Finn Fowler stands by an arched window with his arms folded. It’s barely noticeable that his jaw tightens while his face remains passive. His wife’s chatelaine mocks him, and the keys hanging from its chains sing a terrible chorus whenever she moves.
‘But that’s not true, is it Clovis?’ Rafe picks at a thread in the leather cushion.
‘It is true.’
He stands and faces her. They have the same auburn hair, the same high cheekbones and full lips, but all similarities end there. Rafe’s glare pierces the reproachful, examining regard of the woman he refuses to call ‘Mother’.
‘It’s a caution to be more careful. Nothing more,’ Clovis says.
‘And what if it’s not?’ A hint of panic cracks Rafe’s voice.
‘Are we going to die?’ Willa asks.
‘No one’s going to die.’ Clovis remains steady.
Rafe observes how small and delicate Willa looks. He notices she seeks solace from the white jade token that she fingers in her pocket and he winces at the memory.
‘How many phials do we have left?’ Finn finds his voice.
Clovis considers her response; normally she wouldn’t bother to answer him, but she needs to quash the rising panic that threatens to fill the room.
‘We have enough for now. And there’s Mockett to consider. Perhaps now you’ll be more appreciative of the efforts I’ve insisted he makes on our behalf.’ The hint of an accent floats softly through her speech, her voice remains steady.
How remarkable it is that Clovis appears unmoved. Her earlier private annoyance with the letter has evaporated. No – what Clovis feels is quite the opposite of fear. A satisfaction flows through her like the warmed whisky and honey her husband once prepared for her when she first arrived in this country, its burning sensation, trickling down her throat in sweet heat. Tonight she smells their fear and senses their unease. They each revealed their hand this evening. How badly they want to live! After all their bravado, all their efforts to convince her otherwise, they still crave life.
Remarkably, the Fowler household seems a typical one, and, in a way, they have fashioned their own quotidian lives. The house, though not a grand property, affords privacy and even a small measure of clout.
The street itself is quite dull considering its central London location. Magdalen Street supports no businesses, no convenience stores, not even a cafe or pub. As a key holder street, the people who walk its pavement do so only if they live in it. Each morning the residents disperse into the neighbouring streets anonymously, rushing to purchase their coffee on busier thoroughfares. Pasty-faced bankers and young, trendy professionals, a scattering of the semiretired who live out their last few years in east London before they retire to Kent – all these share the buildings of Magdalen.
It was an accident of fate that the Fowlers discovered this property, one that affords them a semblance of seclusion. When they first arrived in Bermondsey it was a god forsaken place, but Magdalen is a safe street now – as safe as any can be. Its transient nature is a boon to them, but that too was down to luck and not careful planning. No one asks questions of a familial nature in this corner of Bermondsey. No one asks questions at all, unless they’re lost tourists searching for what remains of the antique market.
This evening, behind the doors of Number 9 Magdalen Street, they speak aloud of phials and death. Each of them wants nothing more than to disperse, to retreat to their own private space, where they can discard their masks and allow this latest news to sink in properly.
They wait until Clovis leaves the room before they stir, then they watch her climb the stairs and hear her steps clipping down the hall to her office. Finn motions to Rafe and Willa to remain quiet, pointing upstairs, until he hears her office door close.
Clovis locks the door then pauses a moment with her back against its wide wooden frame. No, this can’t wait until tomorrow, she thinks. She removes the chatelaine and returns it to the safe. Standing at the window that offers a view of the back of the property, where the rooftop of Finn’s workroom hides beneath the snarled empty limbs of a tree, she searches on her phone for a name in her speeddial listing.
‘Hello, Clovis.’ Owen Mockett makes an effort to disguise his irritation.
‘I’m coming by.’
‘Now?’
‘It’s urgent.’
Mockett closes his eyes, summoning patience.
‘Of course. The letter. I’ll see you shortly.’
Downstairs, before she leaves, Clovis turns to the three people whose lives are entwined with hers, who, when they look at her, cannot conceal their impatience for her to go. The way the blood rushes to Finn’s face when he spots the car keys in her hand seals the coldness she feels.
Seated in her car, she’s certain they will search the house as they always do whenever she’s out. They will not find the phials. A splinter of a smile crosses her face. Clovis drives away secure and undaunted by the letter’s news.
She steers slowly through the portal of the Rotherhithe Tunnel. It’s like a claustrophobic carnival ride, this narrow road under the Thames, demanding the constant negotiation of oncoming vehicles that pass only inches away. She takes the sharp bend where it goes under the riverbed and presses the horn in frustration.
She checks the time with a conceited smile, knowing that Finn has already begun to search his workroom. Five minutes later, when she pulls up to a single-storey warehouse on Copenhagen Place, she is just as confident that Willa and Rafe will be riffling through every inch of her office. Their predictability bores her.
When Owen Mockett sees Clovis’s car on the security monitor he takes a deep breath and releases the gate. He stands by while she parks, and waits for her request for entry into the
