The Immaculate

by Mark Morris

  “Looks like you’re stuck there then, doesn’t it?” the voice said with not inconsiderable satisfaction.

  “Hang on,” said Jack. “What about that train, the 18:52? Surely that goes on somewhere?”

  The voice sighed, then said, “18:52, Beckford to Manchester-Piccadilly. Arriving in Manchester at 20:08.”

  That was it then. When Gail arrived he would jump on the train and they would spend the night in Manchester. There were good hotels there, good restaurants. They could leave Patty Bates and his poisonous daughter far behind.

  Throughout the rest of the afternoon he felt on edge, flying to the window each time he heard the slightest sound from outside. He washed some clothes by hand in the kitchen sink, not trusting the battered, rust-streaked washing machine in the corner of the kitchen. He kept the carving knife from the kitchen drawer and the poker from beside the fireplace close to hand at all times. If Patty Bates and his chums came to call he wanted to be as ready for them as he could be.

  He was only able to gain peace of mind from reading more of his father’s stories. He read six of them over a ninety minute period; the experience was like communing with some greater force and thus being calmed by it. However, the instant he put the notebooks aside his nerves began jangling again. Although it was after six, time to go and meet Gail’s train, he felt an urge to pick the notebooks up again immediately, lose himself in them afresh. He made himself pile the notebooks up beside the settee, put on his jacket, walk out of the room and then out of the house. He had thrown some overnight things in a bag earlier and he carried this with him. As soon as Gail stepped off the train, Jack intended to usher her straight back onto it again.

  Walking the streets was nerve-racking; at every turn, Jack expected to meet Patty Bates heading a lynch mob. However, at first everything was quiet. The shops were closed, and there were only a few people around, walking dogs or strolling home from work. Jack was opposite a butcher’s shop, a red-and-white plastic sign boasting of MEAT AT ITS BEST, when he heard the sound of engines.

  Dread rising in him, he looked for somewhere to hide. Between the butcher’s shop and the haberdashery next door was a narrow alley, red brick walls sliding into an envelope of shadow. Jack plunged down it, realising that if he’d been spotted he’d effectively stepped into a trap of his own making. He flattened himself against the wall, looking out at the strip of road as the sound of the bikes grew louder.

  Just before it reached a crescendo, Jack was almost overcome by claustrophobia. He felt certain that the bikers had seen him, that they would surround the alley entrance if he didn’t run, and he was bracing himself to do so when he realised he was too late. The section of street he could see was predominantly pale grey, almost milky with sunshine. Jack was taking a step toward it when all at once it became flooded with roaring metal and scuffed black leather. Pressing himself back into the shadows, Jack watched as the bikes thundered past like a herd of buffalo. To his relief they didn’t stop, but what was disturbing was the fact that there were an awful lot more of them than usual.

  There were dozens of them, in fact, riding in a convoy that seemed to go on forever. A posse, Jack thought. It’s a fucking posse! He waited in the alley, time dribbling away, as the bikes sped past, heading in the direction of—among other places, admittedly—the Seven Stars.

  By the time he emerged from the alley he had lost almost ten minutes. He had previously had almost quarter of an hour to undertake what would ordinarily have been a six or seven minute walk. Now, glancing at his watch, he saw that Gail’s train was due in four minutes.

  He began to run, looking this way and that, ears straining for the faint sound of engines. Adrenaline was rushing through him; he was not merely agitated now, he was downright scared. But could all those bikers really be there solely for him? What were they going to do? Take the law into their own hands? String him up on some spurious charge?

  It was exactly 16:52 when he turned left onto the hundred-yard incline that led to the train station. He hurried across the tiny lot, which had room for no more than thirty cars, hoping that Gail’s train would be late, thankful that he hadn’t yet heard it approaching. He was sweating profusely and his stomach felt hard and tight with tension. His arm was aching from holding his overnight bag away from his body as he ran.

  The station building was squat and flat-roofed, built of local stone. A pair of begrimed glass doors constituted the only entrance. As Jack ran toward them they opened and a figure stepped out, carrying a carpet bag. Jack’s stomach turned over.

  “Jack!” Gail yelled, grinning, eyes sparkling. “Hi!”

  The strength drained out of him. He raised a hand in weary greeting and trudged across to her.

  She saw the look on his face and her grin lost its lustre. “Jack, what’s wrong?”

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” he said.

  16

  ENGINES

  An hour later, despite their efforts, they were back at the house, drinking coffee. Leaving Beckford had proved to be far more difficult than Jack had imagined. First of all, there were no taxis, which, considering the size of the village, was neither surprising nor particularly ominous. What was ominous, however, was that neither of them could get so much as the glimmer of a signal on their mobiles (“All these hills,” Gail said) and every single phone box that the two of them came across had been vandalised. Jack did not think he was being paranoid in assuming that the damage had been caused by Patty Bates’ biker friends. The thought that Patty was going to such lengths to keep him here, was actually planning his moves like a combat tactician, was not a comforting one. A number of alternatives occured to Jack: he could go to the police and tell them everything, he could phone for a taxi from his aunt’s house, he could phone for a taxi from a pub. As he still did not fancy explaining the situation to the police, nor did he want his aunt involved, he decided on the pub option. He led Gail along back alleys and side streets, avoiding the main roads, pleased with his ability to remember his way around. Gail was scared and bewildered and more than a little bad-tempered, but for the moment she had stopped firing questions at him.

  They quickly found that all the pubs had been covered, bikes cruising up and down outside or parked on the forecourts. Desperate, Jack decided to go to the police after all, but there were bikes outside Beckford’s small station, too, and no sign of a policeman anywhere. By this time, though he was trying not to show it, Jack was really scared. It reminded him of that John Carpenter film, Assault on Precinct 13. He smiled at Gail and said, “Thwarted again,” hoping his voice did not betray the extent of his anxiety.

  In truth, his thoughts felt shredded. He tried to draw them together, to think. Only by remaining calm could he hope to outmanoeuvre Bates and his army. Would all the bikers know what he looked like? Presumably. His face had been on enough book jackets.

  He could think of only one option and it was a very risky one indeed. They could go back to the house, call a taxi from there. If the place was already being guarded, they would have to try and find a way to sneak in via the woods at the back. At the moment, the bikers were simply covering his retreats, cutting off his options. Jack had to make use of this time, this hiatus, as best he could.

  For a while everything went well, and he actually began to feel a little more optimistic. They arrived back at the house safely to find it quiet and unoccupied. They phoned for a taxi from outside Beckford (Jack was relieved to hear the dial tone when he picked up the receiver; he was afraid the lines might have been cut), and were told that it would be with them within the next half-hour or so. There was nothing to do then but sit tight and wait. Jack made coffee, and as he and Gail drank it he told her everything.

  Afterwards she had been quiet for a while, gazing out the window at the approaching twilight. Jack felt tense, as though awaiting her verdict on a crime he had committed. Finally she had stirred, turned to him and murmured, “It’s okay, Jack. Don’t worry, we’ll be all right.” She had held out h
er arms to him and they had embraced. Over Gail’s shoulder Jack could see the kitchen clock, counting out the seconds. He urged it to go faster, faster.

  “I love you,” he said, mouth against her neck, and then, “I’m sorry.”

  She pulled back from him so she could look into his face. “What are you sorry for?”

  He waved a hand vaguely. “For . . . all this. This mess. For dragging you into it.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him softly on the forehead. Gently, she said, “None of this is your fault, Jack. It’s this place, isn’t it? Beckford.”

  “What do you mean?” he said, surprised.

  “I mean . . . it’s a bad place for you, isn’t it? There’s still a lot of poison here, a lot of stuff that has to come out.”

  Jack was surprised by her perception; it was as though she had verbalised something of which, until now, he had been unaware. “Well . . . yeah,” he said, “I suppose you’re right. I thought when I found my dad’s stories, when I had finally made my peace with that side of things, that everything would be okay, that it would all settle down. But it hasn’t. It’s only stirred things up more, made the hate and the anger blossom somewhere else.” He wrinkled his nose. “Does that make any sense to you?”

  Gail nodded. “It makes more sense than you think.”

  They were silent for a few minutes. Jack finished his coffee and glanced up again at the rapidly darkening sky outside the window.

  “These last few days have been . . . strange,” he said. “You know, I’m almost beginning to wonder whether this whole business with my father has just taken place in my imagination. I mean . . . ghosts? Hauntings? There are times when I accept it as completely natural, and then at other times I find that I’m looking for reasonable explanations. It’s like . . . like there are two separate trains of thought both trying to occupy the same track. I don’t think I’ve been thinking quite straight since I’ve been here; my thought processes have kind of . . . gone off at funny angles. Take my father’s stories for example. Reading them has been like . . . like an epiphany almost for me.” He shook his head. “I don’t know. Even now I’m not making much sense. It’s like my thoughts are all jumbled up, as if they’re rattling around loose and need putting back into their proper compartments.”

  He sighed, shaking his head. Gail stood up, circled the table and squeezed herself onto his lap. “Poor Jack,” she murmured, putting her arms around him. “It’s been quite a year for you. You’ve had to learn a lot about yourself.”

  “Have I?”

  “Wouldn’t you say so?”

  Jack thought about it for a moment. “I suppose so, yes.”

  “You don’t sound too sure.”

  “No, it’s just . . . I hadn’t really thought about it before, but I suppose . . . yes, I suppose you’re right.”

  “What would you say you’ve learnt then?”

  “Is this a test?”

  “If you like.”

  He was silent for a little while. Finally, he said, “I’d never really loved anyone before I met you. That’s been hard for me . . . opening up, learning to trust you.”

  “And do you trust me now?”

  “Yes. Implicitly.”

  “And what about your father?”

  Jack frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you trust him, too?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “I know that.” Gail looked at him as if he were being tiresome. “But do you trust him?”

  “I . . . yes. Yes, I do.”

  “And do you love him?”

  “Yes,” Jack said, surprising himself. “I’ve found a way to love him, and I think he loves me, too.” He grinned and squeezed her. “Thank you,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “For teaching me how.”

  Gail smiled and squeezed him back. She lowered her face to his and they kissed, the first proper kiss since she’d stepped off the train.

  At last she broke away from him gently and sighed.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” she said, but she was staring at him as though trying to memorise his features, a strange expression on her face.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  She ran a hand through her short dark hair, flattening spikes which sprang back after her fingers had passed over them. “Do you remember the first time we met?” she said. “In Alfred’s? It was a year ago on Sunday. Did you know that?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  She sighed, touched the back of his hand with one fingertip. “Such a lot has happened since then,” she said.

  She sounded wistful. Jack linked his fingers with hers. “You sound sad. Why’s that?”

  She shook her head as if it were not important.

  “Gail,” he said firmly. “Communication. Trust. Remember?”

  “It’s just . . .” She waved her free hand in a vague circle. Then all at once she stiffened and raised her head, reminding Jack of a vixen catching a scent on the air. “Listen,” she hissed.

  Jack listened, but could hear nothing. When he began to say so, Gail flapped a hand at him. “Shhh.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments, perfectly still, as though posing for photographs. Jack wondered whether this was a ploy by Gail to deflect his question. He was about to speak again when he heard it: a persistent growling sound, so soft and low it was almost inaudible.

  “What is it?” he murmured.

  Gail looked at him, eyes wide. “I’d say it was the sound of engines, wouldn’t you?”

  Jack’s stomach did a quick flip. “Motorbikes,” he whispered. When she nodded, he said, “Maybe it’s the taxi,” but he knew it wasn’t. He could tell by the sound.

  Gail jumped up and ran to the door that led out into the hall.

  “Where are you going?” said Jack.

  “To call the police.”

  Less than a minute later she was back, face taut. “Now the phone’s dead,” she said.

  “Oh shit!” Jack placed a hand on his heart, as though afraid it was going to smash its way out of his chest. “What are we going to do?”

  Calmly, Gail held out her hand. “Come with me.”

  Jack looked up at her, ignoring the offer, as an idea struck him. “We could hide in the attic.”

  “They’d find us, Jack.” She straightened her hand and her arm, emphasising the fact that he should take it. “Come with me,” she repeated.

  Instinctively Jack took her hand, responding to the authority in her voice. She gave a slight tug and he stood up. “Where are we going?”

  “No questions. Just trust me.”

  “But you don’t—”

  “Trust me, okay?” she said firmly.

  Jack felt as though he should be the one taking charge. It was his problem, his territory. However, he nodded. “Okay.”

  “Come on then.” Gail pulled him to the back door and opened it. Immediately the snarls of myriad engines, though still distant, became louder.

  Jack felt an instinctive desire to tug her back into the house, slam and lock the door, but he knew the house was a trap, even though he felt exposed without its solid walls around him. He remembered sleeping under his bed as a child, curled up like a foetus, eyes squeezed tightly shut. He used to believe that if you closed your eyes at night and lay completely still it made you invisible to monsters, impervious to harm.

  Hand in hand, he and Gail slithered over the cobbles of the backyard, ducked beneath a line of damp washing, and then they were leaving the shadow of the house behind and heading towards the darker shadows of the woods.

  The flesh between Jack’s shoulder blades itched as the two of them plunged over the open ground that lay between Beckford Woods and the back of the house. Somewhere behind him and off to his right the motorbikes were roaring like wild animals. The sky was darkening rapidly now, clouds like silent grey sharks sliding through a sapphire ocean. Yet there was still enough light for Jack to feel acutely vulner
able. The roaring of engines became louder still, and now, underlying it, Jack thought he could hear the sound of raised voices. Unable to resist it, he glanced back. The sight caused his stomach to convulse with shock.

  There must have been forty or fifty motorbikes roaring up Daisy Lane towards his father’s house. At their head was a battered pickup truck with perhaps a dozen men sitting in the back, holding what looked like thin poles.

  Surely, Jack thought, such hatred, such antagonism, could not be solely directed at him? There must have been a hundred people down there, all of whom it appeared wanted a little piece of Jack Stone. The procession, lit by blazing headlamps, made him think of the villagers marching on the Baron’s castle in Frankenstein.

  “Why are they doing this?” Jack shouted, his voice ragged.

  “Because they’re ignorant,” answered Gail. “They don’t really know what they’re doing.”

  “I don’t understand. I haven’t done anything to harm them.”

  “Save your breath. Come on.”

  They stumbled on, Jack’s breath catching in his throat like shards of metal. His feet slithered over the mud and grass, and he remained upright only because Gail’s footing was sure as a gazelle’s, her hand tight around his. Behind them the roaring died little by little as engines were switched off and were superseded by whoops, expletives, the banter of hunting men out for a night’s sport.

  Jack heard the smashing of glass, cheering and laughter, and then the sound of more glass breaking. “Come out, Stone, you fucking rapist,” someone shouted.

  “We’re gonna chop your dick off, boy,” someone else yelled heartily, and his words were greeted with cackles of approval.

  All at once a voice shouted, “Hey, what’s that?”

  Jack heard Gail say, “Oh, shit,” and saw weak light meandering across the ground in front of him, picking out little green daggers of grass.

  “It’s him!” someone shouted. “It’s the rapist.”

  “And he’s got a lass with him.”

  “Come on!”

  “They’ve seen us, Jack,” Gail murmured, half-turning, and increased her speed, tightening her grip on his hand.