THE SIXTH GUEST: Chapter Seven - Part Two

There could have been a billion thoughts crackling away in her head, pulling her in every conceivable direction, but there wasn’t even one.

Clare stood in the suddenly empty hallway staring after Joey’s blurry silhouette in the frosted glass of the front door, unable suddenly to form any pattern of thinking, cohesive or otherwise.

At the end of the hallway in the kitchen opening, Mike was setting down Rosalie, walking toward the back wall. Behind the closed door of Selina’s room, murmured voices gave little snaps of conflict as the voices rose, the exact words lost somewhere in the thick wood. Through the front door, Joey’s silhouette was gone. And the man – whoever he was – was ahead of him, getting further and further away by the second. She had to go after him; find him and... do what? Her thoughts were whirling, refusing to settle on any kind of sense to what was happening to them still.

Then a groan came and Clare’s heartbeat plunged from something close to relief: that there was something she could deal with here and now; something real; something she could understand, if only tenuously.

Henry shifted in his chair inside the lounge doorway, rocking forward, then fell back against the cushions, nose pointing almost vertically, his palsied fingers still curling in on his palms.

“Henry!” Clare ran to him and got on her knees at his feet.

The old man tilted his head to the side, his red raw eyes rolling first under his eyelids then down as he blinked rapidly, his mouth hanging open. There were traces of white on the flanks of his chin where his spittle had dried. He swiped ineffectually at it, focusing on her at last, still breathing out of rhythm.

“Henry. Are you okay?”

“... Clare?”

“What happened to you? Are you alright?”

He stared straight ahead then shuddered. He gave a long blink then shuddered again.

“Henry?”

His focus popped back and he looked at her, holding her eyes in a frozen lock for three full seconds before he visibly relaxed all over, his shoulders slumping down, hands dropping into his lap.

“Are you... okay?”

“I’m fine.” His voice was raspy, as though he’d strained his vocal chords or was suffering from a serious cold, which she knew he wasn’t. “Just fell asleep.”

That gave her pause; almost made her call him out, a little tick of anger flicking the underside of her brain. For the second time that day she had the uncanny feeling that— Screw that, she knew he was lying to her; no doubt about it. “What about the man?”

Henry paled.

“Did you see the man?”

His eyes hopped off her face to look right over her shoulder, at where the man had been standing.

“Did you talk to him?” she asked.

He sat forward. “I’m tired. I think I might go to bed.”

“Henry...”

“You’ll have to excuse me.”

He clearly had every intention of standing – in normal circumstances she might have even helped him – but now she found herself simply standing up, not helping him in the least, just looking at him coldly, more convinced now than ever that he wasn’t being truthful. And that pissed her off. Perhaps her mind was using that as an outlet to the tension but she suddenly wanted to shout at the idiot old man and tell him exactly what she thought of his secrets.

But she didn’t. And when he faltered trying to stand, she did jump forward to take his arm and steady him. At that he made eye contact and smiled and the anger winked out, turning back into a tense tickle of frustration and panic.

“I’m just going to sit for a moment,” said Henry. “Do you think you could fetch me a cup of tea?”

Clare was looking at the window as though she could see through the blinds but she nodded and left him sitting there.

“Mike.” She marched down the hall to the kitchen. He was pouring orange juice from a carton he’d taken from the fridge. He handed it to Rosalie and ruffled her hair as she started to sip it but he was looking at Clare as she approached. He was keeping it as hidden as he could for the little girl’s sake but he had been deeply affected by what had just happened. She’d never seen this expression on his face and in its way that shook her more than she had been. He was reflecting her own shivering psyche.

“Clare.”

“You have to come with me. We have to go after him; get him back here.”

“I don’t know if that’s the best—”

“Mike. We have to go. Now. We have to stop him before...”

“What?”

She didn’t answer.

“You believed him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Cause I’m not sure—”

“We have to go after him. Now. I need you with me.”

He started to move then hesitated. “I can’t. Rosalie...”

The little girl was still drinking, looking up over the rim of her glass at both of them. Clare’s resolve almost faltered; then she remembered, “Henry. He can look after her. Take her up to bed. We won’t be gone long.”

Mike shifted through the mental process of giving in, nodding finally. “Okay. Let’s do it. You sure she’ll be okay with him?”

“Of course,” replied Clare, already turning to go. “Henry loves children.”