The Midnight Eye Files Collection

by William Meikle

  Wee Jim eventually worked his way back to our table.

  “They’ve fucked with the wrong guy this time,” he said as he took a long swallow of beer. “Kidnap, extortion and black magic orgies...Johnny Brown will have fucking kittens.”

  “Do tell...” I said, but he shook his head.

  “Nope. I need to phone this in. I want to see those three wankers plastered over the front page tomorrow.”

  “Just tell me one thing then...” I said nonchalantly. “The kidnap victim wouldn’t be a fella from Glasgow? A relative of theirs? John Mason by name?”

  “Shit,” he said. “Your lost boy?”

  “Right first time,” I said. “Give me a hand in the morning and we can get him back to Glasgow.”

  “I think it’s time to swap stories,” he said.

  So I told him where I was in the case, then he laid out what he’d found, while the Mason brothers glared at us from across the room.

  “About nine months ago, a local fisherman out digging for bait came across a body on the beach. It was a naked man, and he’d been injured, with terrible tears and gashes around his groin. The fisherman went for the Polis, but when they got back the body was gone. One of the local neds saw the three fuckers over there drag the man away. The injured man was your lost boy, John Mason, a tourist fae Glasgow. And get this...he’s their fucking cousin, and heir to a wee fortune...which goes to them if he ‘disappears’. For the past nine months he’s been under house arrest in a flat doon in the harbor.”

  “And what about the black magic shit?” I asked.

  “That’s just some bullshit one of the kids was giving me. Johnny Brown will love it though...seemingly, the Mason family are cursed, and in every generation one of them gets sacrificed, like in that film wi’ the policeman getting roasted alive. A nice juicy tit-bit to add to the story.”

  “They’re not planning to sacrifice John Mason are they?”

  “How the fuck do I know? I’d believe anything of the folk around here.”

  He raised a hand and wiggled his fingers in a mock-coquettish manner at the three men.

  “So what’s the plan?” he asked.

  I told him more about the morning meeting.

  “Good. I’ll come with you,” he said.

  “No. You go with the Land Rover. If the girl is on her own I’m sure you can talk your way into joining her. And if it’s a set-up, you’ll also know soon enough. I’ll make the meet, and see what the lay of the land is. We’ll meet up later and compare notes. All being well, I’ll have John Mason with me, and we can take him straight back to the city.”

  He grudgingly agreed with me, we shook on it, then we set about drinking the bar dry. The Mason boys watched us for a while, but we forgot about them as we tried to outdo each other with racy tales of life back in Glasgow, both real and imaginary.

  At some point Jim started buying drinks for everyone in the bar, drinks that were gratefully accepted by all but the Mason brothers. He came back for another foray to the bar with two whiskies. “I hope Jimmy Brown has a fucking heart attack when he sees the bill,” Jim said, “Here, have a 25-year-old malt...four pounds fifty for a single. I got us both doubles.”

  “Better slow down,” I suggested.

  “Fuck that,” he said, “I’ve got that landlady to face again. And I’m not going to do that twice when I’m sober.”

  Sometime around eleven o’clock we parted company. The Masons had already gone, as had most of the other occupants of the bar. The table in front of us was awash with beer and cigarette ends, and the roomed seemed to spin as I pushed myself out of the chair.

  “See you in the morning,” Jim said.

  “Bright and early. I want to get away before the traffic,” I said, loudly enough for the barman to hear. I didn’t think we were fooling anybody, but it felt good to have a plan.

  I was a bit unsteady on the way up to my room, but I was aware enough to set all my clothes out for an airing...I never was much good at planning, and I had no clean clothes for the next day. Just don’t tell my mother, okay?

  My dreams were troubled, fragments of hulking men dragging bodies from rocky shores, little old ladies with a thirst for whisky, and barmaids doing conjuring tricks. And later, the old dream came back, the one where I’m swimming in darkness as manic flutes whistle in swirling chaos, and Doug screams from a place I’m too afraid to enter.

  I woke in a cold sweat, heart pounding, a cold dead taste in my mouth. I staggered to the window, threw it open, and stared out into the night until my breathing got back to normal and my chest loosened. When I no longer felt that I was having a heart attack, I lit the first of what would turn out to be many cigarettes.

  Doug wasn’t the only one left with a legacy from the case of ‘The Johnson Amulet’. About once a month the dream came back to me of my trip through ‘elsewhere’ to find Doug, and finding him, insane with fear, there in the blackness. And the dream always ended the same way, back in the cave under Arkham House, with the veil in reality splitting as a many-tentacled monstrosity tried to push its way through. When awake I could never remember the true shape of the thing behind the veil...but my dreams remembered, and were very much afraid.

  Back then, last summer, Arthur and Fiona Dunlop, warlock and witch, had closed the veil, giving their lives in the process, and for a while I was able to keep the dreams at bay by remembering her song, her protection spell. But the memory of the song was fading, and each time the dreams came for me, they came stronger. Someday I was going to remember what was fighting to come through the veil. And that would probably be the day they’d find me, hair white and face a death mask of abject terror. Until that day, I would stand at open windows in the depths of night; smoking cigarettes and wishing I’d paid more attention to Fiona Dunlop’s singing, and less to her more earthly charms.

  The night wore on. From the windows I could see out over the harbor, where the moonlight danced on the ripples and there was no sound but the slight swaying and creaking of the masts of the moored boats. Thin, wispy clouds floated in front of a sky ablaze with stars, and I watched a satellite track across above us.

  And as I stared up, a song came wafting through the night. At first I was confused, thinking that Fiona Dunlop’s song was replaying in my mind. But this was no memory. Somewhere, out over the dark waters of the harbor, someone sang an ancient tune that spoke of longing, of desire. I felt a stirring at my groin, and covered myself up, suddenly embarrassed although there was no one around to see.

  A light went on in one of the buildings on the harbor- side...from the Auld Kelpie.

  Suddenly I was wide-awake, waiting for activity.

  But nothing happened.

  The song faded into the night, and ten minutes later the light in the pub went out. I stood watching for a long time, but once more there was only the moon on the water, and soon even that disappeared as the cloud thickened and a light rain started to fall. I crawled back into bed and slept through till morning.

  There were no more dreams, and for that I was thankful, but when I woke at 6:30 I had a stinker of a hangover. By the time I got downstairs and rustled up a girl to get me some coffee and toast my head felt ready to split open.

  “Can I get you anything else?” the girl said as she left me a coffeepot and four pieces of over-done toast.

  “Aye, a new head,” I said.

  She smiled, “We’ve got some aspirin behind the bar for this kind of emergency. I sometimes need them myself.”

  Four pills, two cups of coffee and a cigarette later I was out in the open air and heading for the harbor, feeling almost normal.

  The rain had got heavier, and a light wind drove it long the harbor and full into my face. I realized exactly how ill-prepared I was...I was dressed for the city...leather shoes, thin cotton trousers, cotton shirt and thin leather jacket. The Skye weather laughed and flung its chill full-force through me. I picked up the pace as I headed for the north jetty.

  This time the boat was
there, a twenty-foot cruiser, blue and white, with its name picked out in silver and black...the Hebridean Flyer. The motor was already running, but there was no one in sight. I stepped off the dock and down into the small open cabin area.

  “Cast off and drive out of the harbor,” a voice said. It came from under my feet. I looked down to see an open panel in the floor.

  “Drive? I’m having trouble just standing up,” I said.

  “It’s simple,” the voice said. “The throttle is on your left...as long as you don’t go into reverse you’ll be fine...and the steering wheel is the big round thing...”

  “Oh, a comedian as well, are we?”

  “Just do as I say,” the voice said. “I’ll explain when we’re in open water.”

  I managed to cast off without difficulty, but the boat started to drift alarmingly, heading towards the fishing boat behind me. I panicked and pushed the T-bar to the left of the steering wheel. I hoped it was the throttle. The boat lurched forward, this time heading back towards the harbor wall. I swung the steering wheel full to the right, and the boat veered away, too far. I corrected again, and finally got it going in a straight line...unfortunately one that was heading for the outer harbor wall. I turned the wheel full right again, and we missed the wall by a full inch before we were out of the harbor. Almost immediately I felt a side current hit us and we began to move sideways parallel with the town.

  “Give it more throttle,” the voice hissed below me. I did as I was told, and the boat finally managed to control itself in the current.

  “Head east...to your right,” the voice said. “And let me know when we’re beyond the point and out of sight of the town.

  I’d piloted a boat before, once, many years ago, on a completely flat calm stretch of water on an inland loch. This was very different, and what with the biting wind and driving rain, it was all I could do to keep it in a relatively straight line. After a bit I was able to rap on the panel.

  “Out you come. We’re well out of sight.”

  I stepped aside as he came up on deck.

  “Jesus, man,” he said, looking me up and down. “You must be frozen. There’s a spare jumper and a set of waterproofs below. Give me the wheel.”

  I didn’t need a telling a second time. I was down below almost as soon as he climbed out.

  “There’s a kettle boiling down there. Make two coffees...that’ll warm you up.”

  I found the clothes. Once I had them on I felt like the Michelin man, but at least I was beginning to get warm.

  A small galley took up the bulk of the space under the deck, and a kettle whistled on a stove. I found the coffee in a steel jar, and two heavy mugs in a tiny sink. I made the coffee as strong as I dared and hefted both the mugs and myself up onto the deck.

  “John Mason, I presume?” I said as I handed him the coffee. “You take a terrible picture...I had you down as a man in his thirties.”

  “Thirty-five actually,” he said, smiling

  I had been looking for a balding, heavy-jowled, man with thin, graying hair. The man in front of me had almost a full head of thick black hair, and he looked trim and fit...I would have guessed him to be no more than twenty-five.

  “Skye agrees with you,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “Give me a cigarette and I’ll tell you a story while we go.”

  “Where are we going?” I said, “Your mother wants you in Glasgow tomorrow morning.”

  “And I’ll be there,” he said. “Irene will be waiting with your Land Rover in Mallaig. But we’ve got a few hours on the water before then. As I said, I’ll swap you...a cigarette for a story...”

  I opened my last pack of Marlboro and we lit up, having to cup our hands against the wind.

  “It began with one of these,” he said, waving his cigarette in front of his face.

  Three

  John Mason’s Story

  This is the way it happened.

  I came to Skye to get away from it all, to get away from the shithole that Glasgow had become for me. A year of high mortgage rates, zombie-filled commuter trains, crowded pubs and mind- numbingly dull work left me in urgent need of some peace and quiet where I could do some serious thinking about my future.

  The night before had been the first night of my holiday and I’d been serious about something all right. I had succeeded in getting seriously drunk.

  Now, this morning, my body told me I had a serious hangover.

  Standing up made me dizzy, probably brought on by the small furry creatures that had been sleeping in my mouth all night and only ventured out to glue my eyelids together.

  I’d had this feeling before and knew from experience that a good brisk walk by the shore would at least make me feel human and would probably ensure that I could face breakfast. I pulled on my old denims, woolly jumper, and thick socks, what my mother would have called sensible shoe, and ventured out into the morning.

  The sun had just come up behind the hotel and was beginning to burn away the early mist, leaving the grass of the croquet lawn damp and springy underfoot. A footpath led to the shore. It snaked down through some overgrown rhododendrons to a small gate set in a dry-stone dyke just above high tide mark.

  A light wind was whipping up small white horses that spent themselves on the weed-covered rocks. The whole scene made me depressed, the black rocks, the scum like weed and the dank mist rolling away from the shore revealing nothing but more black rocks and dank weed.

  Walking as quickly as I could on the slippery stones, I aimed for a headland that was as far as I could see in the mist. From this distance it looked no more inviting than the place where I was, but I had come to Skye to get away from it all and I was determined to do so.

  As I walked I occasionally stooped and picked up some of the small black rounded pebbles that lay strewn on the beach. At first I amused himself by throwing them into the white horse, but I soon got bored—the pebbles seemed to have a knack of plopping into the water without a splash, no matter how hard they were thrown.

  By the time I reached the headland the last remains of the mist had been burned off, leaving the view completely clear across to the far side of the loch where the black cliffs rose up from the green sea. The headland however proved as bleak as I’d imagined, the large stones clustered around like giant rabbit droppings, the weed even more limp and lifeless.

  Walking away from the sea the land rose to a small grassy hillock with some slate grey slabs lying half out of the turf, the remains of an ancient dwelling. Out to sea the gannets were putting on their first display and, as I now felt just about able to handle the first cigarette of the morning, I settled myself down to watch.

  I was wrong about the cigarette. After just one long draw I found myself doubled over, hawking a blob of brownish mucus onto the stone on which I had been sitting. The coughing went on as I tried to hold some smoke down—I wasn’t going to let a little cough deprive me of the pleasure.

  The coughs were dying down to some dry-throated rasping when I was surprised by an answering cough from nearby. I looked around, towards the house, but there was only the field and a few gnarled oak trees,

  I turned towards the sea to find myself being watched by a dog-like head bobbing twelve feet from the shore. As I watched, the seal moved closer, showing its light grey back as it approached.

  I had been this close to seals before, having had them play with my paddles as I was canoeing and, on another occasion, nibbling my flippers as I snorkeled, so I knew that they were inquisitive creatures. All the same I had never had one come this close while I was on dry land. I watched, astonished, as it pulled its body out from a bed of kelp and laid itself out on a large piece of sandstone only five feet away.

  I only looked down for a second, just long enough to stub out the cigarette on the slab beneath my feet.

  When I looked up it was into the deep blue eyes of a naked female.

  The second thing I noticed was her hair, long and black, falling down past h
er waist in one long sweep. Her skin was very pale, almost white, and was speckled with freckles. Her legs...her legs were not legs.

  Her waist continued downwards in a straight line of muscled tail, green and scaled and glistening in the sun, drawing my eyes along the length to where a black lobed tail fin beat, once, twice, against the damp rock.

  There was a sudden sound. A high-pitched drone, not unlike the sound of bagpipes being prepared, and then the singing started. My gaze was drawn to her mouth—the perfect red lips opened fully into a gape, a long tongue flopping around in the cavern as the noise grew and grew, becoming louder, then louder still. I tried to cover my ears with my hands but my arms were heavy and refused to rise from my side. The great tail thrashed and the creature moved closer. Straining, fighting, I pushed myself to my feet, only for them to slide away from me on the slippery rock. I fell, hard, my head slamming into the rock, knocking me into unconsciousness.

  I woke to the feeling of water on my legs and a wet mouth over my own. My clothing seemed to have gone, and I was being stroked into erection by a clammy hand.

  I tried to fight, to throw the wet body off, but she was heavy, her weight pinning me down in the surf. There was something erotic about the feel of the body on top of me, the hot heavy breasts pushed against my chest. From deep in her throat there was a low bass drone, a drone that vibrated through the length of her body and brought a sleepy dullness to my arms as the fight went out of me.

  As her stroking became more insistent I forgot about fighting and returned the kiss, sliding my tongue between her lips where it was nibbled by very tiny teeth. Her veil of black hair fell in a great sheet across her face, letting through only hints and sparkles of the bright sun beyond.

  I was rapidly reaching climax. She moved her mouth down across my torso; her hot tongue flicking at my nipples as it passed on its way to my groin. As I came she bit down, causing me to spurt into her mouth as she drew blood, bringing pain with pleasure.

  I blacked out.