Despite Darkus’s best efforts at interrogation, Clive and Jackie refused to elaborate on Uncle Bill or what business he had with his father. Darkus found himself tantalized by the prospect that his dad was actually awake and very much alive somewhere, but troubled by the fact that he hadn’t thought to contact him, his only son. The evening passed heavily with the weight of so many unanswered questions.
Tilly returned home briefly without saying a word, then went out again. During dinner, Clive appeared to be watching the street a lot more than usual. Jackie appeared to be watching the phone a lot more than usual. Eventually they distracted themselves by watching TV even more than usual.
The ten o’clock news reported that a growing number of apparently ordinary citizens—all with no previous criminal records—were committing bank robberies, presumably as a result of the gloomy economic outlook.
“Probably on welfare too,” declared Clive ungenerously.
In other news, there was a special report on customers suffering seizures at bookshops around the country. A medical expert blamed it on the difference in temperature between the cold weather outside and the overly warm shop floors. That, combined with long hours spent browsing, was evidently proving too much for some customers.
Darkus found the news pieces a little stranger than usual—and the official explanations oddly unsatisfactory—but he had bigger things on his mind.
He retired to his bedroom, where he was unable to read or sleep. Finding his mind whirring mechanically, he unlocked the filing cabinet and reconnected the hard drive. He clicked to open its contents.
Picking up from where he had left off, Darkus examined a diagram of what appeared to be a circular chamber surrounded by tunnels and a series of numbers that seemed to bear no relation to each other. Eventually the random arrangement of shapes and numbers lulled him to sleep, and he flopped in his chair with the computer screen on.
At some point, he heard Tilly arrive home. She ignored Clive’s muttered protests from the master bedroom and vanished into her quarters. Somehow Darkus found the energy to crawl into bed, still fully clothed. His head rested on the pillow, which muted the ticking of the clock on his dresser.
The world descended into complete silence . . .
. . . Until a light scratching noise intruded on the uppermost frequencies of his hearing, followed by a barely discernible click.
Darkus opened his eyes, staring into the pitch-blackness, seeing only the weird, random shapes his retinas were creating in the absence of any light. He concentrated his mind on the aural spectrum instead of the visual. And he heard it again: a clearly audible click, followed by the faint sound of something softly crushing the fabric of the carpeted stairs.
Darkus swung his legs out of bed, aware of the minute sonic vibrations his own movements would create. He stepped lightly toward his bedroom door and turned the handle as slowly and quietly as he could. The door didn’t make a noise as it opened—he kept the hinges well oiled for that very reason. He crept out onto the landing and heard a different kind of fabric sound: a faint brushing noise, accompanied by the clink of what sounded like metal hangers.
He moved across the landing toward a closet located outside Clive and Jackie’s bedroom. Barely lit, kneeling by the drawers at the base of the closet, was a ghostly human form. A familiar one.
“Dad,” Darkus whispered, his heart beating in his throat.
The shape stopped what it was doing.
“Darkus?” the shape said.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for something to wear. Doesn’t he have anything that isn’t nylon?” A cigarette lighter flicked to life, illuminating Alan Knightley wearing an ill-fitting tracksuit that clearly belonged to Clive. Darkus couldn’t quite believe his eyes: his father looked different now that he was animated rather than unconscious; he looked younger than his forty-eight years—more how Darkus remembered him. Knightley held the lighter closer to his face and smiled, eyes shining.
“It’s good to see you, Doc,” he said.
“It’s good to see you,” said Darkus, and lunged toward him, until Knightley thought twice and held up his hand to stop him.
“No—not here. Downstairs.”
“You came back for me. I knew you would . . .”
“No, Doc. I came here for transport.”
“Transport?”
“And clothes. There’s not a moment to lose,” Knightley whispered, then closed the closet and crossed the landing to the stairs. “You know, you’ve grown at least eight inches.”
“Wait. Where are we going?” Darkus asked, following him downstairs.
“We? My dear boy, we’re not going anywhere. The game is afoot. I’m going to London, and from there, wherever the trail leads me. You are staying here. If anyone asks, just say you slept through the whole thing.”
“Why? I mean, what sort of game are you talking about?”
“The Combination, Doc. That’s what I’m talking about,” said Knightley, nodding to himself gravely. “I may have been sleeping, but they weren’t.”
“Combination . . . ?” Darkus asked. “What combination?”
“Go back to bed, Doc. This doesn’t concern you.”
“If it’s your concern, it’s my concern,” insisted Darkus.
“Trust me—you don’t want to know.”
Darkus followed his father as he strode through the living room, glancing at pictures and memorabilia on the walls. Knightley paused beside a framed photograph of Jackie in her younger days. She was dressed in a flight attendant’s uniform. Darkus often imagined the moment they met, when his father was on a flight to Switzerland in bad weather, and his mother was pointing out the emergency exits. She always said their relationship was turbulent from the start.
“How is your mother?” Knightley asked, doing his best to sound casual.
“She’s okay,” answered Darkus, trying to keep up with him.
Knightley cast an eye over the kitchen, then turned back toward the entrance hall. “I like what she’s done with the place.” He kept moving, as if he were making up for the years of inertia that had held him back.
Darkus rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. He’d dreamed of this reunion for four years, but this wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined it. “Look, can we just . . . talk for a second?” he said, following his father to the front door.
“Not now. But soon, I promise.” Knightley quietly opened the door and exited into the darkness outside. Then he turned back for a moment and gave Darkus a short, sharp hug. “I’m sorry, Doc.”
Knightley approached Clive’s Jag, removed a wire coat hanger from the jacket of his tracksuit, and bent it into a hook shape. He slid the hook between the driver’s window and the sill, then started jimmying the lock with a swift up-and-down motion.
“Wait a minute,” said Darkus, standing his ground on the driveway, now wearing his hat and coat. Knightley looked up from his work and raised his finger to shush him.
Darkus continued in a loud whisper. “I came to visit you every second I could for the last four years. And now you expect me to just go back to bed?”
“It’s for your own good, Doc,” Knightley replied sharply.
“I believed in you. I told them you’d come back,” he insisted. “You can’t just leave me here.”
“That’s exactly what I propose to do,” said Knightley, returning to the job at hand.
“You realize if that alarm detects the slightest variation in cabin pressure, it’ll wake up half the street.”
Knightley smiled, then answered, “And I’ll be long gone.”
“To the end of the driveway, maybe. It’s got an immobilizer.”
“I suppose you learned that from Clive?”
“Wake up, Dad. You’ve been asleep too long.”
Knightley dropped the coat hanger and frowned. “So what do you suggest?”
“Why not try this?” Darkus opened his hand to reveal the Jaguar key fob swinging like a pendulum.
“Attaboy . . .” Knightley extended his arm for Darkus to throw it to him.
Darkus closed his hand again.
“Don’t be childish,” Knightley said without a trace of irony.
“On one condition.”
“There’s no time for this, Doc.”
“I’m coming with you, at least as far as London. No debates. It’s half-term break, so it’s perfect timing.”
“I can’t take you with me. I can’t afford any baggage.”
“I’m not baggage. I can help.”
“I wish you could,” said Knightley, shaking his head and walking up the driveway toward him until Darkus raised his hand, ready to throw the key fob away into the darkness.
“You wouldn’t . . . ,” Knightley pleaded.
“Try me,” said Darkus.
Upstairs, Clive rolled over in bed, hearing something outside: an unmistakable purr, followed by the crunch of tires on gravel. He leaped out of bed with panther-like speed and ripped open the curtains.
On the driveway below, the Jag was backing onto the street. Then its headlights came on.
“No-no-no-no . . .” Clive grabbed his tiny silk dressing gown and raced out of the room. Outside, the Jag paused as Knightley put it into gear and put his foot on the accelerator. The car burned rubber, sending smoke billowing out of the wheel arches, then it sprang forward, pressing its two occupants to their seats.
Clive burst out of the front door only to see the rear lights fishtail around the corner at the end of the street. The purr became a roar.
Clive watched speechless for a moment, then let out a primal scream: “Jackie . . . !!”