World's End

by Mark Chadbourn

  “How about the radio?” he snapped, feeling the first bite of self-loathing. He switched it on and tuned across the band until he heard music.

  “It’ll do, I guess.” Laura slumped back into her seat, successful.

  The music gave way to the syrupy voice of a local DJ who rambled aimlessly for a minute or two before another fizzy, optimistic Top Ten hit came on. Outside the car the windswept uplands had given way to sun-drenched green fields, trees on the verge of bursting with new life, sparkling streams and little stone bridges. The road behind was comfortingly empty and, despite everything, Church was feeling remarkably at ease in the light of their success at Avebury. The lantern had directed them on to the A4 towards Bath where they were able to build up some speed and put some distance between them and whatever the Bone Inspector had feared was waiting for them on West Kennet Avenue. They felt confident enough to pause briefly at Chippenham, where they bought a couple of tents, cooking equipment and other camping gear for emergencies. Laura protested she wasn’t the outdoor type, but, as usual, it seemed to be more for effect.

  Bath was choked with traffic, the winter season already forgotten as tourists flocked to the Roman baths or to gawp at the Georgian architecture. Ruth muttered something about the bliss of ignorance, and for a brief while a maudlin mood fell across the car as they all became acutely aware of what was at risk.

  But by the time they had passed through Bath into the more sparsely populated countryside beyond, their mood had buoyed as they focused on the task ahead. They were making good time and the lantern seemed to be taking them into the deep south-west, far away from the troubled areas of the previous few days.

  As they travelled through tiny, picture-postcard villages south of Bristol, with the undulating slopes of the Mendips away to their left, they were shocked by a sharp, ear-splitting burst of static on the radio. When it faded, the DJ’s voice was replaced by giggling, mocking laughter fading in and out of white noise, growing louder, then softer; there was something inhuman about it. It was the same mysterious sound Ruth and Church had heard on the tape in the therapist’s office when they had first discovered what they had seen under Albert Bridge. Church hastily ran the tuner across the band, but the laughter remained the same, and even when he switched the radio off, it continued to come out of the speakers for a full minute. Ruth and Church shot an uneasy glance of recognition at each other.

  Five miles further on, all the electrics failed.

  “I’ll have a look, but there’s no chance I can do anything today.” The mechanic glanced at a dusty clock above the door of the repair bay; it said 3 p.m. He was unusually tall and massive-boned, with a solid beer belly kept in check by his grease-stained blue overalls. His face was ruddy and his unruly black hair was peppered with grey. “Everything’s going bloody crazy at the moment.”

  Church sat wearily on the Nissan’s wing. He’d spent an hour searching for a garage with a tow truck. This one had only relented and agreed to come out after he had virtually begged.

  “It’s these modern cars, you see,” the mechanic continued. “They build ‘em to break down. Though this last week I’ve never seen anything like it. The place has been full every day, most of it electrical stuff, though I’ve had a fair share of busted alternators. I tell you, you need a bloody degree to sort out these electrics. This week I’ve worked on some all day long and then, just like that, they’ve been fine again. No explanation for it. Couldn’t find any fault at all, yet they were dead as a dodo when they were brought in.” He shook his head at this great mystery, then added, “Still, bloody good for business.”

  Church got his assurances that the car would be looked at first thing the following day, then wandered out to Ruth and Laura who sat with the camping equipment on the dusty forecourt. The garage was well off the beaten track, a rundown affair that seemed to have been barely updated since the fifties, down to the period petrol pumps that stood dry like museum pieces at the front. Only farms lay scattered around the surrounding countryside, and there was no sound of traffic, just the song of birds in the clustering trees.

  “What did he say?” Ruth asked anxiously.

  “Tomorrow. I think we can risk giving it a shot before we start looking around for the local Avis.”

  “Yeah, there’ll really be one round here,” Laura said sarcastically.

  Ruth noticed Church’s concerned expression and asked him what was wrong. He repeated the mechanic’s tale of mysterious breakdowns. “I think things are starting to go wrong, just like Tom predicted. It’s as if the rules of science are falling apart in the face of all these things that shouldn’t exist.”

  Laura looked at him curiously. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he said, nodding to the computer in the bag on her arm, “that pretty soon that will be as much use to us as it would be to some lost Amazon tribe, along with every other technological gadget. New rules are falling into place. Science is dying.”

  “Unless we can do something about it,” Ruth said hopefully, but Church merely shouldered the tents and rucksack and began to trudge along the lane.

  They found a good campsite in a secluded grove out of sight of the road. They didn’t ask permission, preferring anonymity. The trees were thick enough to prevent the tents being seen by the casual passer-by, and there was a natural clearing shielded by a tangle of brambles where they could light a fire. Ruth seemed uncomfortable at the prospect of sharing with Laura, but they reached some kind of unspoken agreement, and Church slipped off to collect firewood.

  Lost in thought as he scoured the edge of the copse, he failed to see the figure until it was upon him. He whirled in shock, ready to fight or run, and was then suffused with embarrassment when he saw it was just a girl of about ten, pretty, with long blonde hair and a creamy complexion. She was wearing a tight T-shirt with a sunburst motif and baggy, faded jeans.

  “Hello,” she said in a thick West Country accent. “Are you looking for something?”

  “Just sightseeing,” he replied ridiculously.

  “Not much to see round here.” She laughed disarmingly.

  Relaxing his guard, Church returned her smile. “Not really my cup of tea.”

  “Where you from then?”

  “London.”

  “I’d love to live in London.” She looked dreamily into the middle distance. “It’d be great to be somewhere where there’s a buzz.”

  “Nothing to stop you when you’re older.”

  Her smile became slightly more enigmatic. “My name’s Marianne. What’s yours?”

  “Jack.” Although he knew nothing about her, the simple matter of her name suddenly made him warm to her. “That’s a nice name,” he continued. “I used to know someone called Marianne.”

  “A girlfriend?”

  “She was.”

  “Did you split up?”

  He thought twice, then said honestly, “She died.”

  Marianne nodded ruefully. “It figures.” Church looked at her curiously, but she’d already danced ahead of him. Noticing the wood he’d piled nearby, she grinned and said, “Sightseeing, eh? Looks to me like you’re going to have a little fire.” She looked around. “Where’s the camp?”

  Church’s shoulders sagged. “Blimey. Rumbled. Look, we’re trying to keep a low profile. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone.”

  Her laughter at Church’s obvious dismay was innocent and infectious. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to rat on you. But if my dad finds out it’ll be a different matter. He farms on this land and he’s always going mad about bloody trespassers. Threatened to set the dogs on the last lot he caught. We’re close enough to Glastonbury to get those scruffy New Age types passing through. Some of them leave the place in a right mess, but most of them seem okay to me. My dad thinks they’re all scroungers and vandals, though.”

  “Well, I’m neither.”

  “I can see that. Come on, I’ll help you collect some wood.” She walked at his side for a minute or tw
o, then said, “Do you miss her?”

  “Marianne? Yes. A lot.”

  “I thought you looked sad. I could see it in your eyes.” Church winced at the thought that it was so obvious. There was a long, thoughtful pause and then she said, “Do you think people die for a reason?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know-“

  “Yes, but do you think?”

  “I’d like to believe that, but it’s not always easy to see.” The maturity of her conversation surprised him, and made him feel a little uncomfortable. “This is heavy stuff for someone your age.”

  “Just because you’re young doesn’t mean you have to fill your head with rubbish,” she said tartly. “Anyway, I do like a lot of rubbish. It’s just I like to think about other stuff too.”

  “I stand corrected.”

  “Apology accepted,” she laughed, picking up a rotten tree branch and tossing it to Church. “Why are you so bothered about dying? Don’t argue-I can see you are! It’s just another part of life, isn’t it? The only thing worth bothering about is what we do before we pop our clogs.”

  “It’s not as simple as that-“

  “Why not? I want to do exciting stuff every day, learn new things, see life. I want to pack a week into a day, a month into a week and a year into a month. Don’t you think that’s a good philosophy? Why doesn’t everybody do that?”

  Church pretended to scour the grass for wood while he attempted to think of an answer, but he couldn’t summon anything that didn’t sound pathetic. Her victorious grin forced him to laugh. “I think I should be Prime Minister,” she said triumphantly, sashaying theatrically ahead of him.

  When she turned back to him, she’d pulled out a locket from under her T-shirt. With a dexterous flick, she opened it and held it up to show him the tiny picture squeezed inside.

  “Princess Diana,” he noted. “Did you like her?”

  “I loved her. That’s why I asked you about dying. She did so much good with her life. I think she died for a reason.”

  “Oh?”

  “To make us see how bad we were all living our lives. So that we could learn from her and live more like her, you know, doing good, helping the world.”

  Her tone was so adamant it would have been reprehensible to sour her views with adult cynicism. “She seemed very decent. All that campaigning for land mines. And all that.”

  Marianne looked up at him with a faintly pitying smile. “I can see you’re not a believer.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just … an old grouch.”

  “I’ve got pictures of her all over my bedroom. And in one corner I’ve got a little table with the best photo I could find in a frame. You’d know it if you saw it. It’s famous. She’s looking at the camera really thoughtful, and when you look right into her eyes you can see so much goodness it almost makes you cry.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Before bed, I kneel down in front of it and pray to her.”

  Church lowered his eyes, trying to remember the last time he felt such an innocent belief. “What do you pray for?”

  “For Diana to make me a better person. For me to do some good, like her, before I die.”

  “Well, of all the things to pray for, that sounds like one of the best.”

  “You should try it some time.”

  He laughed. “Maybe I should.”

  “No, I mean it.” She undid the locket and offered it to him. “Not to keep. Just try it tonight and I’ll get it back off you tomorrow.”

  “No, I couldn’t-“

  “Don’t be silly!” She grabbed his hand and forced it into his fingers, laughing. “She’s a saint, you know. She’ll listen to you.”

  He felt uncomfortable taking it from her, and that made him wonder why: perhaps it was the cynicism-Diana, Patron Saint of Bulimics and Damaged Women Everywhere. But then maybe Marianne was right. Perhaps blind faith was what was needed. It certainly seemed to make her happy.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “Maybe you’ll make a convert of me.” That seemed to please her.

  They spent the next hour trailing through the trees and along the hedgerows, doing more talking than wood collecting. Church found himself enjoying Marianne’s company; she was funny and passionate, filled with questions about every subject that entered the conversation, and possessed of a generosity of spirit that made him feel good to be around her, and a little humbled. She was an only child, yet quite unspoilt, with a love of music that reminded Church of his younger days. They argued about the strengths and weaknesses of a few pop icons, then listed their top ten songs, which ended in uncontrollable laughter when she made Church sing the chorus of all his selections.

  Finally they’d located enough firewood and Marianne helped Church carry it back to the camp. Ruth and Laura weren’t anywhere to be seen so they lit the fire together and made some tea. Oddly, Church found himself talking about his own Marianne with an openness that he hadn’t managed since her death. The young girl was an easy listener and she seemed to have a handle on his emotions that belied her years. When she said goodbye, with a promise to bring them milk at breakfast, he was sorry to see her go.

  Night still fell quickly at that time of year, and there was a chill to it which made a mockery of the warmth of the day. Ruth and Laura had reached an uneasy, unspoken truce; enough to follow directions from the garage to a local shop where they had bought enough provisions for the evening meal and breakfast: some vegetables for a stew, rice, bacon, eggs and bread, although Laura revealed she was a strict vegetarian. They cooked around 7.30 p.m., keeping close to the fire for warmth, speaking in voices that were subconsciously low. The conversation was muted. The darkness among the trees seemed deep and disturbing; none of them would admit how scary the quiet countryside had become.

  While the food bubbled over the fire, Laura plugged her computer into her mobile. “Thought it would be worthwhile to check up on some of those lines the old guy had been spinning you before he caught his ticket to Neverland.”

  When she booted the computer up, Church noticed her desktop wallpaper was a strange design of interlinking trees. “What does that mean?” he asked.

  “It’s a design. It means I like looking at it,” she sneered. “Shit. The battery’s getting low. I’ll need to find somewhere to charge it soon. Anyway, earlier I found this site called the Charles Fort Institute, which is like this massive online reference library and archive for all sorts of bizarre shit. They’ve got lots of links to folklore sites. So why don’t we start with the pooch.” The screen jumped to The Black Dog Reporter. “Here we are: Black Shuck. Shuck comes from scucca, the Anglo-Saxon for demon.” She scrolled quickly down the page. “There’s an account of a great storm in East Anglia in 1577 when a black demon dog ‘or the Devil in such a likeness’ appeared in Bungay Church, leaving two parishioners dead at their prayers and another `as shrunken as a piece of leather scorched in a hot fire.’ Loads of tales from all over the country, but he’s usually described as big as a calf with saucer-sized eyes that weep green or red fire, and he only comes from his secret lair at dusk. In East Anglia when someone is dying they still say `The Black Dog is at his heels.’ Generally seen as a portent of something much worse, death or disaster.”

  “Hang on, if it only comes out at dusk, how come you saw it in daylight in Salisbury?” Ruth asked.

  “Maybe he’s found a good sunscreen,” Laura said.

  “The tales might simply have it wrong. Because he was only seen at night, the people thought he could only come out then,” Church suggested.

  Ruth sighed. “Some come out by day, some are nocturnal. This is all too confusing.”

  “Nothing about how to drive it away?” Church asked hopelessly.

  “Well, being as how this stuff is generally regarded as not real, there’s not much of a user’s guide,” she replied tartly. “Nothing in the folklore to link him to the Wild Hunt either. But I guess we’re in uncharted territory here.”

  “What have you got on the Hunt?”


  After she’d jumped to the next site, Church tried to read her screen, but she moved it so he couldn’t see. “Lots of conflicting stories. It comes from the Norse tradition, long before the Vikings or Christianity came to Britain.” She scanned down to the relevant section. “Odin was supposed to race across the sky on stormy winter evenings with a pack of baying hounds. Anyone who saw the Hunt could be carried off to a distant land, while anyone who spoke to the Huntsman died. Later, Odin’s place was taken by the Devil, but the Wild Huntsman has also been seen as Herne the Hunter or Sir Francis Drake, who used to ride in a black coach led by headless horses across Dartmoor. The pack is called Yeth Hounds or Wish Hounds, another bunch of demon dogs, and they say you can hear their screams on the wind as they hunt down the souls of unbaptised babies. Cute. The Wild Huntsman’s also known as the Erl-King, which is some mistranslation of an old Danish legend about the King of the Elves leading the Wild Hunt.”

  “We’ve got to remember the legends aren’t the truth,” Church cautioned. “They’re just stories twisted from the few facts people recall-“

  “And isn’t that a relief,” Laura interrupted. “Demon hounds whisking poor bastards off to some kind of Purgatory. Portents of death and destruction. We’re still not in line for Big Fun, are we?”

  “Can’t you find anything useful?” Ruth said with irritation.

  “Sorry, I forgot you’re a completely useless waste of space. It really is all down to me.” She logged off the net and clicked off her computer.

  Ruth didn’t bite. “Okay, we’ve suddenly been swamped with every supernatural creature known to man, but what do you think is really going on?” she said to Church. “These Night Walkers are obviously manoeuvring in the shadows. I mean, why were they all at that depot? Are they all getting regular jobs? I don’t think so.”

  Church nodded in agreement. “Exactly. If they’re so powerful, why haven’t they made any move yet?”