, great. Now that we’ve got the introductions over with, can we get
out of the cold?”
“Assuredly, sir, please follow me.” William replies, motioning him
towards the house.
Alex steps from the vehicle and starts making for the boot and his
luggage, but the driver is already there. Oh well best get used to being a
millionaire, Alex thinks as he passes the first of the squatting gargoyles
that line the steps leading to his front door.
“Great! I’ve inherited Gotham City.”
“What was that, sir?”
“Nothing, Albert.”
“It’s William, sir.”
“Sorry, William.” Alex says with a smile.
As Alex moves into the polished fastness of his new home, his driver
removes the last of the bags from the car. His name is Jake, just Jake,
which is more than his new employer had asked to know. He knew how
to drive, which he supposed technically made him a driver but he is far,
far more than that. With prodigious strength, he hefts his load. Barely
noticing the resistance of Alex’s lifetime of possessions, he makes his
way towards the door. Halfway there he stops. There are eyes on his
back, Jake can sense them, as easily as his watcher can smell the blood at
his sleeve. Far, far more he repeats to himself silently. He places the cases
on the ground and idly touches the silken trophy wrapped about his left
wrist. Then, without warning he spins, sending his watchers scuttling
back out into the darkness. They know him, know what he can be; know
that the bloody hair at his wrist could easily have come from one of their
own. They also know, as well as Jake, that they are not meant to be there.
“Made another hole in the fence have we?” he asks the now empty night
beyond the lights. He’d have to make sure that something was done in the
morning but for the moment their curiosity could be tolerated, in fact it
was to be expected. With a shrug he hefts the bags and follows the rest
into the house. They do well to fear and he can understand their
apprehension, there was a time when even Jake might have believed that
he was carrying the possessions of a god.
That first night Alex was not even close to understanding the immensity
of what he had inherited. The three-storey building with its more than
seventy rooms, was confusing enough from the outside. If he had been
left alone in the warren it might have taken him quite a while to navigate
from one end of the building to the other. This would have been partially
due to the size of the place but more because the architect appeared to
have done his best to emulate the surrealism of an Esher print. Small,
uncharted rooms with several entrances, all seemingly winding back on
themselves, appeared, apparently at random, along the route from the
marble tiled foyer to his bedroom. Several times Alex had the suspicion
that William was leading him in circles, but eventually, the procession
brought him and his luggage to his room.
“Not the master suite I’m afraid, sir. As I say you are early and besides I
wasn’t sure…”
“That I wanted the room where my great uncle died?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good thinking, this should be fine.” Alex says, as he looks around,
noting the opulence of the room. “Thanks, just put the bags over there
will you?”
“’k Gov.”
A hint of irritation flickers on William's face,
“Jake!”
Jake’s shoulders slump and he makes a visible effort to imitate William's
clipped tones. “Sorry. As you wish, sir.”
“No need for all this, really.” Alex starts.
“Sir, it is how things are done.” William replies. “Would you care for any
help unpacking?”
“No, I’ll leave that till the morning.”
“As you wish, I hope you will sleep well.”
“You too, William. Don’t bother waking me too early for breakfast.”
“No, sir.”
Stifling a giggle and a small amount of class-consciousness Alex watches
William leave. With an equally guilty glance at his unpacked cases, he
falls back onto the bed and closes his eyes.
That first night there are no dreams, at least none to be remembered when
the sun breaks through the unfamiliar window. New light gleams off old
wood, making each contour of the chair beside the bed seem like a
sculpture in flowing oil. How many other eyes have opened on those dark
curves, Alex can only guess. With a groan he rises and moves to the
window. As the room is on the second storey, he is afforded his first
glimpse of the grounds. Outside the window the sun battles to burn off
the cold sea mists that still hug the beaches and narrow coves of the
Island. Beyond that white skirt lies the sea and framing it, the low hills
that surround Onlop. The fence marking the edge of the game Reserve
stands tall and stark, only a few metres beyond the boundaries of the
garden. Beyond that the open land quickly gives way to trees, which seem
to stretch right back to what Alex assumes to be the end of the Island,
though, with the mist hampering his observations he cannot be sure. Just
in front of the tree line, a few shattered walls and broken roofs breach the
white expanse, standing stark, like bones against the ethereal morning
light. Alex's weariness falls away, his imagination instantly fired by the
ravaged stone and wood. Still, time enough to find the Island's secrets
later, for now home ground seems unfamiliar enough. With an ease born
of ownership, Alex wanders over to the large windows that lead out onto
the balcony. A knock at the door stops him with his hand on the latch.
“Ten o’clock, sir. I though you might care for some breakfast?” William
says, through the door.
“Thank you, I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.” Alex mumbles back,
vaguely irritated to be interrupted so early in his explorations.
Not that he needed to worry, since the trip downstairs involved several
wrong turnings, giving him all the time for exploration that he could have
wished for. At last, the sound of voices draws him to the dining room.
Two large windows admit the light, cutting everything into regular
squares of brightness and shadow at one end of the room. The huge table
veritably groaned under the weight of a variety of foods. Three men sit
talking at one end of the table. Alex recognises one of them as Jake from
the night before. The man on Jake’s right is almost as impressively large
and dressed in khaki. No prizes for guessing who the game warden is,
Alex thought to himself. The other man, sitting across the table was
distinguished, definitely on the wrong side of fifty and sat smiling
indulgently at the two younger men.
“Good morning, sir.”
Alex turned startled at William's sudden appearance.
“Where did…?” he starts, then notices the smell of the kitchens wafting
through the oak panel to his left.
“I’m sorry to have startled you, sir. You’ll no doubt soon be used to the
eccentricities of the place.”
“No doubt.” Alex responds. “Now perhaps you could introduce me?”
“Certainly. This, as you know, is Jake, the gentleman next to him is Mr
Finn, the gamekeeper.”
“Call me John.” Finn says, grinning through a large expanse of beard.
“And lastly we have…”
“Should know me, Mr Fullen.” The elderly man exclaims. “Only one here
mentioned in the will, at any rate.”
“Ah! Dr Powell.” Alex says, now recognising that this must be his
uncle’s physician, a man who had been part of the many stipulations and
strictures of his inheritance. Effectively Sam Powell was his tenant at
Fullen Hall for life, should the doctor so choose and from one look at the
old boy, Alex harboured the sneaking suspicion that the only way the
man was leaving the place was feet first.
“The very same, young man.” The doctor responds, interrupting Alex’s
assessment, “and you may call me Sam.”
“Thanks. Now that I’ve met everyone, I believe I smell bacon and
mushrooms.”
“You do indeed.” Replied the doctor, demonstrating the truth of his
statement by thrusting a laden fork into his mouth.
“Perhaps I could take you for a turn round the Estate?” John offered, as
Alex swallows his last mouthful. “The local area at least, it might take
you a while to get to know the northern end of the Island. A lot of ground
to cover out that way.”
“I’m having enough trouble making it from my room to the ground floor!
Still there is one thing I’m wondering about.”
“Yes?”
“When I woke up this morning I noticed some buildings near the sea,
ruins of some kind.”
“That’s the old leper colony. Your great grandfather started that, little
more than stone and broken beams left now, it was never rebuilt after the
fire.”
“Fire?”
“Not much of a story there. Turn of the century; oil lamp gets knocked
over. Whoosh! Three survivors.”
“Still it looked quite dramatic through the fog this morning. I’d like to
visit the place some time, perhaps even capture it on canvas.”
“You paint?”
“Not much recently, but now I seem to have the time.”
“Time is something we’ve all got out here.” The doctor observed over his
coffee.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Only that it may not live up to the heady pace of London.”
“Just what I want, at least for a little while.”
“Good luck to y’, boss.” Jake chimes in, unexpectedly.
“Thanks, Jake. Anywhere you’d recommend that I visit during my stay?”
“A few places but I think you’ll ‘ave more fun finding them yersel.” Jake
answers, drawing a growl from William.
“Jake!”
“Just givin' ’im him some advice; an' if you want some free, Boss, I’d
stay awa frae the north side of the Island.” Jake says, savouring his
defiance, even going as far as to twist a thin strand of the blonde hair at
his wrist, under the table.
“Jake, if you cannot conduct yourself properly, then get out.” William
says, his fists clenched at his sides.
“What on earth is he talking about?” Alex asks, attempting to diffuse
some of the tension in the room, at the same time as trying to work out
how the casual morning chat had turned into such a volatile thing.
“Nothing." William responds, “He’s just trying to get a reaction. As the
doctor says, there's little to do here.”
“Not what the fishermen say.”
“JAKE!”
“Wait! Everyone calm down.” Alex orders, looking from Jake to
William.
“Yes, a fellow can’t drink for the racket, just tell the story and have done
with it," the doctor cuts in.
“Story?” Alex asks, wondering what unlooked for skeletons might be
residing in the family closet.
“Ghosts.” the doctor replies, leaving Jake and William to glare at each
other while he takes up the tale. “Spooks from the sea. Even before the
little fire, that John mentioned, Fullen Island had a reputation, something
to do with old religious rites, druidic traditions, that sort of stuff.
Anyway, after the fire there was a wreck, one of the larger fishing boats
ran aground here in the storm and the few who survived and made it back
to the mainland, spoke of ghostly forms devouring those who attempted
to find shelter. Since then it's been popularly held that the unquiet spirits
of those who died here haunt the north side of the Island.”
“But the leper colony was on the southern end of the Island?”
“The ship was wrecked on the northern side, besides which how could
your ancestors have lived here so fruitfully if there was a curse on the
southern end?” The doctor says with a wink.
“Great so it’s not Gotham City, it’s Castle Frankenstein.”
“I suppose you might say that, but I’m surprised that you knew none of
this before you came.”
“I’m afraid I’m not exactly up on family history.”
“Evidently not. I suppose, if that is the case, I should apologise for taking
the wind out of Jake's sails; still stories like these are best discussed with
a glass of brandy and a roaring fire, not just after breakfast, eh Jake?” The
doctor asks, looking pointedly at Jake
“Well I do think it’s more likely that I’d take this nonsense more
seriously in those circumstances. I certainly don’t think there was a need
for all the excitement.”
“Quite so, sir.” William agrees as he refills Alex’s glass.
“Maybe you should try telling the story again later, as the doctor
suggests, Jake. That brandy would set the mood far better than coffee and
orange juice.” John says, smiling at his companion. Jake rises without
responding and stalks out of the room. Alex watches him go wondering
for a moment at a flash of yellow hair from under the large man’s sleeve.
Chapter 2:
(One of the most outstanding factors in the whole Fullen affair was the
strangeness of the will. Its stipulations seem to have made it impossible
for Alex Fullen to leave the estate for at least the first few months. If only
because his hold on his inheritance seemed so tenuous that the numerous
challenges by the rest of the family made leaving the place a risky move.
The effects of isolation on such a personality, could only have been
detrimental but this, combined with what Alexander was to Find there,
was evidently enough to send him over the edge. Mark Fullen was
definitely the strongest contender to the will. The fact that he was also
one of Alexander’s first victims could almost be looked at with a degree
of irony.)
Alice Fullen watched her husband rise from the bed and repeat the rituals
of preparation, as she had watched, with one eye open, for the last fifteen
years. Today, though, she was fully awake, still flushed with the warmth
of their recent encounter and far from happy. Mark had been acting
strangely since the reading of the will. A bit before that, actually if the
truth be told but Alice was never one for detail. All she knew was that her
husband did not normally have the energy, let alone the effrontery to
demand a quickie at such an ungodly hour. A more perceptive wife might
have noticed that her husband had not come to bed before two. She might
even have heard the sobs from the study and, should fate have presented
her with the opportunity, she would have noticed that the pistol kept in
the second drawer down in her husband’s desk was now resident in the
top drawer. What she did know was her husband worked at Fullen &
Faber and that even if he owned the place, which he very nearly did, it
wouldn’t do for him to be late.
”You’ll be late.” Alice remarks, ever at home with the obvious.
“The Earth obviously didn’t move enough to affect Greenwich Mean
Time.” Mark mutters to himself.
“What?” Alice asks, her voice heavy with menace..
Mark turns a bleary eye on his wife. Willing her to say more.
“I said, ‘What did you say?’.” Alice repeats, curling her lip, wanting the
coming fight as much as her husband. But rather than the expected blow
up, there is only silence. Mark just stares at his wife’s fading beauty, his
self-pity robbing him of anger. Disconcerted Alice rises on the bed and
moves towards her husband. Seeing this advance Mark backs off towards
the bedroom door, not trusting his composure to withstand closer
scrutiny.
“Mark?” Alice says, the edge still in her voice. Again there is no answer.
“Darling what's the matter?” Alice simpers, changing her tactics.
“Nothing, go back to bed.” Mark forces himself to respond.
“It’s the will isn’t it?”
“I don’t want to discuss it now. As you said, I’ll be late.”
“But darling, you’ve seemed so upset about it for days.” Alice once more
takes a stab at the patently obvious: “Do you really not want to talk about
it?”
“I believe that’s what I just said.”
“Everything’s alright, though?”
Mark knew there was only one possible answer. “Yes. Now give me a
kiss and let me get out of here or I’m going to be late.”
That’s how Mark left the house that morning, missing breakfast with only
the taste of his wife and a lie on his lips. It was only as he slipped into the
seat of his car, and caught sight of the pile of papers on the passenger
seat, that he once again recaptured some of last night’s despair. He’d
known he was in trouble for months now. His most recent investment,
like so many in the past few months had been a foolish one, only greed
had prompted him to go along with it and it was greed that had kept him
throwing good money after bad until now he was unable to escape. He’d
been desperate, unable to decide what to do until last month when his
grandfather died and then just like that - problem solved. He was the
direct heir to the bulk of the family fortune, or so he had thought.
Now an obscure cousin, whom he’d met only once before the reading,
had it all and he would soon lose everything. It was only a matter of time
before the company folded, all his colleagues and his creditors knew it.
The only one who still seemed oblivious was Alice, who seemed to go on
with her exorbitant business as usual.
“Least I got some of that arse I’m always paying for.” Mark says, casting
a baleful glance at his front door; regretting, for the first time since he
bought the place, that it was the largest one on the street.
Traffic only served to worsen Mark’s mood so that when he entered the
office, he seemed to be the center of the cloud of despondency that
gripped the place. The secretaries’ smiles were more fixed than usual, the
executives hung around in splintered groups. No one looked at him
directly and only the bravest of them would have disturbed him that
morning. Which meant that none of them would because anyone with the
guts to do that was trying to sniff out where the first takeover bid would
come from.
So Mark spent the morning and well into the afternoon, staring out of his
window. As he watched the people scurry beneath the grey skies his
resolve firmed. His whole life Mark had been trained to command and
looking down on the thousand little figures below he knew he would not
easily give up his position. He knew things or at least thought he did, that
he was sure his younger cousin had not even an inkling of. His father had
never really talked about it in any detail before he died, but there was
definitely something strange going on. Something, which he was sure, he
would be able to exploit. It all had to do with the Fullen Reserve, which
had played such a large part in the stipulations of the will. Come to think
of it there had always been something about the Fullen Reserve. An
unspoken fear, which his father had only ever hinted at; a little family
secret that might be embarrassing enough to change things, if he could
just uncover it. Even if it were only an embarrassment, it would be good
to get some of his own back, to make the little thief squirm a bit. Besides
he thought, as he looked down on the milling crowds beneath him, there
was no way he was going to fall from his pinnacle without trying to take
someone with him. If the truth were told it was this instinct which had
made him take the gun out of his mouth last night.
The inevitable decision made, Mark makes his way back to his desk and
reaches for the phone. Definitely something odd he assures himself, as
the dial tone injects some sense of the routine; mechanically his fingers
find the numbers that he requires; if not, why such emphasis on the
Reserve? He wonders. Surely it had something to do with the secrecy
surrounding the place? Something to do with his father’s fears and veiled
warnings? Something that could be used to his advantage?
“Hello?” a voice answers, breaking his concentration
“Put me through to Mr. Clement.”
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“Mark Fullen.”
A few seconds pass before Mark hears the familiar voice of his lawyer.
“Hello, Mark, what can I do for you?”
“It’s about my position with regard to my grandfather’s estate.”
“I’d wondered when we’d get round to that, look let's leave the official
speak for court, bottom line you want, or should I say need, the money.”
“Since we’re not mincing words, yes.” Mark admits, slightly put out by
the tone of the conversation.
“Well I’m sure we can get you some of the Estate; once it’s been
probated it should be one of the largest sums of money in the country.
Your cousin will probably be happy to part with at least some of it just to
get us off his back and gain total legitimacy.”
“So if we make a lot of noise, we might get paid out is what you’re
saying?”
“Basically, yes.”
“ Not good enough.”
“Mark, there are limits. The will was legal, we’ve already established the
difficulty of proving some sort of mental incompetence and failing that I
don’t see many options, other than going for some cash in a settlement.”
“There is something.”
“What?”
“To be honest, Roger, I don’t really know. But there’s definitely
something weird about the will.”
“Fantastic, I’ll call a judge and you write that down. How could we
lose?”
“Let me finish, Roger. The last thing I need at the moment is sarcasm.
What I’m referring to is a bit of a family secret. Something that might
prove embarrassing enough to get us more money or even the whole lot.”
“Well, what is it then? Nothing like a skeleton in the closet to pique an
old dog's curiosity.”
“That’s the trouble I don’t exactly know. Before you chime in, what I do
know is that there is definitely something suspicious about the
stipulations concerning Fullen Hall. Before my father died he’d never talk
about the place except in the most vague possible terms. The little he did
say definitely gave me the impression that there was something ominous
going on, on the Island. It’s especially strange that this should be the only
actual piece of property my cousin was allowed to inherit.”
“Mark, no offence but you’re clearly desperate, none of that really makes
sense; even if there were some kind of irregularity, we don’t know what it
is or how significant it would be.”
“Precisely, which is why I’m calling you. I need somebody to look into it.
I know that there’s something to this I just need to find out the exact
situation.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I suggest we start making noise about the will and that you put me in
touch with someone who has the necessary skills to investigate the
matter.”
“How would they know where to start? We have no idea what they’re
even looking for.”
“Leave that to me, I’ll take charge of the investigation myself. All you
have to do is get me the right man for the job.”
“The first part is easy, in fact I’ve already started but I really don’t know
about this investigation of yours.”
“As I said let’s make that my problem. Besides if the investigators good
he’ll almost certainly turn up something we could use against them. It’s
really about actually finding someone that good. So can you get me in
touch with someone or not?”
“I’ll send somebody round in the next couple of hours. If you can
convince them that this isn’t a wild goose chase I’m sure they’ll help you
out.”
“Thanks. I’ll call you if we come up with something.”
“No, they will, but I’m not holding my breath.”
The office emptied out as the shadows lengthened. No one bothered to
accost the woman who walked down the once pulsing corridors of the
fifteenth floor. By the same token, she didn’t bother to knock on the
office door before opening it. She was in the office before the secretary
had turned her attention from the window and seated before the man
behind the desk had even registered her presence. The woman prided
herself on such little games, they were, after all, essentials in her chosen
profession and it never hurt to keep in practice. A quick glance at her new
client told her that Clement’s observations about the stability of the man
were correct. Troubles stretched his brow, burrowing deep furrows of
worry into the receding hairline. Normally Mark Fullen would have
seemed quite unremarkable, a poster child for businessmen in their late
thirties, but to Carol Judson’s experienced eye the cracks behind the
designer suit were already beginning to show
“Mr. Fullen?”
“What?” Mark looks up, startled at the unannounced presence.
“Carol,” she says, extending her hand over the desk, “Mr. Clement sent
me. He said you might need some help.”
Already taken aback and totally unprepared for the situation, it takes a
few seconds before Mark is able to do anything more than dumbly grasp
the proffered hand.
“You’re not quite what I expected.” Mark says, filling the silence.
“ Would you be more comfortable if I wore a trench coat and spoke into
my watch?”
“No of course not, it’s just that I was under the impression that…”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Fullen I’ll be the first to admit that I am not typical of
my profession.” Carol says, taking pity on her floundering client.
Mark could only privately agree that the young lady in front of him was
hardly “typical”. Only the strange angle of her nose, caused by a badly
set break, gave any indication that she might be aquainted with the, often
risky, business of ferreting out secrets.
“However let me assure you that, should I choose to help, the results will
also be above what might be typically expected.”
Mark is quick to remind himself that as a businessman he would be
wrong to allow someone’s appearance to affect negotiations. If Clement
sent her then she must be competent, thrusting his preconceptions aside
he focuses on regaining the upper hand in the meeting.
“Let’s just say that in this case they would have to be.” Mark responds
“That’s understood then. Having established that let's get down to
business. From what I understand you are looking for some grounds on
which to challenge your grandfather’s will?”
“Yes.”
“Clement said you believe that there is something to be found on or about
the estate which your cousin has inherited?”
“Yes.” Mark answers, bristling at his loss of control over the conversation
“He also said that the details sounded sketchy at best, that you might not
even know what you are really looking for or where I would have to start
looking.”
“It’s true as far as it goes, but the Fullen Reserve has been in the family
for generations and the rumours about the place have been spreading ever
since. There’s something there all you have to do is find it ”
“You better have a lot of money to offer or a lot more than rumours.”
“It took more than mere rumour to scare my father and believe me, if you
ever mentioned the place to him he was scared. Also, if you want
something more concrete to go on, I know that my grandfather possessed
a journal. I saw it once when I was young. My father had gone to meet
my grandfather and I was left to wait in the study. When they found that I
had opened the book, they both became agitated; when they realized that
I’d just been drawing on a blank page they both seemed almost relieved.
Still they thrashed me so that I couldn’t sit comfortably for days. The
point is that my grandfather faithfully filled that journal every day of his
life. It would prove invaluable in any attack on the wills credibility,
whatever it contains.”
“So you want me to obtain this journal?”
“Yes”
“Presumably it would still be on the Estate?”
“Almost certainly.”
“Might your cousin have any idea that it exists or any idea about this
‘secret’?”
“No, he never even visited the Island before, one of the things that makes
this so strange.” Mark answers, his anger building at the thought of his
lost birthright.
“It doesn’t exactly sound like my dream job, Mr. Fullen.”
“I don’t just want the journal either.”
“What?”
“As I said this secret, whatever it is, is old. Both my father and my
grandfather feared it’s discovery and I know that there must still be
something to find on the Island. I want you to at least look for something
out of the ordinary about the place.”
“I’m not sure that I want this job now, Mr. Fullen. You’re hardly sugar
coating it to persist in this obsession with some family secret. The book I
might find, at least I will know what I’m looking for.”
“Let me encourage you, Miss…?”
“Judson.”
“Miss Judson, I will pay you handsomely for the book, double whatever
fee you would normally ask, plus expenses, just to remove any doubts
you might have about undertaking the job”
“You should hear my fee first.”
“Not only that but should you discover the source of these ‘rumours’ or
anything else that might be turned to my advantage. I will give you five
percent of what is awarded to me by the courts.”
“Generous enough to allay almost all my doubts.”
“I would think so.” Mark says, regaining some of the confidence that had
been so lacking in the last couple of months. He knew that the deal was
done. All that remained was to iron out the terms.
“Very well Mr. Fullen.” Carol said at length, “I think you should know
that you’re grasping at straws but I’ll look into the matter for you.”
“Good, I’ll set up an account in your name to handle expenses and the
first part of the payment. I’ll also expect a report every week. Earlier if
you find anything important.”
“Goes without saying.”
Mark sat back and watched Carol rise. With hope and some of his old
confidence restored, his mind turned to vengeance. His eyes followed his
new employee to the door, and then before she turned the handle he
spoke.
“Miss Judson.”
“Yes?”
“One more thing, I’m sure you’re aware of the urgency of this
investigation. My cousin has been enjoying what should rightfully be
mine for almost a week now. He has spent his first weekend in my
ancestral home. One way or another I want him gone. Should you fail to
find out anything else of use, see if you can discover whether he has yet
made a will of his own.”
“You’re talking to the wrong person if you’re saying what I think you’re
saying.”
“Maybe but I think you might know the right person to talk to, should all
else fail.”
“I don’t want to hear any more, Mr. Fullen.”
“But you will still take the case and you will still tell me if Alexander has
yet made any kind of will.”
“It’s my job.” Carol says, before ducking out of the door.
On the other side of the door she ponders whether she should just go back
and call the whole thing off. Not only did it offend her honour that Mark
Fullen was obviously at least considering murder but it also worried her
that she might be linking herself to such a dangerously unstable man.
What sickened her more was that she knew that her worries about her
client’s discretion were a stronger factor than her pity for Mark’s
intended victim and that the amount of money being offered was a greater
incentive than either of these.
Chapter 3:
(One can only speculate on how long it took Alex Fullen to discover that
there was something amiss on his Island. The shock of his good fortune
no doubt prevented him from looking too closely at his situation. There is
no way even to tell how much there was to notice when he arrived. Until
he inherited the Island, the place had had a bad reputation but it had
never gone beyond gossip and superstition. There might be some truth to
the assertion that he brought his own demons with him and that the
Island was only to become a manifestation of his baser nature; that much
of the depravity, which stained the place by 1965, had originated with
him. At any rate, whether he was the victim or the architect of his
circumstances, it did not take long before he became their prisoner.)
The child had no thumb on his left hand; he stood between the low walls
and thatched roofs. Sunlight was turned to a jaundiced haze by the smoke
from the fires that lent wing to the scents of death. He was oblivious to
the heat and the smells that wafted around him; his focus was on the
small train of women that moved away from the shelters. Just old enough
to sense the excitement of the mystery, the child stood on the threshold of
a timeless curiosity. At that moment the sickness slid from him, the
shudders stilled but his breathing quickened. Flushed red beneath the dirt
he tried to pretend that he did not know where the women went to bathe.
Tried to pretend he didn’t know the pools near the old stones, that he
hadn’t followed them almost that far before. He had been there after they
left many times, walked amid the upturned stones. Once he’d even found
a piece of white cloth hanging from a branch like a discarded skin.
Recently he’d dared to creep close enough to hear their laughter from a
distance but he had been unable to summon the courage to move closer
until today. In a last bid to stop himself, he tried to catch the minister’s
eye, to earn the inevitable scolding that would prevent him from
following. Only the sound of a low hymn answered his silent request to
an unfamiliar god. He was alone and free, except for fear.
Cool winds greet him as he enters the wood. Only the dull smell of wood
smoke and the sickly smell of his own clothing remind him of the camp’s
thick haze. Tree bark and stones snatch with rough edges at his thin flesh.
He cannot feel the pain, the minister would no doubt chastise him for
such wanton damage to his already diseased body but he counts the red
blood that he leaves behind as sacrifice, duly given to the wood and its
secrets. His feet pump through the thick undergrowth, finding their own
way through roots and fallen branches, as he chases the distant flashes of
white cloth ahead of him. Slowly, the sound of his breathing becomes a
thick rhythm in his ears, punctuated by bird song and then, suddenly, by
distant laughter and the sound of water. It is a place that should be
familiar to the boy but today he sees it as if for the first time. Up ahead,
beyond a stand of trees, narrow trickles of water have cut paths into the
old rock. It is here that the river pools, it’s yellowed waters overhung by
willow and low bushes. On a rise beyond that the ancient stones, worn
smooth by long lost hands, stand their unending vigil over the woods.
He moves slowly now, with guilty care, hiding, as much from himself as
the women in the pool. He has no idea what he will find beyond the last
trees, but the fact that it is not for his eyes is enough. Some part of him,
though, has seen this before. An image flashes through his mind, too
fleeting for him to register, someone else’s memory of what he is about to
see. A soft voice warns him not to proceed. He advances, seeming almost
to glide against his will to the edge of the tall stone that sits, up ended, on
a ledge above the pool. A distant cold creeps through him as his
thumbless hand touches the granite in front of him. Then, just as
unwillingly, he leans round the corner of the stone to catch a glimpse of
the scene below.
Their flesh is pale. White robes and stained bandages hang limp on
branches. Ripples from their passing are lost in the distance, broken by
the impact of the small waterfall at the other end of the pool. The voice
tells him not to look back to the shallows, begs him to focus on the thin
fingers of yellow light that dance through the deeper water, but as always
there is no choice. Their flesh is pale, pale as slow death, broken by the
vivid redness of open sores. A woman no more than twenty, yet twisted
by pain probes her open wound with a tentative hand, her flat eyes of no
use in the world of light. Red tendrils snake out into the water. Her
fellows coo in appreciation. One who might be her mother washes what
remains of a tattered breast in the muddied shallows. All just so much
carrion, laid out in slow waters, churning the river with raw limbs. Their
mouths are stretched too far for laughter, yet only the sounds of quiet
giggles can be heard. The blind woman looks up at the same time as her
hand slides into her wound. Looks directly at the boy and starts to speak,
“Do you like to watch, Alex?”
Alex’s hand is groping for the light before his eyes have opened. The
light is hardly help, since the first thing he sees is the image of a child,
without a thumb, standing amid broken beams and tumbled walls. He
blinks once to clear the nightmare from his eyes and reminds himself that
the image in front of him is his own painting. Still only half finished, its
colours are taking on the thick yellow and grey hues of his nightmares.
He wonders again how his anxieties have caught up with him so quickly,
he had hoped that he had left his nightmares behind, along with
everything else. Somehow the boy had intruded into his subconscious, he
just seemed to fit there, standing amid the ruined buildings. Alex had not
thought, when he started the painting a week ago, that the boy would
have such an effect on his dreams. Now the image seemed fixed in his
mind. So much for a change of location being the answer to bad dreams,
he thinks as he climbs out of bed. Wrapping a cover around his body as
he goes, he advances on the painting. As usual any time past midnight
seemed to be the time when a combination of inspiration and terror would
hit. If he were honest, Alex might admit that he had taken up painting
because he was too nervous to go back to sleep after his nightmares. If
Jake had found him now he might have got more mileage from his ghosts
and insinuations. At times like these, Alex could believe in any threat and
could do little to squash a creeping sense of helplessness.
“Too many ghosts in this one.” Alex mutters to himself, as he outlines the
white clad shapes, moving off into the trees, with a thin brush. The dull
creaking of the house is the only response to his statement. He sits,
bathed in the pool of light thrown out by the single bulb set over the
canvas, thinking back to the day, only a week ago when he had seen the
ruins of the leper colony up close for the first time. Outside, hidden
beneath the trees, a thin flame answers the light in his window and hurries
wordless prayers on the way to their sleepless Lord.
The Colony was actually just inside the Reserve. Which had meant that
they had needed to take a roundabout route through the main gate of the
Reserve and then back track. The road was old and disused, running
almost parallel with the paved road that ran up to the house only a few
hundred meters on the other side of the fence. Perhaps the smell when
they had arrived had given rise to Alex’s impressions of the place. Just a
little to the side they’d found a dead goat. A day or two old, John had
said, at the same time assuring Alex that though there were predators in
the Reserve they would not be keen to attack humans. However old it
may have been, the sight and smell of the thing had imparted a vivid idea
of the macabre atmosphere the place must once have had.
Another thing that had disturbed Alex, in a more subtle way, was the fact
that the Reserve had pre-dated the colony. While John had been unable to
confirm whether the Reserve had been expanded to include the colony
later in the century, Alex had the suspicion that his ancestors had kept the
lepers behind the same fence as the animals. Probably their apparent
charity had all been some means of gaining advantage, some claim to
“doing their bit”, but the more he thought about it the more certain Alex
was that there was no way that his forebears had strode the camp soothing
the sick and tending to ruined flesh. The remains of an old dock
demonstrated that the inhabitants had had access to the sea. No doubt
others, perhaps families, had been expected to tend them and bring
supplies. The colony had no doubt been little more than a cosmetic
feature. A fig leaf to hide callousness! Alex could not help but wonder if
there had been any difference between the people and the animals set
behind that fence. Certainly the idea was in line with his dramatic vision
of the place. The figures that he now depicted seemed to take on some of
this aspect, bent and huddled almost feral in appearance.
Outside, Jake knew that Alex was awake. From the darkness he smiled up
at the lighted window, before stalking out into the night. Partially
distracted, by the light above and the thought of the hunt, Jake failed to
notice the figure that slipped from the shadows and made short work of
one of the locks on a side door. In a few minutes both Jake and the
intruder were lost in the anonymity of the night.
Oblivious in his small oasis of light, Alex painted on, until a click in the
corner of the room drew his attention. He turns to see a panel of his wall
hanging from only one of its obscured hinges, the other having chosen
that moment to succumb to gravity and reveal the secret passage beyond.
Trying to breathe regularly, Alex approaches the unlit passage at the end
of his room. He stops at the threshold, the ruined door held wide with one
hand and listens. At first there is only the beating of his heart and then a
voice echoes through the corridor. The voice is muffled and indistinct but
there is no denying that someone is talking. A human voice lent a hollow
eeriness by distance and empty passages.
“Hello?” Alex says, in a voice barely above a whisper. There is no reply.
“Hello, anyone there?” he calls, more loudly and the voice stops. Alex
takes another step forward into the darkness. His feet recoil at the cold
touch of the stone floor, as cold as the granite from his dream. Then, he
notices the diffuse glow of another light, in the distance. Somewhere
ahead a light of some kind throws out a dull glow, which highlights a turn
in the passage. Alex’s hand tightens on the door, causing the other hinge
to squeal in distress, but he can no more resist the urge to enter the
corridor than the child in his dream could stay behind the rock.
Silently, on bare feet, he moves towards the light, groping the walls as he
goes. About midway through the passage his left hand snags a frame on
the wall behind him, sending it spinning to the ground. The sound of
shattering glass permeates the tunnel and effectively eliminates any
thought of retreat. He is shivering by the time he makes it to the lighted
corner. The passage continues on for a few hundred meters to his left,
through an open door beyond, he can see the light of a hooded lamp
focused on a weathered desk.
“Hello? William? Powell?” Alex pauses, hoping that someone will
answer and break the tension. The only sound that issues from the room
ahead is a soft regular clicking and a hiss like static.
His hands locked at his sides, Alex forces himself to move forward. The
light swells agonizingly in his vision as he approaches the table. The
shadows thrown by the single focused beam of light turn the rest of the
room into a cavern of indistinct forms and dimly recognized shapes. In
combination with the sounds issuing from the darkness just beyond the
small pool of light on the desk, the room takes on an even more ominous
aspect. He keeps moving towards the noise, until he Finds himself
standing over the desk looking down at a still spinning spool of an
abandoned dictaphone. Relief floods over him, followed by curiosity. He
presses the stop button on the machine and reaches for the full spool.
Before his hand touches it he freezes, suddenly noticing the still smoking
cigarette in the ashtray beside the typewriter. A nervous glance around
the room tells him that he is alone, but paranoia will not leave it at that.
Moving around the desk he begins to scan the room for some clue as to
where it’s former occupant might be. His suspicion falls on the bookcase
on the other side of the room. Without thinking, he picks up the
ornamental letter-opener and makes towards it.
A gear cranks behind him. Dragging his attention to the wall behind the
desk. Another panel slams open revealing a dark stairway leading down
into the darkness. Alex shifts the weight of the letter-opener in his hand
and advances on the newly revealed exit. “Who’s there?” He repeats, this
time almost shouting. “I’m not finding this very amusing, Jake. If you
can’t sleep…” He breaks off into a scream as a hand thrusts at the small
of his back, sending him teetering out over the blackness. The letter-
opener tumbles down, ringing with the impact of each step. Alex’s hand
snakes out, grabbing the lintel of the doorway. Before he can regain his
balance or turn himself to face his attacker, the gear clicks again and the
door slides back, cutting into his Fingers and spilling him into thin air. A
rib cracks on the third step down, his legs drag him on, twisting him
helplessly, head over heals down into oblivion.
It was too dark in the passage to know how long it had been since he had
regained consciousness. The first thing he registers through the haze of
pain is the sudden increase in light. A stabbing beam, pencil thin, probing
the darkness. Behind the light, standing in the newly opened doorway is a
person dressed all in black. Two quick movements bring the figure closer.
Alex stares at the masked face trying to make some sense of his situation.
Just the size of the person standing over him, tells him that it is no one
from the estate. Anyway, there would be no need for the mask, if there
were some innocent explanation for the person’s presence. He can feel
the thick handle of the letter-opener poking into the small of his back.
Carefully Alex slides his good hand under himself.
The penlight stabs into his eye as a thumb lifts his eyelid.
“Shit, is any one at home?” The figure mutters. Alex has no time to be
surprised that his assailant is a woman. His action is already fixed in his
mind. With what he imagines to be a lightning fast attack, he thrusts out
with the blade of the letter-opener. Before the movement is half
completed, the figure above him is in motion, diving out of the range of
the attack and delivering a kick to his already aching face. She would
have been out of the door but Alex’s second movement is far faster. He
screams as his wounded hand snakes round her ankle, slowing her escape
and dragging him nearer to the door. Even though she was unprepared for
the move, the woman reacts flawlessly, turning her fall into a dive, she
comes up on her feet and barrels down the stair, at a rate that Alex would
have had little chance of emulating even if his leg had not been injured.
At the sound of the scream the whole house had begun to wake up, giving
the intruder little time to make her escape. Jake gave her less! Even as she
made her way towards the still open side door, Jake was returning from
an unsuccessful hunt; his naked skin painted as black as the intruder’s
clothing. When they met, just outside the house, it was the meeting of two
shadows; both stopped on the fringe of the light now flooding from the
building. Neither needed telling the rules of the game they played. Jake’s
darkened blade swept out, only a crescent of silver marked the raw steel
of the razor edge, winking with reflected light. Jake growled low in his
throat. His enemy seemed to move well but he could smell that this was a
woman. There was no escape for her; all that remained was to see how
long she could survive.
An explosive release of air and a stinging in his neck, as the hypodermic
found its mark, was the first sign Jake had to tell him that, this time, he
had underestimated his opponent. Even though he is not yet overcome by
the drug, Jake allows himself to slump, taking a drunken step towards the
woman. To her credit she does not even cry out when Jake explodes into
action, shaking off the effects of the drug through an act of pure will. A
volley of precise blows hit his body, but he shrugs off the damage.
The lethargy is already gaining a hold, as Jake’s arms lock around the
black-clad figure. Well-conditioned muscles fight uselessly against his
overwhelming strength. Jake pulls her head forward, rips back the
balaclava and buries his face in the auburn hair that spills out. His knife
moves up, slicing a thin strand of hair from just above her ear and
drawing a thin line of blood. Then, even though his strength is still not
spent Jake allows his eyes to close and slumps to his knees. There is no
need to look at her face, he has her scent and somehow Jake knows that
this one will be back.
Seconds later, the woman finds herself, looking down at her strange
assailant through tear stained eyes. Already the sounds from the house tell
her that Alex Fullen has been found and that she is being sought. The
sounds of shouting and barking break through her paralysis, reminding
her that she can not afford to waste too much time studying her attacker.
She banishes the feelings of fear, quietly chastising herself for loosing her
cool. She takes one more look at the big man, shuddering at the memory
of his manic strength. Then she turns and lopes off towards the shore,
where she has left her small boat. Jake smiles in his sleep, once again he
is in the dark. There is no need for his eyes though, there never is, he
reminds himself as he begins to fall. Lights flash in the night, yet
somehow none find him. Oblivious and unnoticed Jake sleeps on in the
wet grass, his fingers curling over a few strands of her blood stained hair.
“Alex? Can you hear me? It’s me, Sam Powell.” A distant voice
summons Alex back to consciousness.
“Yes.” Alex says, not bothering to open his swollen eyes, “I know.”
“What happened? How did you get here.”?
“Someone in the house, I was attacked.”
“Yes, Finn and William are out searching the grounds. Tell me can you
stand?”
“I don’t think so.” Alex spends more endless moments in hazy agony as
the doctor probes his wounds.
“Yes, I’m afraid you’re in pretty bad shape, Alex.”
“Am I?” Alex asks, in too much pain for sarcasm.
“Your leg may well be fractured, I can’t tell without x-rays. I’m afraid
that you’ve almost certainly got a cracked rib and several broken fingers.
The only good news is that you’ve apparently suffered no concussion.”
Alex’s pain ends suddenly when Sam Powell inserts a needle into his
arm.
“A bit of home brew ought to do the job.” The doctor says in the
bumbling tones that constitute his best bedside manner.
The low humming of his heart marks the slowing seconds. The ceiling
blurs, undulating like water; thin fingers of light shoot through the ripples
in the deeper part of the pool. He hears the sound of laughter torn from
pale bodies. Below the river rolls, its gurgling cries dragging him closer
to the yellow foam clinging to the base of the rushes. A chill wind carries
all the sounds, mixing them into a single voice. The last thing he
remembers is the old question: “Do you like to watch, Alex?”
Chapter 4:
(Though Fullen Hall’s most famous, or rather infamous, moments were to
come at the beginning of 1965, there is no way that the events of that time
should be seen as isolated from its earlier history. No one has ever
debated that Alex Fullen's complicity with the situation marked him as
the one responsible for the deaths of so many. What has fascinated many,
who have followed the case, is the question: - How many of us would
have acted similarly given the same set of circumstances? Granted Alex’s
behaviour after his arrest left few people in any doubt about his mental
condition, but by all accounts the change was dramatic. So, many have
asked, was it really Daniel Fullen who set all these events into motion,
over one hundred and twenty years beforehand?)
The force of the rain seemed to bite into the window, rattling the old glass
in its setting. Outside, beyond the fence, the thick clump of trees marking
the start of the wood shook under the impact of the wind; white waves
broke against the stones of the Island, adding their distant thunder to the
silence that followed each fork of lightning. The old house had stood
before such gales many times. That night it did so once again, holding the
high ground overlooking the Reserve, against the storm.
Alex wakes to see a lightning flash blurred by the torrent that ran down
the window. Forgetting his pain for a moment, he moves to get out of
bed, a wave of agony replaces the background throbbing. Struggling not
to throw up, he convulses back into position. After a moment his eyes
clear, revealing the shapes in the dimly lit room. By the light of a single
bedside lamp, he sees the familiar forms of chairs and tables, the shape of
his canvas now obscured by a cloth and a woman standing beyond the
circle of light. She is turned away from him, her hair loose and framed by
the storm.
At the sound of his movements on the bed, the woman turns. Still too
confused to say anything, Alex watches her advance.
“So you’re finally awake. I don’t know what Dr. Powell puts into his
tranquilizers but I’d imagine that it’s the same stuff they use to deal with
the animals.”
Alex stares back dumbly at the woman. If it weren’t for the slight twist in
the bridge of the woman’s nose, Alex would be sure that he was dreaming
by now.
“Still a little woozy then?” she asks
“N…no.” He manages
“Sure?”
“Yes, it’s just that…. Who are you?” Alex asks, collecting himself.
“Samantha Harvey, pleased to meet you.” She answers extending a hand
and a smile.
“Alex and likewise.”
“I know that, it’s you I’m here for.”
“You’re a nurse.” Alex guesses
“Yes, Dr. Powell will keep an eye on you but as he put it, he’s too retired
to keep an all night vigil. I got here this morning, which was a good thing
because I doubt anyone could get here now, what with the storm and
everything.”
“You mean I’ve slept all day?”
“Best thing for you really, though I’ll grant you that Dr. Powell didn’t go
easy on the sedatives. Anyway he’s set your leg and bandaged you up.
There are no severe breaks, just minor fractures really. Your leg seems to
be twisted and badly bruised rather than actually broken, so with any luck
you’ll be up and about relatively soon. Until then you’ve got me to help.”
“Thanks, speaking of which, I don’t know quite how to put this.”
“Need some help getting to the bathroom?”
“Got it in one.”
“Few things break the ice like a mutual trip to the toilet, followed by the
use of strong narcotics.” Alex says, with a weak grin as he hands the half-
drunk glass of water back to Samantha.
“Those pills should let you get back to sleep in no time.”
“Thanks. When are you going to get some sleep yourself?”
“Oh, I’ll try to get a nap as soon as you doze off. They set me a bed up
over there, so I’ll be in the room if you need me. Don’t worry about me,
I’ve always been a bit of a night owl.”
“Me too.” Alex says, stifling a yawn.
Samantha moves to a seat next to the bed. “I can see that.”
“No, really, anyway it’s not fair you’ve got a certain advantage.” He says,
indicating the bottle of pills on the bedside table.
“I didn’t know it was a competition.”
“That’s what you say but who dosed who?”
“Whatever you say, now why don’t you get some sleep?”
“That’s just what you’d like isn’t it?” Alex asks with a smile, but his eyes
are already drooping. He can hear the incandescent drops trickling down
the eaves, the howl of the wind on the tiles. He watches her sitting across
from him for as long as he can. .
About half an hour after Alex has closed his eyes she stands up. First she
moves over to the side of the bed, next she makes towards the open
passageway at one end of the room and peers through the doorway into
the darkness beyond. She takes a few steps into the passage and then
turns back. She’s sure that this is not the only passage leading into the
room and some part of her tells her that she is being watched.
“Strange set up.” She mutters to herself, making her way back to her bed.
There will be many nights for exploring yet, she reminds herself. No need
to overdo it the first night.
The storm had lost much of its strength by morning, though grey clouds
still obscured the sky and random gusts of wind still wracked the Island.
Alex was awake before the knock on the door came, but he had only
moved enough to allow him to observe his sleeping nurse. He watches
her stir as the sound from outside begins, then closed his eyes as hers
open. He listens first to the sound of her footsteps crossing the room, then
to the hurried conversation, taking place in whispers at the door.
“Is he awake?” William asks, peering into the room.
“I would imagine so, though he did have some tranquilizers earlier this
morning.”
“So he woke up in the night?”
“Yes.”
“Did he mention what happened to him?”
“Don’t you know?”
“We suspect it must have had something to do with the intruder on the
estate that I told you about but since he’s been unconscious since then,
we’ve not actually heard what happened.”
“Well, he didn’t mention it.”
“Hopefully he saw the man we’re after. Constable Reins from the village
will be over today to have a look round. It would be good to be able to
provide him with a description of the culprit.”
“Woman.” Alex says, trying to sit up on the bed and regretting it
instantly.
“Sir?” William asks.
“Constable Reins needs to be told he’s looking for a woman. As for a
description, I’ve got no idea what she looks like since she had the good
sense to wear a mask.”
“I’m sure the constable will be happy to have any information you can
provide.”
“That’s about it, I’m afraid.”
“Then we must accept that there is little chance of finding the culprit.”
“I’d pretty much assumed that to be the case. I’m more concerned about
another issue.”
“Sir?”
“Security. It is always going to be nearly impossible to catch someone
like that after they have left. My question is how were they able to get in
and out so easily?”
“You wish us to engage some security staff?”
“That’ll do, for a start. I’d also like you to explain that.” Alex says,
pointing to the missing panel and the passageway beyond.
“What do you wish to know, sir?”
“Why I was not told about it and how someone, who is supposed to be an
‘intruder’, seems to know about it?”
“I regret that there is no way that I could tell you about all the nooks and
crannies in this house. Particularly this one, since I had no knowledge of
it before last night. At a guess I would say that it hasn’t been used since
the beginning of this century. A little before my time, I think you’ll
admit. As to how the intruder knew of its existence, I just don’t know.”
“If the last time that anyone opened the thing up was at the beginning of
the century, how do you explain the contents? I don’t think the recording
device in there dates back to the nineteenth century!”
“You’ve lost me here, sir, when I entered it an hour or so after your fall
the room was empty.”
“What?”
“There was nothing in the room. Sir, I don’t know what you recollect but
I have seen the room myself and it was empty of everything except dust. I
respectfully suggest you should remember, Dr. Powell gave you quite a
doze of tranquilizer and that you have been through a lot.”
“The place had electric lighting! How do you think I found my way
through the passage? There was a tape recorder on the desk, someone had
been playing it just before I got there. The damn thing was still
spinning… I remember turning it off. Are you saying I imagined it all?”
“No, sir, I am only saying that the room was empty when I got there.”
“Which is basically the same thing.” Alex growls.
“I must admit, sir, that I believe your experience has blurred your
memory of events.”
“Someone pushed me down those stairs.”
“I do not debate that, sir, only whether the room in question has been
used in living memory.”
“I want to see the room now.” Alex says stubbornly.
“You are hardly in any position to be moved sir. Please do not strain
yourself.”
“I’m going to see that room, William.” Alex repeats as he tries to wrestle
his braced leg to the corner of the bed. True to her calling Samantha
comes to his aid, “He’s right you know.” She says as she helps Alex sit
up, “You really should stay in bed.”
“I can’t just lie here wondering what happened. I know what I saw and if
that room is really empty I want to know what’s going on.”
“Sir, I assure you the room is genuinely empty.”
“I’ve got to see it for myself William, after all only I know what was
there. Perhaps there’s some explanation.”
“I think shock and fatigue may be good explanations.”
“I’ve still got to see it for myself.”
“And nothing can dissuade you?”
“No, ” Alex answers emphatically, “Samantha?”
“Yes.”
“Is that a wheelchair over there?”
“It is but…”
“No buts and no more debate. William, help her. It’s only a short way and
I promise not to throw myself from the chair.”
“If you insist, sir.”
After a protracted search for a torch the tiny procession was ready to
enter the passage. William entered first, guiding them with the light.
Behind him Alex stared into the darkness with wild eyes trying to find
some hint of the strangeness from the night before in the backsplash of
the torch’s beam.
“Wait!” Alex calls them to a halt about halfway down the passage.
“Are you in pain?” Samantha asks.
“No, look at that.” Alex says, pointing to a shadowed object lying on the
floor in front of them. “There’s the thing I knocked off the wall.”
William takes a few steps forward and retrieves the item.
“Daniel Fullen.” He says as he deposits the portrait, gently, into Alex’s
lap.
“But where is the glass?” Alex asks, staring into the round face of his
ancestor.
“It was hardly practice to place glass over an oil painting. However it
does go a way to proving what I suspected, that this passageway probably
hasn’t been used in a long while.”
“Just because of a painting?”
“Because of a painting that is over a century old, yes.”
“I don’t understand how I could mistake the sound of this falling for the
sound of glass breaking.”
“I feel embarrassed to ask but do you have a history of sleepwalking,
sir?”
“Not that I know of; a girl I lived with once claimed that I spoke to her in
my sleep. I’ve never been a stable sleeper, but…”
“But how else do we explain the lack of glass or the empty room?”
“I’d like to see this empty room before I even try.” Alex said, motioning
Samantha to continue down the dim passageway.
The room was as empty as William had claimed, apart from a few
moldering books on the old bookshelf and a thin layer of dust. Even in
the dim light of the torch, Alex had to admit that the room looked as
though it had not been used in an age.
“Okay, I’ve seen it, I don’t know how to explain it but I’ve seen it.”
“It’s not surprising that you’re disorientated. As William said, you’ve
been through a lot. Perhaps you were sleep walking. Maybe you had more
of a blow to the head than Dr. Powell thought. The important thing is that
you’re alright now.”
“I still want to have more security staff. Now, more than ever. For a start
we need the old plans to the house. Then there won’t be more unpleasant
surprises like this one.”
“I’m afraid that will not be possible, sir.”
“What?” Alex asks, his irritation at the empty room and his growing pain
adding an edge to his voice.
“There are no plans as such, the original plans for the building are
centuries lost and even if we had them, so many changes have been made
over the years by successive generations….”
“Yet an intruder, supposedly a stranger to the estate, was able to find this
place with little or no problem.”
“Perhaps but if you were indeed sleep walking, she might just have heard
you hitting the panel at the bottom of the stairs.”
“So I’m a danger to myself now?”
“I did not say that, sir, I am simply offering an explanation for how the
intruder might have discovered something that was secret, even from
those of us who have lived in the house for the last three decades.”
“I may have been wrong about the room, William. I may even have sleep
walked here,” Alex says slowly, “but could you explain how in the hell I
closed that panel on my own fingers?” After a brief pause Alex continues,
“I was definitely pushed, William, which means that someone knows
more about this house than any of us and further more that that same
person might very well like to see me dead.”
“No need to leap to conclusions, your attacker might just have panicked.”
“The question still remains, what were they looking for? And how did
they know where to look in the first place?”
“I don’t know what to say sir. What are you driving at?”
“Don’t be obtuse, William. An intruder arrives on the estate, knowing the
lay of the land, just after I pipped all my relatives at the post for a huge
inheritance and promptly tries to kill me. You work it out.”
“I can see how you might take things that way, sir but I don’t think this
kind of speculation will do us any good there are many explanations from
foul play to burglary. The last thing you need, in your condition, is to
exert yourself with worry.”
Unnoticed by either Alex or William, Samantha moves about the room.
When she reaches the hotly debated panel, she quickly stoops to pick
something up. Her prize is soft to the touch, a tiny wrinkled tube. She can
smell the tobacco as she rolls the mangled item in her hand
“I wonder how many factory made cigarettes were around in the 1860’s?”
she says, presenting the twisted butt end to the torchlight.
“Well that at least proves that there was someone in here recently.” Alex
says, triumphantly.
“It seems you were correct, sir. Evidently the intruder did know more
about the house than we could have realised.”
“And used that hard won knowledge to pop in here and have a sly fag
while she waited for me to just conveniently stroll by? I don’t believe it
for a second, but since there seem to be no answers at the moment we’ll
have to leave it at that for now.” Alex says in acid tones. “William, I want
security increased.”
“I will see what can be done, sir, but I have my doubts about obtaining
any staff soon and certainly not from the local population.”
“Why ever not? It’s hardly as though we can’t pay well.”
“It’s as Jake said, sir, a superstitious lot, none of them will be too keen to
work on the Island. I’ll see what can be done but I think the best thing
that we can do is ask Constable Riens to ensure that he checks up on any
strangers who visit the village, especially if they show an interest in the
Island.”
“From what you’ve said, anyone showing an interest in the Island would
have to be a stranger.”
“Quite. So it would probably be quite easy to ensure that an incident like
this one couldn’t happen again by getting the help of the local
authorities.”
Before Alex can reply Samantha lets out a yelp of surprise.
“What is it?” he asks, tentatively trying to turn the wheelchair himself,
but quickly giving up due to his broken fingers.
“It’s just Jake, sir, I don’t think that Miss Harvey has actually been
formally introduced.”
“Yes, I’m sorry, just startled.” Samantha confirms as she turns Alex’s
chair to face the door. Seeing Jake’s bulk half hidden in the shadows
thrown by the torchlight, Alex could well understand Samantha’s
momentary panic.
“What is it, Jake?” Alex asks.
“There’s a policeman here, about the break in.”
“That will be Riens.”
“I gathered that, William. Samantha, if you’ll just wheel me out of here
we’ll go and tell him what we can. I just hope he’ll agree to keep a closer
watch on things.”
“Sure, ‘e will boss’,” Jake says, as he falls in behind Samantha, “can’t
have the Lord of the Manor getting hurt again.”
“Thanks, Jake.” Alex says, not sure whether to take the comment as Olde
Worlde loyalty or a stab at his class-consciousness.
“It might help to ensure his Lordship’s safety if you stopped nearly
walking into me, Jake.”
“My apologies, Miss Harvey.” Jake says, with a smile that’s lost in the
darkness of the passage.