by Kim Newman
‘Not that far,’ Lytton said, beckoning with his left hand.
Don’t use a gun to make gestures or point at things. That’s what you have an extra hand for.
Erskine halted. His truncheon dangled from his belt by its thong.
It wasn’t the department’s stated policy to shoot British policemen. Then again, it wasn’t the Avon and Somerset Constabulary’s stated policy to torture and kill teenagers.
‘Teddy?’
The boy, slumped and cuffed, bruised and bleeding, groaned. He was still conscious, which would make it easier.
‘Fuck, James,’ he said.
‘Uncuff him,’ Lytton said to Raine.
‘He’s got the keys,’ the policeman said, jabbing a thumb towards Erskine.
‘Well, get them.’
Raine fumbled with a pouch on Erskine’s belt, and the white policeman giggled.
‘Careful, Chocky, don’t get too intimate,’ Erskine said. ‘I don’t want to catch coon AIDS.’
Raine, whose face was studiedly devoid of expression, flashed angry for a moment, then swallowed it.
‘You realize you’re interfering with officers in the course of their duty?’ Draper said. ‘That’s a serious offence.’
Raine had Teddy’s feet uncuffed, and was bending under the chair to get to his hands. It was awkward for him.
‘Possession of an offensive weapon,’ Erskine added. ‘That’s a good one.’
‘Breach of the peace.’
‘Conspiracy to assist the escape of an apprehended suspect.’
‘Blue murder.’
Teddy was free. He stood up carefully, wincing. Tonight, everyone had their bruises.
‘The cuffs,’ Lytton said. ‘Use them, Teddy.’
The boy took the handcuffs from Raine.
‘Arrange them around the maypole.’
The central support pole of the marquee was sunk at least a foot into the ground. Lytton had the three policemen hold hands crosswise in a circle around it, and then had them cuffed together. They were satisfactorily cramped, and Erskine was making exaggerated faces at being so close to Raine. ‘There’s a bloody monkey smell here,’ he said. Raine looked away, pretending not to be involved.
‘You are making a very big mistake, Mr Lytton,’ Draper said. ‘Charges will be brought.’
Lytton held up a flap of canvas, and Teddy stepped through. Without saying goodbye, he followed. He’d managed to get through the scene without shooting anyone, and he levered the hammer down. Remember, no one was ever killed by a dead person. Of course. Sergeant Parry hadn’t met Badmouth Ben. Or conceived of a world with Anthony William Jago in it.
Outside Checkpoint Charlie was a bonfire. A group of kids sat around it, passing a foot-long joint between them. The smell of marijuana wafted towards the drug-squad tent.
Teddy was bent over double, feeling his pains.
‘That Erskine’s gone fucking mental,’ he said.
‘So has everybody,’ Lytton said.
The police car parked by the roadside was locked. It’s for killing people, not hammering in nails, so don’t use it for any purpose for which it was not intended. Lytton smashed the front driver-side window with the butt of the Browning.
‘Vandal,’ one of the dope smokers shouted.
‘Keep the countryside tidy,’ said a girl.
He could hear a woman’s voice on the police radio, and bored officers exchanging CB codes and traffic complaints. Lytton jammed the gun into his waistband and got the door open. Sliding on to the glass-strewn front seat, he pulled the radio handset from the dashboard. He found the send button, and pressed it.
‘Hello, Achelzoy?’
The woman answered, ‘Who’s that then?’
‘My name’s Lytton. I’m in Alder, Checkpoint Charlie. I’m using Sergeant Draper’s radio.’
‘What are you doing that for? Put Ian on. He’s well past report time. I was going to put a query on his sheet.’
‘I’m at the fish-and-chip van now, Stace,’ interrupted a male voice, ‘two cod and chips and a spring roll, right?’
‘Hello, Achelzoy?’
‘Still here, where’s Ian and Barry?’
‘Listen, this is important. Who am I talking with?’
‘WPC Stacy Cotterill.’
‘Who’s the senior officer present?’
‘Um… me? Ian’s in Alder, and Sergeant Sloman is on the chip run. There’s only Greg Dunphy otherwise, and he’s very junior.’
‘Ms Cotterill, can you get hold of Alistair Garnett?’
‘Who’s he when he’s home?’
‘Fishcake, sausage in batter and chips for Greggie?’
‘Garnett. He’s been liaising with you. Your station has been a message drop. For IPSIT.’
‘Eyesight?’
‘Fancy some curry sauce, Stace?’
‘My name is James Lytton. I’m working for Garnett. In Alder.’
‘Sorry, don’t mean a thing.’
‘…motorway tailback to Shepton Mallet,’ said a new voice, ‘and we’re stuck in it…’
‘Ms…’
‘Miss.’
‘Miss Cotterill, things are out of hand here.’
‘Don’t I know it? Complaints all night about the noise. But we’ve promised not to go on site. They’re just kids, and it’s only for a week.’
‘Mission accomplished at the chippie, Stace. Back in five mins. Put the kettle on. Ten-four, heh heh.’
‘…be here all bloody night…’
‘Sergeant Sloman?’ Lytton tried.
‘Who’s this?’ the chip runner replied. ‘Get off the line.’
‘Call Garnett, and tell him to send in the cavalry. If Jago isn’t shut down soon, this will blow up.’
‘This one of they terrorist hoaxes?’
‘Where’s Ian?’
‘…roads are impassable, everyone’s gone whacko…’
There was a whine, and the radio choked to death. Lytton spun across the frequencies, but couldn’t pick up anything. He hoped he’d started the machinery working, even if it was clanking. At the least, Sloman should send a car to Alder to investigate his unauthorized use of the radio.
‘Any luck?’ Teddy asked.
Lytton shrugged. ‘No idea.’
‘What’s bloody happening?’
‘A deluge, Teddy.’
The dope smokers were up and dancing, moving slowly like deep-sea divers. Two girls picked up one laughing man and, after three good swings, dumped him into the bonfire. He didn’t stop laughing and rolled off the logs, damping the flames. Several dope smokers had large scorch marks on their clothes. Two guys were rolling another colossal joint, paying minute attention as if they were assembling a bomb.
Checkpoint Charlie was shaking, the point of the central pole wavering, guyropes snapping. The pole lifted up and slowly fell. ‘Timberrr,’ the dope smokers shouted, clapping as the canvas puffed out and fell in on itself, a wriggling centre showing where the policemen, hands entwined, were struggling. They might be free of the pole, but the heavy canvas, pinned to the ground by stakes, would keep them where they were for a few minutes.
Lytton knew he’d come to the end of another rope. He would have to look after himself, and whoever else he could manage, until help turned up. Teddy didn’t have to be told. They walked away into the milling crowds, deeper on to the festival site. The Browning was uncomfortable against his hip. Everywhere, there were people: sleeping, talking, dancing, scrapping. It was late, but there were hours to go before the dawn. Hours.
6
Jeremy was hiding behind the two young men, the normal one and the one with the punk haircut. The goodness of the soil rose through Maskell’s tubers, feeding him strength. This summer the topsoil was baked dry, but there was always goodness a few feet down. When the land was sick, it was a passing, surface thing.
‘Get away from my son,’ he told the men. They didn’t move, despite his order. He’d have to teach them a lesson, put them in their p
lace.
His knob pointed at the flesh of his seed. If Jeremy defied him further, Maskell would have to lay about him with his quirt. The memory of a transforming shock thrilled in his knob, reminding him of the moment when the spark of the land had passed into him, setting him on his course.
His woman was behind him, their daughter with her, up on Fancy. The family’s animals were a part of it. Together, they were Maskell Farm. The land was the most important thing. All served the land. Farm and family, custodians of the soil.
Jeremy pushed past the men, and stood on his own, wobbly on his feet, ‘I’m not afraid of the dark any more, Daddy. There’s no Evil Dwarf.’
Maskell was pleased that nonsense was over.
‘I killed him.’
Maskell bent his head, bark of his neck splitting. ‘Come to me, my flesh.’
Jeremy was on the steps of the sunken verandah. The others were holding back, hiding under the eaves of the house. Those he had put aside lay unmoving in their places, one on flagstones, the other on grass.
‘It’s all right, Jeremy,’ Sue-Clare said, voice like a flute. ‘We’ll be together.’
Jeremy looked silly in a baggy T-shirt that came to his knees and a pair of shorts cinched tight with a belt marked like a tape measure. His hair was wet and he had his hand behind his back, concealing something. Boys were like that—he’d been like that—hiding fat frogs and curious stones and toy soldiers. Maskell smiled, the wood of his face shifting.
The normal man stepped out of his place and said, ‘You have a real problem. Something is happening to you…’
The man didn’t understand anything.
‘Something is happening to us all… maybe we can get help…’
‘Jerm, don’t listen to this clod, come here and give Daddy a hug.’
Jeremy took a few steps. Maskell felt his son’s body warmth. He bent down and made a basket of his arms, sweeping Jeremy up in it.
‘There there,’ he said, elated, justified, complete.
‘Dig dig dig dig dig dig dig dig,’ Jeremy shouted, taking a sharp implement from behind his back and, with a vicious slice, embedding it in Maskell’s chest.
* * *
The alien vegetable had the boy in its grip, but Jeremy stabbed it with his pick. Ferg heard the blade’s thudding chunk, saw the gusher of green sap splash the kid’s face and chest. A roar was born inside the alien and grew, making its entire body reverberate like a giant musical instrument, finally bursting forth from moss-moustached mouth and knothole nostrils. It was a single note, drawn out and echoing. It filled the garden and rose to the skies, to where the invasion fleet must be swarming, locked in an invisible orbit, sensors aimed at Alder.
Jeremy struggled with the invader, trying to tip himself out of its embrace. Paul, there to catch him, fell under the weight of the child, scrabbling away from reaching arms. Ferg dashed forwards to help and pull Jeremy away. They ran along the side of the house, but the alien woman was there on her horse, blocking their path.
Paul stood, and the alien bashed him. The blow didn’t strike properly, or else he’d have been as out of it as Dolar or Salim, but Paul reeled under the wooden fist, and fell on the lawn.
Aliens were all over the place. All kinds of aliens. The Iron Insects had been the spearhead. Syreeta and Jessica were standing back and watching, traitors to the human race egging the invaders on to victory.
Ferg grabbed the horse’s mane. The animal waved its heavy head like a hammer, and jumped its forelegs off the ground. The alien woman, attached parasitically to the horse by suckers on her knees, had her steed under control. She reached and took Ferg’s throat, pulling him off his feet.
The alien woman had him up, side-saddle, before her, and her twiggy fingers grew around him. He clawed her arm, shredding green and brown layers. She smiled, horribly beautiful, skin the colour of a cooking apple, fine antennae wisping up from her eyebrows into her hair. Her golden eyes shone, alive with liquid intelligence. The horse couldn’t support three weights, and sank to its knees. Ferg picked a finger away from his throat, and it snapped like a carrot. The alien woman sang pain, and he was dropped.
There was an alien child too, covered in cactus spines, hair a tussle of pampas grass. The creature was grappling with Jeremy, pressing him to the ground, pummelling him. Ferg felt a slamming force between his shoulders, and knew the alien woman had brought him down. It was no use. They were here, and they were taking over.
* * *
Hannah was on top, scratching with point-ended fingers, calling him names, trying to get past his hands to his face. Her fingers had become long, sharp pencils, and she stabbed the backs of his hands with them, wanting to get at his eyes. Daddy always warned Hannah about her pencils, saying she’d have someone’s eye out one day.
‘Jesus makes us shine with a clear, pure light,’ Hannah sang, ‘like a little candle burning in the night…’
The Evil Dwarf had been easy. He wasn’t actual. But Jeremy’s sister would never give up, never go away. Sisters didn’t. She’d sworn a pact with Lisa Steyning to get revenge for the time he’d told on them when they set fire to newspapers in the barn. With terrible sisterly cruelty, she’d bided her time, plotting. Now she’d have her revenge.
‘…in this world of darkness, you and me must shine…’
Hands over his eyes, he felt pencil leads stabbing. Mummy and Daddy made strange noises; everyone else shouted and screamed.
‘…you in your small corner, and I in mine.’
Hannah got a good grip on one of his wrists and wrenched hard. His hand came away, and he saw with one eye. His sister smiled down at him, pretty flowers in her hair, sharp chips of wood for her teeth, a thin beard of spines around her throat.
‘Gotcha!’ she said.
* * *
Paul tried to get up, but his tooth wouldn’t let him. It had come alive when the Green Man hit him, and now seemed to be a quarter of the size of his body, a solid lump of disabling agony. It hurt like hell, no matter what he did; if he moved, if he tried to stand, the pain multiplied tenfold. The tooth was bigger than his head, weighing him down like a cartoon anvil, a million ants eating away inside the enamel, acid delicately scraping out the nerve. He pressed the ground with his hands, and screamed as the throb expanded. The pain got worse as he stood, but he climbed over it, shutting the explosion behind closed eyes. Weak, he sagged against the wall of the house, and let his eyes fall open.
The Green Man stood tall, hand-tipped branches stretching. As the pain burst inside his mouth, Paul saw the face of the farmer inside the wooden cocoon. He was the puzzled, buried and forgotten seed that had sprouted the monster, bleeding from the pick stuck into his chest. A moment of complete darkness, with the man screaming inside it, it passed, the Green Man instantly growing and reforming over him. Paul realized he knew the man inside the greenery. Maskell had come to the Pottery to replace a Mike Bleach coffee cup, one of a set, that had been broken. He was offhand and squirearchical, but his wife had been pleasant.
That pretty woman, in dark glasses with a navel-revealing tied blouse, was the horseback huntress now, Paul realized. Jeremy and the junior monster grappling with him were their children.
‘Maskell,’ he said, trying to reach through the shell.
The Green Man ignored him, continuing his yell. There was a scrum in the garden, with Jeremy underneath his transformed sister, and Ferg underneath the boy’s mother, all four of them scrambled together. The horse that had hooved Salim down stood by, easing up from its knees. Paul bit on his tooth and dark truth flooded back for a moment. Pain cut through the illusion like a knife. He saw the troubled farmer, lost in himself, blood in his chest hair, clothes gone in tatters.
He ran past the Green Man and hauled Jeremy out from under everyone. The girl scratched his hands, but he kicked her away. The Green Woman stood up, pushing Ferg aside, and her daughter ran to her, arms twining around her waist. They looked at each other, each with a child clinging to them, spies
contemplating an exchange of hostages. He wasn’t giving Jeremy up. He’d yielded too much ground. It was time to win something back.
‘Sue-Clare?’ he said, hoping he remembered her name right.
He had. The Green Woman wrinkled her brow, arrow-lines appearing around her widow’s peak. Her eyes were unreadable nuts of pure gold. Paul bit again, and saw for a moment the streaked, dirty face of the woman he remembered. She wasn’t as far gone as her husband.
‘You don’t have to be like this.’
The Green Woman straightened up, daughter still clinging, and looked to Maskell. She moved with birdlike grace, turning her head with each slight change of eyeline, shifting back her shoulders when she lifted her hands. A golden tear dripped down her cheek.
* * *
Mummy had gone funny, but Jeremy was still scared of her. Daddy had changed her. She wasn’t all right yet. Daddy wanted to get him, even more than the Evil Dwarf had wanted to get him. Daddy didn’t want to eat his brain, but to make Jeremy like him. Once, he’d heard Daddy tell Mummy, ‘Thank God I didn’t grow up like my father.’ Jeremy remembered Grandpa as a strict old man with a white moustache, who insisted on polished shoes and done-up top buttons. Daddy wasn’t like that. It was only fair, if Daddy hadn’t had to be like his father, that Jeremy not have to be like Daddy. He hid behind Paul.
* * *
It was time to end this. Maskell heaved his chest, forcing out the spike stuck into it, and spat the tool away. The mouthlike wound closed as soon as the thing was gone. His women were letting him down, and he would have to step in. It would be painful, but a lesson would be learned. In the end, everyone would be in their place. His knees straining and creaking, he stumped towards his son. The normal man turned, and Jeremy darted behind him again, his back to Sue-Clare. They had Jeremy and the normal man pinned down between them.
‘No supper, ever,’ Maskell said.
The strength of the land filled him. He only needed his family about him to be complete.
‘No videos, no books, no comics.’
The normal man was weak, incomplete. He wouldn’t fight.
‘No sleeping with Jethro, no pocket money.’
Hannah was a good girl, like her mother. She did as he said, and always took her quirting when she stepped out of her place. Jeremy was a troublemaking child, always refusing to do what was best.