John set out the bequests on the desk. The two men looked at them until John’s phone rang and they both jumped.
He picked it up, said hello.
Nothing. Just a sound. Like a tap dripping. Or a broken downpipe after the rain. Then a voice.
You have something of mine.
“Who is this?”
You have something of mine. Give it back and I will let her live.
“Who are you? What are you talking about?”
You took mine. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.
“I don’t know who you are, but I haven’t …”
I will have my due.
Then the sound of water, roaring, like a waterfall, and John’s phone sparked and fell to the floor.
It was dripping wet.
*
Chapter Ten
Jane Walker’s last job before leaving for the evening was turning the lights on. It was early autumn, but it got dark early now the clocks were on winter time, and she clocked off at four, when the early evening shift came on until ten. She turned the lights on while she had time, because there was something eerie about going into the residents’ rooms in the dark. Most of the time you knew where they were, but they’d been known to give her a shock from time to time.
She started on the first floor, checking on the residents who were too poorly to take their dinner in the hall. Those who were mobile were on the second floor, in case of emergency. They couldn’t take the stairs—there was a coded door at the top and at the foot of the stairs. If the lifts gave out, they could still get out, but not on their own.
Those who weren’t ambulatory were on the first floor.
Sometimes, though, they still surprised her.
She turned on the bedside lamps, one by one, checking on the residents. Mrs. Reed was in her chair, staring out at the garden. She didn’t speak much. Jane thought about putting her back into bed to save the nightshift some work, but she seemed comfortable where she was. Someone would come along soon and feed her. That wasn’t Jane’s job.
She checked the watch on her breast pocket. She had some time left. Perhaps time to share a coffee with Marion before going home.
“Mu.”
“That’s OK, Edna. Dinner’s coming soon.”
They sometimes made noise, the worst ones. She didn’t think they meant anything, but she always spoke back to them. Just in case. She couldn’t think of anything more horrible than being stuck in a shell of a body and nobody knowing your mind was still there.
She knew that for most of them, their minds weren’t there at all, but she still spoke to them.
“Rain …”
She stopped.
Mrs. Reed hadn’t moved. She stared out at the darkening garden.
“Edna?”’
Of course she hadn’t said ‘rain.’ Edna couldn’t speak. Her brain was mushy from Alzheimer’s disease.
The old woman’s eyes turned to Jane, and she smiled. The smile chilled Jane to the bone.
Edna said, “Rain’s coming, girl. Rain … rain … rain …”
Goosebumps broke out on Jane’s arms and the backs of her legs.
“Edna? Mrs. Reed?”
Mrs. Reed pointed a finger at the window, a finger like a crow’s claw.
She drew the nail down the window, making a squealing sound that made Jane’s jaw clench. The sky was dark now. Jane wanted to run. The residents gave her a scare sometimes. Sometimes it was creepy, working with the brain damaged, the dementia patients.
It was like night out, but it was still only a quarter to four. The room was suddenly cold and Jane could smell rain.
Mrs. Reed convulsed then her head fell to her chest. Jane ran across the room and took her pulse. It was weak and erratic.
The first drops of rain fell with a soft patter against the windowpane. Jane glanced at it. In the deep gloom, Mrs. Reed’s pulse quickened.
Her head snapped up and water poured from her mouth.
Jane cried out. She was still holding Mrs. Reed’s wrist when the old woman’s pulse died and the lights went out.
*
Chapter Eleven
It started to rain as John made his way back to his shop. He didn’t notice his hair getting wet. It was a light rain at first. Just a drizzle. The sky was prematurely dark, true night not far off.
He walked in a daze. He held the lockbox in a thick carrier bag under one arm. John didn’t want to break the glass, so he kept the lockbox to keep everything upright. He didn’t know why he didn’t want to break the glass, but it was obviously old, and it had meant something to Mr. Hill. Enough for Mr. Hill to leave it to a stranger in his will. So John wanted to take care of it. It seemed like the right thing to do. There was a purpose to the bequest. John just didn’t know what it was.
As he walked, he tried to think. It wasn’t going well. He felt as though someone had tripped his overflow switch. Like the power in his brain, the electricity running between his cells was fizzing. Someone had poured water on his circuits. He could feel them snapping in his head.
Lightning flashed, and there was an explosion down the street. Thunder clapped overhead, making John jump. He felt the contents of the lock box shift and held onto his treasures tighter. He noticed the rain at last. The streets were slick with it. It was getting heavy. He stood and looked at it for a minute. Standing dumbly in the middle of the street. He watched the rain hitting a puddle that was forming over a blocked drainage grate. Probably full of cigarette butts.
A car beeped him. He got out of the street. As a general rule, traffic was pretty slow through town. Drivers just got used to pedestrians feeling it was their god-given right to walk out in front of cars.
Traffic was light, but the cars he did see had their headlights on and their wipers on intermittent. Between the lights lining the streets and headlights playing on glass shop fronts, the street looked pretty.
John wiped the hair from his eyes. He’d always liked the rain. The sound of it on the roof of his car, or hitting the window as he was drifting off to sleep. He and Karen often sat out on the porch in the old days, listening to the rain. Praying for a thunderstorm. Kissing on the bowed wooden bench he’d made. The bench she’d taken the piss out of him for all the time they’d lived in the old house. She’d laughed so hard when she’d seen it. He’d been angry, but not for long.
“Shit, isn’t it?”
“Nope. It’s wonky shit.”
Wonky shit. He smiled, standing in the rain, staring into the past.
Sirens in the distance broke the memory.
There were always more sirens when it rained. He guessed because there were more accidents.
The sirens got closer, until he could tell the emergency vehicles were stopped at the end of the high street, or close enough that the difference didn’t matter.
He shrugged his jacket higher on his shoulders and decided to take a walk down and see what the fuss was. Maybe something to distract him from the thoughts tumbling through his head.
He walked in a daze through the rain toward the sound. The cuffs of his trousers were dragging on the wet street, soaking up dirty water.
He thought about his phone. The way it had shorted out, full of water.
He could smell smoke. Maybe the lightning hit something. Set it on fire. The thought didn’t worry him. He didn’t wonder if anybody had been hurt. People didn’t really get hurt by lightning unless they got a direct hit.
But he was wrong. Totally wrong.
The Indian restaurant at the end of the street was on fire. Smoke billowed out of the top floor windows, fighting against the rain that was trying to drag it down.
A fire engine was pulled into the kerb. Firemen milled around, getting their equipment ready. People stood around in the rain, watching them work. He guessed some were diners. More, probably, were gawkers, like him.
He felt bad all of a sudden. He was turning to go when he saw a car plough into a group of people on the pavement. It happened in slow motio
n. He saw it all, could have remembered it later had he been asked to be a witness.
The car sliding through the wet. The cobbles at the end of the high street. In the rain, they were notoriously slick. The driver of the car couldn’t have stopped even if he’d wanted to. No screech of tyres … they didn’t have any grip on the street to screech. Just a bump as it mounted the kerb.
Then the screaming started. John could see why. He didn’t want to see. He tried to look away, but he was rooted to the spot. He could see a young woman under the car. The bone in her leg poked through her jeans. Darkness pooled around her. His heart hammered in his chest.
The screaming continued, but John was on his knees, holding Karen. She hadn’t screamed. She hadn’t known anything about it.
The fire raged as the crew dealt with the immediate problem. The driver got out of his car, and his door hit the woman full in the face, knocking her unconscious.
All the while, John knelt in the rain, cradling his wife’s bloody head in his arms, even though she wasn’t there.
“Mate?”
John didn’t hear. When the hand touched his shoulder, he jumped and reality kicked back in.
“You all right?”
The fire was out of control. He looked for the woman under the car, but someone had gotten her out. An ambulance and another fire engine were outside the Indian. Police had blocked off the street.
John turned his head to see who was talking to him.
“Are you hurt?”
It was a young man. Maybe in his twenties. He had a baseball cap on. The rain dripped from the bill.
John shook his head.
“Were you in the accident?” the man asked. He put a hand under John’s armpit and hauled him onto his feet.
“No. No. Just … I just saw the accident. Got shook up.”
“Shock, probably. You should get home, mate. Out of the rain.”
“Yes. I should. Thank you.”
“You all right?” The young man had a look about him. Like he’d fight all night in his local and help old ladies across the street during the day.
Snap judgements, John.
John smiled. “Thanks for helping me out. I’ll be fine.”
The good Samaritan didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he said, “Well, all right then. Take it easy.”
“I will,” John said, and watched the guy head on down the street. He didn’t even stop to look at the accident or the fire. Just pulled his cap lower over his eyes and hunched his shoulders against the rain.
John realised he was soaked to the bone. The man was probably right. He probably was in shock. It wasn’t cold enough for him to be shivering like he was. He’d had a tough day. It was no wonder he was freaking out like he had post-traumatic stress. Just need a cup of tea. Maybe a small shot of whiskey. A sit down. A good book. Worry about it in the morning.
He turned and stepped into a massive puddle. He looked around. Water was pouring down the street.
The high street had become a river. Cars driving through it were pushing huge waves of water before them. Before long, the street was going to be impassable. He picked up the pace, heading for his shop. Thunder cracked again, and he heard a distant explosion, then lightning, then the crack of thunder again. Like a barrage out of a World War II film.
John shivered and ran across the road. The rain was heavy. Then it wasn’t rain. Not anymore. It was a wall. It was something solid. John had to push against it to make his way through. He held the box tighter and tried to cover it with his jacket. The bag was keeping it dry, but he didn’t know if the box was watertight. He didn’t want to get the things inside wet.
He pushed his way into his shop and slammed the door quickly behind him. Flicked the light on. Saw the man standing at the threshold to his office. Blinked. Nothing there but a patch of water, staining his carpet.
“Fuck,”’ he said.
He said it again. Just to hear himself speak.
His heart was hammering in his chest.
“Just seeing things. That’s all.”
Bad enough, but now he had a leak. A leak in a bookshop was bad. Not as bad as a fire, but the next down on the list.
“Worse than seeing things?” he said. Then laughed. It was a good sound. It didn’t sound crazy. “Worse than talking to yourself, John?”
He laughed some more. He liked the sound of it.
Outside, the rain went on.
*
Chapter Twelve
The boy called Smiley put his knee over the handlebar of his bike and rested a rolling paper on his thigh. He held his lighter under a small chunk of resin until it blackened. He put the resin up to his mouth and sucked the smoke in. Then he crumbled some onto the paper. Put the resin back in a little tattered scrap of cling film, tucked it away in his jeans pocket.
“Fuck sake, Smiley. It’s not a work of fucking art.”
“Fuck off, Hippo. It’s construction,” he said, taking a bag of dry old Samson out of his pocket. He took a big pinch and sprinkled it over the resin.
“Fucking construction. It’s a fucking joint and I’m gasping.”
“Architecture, then, fucking heathen.”
“Whatever. Both of you fuck off,” said Greg, who took a swig of Stella then spat it out. “Fucker put a butt in my beer?”
Hippo laughed and slapped his gut. Greg threw the can at him. “Fucking cunt. It’s not fucking funny.”
Hippo just laughed. Smiley smiled.
“Here,” said Mandy, holding up a bent joint with a flourish. “Done.”
Hippo laughed again. “What do you call that?”
“Hey, smoke it, don’t smoke it, I don’t fucking care. You want some or not?”
“Yeah, all right.”
“Well, fuck off then. Here,” she said, passing it to Greg, giving Hippo the finger.
Smiley worked on his construction, occasionally looking up at his friends. Friends, maybe. Hangers, maybe. Would they hang out if he couldn’t get a bit of green or a bit of black from time to time? Maybe they would. Probably not. Smiley didn’t give a fuck. He was fifteen. Soon he’d be sixteen, and he’d be out of here.
He didn’t want to spend his life hanging out in the old rec, the wind blowing through the broken walls and patchwork ceiling, with a bunch of vampires. Vampires that sucked weed instead of blood.
Whatever, he thought. It still beat the fuck out of going home.
Smiley held up his effort. It was perfect. Tapering slightly from a little twist at the end down to a nice snug roach. Then a drop of rain came through the roof and dropped right on the end.
He just looked at it.
Hippo saw him looking at the joint.
“Well, are you going to smoke that, or are you still constructing?”
Smiley didn’t smile. He puffed out the air from his lungs. Then he tore the joint up and threw it at Hippo.
“What the fuck d’you do that for, psycho?”
Smiley still didn’t smile. Hippo saw the look in his eyes.
“Yeah, all right. It’s your joint. Do what you want with it. I don’t give a fuck. Right?”
“Shut up. Someone’s there.”
Smiley could hear them, wet footfalls, clear enough, even with the pounding rain. Out in the hall.
Hippo paled. Greg held Mandy’s joint pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He held his breath too. Mandy looked at him and giggled.
“Shut up, you stupid cow,” snapped Smiley.
Mandy shut up.
The footsteps were louder.
“Put it out.”
Greg pinched the end of the joint off and stuffed it into his pocket, breaking it.
A man walked into the room.
A policeman.
“Ah. My. What have we here?”
Smiley stood up.
“Sit down, boy. I like you just where you are.”
“Fucking make me.”
“Easy.”
The way he said it, it wasn’t like, ‘Easy, now.�
�� It wasn’t like, ‘I could put you down easy.’ It wasn’t anything like that. Smiley got it. He sat down.
Easy, boy. Like a dog. Ordinarily, Smiley would kick off. He took it easy though. Something in the man’s eyes. Something cold. His eyes were black. Weird. Full-on black, like they’d been painted in by a kid. The others didn’t look round. They sat silent, defeated. Smiley looked into the policeman’s eyes.
He wished he hadn’t, but by then, he couldn’t look away.
He didn’t stop looking at Smiley. He didn’t blink. He didn’t look away. Just went right on staring.
The policeman hunkered down beside Hippo, putting a hand on his shoulder. Hippo shivered. He didn’t look around.
The policeman was dripping on the floor. Rainwater was pooling underneath him, spreading out. It ran across the cold bare concrete toward the door.
“I’ve got a problem. I’ve got a bunch of kids smoking marijuana. Smoking a bit of black, eh?”
He sniffed theatrically.
“We wasn’t …”
“Shut up.”
Greg’s mouth snapped shut with a clack.
“Now I might let things slide. I might just forget all about this little … aberration. What do you think, boys? And you? Are you a girl?”
Mandy nodded.
“A girl. A girl with three boys. A dirty girl. Taking a pull, were you? On these here boys’ joints? Eh?”
The policeman sniggered. It was a filthy wet sound.
“It weren’t like that.”
His hand snaked out and grabbed her hair. He pulled her head down, hard, so it was in Greg’s lap.
Mandy started crying. Nobody else moved. He still hadn’t taken his eyes off of Smiley.
He laughed again and let her hair go. Mandy stayed where she was.
“A favour. That’s all I ask. A little favour.”
“What?”
“You’d be Smiley, right?”
“How …”
“Smiley and Hippo and Greg and Mandy slut.”
“What the …”
“The gang’s all here. Speak when spoken to, Smiley.”
Smiley’s teeth began to grind from the force pushing on his jaw.
RAIN/Damned to Cold Fire (Two Supernatural Horror Novels): A RED LINE Horror Double: Supernatural Page 4