The girl at the desk, young, heavily made-up, bored, was reading a magazine. At Rob's approach she looked up, without interest, and said nothing.
‘I'd like a room for the night.’
It took some time for the girl to respond as though the request had been difficult to comprehend. ‘Single or double,’ she said at last in a flat monotone.
‘Double. It's for myself and my son.’
The girl registered a flicker of interest.
‘Oh yeah,’ she said, the words hardly concealing her interpretation of the situation. ‘With or without ensuite facilities?’
‘With.’
‘How long for?’
‘I'm not sure. One or maybe two nights.’
‘We’ll need to credit card for security.’
Rob did not have a credit card. Something he had not reckoned on. He had secured quite a stash of money from the house, but he’d not thought of a credit card.
‘I’ll pay cash for tonight,’ he said as fumbled with his wallet.
‘That’ll be seventy five pounds,’ the girl said.
He counted out the notes and handed them over.
‘Sign the book. Regulations,’ she said, revealing a tatty register under her magazine. He scrawled a name in the book and then she gave him a key with a large rectangle of orange plastic attached.
‘Room 3B. Second floor at the front.’
‘Thank you. I'll just go and get my son from the car.’
After he had gone, the girl mouthed the word ‘Pervert’—then, before resuming her reading she glanced at the signature in the register.
It read: 'Michael Barlow'.
***
The road was blurred. Headlights were merging into one amorphous brightness that seemed to engulf her. She struggled with the wheel, wrenching it from one side to the other, wildly trying to control the car. All her efforts were to no avail. The car seemed to be travelling on a pre-ordained path and nothing she could do would alter its course. The noise of blaring horns and screeching brakes filled her ears as she saw through the rain-lashed windscreen a hedge coming towards her.
And then there was blackness.
The dark was almost welcoming. As it guarded her, she seemed to lose all sense of feeling. For moments she was numb. Then came the pain; the searing, agonising pain. Where did it hurt most? She couldn't tell: it was all over.
Then mercifully, it went. It was as though the word pain had been chalked in large letters on a blackboard and some unseen hand had wiped it clean.
Now she was in a white world—a snowscape dotted here and there with brightly coloured carousels which whirled as the delicate snowflakes decorated the air. She stood by one carousel watching the painted horses prance by, captivated by their flowing yellow manes, wild staring eyes and flashing black hooves. Up and down, up and down they went. How she longed to be with them, to spin round in the frosty air, but every horse had a rider, each wearing a shiny coloured mask with broad painted smiles on them.
Gently the carousel began to slow down. The horses' prancing grew less frantic, moving from gallop to a canter to a trot. And then they stopped.
The giant whirligig shuddered to a silent halt but no one made a move to get off. The riders sat motionless, clinging to the chromium poles, their painted faces staring down at her. It was as though they were saying, ‘Sorry, lady, you can't join us. It is not allowed.’
She ran through the snow that lay all around the carousel in search of a horse that was free. She must ride—she must. And then she saw one; it must have been there all the time, but she hadn’t noticed it.
The carousel attendant came across and beckoned her aboard. He held out his hand to help her on. She took it and stepped on to the carousel. Turning to thank the attendant, she saw that he too was wearing a painted mask.
Suddenly the carousel jerked into motion and the attendant pointed urgently to the empty mount. The ride started again. Quickly she clambered astride the horse just as it began to move upwards. She felt the cold air brush against her face as the carousel began to pick up speed. Snowflakes swept past her face, leaving for a brief moment tiny sensations of cold.
Up and down.
Faster and faster.
Up and down.
Soon she was flying with the world a white blur, splashed occasionally with streaks of colour. She felt exhilarated and yet, at the same time strangely frightened.
She looked round her fellow riders, and saw that one by one they were taking off their masks. To her surprise, she saw that underneath they had blank faces: there were no features, just smooth pale skin. She shuddered and turned away. I don’t like this, I want to get off, she told herself. She gripped the silver pole tighter and wished the carousel would stop.
Gradually, the horses began to slow down. They moved from a gallop, to a canter, to a trot and then with a sudden jolt, they stopped altogether. The attendant stepped forward and helped her down and as he did so, he pulled off his mask as well. But he was not like the rest: he did not have a pale featureless face. He had the rotting decaying features of a corpse. Maggots squirmed in the eye sockets and wriggled out of the mouth. He moved closer, his arms outstretched ready to embrace her.
The nurse on duty ran quickly to the bed when she heard the patient crying out. She was calling a man's name.
***
By the time the fire brigade arrived, long yellow tongues of fire were busily devouring the front of the house. The green paint of the front door had shrivelled and blackened before surrendering to the flames.
The officer in charge of operations stood back from the heat and shook his head. ‘Whoever is in that lot is a goner. There's no way we can go in. All we can do is stop it from spreading—with a bit of luck.’
The usually empty street was thronged with the curious. Pale impassive faces stared at the fire as if mesmerised by the colour and heat of the flames.
Inside the house, at the heart of the inferno, two still bodies were roasting, charring and fusing into each other.
***
‘There has been some improvement, Mr Cole.’ The Scottish nurse gave him a reassuring smile.
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing very dramatic, mind you, but she has used her voice. She called out something earlier. That shows she's fighting her way to consciousness.’
David felt a warm thrill of pleasure.
‘And that's good.’ It was half question and half self-assurance.
‘Yes. It shows that she wants to survive and, in these cases, that can mean much more than any help we can give.’
David nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said, managing a ghost of a smile.
The nurse turned to leave but he stopped her with a gesture.
‘You say that she called out something. What exactly did she say?’
‘It was someone's name. A man's name,’ she puzzled for a moment. ‘Oh yes, that's it. She called out the name Michael.’
***
Rob Moore pulled down the blind in the dingy room. Dull though it was, the light was beginning to hurt his eyes. He needed a rest. The body felt heavy and tired. He glanced over at Tim who was lying on the single bed watching him.
‘What happens now, Dad?’ said the boy slowly, dully.
‘We rest.’ He moved closer to the boy and placed a hand on his forehead. ‘Just relax, Timothy, and rest. Rest.’ The boy's body visibly went limp and although his eyes remained open, they were glazed and vacant. ‘Good boy.’
Rob Moore laid down on his own bed, his hands behind his head. Time for him to rest, too. Soon it would be dark and then it would be time for a change. It would be too dangerous for him to maintain the Rob Moore shell any longer; and besides he needed a new body for the next stage of his plan.
A stranger, this time.
Someone David Cole did not know
***
David was exhausted. He felt as though he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. It had been the worst day of his life and he wante
d to sleep for a while, to get some temporary rest—to escape from the mess. He didn't want to think about what had happened or what might happen in the future. All he wanted was to soak a while in a hot bath, have a good sleep and then he might be able to face the world again. He knew that he really should get in touch with Tim’s school and let the boy know of his mother’s accident. He had a right to know, but David couldn’t face that particular drama just now. And anyway, it would only freak the boy out to see his mother in such a state. He just needed a rest for a few hours and then it would be time for him to visit the hospital anyway.
However, his plans were not to be realised for he had only just started running the bath when the doorbell rang. Wearily he plodded to the front door and for the second time in twenty-four hours he was confronted by a policeman on his doorstep. In this instance there were two of them and they were plain clothes officers, but David could see beyond them into the drive and saw their saloon and a white police car behind it. They had obviously come in convoy.
What now? David thought. What the hell now? Pray God it isn’t bad news about Kate.
‘Mr Cole?’
He nodded. ‘We are police officers.’ The shorter of the two flashed a card. ‘May we come in?’
David stepped back and gestured them to enter. He led them into the sitting room and then without speaking, turned to face them. ‘It's about Rob Moore, a close colleague of yours.’
David nodded. ‘Rob. Yes. A friend also,’ he said, non-plussed, suddenly seized by a sense of dread. ‘What about him?’
‘Do you know where he is?’
David frowned and ran his fingers through his hair. What the hell was this all about? ‘Well, not at this moment. I presume you've tried his home and the office at Paragon...’
‘He's not been there today,’ said the taller detective, as though reading from a notebook.
‘And neither have you,’ observed the other pointedly.
‘No, my—girlfriend has been in a car accident. She's in Intensive Care. I've just come back from seeing her.’ He moved his arms in some kind of inarticulate gesture. His tired brain was too sluggish for him to be eloquent. The two detectives looked non-committal and said nothing. There were no signs of understanding or sympathy in their stern expression. ‘So what has Rob done that warrants a posse?’
Neither man smiled. The shorter of the two, obviously the superior officer, looked seriously at David through his gold-rimmed glasses.
‘I'm afraid this is not a light-hearted matter, Mr Cole. We are investigating a murder.’
‘Rob's been murdered?’ David realised the foolishness of this remark as soon as he'd uttered it. If Rob was dead, Holmes and Watson here would hardly be looking for him. However, the other alternative was also incredible.
‘No sir, Mr Moore has not been murdered, but we have reason to believe he may be involved in a killing.’
David began to feel the now familiar sensation of unease gnawing in the pit of his stomach. ‘Who... who is dead?’
‘Mrs Moore.’
‘Fiona?’
Both men nodded.
David went cold and his stomach burned. ‘I don't... I don't understand.’ He shook his head in disbelief and slumped into a chair. What was happening to his life? What maniac was writing this script?
‘Mrs Moore was found by a cleaner this morning. She had been brutally murdered. There was no sign of a break in or of Mr Moore; and therefore, we are anxious to contact him regarding this affair.’
What farcical language they use, thought David. It was the most pretentious euphemism he'd ever heard. The truth was that they thought Rob had killed his wife, done a bunk and now they were after him.
‘I'm sorry, I can't help you.’ He paused and changed the phrasing. ‘I'm not able to help you. I don't know where he is.’
‘Did he have any private haunts he liked to visit?’
Haunts? There was a phrase. David shook his head.
‘How had he been acting in the last few days? Did his behaviour seem odd in any way?’
Yes, thought David. Bloody odd. He was haunted by a dead man and the last time I saw him he was like a walking zombie. But that proved nothing.
‘Not that I noticed.’ he said.
‘What about his wife? Did they get on?’
David could not help giving a brittle smile. ‘They tolerated each other. I wouldn't say it was a happy marriage, but they each did their own thing and it worked.’
‘What was Rob's thing?’ asked the junior officer. ‘Other women?’
‘Not recently. Or at least not that I know of.’
‘Would he be likely to confide in you about them?’ asked gold rims.
David shrugged his shoulders. ‘He has occasionally in the past.’
‘When was the last time?’
‘Oh, God, I don't know. A long time ago now. Over a year. Look these weren't great passions. He'd just take some little starry-eyed secretary out for a meal and a quick bang in the back of his car. There were no romantic entanglements. It was just for sex.’ David hated himself as soon as he'd said that, despite it being the truth.
‘What about his wife? What were their sexual relationship like?’
‘From what I could gather she was a little cool.’
‘Frigid?’
‘A little cool. Look, I only worked with the man; didn't sit at the end of his bed taking notes.’ The two detectives ignored the last remark.
‘I know one thing: Rob was not a violent man. I can’t believe he would… kill anyone. Let alone his own wife.’
The two policemen seemed to disregard this remark.
‘Well, thank you, Mr Cole,’ said gold rims. ‘We may need to talk to you again, but in the meantime if you should think of anything that may help us, will you contact me please.’
He held out a card. David took it tentatively. Chief Inspector Ross was printed in bold types, with an address, telephone, extension numbers and email.
‘Anything at all which could give us a lead.’
‘Yes, of course,’ David said briskly, getting up, ready to usher them out. They seemed, somehow, to pollute the atmosphere.
As the door shut behind them, David leaned against it and shut his eyes.
‘God Almighty,’ he said out loud.
His reason and sanity were being surely tried. He did not believe in spirits coming back from the dead to bedevil the lives of the livings, but he now saw that the seeds of guilt and remorse sown by Michael Barlow in his last moments on earth were now reaping a rich harvest for him; Kate was dangerously ill; Fiona Moore was dead; Rob was suspected of her murder and had disappeared and Crabtree, the clairvoyant, who had supposedly been in touch with Michael's spirit was also dead.
It was a dreadful catalogue.
Michael's influence was like a cancer spreading its rot silently but viciously. At the moment he was really only on the periphery, but surely this black influence was sweeping his way and would engulf him too. It would engulf all within the circle of Michael's power.
All.
All?
That would include Timothy too.
An unnatural cold sweat broke out on David’s forehead.
Timothy.
If, Kate, his wife, had not escaped, then neither would his son. These were irrational fears, he knew. Fears that a week ago he would have sneered at. But not now. Now they seemed real.
He realised that he had neglected the boy for too long. He must get in touch. He now had a terrible foreboding that the boy was in danger. He snatched up his mobile. He must ring St Austell's to see if Tim was alright.
***
Rob Moore raised the blind and looked out at the fading afternoon. A sea mist was edging in towards the promenade where an occasional ghostly pedestrian drifted by. Soon the street lights would be on and the dark would fall rapidly. Strangely, this thought disturbed him. The coming of the night made him feel uneasy. He had been struggling in the darkness so long he feared it somehow. He knew th
at it would always be there, waiting, ready to claim him: he was its spawn and would never be free of its grasp.
Conversely, bright light pained him. It seemed fierce and penetrating like truth, and his truth must forever lie in darkness. Oh, it was good to be alive but one had to pay a price.
He turned to look at Tim who was lying, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.
The boy suddenly heard his own name echo inside his head. ‘Timothy,’ said the voice, ‘Timothy, it’s time for our telephone call.’
***
He finally managed to get through to the headmaster. David Cole was not a name Mr Brett was familiar with, but when he learned the call was connected with the Barlow boy, he felt his body tense with apprehension.
‘Yes, Mr Cole,’ he said brightly. Too brightly.
‘I am a close friend of Kate Barlow, Timothy's mother.’ Despite his worry, David still felt uncomfortable in explaining his association with Kate. The headmaster apparently did not seem disposed to comment yet, as David added lamely, ‘You may remember I accompanied her on her visit to the school sport's day—last June.’
‘I see,’ said Mr Brett.
‘Well, I'm afraid that Mrs Barlow has had a car accident and has been quite badly injured.’
‘I'm very sorry to hear that,’ the head said slowly, not liking the turn the conversation was taking.
‘At present, I don’t want to bother Timothy with the news. There is nothing he can do at the moment and it would only upset him unnecessarily—but I just wanted to check that Timothy is all right—to know if he's well and healthy.’
It sounded a stupid request to make, David thought, and when there was a long pause at the other end, he thought for a moment that the head had put the phone down on him.
‘Hello, Mr Brett?’ he said.
‘Yes, Mr Cole, I'm still here.’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘Oh, I'm sure there isn't. It's just that—Timothy is not in school at the present moment. He was collected this morning with his mother’s permission by one of her colleagues to take part in a television show.’
The Darkness Rising Page 14