the bookcase filled with musty hardbacks, and the two chairs standing on either side of a table with a green leather top – belonged in a museum.
He must have been sitting at his writing desk. He had left its sliding top rolled open and a hardback journal lay closed on the surface, a pen still stuck between the pages.
Prying into someone’s private diary was the worst thing anyone could do. She had kept a diary for three months when she was twelve then gave it up because all her entries had been the same. That was when she lived in the suburbs, of course, and her life was normal. Boring, she had thought at the time, nothing to report. Oh, how she wanted normal back again.
She opened his journal and the pen clattered to the floor. The noise it made sounded like the earth shaking but there was no answering sound, not even a bark from Caesar. His handwriting was wavery but the words were clear. She skimmed the opening page. It was all about dreams and being born a twin. She flicked the pages. Many were still blank and he had made notes at the back of the journal under the heading May be Included. She was about to close the journal when her mother’s name seemed to jump from one of the notes. After that, it was impossible to stop reading.
Sophy is my salvation. Unlike the phoenix, I did not rise in glory from the ashes. I reached towards heaven and found myself in hell. She does not flinch from the reflection I avoid. No mirrors to haunt me and cast my true self back at me. I am alive yet, in truth, I am undead. A phantom. Insubstantial. A man in terror of his own face. A man who does not know if he is walking blindly through a dream or if there is life in him still. Surely that is a state of being undead. I have the blood of strangers in my veins and my grotesque body is the burden I must carry as a reward for life.
The children are unaware of how often I watch them. ‘The Recluse,’ they say. Beware… beware of The Recluse. But what does it matter? Names can’t hurt me, not now. Imagination is gifted to the young. How can we blame them when adults turn it into a tinderbox?
The little one confides her fears into the ear of a statue and pretends they don’t exist. She covers much with antics and laughter but the anger of the elder one is a potent force. If only I could channel it – show her another way – but she fears me too much. When their voices reach me, I am filled with contentment. It is an unfamiliar emotion but not unpleasant. If they are to accept my truth then I must move cautiously. But how can I get them to trust me when I am unable to gaze upon my own blemished features?
Caesar howled. How could she have forgotten what happened on the night of a full moon? She imagined Caesar throwing back his vicious head, saliva drooling between his fangs as he ran through the woods on his hind legs; his claws ripping the bark from trees and the flesh from the terrified night creatures that stood in his way. She closed the journal and ran from the room. Julie was still asleep and didn’t stir when Isobel slipped back into her bed. She was never going back there again, never ever. She could hear him opening his bedroom door. Was he going to come downstairs and release his dog into the woods? She burrowed under the duvet and closed out every sound except the frightened rush of her own breathing.
Chapter Nine
Sophy
The accident occurred while she was driving the girls to Mount Eagle. Victor had given them permission to use the tennis court when he was at work and Sophy was relieved that they had found something enjoyable to do together. Jack had been left alone for only ten minutes but Caesar’s barking alerted her when she opened the back door. Her alarm grew as she hurried up the stairs.
The door of the room next to Jack’s bedroom was open. Part of the ceiling had collapsed and plaster now covered the carpet. Water was leaking in, soaking the dustsheets thrown over the room’s long unused furniture. He had been asleep when she left but he was not in his bedroom