‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Yes you do.’
He thought of the cards written in his mother’s hand that he kept in his trophy box. Isabel Ramsay had given them to him. Until now he had supposed they were sent to Isabel by his mother. In fact she had known of his mother’s affair and kept her secret all these years. It was why she had lied to the police about seeing Kate. Mark Ramsay must have known too; it was why he did not contradict his wife’s evidence.
The basement was lined with ceramic tiles. Two lights with gun-metal shades shed white light on a dais in the centre. On this was set a luxurious red-leather dentist’s chair with chrome fittings. Challoner had seated himself in it and at his request Jack had poured him a glass of water.
Above a counter in which there was a sink, a lit panel displayed a series of X-rays showing what Jack judged to be the same set of teeth from different angles: front, down, side. The lips drawn back were a grey mass at the periphery of the image. The teeth were that of a child and flawless, although one on the lower jaw was missing. Jack read the label on each negative: the years progressed from 1968 to 1969, but the name was the same.
Katherine Venus.
As a small boy, passionate about the Romans, he had taken it for granted that his dead mother had been the goddess of love and beauty, with a planet named after her that in 2012 and 2117 would transit across the sun. Buried in the churchyard, her teeth would be perfect; her smile long gone, her own transit was over.
‘That is my father’s work; such tremendous skill, he nurtured your mother. He had this surgery soundproofed because my dear mama couldn’t bear the drill or any dental treatment. Consequently she had dreadful teeth, which mortified my father. She only let him set up his practice in here on the condition that she didn’t have to meet his patients or hear the equipment. Apart from the income, I doubt if she noticed when he died. He might have still been down here, working away. We can shout as loud as we like, not a creature will hear – the nearest houses are weekend retreats and will be empty. At this time of night we are only twenty-five minutes from Brighton and a mere hour and a half from London, yet we could be on the moon. We are alone. Welcome to your mother’s sanctuary, my dear Jonny.’
Ensconced on his throne, Challoner was the True Host; his manner expansive, he sought to make Jack feel at home.
‘No one calls me that.’
‘Your mother does. By the way, you are the spitting image of her, a credit to us both.’
‘I’m not your son.’
Challoner sipped the water with ruminative pleasure. He placed the glass on a ledge beside the little rinsing sink and rested back on the cushioned leather. He was quite unlike his sister; about to die, he was not afraid or concerned.
‘Ah, Jonathan, you were always so intractable.’ Challoner shut his eyes. ‘You’ll have to forgive me my confusion earlier. I thought you were Kate chasing her cup of tea.’
‘I don’t forgive you anything.’ Jack examined the polished steel instruments on the counter. With previous Hosts he had allowed time to understand their movements, their preferences and habits. He had spent weeks observing them, becoming familiar with even minor behavioural patterns. Had he seen Challoner during a cleaning session, he would have recognized him. He had known him on the zebra crossing in Earls Court the night he stepped on the crack in the paving.
‘If you tell me what you think I have done, I can perhaps exculpate myself.’
‘You know what you have done.’
‘Kate is dying to see you. It’s been too long, although she understands you have your life to lead. We must let our children fly free; they do not belong to us, she says.’
‘Stop talking about her as if she is alive.’
Challoner returned to the water and sipped at it with quiet complacency, seeming not to have heard Jack.
Apart from a jumble of debris on the counter, the room was ordered and clean. Despite the outdated equipment, it had a contemporary feel, but as in the rest of the house Jack detected decomposition beneath the cocktail of stringent polishes and detergents. He could imagine why Challoner’s mother had hated going to the dentist, even if it only involved going down to the basement and the dentist was her husband. People had not been happy in this room.
Ivan Challoner had treated Jonathan’s mummy here.
The chair reminded Jack of a 1950s American automobile, the shiny chrome reflected his face warped in the curving silver. He was told to wait upstairs and draw pictures – adults were always asking children to draw pictures – but the profound quiet had distressed him. After a while he had pattered along to the door and, pressing his lips to the wood, had called: ‘Mum-my!’
She had ignored him. Fact: in the soundproofed basement, with the door sealed shut, Kate Rokesmith had not been able to hear him.
The rubbish on the counter was tangles of frayed twine, snaps of wood dried grey and smooth, rounded shards of glass scattered amongst stones and pebbles. These last were arranged according to size, the smallest at the front, then graduating to polished cricket-ball size. Some were flints, others pockmarked wedges of chalk: every item was arranged to depict a beach.
A beach seen only at low tide.
In the twine Jack sniffed river mud; in the chalk he caught the salty tang of the sea. Sunshine warmed his face and a gentle hand brushed his fringe from his eyes. He had discovered the pebbles in the garden by the church and used the twine for mooring rope to tie up his boat and lash together lolly sticks for his bridge. The lumps of chalk he’d dug up from amongst seaweed in the abandoned village. He had lived through the shape and colour of every object; his memories, hopes, fears and dreams were locked within these found and lost treasures. His mummy had said their days out or walks to the river or to the big house in the country were a secret and like the treasures found on his walks at home, she’d taken them away from him.
Meticulously, Ivan Challoner had placed each object where it belonged as if it were a giant three-dimensional jigsaw. All that was missing was the Bell Steps.
‘Grown-ups never appreciate the value to children of what they find. Those treasures are the bones of our lives. I kept them safe for you.’ Challoner smiled fondly at him. ‘We’ve been preparing the house for you, Jonathan. You are our very special guest.’
Deep within the silence of the phantom surgery, Jack heard the wash of the incoming tide and he distinguished voices.
‘What do you mean you’ve prepared the house? You’re not expecting me to move in with you, are you? It needs redecorating, modernizing! And having got away from that dull as ditchwater village, you can’t imagine I want to go back? I have a home here, as do you. Tony darling, don’t spoil it. Hold me and enjoy this, now. I’ve had Hugh doing the silent bit about me not coming to his mother’s frightful birthday lunch, and Jonny is crotchety about your engine… he’s not speaking to me. I’ve had a bloody morning. Please be a sweety and be nice. Be my Heathcliff!’
‘He’s brought my engine with him? Christ, he’ll ruin it.’
‘He won’t be parted from it. I even tried bribery with some lump of glass that dear sweet Isabel gave me for luck. Come on, Tony, don’t waste this time on a silly toy.’
‘It’s not silly, my father gave it to me.’
‘You shouldn’t have given it to a baby then.’
‘I’ve talked to a lawyer. If you give up your rights to the house, it can go through pretty smartish.’