didn ’ t stay long. Kids to put to bed. Still, it helped. Harry went through the desk and the cupboards in the front room while she packed stuff, and talked to her through the wall. Seems Eddie never threw anything away. There were boxes upon boxes of bills and correspondence. Savings books and investments, too. Harry didn ’ t know Eddie played the market. It was adding up to a tidy sum, with the cottage. Not enough to retire on, even if he wanted to, but then the money was a bonus because he was only planning on the cottage.
*
Jack was asleep when Harry took him a mug of tea a bit later. He thought the boy might want to go for a walk, and maybe have a chat. Harry used to enjoy their walks, when Jack was a lad. They could talk, back then. But Jack was curled around that carving in the shelter like it was a pet dog, and he was snoring, with one leg stretched out and the other hooked under him. He ’ d finished the bottle of wine, and he looked quite innocent, like he ’ d forgotten whatever was worrying him and was a kid again.
Daughters are easier than sons. You can hug daughters.
*
Harry hadn ’ t realised that Old Eddie kept a diary. The early ones, as Harry leafed through them, were written neat ly like he was writing out a report and thinking about every word. In Volume 39, the one in the desk, the writing was all awkward angles like his knuckles. The last two entries must have been just before he went into the hospice.
*
24 th April. Wind Westerly, 3, showers.
He ’ s coming for me. He wants it, but how can I give it back? I tried. Honest, I tried.
And the whispering. Half the night, it went on, until the tide turned and swallowed the beach.
They always stay on the beach, the whisperers. They strain up the hill towards him, calling him back, like he ’ s their enemy and they want to drag him away. But he just stands there, under the trees, as if the whisperers are nothing to him.
He ’ s getting more powerful, feeding off my weakness. When I ’ m dead he ’ ll drag us both down, the dragon and me. Sail us off to serve Hel in Niflheim .
Or will it be Rán under the waves?
Jack ’ s coming tomorrow. He ’ ll keep the warrior away. And the whisperers. The life force is still strong in Jack.
*
Poor raving bastard. He ’ d shouted about giving something back in the hospice. But then, as Harry knew, Eddie had lost a branch or two by the end. But one day later his writing made perfect sense , as if sanity had flipped back in.
*
25 th April. Wind WNW Variable 4-5, intermittent rain.
It ’ s a heavy thing, this cancer. If you added up every revolting bit there ’ d be just a few ounces of alien meat, but I still can ’ t sleep for the weight of it.
Last night in the cottage. Over 50 years I ’ ve been here.
Jack came to help, bless him, and stayed. He sleeps lightly as well. For once I could share the demon hour before dawn with another human, and blow steam off tea as if I could puff away the funk. We sat in the garden in waterproofs and felt rain on our faces and I knew I was still alive.
And it was just me and Jack, thank God.
*
Harry felt a bit guilty when he read that bit. Eddie used a lot of words, sometimes, like Jack. Maybe, Harry thought, he should have been closer to Old Eddie at the end, but then he ’ d got a business to run. Going well, too, but he needed to keep on top of it. Sometimes, in the security trade, success means making damn sure nothing goes wrong. And the only way to be sure is to be there.
There was a file of correspondence from solicitors in a cupboard. That ’ s where Harry found a copy of the will . It was recent, dated about the same time as that crazy letter to Jack. It was very short, but Harry had to read it several times while it sunk in, because he couldn ’ t believe it. Eddie had left enough to Tilly for her to buy a decent, small car. That was fair. Harry didn ’ t mind that. There were larger bequests to her children, which surprised him a bit, to be held in trust until they were older. After that there was a single, bald sentence.
I give my remaining Residuary Estate after payment of debts funeral and testamentary expenses to my grandson Jack Ahlquist, who has given me the chance to be the father I always should have been.
No other explanation. No mention of Harry or anyone else. That boy had wormed his way in there and persuaded a mad old man to change his will . Robbing his own family, for God ’ s sake. When Harry went out into the garden he was so angry that if Jack hadn ’ t been protected by that shelter he might have hit him. As it was, Harry smashed his fist into the side of the upended boat and Jack jolted awake, panic in his eyes until he recognised Harry and then he just looked puzzled.
‘ You knew, didn ’ t you! ’ Harry thrust the will into his face, all scrunched up in his hand.
‘ Knew what, Dad? ’ The boy started to look defiant, the way he always did when he ’ d done wrong and was going to be punished, but Harry wasn ’ t going to spell it out.
‘ Of all the underhand, conniving tricks! ’
Jack blinked, and swallowed in that lip-licking way that told Harry he was still drunk.
‘ What the hell are you talking about? ’
Harry hated it when the boy answered back. ‘ You know damn well what I ’ m talking about. ’ He threw the will at him and Jack ’ s eyes went hard like someone who wa s ready to fight.
‘ I ’ ll challenge it. Undue influence, or whatever they call it. Exploiting a vulnerable old man. ’
‘ Let ’ s see what you ’ re so upset about. ’ Jack spoke so softly that it was dangerous, unnatural, and he kept his eyes on Harry ’ s as he bent forward to pick up the paper from the ground. He was still staring at Harry as he smoothed it against his leg.
Harry wasn ’ t going to stay and watch Jack ’ s little charade. He turned away because if he had to stare at that blazing innocence for one more second he might have done something he ’ d regret.
He was so bloody angry that he smashed his Jaguar on the way home. Turned out into the path of another car. No one hurt, but it would cost. Big time. Now that was his fault. Well, legally it was.
Chapter Two: Bálför
(Old Norse: funeral pyre)
From the Saga of King Guthrum , c a AD 875
That winter King Guthrum laid down a mighty dragonhead ship for his son Jarl Harald, whom he loved and honoured most of all. Of oak did he build it, cut finely that it might bend with the sea, with benches of pine for twenty oars on the one hand and twenty on the other. The fittings were splendid, as befits a great jarl, and a richly carved strake rose to a wondrous dragonhead at the prow. As was the custom, this could be taken down, like the helm of a warrior, lest it offend the landvættir .[1]
Then Guthrum and Harald made sacrifice