The Fury

by Alexander Gordon Smith

  Schiller peered down the street where the vast bulk of St Peter’s Church sat like a mountain in the dark. A mile or so past that lay home, the crumbling manor house entombed in the shadows of its endless grounds.

  ‘Go on,’ she snapped. ‘What are you waiting for? If you’re going back then go. I’m finding this party with or without you.’

  ‘But I don’t feel too good,’ Schiller replied, rubbing his left temple. His eyes darted up, meeting hers for a fraction of a second. The truth was that she wasn’t feeling too good either, her head was pounding. But she ignored the throb, glaring at her brother until his hand dropped in submission. ‘Okay, but I don’t want to stay all night. Please, Rilke.’

  Good boy, she thought. Good dog. She patted him on the head, hard enough to make him flinch. Then she turned and carried on down the street. She’d heard about the party from a cleaner called Millie who worked part-time at the estate. Not that Millie had told her to her face – none of the staff dared talk to Rilke. She’d overheard the girl chatting to one of her friends when they were dusting the library. An illegal rave, she’d called it, and they’d giggled at the word ‘illegal’. It’ll be cool, just music and stuff, come along, it’s not far out of town, you know the Logan farm up by the coast.

  ‘Not all night, though?’ Schiller said to her back. ‘Please?’

  ‘All night, little brother,’ she said. She always called him that, even though he was technically a few minutes older. ‘Till the birds start singing.’

  Farlen wasn’t a big town. Some people didn’t even call it a town at all, more like a village with an ego. It had grown up around their own house, centuries ago, back when the Bastion family was rich and influential. Over the last couple of generations the estate had crumbled under its own weight, the huge house disintegrating, rats gnawing at its foundations and pigeon droppings eating through its rafters. And the town seemed to be under the same curse.

  Good riddance to it, Rilke thought as they reached the end of the high street and the boarded-up shops that sat there. The line of lights ended, a pool of bottomless black beyond looking like the edge of the world. The stars were out, the moon too, but the cool silver glow they emitted was reluctant.

  A pang of something nestled uncomfortably in her stomach. She slowed, opening her arm and letting Schiller slide his own through the loop. He hugged it tight, and she could feel his gratitude ebbing off him in great, golden waves.

  ‘I love you, little brother,’ she said. ‘You know I won’t let anything happen to you.’

  ‘I know,’ he whispered as they stepped out of the light. Rilke slid the torch from her jacket pocket, flicking on the beam and carving a channel through the night like Moses with the Red Sea. She pulled Schiller closer, picking up the pace and practically dragging him along by her side.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘It’s not far.’

  The music hit her at the same time as the stench of the ocean.

  She hated that smell. What did they say? That in Britain you were never more than seventy miles from the sea. And every year it seemed to creep in a little closer, eroding the beach and the cliffs, rotting the land away a few metres at a time. It was the vast weight of it that scared her, not just its width – spanning the gulf between continents – but its unthinkable depth. There was just so much of it, and if one day it decided to swell, to spill its lightless guts onto the land, it could wipe the world clean without a second thought. A frightening thought, if not necessarily a bad one. There wasn’t much in this world that made Rilke smile.

  She breathed through her mouth, focusing on the glow ahead. Spotlights rose from a stubbled field maybe half a mile away, throwing light right back at the stars and the huge grinning face of the moon. The music was nothing more than a pulse that she could feel in her feet, as if the very ground were alive. The truth was she hated this kind of party, the people you got there, all high on something or drunk off their faces. All stupid, the same way most people were stupid. But it had to be better than another night of unrelenting boredom at home. Rilke had never been a big sleeper.

  She shone her torch on the short, grassy bank then stumbled up it, Schiller’s arm still limpet-tight around hers. It was tough going on the uneven ground but the earth was hard and she kept her pace steady, sticking to the same ploughed furrow. The heartbeat grew more powerful the closer they got, popping in her ears, brushing against her skin. It found an echo in the pain between her temples – thump-thump . . . thump-thump . . . thump-thump – like something was stuck inside her skull and trying to beat its way out. She picked up her pace, the rave pulling itself out of the distance like a cathedral of light.

  They were halfway across the field when Schiller stopped, planting his feet into the dry earth like an anchor. She turned, shining the beam into his face.

  ‘I don’t want to go,’ he moaned, squinting in the harsh light. ‘I’m scared.’

  ‘You’re such a baby, Schill,’ she replied, wrenching him forward. He dug in, fighting.

  ‘Something bad is going to happen,’ he went on.

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’ And yet even as she said the words she felt something inside her, something in her gut, scream out – He’s right, he’s right, he’s right – a wordless, instinctive jolt of adrenalin. The rave was close enough for her to see the ring of vans and cars that circled the party like wagons; and past them the heaving mass of flesh that seemed to breathe in and out with that bone-shaking heartbeat.

  Rilke swallowed, suddenly cold. She almost retreated right there, ready to lead the way back across the field towards home. But once again that stubborn streak stopped her in her tracks, made her bury that instinctive warning. The Bastion family had always been driven by its women. They were the ones to lead.

  She clenched her arm, trapping Schiller’s tight and pulling him across the field. He needs a leash, she thought. They walked for another minute or so, the crowd ahead coalescing into individuals – guys and girls in their teens and twenties pretty much all wearing glow sticks. Most were inside the ring of vehicles but others were loitering in the shadows around the party, talking or kissing or lost in their own private drug-induced dances. There was nothing to be scared of here. She’d stay for an hour or so, just to see what it was like, just to have had the experience, then they’d go. She’d pretend to be leaving for Schiller’s sake, that way he would owe her.

  He was resisting again. Rilke looked over her shoulder, not slowing. He said something, his words lost in the deafening bass thump that seemed to rise from the earth. What? she mouthed, shrugging her shoulders, waiting for him to start moaning again. But he wasn’t.

  ‘My head,’ he yelled, leaning in close. ‘It doesn’t hurt any more.’

  She was about to reply when she realised that the ache in her own brain had gone, so swiftly and so suddenly that she hadn’t even noticed. She put a hand against the side of Schiller’s head, stroking his temple with her thumb.

  ‘See, little brother,’ she shouted, smiling. ‘What did I tell you? Everything is fine.’

  He couldn’t have heard what she said over the noise but he smiled back, the reflected spotlights making his eyes twinkle.

  It didn’t last.

  She knew what he was looking at before she could even turn round, like she’d seen it with her own eyes – two people, a man and a teenage girl, stumbling towards them. And there was more – a flash of something else, something that smelled of rot, a girl and two boys asleep in an old restaurant, someone else walking through a forest, someone else driving a car, then a dozen more, two dozen maybe. The images were so strong that she was gripped by vertigo, as though she’d been wrenched out of her own body and thrown into a lightning-fast orbit.

  Schiller called out her name and she spun round. The man and the girl were sprinting towards her, fast, uttering pig grunts as they gained ground. There were others too, the kids that had been loitering outside the party, charging across the field.

  They all had the same expression, s
ilhouetted against the lights but unmistakable. They were furious. These people meant to kill them both, Rilke understood – the knowledge absolute and unquestionable. They meant to trample them into the field, to make mud of them.

  She gave Schiller a shove, yelling at him:

  ‘Run!’

  Brick

  Fursville, 12.34 a.m.

  He swam up from an ocean of darkness, breaching it like a swimmer who has gone too deep, expecting to feel warmth and daylight on his face but instead rising into an endless, heatless night. He tried to take a breath, couldn’t remember how, his lungs screaming at him.

  He could see the new kid, Cal, right there, giving off his own weird light like some deep-sea jellyfish. The boy was struggling in the torrent of darkness, his eyes bulging, his mouth gasping like a fish. And behind him, visible over his shoulder, a tiny form that could only be Daisy, her twig-thin limbs clawing at the water, trying to find the surface.

  He reached out, noticing that his own skin seemed to be glowing, as though he were radioactive. He stretched, trying to grab hold of Cal, willing the kid to grab hold of the girl, all of them kicking upwards.

  Brick woke, his screams more like barks as he coughed up darkness. He pushed himself to his feet, his chair toppling over behind him. There was still no light, but he could feel the ground under him, could feel the pain in his cheek where he’d been sleeping on his laptop. There was something else, too, a ringing in his ears that was also profoundly silent, inverted cathedral bells whose peals were each a gaping absence inside his head.

  Daisy cried out, her voice pinched by fear. Brick screwed his eyes shut, even though there was no light, trying to remember where she was.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he called out, edging around the table, feeling for the matches. ‘Don’t worry, we’re here.’

  She began to cry even harder, and he heard a thump as she rolled off the chaise longue.

  ‘Daisy don’t move, you’ll hurt yourself, just hang on.’

  He found the candle, burned down to the stick, and beside it – bingo, a box of matches. He carefully pulled one out, striking it on the box, the tiny flame filling the huge restaurant with soft light. Daisy stood by the sofa, her arms out, her sobs muted as she studied the burning match.

  ‘Here,’ said another voice, and Brick turned to see Cal walking over from the far side of the room. He held a candle out and Brick lit it, placing it on the table. Daisy saw Cal and came running over, hugging him tight, her eyes still full of sleep. ‘You okay?’ Cal asked her. ‘You have a bad dream?’

  ‘We were drowning,’ she said into his T-shirt. ‘You were there, and the other boy too.’

  ‘Brick,’ reminded Brick. Cal looked at him, and when their eyes met Brick realised the boy had been locked inside exactly the same nightmare. Not only that, but he knew that if he’d waved in his dream, the others would have seen it. That ringing in his ears seemed to grow louder, and yet infinitely quieter, and he worked his jaw to try and unblock his ears. It was a second or two before he noticed that Cal was doing the same thing.

  ‘You hear that too?’ he asked.

  ‘Bells,’ Cal replied.

  Daisy pulled her head from his chest and jammed a finger in her ear.

  ‘They’re too loud,’ she said. ‘But not loud. I can’t really hear them. I don’t like it.’

  ‘I’ve had this before,’ Cal said to Brick, his hand gently smoothing back Daisy’s ruffled hair. ‘My head was . . . I don’t know, like full of sound but empty at the same time. It led me to Daisy.’

  And just like that Brick knew exactly what he was hearing. They all did, a moment of understanding that passed between them as easily as the reflection of the candlelight in their eyes.

  ‘It’s one of us,’ said Brick.

  Cal nodded, saying, ‘And they need help.’

  Rilke

  Farlen, 12.37 a.m.

  The first of the crowd, the man, was nearly on them. Rilke bent down, scrabbling on the field until her hand closed over a stone the size of a satsuma. She waited until he was close – his animal grimace a jagged, toothy chasm that split his face in two – then she lobbed the stone at him with every ounce of strength she had.

  It struck his nose with the sound that a milk bottle makes when it’s dropped on a stone floor, and the man fell. Rilke bent down, looking for another missile, but it was too late. The teenage girl slammed into her, sending them both tumbling over the field. Corn stalks dug into her arms and legs, the wind punched from her as the girl’s elbow hit her solar plexus. By the time she’d worked out which way was up the girl was on her chest, knees gouging her ribs and claws raking down her cheeks.

  Rilke shrieked, the gargled sound that spilled from her own lips somehow more terrifying than the assault. There was no pain, just the roar of her blood. She lashed out, thumping her attacker in the cheek then grabbing a handful of soil, rubbing it into the girl’s eyes and forcing her back.

  Another howl. Rilke looked up in time to see some dreadlocked guy about to take a punt at her head. She rolled, the girl spilling from her, the man’s foot swinging wide and sending him tumbling off balance. She scrambled to her feet, each breath a shriek. There were more people coming now, maybe ten or twenty of them.

  ‘Schiller!’ she yelled, ducking as another girl swung a punch. She kicked, her foot connecting with the girl’s knee and unleashing a pistol crack. Where was he? There was only the crowd, tearing relentlessly forward. If she couldn’t find him then they were both dead.

  There, fifteen metres or so away, a bundle of shadow that had too many arms and legs. It had to be him.

  Rilke ran, slipping on the loose soil and nearly going over. The tremors she felt beneath her feet were now nothing to do with the music that still played. She didn’t look back, knowing that to do so would kill her. The only thing that mattered was reaching Schiller.

  She could hear him now, his brittle cries. He was lying on the ground, a man sitting on his stomach choking him with fluorescent orange fingerless gloves. Schiller’s eyes were the size of pickled eggs, looking like they were about to pop right out of his head, his own hands batting pathetically at his attacker.

  ‘GET OFF HIM!’ Rilke screamed. She was a dozen yards away now, her fist bunched and held over her head ready to cave the bastard’s face in.

  Someone behind her clipped her foot and she went flying, momentum flipping her body over in a clumsy somersault. A weight dropped on her back and this time there was pain, a buckle of white heat that burned up her spine. A fist connected with the back of her head, pushing her face into the dirt. Then another, like a sledgehammer. She tried to breathe but found only soil and wormstench. Somebody had hold of her right hand, bending it backwards.

  She was going to die. They were going to kill her in this very field, a mile from where she lived. They would bury her here, and nobody would ever find her. It was an impossible thought, too crazy to be real. Too insane to believe.

  They’re going to kill Schiller too. Those screams of his will be the last thing you ever hear. And that wasn’t impossible. That wasn’t crazy. That was all too real. They would kill her brother, stomp him into the ground.

  No. She wouldn’t let them. They couldn’t have him.

  Rilke wrenched her head up so hard she thought her neck would snap. She reached behind with her left hand, grabbing a fistful of flesh and squeezing hard. There was another grunt, this one laced with pain. The weight on her back shifted – not much but enough for her to worm her way forward. Schiller was ahead, almost close enough to touch. There were four or five people over him now, each one different and yet each one wearing that same fury-filled expression. Their hands and feet rose and fell, rose and fell, like pistons, like some horrific machine. Yet Schiller was still alive. She could see him through the gaps in the crowd, a hand held out towards her.

  If she could just reach him . . . What? You can die here holding hands? No, it was something more than that. Something else.

  A knuc
kled weight crunched down on her leg, another on her shoulder. She didn’t stop, crawling forward with everything she had. She reached for Schiller, the distance between them mere centimetres now but at the same time a vast, abysmal chasm.

  ‘Schill,’ she spoke his name through blood, but he heard her, turning his red, disbelieving eyes her way.

  ‘Rilke.’ He stretched, his fingers crawling over the soil. She grasped for him, the gap shrinking from five centimetres to four, to three, to two.

  Their fingertips touched and the world burst into cold, dark fire.

  Daisy

  Fursville, 12.44 a.m.

  ‘Did it work?’ asked Cal.

  ‘Did what work?’ said Brick. ‘Standing here like a bunch of idiots holding hands?’

  They were doing exactly that, huddled in a circle in the flickering light of the restaurant. Daisy wasn’t sure why. She couldn’t remember whose idea it had been. It had just happened, the same instinct that makes you flinch when somebody throws a punch, that makes you seek shelter when you hear thunder.

  ‘It worked,’ said Daisy, freeing herself from Brick’s huge, clammy palm. Brick pulled his other hand out of Cal’s, both boys wiping their hands on their clothes as though they had poison on them. Cal held on to her for a moment longer, giving her a gentle squeeze before letting go.

  ‘How do you know?’ he asked.

  ‘I just do,’ she replied. And she did. She’d seen it in her head, inside one of those little ice cubes. Although seen was the wrong word. She hadn’t really seen anything, she’d just felt it. But what exactly had she felt? Two people, or maybe just one, they were so similar she couldn’t be sure. They’d been scared, they’d been in pain. They’d been about to die.

  But then what?