“That one is chicken masala. That one is beef vindaloo. I hope you like it spicy.”
“How spicy?” Ciara asked with a wince.
“You’re not into hot food?” Howard said. “Hmm. Better stick to the chicken then.”
The food was incredible. The vindaloo blisteringly hot, but so full of flavour, the masala smooth and creamy. They all had second helpings, Patrick and his friends repeatedly telling Howard how good it all was. He smiled and nodded but said nothing. Once they were full, they retired back to the lounge room. Shirley put a DVD into the player under the huge TV and John Carpenter’s The Thing, started up.
“Oh, this is one of the best horror films ever made!” Torsten said happily.
“Oh no. Not for me,” Simone said.
“You don’t like horror films?” Shirley asked.
“Not really. But is okay, I am tired. I go to bed. Maybe read. I don’t want more…” She glanced at Torsten. “Der Albtraum.”
He nodded. “Nightmares. We both had bad dreams last night.”
“Nightmares, yes. Thank you for lovely dinner.” Simone smiled and left the room, headed upstairs.
“I had terrible dreams last night too,” Patrick said. “I’d forgotten, but she just reminded me.”
“Did you dream of the fall?” Edgar asked.
“The fall?”
“When the creatures fell to the sea, off what’s now Carlton Beach.”
“How do you know that?”
Edgar laughed. “Everyone who sleeps in The Gulp dreams of the fall.”
Patrick looked at Torsten, then Ciara. They both nodded, eyes concerned.
“How can we have all dreamed the same thing?” Patrick asked.
“Just one of the many strange things about this cursed town, my friend.” Edgar turned back to the movie, slumping down in the couch. The other band members all kept their eyes on the screen.
Patrick wondered about the other part of his dream, that was only flitting around his mind in disconnected gossamer images. Something tall and thin. Some sensation of loss. He wanted to ask Torsten and Ciara about that but couldn’t find the words.
He watched the film, uncomfortable. And he had even more reason to look forward to the morning and their onward journey.
Halfway through the movie, Edgar got up and offered drinks. Patrick had a bourbon, but decided it would only be the one. He didn’t want to feel again what he’d felt that morning. Ciara and Torsten both accepted a second round a little later as MacReady dipped red hot wire in a petri dish on screen. Ciara threw Patrick a surprised look when he declined, but she said nothing.
When the film ended, Edgar said, “Shots!”
“Oh, not again,” Torsten said.
Edgar went to the drinks dresser anyway and turned back with several shot glasses of the pale green Blind Eye Moonshine. He walked over, offered them around.
“I don’t think so,” Torsten said.
“Come on, man! Just one. Especially if you’re leaving tomorrow. You can’t get this anywhere else in the world.”
Torsten laughed and took a glass. “Just one!”
“Same for me,” Ciara said, taking one.
Edgar turned to Patrick, but he shook his head.
“You sure?” Edgar asked.
“Yeah, really. Thanks though.”
“Okay, it’s your loss.”
The band took one each and Edgar said, “Imagination!”
They all downed the shots. The band made no reaction at all, but Torsten and Ciara both shuddered and grimaced.
“It’s so weird,” Ciara said. “The sensation is kinda horrible, but it’s also delicious.” She drew in a long breath. “And there’s that lovely spread of warmth. Really, what is this stuff.”
Edgar smiled, and shook his head. “Another?”
“No, thanks,” Patrick said. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”
Ciara shook his hand off her forearm. “It’s barely after ten o’clock.”
“You know, I will have another,” Torsten said.
“Me too!” Ciara said, casting a defiant glance at Patrick.
“Shirley, you want to get the drinks?” Edgar said. “I feel like playing a song.”
Several guitars were on their stands along one wall behind a sofa and Edgar picked one up. Patrick had a sudden and urgent desire to not hear the man sing. He didn’t want to hear that strange not-quite-Gaelic language again. His gut shivered with a kind of trepidation.
“You sure you won’t come to bed?” he asked Ciara. He tried to put a little intent into his voice, tried to make something tempting of his expression like he wanted to spend some private time with his girlfriend. But his discomfort must have simply made him look weird.
Ciara frowned, then laughed, a little embarrassed. “You can crash if you like. Are you feeling okay?”
“A little off if I’m honest. Will you come with me?”
She tipped her head to one side. “You really want me to? I’d like to stay and hear Edgar play.” Her eyes seemed more challenging than sympathetic.
Patrick chewed his lower lip, uncertain. Should he insist on her coming? Would she, even if he did? And why was he so uncomfortable?
“You go,” Ciara said. “I promise I’ll follow you up soon, okay? I’m tired too. Maybe half an hour, I’ll join you.”
Patrick nodded. He could hardly insist she come now when she’d made such a seemingly reasonable offer. “Okay.”
Edgar grinned and perched on the arm of a couch, put the guitar on his knee. Patrick almost ran up the stairs, so desperate was he not to hear the man’s song.
He waited half an hour, and Ciara didn’t come. He thought about going back down, checking on her. But he’d looked like such a fool if he pulled a stunt like that. They were leaving the next day, he decided to focus on that. He got ready for bed, brushed his teeth, took a leak, then padded back across the hall to his room.
He’d been in bed only a few minutes, still no sign of Ciara, when he heard a sound. He froze, listened hard. Something was moving above the ceiling. He remembered the high, A-frame roof of The Manor, imagined there must be quite an attic up there.
The sound stopped for a moment, then resumed. Something moving, something quite large. Then definite footsteps. Was a person up there? One of the band?
He heard Simone’s voice from next door. Something in German, and he caught Torsten’s name. He smiled. If Torsten was heading to bed, surely Ciara would be up any moment. He turned his ear back to the ceiling, wondering at the possibility of a person there, but was distracted again by another voice from the room next door.
“Not Torsten. It’s Clarke.”
Patrick sat up in bed, alarmed, then hurried to the adjoining door and put his ear to it. Clarke was so quiet and unassuming compared to the others in the band.
“Clarke? What you want?”
“Torsten is enjoying a drink and a song downstairs. You want some company?”
“Clarke. I don’t know.”
“I’ve seen the way you look at me. You like what you see, huh?”
Patrick frowned. If he was honest, Clarke was probably the best looking of the guys. They were all lean, that hard-body rock star aesthetic. The three of them all had long hair, Edgar blond and the other two black, whether natural or dyed he couldn’t tell. But Clarke’s hair was thick and shining, his jaw square, strong cheekbones. And he had that quiet, brooding thing going on.
“I’ve got a little drink for us,” Clarke said. His voice had moved into the room now, Patrick imagined him at the foot of Simone’s bed.
“What is it? Not the moonshine?”
Clarke laughed. “Of course the Blind Eye Moonshine. Come on, just a sip.”
“I don’t know.”
Patrick fought an urge to swing the door wide, confront Clarke, tell the bastard to leave Simone alone. That would be the worst white knighting. She was a grown-up, she didn’t need saving. Not yet anyway. If she tried to send Clarke away and he refused, then Patrick would get involved.