Albatross (10 page)

Dyra’s Warning

             
At some point or another during the long night, Jen and Deacon had made their way back down from the rooftop and into Jen’s bed. Or perhaps, more accurately, onto Jen’s bed, for when Jen awoke she found herself cradled in Deacon’s arms, still fully clothed, and not even under the duvet.

              It didn’t matter.

              She wasn’t cold, and she was very comfortable, resting her head upon his shoulder and clutching his torso with her arms wrapped round him.

              “Good morning.” He greeted her warmly, his voice liquid and soft, and Jen smiled contentedly.

              “Good morning.” She replied.

              “What were you dreaming about?” He asked, glancing down at her, and Jen looked back up at Deacon through slightly foggy eyes.

              She should have known really.

              Just as she could have guessed that he would, he had perceived she had been dreaming, and even more than that, that her dream had been significant.

              “I don’t know…” Jen half lied, unable to help herself. “We were looking for something, but we didn’t find it, and we ended up back in the hot air balloon…”

              She smirked at the mention of the Duchess, and Deacon’s cheeky smile in return sent butterflies fleeting through Jen’s body once more.

              The sound of pots and pans knocking together echoed up the stairs then, distant and hollow.

              “Mom’s awake…” Jen noted, though her tone was indecipherable.

              “We should go and say good morning…” Deacon commented, and Jen grinned in return.

              “You can…” She joked seriously. “I’m going to have a shower…”

              Though she might have changed after work yesterday, before their date, still all Jen could smell were the scents of the kitchen on her clothes and in her hair.

              Realising in an instant that she was deadly serious, Deacon grinned in return and raised his eyebrows, rolling his eyes jokingly.

              “You’re impossible.”

              Jen laughed and kissed him softly as if things had always been this way, running her hands through his hair with fingers that ached for more.

“Good morning Deacon.” Dyra greeted him as he descended the stairs and entered the kitchen to find her prepping for breakfast, pulling pots and pans and plates from cupboards and drawers left, right and centre.

“Good morning Dyra.” He replied cheerfully. “How are you?”

“Very well thank you.” She responded with a chuckle. “Actually…” She continued, pausing in her preparations to look him dead in the eye, somewhat disconcertingly, he had to confess. “Better than I’ve been in a long while…”

“Really…?” He asked, surprise evident in his tone. “Why’s that?”

“I haven’t seen Jennifer this happy for far too long…” Dyra explained, though her justification left more questions in Deacon’s churning mind than it did answers.

“I see…” Deacon commented, not really knowing what else to say, for some reason once again picking up the picture he had examined the night previous, of the three of them stood by the lake. “Well…” He continued. “You should be proud. You have two very beautiful girls here…”

He looked up at Dyra then from the photo, and her eyes were a complete mystery to him, which even in of itself was something most unusual.

There were pictures everywhere of Jen and Clare, and of the three of them, Jen, Clare and Dyra.

Nowhere to be found, however, was there any kind of father figure.

Dyra looked as though she wanted to reply, but just couldn’t bring herself to speak the words forming in her mind.

Eventually she managed to find her tongue, but Deacon knew in an instant that her words were not the real truth she wished to speak.

“Please look after Jen…” She managed. “Please be understanding. She doesn’t mean it…”

Of course, the all too obvious question came immediately to the tip of Deacon’s tongue, but for some reason he refrained from asking it.

He was usually so perceptive, but alas, here he found himself, with absolutely no idea what Dyra meant.

There were so many things that seemed to be eluding him of late.

He felt as though there was something going on here, some secret, so locked away and deep rooted, that he was simply out of his depth with it all.

“I will…” He promised, naturally.

What else could he say?

He had no idea.

Nonetheless, amidst everything, he couldn’t help but feel as though Dyra’s cautionary words sounded almost like a warning. As if there was something he needed to prepare for.

“Jen really seems to be doing much better…” Dyra continued, pressing on regardless of the clear confusion painted across Deacon’s face, though now her eyes had turned back to the pots and pans and cupboards and cutlery. “She looks much better too. She’s a stunning girl, but she hasn’t been looking after herself…”

“Doing much better…?” Deacon questioned. “Not looking after herself…?” He pressed. “Why? What’s happened…?”

Suddenly it was as if Dyra realised that she’d said too much, and she cut off almost immediately. Her words that followed, Deacon could sense, weren’t the whole truth, or anywhere near it in fact.

“Well…” She started, her tone wavering. “Things haven’t been the same since her father left, and, well, you know…” Dyra quickly trailed off.

As a matter of fact, Deacon did know, for his family life growing up hadn’t always consisted of roses and rainbows, but then, he knew that wasn’t really the problem here.

But he had nothing else to go on.

“My family haven’t always been the easiest either…” He agreed, nodding his head and pursing his lips, doubting her words silently, and only in his mind. “I guess these things just happen…” He posed, pushing the matter slightly, wanting the full truth now, but knowing he wasn’t going to get it. “We don’t always get a choice, do we?”

“No…” Dyra agreed, sighing with deep concern.

She looked up briefly and caught Deacon’s gaze, knowing that he could see she was hiding something.

“Maybe someday Jennifer will tell you herself…” Dyra commented then, as if she was thinking out loud, and by way of confirming that she was lying. At the same time though, she sealed the fact that she would reveal no more.

“Perhaps…” Deacon agreed, though what he had just agreed to, he wasn’t entirely sure.

There came the sound of footsteps from upstairs and Jen began to make her way down to the kitchen.

Dyra had finished getting everything out, but it seemed that she was going to leave the actual cooking to Jen.

“I’m a terrible cook.” She explained to Deacon, laughing slightly, trying to ease the tension she had created. “Jen loves to cook. And she’s so much better at it than I am…”

“Can I get you a drink?” Deacon offered, glancing over to the kettle.

“Why, thank you, Deacon.” Dyra replied, and he moved immediately to the cupboard adjacent to the oven, where he had seen Dyra replace her glass the previous night.

“Wait! Deacon…” She urged quickly, just as he began to open the cupboard door.

“Yes…?” He asked, pausing, and her expression was fraught.

“The mugs are in the one below…” She answered, her tone wavering once more, trying to hide her concern.

“Ah!” He replied, leaning down and retrieving three crock mugs from the cupboard at his feet.

However, though he’d cracked open the cupboard door only ever so slightly, Deacon had seen, of course, what Dyra hadn’t wanted him to.

He pretended to ignore the fact, as if he hadn’t seen anything, and tried to push the image of bottles upon bottles and boxes upon boxes of prescription medications, all lined up along the top shelf of the cupboard, far away and out of his mind.

Had Dyra known how perceptive Deacon was, she would have been perhaps a little more concerned. But for now, at least, everything continued as it should have done, apart from the reams of questions building up uncontrollably in Deacon’s mind.

He was desperately trying to fit together the pieces of this bizarre jigsaw, but every time he thought he was coming close, a hundred more fragments were thrown at him, leaving him feeling lost all over again.

“Morning!” Jen greeted her mother as she frolicked into the kitchen, setting her hands immediately to work on breakfast, without even the slightest hesitation.

Her hair was still wet and tied up into a bun to keep it out of the way.

“Good morning, Jennifer.” Dyra replied, clutching the cup of coffee Deacon had just handed her.

Within minutes Deacon and Jen were waltzing round the kitchen, singing and dancing with and between each other, and somehow, amidst the whole spectacle, cooking eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes, and anything else they could lay their hands on for breakfast.

Jen’s voice soared, just as it had always used to, and Deacon’s wasn’t half bad either, Dyra noted.

“So, what are you two doing today?” Jen’s mother eventually asked, once the food was all ready and they sat down to eat.

Jen looked expectantly at Deacon, and he gathered by her expression that she wasn’t working.

“Well, I have to nip home…” He started between mouthfuls. “I have a few things I need to get done…” Then he looked over at Jen. “If you’d like to come?” He asked.

Jen nodded and smiled, her mouth full of bacon and egg.

“Have you spoken to Clare?” Dyra asked then, her question and her gaze very direct, looking intently at her youngest daughter.

Jen swallowed nervously.

“Not so much over the past few days…” Jen admitted.

“Good.” Dyra replied, with something in her voice that wasn’t quite venom, but that wasn’t overly pleasant either.

Deacon, of course, didn’t comment, but silently he was shocked.

What on Earth…?

“Do you live far, Deacon?” Dyra asked then, cutting that particular conversation off and turning her gaze upon him again, and for not the first time that morning.

Her expression was strange, and entirely unreadable.

Something wasn’t right here.

Deacon could feel it.

“I’ve moved quite a few times…” He started apprehensively.

“I know that feeling…” Jen agreed, and for some reason knowing that Deacon was a bit of a drifter too made Jen feel slightly better about the whole thing, though Dyra didn’t say a word on the matter.

“I live about twenty minutes down the coast…” He told them.

“Do you live with family?” Jen asked then, for some reason feeling the sudden, fleeting urge to meet them.

But a flash of regret crossed Deacon’s face at her words, and instantly Jen wished she could take back her question.

“No…” He replied carefully, his gaze darting between Jen’s stricken face and her mother’s stony expression. “I don’t…”

HOME

It was perhaps half an hour or so later that Jen found herself once again in Deacon’s car, hurtling down the coastline towards his home. She didn’t know exactly where they were going, but she trusted him; perhaps more so than she trusted most people.

And, unfortunately, that included her own mother, Dyra. Particularly after a few things she’d said, and the way she’d acted that morning.

Deacon had been quiet since they’d left, and looked deep in thought, and Jen didn’t want to breach the silence just yet.

She could only imagine what her mother had told him while she’d been upstairs.

How could she have been so stupid as to let Dyra get him alone!?

Whatever she’d told him, though Jen doubted it was the full truth, it couldn’t have been good…

Deacon reached out suddenly and flicked from the radio and over to his Bluetooth, selecting a band that Jen had never heard before, as they shot into a mountainside through a lengthy tunnel, under the orangey glow of artificial lights.

When they emerged back out into the sunshine, Jen cast her gaze out to her left and at the steep drop off from the side of the road, leading directly down to the water below.

The ocean swelled and rose dramatically and glistened green and blue and turquoise all at once. In the far distance offshore, wind turbines spun erratically in the howling winds. Jen watched them turn in frantic rhythm, as the band she did not know sung about cinnamon and lipstick and summer and love and living and believing.

On the whole, she had to admit, she quite liked them.

They passed through yet another two tunnels, and the road grew very narrow and wound its way left and right precariously between high sided cliffs on one side, and steep drop offs on the other.

Deacon’s driving was impeccable however, and Jen felt not even in the least bit uneasy.

Soon enough he left the main road and turned down another lane, picking up speed between bends and flying round corners smoothly.

Another song by the same band came on then.

‘You might have got the best of me, but you’ll never get the rest of me…’

How apt, Jen thought to herself, considering the circumstances.

No one had got the best of her yet, except perhaps Clare.

Did she even have anything left to give?

Or had she already lost most of what made her, well, her?

Almost before she knew it they had arrived, and Deacon pulled into the drive of a house that looked like something of a holiday home.

Large, front facing doors and windows revealed tall, white walls, lined with balconies and spiral staircases visible through the expanses of glass. The driveway extended a full two dozen feet out from the front door, framed on either side by lush grass and flowers.

There was a single step that led up to the door, and looked like it was made entirely from white marble.

Deacon immediately stepped out and Jen followed him inside, as he unlocked the large, glass paned front door and remotely turned on the lights.

She was in awe.

“This is incredible…” Jen breathed almost immediately.

The house was spotless. The walls were for the most part white, with only limited decoration, and most of the surfaces were clear of anything at all.

“Thank you.” Deacon replied, tilting his head slightly in acknowledgement. “I’ve moved around so much that I’ve never really seen the point in settling anywhere…” He admitted then, delving into a cupboard in the kitchen, open plan with the rest of downstairs, and pulling a glass from a shelf. “But I do like it here…” He confessed.

Pouring Jen a drink, he set the glass down for her on one of the worktops.

“Thanks.” She said, smiling.

“Make yourself at home.” He offered then, spreading his arms and glancing around. “I’m just going to change.”

Jen nodded, and in moments she was alone in this marvellous house, and immediately her eyes tried to be everywhere at once, not knowing what to examine first.

She settled, perhaps quite predictably, upon a plaque that decorated one of the whitewashed walls in the vast living room, sparsely populated with furniture, barely enough even to make it look liveable.

Award for Artistic Excellence

Presented to Mr Deacon Ash

              That took Jen aback somewhat.

              But then, as her eyes traced around the wall and fell upon a painting that she had at first thought was simply decoration, she grasped all of a sudden the seeming extent of Deacon’s talent.

Indeed, the exquisite piece that she now set her eyes upon was for decoration, but as she looked at the signature in the bottom right hand corner, it was only then that she realised it was Deacon’s work.

Jen’s breath caught in her throat, for two reasons.

The first, because somehow, impossibly, the painting was of an albatross.

The majestic bird soared over the ocean, looking down upon a person stranded on a desert island, surrounded by only a few sparse trees. The person had etched into the damp sand a message: a single word.

But whilst you might have expected SOS, or HELP, this was not the case.

Instead, the single word that this person had spelled out sent something of a chilling shiver racing up and down Jen’s spine.

HOME

              And then the second reason, though by no means any less dramatic, was the brass plate that accompanied the piece.

By Mr Deacon Ash

Original sold for £250,000.00

              That was, just, insane.

              Jen continued to wander in astonishment.

Besides those pictures and plaques she had already seen, there was nothing else hung on any of the walls downstairs.

There were no family photos, no portraits, nothing.

The furniture, though sparse, was modern and artistic in of its own right. Small leather settees floated in the large, open plan living room. Tables and chairs were placed deceptively here and there, as if one might at any time decide to stop and sit and draw.

              However, what Jen hadn’t initially noticed, upon those tables and worktops, were piles of drawings, sketches and doodles, some half-finished and some barely started, dotted all over the place.

They were parts of people, animals, places, coastlines, horizons over vast wastelands, skylines over great endless cities, each and every one so realistic and lifelike that she half expected them to come to life right before her very eyes.

              She headed back over towards the kitchen, and again her gaze swept over the room, noticing things she had not seen before.

Where at first she had seen clear table tops, though she didn’t know why, now she saw that there were pens and pencils strewn about here and there, scattered across the top of yet another half-finished drawing.

              This one was much bigger than the others, covering a full half of an A3 sheet of paper.

Pushing the pencils over to one side, yet again, what Jen saw stole her breath away.

It was the partly finished portrait of a girl. Catching it in one light, the picture looked so much like her that it may as well have been a photograph. But then, as she caught it in another light, the drawing was the spitting image of Clare; the resemblance was uncanny, and in fact quite spooky.

“Do you like it?” Deacon’s voice suddenly sounded from the doorway, and Jen practically jumped out of her skin in fright.

“OH! Oh my God Deacon!” She gasped, leaning forwards onto her knees, her heart thumping heavily.

“I’m sorry!” He apologised immediately, rushing to her side, though he struggled to contain a laugh. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s okay…” She wheezed, chuckling slightly. “You were just so quiet. You scared the life out of me!”

“Are you okay?” He asked, his voice low and quite serious, as he placed one hand on Jen’s arm.

“I’m fine.” Jen assured him. “Just don’t do that every time you come downstairs please!” She joked.

“I only came down and walked in!” He responded, feigning shock.

“Yeah! Like a bloody ninja!” Jen poked back at him.

They both fell about laughing, and then Jen turned her attention again to the half-finished portrait.

“So, who’s this supposed to be?” She asked him, wearing a smirk as she spoke.

“Who does it look like?” He bartered.

“It looks like me.” Jen replied quite simply.

“It is you.”

“Just me?”

Jen’s question was a simple one, but Deacon paused for a moment. There seemed to be a much deeper meaning to what she was asking him.

“If you want it to be…” He replied curiously, grinning cheekily as he spoke, making Jen blush slightly. “It can be just you, if you let it…”

That particular comment didn’t really make too much sense to Jen, and so she just let it pass, and her eyes wandered to the all but vacant walls of Deacon’s home once more.

“Deacon…” Jen started, stepping closer to him and resting her head upon his chest, leaning her body close to his as he wrapped his arms around her.

“Yes, Jen?” He responded automatically, though somehow he already knew what her question would be.

“You don’t see much of your family, do you?” She asked, and again he knew that wasn’t the only question she was posing.

“No…I don’t…” He started in return.

Jen felt a knot forming in her stomach.

“Don’t you see them at all?” She pressed, admittedly a little shocked, reading between the lines.

Deacon smiled ruefully.

It seemed he wasn’t the only perceptive one here.

The answer to her question was painfully obvious by Deacon’s silence, and Jen bit her lip cautiously.

“It must be hard…” She continued then, her voice thick with emotion. “To know they’re out there, and never to see them?” Jen pressed on relentlessly. “What if one day you knew you’d never have the chance to see them again? Would you regret it?”

Deacon pulled back, looking at Jen very directly. His hair was still wet from his shower and for some reason she felt the sudden urge to run her hands through it.

“Family can mean a lot of different things…” He told her, his voice level and his tone sombre, as if he’d had this thought many times. “It doesn’t have to be blood. It can be whatever we make of it.” His words were quiet and full of emotion, thick with sadness, yet also resolve.

Neither of them spoke then, and they simply held each other’s gaze a moment longer, and then a moment more.

Deacon’s fingers found their way into Jen’s hair and he kissed her, his lips warm against hers, pulling her in closely and tightly, in the way that every young girl wishes.

Her hands did indeed find their way into his hair too, and Deacon’s slid down Jen’s back, sending shivers running up and down her spine.

His tongue found hers and Jen felt herself drawn into him like never before. It was a desperate, longing feeling that she couldn’t control, and it overtook her body like a wild animal, fuelling her with crazed desire and hunger.

She found her hands exploring his body and her fingers traced gently up and down his chest, while his continued to send goose bumps racing over her exposed arms and shoulders. Jen shivered every time with sheer delight as it pulsed through her, making her short of breath, and only driving her to pull Deacon evermore fanatically closer.

Then, before she even knew what she was doing, Jen felt her hands delving beneath his shirt and running up his stomach and chest, hungrily exploring everywhere they could reach. His body was smooth, coarse, soft, rough, all at once; well defined and perfectly crafted, it made Jen’s heart race and sent a hungry, forbidden fire racing through her veins.

But, amidst her insatiable wanderings, Jen’s hands traced up and over Deacon’s chest once again, heaving beneath her aching palms, and her fingers found something that caused her roaming to cease.

Something on his chest.

Up towards his collarbone.

On his ribs.

They were flat and smooth, smoother than the rest of his skin, and had rough, harsh edges, at least a couple of inches across.

In her moment of hesitation, Jen’s other hand paused too, further round the side of Deacon’s chest.

Another one.

The same shape.

The same size.

Jen pulled away slowly, though not once did she break Deacon’s grasp, nor his gaze. It was a look he gave her that made her wonder endlessly what she should do.

Breathing heavily, looking up through concerned eyes, thick with emotion, her expression spoke a thousand and more words that she need not utter.

His eyes looked deeply troubled as he gazed back down at her, though there was adoration there as well, all too clearly.