by Bill Hussey
‘Simon and his father …’
The face in the glass flashed a serene smile.
‘A dark trinity of father, son and a less than holy ghost. It appealed to my sensibilities. A grand ‘fuck you’ to the Almighty. This crowding, however, impacted on the longevity of the arrangement. Psychic decay kicked in earlier than usual. That particular route out of the body is rather … messy. I decided to expedite matters. Suicide isn’t possible, but murder is. I could easily have paid someone to kill me, but I have always taken a rather twisted delight in poetic justice. I convinced someone who had blamed herself for seventeen years for the death of her husband to kill him again. It was rather funny, I thought.’
‘You’re telling me Anne Malahyde killed her own son?’
‘With a little prodding.’
‘So you are dead.’
‘Dead, alive. Indelicate, absolutist terms. Since my soul left Simon’s body, I have a certain physical presence, which is almost spent. By Thursday I shall be, in the common parlance, a ghost. I have tasted that level of existence once before. I do not plan to let it happen again. The boys are dead, their fat already harvested, the baptism dresses ready to be burned. All I need now is Jamie.’
‘Then why haven’t you taken him? He told me he’s seen you …’
‘Time is a factor, but I’m in no real hurry. I’ll be spending many years inside the child, so I’d like to get a good feel for him first. And, I must admit, I do enjoy a little sadism along the way.’
‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘I’m telling you, Mr Trent, because we’ve already met. Do you recall?’
‘The work shed.’
‘Bravo. I’ll wager you’ve only just remembered that. People always seem reluctant to remember me when I meet them with my true face. I’ve adopted Simon’s appearance just now, so that we can have this tête-à-tête without all the tedious screaming. Yes, that’s the first time we met, but I have a vague memory of seeing you before that day. As if through a veil … What remarkable dreams you have …
‘When we met in the work shed, I saw two things through your eyes. The first was Jamie. He rather upset my plans. You see, I originally had young Oliver Godfrey’s brother in mind to be my vessel. But there was something about young Mr Howard I found irresistible. The second thing I saw was some power within you. I like a challenge, Mr Trent. I see no purpose to this existence, this perpetual rejuvenation, without challenges. This is a battle of wills between us, but I want to play fair and lay my cards on the table. I know how far I will go to get what I want. How far, I wonder, will you venture? The music is playing. Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?’
‘Okay, you’ve jawed for a while. Now let me tell you something,’ Jack said. ‘You may have lived a long time, know a lot of things, but you won’t take this boy. You can’t frighten me.’
‘Fancy yourself as something of a hero, Jack? Well, we shall see. You do know, however, that you’re quite wrong.’
‘About what?’
‘I can frighten you. The Doctor knows where it hurts.’
Jack turned and looked at the figure beside him. In a moment, Simon Malahyde’s face was gone, replaced by that blood-splattered horror that had stared at him from the dreaming. The skin tightened around the skull until the bone shone through. The eyes rolled back and sank into their sockets. Jack stared into those hollows. He shuddered to see what was written there: failure, despair, death, and an endless torment.
‘No. It … won’t be like that,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll be there for him.’
The face smiled pityingly and melted away.
‘Jesus Christ, Jack. What the hell’s wrong with you?’
Wafts of skin settled across Jack’s face. He brushed the dust from his eyelashes and saw Dawn standing in the doorway.
‘Who were you talking to?’
‘Dawn, he was here. You – you must have seen …’
‘I saw no-one. You were talking to yourself.’
‘He wants Jamie. He’s going to take him. I can’t stop it.’
‘You’re insane. Jesus, you are.’
‘Dawn …’
‘Don’t you ever come near him. Don’t ever come near my boy.’
‘Please. Please wait.’
The door swung to. Jack ran after her. Once outside the air-conditioned saloon bar, the heat hit him. He reeled back and vomited down his front. Disorientated, half-blind, he groped for the handrail. Reaching the mezzanine level, he pushed aside the bouncers and their questions. Hands jostled him, mouths screamed obscenities in his ear:
‘Bastard spilt my drink.’
Pain exploded along his spine as a fist smashed into the small of his back. He fell to his knees, choking as he tried to catch his breath.
‘Leave him alone, he’s fucked …’
It took a while to muster the strength to stand. He staggered to his feet. A welcome blast of cold air prickled his face as he shouldered through onto the outside landing. The foyer was empty.
They had left her car at the Four Feathers. She had a start on him, but if he ran all the way he might catch up with her. He raced out of the club and turned left down a side alley. Vaulting bin bags, he banked left again into a dimly lit mews. His footsteps reverberating off the cobbles sounded like a fusillade of gunfire. As he ran, he relived the horror of what he had seen in those gaping, dark eyes: The End. How the game would be played out; how the cards would fall. The truth of it – for he believed he had witnessed the truth – terrified him. For the first time, he felt his resolve waver. In the vision, he had seen himself running, like he had wanted to in the first dream. The reality was, Jack Trent was no hero. The time would come, and he would leave Jamie to face his fate alone in the clearing.
Jack emerged from the mews. The car park of the Four Feathers was across the street. He saw Dawn climb into her Range Rover. There was no time to think through what he was going to say. Please God, just give me the words to make her believe … He started forward. Stopped. Through plumes of steamed breath, he watched her. She was crying. She was crying for him. He took something from that sight. Something powerful.
He felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘Leave this to me, Mr Trent. You need to rest.’
Jack turned. Behind him, he heard the growl of the engine. Headlights spilled down the mews and swept over the windows of the old stable buildings. The light flashed across the strong, grey face of the old man.
‘Brody?’
‘The confluence of old and new. I feel like a hoary Old Testament prophet handing the sword over to a new champion. You have only a short time now. Take this.’
Brody handed Jack an oblong package wrapped in brown paper.
‘Rest first. A few hours at least. Then read.’
‘I can’t. I must …’
‘Will she listen to you? Tell me where she has gone. I’ll protect the boy tonight.’
With faith in his own power to save Jamie all but spent, Jack gave Dawn’s address and that of her father’s house. He also told Brody his own address.
‘You’ve seen him, haven’t you?’ Brody said, buttoning his ragged coat.
‘I saw the end.’
‘Take heart. You saw the end as he would have it. Horror, Mr Trent, is in shadow. Throw light on the shadow and the horror falls away. This,’ Brody indicated the package in Jack’s hands, ‘is a candle.’
Forty
Elvis’ dashboard gyration wound down. Bob Peterson set the toy dancing again. For the thirtieth time that night, he flipped open the glove compartment and ran his finger along the cold body of the Walther semi-automatic. Jesus, this was fucked up. He should have just told Jack ‘no’. But the guy had sounded scared, and Bob knew that Jack Trent was a man, like himself, not easily scared. This kid must be in real trouble. Be that as it may, tomorrow he’d call the whole thing off. Bob Peterson didn’t put his cock on the block for nobody.
He scrunched down as the Ran
ge Rover pulled into the cul-de-sac. She was alone. Eyeing the Walther one last time, he made up his mind and heaved himself out of the car. Despite Jack’s instruction on the issue, Bob felt that he had to tell this woman that her son was in danger. She had a right to know.
‘Miss? I …’
She spun round and demanded, ‘Who are you?’
Bob was struck at once by her strength. Occasionally, he met clients like her. Very occasionally. The sort who thanked you after you’d shown them the photos of their hubby porking the nanny. No hysterics, no tears, no threats. She just gathers up the kids, leaves home and takes the bastard for everything he’s got. Not insensitive, not inhuman; just real strong. Bob admired those women.
‘My name’s Bob Peterson. Look, you know someone called Trent? Jack Trent?’
He told her the full story: about Jack asking him to follow her son, about the man’s insistence that he carry a firearm. He supposed that, having reflected on the sort of woman she was, he should not have expected a reaction. Still, her calm acceptance of it all made him feel as if he hadn’t explained things very well.
‘You know, Jack, he’s no fool. He must believe …’
‘I know what Mr Trent believes. What do you believe, Mr Peterson?’
‘Me? I don’t … You see, I’m clever in my own way. Wily, I suppose. But Jack, I’ve known him a long time. Well, not known him, I don’t reckon nobody knows him. But he doesn’t do things for no good reason. My opinion: your boy’s in trouble. Believe it.’
She thanked him for his frankness and, before he could say another word, she stepped into the house and closed the door.
Still confused and worried, Bob began retracing his steps. It wasn’t until he was within a few feet of his car that he saw the man leaning against the driver door, drumming sausage fingers on the roof. Pat Mescher’s huge head turned from contemplating the interior.
Bollocks, Bob thought, as he looked past Mescher to see the Walther P99 sitting in the open glove compartment.
‘Mr Bob Peterson. Well, well. What are y’doin’ here?’
‘Mescher. Free country, isn’t it?’
‘It certainly is, Roberto. But, and this may come as news to you, this ain’t the Alamo. Now, you’re goin’ to tell me what your heart-to-heart with Miss Howard was all about, or there’ll be all the Jailhouse Rock and corn-holing you could wish for.’
Grinning, like the fattest Halloween pumpkin Bob had ever seen, Mescher opened the passenger door.
Jack moved from empty street to empty house. He tried calling Bob Peterson for an update on the surveillance, but the bastard’s phone was switched off. Sitting on his bed, he thumbed through the comic Jamie had been reading earlier. His knuckles started to throb. He went to the bathroom and peeled back the filthy bandage. On the way to the Four Feathers, Dawn had expressed concern that he had not properly tended the wound. He told her that he hadn’t given it much thought. It wasn’t bravado, in the last few days his physical wellbeing had not been foremost in his mind.
He ran scalding water over the cuts, grinding his teeth as thick strands of infection bled away. He reached over to the sparsely equipped medicine cabinet. The nearest thing to antiseptic was mouthwash. Hissing, he trickled Mr Gumshine over the cuts.
As he picked the old dressing from the sink, clean blood trickled from his fingers and stained it afresh. Something shifted in his mind. The image of the dirty bandage, spotted red, moved like a gear release in some forgotten mechanism. It began a chain reaction. Teeth of small cogs intersected with larger wheels until the whole memory of his escape from the Yeager Library was active.
‘… I have to go. Please, I have to save the boy.’
‘As I read the situation, Jack, you have things somewhat upside down. Much better for you to remain within these walls. Out of reach. Out of Time.’
The possibility of forcing his way out of the room was only just occurring to Jack, when the librarian slipped into the corridor and locked the door behind him. Jack sent the rickety wooden chair crashing to the floor. He hammered on the door until the sides of his hands were raw. After what may have been half an hour, he heard footsteps in the stone flagged corridor outside.
‘Do you require a book, Mr Trent?’ came the voice of the librarian.
‘No. Jesus, please, just let me out.’
‘If you do not require a book, please hush. This is a library.’
‘A boy’s going to be taken. His soul’s going to be taken. Don’t you care?’
There was no answer. Exhausted, Jack turned back to the room. He was shocked to see how small the chamber looked. When he entered, the ceiling had been high, reaching up twenty feet or so and arched across with great ribs. Now the roof was a few feet above his head. Likewise, the room seemed much shorter and narrower, barely allowing enough space for him to pass between the wall and desk. And where was that small octagonal window? Now there was just bare brickwork making up the rear wall.
It’s like a tomb, Jack thought. Like a recess … like a catacomb.
Ridiculous as it seemed, he went about the room, pushing and tapping at bricks, hoping that one would slide back and reveal a secret passage. Having tested all the flagstones and bricks within reach, he dragged the table around the walls and probed the roof, inch by inch. As he went, he could hear faint murmurs, as of reading aloud, from the neighbouring rooms. And once, high-pitched, crazed laughter. It was hopeless. He jumped down from the desk and kicked it into a corner. He slumped to the floor and started twisting handfuls of straw around his fists. If there was no way out for Mewes and Marlowe, then there was no way out for Jack Trent. Jamie’s young life would be taken while he endured here through the centuries. And he would never see her again. Never be able to touch her or explain. All he would have now was the aged skin of paper between his fingers.
They stirred.
That grit, that kernel at the back of his brain. He closed his eyes and swept down their corridor, threw open the door of their prison and stood over the toy box. He could hear the thick sound of their bodies forming from the gestalt mass. As he listened to their motions, a new kind of despair settled over his thoughts. There really was no way out. He knew that he could plead with the librarian until words ran dry, but would never be set free. Not because the man was cruel, but because some laws truly are immutable.
Inside his mind, he saw himself taking the tiny key from his pocket. He fitted it into the padlock that harnessed the chains to the toy box. Why not? He thought. Better this than eternity alone. He tore off the chains and straps and threw open the lid.
This was where the memory stuttered. He remembered the rest in snatches:
The pain as they pierced his eye. The black pool of emerging shapes. The six, half-formed, growing from the puddle. Then the sight of them: slinking, clawing, padding across the floor and to the back wall of the chamber. Blood running from his nose and spotting the dressing across his hand. His excitement, as he crawled after them, suddenly unafraid. Afraid of nothing now. Their hands, their talons, their barbed legs tearing at the brickwork. Dust flying into his face, shards of stone scratching his skin. Bricks thrown aside, missing his head by inches. Hurried footsteps in the corridor. A key grinding in the lock. The librarian looking down at him.
‘We don’t encourage visitors, Mr Trent.’
‘They’re with me,’ Jack smiled.
‘Very well. You go blindly to your fate, Jack. Better you stayed here.’
The librarian closed the door. Cold, odourless air roared through a fissure in the wall. The pages of the Transmigration were torn from their binding and swept about the room in a tight cyclonic swirl. A wave of exhaustion passed over Jack. He couldn’t keep his eyes open. He felt a hand reach around his throat and pull him over the lip of rubble. Then, the tip into nothingness. There was a rush all around him. Perhaps he opened his eyes, but if he did he saw only unending darkness. He slept.
When he woke, he found himself back in the grounds of Jericho. Before taking in h
is surroundings or the questions of PC Dawling, he had reached into his mind. They were there. Lodged safely in the toy box again.
Standing now in front of the smashed mirror, where it had all begun, he wondered about what Dawn had said in the Four Feathers:
‘And they saved your life, Jack …’
Perhaps they had saved him in the Yeager Library. Or perhaps they had wanted to show that they were merciful where he was cruel. He still held the keys to their prison.
Wrapping his hand in fresh bandages, he went through into the lounge. He shifted a box of clothes from his favourite tattered easy chair, switched on a reading lamp and opened the package Brody had given him.
The manuscript was written in pencil on thin paper. Jack recognised the crabbed handwriting from the later Brody diaries he had found at the nursing home. In some places the paper was torn through where agitated corrections had been made.
Jack made short work of the introduction detailing the history of Crow Haven. He was not surprised by what he read. Ever since coming to that village in the vale, he had felt that something abided there. Some pervasive, unfocused force, of which Simon Malahyde might be only one facet.
He turned to the rest of the bundle. From the back of the house came the moan of the wind and the constant flutter of tarpaulin, like the flapping of huge bird wings.
The night noises faded as he read.
Forty-one
Brody’s Story
BUNDLE 1 –
MENDICANT IN CROW HAVEN – 1976
Fittingly perhaps, it was on the eve of the Feast of Epiphany in 1976 that I came to Crow Haven. Those grey, indefinite moments before dawn found me standing on the hill that overlooks the little community. Light played through the trees around me, but if anything the village grew darker, as if it was gathering the last of the night into its tiny pocket. These first impressions inspired a childish bout of homesickness. I found myself longing for the broad plains and mist-laced mountains that I had left behind only forty hours before. And for the quick-waking town at the foot of the Andes that had been my home for the last ten years. So high and wide everything seemed in my memory; so low and mean this English village appeared to be.