The Fetch

by Robert Holdstock

  Jenny laughed. ‘I know. I like it. It helps me feel relaxed.’

  He leaned over the crib and watched the sleeping features of the boy. Michael’s ginger hair was sticking out in damp spikes. His right hand was bunched and jammed against his chin. He had more wrinkles round his eyes than Richard himself.

  ‘Is this or is this not a beautiful lad?’

  ‘He’s lovely.’ Jenny smiled again, watching Richard. ‘I’m happy things have worked out for you both.’

  Richard nodded wearily, then sat on the edge of the desk and flicked through the Hollingbourne photographs. ‘For a long time we didn’t think they would. Work out, I mean. We tried for so many years, so much failure, so much hope so routinely dashed. It does something to your confidence after a while …’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘It makes you hard,’ he said, and immediately wished he could retract the personal indiscretion. Jenny just watched him, calm and reassuring. ‘And then: Michael. By pure luck: Michael. If Susan had been going to a different fertility clinic, someone else would have got the child. The clinic didn’t expect Michael to be “unwanted” by his natural mother. It was pure chance. Susan was in the right place at the right time for a simple, private transfer.’

  ‘And everything above board,’ Jenny said distractedly, looking at the snoring child. Richard felt cold for a moment and glanced at the woman sharply; but she had not been trying to score a point, merely making an idle statement that she assumed to be true. Jenny looked up again, slightly apprehensive.

  ‘Susan’s told me about the … well, what do I call it? The problem.’

  The room closed round him a little. He could hear the sound of children screaming, and a distant chant: ‘Dig the beast. Dig the beast.’

  ‘They’re excavating the tumulus. There’s nothing there now, but I don’t suppose their parents will be happy about the filthy clothes.’

  Jenny stared at him without expression. Then she said, ‘Susan looks ill.’

  Sighing, Richard agreed with her. ‘She’s certain it’s Michael’s natural mother.’

  ‘His mother?’

  ‘Who’s throwing the dirt … The problem, as you call it.

  ‘But … his birth-mother?’

  ‘Or perhaps one of her family. It’s vicious. It’s vindictive. And it’s frightening the life out of us.’

  Jenny was solemn. ‘We haven’t known you and Susan for long, but long enough to see the strain you’re both under. You must ask Geoff and me for help. Any time.’

  Richard stood and prowled the study, nodding his thanks. ‘But what I can’t understand is how she gets in here? How does she get into the house? It really doesn’t make any sense. But we have no other answers …’

  The door burst open and the ‘Isadora’ child entered, breathless, her thin summer dress a mess of dirt and water. She said, ‘We’ve found a bone in the garden. It may belong to the giant.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Do you want to see it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare.’ Richard walked over to the door, dropping to a crouch before the girl. ‘This is a haunted house, you see. Has been for centuries. The people who lived here before us, and who found the giant’s bones, all lost their hair within a week. It just fell out. All of it. They were utterly bald for the rest of their lives. I’d bury the bone again if I were you.’

  The girl hesitated, frowned, then looked alarmed and fled, her hair flowing. He noticed how she had started to gather it in, tying it into a tight knot, as she left the hall.

  Jenny was shaking her head, an expression of amused puzzlement on her face. ‘You’re so good to your guests, Richard. I’ve always liked that about you.’

  ‘Trying out my tactics on the opposition ready for Michael’s childhood years. I think I’ve got a lot to learn.’

  ‘I think you probably have.’

  More seriously, Jenny went on, ‘What I don’t understand is the simple “why”. Why would the mother torment the child like this? She wouldn’t have agreed to the adoption, would she? Unless she was sure? So why would she try and hurt the boy now?’

  Richard raised his hands in exasperation. ‘I know. I know. As I say, it really doesn’t make sense …’

  ‘Does it happen when you’re with Michael? Does earth get thrown then?’

  Shaking his head, Richard said, ‘We stayed downstairs last night, listening to the baby speaker. Earth was thrown. The night before, Susan had left him to go to the kitchen. A few minutes only. Earth was thrown. And I’m certain there was no one in the house …’

  ‘No one or no thing that you could see,’ Jenny murmured.

  ‘You mean a poltergeist? I thought about that last night.’ He reached into his desk drawer and drew out the file copy of his article, turning to the back page where his spidery handwriting had scrawled the word several times, gouging the paper.

  He was momentarily shocked. He hadn’t realized he had been so brutal with his pencil. He hadn’t been aware of the anger that the act of writing had been expressing.

  Jenny stared at the page for a moment or two, then murmured, ‘Or perhaps the mother’s spirit? Projected from her own tormented mind? She might not even be aware that she’s doing it.’

  Richard sounded more dismissive than he’d intended. ‘I’m not quite ready to start thinking of astral projection. Not until I get to the edge of madness.’

  Undaunted, Jenny took him by the arm. She was genuinely concerned for him, for Susan. ‘But if you’ve started to think about the possibility of a restless spirit in the house, why not from the mother herself? There’s something going on, and it certainly isn’t natural! What are you afraid of in accepting that?’

  From the kitchen came the sound of a child’s distressed sobbing. From the sitting room came the sound of laughter. Richard heard his name called. Upstairs, someone was trying to flush the toilet but without success. Feet thundered across the ceiling, and childish screams told of a game ending in tears.

  ‘At the moment, Jenny, I’m terrified of my own shadow. So’s Susan.’ He stared at the woman, at the thin but strong features of her face, her eyes so full of sympathy, but so certain, so sure. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  He left the study, closing the door on Michael and his minder, and went out into the garden again.

  It was time to end the party.

  FIVE

  The last guest left at seven in the evening, taking the last child with him, leaving a sudden, wonderful peace. Cleaning and clearing took two hours, and that was only the kitchen and sitting room. The garden would have to wait until the next day.

  Exhausted and shaking, Richard poured himself a Jack Daniels and flopped down across the armchair, wordless and dizzy. Susan was feeding Michael and the infant’s tiny fists were clenched with ecstasy as he sucked at the bottle.

  ‘Have you locked everywhere?’

  ‘Everywhere,’ Richard murmured. ‘And I’ve searched the house from top to bottom. Just in case some brat with the bone of a giant is still in hiding.’ He smiled at the thought of ‘Isadora’. ‘The brats, I am glad to report, are all tormenting adults elsewhere.’

  ‘It was a good day. I’m glad we went ahead with it.’

  ‘I agree. Hard work, but good. Brilliant barbecue, of course. And thank God for Jenny.’

  ‘She’s a wonder.’

  ‘How do you feel now?’ Richard asked after a moment.

  Susan looked up, eyes red, moistening. ‘Terrified …’ she said, and Richard felt a shiver pass through him.

  ‘The house is empty. And we’ll not leave Michael. And we’ll sleep well, tonight. I’m quite determined.’

  ‘That’s not the point, though. Is it? Nothing happens when we’re with him.’ Her voice began to rise. ‘We can’t prove anything by keeping him with us. She might be here and hiding and she won’t come out if he’s with us. We can’t prove it, Rick, can we? Can we? If we’re going to catch her—’

  ‘Susan!’ He rose and went over to her,
sitting by her and watching the infant feed greedily. ‘Take it easy, love.’ He stroked her neck, pinching the stiff muscles, kneading them between thumb and forefinger.

  ‘That’s good.’

  They stayed up until one in the morning, then took the child quietly to his cot and went to bed themselves.

  But Richard couldn’t sleep. Every murmur and whimper from Michael startled him, sent a surge of shock through his system. After a while he sat up in bed and resigned himself to wakefulness.

  He was thirsty. He had drunk too much wine, and too much Jack Daniels. He walked downstairs quietly and drank a pint of water, then sat by lamplight in the study, leafing through one of his albums of photographs.

  Past glories. Special effects …

  After a while he became drowsy and put his head across his arms, leaning on the desk. His heart was pumping hard and he tried to will it to calm down, without success.

  He jerked awake at the sound of movement in the kitchen. Alert in an instant he eased himself out of the office chair and tiptoed to the hall, drawing the cord of his dressing-gown tight around his waist. He glanced upstairs but there was silence. There was someone in the kitchen, though, moving about in the darkness.

  When he switched on the light Susan’s scream nearly gave him a heart attack. He lunged forward and caught the bottle of milk that had slipped from her fingers.

  The relief was intense and he laughed, hugging his wife. ‘You gave me quite a fright.’

  ‘I thought you were sleeping,’ she murmured. She rubbed tiredness from her eyes, then took the bottle from him, raising it to her lips and gulping.

  ‘I’ve been down for a little while. I was too restless.’

  ‘I didn’t notice you’d gone. I must have been dreaming …’

  ‘Dreaming what?’

  She leaned back against the table and closed her eyes. ‘That you were still there, next to me … You were holding a large, silent, cuddly dog, which was nuzzling me …’

  ‘I never go to bed with dogs. Especially not cuddly ones.’

  ‘It felt so real … you felt – the dog felt – so solid …’

  Something in her words …

  She opened her eyes and frowned. The words hung between them, meaningless in one way, yet sinister, suggestive.

  ‘Rick?’

  ‘Oh my God …’

  In the moment of silence that followed their eyes met in blank terror.

  The image of a body in bed with Susan.

  It felt so real …

  For the second time the milk bottle slipped from Susan’s shaking fingers, though again Richard caught it.

  ‘It was just a dream—’

  She shuddered. ‘The dog. It was so huge—’

  ‘Just a dream.’

  Susan started to cry. The kitchen was suddenly icy cold. Richard looked up at the ceiling. His heart threatened to burst.

  It felt so real …

  And then, from upstairs, came the unmistakable sound of Michael wailing, a sudden, sharp sound, that was immediately followed by a crack of thunder.

  The whole house shook.

  Richard dropped the bottle, which shattered noisily.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  Susan screamed and pushed past her husband.

  ‘Oh God! Oh God!’

  They reached the bottom of the stairs together. Richard switched on the light to the landing. The stench of wet earth and vegetation was overpowering. It poured through the house, foetid, sharp. It was the smell of a dug grave, the smell of damp farmland.

  The house still shuddered. There was no sound from the boy.

  ‘Michael!’

  Creaking … as of wood giving way. Creaking and screaming, wood being torn … slowly, giving way, beneath a weight …

  ‘Michael!’

  They slipped on the landing, skidding in the great slick spill of wet mud that poured from the bedroom. Susan crawled her way across the mound of rank sludge to the bedside light, scrabbling and kicking as the water-laden earth sucked and dragged at her. Richard followed her, his voice a shrill shriek of terror and despair. He started to chop at the mud, elbowing the earth away, cutting himself, feeling the sharpness of stones and fragments of wood, but digging down, digging down. He was only vaguely aware of Susan scratching and screaming at the black filth …

  With a groan of breaking timber, the ceiling sagged then gave way.

  They plunged in chaos into the sitting room. Richard found himself waist-deep in the soil. Susan’s legs kicked as she struggled to surface, sobbing, spitting mud from her mouth.

  Richard saw a limb, a small, clenched fist. ‘He’s here!’

  He carefully parted the earth around the arm, then reached strong fingers down and pulled Michael from the grave. The boy’s eyes were open, his mouth gaping, but he wasn’t breathing. Richard reached into the infant’s mouth and extracted the bolus of clay. Then he blew breath down the child’s throat, again and again, sobbing as he tried to restore his son’s life.

  Susan stood by him, a bedraggled mud-blackened shape, her hands spread wide over her son’s face, but frozen, immobile as life was pumped slowly back into the corpse.

  Michael suddenly shuddered and gulped breath, then screwed up his eyes, flexed his arms and began to wail.

  ‘Oh thank God. Thank God.’

  ‘Get the doctor. Quickly … get him out here … quickly …

  ‘You do it. Give me Michael.’

  She snatched at the boy, clutched at him, weeping helplessly as she subsided back on to the slurry. The double bed, which had been hanging precariously from the ruins of the ceiling, slowly slid through the gap. Richard caught its edge as it fell, and steered it away from danger.

  He felt oddly calm, serene, his head clear, his vision sharp. He stopped and surveyed the scene in the room. Half the ceiling was down, plaster dust still swirling from the ragged edges. Worms flexed and struggled in the mud. Several sharp, bright shapes glistened. The stench of wet soil and fresh blood – had he cut himself? – was almost overpowering.

  When he reached the phone he couldn’t use it.

  What was he going to say? How would he explain what had happened? The last thing he wanted, now, was for anyone to see this mess. And if they took Michael to hospital and were asked how he came to have dirt in his stomach …

  Suddenly dizzy with confusion he replaced the receiver and stepped back into the mud-strewn living room. Susan, cradling Michael, had calmed him. She sat on the mound, her feet buried in earth up to the ankles. She was rocking slightly.

  ‘Is he all right?’

  She sang and nodded.

  ‘I’ll bring the doctor out if you think … if you think it’s necessary … ?’

  She watched him for a long time, rocking and singing. He felt cold and sick. Finally she shook her head.

  ‘He’ll ask some awkward questions. I don’t know what to do …’

  Again, she nodded, smoothing Michael’s hair, holding him tightly to her.

  She went on singing.

  SIX

  Richard returned to the phone and called Jenny. She was incoherent with tiredness when she answered, but rapidly woke up when she heard the tone in Richard’s voice.

  All he had said was, ‘We’ve got a real problem. Could you come and fetch Susan and Michael? I’ll have a suitcase of clothes ready to take.’

  ‘Yes, of course … it’ll take me half an hour …’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Then he helped Susan out of the mud and up to the bathroom. He felt oddly calm, almost unreal. It was a form of shock, he knew, but he welcomed the fact that he felt no sense of panic. That would come later, he imagined. He had also expected Susan to want to leave the house immediately, but she too was in a strange, dulled state, and all she wanted was a bath.

  Even a bath in this house.

  She was mostly silent as they went upstairs. She undressed Michael, then herself, as Richard drew the water and tested it for temperature. She settled into th
e shallow bath and closed her eyes for a moment. She still held Michael, and together they cleaned the infant. The child was surprisingly quiet, apparently undisturbed by his near-fatal experience. When the mud was washed away, Richard ran a second bath to rinse them, then left Susan alone as he packed her clothes for her, and the bottles and sterilizing equipment, ready for Jenny’s arrival.

  He was trying to keep a clear head, trying not to let the pure alienness of this event start to panic him. He had an idea that he would stay in the house and clear away the mess, shifting the massive earthfall into the garden, maybe even as far as the quarry. Get the house clean. Get the ghost out of the place.

  What had done this? What power could have done this?

  ‘Keep calm!’ he whispered to himself as he prowled the rooms downstairs, waiting for Jenny. ‘Keep a firm grip …’

  Jenny was wearing jeans and a heavy jumper, and without the touch of make-up that she normally used her eyes looked pale and tired. Her hair was tousled, her breath sweet with peppermint, and she shuddered uncontrollably as she stood in the doorway of the sitting room and stared at the mud spill.

  ‘Good God Almighty! You’re lucky not to have been crushed.’

  Richard looked up at the gaping ceiling. It had been a fall of ten feet or more, and Michael had been underneath the slurry.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I smell blood,’ Jenny said, and started to gag. ‘Oh shit, I’m going to be sick.’

  She ran from the room, out through the back door, and into the dawn. Richard blocked his ears against the sound of her retching, feeling nauseous himself. And it was as he stood there, the sharp odour of flesh strong in his own nostrils, that he glimpsed the piece of gleaming white bone.

  He used a muddy stick to prod at the shard, and had to fight not to be sick as he unearthed the torn, still bleeding fragment of a dog’s skull. It had brown fur, with a patch of white; a section of ear remained. There was flesh and bone below the skin, a fragment of skull and upper jaw, one canine still in place.

  The blood was fresh, clotting but still textured. This animal had been alive half an hour ago.

  Jenny had gone upstairs to see Susan. Now she came back to the sitting room just as Richard unearthed a second piece of the dead animal, a paw attached to four inches of leg. She stood there, hand over her mouth, but more controlled now.