The Magical Painting

2

2Bedtime proved the worst, and Lambert wondered if he would ever have a good night's sleep again. Sinclair offered to help put him to bed the first night, but Lambert waved him away, angry, not because of his manservant's offer of assistance, but at his own helplessness. So Sinclair, who had made up a bed of sorts in the study, left him alone and the night was long and extremely uncomfortable.

At around three, Lambert pushed himself out into the hallway to the dining room. Negotiating the table and chairs, he made his way to the drinks cabinet without too many bumps and scrapes, poured himself a large whisky and sat before the impressive French windows. In the far distance, against the smudges of black and grey that made up the sky, the towering shapes of the Highlands dominated everything and as he stared, the memories of the accident descended, darker even than the night.

She stood, a pale white streak of indeterminate age, emerging from the road as if hoisted upright by invisible wires, and he saw her face, clear as day. Consumed by her, unable to resist, the road and the rain forgotten, he focused all of his senses on the loveliness of her features and she smiled, beckoning him to drive straight towards her.

The phone went off at that moment, the call from Miles. It snapped Lambert back to the present, but too late. At a rush, realising where he was, he slammed on the brakes with all his might, tyres squealing as they slithered over the wet tarmac. He grappled with the wheel, the car going into a wild skid, and all the while, the woman's face filled his vision, her soft, open mouth drawing him in.

The world turned over, body buffeting around like a pebble in a bucket as the vehicle careered out of control, hit a bank, pitched and rotated. The night mingled with the rain and her voice, so concerned, full of panic and distress, “Andrew!”

The car slammed into a ditch with a bone-jarring shudder and somehow his foot became trapped in the buckled, twisted metal as the bonnet collapsed inwards. Hot, searing pain shot through his leg, but for the moment, he forced aside the excruciating agony as thoughts of exploding petrol tanks leaped into his mind, overwhelming him. Lambert screamed, fighting to free his foot from under the broken brake pedal. He heard rather than felt the snap of his ankle. A moment of disbelief froze his body, followed by a horrible nausea as strength drained from his guts. Soon, mounting waves of pain flowed from his shattered limb, building in intensity until his screams became almost continuous. Nevertheless, despite it all, he had the presence of mind to stretch forward and turn off the ignition.

He turned, and a bizarre sight greeted him – her face beyond the window, arms imploring him, anguish written in her features, the dread concern of a friend, a lover, yet none of it seemed right. Then the realisation caused him to gasp. He was upside down.

The whisky glass fell from his numb fingers, shattering on the floor, and he jumped, for a moment forgetting where he was and went to stand up. As he bore his weight down on his shattered limb, he cried out and immediately sank back into his wheelchair, breathing hard, biting down the pain. He put his shaking hand against his mouth and waited until his raging heartbeat lessened.

He struggled back to bed and lay in the darkness, body exhausted but sleep far, far away.

Through the course of the next few days and weeks, Lambert sleepwalked his way through life, spending time in the garden, trying to read, listen to music, surfing the Internet, anything to relieve the mounting boredom.

Visions of the mysterious woman from the crash became less, but sometimes, when looking out towards the hillside, her face loomed up in his mind and he took to imagining whom she might be and where she had come from. Perhaps a photograph he saw once, a fleeting glance of a pretty face, or the friend of a friend, an introduction lost amongst the stresses and strains of the past few months. He didn't know, but one thing was certain – she was beautiful.

Time seemed to stretch out, every minute lasting an hour and he grew increasingly restless, his current situation so different from his recent past, when he had so much to occupy his mind. The stress of a business spiralling towards disaster, his failed relationship with Jennifer. Now, he felt frozen in a timeless absolute. Intuitively, he wished he had a wiser vision; something beyond his capabilities, to challenge him, stretch his intellect, bring some hope of a more meaningful existence.

Sinclair, ever close, drifted in and out, bringing food, hot drinks. Sometimes Miles would come and talk, cracking jokes and generally being his usual, cheerful self. Lambert sat through these visits without offering up either verbal ripostes or the faintest glimpse of a reaction. The more he sat, the more morose he became. Reading didn't help, nor the daily ritual of sitting watching mindless daytime television. Even the Internet, with its possibility for discovery and exploration of every situation and thought process from around the world – a world that rarely makes sense – couldn't make any inroads. Boredom and inactivity competed to overwhelm him, and he took to wheeling himself out into the grounds of the castle, even when it rained, to sit and breathe in the sweet air rather than the musty, dampness of the interior.

On one such day, Sinclair, whilst bringing him a tray full of oatcakes, malt whisky and coffee, shuffled awkwardly and coughed. “Sir, if I may make a suggestion?”

Lambert did not raise his head as he considered the malt, peering into its amber depths, savouring the moment. The tumbler, heavy crystal-cut glass, seemed to enhance the flavour as he took the first mouthful, closed his eyes and sighed deeply. “God, that is bloody good.”

Sinclair grunted, tried again. “Sir, I am somewhat concerned.”

The man's rich brogue seemed on edge, as if he were struggling to find the words. “Are you?”

“Yes, sir. You seem so disheartened, depressed perhaps. I am becoming increasingly concerned, sir.”

“Well, you needn't be. I'm just fed up. I can't go anywhere, do anything, and my leg's beginning to itch like billy-oh.” To give weight to his words, he raised the plaster cast and waggled it. “See, no more pain. The sooner the bloody thing comes off the better.”

“Next week, I believe the doctors said? They will re-examine you, perhaps apply a simpler dressing and then—”

“Six weeks they said. Compound fracture, ankle and shin crushed. Even then, I won't be able to put much pressure on it. I'll have to exercise, walk with a bloody crutch…” He shook his head and drained the whisky. “Good stuff, Sinclair. Thank you.”

“Sir, your disposition, it…” He made a face as if in pain. “Sir, if I might suggest something? To ease the tedium of your situation.”

“Anything you can say that will bring some relief would be very welcome indeed, Sinclair. But please don't tell me it's whist, or chess.”

Sinclair's mouth hung open for a moment. “Er, no, sir. Nothing of the sort.”

“What then?”

“The West Tower, sir. The entrance is blocked, but I do believe I can find a way in, with your permission of course.”

“The West Tower? I'm not sure I've ever stepped inside.”

“No, sir, I do not believe you have. Your grandfather kept it locked, and even your father only ventured inside somewhat rarely.”

“He said it was haunted.” Sinclair looked away, a little too sharply, and the action brought a slight stab of alarm to Lambert, who shifted in his chair and frowned. “You don't believe all that rot, do you?”

“Not at all, sir. Your father was a somewhat fanciful man, sir, who often conjured up the wildest of fantasies.”

“Did him all right for writing novels though, eh? You ever read one, Sinclair?”

“I believe I started 'The Vicar of Castelrig Knoll', but I am ashamed to admit I couldn't get into it, as they say.”

“He did most of his writing in here, in the study, didn't he?”

“During the weekends only, sir. You father was a man of peculiar habits. The rest of the time, he worked in the Tower, looking out across the glen. That was after your grandfather passed away, sir.”

Lambert nodded and allowed his eyes to wander over the rolling hills until they settled on the distant mountains. “I was five years of age when grandfather died. Father often spoke of him, but I can't even remember what he looked like.”

“He looked remarkably like you, sir.”

“Did he? No one ever said.” Lambert shrugged.

“He could be your twin brother, sir.”

Frowning, Lambert looked away.

Silence hung over them both, the only sound the far-off cry of a soaring buzzard, lonely and hauntingly beautiful as if, in that single, plaintive call, the captured souls of the tormented begged for release. As he looked, Lambert thought he saw a couple in the distance. He couldn't quite make them out, but screwing up his eyes in an effort to male out their details, the face of a man turned towards the glen and the woman's slender hand reached out to caress his cheek. “My love…”

Lambert snapped his head towards the servant, seized by an inexplicable dread. “What did you say?”

Sinclair blinked, “Er, I was talking about the Tower, sir.”

Lambert quickly scanned the room, saw there was no one, then took another look across the countryside. “Sinclair, this is private property, correct?”

“Sir? Private property? I don't quite—”

“Damn it, man, has the public access to the glen?”

“This is your estate, sir. True, there are several pathways, which give access. The public have right of way, sir, as long as they do not cross into those areas deemed private. There are numerous notices to alert them to those area, however. Why do you ask?”

Keeping his eyes locked on the rolling hills, the valley, the various clumps of woodland, he shook his head. “It doesn't matter, I thought I…” He blew out his cheeks and swung his wheelchair around. “You were saying? The Tower? What about it?”

Sinclair frowned. “Well, only an idea, sir, but I believe your father may have kept unfinished manuscripts, letters and poems there, together with a large collection of old photographs. I thought perhaps you might want to go through them, unearth some forgotten gems, perhaps discover more of your family's history.” He shrugged, gave a half smile. “It would give you something to do, sir, and may even shed some light on…”

His voice trailed away, and Lambert considered what he'd heard. “I'll sleep on it,” he said.

But that night, he could not sleep. The appearance of the couple bothered him. They might have been simply out on a stroll, but the more he thought about it, the more this explanation seemed unlikely. He went to the dining room once again to drink whisky, more than one glassful, allowing his mind to linger on the buzzard and its cry, the woman's voice floating as if on a breeze. The more he thought, the more the belief grew something very odd was striving to make its presence felt.