Moon

by James Herbert

  Amy's breath was fast, shallow, and she groaned in disappointment when he released her, craving more, more touching, more feeling, but he needed her, wanted to be engulfed by her. She realised his intent and helped him free himself from his remaining clothing, reaching for him when the swimming trunks were gone and guiding him down to her.

  He entered and there was no hindrance, the journey into her liquid-smooth, and the motion causing them both to murmur. Childes forced himself to stop, wishing to see her face, her love, to show his. They kissed once more and the tenderness was soon overtaken by driving need.

  He felt the hot, pliant softness of her thigh around his own and he ducked low to kiss her breasts, their taste a bitter stimulant; he supported himself on his elbows so that their stomachs parted while their bodies remained locked together, with no intention of separating. The sight of her beneath him was exquisite and his thrusting became hurried, Amy soon matching him. He collapsed onto her, his chin pressing into the side of her neck, and she revelled in his strength, holding him to her, their bodies moving against each other's, their gasps filling the room, her appreciative whimpers driving him on, their final cries resounding off the walls, their slow, sinking sighs whispering their contentment.

  After a while, they drew apart, kissing as they did so. They lay on their backs, both allowing the excitement to ebb away, each catching their breath. Childes' chest heaved with the exertion and there was a faint shine to his dampened skin. Amy recovered more quickly and turned to him, a hand draping loosely over his waist. She studied his profile, loving the roughness of his chin, the slight bump on the bridge of his nose. She traced a finger across his open lips and he bit softly, his breathing slowing down.

  'Seconds?' she asked mischievously.

  He groaned and slid an arm beneath her shoulders. Amy settled against his chest.

  'Sometimes, you know,' he said, 'you look about fifteen.'

  'Now?'

  He nodded. 'And a few minutes ago.'

  'Does it put you oft?'

  'Far from it, because I know different. I know the woman inside.'

  'The whore in me?'

  'No, the woman.'

  She nipped his skin. 'I'm glad it pleases you.'

  'You've made an old man very happy.'

  'Thirty-four isn't exactly ancient.'

  'I've got eleven years on you.'

  'H'mn, on consideration maybe that is a little old. I may have to rethink my plans.'

  'You've made plans?'

  'Let's say I have intentions.'

  'Care to tell me what they are?'

  'Not at the moment. You're not ready to hear them.'

  'I wonder if your father would approve.'

  'Why does he always have to come into it?'

  'He's an important element in your life and I don't think you enjoy his disapproval.'

  'Of course I don't, but I have my own life to live, my own mind to make up.'

  'Your own mistakes to make?'

  'Those too. But why are you such a pessimist? Do you think we're a mistake?'

  Childes propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at her. 'Oh no, Amy, I don't think that at all. It's so good between us lately that sometimes it frightens me - I get scared I'm going to lose you.'

  Her arm tightened around him. 'You were the one who put up barriers that had to be broken down.'

  'We both held back part of ourselves for a long time.'

  'You were a married man when I first met you at the school, even though you were separated from your wife and daughter. And you were something of a mystery, but maybe that aspect attracted me initially.'

  'It took me a year to ask you out,' he said.

  'I asked you, don't you remember? The beach barbecue one Sunday? You said maybe you'd turn up.'

  He smiled. 'Oh, yeah. I was keeping pretty much to myself those days.'

  'You still are.'

  'Not as far as you're concerned.'

  She frowned. 'I'm not so sure. There's a corner of you I've never managed to reach.'

  'Amy, without sounding too self-absorbed, I often feel there's a point inside me that even I can't reach. There's an element in me - I don't know what the hell it is - that I can't explain, a factor that's tucked away in the shadows, something dormant, sleeping. Sometimes it feels like a monster waiting to pounce. It's a weird and uncomfortable sensation, and it makes me wonder if I'm not just a little crazy.'

  'We all have areas inside that we're not certain of. That's what makes humans so unpredictable.'

  'No, this is different. This is like… like…' His body, having become tensed, seemed to deflate. 'I can't explain,' he said at last. 'The nearest I can get is to say it's like some eerie, hidden power -maybe that's too strong a word, too definite. It's so insubstantial, so unreal, it could be my imagination. I just sense there's something there that's never been explored. Perhaps that's common to all of us, though.'

  She was watching him intently. 'In some ways, yes. But has the feeling got anything to do with these "sightings", as you call them?'

  He thought for a few moments before answering. 'The awareness seems stronger then, I must admit.'

  'Haven't you ever looked into it further?'

  'How? Who do I go to? A doctor, a shrink?'

  'A parapsychologist?'

  'Oh no, no way would I jump on that particular roundabout.'

  'Jon, you're obviously psychic, so why not contact someone who knows about these things?'

  'If you had any idea of the crank calls and letters from so-called "psychics", not to mention those who turned up on the doorstep to torment my family three years ago, you wouldn't say that.'

  'I didn't mean those kind of people. I meant a genuine parapsychologist, someone who makes a serious study of such phenomena.'

  'No.'

  She was surprised by the firmness in his voice.

  He lay back looking at the ceiling. 'I don't want to be investigated, I don't want to probe any deeper. I want it left alone, Amy, so maybe the feelings will fade, die away.'

  'Why are you so afraid?'

  His tone was sombre and his eyes closed when he replied. 'Because I've got a peculiar dread - call it a sense of foreboding, if you like - that if this unknown… power… really is discovered in me, is aroused, then something terrible will happen.' His eyes opened once more, but he did not look at her. 'Something terrible and unthinkable,' he added.

  Amy silently stared at him.

  ***

  Later that evening, Amy cooked supper while Childes restlessly mooched around from sitting room to kitchen. The mood had changed with their earlier talk although the closeness between them remained. She was both puzzled and anxious over his remarks, but decided not to press him further. Jonathan had his problems, but Amy was confident enough in their relationship to know that when the time was right, he would unburden himself to her. In a way, she was sorry the conversation had taken place, for he had become introspective, pensive even. When they ate supper, it was she who did most of the chatting.

  They made love again before she left, this time downstairs on the sofa, and with more ease, less hurriedly, both prolonging their release, savouring every moment of their shared pleasure. The bond between them had become strong and there was no element of doubt in their feelings for each other. He was tender and caring, his mood eventually reverting to its earlier relaxed state, and he loved her in a way that made her quietly weep. She told him it was joy, not sadness, that caused the tears, and he held her so tightly, so firmly, that she feared her bones might break.

  When he finally drove Amy home it was in the late hours and both felt as if a warm mantle of euphoria had been drawn over them, joining, combining their spirits.

  She lingeringly kissed him goodnight in the car, then left him sitting there, having to wrench herself away. He waited until she reached the front door before turning out from the drive; only when the red tail-lights disappeared did she insert the doorkey.

  Before enterin
g the house, Amy took one last look at the night, the landscape somehow magical under the flooding light of the full moon.

  17

  The old man heard the door open, but kept his eyes closed tight, pretending to be asleep. Footsteps came into the room, that curiously lumbering shuffle he had come to hate, causing him to stiffen against the restraining straps of the narrow cot. The odious smell confirmed his suspicions and he gave the game away, unable to keep his tongue still.

  'Come to torment me again, have you?' he rasped. 'Can't leave me alone, can you? Can't leave me in peace.'

  There was no reply.

  The old man strained his neck to get a clear view. The overhead bulb, protected by a tough wire covering, burned low and was no more than a dimmed nightlight, but he could see the dark form waiting by the door.

  'Ha! I knew it was you!' cried the recumbent man. 'What d'you want this time, heh? Couldn't you sleep? No, you couldn't, that's what they say about you, did you know that? Never sleeps, prowls all night. They don't like you, you know, none of them do. I don't. As a matter of fact, I detest you. But then,you've always known that!' The old man's laugh was a dry cackle.

  'Why are you standing there? I don't like being stared at. That's right, close the door so no one can hear you torment me. Wouldn't want to wake the other loonies, would we? I've informed the doctors, you can be sure of that. I've told them what you do to me when we're alone. They said they'd have words with you.' He sniggered. 'No doubt you'll be got rid of, and pretty soon, I should think.'

  The figure moved away from the door, towards the cot.

  1 Bet you thought they wouldn't listen to me,' the old man prattled. 'But they know all the lunatics aren't locked away at night. There's them that roam the corridors when others sleep, them that pretend sweetness and kindness in the day. Them whose brains are as crazy as the maniacs they guard.'

  It stood over him, blocking out the dim light. It carried a bag in one hand.

  'Brought me something, have you?' said the old man, squinting his eyes in an attempt to discern features in the blackness hovering over him. 'More of your nasty little tricks. You left marks on me last time. The doctors saw them.' He chuckled triumphantly. 'They believe me now! Couldn't say I hurt myself this time!' Spittle crept from the edge of his mouth, slithering down the cracked parchment of his cheek. He felt the weight of the bag on his frail chest, heard the metal clasp snapped open. Large hands delved inside.

  'What's that you've got there?' the old man demanded. 'It's shiny. I like shiny things. I like them sharp. Is that sharp? Yes, it is, I can see it is. I didn't really tell the doctors,you know. I only pretended just now to upset you. I wouldn't, no, I really wouldn't tell them about you. I don't mind you…' the words came out like short gasps 'hurting… me. We… have… fun…'

  He twisted against the stout straps, his wasted muscles having no effect. Strangely, the terror in his eyes gave him an expression of clarity, of saneness.

  'Tell me what that is you're holding.' His words were fast now, almost strung together, rising in a whine. His shoulders and chest heaved painfully against the binding leather. The figure bent low and he could see its features. 'Please, please don't look at me like that. I hate it when you smile at me that way. No… don't put that across my… across my…forehead. Don't. It's… it's hurting. I know if I scream no one will hear me, but I'm… going to scream… any… anyway. Is that blood? It's in my eyes. Please, I can't see… please don't do that… it's hurting… it's cutting… I'm going to… scream… now… it's going… too… deep…'

  The scream was just a gurgling retch, for one of the old man's bedsocks, lying close by, had been stuffed into his open mouth.

  The figure crouched over the cot, its patient sawing motion regular and smooth, while both inmates and staff of the asylum slept on undisturbed.

  18

  The nightmare came to Childes that night, but he was not sleeping. It hit him as he drove towards home.

  A feeling of cloying heat gripped him at first, the atmosphere becoming heavy as if thick with unpleasant fumes. His hands tightened on the steering wheel and, although clammy with dampness, the fingertips seemed to tingle. He concentrated on the moonlit road ahead, trying to ignore the building pressure inside his head. The pressure increased, a cloudy substance expanding in his brain, and his neck muscles stiffened, his arms became leaden.

  The first vision flashed before him, dispersing the pressure for an instant. He could not be certain of what he had seen, the moment too soon gone, the dark heaviness quickly crowding back, causing him to swerve the car, bushes and brambles on the roadside tearing and scratching at the windows as if attempting to break in. Childes slowed down but did not stop.

  He thought the vision had been of hands. Large hands. Strong.

  His head now felt as if it were filled with twisting cotton wool that was steadily pushing aside his own consciousness as it grew in ill-defined shape. There was not far to go to reach home and Childes forced himself to keep a constant though reduced speed, using the centre of the narrow road, knowing there would be little other traffic that late at night. His mind saw the sharp instrument wielded by the big hands, a brilliant vision that struck like lightning and excluded all else.

  He fought to keep the car straight as the manifestation just as abruptly vanished. The heaviness was less dense when it returned, although the tingling sensation in his fingers had travelled along his arms.

  Not far to go now, the road leading to the cottages was just ahead. Childes eased his foot from the accelerator and began to brake. A sweat droplet from his soaked forehead trickled down to the corner of one eye and he used the back of his hand to clear his sight. The movement was slow and deliberate, almost difficult. He turned the wheel, the Mini's headlights revealing the row of small houses in the near-distance. He was aware of what was happening to him and dreaded what images were to be further unveiled. He experienced a desperate need to be safe inside his home, feeling terribly exposed, vulnerable to the luminescent night, the moon's stark glare causing the surroundings to appear frozen, the trees oddly flat as if cut from cardboard, the shadows deep and clear-edged.

  Nearly there, a few more yards. Keep it steady. The car pulled up in the space before the cottage and Childes cut the engine, sagging forward, his wrists resting over the steering wheel. He drew in deep breaths, the pressure at his temples immense. Pulling the keys from the ignition, he staggered from the Mini, moonlight bathing his head and shoulders silvery white. He fumbled with the lock, finally managed to turn the key and push open the door, falling to his knees in the hallway when the full force of the vision poured into his mind.

  The old man's terror-stricken features were vivid, the horror clear in his eyes. His thin, cracked lips babbled words that Childes could not hear, and spittle dribbled from the corner of his mouth as he struggled against the straps that restrained him on the narrow bed. The tendons of his scrawny neck stretched loose skin taut as he twisted his head, and the exaggerated bump of his thyroid cartilage constantly moved up and down as if it were swallowing air. His pupils were large against their aged, creamy surrounds, and Childes saw a reflection in them, an indefinable shape that grew in size as someone moved closer to the old man.

  Childes slumped back against the wall as a metal object was placed across the frightened man's forehead, and he cried out when the sawing motion began, bringing his hands up to his own eyes as if to block out the vision. Blood oozed from the wound, flowing thickly down the victim's head, washing his sparse white hair red, blinding his eyes against the horror.

  Movement stopped for a moment, save for the quivering of the old man's frail body, the surgeon's small saw fixed firmly into the bone. Recognition streamed through Childes, a touching of minds; but it was the perpetrator who identified him.

  And welcomed him.

  19

  'OVEROY?'

  'Detective Inspector Overoy, yes.'

  'It's Jonathan Childes here.'

  'Childes?' A
few moments pause. 'Oh yes, Jonathan Childes. It's been a long time.'

  'Three years.'

  'Is it? Yes, of course. What can I do for you, Mr Childes?'

  'It's… it's difficult. I don't quite know how to begin.'

  Overoy pushed his chair back, propping a foot up against the edge of his desk. With one hand he shook a cigarette free of its pack and grasped it with his lips. He flicked a cheap lighter and lit up, giving Childes time to find the words.

  'You remember the murders?' Childes said finally.

  Overoy exhaled a long stream of smoke. 'You mean the kids? How could I forget? You were a great help to us then.'

  And I paid the price, Childes thought but did not say. 'I think it's happening to me again.'

  'Sorry?'

  Overoy was not making matters any easier for him. 'I said I think it's happening to me again. The sightings, the precognitions.'

  'Wait a minute. Are you saying you've discovered more bodies?'

  'No. This time I seem to be witnessing the crimes themselves.'

  Overoy's foot left the desk and he pulled himself forward, reaching for a pen. If it had been anyone else on the end of the line, the policeman would have dismissed them as a crank, but he had come to take Childes' statements seriously, despite a hard-bitten reluctance to do so in earlier times. 'Tell me exactly what it is you've, er, "seen", Mr Childes.'

  'First I want an understanding between us.'

  Overoy looked at the receiver as if it were Childes himself. 'I'm listening,' he said.