Chapter 1 #2
With his eyes tightly closed, Dariel dreamed.
He dreamed of his first life—always the place his thoughts wandered to before anything else.
He dreamed of Annette, his beautiful wife, and of the cottage they owned in a quiet village up north in the early sixties.
He dreamed of the birds tweeting every morning as he lifted the sash window they always had to keep propped open with a stone from the garden.
He dreamed of the flowers that grew there and the evenings they sat out in odd chairs, looking up at the stars.
Annette always smiled in his dreams, the biggest, brightest beam across her freckled face.
She’d make jokes sometimes, and in others she’d be baking something or occasionally hanging out washing.
His favourite dreams were when they were walking along the canal together, or when they’d take a picnic up to the fields where Annette’s parents lived.
They married young, as you did in those days, but he knew she was everything and more to him, and he wished for an eternity with her.
Then, because no one stopped him, his dreams would wander to that day in the kitchen, the morning sun painting the walls yellow as Annette, dressed in her denim pinafore, a peach headband keeping her hair back with daisy earrings hanging from each earlobe, reached down to hold her belly that way.
Dariel’s head flicked up and their eyes locked, her smile beaming again.
“Our baby?” He always asked in disbelief.
“Our little Sparrow.”
Then the next memory always came. Straight away, no warning, no transition.
Just flames.
“You asleep there, mate?”
Dariel startled awake with a sharp jolt, the seatbelt jamming into his throat as his eyes burst open in a panic.
He looked down to his hands before processing anything else, the shadows crawling all over his skin, enveloping his whole body like mist. His dim reflection always showed them, smothering his wide eyes, and then, as always, the fear that everyone else around him could also see them would hit.
He knew that wasn’t true, though.
No one else could ever see them.
Without further thought, Dariel reached into his coat pocket and produced a hip flask, unscrewing the cap before the driver even had time to notice.
He took one quick swig of blood, shaking his head.
If the driver saw, he didn’t say anything.
It looked completely normal, just a guy taking a quick sip of his favourite whisky, nothing more.
He watched the road for a while; head back on the glass, eyes forced open in focus. If he looked at the trees and telephone wires and the distant, blinking city lights, making up scenarios in his head or thinking about plans, then he could keep the dreams at bay.
He didn’t want to forget them.
He’d just never been good at managing them.
Once they turned off the main roads and began to trail down more country lanes, Dariel decided to pull out his laptop.
A pit had begun to form in his stomach—not from hunger, from worry.
It came out of nowhere, he’d tried really hard to keep all negative thoughts at bay, but the closer and closer they got to the destination, Dariel’s nerves intensified.
He’d saved the email as a document to access any time, just in case.
He let his eyes scan over every word; second guessing the time, the plan, his decision. He wanted to make sure he’d read it all correctly—despite having gone over it a dozen times.
Dear Mr Dariel Hale,
Apologies for my lack of professionalism, I will admit I’m not well versed in hiring designers, so forgive me if this is not the way to go about contacting you, but I could not find any other means of getting in touch. I thought I would try my luck first.
My name is Godwin Peters, I’m the sole owner of Grandshaw Manor just north of Abingdon, and I have recently decided it is time to update my clothes.
I’m a man of middle age, and have spent quite a long time wearing the same dreary outfits day in, day out. I stumbled across your work years ago in a magazine inside my newspaper, and it would be a great dream of mine if you would do me the pleasure of helping me redesign my wardrobe.
Of course, I expect to pay you as I understand this will take quite some time.
I’m presuming this would be something you could mostly do from the comfort of your own studio once you have all the necessary information, but we can discuss accommodation if necessary.
I have ￡200,000 to offer, though a higher price can be negotiated as I am not sure of your rates!
Please do not take this offer as an insult, I am a huge admirer of your work.
If you accept this offer, I would love to invite you to my home for dinner on 5th January at 7pm so we can become acquainted and discuss further.
If this is not the best way to contact you but you are still interested, would you be able to let me know the contact details of perhaps your agent or assistant who handles your business enquiries?
Kind regards,
Mr Godwin Peters
His address was listed at the bottom, but Dariel had already made up his mind before he’d even seen the payment offer.
He enjoyed the manner in which this gentleman wrote, causing a grin to form on Dariel’s face.
Reading it again in the taxi only reminded him of why he was so quick to accept in the first place.
He was doing the right thing.
Plus, the money was a huge bonus. He’d not seen figures like that for ages.
“You a businessman of some sort then?” The driver finally piped up after another prolonged silence.
Not a single car had passed them in a while, and it was clear they were getting close, even if Dariel could only see the silhouette of trees shielding the moonlight.
He had no real idea where they were going, but thought it shouldn’t be too much further.
“Something like that,” Dariel responded absently, wishing if the man really wanted to talk, that he stopped sounding so quizzical all of the time. Like he was trying to figure Dariel out. It made him uncomfortable.
“Hmm. Interesting. Forgive me for prying, you can’t blame me for being a little curious. A pretty boy like you getting all glammed up for a two-hour journey to a posh house in the middle of nowhere. It’s not a journey I’ve done before, let’s just say.”
Dariel inwardly sighed. Instead of responding, he lit up another cigarette, his fingers shaking slightly.
The driver gave up after a few huffs and puffs, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in a passive aggressive manner.
After an eternity of winding paths and gravel roads, branches and weeds slapping the bonnet and scraping the side of the doors, the taxi reached a gate, one too ornate to be anything younger than Victorian made.
The pointed arrow heads shot up towards the sky, illuminated by nothing but a singular 19th century streetlamp buried half amongst the oak and birch.
“This the right place, kid?”
Kid? I’m sixty-four. Dariel was used to the assumption he was young though; he couldn’t blame anyone for reaching that conclusion.
Before Dariel could ask to be dropped off there, the gates began to swing open with a squeak, and the driver didn’t hesitate before accelerating up the raised gravel path, throwing Dariel back into his seat slightly.
He hadn’t been able to see the house yet, he thought he may have caught a glimpse of perhaps a turret sticking out from above the trees, but it wasn’t until they turned the final corner when the manor truly came into view.
It was like entering a new world, the arching branches of the drive opening out onto a vast driveway before the house, the trees ending almost suddenly as the view from that height became clear.
The house was lit, however only by the front two windows; the rest of the stone manor residing in the shadows of the night.
From this angle and limited lighting, it looked as if the house resided on a cliff face, perched upon a sharp drop into the oblivion of countryside, though Dariel was sure it was not. He knew it would be much more impressive during the day. The true view would have to wait.
Upon replying to Mr Peter’s initial email, Dariel was given the offer of staying the night to ensure a relaxed evening.
He was of course hesitant at first, but after experiencing how tedious the journey was, he was glad he’d accepted.
Even if it all turned out to be a scam, worst case scenario, he’d just have to kill him.
Dariel had heard the taxi driver gasp once the house came into view, but was too focused on processing it himself to make a comment.
“So, I believe this is you then,” the driver said, winding down his window and sticking his head out to get a better look at the place.
“Yes, thank you. I appreciate you driving me all the way out here, how much do I owe you?”
“You one of those male escort things?” the driver asked, his head still hanging out of the window. He continued. “You gotta be, surely. Dressed like that, coming out here to some posh bloke’s house. How much is he paying you? Is it by the hour?”
“How much do I owe you?” Dariel asked again, agitation in his voice and hand on the door ready to leave.
The driver popped his head back inside and turned to Dariel, a sneer attached to his face. “Isn’t it the receiver who normally drives to the prostitute? Or is this the secret location? Is this one of those big orgy things? Look, I’m not gonna tell anyone, I’m just curious, you know?”
He could snap his neck, drink him dry right there if he wanted.
Make it quick, or make him suffer. Dariel could have done a lot of things in that moment, but instead, he smiled.
“I haven’t done that since the eighties,” he said, then watched as the driver’s face dropped and his brow knitted itself into that of both shock and confusion.
He didn’t give him time to process or ask Dariel to repeat what he said. He wanted to let the thought ruminate, so he quickly reached into his pocket for his wallet, produced four crisp twenty-pound notes, threw them in the driver’s direction, and exited the vehicle.
“Keep the change,” he said, turning his back to the car and heading for the front door without a second glance.