Hawk's eye - Chapter Four; Part 1/2 Scrapped

4/4/2014

This chapter has been scrapped, and the only reason I have left it up is to compare it to the re-written version.

A/N: OK, so this chapter got a little out of hand, and I can't say I'm entirely pleased with the result. It was too long to publish in one go -- that would be me being cruel towards you guys -- so I've published it in two parts. Reviews appreciated!

CHAPTER FOUR:

Of contract-killers and motorbikes

There's only one thing that's worse than jumping off a moving bus in the middle of the night and traveling a good three-and-a-half miles by foot, Hawk realized, as he walked up to the miniature palace sprawled out before him. And that was stepping into the house of a contract killer. Never mind the fact that the contract killer in question was dead. The house still breathed an air of inexplicable danger; there was an aura about the place that people have grown to associate with death.

Unfortunately, this particular contract killer also happened to be his uncle – an uncle who had died a month ago, leaving Hawk a letter as his only inheritance. The contents of said letter were, to state it blandly, rather strange. Uncle Mason had written to him to inform him about the amount of money he would be inheriting and other useless blah about how Ann Bobby had replaced him as his legal guardian. As if she wasn't already looking after him in the first place! And he was legally an adult now. He didn't need a guardian.

Hawk rolled his eyes at the very thought.

But it wasn't the strangeness of the letter that had compelled Hawk to leave Low Wood for Birmingham, to arrive at the house of an Uncle he could only remember having seen once in his entire life. It was, in fact, the crisp honesty (was it really honesty?) of the contents that had frightened him. The words seemed to swim around in Hawk's mind, and for a second, he wasn't standing at the double- doors of a huge miniature palace in Brummy Birmingham, but back in his tiny room at Low Cottage, seeing those last few paragraphs dance before his eyes:

Merlin, there is something you must know. Even though I have been and must always remain but a stranger to you, remember that I do indeed care. There was once a time when you were like my own son, but it was so long ago and you were so young that I do not expect you to remember. And it is now that I press upon you the danger and urgency of the situation. When I die, the situation will only be exacerbated. Your talents might seem like a curse to you, but there are people who wish to use you. They will not just torture you physically, but in other ways far more terrible than you could ever even imagine. While you have remained safe at Low Wood, the house in the countryside is a mere seclusion – a temporary hide-out. Your safety is of monumental concern to me, which is why I ask you to come to Birmingham. This letter is much more than caution; it is a warning. Your talents grow stronger, and with every passing moment everyone around you is in danger.

I have arranged for this letter to be sent to you upon my death. I am quite certain that I do not have long to live. Come to Birmingham, B-21 Rainside Street. This is not a request, but a command I expect you to obey. Consider it, ah ... a death wish. A man called Aeta awaits you there, and it is he–

'"– it is he who will lead you towards your destiny.'" Hawk murmured softly. He had learnt the letter off by heart.

It was time to see if Uncle Mason had meant what he said. Hawk took in a deep breath and closed his eyes.

He pushed open the door.

If he had expected it to creak open, he was very much wrong. The door opened without a sound and Hawk stepped into a corridor which led to a rather large hall-way. The walls were painted white, and they were bare – no wall hangings, no paintings, nothing. There was an elegant blue-carpeted staircase in the middle of the hall. The roof rose up like a dome, and there was a painting of the sky stretched out on it. It looked so much like the actual thing that Hawk probably wouldn't have noticed it was a painting if it wasn't for the fact that it was dusk outside, a symphony of blues and reds. The ceiling showed the sky in the day-time, with cottony clouds stretched across it, mingling and dancing with the baby blue. But it felt empty and iceberg-like. A blank canvas emphasizing the blankness of life. You could lose yourself in it; just dissolve into a despondent mass of nothingness.

The silence there was deafening, almost sacred. Hawk felt like he was breaking and entering, even though his Uncle had pretty much given him the consent to be here. He walked towards the staircase almost tentatively, and his footsteps echoed loudly on the marble floor, each 'thump' sounding like a group of miniature elephants thundering across the savanna.

Placing a hand on the banister – was it made of mahogany? – Hawk looked around nervously, almost as if he expected someone to step out of the shadows at any moment.

Feeling rather stupid, he said loudly, 'Anyone home?'

Silence. The shadows seemed to skate past in answer.

There was nobody there.

Suddenly, Hawk felt rather angry. Either his Uncle had lied to him, or this man "Aeta" had just failed to turn up. Even though Hawk didn't remember his Uncle, he was inclined towards the latter. It would be too much to take if this turned out to be a wild goose-chase. But the letter had been authentic. Hawk was sure of it. There had been a seal on it, which was rather eccentric in itself. What kind of person in their right mind used seals nowadays, anyway?

Uncle Bernard Mason, that's who.

With a sudden leap of confidence, Hawk started up the stairs. Perhaps the man was asleep, or maybe he hadn't heard Hawk. But staying in the hall wasn't going to solve matters. Going upstairs meant exploring more rooms. Maybe Uncle Mason had an office. There would be answers there.

Hawk had only reached the first floor and barely managed to glance around at the oak-panelled walls when he heard a loud crash. Then there was the tinkling of broken glass. Hawk straightened up, muscles tensed. He could feel his heart pounding as the adrenaline took effect, pulsing through his veins.

'Who's there?' he said bravely.

And yet again, it was the sheer silence that replied.

Hawk had seriously begun to consider the fact that the paranoia was slowly taking over his mind. The sound could have been made by a clumsy neighbour who wasn't handy with the dishes, after all.

Once again, he forced his tired legs to propel him forwards and down another corridor. For all its grandeur, the house was like a maze. Hawk soon lost track of where he had begun and walked on blindly as night arrived. He felt his way around, searching for a light, but his hand succeeded only in finding a cold, metallic ... thingy. He thought it might be a door-knob, and was rewarded when he turned it and pushed the heavy door open.

Hawk blinked, slightly disorientated by the bright light. As his vision adjusted, he saw that he was in a library of sorts, with bookshelves lining the walls. Old, leather-bound books were spilling off every available surface – they were even piled in heaps on the floor! Hawk couldn't help but gaze at them in admiration; he thought they were rather beautiful in an ancient way. He looked around, drinking in the sight almost ravenously, and stepped further into the room.

There was a large map of the world on the wall, with several notes pinned haphazardly on the green wallpaper that surrounded it. Hawk noticed that many countries on the map had been crossed out with a slash of red paint. A navy blue wall-to-wall carpet was spread out on the floor, so that the entire room seemed to be a clash of colour. Scattered all over the floor were torn pieces of paper, telegrams and various other paraphernalia; the room looked as though it hadn't been cleaned in a while. There was a chandelier hanging from the ceiling –that was obviously the source of the light.

Who had turned it on, though? Hawk couldn't help but wonder. Where was this Aeta?

Perhaps it was merely impulse, or maybe Hawk just felt he had to do something other than standing around and waiting for a man who might or might not exist, that urged him to pull open the drawers of an old-fashioned desk that was positioned by a French-window. Piles of paper were arranged all helter-skelter, old files were flooding up all the space in the drawer. There were research papers, pages upon pages of formulas and equations that had been crossed out and re-written. There were manuscripts with runes in languages that Hawk couldn't understand: strange hieroglyphs and foreign-looking characters...

And there was a purple photo-album in the corner.