by Kevin Brooks
No, she doesn’t.
“She does.”
She doesn’t.
“She does.”
All right. But even if she does —
“What was that?”
What?
“That noise.”
What noise?
“Listen.”
We listen together to the silence, and after a while I begin to wonder if I was mistaken. Maybe I didn’t hear anything after all. Maybe it was just in my mind, or just something blowing in the wind, or maybe it was —
KAH!
It’s much louder now.
What the hell is it? Ella says.
KAH!
“I don’t know,” I mumble, cowering back against the cave wall. “But whatever it is, it’s getting closer.”
“What are we going to do?” Dake asked Jenner. “I mean, we can’t just keep waiting for him, can we?”
“Do you want to give up?”
“Well, no, but —”
“If you want to go, just go. I’m not stopping you.”
“I never said anything about going, did I? I was just wondering what we’re going to do if he doesn’t show up, that’s all.”
“He’ll show up.”
Jenner glanced over at Shirley and Grace. They were both sitting on the floor by the radiator now, both bound and gagged, and both looking the worse for wear. Shirley’s complexion was a sickly gray-white, and although the gash on the side of her head had stopped bleeding, it was badly bruised and swollen. Grace had a nasty-looking wound on her face too. She’d fought like a wild thing when the two men had grabbed her — screaming at them, kicking and punching, biting and scratching — and Jenner had had to hit her twice, and hit her hard, to knock the fight out of her. His first blow, a vicious punch, had cracked her jaw and loosened one of her teeth, and the second — a brutal hammering with the butt of his pistol — had caught her just below her right eye. The eye was already blackening, and it had swollen up so much that she couldn’t see out of it anymore.
She watched, one-eyed, as Jenner came over and stood in front of them. He gazed coldly at them, idly scratching at his increasingly itchy Santa beard with the barrel of the pistol, and then — without looking around — he said to Dake, “Are the cell phones still out?”
Dake reached into his pocket and pulled out three cell phones — one of them was his, the other two were Shirley’s and Grace’s. He looked at them one by one, checking the signal indicators, but nothing had changed since the last time he’d checked. No bars, no reception.
“Nope, nothing,” he told Jenner. “It must be the weather.”
“Check the landline again.”
Dake went over to a small table by the settee and picked up a handset. He pressed the call button, put the phone to his ear, then shook his head.
“It’s still out,” he said.
Jenner just stood there for a while, calmly thinking things through, then he casually raised his pistol, leveled it at Grace’s head, and turned to Shirley.
“Same rules as before,” he told her. “I’m going to take the tape off your mouth and ask you some questions. If you lie to me, or scream for help, I’ll put a bullet in her head. Understand?”
Shirley nodded.
Jenner had already questioned her about Gordon — what time did she expect him back? why was he so late? where could he have gone? — and when Shirley had told him that her son was due back at one o’clock, and that she had no idea why he wasn’t home yet, or where he might be, Jenner knew she was telling the truth. He was a consummate liar himself, and he’d always prided himself on his ability to recognize a lie when he heard one, and he was as sure as he could be that Shirley wasn’t lying.
When he stooped down this time to peel the tape from her mouth, she couldn’t help flinching away from him, but he didn’t make anything of it. He just reached out, grabbed an edge of the tape, and quickly ripped it from her mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut and grimaced at the pain, but she didn’t cry out.
“All right?” Jenner grunted.
She nodded.
“So what do you think?” he said. “What’s happened to Gordon?”
“I really don’t know.”
“What would he have done if his car wouldn’t start or if he got stuck in the snow somewhere?”
“He would have tried calling me.”
“And if he couldn’t get through?”
“He would have walked back.”
“Really?”
“I know my son.”
“I’m sure you do. How long do you think it would take him to walk here?”
“From where? The bank?”
“Yeah.”
Shirley thought about it. “Forty-five minutes, maybe. Something like that.”
“So if he’d started walking at around twelve thirty, he would have been back by now, wouldn’t he?”
Shirley nodded. “He would have been back ages ago.”
“And if his car got stuck in the snow somewhere between town and here, and he’d left it and started walking, he would have been back even sooner, wouldn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“So we can rule out car trouble.”
“I guess so.”
“Maybe he’s dead,” Dake suddenly piped up.
There was a stunned pause for a moment, then all three of them gazed over at him.
“What?” he said, bewildered by the looks on their faces. “It would explain everything, wouldn’t it? I mean, he can hardly walk home if he’s dead, can he?”
Gordon wasn’t dead. Far from it. In fact, at that very moment — 4:34 p.m. — he’d never felt more alive. Admittedly, he’d never felt quite so strange either, and as he approached his silver Vauxhall Corsa and beeped the lock, he was amazed to see the sound of the beep turning into a fluorescent bird of paradise and flying up into the snowy night sky.
“Sheesh,” he muttered.
The echoes of his voice swirled all around him, a hundred thousand tiny “sheeshes” whirling and spiraling together, like a vast school of silvery fish feeding on the falling snowflakes.
Gordon held out his hand. A snowflake landed on it, and he brought his hand up close to his eyes and stared at the delicate white crystal.
A memory came to him.
A voice?
No, not quite . . . just words.
. . . millions of snowflakes dropping down from the sky like invaders from another planet, silent and serene, menacing . . . awesome . . . an alien world . . . crystals . . . symmetrical patterns . . . snow . . . snowball . . . snowdrop . . . drop of snow . . .
“Snow goose,” Gordon muttered, smiling to himself, “that’s no goose, that’s my wife . . .”
He paused, frowning, momentarily unaware of where he was, or where he’d been, or what he was doing . . . and then he blinked once, and something clicked inside his head, and although he still wasn’t sure where he’d been, or why it was dark, he at least knew where he was, and what day it was.
It was Christmas Eve.
He was standing by his car, in the staff parking lot at the back of the bank, and it was time to go home.
He opened the car door and got in. As he closed the door and settled into the seat, he realized right away that something didn’t feel right. He couldn’t pin it down at first — it just felt different — and for a moment or two he actually wondered if he was somehow in the wrong car, but after a quick look around, he knew that wasn’t it. The pine air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror was his, as was the satnav and the beaded seat cover . . . yes, this was definitely his car. There was just something . . . something missing . . . and then it struck him.
The steering wheel.
It wasn’t there.
He reached out in front of him, moving his hands around the space where the steering wheel should have been — as if, perhaps, it was still there, but had somehow become invisible — but he couldn’t feel anything. The steering wheel simply wasn’t there. The only thing
he could think of was that it must have been stolen. Someone must have broken into the car and stolen his steering wheel . . .
But even as he tried to get angry about it — which he didn’t really want to, but felt that he should — the truth of the matter suddenly dawned on him. He slowly turned to his right . . .
And there it was — the steering wheel. It wasn’t missing. No one had stolen it. It was exactly where it should be — right in front of the driver’s seat.
It was Gordon who wasn’t where he should be.
He was in the wrong side of the car.
He was sitting in the passenger seat.
He started laughing then. It was just a quiet chuckle at first, but the more he thought about what he’d done, and what he’d thought — a steering-wheel thief? — the more ludicrously hysterical it all seemed, and his quiet chuckle quickly became a manic chortling, which in turn grew into a howling fit of unstoppable laughter that had Gordon doubled over in his seat, clutching tightly at the pain in his sides, while a torrent of tears streamed from his eyes.
“Do you think he’ll be all right?”
The music in the King’s Head was so loud — Slade’s “Merry Xmas Everybody” booming out from the speakers for at least the hundredth time — that Kaylee had to shout in Jo Dean’s ear to make herself heard, and even then, her friend couldn’t quite hear what she was saying.
“WHAT?” Jo yelled back, cupping her hand to her ear.
“GORDON!” Kaylee bellowed. “DO YOU THINK HE’LL BE ALL RIGHT?”
She’d thoroughly enjoyed every minute of Gordon’s intoxicated presence over the last few hours, and when he’d left ten minutes ago, she’d laughed along with everyone else at the sight of him heading for the exit, grinning madly as he looked over his shoulder and waved good-bye. And when he’d walked smack-dab into the door, she’d almost wet herself with laughter. But at the same time, she couldn’t stop worrying about the assurance she’d given Carl Jenner that Gordon would be home by one o’clock at the latest.
It was 4:35 now.
Carl wasn’t going to be happy at all.
And when Carl wasn’t happy . . .
Kaylee didn’t want to think about that.
She’d tried calling and texting him to let him know that Gordon was going to be late, but she couldn’t get a signal, and when she’d asked to borrow Jo’s phone, Jo had told her that she didn’t have a signal either.
There was a lull in the music now, and this time, when Kaylee repeated her question —“Do you think he’ll be all right?”— Jo actually heard her.
“Who?”
“Gordon.”
“Yeah,” Jo said, her voice slurred, “he’ll be fine.” She grinned drunkenly. “Don’t worry about it. He won’t remember a thing.”
“What did you actually put in his drink?”
Jo picked up her almost-full glass of vodka and Coke and downed it in one go. “Tell you the truth,” she said, stifling a burp, “I’m not exactly sure what it was. Some kind of pill . . . you know, like a capsule? I got them off this guy I know. He said they were new, really good stuff, really potent, like a mixture of roofies, ecstasy, and acid.” She grinned again. “I just opened up a couple of capsules and emptied the powder into Gordon’s lager and lime.”
“Have you taken them?”
Jo shook her head. “I thought I’d try them on Gordon first . . .” She let out a snort of laughter. “Gordon the guinea pig.”
“What do you think —?”
“I need to pee,” Jo said, getting to her feet. She swayed, her upper body circling, and she had to put her hand on the table to steady herself.
“Are you all right?” Kaylee asked her.
“Yeah, yeah . . . no problem . . .” She grinned again. “Back in a minute . . . don’t go away.”
As she headed for the door that led to the women’s room, doing her best to walk in a straight line, the music started up again. It was Slade again, for the one hundred and first time. And for the one hundred and first time, everyone drunkenly sang along.
KAH!
It’s the cough of the Devil.
And ten seconds later, when its horned head appears at the entrance to the snow cave, and it stares at me with its demonic yellow eyes, I honestly think this is it — this is the end . . . I’m literally dying of fright. But then, to my amazement, the demon suddenly freezes, a look of surprise in its eyes — as if it’s only just realized what it’s looking at — and a moment later it rears back in fear, throwing its head to one side, and then it’s gone. I can hear it running away, a panicked barreling through the snow . . . and I don’t get it, I don’t understand why the Devil is scared of me . . .
It’s the Devil.
And I’m me.
The fear’s only supposed to go one way.
It doesn’t make sense.
KAH!
Unless . . .
BAAHH . . .
Unless.
It’s a sheep, Elliot. That’s all. It’s just a sheep.
I remember now . . . the sound of a sheep coughing, like a sick old man. I remember hearing it at night sometimes, before I had my fear-proofed room.
KAH!
I remember.
I remember imagining a field full of sick old men, out there in the darkness, coughing themselves to death . . .
And I remember making myself forget it.
Come on, Elliot, Ella says. We need to get going.
I know she’s right, but the trouble is, although sheep are nowhere near as scary as the Devil, that doesn’t mean I’m not afraid of them. They’re animals, they’ve got teeth, hooves, horns . . .
They’re more afraid of you than you are of them.
“Frightened animals are dangerous.”
You’re an animal, aren’t you? You’re frightened.
It’s a good point, and as I start crawling out of the snow cave — aware now that my bare foot is completely numb — I try to convince myself that I am a dangerous animal, and that from now on, nothing’s going to get in my way, nothing’s going to stop me, and if anything or anyone tries to . . .
“Oh, no . . .”
I’m kneeling at the edge of the snow cave now, and as I look across the field toward the gate, all I can see is sheep — hundreds of them, all flocked together in front of the gate, all of them facing me, all of them staring demonically at me.
You’re dangerous, remember? Ellamay says. Nothing’s going to get in your way.
“Well, yeah . . . but I didn’t know there were going to be hundreds of them, did I?”
There aren’t hundreds of them, Elliot. There’s about thirty, thirty-five at the very most.
“That’s still quite a lot.”
They’re sheep. They’re not going to stop you getting to the gate. As soon as they see you walking toward them, they’ll run away.
“But what if they don’t? What if they decide to attack me instead?”
They won’t.
“But what if they do?”
They won’t, Elliot.
For the next thirty seconds or so, I just kneel there in the snow-whitened gloom, studying the almost motionless sheep. The faded light from the streetlamp down the road gives them an oddly unnatural look — kind of dull green and grayish, like the images on a CCTV monitor. A car goes down the road then, and as it passes the gate — with a brief sweep of headlights — all the sheep turn their heads to watch it. They all move at exactly the same time and in exactly the same manner. It’s as if the flock itself is a single organism, with a collective consciousness of its own.
And the problem for me now is that it looks as if that consciousness has decided that the best thing to do at the moment is stay exactly where it is, right in front of the gate.
You have to get out of here, Ella reminds me. Get back to the road, find your Wellington boot, get moving again.
I stand up, take a quick look over my shoulder — just in case anything’s creeping up behind me — then I start making my way t
hrough the snow toward the flock of sheep.
They don’t move at all, they just carry on standing there, watching me as I limp toward them. The closer I get — and the longer they don’t move — the scarier they become. I can see the wicked black slits in their eyes, and their vicious black hooves pawing at the snow. I can see the raw strength in their bodies . . .
Keep going, Elliot . . . they’re going to move.
“They’re not.”
They are. Just keep going.
It’s getting harder with every step. It’s as if there’s an invisible force field between me and the sheep — a force field of fear — and the closer I get to the sheep, the stronger the force field becomes.
I’m about ten yards away from them now.
And that’s it. That’s as close as I can get. The force field is an invisible wall. It’s physically impossible to get past it.
Keep going . . .
“I can’t.”
Yes, you can. Just another couple of steps.
The sheep are all tensed up and twitchy, and I know that if I move any closer, they’re going to charge at me. I just know it. I can feel it.
Can you see your stuff anywhere? Ella says. The stuff that fell out of your pockets?
I focus on the area just in front of the gate, searching for any sign of my phone, keys, and flashlight. But it’s hopeless. I can barely even see the ground because of all the sheep, and the patches that I can see are just a sheep-trampled mess of churned-up mud and snow. There’s no sign of my Wellington boot either, and I wonder briefly what’s happened to it. Has the monkem-dog-lady taken it with her? Maybe the two monkems in the car told her where I live, and she’s left the boot at my front gate . . . ?
It doesn’t matter.
Whatever’s happened to it, the boot’s not there anymore.
Try moving sideways, Elliot, Ella says. See if that works.
I take a step to my left.
Thirty-five heads (and seventy evil eyes) follow my movement. But the flock doesn’t move.
I take another step to my left.
This time the sheep do react, but instead of moving away from the gate, they actually seem to relax a bit, as if they’re more content to stay where they are. And I realize then that although I’m moving sideways, I’m actually moving away from the sheep, which serves no purpose at all.