When morning came I was up with the sun, refreshed despite only catching a few hours’ sleep. I enquired about the address on my piece of paper and the proprietor of the tavern laughed out loud, pointing me in the direction of a salty looking man outside. A fellow I would come to call Jack.
“Course I know where it is! But you won’t get there on foot,” he growled. “Nor in that flash car of yours.” With the best will in the world I’d hardly have called my car flash.
“What do you mean?”
Jack said nothing more. Instead he merely nodded over the sea in the direction of a small outcropping shrouded in thick, grey mist. I could just about make out the shape of a rectangular structure perched precariously on those rocks. The ocean swelled around this place and no matter how hard I looked, I could see no route on or off that barren “island”.
“It’s completely cut off,” I gasped. “How am I supposed to get across there?”
Jack chuckled and turned to me. “This is your lucky day. I’ll take you in my rowing boat ... For a small fee that is.”
Lucky day, my foot. Jack let it slip that he sometimes delivered letters and essential supplies to Lynch. I began to suspect he’d been waiting for me by the tavern that morning. He’d probably opened and read the exchange of letters before posting them on. But he was my only option, and by this time I was desperate to meet with Lynch. He could have fired me over in a cannon for all I cared.
I transferred my belongings into Jack’s boat and we set off within the hour. My companion on this fairly lengthy trip said very little on the way, which was fine with me. It gave me more time to think of what to say when I arrived, and what to ask. If only I’d had more warning I could have—
But what was the use in thinking like that? I was here now, nearly upon my destination. It was too late for making plans and last minute notes.
The closer we got, the more of Lynch’s house became visible. The curtains of fog parted for us, allowing me to fully take in the shape of this mansion—for now I saw it was a dark, stone, gothic building in keeping with his trade. I shivered slightly.
“Second thoughts?” Jack asked, his back to the place. I didn’t answer him. I was nervous, certainly, but only due to the enormity of the task, not because of some mock facade of a house which had probably been constructed by builders at Lynch’s request. It all helped perpetuate his esoteric image.
At last the boat came up to those jagged rocks. Jack steered his vessel so close I thought he would actually hit them, but he seemed to miss by a mile when the time came.
“I’ll take my money now.” There was no feeling in his voice. A little greed perhaps, but that was all. Reluctantly, I handed him the promised amount. He snatched the notes from me, counting them with nimble fingers.
“When are you coming back?” I asked as I climbed out of the rocking timber, dragging my holdalls behind me. It was a question that had been nagging me since we passed through the fog.
“I’ll know when it’s time.”
“Wait a minute—” I called after him, but it was too late. Already he was rowing away, his strokes swift and sure, hands pulling the shafts much faster than he had on the way over. His attitude annoyed me. What if he came back before I’d finished? Or, worse still, returned days later by which time Lynch would be sick of the sight of me? Well, there was nothing to do now but make my way to his door. Part of me wanted to rush, and another part was calling for me to take my time—savour the moment. In the end the former won, although I did hesitate before raising my hand to knock, my palms sweating and my heart muscle hammering away inside my chest.
In that instant the door opened inwards, even before my knuckles could strike the wood. The hinges creaked impressively. He certainly didn’t do things by half, Mr Lynch.
“Er ... Hello,” I murmured into the black interior, feeling a mild sense of trepidation. Such were my nerves on this momentous occasion.
A voice cut through the gloom, eerie and almost non-existent compared with my own. “Come in, Mr Regis.”
I laughed but it came out more like a mewl. I was beginning to feel like I was in one of Lynch’s books. Any moment now the mad axe-man would appear, or maybe some sort of creature would lay its vile tongue on my neck, savouring the taste of its next victim.
“M-Mr Lynch, is that you?”
“Yes. Now come in and shut the door behind you.”
I did as he requested, but only when I moved further into the hall did I lay eyes on Herbert Lynch himself, his form suddenly revealed to me. There was very little light in the house, but somehow I saw him as clearly as a firework on bonfire night. He was a small, stooping figure with very short arms that hung straight down at his sides. His face was the shape of a light bulb, with curly white hair on top and memories of what had once been a full beard scratching around under his chin. The man’s Iguana-like eyes bulged out, as if the pressure inside his head was too great, and when he finally smiled his golden teeth seemed far too big for his mouth.
I had imagined Lynch to be in his mid-60s, for word had it he started writing at an early age. But the person in front of me was at least twenty years older than that. Lines traced curving patterns across his throat and cheeks, the skin there rippling with folds. And when he turned to walk up the hallway, it was with slow, careful movements: those of an ancient man who was frightened of breaking his brittle bones.
Leaving my bags behind, I followed him to a large drawing room. There was a gigantic arched window on the far side, though incredibly it was still dark—the mist preventing all but a sliver of sunlight to pass through. However, my eyes soon became accustomed to the gloom. Lynch shuffled over to a grand rectangular table with carved legs and a polished surface. He sat at the head, waving me over with his left hand.
As I approached, I noticed that two places had been set for dinner: the host’s and my own. On the table were covered silver trays.
“Are you hungry, Mr Regis? I thought we might eat together.” He looked at me intently, inspecting every movement I made. Daring me to reject his hospitality.
“I ... That’s most kind of you. Please, call me Stephen.”
“Very well. And you may call me Herbert, though it isn’t my given name.” The teeth appeared again.
Now this really was interesting. I’d always suspected Lynch used a pseudonym, that’s why nobody could find out anything about him. This was the proof I needed to confirm my theory. Maybe I’d even find out what his real name was ... But I was taking things too fast. Slow down and enjoy your meal, I said to myself.
I sat at the table next to Lynch and he immediately lifted the lids off those trays to reveal a superb spread consisting of roast chicken, potatoes and other assorted vegetables, all piping hot.
“Help yourself. It’s not often I get callers out here.” His tone was melancholy and for just a split second I realised what his life must be like in the house. Day after day, just writing, never seeing a soul. The life of a loner.
Still, it was by his own choice. Or was it? Had the poor man been driven here by his fame? Forced to shut himself away because he was so good at his chosen career? Maybe he was agoraphobic; Lord knows the pressures of the outside world are enough to make anyone run screaming from the crowds and cities. It would certainly explain a few things. Another question for later.
I silently chewed my chicken, seeing the man I’d admired all my life in a new light.
The meal was delicious, but Lynch didn’t leave it at that. He insisted on showing me around the great house itself, a tour which lasted