by Guy N Smith
‘I'm glad you're going to be with us now, Mammy.’ Donna stopped, turned; her face seemed to have aged considerably since Mrs Flaherty had last seen her. ‘We need somebody like you to look after us. And we'll all be together in the pool where nobody can hurt us, where we'll live forever because we can't die.’
Mrs Flaherty had no recollection of falling from the path, only seeming to float downwards, hitting the water ever so gently with hardly a splash. Then going down into the depths; just a few seconds when she had a suffocating sensation, kicking and flaying wildly, but after that it was fine and it wasn't cold either like she thought it was going to be. So dark, though. She couldn't see Donna but she knew she was around, the kind of feeling you got when you were very close to somebody. Then she heard a babble of voices that sounded like children talking excitedly together somewhere. They popped; a silence that was heavy, ominous, had Petronilla groping blindly, wishing she could find Donna.
The voices started up again, this time much louder, high-pitched screams of sheer terror that rose to a crescendo that died down as though whoever it was had gone away.
Mrs Flaherty sensed Donna returning, coming close to her. But no longer did she welcome the child's presence, for whatever this thing was in Donna O'Brien's form it was malevolent! It was right what the child had said - there was both good and evil in Gabor Pool.
But Donna was suddenly very evil!
CHAPTER TWELVE - SNAKES!
‘We're leaving.’ Marie Halestrom was adamant, picking up the suitcase again, grabbing Amanda by the arm. ‘There's no transport so we'll walk to town.’
‘Amanda can't walk that far,’ Ron snapped. ‘It's all of ten miles and it'll be dark in an hour.’
‘I've no doubt we can pick up a lift en route,’ she snapped back. ‘But we're not staying another night in this dreadful place.’
He sighed, knew that there was nothing he could say that would stop Marie. She already had the door open, was dragging Amanda through. The child glanced back just once, a look that said ‘I mustn't leave Gabor’.
Then they were gone, their footsteps dying away down the long drive.
Ron Halestrom turned back to his study. Hell, he wasn't going to get any work done, there was too much on his mind. The frustration was building up in him, he felt the urge to kick everything in sight, to pummel the walls with his fists, to shout and scream.
But it wouldn't do any good. Nothing would do any good until that bloody pool was drained dry tomorrow. And the police would not be deterred from their purpose by reluctant workmen. That would show one or two people that he wasn't to be trifled with.
Paddy Johnson was morose when he returned to the tinker encampment. He should have been in a jubilant frame of mind, euphoric. He'd let down the tyres on the snobs' Citroën, but it had all been so unspectacular, so easy, and he wouldn't be around to watch their reactions when they discovered his vandalism. He should have waited, hidden in the bushes nearby and observed from there. It was too late now, he couldn't go back without risk of discovery.
But doubtless there were other things he could be doing to satisfy his burning desire for destruction. He ate his plate of stew in silence, keeping well away from the others and noting that Mrs Flaherty, the miserable old cow, wasn't around. She'd gone to search for that O'Brien wench, no doubt. Good luck to 'em both, they deserved each other.
It wasn't until darkness had fallen that he hit on an idea, one that brought a slow grin to his coarse features and had him wiping his hand across his lips with satisfaction. That old man, the one that went round roaring all the time, he hadn't been seen or heard for a day or two. Probably he was lying low in that hovel of his on the other side of the wood. Those town kids had smashed the windows but they hadn't done a proper job, 'cause they didn't know how. There was woodworm-riddled timber in there that would burn like kindling wood, really put paid to the place once and for all. And another thing, Paddy's grin became broader still, Gabor Wood was bone-dry, that storm hadn't made any impression upon it. Set fire to that, too, destroy the bastard and teach all these fuckers who were responsible for all these strange goings-on a lesson! They'd killed Sean, somebody had to pay them back. And Paddy Johnson would do just that!
It was dark when Paddy descended the slope of the miniature valley in which Beguildy's cottage was situated. The boy moved stealthily, circled the tumbledown building in the hope of seeing a light of some kind; it would be an additional bonus to find the old man at home.
But there was no sign of Beguildy. The youth listened at the half-open door but there was no sound from within. Christ, it stank in there but it would soon be fumigated all right. He shone his small torch inside. Phew! Rats scurried for cover and he could hear more of them scuttling around upstairs. He got the feeling that Beguildy encouraged them, maybe shared his meals with them, let them sleep in his bed. The verminous old bastard!
Paddy went inside, wrinkled his nose in disgust. Wood shavings and rodent turds formed a soft carpet on the stone floor. Ideal! He began scraping up a pile with his foot, heaping it around the rickety legs of the table. He wouldn't even need a newspaper to start this blaze.
One match was all that was necessary, the flames licking and growing, greedily devouring the filthy kindling. Paddy Johnson turned, leaped for the door, a sudden inexplicable fear that he might find it slammed shut and jammed so that he couldn't get out, but it was still open.
Even as he ran up the opposite slope, turned back to catch a glimpse of leaping orange flames through the narrow doorway, he experienced a sense of unease. He glanced about him but it was too dark to see anything. Running, breathless, not stopping again until he reached the open ground at the top of the slope. The old bugger was somewhere about, watching, you could almost feel his fury burning into you in the same way that the fire was destroying that hovel down there.
Just a crazy old man, Paddy told himself, he couldn't hurt you. Well tonight he'd be sleeping out rough and the youth hoped that thunderstorm came back; drowned Beguildy, gave him pneumonia. Hate against hate, and no logical reason behind it. It was as if some inexplicable force had assigned Paddy Johnson to a mission of arson!
Now for the wood. He could set it ablaze and be back in camp before anybody spotted the flames. He had the urge, almost a frenzy to the exclusion of all else, clutching the rattling box of matches in his hands. He couldn't wait.
Trembling, gulping for air, he saw the outline of Gabor Wood in front of him, a mass of black sinister shadows that seemed to move as though the foremost trees swayed. But that was impossible because there was no wind! The atmosphere was heavy, brooding, a gathering malevolence that had Paddy almost turning and fleeing back to the safety of the camp.
There was no dry undergrowth on the outskirts of the wood, only a fresh growth of bramble and bracken. He would have to venture inside. He swung the beam of his torch round in a circle, just to make sure that nobody was lurking close by; that feeling was stronger.
It took all Paddy Johnson's courage to follow the rabbit track through the undergrowth, catching his breath in awe as the nearest trees loomed over him, their huge branches like a multitude of monstrous tentacles waiting to pounce, to snatch him up and crush the life from his shaking body.
He wasn't going any further than a few yards inside. No way. What he needed was dry twigs, brushwood that would ignite easily, but the ground around him was as clear as if it had been swept with a broom. Uncanny. Maybe Beguildy came here for his kindling wood, had been gathering it for years until there wasn't any more left. Maybe Beguildy was here now …
A sudden chill, a lowering of the temperature. But still there was no wind. Christ, he'd have to get a fire going somehow. All the bloody fires there had been these last few days and now, when he wanted one most, it was being denied him. Desperation, trying to throw off his fear of the darkness, searching further afield with his torch.
Then he spied a lone dead and rotting stump, the last remains of some giant tree that had been felled ma
ny years ago by a steady process of blows from a peasant woodman's axe in the days when mechanical saws were unknown.
Paddy grabbed at it with his hands; a piece broke off, so dry that some of it crumbled to dust. He scrambled for more of it, scooped up a handful of thick stumpy twigs, paused with them, an intuition that something wasn't quite right.
Next second he was screaming aloud, trying to scatter them but they clung to his fingers, wrapped themselves around his wrists; dead wood that had suddenly come to life, wriggling angrily. Snakes!
How many there were he neither knew nor cared, just wanted to shake them off. Childhood fears that had never ceased to torture him suddenly magnified out of all proportion. That time when he had slept out in the open and awoken to discover black slugs all over his body like repulsive leeches; another occasion when young Pat Murphy had been black berrying and had been bitten by an adder. The boy had almost died.
Paddy felt them around his feet, too, squirming things that wrapped themselves onto his ankles as though they sought to pull him to the ground, the ultimate in revulsion. He almost fell, thought he had thrown one off but it flipped back. He screamed again, fought blindly, panicking. Running, stumbling, not knowing or caring in which direction he fled.
Then he was out of the wood into the gathering twilight, able to see! Oh God, it was a thousand times worse now that he actually saw the adders; it was impossible to work out how many of them there were, a mass of dark brown bodies with yellow zigzags down their backs, eyes that saw and hated, a multi-headed serpent spawned in some dark evil place determined to take its revenge on Man for its lowly status in life.
Paddy couldn't scream anymore, not even when the sharp forked tongues plunged into his flesh, had him convulsing with pain. You're going to die and when death comes you'll welcome it!
He'd given up trying to shake them off, knew he could not dislodge them, that wherever he went he would have to take them with him. He couldn't get Pat Murphy off his mind, seeing the boy again as they had waited for the ambulance to arrive, his arm visibly swelling, puffing up redly, Pat screaming in agony the whole while. He was unconscious by the time the two men arrived to load him onto the stretcher, the ambulance bumping its way back across the uneven field, blue flashing light and siren starting to blare when they reached the road.
Bee-bor … bee-bor … bee-bor …
Paddy could hear it now, reverberating in his crazed brain. This time he would be the one in the ambulance, mercifully unconscious, his life ebbing away. The snakes were still biting him but his swollen arms and legs seemed impervious to the pain now, numbed as though they had already died.
In his blind panic he was totally disorientated; the encampment was barely half-a-mile to his left down the slope but he struck off to the right. Once he fell, rolled, felt those revolting bodies squash beneath his weight, but they were like rubber springing back to shape, biting deep again, becoming more angry still.
He could barely breathe; there was a red haze before his eyes but the will to live prevailed and he staggered on. Paddy had long given up trying to dislodge his repulsive guests; they had wriggled up the sleeves of his torn denim jacket, got inside his shirt. One was working its way up towards his shoulders possibly with the intention of wrapping itself round his neck and throttling him. Somehow he managed to increase his pace.
He came to a hedge, ran into it before he realised its existence, briars clutching at his clothing with a tenacity that equalled that of the snakes. Paddy fought with a desperation stemming from his terror, forced his way through heedless of scratches and tearing material; tumbling down a steep grassy bank, rolling onto a hard surface, the adders beneath him being squashed and biting venomously again.
He lay there trying to determine his surroundings amidst a crimson haze of pain. A road, high hedges on both sides silhouetted in the dusk, nobody in sight as far as he was able to see. Oh God, there was a bloody snake trying to wind itself around his neck! He got a grip on it with swollen fingers, dragged it free and hurled it away from him. It hit the tarmac, straightened out and began wriggling back towards him, an unbelievable expression of reptilian hate on its features.
Paddy got to his feet and broke into a staggering run, not daring to look behind him. He thought he could hear it coming, slithering its way across some loose chippings. Holy Mary, the others were inside his shirt now, wriggling against his flesh, biting new territory.
He sensed the snake which he had thrown off catching him up, came to a halt with a feeling of despair, felt it curl itself around his ankle and start to climb up the inside of his leg. Its fangs struck, had him shrieking as the venom seemed to shoot right into the pit of his stomach, doubling him up.
Desperately he began to tear the clothes from his body, strewing them in his wake until he was naked except for his footwear, not daring to look down at himself. His attackers were mostly curled around his legs and thighs now as though seeking to bring him down by a concerted effort. His pace was slowing, his body seeming to swell to twice its normal size, a burning pain that pumped boiling liquid through his veins and was sapping his strength. He couldn't go on much longer.
Paddy Johnson could taste their venom in his throat, like neat sour vinegar that had him trying to throw up only there was some obstruction holding back the vomit. He closed his eyes, didn't want to see anything. He wanted to die, trying to pray but he couldn't think of the words.
He was falling again, a sensation of slow motion, the tarmac and chippings a soft landing that seemed to bounce him back up like a trampoline. Lying there, feeling his swollen flesh quivering, sobbing softly to himself. Oh Jesus, let up, you bastards, let me die in peace!
But they were still there, elongated bodies that slid and bit, and revelled in this victory over Man. Paddy Johnson's arms flailed the air, a gesture of hopelessness, not even attempting to tear his attackers from him, afraid to touch them with his pulsating, engorged fingers.
Yet even in the depths of despair the embers of self-survival still glowed. If he could get help maybe he could still be saved or at least be allowed to die without these revolting reptiles crawling all over him. Somehow he got up onto his knees, started to crawl. They were on his back and shoulders, one beginning to slide around his neck again. A roaring sound in his ears like a distant waterfall in full spate, now not able to see at all. He was blind, bloody well blind, maybe deaf, too! The pain in his eyes, they must have bitten him there!
Still crawling, he didn't know in which direction, didn't care. He thought he heard voices but he could not be sure. Nobody could help him now.
His crawl slowed even further, he felt his muscles begin to sag, slumping down into a heap, rolling over on to his back. He opened his mouth, attempted to gulp for air, writhed and tried to vomit as something slid in between his open lips; something smooth that jerked and bit. Agony like a score of clumsy injections in the back of his throat, choking him.
His hands clawed, trying to tug the adder out of his mouth, but with one swift movement it drew itself inside, a fifteen-inch length of reptile body that was trying to bite its way : down his throat!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - THE OLD EVIL
Marie Halestrom was already doubting the wisdom of her decision to try to make it on foot to town. Her stubbornness began to wilt as dusk turned the sky overhead saffron, the mountains in the background suddenly dark and sinister. She kept glancing about her, fearful lest she might see a slinking vagrant shape along the hedgerows but there was nobody in sight. At least she could see nobody and that in itself was a matter for concern.
She glanced down at Amanda, keeping a tight hold on her daughter's hand the whole time. The child had not spoken since they had left Gabor House, seemingly resigned to accompanying Marie wherever they might be going. Yet she had changed, seemed to have developed a new and frightening moroseness these last few days as though she sensed things beyond mortal knowledge but was unwilling to talk about them. And Marie seemed to be aware of these things also, an inexplic
able feeling of foreboding, portending doom. That was why they were running away, but could they throw it off, leave it all behind them? If only Ron had come with them it wouldn't have been so bad, they might have made it.
Every few yards Marie slowed her step and listened. Surely a car must pass soon even in this ungodly place. Yet the inhabitants of Gabor never went anywhere and likewise what would anybody want to go to the village for at night? There wasn't even a pub. She gave a groan of despair; they'd never make it all the way to town on foot.
Suddenly she felt Amanda tense and stiffen, draw back as though she was going to refuse to go any further.
‘What's the matter?’ Marie asked. Perhaps the child was tired but there was no way she was going to be able to carry her.
Amanda said something, a conglomeration of words that came out like shrill animal grunts, staring fixedly ahead, her features transfixed into that all-too-familiar expression of fury. Her free hand pointed, stabbed at the darkness.
‘Now don't start that again!’ Marie's tone was sharp. ‘There's nothing here for you to get worked up about. And you must learn to speak properly, not lapse into that monkey gibberish. You can speak quite well if you want to.’
Amanda appeared not to have heard. The hand holding her mother's had suddenly become clammy, the grip tight. Her eyes widened, stared ahead as though she saw something that was denied to the adult.
‘What is it, Amanda?’
There was something there, further along the road, barely discernible in the deepening shadows, a black unrecognisable mass that moved and gave off strangled moans. Marie's fear came surging back; she wanted to turn and flee but that would only take her back to Gabor and that was the last place she wanted to go.
She moved forward, dragging Amanda with her. Whoever or whatever it was in the road seemed to be in pain, in which case was unlikely to present any danger. She narrowed her eyes, stared again. It was a man, naked. He was hurt badly by the way he was convulsing. Perhaps he'd been knocked down by some hit-and-run motorist. But no cars had passed along this road! She hesitated. Whoever it was she couldn't leave him there to suffer; she had to go and see even if it was … Beguildy!