The Survivor

by James Herbert

  ‘Help me,’ the vicar pleaded quietly. But his friend, Ian Filbury, could only stare in horror at the scene inside the church.

  It had been a long day for Constable Wickham, a day that had stretched his nerves to breaking point. He had been acutely aware of the pressure building up around him, of the general air of nervousness in the town. He knew at times like this there was nothing one could do except wait for the mounting tension to erupt, then move in fast and deal with it as best as one could. He wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting, but he hoped it would break when he was off-duty. His had been a long shift and his own anxiety had lengthened the hours agonizingly. The extra money earned came in useful, true, but he’d much prefer to be involved in an interesting case or, at least, something that would keep him active. The weeks of pacing around this field, watching over this wreckage as if it were valuable bloody property, had made him edgy. Just an hour to go, though, and he would be off home to a blazing fire, a good meal, and a few hours of telly. That would help soothe his unease.

  And then, the moment he had been dreading arrived.

  He jumped when he heard the cries for help coming from across the field.

  ‘Did you hear that, Ray?’ he called to his companion who was somewhere nearby in the dark, keeping a watchful eye on the field’s boundaries.

  ‘I heard it, Bob,’ the other policeman replied, switching on his torch and plodding over to Constable Wickham. ‘It came from over there, I think,’ he said, pointing towards the northern end of the field.

  ‘No, no, that way!’ Wickham disagreed, indicating to the east. His assertion proved to be correct as the cries came again.

  ‘It’s over by the vicarage! Come on, Ray, let’s get over there.’

  The two policemen ran across the field, shining their torches ahead of them, their boots crunching on the hardened earth.

  ‘Quickly, over here!’ they heard someone shout.

  Constable Wickham saw the figure, arm beckoning, over by the gate that led to the parish church. He shone his torch full on the man’s face and was surprised at the wide-eyed look it revealed.

  ‘It’s Mr Filbury, isn’t it? What’s wrong, sir?’ he asked, coming to a halt in front of the gate. Ray pulled up behind him, his torch adding to the dazzle of light on the clerk of the council’s face.

  ‘Thank God! I knew there’d be someone on duty guarding the wreckage,’ Filbury gasped, holding a hand up to protect his eyes from the glare. ‘Is that you, Wickham?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Constable Wickham. Now, what’s up?’

  Filbury looked back over his shoulder at the church and the two policemen flicked their eyes in that direction. They saw a dull glow shimmering from its side entrance.

  ‘It’s Reverend Biddlestone. Come and help me please.’ Filbury swung the gate open and allowed Constable Wickham to walk ahead of him. ‘I’m afraid it’s happened again,’ he said, following closely on the policeman’s heel. The constable didn’t bother to ask what had happened again, for they were already at the entrance and he knew he would shortly find out for himself.

  He climbed the few steps then stopped in the doorway, the other two men bumping into his broad back. A look of utter dismay spread across his face.

  The vicar was cowering on the floor of the church looking up at them, his eyes bulging, his face ashen. He was on his knees, one hand supporting his weight on the stone floor, the other raking his face in agitation. His whole body trembled and shook uncontrollably, his face was shiny wet from tears and drooling saliva. His silvery hair was stiffened and stood out like bristles on his scalp; a constant incomprehensible gabble came from his lips.

  ‘Good God!’ was all Constable Wickham could exclaim as he shone the torch on to the cringing figure.

  Filbury’s voice quivered with emotion. ‘This is how I found him just a few moments ago. Alone in the church crouching there, terrified. He must have been lighting the candles when – when—’ Filbury’s words were choked off by his grief. ‘Poor Andrew,’ was all he could say.

  ‘Another breakdown,’ Constable Wickham said, more to himself than the others. ‘This time, it looks as if he’s gone right over the edge.’

  He shook his head in pity, then wrinkled his nose at the odd smell that hung in the air. ‘Smells like he’s been burning something, too,’ he said. It was a revolting, nauseating smell, and it reminded him of something. He’d experienced the same odour before and he had to control his stomach as he remembered where and when. It was on the night of the crash. Amid the flames.

  It was the smell of roasted flesh.

  17

  It had taken Keller and Hobbs well over an hour to convince the priest of their sincerity – and their sanity. And, even now, Father Vincente was not so sure.

  He had recognized the younger man from the night of the air disaster and seen his haunted features in the many newspaper articles that had followed. He had been the copilot of the Jumbo jet; the only survivor of the crash. The priest was sure he’d never met the other man before, the one whose mouth, chin and part of his nose were covered in bandages. There was something disturbing about him, though, and it wasn’t just his facial injuries: it was his piercing grey eyes. So sharp, so keen, looking far beyond any superficial barrier one might interpose between them. The man’s eyes, more than anything else, influenced the priest’s judgement as to their integrity.

  Keller had, at first, been reluctant to involve a priest, but Hobbs patiently explained it was often necessary to have a religious minister present when fighting against such malevolence. The power of evil could only be combated with the power of light – and most holy men held that force.

  They were directed to the Catholic church and were surprised to find it tucked away behind the High Street, facing the South Meadow, the field in which the 747 had come down. As they left the car in the adjoining car park, Keller was even more surprised to see the Protestant church standing blackly against the night sky not more than a few hundred yards away. He turned his attention to the wreckage still lying in the field, lit eerily by two lamps, the light occasionally broken by the shadowy figures of patrolling policemen. Looking up into the sky, he saw the shimmering cloud hung directly over the field.

  It was a curious little church, a perfect miniature of a Roman basilica, and he wasn’t prepared for the quiet beauty of its interior. It had been a long time since he’d entered a place of worship – the funeral for the victims of the crash had been held out in the open because of the vast crowds it was assumed (correctly) would gather – and he wondered at the sudden warmth that flushed through him. Religion, while not being a taboo subject with him, was one that did not hold his interest for long. Cathy, who had been a fairly religious person, although privately so, would never force the subject on him. She had always felt that people found their own beliefs eventually and, although they could be guided gently, they should never, under any circumstances, be pushed. But now he began to understand the comfort people derived from their faith because, as he entered the church, he felt an upward surge of spirit. The calmness he had felt earlier broadened and spread through his body like a sedative; the experience was curious – and quietly awesome. It meant no sudden turning point for him, no abrupt conversion to the worship of God; nothing so dramatic. Simply a new-found peace that he needed time to evaluate. He saw that Hobbs was studying him with that now familiar expression of curiosity mixed with puzzlement.

  The church contained one main altar with six small chapels on either side of the nave; marble covered its main pillars and various altars. A service appeared to be in progress, although the congregation consisted of no more than seven or eight people, and the two men waited patiently at the back until it was over. They approached the priest only after the last person had left the church.

  He had listened silently, never once interrupting their story, studying the two men intently as they spoke. The younger man – the co-pilot – had not said much, but there was something about him that inspired belief. F
ather Vincente was puzzled by his frequent glances towards the crucifixion statue on the altar; he appeared as if he were only just realizing its significance. The older, smaller man was different. He, too, inspired belief, but for a different, more penetrating reason. He spoke of unbelievable matters so factually, his strange eyes never wavering; he spoke undefiantly as if there could be no reason to disbelieve. It obviously cost him a great deal of pain to talk through his injured mouth and Father Vincente often had to lean forward to catch his words. Of one thing he was certain: the men were not lying. Nor was there any hint of exaggeration in their tone.

  Although only in his late thirties, the priest had heard too many lies, too many untruths that were not even realized to be false by the person telling them, to doubt the two men. If he had one quality, it was the ability to discern fact from fiction, honesty from deceit. He was sure of them, but he wondered if they were misguided. He did not even bother to ask if either of them were of the faith; it was obvious they were not. Instead, he rose from the pew in which he had been sitting and turned round to face them as they sat in the second row, and said simply: ‘Let’s see what can be done.’

  Keller was astonished. ‘You believe us?’ he asked, incredulously.

  The priest smiled grimly. ‘I’ve felt the oppression over the town for weeks now – and it’s been growing worse, like a leaden weight over us all. Strange things have happened in my own church: statues smashed, seats overturned, pools of blood suddenly appearing, an altar cloth torn to shreds. I’ve managed to keep it to myself so far – I know the alarm incidents of this nature can cause. Until now, I had supposed it was due to vandalism; but I know it was only shallow comfort – there is an evil influence afoot. And I know, too, that what has already occurred is only mild compared to what may happen if this influence is allowed to gather strength. The unusual deaths yesterday were only the beginning.’

  ‘Thank God you have the sense to appreciate just what’s happening,’ Hobbs breathed out through pained lips.

  The priest looked at him sharply. ‘I’m not sure that I do, Mr Hobbs.’

  ‘But you will help us?’

  ‘I said we’d see what can be done.’

  ‘You’ll come with us to the wreck?’

  Father Vincente nodded. ‘If there is more to find out, I agree with you – it’s there we’ll find it.’ He turned towards Keller and added, ‘There’s one condition though.’

  The co-pilot was puzzled.

  ‘I want you to carry this, Mr Keller.’ The priest put his hand beneath his cassock and drew something out from his trouser pocket. He pressed a sharp object into the palm of Keller’s hand and held it firmly, never once taking his gaze from the co-pilot’s eyes.

  He seemed satisfied after a few moments had passed and released the hand. Keller looked down to see what the object was. He found he was holding a small, wooden crucifix, approximately three inches in length, two inches wide. He looked up at the priest in consternation, but his questioning eyes were met only with an enigmatic smile. Hobbs grunted to himself. He had understood the priest’s intention.

  ‘Now, if you’ll allow me to change from my vestments and don something more practical, we’ll proceed,’ Father Vincente said, almost cheerfully.

  As he disappeared into the sacristy at the side of the main altar, Keller turned to Hobbs and said: ‘Why was he so willing to believe us?’

  Hobbs was thoughtful. ‘When we came in I saw that the church belonged to the Augustinian Canons Regular which is, to say the least, a well-travelled order. I should think the good Father has been in many primitive countries where much stranger things than this have happened.’

  ‘Stranger than this?’

  ‘You’d be surprised. The other point is that the priesthood is primarily concerned with the fight against evil; that’s a natural part of the worship of God. They’re well used to the manifestation of evil in any form. Naturally, they don’t encourage the spread of stories about black magic or exorcism; they don’t want their religion to be seen as mumbo-jumbo by the more sophisticated cynics of this world. But they certainly believe in evil as a physical force – a force that has to be constantly beaten back, or at least held in check. The pity is – and you’ll never get one of them to admit it publicly – that the Church is losing ground. Evil – call it the Devil if you like – is gaining the upper hand.’

  Keller felt reluctant to get involved in a philosophical discussion as to the reality of that dubious statement. ‘Why did he give me the cross?’ he asked to change the subject slightly.

  ‘It was a test,’ Hobbs answered.

  ‘A test?’

  ‘A test to see whether you would accept it or not.’

  Keller turned the plain wooden cross over in his hand, examining it curiously. ‘And if I hadn’t?’

  ‘Then perhaps you may not have been what you seemed.’

  The co-pilot was opening his mouth to say more, but at that moment the priest rejoined them, a relaxed smile on his face. ‘Shall we go, gentlemen?’ he said. He wore a dark suit with the usual clerical collar. In one hand he carried a battered old briefcase. They walked from the church into the cold, black night and all three immediately missed its reassuring sanctuary.

  As they walked, Hobbs said to the priest: ‘Father Vincente, do you see anything in the sky?’

  The priest looked up and shook his head. ‘The stars. It’s a very clear night.’ He brought his eyes down and regarded the medium oddly. ‘Is there something there I should be seeing?’

  This time, Hobbs shook his head. ‘It’s not important.’

  Keller was disturbed to see tenuous strands of the cloud breaking away from the mass in long streaks, dropping downwards but quickly fading into nothingness. He turned to ask Hobbs if he saw the same, but an imperceptible nod of the medium’s head answered his unasked question. The three men continued in silence until Keller remarked: ‘The police may not let us go to the wreckage.’ They had crossed the narrow road and were entering the field through a wide gap in the surrounding fence.

  ‘Perhaps I can persuade them,’ Father Vincente said.

  But there was no need for, apart from the broken shell of the aircraft and its remaining scattered chunks of twisted metal, the field was empty. They trudged across the uneven surface, their eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the gloom, waiting for the shout to ‘Halt!’ that never came.

  ‘Where the hell are they?’ Keller muttered to no one in particular as they drew near to the poorly lit wreck.

  ‘They may have been called away to more urgent duty. Let’s be thankful for our good fortune; it’ll save a lot of awkward and embarrassing questions.’

  They reached the huge, cone-shaped structure of the Jumbo’s fuselage; the main frames near its centre were exposed and bent. The aircraft’s belly had been almost completely flattened on impact with the ground, destroying its circular shape, making it an ugly, crouching thing. There was something pathetic, and moving, about the Jumbo’s disgraced majesty. The priest peered into its broken hulk and shook his head in pity. ‘How much bigger will tombs become?’ he said quietly.

  Keller hadn’t heard his remark for he was already making for the broken-off front of the 747. Most of the interior would have been destroyed and what was left of the pilot’s instrument panel and the flight engineer’s electronics panel would have been removed for intense laboratory examination; but he wanted to get into the cockpit. It had been Hobbs’s idea: the co-pilot was to get as close as possible to his original position on that fateful night; to think back and imagine what had happened, to go through the motions. To try and mentally resurrect the events leading up to the crash!

  ‘Wait for us, David,’ he heard Hobbs’s muffled voice from behind. He was conscious of being pleased that the spiritualist had finally dropped the ‘Mr Keller’. The two men caught up with him and they gathered together in the dark beside the looming, mutilated metal shape.

  ‘What is your intention, Mr Hobbs?’ Father Vincente as
ked softly.

  Hobbs replied just as quietly, ‘David is going to enter the aircraft and turn his mind back to that night. He’ll think back to the nearest point before the accident and work backwards from there.’

  ‘But I thought all this had failed before. The newspaper said the co-pilot’s mind was a complete blank as regards the crash. You told me so yourselves this evening.’

  ‘It’s never been tried under these conditions,’ Keller cut in.

  ‘And I shall be helping him,’ said Hobbs.

  ‘May I ask how?’ There was no scorn in the priest’s voice.

  ‘I’m going to call on the spirits to guide him, to re-create the atmosphere of that night.’

  ‘My God! Isn’t that terribly dangerous?’

  ‘Yes, Father, I think it is. That’s why I wanted you here with us. We may need your protection.’

  ‘But I’m only a priest, man! There’s a great malevolence here – I may not be strong enough to deal with it!’

  ‘You’re all we have,’ Hobbs said evenly, ‘and time’s running out.’ He patted Keller on the arm and produced a small torch from his pocket. The co-pilot took it and shone it into the gaping hole in the aircraft’s side. He then climbed up, and found himself inside the gutted shell of the 747. The darkness, apart from the thin beam of the torch, was absolute. He pointed the light towards where he hoped the twisting staircase leading up to the first-class lounge and the cockpit would be. It was still there – scorched and buckled, but usable. He heard the two men struggling to get through the hole behind him. While he waited for them, he examined the huge rent that was providing them with a convenient entrance. It had been the forward passenger door, the one Harry Tewson said had been blown out by the explosion. Its edges were misshapen and ragged; a long jagged tear continued towards the roof of the aircraft revealing the stars outside. When the door had been blown out, whether it was before the crash or on impact with the ground, it had taken the surrounding metal with it. He shone the beam down into the interior and saw where the giant aircraft had cracked wide open close to the wing span; the whole fuselage had been as fragile as an eggshell under the tremendous impact. He could see the exposed body frames further down, the two stout main frames still erect but at an angle, like the broken ribs of a huge whale. He felt the pang of regret every pilot felt at the sight of a destroyed flying machine, be it big or small. He heard the two men stumbling in the dark and turned the torch in their direction to help them.