by Simon Clark
A red-haired girl sitting alone at the end of the bar lit a cigarette and smiled a certain kind of smile at Electra. A smile that had all the secret coded meaning of a Freemason’s handshake. Electra cold-shouldered her with a colourless glance. She wasn’t interested. Tonight she only had eyes for Mr Black.
4
When the end titles for The Colour Purple began to roll, David joined the dozen or so other cinemagoers as they headed for the exit. As evenings out go it hadn’t been heart-stoppingly exciting; however, he’d enjoyed it. He felt relaxed, and ready to turn in.
And yes. OK. Leppington town was pleasant enough in a faded, attenuated kind of way. But he didn’t see enough to keep him here. Not for the rest of the holiday. Nor professionally. The invitation from Dr Ferman was still in his pocket.
If anything, he’d like to spend more time with his Uncle George. He guessed that for the first six years of his life the old man had been like a second father to him. It would be an act of meanness to simply move on just like that. But he supposed he could promise to keep in touch with his uncle, more than just cards at Christmas and the occasional phone call. He could even invite the old man to Liverpool for a couple of days.
At the main exit, David hung back in the warmth of the foyer. In the darkness outside rain blasted the pavement. Thunder rumbled, a jagged spike of lightning split the night sky. The storm had well and truly broken.
CHAPTER 20
1
This was Leppington at midnight. Rain lashed the black slate roofs. Lightning flashed, turning, for a split second, those black-as-coal roofs silver — a dazzling silver. Saturday night revellers had made it home for late-night television, Chinese takeways, tipsy love-making or simply to sleep. In the chip shop in the wonderfully named Tiger Lane, Chloe and Samantha Moberry were punching Gillian Wurtz in the face. Gillian had joked that Dianne Moberry had run off with a gypsy lover. Now Gillian lay flat on the tiled floor, covered in steaming chunks of cod, chips and vinegar; blood streamed from cuts on her face opened up by the Moberry sisters’ rings. She’d hide the scars with make-up on her wedding day; but she’d still remember the beating in the chip shop fifty years from now on the day she died. There’s no way of completely hiding scars on the mind.
Lightning blossomed again in great shimmering airbursts of silver. Thunder barrelled down the hillsides, rattling windows and waking babies and dogs, raising a howl that mated human and canine.
The River Lepping, engorged with rain, wormed through the town like a thick artery, bloated to the point of rupture.
The wind blew hard. It sighed around the eaves of the Station Hotel. When it gusted harder it rose into a moan, before ebbing into a brokenhearted sob.
A sparrow caught out in the fierce gale tried desperately to make the safety of a hollow beneath the church guttering. Beating its wings it tried to escape the bruising wind and rain. Lightning flashed, disorientating it. The bird flew down instead of up.
Its wings brushed the headstones in the cemetery. Flowers torn from urns flew with it in a mad flock of red and yellow petals. Thunder thumped the earth like a hammer blow. It sent vibrations down through the headstones, down through the moist soil to the coffins two metres below the turf. The bones of the dead shivered in mystic sympathy with those great hammer blows of thunder that rained down upon the wet town.
The wind gusted. The sparrow beat its wings, striving to escape the storm before the cold and damp ate into its body and froze its heart.
In a flurry of feathers and spinning petals it flew high into the sky towards the silvery bursts of lightning in the cloud.
Perhaps its brain processed the information received via eyes and ears incorrectly. Perhaps it thought it was locked inside some cave and the flashes of lightning were the opening of the cave and daylight.
Blinded by rain it beat the night air with its wings.
The Station Hotel reared up before it, monstrously scab-like in the darkness. Lightning flickered silver. That same silvery flicker was reflected on its wet brick walls.
The sparrow flew harder.
A square of pure silver suddenly shone in front of it.
Freedom.
The sparrow flew at it.
A second later, neck broken, it spiralled down to the pavement below.
2
David Leppington looked up as he rolled his socks into a ball.
It had sounded as if someone had thrown a ball at his window. He’d distinctly heard a muffled bump.
He pulled the curtain to one side. Beads of water rolled down the glass. When the lightning flashed, some of the beads looked pink.
Blood, supplied the ever-vigilant professional side of his brain. How the hell does my window get sprayed with blood at midnight? Especially when I’m five storeys up?
Lightning flashed. Thunder WHUMPED! down against the roof.
A bird, he supposed. Probably lost in the dark, it had flown into the glass.
He opened the drawer and dropped his socks into it.
Yawning, he looked at his watch. Ten past midnight.
He was drowsy but doubted if he’d be able to sleep with the gods playing some celestial version of footie across the night sky. The racket was awesome. Every WHUMP! of the thunder sounded like a hammer blow against the hotel.
It made the floorboards vibrate beneath his bare feet.
He sat on the bed, yawned again, wondered whether to switch on the TV.
Best not, he thought, thunderstorms and television don’t mix. He remembered, when he’d been twelve years old, how lightning had struck the TV aerial as he and his parents watched Star Trek.
The screen had flashed, then cracked in two with a tremendous bang. Following that the room had dramatically filled with smoke. The dog had hidden under the sideboard and they were still trying to coax him out with biscuits and rawhide twists two hours later.
So he pulled the aerial plug from the back of the set and went to brush his teeth.
As he did so he happened to glance at the bottom of his door. A shadow moved along the gap between the carpet and the brass carpet grip.
Now, as far as he knew the only other guest on this landing was Bernice Mochardi. She was probably returning to her room after a night on the town. If he was quick he could just put his head round the door, wish her goodnight and remind her about tomorrow. Floating diffusely in the back of his mind was the hope he could get a conversation up and running. Then perhaps invite her in for a coffee; then —
Oh no, you don’t, David, he told himself with a grin. You never played the predatory sex fiend particularly well. Nor are one-night stands as much fun as people pretend.
But with the thunderstorm playing merry hell on the hotel roof, he’d never get to sleep yet, so a chat and maybe a homely cocoa or something would pass the time until the storm blew itself out.
Quickly he made it to the hotel room door, turned the key and swung it open.
‘Bernice — oh!’
The eyes that locked onto his from across the corridor oozed menace. Thunder crashed. The lights went out.
3
David froze in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame. The sudden darkness was total. The thunder drowned out any other sound.
A second later the lights flickered back on.
And there stood Jack Black.
I’d bet any money you’re not up here to turn down the beds, thought David sourly. The thug was probably on his way to slip into someone’s room to steal their wallet.
Jack Black’s face was even more ugly in the flashes of lightning. The tattoos and scars stood out vividly from his head. His grey eyes burned with a kind of ice fire that seemed even more menacing than before.
David knew he’d have to say something to the thug — just what, he didn’t know exactly; but he’d have to be careful it didn’t sound provocative or as if he was threatening him. Last thing he wanted was to have a fist fight with the monster.
Jack Black stood in the middle of the corridor stari
ng expressionlessly at him.
He’s waiting for me to speak first, thought David. OK, say something diplomatic, something completely inoffensive, then get rid of the man.
Before he could say anything another door rattled down the corridor; a block of light fell on the carpet.
‘David?’ Bernice stepped out into the corridor; she shot David a smile, but it faded the second she saw Jack Black’s hulking form in the corridor.
David glanced at her then looked again in a surprised double take. She wore dark eyeshadow around her eyes, her lips were bright red — a startling blood-red — and she wore clothes that looked distinctly Victorian: a long black skirt, a blouse, also black and glinting a deep electric purple; and she wore a pair of startling black lace gloves that reached above her elbows. The effect was solidly Gothic.
Deliberately ignoring Jack Black, she looked at David. ‘My lights went out. Did yours?’
‘It must be the storm,’ David replied. ‘Perhaps we ought to ask Electra for some candles just in case.’ He turned to Black. ‘Do you know if there are any candles in the hotel?’ He spoke politely.
Jack Black stared at him with eyes that burned yet were strangely cold.
‘We’d best have some candles,’ David repeated in an even voice. ‘It looks as if we might be heading for a power cut.’
‘Don’t bother, David. You won’t get any sense out of that moron.’
Oh, great move, Bernice, thought David, appalled by her open insult. There’ll be trouble now.
The man turned his eyes at her, locked them onto her face. A shiver ran up David’s spine.
The thug would never hit a woman, would he?
David wasn’t so sure.
Slowly, the man raised a finger and traced the line of the livid red scar that ran from his eye to his ear like a spectacle arm. It was as if the scar tingled. Jack Black appeared to be considering some problem.
David stepped slowly sideways to put himself between Bernice and the man.
If he attacks, David thought, I’ll simply grab him, then yell to Bernice to phone the police.
Meanwhile you’ll end up a bloody punchbag.
Christ, some holiday this’s turning out to be.
Jack Black looked up, his eyes narrowed; he’d reached a decision.
David took a step back.
Here it comes, he thought grimly.
Jack Black spoke in a low voice; but there was clearly force in it. ‘Go back into your rooms,’ he said. ‘Go inside and lock the doors.’
Bernice’s eyes flashed angrily. ‘Why don’t you just piss off?’
‘No…go into your rooms. Lock the doors.’
‘OK,’ David said diplomatically. ‘We’ll do that. But it’s time you were in your own room…’ So far, so good. No sudden flurry of blows from the thug. ‘You’re staying in the converted stable block, aren’t you?’
He didn’t reply. The man’s eyes suddenly lost their focus as if he was listening to a voice speaking to him from far away. After what seemed a long while he very slowly nodded as if agreeing with the voice…or as if he was beginning to understand something that had been troubling him.
‘It’s the lightning.’
‘Sure it’s lightning,’ Bernice said, irritated. ‘Anyone can see that.’
‘No.’ Jack Black shook his head as if preoccupied with some great problem. ‘This lightning is different. It’s not the lightning you can see,’ he said as, on cue, lightning flashed, filling the corridor with a silver brilliance. ‘This is black. Black lightning. It’s bringing those things to life. They’re going to break out.’ He took a deep breath; his eyes sharpened as they focused. ‘Go into your rooms. Lock the doors,’ he repeated in a whisper. ‘That is what you’ve got to do.’
‘Yeah,’ Bernice snorted. ‘Nice one. What then? You pick the locks and nick all the televisions on this floor?’
‘No.’ Again he wore that dreamy faraway look. ‘You’re both in danger. Go back to your rooms.’
‘We’ll go back to our rooms once you’ve gone downstairs,’ David said calmly. ‘There’s no reason for you to be up here, is there?’
‘There’s you,’ Black said obliquely, then rubbed his fingers across one of his massive tattooed fists. ‘So I’ve got to stay up here.’
David looked back at Bernice. She pointed a lace-clad finger at the man. ‘You know what he’s going to do? He’s going to rob us. Why did Electra do such a crazy thing as hire him? She’s insane, isn’t she? Just bloody insane.’
In a quiet voice David said to Bernice, ‘We can’t stay here all night.’
‘I will if I have to.’
‘I’ll phone reception.’
‘Fat lot of good that will do.’
‘Why?’
‘No one there. I’ll ring Electra in her own apartment.’
David looked back at Jack Black. He seemed really out of it. Hardly the professional observation of a medical expert. But that was the perfect description. He seemed out of himself. Away somewhere else. Preoccupied with a voice that David couldn’t hear.
Thunder rumbled.
Suddenly Jack Black’s expression cleared and he looked David in the eye; then he looked at Bernice.
He turned his head to one side and touched the red scar. ‘My mother did this when I was six hours old. She kicked over the hospital incubator when she saw me. Imagine that. Little baby in one of them plastic fish-tank things they have in maternity wards? Kicks it. Tips me out. Splat I go on the floor. Head split from there to there.’ He pointed at the side of his head, speaking low and fast. ‘When I was six days old she poured a kettle of boiling water over me. A week after that she tried to swap me for a packet of cigarettes.’ He shot David a look. ‘Why do mothers do that? I didn’t do a full day in school after I turned eight. I can draw, though. I can draw really good…really, really good. And…’ He stabbed another look at David. ‘…and I know what you’re thinking. And then there’s the black lightning. It’s all over the town. I saw it the day I came here. It’s nuthin’ to do with the weather. The black lightning’s coming out of the ground. And no one else can see it. Only me,’ he breathed. ‘Only me.’
Drugs. That was the word that popped crystal-bright into David’s brain. Lots of drugs. The man was obviously traced up on something.
David glanced in the direction of the lift door. Perhaps he should get Bernice into the lift. Otherwise they’d have to pass Jack Black to reach the stairs.
He backed casually away from Black who’d suddenly stopped talking and wore that preoccupied look again, as if striving to remember something important.
‘Bernice,’ David said gently. ‘Would you press the lift call button, please?’
‘I’m not leaving my room unlocked.’
‘OK, just pull the door shut. It’s got a Yale; it’ll lock itself. Then I think we should go downstairs and talk to Electra.’
‘I haven’t got the key.’
‘Electra can unlock it later for you. Just pull the door shut.’
‘What about your room?’
‘It’ll be OK.’
‘But —’
‘Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.’
Bernice stood behind David, close by the lift door. David didn’t want to turn his back on the thug. Now the man ran his fingers over his lips, still working through the problem, his lips moving as if he talked to himself. ‘Black lightning. Things moving under ground. Not good, not good…’
Behind him he heard clicks, then a hum, as the lift machinery spun reluctantly into life.
Jack Black stood there in the centre of the corridor, his huge figure framed by the walls and ceiling. Lightning slashed silver along the walls; thunder boomed.
At that moment the lift door opened.
For a second David thought the sudden screams he heard were somehow generated by the storm.
Then he saw a pale shape burst through the lift doors. For a second he stared at the naked woman who threw herself down at Bernice’s legs,
wrapped her arms around them, then clung there with a savage desperation. And all the time she screamed, her mouth wide open, her eyes as round as discs.
Blood smeared the woman’s arms.
David snapped himself out of the shock. He crouched down beside her. ‘What’s happened? No, it’s OK, you’re safe. Can you tell me what happened?’
The woman looked up through mascara streaked eyes. ‘Don’t let them hurt me…don’t…don’t let them hurt me like Matt…’
4
Five minutes later the woman — Fiona was the name David had managed to coax out of her — sat on Bernice’s bed. She shook violently, great tears rolling down her cheeks. And she wasn’t making a lot of sense as she tried to tie the pink towelling dressing gown Bernice had given her.
‘Here,’ Bernice said gently, crouching down beside her. ‘Let me.’ She tied the towelling cord for her. Bernice looked up at David, eyes full of concern. ‘Can you tell if she’s hurt?’
David came from the bathroom with a damp flannel and towel.
‘As far as I can tell, no. The blood on her arms doesn’t look to be hers. Has she said anything else?’
‘No, she seems completely scrambled. Has she been — attacked?’ He realized what she meant. Raped. ‘I can’t be sure. Not until she can tell us what happened.’ During a brief examination, he had noticed the redness of her vagina — and the smell of semen was unmistakable; but that might be attributable to consensual sexual intercourse. The situation was fragile enough without yelling rape.
Bernice stroked the woman’s hair. Gently, she asked, ‘Fiona. What happened? Has someone hurt you?’
‘I — I…oh, Matt…‘s impossible, impossible, impossible…’ She spoke in a stuttering, gasping kind of way. ‘I can’t believe this happened to us…it isn’t fair…it isn’t.’ She began to rock backwards and forwards.
Bernice looked up at him. ‘Black did this, didn’t he?’
‘We can’t be sure.’