The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 18

by Stephen Jones (ed. )

  Coe can’t be sure until he tries them all. His quivering fists are clenched next to his face, but he forces them open and gropes over his ribs. His inside breast pocket is flat as a card, and so are the others in the jacket. When he fumbles at his trousers pockets he’s dismayed to find how thin he is – so scrawny that he’s afraid the protrusion on his right hip is a broken bone. But it’s in the pocket, and in his haste to carry it to his face he almost shies it out of reach. Somebody cared after all. He pokes at the keypad, and before his heart has time to beat, the mobile phone lights up.

  He could almost wish the glow it sheds were dimmer. It shows him how closely he’s boxed in by the quilted surface. It’s less than a hand’s breadth from his shoulders, and when he tilts his face up to judge the extent of his prison the pudgy lid bumps his forehead. Around the phone the silky padding glimmers green, while farther down the box it’s whitish like another species of mould, and beyond his feet it’s black as soil. He lets his head sink onto the pillow that’s the entire floor and does his desperate best to be aware of nothing but the mobile. It’s his lifeline, and he needn’t panic because he can’t remember a single number. The phone will remember for him.

  His knuckles dig into the underside of the lid as he holds the mobile away from his face. It’s still too close; the digits merge into a watery blur. He only has to locate the key for the stored numbers, and he jabs it hard enough to bruise his fingertip. The symbol that appears in the illuminated window looks shapeless as a blob of mud, but he knows it represents an address book. He pokes the topmost left-hand key of the numeric pad, although he has begun to regret making Daniel number one, and holds the mobile against his ear.

  There’s silence except for a hiss of static that sounds too much like a trickle of earth. Though his prison seems oppressively hot, he shivers at the possibility that he may be too far underground for the phone to work. He wriggles onto his side to bring the mobile a few inches closer to the surface, but before his shoulder is anything like vertical it thumps the lid. As he strives to maintain his position, the distant phone starts to ring.

  It continues when he risks sinking back, but that’s all. He’s close to pleading, although he doesn’t know with whom, by the time the shrill insistent pulse is interrupted. The voice isn’t Daniel’s. It’s entirely anonymous, and informs Coe that the person he’s calling isn’t available. It confirms Daniel’s number in a different voice that sounds less than human, an assemblage of digits pronounced by a computer, and invites him to leave a message.

  “It’s your father. That’s right, I’m alive. You’ve buried me alive. Are you there? Can you hear me? Answer the phone, you – Just answer. Tell me that you’re coming. Ring when you get this. Come and let me out. Come now.”

  Was it his breath that made the glow flicker? He’s desperately tempted to keep talking until this chivvies out a response, but he mustn’t waste the battery. He ends the call and thumbs the key next to Daniel’s. It’s supposed to contact Simone, but it triggers the same recorded voice.

  He could almost imagine that it’s a cruel joke, even when the voice composed of fragments reads out her number. At first he doesn’t speak when the message concludes with a beep, and then he’s afraid of losing the connection. “It’s me,” he babbles. “Yes, your father. Someone was a bit too happy to see me off. Aren’t you there either, or are you scared to speak up? Are you all out celebrating? Don’t let me spoil the party. Just send someone who can dig me up.”

  He’s growing hysterical. These aren’t the sorts of comments he should leave; he can’t afford to antagonise his family just now. His unwieldy fingers have already terminated the call – surely the mobile hasn’t lost contact by itself. Should he ring his son and daughter back? Alternatively there are friends he could phone, if he can remember their numbers – and then he realises there’s only one call he should make. Why did he spend so long in trying to reach his family? He uses a finger to count down the blurred keypad and jabs the ninth key thrice.

  He has scarcely lowered the phone to his ear when an operator cuts off the bell. “Emergency,” she declares.

  Coe can be as fast as that. “Police,” he says while she’s enquiring which service he requires, but she carries on with her script. “Police,” he says louder and harsher.

  This earns him a silence that feels stuffed with padding. She can’t expect callers who are in danger to be polite, but he’s anxious to apologise in case she can hear. Before he can take a breath a male voice says “Gloucestershire Constabulary.”

  “Can you help me? You may have trouble believing this, but I’m buried alive.”

  He sounds altogether too contrite. He nearly emits a wild laugh at the idea of seeking the appropriate tone for the situation, but the policeman is asking “What is your name, sir?”

  “Alan Coe,” says Coe and is pinioned by realising that it must be carved on a stone at least six feet above him.

  “And where are you calling from?”

  The question seems to emphasise the sickly greenish glimmer of the fattened walls and lid. Does the policeman want the mobile number? That’s the answer Coe gives him. “And what is your location, sir?” the voice crackles in his ear.

  Coe has the sudden ghastly notion that his children haven’t simply rushed the funeral – that for reasons he’s afraid to contemplate, they’ve laid him to rest somewhere other than with his wife. Surely some of the family would have opposed them. “Mercy Hill,” he has to believe.

  “I didn’t catch that, sir.”

  Is the mobile running out of power? “Mercy Hill,” he shouts so loud that the dim glow appears to quiver.

  “Whereabouts on Mercy Hill?”

  Every question renders his surroundings more substantial, and the replies he has to give are worse. “Down in front of the church,” he’s barely able to acknowledge. “Eighth row, no, ninth, I think. Left of the avenue.”

  There’s no audible response. The policeman must be typing the details, unless he’s writing them down. “How long will you be?” Coe is more than concerned to learn. “I don’t know how much air I’ve got. Not much.”

  “You’re telling us you’re buried alive in a graveyard.”

  Has the policeman raised his voice because the connection is weak? “That’s what I said,” Coe says as loud.

  “I suggest you get off the phone now, sir.”

  “You haven’t told me how soon you can be here.”

  “You’d better hope we haven’t time to be. We’ve had enough Halloween pranks for one year.”

  Coe feels faint and breathless, which is dismayingly like suffocation, but he manages to articulate “You think I’m playing a joke.”

  “I’d use another word for it. I advise you to give it up immediately, and that voice you’re putting on as well.”

  “I’m putting nothing on. Can’t you hear I’m deadly serious? You’re using up my air, you – Just do your job or let me speak to your superior.”

  “I warn you, sir, we can trace this call.”

  “Do so. Come and get me,” Coe almost screams, but his voice grows flat. He’s haranguing nobody except himself.

  Has the connection failed, or did the policeman cut him off? Did he say enough to make them trace him? Perhaps he should switch off the mobile to conserve the battery, but he has no idea whether this would leave the phone impossible to trace. The thought of waiting in the dark without knowing whether help is on the way brings the walls and lid closer to rob him of breath. As he holds the phone at a cramped arm’s length to poke the redial button, he sees the greenish light appear to tug the swollen ceiling down. When he snatches the mobile back to his ear the action seems to draw the lid closer still.

  An operator responds at once. “Police,” he begs as she finishes her first word. “Police.”

  Has she recognised him? The silence isn’t telling. It emits a burst of static so fragmented that he’s afraid the connection is breaking up, and then a voice says “Gloucestershire Constabu
lary.”

  For a distracted moment he thinks she’s the operator. Surely a policewoman will be more sympathetic than her colleague. “It’s Alan Coe again,” Coe says with all the authority he can summon up. “I promise you this is no joke. They’ve buried me because they must have thought I’d passed on. I’ve already called you once but I wasn’t informed what’s happening. May I assume somebody is on their way?”

  How much air has all that taken? He’s holding his breath as if this may compensate, although it makes the walls and lid appear to bulge towards him, when the policewoman says in the distance “He’s back. I see what you meant about the voice.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” Coe says through his bared teeth, then tries a shout, which sounds flattened by padding. “What’s the matter with my voice?”

  “He wants to know what’s wrong with his voice.”

  “So you heard me the first time.” Perhaps he shouldn’t address her as if she’s a child, but he’s unable to moderate his tone. “What are you saying about my voice?”

  “I don’t know how old you’re trying to sound, but nobody’s that old and still alive.”

  “I’m old enough to be your father, so do as you’re told.” She either doesn’t hear this or ignores it, but he ensures she hears “I’m old enough for them to pass me off as dead.”

  “And bury you.”

  “That’s what I’ve already told you and your colleague.”

  “In a grave.”

  “On Mercy Hill below the church. Halfway along the ninth row down, to the left of the avenue.”

  He can almost see the trench and his own hand dropping a fistful of earth into the depths that harboured his wife’s coffin. All at once he’s intensely aware that it must be under him. He might have wanted to be reunited with her at the end – at least, with her as she was before she stopped recognising him and grew unrecognisable, little more than a skeleton with an infant’s mind – but not like this. He remembers the spadefuls of earth piling up on her coffin and realises that now they’re on top of him. “And you’re expecting us to have it dug up,” the policewoman says.

  “Can’t you do it yourselves?” Since this is hardly the best time to criticise their methods, he adds “Have you got someone?”

  “How long do you plan to carry on with this? Do you honestly think you’re taking us in?”

  “I’m not trying to. For the love of God, it’s the truth.” Coe’s free hand claws at the wall as if this may communicate his plight somehow, and his fingers wince as though they’ve scratched a blackboard. “Why won’t you believe me?” he pleads.

  “You really expect us to believe a phone would work down there.”

  “Yes, because it is.”

  “I an’t hea ou.”

  The connection is faltering. He nearly accuses her of having wished this on him. “I said it is,” he cries.

  “Very unny.” Yet more distantly she says “Now he’s aking it ound a if it’s aking up.”

  Is the light growing unreliable too? For a blink the darkness seems to surge at him – just darkness, not soil spilling into his prison. Or has his consciousness begun to gutter for lack of air? “It is,” he gasps. “Tell me they’re coming to find me.”

  “You won’t like it if they do.”

  At least her voice is whole again, and surely his must be. “You still think I’m joking. Why would I joke about something like this at my age, for God’s sake? I didn’t even know it was Halloween.”

  “You’re saying you don’t know what you just said you know.”

  “Because your colleague told me. I don’t know how long I’ve been here,” he realises aloud, and the light dims as if to suggest how much air he may have unconsciously used up.

  “Long enough. We’d have to give you full marks for persistence. Are you in a cupboard, by the way? It sounds like one. Your trick nearly worked.”

  “It’s a coffin, God help me. Can’t you hear that?” Coe cries and scrapes his nails across the underside of the lid.

  Perhaps the squealing is more tangible than audible. He’s holding the mobile towards it, but when he returns the phone to his ear the policewoman says “I’ve heard all I want to, I think.”

  “Are you still calling me a liar?” He should have demanded to speak to whoever’s in charge. He’s about to do so when a thought ambushes him. “If you really think I am,” he blurts, “why are you talking to me?”

  At once he knows. However demeaning it is to be taken for a criminal, that’s unimportant if they’re locating him. He’ll talk for as long as she needs to keep him talking. He’s opening his mouth to rant when he hears a man say “No joy, I’m afraid. Can’t trace it.”

  If Coe is too far underground, how is he able to phone? The policewoman brings him to the edge of panic. “Count yourself lucky,” she tells him, “and don’t dare play a trick like this again. Don’t you realise you may be tying up a line while someone genuinely needs our help?”

  He mustn’t let her go. He’s terrified that if she rings off they won’t accept his calls. It doesn’t matter what he says so long as it makes the police come for him. Before she has finished lecturing him he shouts “Don’t you speak to me like that, you stupid cow.”

  “I’m war ing ou, ir—”

  “Do the work we’re paying you to do, and that means the whole shiftless lot of you. You’re too fond of finding excuses not to help the public, you damned lazy swine.” He’s no longer shouting just to be heard. “You weren’t much help with my wife, were you? You were worse than useless when she was wandering the streets not knowing where she was. And you were a joke when she started chasing me round the house because she’d forgotten who I was and thought I’d broken in. That’s right, you’re the bloody joke, not me. She nearly killed me with a kitchen knife. Now get on with your job for a change, you pathetic wretched—”

  Without bothering to flicker the light goes out, and he hears nothing but death in his ear. He clutches the mobile and shakes it and pokes blindly at the keys, none of which brings him a sound except for the lifeless clacking of plastic or provides the least relief from the unutterable blackness. At last he’s overcome by exhaustion or despair or both. His arms drop to his sides, and the phone slips out of his hand.

  Perhaps it’s the lack of air, but he feels as if he may soon be resigned to lying where he is. Shutting his eyes takes him closer to sleep. The surface beneath him is comfortable enough, after all. He could fancy he’s in bed, or is that mere fancy? Can’t he have dreamed he wakened in his coffin and everything that followed? Why, he has managed to drag the quilt under himself, which is how the nightmare began. He’s vowing that it won’t recur when a huge buzzing insect crawls against his hand.

  He jerks away from it, and his scalp collides with the headboard, which is too plump. The insect isn’t only buzzing, it’s glowing feebly. It’s the mobile, which has regained sufficient energy to vibrate. As he grabs it, the decaying light seems to fatten the interior of the coffin. He jabs the key to take the call and fumbles the mobile against his ear. “Hello?” he pleads.

  “Coming.”

  It’s barely a voice. It sounds as unnatural as the numbers in the answering messages did, and at least as close to falling to bits. Surely that’s the fault of the connection. Before he can speak again the darkness caves in on him, and he’s holding an inert lump of plastic against his ear.

  There’s a sound, however. It’s muffled but growing more audible. He prays that he’s recognising it, and then he’s sure he does. Someone is digging towards him.

  “I’m here,” he cries and claps a bony hand against his withered lips. He shouldn’t waste whatever air is left, especially when he’s beginning to feel it’s as scarce as light down here. It seems unlikely that he would even have been heard. Why is he wishing he’d kept silent? He listens breathlessly to the scraping in the earth. How did the rescuers manage to dig down so far without his noticing? The activity inches closer – the sound of the shifting of earth �
�� and all at once he’s frantically jabbing at the keypad in the blackness. Any response from the world overhead might be welcome, any voice other than the one that called him. The digging is beneath him.

  JOHN GORDON

  The Night Watch

  JOHN GORDON WAS BORN in Jarrow-on-Tyne and now lives in Norwich with his wife, Sylvia. As a child he moved with his family to Wisbech in the Fens of Cambridgeshire, where he went to school. After serving in the Royal Navy on minesweepers and destroyers during World War II he became a journalist on various local newspapers.

  His first book for young adults, The Giant Under the Snow, was published by Hutchinson in 1968 and gained praise from Alan Garner, among others. It was reissued in 2006 by Orion, with editions in Italy and Lithuania and as a talking book. Since then Gordon has published a number of fantasy and horror novels including The House on the Brink, The Ghost on the Hill, The Quelling Eye, The Grasshopper, Ride the Wind, Blood Brothers, Gilray’s Ghost, The Flesh Eater, The Midwinter Watch, Skinners and The Ghosts of Blacklode.

  Gordon’s short stories are collected in The Spitfire Grave and Other Stories, Catch Your Death and Other Stories, The Burning Baby and Other Stories and Left in the Dark. He was one of five authors who contributed to the Oxrun Station “mosaic novel” Horror at Halloween, edited by Jo Fletcher, and his autobiography Ordinary Seaman appeared from Walker Books in 1992.

  “Museums are potent places for storytellers,” reveals the author, “none more so than Norwich Castle, which is the setting for ‘The Night Watch’. It stands on Castle Mound overlooking the heart of the city as it has done for eight centuries, but internally its bright and intriguing exhibits and showcases disguise a dark period of its history.

  “It was once a prison, and I was standing in the corner of a picture gallery one day when one of the attendants told me that I had my feet on the spot where felons were hanged. Where once a trapdoor had let go under the feet of quite minor wrongdoers there was now smooth parquet flooring.