by Simon Clark
The narrow alleyway led to an elevated area of ground. She decided to check it out in case that somewhat higher point afforded her a glimpse of the shopping area. At least then she’d have her bearings. Although, don’t go too far. It’s dark over there. She let her mind-chatter continue to distract her from being frightened. Of course, imagination fed the mind-chatter. Turning it bad. Are those voices? Can you hear approaching footsteps? Isn’t this the kind of place a Jack the Ripper would lurk? Just waiting for a fool of a girl to enter alone? What does the point of a knife feel like? That stab-stab-stab! What would it be like to watch the steel blade slice your belly?
‘Get out of the alley,’ she told herself. ‘Get out fast.’
She turned. Then froze. Blood thudded in her ears. Her lungs locked up tight. She couldn’t breathe. Because there, blocking the exit of the alleyway into the street – and relative safety – was the silhouette of a figure. A tall man, in a darkly billowing coat. Though she couldn’t see his face she knew he stared at her. What’s more, the head tilted to one side. He examined her. Assessed her. Rated her. She felt naked beneath his probing stare.
Don’t show fear…. Don’t show fear.
‘Hello.’ She took a step forward. ‘Are you lost? Can I help you?’ OK, those were totally random questions, but they were all she could pluck out of her panicked mind. What did he intend to do to her? Because, hell and damnation, that’s what his posture suggested. I’ve got plans for this woman, his body language hollered loud and clear. I’ve plans for her. She will do nicely.
Determined not to show fear Pel advanced on the figure. In that light he was just a shape cut from shadow. She couldn’t tell what clothes he wore; or even glimpse so much as a glint of an eye, but all of a sudden she knew one important fact. He’s a Murrain. That hair; the posture; the lean physique. Definitely Murrain!
‘I’m not frightened of you. What do you want?’ Now she rushed toward the motionless figure. Is it the grandfather, Jacob Murrain? Or the man who saved my life today? He’s followed you, Pel. He wants to put his hands on your body again. He lusts after you.
The figure changed. That shadow silhouette had become so much more than a man. The shadows seemed to boil as if a blacker essence flowed out from its chest. Waves of brutal cold struck her. She gasped. Her legs faltered. All of a sudden the strength went from her knees. At that moment it seemed as if some external power had invaded her body. She’d never felt so weak, or so helpless. She couldn’t even shout.
Her toe stubbed an uneven flagstone. A second later she bumped down on to one knee. Now it happens. This is where he attacks….
She closed her eyes. Her heart pummelled her ribs. In her mind’s eye she saw his hands – Murrain hands! – reaching toward her. Fight him. Scream! Kick!
Pel opened her mouth to yell her defiance.
She blinked. The ocean sounds grew louder. When she lifted her head she saw the figure had gone.
7
AS LUCK WOULD have it, Pel Minton found a mini-mart at the end of the street. The brightly lit store couldn’t have filled her with more joy than that lovely hot shower earlier in the evening. It felt so warm and so safe to push through the glass door into a place stocked with everyday things. It smelled enticingly of pastrami. There were racks of sweets, shelves of canned beans, carrots, peas, stew, meatballs. She even smiled at the sight of England’s infamous black pudding in the chiller cabinet. Nat, with great relish, had introduced her to this delicacy. ‘Try some black pudding,’ he’d told her. ‘You’ll love it.’
Black pudding came in a cylinder of reddish-brown paste, speckled with white – uncharitably, it could be described as moistly soft ‘matter’. It tasted metallic; a little peppery.
‘It’s OK,’ she’d said hesitantly on tasting it. ‘A kind of salami?’
‘It’s made from congealed blood,’ Nat had explained with relish.
Too late to spit, as she’d already swallowed, she’d grimaced, flapping her hands in the air. ‘Gimme a drink! Quick!’
He’d chuckled with sadistic glee. ‘Here’s a nice English beer – warm – just how they like it. Ha!’
Now she found herself staring at the infamous black pudding in the cabinet. Meanwhile, the mini-mart customers stood in line, with their late night purchases, as a middle-aged woman served them. On a TV an old episode of ‘The Simpsons’ played. For the millionth time Bart tormented Homer to distraction. That episode she’d seen so many times it had grown as familiar to her as her own fingernails. Yet this is the strange thing. When TV programmes are imported into Britain from the States they seemed to undergo a distinct change. As if whatever entered this old country passed through a field of transformation. Pel knew the technical reason why ‘Simpsons’ episodes on British television screens assumed a different appearance. It was because America used the NTSC TV system of 525 lines, while the UK employed PAL, generating 625 lines. Here in Britain, TV images were electronically carved with remorseless precision; colours were much colder. Even when she curled up to enjoy a bar of chocolate, she discovered that her familiar US brand had been manufactured in England. With slightly different ingredients, the chocolate had a restrained taste, as if holding back its normally rich bounty. A ghostly version of chocolate, she’d decided. Phantom fare.
England! They drive on the wrong side of road. In butchers’ stores pig trotters are proudly displayed. There’s peppery blood pudding – some delicacy (for vampires, yes). Police wear helmets shaped like the female boob. They don’t carry guns. Bacon here is soft not crispy. Chairs can be uncomfortably small. Often the locals speak an incomprehensible version of English. An American fanny is in a different part of the body to an English fanny. Something that had caused red faces when she had complained to a train guard that gum left on her seat was stuck to her fanny. And yet … and yet … her mind was becoming attuned to the English way of life. OK, she wasn’t a blood-pudding muncher yet. But she’d learned the notorious ‘warm beer’ referred to a British beer known as ‘bitter’. Made with different ingredients to regular beer it was, like red wine, supposed to be served at near room temperature.
It had taken time, but now she’d grown to like this little island. And one thing she did savour were the layers of history beneath her feet. She loved her job. It excited her to scrape away the soil to reveal all those hidden layers. It was like reading a book of secrets. To tease the meaning out of an old Roman coin, or piece of Viking pot, had become strangely addictive.
‘The Simpsons’ theme bounced from the TV. She realized she’d been browsing here without even picking up what she needed. Quickly grabbing a basket, she added a toothbrush, toothpaste, a bag of peppermint humbugs, body spray and a hairbrush.
Being in the store had a calming effect. It eased the memory of that disturbing encounter with the figure in the alleyway. So it might have been one of the Murrain men looking at me. That doesn’t mean he wanted to rip my clothes off, does it? Get a grip, Pel. The company of other customers did make her feel better. Even so, a shiver ran down her spine when she recalled that silhouette. It seemed to emanate such a strange aura; as if its emotion formed a field around it that touched all who came near.
When she’d paid for her goods she walked briskly along the main road. Now she had her bearings she’d be back at the house in ten minutes. Thankfully. She longed to get out of her clothes now, then slip into the warm embrace of the bed. But the day hadn’t done with her yet. Even with the time heading towards midnight it had one more curve ball to throw at her.
As she crossed the road she noticed a man sitting on a wooden kitchen chair on the pavement. There was an empty chair beside his. He appeared a giant of a man, with huge pale hands that gleamed in the streetlight. The oddness of the scene was amplified by the fact he had bare feet. In this cold night air that must have been numbing, to say the least.
The man watched Pel approach. Oh no, he’s going to invite me to sit next to him. This is all I need. His eyes glistened. He’d been weeping.
<
br /> Then the giant spoke in a boy’s voice: ‘Just look at him.’ He put his arm around the back of the chair next to him, as if cuddling a little friend. ‘Look what’s gone and happened to him.’
Later, she’d chide herself for responding, but his voice had been meltingly plaintive. So she found herself sympathizing or, more accurately, humouring the man’s fantasy that he had an invisible friend sitting alongside him.
The man continued, ‘I’m worried about Bobby.’
‘Is Bobby poorly?’
‘He’s very, very frightened,’ the giant said, in that little-boy-lost voice, but then added in angrily mature tones, ‘And it’s all your fault.’ He snapped to his feet.
Dear God, he was almost seven feet tall. His eyes burned at her. Anger made his entire body quiver.
He took a step forward then bellowed, ‘It’s all your fault. You and your bloody diggers. You’re breaking up the picture – the Ghost Monster. I touched it when I was little. Little as him.’ He pointed to the empty seat. ‘Touched the Ghost Monster! It made me what I am today! I know things aren’t right here!’ He punched the side of his head. The force of the blow made such a loud crack it sickened her. ‘I’m not …’ – Smack, he thumped his own head again – ‘right in …’ – smack! – ‘HERE!’ He took another step toward her; a huge volcano of anger ready to erupt into violence. ‘The little chap’s frightened. He saw Justice Murrain tonight. After all this time … he’s come back to walk round these streets…. Justice Murrain’s looking. He’s watching us all. Because soon he’ll be back properly … then he’ll do what he wants with us. You’ll see him. He’s a crow man; all in black. He’s been let out of the picture. And it’s all your doing … you and them bloody diggers!’
Behind him, a door opened. As light spilled into the street a white-haired woman hurried out, crying ‘Horace … Horace.’ Although Pel couldn’t make out individual words, other than ‘Horace’, the woman appeared to be soothing the big man. In seconds, she’d gently guided him back into the house. Pel anticipated words of apology from the woman, or some explanation why a troubled man, who wasn’t usually allowed out by himself, surely, came to be sitting on the sidewalk, waiting to accost passers-by. The door shut without the woman even glancing in Pel’s direction.
‘Don’t give me a thought. I’m fine. After the day I’ve had nothing surprises me any more. I’m going to walk round the corner there, and no doubt the Devil will be waiting with a couple of martinis. Sleep well! Don’t let the bed-bugs bite!’
The street was deserted once more. A church clock struck the quarter hour. Nearly midnight.
Pel sighed. With her carrier bag of toiletries she trudged, tired, and emotionally bruised, in the direction of the house.
My first day in Crowdale. I sieved human bones, amongst other things, from graveyard soil for five hours straight. Then a madman interrupted the dig. After that, the lunatic truckers smashed up the place. I nearly get killed. A stranger I can’t get out of my mind saved me. Tonight I saw him, or a relative of his, stalking me in an alley. Just a little while later, another lunatic (the town must have them in abundance) accuses me of terrifying his imaginary friend. Bobby. I’ve scared him because we’ve unleashed some kind of vengeful spook on the town. Nodding, she murmured to herself, ‘Yes, that’s what I call an eventful day. Wow-wee, I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings.’
Just five feet from the front door a hand fell on her shoulder. This is it, the death blow. It can’t be anything else.
She turned to see Nat’s grinning face … not to mention beer-flushed cheeks.
‘Come for an ale.’
‘No thanks.’
‘We want to celebrate your first day on the Murrain site dig.’
‘I didn’t think you liked English beer?’
He giggled. Someone might dismiss the man as a happy-go-lucky drunk. Yet she’d seen him ever so tenderly lift a child’s bones from the dust of years. ‘Human sacrifice,’ he’d murmured. ‘It wasn’t at all rare for stonemasons to bury a child in a wall’s foundations. They believed a child’s ghost made the building stronger.’ Now, here on the pavement, he beamed like a jolly uncle. ‘English beer. Bitter.’ He used the local name, bitter, for the brew. ‘Blessed, life-enhancing bitter. It’s weird – once that flavour buries itself in your taste buds you find yourself craving that first pint of the night. I love English beer. I just love it!’ Clearly, he’d been indulging in his new love affair with the brew all night.
‘I’m going to call it a day, Nat.’
‘Aw, c’mon. We can sleep when we’re dead.’
‘Elegantly put, Nat. But it’s just been one of those days, you know?’ She unlocked the door.
‘Jack Murrain’s in the bar.’
She paused.
Nat burbled on, ‘He’s been there all night. Ha, looks to me as if he’s waiting for someone.’
‘Sweet dreams, Nat.’ Pel closed the door behind her. Then she mounted the stairs to her bedroom, hoping that her dreams, even if they weren’t sweet, wouldn’t turn into nightmares.
8
BULMANN PARKED THE truck as close to the church as he dared. Even the vibrations of the motor made the walls, which now overhung the cliffedge, flutter as if they were made out of paper. Not long now before the whole blasted lot ended up in the drink.
When he opened the door he noticed the dashboard clock recorded a time of just eight minutes to midnight. The nearest town lay miles away. Nobody would be near enough to give a damn about a flashlight moving in the church. Who’d care anyway? Soon fish would be swimming in its rubble.
Bulmann knew, however, that it contained one last treasure. He’d climbed its fifty-foot high square tower that morning before the archeologists had fetched up to start digging holes in the graveyard. Entering the church didn’t present a problem. The local museum had removed its oak doors, which were supposedly built from the coffin lids of medieval monks. Not that he gave a flying crap about that.
In a few paces, Bulmann had reached the narrow entrance to the church tower steps that spiralled up to the roof. A bulky figure came shuffling down, grunting with bear-like aggression.
‘What’s wrong, Miller? Too bloody heavy for you?’
‘Carrying this doesn’t bother me. It’s Steve. He’s yakking like a daft old woman up there.’
‘Damn it. Get the lead out to the truck.’
Miller hefted the stolen roll of roof lead toward the door. ‘Make Steve get a move on. There’s cracks appearing in the walls.’
‘Don’t worry yourself. It won’t come down with you in it. This end of the church is still on solid ground.’
‘Yeah, if God doesn’t smite us.’
Cursing to himself, Miller lumbered outdoors with a hundred pounds of metal in his arms. Then again the church’s interior was steadily becoming the outdoors in its own right. The altar end of the church had fallen into the sea. Now a quarter of the building had gone; it left one end yawningly open to the night sky, with views of moonlight on the ocean.
Pity we couldn’t have got the roof timber, mused Bulmann. That would have paid for a new swimming pool in his Spanish villa. Well, the lead from the tower roof would keep him in creature delights for a week or two. There’s a girl in Skipton he’d promised to take somewhere special. In return for something even more special.
Grinning, he climbed the spiral staircase. Soon he emerged from the hatchway on to the roof. Here, the sheets of lead had already been rolled by Miller and Steve into hundred-pound bundles.
‘Steve, stop jerking around up here; get that lead shifted down to the truck.’
Instead of obeying his boss, Steve nodded in the direction of the graveyard as a cold wind whipped around their ears. ‘See that?’
Cops? Alert to being caught, he scanned the dark area of ground. ‘What you seen?’
‘It’s the Ghost Monster.’
‘What?’
‘Ghost Monster. That’s what we called it as kids.’
&nbs
p; ‘Steve, pull yourself together, or I’ll chuck you off this damn tower.’
But Steve’s face shone. Bulmann couldn’t tell whether it was excitement or terror.
Steve said, ‘You’re not local so you won’t know the story.’
‘I don’t want to know any frigging stories. I want that lead in my truck.’
‘We used to ride our bikes up here as kids. It was a bravery test to reach through the iron fence and touch the Ghost Monster’s face. Look, you can see the lamp burning there. Old Jacob Murrain keeps it lit.’
Bulmann used a meaty paw to cuff Steve’s ear. ‘Pick up that lead.’
Steve appeared hypnotized. The blow didn’t faze him. ‘The Ghost Monster, the kids’ name for the picture. But really it’s a mosaic of Justice Murrain. They said he was the Devil.’
‘You’re fired. Go home.’ Bulmann picked up the heavy roll of lead. ‘Get away from here before I break your face.’
Bulmann climbed down through the trapdoor with his cumbersome load.
Above him, Steve shouted, ‘Don’t you see? They’ve been messing around with the Ghost Monster. That’s something you never should do.’
‘Go to hell, Steve.’
‘I know they’ve damaged it somehow. I’ve seen him.’
Bulmann ignored the man.
‘I’ve seen Justice Murrain. Down there on the path. He’s back!’ His voice rose into a screech. ‘Bulmann, he’s back!’
Bulmann didn’t care. He paid more notice to the cracks in the walls. Miller was right. They were worse now than first thing this morning. The entire cliff face must be rotten. It offered as much support to the ancient church as if it were no more rugged than a soggy cardboard box. Still, we’re going to get this lead – all of it.