Seventeen
With the hostel manager indisposed, Victor and Laura used his office so they could talk to the stranger in private. A staff member had also lent the African a tracksuit in a rather too vivid yellow while the washing machine soaked away the river water from his clothes. Victor sat on the desk as the late afternoon sunlight streamed in. Solomon Constable sat in a swivel chair. Laura chose to stand by the door with her arms folded and her face set to distrust.
Laura fixed Solomon with a hard stare. ‘I gladly thank you for saving Max’s life today, but that doesn’t give you the right to exploit Jay. Tell your newspaper friends they’re getting nothing from me.’
‘I’ve not travelled five thousand miles to get anything out of anybody.’ Solomon settled into the chair. ‘God willing, I’m here to give, not take.’
‘Jay’s been through hell. He was the only survivor on a ship full of refugees. He has behavioural problems. I won’t allow you to talk to him, or—’
‘I’ve no need to meet with Jay. In truth, ma’am, I should be very afraid of the boy if I did.’
‘I’m too busy to play your game.’ She gave an impatient sigh. ‘Victor, I’ve promised Dr Nazra I’ll help with his patients.’
‘So now there’s an epidemic?’ Solomon wasn’t surprised. In fact, for some reason it seemed as if he expected it. ‘There’s disease on your island?’
Laura scowled. ‘A virus that causes upset stomachs. Hardly a plague.’
‘And it has a name, this virus?’
‘I have too much work to do to stand around talking.’
Victor knew that Laura was ready to leave. ‘Laura, we should listen to what Mr Constable has to say.’
‘Solomon, please,’ he insisted.
‘Victor, you can listen to stories if you wish – I’m going.’
Solomon Constable knitted his fingers together, then announced in grave tones, ‘The boy, Jay, does not exist.’
‘Fine, believe whatever you want.’ She opened the door.
‘Don’t bad things happen to those near him? Doesn’t he sometimes say that he’ll take people for a little walk? Only he takes them to places that seem to exist purely in nightmares or to visit friends that have died a long time ago. Am I right, ma’am?’
Grim-faced, Laura shut the door then faced him, arms folded. ‘Go on.’
‘First, why I’m here. I’m a retired police officer. I always hated not being able to close a case. This is one that I must close if I’m going to make my peace with God.’
‘You’re talking like you’re an old man,’ Victor said. ‘Anyone seeing you swim today would agree that you’re probably the strongest man for miles around.’
‘Thank you, sir. That’s a heart-warming compliment,’ Solomon said. ‘I am fifty-seven years old. By rights, I should be dead. Six months ago I helped my neighbour. She’s an old African widow who likes to keep chickens; she says they hatch the souls of her ancestors. It might not be a Christian thing to say but she’s a good woman, so I helped her mend her chicken coop, and I managed to put a nail right through my hand.’ He held up a pale palm. A circular red scar dominated its centre. ‘As a follower of Jesus I appreciated right at that moment the pain of such a wound. Anyway, it became infected. My kidneys failed. A priest gave me the last rites and they got ready to move me to the mortuary. But God gave me my life back.
‘In three days I was out of the hospital. But every night I dreamed about the refugee ship that sank, and those people that my countrymen drove off their own land. Those refugees belonged to a clan that claim they’re the descendants of the Carthaginians. You recall Hannibal and his elephants? Out of a desire of vengeance he marched the elephants through the snowy Alps with the aim of destroying Rome. Only the God-given weather defeated him. The Cathdran worshipped the old city gods of Carthage. But that wasn’t what angered my people. The Cathdran owned rights to freshwater springs. They made money from piping the water into town.’
‘So they weren’t persecuted for their faith as the newspapers claimed,’ Laura said. ‘It was all down to money?’
‘Isn’t that always the root of all evil?’ Solomon let out a long sigh. ‘Now let me get to the core of why I’ve travelled from Africa to see you. A quest that tested me. Even when I’d come all this way there was no ferry to bring me to the island. I had to rent a motor boat so I could cross the water to you.’
Victor listened to the voice of the man. It had a hypnotic tone. Even though he heard every word he seemed to find himself in a world between sleep and wakefulness. The rise and fall of the voice washed over him as he gazed out at the river as the tide turned. Wavelets crept up over the beach. In the turbulent waters some lithe creature slipped across the surface before diving down into the depths where it would be so dark and so cold, and where all those years ago he knew his wife, Ghorlan, must have found herself being drawn down to the river bed. In his mind’s eye, he gazed on white bones held prisoner by the cold, oozing silt. Poor Ghorlan. And in his imagination Victor swam down through thirty feet of river water to that hidden place where sunlight never penetrated.
‘Five years ago,’ Solomon told them, ‘I was taken off my beat in the city. My commander put me to a desk with a computer. He ordered me to compile a register of all those refugees on the ship. Dates of birth, addresses, marital status, occupation. All those kinds of facts. Then against each name I was expected to add information about criminal convictions, and when that failed I would record any suspicions of illegal activity connected with those dead people. It wasn’t hard to find my countrymen that would testify that the Cathdran contaminated the water they piped into the city. Or even gossip about the Cathdran indulging in witchcraft. All that was expected of me was to list everyone on board that death trap of a boat, and then present so-called proof that they were all criminals anyway. This would ease the conscience of my people, and the rest of the world, which turned the refugee ship away from their ports. These refugees were all thieves and wrongdoers we could say. If you’d let them into your country they would have wreaked carnage. So . . . as you know, the N’Taal sank. Only one survivor was found on a raft. The rescuers called the boy Jay. You keep him safe at Badsworth Lodge. Now he is here with you on this island. Don’t look so surprised, you’d be amazed what can be found on the Internet, just by typing names into a search engine. I know about your sad loss, Victor. During my research I found reports about the tragedy concerning Mrs Brodman.’
Victor felt himself still drifting between being awake and some shadowy borderland. The room was warm, with the sun shining in . . . he felt drowsy . . . in fact, drowsier than he had ever felt before. That mellifluous voice of Solomon’s had such a relaxing quality. That woozy sensation left him with the impression he was floating. After the anger of earlier, Laura stood calmly, her eyelids drooping, yet she listened with close attention.
Solomon’s speech flowed on. ‘I finished my register of names, with its truths, half-truths and downright lies. My boss was satisfied. The only hitch that stopped me from believing I had completed my task was that one person didn’t appear on the list. Jay. He was four years old at the time, or as far as the rescuers could judge. However, I find no trace of him being born in my country. We have perfectly competent civil servants, plus a strict procedure for registering births. Jay doesn’t appear on registers. Nobody from the Cathdran village remembers seeing him. Yet he turned up on the ship, and he was the only survivor. That always unsettled me. After my accident I dreamt, as I’ve told you, about the refugees, about how the ship fell apart, and most of all I dreamed about the four-year-old boy surviving for days in an open raft. Even though I’d retired by that time I tried again to find a record of the boy, so that he might be reunited with any surviving family. What I did discover is that wherever Jay stayed afterwards, whether in children’s homes or with foster families, bad things happened. It was as if the boy was cursed. Or . . .’ Solomon dabbed at his forehead where perspiration beaded. ‘Or the boy was the instrument of that curse.’
‘Jay had bad luck . . .’ Laura began. ‘People blamed him. It’s not his fault.’
‘No?’ Solomon took a tissue from a box on the desk so he could dab his glistening face. ‘Even discussing this makes my heart beat faster. Please. I’m here to impart facts. This boy does not exist, at least as far as the public records show. The boy is dangerous. He is like a lightning conductor, but instead of lightning he conducts tragedy and death.’ Solomon plucked another tissue from the carton. ‘Just as I dream of the refugees and of Jay, I also dream that this is my last year on earth. I know God has given me the chance of redemption by putting right the wrong committed by my people, your people, and by myself. I compiled a register of lies against innocent men, women and children. That is my evil act. I must atone, so I’ve travelled here to tell you what I know . . .’
‘What you’ve said wouldn’t help us. Or Jay.’
‘Maybe not. But I have information that will help. If you do as I advise you will have a chance of stopping the suffering, the fear, the deaths.’
Victor still gazed drowsily at the Severn. In the river a shape swam beneath the surface. It seemed so ominous. A predatory shark? Or one of the old river gods? He rubbed his forehead. The heat in the room made him dizzy. He was thinking such strange, troubling thoughts.
Solomon continued in a calm tone. ‘Imagine I’m here to warn you about an earthquake. You will respond with “there are no earthquakes in this part of the country, don’t be ridiculous.” Nevertheless, I’ll explain as much as I can about Jay. On the surface you won’t believe me, yet deep down I’m sure you will. Remember my words if Jay puts more lives in danger. Then maybe you will act on them and innocent people will be saved.’
Laura bit her lip. To Victor it seemed she was making a decision whether to step over a threshold. And once crossed, there would be no way back. This was one of those pivotal times. Like signing a death warrant. Or accepting the risk of dodging bullets in order to cross a battleground. A sudden resolve took hold of her. Nodding sharply, she said, ‘OK, Solomon. Tell us what we need to do.’
‘In most cultures there are legends of changelings. You know how it goes, a baby is born to a family. Then one morning the mother notices the baby is different. The eyes are a different colour. Maybe it doesn’t cry any more but growls like an animal instead. The parents realize that during the night a demon, or troll, or some such sprite has stolen their baby and put one of their own offspring in its place. The family know they are cursed, but they continue to care for the demon child, even though it grows up to be ugly and wicked. Crops fail. Bad luck dogs them, but they’re afraid to cast out the child in case they never get their own flesh and blood child back home again.’
‘You’re saying Jay is a changeling?’
Solomon didn’t answer the question directly. ‘Sometimes the demon child would be a changeling. Sometimes it would be a foundling. The family believe they are doing the decent thing by taking in an orphan child. Only it turns out to be the son or daughter of a devil. Whatever the details are of the adoption by the human family the evil foundling or changeling has a purpose. That purpose is to punish the family. Someone in the family might have sinned. That sinner might already be dead but when the world of magic is involved that doesn’t matter. It’s as if whoever has the sinner’s blood is punished. So brothers, sisters and cousins suffer. Vengeance is visited upon those who share the wrongdoer’s blood. The Cathdran believed in the Vengeance Child. If they lost a war they would conjure a foundling into their enemy’s town to exact revenge. Whether you believe it is neither here or there, just as you might not believe in the story of Moses or reject the existence of heaven. My purpose is to tell you what I know. So I ask you to imagine that you are back on that ship, the N’Taal, as it breaks apart. You see the panic of the refugees. They know they will drown. Mothers cradle babies. Fathers weep in frustration at not being able to save their families. They have been hounded out of their homeland. When they sailed the Atlantic looking for a safe haven they were turned away. Not one nation helped them. As the vessel sinks, the men, women and children are crying, but the Cathdran are a fierce people. You can imagine as the water gushed in they all screamed – but this time it was a scream of fury. And as one they cursed the blood of my people, they cursed the blood of your people. As one they directed their anger at you and me, at all our people, at mankind. All those different individuals united in the moment they died to direct their collective willpower at us. To curse us, to wish that we suffer like they suffered. When the ship vanished underwater nothing remained. Except one life raft. In that raft was a child. He is the vessel of their fury. His purpose on earth is to inflict suffering. It doesn’t matter to who. Because our elected governments did nothing to help Jay’s people then we are all guilty of murder. At least in the eyes of the Cathdran.’
Victor realized his muscles had grown tense. A pain burned behind his eyes. Part of him wanted to tell Solomon to shut up, but a deeper, primeval part longed to know which weapon he could use against Jay. Again, he felt that current of unease as strange thoughts plagued him. There was an ominous sense that violence would erupt at any moment. For some reason he was gripped by the urge to yell. Then maybe lash out. Was that fear? He clenched his fist, trying to control his racing heartbeat.
Solomon wiped perspiration from his face. ‘My mouth is so dry. It’s hard to tell you this. It goes against my oath to uphold the law and protect the innocent.’ He patted his neck with the tissue. It came back as a damp wad. Grimacing, he dropped it into the bin. ‘The old remedies for dealing with a changeling or evil foundling are this. Expose the child to danger. In times gone by families would even lock the child in a hot oven . . . or put it in a barrel into which they’d pour water. Imagine those desperate men and women. They put the changeling in so much danger that they hope the demon parent will take pity on their offspring then snatch the child back.’
‘Let me get this straight.’ Victor ran his hand through his hair. ‘You’re saying that we put Jay in peril? We do something so bad to him that his life is put in danger?’
For once, Laura couldn’t even bring herself to speak. She looked guilty at even hearing such a measure.
Solomon stood up. The man’s hands were shaking. ‘I told you that on one level you wouldn’t believe me. Deep down, however, you do. If you have the courage to stop Jay causing any more deaths you will have to act. You must put the boy in so much danger – genuine danger, mind – that he is taken back to those who made him. I believe in God, I believe in heaven. I also believe that in the moment of their dying those hundreds of men, women and children aboard the N’Taal willed Jay into existence. A Vengeance Child. A boy who would have the power to send us, the guilty, mad with fear before destroying us. This kind of vengeance might be blind, but like a wounded lion lashing out to anyone who comes near it’s still lethal.’ Solomon glanced at the wall clock. ‘I’ve done what my God wanted me to do. I’ve explained about Jay, I’ve advised you of a method to stop the killing. What you do with that advice is up to you.’
Solomon nodded to Laura and Victor, then he left the room. As for the pair they could only stare wordlessly at each other. For a moment Victor thought Laura would go after Solomon to harangue him. Instead, she went to Victor and made a whispered plea, ‘Hold me.’ When he put his arms around her she sighed as her head rested against her chest. But he saw the way she stared out at the river. She was thinking hard.
Solomon Constable left the hostel thirty minutes later. His clothes were now dry enough to wear, despite a little damp clinging to the shirt collar. The weight of that guilt he’d experienced for years slipped away. That sense of redemption made his step lighter. He felt such pure relief at completing his mission. Softly, he sang a hymn under his breath. ‘Onward, Christian soldiers . . .’ On his walk through the village to the beach, where he’d left the motor boat, he noticed that an outbreak of illness was taking hold. Men and women sat in their gardens, their heads in their hands, and the colourful fallout pooling on lawns and patios. Jay brought the plague, too. Then a Vengeance Child had many powers.
It was dusk when he reached the red motor boat pulled on to the pebbles. The sun glinted on its Perspex windshield.
Solomon eyed the river. ‘Thank goodness there are no crocs or hippos. Especially hippos. I hate hippos.’
His heart still pounded. Telling the couple, and such a lovely couple, that they would have to act in an extreme way to preserve life was hard. He wondered if they would have the courage to do as he suggested. If anything, his heart clamoured even faster as he untied the rope from an old tree trunk lying in the mud. Nerves, he told himself. Is there any wonder? Sweat dribbled inside his shirt. His mouth tasted bad. The sooner I get away from this island the better, he thought. When the boat was afloat the current pulled it quickly downstream. Before he’d even started the motor it passed a headland. At the tip of that headland stood a young boy. One with elfin eyes. He stood, feet apart, completely motionless.
The man’s heart lurched. He recognized the boy from the photographs his Internet searches had revealed. The boy watched him drift past. The ex-cop met his gaze. Inside his chest his heart went berserk.
‘Solomon . . . Solomon . . . Solomon.’
Even though Solomon didn’t hear the name he knew that Jay mouthed it over and over. The moment he managed to start the engine his heart rammed against his ribs with enough force to make him grunt. Then that fist-sized block of muscle that had driven blood through his veins for more than five decades stopped dead. Solomon Constable collapsed backward across the boat’s seats. Sightless eyes gazed heavenward. Still hopeful, always hopeful, of ascending there when his day was done.
With no one to guide it, the boat surged down the estuary toward the ocean where it dwindled to a speck and eventually disappeared from human sight.