Simone went off with Clarke, holding hands as they went upstairs. Torsten slumped onto a couch next to Edgar and Shirley, where they were watching a movie, drinking beers. He took a bottle from the fridge, held it up asking Patrick if he’d join them.
Patrick shook his head. “Might have a nap.”
He went upstairs, with no intention of sleeping. The stairway gave out onto a wide landing and immediately to the left were four doors. The two rooms they occupied, the bathroom they were using, and one other. He opened that one and saw another guest room, made up like theirs had been. The other way from the top of the stairs led down a long hallway with three doors on either side and one more at the far end. Among those would be the rooms the band members used. He glanced back down the stairs, saw no one, and ventured along.
The first doors on either side were locked. The next two were both bathrooms. The next two were locked. Maybe the band kept their rooms locked, but he wondered why. Perhaps because they had house guests so often?
The door at the end drew his eye. He opened it, surprised as he had expected that to be locked as well. A narrow staircase went up along the wall, into darkness.
Heart hammering, Patrick climbed the steep wooden stairs. They creaked softly, made him wince. When he neared the top, he looked cautiously into the attic space. It was huge, running the entire length of the massive house, with a high, vaulted ceiling under dark A-frame rafters. The floor was solid, polished floorboards. Candles burned here and there, bookcases lined the walls, jammed with hundreds, maybe thousands of books. Light leaked in at the far end from the round window he’d seen from outside. In one far corner was a curtained off area, but he caught a glimpse of a ceramic sink through a gap in the curtains. In the other far corner was a huge, mahogany four poster bed. It had a heavy, deep red velvet canopy, with side curtains all tied back to the posts. Someone lay in the bed.
As Patrick noticed them, the person moved, began to sit up. Cadaverously thin, moon pale, with long, white hair. Patrick ducked back out of sight and froze, heart hammering.
“Edgar, lad?” The voice was wheezing and thin but echoed with lost strength. Something about it chilled Patrick to his bones.
There was shuffling and soft grunts of effort as the old man moved.
“Someone else, eh? Have I got a visitor? Or did I dream it? Hard to tell these days…”
Patrick gritted his teeth in panic, looked down the steep staircase to the rectangle of inviting light below. He didn’t dare move, give himself away. He looked up again, into the gloom of the attic. Another grunt and the definite sound of a footstep. The old man groaned softly, then made the universal noise of someone stretching, though it was a dusty, weak sound.
“Let’s have a look at you!” The old white head surged into view right above him and Patrick yelped in surprise. How had he covered that distance so fast? Without thinking, Patrick half ran, half fell down the thin wooden stairs, clattering as he went, and stumbled out onto the landing. He slammed the door behind him, shutting out a peal of harsh laughter that was anything but frail.
Swallowing hard against powerful adrenaline, he went directly to his room and closed the door.
The meal Howard made was indeed amazing. Even Patrick had to admit it. The bugs had been cleaned, the tender tail meat cooked up into a spicy tomato sauce and served over linguini. Howard had even baked fresh bread and then toasted it with generous slatherings of garlic butter.
“You lucky to have Howard as chef,” Simone said to the others.
“You do all the cooking?” Torsten asked him.
Howard nodded. “Usually. I enjoy it, it’s like a hobby. These fools have a go sometimes when I can’t be bothered.”
“The famous Edgar spag bol!” Shirley said with a laugh.
“Hey, fuck yas!” Edgar said. He turned to Patrick and his friends. “I’ll make my spag bol tomorrow night, see what you think.”
“Ah, what have I done?” Shirley said, slapping the back of her hand to her forehead.
Three bottles of crisp white wine were on the table and Clarke kept everyone’s glass full. Patrick took full advantage, shaken by recent events, thinking maybe a few wines would help. There was no way he would be drinking the Blind Eye Moonshine again though.
The wine did indeed relax him, especially his tongue. After they sat back, sated, and Howard had collected up the plates, Patrick said, “So who’s the old guy in the attic?”
Ciara, Simone and Torsten flashed confused glances his way. Howard, Clarke and Shirley seemed to still, attentive.
Edgar remained relaxed, smiling. “You met Bram?”
Patrick hadn’t expected such a casual response. “Well, not met him exactly.”
“You just had a quick spy on the old fella, is that it?”
“I was exploring the house, is all.”
Edgar nodded. “That right? He’s my… father, I suppose. I told you the house was his.”
“I didn’t know he was in the attic!”
“He lives up there, rarely goes out. He’s very old.”
The other band members snickered.
Patrick had a sudden pulse of realisation. The moment of recognition from the garden earlier, confirmed with his close encounter upstairs. He’d been too shocked to make the connection before, but the old man in the attic, Bram, and the white-haired man in the portrait with Governor Gulpepper… He shook his head. Surely not. Not that old. But they were the same person, he was sure.
“Wait,” Ciara said. “There’s an old man in the attic?”
Edgar laughed. “Don’t sound so shocked. He’s got an entire apartment up there. It’s not like we keep him in a fucking box or something.”
“Your father?” Simone asked.
Edgar paused a moment. “Sort of. The man who made me, shall we say.” He smiled at his band mates. “I guess he’s responsible for all of us in a way.”
“We look after him,” Shirley said. “And he lets us have the house.”
“It works for everyone,” Clarke said.
“Sounds like a good arrangement,” Ciara said. “But we’ve made a lot of noise here and there. We should be more mindful.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Howard said. “The attic is a long way from downstairs. It’s a big house. He doesn’t care anyway.”
Patrick was disarmed. He’d thought to drop a bomb with his revelation but had barely made a ripple. He jumped at a sudden rapping at the front door.
Edgar hopped up. “Company!”
“Expecting guests?” Torsten asked.
“Yeah, few mates coming over. Bit of a party!”
“On a Monday?” Patrick asked and immediately felt stupid.
Everyone laughed, throwing him pitying looks.
“It’s always the weekend in rock’n’roll land!” Edgar said, and went to answer the door.
Patrick shook his head, frowning at the laughter of the band and his friends alike. His stomach churned, like the strange bugs he’d eaten had reanimated and were squirming around inside him.
The others all left the kitchen and headed towards the large living room as voices swelled. Several people must have arrived at once. Only Patrick and Ciara remained sitting at the table.
“What’s up with you?” she asked.
He stared, lips pressed together. “You really can’t see it?”
“See what?”
“This!” He gestured vaguely around himself. “All this. It’s fucked up. It’s wrong.”
“Patrick, you’re the one being weird. Like going to bed early, on your own. You used to love a party, I’d have to drag you home.”
“These people are messed up, Ciara. They’re not good for you.”
She frowned, shook her head. It was almost like she pitied him.