Son of Blood Page 8

  ‘I know,’ she said, walking towards him, Alfie bouncing behind her. ‘But before you go…’

  She held her breath for a second.

  ‘Do you know what you are to this town? You and your father? You’re Superheroes. And every time I see you…when I saw you flying…when I sit with you talking, I see something so special, so real, that I…’

  She stepped up to him, slipped her left hand behind his head and pulled him to her, their lips touching gently, brushing together, then meeting more firmly. She finally let her fingers slide through his hair before her hand fell down to her side and she slowly moved her mouth away from his.

  ‘Now you can go,’ she whispered and stepped aside.

  Hardly able to breathe, Christian stared into her eyes for a second; then he bolted, ran for the rock outcropping, and was gone.

  Martin watched from the top of the tower as his son and the girl kissed. He sighed. This he had not seen coming. He thought the boy would have listened to him, that what Martin himself had gone though would have gotten through to him, but he had obviously been wrong. He shook his head. At least the boy had shown the presence of mind to unlock the chains. He would have to be careful how he approached this. He did not want to hurt Christian, but he did not want him to suffer the same devastation that Martin had felt.

  He had waited on the island on the night that Christian had been born. Fionnuala had desperately wanted him to be at her side but he knew that was simply impossible. Instead he had arranged to stay away, Connor Mooney agreeing to signal him from the Head when he could come across and see his child. Only, when Connor was waiting for him, he had terrible news. Fionnuala, the only woman he had ever loved, had passed away. The doctors had done everything they could. But the boy was healthy, strong, and was going to be fine. And, as he watched Christian sprint towards the shore, he feared for his son for the first time. If he fell in love, then his soul was in far more danger than if he was to take a life.

  From the Head, Sinead and Christian were watched by another set of eyes. Owen Flannery spat onto the concrete path. He stared across the beach. Even from this distance he knew Sinead, he could see Alfie. He watched as she stepped into hisway. Pressed her lips to his. He sighed angrily, teeth grinding together. He reached into the trousers pocket of his tracksuit and withdrew his phone, quickly flicking through his contacts and bringing up Frank’s number.

  ‘Yeah, it’s me,’ he grunted when his friend picked up. ‘Look, she’s with that freak.’

  He listened, and then snapped at Frank.

  ‘I don’t care. Something needs to be done. I’ve had enough. If no one else will do anything, then I will.’

  When the hand came down on his shoulder, Owen screamed and dropped his phone to the ground.

  16

  Owen paced across the lush, deep carpet of the study, his thick fingers looking clumsy and out of proportion as he tried to slide the different components of his phone back together. The room was dark; the thick drapes had been pulled closed and only the reading light on a desk illuminated the room. Bookshelves lined the longest wall, crammed full of horror and fantasy novels, classical and modern. The desk was positioned below the window, immaculately tidy, and apart from the lamp only a single pad of lined paper and a couple of pens sat on the surface, positioned perfectly in the centre of the workspace. Owen fumbled with the phone and spilled the contents once again onto the floor.

  ‘Let me try,’ said Robinson, leaning forward from the luxurious black leather office chair and snatching the pieces of the device from Owen’s fingertips. He sat back into the chair; it felt as if it would swallow him whole as it rocked gently to take his weight and then settled. With a few clicks, the phone was back in one piece and Robinson pressed the power button. When it emitted its start-up chimes, he lobbed it towards Owen, who caught it easily in one hand. He turned the phone over in his hand, nodding as he did so. He then pressed a few buttons and slid the phone into his pocket.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’ve put it on silent. I get the feeling you don’t want my father or Big Old Mooney interrupting us?’

  Robinson shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. The truth was that he was taking one hell of a risk by sharing his thoughts with the boy, but from what he had witnessed, it was clear that if anybody was able to disrupt the status quo in the town, and to achieve it under the radar, Owen was the one boy with the motive and the motivation to do so. He’d been watching Christian and the girl from his bedroom window and it had only been by chance that he had spotted Owen’s petulant response to them, but it did not take long for him to make the link and see the possibilities.

  ‘I appreciate that.’ Robinson smiled amiably, watching as the teenager prowled the room like an anxious cat, taking his time to study the displays mounted on the walls.

  ‘Where did you get these?’

  ‘You like them?’

  ‘Yeah, they’re cool.’

  ‘They were my father’s.’

  Robinson let the boy wander for a few more minutes. Then he crossed his legs and got comfortable.

  ‘Look, the reason I wanted to speak with you—well, not so much speak to you but offer you some advice on how you might want to go about dealing with, how shall I put this, your little problem?’

  ‘I’ve not got any problem,’ Owen said. He turned and faced Robinson, folding his arms across his substantial chest, pushing his shoulders back in a pose that he knew made him look bigger and more imposing. He deflated slightly when Robinson did not even blink back at him.

  ‘Well, from what I saw happen last night and from your reaction just now, I respectfully disagree.’

  ‘You respectfully disagree? What are you, my teacher?’

  ‘No. It’s your father who’s the teacher. That’s why he can’t help you with this, but I can.’

  ‘The only problem in this town is that little freak. I’m not even sure what he actually does for us, apart from get in my way.’

  ‘With that girl?’

  ‘She’s not just ‘that girl’, okay? Sinead is, well… Look, I’m not having this conversation. I’m out of here.’

  Owen turned to go, was actually through the doorway and into the hall before Robinson spoke. And when he did, it was softly, quietly. It was a whisper that had more of an impact upon Owen than if Robinson had shouted.

  ‘So what if I help you to get rid of the little freak?’

  ‘And you can trust these friends completely?’

  Robinson was pleased with his work. The boy had ranted for over fifteen minutes about Christian. How he had never seen him do anything of any merit. How he just kind of skulked along in his father’s shadow. How Ronan Flannery would come back from town meetings saying that the boy was there again but not with an answer as to why. And most importantly, most often and with the most hatred, how the little freak had ignited something inside Sinead that he had not been able to, how the little freak had stolen her away from him and how the little freak should have to pay, how Owen would make him pay.

  After the way he made a fool of you the other night, thought Robinson, I can’t see you achieving that on your own.

  ‘Yeah, I can trust them.’ Owen glowered. ‘They don’t see the point of him either. The old one, yeah, he’s worth keeping around, but what purpose in having two of them anyway? Yeah, my friends will back me up when we get rid of—’

  ‘You are not getting rid of anyone or anything,’ Robinson interrupted. ‘There’s going to be an accident. Someone is going to get hurt and you will make sure it looks like young Christian has overstepped his boundaries. Can you do that?’

  ‘I’ll come up with something. Let me think on it. Okay?’

  ‘Yes, of course. You need to think hard about this, and know that I am here if you need anything…’ He trailed off, glancing at the wall displays.

  Owen followed his gaze. ‘They work then, do they?’ he asked, running his finger along the edge of one of the display cases. Inside was an ancient crossbow; the
one next to it held an ornate dagger.

  ‘No, no. They’re just for decoration. Sometimes I wish they did, though. You can never be too careful. Like now. I think you’ve been here long enough. Like I said, think about how this will play out. Let yourself out.’

  ‘Before I go,’ said Owen, calmer and more in control of his emotions. ‘How do I know I can trust you?’

  ‘That’s a fair question,’ Robinson countered, raising himself up and out of his chair for the first time. ‘You need to realize that I see more in this town than I let on. I saw you attack that tramp. Well, when I say ‘attack,’ I saw you throw the first punch. You didn’t mount much of an attack after that, did you? As far as everyone else is concerned, you were the victim. I could have changed all that and, let’s be honest, changed that man’s life.’

  He paused and grinned, a sight Owen found cold and somewhat unnerving.

  ‘Did I say life?’ he continued. ‘I meant death.’

  Owen suddenly found the carpet at his feet very interesting.

  ‘So if you want to know if you can trust me, there’s your answer. Come and see me before the end of the week. Here…’ He took a copy of Bram Stoker’s Dracula from one of the bookshelves. ‘You borrowed this. Nice easy, relevant cover story. You might even try reading it.’

  ‘Okay.’ Owen turned the book over in his hands and chanced a glance at Robinson. ‘You can trust me, too.’

  ‘We’ll see about that. Now, on your way.’

  By the time Robinson sat back down in his chair, the front door had slammed shut.

  This is one hell of a gamble, he thought.

  He sat for a few minutes, going over the conversation in his head, his thoughts returning time and time again to Owen’s comment about Martin’s young one not actually doing anything for the town. That Flannery Senior had told him after meetings that the role of the boy was unclear. Maybe there was further mileage to be drawn from this situation, more allegiances to be formed, than Robinson had first considered.

  He rose from his chair and crossed to the kitchen. He opened the fridge and dug around in the salad drawer until he found the white bulb of garlic. He placed it onto a wooden chopping board, split the whole thing in half and, without peeling it, sliced it into smaller pieces. When he was content with his work he picked up the board and the knife and moved to the mat on the floor by the back door that led from the kitchen out into the garden. He lifted the mat, the odor from the drying remnants of the previous bulb underneath still strong enough to permeate the air, and scraped half of the garlic off the board and onto the floor with the knife. He dropped the mat back into position and repeated the protocol at the front door. He took the utensils back to the kitchen and dropped them into the sink.

  Content that everything was as it should, be he walked up the stairs to his bedroom and, without turning on the light, picked up his binoculars. His bedroom blinds were open and the evening had swiftly fallen into a clear night. Above the sea, hundreds of stars lit up the sky and through the lens of the binoculars he could see Martin and Christian standing in front of the tower, talking. Martin reached his hand up and placed it on the boy’s arm, but the boy shrugged it off and rushed inside. Robinson watched as the big man’s shoulders slumped and he trudged to the door, seemingly holding himself up on the frame as he tried to decide whether to enter or not.

  Robinson could not resist a smile when, instead of going in, Martin walked to the back of the island alone. He stood for a while, occasionally looking back over his shoulder towards the tower, towards the town, and each time he did, Robinson flinched a little, worried that he would be spotted. But he never was, and suddenly Martin launched himself forward towards the sea and was gone.

  But to where? thought Robinson as he picked up his phone from his bedside table and placed the binoculars down. He scrolled through the list of names in his phone. In terms of contacts—in terms of allies, really—it was more a case of where to finish rather than where to start.

  17

  Martin stood on the crow’s nest of the unmanned lighthouse. The white and red bands had called to him from a great distance and he had ploughed through the wind and the rain, seeking the solace that the weather-beaten building would offer him. He could easily have smashed his fist against the glass of the balcony door, shattering it and allowing him free entry inside, but the sound of the pounding sea, the wind trying to tear the coat off his back, all of it had a cathartic effect upon his weary mind. From up here he could watch the waves rushing towards the island, crashing up as they exploded against the rocks; their white peaks almost reached the narrow walkway that circumnavigated the tower.

  He stood with his back to the light itself, was only vaguely aware of the wash of white it poured forth when it raked across his back. With the wind and the sea, it was impossible to hear any sound from within. The sky was grey with heavy clouds that were gradually building up the courage to unleash a torrent over the mainland but were, for now, happy to torment this single island.

  Martin needed time to ponder on the dilemma that was his son. Yes, he had handled things badly so far. Yes, he was at a loss for what to do next. But he knew that something had to be done. Things could not continue to progress as they were. A wedge would be driven between the two of them thicker and more damaging than any wooden stake.

  He did not want—had never wanted—Christian to live the life that he himself had been forced to. Martin contemplated how many lives he had taken and was unable to make that calculation for even the last twelve months. From the pathetic who simply fainted in his arms either from fear or from inebriation, to the ones who had suffered the consequences of fighting back, their heads torn from their bodies, their lives extinguished not in a painless second but in a gut wrenching, agonizing twist of their necks; sometimes so, so slowly that Martin could hear each vertebrae rubbing on the next, stretching the ligaments and tendons until one by one they popped, followed by the tearing of the muscles stretching down towards their back. And then, with his hand clasped over their mouth to keep the screams inside, he would watch as their eyes finally rolled back into their skulls and their life force left their body—going with a relief that the pain was finally over—and they simply looked like they had glanced over their shoulder for one more look at the life they were leaving behind and were not too impressed with what they saw. And then the skin would tear and he would separate the spinal cord, supporting the body as he fed on their blood and on their flesh.

  That was not an experience he wanted his son to endure.

  Martin understood that the boy was sensitive to the outside world, and to put him in a position where he had to kill to survive? He did not know if he was able to do it.

  But nor could he withhold the pleasurable aspects of life from his son either, expect him to only exist. He touched the gold ring that hung around his neck. He would not change anything about his time with Fionnuala. She had made him more human than he had ever been, even before he was attacked. He let the ring fall and his hand slid across the scar running along his throat. He’d heard the story of her husband from Mooney, of course. He wasn’t mayor back then, but he was an empire building for sure, and that was how their friendship had started. Connor had been the one to ask Martin to keep an eye on her, as she had apparently talked openly about suicide. For months he watched her as she came down to the water’s edge. Sometimes she stood so close to the sea that he actually began to fly to her rescue before he realized she had in fact not fallen. Other times, she threw flowers into the water, watched as they became mashed up against the rocks.

  And then one day, after she’d tossed a rose into the waves, she simply let herself fall, splashing in through the surface. He was there in seconds, plucking her away from the sharp rocks as the tide tossed. He took her to his island, and when she initially came around she had shouted at him, would have attacked him had he been human, screamed that he had no right to choose who was to live and who was to die. And when she calmed down they spoke f
or hours. About the lives they had both expected to live out before they had been torn from them without warning.

  When it was time for her to leave, he was ready to assume she would simply try again at a time he would not be able to intervene. Instead, she asked if he would talk to her tomorrow. He had, and day after day became week after week until their affection for each other became stronger, irresistible. It had seemed that he had finally found the human that had retreated deep inside of him that evening, hundreds of years before, back in Wales. And then she had died.

  Connor Mooney met him on the Head, told him the boy was fine, was being cared for, but she had not made it.

  Complications. Nothing could have been done.

  Connor had passed him the only piece of jewelry that she wore: her wedding ring.

  Martin realized that he was gripping the rail far too tightly. His knuckles stood out through the murkiness of the night. The floodlight splashed him with white once more. This time alone had allowed him to contemplate how his own actions could and would impact upon his son. Had he, himself, spent so long on the outside that he was unable to remember what it felt like to be on the inside? After all, it was easier to build a wall that could not ever be damaged than to try to repair fragile cracks. But had the cracks he had shown to Fionnuala not made him more human? How could he deny his own boy the same right?

  He leapt from the lighthouse like a high diver; arms extended, gaining speed and momentum as the red and white paintwork rushed upwards, his eyes focused on the rocks below. The only sound he could hear, above even the incessant sea, was the wind as it sped past his ears. He knew he could plummet to the ground, get up, and walk away, but what would that achieve? He did not have to punish himself; he had to talk to his son.

  As a wave crashed against the base of the building, the spray engulfing him, soaking him to the bone, he changed his angle and emerged level with the sea, one arm extended, the other tucked in by his side. Martin, now with the roar of the sea in his ears, headed for home.