‘Shut up, girl.’
‘My mum pretends she’s a policewoman but she only works on the switchboard.’ Lily screeches out a shattered laugh, sounding like a machine gun firing off small shells of spite.
‘Yeah, whatever,’ Drover grabs a bag of money and hands it to Pete. ‘Coming?’
‘You won’t get ten feet,’ Pam says, and steps into Drover’s path, blocking the door.
‘Watch me.’
‘You want to go out there? You think you’ll be safe?’
‘No crazies out there,’ he says, and tries to move her out of his way. ‘Only in here.’
‘You sure about that?’ Pam puts her hand on the light switch.
‘Nothing out there but stories and trees,’ Drover says. ‘Peter! Grab that bag.’
Pam turns off the light.
Pete picks up the other money bag. Pam reaches over and pulls one of the table light cables from its socket. The room becomes darker still.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Lily, kill that light there.’
Lily, now whistling madly, does as she is told.
The room is plunged into darkness, just the faintest light from the hall seeping in around the closed door. Pam goes to the window.
‘Come here,’ she says, and pulls Drover next to her. ‘You want to go out there?’
She pulls back the curtains, fast.
‘Are you sure?’
Seventeen
WAITING OUTSIDE for whatever will come, you are faced with the walls of the lonely house. Some of you have known only these walls; some of you remember the house as it was before, the smaller house. Some remember the house that stood before this one, the older house; some remember when that was new. And some of you remember the time even before there was a house, when this was a hovel, before that even, when this was stone with no door, and a few of you still remember the earth and mud dwelling that was here long before that, back when it all started.
You all wait for whatever is to come. Some of you stand facing the window. Behind it are faces half faded in the night, picked out pale from darker depths of blackness around them. Small, frightened faces, uncomprehending, staring. It takes them a while but then their eyes start to widen, their mouths start to drop open, they take a step back, one stumbles, another screams silently on the other side of the glass.
You can smell things. There’s the scent of damp leaves in the cold, dew-heavy night. The smell of the earth turned over and troubled, rises up, invisible. The woody smell of the bark of ancient trees hangs in the air. Trees that are dry and brittle on one side but wet with fungus on the other where moss drips and spores fester. The wooden smell of branches floats by; the living smell of decay stays.
You can hear things. The inquisitive rustle of mulch-burrowing insects at your feet, things with spindle-legs that pinch as they squirm, as they slither between roots and dead wood. Night creatures that flit and scurry in near silence high up, far back, up close, to the left, darting here, hiding there. You can hear the detached whisper of the wind as it worries the furthest trees. It keeps a safe distance from this house, this place in the forest. This family.
But you can also hear things that are not there to be heard, voices from the past.
The very oldest a low, fractious groan, stutters with age as it growls deep and impatient, crotchety, tired of life, tired of death, tired of waiting. These voices have seen all, heard all but said nothing. These were the first to settle here, the first to put down roots when this was pasture; when that was just earth and mud; when the first people came here and blighted the innocent meadowland with their wickedness. When the hunger started, when the famine bit hard, when the evils from deep under the earth seeped through and into the hearts of the settlers; when anger bubbled into hate that boiled over into death. These are the ancient voices who have endured the years, time without end. These are the ones who have craved release the longest.
They were only a few to start, but then more came, more died, more grew, and the forest matured. Every year it became thicker, darker, as it spread with each revenge, each slaughter. Each feast planted another voice in the ever growing crowd of restless voices.
Voices from the centuries; those wanting change, those happy with the way the forest is now, those not sure, those still lost and homeless, those dispossessed and those who have still not accepted their fate. Those who want more than this eternity of waiting, standing, looking on and never doing, only seeing and never acting. They all gather here, tonight.
Voices of the recent; vengeful, hate-filled and keen for blood. Those ones rustle irritably, they snarl angrily at the small things that burrow at their feet, they swipe at things that escape higher up, they crack and twist, uneasy in sleep, troubled when awake. Those are the ones who are frustrated, who want something better, something shorter. Those are the modern age, they who can’t wait, they who want it now, so keen for their release that they have no sense of time, no sense of the ancient or the sacred.
These are the ones now crowding in close, watching the act play out, watching the latest round in their game of torment. These are the things that sense a difference, that this time it could all end. Finally, they could all find release from the same slow roll of the seasons; from their long, wait-filled, yawn-filled chasm of time that hangs from this lifetime to the next.
Each chance that’s come has been a chance lost, but this night feels different. This night hope waits outside with the Missing. They sense a difference because tonight fate has sown them chance with its seeding. You can feel it too because, behind the glass, there are two who are not family, two who should not be there.
The shapes behind the glass are still. Frightened, they look out with eyes that don’t understand. They see you, they know from the glow of your eyes that you are not going to let them out. They are in there until the end, whatever that end may be.
One of them moves towards you and comes up to the glass, boldly. Your eyes glow fierce, you growl, you twist your limbs into claws. Those around you do the same. They shuffle forward, they snarl. The shape inside the house moves quickly and covers the glass.
They know you have come and they are starting to understand that no one is leaving that house alive.
Eighteen
DROVER’S EYES HURT for a second as Pam switches the light back on.
‘What the fuck?’ He can’t believe what he has just seen. Actually, he is not sure what he has just seen but for the moment he is more intent on helping Pete get back onto his feet. ‘You okay, mate?’
Pete nods.
‘You still want to go for a walk?’ Pam asks.
‘What was…? Who…? What’s going on here, lady?’
‘You wouldn’t want to hear,’ she says. ‘You wouldn’t believe me even if I showed to you it in writing.’
Drover knows that is true enough. But he’s got to make sense of what’s going on, and what he just saw makes no sense at all.
‘They are angry,’ Pete says. ‘Listen.’
His voice is quiet and his tone serious. The sound of it pulls Drover up short. There’s something changed about Pete. Pam raises her eyebrows, expectant. It’s like she knew there would be something out there, it’s like she knows what’s going on. She expected to see that, whatever that was. Whatever they were.
Drover looks around. Lily is even paler now than she was before. She’s no longer laughing but she’s shuffling up to Pete on the sofa. It’s like she doesn’t care what’s going on outside. Pete is just sitting there, his eyelids flickering up and down, listening to that sound.
It’s like the wind in the trees, but then, again, it’s not the wind, there is no sound of it at the window, no buffering against the roof. It’s like the trees are making the noises, shifting their own branches, each
tree with a different voice. It sounds like some are moaning, while others are growling, and, yes, Pete’s right, they do sound angry. He tries to shake the thoughts from his head; trees don’t do that, but the thoughts will not leave him. If it’s not the trees then it’s what was between them. The eyes.
‘This is rubbish,’ Drover says, angrily. ‘Fairy lights in the forest. You sick people playing tricks. You’re getting off on this.’
‘First things first,’ Pam says, ignoring him. She looks up to the old clock. ‘There’s still time.’
‘Time for what?’ Pete asks.
Pam doesn’t answer. She just leans against a table, her arms folded.
‘Where’s dad?’ Lily asks in a small voice.
‘We need to get that gun,’ Pam says. ‘It’s all we have to protect ourselves with. So, one of you bright sparks needs to go and fetch it.’ She looks at Drover and then at Pete.
‘I’ll go,’ Drover says, and moves towards the door, but Pam puts up a hand to stop him.
‘No. He can go.’
‘I’ll go,’ Drover repeats.
‘Peter, get away from the girl, go and get the gun. The car keys are on a hook under the stairs.’
‘Is no one going to ask the question?’ Lily says, and the others look at her. ‘What’s outside?’
‘Trick of the light,’ Drover says.
‘There is no light.’ Pam’s words are clipped.
‘We can’t go outside,’ says Pete. ‘Whatever that was, it doesn’t want us out there.’
‘There’s more out there than just trees,’ Pam says. ‘But that’s outside. We are fine in here if we don’t open the window. They can’t come into the house. But we must protect ourselves from what can come inside. William. You, go and find that gun. We’ll wait here.’
‘Where is grandpa?’ Lily asks. No one answers.
‘Just get the gun and get back here quickly.’ Pam clicks her fingers at Pete. ‘Can you do that?’
‘I said I’ll get it,’ Drover insists.
His mind is still on whatever he saw outside. He is trying to make sense of all of this and wishes he had Pete’s imagination. Perhaps then he could let some of this sink in and it would make sense. What does make sense, though, is that his gun is in the car. He’s seen the keys and he wants to get out of this place.
‘I don’t trust you not to run,’ Pam answers him.
‘I ain’t going out there with whatever that was,’ Drover lies, fluently. He’d take his chances, once he has the gun.
‘They are the Missing,’ says Pete. ‘I told you, Drover. The people that had to be killed, them who got eaten. The poor souls who were brought into the forest and never made it out.’
‘For shuck’s sake, Pete.’
‘How else?’ Pete shoots across to him. ‘How else d’you explain them? And where’s the old man? Where is Lily’s granddad? Why isn’t he dead? Where’s the blood? You shot him in the heart.’
Drover can’t believe that Pete is answering back at him. This is probably the first time ever. He’s finding some balls from somewhere.
‘Yes, the heart. You stupid, Irish lout. The worst possible place. We have to be quick.’ Pam’s voice shows signs of panic again as it cracks. ‘Go and fetch the gun and I shall explain if you… when you get back.’ She no longer sounds calm or assured. ‘We only have limited time.’ Then she turns to Lily. ‘You will be able to give your grandfather your gift soon,’ she says.
‘I didn’t bring one,’ Lily answers flatly.
‘I think you did.’
‘Jesus, you’re all crazy.’ Drover throws himself into a chair. ‘Get the gun then, Pete, it’s under the carpet in the boot. But when you come back don’t give it to…’
A crash from upstairs halts him. Pam looks to the ceiling and her brow knits up.
‘Go quickly,’ she says, urgently. ‘He’s on the move.’
‘Who? Your piss-head of an old man?’ Drover laughs. ‘He’ll be out for a while, I reckon.’
‘Not Myles,’ Pam says. ‘William. He would have gone to his den. The gift will be waiting until the body heals. And when it does it will be on the move again. Peter, go now and be quick.’
She moves to the door, opens it a little, looks out. Pete stands up. He is looking nervous but determined.
‘I’ll be faster,’ Drover says.
‘No, I need to speak with you. Come on, Peter. Be quick and be careful.’
It almost sounds like Pam is concerned, Drover thinks. She’s got some pretty weird shit going on here and she’s worried about Pete? Mind you, he is very easy to be concerned about. Drover watches as Pam looks out into the hall and then steps over to the front door. She puts the security chain on. Checking up the stairs quickly, she nods to Pete, and Drover sees his friend disappear down the passageway.
Pam comes back in and shuts the door.
‘Someone has some real explaining to do,’ Drover says as he sits down again.
Pam stands looking down at him. ‘Yes, you do.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Your name is not Liam Lamb.’
‘What of it?’
‘I’ve seen you before.’
‘That a crime?’
‘No, but killing my father-in-law is.’
Drover points to the ceiling. ‘Waking up, you said.’
‘It is not that straightforward.’
‘So, what’s really going on?’
‘You tell me.’
‘I already told you, lady. Don’t know why you’re so up your arse about it. If he ain’t dead then you might as well take second shot, ’cos you came here to do the same thing, didn’t you?’
‘Lamb.’ A memory strikes her. ‘Liam Lamb?’ She starts to laugh.
Drover is immediately uncomfortable. He looks at Lily but she’s no help. She’s sitting there, on her hands, swinging her legs and watching the window like she’s expecting to see something come through it. The sound of the wind (as that’s all it is) is still moaning outside, and now the bitch is laughing at him. He knows what’s coming. He’s got that river of shame running in his veins and he knows he is about to be exposed.
‘What year was that film?’ she says. ‘It’s an old one, isn’t it?’
There’s a long pause, and then Drover decides to run with it. It doesn’t prove anything.
‘One of his first. Before I was born.’
‘Pretty obscure.’
‘I thought so. I was wrong.’
‘So, what is it really?’
‘To be honest, missus, I’m not sure myself. It might even be Liam Lamb. They told me my dad liked his films. Was him as showed me “Lamb” on video once, when I was small. About a man losing his faith, he said. He said to never lose faith in yourself or your friends. And, then, he…’ His throat dries up along with the memories of his father. He coughs. ‘It was about a man who loses his faith.’
‘And abducts a child and later kills him, I believe.’
‘As a way out for both of them.’
‘Strange you should remember that particular film.’
‘What you saying?’
‘I am saying Liam Neeson was much better in the role than you’ve been. I know where I know you from, Drover, Liam, whatever you want to call yourself. You’ve been inside before, have you not?’
‘Time ago, nothing recent, all paid for.’
Another thump from upstairs and all three people in the room look up at the ceiling.
‘What’s grandpa doing?’ Lily asks, looking across at her mother for the first time in ages.
‘Good question,’ Pam says, but she immediately looks back to Drover. ‘So,’ she says, ‘something like burglary wasn’t it? Well, it is now. Breaking and entering, and no
w we can add murder to your list. But remind me, wasn’t there something else?’
‘He’s not dead.’
‘You said he was.’
‘You said he wasn’t.’ Drover is stumped for a moment.
He has a flashback: the man’s chest was wide open, his shirt torn to pieces, there was blood on him, it was running down towards his trousers, his face was white, frozen in surprise, and he was clutching at where part of his chest used to be. Right over his heart. He was dead. Dragging the body out from behind the sofa, shoving the sofa back, dragging the body through into the hall, hearing Myles and Lily upstairs, hearing Pete distracting them, that body was a weight. A dead weight. Hearing Pam coming back around the house, desperately packing the heavy old man into the cupboard. He was dead. And now he is moving about upstairs.
None of it makes sense.
‘But you came here to kill him yourself,’ he says. ‘I heard you talking.’
‘Yes,’ she admits. ‘We did. But for a very good reason.’
‘Pam?’ Lily stands up.
‘Sit down, Lily,’ Pam takes a step towards her, but stops. One hand grabs at her stomach like she is clutching at a stab of pain. She groans.
‘You came here to kill grandpa?’
Drover hears Lily’s words but somehow she doesn’t sound surprised or shocked. He has this feeling that she knew that, that she is in on their game, whatever that game may be.
Footsteps overhead. Heavy and sluggish. The rising sound of the wind outside, more moaning, and Pam clutching for the arm of a chair as she lowers herself gently down.
‘What good reason?’ Drover asks, his attention drawn to the sounds of the footsteps upstairs. Someone, or some thing, is on the move. He thinks of Pete, wonders how far he’s got. Will he remember to bring the bag of cartridges as well? Pam is not answering him. ‘Go ahead, lady. What good reason could you lot have had for killing the old man?’
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