‘You do talk crap, Len. It’s fog, that’s all. Hold up, it’s gettin thinner already.’
‘Thank Gawd for that.’ Grover giggled again.
His companion hadn’t wanted to drive into the fog they had come upon so suddenly on their way back to Sleath through the country lanes, for it had been impossible to see more than a yard in front of them. But Grover had insisted that they go on, because they had a spanking-new lawn mower in the back of the truck, as well as a smart electric hedge trimmer and a few outside pot plants, all of which they’d collected on one of their regular ‘round-ups’. At least once a fortnight they cruised the country roads keeping an eye out for unattended garden equipment or anything else left standing in front gardens or drives. The owner of the lawn mower, a still-gleaming Hayter Harrier 56, had taken the grass collector back to his dump or compost heap at the rear of his house, an exercise that probably would take no more than two minutes, giving Grover and Crick the opportunity to lift - literally - the machine from the front lawn. They had already driven past twice and were only waiting for the right moment. It had taken less than thirty seconds to stop the truck, nip out, hoist the mower over the tailgate, and be on their way. They’d had an even bigger laugh when only ten minutes later they saw the electric hedge trimmer lying on top of a hedge, its owner no doubt having popped inside the house for a pee or a drink, and Crick had jumped from the cab, given the trimmer’s long lead a hefty tug to pull the plug from the point in the open garage, then dropped the whole thing over the side of the truck next to the mower. Grover could hardly steer straight he had laughed so much. A few pot plants swiped from windowsills and outside front doors, a pint of milk that turned out to be curdled by the heat, and their afternoon’s work was done. Nice and easy and a lot less risky than creeping through the woods in the middle of the night waiting for a blast from a gamekeeper’s double-barrelled.
Once they had hit the blanket fog they had proceeded more cautiously, both men sticking their heads out of the side windows to check the edges of the road. Grover had alternated the headlights between full and dipped beam, with Crick complaining constantly that they ought to turn back.
Grover took a swig from the can of warm lager he held between his thighs and Crick reached down for one of the unopened cans rolling around the floor. He pulled the tab and aimed the spray at his partner-in-crime.
‘You silly fuck!’ Grover bellowed, lager tippling from his own can into his lap because he’d raised the wrong arm to protect his face. The pick-up swung to the right and scratched its way along a hedge for several yards. He took his time bringing the vehicle back into what he estimated to be the middle of the road, splashing lager from his can onto Crick’s shoulder as he did so. Both men considered that hilarious.
‘Watchit!’ Crick had broken off laughing and clutched Grover’s wrist.
Grover, who had tucked the beer can back between his legs and was using his baseball cap to wipe his face, jammed on the brakes. Although the brakes were inefficient, the truck had been travelling reasonably slowly despite Crick’s protests to the contrary, and it slid to an easy halt.
‘What?’ demanded Grover, squinting through the windscreen. ‘What?’
Crick looked from right to left. ‘Thought I saw someone crossin the road.’
‘Well I can’t bloody see no one.’
‘We must be in the village, so take it easy.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Grover indicated the back of the pick-up with his thumb. ‘Soon as we get them tucked away we’ll have a few in the Black Boar.’
‘I dunno. The pigs might still be askin questions aroun’ the place about Mickey. I don’t much fancy talkin to them agen.’
‘Nah, they’d’ve packed up for the day.’
‘Maybe. I’m jus’ sayin we oughta keep out the way a bit, y’know, till it blows over.’
‘Bad idea, pal. Y’carry on like nothin’s ’appened, that’s what y’do.’
Crick was unconvinced. ‘Anyway, let’s get the stuff stashed.’
Grover rammed in the gear and the truck crept forward again. It began to pick up speed as he grew more confident. ‘Not as bad now,’ he remarked cheerfully.
‘Yeah, still ain’t good though. Take it steady.’
Grover deliberately pressed down on the accelerator.
‘Lenny,’ Crick warned meaningfully.
Grover snorted and kept the pressure on.
They reached the junction where the two roads leading to the High Street, the one they were on and the one that went up to St Giles’, converged and Crick gawped through the window on his side. He repeatedly blinked his eyes, even wiping a hand across them, unsure of what he saw.
‘Lenny, can you …?’
Grover was singing as he drove along. No other traffic was around - nobody would be stupid enough to drive in this - and there was a reckless thrill in speeding almost blind. He belched, enjoying the renewed taste of lager on his tongue.
‘Lenny,’ Crick said again. He was sure he’d seen people moving about there in the fog. And he could hear a funny sound, like voices, although he couldn’t be certain, what with Lenny’s singing and the noise of the truck’s engine. What was that in front of them? It looked like oil spreading across the road from the green. He was afraid the vehicle might skid and opened his mouth to warn Lenny, but they had already passed through the flow before he had the chance. He thrust his head out the window again and wrinkled his nose at the smell. Nasty … Wait! There were people in the High Street, only he couldn’t quite make them out, they were just shapes …
He looked to the front, but the pick-up’s lights were reflecting back from the fog, making it difficult to see. There were no other lights, not in the shops, nor in the houses. It was bloody weird …
‘Lenneeeee …!’
Crick only saw the figure that had dashed from a doorway when they were almost on top of it. Grover had spotted it too and was jamming his foot down hard on the brake pedal, shouting a curse as he did so.
He yanked the steering wheel to the left to avoid the blonde woman and the truck mounted the curb with a fierce lurch. The wing struck the second figure emerging from the doorway the woman had come from, sending it flying back into the room behind, its scream no louder than their own. With sickening force the vehicle crashed into one side of the stout doorframe and wall behind it. Both men, who had always scorned seat-belts, smashed through the windscreen together as the truck was brought to a sudden and violent halt.
Because of the angle of the truck, Crick’s body was fortunate enough to land inside the inn, but Grover’s smacked straight into the wood and brickwork around the doorway. Ultimately, neither one was lucky though, for the impact killed them both: Crick just lasted a little longer.
They were here again. Downstairs. Murmuring. Whispering. Moaning. Trying to drive him crazy. Well, he wouldn’t stand for it any longer. Enough was enough. He was sick of their voices, tired of the haunting.
The doctor poured the last of the Grouse, then let the empty bottle drop to the floor. He held up the tumbler and peered into the amber liquid. Oblivion was your game, wasn’t it? Well that’s fine by me, because oblivion meant protection. They couldn’t get at you when you were out cold. His fingers tightened around the glass and the whisky inside shook.
Lockwood could go to hell. Beardsmore could travel with him. And the rest of them, those small-minded fools - initiates, Beardsmore called them - who enjoyed the rites and the corruption that went with them without comprehending their meaning, well they could rot in hell too!
Dr Stapley drank the whisky, no longer appreciating its quality, using it only to blank his mind. Then, with some resolve, he returned the tumbler to the small table beside the armchair, straightened his tie, stiffened his shoulders, and stood erect; or as erect as he could manage given the amount of liquor and pills he had consumed over the past few hours.
His hand held the back of the chair to steady himself. Dignity, he assured himself, could be afforded by an
y man.
As could degradation, the inner voice, which had become a constant companion of late, reminded him.
He strode towards the door, an affected firmness to his expression.
A guise, the voice immediately mocked. The real doctor is weak and panic-stricken. You don’t honestly want to go down there, do you, my friend? What might you find? Think now …
At the door he paused and closed his eyes. The doctor is real enough, he assured himself in his other, less-chiding voice, but the sounds from the waiting room below were not. They were merely the mutterings of conscience, and conscience was a consequence of intellect, which itself had no physical substance. It was a fact that nothing in the mind was real.
But when you draw closer, won’t those voices be louder? And when you open the door downstairs …?
The mind can fool itself, was his perfectly rational reply.
Then no reason at all to be afraid.
None at all.
Yet your hands tremble, your palms are moist; and isn’t your heartbeat just a little strident?
Tiredness. Stress. And …
And …?
He wrenched the door open.
He descended the stairs, his steps brisk, bold even. Yes, it was good to feel anger - it overwhelmed so many other emotions, particularly fear. He would not become a gibbering wreck like the craven Reverend Lockwood, who hid in his bedroom clutching bedclothes around him like some old maid imagining a rapist at the door. Edmund’s decline into madness had been no sudden thing: the process had begun a long time ago. Perhaps centuries ago.
Beginning with Sleath’s first Lockwood?
Yes. And subsequent Lockwoods. Edmund followed in a long line of psychotics.
As the dead doctor followed in a long line of acolytes?
Yes, yes, it was in the bloodline, if you like - if you insist. Perhaps to be born in Sleath was to be born into bondage.
So you are not to blame.
Once more, Stapley hesitated. He stood in the darkness of the stairway, his resolve waning. If only it were that easy to deny culpability, to blame his father and his father before him. Unfortunately, to do so would be to deny free will.
Ah, yes, free will. Was that enough to oppose the impulses of your own insanity?
But I am not insane.
Yet you hear voices from empty rooms.
Not empty.
Empty.
Three more steps took him to the foot of the stairs. Opposite was the closed door to the waiting room.
It couldn’t be empty.
Empty.
Listen to them, listen to their voices.
The inner voice, the one inside his own head, was silent for a while, then:
What do you intend to do?
Make them leave.
If they’re there …
I can hear them.
If the room is empty, will you accept your own madness?
But it isn’t empty. Look, I’ll show you …
The doctor took one stride forward and threw open the door.
There was no triumph in the discovery, no gloating that he had been right all along. He staggered backwards, falling against the stairs he had just descended.
With the door now wide open, the noise from inside was a babble, a hellish cacophony of wails and moans, of implorations and appeals, of rage and reproach. He raised his hands to block the sight of the horrors gathered in the tiny waiting room, but their images had already entered his mind and they could not be erased. Still he saw them -
- the screaming woman thrusting the bloody foetus of her dead baby towards him, the umbilical cord still wrapped round its tiny throat, its birth having killed them both - the old people, clustered together, too many to count, gaunt and wasted even in their spirit form, reviling him for the misery of their deaths, for his uncaring, his disdain, his negligence - the child, incorporeal tears glistening on a translucent face, bitter because a wrong diagnosis, influenza rather than bronchial pneumonia, had led to his death - the AIDS victim to whom Stapley had administered only perfunctory treatment, and that with contempt, the victim’s huge ghostly eyes staring at the doctor from within the shifting clutter of inconstant wraiths, his cheeks sunken to dark caverns - the girl, exposing her scarred, breastless chest to him, mutilated by a cancer that could have been dealt with sooner and with far less severity had the doctor not dismissed the early signs, the death that followed horribly compounding the mistake - the monster in the corner, once a newborn whom the doctor had considered too hideous to be allowed to live, matured now in its alternate world of phantasms -
- and there were others, spectral faces he hardly remembered, unfortunates who had fallen prey to his neglect and inadequacies, peripheral victims of his own drug and alcohol abuse -
- others he most certainly did not know, faintly visible in the mass, shades from a past that was beyond his time -
- and still others, their forms bolder than the latter, some of whom he could identify, for they had been used in the rituals …
… among these, little Timmy Norris, barely seven years old, standing in the doorway, his shape the clearest of them all, for he was almost real, almost of substance …
Dr Stapley slowly lowered his hands when he heard the murdered boy’s quiet song. Somehow the words, soft though they were, could easily be heard over the clamour that came from behind. Timmy was singing a hymn, one that Stapley recognized, one that he had heard in his dreams, his nightmares …
The doctor began to understand.
‘Nooooooo!’ he screamed.
He slid away from the stairs, his gaze fixed on the boy who stood in the open doorway; he was almost at the front door before he pushed himself erect, his back still sliding against the wall, all the while shaking his head as if to reject the growing awareness.
The cries, the babble, the ululation, from the waiting room continued, and the boy’s quiet voice was distinct above it all.
It took Dr Stapley several fumbling seconds to release the various locks, but finally he pulled the front door open. The tainted mist drifted through as if attracted by the sounds inside and he turned his head away from its smell; it reminded him of those houses he had been called to where bodies had lain dead and undiscovered for several days, a not infrequent occurrence in these fuck-thy-neighbour times, for this mist had the stale-sweet aroma of decay. He clamped a hand over nose and mouth before dashing outside.
His car was parked on the paved frontage to the surgery and, as he hurried towards it, the doctor dug into his trouser pockets for the keys. He moaned aloud when he discovered they were not there. He couldn’t go back inside, he wouldn’t go back in there. He could still hear the commotion coming through the open front door, fainter now, but the boy’s voice still unearthly and clear.
… danced on a Friday
when the sky turned black …
He almost sobbed with relief when he saw through the car window that the keys were already in the ignition. He was not surprised - only grateful - that they were there, for it was typical of his forgetfulness over the past few months, the strain he’d been under for so long having led to fatigue of both mind and body. He all but fell into the driver’s seat and found at first that his fingers were too shaky and too damp to grip the ignition key. Using both hands, one clasped over the other, his body hunched into an awkward contortion, he managed to turn the engine on. It rumbled into life and he quickly snapped on the headlights.
Only when he looked through the windscreen did he realize how difficult it would be to drive through the fog. It swirled across his vision in lazy drifts and he could see darker patches wandering through it like … ghostly … figures …
… if’s hard to dance …
Even through the closed car window he could hear the hymn.
The doctor engaged gear and stabbed at the accelerator with his foot. The tyres screeched for grip as the vehicle shot forward. Here and there were clearer patches in the fog, making it easier for him to find h
is way - or at least, to keep on the road. His teeth, blunted and yellowed with age, pressed into his lower lip. Lockwood had to help him. After all, he was responsible, he was the one who had instigated everything. But he was now nothing more than a cowering wreck. Beardsmore, then. He was stronger. And he and Lockwood were the same …
… with the devil on your back …
Stapley pressed even harder on the accelerator and the car lurched as it picked up speed. The child’s voice was still with him although he had left the surgery far behind. It was almost as if …
He snatched a look over his shoulder, almost expecting to see the figure of Timmy Norris sitting in the back seat. The back seat was empty, of course.
He turned to the front again and caught sight of two lights careering through the fog. And too late he saw someone rushing across his path.
His car struck the person, even though he pulled hard to the left. The body struck the windscreen, sending lightning fissures through the glass. He heard the woman’s scream as the vehicle skidded, saw her body disappear from the bonnet. A jarring knock as he struck another vehicle parked at the edge of the village green shot him forward in his seat. His car spun round, disorientating him, and then a peculiar floating sensation followed, a sense of gliding smoothly through the air itself. The car continued to spin, causing a dizziness in his head that oddly was not unpleasant.
The motion slowed to a halt, easily and without collision, the engine stalling. Everything became still and quiet. Even the hymn had stopped.
The doctor leaned against the steering wheel, his spectacles tilted on his nose. He gasped for breath.
Then heard the cracking. Impossibly, it sounded like ice breaking.
The car jolted. It plunged down, but only a foot or so. It began to slide forward.
He gave a sharp sob when the car plunged downwards again and he heard the splash of water against the sides. The water began to rise darkly over the windows and his feet and ankles were suddenly wet.
The Ghosts of Sleath Page 34