Things That Go Hump In The Night (29 page)

Ryan Raynard whirled around and faced me, his eyes burning. "You said your name was James."

I bristled, a sure-fire sign I was about to say something inappropriate. But he was acting like a jerk, so I allowed my voice to drip with scorn. "Forgive me; I didn't know my birth name had to be approved by the great Ryan Raynard. I was named after an ancestor on my mother's side, James Fauntelroy. Apparently, he used to help women accused of witchcraft in the village escape before they were trialled–"

"While I'm really enjoying this little history lesson," Ryan said, facing into the hall so he didn't have to look at me. "You need to leave."

I shook my head. "I can't leave until we've cleared up a few details for your exhibition. Where are the paintings? I know you've never done an exhibition before, but if you want this one to go well, you need to co-operate with me. If I don't get those paintings to Halt tomorrow, the exhibition can't go ahead."

His shoulders sagged. I observed the movement with interest. It seemed the exhibition meant more to him than his attitude had led me to believe. "Simon, show Mrs. Kline–"

"Ms.
Kline," I corrected him, cursing myself inwardly as I felt a blush appear on my cheeks. Luckily, Ryan was still avoiding my eyes, so he didn't see.

"–to the painting hall. If you want me, I'll be in the studio. Please deal with Ms. Kline on all aspects concerning the exhibition, and make sure she understands that even though my paintings will be available to the public for the first time, I will not. Don't let any other guests in."

Without even another glance in my direction, he slipped back into the hall and disappeared. The clomp of his boots faded away into silence.

Simon inclined his head toward me, indicating I should follow him. Picking myself up, I following Simon out of the cold drawing room and back down that drab hall, through another dark, gloomy sitting room, and along a narrow corridor. All the while I replayed the meeting with Ryan Raynard over in my mind – his handsome face hardening to stone when he realised I was female, his body going rigid like a statue, his aversion even to meet my eyes, the way his shoulders bulged from that black tank top...

I shook my head. Artistic visionary or not, the man was a complete tosser. It wouldn't do for me to dwell on his looks.

We stopped in front of a heavy steel door - at odds with the drab wood panelling that surrounded it. Simon hunched over the lock, keying in a complex combination. The door clicked open, and I was greeted with a sight that took my breath away.

A long, white room stretched in front of me, the other end a distant blur on the horizon. Rectangular skylights flooded the space in natural light, and after the gloom of the house, the light, airy space made me feel giddy, almost drunk. Simon flicked a switch, and rows of low-hanging spotlights flickered on, illuminating the artwork hanging on the walls. Every spare space on the walls was taken up with paintings - a hodgepodge of different styles and eras, all chosen with the keen eye of someone who understood colour and light and beauty. I noticed what looked like a Banksy print to the left of the door, butted up next to a Chagall. I turned, dizzy with the splendour of it all, and came face to face with Monet's water lilies, the beauty of the lines leaping from the canvas, pulling me into the gardens of Giverny, filling my nostrils with the scent of spring. I turned again, and this time my eye fell upon a Cézanne still life, the repetitive, exploratory brushstrokes creating a dramatic tension between the objects.

Nestled amongst these great words were pieces I recognised as belonging to the hand of Raynard himself. Impressionist views of forests - great oaks with branches twisting, birds flying in lazy circles over a foggy grove, deer drinking from the brook. A beautiful red fox frolicking between the trees. I stepped closer, admiring the dappled light streaming from the gaps in the leaves, touching the fox's fur.

I glanced at the title.
Vixen.

"Why isn't this painting in the exhibition?" I breathed. Ryan's exhibition was called
The Hunt,
and his images, we'd been informed, took inspiration from the animals in the Crookshollow forest as they went about their nocturnal wanderings. This remarkable piece should have been the focal point of the room.

Simon shook his head. "He will not part with that one for anything," he said. "And don't you even ask. Come, I have packaged up the ten pieces for the exhibition. Three of them are quite large, and I shall help you carry them to your car."

***

THREE

It was well past 8 PM by the time Simon and I packed the paintings into the car and the iron gates of Raynard Hall creaked shut behind me. I drove home, my stomach fluttering nervously every time I glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw the stack of precious Ryan Raynard paintings. I replayed my encounter with Ryan over and over again in my mind. He certainly was a strange man. How could he be so cold and callous, and yet paint such emotional and harmonious scenes? What was with his aversion to me being female? Could an artist as young and handsome as he really be as old-fashioned as all that?

I drove home to my flat. The Halt building would be shut up tight for the night, and although I could enter the main building after hours, I didn't have security access to the gallery spaces or the warehouse, which were high-security zones. Only Matthew and Gavin – the head exhibition technician – had after-hours access to those areas. I didn't exactly want to pull Matthew away from watching
Coronation Street
in his pyjamas – or whatever it was he did in the evenings – to get him to unlock it for me. The paintings would be safe enough in my flat for the night.

Once home, Kylie helped me carry the crates upstairs. We dumped out all my clothing on to the bed and stacked the paintings into my closet.

"It looks like you've already got some paintings back here," said Kylie, as she pulled out a large square of canvas wrapped in brown paper and a wooden frame, similar to the way Simon had packaged Ryan's pieces.

Heart racing, I snatched the canvas from her hands. "That's nothing. Don't worry about them," I said. "Just leave them back there and stack these on top."

The previous tenants had attached a bolt to the outside of my closet. For what purpose I could only guess. Did they punish a naughty child by locking it away? Were they afraid their shoes were going to walk out in the right and strangle them in their sleep? Regardless of the reasoning, the bolt came in handy tonight.

"Now I just need something to lock it with," I said, leaning against the door and staring at my tiny room, the walls crammed with artwork and the bed piled high with dresses and jackets and shoes. What a strange day this was turning into.

"I've got it!" Kylie scampered downstairs, returning a few minutes later with her bicycle lock.

"Don't you need that so thugs won't steal your bicycle?"

Kylie shrugged as she fitted the lock on the door. "I am no longer a cyclist. On Monday, I cycled home and it rained, and then a bird pooped on my shoulder. I'm back to being a gas-guzzling air polluter, just like you. I'm secretly hoping my bike
will
get stolen so I can claim it on my insurance and buy some new shoes."

I sat on my bed amongst my Fluevog boots and vintage rock tees, staring at that closet door; unable to believe I had ten Ryan Raynard paintings just sitting in there. My eyes flicked across the room, where my easel was set up, a canvas half finished – a moonscape painted through the trees outside my window. Quickly, I leaned across the bed and flipped it over, so Kylie couldn't see it. She didn't even notice.

With the exception of my art teachers at university, I'd never shown anyone else my work; not even Kylie, who was probably the closest friend I'd ever had. I didn't paint as much as I had in university, but there were times – usually after a bad breakup, or after Matthew had dressed me down in front of everyone at the office – where I would sit at the easel for hours, slashing at the canvas with my brush as though it were a carcass to be butchered. I had boxes of sketchbooks and journals under the bed, as well as those finished canvases packaged up in the closet, hidden away from the cruel eyes of the world.

Years working in gallery management had shattered my dreams of being a working artist. I wasn't anywhere near the same league as those guys. They were big thinkers, dreamers, and escapists operating outside the normal plane of existence. I was a realist. Ryan Raynard painted because painting was how he became who he was. When I painted, I did it to become, for a few hours, someone who was not myself.

Kylie saw the expression on my face. "You need wine," she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me downstairs.

I slumped down on our couch, my fingers tugging at the loose stitching holding the overstuff cushions together. I could call the couch 'vintage', but that would be overly generous. It was simply old, pilfered from the side of the road as a resident on Roundoak Drive cleared out their junk, it now hosted a collection of mysterious stains left over from wine and cheese evenings that had gone on until the early hours, and tufts of stuffing falling out where Miss. Havisham used it as a scratching post.

In the kitchen, Kylie pulled a bottle of white wine from the fridge and poured two glasses. She set mine down in front of me, and next to it placed a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream, with two large spoons. My stomach growled. I'd spent so long collecting the paintings I hadn't eaten any dinner. I pulled the top off the tub and scooped a large spoonful into my mouth.

"So," Kylie slumped down in the chair opposite and dug in with her own spoon. Miss. Havisham jumped up on her lap and gave her wine glass an experimental bat. "Talk. What happened today? Why am I helping you stash priceless paintings in your closet? Did you finally get tired of working for that asshole Matthew Callahan and decide to heist the place?"

In between scoops of ice cream, I filled her in on Matthew's outburst, my visit to Raynard Hall, and my meeting with the infamous Ryan Raynard. Kylie's eyes widened when I told her about Ryan's reaction to my presence.

"That's so strange." Kylie mumbled, her mouth full of ice cream. "It's almost as if he was afraid to be in the same room as you."

I shrugged. "I don't want to waste any of my energy trying to puzzle out why he acted like he did. As far as I'm concerned, the guy is a misogynist prick, and that's the end of it."

"No one else has been inside that house, Alex, not for ten years. But you got in. Maybe Mr. Ryan Raynard isn't as opposed to your presence as you think."

The memory of him walking in the room, broad shoulders held high and clothing dishevelled from the studio flashed before my eyes. I could feel my cheeks growing hot. "Don't make me choke on my own scorn, Kylie. He only let me in because my first name is James and he thought he was talking to a man, the only gender capable of understanding his artistic vision."

She wrinkled her nose. "Oh, right. That. Never mind how you got in, Alex. Ryan is a celebrity, and a mysterious and sexy one, at that. You could sell your story to a trashy tabloid for a million dollars, and you'd never have to work again. That would get him back for treating you badly."

She had a point, but I shook my head. "They'd want to make out that I slept with him or something. And there's no way I want
that
following me around."

"If he's anything as hot as you describe, it wouldn't be a bad thing," Kylie licked her lips.

"Kylie!" She smirked, then shrugged.

"He hates women." I said furiously, the flush in my face growing hotter. "All the tabloid money in the world wouldn't get me to even pretend-sleep with an arrogant prick like Ryan Raynard. Now, can we drop it?" I held out my glass for another refill.  "How was your day?"

"Strange," she said. Kylie was a nurse at Crookshollow General Hospital, and her work stories were often filled with vivid characters and tough, tenacious doctors I always imagined looking like George Clooney. "We have another girl in the ICU after being bitten by a fox. They think she's going to be OK, but the police were there most of the day, grilling her and her hiking partner for information. They've got some plan to trap this fox before it gets anyone else. If it's as out-of-control as they as, it could kill someone."

"Oh, yeah? Good on them. I heard about her on the radio."

"What you wouldn't have heard about is the man I've got under observation with three cracked ribs and some nasty bruising around his chest. He claims he was rammed by a deer. But deer don't do that." She wrinkled up her nose. "It's all very strange."

"Indeed." I finished my glass and reached across the table for the bottle. "Another?"

***

FOUR

After Kylie and I polished off both the tub of ice cream and the bottle of wine, I brushed my teeth, changed into an oversized t-shirt featuring the logo of my art school boyfriend's black metal band, and crawled into bed. Miss. Havisham curled up beside my feet, and soon she was snoring peacefully.

I, however, couldn't sleep. My thoughts kept drifting to those paintings locked in the closet. I should have called Matthew and taken them in to the museum. It was crazy of me to store them here, even for one night. What if Kylie decided she needed a midnight snack and accidentally burned the house down? What if mice ate through the wooden boxes and nibbled on the edges? What if the roof leaked during the night and soaked them through? If those paintings suffered so much as a scuff, both Matthew and Ryan Raynard would have my head, and that was not a fun prospect. I was rather attached to my head.

I'd arranged my room so the bed was pushed up against the back wall, directly underneath the window, with my easel and overflowing washing basket at the foot. I leaned over and pushed the window open, listening to the wind as it whistled through the trees, shaking the leaves and rubbing the bent oak branches up against the side of the flat. An owl hooted. I sucked in a deep breath of that fresh air. The forest always calmed me.
Everything is going to be fine. You'll take the paintings into work tomorrow, Matthew will be pleased, and Belinda will have to wipe that smirk off her face–

Outside the window, a twig snapped.

My heart pounded.
It's just a fox, or a deer. Don't worry about it.

Without thinking, my gaze fell on the locked closet door, my thoughts flying to the priceless paintings hidden inside.

Another snap. I pulled back from the window, my heart pounding. Was it a burglar? The exhibition was making headlines all over the world. It would be easy for someone to find my name in one of the articles and follow me when I left Halt. They would've seen me enter Raynard Hall and come out with the paintings. Given Ryan's reputation, these paintings would fetch a tidy sum on the black art market. There could be any number of unscrupulous characters ready to take advantage of any weakness in our security.
Why did I not think of this? Why didn't I call Matthew, like I should have?

Stupid. You're so stupid, Alex.

I forced my panic back down into my gut. I lay down on my stomach and used my elbows to pull my body closer to the window. I rested my head on the sill and leaned out, my eyes struggling to see in the dim moonlight.

Below me, in the garden, more twigs snapped. I heard a whispered voice.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Leaves crunched, and the branches beneath the window swayed as a black shadow darted across the garden. Someone was climbing up the oak tree against the back of the flat, the tree that led straight to my bedroom window. It looked like an animal the way it moved, but I knew no animal that large would come this close to the house, let alone try to climb the oak tree under my window.

I rolled away from the window, accidentally kicking Miss. Havisham awake. She meowed in protest, lifted her head, sniffed the air, and raced off into the dark house. Cats are much smarter than humans.

Outside the window, a crow squawked … a carrion bird signalling my doom. I needed a weapon. There were knives in the kitchen, but could I get there in time? I doubted it.

I know!
Kylie's boyfriend Ray was a medieval re-enactor, and he kept all his gear at our place since he didn't has room in his Mum's basement, which was where he lived (yes, Ray was a real winner). I was forever tripping over his enormous broadsword on the way to the bathroom.

His broadsword.
Perfect.

As silently as I could, I pulled myself out of the bed and crawled along the floor toward the door, thinking that they might not be able to see me moving through the window if I stayed low. I kept my bedroom door open a crack so Miss. Havisham could come and go during the night. Now I pulled back the door open wide enough so I could crawl through. It let out a mighty creak, the sound like a gunshot in my ears. I held my breath.
Please don't let them hear that.

I listened. Nothing inside the house or out. I dared to hope that maybe they'd gone. But then… in the void of darkness, I heard something downstairs… a
click,
and something metal sliding. Someone was pulling open one of the living room windows. They must have decided to abandon the tree.

My heart pounding in my chest, I crawled as silently as I could into the hallway, feeling in front of me with my hands for the bag of re-enactment gear Ray kept at the top of the stairs. My hand grasped something hard. A leather handle.
Yes!
I screamed inside my head. Never again would I give Ray a hard time about being a
Dungeons & Dragons
freak.

I heard a thud from downstairs. Any second now, the burglars could come up to the bedrooms. I fumbled with the bag, pushing aside leather gauntlets, foam swords, and an Elven cloak, before my hand clasped the hilt of a long, heavy sword. I lifted it from the bag, pulled off the leather scabbard, and held it in front of me the way I'd seen Ray do it; both hands clasped on the hilt beside my hip, with the tip pointing upward toward my invisible opponent's face. The blade was blunt – designed for re-enactment – but it would still cause a great deal of pain. I pressed my back against the wall, my eyes on the dark stairwell, while Miss. Havisham circled around my feet.

Now what? Did I wait up here for them to come up the stairs and around the corner, or did I go downstairs and make the first move? I saw a light flickering from the stairwell, and heard a glass shatter in the kitchen. A man swore. They sure weren't being subtle. If they came up here in the dark, would I be able to hit them? Or would they – with their superior breaking and entering skills – simply overpower me? Would I be better to take them by surprise downstairs, where I might have a better shot at making the door if I got into trouble?

Miss Havisham, using cat logic to discern that anyone banging around in the kitchen in the middle of the night was obviously there to bring her a second dinner, bounded down the stairs.
Right then, I guess I'm going down. Thank you, kitty.

I pressed my back against the wall and slid, inch after terrified inch, around the corner down the narrow staircase, the sword pointed across my body and the point at eye level for anyone trying to climb up. I heard cupboards being slammed, packages torn open, things being smashed against the floor.

And I heard something else…a low, mean growl.
What? Did they bring a dog, too?
This was just looking worse and worse.

I paused at the bottom of the stairs, the sword point peeking out into the front hall. I could hear footsteps in the living room, heavy breathing as someone ruffled through the couch cushions. I needed to peek around the corner and see what was happening, so I could plan my move. I sucked in a breath, and stretched my neck out, straining to see around the corner without moving from my spot.

A tall man with jet black hair that hung down to his shoulders, framing a gaunt, bony face and long hooked nose, bent over my coffee table, sifting through the empty crisp packets and trashy magazines obscuring the surface. His brow furrowed in concentration as he picked up each magazine or piece of trash and shook it, watching to see if something fell out. He tossed the empty ice cream tub into the corner in disgust. Before I could stop her, Miss Havisham raced from the stairs after it, mewling with delight.

The black-haired man looked up, and recoiled in disgust when he saw the cat streak across the floor in front of him. He backed around the other side of the sofa, closer to me, as he sought to put some distance between himself and Miss. Havisham, who was oblivious to his presence as she tried to hook the ice cream tub out from under the tea trolley with her paw. The man made a clicking noise with his throat, almost like a bird in distress.

Another man walked into the room from the kitchen, waving a raw chicken drumstick in his hand. He had sandy hair with a slight reddish tinge, and although he was shorter than his fellow felon was, he was broader across the shoulders, his athletic frame completely blocking the kitchen doorway. He wore a tight black t-shirt that showed off every curve of his toned chest. He kicked at a magazine on the ground. "Don't bother, Edgar, it's not here. Ryan wouldn't have given it to her, and if he had, she wouldn't have thrown it amongst that junk. I've watched the girl - she's not an idiot."

The black-haired man held up the cover of a
Cosmo
magazine, and punched the page. "Are you sure about that, Marcus? This is what's she's reading."

The man in the kitchen took a bite out of the chicken leg… just tore a chunk of raw chicken off with his teeth, and chewed on it, smacking his lips together loudly.
What is going on here?

"You're disgusting," The man named Edgar scowled.

"You're just jealous that you didn't find the freezer first," the man smirked, as he took another bite. "Shall we?" he gestured to the window.

"We haven't got what we came here for," Edgar frowned. "She'll have it in her bedroom. We should look there."

"And she could be keeping it on her person, if she's even
got
it. And how are we going to get it off her without hurting her? Ryan isn't an idiot. He won't have given it to her, not yet, anyway. Isengrim is wrong; this whole evening is a waste of our time. We've achieved what we came for. The place is a mess. She's going to know that it's important for her to stay away from him. If you want to really ensure she gets the message, we could kill the cat and write something atrocious like ‘stay away from Ryan Raynard' on the wall in its blood."

Edgar grinned manically. "Please?" he squawked, raising his hands and curling his fingers in the air. I saw he wore black nail polish on his long nails, each one sharpened to a point, like talons. I tightened my grip on the sword.
They aren't going to touch my kitty. Not if I have anything to say about it. And why are they talking about Ryan as if they know him? It doesn't seem as though they're looking for the artwork.

"I'm not touching it," Marcus growled, the words coming from deep in his throat. He tossed the chicken leg into the corner. Miss. Havisham leapt on it, and began licking at the frozen meat. Marcus lifted his chin and sniffed deeply, screwing up his face in a grotesque expression. "It's a
cat.
Its smell is repugnant to me–"

His words were cut off abruptly when a giant fox – at least the size of a large dog – leapt in through the open window and sank his teeth into Marcus' leg.

"Yeeow!" he cried, as the force of the attack sent him flying against the wall. He grabbed the fox around the neck and tried to pull it off his leg, but the animal hung on tenaciously, shaking Marcus' skin as it dug its teeth deeper. It was the largest fox I'd ever seen, its fine brown coat shining in the dim light as it fought to keep its grip on the intruder, splattering blood across the linoleum. Its long, bushy tail lashed back and forth, knocking a stack of CDs and Kylie's decorate plate collection off the top of the cabinet. I don't know what had compelled it to jump into the house like that, but I wasn't going to waste this chance.

I hope it's not the rabid fox that's been biting people in the forest…

Not stopping to contemplate that thought further, I sprung from behind the stairs and rushed at Edgar, holding my sword out in front of me, point aimed at his face. He turned toward me and held up his hands, but I didn't falter. My blade collided with his face, hitting him in the cheekbone with all the force of my body behind it. He spun and collapsed against the sofa.

I lifted the blunt blade above my head, and brought it down as hard as I could on his back. I heard it crunch as it connected with bone, and he cried out and thrashed out his arms. "Get out of my house!" I screamed. "And don't you
dare
touch my cat!"

I raised the sword to hit him again, but when I brought it down, the man seemed to shrink back into his clothes, his arms and legs fading into nothing, leaving only empty jeans and his black t-shirt draped over the cushions.

Now I knew that wasn't normal.
What is going on?

I picked up the corner of the t-shirt, but there was nothing underneath except air. Edgar was gone. Somewhere in my house was a naked intruder, probably on his way to my bedroom. The thought made me shudder. I whirled around, but couldn't see or hear anyone on the stairs.

Where had he gone? How did he
do
that?

I kicked the jeans to the ground. A big black raven flew out of them. It squawked angrily as it landed on my fingers, wings flapping madly as it clawed at my skin, trying to get through my hands to peck out my eyeballs. Its sharp talons dug into the palm of my hand.

"Argh!" I spun around and slammed the bird against the wall. It let go of my hand and dropped to the floor, dazed. I kicked at it, but it skittered out of the way, hopped through the living room and dived for the open window.

The bird now taken care of, I turned – clutching my injured, bleeding hand – to the man and fox crashing around the kitchen. But the man was no longer there. In his place, a giant, sandy-coloured fox fought against the other reddish one. On the floor between them lay the black t-shirt and jeans the sandy-haired intruder had worn.