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‘White . . .’ gasped Rourke. ‘Their eyes . . . Their eyes are white!’
The phone fell from his hand e
ven as a voice called urgently from it, ‘Rourke? Rourke, answer me!’
The stranger in the door lifted his head to stare at the old man. The shadow of his hat brim rose and light fell on his face, reflecting from his eyes – eyes that just like the animals’ eyes, were completely and utterly white, without pupil or iris.
++Where is it, old man?++ asked the intruder, though no sound came from his mouth and his lips did not move. ++Where is it?++
Rourke opened his mouth, but only a choking rattle came out. His hand flew to his head, as if he could ward off the stabbing, awful communication that was going straight into his brain.
++Answer the question!++
Rourke suddenly clawed at his chest with both hands. Gorillas vs The Fist fluttered forgotten to the floor.
++No!++ shouted the stranger. He dashed forward and caught Rourke as he fell.
White began to swirl in Rourke’s eyes too, but it could not outpace the other change that had gripped the old man.
Young Master Rourke went limp. The white ebbed from his eyes, leaving them open and unseeing.
The stranger lowered the heavy body to the floor. He grabbed the squawking phone and pulled it from the wall, the cord coming out with a piece of plaster the size of a dinner plate. Then he bent down and searched through the pockets of Rourke’s dressing gown.
Without any sign or gesture from the stranger, the two white-eyed chimpanzees went into the study, while the other animals turned and silently left the building.
The stranger flicked through the pages of Young Master Rourke’s book. As he did so, a thick, grey mist formed above him and several heavy drops of rain fell on to his back. He paused and looked up, and made an angry dismissive gesture that caused the mist and rain to immediately disappear.
In the study, the chimpanzees began to move books out of the bookcases, carefully opening each one before dropping it disinterestedly on to the floor.
‘It must be here,’ whispered the stranger, using his voice this time. It sounded strangely like a growl, at first neither man nor animal, but then shifted to being fully human. ‘It must be here . . .’
Behind the chimps, the clock shook. Springs whirred inside its cavernous casing, cogs grated, and a melancholy chime sounded the first of twelve strokes of midnight.
The sound echoed through the lodge and, faintly but clearly, outside. The ancient macaw hiding in the topmost branches of one of the great elms that lined the castle avenue heard the clock and lowered her proud-beaked head.
‘Every parrot for herself,’ she muttered, and launched into the air, beginning a slow but steady flight to the east, toward the shimmering lights of Portland town.
To be continued . . .
