by Guy N Smith
This part of the graveyard was disused, the burial place of bygone generations, untended and forgotten, perhaps yet another part of Gabor where the locals feared to tread. You could almost smell the putrefaction of ancient bodies, a stench of death that hung heavy and which the elements were unable to disperse.
‘If we cut across there,’ Ron pointed towards where a rotting lichgate swayed in the storm. ‘we can get onto the road and …’
Marie's scream cut him short, a shriek of ultimate terror which the driving storm tore at as though to stifle it. She was staring, pointing, trying to scream again but making only a low groan that might have been the wind.
He followed her shaking finger, saw the tall waving grasses part for an instant, enough for him to see a human shape amidst the crumbling monumental structure of a granite tombstone. Bedraggled, unrecognisable, a thing that lived in this domain of the dead.
The Halestroms moved forward fearfully in the unnatural darkness, afraid of what they might see, almost fleeing back into the gloom of Gabor Wood. Ron peered, the grasses were almost flattened at that very instant by a tornado-like gust as though the gods who rode the storm had decreed that these mortals must look upon whatever it was that crouched by the side of that ancient grave.
Ron and Marie saw but even then they did not believe; not here, in this awful place, seemingly oblivious to the storm … it couldn't be!
‘My God!’ Ron muttered. ‘It's …’
‘Amanda!’ Marie managed to get the scream out this time, was running forward, pushing her husband to one side. ‘Amanda!’
There was no doubt that it was their daughter, clad in a blue summer dress that was saturated, the rain pouring from it onto the backs of her bare legs; she was kneeling with bowed head over a huge weed-covered mound that had once been a family tomb. Her eyes were tightly closed and her lips moved in an inaudible chant. She hadn't even heard them.
‘Amanda!’ Marie reached the girl, grasped her firmly by the wrists as though she feared the child might suddenly be spirited away; anything was possible in Gabor. ‘Amanda, it's me, Mummy. What d'you think you're doing here? You'll catch pneumonia!’
The child's eyes opened, flickered, fighting for recollection. Her lips moved but whatever she said was drowned by a deafening clap of thunder, the sky above immediately illuminated by a searing flash of lightning; as though these gods of daytime darkness were angered by this sudden adult intrusion.
Amanda rose to her feet. She glanced from her mother to Ron Halestrom, a look of defiance on her face, but she made no effort to resist as Marie began pulling her away.
‘We'd better get her home as quickly as we can,’ Ron shouted, and did not really know why he glanced back at that huge marble headstone. That was when sheer terror struck him like one of those bolts of lightning, a chilling fear that had him frozen into immobility, mouthing soundless meaningless words.
For years the lettering on that scrolled headstone had been illegible, a conglomeration of dirt that had built up as though deliberately to obscure a name, to hide it shamefully, burying it in oblivion. But now, in one blinding assault by the elements some of the filth had been washed away, just enough to reveal one soul-shattering name, the accursed family of Gabor - MAINWARING!
Ron Halestrom read it, spelled it out letter by letter, not just to be certain but hoping that he was wrong. But he wasn't. It gave him a sensation of dizziness.
For below this grassy square lay the skeletal remains, not only of the dreaded, cruel landowner but of his daughter, Isobel, the innocent child who had drowned in Gabor Pool. Amanda had found her way here amidst this terrible storm and there was no doubt in Ron Halestrom's mind what his adopted daughter had been doing … she had been attempting to converse with the dead!
CHAPTER NINE - THE HANGING
Phil Barron was the sole remaining occupant of Longlea Cottage. It had often been that way in the past in between arriving and departing groups and he had enjoyed the solitude, the tranquillity, then. Now suddenly for him Gabor was the most awful place on earth.
For most of the day he had lain upon his frail camp bed, tried to work things out in his mind, searched in vain for avenues of escape, a glimmer of light at the end of the dark tunnel in which he found himself, but there was none. All roads led back to Gabor and hopelessness.
It would have been preferable if the police had kept him in custody with Buff and the others. That way he wouldn't have been alone. But the law had neither room nor time to spare for a weak-minded bungler. They had no charges to bring against him, just a report of negligence and inefficiency to be made to the charitable authority along with a detailed account of that bloody, fiery night. If they'd searched Phil's belongings they would have found a supply of cannabis but they weren't interested in him, their hands were full with the others. Phil Barron was just a fool and not a particularly likeable one at that. So they had let him go back to the only home he had and once the charity organisers had the full facts he wasn't likely to be there long.
The rest of the kids had been sent home. Maybe if Elaine had stayed he could have stuck it, tried to fabricate a lengthy excuse about uncontrollable youths but without her it didn't seem worthwhile. Her suggestion about setting up home together didn't seem so bad after all but it was too late now. She was gone; she'd have her baby if she was pregnant and he'd probably never hear from her again.
He couldn't cope, that was his trouble, and now he faced up to the fact. A dropout, just the same as most of the older kids who came here were, and the younger ones would be when they grew up. A pointless existence, you might as well be dead.
You might as well be dead!
His thoughts echoed, hit him with a suddenness that seemed frightening at first but weren't when you really thought about it. What was death? A long sleep, nothing more than that. No worries, no pain, a big, big rest. The thought intrigued him. The only happiness he ever found was short-lived, self-induced by either beer or grass and afterwards it was one bloody hell of a sight worse. Sex was pleasurable but short-lived and for all the good a lot of the teenage sluts were who opened their legs for him you might as well send off for one of those life-sized blow up rubber dolls. And he couldn't afford that luxury and probably never would, and even if he did the yobs would get hold of it and either steal it or burst it. You screwed a girl and tried to tell yourself it was great, masturbated for nights afterwards in an attempt to convince yourself that it really had been good. But it was all one pointless fantasy. Which was how living with Elaine or any other bird would have turned out. So what was the point?
You might as well be dead!
It was hot and stuffy lying in that shabby partitioned room and he wasn't surprised when he heard the thunder start to roll. As a child he'd been terrified of thunderstorms and he hadn't really got that fear out of his system. It was like some unseen force was trying to get you and if you were unlucky a bolt of lightning could do just that.
An easy way out. It would be all over before you knew anything about it. But he didn't have that kind of luck, never had had.
The decision to commit suicide is a process which comes in gradual stages. You think about it but you tell yourself that you'll never go through with it. Having explored every alternative avenue of escape you are left with the ultimate and all that remains is the means. Phil Barron went over them very methodically. Gassing was out because there was no gas in Gabor and he didn't even have a car with a convenient exhaust pipe handy. Neither did he have a gun. Drowning was a possibility, except that he could swim and no matter how deep the water his instinctive survival actions would dominate and all he would succeed in would be getting wet. He could slash his wrists, cut his throat … he went cold at the thought of those last few moments of life with blood spouting all over the place. He'd chicken out at the last moment. Hanging …
It was an exciting idea. Erotic, too, in a funny sort of way. The neck muscles were one of the erogenous zones of the human body, he'd found that out once during a l
engthy solitary session of masturbation when he'd been wearing a silk necktie and had tightened it by degrees until the outcome had been an explosive orgasm. Hanging would be the same, he decided, his last few seconds of life a sexual extravaganza, a superb way to go, with the knowledge that afterwards there would be nothing else to worry about.
Just thinking about it aroused him but he forced himself to abstain from his habitual mode of pleasure; it would be a shame to spoil it all now. But he had to be doing something, some kind of preparation to maintain the continuity of his thoughts. He got off the bed, looked out of the window. Jesus, it was as black as night, hailstones pelting against the glass, forming a white covering on the ground below. In a way the storm excited him, added to the eroticism of it all. Like the elements themselves were orgasming.
He went downstairs, dashed out to the tumbledown lean-to. It was so dark inside the precarious tin-roofed shelter that he had to strike a match, peering about in its faint yellow glow. Searching, pulling empty cartons and rusted bicycle parts aside, scrabbling, hunting by feel. He breathed a loud sigh of relief when his fingers located what he was praying he would find, a five-foot length of plastic rope. He knew it was around somewhere because last winter a car had got stuck in the snowdrifts below Longlea and after the Land Rover had pulled it clear Phil had picked up the forgotten piece of tow rope. He'd always known it would come in useful for something.
The feel of the plastic, running it through his fingers, touching his neck with it, sent a thrill coursing through his body like a mild electric shock. God, he wished Elaine could know about this. She'd come running back, pleading. But he didn't want her back. No way.
He went back indoors. Another problem; he had the means to take his life now, the rope, but not the gallows. Wandering through the cottage, examining every beam. The majority of them were buried in the ceiling, nothing to throw a rope over. A nail wouldn't be strong enough. Oh, shit!
The storm was at its peak, the rain deluging and beginning to creep in under the front door, forming puddles in the uneven quarry tiles. He heard a slate on the roof sliding, bouncing, smashing somewhere at the back of the building. Lightning lit the room every few seconds like it did in those Frankenstein films, the thunder directly overhead.
Phil Barron laughed aloud, knew then that he was going to go through with it after all, not here in this sordid hovel but outside in the wild stormy countryside. The wood, there would be hundreds of suitable trees with stout branches to choose from, so much more thrilling out in the elements, defying them in a way. He would die in Gabor Wood.
Suddenly he began to undress, venomously stripping the clothing from his body, strewing it across the floor. Naked, clutching the length of rope to his body, he opened the front door and stepped outside. The rain hit him, a deluge of water that immediately began to wash the dirt from his long hair, running down his body in dark streaks.
Phil Barron closed his eyes, basked in the coldness after the claustrophobic stuffiness of the cottage, knew that his fantasies this time were for real, that there was no turning back.
Bare-footed he crossed the lane, climbed the rotting wooden gate into the field adjacent to the tinker encampment. He didn't care whether they saw him or not, ignored the sharp pain in his foot when he trod on a stone. Maybe he was bleeding, it didn't matter if he was. Wanting to hurry but forcing himself to walk slowly because this was a time that had to be savoured. It was all part of the build-up to the most wonderful climax of his life, and for once he was truly independent; he didn't need anybody.
The wood was so dark that he had difficulty in locating the track that led through the trees. But eventually he found it, subconsciously treading on tiptoe as though he recognised the presence of some greater power. Now he was sheltered from the full force of the rain, the foliage dripping as it attempted to soak up the downpour. A crash of thunder, so close that he cringed, the following flash of lightning briefly illuminating his surroundings. Trees, nothing but trees, oaks with invincible girths that would resist the elements for another century yet, copper beeches splendid in their mockery of an autumn tint, silver birches that were slender by comparison.
Barron sensed the atmosphere, the brooding evil, but it was not directed against himself. In a way it was as though he was a part of it, the prodigal son of Gabor returning home. Voices, the wind and the growling thunder which was even now passing on, applauding him for his late wisdom after a life of foolishness, the lightning a guiding beacon showing him the massive oak which almost blocked the path.
That was the tree, it could be no other, lower branches perfectly spaced like the rungs of a ladder, two parallel thick boughs; one a platform on which to stand whilst he affixed the rope securely to the upper one.
Trembling, with excitement not fear, climbing until he was standing on that very platform, a king about to be executed, proudly surveying his shadowy kingdom, seeing the mass of faces staring up at him but recognising none. The wind had increased its force almost beyond gale proportions, penetrating even in here so that Phil Barron had to cling on as he tied the rope to the higher branch. He had never been much good with knots; plastic was an awkward material, slipping as though every knot was defying him, attempting to undo itself before he pulled it taut. But he made it in the end, toyed with the loose end, rubbing it against himself and wishing that Elaine could have witnessed his last stand. But he didn't want the bitch here, she had no place in this regal wood.
The noose presented even greater difficulties than the knots had done. It was a feat even keeping his balance but in the end he made it, tested the artificial fibre and made sure that it slid easily and tightened swiftly. He had no thoughts of chickening out; he could not display cowardice before this dark multitude of invisible watchers who were clamouring for the finale.
Oh God, the feel of the rope around his neck, the way it seemed to have a life of its own, caressing him, arousing him again. There were things he had to be doing with his hand …
Swaying precariously, every moment a thousand times more sensuous than it had ever been before, old and new fantasies crowding his brain as though determined to make their impact on him before it was too late. Elaine, damn the cow, he got the feeling that wherever she was she did know what he was doing right now. Pleading with him not to go through with it, promising him a lot of things but he wasn't listening. He didn't want her, he didn't need her; he didn't need anybody. Can't you bloody well understand that?
Another girl whose face he didn't recognise. Red-haired with a mass of freckles, her body demurely hidden by the dark shadows so that he had to strain his eyes but still he couldn't make it out. Those eyes, God, they said everything, promises that were only waiting to be fulfilled, beckoning him with a half-lowering of the lids, an inclination of the head. Come on, Phil, what are you waiting for? Come to me, I need you!
That was when he stepped forward, felt himself falling, a jerk that was like a sledgehammer blow bringing pain and darkness spotted with red. Screaming but there was no sound, fighting wildly but the girl had gone. All alone, swinging this way and that, trying to get a grip on the rope above his head. He made it, eased the pressure, but there was nowhere to rest his feet. Kicking, trying to get a momentum that would carry him back to that platform bough but already the pendulum was a spent force. His arms were tiring fast, soon he would have to drop them down, and the noose around his neck was so tight that he could not breathe properly.
The girl was gone, everybody was gone. Even Elaine. He sobbed, a gurgling sound that his roaring ears picked up. Even the storm had moved on, a rumbling of thunder far away, the rain turning to a fine drizzle. All alone in the dark and the silence; frightening now. He couldn't hold on any longer. There was no way back. He hadn't meant to go through with it; it had all been a game that had gone wrong.
He could not even kick now, just hanging limply, rotating so that he had a pain-racked view of the encircling shadows, a darkness that was getting deeper all the time. And there was somebody
down there watching him!
Just strength and time enough to make out the features, the shock of recognition possibly prolonging Phil Barron's life for a few more seconds. It was Beguildy without a doubt, looking more loathsome and more filthy than ever, a mocking expression on his lice-ridden, bearded features. Looking up, scorning the nudity of youth, the erection which was determined to persevere until the very end.
You bastard! Barron spoke with his protruding eyes, knew that the other saw and understood more fully than had he attempted strangulated words. You've done this. You set fire to the cottage, started the battle, a chain of events that has me strung up instead of you.
But Beguildy only smiled faintly as though he knew personally every agony that the dying man was undergoing, the final throttling torture that would only end when the neck broke.
The vagrant waited for that crack of bone, saw the body go limp and then he slunk back into the shadows, moving more warily than he had ever moved in Gabor Wood before. It was more evil now than it had ever been. There were strange powers abroad beyond his ken.
The owls came first, silent-flying brown birds with sharp talons and huge eyes that missed nothing, perching for a time in the surrounding trees as though they feared a trap of some kind. They did not trust Man but the chance to feed on a corpse of the enemy was not to be missed. They glided in, dug footholds in the flesh of the cheeks and stabbed viciously at the eyes with their curved beaks, cutting out the orbs with delicate efficiency. They fed, flew off in search of mice and voles and the corpse was left to swing in peace on a straining bough. Until dawn when the corvids arrived noisily in numbers, to congregate at a banquet of human flesh.
CHAPTER TEN - THE HORROR OF THE DEPTHS
Roger Bent had dived in hundreds of pools, rivers and canals in the last fifteen years, had recovered dozens of drowned bodies. His outlook was simple - a corpse was a corpse and the dead couldn't hurt you. His favourite quip was ‘if they didn't hurt you when they were alive they ain't goin' to when they're dead.’ If you didn't think that way you'd go mad.