Close Encounters of the Strange Kind

by Michael Kerr

  No reply.

  “Hey, get out here, right now!” he demanded. She had no idea who she was dealing with. Had she known that he was a professional hitman with no sense of compassion, who did not feel a shred of guilt or remorse over the dozens of marks he had eliminated, then she would be more than eager to show him some respect.

  The woman appeared and stared at him impassively.

  Tate frowned. He recognised her. She was a dumpy middle-aged redhead with freckles and a small pug nose above her thin-lipped mouth. He slid off the stool and took three paces backwards, only stopping when his back came up against the side of the carriage.

  Her eyes were bulging, spotted with blood. He knew that this condition was petechiae; small pinpoint haemorrhages that signified asphyxia. It was something he had seen many times, due to a penchant for strangling his nominated victims.

  He even remembered her name. This was Helen Mellor, a councillor who’d vetoed an application for some building development that his gangland employer wanted to go through. She had been in the way; had not had the nous to listen to fair warning, and ended up paying the ultimate price at his hand.

  How could she be here?

  “It wasn’t personal,” he said defensively. “I was just following orders.”

  The dead woman made as if to speak, but only the cawing sound of an enraged crow issued from her mouth. The flex that was still embedded in her neck had fractured the cricoid; the ring-shaped cartilage of the larynx, making speech impossible.

  Tate was shaking. He saw a dark stain erupt from the material of her uniform, over the flat side of her chest, from where he had sliced off the breast.

  It was at that moment the missing passengers began to return, to materialise in the buffet car and move towards him.

  He must have gone insane, or was experiencing the mother of all nightmares. That was it! He was asleep. He just felt wide awake. He closed his eyes, counted to ten and opened them, to no avail.

  Why had he not recognised them before?: the woman who’d been sat facing him, working on a laptop, the balding guy who had worn headphones and tapped his fingers to unheard music from his IPod, and a younger man who had been reading a paperback. He had murdered all three of them.

  Tate’s nerve gave. He ran out of the buffet car, back down the aisle, only to be stopped in his pell-mell dash when he tripped over his own feet, to fall heavily, cracking his head on the arm of a seat. He sprang up, ignoring the blood that flowed down from his forehead to sting his lead-grey eyes, that were now wide open and filled with fear, not calm and unreadable.

  Reaching up, he pulled the emergency stop handle and braced himself against the expected bite of steel on steel as the driver applied the brakes. But the train slid on smoothly through the slick, oily night.

  There was no way out. Zombie-like corpses that had met untimely deaths in the grip of his glove-encased hands lurched towards him from both directions.

  He was not beaten yet. He drew the 9mm handgun from the shoulder holster under his jacket, took three deep breaths and steadied himself, holding the weapon two-handed and taking careful aim before pulling the trigger. The head of the man facing him jerked as a hole appeared in his forehead and the back of his skull was blown out to discharge its contents on the woman standing behind him. But he did not go down, just smiled and kept on advancing.

  Tate kept firing until the gun was empty, backing away as his mind was overcome with a sudden belief that he was about to die at the hands of people that could not exist, but did.

  There was only one place to go. The toilet with the entrance to a dark tunnel was only a few feet from him. He ran to it, went into the cubicle and locked the door behind him.

  The small movement at his side caused him to cry out. No one was there. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a transparent ziplock bag. Within it, the severed thumb of the man he had murdered that day was flexing and twisting, trying to escape. And through the clear plastic he could see the tattoo of an eye on its lower knuckle, blinking rapidly, seeking him out to stare up at him accusingly.

  Tate screamed and hurled the bag into the toilet bowl and hit the button to flush it away, out of his sight.

  “Better get a grip, Mr. Tate,” a deep, resonant voice said from the dark maw of the tunnel. “You will need to ready yourself for much worse than this.”

  “Who...Who are you?” Tate asked the apparition that materialised before him. “Where am I?”

  “My name is Death,” the tall, shadowy figure said, slipping back the cowl of his cloak to reveal an ivory-coloured skull that was pliable and could alter its expression. “And this train is your mode of transport to Hell.”

  Above the ghoul, Tate saw the engraved Latin letters shift and reform into English, to spell out; This is a terrible place.

  And so it was.

  Tate was drawn through the stygian gloom of the doorway, to be sucked into a world of physical and mental excruciation. He was surrounded by hordes of others, who screamed and writhed under the horrendous suffering they were being subjected to by demonic torturers.

  Tate had no way of knowing that he had been felled by a massive, fatal heart attack as he ran to catch the train. He had died on the platform. But the circle of life goes on after death, and his future was to be one of abject misery. Atonement would gain no favour. This was not a place where redemption was an option. At the end of the day, you reap what you have sown…for eternity.

  12

  THE SHOW MUST GO ON

  Luigi was at his work bench, hunched over the vice attached to it that held the small wooden head of Punchinello firmly between its padded jaws. The hideous face looked up at him with a disturbingly lifelike smile.

  “My, you are an ugly little brute,” Luigi said as he lovingly touched up the faded paint, using a bright red for the drawn back lips, and a lighter shade to enhance the two circular patches on the puppet’s cheeks. “No wonder the children are so scared of you. I would imagine that a great many of them have nightmares after coming to see the show.”

  The summer season had almost arrived, and as usual Luigi was making sure that his small troupe of glove puppets were looking their best before having to face the public on the beach at Barton-on-Sea.

  Being a Punch and Judy man was not a job of work to Luigi Carboni, but a vocation that he practised with undying passion. The show was steeped in tradition that the Carbonis’ had handed down unchanged through eight generations. It was a way of life. The puppet masters lived and died, but the finely-crafted heads – that had been fashioned from solid oak so long ago – were almost as good as new. The work that Luigi did was purely cosmetic. Only the clothing was unoriginal, for it became frayed and damaged through the seasons of hectic manipulation and had to be replaced. Luigi would cut the ‘gloves’ from age-old patterns, using fine, coloured silks for Punch’s apparel, a more dowdy, rougher woven material for Judy’s clothing, a piece of white flannel for the baby’s shawl, and navy serge for the policeman’s uniform. The wood crocodile was painted in several shades of green, with glinting yellow glass eyes like those of a cat’s, and hinged jaws that were lined with pointed, whalebone teeth.

  “There,” Luigi said. “That’s all of you looking as good as the day you performed your first show.”

  Yawning, Luigi loosened the vice, removed Punch’s head and placed it next to that of Judy’s. All that remained for him to do was attach the gloves, which would appear to be the puppets’ clothing when worn on his hands, with fingers inserted into what gave the illusion of arms.

  Leaving the basement workshop, Luigi trudged up the stone steps to the kitchen above it. He was feeling troubled. Now almost eighty, he was not a well man, and thought that this may be the last summer he would be able to run the show. The arthritis that plagued him was making it increasingly difficult for him to operate the puppets. His fingers were becoming twisted, and the swollen joints felt on fire. He planned to do three instead of five shows a day this season, and had accep
ted that the passage of time was taking its toll. His main worry was of what would become of his beloved puppets should he die.

  Luigi’s only son, Salvatori, had moved back to the ‘old country’ thirty years ago, was married with a son of his own, and had no interest in being a puppeteer. Salvatori had done well for himself, becoming a successful producer of olive oil, and now enjoying a very high standard of living.

  Luigi washed down two strong painkillers with black coffee, and finally decided that this would be his final summer as a Punch and Judy man. He sighed, and his narrow shoulders sagged. Nothing lasts forever, he knew that. Time marches on. But it seemed in some way poignant that such a long-lasting family tradition should finally peter out. Maybe he would donate the puppets to a museum, so that at least they would be preserved. But museums were in general musty places, where artefacts were presented like still life behind glass, out of context from how they had actually functioned; just old things that hardly merited a sideways glance.

  The day arrived. Combing back his overlong, snow-white hair, and dressed in a lightweight short-sleeved shirt, baggy trousers and well-worn but comfortable trainers, Luigi drove his old van through town, down narrow streets to the promenade, to park in a spot that he had reserved and paid the council in advance for his exclusive use throughout the summer.

  What a lovely day it was. The sky was a cloudless powder-blue, and the sunlight sparkled off a flat, calm sea as he pitched the canvas booth on the golden sand. All about him was the sound of children laughing, and the shrill cries of herring gulls, that perched on rooftops, the railings of the promenade, and also patrolled the sky above the beach, ever ready to swoop down and snatch ice-cream, chips, hotdogs and any other foodstuff from the hands of unwary holidaymakers.

  Luigi was soon ready to start the first show. Inside the tall, narrow, candy-striped tent, he pressed the play button on a small cassette player and the strains of calliope music emanated from a speaker wired-up to the top of the canvas theatre.

  Within minutes an audience of mainly children was sitting cross-legged on the warm sand. Looking out from a peephole in the fabric, Luigi was, as always, stimulated by the expressions of anticipation, excitement and joy on the upturned faces. The pleasure he could generate never failed to lift his spirits, and for a short time his treacherous body, with its multiple aches and pains, was all but forgotten as he drew back the curtains and raised Punch up to take centre stage and bow to the waiting assembly.

  There was a loud gasp from the young crowd. For this Punch was a sight to behold. He was grotesque; a humpbacked figure with a large hooked nose, a jutting lantern jaw, and yellowed ivory teeth that filled his grinning mouth. The most disconcerting feature to onlookers were the eyes, for they were not painted onto the wood, but were as black as a great white shark’s, made from lava glass, and so realistic that they seemed to stare out at each and every individual.

  The show went well. Luigi’s production was packed with incident, and was both funny and scary, with violence that was in some quarters regarded as politically incorrect in these times of escalating censorship and the erosion of many civil rights.

  Maybe Punch was a psychotic individual and wife and baby beater, but as long as he got his comeuppance in the end, then Luigi believed that it was not gratuitous, but a moral tale to be learned from.

  The weeks flew by, and Luigi’s reed-enabled cries of ‘That’s the way to do it’ had been heard by a multitude of children. Even adults enjoyed the shows, and clapped and cheered as heartily as their sons and daughters and grandchildren.

  A sad day dawned. It was the end of the season. Stalls were closing up, the donkeys were leaving their last hoof prints on the cooling sand, and the gulls were scarcer, some having ventured out to sea to follow fishing boats; others inland to frequent landfill sites and farmers’ fields, to plague tractor drivers.

  Luigi made ready to present his final show. Perhaps because he had made his mind up to retire, he felt out of sorts. In fact he felt rather ill, was sweating profusely, and had trouble catching his breath. But the show must go on. He would give his last audience his finest performance. Turning the tape of recorded steam organ music on, he waited until a couple of dozen children drew near and formed a semicircle facing the booth.

  Looking out through the peephole, Luigi’s mouth dropped open in surprise at the sight of the last people he had expected to see. Salvatori, his wife, Gina, and their son Paul was there; my, how the boy had grown. He was now a teenager, and very handsome. Takes after his grandfather, Luigi thought.

  If anything, Punch was even more cruel than usual, and the violence had a darker edge to it. There were more gasps of shock than bouts of laughter, and a few of the younger children began to cry and were led away by parents dismayed by the vaguely distasteful show.

  “That’s all folks,” Punch said to the gathering – sounding uncannily like Bugs Bunny – before pulling the curtains closed.

  “That was your granddad’s last performance,” Salvatori said to Paul. “Sad really. It’s the end of an era. The Carbonis’ have run a Punch and Judy show since the end of the seventeenth century.”

  While Gina and Paul went to buy ice-cream, Salvatori walked over to the tent and opened the flap at the rear, to find his father sitting on a plastic garden chair, his head bowed, chin on chest, and with his eyes wide open but unseeing. The old man’s heart had finally stopped beating.

  Luigi had not yet changed his will, and so Salvatori, being the sole beneficiary, was not only bequeathed the small bungalow, its contents, and a few thousand pounds, but also became the owner of the Carboni puppets.

  It was back at the family villa outside Milan, when Paul opened the scuffed leather suitcase, took out his late grandfather’s puppets and sat them up against the pillows on his bed. Something was very wrong. Paul could have sworn that Punch’s eyes had been closed, and his mouth set in a downward curve, as if he were asleep. But now the black, glistening eyes were wide open, and the mouth was fixed in a broad smile.

  The shock of what happened next froze Paul with dread. The wooden face of Punch became alive and animated. The unblinking eyes stared at him, almost hypnotising him, and the hinged mouth creaked open and shut.

  Paul was not to know that the ancient heads were imbued with the accumulative spirits of the many puppet masters that by some supernatural means survived within them.

  “Hi there, Paulie,” Punch said. “How’s tricks, partner?”

  Paul swallowed hard and hoped that he had fallen asleep and was dreaming. But he hadn’t.

  “Now here’s what is going to happen, son,” Punch continued, giving Paul a knowing wink. “The show must go on, and so it falls to you to carry on the family business. And I’m not talking about olive oil.”

  13

  MARSTON MANOR

  It was a large gothic-style dwelling set on the fringe of the moor amid stunted trees that had been bowed and shaped by the wind; their branches resembling gnarled and arthritic witches fingers.

  “What a spooky looking place!” Rachel said, reading the sign that proclaimed: Full Board. “Let’s stay here tonight.”

  Tony pulled in between the open wrought iron gates. The brick pillars at either side of them were topped with statuettes of hunched figures that would have been more suited to looking down from the walls of a medieval church or cathedral, for they were hideous gargoyles with folded bats’ wings, large talons and demonic faces with gaping mouths.

  “Are you sure about this?” Tony said.

  Rachel nodded her head. “Yes. It’s creepy, but it might be fun. Let’s at least see what it looks like inside.”

  Following the tree-lined drive up to an imposing residence that he could not think of as merely a house, Tony was impressed. It was a mansion. And in the thin, insubstantial mist that his headlights burned through, old memories of black and white movies featuring sixteenth or seventeenth century grey stone manor houses partly clad in ivy, were recalled. It had the appearance of a
small fortress, with a castellated roof parapet, and corner turrets proudly piercing the undulating blanket of fog that drifted over them. The pointed-arch style windows were divided by stone mullions, and a grand sweep of sandstone steps led up to a flagged terrace and solid oak door beyond. This old, weathered structure was daunting. It exuded a personality that Tony found sinister and almost malevolent.

  He parked next to a vintage but resplendent Rolls Royce Silver Cloud. It was the only other vehicle to be seen.

  “What do you think, Tony?” Rachel said, almost reading his thoughts. “Isn’t this something else?”

  “Yeah, it’s straight out of a Hammer horror film. If I see a pentagram on the floor inside, I’m leaving.”

  The door was locked. And as Tony was about to press the crazed porcelain bell push, a sunken-cheeked man of indeterminate age and dressed like a butler opened the door, as if he had not heard, but sensed their arrival. He nodded imperceptibly.

  “We’re looking for somewhere to stay the night,” Rachel said.

  The butler inclined his head to the left, to imply which way they should go.

  “Cheerful old sod,” Tony said, walking across a sea of midnight blue Italianate floor tiles – that sparkled under a grandiose chandelier – to enter a large reception room through ornately carved double doors, which had images of Bacchanal drunken revelry depicted on them. “I wonder if Jeeves looks after the count’s coffin, and guards it during the hours’ of daylight.”

  Rachel giggled. “You’ve definitely been watching too many bad movies, Tony.”

  “True. But I won’t be surprised if mine host doesn’t have any mirrors, or serve anything with garlic in it.”

  “Behave,” Rachel said. “This place probably comes highly recommended.”

  “Yeah, by Haunted Mansions-R-Us.”

  Before Rachel could reply, a figure appeared at their side. He was, despite his age, an imposing man, standing well over six feet tall. His hair was long, thick and white, swept back from a face that bore an uncanny resemblance to Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh. And his eyes were bright blue pools of infinite depth, almost hypnotic and capable of holding any onlooker transfixed. His movements were quick yet economical, seemingly too fluid for one who appeared to be an octogenarian.