The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 16

by Stephen Jones

  “You should go to Casualty,” Louise said as she swabbed disinfectant into the bite. The teeth marks were red and angry, the skin around each puncture puckered and swollen. “Human bites are more poisonous and bacteria-filled than most other animals.”

  “Thanks. You’re making me feel better by the minute. Just disinfect it and wrap a bandage round it. It’ll be fine.”

  “I wonder where he came from,” she said, pressing a gauze pad over the wound. “I know there’s an orphanage over Hepton way. Perhaps he came from there.”

  Tom shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I told you, he was dressed in rags. He’s been living rough for some time.”

  “Perhaps we should notify the police.”

  “And face all those questions? No, there’s probably a family of travellers in the area – gypsies. He was probably on a foraging mission and decided to bed down here for the night rather than try to find his way back in the dark.” It was an unlikely scenario and Tom knew it, but he wanted a quick answer to the problem of the boy. He wanted nothing to interfere with the peace and quiet of his newly discovered idyllic lifestyle.

  Louise tore off two strips of sticking plaster and taped them over the bandage to secure it. “I still think you should get it looked at.”

  He grinned reassuringly. “I’ll live; besides, I’ve got loads to do. There’s the fence to repair.”

  “That’s not going to take you all day,” she said.

  He reached up and stroked her neck fondly. “No it won’t, but I can think of better ways of spending the afternoon than sitting in Casualty, can’t you?”

  His finger tickled the base of her hairline and she felt warmth spread through her body. She shuddered slightly and kissed the top of his head. “I’ve got to work too, you know?” she said, but the thought of spending the afternoon curled up in bed together was a strong temptation. “You’d better get on then,” she said, returning his grin.

  The fence was on the west side of the marsh, where the boggy ground bordered a field that once belonged to a neighbouring farm. The farm suffered badly in the last foot and mouth outbreak, the farmer losing all his stock. After seeing his livelihood, and indeed his complete way of life, decimated by the disease and the draconian prevention methods of the Ministry of Agriculture, the farmer took a shotgun to his wife and children, and finally himself. It was a tragic, but not a unique case. Tom could only guess at the despair the man felt.

  In the time the farm had stood empty nature stepped in and started to reclaim the land that was once grazing for the herd of Friesians, and the field now resembled a meadow, with poppies, campion and other wild flowers vying for space with the long grass that waved softly in the morning breeze.

  Tom crouched down in front of the first post and tapped a heavy staple into the wood, threaded the end of a coil of wire through the eye and twisted it around itself. Then he hammered the staple flush, securing the wire, picked up the coil and carried it to the next post, letting the wire trail out behind him.

  Repairing the fence was necessary. The field was now a popular place for local children. Games of cowboys and Indians and cops and robbers could easily end in tragedy should one of the participants stray too far into the greedy marsh.

  He crouched down at the next post, positioned the wire and surrounded it with a staple, and then, using a length of wood twisted into the wire to serve as a lever, he stretched it until it was as taut as a guitar string and drove the staple home. He plucked the wire, listening with satisfaction to the deep, tense note it produced.

  He was about to move on when he stopped and looked around. It was a familiar tingle down his spine: a sensation he always got when he felt he was being watched. For a moment he thought Louise had come out to join him on the marsh, but he looked back towards the house and there was no sign of her. He pushed himself upright and turned 360 degrees, his eyes scanning the land in all directions, but there was nobody to see. The marsh and surrounding areas were deserted, with not even a rabbit or deer to be seen.

  It was unusual for his instincts to play him false, but for the next two hours as he worked, he’d stop and stand every so often, convinced he could feel someone watching him.

  Louise propped herself up on her elbow and looked at her sleeping husband. The lines that had been etched into his face by strain and worry were smoothing out, the dark circles under his eyes gradually fading. It was everything to do with the new job and moving here. It was as though ten years had been wiped from his features. He slept now with a peaceful, almost beatific look on his face. She smiled at him fondly and swung her legs to the floor, careful not to wake him, and went to shower.

  His renewed interest in sex was also a sign the new position was having a restorative effect. At thirty-five she had begun to feel that this aspect of her life was in suspended animation. His lack of enthusiasm for the physical side of their relationship almost caused her to look elsewhere. Almost, but not quite. She’d had the opportunity – an opportunity almost too tempting to resist, but was now grateful she hadn’t succumbed to the temptation. She loved Tom with a passion undimmed in the years since they’d got together at university, and now that carefree, sexy man was finally returning to her.

  She had few regrets in their marriage. The absence of children was one but, as she grew older, even that was beginning to fade. The miscarriages were now ancient history, and she was beginning to accept the doctor’s prognosis that she would never be able to have children. It was painful at first, devastatingly painful, difficult to deal with, and the strain it put on the marriage was intense. Gradually the pain eased, and the hormonal thrust that fuelled her desire to reproduce dimmed, like a guttering candle using up the last of the oxygen in a sealed jar.

  Besides, she had nieces and nephews now, and her friends had children. There was plenty of opportunity to indulge the maternal side of her nature, if only by proxy – at least that’s what she told herself.

  She went downstairs and made coffee, pouring herself a cup and taking it back to the spare bedroom they’d already converted into a studio for her. Taped to the drawing board was a pencil sketch she’d been working on while Tom was outside fixing the fence. She picked up a pencil and shaded a couple of areas, then went across to the window and picked up the binoculars, lying on the sill where she’d left them. She put them to her eyes and scanned the area where the granite outcrops jutted rudely up from the surrounding countryside.

  He was no longer there, the subject of her picture – the painfully thin boy with white hair who’d sat cross-legged on top of one of the monoliths, watching Tom as he worked. It didn’t matter that he had gone because she’d captured his likeness perfectly, and when Tom awoke she’d show him the picture and ask him if this was the lad he’d encountered in the shed.

  She took a sip of coffee and went back to the drawing board. Staring hard at the boy’s face, wondering what elements of life could bring such a look of sadness to one so young.

  “It looks just like him.”

  She hadn’t heard Tom come up behind her, but he was there, his arms around her waist, nuzzling her neck and staring over her shoulder at the sketch. He took her coffee cup from her and filled his mouth. She nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. “Get your own,” she said.

  “So this is what you get up to while you’re supposed to be working,” he said, peering out through the window at the granite monolith. “So that’s why I kept getting the feeling I was being watched. How long was he there?”

  “Long enough for me to do this. He sat there perfectly still, an hour, maybe more, and watched you while you worked. It was as if he was modelling for me.”

  “You should have come and told me.”

  “And have you haring after him. He was too good a subject to miss. I can use this image in the fairy book I’m doing next. Don’t you think he looks a bit fairy-like?”

  “Nah, the ears aren’t pointed enough. Looks bloody weird though . . . as if he hasn’t been out in the sun for ye
ars. Flour white and spindle thin. That’s the phrase that repeats itself in my mind whenever I think about him.’

  “It’s a great title for the picture,” Louise said. “I’ll suggest it. You never know, Marion might write a story about him.” Marion Wheeler was a writer of children’s books. Louise had illustrated every one to see print and they’d developed a mutually beneficial working relationship. They trusted each other, and that was important.

  He kissed her neck again. “Come back to bed.”

  “You’re insatiable. No. I’ve wasted enough time today. Go back out onto the marsh and do what marsh-wardens are supposed to do.”

  “Spoilsport,” he said, and gave her a final squeeze before going back to the bedroom to dress.

  When she was alone, Louise went back to the window and picked up the binoculars again, raking the countryside with the high magnification lenses, hoping to see a flash of white hair, a glimpse of pale skin. Something to reassure herself that he was still out there. Somehow it was important to her, but she hadn’t yet begun to fathom out why.

  * * *

  The evening was spent in front of the television. She’d finished work about six, in time to prepare a lasagne for their dinner, and they’d eaten it off trays on their laps, watching the unlikely scenarios being played out in a popular soap opera.

  He put down his knife and fork and set the tray at his feet. “What’s wrong?” he said.

  “Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. Why?”

  “You seem to be in another place. For the past half hour you’ve been glancing up at the window as if you’re expecting to see something there.”

  She smiled ruefully. It was true, but she hadn’t realized she was being that obvious. “It’s the boy. I can’t seem to get him out of my mind. What if he’s still out there? It’s a filthy night.” Late that afternoon black storm clouds rolled in from the sea. They’d done nothing for an hour or so, except to growl menacingly, as if showing their displeasure. Then the first flash of lightning fizzed across the sky and the heavens unleashed a downpour causing Tom to take shelter under a nearby hornbeam. Not a sensible move in an electrical storm, but he figured the hornbeam was lower than the surrounding trees and was unlikely to be struck, and its dense crown afforded at least some protection from the torrent hammering down from the sky.

  “Well if he is still out there, which I doubt, I dare say he’s got enough savvy to find some shelter.”

  “Did you leave the shed open?”

  “No. I fixed the hasp and padlocked it again. It’s a shed not a doss house.”

  “But . . .” she started to protest, but left the rest unsaid. She didn’t want to make an issue of it. She didn’t really want to let Tom know just how much the pale boy had come to dominate her thoughts over the last few hours. “As you say, he’s probably used to being outdoors. I like my comfort too much to begin to contemplate what it must be like to sleep under the stars. That’s why I never joined the girl guides.”

  “I’ll keep a look out for him tomorrow . . . and if he shows himself again, and you see him, come and tell me.”

  “Yes,” she said thoughtfully, gathering up the trays and taking them through to the kitchen. “Yes I’ll do that.”

  But the boy didn’t appear the next day, or the day after that. On the Saturday morning they drove into Risley to shop. The larder was alarmingly depleted, and they had virtually cleared the stocks in the freezer. Laden with bags from the supermarket they returned to the car park, where they’d left Tom’s Land Rover, to find the window on the passenger side smashed. A pool of small glass cubes littered the floor and seat.

  “How can they get away with this in broad daylight?” Tom said angrily. “I thought this car park was patrolled.”

  Louise was looking in through the broken window. “But what were they after? There was nothing in here to tempt them except the CD player, and they haven’t touched it.”

  “Perhaps they were disturbed before they had a chance to grab it.”

  Louise ran her hand through her short dark hair. “My jacket’s gone.”

  “Jacket?”

  “The Barbour I keep on the back seat . . . in case the weather turns. It’s gone.”

  “I can’t see there’d be much resale value in a waxed jacket, can you?” Tom said, his mind still weighing up the cost of a replacement window. “You’re sure it’s not hanging up at home?”

  “Definitely. I wore it last week when we went to that furniture auction. Don’t you remember? By the time we got there the weather had brightened up. I distinctly remember taking it off and slinging it onto the back seat. I didn’t put it back on, and I certainly never took it back to the house.”

  Tom was using a piece of cardboard torn from one of their boxes to scrape the glass from the seat. “I’ll tidy it up more thoroughly when we get back. This’ll do for now. I still can’t believe that someone would break in to a car just to steal a jacket.”

  “They might if they were cold . . .” she said. Or if the only clothes they possessed were rags, she thought, but kept the thought to herself. It came unbidden into her mind and she tried to turn it away, but it remained, niggling at her during the blustery journey home. The image of the pale boy, huddled under a tree somewhere, hugging her waxed jacket tightly around him to stave off the elements was strangely comforting. At least I’m doing something, she thought, then immediately chided herself for being so ridiculous. The chances of the pale boy being the one who’d broken into the Land Rover were remote. More likely it was a local tearaway, disturbed, as Tom speculated, before he had a chance to get away with anything more valuable. Perhaps he thought the coat would contain some money, or even a packet of cigarettes – muggings had taken place for less.

  As they pulled into the drive she shook the thoughts away, and tried to concentrate on the meal she was going to cook for them both tonight.

  * * *

  Tom stood at the sink in the bathroom and slid the nail scissors under the edge of the bandage. The wound was throbbing and itching like mad. He guessed it was probably infected, but said nothing to Louise, fearing a reprimand for not going to the hospital as she suggested. He snipped at the bandage, careful not to nick his skin, wincing as he saw the angry pus-filled bite mark.

  He touched it gingerly with his finger and winced again as a hot pain shot up his arm. “Damn it!” he said under his breath, and reached into the medicine cabinet on the wall for some antiseptic. The yellow liquid made contact with the wound, and for a moment he though he would pass out. It was like pouring acid onto raw flesh. He gripped the edge of the sink, waiting for the searing pain to ease, beads of sweat popping out like tiny moonstones on his forehead.

  Gradually the pain abated and he took a deep breath, mopping the perspiration from his brow with a towel. Louise kept the bandages in a small first aid box under the sink. He took out a fresh bandage and tore off the wrapper, then put his hand flat against the wall and started to twist the dressing around his wrist. He figured he’d be able to manage without Louise’s attention, but fumbled once and the bandage dropped to the floor, spilling out like a party streamer. He swore, gathered it up and started the laborious process again.

  He’d been concentrating on wrapping the wound, and it was only when he’d finished and was reaching for a strip of sticking plaster that he noticed the hand itself.

  The skin from his wrist down was almost bleached of colour, dead looking. He held both hands out under the light above the vanity unit. His other hand looked normal, pink and healthy, making the other one look significantly worse by comparison. He flexed the fingers of the pale hand. Was it his imagination, or was there a slight numbness there? His fingers moved when he wanted them to move, but the movements seemed sluggish, uncoordinated.

  “What are you doing in there?” Louise called from outside the door.

  “Won’t be a moment,” he called back and hurriedly stuck the plaster over the edge of the bandage, rolling down the sleeve of his shirt to hide it. “Sorr
y,” he said, opening the door. “Didn’t know you were waiting.”

  “You look warm,” she said, almost an accusation.

  “Do I? Must be the central heating. I’ll check the thermostat.”

  Her eyes narrowed and she shook her head. “Feels fine to me,” she said, and pushed past him into the bathroom. He heard the lock click and went to pour himself a stiff drink.

  His hand shook slightly as he raised the glass to his lips. The whisky burnt his throat and he gave an involuntary shudder as the liquid reached his stomach. He wasn’t a drinker these days, though it had been different several years ago when he was getting through three or four bottles of whisky a week, But those were troubled times. Hospitalisation and countless tests for Louise, and the endless recriminations and tears that had threatened to blow their marriage apart.

  The taste of the scotch on his tongue brought the memories of that time flooding back. He screwed the cap back on the bottle and put it back in the cupboard, then went through to the kitchen and rinsed out the glass. Then he switched on the coffee machine, brewing up a strong espresso to remove the taste of alcohol from his mouth. He had no wish to revisit those times. They were bleak and depressing years. The tedious monthly ritual of taking temperatures, judging the ovulation cycle, and the mechanical, passionless sex. Baby making. Relentless and unsuccessful baby making.

  He heard Louise moving about upstairs and glanced down at his hand. She’d notice before much longer and she’d recommend a trip to the hospital, or the doctor’s at least. And he couldn’t really tell her of his aversion to anything medical; couldn’t begin to explain the emotions visiting such places stirred in him.

  The books Louise read focussed on the woman, her body, her emotions; how she could cope with the loss of a child, of the endless, unpitying struggle to conceive. The male partner was seen very much as a necessary adjunct to that struggle. A seed supplier, nothing more. How could he tell her that his drive to reproduce was almost as strong as hers? He was an only child, the last of his line. The family name stopped with him, and while her hormones and that indefinable thing called maternal instinct drove her, his need was more pragmatic. He didn’t want to be the last, the end of the chapter. He wanted his genes perpetuated. He wanted the immortality a child would have provided. The crushing monthly disappointment when her period started affected him just as deeply as it did her. And while she cried and he held her, being strong for her, so his mind screamed in despair. The drink silenced the scream and deadened the pain. And it had also nearly destroyed him.