Read Online Fade to Black by Steven Bannister - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steven Bannister
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about?”
Allie laughed it off and said she hadn’t seen a photo of poor Isabelle for a long time and it had brought back sad memories. This was accepted with understanding looks and everyone drifted back to the living room, except Allie and her father. Allie explained to her mother that she'd be there in a minute.
Once they were alone, she looked pointedly at her father, but he immediately held up his hand, walked to the desk, and picked up the book he’d previously plucked from the bookshelf.
“Don’t say anything, Alison. Just read this, ok?”
“ Ok? You know who I saw, don’t you?”
“I know what you saw, yes. We can’t speak of it, not yet, anyway.”
Something stirred in her subconscious. She knew something about this, but couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
“Tell me this, then, if you can . Where was the photo taken?”
It was a smart question—just the one he’d been hoping for.
“Glastonbury.”
*****
Jo and Marcel dropped Allie back at her Putney flat. It was 11:45 p.m. She had hardly spoken during the drive from Belgravia. She was tired, but that was not the reason for her near silence. The conversation she’d had with her father kept pinging off the walls of her brain. Questions ate away at her about Glastonbury and that man in the photo. She hadn’t recognized him at the Feathers Inn, but she sure as hell had been jolted by his gaze. She must have met him all those years ago at the birthday party—and clearly, he had been involved in their lives in some way—but there was something else to it, she was sure.
The big question was how come he looked exactly the same at the Feathers—he should be twenty years older than he was when the photo was taken, but her fleeting look at him earlier that day suggested he had not aged a day. She felt in her handbag for the book that her father had given her. She had not mentioned it to her sister. Again, this seemed a secret subject, one strictly between her and her father, yet he hadn’t actually asked her not to say anything.
She bid farewell to Jo and Marcel, promising to ring them about lunch on Sunday. She grappled with the two locks on her front door, the deadlock sticking a little. She rushed, eager to get inside and check out the book. She hadn’t had the chance to even read the title. Throwing her light switch, she made for the couch, reading the book title as she went. The Promise of Maewyn Sucat .
She looked inside and saw it had been self-published by her father in 1982—a year after her birth. There was no printer’s name or acknowledgements of any kind. Simply a oneline foreword written by her father:
This book is dedicated to the St. Clair family, past, present and future. The burden of responsibility remains. David St. Clair, August 16, 1982.
Bit short and sweet , she thought. It was unlike her father not to take the opportunity to write something expansive. The burden of responsibility remains? Let’s not take ourselves too seriously , she thought. There was a further note at the bottom of the same page, a quote: Vinculum infinitas. She’d have to look up ‘vinculum’, but infinitas obviously meant ‘forever’.
The first page was headed 461 A.D. Interesting, the same year her father had just mentioned as the year the Glastonbury ‘lights’ had first been recorded. She flipped through the book. It was not written in her father’s usual style. It was sparse and clipped, lacking the flowery language he would normally employ. She realized she hadn’t read anything of her father’s for years. The little book was barely a hundred pages. She noticed there were lots of scribbled asides and hand-drawn maps. An elaborate sketch of the Tor took up an entire page.
The ring tone on her mobile phone startled her. She quickly grabbed the little phone out of her cavernous handbag, the display alerting her that the call was from Police Operations.
She identified herself, then listened intently. She made a
Allie laughed it off and said she hadn’t seen a photo of poor Isabelle for a long time and it had brought back sad memories. This was accepted with understanding looks and everyone drifted back to the living room, except Allie and her father. Allie explained to her mother that she'd be there in a minute.
Once they were alone, she looked pointedly at her father, but he immediately held up his hand, walked to the desk, and picked up the book he’d previously plucked from the bookshelf.
“Don’t say anything, Alison. Just read this, ok?”
“ Ok? You know who I saw, don’t you?”
“I know what you saw, yes. We can’t speak of it, not yet, anyway.”
Something stirred in her subconscious. She knew something about this, but couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
“Tell me this, then, if you can . Where was the photo taken?”
It was a smart question—just the one he’d been hoping for.
“Glastonbury.”
*****
Jo and Marcel dropped Allie back at her Putney flat. It was 11:45 p.m. She had hardly spoken during the drive from Belgravia. She was tired, but that was not the reason for her near silence. The conversation she’d had with her father kept pinging off the walls of her brain. Questions ate away at her about Glastonbury and that man in the photo. She hadn’t recognized him at the Feathers Inn, but she sure as hell had been jolted by his gaze. She must have met him all those years ago at the birthday party—and clearly, he had been involved in their lives in some way—but there was something else to it, she was sure.
The big question was how come he looked exactly the same at the Feathers—he should be twenty years older than he was when the photo was taken, but her fleeting look at him earlier that day suggested he had not aged a day. She felt in her handbag for the book that her father had given her. She had not mentioned it to her sister. Again, this seemed a secret subject, one strictly between her and her father, yet he hadn’t actually asked her not to say anything.
She bid farewell to Jo and Marcel, promising to ring them about lunch on Sunday. She grappled with the two locks on her front door, the deadlock sticking a little. She rushed, eager to get inside and check out the book. She hadn’t had the chance to even read the title. Throwing her light switch, she made for the couch, reading the book title as she went. The Promise of Maewyn Sucat .
She looked inside and saw it had been self-published by her father in 1982—a year after her birth. There was no printer’s name or acknowledgements of any kind. Simply a oneline foreword written by her father:
This book is dedicated to the St. Clair family, past, present and future. The burden of responsibility remains. David St. Clair, August 16, 1982.
Bit short and sweet , she thought. It was unlike her father not to take the opportunity to write something expansive. The burden of responsibility remains? Let’s not take ourselves too seriously , she thought. There was a further note at the bottom of the same page, a quote: Vinculum infinitas. She’d have to look up ‘vinculum’, but infinitas obviously meant ‘forever’.
The first page was headed 461 A.D. Interesting, the same year her father had just mentioned as the year the Glastonbury ‘lights’ had first been recorded. She flipped through the book. It was not written in her father’s usual style. It was sparse and clipped, lacking the flowery language he would normally employ. She realized she hadn’t read anything of her father’s for years. The little book was barely a hundred pages. She noticed there were lots of scribbled asides and hand-drawn maps. An elaborate sketch of the Tor took up an entire page.
The ring tone on her mobile phone startled her. She quickly grabbed the little phone out of her cavernous handbag, the display alerting her that the call was from Police Operations.
She identified herself, then listened intently. She made a
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