by Brian Lumley
Or (and Gavin growled his frustration and self-annoyance as he felt that old obsession rising up again) it could simply be that Eileen had found herself a new dancing partner, and that since the newcomer had walked into the place they’d scarcely been off the floor. A fact which in itself was enough to set him imagining all sorts of things, and uppermost the sensuality of women and sexual competitiveness, readiness, and willingness of young men. And where Gavin’s sister was concerned, much too willing!
But Eileen had seen Gavin watching her, and as the dance tune ended she came over to the bar with her young man in tow. This was a ploy she’d used before: a direct attack is often the best form of defence. Gavin remembered his promise, however, and in fact the man she was with seemed a very decent sort at first glance: clean and bright, smartly dressed, seriously intentioned. Now Gavin would see if his patter matched up to his looks.
“Gavin,” said Eileen, smiling warningly, “I’d like you to meet Gordon Cleary—Gordon’s a surveyor from Portsmouth.”
“How do you do, Gordon,” Gavin dried his hands, reached across the bar to shake with the other, discovered the handshake firm, dry, and no-nonsense. But before they could strike up any sort of conversation the dance floor had emptied and the bar began to crowd up. “I’m sorry,” Gavin shrugged ruefully. “Business. But at least you were here first and I can get you your drinks.” He looked at his sister.
“Mine’s easy,” she said, smiling. “A lemonade, please.” And Gavin was pleased to note that Cleary made no objection, didn’t try to force strong drink on her.
“Oh, a shandy for me,” he said, “and go light on the beer, please, Gavin, for I’ll be driving later. And one for yourself, if you’re ready.”
The drinks were served and Gavin turned to the next party of customers in line at the bar. There were four of them: Tod Baxter and Angela Meers, village sweethearts, and Allan Harper and his wife, Val. Harper was a PTI at the local school; he ordered a confusing mixture of drinks, no two alike; Gavin, caught on the hop, had a little trouble with his mental arithmetic. “Er, that’s two pounds—er—” He frowned in concentration.
“Three pounds and forty-seven pence, on the button!” said Gordon Cleary from the side. Gavin looked at him and saw his eyes flickering over the price list pinned up behind the bar.
“Pretty fast!” he commented, and carried on serving. But to himself he said: except I hope it’s only with numbers…
Gavin wasn’t on his own behind the bar; at the other end, working just as hard, Bill Salmons popped corks and pulled furious pints. Salmons was ex-Army, a parachutist who’d bust himself up jumping. You wouldn’t know it, though, for he was strong as a horse. As the disc jockey got his strobes going again and the music started up, and as the couples gradually gravitated back towards the dance floor, Gavin crossed quickly to Salmons and said: “I’m going to get some of this sweat off. Two minutes?”
Salmons nodded, said; “Hell of a night, isn’t it? Too damned hot!”
Gavin reached under the bar for a clean towel and headed for the gents’ toilet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Eileen and Gordon Cleary were back on the floor again. Well, if all the bloke wanted was to dance…that was OK.
In the washroom Gavin took off his shirt, splashed himself with cold water, and towelled it off, dressed himself again. A pointless exercise: he was just as hot and damp as before! As he finished off Allan Harper came in, also complaining of the heat.
They passed a few words; Harper was straightening his tie in a mirror when there came the sound of shattering glass from the dance hall, causing Gavin to start. “What—?” he said.
“Just some clown dropped his drink, I expect,” said Harper. “Or fainted for lack of air! It’s about time we got some decent air-conditioning in this—”
And he paused as there sounded a second crash—which this time was loud enough to suggest a table going over. The music stopped abruptly and some girl gave a high-pitched shriek.
We warned you! said several dark little voices in the back of Gavin’s mind. “What the Hell—?” he started down the corridor from the toilets with Harper hot on his heels.
Entering the hall proper the two skidded to a halt. On the other side of the room a village youth lay sprawled among the debris of a wrecked table, blood spurting from his nose. Over him stood a Hell’s Angel, swinging a bike chain threateningly. In the background a young girl sobbed, backing away, her dress torn down the front. Gavin would have started forward but Harper caught his arm. “Look!” he said.
At a second glance the place seemed to be crawling with Angels. There was one at the entrance, blocking access; two more were on the floor, dragging Angela Meers and Tod Baxter apart. They had yanked the straps of Angela’s dress down, exposing her breasts. A fifth Angel had clambered into the disco control box, was flinging records all over the place as he sought his favourites. And the sixth was at the bar.
Now it was Gavin’s turn to gasp, “Look!”
The one at the bar, King, had trapped Val Harper on her bar stool. He had his arms round her, his hands gripping the bar top. He rubbed himself grindingly against her with lewdly suggestive sensuality.
For a moment longer the two men stood frozen on the perimeter of this scene, nailed down by a numbness which, as it passed, brought rage in its wake. The Angel with the chain, Leather, had come across the floor and swaggered by them into the corridor, urinating in a semicircle as he went, saying: “Evenin’ gents. This the bog, then?”
What the Hell’s happening? thought Harper, lunging towards the bar. There must be something wrong with the strobe lights: they blinded him as he ran, flashing rainbow colours in a mad kaleidoscope that flooded the entire room. The Angel at the bar was trying to get his hand down the front of Val’s dress, his rutting movements exaggerated by the crazy strobes. Struggling desperately, Val screamed.
Somewhere at the back of his shocked mind, Harper noted that the Angels still wore their helmets. He also noted, in the flutter of the crazy strobes, that the helmets seemed to have grown horns! Jesus, it’s like a bloody Viking invasion! he thought, going to Val’s rescue…
It had looked like a piece of cake to King and his Angels. A gift. The kid selling tickets hadn’t even challenged them. Too busy wetting his pants, King supposed. And from what he had seen of The Barn’s clientele: pushovers! As soon as he’d spotted Val Harper at the bar, he’d known what he wanted. A toffy-nosed bird like her in a crummy place like this? She could only be here for one thing. And not a man in the place to deny him whatever he wanted to do or take.
Which is why it came as a total surprise to King when Allan Harper spun him around and butted him square in the face. Blood flew as the astonished Angel slammed back against the bar; his spine cracked against the bar’s rim, knocking all the wind out of him; in another moment Bill Salmons’s arm went round his neck in a stranglehold. There was no time for chivalry: Harper the PTI finished it with a left to King’s middle and a right to his already bloody face. The final blow landed on King’s chin, knocking him cold. As Bill Salmons released him he flopped forward, his death’s-head helmet flying free as he landed face-down on the floor.
Gavin McGovern had meanwhile reached into the disc-jockey’s booth, grabbed his victim by the scruff of the neck, and hurled him out of the booth and across the dance floor. Couples hastily got out of the way as the Angel slid on his back across the polished floor. Skidding to a halt, he brought out a straight-edged razor in a silvery flash of steel. Gavin was on him in a moment; he lashed out with a foot that caught the Angel in the throat, knocking him flat on his back again. The razor spun harmlessly away across the floor as its owner writhed and clawed at his throat.
Seeing their Angel at Arms on the floor like that, the pair who tormented Angela Meers now turned their attention to Gavin McGovern. They had already knocked Tod Baxter down, kicking him where he huddled. But they hadn’t got in a good shot and as Gavin loomed large so Tod got to his feet behind them. Also, Allan
Harper was dodging his way through the now strangely silent crowd where he came from the bar.
The Angel at the door, having seen something of the melee and wanting to get his share while there was still some going, also came lunging in through the wild strobe patterns. But this one reckoned without the now fully roused passions of the young warriors of the Athelsford tribe. Three of the estate’s larger youths jumped him, and he went down under a hail of blows. And by then Allan Harper, Gavin McGovern and Tod Baxter had fallen on the other two. For long moments there were only the crazily flashing strobes, the dull thudding of fists into flesh, and a series of fading grunts and groans.
Five Angels were down; and the sixth, coming out of the toilets, saw only a sea of angered faces all turned in his direction. Faces hard and full of fury—and bloodied, crumpled shapes here and there, cluttering the dance floor. Pale now and disbelieving, Leather ran towards the exit, found himself surrounded in a moment. And now in the absolute silence there was bloodlust written on those faces that ringed him in.
They rolled over him like a wave, and his Nazi helmet flew off and skidded to a rocking halt…at the feet of Police Constable Charlie Bennett, Athelsford’s custodian of the law, where he stood framed in the door of the tiny foyer.
Then the normal lights came up and someone cut the strobes, and as the weirdly breathless place slowly came back to life, so PC Bennett was able to take charge. And for the moment no one, not even Gavin, noticed that Eileen McGovern and her new friend were nowhere to be seen…
Five
Chylos was jubilant. “It’s done!” he cried in his grave. “The invaders defeated, beaten back!”
And: “You were right, old man,” finally Hengit grudgingly answered. “They were invaders, and our warnings and urgings came just in time. But this tribe of yours—pah! Like flowers, they were, weak and waiting to be crushed—until we inspired them.”
And now Chylos was very angry indeed. “You two!” he snapped like a bowstring. “If you had heeded me at the rites, these many generations flown, then were there no requirement for our efforts this night! But…perhaps I may still undo your mischief, even now, and finally rest easy.”
“That can’t be, old man, and you know it,” this time Alaze spoke up. “Would that we could put right that of which you accuse us; for if our blood still runs in these tribes, then it were only right and proper. But we cannot put it right. No, not even with all your magic. For what are we now but worm-fretted bones and dust? There’s no magic can give us back our flesh…”
“There is,” Chylos chuckled then. “Oh, there is! The magic of this stone. No, not your flesh but your will. No, not your limbs but your lust. Neither your youth nor your beauty nor even your hot blood, but your spirit! Which is all you will need to do what must be done. For if the tribes may not be imbrued with your seed, strengthened by your blood—then it must be with your spirit. I may not do it for I was old even in those days, but it is still possible for you. If I will it—and if you will it.
“Now listen, and I shall tell you what must be done…”
Eileen McGovern and ‘Gordon Cleary’ stood outside The Barn in the deepening dusk and watched the Black Maria come and take away the battered Angels. As the police van made off down the estate’s main street Eileen leaned towards the entrance to the disco, but her companion seemed concerned for her and caught her arm. “Better let it cool down in there,” he said. “There’s bound to be a lot of hot blood still on the boil.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Eileen looked up at him. “Certainly you were right to bundle us out of there when it started! So what do you suggest? We could go and cool off in The Old Stage. My father owns it.”
He shrugged, smiled, seemed suddenly shy, a little awkward. “I’d rather hoped we could walk together,” he said. “The heat of the day is off now—it’s cool enough out here. Also, I’ll have to be going in an hour or so. I’d hoped to be able to, well, talk to you in private. Pubs and dance halls are fine for meeting people, but they’re dreadfully noisy places, too.”
It was her turn to shrug. It would be worth it if only to defy Gavin. And afterwards she’d make him see how there was no harm in her friendships. “All right,” she said, taking Cleary’s arm. “Where shall we walk?”
He looked at her and sighed his defeat. “Eileen, I don’t know this place at all. I wouldn’t know one street or lane from the next. So I suppose I’m at your mercy!”
“Well,” she laughed. “I do know a pretty private place.” And she led him away from The Barn and into an avenue of trees. “It’s not far away, and it’s the most private place of all.” She smiled as once more she glanced up at him in the flooding moonlight. “That’s why it’s called Lovers’ Lane…”
Half an hour later in The Barn, it finally dawned on Gavin McGovern that his sister was absent. He’d last seen her with that Gordon Cleary bloke. And what had Cleary said: something about having to drive later? Maybe he’d taken Eileen with him. They must have left during the ruckus with the Angels. Well, at least Gavin could be thankful for that!
But at eleven o’clock when The Barn closed and he had the job of checking and then shifting the stock, still she wasn’t back. Or if she was she’d gone straight home to The Old Stage and so to bed. Just before twelve midnight Gavin was finished with his work. He gratefully put out the lights and locked up The Barn, then crossed to The Old Stage where his father was still checking the night’s take and balancing the stock ledger.
First things first, Gavin quietly climbed the stairs and peeped into Eileen’s room; the bed was still made up, undisturbed from this morning; she wasn’t back. Feeling his heart speeding up a little, Gavin went back downstairs and reported her absence to his father.
Burly Joe McGovern seemed scarcely concerned. “What?” he said, squinting up from his books. “Eileen? Out with a young man? For a drive? So what’s your concern? Come on now, Gavin! I mean, she’s hardly a child!”
Gavin clenched his jaws stubbornly as his father returned to his work, went through into the large private kitchen and dining room and flopped into a chair. Very well, then he would wait up for her himself. And if he heard that bloke’s car bringing her back home, well he’d have a few words to say to him, too.
It was a quarter after twelve when Gavin settled himself down to wait upon Eileen’s return; but his day had been long and hard, and something in the hot summer air had sapped his usually abundant energy. The evening’s excitement, maybe. By the time his father went up to bed Gavin was fast asleep and locked in troubled dreams…
Quite some time earlier:
…In the warm summer nights, Lovers’ Lane wasn’t meant for fast-walking. It was only a mile and a half long, but almost three-quarters of an hour had gone by since Eileen and her new young man had left The Barn and started along its winding ways. Lovers’ Lane: no, it wasn’t the sort of walk you took at the trot. It was a holding-hands, swinging-arms-together, soft-talking walk; a kissing walk, in those places where the hedges were silvered by moonlight and lips softened by it. And it seemed strange to Eileen that her escort hadn’t tried to kiss her, not once along the way…
But he had been full of talk: not about himself but mainly the night—how much he loved the darkness, its soft velvet, which he claimed he could feel against his skin, the aliveness of night—and about the moon: the secrets it knew but couldn’t tell. Not terribly scary stuff but…strange stuff. Maybe too strange. And so, whenever she had the chance, Eileen had tried to change the subject, to talk about herself. But oddly, he hadn’t seemed especially interested in her.
“Oh, there’ll be plenty of time to talk about personalities later,” he’d told her, and she’d noticed how his voice was no longer soft but…somehow coarse? And she’d shivered and thought: time later? Well of course there will be…won’t there?
And suddenly she’d been aware of the empty fields and copses opening on all sides, time fleeting by, the fact that she was out here, in Lovers’ Lane, with…a total stran
ger? What was this urgency in him, she wondered? She could feel it now in the way his hand held hers almost in a vice, the coarse, jerky tension of his breathing, the way his eyes scanned the moonlit darkness ahead and to left and right, looking for…what?
“Well,” she finally said, trying to lighten her tone as much as she possibly could, digging her heels in a little and drawing him to a halt, “that’s it—all of it—Lovers’ Lane. From here on it goes nowhere, just open fields all the way to where they’re digging the new road. And anyway it’s time we were getting back. You said you only had an hour.”
He held her hand more tightly yet, and his eyes were silver in the night. He took something out of his pocket and she heard a click, and the something gleamed a little in his dark hand. “Ah, but that was then and this is now,” Garry Clemens told her, and she snatched her breath and her mouth fell open as she saw his awful smile. And then, while her mouth was still open, suddenly he did kiss her—and it was a brutal kiss and very terrible. And now Eileen knew.
As if reading her mind, he throatily said: “But if you’re good and do exactly as you’re told—then you’ll live through it.” And as she filled her lungs to scream, he quickly lifted his knife to her throat, and in his now choking voice whispered, “But if you’re not good then I’ll hurt you very, very much and you won’t live through it. And one way or the other it will make no difference: I shall have you anyway, for you’re my girl-Friday!”
“Gordon, I—” she finally breathed, her eyes wide in the dark, heart hammering, breasts rising and falling unevenly beneath her thin summer dress. And trying again: “Tell me this is just some sort of game, that you’re only trying to frighten me and don’t mean any…of …it.” But she knew only too well that he did.