Denied to all but Ghosts (56 page)

His head twitched as he caught a distant
clatter above the background clamour of the thunderstorm. He
listened intently to the indistinct footsteps clomping inelegantly
up the wooden staircase and the clicking of heels across the
hallway. The mental picture of an umbrella being dumped against the
wall by the coat hooks enveloped his inebriated mind.

“Christ, Marchy, I’m bloody soaked!”
announced the woman exasperatedly as she entered the room.

“You’re late, I didn’t think you were coming,
you never replied to any of my messages,” Cavendish shouted, as he
remained standing on the balcony.

“I know, I know, I’d tried to get away early
but you know how it is...”

Cavendish turned his back on the weather to
face the woman at the opposite end of the room. “No, I don’t know
how it is. How is it?” slurred Cavendish.

“Christ, you’re not in one of your bloody
moods are you?” She unbuttoned her raincoat to reveal the sensible
skirt and blouse she wore for school and tossed it on the armchair.
Cavendish cringed at the untidy way the coat crumpled upon the
furniture and scrutinised her as she shook her short hair, which
was soaking wet despite the umbrella’s best efforts.

“I’m not in a mood,” said Cavendish
assertively, “Slightly drunk, but not in a mood.”

“Shit, Marchel, you know you and booze don’t
mix, how much have you had?” He stood ramrod straight as he made
his clichéd reply.

“Not enough.”

“I can’t believe you’ve been drinking!” came
the heartfelt rebuke.

“I really don’t care. I didn’t think you were
coming, what else was there to do?”

“Was it that bad, did you not get your man?”
she had crept to within a few feet of him to stand just inside the
doorway, he remained ominously tall and powerful, silhouetted
against the rage of the elements outside. He laughed at the
simplicity of her enquiry.

“Do you care?” he asked scathingly.

“Of course I care, I’m your sister!” she was
stung by the piquancy of his question.

“You are not my sister,” he declared
forcefully, his hostility eliciting tears from the already tense
Tina Kretschmer.

“Why are you being so beastly, Marchel, what
have I done to upset you so much? I knew it was a mistake to
come.”

“You never answered my bloody calls!”
exploded Cavendish, his discretion negated by alcohol.

“I wanted to, but it didn’t seem right!”
cried Tina.

“Why?”

“You know damned well why, don’t you remember
Friedrichshafen?”

Tina’s tears rolled down her cheeks as her
chin dropped to her chest. Cavendish stepped forward, wrapped his
arms around her, and pulled her tightly against his body. She felt
damp and shivery.

He lowered his face to the top of her head,
closed his eyes and breathed deeply as he took in the aroma of her
damp hair. Tina turned her head so that it lay flat against his
chest and slowly raised her arms to encircle his back.

“You haven’t been eating properly again,” she
said fiercely, and then softly asked, “how was it?”

“It was, it was difficult,” admitted
Cavendish. Tina leant back, raised her head to stare questioningly
up at him, and watched fearfully enthralled as his face inexorably
fell slowly towards her own.

“No, Marchel,” her protest was weakly
rendered as his warm lips touched her rain-cooled cheek and tasted
the tangy moisture of her tears.

“It isn’t right. If you need company, ring
Dagmar, she’s in Garmisch.” There was little conviction behind her
suggestion.

“I don’t want Dagmar Klum,” he whispered.

The air was rent by a colossal bolt of
lightning and a simultaneous explosion of thunder that seared the
Alpine village. Tina tasted the piquancy of the statically charged
atmosphere as their lips met and rapaciously entwined.

“No, Marchel!”

Tina drew away from Cavendish’s embrace. Her
eyes brimmed with tears but her face took on an expression of grim
resolve.

“We can’t do this. I’ll love you, I’ll hold
you, I’ll comfort you, but I won’t... It took me twenty-five years
to find you; I won’t lose you for a moment of craziness. Put that
bottle away and make coffee.” Cavendish stood meekly rooted to the
spot, his eyes downcast.

“Marchel,” said Tina decisively. He looked up
from the floor and furtively glanced at Tina. “Coffee, now,” she
ordered, “I’m having a shower.”

Dusk came early that evening in Upper
Bavaria. Tina was laying face down, wearing Cavendish’s spare white
dressing gown, facing the foot of the bed and read Cavendish’s
report for a second time. He lay on his side to her left, gently
caressing the small of her back with his hand. He yawned, something
he noticed he only did in Tina’s company, which she took as a
reassuring gesture.

“I’m I boring you, Herr Cavendish. I can go
home if you want me to?” declared Tina.

“No, sorry, please...”

“I’m only teasing, hun. You seem to have
sobered up very quickly. Will Thomas be okay? I can tell by what
you’ve said, or not said, that you’re very fond of him.”

“Yeah, he’s a good bloke, you’d like him. You
know, most of my English comes from reading stuffy old books and
despite what they may have thought; I struggled with their dialects
most of the time. When they thought I was being inscrutable, I just
didn’t have the foggiest what they were talking about. God knows
what Thomas was prattling on about half the time. I’ll make sure he
gets the best medical treatment. He’ll certainly need dental work
and I’ll make sure he gets the best, even if it means bringing him
here.”

“So was Emily pretty?” asked Tina coyly,
“were you attracted to her, Marchel Cavendish?” She rolled onto her
right hand side to gauge his reaction and briefly distracted
Cavendish from his train of thought.

“She was very pretty,” reflected Cavendish,
“in that English sort of way, not my type though. She spoke very
nicely, clear and precise. She was the only one I didn’t struggle
to understand, they all talk so bloody fast over there.”

Tina smiled at her half brother, noting the
tiredness etched into his gaunt features. She had the innate
ability to read him like a book and recalled how he had dreaded the
prospect of working in England yet now he spoke with a fond
reminiscence of his experience.

“I believe you, Marchy, many wouldn’t. So
what will happen between Emily and Thomas?”

“No idea, they do seem to have a connection
though, something that transcends sex, difficult to explain. He’ll
find it difficult to return to his normal life. I suggested to Kate
that she invites Thomas to the seminary for convalescence. If the
she-devil Frau Beckett finds out about Emily it will hardly be
conducive to his recovery. Once Hansel and Gretel get away from the
witch, happy ever after.”

“They had to stuff the witch in the oven
first, thickhead.”

“Is that some euphemism I’m unfamiliar with,”
laughed Cavendish. Tina poked her tongue out at him before
continuing.

“Make sure you keep in touch with him this
time. What about Estelle, what will happen to her?”

Cavendish recalled the strange, almost
pointless, interview with Estelle in the company of Hugo Victor
before visiting Beckett in hospital. He had not pressed her for any
motive; as he always said, he was seldom interested in the ‘why’.
Cavendish rightly assumed she had masterminded the whole scheme
after being instructed to do so. But was it the whole committee or
just a rogue individual who wanted to see Cavendish disgraced? And
as Victor said, no one anticipated the involvement of Jasmine and
Brad.

Forensics proved that it was Jasmine who had
been with Brad in Wells. It was she who took pleasure in the murder
of Slingsby. Brad’s mobile phone record revealed the call from
Robert Patterson that led him to Plymouth where he shot his father,
why he was prepared to commit patricide would remain a mystery but
it was no doubt at Jasmine’s behest. Cavendish had asked himself
why Brad had not shot him first instead of his father. His only
conclusion was that Jasmine had not instructed Brad to do so.

“Estelle will be taken to Flash and will then
go onto ‘Castle Dracula’ for a little therapy,” replied
Cavendish.

“Castle where?” asked Tina sceptically.

“‘Castle Dracula’ is the name we give to the
Schloss in the Carpathian Mountains. It’s a secluded monastery
where we send our folk for treatment and rehabilitation. They’ll
put together the full story. Someone certainly seems to have it in
for me.”

Tina rolled onto her back and stretched as
she too yawned. Cavendish smiled at the sight of Tina’s short body,
lost in the voluminous material of his dressing gown.

“Are you in danger?” she asked quietly.

“Well, physically, not at the moment. But who
knows what they might do next time.” A chill ran down Tina’s spine
and she chose not to explore the topic further.

“What did Emily decide to do?” asked Tina as
Cavendish lightly laid his hand upon her bare left foot.

“She’s now at Flash Seminary, a wonderful
place by the way, I must take you there, I’m sure you will like it.
Kate Watercombe will mentor her for a while. God help her liver.
She’s in a bit of a state at the moment; her University has placed
her on extended sick leave. Once she gets her head together, I’m
sure she’ll join the firm. She is very strong willed; she’ll make a
brilliant Untersucher and really piss off the old farts. You know
the topping on the cake was when I found out her grandfather was
German, made it much easier to push her case.”

“And it means you’ll be able to see a lot of
her. I still reckon you fancy her,” said Tina teasingly.

Cavendish yawned again. “Hey, wakey, wakey,”
chided Tina, “I have one last question for you, Herr Untersucher.
What will happen to Zachery Asimov?”

“Zach will be released from Flash in due
course, I don’t think he is in too much of a hurry, he’s another
victim of the house’s seductive powers,” replied Cavendish
absently. “He will be released into his natural environment, where
he will no doubt regale his friends and associates with weird and
wonderful stories. However, I reckon that poor Zach will not be
taken very seriously. Hopefully, his anecdotes may earn him a drink
or two in a bar in the small hours of the morning. Any more
questions, Fräulein Kretschmer?”

“No, you have been most succinct, mein Herr,
thank you,” said Tina grinning. She had her Marchel home and he
would be hers for the next few hours. She felt content now, after
weeks of self-doubt, and relieved that she had been strong enough
to stand up to her brother’s ephemeral desires.

Cavendish slept until about two in the
morning. He awoke suddenly with a start, his mind remaining crammed
with the feverish disjointed images of his nightmare. Instead of
the usual scenario involving Dieter Klaus, a cunning postscript had
been added with the appearance of an additional cast.

Brad Patterson stood grinning beside Klaus.
Both now possessed oddly oversized handguns that fired rounds the
size of battleship shells. As he attempted to dodge the incoming
shells, he was encumbered by the clinging bodies of Holger Ehlers
and Thomas Beckett, who groped at his naked body whilst Dagmar Klum
and Emily Spelman looked on as spectators, hysterically laughing at
his predicament.

He climbed out of bed and walked through the
lounge and out onto the balcony, grabbing his packet of cigarettes
as he went. The storm had long since faded away and, as he stood
naked on the balcony acquiring his night vision, his eyes settled
on the imposing massif of Kofel. White cloud swirled around its
summit like dragon’s breath. The usually benevolent rock face now
took on the character of an imposing, ambiguous and threatening
form. He could feel an ominous presence in the disturbed night air,
the source of fairytales and superstitions.

He conceded he was not the same man who had
reluctantly left Germany to visit the land of his father. He knew
he would never be considered English, but the country of his
ancestors had worked assiduously to change him, albeit almost
imperceptibly, of that he was sure. There had been no moment of
epiphany, simply a vague acceptance of the inevitable. Perhaps
there was hope for him yet?

He heard the soft footfall across the wooden
floor behind him. He remained fixed to the spot, only the rising
smoke from his cigarette, drifting reluctantly in the dank night
air, gave any sense of motion to the scene as Tina drew near. A
pair of arms encircled his bare chest.

“I heard you scream. Come to bed, Marchy.
You’ll catch your death out here,” said Tina softly.

She pressed her face gently against his back
and tenderly kissed the clammy flesh, the white cotton of her
nightshirt clinging comfortingly to his cold damp buttocks.
Reaching for his cigarette, she took several slow draws before
extinguishing it in the ashtray. “Come on, Marchel, come to
bed.”

Tina took his hand and the equivocal, callous
and lonely Untersucher allowed himself to be led child-like back to
his bedroom. She put him in bed, pulled the quilt over him, and
snuggled into the crook of his back.

“Sleep, my love, go to sleep,” she whispered.
Tina gently stroked the back of Marchel Cavendish’s tousled hair,
encouraging him to embrace the short-lived peace that sleep
offered.

###

Thank you for reading 'Denied to all but
Ghosts'.

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