‘The voice of experience,’ joked Max.
‘Well, yes…’
‘I think we shouldn’t talk about it any more until tomorrow,’ Alicia suggested after a pause. ‘A good night’s sleep will help us see things more clearly. That’s what my father always says.’
‘And who’s going to sleep tonight after a story like that?’ Max blurted out.
‘Your sister’s right,’ said Roland.
‘Creep,’ Max shot back.
‘Changing the subject, I was planning to go diving again tomorrow. I might get back the sextant someone dropped the other day…’ Roland stated.
Max was trying to think of a crushing reply – he thought it was a terrible idea to go diving around the Orpheus once more – but Alicia answered first.
‘We’ll be there,’ she said softly.
A sixth sense told Max that the plural she had used was just her way of being polite.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ Roland replied, his eyes never leaving Alicia’s face.
‘Hello, I’m here,’ said Max in a singsong voice.
‘See you tomorrow, Max.’ Roland walked off towards his bicycle.
They watched as Roland rode off into the storm, remaining on the porch until his figure had disappeared.
‘You should put on some dry clothes, Max. While you change I’ll make something for dinner,’ Alicia said.
‘You?’ Max retorted. ‘You can’t even cook.’
‘Who said anything about cooking? This isn’t a hotel. In you go,’ ordered Alicia, a wicked smile on her lips.
Max decided to follow her advice and went indoors. The absence of Irina and his parents increased the feeling the house gave him of being an intruder in someone else’s home. It was unusually quiet inside, as if something was missing. As he climbed the stairs towards his bedroom, he realised what it was. The cat. He hadn’t seen Irina’s odious pet for a couple of days now. All things considered, he decided it wasn’t a great loss and put the thought from his mind.
*
True to her word, Alicia didn’t waste a second longer in the kitchen than was strictly necessary. She prepared a few slices of bread with butter and jam, and poured two glasses of milk.
When Max glimpsed the tray with what was supposed to be his dinner, the expression on his face said it all.
‘Not one word,’ Alicia threatened. ‘I didn’t come into this world to spend my life cooking.’
‘You don’t say…’ replied Max, who wasn’t very hungry anyway.
They ate their meal quietly, waiting for the phone to ring with news from the hospital, but the call didn’t come.
‘Perhaps they rang earlier, while we were at the lighthouse,’ Max suggested.
‘Perhaps,’ said Alicia.
Max noticed the worried expression on his sister’s face.
‘If anything had happened, they would have called,’ he argued. ‘Everything will be fine.’
Alicia smiled meekly, confirming to Max his ability to comfort others with arguments that even he didn’t believe.
‘I suppose so,’ she agreed. ‘I’m going to bed. What about you?’
Max downed his milk and pointed towards the kitchen.
‘I’ll be up in a minute, but I think I’ll get something else to eat. I’m starving,’ he lied.
‘On you go. I’m done.’
Max watched his sister disappear upstairs. As soon as he heard Alicia close her bedroom door, Max put down his glass and went off to the shed in search of more films from Jacob Fleischmann’s private collection.
*
Max turned on the projector and the beam of light flooded the wall with the blurred image of what looked like a collection of symbols. Slowly, the picture came into focus and Max realised that what he’d thought were symbols were numbers placed in a circle and that he was looking at the face of a clock. The hands of the clock were still and the shadows they projected onto the face were clear and defined, from which Max inferred that the shot was filmed in full sunlight or at least under an intense source of light. The film continued to show the clock face until, slowly at first and then progressively gathering speed, the hands began to turn anticlockwise. The person operating the camera took a step back and it became clear that the clock was hanging from a chain. A further backward movement of a metre or so revealed that this chain was suspended from a white hand. The hand of a statue.
Max immediately recognised the walled garden that had appeared in the first of Jacob Fleischmann’s films they’d viewed a couple of days ago. As before, the position of the statues was different to how Max remembered it. Now the camera began to move through the figures again, with no cuts or pauses, just as it had in the first film. Every two metres or so the lens closed in on the face of one of the statues. One by one, Max examined the frozen expressions of the circus troupe. He pictured them fighting in vain to escape their horrific deaths in the pitch dark and icy waters of the Orpheus ’s hold.
Finally, almost in slow motion, the camera approached the figure marking the centre of the six-pointed star. The clown. Dr Cain. The Prince of Mist. At his feet Max noticed the motionless shape of a cat stretching a sharp claw in the air. Max, who didn’t recall having seen it when he visited the walled garden, would have bet his life that the uncanny likeness between this stone cat and the creature Irina had adopted at the station was no coincidence. As he stared at the images, with the rain pounding against the windowpanes as the storm moved inland, it was easy to believe the story the lighthouse keeper had told them that afternoon. The malevolent presence of the stone figures was enough to remove any doubt, however reasonable that doubt might have seemed in the light of day.
The camera now closed in on the clown’s face, pausing only half a metre away and remaining there for a few seconds. Max checked the reel: the film was coming to an end. Suddenly, a movement on the screen caught his attention. The stone face was moving, almost imperceptibly. Max stood up and walked over to the wall on which the film was being projected. The pupils of those stone eyes dilated and the lips arched slowly into a cruel smile, laying bare a row of long, sharp teeth, like the fangs of a wolf. Max felt his throat constrict.
An instant later the image disappeared, and Max heard the reel spinning as the film ended.
Max turned off the projector and took a deep breath. Now he believed everything Victor Kray had said, but this didn’t make him feel any better – quite the opposite. He went up to his room and closed the door behind him. Through the window, in the distance, he could just about make out the walled garden. Once again, the stone enclosure was submerged in a dense, impenetrable mist.
That night, however, the darkness didn’t seem to come from the forest, but from within himself. It was as if the mist were nothing other than the frozen breath of Dr Cain, waiting with a smile for the moment of his return.
12
When Max woke the following morning his head felt like a bowl of jelly. From what he could see out of the window the storm was gone and it promised to be a bright, sunny day. He sat up lazily and took his watch from the bedside table. The first thing he thought was that it wasn’t working properly. But when he put it next to his ear he realised that the mechanism was working fine; he was the one who’d lost his bearings. It was twelve noon.
He jumped out of bed and rushed downstairs. There was a note on the dining-room table. He picked it up and read his sister’s spidery writing:
Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,
By the time you read this I’ll be on the beach with Roland. I’ve borrowed your bicycle, hope you don’t mind. I see you went to the movies last night, so I didn’t want to wake you. Dad called first thing and says they still don’t know when they’ll be able to come home. There’s been no change in Irina, but the doctors say she’ll probably be
