4.
As he emerged into the open, the clouds parted and the moon rolled free. The enormous shape in the open space glistened with moonlight. The unstable head turned its crawling face towards him.
The dream trailed him to Liverpool, to the central library, although the space and the head had faded before he could make them out—if indeed he had wanted to. A rush of rain, and the bright lights of the library, washed the dream away. He hurried up the wide green stairs to the Religion and Philosophy section.
He pulled books from the shelves. Lancashire Witches. North-West Hauntings. Ghostly Lancashire. The banality of their covers was reassuring; it seemed absurd that his parents could be mixed up in such things. Yet he couldn’t quite laugh. Even if they were, what could he do? He slammed the books angrily on the table, startling echoes.
As he read he began to feel safer. Pine Dunes wasn’t indexed in North-West Hauntings. His attention strayed, fascinated into irrelevances. The hanged man’s ghost in Everton Library. The poltergeist of the Palace Hotel, Birkdale. Jokey ghost stories in Lancashire dialect, ’ee lad. Rain and wind shook the windows, fluorescent light lay flat on the tables. Beyond a glass partition people sat studying, library staff clattered up and down open staircases, carrying scraps of paper. Reassured, he turned to Lancashire Witches. Pine Dunes. It was there, on three pages.
When he made himself search the pages, they didn’t say much. Over the centuries, witches had been rumoured to gather in the Pine Dunes forest. Was that surprising? Wouldn’t they naturally have done so, for concealment? Besides, these were only rumours; few people would have bothered struggling through the undergrowth. He opened Ghostly Lancashire, expecting irrelevances. But the index showed that Pine Dunes covered several pages.
The author had interviewed a group the other books ignored; the travellers. Their stories were unreliable, he warned, but fascinating. Few travellers would walk the Pine Dunes road after dark; they kept their children out of the woods even by day. A superstitious people, the author pointed out. The book had been written thirty years ago, Michael reminded himself. And the travellers gave no reason for their nervousness except vague tales of something unpleasantly large glimpsed moving beyond the most distant trees. Surely distance must have formed the trees into a solid wall; how could anyone have seen beyond?
One traveller, senile and often incoherent, told a story. A long time ago he, or someone else—the author couldn’t tell—had wandered back to the travellers’ camp, very drunk. The author didn’t believe the story, but included it because it was vivid and unusual. Straying from the road, the man had become lost in the forest. Blinded by angry panic, he’d fought his way towards an open space. But it wasn’t the camp, as he’d thought. He had lost his footing on the slippery earth and had gone skidding into a pit.
Had it been a pit, or the mouth of a tunnel? As he’d scrabbled, bruised but otherwise unhurt, for a foothold on the mud at the bottom, he’d seen an opening that led deeper into darkness. The darkness had begun moving slowly and enormously towards him, with a sound like that of a huge shifting beneath mud—darkness which had parted loudly, resolving itself into several sluggish forms that glistened dimly as they advanced to surround him. Terror had hurled him in a leap halfway up the pit, his hands had clamped on rock, and he’d wrenched himself up the rest of the way. He’d run blindly. In the morning he’d found himself full of thorns on a sprung bed of undergrowth.
So what did all that prove? Michael argued with himself on the bus to Pine Dunes. The man had been drunk. All right, so there were other tales about Pine Dunes, but nothing very evil. Why shouldn’t his parents go out at night? Maybe they were ghost-hunters, witch-hunters. Maybe they were going to write a book about their observations. How else could such books be written? His mind was becoming desperate as he kept remembering his mother’s masked fear.
His parents were asleep. His father lay beached on the bed, snoring flabbily; beyond his stomach his wife could hardly be seen. Michael was glad, for he hadn’t known what to say to them. He wheeled out the bicycle he’d bought from his first month’s wages.
He cycled to the Four in the Morning. His knees protruded on either side of him, jerking up and down. Hedges sailed by slowly; their colours faded and dimmed into twilight. The whirr of his dynamo caught among the leaves. He struggled uphill, standing on the pedals. Dim countryside opened below him, the sea glinted dully. As he poised on the edge of the downhill rush, he knew how he could unburden himself, or begin to. Tonight he would tell June everything.
But she didn’t come to the club. People crowded in; the lights painted them carelessly monochrome. Discotheque records snarled and thumped, swirls of tobacco-smoke glared red, pink, purple. Michael hurried about, serving. Dim wet discoloured faces jostled to reach him, shouting, “Mike! Mike!” Faces rose obsessively to the surface of the jostling: June’s, who wasn’t there; his mother’s, her eyes trying to dodge fear. He was suffocating. His frustration gathered within him; he felt swollen, encumbered. He stared at the luridly pink smoke while voices called. “I’ve got to go home,” he told the barman.
“Had enough, have you?”
“My parents aren’t well. I’m worried.”
“Strange you didn’t say so when you came in. Well, I’ve managed by myself before.” He turned away, dismissing Michael. “You’ll have to make do with me tonight,” he told the shouting.
The last of the lit streets faded behind Michael. The moon was full, but blurred by unkempt fields of cloud; it showed him only a faint windy swaying that surrounded him for miles. When he confronted his father, what would his mother do? Would she break down? If she admitted to witchcraft and said it was time Michael knew, the scene would be easier—if she did. The moon struggled among plump clouds, and was engulfed.
He cycled fast up the Pine Dunes road. Get there, don’t delay to reconsider. Gravel ground together squeaking beneath his wheels; his yellow light wobbled, plucking at trees. The depths of the forest creaked, distant tree trunks were pushed apart to let a huge unstable face peer through. He was overtired—of course there was nothing among the far trees but dark. He sped into the Caravanserai; random patches of unlit caravans bobbed up and faded by. His caravan was unlit too.
Perhaps his parents weren’t there. He realised furiously that he felt relieved. They were in there all right, they’d be asleep. He would wake his father, the man might betray himself while still half-asleep. He’d dazzle his father awake, like an interrogator. But his parents’ bed was empty.
He punched the wall, which rang flatly. His father had outwitted him again. He stared around the room, enraged. His father’s huge suits dangled emptily, like sloughed skin; his mother’s clothes hid in drawers. His father’s metal box of books sat on top of the wardrobe. Michael glanced resentfully at it, then stared. It was unlocked.
He lifted it down and made to sit on his parents’ bed. That made him feel uneasy; he carried the box into the main room. Let his father come in and find him reading. Michael hoped he would. He tugged at the lid, which resisted, then sprang open with a loud clang.
He remembered that sound. He’d heard it when he was quite young, and his mother’s voice, pleading: “Let him at least have a normal childhood.” After a moment he’d heard the box close again. “All right. He’ll find out when it’s time,” he’d heard his father say.
The box contained no printed books, but several notebooks. They had been written in by numerous people; the inks in the oldest notebook, whose spine had given way, were brown as old bloodstains. Some of the writing in the latest book was his mother’s. Odd pages showed rough maps: The Old Horns, Exham, Whitminster, though none of Pine Dunes. These he recognised; but he couldn’t understand a word of the text.
Most of it was in English, but might as well not have been. It consisted largely of quotations copied from books; sometimes the source was indicated—Necro, Revelations Glaaki, Garimiaz, Vermis, Theobald, whatever they were. The whole thing reminded him of pamphlets
issued by cranky cults—like the people who gave all their worldly goods to a man in America, or the others who’d once lured Michael into a seedy hotel for a personality profile, which they’d lied would be fun. He read, baffled.
After a while he gave up. Even the entries his mother had written made no sense. Some of the words he couldn’t even pronounce. Kuthullhoo? Kuthoolhew? And what was supposed to be so Great about it, whatever it was?
He shrugged, sniggering a little. He didn’t feel so worried now. If this was all his parents were involved in, it seemed silly and harmless. The fact that they’d concealed it from him so successfully for so long seemed to prove as much. They were so convincingly normal, it couldn’t be anything very bad. After all, many businessmen belonged to secret societies with jargon nobody else could understand. Maybe his father had been initiated into this society as part of one of the jobs he’d taken in his wanderings!
One thing still troubled Michael: his mother’s fear. He couldn’t see what there was to fear in the blurred language of the notebooks. He made a last effort, and let the books fall open where they would—at the pages that had been read most frequently.
What a waste of time! He strained his mind, but the pages became more bewildering still; he began to laugh. What on earth was “the millennial gestation”? Something to do with “the fosterling of the Great Old Ones”? “The hereditary rebirth”? “Each of Its rebirths comes closer to incarnation”? “When the mind opens to all the dimensions will come the incarnation. Upon the incarnation all minds will become one.” Ah, that explains it! Michael sniggered wildly. But there was more: “the ingestion,” “the mating beyond marriage,” “the melting and merging”—
He threw the book angrily into the box. The skin of his eyes crawled hotly; he could hardly keep them open, yet he was wasting his time reading this. The caravan rocked as something huge tugged at it: the wind. The oldest, spineless, notebook began to disintegrate. As he knocked it square, an envelope slipped out.
It was addressed in his father’s large handwriting; the last word had had to be cramped. TO MICHAEL: NOT TO BE OPENED UNTIL AFTER I AM GONE. He turned it over and began to tear, but his hand faltered. He’d been unreasonable enough to his father for one day. After a moment he put the envelope unopened in his pocket, feeling sly and ashamed. He replaced the box, then he prepared to sleep. In the dark he tried to arrange his limbs on the sagging couch. Rocking, the caravan sounded like a rusty cradle.
He slept. He wasn’t sure whether he was asleep when he heard his mother’s low voice. He must be awake, for he could feel her breath on his face. “Don’t stay here.” Her voice trembled. “Your girlfriend’s got the right idea. Go away with her if that’s what you want. Just get away from here.”
His father’s voice reached for her out of the dark. “That’s enough. He’s asleep. You come to bed.”
Silence and darkness settled down for the night. But in the night, or in Michael’s dream, there were noises: the stealthy departure of a car from the park; heavy footsteps trying not to disturb the caravan; the gingerly closing of his parents’ door. Sleep seemed more important.
His father’s voice woke him, shouting into the bedroom. “Wake up. The car’s gone. It’s been stolen.”
Daylight blazed through Michael’s eyelids. He was sure at once what had happened. His father had hidden the car, so that nobody could get away. Michael lay paralysed, waiting for his mother’s cry of panic. Her silence held time immobile. He squeezed his eyelids tighter, filling his eyes with red.
“Oh,” his mother said at last, dully. “Oh dear.”
There was more in her voice than resignation: she sounded lethargic, indifferent. Suddenly Michael remembered what he’d read in June’s book. Witches used drugs. His eyes sprang wide. He was sure that his father was drugging his mother.
5.
It didn’t take the police long to find the car, abandoned and burnt out, near the windmill. “Kids, probably,” one of the policemen said. “We may be in touch with you again.” Michael’s father shook his head sadly, and they left.
“I must have dropped the car keys while we were out.” Michael thought his father hardly bothered to sound convincing. Why couldn’t he tell the man so, confront him? Because he wasn’t sure; he might have dreamed the sounds last night—He raged at his own cowardice, staring at his mother. If only he could be certain of her support! She wandered desultorily, determinedly cleaning the caravan, as though she were ill but expecting company.
When his gagged rage found words at last it weakened immediately. “Are you all right?” he demanded of her, but then could only stammer, “Do you think you’d better see a doctor?”
Neither of his parents responded. His unsureness grew, and fed his frustration. He felt lethargic, unable to act, engulfed by his father’s presence. Surely June would be at the club tonight. He had to talk to someone, to hear another interpretation; perhaps she would prove that he’d imagined everything.
He washed and shaved. He was glad to retreat, even into the cramped bathroom; he and his parents had been edging uneasily around one another all day—the caravan made him think unpleasantly of a tin can full of squirming. As he shaved, the bathroom door sprang open, as it often did. His father appeared behind him in the mirror, staring at him.
Steam coated the mirror again. Beneath the steam, his father’s face seemed to writhe like a plastic mask on fire. Michael reached to clear the mirror, but already his father and the man’s emotions were upon him. Before Michael could turn, his father was hugging him violently, his flesh quivering as though it would burst. Michael held himself stiff, refusing to be engulfed. What are you doing? Get away! In a moment his father turned clumsily and plodded out. The caravan rumbled, shaking.
Michael sighed loudly. God, he was glad that was over. He finished shaving and hurried out. Neither of his parents looked at him; his father pretended to read a book, and whistled tunelessly; his mother turned vaguely as he passed. He cycled to the club.
“Parents all right?” the barman said indifferently.
“I’m not sure.”
“Good of you to come.” Perhaps that was sarcasm. “There’s some things for you to wash.”
Michael could still feel his father’s clinging embrace; he kept trying to wriggle it away. He welcomed the press of bodies at the bar, shouting “Mike!”—even though June wasn’t among them. He welcomed the companionship of ordinary people. He strode expertly about, serving, as the crowd grew, as smoke gathered. He could still feel swollen flesh pressed hotly against his back. He won’t do that to me again, he thought furiously. He’ll never— A tankard dropped from his hand, beneath a beer tap. “Oh my God,” he said.
“What’s up with you now?” the barman demanded.
When his father had embraced him, Michael had thought of nothing but escape. Now at last he realised how final his father’s gesture had been. “My parents,” he said. “They’re, they’re worse.”
“Just sent you a message, did they? Off home again now, I suppose? You’d better see the manager, or I will— Will you watch that bloody beer you’re spilling!”
Michael slammed shut the tap and struggled through the crowd. People grimaced sympathetically at him, or stared. It didn’t matter, his job didn’t matter. He must hurry back to head off whatever was going to happen. Someone bumped into him in the doorway, and hindered him when he tried to push them aside. “What’s the matter with you?” he shouted. “Get out of the way!” It was June.
“I’m really sorry I didn’t come last night,” she said. “My parents dragged me out to dinner.”
“All right. Okay. Don’t worry.”
“You’re angry. I really am sorry, I wanted to see you— You’re not going, are you?”
“Yes, I’ve got to. Look, my parents aren’t well.”
“I’ll come back with you. We can talk on the way. I’ll help you look after them.” She caught at his shoulder as he tried to run upstairs. “Please, Mike. I’ll feel bad if
you just leave me. We can catch the last bus in five minutes if we run. It’ll be quicker than your bike.”
God! She was worse than his father! “Listen,” he snarled, having clambered to street level. “It isn’t ill, they aren’t ill,” he said, letting words tumble wildly as he tried to flee. “I’ve found out what they do at night. They’re witches.”
“Oh no!” She sounded shocked but delighted.
“My mother’s terrified. My father’s been drugging her.” Now that he was able to say so, his urgency diminished a little; he wanted to release all he knew. “Something’s going to happen tonight,” he said.
“Are you going to try and stop it? Let me come too. I know about it. I showed you my book.” When he looked doubtful she said: “They’ll have to stop when they see me.”
Perhaps she could look after his mother while he confronted his father. They ran to the bus, which sat unlit in the square for minutes, then dawdled along the country roads, hoping for passengers who never appeared. Michael’s frustration coiled tighter again. He explained to June what he’d discovered: “Yeah,” she kept saying, excited and fascinated. Once she began giggling uncontrollably. “Wouldn’t it be weird if we saw your father dancing naked?” He stared at her until she said, “Sorry.” Her pupils were expanding and contracting slightly, randomly.
As they ran along the Pine Dunes road the trees leaned closer, creaking and nodding. Suppose his parents hadn’t left the caravan yet? What could he say? He’d be tongue-tied again by his unsureness, and June would probably make things worse. He gasped with relief when he saw that the windows were dark, but went inside to make sure. “I know where they’ve gone,” he told June.
Moonlight and unbroken cloud spread the sky with dim milk; dark smoky breaths drifted across the glow. He heard the incessant restlessness of the sea. Bare black silhouettes crowded beside the road, thinly intricate against the sky. He hurried June towards the path.
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