Meredith's Dagger

By Debbie McGowan

Huddled in a doorway, unseen by the men passing on great horses, Meredith watched from within the hood of her cloak. The pain of the cold, wet morning impaled her, rooting her in place, even as the cat rubbed against her shins with a force that should have felled her. She shooed him away. Go home. But he would not.

She wished she had died that night. She wished she had died, for to live like this was not to live at all.

* * *

When Richie Moorcroft takes a housekeeping position to finance his studies, it means moving back to his childhood home: an ancient, almost-derelict cottage locals claim is haunted. But he never believed those stories; he knows where they came from, and in any case, he has a job to do: keeping nineteen-year-old Julian Denby on the straight and narrow without Julian realising his wealthy parents are paying Richie to do so.

Luckily, Julian’s not very astute, although the same can’t be said for their newest housemates: Richie’s bestie, Anneke, and Julian’s older sister, Tamara. Add in George, the cat who appeared from nowhere and is in no hurry to leave, and that makes five...about to uncover the sinister history of their new home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beaten Track Publishing
• Release date: Aug 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781786453198

Debbie McGowan

Debbie McGowan is an award-winning author of contemporary fiction that celebrates life, love and relationships in all their diversity. Since the publication in 2004 of her debut novel, Champagne—based on a stage show co-written and co-produced with her husband—she has published many further works—novels, short stories and novellas—including two ongoing series: Hiding Behind The Couch (a literary ‘soap opera’ centring on the lives of nine long-term friends) and Checking Him Out (LGBTQ romance). Debbie has been a finalist in both the Rainbow Awards and the Bisexual Book Awards, and in 2016, she won the Lambda Literary Award (Lammy) for her novel, When Skies Have Fallen: a British historical romance spanning twenty-three years, from the end of WWII to the decriminalisation of homosexuality in 1967. Through her independent publishing company, Debbie gives voices to other authors whose work would be deemed unprofitable by mainstream publishing houses.

Book preview

Meredith’s DaggerMeredith's Dagger by Debbie McGowanBeaten Track Logo

Beaten Track

www.beatentrackpublishing.com

Meredith’s Dagger

First published 2019 by Beaten Track Publishing

Copyright © 2019–2023 Debbie McGowan

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Paperback ISBN: 978 1 78645 318 1

eBook ISBN: 978 1 78645 319 8

Cover Design by Debbie McGowan

Beaten Track Publishing,

Burscough, Lancashire.

www.beatentrackpublishing.com

Huddled in a doorway, unseen by the men passing on great horses, Meredith watched from within the hood of her cloak. The pain of the cold, wet morning impaled her, rooting her in place, even as the cat rubbed against her shins with a force that should have felled her. She shooed him away. Go home. But he would not.

She wished she had died that night. She wished she had died, for to live like this was not to live at all.

* * * * *

When Richie Moorcroft takes a housekeeping position to finance his studies, it means moving back to his childhood home: an ancient, almost-derelict cottage locals claim is haunted. But he never believed those stories; he knows where they came from, and in any case, he has a job to do: keeping nineteen-year-old Julian Denby on the straight and narrow without Julian realising his wealthy parents are paying Richie to do so.

Luckily, Julian’s not very astute, although the same can’t be said for their newest housemates: Richie’s bestie, Anneke, and Julian’s older sister, Tamara. Add in George, the cat who appeared from nowhere and is in no hurry to leave, and that makes five…about to uncover the sinister history of their new home.

* * * * *

CONTENT WARNING: this story includes depictions of rape, torture, incarceration, child abduction and mental illness. These are not gratuitously depicted but may cause distress to some readers.

It’s when we face for a moment

the worst our kind can do, and shudder to know

the taint in our own selves, that awe

cracks the mind’s shell and enters the heart

Denise Lovertov

On the Mystery of the Incarnation

Contents

XV

Chapter One

Chapter Two

XIV

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

XIII

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

XII

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

XI

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

X

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

IX

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

VIII

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

VII

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

VI

Chapter Twenty-Five

V

Chapter Twenty-Six

IV

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

III

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

II

Chapter Thirty-Three

I

Epilogue

About the Author

By the Author

Beaten Track Publishing

XV

John de Kirk was a good man—young, strong, healthy—and accustomed to hard manual toil, as was the way of life for the townsfolk. Most worked the land from before dawn until long after dusk, every day except market day, though John did not. He had entered the trade of the smithy and, at twenty-one, already his forearms were scarred terribly from the furnace. How the metal spat! At times, the pain was almost too much for even him to bear, and he bore it better than most.

But this day, he must set aside such weaknesses of the flesh, for his was a task of great consequence.

The flames glowed bright white as he collected the metal from his anvil, carefully securing it in the tongs before he thrust it deep into the centre of the fire. Pure gold: a futile weapon, he’d dared to remark in private to his wife’s brother. Gold was too soft to be of use in battle, and John would have told Lord Black himself, had he believed it to be the weapon’s destiny. The earl, safe in his manor and away from the insipid poverty his wealth bestowed upon them all, would never see a moment of battle.

John did not care for whom he worked, so long as there was work to be done. With a little one on the way, and Elizabeth ever more beautiful in the roundness of her expectancy, his family was all that mattered to him.

The metal, dazzling now, was near invisible against the blazing furnace. John withdrew it, quickly resting it on the anvil. No time to waste: the more he manipulated the gold, the more malleable and less hardy it would become. He hammered the end until it was little more than an eighth of an inch in thickness, turning it over and over and repeating the action until the blade was as smooth and flat as it could be on a first shaping. Back into the fire for a second heating, then to form the general shape of it; John looked to the diagram, secure under a lump of old iron, where it could be seen but not lost.

A third and fourth time, he went through this cycle of heating, quenching and forging. It was a much easier metal to work than, say, the iron of an axe, but it displayed a will of its own, for it should, by now, have been perfect. Yet each time he turned the blade to the left, it would somehow twist itself over again until he imagined it to be more heavily weighted to one side. His eye was keen, and he knew the blade was as even as it could be without the finer honing and sharpening ahead of it.

For a last time, he thrust it into the fire and was thrown back by the heat, a sudden wall of flames roaring to life, torn ragged from the now hellish embers, spitting and spiralling upwards, illumining the chimney as far as the smarting eye could see.

John was suddenly fearful. It was a new sensation to be so, but he had been charged with a duty upon which his life depended; if not his, Elizabeth’s and that of their unborn child. He could not stand idle as the gold dripped away; already it formed an unnatural gleaming puddle amongst the red coals.

Desperate, he searched for something, anything he could use to rescue the tongs, for they, too, had been engulfed. He snatched up the parchment that bore the diagram, sending the iron lump to the floor and crying in pain as it rebounded off his foot. Had he given it a moment longer of thought, he’d have foreseen that the parchment would also be taken by the flames. All that was left was John’s despair as the fire soared up the chimney, setting alight the entire passage.

John, John, come quick! Elizabeth ran in as best she could at seven months and so heavy with child. At the sight of the flames licking the room, her eyes grew wide and fearful. Then the table caught light, and she grabbed his arm, pulling. John. Please. We will die here.

He had no choice but to follow, and they ran until they could run no more. John heaved and coughed up black smut, doubling over the moment his wife released him—a tight grip that left indentations in his seared flesh.

The baby cannot be coming, surely? It is too early.

No, John. Look! Her gaze remained fixed whence they had come, but he had no need when the orange light that set her face aglow told him what he would see. The workshop was no more, and all his tools were gone. If that were not enough to end his livelihood right then and there, Lord Black would see to it. The gold was lost.

The dagger, with its absurd, demonic purpose, should not have been. Melting it down had not finished it, nor recasting. It was not of this world, and Lord Black, with all his money and influence, could not make it so.

Come, Elizabeth, we must leave, John urged but with kindness, not wishing to scare her. He took her hand and left a kiss upon her cheek. The coolness of her skin soothed his scorched lips. My livelihood is gone here. Let us visit your brother one last time to say our farewells. We will stay at the inn tonight, and tomorrow, we will find a new home.

Chapter One

Julian dropped the toilet seat lid in disgust: a cheap, black plastic thing from the local DIY store. He couldn’t believe his father thought it was acceptable. The hostels in Croatia had been better equipped, and he’d only had to endure those for a night or two. He should have stayed where he was. Slumming it across Europe would have been infinitely better than this hellhole.

Of course, his father hadn’t asked for his opinion—ever—but it hadn’t mattered before this…this ‘spacious cottage’ which was less a house than a hovel, and no, it wouldn’t be ‘all right once it’s had a good clean, been rewired, had the heating installed…’ and so on with the interminable list that proved Julian’s point: it was uninhabitable.

As for that toilet? Hole in the ground, anyone?

You know your problem, his father stated rather than asked. Ah, the good old mock-and-scold.

"Yah, I’m spoilt. You keep telling me. How could I possibly not know? But come on, Dad! Would you go for a crap on that?"

If needs must…

You’re trying to tell me you would lower your tweed-clad arse and dump—

You’ve made your point, Julian. And now the finger wag.

Julian swallowed his petulance, inwardly cursing his old man so viciously he should have fallen down dead, right there in the bathroom. No such luck.

With a sigh, Julian turned to survey the rest of the house, or what he could see of it—dingy corridor, flaking paint, grotty linoleum—all as cruddy as the ancient, discoloured toilet. Like it or not, this was his home for the next three years, maybe longer, if his parents insisted he continue to postgraduate level, as they had tried with his sister. Now, if anyone were spoilt…

From behind him came the telltale chink, chink, chink of his father’s customary pocket-pat to check everything he had arrived with was still in his possession before he moved towards the doorway, which Julian was blocking, intentionally so.

When can I expect this plumber to turn up? he asked. If you have, actually—

Next Tuesday.

Julian crossed his arms and glowered.

Oh, don’t overreact. With a flick of the fingers, his father commanded he step aside. Julian couldn’t help but do so, in spite of the fear bubbling within. His father was done here, apparent by the keys ready in his hand; if not that, then his quick march to the top of the stairs, where he paused to prod the vein-riddled wall with the end of an ancient-looking key that probably didn’t open anything anymore. A large chunk of plaster slowly eased away from the wall, crashed onto the top stair and tumbled downwards, a plume of powder following its descent.

Julian threw his hands in the air. Brilliant! As if the place wasn’t bad enough already. He had half an inclination to push his father down the stairs to join the plaster and other mess at the bottom. Always these thoughts to rid himself of the tyrant, but then where would he be? Aside from prison.

It won’t take you a moment to clear up. Marie has left a full complement of household chemicals and equipment in the kitchen. I recommend you try using them. Who knows? By Christmas, you might have an inkling of how lucky you are. Well, then…best get on.

Julian pursed his lips and resolutely remained at the top of the stairs, seething in silence as his father stamped plaster all along the bloody awful hallway carpet. And, because they were so much alike, his father left without a word. Julian was alone in his new accommodation, and the prospect appalled him.

As far as he could tell, the problem was thus: his parents were at loggerheads and he was caught in the crossfire. His mother was adamant she would not allow him to accumulate student debt, whilst his father was equally insistent it would be good for him to experience the real world. How his father would even know what ‘the real world’ consisted of, given he’d lived an entirely privileged existence himself, Julian had no idea.

But times had changed. Back when his father was an undergrad, it was enough to state one’s name and school, and every university in the land would be clamouring to have you on their books. His father had read at Oxford, as had his father’s father before him, and so on, back through two centuries’ ancestry, minimum. Now, the top universities wanted top grades, and Julian didn’t have them. He may as well have been ‘John Smith from Some State Comprehensive’ for all the use his credentials were.

Which…actually delighted him. He could apply to whichever institutions he chose. Sure, he’d have liked the kudos of Oxford, but he didn’t regret wasting the past two years. Or not entirely.

There had been alcohol and drugs and parties, and he’d been at every one, but for the longest time he hadn’t known about the arse-kickings. When he’d found out, he’d refused to have any part in the ‘harmless fun’ at the expense of an openly gay classmate who seemed intent on challenging the status quo. No-one cared about his sexuality, or so they said. But they did care about his brazenness in the face of his lack of social standing. He had no right to be there.

Under duress, Julian had denied the boy was his closest friend. But he would not, could not, stand by and watch another physical assault, because it wasn’t just at the parties. In the dorms, in the changing rooms, the toilets, showers—no space was safe. So he told tales, tattled—all those childish insults that led not to commendation for bravely speaking out, but punishment for lack of respect for tradition and, ultimately, the labels of ‘troublemaker’, ‘whistle-blower’. He hadn’t stopped one assault; he’d threatened the long-established order of How Things Are.

Julian Denby, the shit-stirrer. Average grades, average skills on the sports field; the headmaster had refused to pen a recommendation that was blatantly false, though he’d done so for others.

Perhaps other schools were less corrupt; perhaps the problem was endemic in the public school system. It mattered not; Julian hadn’t wanted to go to Oxford anyway. True, he wished the circumstances had been different. He wished he’d spoken up earlier, wished he’d admitted their friendship, then perhaps they would still have it. But for once, he was doing what he wanted to do, following his own path. His mother was proud he had stood up for his beliefs; his father…not so much. Julian had tarnished the family name.

So here he was: far enough from his parents to officially declare his independence, yet still within come-running distance should the need arise. And, for what it was worth, he had this cottage—‘an investment in his future’. As long as he stayed in education, he could live here for free. Once he’d finished his degree, he could sell it on or rent it to students; it was his to dispose of as he saw fit. The arrangement had sounded much more appealing than it was in reality.

Of course, there were rules. Always so many bloody rules.

Number one: he had to attend all of his lectures. That one wouldn’t be too much of a challenge, he envisaged.

Number two: he had to be financially self-sufficient. No loans, overdrafts or advances. He had his allowance, and in the absence of rent, bills to pay and whatnot—he wouldn’t have the faintest clue where to start with any of those—that should be more than enough.

Number three: he was to look after the cottage.

Look after the cottage, he muttered, stomping his way down the stairs like the overgrown teenager he was. What a joke!

Contrary to what his father had said, he wasn’t being unreasonable. ‘Home’—he supposed it wasn’t anymore, but still—was a manor house set in acres of land, with staff on duty twenty-four hours a day. Their family was wealthy and well-connected, and Julian and his sister had wanted for nothing…including constant reminders that they were part of a dying elite, the landed gentry, so-called, because his father didn’t have a title.

On his mother’s side, the title would go to her younger brother, and Julian was second in line, but his uncle was only a little older than he was himself, so that could well change. Julian didn’t care for titles, nor the responsibilities that came with them, and in any case, status and material possessions were his entitlement. Or so he’d thought.

He’d believed he’d known how the other half lived; his former friend was one of many whose parents borrowed to the hilt, remortgaged their homes, sold their cars, forwent vacations, just to keep them in that school.

Now, faced with surviving in this shack of a house for the foreseeable future, Julian realised he knew nothing, and it wasn’t because the walls were falling apart, or the lack of heating. It was hard to say for sure what it was. Perhaps, he mused, peering through a window and spotting his nearest neighbour affixing clothes to a line, it was the simple proximity of others—something he should be well used to by now, and in truth, the woman was no closer to him than the housekeeper’s cottage was to the manor house. But still, it bothered him.

He was staring, and she must have sensed it, as she scanned the vicinity, eyes narrowed on the lookout for would-be spies. Julian quickly ducked and shuffled away to the relative privacy of the kitchen.

On the table was an array of alien-looking items—the promised ‘household chemicals and equipment’. Brushes, sponges and cloths, he recognised, but the funny-shaped bottles, all containing liquids of different colours and viscosities that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the chem lab…he’d never seen anything like those before.

He selected one at random and read the label. Antibacterial surface cleaner. Ugh. He put it down again and vowed never to do anything requiring the use of such a product.

Still grimacing, he wandered over to the sink and turned the hot tap, the consequence of which was a general and unexpected absence of water, followed by several loud metallic bangs. The tap juddered, and he snatched his hand away, unsure if it was safe to turn the thing off again, not that it mattered when there was no water, but the clanging was definitely getting louder, and the tap was rattling so violently Julian would’ve sworn the sink was swaying from side to side.

You have no right to make all that noise when you can’t produce so much as a single drop, he murmured, immediately rescinding his remark when the cacophony was joined by the sound of water dripping—no, make that running—closely followed by a stunning visual of a stream gushing down the wall, leaving a clean trail in the glib, grey paintwork.

Oh…bugger! Julian grabbed at the tap, twisting it hard to the left, the predictable outcome being that the head came off. There was still no water coming out of the tap; however, it was coming from somewhere. Julian peered up at the large, dark circle spreading across the ceiling, extending outwards from the area above the sink, a puddle of equal proportions forming around his feet.

Bugger, shit, bugger! He took a step backwards and felt resistance. His jeans had snagged on the table; it wobbled and a couple of bottles tumbled into each other, prompting a domino effect. One by one, every bottle fell, some to the floor where, excited by the impact, their contents fizzed out, spreading a bubbly crown over the wide, deep puddle—more of a pond by this point.

I have to do something! There was no-one there to help, unless he screamed for the neighbour. Now, there’s an idea.

Julian dashed back to the sink and stretched over it to knock on the window. As he did so, he caught sight of a large piece of plaster peeling away from the ceiling, gathering momentum, powered by the—he had to admit—impressive waterfall cascading through the vast crack that now extended above and behind his head. He gulped. A full ceiling collapse was imminent. The voice in his head yelled Run!

Julian ran, or attempted to. He skidded, made a grab for the table, missed, aqua-planed—at speed, on his backside—the full length of the kitchen and collided with the wall. His head jolted backwards.

Everything went black.

* * *

I am done here. Bring my horse…

Who are you?

Oh, hey. Looks like you knocked yourself out there. The ambulance is on its way.

Right. And again, who are you?

Richard—Richie. You slipped, I’m guessing? I’ve turned off the water main.

Well done, Richard Richie, whoever you are. Why are you in my house?

I didn’t break in, if that’s what you’re thinking.

Someone knocked at the door, and Julian lifted his head. It turned out to be a very bad move.

That’ll be the paramedics. Richard Richie stood and swiped at his drenched jeans, squelching out of the room.

Julian twisted his upper body, apparently in the recovery position, and grunted. Jesus, why does everything hurt?

About fifteen minutes…

A green-uniformed man advanced, very much out of focus. Hello. He smiled down at Julian, who did his best to return the gesture, but even that hurt. I’m Pat, a paramedic. How are you feeling?

Headache.

The paramedic crouched low and held something in front of Julian’s face. A blinding pin of light shot into his left eye, and his eyelids reflexively clamped shut. The paramedic prised the right one open, shone the death ray into it and nodded. Think we’ll take you with us, just to be sure.

Why? Where are you going? Julian asked.

Richard Richie chuckled. I’ll phone your mum and let her know.

Wait a minute! Julian tried to sit up, but the pain was ghastly, and there were suddenly twice as many people in his house.

The paramedic patted Julian’s shoulder. I’ll get a chair, he said and left.

Julian lay down again and squinted at the clutter. God. What a mess.

Don’t worry, mate, Richard Richie assured him somewhat condescendingly. I’ll get this lot sorted and follow you to the hospital.

We don’t even know each other.

Right.

So why would you follow me to…oh God. The hospital. In my wallet…I have private healthcare.

Non-emergency private healthcare, yep. You’re going to A and E.

Look, just who the hell are you?

Richie Moorcroft?

And you’re here because…?

I’m your housemate.

The paramedic returned and helped Julian up from the floor into the wheelchair. Only then did Julian realise what Richie had said.

I don’t have a housemate, he bleated as he was wheeled out to the waiting ambulance.

You do now, Richie called after him.

Chapter Two

Julian was still reeling from the shock later that evening, which was to say, he was doing his best to shake off the trauma of the day’s events from his horizontal location on the sofa, where he’d been firmly entrenched since Richie brought him back from the hospital by taxi. The terrible inhumanity of it all—taken in a public ambulance, deposited in a so-called cubicle, barely obscured from other patients by flimsy curtains. The woman in the next enclosure had spent the entire time intermittently shouting for help, but nobody came to her assistance.

At some point long after his arrival, Julian was carted off down draughty corridors, shoved into a scratchy blue gown, X-rayed, carted up the same draughty corridors and dumped back in his cubicle, where his belongings—folded into a neat pile by person unknown—had been placed on the end of the bench they insisted on calling a bed. Then he’d drifted off to sleep, only to be rudely awoken by a female nurse with short, bleached hair and a rough northern accent who had dispatched him into the care of his…housemate.

A few hours had passed since, and the two were much better acquainted, although Julian was struggling to see how that was in any way a positive thing. Richie seemed nice enough, but he was so…well, common. And he still hadn’t fully explained under what pretext he was Julian’s housemate.

For the time being, Julian wasn’t going to challenge that assertion because he’d returned to find—after much not-so-subtle hinting on Richie’s part—the plaster had been cleaned off the stairs and hall carpet, and the kitchen was no longer a swimming pool. All of the cleaning stuff had disappeared, along with the stink akin to the changing rooms after a particularly sweaty game of rugger, but it still looked like someone had taken a demolition ball to the back of the house then had second thoughts, which was a shame.

Richie had hardly stopped to talk since they’d arrived back, other than asking whether Julian needed anything to eat or drink, but there was nothing that remotely appealed. He felt a little peculiar, not entirely himself, which had to be why he hadn’t subjected Richie to a more thorough interrogation, although Julian would’ve bet good money his mother had something to do with this. It was precisely her style—not directly defying his father’s ordinance that they teach their ‘terribly spoilt’ son a lesson for screwing up his exams, but defiance nonetheless, and ill-measured. Julian may have stuck up for the underdog at school, but he didn’t want to share his hovel with one.

Richie peered around the door, his face covered in a fine film of sweat and smudges of black grease. Cup of tea?

Thanks, but no. Don’t suppose there’s anything stronger on offer?

Were you not listening when the doctor said no alcohol?

Damn cheek. They were only just on speaking terms. Yah, but what do those NHS idiots know? I mean, if they were any good, they’d be working in the private sector, surely?

The question was rhetorical, and Richie rightly ignored it. I’m not gonna be responsible for you slipping into a post-concussion coma. When you can get up and get it yourself…

Whatever. Julian flung back on the sofa and winced. Richie gave him a smug, told-you-so nod and once more disappeared from view.

Shortly after, the banging in the kitchen resumed, and Julian did his best to tune out, a task made more arduous by the arrhythmic thump-thump in his head and the absence of a television.

The more he thought about it, the greater his disbelief in his situation, yet the truth was all around him. He squinted at the dusty wallpaper, tracing the vertical-stripe pattern from the chipped paint at the bottom up to the yellowed ceiling and back again. It was horrible, all horrible, and he was stuck there, unable to even tilt his head let alone get up and leave, not that he had anywhere else to go.

Perhaps it’s a test of some sort, in which case…have I already failed? More likely, his parents had purchased the cottage super cheap without bothering to check what kind of state it was in. A thought occurred to him.

Richie? If he sounded pathetic, it wasn’t faked. The banging stopped, and he heard a heavy tool of some sort clunk down on the kitchen table.

Richie appeared in the doorway. Yup?

Obviously, my mother arranged this whole house-share nonsense, but I wondered… Did she give you a good price?

A good price? Richie seemed puzzled by the question.

It’s your house, presumably.

You seriously think I could afford this place?

Julian rubbed his chin. He was wrong about that, then. So why you?

As housemate? You don’t remember me at all, do you?

Never met you in my life.

You have. It’s been a while, I’ll give you that.

Julian shrugged. Could be the bump on the head?

Maybe. I’ll give you a clue. Marie.

The housekeeper? What about her?

She’s my aunt.

She is?

I used to come with her to work, when my mum was…away.

Julian had absolutely no recollection. He racked his brain, digging amongst the fleeting moments of life at home for anything matching Richie’s version of events. How long ago was this?

Last time I saw you, I was about ten or eleven, I suppose. You were a lot younger than me then.

I was no younger than you then than I am now.

Richie grinned. You know what I mean. What are you? Nineteen?

Julian nodded and quickly closed his eyes. God, I’m going to barf.

So you’d have been about six.

That would certainly explain why I don’t remember you. And why he’d been landed with a ruffian like Richie for a housemate. He was, unexpectedly, pleased about that.

Richie lingered a moment longer and then muttered something about heading out for supplies. A valve and a loaf of bread—odd combination, but Julian hadn’t the energy to ask Richie to repeat himself, so he settled back on the sofa and shuffled his phone out of his pocket. It was still switched off from the hospital, and as soon as he switched it on, in came the unread messages. By something like the twentieth brrrrrrrrrink, he had to mute it to stop the buzzing in his ears, and reading the screen was almost more effort than it was worth:

Jules – heard you bumped your head. Hope you’re OK. Dad arrived back an hour ago and said you were all settled in. Mummy.

Yah, thanks for nothing. He hit the delete button. All settled in? Hardly! Of course, she hadn’t mentioned his surprise lodger, and it wasn’t just a ‘bump’. Some mothers would have been there like a shot to tend to their poor, injured offspring, no matter that he was, allegedly, old enough to look after himself. This just wasn’t fair. A tear leaked and snaked down the side of his cheek into his ear.

Damned concussion. Stifling a sob, he turned—cautiously—and buried his face in the sofa.

* * *

I’m back, Richie called through the living room door on his way to the kitchen. He dumped his purchases and went to check on Julian—fast asleep and snoring loudly, his nose squished against the arm rest, mouth hanging open. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

Richie pulled the single curtain around the half of the bay window it could cover, quietly closed the door behind him, and returned to the kitchen and the task of getting the hot water on. Now he had his tools and the right parts, it would take no time at all.

So far, so good, he thought, as he sliced out the section of damaged pipe in preparation for a new piece. Julian didn’t suspect a thing, which was how Mrs. Denby—and Richie—wanted it. It was a stroke of well-engineered ‘luck’ that Julian had ‘chosen’ to study here. Luckier still that the cottage was vacant.

Julian had kind of guessed right, though; this was once Richie’s home. He hadn’t set foot in the place for years, and judging by the state of it, neither had anyone else, which surprised him. With all the crazy stories flying around, he’d expected evidence of ghost hunters or exorcists or something—even he had to admit that, from the outside, it looked spooky. But none of that scared Richie, not even the mess, although he’d be working for his money.

With the new pipe securely in place, he opened the stopcock and listened for the sound of water running where it shouldn’t. Scanning the pipes, now on full display courtesy of the ceiling collapse, Richie was confident all was well in the kitchen and went to check upstairs, just to be sure.

Perfect, he said and smiled in satisfaction.

On to the next job: a meal for two. He’d bought a few bits and pieces, not really sure what Julian would eat and restricted by the lack of appliances. The old cooker wasn’t safe, and Richie had taken the liberty of buying a second-hand electric hob while he was out, along with a cheap set of pans, a box of crockery and a knife block, all of which he put to good use in rustling up a stir-fry. And if his ‘housemate’ didn’t like it, then he could go hungry, couldn’t he?

Richie carried the two plates into the living room and set them down on the dusty dresser next to the fireplace before approaching Julian, still flat out. Richie cautiously poked his arm.

Hu-what? Julian jumped and instinctively rolled over, an action that would have resulted in him rolling right off the sofa, had Richie not been there to stop him. Julian glowered up at him.

You’re welcome, Richie muttered dryly. I’ve made some tea.

Tea?

Stir-fry, nothing exciting.

Dinner.

Tea, dinner, same difference. Richie waited for Julian to shuffle into an upright position before handing him a plate.

Thanks. Julian immediately scooped up a large forkful of rice and vegetables and crammed it into his mouth. It’s good.

Richie nodded. It hadn’t even touched the sides.

No, really, thank you—for everything.

Richie smiled and kept eating. Maybe Julian wasn’t so bad after all. Richie hardly knew him, but the Denbys weren’t exactly famed for their humility.

Several minutes passed in silence other than the taps of forks against plates and Julian’s occasional appreciative grunts and pained groans. Clearly his appetite had come back and then some; he was almost done.

There’s more if you want it.

Please.

Richie took their plates and refilled Julian’s, leaving his own in the kitchen sink. He returned to the living room. Here you go.

Cheers. Julian tucked straight in. So you’re a student too, are you? he asked, full-mouthed.

Computer Science. You?

Politics.

Right.

The silence resumed for about half a minute before Julian said, Wish we had a TV.

Yeah. It would put an end to the awkward conversation, for one. Richie wondered if he could pick up a recon in town somewhere, or maybe hit the small ads. I’ll see what I can do.

You’re very handy, aren’t you?

I left home when I was sixteen. I have to be.

Sixteen? That’s young. Julian tipped his plate to his mouth, shoving the last of his food off the edge. He grinned, chipmunk-cheeked, with sauce dribbling down his chin.

Richie took the empty plate from him. I’ll go and wash up, he said, already on his way to the door.

You’ve fixed the pipe?

Yep. And the hot water.

Bloody brilliant. Julian bounced up off the sofa and staggered. Whoa.

Easy there, mate, Richie warned.

Meh. I’m fine. But I stink—of hospitals and stir-fry, and I swear to God something’s died in that sofa. I’m going for a bath.

Before Richie could say another word, Julian bounded past him and took the stairs in twos, straight to the bathroom. Richie sighed and went to the kitchen, collecting the other items he’d bought while he was out. He went upstairs and knocked on the bathroom door. You decent?

Yah.

Here.

Julian peered around the door and grinned. You absolute star! He took the pile of new towels and bottle of foam bath and closed the door.

No problem, mate.

The door opened a couple of inches. Err, Richie?

Hmm?

Can you do me one more little favour?

What’s that?

Stop calling me mate.

Sorry…mate, Richie called back without looking, laughing when one of the towels hit him on the back of the head.

XIV

I have been most generous and forgiving. Lord Black stayed his distance, watching the smithy run the axe against the grindstone. The noise set his bones on edge. You do not heed my words.

Most generous, sir, the smithy echoed, persisting in his work.

The soldier at the earl’s side drew his sword. Stop, by order of your lord and master!

The blacksmith lifted his gaze to meet the soldier’s, briefly, and returned it to the blade of the axe. Was it not yet keen enough? He took the whetstone and proceeded with refining. I would not stop even for my lord and master, should he ever enter this place.

The reply, like the handling of the axe, was measured. The soldier stepped forward, sword at the ready, but Lord Black halted him with an arm across the chest.

Your king will not save the devil’s whore again. The earl removed his gloves, his eyes never leaving the man before him. Such strength of character, John de Kirk. Were it not for your heritage, you would make a fine lieutenant.

* * *

John ran his thumb across the blade, an eyebrow raised in conjecture. The assertion was neither novel nor lost on him. Was it not why he kept his workshop, after all? He could take the axe right now and fell Lord Black where he stood. Instead, he turned his back and placed the axe upon the anvil, aware all the while of the movement behind him. When he turned again, Lord Black’s