The remaining half of the semester proceeded without incident. The hoodies continued to lurk at the back of the room, making disparaging remarks about Darkus’s name. Darkus continued to deflect them, practicing peaceful engagement. It was as if the recent events involving shadowy crime organizations, and possibly supernatural forces, had never happened.
And so, with the inevitable pomp and expectation, Christmas rolled around. Despite heavy snowfall, buses and trains were still running, and most people had forgotten about the freak tornado that had affected parts of the Piccadilly line several weeks earlier. The phenomenon was put down to an air-pressure problem in the Underground rail network, and the relevant transport safety organizations assured the public that repairs were under way. Rumors of passengers seeing people, including children, playing by the tracks around the time of the incident were put down to urban legend, although one of Darkus’s female classmates happened to be on the Tube at the time and swore she caught a glimpse of someone matching his description. Darkus laughed off the idea, but wasn’t sure how convincing he’d been.
Meanwhile, consumers who were scouring bookstores in search of the popular bestseller The Code were disappointed to find that stocks had inexplicably dried up. Even e-book readers found only a dead link. A week later a newspaper reported that a lawsuit had indefinitely suspended publication of the book due to a copyright issue. Ambrose Chambers could not be reached for comment. However, the publisher would not rule out the possibility of a sequel.
On the home front, Darkus tried to return to some semblance of “normal.” His father was living at his office on Cherwell Place, being well fed and cared for by Bogna, who was also taking a self-defense course in her spare time. Darkus wasn’t happy about being returned to his former domestic situation and had the nagging suspicion that the investigation with his father was a one-off that wouldn’t be repeated. They had never spoken about the case again. They had never discussed whether the book was responsible for the disturbance in the tunnel, or whether it was just the trains. (Darkus already knew what his father’s answer would be, and there wasn’t sufficient evidence to prove it either way.) They also hadn’t talked about the fact that Presto and Chloe were still unaccounted for. Nor the fact that Tilly would not stop until she found every member of the Combination and exacted her punishment. More than ever, Darkus understood that this was less the end of one case than the beginning of another.
He could at least relax in the knowledge that his father was alive and well, and only an hour and a half away by London cab.
Clive continued his efforts at self-improvement, this time from a court-ordered stay at a trauma clinic in Staffordshire, practicing what Jackie diplomatically referred to as R & R. A junior presenter was standing in for him on Wheel Spin, and the official reason for his being off the air was a cranial injury sustained during a high-speed test-drive.
Tilly willingly returned to Cranston as a day pupil and completed her coursework with flying colors, defying her teachers’ expectations. She was even rumored to be in the running for student council. Miss Khan never reported the theft of the asthma inhaler, fearing accusations that she had inadvertently put her pupils’ welfare at risk. Instead, Tilly negotiated a plea bargain, in which she apologized to Miss Khan for the theft, suggested future improvements, and they agreed to keep it their secret.
Without consulting each other, Darkus and Tilly returned to keeping a safe distance between them, which seemed easier than reliving the disturbing events of the case ad nauseam.
At noon on Christmas Day, a fully laden black Fairway cab pulled up outside Clive and Jackie’s house.
Darkus, who had been watching the street for most of the morning, quickly deserted his vantage point at an upstairs window and raced down the stairs to greet their guests. He reached the front door, took a breath, straightened his blazer, and opened it.
“Hello, Dad.”
Knightley stood on the doorstep in an immaculate tweed ensemble. “Hello, son.” He gave Darkus a hug, as Jackie appeared in the entrance hall.
“Hello, Alan,” she said, fixing her hair a little.
“Jackie.” He nodded, and took something from behind his back. “Merry Christmas.” He handed her a handwoven wreath made of cones, bark, and mistletoe.
“Still got the old magic,” she said, accepting it.
“It didn’t take too long,” he explained. “You know, I find it quite relaxing.”
“Well, you’d better come in . . .”
Jackie looked over Knightley’s shoulder to see Bogna helping the somewhat reduced but still significant bulk of Uncle Bill out of the back of the cab. One of his legs was still in a cast, but it was hard to tell which because both legs were wrapped in thick cream-colored socks with tartan garters. Bill appeared to be wearing a traditional Highland kilt that ended at the knee—which wasn’t the most flattering garment on him—and as Bogna loaded him into a wheelchair for the trip up the driveway, it bordered on undignified.
As Knightley stepped into the entrance hall he saw the back of Clive’s head, crowned with a red party hat, watching a Christmas special on TV.
“Hello, Clive.”
Clive raised a limp hand by way of reply. Knightley glanced at Darkus, who shrugged, then continued into the kitchen.
Tilly looked up from stirring a large punch bowl. “Hi, Alan.” Her hair was dyed a particularly festive red, with what appeared to be green lowlights. “Drink?”
“What’s in it?” he asked.
“That would be telling.”
“I’ll chance it,” said Knightley.
Jackie automatically put the kettle on and got a new packet of chocolate digestives from the cupboard for Uncle Bill, who, judging by the creaking, shuffling sounds, was evidently approaching the kitchen. She marveled to herself how much it felt like old times.
As is customary, everyone ate and drank too much, particularly Uncle Bill, who even sneaked a turkey leg in his pocket when he wheeled himself out to “get some air,” then promptly returned and slept for the rest of the afternoon. Bogna put a blanket over him and confided in Tilly that she found the Scotsman extremely “charmings,” but admitted the language barrier could be a problem. Clive ate mechanically without saying a word, except to compliment Jackie on the stuffing. Tilly helped Jackie set and reset the table.
Darkus looked at his father sitting across the dining table from his mother, and he couldn’t help wondering. Between the formal affair of Christmas dinner and the polite requests for salt, pepper, or gravy, there was an unspoken communication going on between Knightley and his son. There were many unresolved issues, on both the domestic front and the professional one. Knightley had refrained from even a passing reference to what he might be working on, or whether he required Darkus’s assistance. Darkus found himself feeling hurt that whatever it was, he clearly wasn’t going to be included.
Finally, although it was childish, Darkus wondered whether his father had brought him a Christmas present. He’d been too polite to ask, and his father didn’t appear to be carrying anything concealed on his person. Everyone else had brought him something—including Tilly, who gave him a customized multifunction pen that she promised to explain in private—but his father’s gift was the only one that mattered.
As everyone retired to the TV set, Knightley took Darkus aside. “Got a moment?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Shall we go to your room?”
Darkus led his father upstairs and across the landing to his bedroom. He was glad he’d taken extra care to tidy it up.
“Looks just like my office,” said Knightley, smiling.
Darkus shrugged, a little embarrassed.
Knightley fished in his inside jacket pocket, removed a slim package, and handed it to Darkus.
“Merry Christmas.”
Darkus unwrapped the green paper to find a stainless-steel business-card holder. He opened it up to find a stack of perfectly off-white, watermarked cards that read:
Underneath was an 0845 number.
Darkus looked up at his dad, speechless, then took the top card and turned it over in his hand. On the reverse side there was a small, embossed symbol: an eye with a blue iris, a black pupil, and a tiny mirror in the center.
“The evil eye,” said Darkus, recognizing the symbol with surprise.
“Not to the person holding it,” Knightley explained. “It’s protection. Like the gargoyles they put over doors and windows to keep out malevolent forces. Not all self-defense is physical; sometimes it’s mental, or even psychic.”
“If you believe in that sort of thing, yes,” Darkus said doubtfully.
“My father, Rexford—your grandfather—was in the same profession as us,” Knightley continued. “So you see, a lot can be predicted by cause and effect. He believed in myths and legends long before I did. Back then I thought there was a rational explanation for everything. You see, we’re not so different after all.”
Darkus replaced the card in the holder and put it in his inside pocket. “Thanks, Dad,” he said with a mixture of affection and fear.
“There is one more thing,” said Knightley, almost as an afterthought.
He led Darkus downstairs again, through the kitchen door at the back of the house, toward the shed at the end of the garden. Darkus was once again at a loss. He hadn’t noticed his father—or anyone else, for that matter—transporting anything to the back garden. This forgotten outhouse was only home to Clive’s jet washer and a small assortment of car-cleaning accessories. Knightley undid the catch and slowly opened the rickety wooden door.
Darkus heard a small whimper, but mistook it for the quick breath of his own anticipation. Then he saw two bright eyes watching him from waist height in the depths of the shed. They were surrounded by a soft halo of fur, two bat-like ears, and a long pair of whiskers. A small bone lay chewed in a corner. So this was where Uncle Bill had disposed of the extra turkey leg. A wet, black nose approached cautiously from the darkness.
“His name’s Wilburforce,” announced Knightley. “But you can call him Wilbur. He’s a former police dog.”
Darkus immediately identified him as a German shepherd, and not a puppy either. This dog looked long in the tooth, and was already graying around the temples. Darkus reached out to stroke his head. Wilbur’s tail wagged once, uncertainly.
“I thought you could use some company,” said Knightley. “I haven’t told Clive yet. Best we break it to him gently.”
They heard a heavy car door slam, and Wilbur started.
Knightley gently shushed him. “Post-traumatic stress disorder,” he explained. “He’s a bit jumpy . . .” He slowly attached a lead to Wilbur’s collar and handed Darkus the strap.
Darkus led Wilbur across the patio and up the alley to the front garden. They spotted Bogna carrying an oddly shaped duffel bag from the back of the black cab into the house. Moments later, a strange, discordant sound wound to life. Wilbur’s ears pricked up, then cowered. Darkus and his father looked at each other, unsure what to make of it.
They approached the front windows of the house to find the whole party gathered in the living room around Uncle Bill, who was now balancing a set of tartan bagpipes on his lap. He nodded in time, popping the blowpipe into his mouth and puffing out his cheeks. He and the instrument appeared to inflate as one, accompanied by a mounting drone. After a couple of wrong notes, his large fingers found the familiar strains of “Amazing Grace.” When the chorus of pipes ascended, Tilly nervously bit her lip, and Darkus thought he saw Jackie wipe away a tear.
As heavy snowflakes began to fall outside, Wilbur sat obediently, Knightley put a hand on his son’s shoulder, and they listened together. And old worries were, for the time being, forgotten.