Ghosts of War: A Tale of the Ghost Page 6

  Gabriel shook his head, attempting to dislodge the last, clinging vestiges of his dream. It had seemed so real, so vivid. It felt as if he'd actually been back there, in the skies above France, feeling the wind in his hair, his nostrils filled with the heady scent of the engines, hearing nothing above the roaring din of the propellers. And those eyes, those huge, disembodied eyes, staring at him across the void, taunting him, willing him on. Encouraging him to break away, to turn his plane around and soar off into the pale blue skies, to leave that wasteland of death and destruction far behind.

  He'd wanted so much to do that, then, to flee from the barking guns, from the corpses of his dead comrades, from the promise of nothing but further death and destruction.

  He had stayed, of course, and he had killed, and he had watched everyone he cared about die in those miserable trenches, eking out their last days up to their ankles in filthy rainwater, surrounded by shit and blood and rotting body parts, knowing that any day it might be their turn to die. That they would be next to fall, to become food for the ravens that flocked to the wastelands where their friends and brothers lay still and dead, their unseeing eyes staring all the way up to Heaven.

  Constantly, those eyes had watched him, judging him, staring right through to his soul.

  Gabriel shuddered. He had never told anyone about what he'd seen up there, in the skies over France. They'd probably tell him he was mad, or that the stress of the war had caused him to hallucinate, to imagine things that weren't really there: a representation of his subconscious mind as it tried to deal with the nightmarish things he had witnessed. That it was the guilt and the paranoia, the thought of being judged for the things he'd had to do, the lives he'd been forced to take. They might even have been right.

  Gabriel knew, though, with a clarity that he had rarely known, that what he'd seen up there in the sky had been real. Those strange, shimmering eyes on the horizon, like golden orbs, had been there for him. He had no idea what they were, where they had come from, but nevertheless, he was sure of it. He had seen them time and again when he'd been up there, flying above the clouds.

  At first, disturbed, he'd flown toward them, imagining they'd resolve into some feature of the distant landscape, or that he'd realize they were nothing but reflected light in the hazy distance, but no matter what he had done, how he had approached them, they had always remained the same, unblinking, unmoving, just hanging there, watching him, seeing right through him to the core of what he was. He'd never felt so exposed, so open and raw, as when he'd been confronted by those eyes. Not until he'd met Celeste. Celeste had looked at him the same way, as though she'd been able to read his innermost thoughts, as though she understood him better than he understood himself.

  Sighing, Gabriel slid out from beneath the eiderdown and padded to the bathroom. He realized when he grabbed for the doorknob that his palms were bleeding from little sickle-shaped cuts where his nails had dug into his flesh. He must have been bunching his fists in his sleep whilst he relived the dogfight.

  As he stood under the shower and let the steaming water play over his skin, Gabriel could still see the face of the dead gunner, the slack-jawed expression of surprise, the blood leaking from numerous bullet wounds in his throat.

  He hung his head, pressing his palms against the tiled wall.

  Gabriel's body was an atlas of scars. Each one told a different story, from the thick, ropy welts that ran all the way from his left breast to the soft flesh beneath his arm, to the gunshot wound in his abdomen, to the tiny puncture marks in his thighs. Women, over the years, had traced these scars with their fingertips, intrigued and appalled, fascinated to discover that this man who had taken them to his bed had more depth than they had ever imagined. Gabriel had lived. He had lived more than most people would ever live, and in the course of that life he had been to hell and back. He wasn't proud of what he had done—in fact, in his darker moments he abhorred himself for his actions—but he had learned to live with them. They were like a shadow that he couldn't shake, and the scars were his reminder.

  Every day he would look upon his ravaged body in the mirror, and he would remember. Then he would dress and cover himself up. He would slip into the persona of Gabriel Cross and surround himself with people, and once again he would try to forget his past.

  Yet Gabriel's mind was also a map of scars, and these were harder to discern, and harder still to disguise.

  He wondered sometimes what it was that had caused him to fracture, to wake up one day and decide that the life he was living was nothing but a trivial fantasy, that everything that comprised Gabriel Cross was a lie. That first time, just a few months ago, when he had donned the black suit and trench coat and ventured out into the city had been so liberating, so real.

  It wasn't power that attracted him, nor the desire to inflict or receive violence. He'd seen enough of that in his short time to last a lifetime. No, it was something else entirely. Something to do with being truthful, with letting the world see everything that those strange floating orbs had once seen, all those years ago in the skies above France. Something to do with accessing that part of his mind he had once closed off and sealed away, swearing he would never reveal it again, not even to himself. Something to do with revealing himself, exposing the real man, the man he had buried in France over a decade earlier. And it was also something to do with the city.

  He couldn't bear to watch the city slide into turmoil and corruption without doing something to try to prevent it. Protecting the city gave him a purpose, a reason to be alive. When he was the Ghost, he could feel again. The numbness was banished, just for those few hours.

  Gabriel stepped out of the shower, dripping all over the bathroom floor. For a few moments he considered going back to bed. It was still early, and he'd been late getting back from the city. But then the scent of cooking eggs and bacon stirred his stomach, and he reached for a towel.

  Perhaps he needed the party back? Perhaps that was it. If he surrounded himself with people again, he might feel more alive. But those people couldn't bring back Celeste. Hers was the only face he looked for in the crowds.

  At Christmas, the last time he'd thrown open his doors for the interlopers, he had thought for a moment he had seen her there, standing in the doorway of the drawing room, dressed in a glossy red dress that matched her hair, beaming at him, an unfiltered cigarette clutched between the fingers of her right hand.

  When he had looked again, she had gone, and in her place stood another of those mindless girls who swished around in their party frocks, searching for oblivion, wishing only for someone to come and take them and fuck them and help them drink until they were sick. Only then would they feel able to tell their friends they'd had a “swinging time” at the party, that the other girls were missing out and that they “really must come along next time, there's a heated pool, you know! Be sure to bring a costume.”

  Gabriel hadn't been able to look the woman in the eye.

  As he dressed, pulling on his usual black suit and white shirt, leaving it open at the collar, Gabriel remembered Ginny.

  What had she been doing here, stretched out on his bed when he'd returned from the city? How had she known he would come here after all these weeks?

  In her way, Ginny was as damaged as he was. That much had become clear the other day, after the boxing match, when he'd taken her for a drink. It had always been there, of course, but he'd never thought to ask, never even tried to understand her. As far as he'd been concerned, Ginny was just another part of the lie that was Gabriel's life, along with the parties and the fast cars and the booze.

  At the time he hadn't seen the truth, hadn't realized what he could have had. Only later had that realization come, and by then it was already too late.

  Ginny had tried to know him once, to truly know him. Foolishly, he had locked her out, always keeping her at arm's length. She had stuck with him for some months, but after a while, worn down by the constant barriers, she had given up. Whether she'd decided she
would never be able to get close to him, or that there was, in fact, nothing beneath that shiny veneer of Gabriel Cross, he didn't know. Whatever the case—one way or another he had lost her because he hadn't allowed her to get close.

  Now, though, she was back. Had she seen something different in him, this time? Had he given her a glimmer of hope? He wasn't sure that he wanted that. He certainly didn't want her pity. Yet something inside him wanted her to know he'd been wrong, all those years ago. That much was clear to him: this time there would be no secrets. No lies.

  She was still drinking. After the match the other day she'd dragged him to a speakeasy around the corner, a sleazy joint with sticky floors beneath a flower shop, where the barman knew her and had cracked open a bottle before opening time so she could have a drink. She'd polished off nearly a full bottle of gin, drinking it straight over ice, and Gabriel had had to practically manhandle her back to her rented apartment at three in the afternoon.

  Now, he could hear her voice drifting up the stairs, chattering away to Henry as he fixed her breakfast. He was probably grateful of the company. He'd been left out here, looking after the old house, while Gabriel had been living—hiding—in the city. Gabriel had offered to take Henry with him, of course, but the butler was having none of it, preferring to keep to his routines, perhaps knowing that it was only a matter of time before Gabriel deemed it appropriate to return.

  Of course, Henry didn't know anything about what had really happened before Christmas, but he knew about Celeste, had even helped Gabriel to bury her in the family mausoleum when he'd proved unable to locate any records of her family.

  Henry was a rock, and more than anyone he'd understood the need to give Gabriel space, to allow him to mourn in his own way.

  Gabriel didn't know what had made him return to Long Island last night. He'd haunted the rooftops of the city for hours, searching for any sign of the raptors, but in the end had been disappointed. He'd stopped a petty thief from getting away with a shopkeeper's takings around midnight, but other than that the streets had seemed unusually quiet. He supposed Commissioner Montague's advice to remain indoors must have been taken to heart.

  Still, he was here now, and he wasn't about to miss out on one of Henry's famous breakfasts. He descended the stairs, listening to the banter coming from the breakfast room. It sounded like Ginny was in good spirits, and Henry was clearly taken with her, just as he had been three years ago when she'd been around all the time, the life and soul of the party.

  Gabriel crossed the hall and then, keen not to make too much of an entrance, walked straight into the breakfast room and dropped into a chair at the table, opposite Ginny. “I don't suppose there're any more of those eggs going spare, Henry?” He beamed up at his old friend, who was standing just to the left of Ginny, dressed in his usual immaculate black suit. “And perhaps a side of toast?”

  Henry turned to stare at him, a startled expression on his old, careworn face. This soon gave way to a warm smile, however, and he inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Good morning, sir. I'd be only too pleased to rustle something up.” He offered Ginny a short, polite bow and then turned and strode off in the direction of the kitchen. Clearly, Gabriel thought, Henry hadn't realized that he'd slipped in during the early hours, and hadn't seen the car parked around the back.

  He turned to Ginny, who was leaning back in her chair, a wide grin on her face. She looked perfectly groomed, even for this time in the morning. Her hair was set in a smart bob, and she peered out at him from beneath a severe, but not unattractive, fringe. She was wearing a pink dress that revealed the tops of her arms. It wasn't the same dress she'd been sleeping in the previous night when he'd discovered her on his bed, so, he realized, she must have brought a bag. Sly old Henry, inviting her to spend the night. Gabriel wondered what she'd told him. She was still grinning. “What is it? Why are you grinning like that?”

  Ginny emitted a heartfelt laugh and reached for the bloody mary on the table. It was her second of the day—he could tell by the empty glass that Henry had forgotten to clear away in his haste. “I knew it!” she exclaimed, taking a long swig of the drink. “I just knew you'd come back to the house last night!”

  Gabriel frowned. Was he really that predictable?

  “Why didn't you wake me?” she asked, as if she already knew the answer and was wondering what he would say. She placed her drink back on the table and leaned forward, listening intently.

  “I found you asleep on my bed. So I did the gentlemanly thing and slept in the guest room.”

  Ginny laughed again, and her blue eyes flashed with amusement. “Oh, Gabriel,” her shoulders slumped in mock disappointment, “I didn't want you to be a gentleman.”

  Gabriel felt himself flush red. He didn't know quite what to say. Thankfully, Ginny stepped in and saved him. “So, how about it?”

  “How about what?” For a moment he wondered if she was getting at…

  “A party, of course! Just like the old times. You know, everyone drunk and dancing and raising cahoots. It'll be fun! What d'ya say?” She seemed so excited by the idea that he didn't have the heart to say no. And, besides, he was relieved the subject had moved on from their bedroom arrangements.

  “All right, Ginny. We'll have a party. Tonight, if you like. But first—you still haven't told me why you came back.” His head was spinning with all the questions he wanted to ask her, but this seemed like the most important place to start.

  Ginny snatched up her bloody mary. “Well…I…” She was saved by the reappearance of Henry, who shuffled into the room bearing two silver platters, each containing a plate heaped with eggs, bacon, and slices of toast.

  “Henry!” Ginny almost shouted, the relief evident in her voice.

  “We're going to have a party! Tonight, right here at the house. Isn't that wonderful?”

  Henry issued a heartfelt sigh. “Are we indeed, Miss Gray.” He caught Gabriel's eye, a weary expression on his face. But Gabriel could tell he was secretly delighted. The house was going to be full of people again, buzzing with life. Henry thrived on that. For all his complaints, all the work it created, he loved it when the house was full of people. Perhaps, thought Gabriel, the party was what Henry needed, too. Perhaps it was what they all needed.

  “Shall I make the necessary arrangements then, sir?” Henry asked, carefully placing the silver tray down before Gabriel.

  Gabriel nodded. “I think it would be rather a shame to disappoint Miss Gray, Henry, don't you?”

  Henry raised an eyebrow at this. “And may I be so bold as to enquire, sir—are you planning to stay?”

  Gabriel speared a forkful of bacon. “I rather think I am, Henry, yes.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The creature in the pit was hungry. That much was clear from the way it was thrashing about, slamming its proboscis against the walls and snapping its many jaws in frustration.

  Abraham hated the noises it made when it did that. Sooner or later he'd have to teach it a lesson. If he'd had a more ready supply of the solution he used to control it, slowly withering its tentacled limbs to keep it in check, he'd have done so already. As it was, he'd have to put up with the noise for a while longer, at least until he'd finished making the necessary alterations to his leg. Then he'd be able to give it something to eat.

  Abraham was sitting at the back of his makeshift workshop down by the docks, converted from an old boat-builder's hangar. It was cold, drafty, and damp, but, Abraham had to admit, his patrons had provided him with everything he needed. For a man in his position, he lived a life of relative comfort. And besides, he was surrounded by his many pets.

  Currently, he had his leg up on the workbench before him, peering at it through a large magnifying lens strapped to his head. He'd detached the mechanical limb in order to repair one of the servos in the knee joint, and for the last hour had been having trouble getting the new components to work. He cursed loudly when, after introducing a slight electrical charge, the limb began to spasm, as if o
perating under its own free will. Nuts and bolts scattered to the floor all around him as Abraham fought to keep the crazed limb under control. After a moment, the spasm subsided. He set about making another adjustment with his screwdriver.

  Abraham Took was a leper. This was evident to anyone who saw him from less than a few feet away: his face was blemished by unsightly lesions that had caused his flesh to swell and bloat, leaving him with a permanent, heavy frown and the gnarled, withered look of a man twice his age. However, what people tended to notice first upon encountering Abraham Took was the fact that he was now considerably more machine than he was man.

  Abraham Took had spent the last three years slowly, steadily, rebuilding himself. This, in part, was a result of his progressive disease, rather than a simple fashion or fetish with mechanization. It had started with the growing numbness in his left hand as the disease took hold of the appendage, effectively rendering the entire arm useless to him, preventing him from carrying on with his work. For weeks Abraham had struggled on, carrying the limb around like a dead, useless weight, unable even to use it to help him eat, or to hold open doors. Then, one day, whilst assembling the components of one of his raptors, he had struck upon the idea of replacing the limb altogether.

  It had seemed like a radical idea at the time, but his work fusing human bone to the metal skeletons of his pets had meant he already had an idea of how to go about achieving his aim. And it gave him hope. The disease was slowly stealing his identity, smothering him, hiding him away inside a body that refused to behave as it was told. This was how he could fight back. This was his means of stealing victory from the arms of defeat.

  Abraham had spent the next week constructing the new limb, improving on his older designs, adding further articulation and precision control, fashioning the hand and fingers to be as close an approximation to the original limb as possible.