Obsidian Mirror

3

I first met him on a remote glacier in the high Andes. A friend and I were climbing and had gotten into trouble; we had frostbite and the weather had closed in. We curled in a snow-hole, freezing. Late in the night I heard a sound outside, so I crawled out. The wind was an icy rattle against my goggles.

Through the mist I saw a man walking. At first I thought he was some creature of the snow, a phantom of the tundra.

I must have been in a state of delirium because I called out that he was an angel.

His laugh was harsher than the wind. “My name’s Venn,” he said. “And I’m no angel.”

Jean Lamartine, The Strange Life of Oberon Venn

JAKE GAZED OUT of the plane window at the blue sky.

Far below, the snowfields of the Alps glittered a brilliant white; the plane’s tiny shadow moved over glaciers and secret valleys where only explorers would ever venture.

Explorers like Venn.

He focused on his own blurred image in the glass. The plan had worked. He was out of the school forever. He felt strangely tired, though he should be elated. After all, there was no one at Compton’s he cared about. He had said good-bye to them all with cool politeness, and then been driven away. Davies and Alec and even Patten had watched him go, standing in a silent group on the steps. He hadn’t looked back.

They were probably at games by now. They’d probably forgotten all about him.

Fine. But there was still a problem, and it was a big one.

Wharton was sitting next to him, reading a book. Jake watched the man’s reflection. Big for a teacher. Ex-rugby international. Having him along was not an option. He’d have to get rid of him as soon as possible.

As if it was Jake’s mind he was reading, Wharton turned a page and muttered, “Whatever you’re planning, forget it. I’m coming with you to the very door of the Abbey.”

“I can look after myself. I’m sure you want to get back to glamorous Shepton Mallet.”

“I do.” Wharton looked up. “But the Head’s instructions were crystal. Hand the scheming little brat over personally.”

Jake almost smiled.

Wharton watched him. Then he put a marker in the book and laid it on the fold-down table. “So, are you going to tell me what this is all about? This ridiculous…”

“It’s not ridiculous.”

“Murder? A man like Venn? Come on! You’ll have to convince me.”

Jake held himself still, but the old cold anger crept over him. “What do you know about him? Only what you read in the news. Venn the Boy’s Own hero. Don’t you think someone like that—out there in the wilds, on the edge of survival—don’t you think he could kill if he had to?”

“I suppose it’s possible.” Wharton watched the boy’s reflection. “Tell me about him.”

Jake was silent a moment. Then he said, “I’ve read everything on him I can find. He was the best. Explorer, mountaineer. Doctorate in plate tectonics. Virtuoso violinist. Collector of Cycladic pottery. You name it, he’s done it.”

Wharton nodded. “I’ve seen him in a few things on TV. A series on volcanoes.” Venn’s rugged face, his ice-blue eyes and dragged-back tangle of blond hair were familiar from documentaries and interviews. “A very intense man, I remember. Driven.”

Jake laughed, but it was a mirthless laugh. “Good word. But his life crashed. Four years ago he was driving a hired car along a narrow coast road in Italy. His wife was in the car with him. There was some sort of accident—an oncoming truck. The car went down the cliff. Venn survived. His wife, Leah, didn’t.”

The cold, cruel way he said it made Wharton very uneasy. “That’s a terrible thing for a man to have to live with.”

Jake shrugged. “He was in the hospital for weeks. When he came out he seemed to have been like a different person. No photos, no interviews. He sold his London flat and went and holed up at Wintercombe Abbey, an old place deep in Devon that’s belonged to his family for centuries. He set up some sort of secret project and works on it obsessively. He never leaves the estate or speaks to anyone outside. Except my father, David Wilde.”

Now we’re coming to it, Wharton thought. But he kept his voice neutral. “His best friend.”

Jake nodded. He kept his eyes on the sky. “They’d been friends since they were kids. Been in some bad situations together. Dad used to say he was the only one Venn trusted.”

“And where were you at this time?”

“Home. We lived in London. Dad and Mum had just split—well, at least they were still talking at that stage.”

Wharton waited for more. When it didn’t come, he said gently, “I wondered why you didn’t live with your mother, after…”

“She’s too busy in the U.S.” Jake’s answer was curt. “She doesn’t want me messing up her new life.”

“Would you like something to drink, sir?” The air hostess was bending over him, the trolley blocking the narrow aisle. Wharton was glad of the interruption; he took his time choosing a glass of wine and a Coke for Jake. All this explained a lot, he thought, cracking the lid and pouring. The boy’s cool unconcern was just front. He must be bitterly wounded underneath.

When the trolley had rattled away Jake pulled out earphones, so Wharton said hastily, “You were saying…about murder.”

Jake had one earphone in. He pulled it out and stared ahead. Then he said, “In July of the year following the accident, Dad went to stay at the Abbey for some important phase of the project. I asked about it, but Dad wouldn’t talk. ‘Top secret’ he used to say, but he was really excited, I could tell. I got the feeling that it might be dangerous. I wanted to go with him but he said Venn says no kids. So I ended up staying with my cousins in St. Ives. It was okay—the beach and all that—but I missed him. He was away two weeks, then three, then four. At first there were phone calls, e-mails. He was careful not to give anything away. I remember him saying something once about a mirror, and then stopping himself. As if he shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“A mirror?”

“Yes. ‘Of course, the mirror’s giving any number of weird results.’ When I asked him what he meant, he changed the subject. I got the feeling someone had come into the room, or was there with him. He laughed. I remember that clearly because it was the last time I ever spoke to him.”

Wharton kept silent. Jake took a breath. Then he said, “There were no more calls. When we called the Abbey all we got was voicemail. After three weeks of that my aunt got worried. She called the police. They went there and spoke to Venn. He said my father had left the Sunday before to catch the nine thirty train to London. But he wasn’t on the Plymouth station CCTV, and he never arrived in London. And since that day, no one has set eyes on him. My father just vanished from the face of the earth.”

Wharton had no idea what to say. He sipped the wine, barely noticing the sharp taste, and put the glass down. The plane veered, and the glass slid gently toward the edge of the table. He caught it. “So, you were left all alone.”

Jake drank some Coke. “I stayed on at my aunt’s for a while, but it was awkward. Then she had a call from Venn. He said as he was my godfather, he’d take responsibility for me. He arranged for the school in Switzerland. Expensive. And as far away from him as possible.” He turned, suddenly urgent. “You see what he was doing? Paying a fortune to keep me away. Because he killed Dad.”

“Keep your voice down.” Wharton looked around anxiously. A dark-haired man across the aisle had glanced at them from behind his newspaper. “You can’t just go around making wild accusations.”

“Why not?”

“What on earth would be his motive?”

“This thing they were working on! My father knew too much.”

“Highly unlikely. And you have no evidence of—”

“Yes I have.” The words were very quiet, but they were bitter as acid. Wharton felt a small shiver travel down his spine.

“What do you mean?”

Jake looked at him. “Swear you’ll never tell anyone.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake…”

“Swear.”

“What is this? Hamlet? All right, I swear.”

Jake kept his eyes on him. Then he pulled out a small wallet from his pocket. Wharton stared at it. It was made of some dark leather, very worn and stained.

“Was that your father’s?”

“Yes. He always kept it with him. He used to say it was crocodile skin, and that he and Venn had killed the croc one time in Africa, when it was terrorizing some village. It meant a lot to him.” Jake opened it; he took out a photo and a sheet of paper. “Last term a parcel came for me through the post. I don’t know who sent it. The postmark was British. These were inside.” Reluctant, he handed Wharton the paper. “It’s definitely my father’s writing.”

Fascinated, Wharton took out his glasses and put them on. The letter was very short and had obviously been written in a hurry. The writing was scrawled; in places the pen had broken through the paper.

Wintercombe Abbey

Sunday 14th August

Dear Jake,

Not sure if I’ll get this to the post; it’s a bit of a walk to the village, so I may leave it till tomorrow. Sorry not to have called—we’ve been incredibly busy with the Chronoptika.

I can’t tell you how fascinating it is, and what success we’ve already had! If all goes well tonight, we should go public, whatever O says.

It will blow the scientific world wide open! Here’s a little present for you. O wouldn’t approve, but I can’t resist sending it. See you in a few days, promise.

Love always,

Dad

He folded it slowly and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Jake. Really sorry.”

Jake took the note back, silent.

“O is short for Oberon, I suppose?”

“Dad always called him that. But you see the important thing?”

Wharton shook his head.

“The date.” Jake laid the note on the table and tapped it with his forefinger. “The fourteenth is the day Venn says my father took the train to London. But this is headed Wintercombe—he was still there when he wrote it, and it’s clear he wasn’t going anywhere.”

Wharton read the central sentence again. If all goes well tonight, we should go public. “They were planning some sort of event that night.”

“Experiment. With this thing he calls the Chronoptika.”

“What is that?”

“No idea.” Jake stared ahead, brooding. “I think things did go well, and Venn wanted the discovery for himself. Maybe they argued. Maybe he killed my father to keep him quiet.”

It was bizarre. Wharton shook his head. “You’re just looking for someone to blame.”

Jake snatched the letter up and folded it, his fingers shaking with anger. “Right. Forget it.” He jammed the earphones in and turned away, hunched up in the seat.

“Jake. Jake, listen…”

No answer. The man opposite was watching again, a handsome man, who turned his face quickly aside. Tugging out one of Jake’s earphones, Wharton said quietly, “Show me the photograph.”

Jake didn’t move. I’ve lost him, Wharton thought. But then Jake took the photo out and pushed it across the table.

Wharton turned it. It was a small grainy image, black-and-white, snapped with some ancient camera.

A tall man in a camel coat smiled out. He looked enough like Jake for Wharton to be sure this was David Wilde. He was standing on a street. Old-fashioned London buses and a taxi were visible behind him. He was holding up a newspaper.

“I wish I had a magnifying glass. I can’t make out the headline.”

“It says Beatles Storm America. The date is 1965.”

Wharton frowned. “Sixty-five? Even I was only a kid then. Your father…”

“Wasn’t even born.” Jake picked the photo up. “I don’t get it. It must be some mock-up, but why? And why send it to me?”

“He didn’t post it, clearly. Someone else did. Someone who waited two years after his…disappearance.”

“Death.”

“You don’t know that.”

Jake’s stare was bleak, and Wharton saw the fear behind it. “He’s my father. Something terrible has happened to him, because otherwise he would have called. He wouldn’t just have abandoned me. I know.”

Warning lights pinged. “Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seat belts,” a voice said smoothly. “We are about to begin our descent.”

Wharton was glad of the chance to think. He wasn’t sure what to do about any of this. And why in God’s name hadn’t the Head told him about the boy’s father? At least he would have been prepared.

As the plane banked steeply and dropped through a long bumpy glide to Heathrow, he watched the clouds fleeting past and felt the deceleration build like an ache in his muscles. There was no question—he’d have to stay with Jake as far as Wintercombe Abbey. Someone needed to be there when the boy and his godfather met. Anything might happen, with this crazy stupid idea Jake had stuck in his mind.

Because, of course, it was crazy.

The plane touched, lifted, then bumped down hard. Wharton clutched the arms of his chair in rigid terror. He didn’t mind flying, but he loathed landing.

And there was one thing he couldn’t explain, that was an oddity in the whole mess. The photograph. What was the point of the photograph?

In the baggage hall they tugged the suitcases off the carousel and piled them on a trolley. Wharton reached for Jake’s backpack.

“No, I’ll take that.” Jake snatched the bag up quickly onto his back. But as he adjusted it, it made a strange, sleepy squeak. Wharton’s eyes widened.

“Oh no. Don’t tell me…. You couldn’t have.”

Jake shrugged. The backpack squeaked again. Wharton pulled the top open and looked in. A small furry heap of limbs disentangled itself and peered up at him. The monkey’s eyes were black-pupiled. It yawned.

He shut the bag instantly and glanced around.

“Don’t panic.” Jake pushed the trolley away calmly.

“Panic! What about quarantine? Rabies! Have you any idea of the absolute hoo-ha if you’d been caught.”

“Well, I wasn’t, was I. The vet gave me something to keep him asleep. He was fine.”

“But a monkey!”

“He’s not a monkey. He’s a marmoset.”

The casual arrogance was back, and it left Wharton furious.

“I don’t care if it’s a bloody aardvark. And we’ve got to go through customs!”

Jake shrugged. “It’ll be easy this end.” He eyed the teacher with dark amusement. “Venn can pay the fee, if they catch us.”

Trailing behind, Wharton sweated through the long corridors and moving walkways, and when they were waved through by a bored official, he felt as much relief as if he’d been smuggling diamonds.

Outside the airport, Jake opened the bag and the marmoset crept sleepily out and wound its arms lovingly around his neck. Its fur was a lustrous brown. It stared at Wharton like a baby stares, with total indifference.

“I wasn’t leaving him at that pit of a school,” Jake muttered. They stood in the taxi line, everyone staring at the animal.

“Put it away,” Wharton hissed.

“Him. His name is Horatio.”

By the time they got to their taxi, the thing was wide-awake and eating grapes. The driver looked at it doubtfully. “If that beast makes a mess…”

“Just get us to Paddington Station.” Wharton tossed the cases in, climbed after them, and sat on the warm squeaky seat, breathing in the smells and fumes of London. After Switzerland it felt like breathing fog. Glancing back, he saw the man who had been sitting opposite them in the plane was just behind in the queue; for a second their eyes met, and he was shocked at the deep scar that disfigured the man’s left cheek.

Their car edged out into the raging traffic.

“I can manage on my own after Paddington,” Jake said, without hope.

Wharton shook his head. “No chance.”

“I could bribe you.”

“I’m incorruptible. Just keep that thing out of my pocket.”

Under the garish Christmas lights, they crept through gridlocked London. Far behind, deep in the traffic, a taxi slowly followed them.