Then the bottom half bifurcated, splitting into two stumpy legs, and it started to walk with clumsy, deliberate strides. It circled, making a heavy, spongy sound with each step. Its movements seemed random rather than deliberate, but with each circle it came a little closer. It could be like an anemone, blundering around until prey fell into its grasp.
As if in response to his thought, the top half split open like a flower budding, separating into dozens of questing feelers that stretched out, and waving slowly. It felt around the ceiling, the wine racks, the floor around it, touching everything gently, blindly.
I’ve got to get out of here, Michael thought. Part of his brain was paralysed, and all this felt as though it were happening to someone else. But underneath he was still coolly rational. Otherwise I’ll never be able to help Anne.
The knife was useless, and none of the other tools were any better. Hell, a chainsaw would be useless.
He tossed the knife across the cellar, and it tinkled on the stone. The thing ambled towards it, feelers out. One hovered over the knife as though sniffing it, then straightened up again. He tossed a screwdriver further over into the darkness, and the thing moved after it. Two of the feelers bulged and became open trumpets. When Michael threw a second screwdriver the thing lumbered over briskly, evidently able to pinpoint the sound exactly. If he moved now it would sense him instantly.
As his one remaining option, Michael tore open the pouch of dog treats and hurled the contents across the floor. A feeler touched one of the chunks of meat and stopped, then dabbed at it. The feeler opened a sort of mouth at its tip and consumed the chunk. Other feelers started to move round like a school of fish, picking at the floor.
Michael dashed from cover, flicking on the torch so he could see where he was going. He ran back through the cellar, down the corridor, past the pantry and up some steps. There was a door at the top. It did not open when he turned the handle. He looked back.
Behind him, something was moving fast up the corridor, rumbling and squelching. Just as he saw an approaching glow, the door opened in front of him: it was not locked, just stuck. He went through and shut it behind him.
The door had a bolt, which he shot. He recognised the hallway through which he had come in this afternoon. It was a good, solid door with an inch-thick bolt.
Something big and soft like a wet mattress thumped into the other side of the door.
As Michael turned, the hall light came on. Sir Harold was standing at the bottom of the staircase in dressing gown and slippers. One hand was on the light switch, the other was on the wolfhound’s collar. Taking in the scene—the burglar fleeing from the thing in the cellar—he gave a grim smile.
There was a rending sound and the iron bolt clattered on to the floor. As if a wooden door could stop something that must weigh half a ton and could shrug aside stone slabs like cardboard.
“That’s why we don’t bother with the bolt,” said Sir Harold.
The cellar door swung open and a wall of black asphalt oozed through and settled into a pile. Michael remembered his balaclava and pulled it off.
“It’s me,” he said desperately. “Michael Nichols, I saw you today—”
“I can’t let you go,” said Sir Harold. He looked frailer than ever, but he was still a soldier. If he had ever ordered his battery to start shelling a town full of civilians, this was the tone he used. The implacable firing-squad tone of an officer charged with ordering deaths. “You must understand. It’s your own fault, breaking in here.”
The thing was rippling, reaching out wide as though to embrace him. Michael was backing away, but he was in a corner.
“I just want to help my wife,” Michael said. “I had to come back.”
“You’re a damned thief,” said Sir Harold, and there was a tremor in his voice. “You wanted to steal it. Well, take it then.”
The thing flexed and reared like a snake preparing to strike. Where the head would be there were two flat projections of black horn, and Michael realised he was looking at a gigantic pair of shears just level with his neck. He had a horrible vision of his head being snipped off as easily as a gardener deadheads a rose.
“Do you know about YouTube?” Michael asked, holding up his iPhone. “I’ve just uploaded some video to it, on the Internet. I’m still recording all this.” He swung the camera around to take in the whole scene.
“People can see this?”
“Yes. Even if the camera gets destroyed, the video of that thing is already on the Internet. Unless I delete it.”
The thing had stopped moving forward but remained in place, waving, hesitant. Michael could hear his own breathing, and Sir Harold’s. The thing evidently did not breathe.
The moment of crisis passed. Sir Harold still looked angry, but he did not look dangerous. Michael put the iPhone away with slow, deliberate movements. It was vital not to screw up now.
“Please, Sir Harold,” he said. “Everything I’ve told you is true. I’m not a journalist or anything. I told you, I swore to my wife on my honour that I would find a way of healing her. Otherwise the injury will destroy her. It was my fault, and she’s the only family I’ve got. It’s my responsibility. Whatever it costs me.”
Honour, family, responsibility: these were trigger words that Michael had identified, words that Sir Harold could not help but respond to.
Sir Harold sighed, shaking his head weakly. “No, no, no, I’ve told you.”
But the thing was withdrawing, piling itself up into a barrel. It was reading Sir Harold’s intention, giving up on its prey. It melted and flowed, like a picture on a computer screen that gradually becomes sharper, until it was a replica of the wolfhound sitting patiently on its haunches. It looked like an ornament moulded out of bubbling tar. A “great black dogge.”
As Michael watched, it kept changing. Eyes like golden marbles popped up all over its surface It was reacting to the light, he realised. In the dark it did not need eyes.
“That thing,” said Michael. “It can grow new body parts, can’t it? You could give her new fingers.”
“No, no, it’s not that simple.” Sir Harold sighed again. “This is no use.” He raised a hand and the thing melted back into a shapeless mass. It flowed through the open cellar door, which Sir Harold shut behind it.
“It’s all right, dear,” Sir Harold called up the stairs. “It’s just that man from this afternoon again.” Addressing Michael: “Drink?”
Back in the drawing room they sat in the same positions as before, the wolfhound at Sir Harold’s feet. The old man was despondent, but stubborn.
“I don’t know how much you know,” he said. “Or how you found out. Do you know what it is down there? It can’t help you.”
“I have no idea what it is,” said Michael. “All I know is that someone came in here missing three fingers and they were restored when he went out.”
“That’s only half the story,” said Sir Harold.
“It’s made of stem cells,” said Michael. “It can grow new eyes or fingers whenever it needs them.”
“No! Not human ones.”
Michael let the silence grow for a few seconds.
“You haven’t seen the Charter?” Sir Harold said at last. “No? Well, as you’ve seen it and are still of sound mind, you’re entitled to know three things. Firstly, I’m the steward of that creature, and it is called Effra, though we just call it the Beast. It lives here, underwater in the cisterns and flooded chambers underneath the house. Secondly, it is a Royal Beast, with protection of the Crown and the sanction of the Church. And thirdly, you are forbidden from speaking about it, on pain of death.”
Sir Harold was bound by oath not to discuss the Beast with strangers. He did not have Michael’s supple approach of working his way round the oath, exploiting the literal limits and saying things without saying them. But seeing the thing gave Michael the leverage to get Sir Harold to talk.
“You’re taking it remarkably well,” said Sir Harold. “Most people are gibbering wr
ecks after seeing our Beast. There’s something terribly disturbing if you’re not used to it. That’s one of the reasons Effra has to be kept hidden away.”
According to Sir Harold’s younger son, who seemed to understand something of the biology of it, the Beast did not grow new organs instantly. Instead, it could mobilise and rearrange cells from reservoirs that circulated inside it. Bones could be formed in seconds, or broken down into microscopic particles. The cells for eyes and other sensory organs could coalesce wherever and whenever they were needed, and break down again as quickly.
The Beast could absorb other living things. It did not digest alien tissue, but broke it down and mobilised the cells, incorporating them into its own structure. In time, by some peculiar process of DNA transfer, its own cells could copy them. Imitation was a profound part of its nature; on several levels it was a chameleon which took on attributes from those around it. By absorbing cells from other creatures it could imitate them and form its own specialised organs that might help its survival.
“In the first few hours, the assimilated cells can be removed again and transplanted. Because they have the factor from the Beast, they will merge and join wherever they are transplanted: they heal without scarring, extremely rapidly. But after a few hours they get fully incorporated, become fully…Beastly.”
Michael frowned, trying to understand.
“So you need a donor and a recipient, and what one loses the other can gain—a kidney, an eye, or whatever,” said Sir Harold, gesturing vaguely. “Anyway, you can only transplant like to like—you need a donor for your fingers. Which is much too dangerous.”
“Why…?”
“The Beast can’t really be controlled. It has degenerated over the years; they say it even used to talk, like a parrot. My great-grandfather had the skill of getting it to do things, they say, but now…now it’s like a half-wild dog. It might take more from the donor than you intended, and what it takes it doesn’t give back. Your friend got his finger and thumb when he came here. But his donor lost a lot more than that—all his fingers and most of his hand. He was damned lucky not to lose more.” Sir Harold knocked back the dregs of his whisky and put the glass down with a gesture of finality.
“I’m willing to take that risk,” said Michael.
“It would have to be a woman.”
“I’ll find a volunteer,” Michael said. “Someone who’s prepared to take the chance.”
“Even if they were, I’m not,” said Sir Harold.
“I’m desperate,” said Michael evenly.
Sir Harold said nothing.
“Your son Alan knew him at school,” said Michael. “Roger Bridges, the man with the missing fingers.”
Michael remembered telling his schoolmates about the leech pond. How could any boy resist telling someone about something as amazing as The Beast, even if, especially if, it was a close family secret?
“Years later Roger remembered the story about the thing that could replace human body parts. He persuaded your son to get you to go through with it—blackmailed him? That would be his style.”
Something clunked heavily below them in the basement. Probably a stone slab falling back into place after the Beast oozed through.
“That’s about the size of it,” said Sir Harold. “It was blackmail, pure and simple. My son did some foolish things when he was a teenager, as boys do…I was tempted, I was very tempted, to let Alan take the consequences of his actions and be damned. Even though it would mean disowning him completely. I was angry enough for it. Well, anyway that man Bridges got what he wanted, but I put the fear of God into him afterwards. He never saw the Beast, but I gave him an idea of it, and he couldn’t get out fast enough. And I made it quite clear to Alan that it would never, ever be allowed again under any circumstances.” Remembered emotions played across his face: anger, humiliation, and beneath that, a hint of something more tender.
It had happened two years ago. Immediately afterwards Alan had taken off for Thailand and never returned. Dishonoured and in self-imposed exile.
“I just want Anne to be back the way she was before,” said Michael. He turned the phone over in his hands so Sir Harold would notice, would remember the video he had taken. “But you have to understand, if there’s a way of uncovering anything that can help her, I will do anything I have to in order to get it.”
Sir Harold bit his lip. “There are other dangers,” he said. “I have a responsibility, a stewardship. You have no idea how great the danger is, you have to appreciate…Effra is unstoppable. Literally unstoppable. We keep it here and it hardly roams anymore, but if it were disturbed, it could…cause chaos….” He trailed off, torn between the impulse to tell and his oath of secrecy.
“When amoebas eat they get bigger,” said Michael. “Eventually they split in two. Is that what you’re worried about?”
Sir Harold said nothing, looked at the carpet. And below them, something slithered and flopped, patrolling its underground territory.
“Look,” Sir Harold said suddenly. “This isn’t just about me and my family, or you and your wife; it’s something that could affect the whole country. You’re doing your best for your wife—nobody understands that more than I—but you have to keep a sense of proportion. What you want amounts to opening up an atom bomb with a rusty screwdriver …”
Michael said nothing.
“Perhaps,” Sir Harold went on, “you underestimate just how strong and resilient your wife really is. She’s had a nasty accident and of course she’s distraught, but—”
The look on Michael’s face silenced him.
“We’re going to make this work,” Michael said. “You have your oath, and I’m not asking you to break it. And I’m not going to tell anyone about your Beast. But my wife is going to get her fingers back, and you’re going to get enough money to keep this place going. And your son Alan—what if I got him back from Thailand?”
“What?”
“He’s supposed to be here, to take over when you retire,” said Michael. “The guardianship goes from father to son, doesn’t it? Like everything else. But he won’t, not now. Don’t need to say anything. But I will get him back for you.”
Sir Harold was shaking his head again. “If only you could…but no, he wouldn’t come.” It was almost a sob, and Michael knew then he had hit on the one irresistible thing. The old man wanted his son and heir back in the fold, to be the guardian for the next generation, to carry on the family tradition of service. The soul is greater than the sword indeed. If that’s what it took to get a deal, he would do it.
“Believe me,” said Michael, “I can persuade him.”
III
The son had been much easier to get a handle on than the father. He left plenty of tracks across Facebook and elsewhere. On the flight from London to Bangkok Michael constructed a motivation map for his targets, assembled and memorised his list of arguments and key phrases.
On the flight from Bangkok to Phuket he read the family’s Royal Charter, translated from mediaeval French. It gave away little, just mentioned that the family would continue to perform its eternal duty of keeping the Royal Beast captive for occasions when certain powers were needed by the Crown, and performing such services for such persons as the Crown dictated. To anyone who had not seen the Beast the Charter would be quite meaningless.
Then there was nothing left to do, and Michael slept.
Phuket was a beach resort, humming with tourists. Everywhere there were slight, pretty Thai girls linking arms with pasty middle-aged tourists. Flocks of backpackers perched on hotel lawns, spread out amidst colourful towels. At the local market Michael bought a T-shirt, some cut-off jeans, and the darkest sunglasses he could find. He had not shaved, and he brushed his hair back to erase the parting and give a rougher look. His skin was too pale, but the T-shirt showed his bicep tattoo and the sunglasses blanked out his eyes. As he looked in the mirror his body language changed into another register. This time Michael was not the considerate, honourable husban
d who would do anything for his wife. Now he was the hard bastard who does anything to get his way.
“Is your name Alan?” he said to the man at the bar. Michael’s accent was a few notches closer to his original South London, not as refined as the one he normally used these days. “I want a word with you, now.”
“I’m sorry?”
Alan looked at him mildly. Michael had timed it so Alan had finished his first beer and would be just starting to relax.
“It’s about your father,” said Michael. That woke him up.
They took a bench outside and Michael made his pitch. He had something in common with the Beast, he realised, morphing from one form to another depending on the environment. Sprouting extra senses and straining to pick up the slightest hint of what he was after.
He showed Alan the pictures of Anne, before and after the accident, and the X-ray of her three-fingered hand. This time the shots he casually flicked through in between were all English countryside and London streets. Anne, or the two of them, in a dappled oak woods, with friends in a pub, visiting a stately home. Home was a word Michael dropped a lot in the next few minutes.
Michael explained that he needed the services of Effra Hall to restore his wife’s fingers. He made no reference to the entrepreneur, but hinted that he had found out through some elaborate network of contacts. He showed a few seconds of video of the Beast, making it clear that he was not above blackmail or releasing the video to the media.
Michael said he had his doubts about Sir Harold’s state of health. He was an old man, a bit feeble and doddery, not much energy. Michael was unsparing with the language he used, and he could see it had an effect. In fact, Michael said, he did not know if Sir Harold was up to what he was asking, as it was going to put quite a strain on him. And if anything went wrong, well, Michael would not be pleased, would he?
The Dulwich Horror & Others Page 12