World's end taom-1

by Mark Chadbourn

  "Not yet, but no one's giving up. There was one particular line of enquiry I wanted to discuss with you. It might be nothing, but Mrs. Gibbons mentioned he came to church the week before his death which was unusual-"

  "He was a very troubled man," the vicar interjected. "He came round to the rectory after the service for a chat. I can't betray the confidences of the people who come to me …" He paused, weighing up his options. "But with Maurice dead, I don't see the harm, especially if it gives an insight into his state of mind." Folding his arms, he stared up at the steeple. "Maurice was concerned about spiritual matters. We discussed, amongst other things, the return of the spirits of the dead, ghosts, you know, and possession by demonic entities. He wanted to know how easy it would be to arrange an exorcism if necessary, and I told him something of that magnitude would have to be sanctioned by the bishop."

  "He thought he was possessed!" Ruth said incredulously.

  "No, I didn't feel that. It was more as if he was talking in general terms, but he was certainly very anxious. He seemed to fear being tormented by the more malignant aspects of the spiritual realm."

  The memory unleashed by the therapist returned in force, and Ruth stifled a shudder.

  "Are you feeling all right?" the vicar asked, concerned.

  "Fine. Just a chill." She forced a smile. She didn't believe in those kind of things, but the coincidence was hard to ignore.

  The Victorian house could have been stately, but it had been indelibly scarred by thoughtless inzprovenzent: cheap, UPVC window frames and door, grey plastic guttering, an obtrusive aluminium flue for a gas boiler. Barry Riggs smiled broadly when he answered the door to Church, but it seemed forced, almost gritted. He was around forty, slightly overweight, with a doughy face and glasses that were a little too large. He smelled of cheap aftershave fighting to mask body odour. Inside, he seemed to have the builders in. Planks leaned against the stairs, an empty paint can stood in the hall, there were dust sheets everywhere and a pristine toilet bowl stood in the lounge, but he made no mention of the mess and there was no sound from anywhere else in the house.

  "I know why you're here," Riggs said conspiratorially as Church was ushered on to the sheet that covered the sofa.

  "I did tell you on the phone," Church replied dryly.

  "No, the real reason. Something much bigger than Maurice Gibbons." He nodded knowingly.

  "You better fill me in from the beginning, Barry." Church was already harbouring doubts about the validity of his visit. As "chief investigator" of the Crouch End UFO Association, Riggs had sounded more authoritative on the phone than he appeared in his natural habitat.

  "Maurice heard of my investigations on the grapevine," Riggs began, sitting a little too close to Church for comfort. "People talk. There's never any coverage in the media, but you talk to people in the street and they know of the importance of my work. It's the future, isn't it? Anyway, I digress. Maurice knew I'd uncovered some unarguable evidence about Government knowledge of the UFO threat. I'm not going to go into details now, but let me just say secret base and St. Albans. We can talk about that later if you want."

  "Why did Maurice come to you, Barry?"

  "Alien infiltration, Jack. Plain and simple. Maurice was a Government employee. He knew he was a target. He was frightened, Jack, very frightened, and he came to me looking for any information that might protect him. `They walk among us,' he said. I remember it well. He was sitting just where you are, with his little briefcase. He'd got classified information in it, but he wasn't ready to show me just then. It was a matter of building trust, but they got to him before he could divulge what he knew."

  "Who got to him?"

  "The aliens! In the future, Maurice will be seen as a hero. He was a whistleblower, ready to open up the whole can of worms about the Government selling us down the line for alien experiments."

  Church stared out of the window at the sinking afternoon sun, wishing he had opted for the vicar. "And he told you this? That aliens were after him?"

  Riggs paused. "Not in so many words. But he wanted to know everything about my investigations. We ran through the dates and times of sightings, witness reports, everything. He was particularly interested in the descriptions of different races, the Greys and the Nordics and all that. And alien abduction scenarios. What the abductees experienced in real detail. What they heard, lights in the sky. I tell you, Jack, he was here for hours."

  Church stood up quickly before he was overpowered by Riggs' body odour. "Thank you, Barry. You've been very helpful."

  Riggs grinned. "You know, that's just what Maurice said. `People need to know what's out there, Barry. They're sleepwalking into a disaster."'

  "So here are the options. Maurice was crazy. Maurice was overworked and suffering from stress-induced psychosis. Or Maurice was crazy. Either way, it's a good explanation for why he was wandering along by the river at the crack of dawn." Church sprawled on the sofa in Ruth's lounge, looking out at the city lights against the early evening sky.

  "Do you think you could possibly be a little more glib?" Ruth said ironically.

  Over a take-out curry and a bottle of Chilean red, they had spent half an hour trading information and finding there was no common ground whatsoever.

  "You were the sceptical one," Church replied. "This was supposed to be taking us away from the Devil living under Albert Bridge. Now we have one man thinking Gibbons is being hunted by aliens, another convinced our man is being haunted by ghosts and demons."

  "You're still skating on the surface, Church. Dig a little deeper."

  "Do you think you can patronise me a little more? I haven't had my fill yet."

  She laughed and topped up his glass. "The important fact is that Maurice Gibbons was a frightened man. Something was disturbing him enough to seek out the vicar and your UFO loon for information. He knew something."

  "Or he was crazy."

  "He was a civil servant, down-to-earth. If he was frightened, why was he keeping it to himself? There must have been hundreds of people he could have discussed it with, not least his wife."

  "Perhaps he was waiting until he was sure." Church took a deep swig of his wine and then said out of the blue, "Do you believe in ghosts?"

  Ruth looked at him in surprise. "Why do you ask?"

  "It doesn't matter. So where do we go from here? I can't think of any other lines of enquiry … hang on a minute." He suddenly stared into the middle distance, ordering his thoughts, then he snapped his fingers. "There's something we've missed."

  Susan Gibbons welcomed them in forty-five minutes later after Church's phone call had convinced her their visit would only take a few minutes. In Maurice's room, he went straight to the desk and pulled out the pile of taxi receipts, riffling through them quickly. They were all for a Monday evening and for the same amount.

  "So where was he going on a regular basis?" Church asked pointedly. Mrs. Gibbons had no idea. "I think the police looked into this, but didn't get anywhere," she said. Church wasn't deterred. He called the minicab firm. The receptionist asked around in the office and a few minutes later came back with an address.

  The house was a small semi in High Barnet; half-rendered, with more UPVC windows and a paved-over front garden where a few yellow weeds forced their way among the cracks. The light that glared through the glass of the front door seemed unpleasantly bright. They rang the bell and it was answered immediately by a woman with dyed black hair and sallow skin. She dragged on a cigarette, eyeing them suspiciously while Ruth ran through her patter. She reluctantly allowed them into the hall, which smelled of cigarettes and bacon fat.

  "He came round to see my uncle every week," she said, glancing at a photo of Gibbons which his wife had lent them. "Queer duck, but he used to perk the old man up. He's not well, you know. Hasn't left his bed in weeks. I got lumbered looking after him." She wrinkled her nose in what could have been disgust or irritation.

  "Can we see him?" Church asked.

  The woman nodded
, then added combatively, "I'm going out soon."

  "Don't worry, we can let ourselves out," Ruth said disarmingly. "What's your uncle's name?"

  "Kraicow," the woman snapped as if that was all she knew.

  She led the way up the stairs and swung open a bedroom door on to a painfully thin old man, his limbs just bone draped in skin. He lay on the top of his bed in striped pyjamas with one arm thrown across his eyes. His hair was merely tufts of silver on his pillow.

  "Is it okay if we talk to him?" Church said.

  "Just one of you," the woman said. "He gets very confused if there's more than one person speaking." She added obliquely, "He's an artist, you know. Used to be quite well known."

  The woman left them alone, and Church went to sit by the bed while Ruth watched from the door. Church remained quiet as Kraicow twitched and moaned beneath his arm, but eventually the old man removed it from his face and looked at Church with clear grey eyes, as if he had known he had a visitor all along.

  "Hello, I'm Jack Churchill," Church said quietly. "I hope you don't mind me coming to see you."

  Kraicow looked away and mumbled something; Church wondered if he'd be able to get any sense out of him at all. But when Kraicow looked back he spoke in a clear, deep voice. "I'm pleased to see any human face after looking at that miserable bitch all day long. She never leaves me alone."

  "You don't know me," Church continued, "but I wanted to talk to you about Maurice Gibbons."

  Church wondered how he would be able to discuss the matter without upsetting Kraicow about Gibbons' death, but the old man said simply, "He's dead, isn't he?"

  Church nodded.

  "I warned him."

  A hush seemed to descend on the house. "Warned him about what?"

  Kraicow levered himself up on his elbows so he could look Church in the face. For a moment the old man's eyes ranged across Church's features as if he was searching for something he could trust, before slowly lowering himself down with a wheeze. "Maurice saw my breakdown … what the bastards at the health centre call my breakdown," he began in a voice so low Church had to bend forward to hear him. "It was in the street, in Clerkenwell-where I work. I was making too much noise. Ranting, I suppose. Not surprising under the circumstances. Maurice overheard some of the things I said, and he knew straight away I was telling the truth because he'd seen the same thing too."

  "What had you seen?" Church whispered.

  Kraicow licked his dry lips. "You know much about the old myths and legends?"

  "It depends which ones."

  "The final battle between Good and Evil. The end of this cycle and the start of something new." The front door slammed loudly; Kraicow's niece had gone. "The legend is the same all over the world. The End-Time." Kraicow grabbed Church's wrist with fingers which seemed too strong for his feeble state. "They're coming back."

  "Who are?" Church's mood dampened; more craziness. "Aliens? Demons?"

  "No!" Kraicow said emphatically. "I told you, the old myths. Not fairytales, no, no, not folklore!" His eyes rolled back until all Church could see were the whites. "The legends are true."

  "Are you okay?"

  Kraicow threw his arm across his face again. "The legends said they'd be back for the final battle and they were right! Do you think we stand a chance against them?"

  "Take it easy," Church said calmly. "Why did Maurice come to see you?"

  "He knew they were back! He'd seen them too. He knew they were biding their time, but they'll be making their move soon-they won't wait long. The doors are open!"

  "Did Maurice say-"

  "He wanted to know what to do! He was so frightened. So frightened. He knew they wouldn't let him have the knowledge for long … they'd get to him. But who could he tell? The bastards put me in here!"

  Church sat back in his chair in disappointment; he was getting nowhere. Was Gibbons as crazed as Kraicow, or were his visits some kind of altruistic act? He glanced at Ruth, about to take his leave, but Kraicow grabbed his shirt and dragged him forward.

  "Remember the old legend: In England's darkest hour, a hero shall arise. It's there. It's been written." He took a deep breath and some degree of normalcy returned to him. "You don't believe me, do you?"

  "I'm sorry-

  "No, no, it's crazy talk. I've spent too long breathing in those paint fumes." He chuckled throatily. "Look in the top drawer."

  Curiously Church followed his nod to the bedside cabinet. In the drawer was an envelope; an address was scribbled on the front. "That's my studio. You go there, you'll see."

  "I can't-"

  "You'll find what you're looking for. Peace of mind. Direction. You'll know what happened to Maurice. It's up to you now." He pushed Church away roughly and rolled over. "Go!"

  Church glanced at the envelope one more time, then reluctantly took it. At the door, he silenced Ruth's questions with a simple, "Later." Downstairs was in darkness. In the gloom, Church felt eyes on his back although he knew the place was empty, and he didn't feel safe until they were outside, dialling a cab on Ruth's mobile.

  Kraicow's studio was at the top of a Victorian warehouse in one of the many unredeemed backstreets that formed the heart of Clerkenwell. From the outside it seemed almost derelict: smashed windows filthy with dust, graffiti and posters for bands that had long since split up. Unidentified hulks of machinery were scattered around the ground floor, which stank of engine oil and dirt. But when they climbed out of the service lift at the summit, Kraicow's room presented itself to them in a burst of colour and a smell of oil paint and solvent. An enormous, half-completed canvas was suspended over the centre of the floor, but it was impossible to tell from the splashes of colour exactly what it would eventually be. Other canvases of all sizes were stacked against various walls. The floor was bare boards, but clean, and there was a small camp bed in one corner where the artist obviously snatched a rest during his more intense periods of work. On an uneven table was a collection of tubes of oil, dirty rags, a palette and a jar filled with brushes.

  "Do you ever get the feeling you're wasting your time?" Ruth said as she looked around at the disarray.

  "You were the one who insisted we go down every avenue, however ridiculous," Church replied. "Personally, I think you've been reading way too much Sherlock Holmes."

  Ruth began to search through the stacked canvases. "What are we looking for?"

  "God knows." Church busied himself with an investigation of a pile of rags and empty paint pots near the window. On the top was a sheet of sketch paper where Kraicow had written El sueno de la Razon Produce monstruos. Church read it aloud, then asked, "What does that mean?"

  Ruth paused in her search and dredged her memory for a translation. "`The sleep of reason brings forth monsters.' It's the title of-"

  " a painting by Goya. Yes, I remember."

  Ruth leaned on the canvases and mused, "It's strange, isn't it? We go about our lives thinking the world is normal and then we stumble across all these people who obviously have a completely different view of reality, indulging in their paranoid fantasies."

  "Are you including the vicar in that?"

  Ruth laughed. "The UFO guy and Kraicow and obviously Gibbons, all feeding each other. And obviously Mrs. Gibbons had no idea what was going on in her husband's head."

  Church moved on to another collection of canvases, older, judging by the thick layer of dust that lay on the top. "Well, paranoia's like a fire. It quickly gets out of control and suddenly the norm looks weird and the weird becomes perfectly acceptable."

  "You'd know, would you?" Ruth Jibed. Church didn't respond.

  Their search continued for fifteen minutes more, becoming increasingly aimless as the futility of the task overcame them. Church, for his part, was afraid to stop; he didn't want to return to his empty flat with its bleak memories. Their hunt for meaning in their experience had released a whole host of emotions with which he hadn't had time to come to terms.

  Ruth let the final canvas drop back with a clat
ter. "We should call it a day," she said. Church noted a hint of gloom in her voice. After a second she added morosely, "I don't think we're getting anywhere and I'm afraid if we don't sort out what happened I'm never going to get back to who I was. That morning was so destabilising I feel like every support for my life has been kicked away." She wandered over to the window and hauled up the blind to look out over the city.

  "I know exactly what you mean," Church said, remembering the morning after Marianne's terrible death with an awful intensity. "Sometimes you never get straight again." He checked the final canvas, a surreal landscape with hints of Dali. "Nothing here. I don't know what Kraicow was talking about. Serves us right for listening to the views of a mental patient. So what do we do next?"

  There was no reply. Church turned slowly. Ruth was standing at the window with her back to him, so immobile she could have been a statue. "Did you hear me?"

  Still no answer. He could tell from her frozen body something was wrong. A hum of anxiety rose at the back of his head, growing louder as he moved towards her. Before he had crossed the floor, her voice came up small, still and frightened. "He was right."

  Church felt his heart begin to pound; somewhere, doors were opening.

  When he came up behind her, he could see what it was that had caught her attention. On the window ledge was a small sculpture in clay, rough and unfinished, but detailed in the upper part. It was a figure with a face so hideous in its deformity and evil they could barely bring themselves to look at it.

  And it was the perfect representation of the devil they had recalled during Delano's therapy session. Kraicow had seen it too.

  It existed.

  Chapter Three

  on the road

  For the rest of the night they sat in Ruth's lounge, talking in the quiet, clipped tones of people who had suffered the massive shock of a sudden bereavement. The discovery of the desperately crafted statue left them with nowhere to turn. Suddenly the shadows were alive, and life had taken on the perspective of a bottle-glass window.