The Mammoth Book of Terror

by Stephen Jones

  When next I saw Claymore, I recalled his calm attitudes concerning the former murders; was interested in what he thought in this instance. I asked him whether he considered this crime natural. I’m not sure what reaction I expected, but he surprised me by screwing up his face in obvious internal conflict, a genuine attempt at decision. I was amazed. I would not have been shocked had he taken an attitude opposed to normal morality, but had not foreseen this struggle within himself. Several times he opened his mouth to speak, and then hesitated. I watched his face, my interest greatly aroused.

  Our meeting had taken place in the Hall of Saurians, a great vaulted room of silence with implications of vast and imponderable time. The skeletons of brontosaurus and allosaurus loomed over us. A high skylight sent filtered illumination dropping from the dome, washing the bones and casting Jurassic shadows across the floor, articulated adumbrations of the eons. Presently, without speaking, Claymore moved on, still shrouded in thought. I followed. He moved, as it were, through the path of prehistory; came to the Cretaceous period and sank down upon the edge of a platform with a tyranno-saurus rearing above, the great jaws in the gloom of the arched roof. I sat beside him. It seemed that even the shadows of those bleached bones had a great weight – that they lay upon us with the burden of knowledge, not insight to the mind but some truth known only in our most primitive cells, long forgotten to the magnifying mind but remaining dormant in the glands, the secretions of primordial instinct. I could not understand why this strange mood had come upon me; wondered if, somehow, it could have emanated from my companion by some basic transference, as a dog senses fear in a man.

  At last, he spoke.

  “The nurse should not have died,” he said, quite simply.

  “The nurse? Why only the nurse?”

  “The nurse. Her actions were so very human and so very unnatural.”

  “But surely noble?”

  “Nobility is unnatural. That, like law, has been created outside nature. Created by man. And man stands at some undefined point between nature and logic. Only man, you know, and possibly the elephant who is mighty enough to afford it – or was until man came along – show concern and respect for the aged and infirm, tolerate the useless elements of the pack, the tribe, the species. It was quite natural for the nurse to risk – and give – her life, but only in the framework of human terms. Not natural science but philosophy. The fault lies deeper than behaviour, it is in the system itself – a system that flaunts and reverses nature and creates homes for incurables, protects the helpless, preserves the weakest units to clutter the species.”

  He looked sideways at me.

  “You can’t believe the nurse’s sacrifice wrong?”

  “Not by human judgements.”

  “Well then . . .”

  “But I am speaking objectively. I am standing outside the system and wish I had a lever long enough to move it. But one man cannot, there is no fulcrum, a man can do his little part and nothing more.”

  “You speak objectively. But don’t you feel human sentiments?”

  “Of course. With my human mind, I must. ButI can also look through them, penetrate the veil of emotion, and attempt to act accordingly. If man were natural, you see, he would let the useless die, as our ancestors abandoned them to the lion and the hyena. And if man were logical he would, for instance, form his armies from the ranks of the cripples, the defectives, the malformed. War is quite natural – perhaps necessary – to our species. It is a safety valve for the pressures of survival. But it would be a far more effective valve if the casualties came from the weak, allowing the strong to live. But man lies somewhere in the void, groping upwards for elusive logic while his feet are slipping from their purchase on the natural. We are driven by false instincts we term rational – instincts created within ourselves long after nature had finished imprinting her pattern. We weaken ourselves by tolerance and, at the same time, destroy other species by inverse selectivity. Only man – man, the hunter – seeks the finest trophy, the largest antlers, the beast in the prime of life. We kill the best specimens and spurn the weak; we plunder nature as we follow our own descent.”

  “You have strong views,” I said.

  Claymore nodded. His slight shadow slipped across the floor, within the dinosaur’s vaulted ribcage, as he shifted his position; crossed his leg over the artificial limb.

  “Yes, the dichotomy has long troubled me,” he said. “As these conclusions first solidified during long winter nights in the open, I often lay awake in my sleeping bag and saw the cold starry sky as a background to my concepts. How implacable that sky seemed, how pitiless. It was then that I saw natural science cannot be isolated, can never be an enclosed sphere of knowledge, for even the non-objective sciences are inextricably linked to ecology. Man is unique. He stands above nature and imposes his half-considered concepts on the natural scheme – forces them in where they do not fit. It seems that the experiment with the big brain has taken a wrong turning – a turning nature never intended but is powerless to correct – to guide us back to the proper channel. Nature has created a Frankenstein’s monster which threatens to turn upon its creator. And to destroy nature is suicidal. Far better, perhaps, if homo sapiens had been allowed to survive by virtue of thumb and upright spine, and never granted the gift and curse of vocal cord and concept; to survive like the cockroach which, I daresay, will outlast us yet.”

  He stretched out a hand towards the tower of bones behind us, the lesson of the extinction of the mighty, the roaring rulers of earth for millions of years reduced to skeletal silence on a platform.

  “I planned a book on this subject,” he said. “I never completed it, however. It would never have been published. It would merely have invited outraged attacks.”

  “The idea certainly invites attack,” I said.

  “You don’t agree with me?”

  “I see your logic. But surely man is above the laws of the jungle. We have mastered survival and now it is curiosity which directs us, governs us, brought us through dark ages and may yet take us to the stars.”

  “Curiosity? Ah yes. That will take us – somewhere . . .”

  For a time we did not speak.

  “However,” said Claymore, atlength, “all this is conjecture. I am truly sorry about that nurse . . .”

  Following this remarkable conversation in the Hall of Saur-ians, I took the trouble to locate a copy of Claymore’s book. I reread it. It was the book I had remembered and none of his anti-social ideas were expressed there. It dealt with observation and obvious conclusions and no more; implied nothing hidden beneath the level of his writing. I found it difficult to see Claymore, as I knew him, as the author of this book and decided he was not – that something had caused his outlook to alter in the interval so that the man who had written so expressively and objectively in the past was not the same man who had spoken with such intensity in the shadow of dinosaur. I could not imagine what this might have been, what experience could have warped and embittered his mind – perhaps the loss of his leg, I wondered. And yet he’d seemed to have adjusted easily enough to that loss. I was curious and would have been most interested to know about it, but could think of no way to bring the subject up; decided to wait and hope that, in the course of our meetings, the truth would come to light.

  As, indeed, it did.

  But first the maniac struck again.

  In many respects, the next attack was the most perplexing of all. The strangest aspect was that the victim survived – was allowed to survive the ordeal. And certainly the most horrible aspect was that the poor fellow was blind, his affliction adding to the monstrous nature of the unprovoked assault. These facts added a new twist to the emerging pattern, complicating and confusing the issue. But what really struck me was purely subjective.

  I was acquainted with the victim.

  His name was Bill, a big jovial sort who refused to let his blindness change his cheerful nature. He’d lost his sight in the war, spent some time in hospital, and e
merged with complete selfconfidence and a fierce independence. He refused even the assistance of a guide dog and was frequently seen roaming the familiar streets with a firm and steady step, behind dark glasses and a fibre-glass stick; pausing at kerbs to listen for approaching traffic or halting for a moment at a corner, head raised and senses alert as he got his bearings. I was appalled when I read of the vicious attack which had taken place in his own basement flat. It is always so much more shocking when it is someone one knows. Bill had been brutally battered and beaten and then left alive on his floor. And that was the extraordinary thing. He had not been supposed dead, for he was still conscious. The maniac had simply walked off and left him, and that behaviour was so far removed from the other attacks that the police were not ruling out the possibility of a second madman amuck in the city. However the method of attack, until it had ceased, fitted the pattern. It was calculated and efficient.

  I phoned the hospital immediately and inquired about his condition; found, to my relief, that he was recovering and asked how soon he would be able to have visitors. Apparently he had already been demanding that visitors be allowed in, which was very much to be expected of Bill, and I went to see him in the morning.

  He was sitting up in bed, a white bandage around his head and a cigar in his teeth. His big solid shoulders sloped down beneath the sheets, he greeted me in a loud voice and roared cheerfully at the nurse who told him he must be quiet. She turned her eyes upwards and smiled despite herself. Bill was able to make people smile that way. He was pleased to have a visitor, we chatted for a few minutes and then, without urging or suggestion from me, he told me what had happened. He seemed more angered than frightened by the attack, his self-reliance had survived and he did not, in his dark world, understand how one with sight would project and magnify the terror of his position.

  “Well, Johnny boy,” said Bill, “I don’t know if this bastard was waiting inside my flat or if he followed me home. The coppers think he was already inside, on account of one of my neighbours, old widow down the street, got an idea she’s got designs on me, you know? – well, this widow saw me come home and says there was no one following me. But I’m not so sure. Seems I would have sensed his presence if he’d been waiting there. Maybe the old gal don’t see too well. Anyway, don’t matter which way it was. I’d been out for my afternoon walk and I never bother to lock the door so it was a simple matter for him to get in before me or behind me, whichever. I went right into the kitchen as soon as I got home and put a pan on for coffee. I leaned my walking stick against the stove and stood there, waiting for the water to boil. Then I heard him. Just a faint sound, at first, but we blind guys get used to listening for those soft noises. I turned around real sharp and heard his foot scrape as he stepped back in surprise. “Who’s there?” I asked. Ysee, I wasn’t worried at that point, I thought it might have been a friend or maybe even that old widow come to tempt me. Maybe even one of the younger gals on the street. Plenty of gals like to call on a blind guy, Johnny. Gals that don’t like it known they’re passionate – figure they can get me to give ‘em some lovin’ and never even speak, see, so I won’t know who they are. Happens all the time. ‘Course, once they gets to pantin’ and snortin’, why, straight off I can tell who it is, long’s I’ve heard their voice before. Easy to tell by the way they pant, how long their hair is, how wide they are in the hips. But, ‘course, I don’t let on I know, ‘cause then they won’t come back. I just go along with it, askin’ who they are even after I know and then they think they’re on to the perfect set-up and come back again. Yeah, this bein’ a blind guy got some advantages. An’ if their husbands find out, why I got the perfect excuse. Ha ha. Not a bad old game. Got some real fine unfaithful wives on that street, real fine.

  “Anyhow, that’s what I thought – thought it was one o’ them passionate wives, so I wasn’t worried. Just asked who it was and sort of smiled. Then when there was no answer, I was sure it must be a gal. I stood there, waitin’ for her to come up and start snugglin’. But nothing happened for quite a while. The water started to boil, still nothin’ happened. I guessed the gal was shy – figured it was her first visit, see? So I said, ‘Want some coffee, whoever you are?’ and then I heard the bastard take a deep breath, real quick, and I thought: Oh ho, Billy boy, that ain’t no gal . . . What I thought was it was an irate husband, come to rant and rave. That was when he jumped on me . . .”

  Bill paused. His brow furrowed beneath the bandage and I noticed several scratches on his face and neck, parallel rows that looked like fingernail marks. His big shoulders shifted as he recalled the violence of the attack and his heavy jowled face was set. I stared at him with great respect – saw that he was reliving only the violence, not the horror. Blindness has always seemed so ultimate a handicap and I had already imagined the scene – imagined Bill cringing, asking who and why, his sightless face questing at the strange sounds, unguided hands groping before him protectively, helpless and terrified, all this in the darkness of his affliction . . . This I had imagined; had pictured with my vision. But this was not the way it had been for Bill. He remembered only his anger and rage.

  “He grabbed me by the throat,” Bill said. “Well, Johnny boy, that was a mistake. Pretty strong fellow, I could feel his strength in his fingers, but ‘course with both his hands on me I knew just where he was. I didn’t panic. I got my feet set right and then gave him a couple of good belts in the belly. Good short shovel hooks. Bang bang, just like that.” His shoulders rolled, his arms moved under the sheet, the long muscles in his jaw tightened. “He let go real quick then, boy. Real quick. I heard his wind rush out hard as he stepped back. But I hadn’t caught him in the solar plexus like I planned and he didn’t go down. I took an almighty swipe at where I reckoned his jaw oughta be, but I misjudged it. Missed the bastard. But I followed up, pulling my shoulder around and tuckin’ my chin down behind it and coiled into a hitter’s crouch. I still sort of suspected it was one o’ them irate husbands. Wasn’t worried much. I got both fists cocked and my head down and I said, ‘Come on, you bastard! You want a fight, you found the right blind fellow. Just come in here, let’s see what you can do!’

  “Well, he didn’t do anything for a while. I could hear him gettin’ his breath back and sort of feel his eyes on me. Weird feelin’, that. I could tell he was sizing me up, plannin’ his attack – could tell he was a pretty cool fellow. He was standin’ just out of reach. I thought about lungin’ for him, but figured it was better to wait – try to time a haymaker as he came to me. So I feinted a couple of times, to get him to make some sounds movin’ but he stayed real calm. I guess we stood like that maybe two minutes. Then I heard him move to the side, very quiet. I thought he was leavin’, that he’d had enough. But then I heard the cupboard door open and straight off I knew what the sonabitch was doin’. He was looking for a weapon. Well, there were bottles and things there he could use to club me and I didn’t like that idea; tried to play on his pride; said, ‘Hey, you need a weapon against a blind fellow? What sort o’ man are you?’ But that didn’t work. He started movin’ towards me again. Then I got a little worried. I reached behind me and got the handle of the pan and held the pan in front of me. The water was boilin’ away real good by then. I could feel the steam. He hesitated and I swung the pan across my chest, waitin’. I figured if I could give ‘im a face full of steam I’d have a chance to get my hands on him. That’s all I wanted. Just to get my hands on the bastard. Should’ve grabbed him straight off when he was chokin’ me, ‘course, but at that point I didn’t know how serious he was and figured a couple o’ belly hooks would be plenty. But he was cautious now. I couldn’t hear him movin’ at all. Then somethin’ hit the pan and tilted it and the hot water ran down my forearm. I threw the pan away and missed him and somethin’ smacked me alongside the head. In the temple. The coppers told me it was a whisky bottle. How about that? Smacks me with my own Scotch, the swine. Anyway, it was a pretty good wallop and I had to cover up and he hit me again, behind
the neck that time and the floor slammed against my knees. I kept trying t’ get a hold on him but he stayed out of reach and belted me a few more times in the head and neck and then, for the first time, I realized he wanted to kill me. Not much I could do, just kneel there and dart my hands out in different directions hopin’ to get him. He was a cool one. No hurry at all. Wasn’t even breathin’ hard enough to hear now. Couple o’ times I thought he’d gone, even, and then whop! he clubs me again. Would’ve killed me, I guess, ‘cept I touched the handle of my cane then as I slid to the side and I got the cane and made a great wide sweep in front of me, low down, and felt it whip against his leg. Good snappy cane, fibre glass, gave him a helluva slash. Heard him yelp. So I saw that was my only chance, and I sat there with my back against the stove and swung the stick back and forth in a low arc in front of me, fast enough so he couldn’t get close without gettin’ hit. I was in a bad way by then. Sort of dizzy and sick from the hammerin’ I’d had. But the only thing I could think was: Grab the cane, you dirty bastard! Just waitin’ for him to grab it so I’d know where he was and could lunge at him. Just wanted him in my hands, y’know. I’d have broken every bone in his body.”