Chapter Eight: Thursday night
“By 1968 the police and local authorities had categorically denied the existence of any wild animals at large in the Surrey countryside, although reported sightings continued largely unabated.”
The Madisons could never be accused of being great migrators. Travellers, perhaps yes: the various clan members had no shortage of overseas trips and extended journeys in their past history, but as for actually upping sticks entirely and settling in distant parts, it had never happened. Art’s sister had once attempted to trace their family tree. She had not got very far: it was before the days of internet, where genealogy advice is proliferate and accessible, and had required some considerable effort on her part in going around local record offices and libraries. No one, not even her best friend, and certainly not her brother, would have ever described Helen Madison as being a conscientious, dedicated worker though - ‘idle’ was one adjective more commonly used; ‘static’ was another - and it was after less than a fortnight of toil that the idea of pursuing the Madison line had been shelved, in favour of more immediate and frivolous occupations, although not before Helen had managed to trace back six generations of her equally idle and static kin.
William and Mary Madison had lived in the Islington area of north London in the early years of the nineteenth century, had displayed none of the exotic ancestry of their earlier royal namesakes, and had succeeded in only further thumbing their nose to that particular crown line, by going on to produce five children, none of whom either managed to live beyond the age of thirty seven, or to roam further than the boundaries of Highgate and Hampstead. It was to take a further fifty years before a Madison was to realize that there was life north of Muswell Hill. The trend towards a northward migration was now firmly established though, and decade by decade, successive generations of Madisons crept imperceptibly up the country, first to Harrow, then to Mill Hill, on to Bushey and finally, dramatically, to leave behind their urban roots entirely, settling in leafy Hertfordshire, although perhaps more accurately, suburban Watford.
History was to reveal that Art and Helen’s parents were actually something akin to pioneers in the family: they had taken the decision to depart their London roots completely; to move right way; to achieve their ambition of living by the seaside. It was to be a new era for the Madison line. Within nine months they were back. The coast was not for them. The Madisons knew their place.
And now there was Luke.
“Would you be able to look after him tomorrow? It would only be for a few hours.”
Helen was fixing her brother with a stern stare. She was three years older than Art and still felt the occasional need to remind him of the fact, “What is it this time? I know you are not working. I’ve been looking after him all day today. I mean, I know that I love him and all...” She broke off speaking, to gaze fondly at the happy baby, who was wrapped up snugly in his padded blue coat, strapped firmly into his buggy, ready to be wheeled back out into the blustery weather again. “But, I need a life too. You hardly see him at all, at the moment.”
Art felt he had to defend himself against his sister’s last accusation, “I’m looking after him all the time. It’s only when I’m at work that you have him. You know that.” He softened his tone, “You know I’m really grateful. I couldn’t have managed these last few months without you.”
“I know.” She began to speak angrily again, “It’s that bitch that...”
Art interrupted her, “I know you don’t like Amanda. But she has her reasons. I got a letter from her yesterday.”
“She ought to be here, with her family. Not sending letters.”
“I know,” Art tried to pacify her, “I know. She sent a cheque.”
“Well that’s something. What is it you want then?” she asked, resignedly.
“Just a couple of hours tomorrow morning. If you could look after Luke, it would really help me out.”
“What time? I’m meant to be meeting Sylvia in the town for lunch.”
“Oh, I’ll be through by then. As early as possible. Seven o’clock.”
“You’re joking. I’m not even up by then. It’s still dark outside.” She suddenly sounded curious, “What exactly are you up to Arthur?” Helen was the only person who still called him by his full name. Since his early-teens he had managed to become universally accepted as Art, even by his school contemporaries, who were notorious for normally managing to extract every possible malicious pleasure from an unfortunate moniker. Perhaps they considered Art to be a worse appellation than Arthur. In adult life it was the way he always introduced himself - most of his current acquaintances would probably have responded “Who?” if asked about Arthur Madison - although there remained one wag in the library who would always insist upon calling him Lancelot, although as a joke it never succeeded in making anyone else laugh other than its originator.
“Nothing,” Art responded; amending his statement under the quelling gaze of his sister’s disbelieving scrutiny to, “Nothing much.” He felt like he was regressing to the Arthur of his pre-teen years; the small child having to explain his actions.
“Nothing to do with this then?” Helen pulled a copy of the local newspaper, crumpled and torn from where Luke had grabbed it earlier, from out beneath a pile of glossy women’s magazines. It was already open at the article about the mystery cat. “I still find time to read occasionally, you know. Is this anything to do with you?” Helen knew only too well of Art’s enthusiasm for the subject matter.
“No. Yes. I mean, it could be. I just need...”
“A few hours tomorrow morning,” Helen completed.
“Yes.”
Helen smiled, “I had hoped that you might have been using the time to have your way with that woman you mentioned last week.”
“Which one?” asked Art, trying to sound innocent.
“Oh, more than one is there?” said Helen, mischievously. “The one you couldn’t stop talking about. The one you saw in the park.” She continued, “I might have known though.” She tapped the newspaper with her hand.
“Well?”
Helen ruffled her fingers through Luke’s sparse, golden hair. The little boy looked up at her and smiled, showing four white teeth, two top, two bottom, and a chasm of empty gums beyond. “Bring him around at seven. I’ll be up. Not a minute before, mind. And remember, I’ve got to be off by twelve.”
“Thanks, Hel. You’re a star.” Art leant in to kiss his sister on the cheek.
“Yes, well just you remember that when you’re rich and famous.”
One man’s big cat hunt was fast attracting importunate dependents. Everyone likes the opportunity to buy into a dream.
•••
The same wind that was howling around Art as he left his sister’s house to walk the three streets back to his own terrace home, was occasioning an overhanging branch to beat out a tympanic rhythm on the window of Vince’s bedroom. After the initial annoyance, Vince had ceased to register the noise, it had blended into the general amalgam of the background sounds of the night: the rush of air down the flue of the chimney; the distant sound of the T.V. in the lounge downstairs; the rattle of water in the pipes as the radiators began to heat up. The quiet, constant hum of his computer monitor; the dormant cursor flashing out an accusatory reminder. Vince stared at the blank screen as if hypnotized. He was low on energy and low on ideas.
The Lovecraftian idea had been a flop. He had thought that he could impress Zoe with knowledge alone; had thought that she would be seduced by his recounting some of his own hero’s stories; entranced by the mystery and the power of the old master’s imagination. He should have known that it would be no use trying to pass off second hand goods as new. He looked around his room at his own assortment of old and used possessions: he knew a lot about second hand goods. She had just mocked him; laughed at the idea that the Mythos could have come to their home-town; belittled him for his apparent
gullibility. And, of course, the idea was laughable. A fool like Graham might be prepared to believe the fantastical, but Zoe? Never. And if she had, he would have probably ending up hating her for her credulity. No, the whole idea was deeply flawed to start with. Although...
That evening had not been entirely wasted. At the end, when they had all joined hands and formed a circle, when Graham had prattled nonsensically about raising demons, and before the rain shower had sent them all scuttling back to their houses, just for a moment then, she had been turned on by something. He had seen it in her eyes in the moonlight. A passion, but also a vacancy, as though something inside of her had been spirited away. There was something there that she believed in. But what?
Perhaps it wasn’t knowledge but power that turned her on. She appeared to like the idea that they were somehow responsible for the apparition in the woods; that he was responsible. There was something he could use there. He just needed to think it through a bit more thoroughly. There is no shame in having to turn to a Plan B; the key thing is to know when to give up Plan A. As if to somehow give physical credence to this mental shift, Vince crumpled up a blank sheet of writing paper that was resting on the desk in front of him, shaping it into a rough ball, which he threw distractedly behind him, missing the waste paper basket by some considerable distance, the missile, instead, coming to rest on the carpet, beside his bed.
A particularly violent burst of wind shook the windowpane and caused Vince to look up from his computer and stare into the obscurity beyond the glass. It was a horrible night outside. There was rain in the wind too, and wave after wave struck the window, like shingle being washed up on a shoreline, hard pellets of moisture delivered by each new gust. It was why he had not gone out. There seemed little point. The others would not have ventured out on a night like this. It had been just the same yesterday, too. Fair-weather occultists. He wondered why he wasted his time on them. Except, of course, he knew the answer. Zoe.
He had fancied her from the first moment he had seen her; that in itself, something of a novelty for him. He had always been considered a loner; someone who, from his early-teens, had somehow become isolated from his peers. The boys at school did not trust him; the girls just thought he was weird. He had tried to fit in, back then. At the time, he would have given anything just to be accepted: to be one of the lads; one of the group that slunk off to the far end of the playing field at morning break and smoked cigarettes behind the games hut; or a member of one of the school teams, football perhaps, who would regularly be bussed off for fixtures at neighbouring schools, returning full of tales of bravado and camaraderie; or one of the group that hung around outside after school had finished, waiting for their girlfriends to arrive, linking arms and swaggering into town, self-conscious of the admiring glances of their loveless colleagues. But he had never been accepted by any of these groups. He had been labeled ‘an intellectual’, although back then the word that was more commonly used was ‘swot’. Being in the top set for mathematics seemed to mean that you were automatically excluded from being cool; it was impossible to be both knowledgeable about Latin declensions and proficient at accurately throwing a cricket ball at pace. Except, Vince was also vilified by the bookish brigade. They were all solid citizens, from solid homes, studying towards solid future careers; some of them even played bridge at lunchtimes. Vince’s home life could hardly have been described as ‘solid’. He had never known his father: he had disappeared, never to reappear, when Vince was still an infant, very soon after discovering that his wife was pregnant again, with Vince’s sister. His mother was prone to fits of depression and would disappear into the privacy of her own room for days, sometimes even weeks on end. And so, it had fallen to the young Vince to take on the mantle of ‘man of the house’, looking after both his mother and his baby sister, plus maintain, as best he could, their large, ramshackle dwelling - a vast, five-bedroom, detached property, stuffed full of old, weird and wonderful possessions, that had been left to Vince’s mother by her own father.
It had been okay when he was much younger, then he had invited friends around to play; even invited some to stay over. When he had been young it had been fine: his juvenile chums had loved the chaotic state of his house; had relished the freedom to do whatever they wanted. There had been no one to complain if they made too much noise; no one to stop them from scribbling graffiti on the wallpaper; no one telling them that they couldn’t climb on the roof of the outhouses. Once, Vince had even showed off to a bunch of compatriots, by climbing through a skylight in the sloping tiled roof above his second floor bedroom and clambering across the slates, returning to the ground by means of a tree and a convenient drainpipe. But things had changed. The young boys had suddenly become adolescents, conscious of girls and their own self-image; desperate to discard any shackles tying them to childish pursuits. Suddenly Vince and his house were passé. The dilapidated mansion that had once provided so much boyhood fun, was now an embarrassment, and Vince, who had not been so swift as some of his former associates to ‘grow up’ was yesterday’s man; worse, he was the freak with the strange mother who lived in a crappy tumbledown dump. He was no longer someone to be seen with.
And so Vince had retreated into himself. It was not a problem. No, really, it wasn’t, he kept on reminding himself. He was studious and solitary by nature and years of virtual isolation within his family had taught him to be self-sufficient and independent, both as regards his physical and his mental well-being. He had his books. He had his computer. The internet was a source of human contact, albeit a pale shadow of the kind of attention that he craved; that seemed to be experienced by his fellow Man. He had not actively gone looking for the black arts, not initially; it was more that the Devil had found him. Like so many who turn to organized religion, he had needed a crutch in a crisis, and when he discovered that the traditional orthodoxy neither met his spiritual or earthly requirements nor particularly sprung up to welcome him with open arms, it was to the dark side of faith that he found himself being increasingly drawn. He was already being treated as an outcast by an unsympathetic society, so why not embrace anarchy in its entirety? He started dressing differently, started talking differently, began to read weird fiction and satanic texts. He gobbled up Crowley. He dabbled, experimentally, in occult practices. Nobody seemed to particularly notice.
Zoe had been new to the school, and in her own way was something of an outsider. She had joined at the start of the fifth year, her family having just moved from somewhere in the West Country, and although her pretty looks made her instantly popular among the boys, the girls tended to resent her, viewing her as an unwelcome intruder who had arrived too late to break into already well-established friendships. Her accent had marked her as different too; a silly thing, but it was enough. She was not in Vince’s form, nor doing any of his subjects, but there had been something about her that had stirred a hitherto unacknowledged feeling deep inside of the impressionable young man, and he could not help but notice her. He could never put his finger on exactly what it was about her that he found so ... disturbing. But it was his avowed ambition to attempt to.
The regular night-time meetings in the park had sprung up as the result of a casual remark that she had made about how she “loved the mystery of the dark”. At first, she had just been enthralled by the freedom of being outside in the night air, an al fresco rebellion away from her parents, and Vince had thought that as the instrument that had brought about this liberty he would only have to wait a short time before she succumbed to his ethereal charms and yielded herself to his more earthly needs, but more recently she had become increasingly restive, nervy, like a domestic animal awaiting slaughter, critical of his assumed leadership, quick to mock his pantomime rituals and pseudo black magic ceremonies. It was a nuisance Graham following along too like the little lamb, of course, although he provided someone to be sacrificed to the sharpness of Vince’s wit an
d when it came to an audience he was at least an appreciative one. He had been one of the very few old friends who had stuck by Vince through thick and thin, and although Vince most commonly regarded him with an ill-concealed mixture of contempt and impatience, Vince knew that he was not so blessed with alternative advocates queuing up to take his place that he felt able to prize off this particular limpet once and for all.
A cult of his own. Now there was an idea. What Vince really needed was to regain control, he realized; to be the star attraction of the group, not merely the ringmaster. A new cult with himself as leader. His right hand rested on the mouse of his computer and he moved the cursor around in agitated circles while he tried to think. It would take a bit of planning, of course, but, now that he came to think about it, he had already begun to put things into motion. That idiot journalist had got hold of the wrong end of the stick, of course, but perhaps he could still turn events to his own advantage. He would have to act swiftly, though. The rain was still beating on the pane of his window and a small amount of water was seeping through where the wood was rotten and had formed a hole in the surround. It was no good delaying, he would have to go out. He dragged down a menu on the screen in front of him and highlighted an option in order to turn off the machine, watching long enough to see the screen go dark and the light on the front of the monitor dim and then disappear. His coat was hanging over the back of his chair, and still felt damp from earlier. Vince made a hurried search through the pockets before putting it on. He would need that phone number again too.
Cat Flap Page 8