by Simon Clark
‘I’ll kill you!’ With a howl of fury Justice Murrain climbed the trellis beside the front door. When the giant tried to stretch up to the window where Jacob stared down at him with such loathing, his fingertips fell inches short. As he endeavoured to reach the window ledge Jacob caught hold of his wrist.
‘Justice Murrain. A human body is holding you prisoner. That means you’re human, now … and vulnerable.’
Jacob pushed the man’s wrist away from the window frame. With his balance gone, and occupying such a clumsy body, the giant toppled backwards on to the path outside the front door. Over 200 pounds of meat and bone made a hell of a thump. Instantly, Justice Murrain grimaced with pain. As he lumbered to his feet, he held his elbow. Animal-like growls issued from his throat.
‘So.’ Jacob’s satisfaction was immense. ‘You feel pain. I’m glad about that. The question remains: if that body is killed, do you finally die with it?’
‘I don’t care, you pathetic little man!’ Justice Murrain gripped the injured elbow in his other hand. ‘Because look who is coming up the road. Here is your beloved grandson.’ He laughed. ‘Watch me leave this.’ He cuffed the side of his own head. ‘Then watch me invade the mind of Jack Murrain. See how I use him. Witness what I do.’ He spluttered with laughter. ‘Then you will watch him put his hands around your scrawny neck.’
Jack’s pick-up rumbled along the road. In less than three minutes he would be turning into the driveway. What would he make of this chuckling giant, clad in a paper coverall?
‘He will soon be here, Jacob. Watch what happens when I transfer.’ The voice became a gloating hiss. ‘Then I, Justice Murrain, will live for ever and ever.’
Jacob pulled a phone from his pocket, pressed the keys, then spoke these words: ‘Jack. Sorry to spring this on you, but I need you to go over to Calder-Brigg. Yes … if you will, son. It has to be right now.’ A quarter of a mile away the pick-up pulled over. An expression of absolute fury distorted Justice Murrain’s face. He realized he’d been thwarted. Smoothly, Jacob continued, ‘Go to Albert’s workshop. You’ll find him there, if you’re quick. Ask to borrow his shotgun. There’s a rat in our garden. A big, ugly thing it is. I want that rat dead before it causes any damage.’
The pick-up accelerated away, quickly dwindling into the distance.
Furious, Justice Murrain pointed at Jacob. ‘Hear this: I will take him. His body is mine. Then I’ll break your skull!’
Justice Murrain loped away across the fields. In the white suit, the giant resembled a pulpy maggot that had been gifted a pair of sturdy legs. Within moments, Jacob had lost sight of the possessed man. What he hadn’t lost sight of was this: sending Jack to Calder-Brigg had been a temporary stay of execution. Justice Murrain would be back. That – just as everything which is born will eventually die – is a certainty.
6
THE MOMENT THE hail stopped clear visibility returned. In the car, Pel Minton started the motor. Even as those last bullets of ice struck the graveyard, the diggers returned to their trenches to winkle out fragments of Roman pottery, or search for flint implements in Temple Central.
Pel eased the car from the line of parked vehicles, which would take the team back to the motel at the end of the working day. However, her journey to Jack’s house to tell him, and his grandfather, that the mosaic would be saved was short-lived. She’d barely covered a third of a mile, when a dip in the lane landed her in a deep, crisp drift of hailstones. She’d been travelling slowly, so there wasn’t much in the way of a jolt, and probably not even any damage to the fender. However, the tyres lost all traction. After a few wheel-buzzing attempts she realized the car had become well and truly stuck. This section of lane only served the graveyard so there’d be no traffic, either to present a danger of collision, or any opportunity for assistance.
Pel debated her best course of action. Walk back to the graveyard (and face some ribbing; after all, she’d stranded a car in what was only a small drift of hail), or sit it out? Despite the cold, she noticed that the ground temperature must still be relatively high. Already, hailstones were turning to grey mush. What’s more, the mound of ice that held her only just reached the bottom of the car. Surely, this would be short-lived. Once the ice had melted she’d be on her way.
Switching off the motor, she zipped up her jacket. Wait it out, she told herself, you’ll be able to drive away in a few minutes. Pel opened the car door; a deluge of cold air flooded in. Happily, the beads of ice were liquefying. With a sense of relief she shut the door again. That done, she settled into the seat, arms folded, her chin buried deep into her collar.
She’d donned so many layers of sweaters and T-shirts beneath the jacket her own body heat toasted her flesh nicely. Through the windows, which had started to mist up, she could make out a line of trees. Beyond those were open fields. Meadows rippled as winds tore through them. At that moment, Pel enjoyed the cosiness of being comfortably cocooned in the car. The trees swung back and forth with the gentle to and fro rhythm of a hypnotist’s watch on a chain. Her eyes followed the side-to-side motion of those great elms. Soon Pel had begun to yawn. She snuggled deeper into the seat. Yawned again. It wouldn’t do any harm to close my eyes for a minute, would it? An enticing notion. Why not? Nothing’s likely to hit the car, is it? After working in the cold outdoors this is pure luxury.
Pel closed her eyes. A sensation of being ever so gradually dipped into warm honey stole over her as sleep made its stealthy advance. At one point she gazed at lazily waving trees then she floated into the world of dreams.
In the dream, Pel Minton strolled back through time. She found herself in the sacred arrangement of circular ditches and mounds that formed Temple Central long before the cemetery existed. White pathways radiated outward from the concentric earthworks. In the centre a figure. This man was unmistakably a Murrain. Or at least hailing from the ancestral line that would become the Murrain dynasty one day. The same mane of black hair adorned his head. The same large, grey eyes gazed from a deeply tanned face. Dressed in a mixture of animal skins, purple-dyed fabrics, and even skilfully woven vines, the shaman’s clothing combined the world of animals, plants, and materials spun by humankind.
Deep in the dream’s embrace, Pel Minton glided through sunlight. As she did so, she noticed dark shapes flit along the straight pathways into the heart of Temple Central.
Pel didn’t know how she understood this, but she knew they were the ghosts of the pagan dead. They were flowing along those tracks to join their ancestors in holy ground. Just as she knew that procession of swift shadows were spirits, so she realized that Jack Murrain’s ancestor beckoned them into a loving embrace. The earth ring, formed by mounds and ditches, were symbolic arms that hugged the spirits. They were being welcomed to their new home, a pagan after-life, where their souls would nourish green forests, and help breathe new life into the wombs of animals and humans alike.
I like this dream, Pel thought warmly. It’s not often some conscious part of her was aware that she was asleep and dreaming. This was one of those rare occasions. She strolled toward the ocean. The sky darkened. Thunder growled. Behind her, the shaman raised his hands. He appeared to be beckoning her. Nevertheless, she continued walking. Ahead, stood a mansion in dark block-work. Spindly chimneys rose in fingers of stone above the sharp line of the roof.
So I’ve advanced 5000 years in just a few paces, she mused. A sign on the gateway bore stark, black letters: MURRAIN HALL. Ah, the Murrain ancestral home. The dream’s gift was that it enabled her sleeping self to picture the ancient house so vividly. Thunder grew louder. A darkness swept over the countryside until all she could see were lights shining through the windows. Now she found she couldn’t stop herself from approaching the massive front door of the house. Her feet quickened. Yet dread filled her. She didn’t want to go into that place. Something awful waited for her there; she was certain. Glancing back, she appeared to be looking along one of those ghost roads that radiated from the sacred site. At its centre
the shaman ancestor of the Murrains; he waved at her. A gesture to return. Not to go forward into the house. Only that fabulous figure in animal hides, vines and purple raiment’s had become blurry, indistinct. A shadow of a shadow … a ghost of a ghost …
‘I want to wake up now. I want to stop dreaming.’
But an implacable force drew her toward the entrance of Murrain Hall: a forbidding building – one that could have been built from the bones of slaughtered innocents. Those bones were cemented by their blood. A symphony haunted its rooms; that music was wrought from the sighs of the dying.
Unseen powers rushed Pel Minton through the entrance into the vast interior of the mansion. Inside, it resembled an ancient church; one adorned with Gothic arches and bulbous pillars. Candles rendered from the flesh of murder victims illuminated it.
Though she desperately wanted to stop her feet taking her further, she found herself enter the huge Gothic hall. Now she noticed men and women sitting cross-legged on the stone floor. They were corpses, somehow pretending to ape life. At an altar heaped with human body parts stood a tall man with a mane of black hair; his grey eyes burned at her from the gloom.
His lips curled into a leering grin. ‘Welcome, my love.’ His voice washed over her in waves of utter darkness. ‘I am Justice Murrain.’ Then he addressed the congregation of the dead. ‘This, ladies and gentlemen, is my new bride.’ His lips were a raw, oozing slit in rotting skin. ‘And you are here to witness our wedding. You will watch us upon the matrimonial bed – when we become mated as one. You will hear her sighs of pleasure. You will bask in the scent of her body as she writhes naked. Be good, my friends, be faithful, and I will grant you a sip of her passion. For we all, in essence, will be wedded to this woman’s flesh … one way or another.’
At last, Pel retreated from the satanic altar, and the daemonic figure. Even as she managed to flee he let out a peal of laughter that hurt the bones in her head. ‘Battle Men! Bring me my bride!’
That unholy congregation rushed her. Fingers stained with dried blood grasped her limbs. Men and women, alike, eagerly tore off her clothes. Then, howling with joy, they carried her, naked, to Justice Murrain, her bridegroom.
‘No!’ She punched out.
The sound of the car horn brought her instantly awake.
Perspiration rolled down her forehead. Her clenched fist still pressed against the horn in the centre of the steering-wheel. The bleating wail made her flesh crawl, for the dream overlapped reality. She could still smell the rot of the dead carrying her along the aisle. Eager arms wrapped around her chest. Yet the grip of corpses was only the seatbelt that she still wore. She released the catch with a sigh of relief.
Pel’s lips were dry. Breathless, trembling, she unzipped her jacket. Her heart beat a wild rhythm against her ribs. The moment she moved her hand away from the horn the bleating wail mercifully stopped. The silence managed to be immediately oppressive. Dear heaven, how long have I been asleep? Dazed, she glanced about her. The car’s windows had misted up. Vague shapes beyond the glass were discernible, and little else. The waving giants ahead must be trees, she told herself.
When she glanced back through the rear window a pale, billowing shape appeared. She stared at it with that dumb incomprehension, which comes after waking abruptly from a deep sleep. A white sheet blowing in the breeze? She frowned. The rear window had misted up so thoroughly she couldn’t make out any detail, other than a nebulous white shape that expanded and contracted. It grew larger. The white pulpy object appeared to be topped with an oval blob.
A face! The moment Pel knew it was a figure she knew she had to get away from there. It didn’t look right to her. The way it approached was unequivocally ominous. Because she knew, at last, that it ran toward her.
Pel hit the central locking switch. Then she clawed at the keys hanging from the one in the ignition. Her fingers were clumsy from being bunched up inside her sleeves as she slept. When she pawed the keys she couldn’t grip the fob of the vital ignition key.
‘Come on, damn you!’
All around her, only opaque greyness of misted windows. She could have been sitting in the middle of a table tennis ball for all she could see of the outside world.
Then…
Thank God!
The key turned; the motor spun into life. Then her heart lurched in her chest so violently she thought she’d vomit, for a huge pulpy figure slammed against the driver’s door. It fumbled with the handle. Thank goodness she’d remembered to lock the doors.
She engaged drive. Wheels ripped at the rug of hailstones. For all the frantic shaking of the car, as she floored the gas pedal, it didn’t move forward one inch. The tyres couldn’t bite against road. You’re going nowhere. A bare fist struck the side window, just inches from her face. It did it again – a huge thump of a sound. A star crack appeared.
Ease off the gas, she told herself, then apply it gently. Coax the car out of the ice slowly.
Yet every atom of her body howled to dump gas into the motor by the gallon, so she could take off like a rocket. But that wouldn’t work. She’d only find herself sitting here, wheels spinning fruitlessly, until the psycho, whoever it is, could break a window then haul her out. Then she could do nothing … as he broke her arms for fun, or dangled her over the cliff-edge by the hair – oh yes, her imagination wasn’t tardy: it supplied gruesome images of her tortuous murder.
A huge fist struck the side window again. This time it turned milky white as cracks ran through every inch of it.
Gas … apply gradually. Gentle acceleration. Don’t rush this. Pel forced herself to operate the car with all the delicacy of a surgeon paring membranes. She didn’t even consider wiping the fog from the glass. No time. Just get the car moving.
Then get the hell away from Mr Psycho, trying to batter his way into the car!
Eureka! The car rolled forward. She pressed the pedal a wee bit harder. The speedo needle trembled as it began to climb. Then tyres bit tarmac. A surge of power connected with wheels, wheels connected with firm road. Pel accelerated. The next time the fist crashed against the car it struck the back window. A hole appeared in tempered glass. An arm clad in white … in what appeared to be a protective suit … entered the car with all the loathsome intent of a pale snake worming its way into a baby’s crib.
Floor it! The car rocketed forward. Glancing back, she glimpsed a face. My God, isn’t that the same guy I saw in Crowdale? The strange guy, who sat on a chair outside his house, and muttered about his friend being poorly?
Jolting, from running off hard road on to uneven earth, stopped her deliberating about her would-be attacker for the time being. Frantically, she scrubbed her hand over the windscreen to shift the condensation. Soon, she’d cleared an area the size of a soup plate that allowed her at least a half-decent view of the way ahead. It took mere seconds to drive off the grass at the side of the road and back on to tarmac again.
That done, she didn’t even glance back to see if the madman vainly tried to follow her, as she raced along the country road to the Murrain house.
7
ROSS LOWE DIDN’T consult his brother, Scott, about his plan. Scott tended to be the one who wanted to discuss things like ‘implications’ and he was quick to identify flaws in any plan that Ross would suggest. Even though, at forty-five he, Ross Lowe, was the older brother.
As he watched his mother brush her hair down over the burnt half of her face, he told her, ‘I’m going to do it today, as soon as it’s dark.’
‘You’re a good boy,’ she purred. ‘I know you’re going to make me proud.’ She caught her breath; at the same moment she pressed the palm of her hand to her breastbone. Ross asked her in panic if she was all right. The woman smiled; instantly the smooth burn scar puckered into yellow ridges. ‘Don’t you worry about me, son. I’m going to keep this heart going, rotten though it is, until I have the satisfaction of seeing Jacob Murrain suffer.’
‘Tonight, Ma,’ Ross blabbered, eager to please. ‘I pro
mise.’
8
PEL MINTON FOUND herself pulling into the Murrain driveway in front of Jack, who was driving his pick-up. By now, the windows of the car that Pel drove had thoroughly demisted, mainly due to the rear window having a whacking great hole in it.
When Pel climbed out of the vehicle the same time as Jack climbed out of his, she guessed both their expressions wore the same mixture of surprise and concern. She noticed he carried a rifle or shotgun in a soft case, while he’d seen the damage to her rear window.
‘What the hell happened?’ he asked.
‘What the hell’s with the gun?’ she shot back by way of reply.
‘I got a call from my grandfather, adamant that I drive over to his friend’s in Calder-Brigg to pick up a shotgun … something about a rat in the garden.’ Clearly, he was more concerned with the damage to her car than any rodent infestation. ‘Someone lob a rock at you?’
Before she could answer Jacob Murrain appeared at the house door. ‘Inside, the pair of you. Quickly!’
So, before she had chance to elaborate on the damage, she consented to being hurried inside. Jack followed, wanting to know what troubled his grandfather. ‘If it’s Ross and Scott again, I’m going to knock their idiot heads together.’
‘I wish it was Ross and Scott.’ Jacob’s heartfelt statement made Pel and Jack exchange puzzled glances. ‘Come through to the living-room. I’ll lock the door.’
With Jack in the room, holding the shotgun, and Jacob busily bolting the door, Pel felt she was adrift from reality. What’s more, this shared the same occult quality as earlier, when she’d dreamt about a Murrain ancestor welcoming ghosts to the sacred site – and just before her nightmare encounter with Justice Murrain, who’d greeted her as his bride-to-be. Now that really did set icy shivers dancing on her backbone.