by Stephen Laws
“What have I done?”
“Oh God, Drew. It wasn’t you—it was me. I was the one who shot it again, gave it the overdose.”
“I should have left them alone.” Drew stood up. The tears that had been glistening in his eyes had spilled onto his cheeks. “All this time. All this searching, and . . .” He gestured hopelessly at the inert beast in the cage. “What the hell have I been doing all this time?”
“You were looking for something,” Cath said. “So was I.”
When they came together, there was hunger and a savage joy that surprised them both. There was no feeling of betrayal or loss of things past as they hurriedly undressed; no sense of the past or the present or the future. Just the hungry and passionate now-ness of their need for each other, and the need to burn out the pain that had excluded the laughter and the pleasure from their lives in such a long, long lonely time.
TWENTY FOUR
The wind gusts through the open front door of Kapler Dietersen’s opulent house, blowing leaves from the surrounding trees into the hallway; each gust making them rise in whispering clouds to settle on the antique chairs and bureau, now swirling in a miniature whirlwind, now resting on the window sills—each blast of air through that doorway stirring them anew. The oil paintings on the wall lift and clatter in their ornate frames against the walls; lace curtains billow and flap—but no one comes to close the front door.
A side door in the hallway, which once led to servants’ quarters, constantly opens and slams shut in the draft. In the days of this house’s real glory, there was a staff of seventeen. But now, only three people have served Dietersen: Mr. Garvey and his wife, and a taciturn groundsman called Jeffrey—meaning that only two of those rooms are in use; one for the married couple, one for Jeffrey. In the married couple’s quarters, Mrs. Garvey lies on the bed, her eyes fixed unblinking on the ceiling. The wind gusts and rattles the windowpanes, but she does not heed it. There is a spider on her face, moving slowly across her cheek to her hairline, now vanishing into the grey strands of her hair. She does not move to brush it away.
In the kitchen, Mr. Garvey—who had that day decided that he and his wife could not possibly work for Mr. Dietersen any longer—is sitting cross-legged on the floor, his head bowed. For ten years, he has not been able to stoop properly because of his rheumatism and arthritis. But now he sits cross-legged and uncomplaining, one hand stretched out before him as if he has just thrown a die.
On the grounds at the front of the house, behind the bushes fronting the main drive, Jeffrey lies face down in the grass and out of sight.
In the living room—a phrase now redundant—Trudi lies across a sofa, now stained the colour of the red wine spilled on the floor. Bobby Fuller’s eyes are wide open and startled, still fixed on the door.
And Kapler Dietersen, a wide red smile in his throat, white powder in his lap and stirring on the floor at his feet—sits bolt upright in his armchair. His eyes are screwed shut, in a hopeless attempt to ward off the reality of what was about to happen to him. One of his hands grips the armrest of that armchair, wrinkling the fabric.
The other hand—and its ornate rings—has been hacked off, and is no longer in the room.
TWENTY FIVE
“I don’t like this man, Mummy,” Rynne says, clinging tightly to her hand.
“That’s not what you said the first time,” Cath says to the man in front of them. His head is down, and Rynne can’t see his eyes or his face. He sways from side to side on the rain-washed street in his long, dirty coat and bare chest. But this time, there is no knife in his hand—both of which swing back and forth at his sides, like some kind of ape contemplating its next move.
“Money,” says the man in a guttural and dragging voice.
“Give him some money and make him go away,” says Rynne.
Her mum just stares at the man. Blank-faced, she says: “The first time you said: ‘Give me the money’—then you said: ‘Give me the fucking money.’ “
“Money,” says the man again, and he makes a sound that could be laughter, or just the sound of him clearing phlegm from his lungs. It is an intensely horrible sound, more like an animal than a human—and Rynne still cannot see his face.
The man raises a hand and points beyond them. Mum continues to stare straight at the man, but some terrible and irresistible force makes Rynne turn slowly back to see—
The playground cat that scratched her is lying in a spreading red stain on the sidewalk.
Rynne doesn’t want to be in this dream; but she cannot wake up. She wants this man in the woollen hat to be gone, but everything is moving too slow and dragging in the way that nightmares do. The irresistible force is turning Rynne’s head away from the ruined corpse of the playground cat—back to the man in the woollen hat.
A thrill of terror envelops her.
He is standing right next to them. Somehow, he has quickly and horribly closed the gap between them in a dream-blink. Inches away, his head still hangs, breath rising around it in that freezing cold air. She can smell his breath—horrible and familiar, and the same smell she encountered in—
A cave, somewhere? But she’s never been in a real cave before.
It’s an acrid animal smell—the smell of death.
The man in the woollen hat slowly begins to lift his head to look at them, horribly close and intimate.
Rynne tries to screw her eyes shut in this dream, tries to will herself awake. Because she does not want to see what that man’s face has become. But she is frozen and terrified and must look.
“Cath . . . Rynne?” It is a dragging and awful voice that comes from the man’s mouth as he finally lifts his head.
The face is black furred and sleek.
There are droplets of dew on those sprouting whiskers, sharp as porcupine quills.
There are curved yellow fangs in that sleek black face.
And the eyes are gleaming glass opals—somehow dead and alive at the same time, and with a ferocious and hungry purpose. The thing’s jaws widen in a rumbling hiss. Somewhere deep in that maw, hell is waiting for them. She cannot scream, and she cannot wake—because this is not a dream at all.
The face lunges at her mother’s throat.
And Rynne woke with a scream in her bed—and screamed again as something beyond her bedroom window shattered and crashed in the storm-blown night.
TWENTY SIX
“Oh my God!”
Drew was the first out of bed and at the bedroom window, looking for any sign of whatever had caused the crash. Cath, for some reason only now aware of her nakedness watched, mesmerised by the sight of him standing there in silhouette. It made the breath catch in the back of her throat. After the heat and the hunger of their lovemaking had come the even closer intimacy as they lay together in each other’s arms, both utterly satisfied by the act of love—and, not talking, not needing to express anything in words, they lay listening to the wind gusting around the farmhouse as their own hurried breathing had settled. The voice of that wind seemed somehow to speak of the passion and the longing and the pleasure they had experienced; now somehow released into the night.
And then, something out there had shattered that peace and broken them out of that spell.
Cath realised that she was holding the blanket to cover her breasts. Throwing it aside, she was beside Drew in a moment. The heat of their bodies together again as she slipped her arm around him, and he did the same, made her feel alive in a way that she could barely understand.
“It’s the damned feed shed,” said Drew—and when Cath looked out out the bedroom window, she could see what the rising storm was doing to the outhouses and buildings at the rear of the farmhouse. Night had fallen during their lovemaking, and only the details of the nearest buildings could be seen—the remainder now blanketed by darkness. Two fences were down, a water barrel had been torn from its hasps in an outhouse wall and was rolling wildly back and forth on the ground—and the roof of the feed shed had been torn away, now only con
nected to one supporting wall, so that the corrugated metal flapped and crashed up and down with each gust like some huge, demented jack-in-the-box lid. From somewhere beyond, hens were squawking and flapping; the few livestock that Drew possessed lurching and crashing against their stalls as the wind gathered strength.
“This storm isn’t going to blow out,” Drew said. “I’ve got to secure the animals.”
The romance and the intimacy were not broken, but suddenly practical need had snapped both of them into a completely new moment.
“Where’s your telephone?” asked Cath. “My mobile’s in the car.” Anxiety was now beginning to rise inside her as another fence by the outhouse was suddenly yanked from its posts by the storm wind and went flapping end over end to vanish in the darkness.
“Living room downstairs. Your mobile wouldn’t be any good here.”
“Why not?”
“You can’t get a signal. The farm’s in the hollow of the valley.” Drew’s voice mirrored her own anxiety as he stared out into the night, now moving quickly from the window to the bed and where their clothes lay scattered and intertwined on the floor. He caught Cath’s arm as she passed him—pulled her close, and kissed her fiercely on the mouth. She seized the back of his head as she hungrily returned that kiss.
What had happened between them had not—would not—disappear.
They pulled apart. Drew reached for his clothes as Cath hurried naked from the bedroom and down the stairs to the living room. For one brief and puzzling moment, it felt as if she were back in her own home and knew the layout of Drew’s own home intimately, even though she had seen no details as they breathlessly clung to each other on the way to the bedroom. But there was no time to reflect as she quickly descended and flitted through the darkness like a ghost to the telephone on the table.
The telephone line was dead.
“Drew!”
Cath snapped the telephone back into its cradle and tried again. The line was still dead.
Drew appeared at the top of the stairs, hopping on one leg as he pulled on a shoe.
“The telephone’s not working . . .”
He clattered down the stairs, shirt unbuttoned and flapping. At the bottom, he stabbed the flat of a hand on the light switch. Beyond the farmhouse walls, something groaned and cracked. The rushing wind seemed to make the very walls shudder.
“Drew—I’ve got to get back to Rynne and Faye. This is more than just an ordinary storm. I need to know they’re safe.”
“I know. Get dressed, and I’ll drive you back . . .”
“No. You’ve got those animals to see to. I’ll be okay.”
“Cath—this bloody wind . . . and those country roads . . .”
“There are things you have to do here.” Cath rushed past him, quickly ran her hand across his face as she passed. “The thing is—can you manage? Do you need me here?”
Drew grabbed her and held her.
“The thing is—do you need me?”
Cath kissed him again—and they didn’t need to say anything more.
When she broke away and hurried upstairs for her clothes, Drew watched her go; watched her disappear into the bedroom. He listened to her hurriedly dressing, and then looked around the living room.
Living?
With the wind rushing around these four walls of the farmhouse and with the renewed sounds of splintering wood from somewhere beyond, Drew realised in that moment that he had not really been living at all for years. His life had been put on hold and this room—this house—had not been a home at all. It had been a prison cell of his own making. In that moment, the wind could pull it all apart if it wanted to. It could shatter the walls, tear off the roof; it could blast everything in here, away out into the night—take it all. There was no way of knowing what would happen next; whether anything at all would develop between them. Life was sometimes too cruel and too random to take anything for granted—but for the first time in many years, Drew felt that he was truly alive, and if this storm wanted to destroy and smash everything away, then so be it.
But the animals needed protection—and he could not leave them at the mercy of the storm.
Beyond the living room, on the porch, Drew could see and hear the glass panels on either side rattling. The bushes behind the car and the Land Rover were alive with movement. He moved onto the porch and opened the front door, the strength of the wind taking him by surprise. He staggered back as magazines and newspapers in the living room took to whirling flight.
Cath was suddenly there, now pulling that living room door shut and joining him as they looked out into the tumultuous night.
“Cath, I can’t let you drive alone. This bloody wind . . .”
“And I can’t go if you’re not sure you can do what needs to be done here alone.”
“I’ve been alone a long time.”
“Me too. Be careful.”
“If I’ve found you, I don’t want to lose you.”
And in the next moment, Cath was headed toward her car, the wind snatching at her clothes.
“When will we . . .” began Drew. But the wind blew away his words, and she did not hear. Drew watched her climb into her car. The engine turned over immediately, the headlights stabbing straight ahead up the rough track that had taken them to their rendezvous with the creature now lying dead in the cellar. Drew felt a stab of guilt, now overcome by a feeling of loss as Cath’s car reversed and then slewed to one side facing the main road. Was this all too good to be true? When she left, would it be forever? Would everything be changed tomorrow?
The car door opened and Cath leaned out to look back at him.
Her smile allayed his fears.
Then the car door slammed, and the vehicle screeched down the main drive to the road, headlights piercing the wild night; shrubs and trees alive with wild movement.
Drew watched the car go; watched the headlights recede into the night, listened as the sound of the car engine was finally swallowed by the sounds of the storm wind.
When she had gone, he grabbed the heavy-duty flashlight from the bench in the porch, slammed the door behind him—and with his heart full of a fierce joy, ran into the night toward the sounds of cracking timber and the hoarse sounds of frightened livestock.
TWENTY SEVEN
Cath drove, and she didn’t care.
She didn’t care now that the wind just seemed to be getting stronger; didn’t care that she was having to grip the steering wheel hard to keep the car from veering to the roadside as the lanes twisted and turned. She’d always prided herself on being a careful driver—but care had been cast to the wind tonight. She was driving too fast and knew it. It was as if the storm wind had seized her, plucked her out of the life she had come to know. She was in a whirlwind that had already carved the road ahead; she was being dragged along in the tail of its ferocious undertow; hurtling onward through the night in those ferocious wind currents. That storm might smash her against a tree; might crash her through the hedges or snatch the car up into a crushing maelstrom of shattered windshields and rending metal. It might tear her apart; rip the life screaming from her throat—to be swallowed by the storm.
But not tonight—not now.
If the car’s wheels did leave the road, a tidal wave of roaring black night sweeping under the chassis, it wouldn’t spin and twist in the vast throat of the tornado like the other cars she’d seen on television news footage. No, it wouldn’t be like that, at all. She’d be in control, flying with the storm. She was so much a part of what was happening tonight that she’d be controlling the very air currents themselves with a twist of that steering wheel.
What the hell am I doing? demanded the sensible woman inside as her headlights swept from side to side in the storm.
I’m running like a kid, answered the other side of her. It’s stupid and it’s foolish, and I’m not a teenage girl in love for the first time. But I can’t help it. And I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but something is going to happen and now I ca
n’t stop it.
You’ll run off the road, you idiot! And then what? Do you want to kill yourself? Think of Rynne.
The wind’s going to take me. And I know it could smash me if it wanted to—know that what’s happened tonight might smash me just as badly in the long run.
Then why. . . ?
Because tonight I’ve got wings. Tonight, at last, there’s a chance that I’m going to fly . . .
And then Cath saw the tree across the road, just as she took the bend much too fast.
She slammed on the brakes, tyres screeching above the storm wind as the car slewed sideways on—and kept sliding broadside toward the tree. She knew then that the car would keep traveling sideways, aided by the wind from behind, and that she would collide with that thrashing mass of branches and solid wood. Gripping the wheel so tightly that her hands looked skeletal, Cath gritted her teeth, braced her arms and waited for the sickening crump of metal.
The car kept sliding, the headlights spinning in a wild arc, flash-illuminating a shattered roadside fence, clods of spattering mud and thrashing foliage.
She screwed her eyes shut, waiting for the side windows to implode as those spiked branches stabbed through the glass.
But the car slid to a halt, rocking on its suspension only inches from the tree; branches scratching furiously at the bodywork.
Still frozen behind the wheel, Cath stared ahead through the windshield at the slashing rain in the headlights. They remained pointing out into the night, their illumination fading to nothingness, as if the car was suddenly suspended in space. When she realised that she wasn’t breathing, she let out a great gasp and was finally able to turn and look out of the side window at the branches thrashing at the glass. Fingers trembling, she turned to look back and saw what had happened. The tree—a tree she’d probably driven past a hundred times and never noticed—had been torn out at the roots. Matted clods of earth lay heaped around the root crater on the other side of the road.