He was within metres now. Feeling a rush of elation, Gwyn turned to see Silas James still standing there and a surge of defiance filled him. He would get to the island and begin the waiting game – and definitely, quite definitely, he would out-wait him.
The last few metres were long and arduous and the muscles in Gwyn’s arms ached so much that he thought they would burst with the pain, but he slogged on until his feet brushed the bottom and he struggled up, his legs shaking so that he could hardly stand. Shivering, but with a feeling of ultimate triumph, Gwyn staggered up the short, pebbly shore, avoided the dark rusting machinery and fell on to rank grass – and something else soft. Then he saw that he had stumbled into a slight dip in the ground and was lying on top of a pile of rags. Rags?
Clouds raced away from the moon and the hard, pale light illuminated a sweater and jeans. Inside the clothes were bones. Skeletal hands – and a skull with a few strands of mousy brown hair still clinging to its cranium. All that was left of Magog James.
With a whimper of revulsion, Gwyn rolled away into short, wiry grass. How had Magog’s corpse remained here undiscovered all this time? Why didn’t the divers find him? Then he remembered the floods of last winter and how the sterile waters of the reservoir had been temporarily refreshed by the incessant rain – and how the little island and its Death Tree had been submerged. Was this stirring of the elements responsible for lifting Magog from his watery hiding place to rest where he now was? Would the discovery of what was left of his corpse placate his father, who had hardly shifted his watching position since Gwyn had begun his swim?
He staggered to his feet and waved, but Silas James didn’t wave back. Gwyn turned to the Death Tree and, for a reason he didn’t really understand, gently touched its white flowers. They were silky smooth and slightly moist – highly unpleasant to the touch. Nevertheless, he grabbed a bunch of them, finding them curiously resistant, and scattered them over Magog’s skull. They seemed to cling there, covering the eye sockets.
‘I’m sorry,’ Gwyn whispered. ‘I’m sorry for what we did.’
Then slowly and purposefully he plunged back into the tenacious grip of the water, realizing he had to return to Silas with the news.
The swim back seemed easier, as if he was pushing the leaden liquid aside and it was no longer resisting him quite so much. Still Silas James stood on the outcrop, neither welcoming nor rejecting. Gwyn pushed on, almost hopeful, in a muddled, exhausted sort of way. Well – he’d found Magog, hadn’t he? Wouldn’t Silas be pleased – even grateful – to give Magog a decent burial at last? But as he came closer to the mainland, Gwyn was not so sure, and when he eventually hung on to the tree root, gasping, panting and wheezing, his original paralysing fear gripped him again.
‘Mr James?’
The man bent down and rested on one knee, his washed-out eyes on Gwyn’s. ‘Well?’
‘He – he’s there.’
There was a long silence. ‘Magog?’
‘His remains. They’re on the island. Maybe they got washed up there in the floods. You could get a boat. Take him away.’
‘He’s better there,’ said Silas James quietly.
‘I covered his face with flowers. It was all I could do.’
‘It’s not enough.’ The voice was coldly stern.
‘What else –’
‘Not enough.’ Silas James leant over and with considerable strength loosened Gwyn’s rigid grip.
‘Let me up,’ he pleaded.
‘You’re the last one. You have to die. Like Magog.’
‘No.’
But Silas James pushed him away, harder this time, and as his hand finally slipped away from the root, the deadly fatigue returned and Gwyn sank back under the leaden and foul-smelling water. He broke surface again.
‘Please.’ Gwyn scrabbled for a hold. ‘You’ve got to let me up.’
As he went down again, Gwyn’s exhaustion increased and now his whole body felt as heavy as the deadly water itself. Struggling, knowing that he couldn’t fight back much longer, he made one last grab at Silas James as he leant forward. His hand grasped Silas’s hard bony arm. Their eyes met for a split second and then Silas pitched forward and fell into the water, sinking immediately. Gwyn dragged himself on to the bank, breathless, nauseous. He looked back into the water. Surely the old man had to surface? Then he remembered Magog and looked out towards the Death Tree. It had claimed another victim. Silas had gone straight down.
Gwyn stood there, shivering with cold and shock, and then turned away and walked back to where Alun rested, quietly waiting for him.
*
They looked out at the still water of Long Heath Lake and shuddered.
‘Who’s got another story?’ asked Jamie quickly.
April nodded. ‘I’ve got one,’ she said. ‘It’s all to do with an unreliable car that belonged to a friend of my mother.’
2
InterCity 509
Jenny’s mother loved her beaten-up Mini, although it was very old and regularly broke down. Her father had said recently, ‘Look, Annie, we’re going to have to get rid of that wreck of yours – it’s burning money.’
But her mother was adamant. ‘Angel’s got another few thousand miles in her yet, and I’m going to get her resprayed. I’m not selling her, Henry.’
‘Selling her?’ Jenny’s father had closed his eyes. ‘She wouldn’t fetch a penny. She’s only fit for the scrapheap.’
It was a familiar discussion. Usually her parents had a row at this point and Jenny switched off. She knew that her mother loved her car, but secretly she had always thought Angel wasn’t a particularly good name for the Mini. Angel was no angel and behaved rather like a spiteful lapdog. Covered in rust and dents, she made a harsh rattling sound all the time; the upholstery was a dirty grey and smelt of rot; the top of the gear stick repeatedly came off and dust blew out of the inadequate heating and cooling system, which seemed to be unbearably hot in summer and freezing cold in winter. But none of these problems really upset Jenny. What terrified her was Angel’s continual stalling, which happened at very unpredictable moments and no garage ever seemed able to cure. What was worse, her mother took Jenny to and from school every day, and each morning, and again in the afternoon, Angel had to pass over an unmanned level crossing. Suppose they stalled there of all places, Jenny often thought. Suppose her mother couldn’t get Angel started again and one of the InterCity trains hit them?
Originally the horrific idea had started as a mild fantasy, but as time passed and Angel’s stalling became more frequent and unpredictable, Jenny’s fears became an obsession. She dreaded each day her mother took her to school.
What was worse, Jenny began to have a repetitive nightmare: Angel had stalled on a level crossing and an InterCity express was hurtling towards them. She was sitting beside her mother, who apparently couldn’t see the oncoming train and kept saying to Angel – as she often did in real life – ‘Have a little rest now – don’t get worked up; have a little rest until you feel better.’ Then she would turn to the panic-stricken Jenny and say, ‘It’s no good shouting, dear. Angel won’t start till she’s ready. You know that.’
‘There’s a train coming!’ Jenny would scream.
‘Well – it’ll have to wait, dear. Angel’s not nearly ready yet.’
Jenny could see the number on the front of the fast-approaching diesel – 509. She kept trying to tell her mother, but she was still talking to Angel and wouldn’t look up.
‘Start the engine!’ screamed Jenny.
‘She’s not ready yet –’
‘Now! Start the engine now!’
The 509 was almost on them and she could see the driver’s startled face. Wasn’t he familiar? Wasn’t he her father? It was always at this point that she woke up, sweating, but temporarily relieved to find that she was back in snug reality. But this feeling only lasted seconds, as she realized that soon it would be time for school and Angel would be spluttering her way towards the unmanned crossing.
*
‘Mum –’
‘Yes, dear?’ Her mother, glasses pushed down to the end of her nose, was studying the newspaper and eating toast. Her father had gone to the office in his brand-new BMW. Jenny was feeling more panicky than ever. The dream had occurred four nights in a row now, and each time the terror had mounted. She was becoming increasingly afraid to go to sleep.
‘You’ve got to have a new car.’
‘Mmm?’
‘You’re not listening.’ Jenny accused her irritably.
Her mother reluctantly put down the paper, took off her glasses, and rather wearily ran a hand through her long, brown, straight hair – the kind of hair that fell thickly round her shoulders and that Jenny, who suffered from split, spindly ends, was jealous of. She wasn’t exactly thinking about that now, but it did serve to sharpen her irritation.
‘What is it?’
‘The car.’
‘Angel?’
‘You’ve got to sell it, Mum.’
‘Never.’
‘But why not?’
‘You know why not – she was my father’s. He drove her right up until he died, and while there’s life in Angel, I’m going to keep her sparking.’
‘Sparking?’ said Jenny nastily. ‘That’s the last thing she does. She’s always stalling. And one of these days there’ll be an accident.’
But her mother only picked up the paper again, making a wall between them.
‘Mum –’
‘I’m not discussing Angel with you. You’re as bad as your father.’
‘But, Mum –’
‘The subject’s closed.’
Angel came to a full stop in the High Street and wouldn’t start for ages, so when they arrived at the crossing the gates were closed and InterCity 509 was roaring over the tracks, its gleaming coaches dazzling in the early morning sunshine. Jenny found the distorted steel threatening, aggressive; the diesel engine like a hungry mouth; the flashing wheels cruel and predatory. She could imagine Angel flattened beneath the crushing metal and she saw again her father’s startled eyes.
Once the train had gone, the gates lifted, Angel’s engine started uncertainly and the Mini coughed and clanked its way over the line.
As she started sluggishly to climb the hill to school, Jenny started another attack on her mother, this time a little more desperately.
‘Why don’t you sell her? She’s dangerous.’
‘Angel?’
‘Yes – Angel.’
‘The man from Meadows Garage said there was life in her yet, and while there’s life there’s hope.’ Her mother tried to be jolly, but it didn’t work.
‘He just wants you to spend more money.’
‘No – he wants me to buy a new car,’ she said with surprising candour. ‘But you’ve got to understand, Jenny.’
‘I don’t,’ she replied bleakly.
‘Don’t you remember what Grandad said before he died?’
‘No.’
‘ “I want Angel looked after – I want you to remember me when you drive her.”’
‘He was ill, Mum.’
‘That’s the point.’
‘No it isn’t. He didn’t know what he was saying.’
‘He did, Jenny. I know what he wanted.’ Her mother was becoming sad rather than heated.
‘Do you really?’ Jenny was angry now. She knew she was being unfair, but her fear was greater than her desire not to wound. ‘I just think you’re putting your life at risk – and mine.’
‘Don’t be so stupid.’ Her mother was stung, surprised at her daughter’s vehemence.
‘I’m not being stupid.’
‘Well – I think you are.’
That night Jenny dreamed again, but the nightmare was much worse. This time her mother didn’t even attempt to start Angel but simply sat behind the wheel, drinking from a thermos of coffee and reading her newspaper, while InterCity 509 thundered down the track towards them. Jenny could clearly see her father behind the controls and soon he was leaning out of the cab window, screaming at her mother.
She woke up with the 509 still heading towards them, her father making no attempt to put on the brakes.
Jenny lay in bed shaking all over, the sweat dripping into her eyes. The feeling of relief swamped her again and then came the realization that she had to go to school. Where would Angel stall this time? Was this the morning when she would come to a grinding halt on the crossing?
She got out of bed and slowly went to the window. The sky was a swollen grey and a heavy drizzle fell on to the misty garden below. Angel was parked outside the garage. Inside lay her father’s BMW. That was another point of conflict between her parents, for her mother was always complaining that Angel was left out in the cold and rain while her father insisted his BMW should be kept in the warmth of the garage. So far her mother had lost the battle, although she had fallen back on saying that this was the reason Angel kept stalling – that she would be much more reliable if she was kept under cover – a defence that her father derided. Jenny didn’t know what to believe; she was simply fed up with her parents’ constant arguing as well as being so afraid of Angel’s unreliability. The whole business seemed to be circular.
Apprehensively she looked down at the old car, her rusty bodywork saturated and clothed in a blanket of mist. As a result the Mini simply looked not just sulky and disobliging as she often did, but downright vengeful.
The big row broke at breakfast. Mum had overslept, Dad had had to get her out of bed to move Angel so that he could back the BMW out of the garage, but the Mini had refused to start, and Dad had mud on his trousers where he slipped over pushing Angel. He was furious – even more so as she had still refused to start. Mum was defensive and stubborn.
‘You’ve got to sell her,’ he was saying, spooning cornflakes into his mouth and trying to talk at the same time. ‘She’s a heap of junk.’
‘No.’
‘It stands to reason.’
‘Reason maybe – but she was my father’s.’
‘Then turn her into a museum – but don’t drive her. And find a field – not the drive.’
‘You hate Angel, don’t you?’ Her mother finally lost her own temper as Jenny sat down at the table.
‘She’s an utter nuisance.’
The heightened nightmare still fresh in her mind, Jenny felt completely exhausted.
‘Mum –’
‘Well?’
‘I think Dad’s right. You don’t have to sell her —’
‘No one would want that heap,’ put in her father unhelpfully.
‘You could keep her somewhere. Put flowers inside her – make her into a memorial for Grandad.’
‘No,’ her mother rapped. ‘Angel stays on the road – just as my father wanted her to.’
‘Until she falls apart?’ asked Dad, munching toast and still looking furious as he picked at the mud on his trousers.
‘Until the garage say she can’t go any longer.’ There was a sob in her mother’s voice now and Jenny took her hand.
‘It’s just that she might be dangerous.’ Somehow she felt she couldn’t go as far as telling her about the nightmare. Maybe Dad would laugh, and Mum was certain to get even more upset.
‘She’s safe.’
‘But keeps stopping,’ said Jenny as gently as she could.
‘And won’t start,’ put in Dad.
But her mother had had enough. Rising from the table, in a mixture of hurt and anger she shouted, ‘Shut up, you two.’
‘We’re only trying to help —’ Jenny began.
‘Well, you’re not helping. Just leave me and Angel alone. I’m going to phone the garage. You’ll have to take Jenny to school, Henry.’
With that, she went out and banged the door.
At least this is one day when I don’t have to dread the crossing, thought Jenny as Dad drove her out of the drive in the BMW, leaving Angel slewed round on the concrete, looking huddled and pathetic now, in the wafts of clear
ing mist. She glanced back again just as they turned the corner and had the strange, unsettling feeling that the old car was looking far from angelic: her twisted fender gave the appearance of a cynical smile.
Neither father nor daughter spoke as the BMW drove down the High Street towards the crossing. In fact, Jenny was so exhausted that she must have dozed off as the car approached the rails. When she opened her eyes, the BMW was straddling the crossing and had come to a halt.
‘Dad –’
‘Shan’t be a sec’
‘What are you doing?’
‘What does it look like? I’m trying to start the car.’
‘But –’
‘For some unaccountable reason, she’s stalled. It’s never happened before.’
He turned the ignition again and again but nothing happened. Then Jenny saw the train coming; it was hurtling down on them – the InterCity 509.
‘Get out!’ her father yelled.
But when she tried the door it wouldn’t open.
‘The child-lock –’ he screamed, but it was too late. The 509 tore into the BMW with a rending, screaming tearing of metal.
There was a long silence, after April’s story. The assembled company by the dark lake was completely motionless.
‘Who’s got the next story?’ Hannah half whispered.
‘I have,’ said Anne.
3
Soul Sucker
I was staying in a monastery near Moscow with my dad. He’s an expert restorer and he’d been invited to work on some religious pictures called icons in this very old place on the marshes. It was a lovely building, dedicated to St Nicholas, but it was on a small island and always seemed full of mist and marsh gases. When we were there it was the dead of winter, and the caretaker cut the peat from the swamps to burn on the guest-house fire. ‘Dead of winter.’ People often say that, but I’ll always associate those words with the St Nicholas monastery. The very stones that made up the building exuded a damp, rotting smell.
My father and I were there for two weeks, but the time passed so slowly that it seemed like an eternity. What was more, we rarely saw anyone: the icons had been laid out in the dining-room of the guest house for Dad to work on as we weren’t allowed to go into the monastery itself because the order of monks there was a closed, silent one. Only the Abbot was allowed to chant prayers and sing Mass. He had the deepest voice I’ve ever heard; I used to listen to him regularly throughout the day and night, when he often kept me awake with his plaintive sound.
Horror Stories to Tell in the Dark Page 2