The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 22

by Stephen Jones

  By now I must have gone through forests of trees, trying to remember what it was like, to recapture what once seemed so easy, so I could draw her back out of me again. But the results are always the same. One more crumpled wad of paper, one more curl of ash.

  Yet still, she’s close, so close I can almost touch her.

  But now her voice comes from so far away.

  MARK MORRIS

  Fallen Boys

  MARK MORRIS BECAME A full-time writer in 1988 on the Enterprise Allowance Scheme, and a year later saw the release of his first novel, Toady. He has since published a further sixteen novels, among which are Stitch, The Immaculate, The Secret of Anatomy, Fiddleback, The Deluge and four books in the popular Doctor Who series.

  His short stories, novellas, articles and reviews have appeared in a wide variety of anthologies and magazines, and he edited Cinema Macabre, a book of fifty horror movie essays by genre luminaries, for which he won the 2007 British Fantasy Award.

  His most recent work includes a novella entitled It Sustains for Earthling Publications, a Torchwood novel entitled Bay of the Dead, several Doctor Who audios for Big Finish Productions, a follow-up volume to Cinema Macabre entitled Cinema Futura, and a new short story collection, Long Shadows, Nightmare Light.

  “Porthellion Quay, which features in this story, is a real place – only the name is different,” says Morris. “My family and I spent a lovely, sunny day there one summer a few years ago during a Cornish holiday.

  “I love Cornwall not only because it’s breathtakingly beautiful, but also because it is wild and rugged and desolate, and because past echoes and ancient legends seem to seep out of the very rock. It’s a landscape which lends itself perfectly to the kinds of ghost stories I love, of which it seems there are far too few these days – stories which are not cosy and comforting and familiar, but which are dark and insidious, and evoke a crawling sense of dread.”

  WHEN THE CHILD SCREAMED, Tess Morton felt guilty for having to repress the urge to snap at it. She was aware that it wasn’t Matthew Bellings who should be punished, but his tormentors, and yet the boy’s cry of pain or distress was so whiny that it grated on her nerves.

  The reason she felt little compassion for the child was because she knew it took almost nothing to provoke a wail of complaint from him. Matthew would cry out whenever someone barged into him in the school corridor; whenever a football was kicked towards him in the playground; whenever a classmate flicked a paper pellet at him, or snatched a text book out of his hand, or pushed in front of him in the lunch queue. Indeed, the merest slight would cause Matthew’s red-cheeked, strangely wizened face to crumple, his mouth to twist open and that familiar, toe-curling bleat to emerge.

  Tess liked children; she truly did. Unlike many of her more world-weary colleagues, she was still young enough, and optimistic enough, to regard teaching as a noble and worthwhile profession. She looked back on her own school days fondly, and regarded many of her former teachers with great affection. And as such she liked the idea of feeding and enthusing young minds, of equipping her pupils for the trials of life that would inevitably lie ahead.

  All of which made her feel doubly bad for the way she felt about Matthew. He wasn’t a naughty boy. He wasn’t disruptive or snide or cruel. He was just . . . unlikeable.

  Physically, he was stick-thin and uncoordinated. When he ran his limbs resembled a collection of slender twigs loosely bound together. He had no real friends, and as far as Tess could tell had made no particular efforts to acquire any. Breaks and lunchtimes he could most commonly be found in the library, cowering behind an open book, as if hiding from pursuers. He was the sort of child whose parents – of whom Tess had only ever met his nervous, bird-like mother – did him no favours whatsoever. Whereas the other boys carried rucksacks or sports bags, Matthew had been provided with a satchel of gleaming, conker-brown leather. Additionally, his shoes were too shiny, his trousers too short, and his old-fashioned crew cut gave him the look of a child actor in a wartime drama series.

  For a while Tess had taken pity on the boy. She had put herself out, spent extra time with him, in an effort to prise him from his shell. Matthew, however, had remained not only unresponsive, but so sulky and ungrateful that in the end she had given up. She still felt a bit ashamed of abandoning the cause, but she consoled herself with the thought that at least she wasn’t as downright hostile towards Matthew as some of her colleagues. The other teacher on this year eight field trip, for instance, Yvonne Harrison, who most of the kids loved for her friendliness and good humour, frequently referred to Matthew Bellings as “that snivelling little shit”.

  Turning now, Tess saw that Jason Hayes, his back to her, was hopping from foot to foot, waving his arm in the air. Her immediate thought was that Jason had snatched something of Matthew’s and was taunting him, holding whatever-it-was out of reach. Then she saw Jason lunge forward, lowering his arm in a thrusting motion, which made Matthew squeal again. Some of the other children, especially the girls, squealed too, though there was laughter in their voices.

  “Eew, you are so gross!” one of the girls (Tess thought it might be Francesca Parks) shrieked delightedly.

  Muttering at the child behind her to halt, Tess strode towards the knot of pupils at the back of the queue. “What is going on here?”

  Jason Hayes looked over his shoulder guiltily, and then flicked his arm, tossing away whatever he’d been holding. Because of the other kids milling around, Tess couldn’t tell what it was, though she got the impression of something black and ragged sailing over the edge of the metal walkway and disappearing into the scrubby bushes below.

  “Nothing, miss,” Jason said innocently, turning to face her.

  “Nothing,” Tess repeated. “Do you honestly think I’m stupid, Jason?”

  Jason was a sporty, thick-set boy with spiky hair. Often cheeky and excitable, but essentially a good kid.

  “No, miss. No way.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it. So perhaps you’d like to tell me what you were doing to Matthew?”

  Tess still couldn’t see the smaller boy. It was as if the other children were purposely shielding him from view.

  “Nothing, miss,” Jason said again, and then added quickly, “I was just showing him something.”

  Tess sighed inwardly. She knew that to get to the heart of the onion you had to patiently peel away the layers one by one. “I see. And what were you showing him?”

  “Just something I found, miss.”

  Tess stared at him silently for a moment, and then very deliberately said, “Do you want to go on the Mine Railway, Jason?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Because it’s no skin off my nose to take you back to the coach. For all I care, you can sit there for the rest of the afternoon, writing an essay on how important it is to be a positive representative of the school. Would you like that?”

  “No, miss.”

  Francesca Parks, a precocious thirteen-year-old with a pierced navel, shrilled, “You can’t do that, miss.”

  “Can’t I, Francesca?” Tess said coolly. “And why’s that?”

  “You can’t leave Jace on his own. It’s against the law.”

  “He wouldn’t be on his own,” Tess said. “Mr Jakes would be there.”

  Mr Jakes was the school coach driver. He was a scrawny man in his early sixties who always stank of cigarettes. He had a collapsed cavern of a mouth and bad teeth.

  Francesca’s eyes, still bearing the trace of the eyeliner she applied every afternoon the instant she stepped out of the school gates, widened. “You can’t leave him with that old perv.”

  Tess stared at her unblinkingly. “I beg your pardon?”

  Francesca’s eyelids flickered and she bowed her head. “Sorry, miss,” she mumbled.

  “I don’t want to hear another word from you, Francesca. Not one. Do you understand me?”

  Francesca’s head jerked in a single, sullen nod.

  Tess paused just long enough
to allow her words to sink in and then she focused on Jason again. “Now, Jason,” she said, “I want you to tell me exactly what you were tormenting Matthew with, and I want the truth. This is your one and only chance to explain. Don’t blow it.”

  Jason braced himself. “It was a bird, miss.”

  “A bird?”

  He nodded. “I found a bird on the path back there, miss. A dead one. It was a bit manky.”

  Tess could guess what had happened. Jason had picked up the bird, waved it in Matthew’s general direction, and Matthew, as ever, had overreacted. It wasn’t much more than boyish high jinks, but Matthew’s response – and the fact that Jason must have known from experience exactly how his classmate would respond – meant that she couldn’t be seen to condone his behaviour.

  Curtly she said, “What did I tell you before getting on the coach today, Jason?”

  “You told us we were representing the school and we had to be on our best behaviour, miss,” he replied dutifully.

  “Correct,” said Tess. “And would you say you’ve adhered to those stipulations?”

  “No, miss.”

  “No,” she confirmed. “You’ve let us all down, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, miss. Sorry, miss.”

  “I appreciate the apology,” Tess said, “but it’s not me you should be apologising to.”

  “No, miss.”

  Raising her voice, Tess said, “Step forward please, Matthew.”

  The gaggle of Jason’s classmates, who had been hovering in the background, now half-turned, shuffling aside to create an aisle. Revealed at the end of the aisle, crouching against the chain-link fence which enclosed the metal walkway leading to the mine entrance, was Matthew Bellings.

  Tess immediately saw that Matthew was trembling and that he had something dark on one cheek. She wondered whether the incident had been more serious than she had thought. Surely Jason hadn’t punched Matthew, knocked him down, bruised his face? Despite the antipathy that the other children felt towards the boy, she couldn’t believe that any of them would actually resort to violence. As Matthew shakily straightened up, Tess saw one of the girls – Charlotte McDonald – silently hold something out to him. Something small and white. A tissue. And immediately Tess realised what was really on Matthew’s face.

  It wasn’t a bruise. It was blood.

  It wasn’t his own blood, though; she was sure of that. His face wasn’t cut or swollen, and the blood was too thin and brownish to be fresh. As Tess looked at Matthew staring at the tissue but not taking it, her brain made another connection.

  It wasn’t human blood. It was the bird’s blood. Jason must have swung the dead and rotting creature – whether intentionally or not – right into Matthew’s face. The thought of it made her feel a little sick.

  However, the fact that Matthew was doing nothing to help himself, that instead of taking the proffered tissue and cleaning himself up he was simply cowering against the fence, elicited in Tess a wave not only of revulsion, but of an almost contemptuous irritation towards the boy. Marching forward, she snatched the tissue from Charlotte’s hand and brusquely applied it to Matthew’s cheek. Matthew was so surprised that he half-twisted away, releasing another of his plaintive squeals.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Tess muttered, “don’t be a baby.”

  Instantly she knew she’d overstepped the mark, shown too much of her true feelings. She was aware of shrewd eyes on her, could almost hear the identical thoughts forming in half-a-dozen thirteen-year-old heads: Miss doesn’t like him either.

  “Jason,” she snapped, trying to make amends, “didn’t you have something to say?”

  “Er . . . yeah. Sorry, Matthew,” Jason said, but there was a smugness in his voice that left Tess in no doubt that the damage had already been done. Despite his behaviour, Jason knew he was still the popular choice, even with his teacher, and that could only mean more trouble for Matthew further down the line.

  “Everything okay?”

  Tess turned briskly and straightened up. Her friend and head of department, Yvonne, older and more experienced by five years, was standing behind her. Yvonne had returned from collecting their pre-booked group ticket from the kiosk at the foot of the walkway.

  “Just a little incident with a dead bird,” Tess said. “All sorted now.”

  She glanced at Matthew, who stared resentfully back at her. The boy still had a faint brown stain on his red cheek. If she had been his mother she would have spat on the tissue and rubbed it until it was gone.

  “I don’t want to know,” Yvonne said jovially. She was a large, rosy-faced woman with a mass of red hair. Raising her voice, she looked up and down the queue and called, “Right you lot, nice, straight line. No pushing or shoving. Who’s looking forward to a terrifying plunge into the centre of the earth?”

  Most of the kids cheered and raised their hands. A few of the girls looked gleefully terrified.

  “Excellent!” Yvonne said. “Come on then.”

  For the next few minutes, Tess and Yvonne busied themselves handing out yellow hard hats and getting the children settled into the wooden seats of the open-sided train which would transport them underground. Aside from the bird incident, it had been a good day. Even the weather had held up, though the clouds were gathering now and a few spots of rain were beginning to patter on the plastic canopy of the walkway overhead.

  They were at Porthellion Quay, a tin mining museum and visitor centre surrounded on three sides by towering Cornish cliffs. The museum was a sprawling affair, set in two hundred acres of hilly countryside, and consisting of a long-abandoned (though beautifully preserved) mining village, and a small quayside and docks beside the fast-flowing River Tam. The children had been given a tour of the village and assay office, had had a lesson in the Victorian school (after first dressing up in period costume, much to their embarrassment and hilarity), had made rope on the ‘rope walk’, and had enjoyed a picnic lunch down by the quayside. Now it was the highlight of the trip – a journey on a rickety narrow-gauge railway into the tin mine itself.

  “Everybody wearing their hard hats?” asked the driver, a grizzled, wiry man dressed in blue overalls and an old miner’s helmet with a lamp on the front.

  Tess glanced at Francesca. She was the only one who had protested about the headgear, but even she was now perched sullenly in her seat, the strap tightly fastened beneath her chin.

  “All ready, Mr Hardacre!” shouted Yvonne, looking around and raising her eyebrows in gleeful anticipation.

  “Let’s be off then,” Mr Hardacre called.

  He gave an unnecessary double-blast on the whistle, which made several of the children jump, and then, to a smattering of cheers, the train chugged jerkily forward.

  Tess settled back, enjoying the rattling motion and the feel of wind on her face. She knew that the train cut leisurely through half a mile of woodland before plunging downhill into the mine itself, and she half-closed her eyes, relishing the sensation of light flickering across her vision as it forced its way through the gaps in the passing trees and bushes.

  Raising his voice above the noise of the train, Mr Hardacre began to deliver what was obviously a well-rehearsed spiel, providing them with various facts about mining and the mine itself. Tess listened as he told them how arsenic was a by-product of tin smelting, and how one of the often lethal jobs given to women and children was scraping the condensed arsenic off the walls of the calciners, which drew toxic fumes up from the smelting houses.

  She phased out when he started to quote facts and figures relating to ore production and the length and depth of the mine’s various shafts, and only knew that the mine entrance was coming up when several of the children sitting near the front of the train began to whoop. Opening her eyes, Tess saw the glinting thread of track, like a long zip, disappearing into the centre of an approaching black arch. Dazzled by the flickering sunlight, the arch seemed to her to be not quite there; it was like an absence of reality into which they were being ine
xorably drawn, its edges fuzzy, its heart of darkness utterly impenetrable.

  She blinked fully awake just in time to be swallowed by blackness. A palpable ripple of fearful excitement ran through the group at the sudden claustrophobic chill emanating from the rocky walls, and at the way the light from Mr Hardacre’s lamp slithered and fractured across the tunnel’s myriad planes and surfaces. Tess swallowed to ease the sudden pressure in her head, but even after the silent pop in her eardrums the previously guttural rumble of the train’s engine sounded thick and muffled. She imagined the thick, dusty air clogging her throat and had to make a conscious effort not to cough. After a couple of minutes of travelling downhill, Mr Hardacre eased back on the brake and brought the train to a grinding halt.

  He gestured towards a tableau on their left. Illuminated by the light of a number of ersatz Davy lamps, fuelled not by oil but by electricity, was a family of mannequins. There was a father, a mother, a boy and a girl, all dressed in the drab clothes of a typical mid-nineteenth century mining family. The father’s shiny, chipped face was streaked with black paint, evidently intended to represent subterranean grime. Like Mr Hardacre, he wore a mining helmet and was resting a pickaxe on his shoulder.

  “They’re well creepy,” Tess heard one of the girls whisper. She glanced in the direction of the voice and placed a finger to her lips, though she couldn’t disagree.

  The wide, painted eyes of the family seemed to stare blankly at the newly arrived group. The little girl was missing a chunk of plaster from the centre of her face, which gave the impression that some hideous skin disease had eaten away her nose and part of her mouth.

  Mr Hardacre told them about life underground, about how the father would toil away for ten or twelve hours at a time in stifling conditions, while the children would sit waiting, often in pitch darkness, looking after his food and matches and whatever else he might bring down the mine with him. Meanwhile the women – if they weren’t scraping arsenic off the walls of the calciners – would be at home, cleaning and washing and cooking the Cornish pasties that their husbands ate every day.