Chapter One: Musings

 

The car swept along the rain-streaked road, at times its grip on the road surface less than perfect. The weather was lousy and only promised to get worse; rain had begun to pour heavily two hours earlier, the temperature dropping rapidly, the rain turning to sleet. The sky, almost mocking all those of humankind who wished to travel this day, was heavy with grim clouds and soon snow would fall, with the rising wind helping to create blizzard conditions.

Inside the car, in stark contrast to the whims which Nature delighted in manifesting, was a warm, smoke-filled atmosphere, created both by the car’s heater and the two occupants. The woman sat restlessly in the passenger seat; her expression might have indicated that she was on a day trip to the local cemetery, but in fact she was simply bored by the long drive. The man driving the car was in his mid-twenties, blond haired, a determined look upon his features. When not concentrating upon matters which he, rightly or wrongly, considered of supreme importance, his face could light up in a smile which had the effect of attracting people to him. He was aware of this, and exploited it when necessary.

Tony Baron was disappointed. He knew that they would have to stop for the night, if only at a country inn but he had reckoned on being much closer to his destination by now. The atrocious weather had made him cautious, but true to his personality, he accepted the fact ― even though it did annoy him. He smiled at the fact that he could find humour in his annoyance, and at the sometimes contradictory nature of his personality. He shot a quick glance at his companion.

She was a delicate-looking young woman just a couple of years younger than Tony. She had a narrow face, brown hair, blue eyes. Her name was Margaret Hunter. Although she looked delicate, her face could take on an intense expression of self-will, and usually did so when she was certain that she was in the right and anyone else thought otherwise. When Tony glanced at her she was staring dejectedly through the windscreen, the unpleasant weather slightly depressing her.

Bringing her mind from the weather, she thought about this journey, which seemed more than a little absurd to her. She ran the events which had led to it through her mind quickly, from when she first met Tony.

It had been just over seven months ago; Margaret, not really one for nightclubs had been persuaded, by several workmates, to try a night out on the town, but she hadn’t found the experience a pleasurable one. The noise, the bustle, the shouting to make herself heard, all combined to give her a pounding headache. She felt in her handbag for her cigarettes, but realised she had forgotten them. Excusing herself, (although her workmates couldn’t have heard her), she went to the bar to buy herself some. Whilst waiting, she felt eyes upon her; glancing to her left, she saw two men looking at her. She could feel them mentally undressing her.

Suddenly, her heart began to pound, she began to panic, feeling a claustrophobic atmosphere closing in upon her. Memories she had repeatedly tried to bury struggled to force themselves into her awareness, adding to her panic. Terrified, she turned and staggered away from the bar, cigarettes forgotten, workmates nowhere to be seen. She realised abruptly, with a certainty she had never before felt, that they had gone, moved on without realising she wasn’t with them. A low moan escaped her, and, looking over her shoulder, she saw one of the men following her.

Unreasoning terror overtook her, and she began to run toward what she thought was the exit, but it wasn’t. She veered to her left, unconscious of the curious looks which she was receiving, and as she rushed around a corner she collided with someone coming in the opposite direction. Arms encircled her, stopping her from losing her balance, and holding her in a close, but non-threatening embrace.

After a few seconds, which seemed to stretch out into long minutes, Margaret recovered sufficiently to realise she was being held by a man who appeared slightly older than she; her immediate reaction was anger at his embrace, but the anger faded as abruptly as it had appeared as she took in his features. He was smiling at her. Not laughing, not angry; he removed his arms from her waist, the smile still playing on his lips ― not in a condescending way, which would have made her temper flare, but in a ‘This isn’t your night either’ kind of way.

She stood stupidly, staring at him, at a total loss for words. His smile had somehow broken the ice, made her aware of a curious feeling of affinity with him.

If Margaret was speechless at these occurrences, her companion was not. He flashed his smile again, and, indicating a vacant table with a nod, he asked, “Want to sit down?”

It was such a natural suggestion, delivered so easily, almost as though he had known her for years. His very easiness puzzled her, and an echo of her only recently vanished fear returned. As they walked to the table, Margaret tried to analyse her reaction to his embrace of a few moments ago. Her breathing and pulse rate, already racing, slowed, although not by much. Her fear had gone ― not faded, but disappeared completely. A pleasant, unfamiliar feeling rushed through her, confusing her anew.

Throughout that first meeting, Margaret could never afterwards remember speaking, yet she knew that she must have done. She answered questions about herself, her likes and so on. A long time passed before she even thought of looking for the men who had frightened her at the bar, and especially for the one who had started following her and caused her panic, although she saw neither.

From being a total disaster, the evening seemed to have been salvaged. Margaret felt relaxed, calm, and was thoroughly enjoying herself, thanks to her companion. She felt a perverse sense of gratitude to the man who had frightened her, felt that her terror had been worth enduring.

It was so natural for her to agree to a second meeting that she did so without the hesitation such a request would normally have caused. Margaret sighed. Things had seemed so straightforward back then, but were so uncertain now. Although she didn’t like to, she thought about the psychic link which had established itself between them. Christ, it complicated things at times ― and gave Tony certain insights which she felt uncomfortable about. It wasn’t as though it was something which she could control.

White. Suddenly focussing on the present, she became aware of snow falling, the driving wind making the night outside the car seem full of rushing white flakes. She stretched, dismissing her previous thoughts, and tried to find a comfortable position in which to sit.

Whilst Margaret was thinking back, Tony was preoccupied with thoughts of his parents. He still missed them, would always miss them, no matter whether time healed the pain or not. He inclined to the theory that it didn’t. Perhaps you just got so used to the pain that you noticed it less and less. Over four years, and the pain was still as intense as it had ever been.

His parents had been travelling to Glasgow, his father on business, his mother going along for no better reason than she loved being with her husband, and was nervy and irritable when he had long journeys to make. She always tended to go with him on his trips ― he loved her company, too ― and she believed that no accident could occur whilst she was with him. Neither had seen the van whose steering had failed, causing it to cross the central reservation and crash obliquely into them. Chaos had ensued. A total of twelve mangled hulks were the end result, but that wasn’t the worst of it...

The funeral over, attended only by friends of his parents and a few sympathizers, Tony found himself wondering: ‘Is this it? Is this all a person’s life is worth? Years of working to succeed, to make your mark on the world, just so you can die prematurely, and be mourned only by a few friends and well-wishers’.

The absence of his Great-Uncle annoyed him. Tony knew that his Great-Uncle had heard about the deaths of his parents. He had received a letter which was short and unfeeling. It read:

 

Dear Tony,

You probably won’t remember me, but rest assured that life goes on, every setback may be overcome.

Great-Uncle Robert.

 

It was the thought that his Great-Uncle regarded the tragedy affecting Tony as a mere setback which infuriated him. It was this, more than anything that compelled Tony to find his Great-Uncle and confront him with his anger.

However, this was easier said than done; no matter how hard he tried, no matter where he looked, he could find no trace of him. It was almost as though his Great-Uncle didn’t want to be found; as if, somehow, he’d managed to slip out of the system, and become an unperson.

In desperation, Tony had gone to a lawyer who specialised in representing abused and neglected children, and who had successfully traced many runaways.

When Tony explained his problem, the lawyer pointed out that Tony’s Great-Uncle wasn’t a runaway child, and wouldn’t agree to help trace him himself. However, Tony’s smile once again worked its charm, and he left with the address of a man named John Peterson, who, he was informed, made his living finding people.

Mr. Peterson agreed to help Tony, but warned that if someone, like his Great-Uncle, really didn’t want to be found, then he might be wasting his money. Accepting that possibility, Tony gave his phone number, fully expecting John Peterson to have no more success than himself.

However, Tony remembered his startled reaction when Mr. Peterson rang him two days later and asked to see him. Something in Peterson’s tone of voice told him that he had succeeded where Tony had failed.

“It was by accident, really. If I hadn’t been digging for information about a totally different matter, I’d never have come across it.”

“You know where my Great-Uncle lives? How d’you find out? Where?”

“Yes, here is his address ― miles from anywhere, I might add; as to how I found out, you don’t honestly expect me to tell you? But I was surprised, to say the least, when I found out who your Great-Uncle is.”

“What are you getting at? I don’t understand,” Tony demanded, not liking the mystery, but intrigued, despite himself.

“Let me ask a rhetorical question: ever heard of George Hayter?”

“Hayter? Of course I have; he’s one of the greatest living authorities on the occult ― he must make millions from the books he’s written; but what’s he got to do with my Great-Uncle?”

Peterson grinned, a full ear to ear grin, which at any other time would have been comical to see, but Tony wasn’t in the mood for humour.

“Okay, I’ll tell you the connection. George Hayter IS your Great-Uncle. No―”

Tony had opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again as Peterson raised a cautionary finger. “It’s true. I came across the original document of copyright for your Great-Uncle’s first book. Both names were there, but at that time George Hayter was only a pen-name. I think that’s changed now. Anyway...”

“But I don’t...”

“Mr. Baron,” Peterson’s voice had a hard edge to it, “either listen, or I’ll leave.” Tony said nothing, and Peterson continued, “As I was saying, although he’s become famous, he’s a recluse. He hardly ever leaves that mansion,” said Peterson, indicating the paper with Hayter’s address. “He thinks nothing of prosecuting anyone who enters his grounds ― and the ground surrounding the mansion is his land ― without his express permission, which is rarely given. I don’t think he has ever even consented to be interviewed.

“All in all, he’s a bit of a riddle. That’s about all that I can tell you.”

“You say it’s difficult to get to see him ― how do you know that? What’s to stop people just going to the door?”

“When I found out who I was looking for, I asked a few friends, and they provided the information. If you want to try going to his door, fine. From what I’ve been told, you’ll need a battering-ram to force the door open ― unless, of course, Hayter invites you there...and if he does, I’d think twice before accepting.”

“What d’you mean? Is there any reason I shouldn’t go there?” Tony was getting caught in the conspiratorial tone adopted by Peterson without even realising it.

“Put it this way. I’d feel more than a little peculiar visiting someone whom I haven’t seen since early childhood, who’s never taken any pains to be associated with me throughout my entire life, who wouldn’t even attend his own nephew’s funeral, who lives in seclusion, and is an acknowledged authority on the occult.

“I think I’d stay away: occult mysteries are out of my league. Jesus, the time! I’ve got a client to meet.” He stood abruptly. “Goodbye, Mr. Baron, I hope I’ve been of some use ― I’ll send you my bill.”

Peterson grabbed his briefcase and fled out of the house, leaving Tony with conflicting feelings. He struggled to take in the knowledge that his Great-Uncle Robert was none other than George Hayter. At the same time, a strange sense of creeping fear began to pervade his mind at the very thought of meeting him.

That fear was to remain with Tony for some time, mostly at a subconscious level, and was to trigger his temper at times when he would normally have let his perverse nature seek humour in adversity. Perhaps its most insidious consequence would be to cause a hesitation. That hesitation, depending on Tony’s own reaction, would cause the death of either a hated enemy ― or of somebody close. In actuality, it was Tony’s equivalent of the Sword of Damocles, although he was completely unaware of it in that sense.

Tony glanced quickly at his watch. The rhythmic whick-whack of the windscreen wipers a hypnotic whisper, urging him to sleep. He tried to shut the noise out of his consciousness, concentrating on driving, keeping his speed within reason, given that the snow was still coming down thickly, covering everything with a frozen white glow. Taking advantage of a red traffic light (which, considering the amount of traffic abroad, seemed more than a little redundant), Tony grasped a cigarette, lit it, and breathed out a breath of fog in a gesture which seemed to say, ‘I needed that’.

As he accelerated through the junction (although that seemed too grand a name for the crossing where some Council had decided traffic lights should be erected), Tony again glanced at Margaret, and found her looking at him, smiling slightly.

“Thanks for offering me one,” she said, punching his shoulder in mock-seriousness. “How much longer?”

“Another hour or so and we should be able to stop for the night.” Tony grinned at her, “Bored?”

“Yes, and bloody uncomfortable ― my backside feels as though it’s flat.”

“Cheer up, I’ll massage it back into the right shape when we reach an inn or whatever they have around here. Who knows, we might just end up with a single room and a double bed...” The sentence trailed off as he noticed the alteration in her features, the confused frown, the subtle impression that he had reminded her of things that she didn’t want to bring to mind. She turned her face away from him, saying nothing, not having to, and looked dejectedly through the window.

Tony sighed; he’d never been able to guard everything he said all day of every day ― even when being light-hearted and only half-serious, he knew he had to be careful what he said. Margaret’s reaction to his attempt at levity irritated him.

He noticed the snow falling less heavily than it had been, and dismissing Margaret from his thoughts, he accelerated gently, falling back into his musings about George Hayter.

Having his Great-Uncle’s location, Tony remembered his reluctance to confront him. He had no reason not to do so, but a weird feeling of reticence constrained him to do nothing.

Indeed, he now felt no real reason to confront Hayter, as he had done at the time of his parents’ funeral. His anger had dulled itself into a vague resentment which, strangely, bordered on curiosity.

Tony found it difficult to equate the great George Hayter with his Great-Uncle ― it seemed so improbable. For years he had studied occultism.  His basic ― and a large proportion of his advanced ― studies had been completed using Hayter’s material as a foundation. Through many a night, grappling with the esoteric mysteries of the Cabbala, Hayter, like a mentor, had shown him the way forward.

It was as though an unseen guardian had suddenly materialised just for him ― but Tony didn’t believe in such coincidence. Although he didn’t understand how or why, he knew, with a deep certainty, that there was a purpose in this discovery.