Written in Darkness

by Mark Samuels

  He’d turned away from fiction in his mid-thirties, not being able to generate enough sales to get out of the mid-lists, and realising that it would only be by chance that he’d ever strike it lucky in that field and produce a bestseller. His agent had suggested the change in direction and, although James found the transition easy enough, the fact that it had not been made of his own free will, but was forced on him by commercial considerations, continued to rankle. Instead of producing a body of original work himself he was instead writing about the lives of dead writers who’d succeeded, where he’d failed, in establishing at least a literary cult reputation.

  His book Thomas De Quincey: Heaven and Hell in a Jar received cordial critical notices and his next two, Anna Kavan: A Soul in Ice and Stanislaus, Count Stenbock: A Peacock Life, were hailed as masterpieces of definitive re-evaluation. They’d brought in more money than James had earned before whilst trying to make a living as an author, although it was still not enough to enable him to feel that he was comfortably off and, for all his hard work, all he ever seemed to manage was to keep the family’s collective head above water financially. Other writers that he knew who had stuck with fiction were forced to pen either erotica or to ghost-write celebrity memoirs in order to bring in a decent income, but this was not a route that he could consider without coming to the conclusion that it represented a fate much worse than his own.

  He further explained away to himself his having decided to take such work after the birth of his son when, he claimed, his self-centred ambition to be recognised as a serious novelist stood between him and providing the very best that he could for his own family. But the birth of Alistair had not given James the emotional connection that made this plausible.

  When he held the child in his arms in the hospital, after the birth, he’d expected an overwhelming rush of pride, a sense of genetic continuity that was primal in its force, but, although he’d been relieved when the pregnancy was over and all was well, he hadn’t experienced that new sense of living totally for his offspring that he’d been told would follow.

  It had been different for Amelia. The bond between her and Alistair had been immediate and of a depth that he found startling. James had scrupulously avoided exhibiting any feeling of jealousy, and had settled into the role of attentive father without qualms, but at the centre of his relationship with the boy was a psychological gap that he could not, try as he might, fill.

  He couldn’t help thinking that it was the consciousness of this gap that made him acquiesce when Amelia’s parents died, and she suggested that they move into the old house instead of putting it on the market and using the proceeds to find a place of their own. He’d hoped that, by entering fully into that side of his wife’s life, in the place where she’d grown up, he might somehow become absorbed more deeply into the older ancestral familial dynamic that existed between her and their son.

  But all he had done was to turn himself into even more of an outsider. The memories Gryme House contained were alien to him and his study had increasingly become a refuge as well as a place of work. It was the one space in the building in which he felt completely at ease.

  Sometimes he’d sit up there late into the night, pretending to work, but actually drinking himself into a semi-stupor, until an hour when he was sure Amelia would be asleep and his crawling into their bed wouldn’t wake her.

  Occasionally, on his way downstairs, he would run into Alistair prowling around in the darkness, playing some silent game of his own devising. Nothing was said between them and the boy would scamper back to his room at James’s approach, the subject not raised in front of Amelia the next morning. James wondered if he cut a terrifying figure in the shadows, a father in the guise of a drunken giant, his aspect altered horribly after the midnight hour. If that were so, it had become their secret. At least this much they had in common: both were night people. If only Alistair didn’t look so much like his grandfather, Ezekiel Grymes.

  *

  Alistair often had screaming fits in the night. He could only be comforted by the presence of Amelia, and would cry out even louder when James tried to stand in for her. For a while he tried to overcome Alistair’s disdain for his attempts, but the result was invariably that the child’s agitation became alarming, to the point where James became worried that the neighbours might think Alistair was being abused. He’d suggested that Alistair might have some undiagnosed medical condition, but his fears were dismissed by Amelia, whose ability to calm Alistair down took a matter of minutes and was sometimes almost instantaneous.

  When he asked her what she did to make the boy tranquil again she explained that it required nothing more than soothing words and a mother’s embrace. Again, James was conscious of the gulf that existed between them.

  On one occasion, after having failed in his attempts to soothe Alistair, once Amelia arrived to take care of him, James had been forced to leave by the child’s discomfort at this presence and made to wait outside the bedroom.

  He heard Amelia whispering something to Alistair in a strange language that he could not understand and which sounded like no language he had heard generally spoken before. The words were delivered in a guttural, throaty way that varied in intonation and tone, as if inflexion played a key part in its structure.

  He was reminded of the time when, during a visit here to Gryme House when it was occupied by Amelia’s parents, he’d overheard an argument between the ancient couple that had switched, as their fury mounted, from English into the same bizarre and outlandish dialect.

  It consisted of many consonants and few vowels, but was delivered not in human accents but in a manner more like the growling of a dog.

  *

  Close by Gryme House the hillside necropolis of Highgate broods over London from one of the city’s highest points. The vast cemetery is in two parts, divided, by the treacherously steep thoroughfare of Swains Lane, between the older West section and the newer East section. Most of those with an interest in the Eastern area are drawn by the fact that Karl Marx is buried there, his grave marked by a grotesque and enormous concrete bust.

  The Western area, on the other hand, has tended to attract a different type of devotee: nocturnal seekers after the weird, the horrible and the fantastic. For them the region is a wonderland of charnel glamour. Since the 1970s, when vandalism, rumours of ghouls and satanic rituals were rife, it has been closed to the public, except for guided tours.

  The high walls surrounding it do not deter these devotees. Nor do the gates that are always locked. The lure of the Victorian Gothic world within draws them back time and again; they make obeisance to its riot of crumbling mausoleums, tombs and headstones and its wild woodland landscape, as surely as any worshipper in a church.

  But, unbeknownst to those who frolicked above ground, deep in the depths of the hillside, other beings frolicked. Their world was one of darkness, their territory a series of warrens that opened out into the bottoms of graves, mouldering vaults and musty catacombs. For centuries they had fed on what was put into the earth in coffins, sucking the marrow from bones even after the flesh had rotted away. Their cackles and giggles were muffled by the weight of soil above their heads, and no echoes resounded around the cramped tunnels through which they scurried.

  Of late, their numbers had dwindled, and some of the more inquisitive of the underground beings had ventured all the way to the surface in the middle of night, sniffing the air and gazing wide eyed with awe at the sight of the moon in the sky. The lunar-light was a glittering pinprick of silver in their dead-black eyes.

  *

  Alistair looked down at the cemetery from the window of his bedroom on the first floor. The full moon allowed him to see almost everything that was taking place there. He watched as the strange dogs emerged from mausoleums, or pushed aside gravestones from below. It was much more exciting than any of the DVDs that father and mother allowed him to watch, although some cartoons were almost as good.

  It was late and he’d awoken in the mid
dle of the night, which he did on a regular basis now, but he was careful to try and not disturb his parents, who were probably asleep. He’d slipped out of bed, clad in his Scooby Doo pyjamas, and relished the freedom he’d gained since they had taken away his cot with its barred sides.

  Once he’d moved a stool in front of the window, it was easy to climb up onto the sill, stretch out along its length and look down over the grounds of the cemetery. Sometimes, at night, Alistair would see foxes, even badgers, but of late he’d not seen as many and when they did appear they were often snatched away by the strange dogs.

  The game the dogs were playing seemed to have ended.

  Alistair yawned.

  He was thirsty but it was a long way down all the stairs to the kitchen. He remembered that there was half a chocolate milkshake in the fridge; he’d not drunk it all when father had taken him to McDonald’s and he’d brought it back home.

  He still had trouble with the stairs and found going down them scarier than climbing up. Perhaps that was because of the tumble he’d taken, when mother and father were afraid he’d broken his wrist.

  And it would mean going down the stairs in the dark, past his parents’ bedroom. The thought of the darkness didn’t scare him at all though and he could never understand why anyone would fear what was such a wonderful place to hide.

  Alistair climbed backwards off the window sill and then jumped lightly from the stool to the carpeted floor.

  He opened his bedroom door as quietly as he was able and then padded down the corridor until he came to the stairs. He could see pretty well in the dark, much better than people realised, so that was no problem, but the sheer scale of the dizzying descent he would have to make made his stomach flutter.

  He’d have to tightly grip the rails of the banister as he took the steps one at a time so as not to fall over in the dark.

  The house was old, incredibly old, and seemed to have a life of its own. It groaned and creaked in the night as if shifting in its sleep. Alistair believed that it was probably the oldest house in the world, but he knew its sore points.

  He knew which steps groaned and which floorboards creaked when they were trodden on and he adjusted his footfalls accordingly.

  It seemed to take forever, and at the halfway stage he’d almost turned back when the grandfather clock had loomed large and struck the hour of three just as he passed it.

  Once the chimes had died out and the low thudding of the pendulum could be heard again, it seemed that the house had turned in its sleep, spluttered and then was snoring once more.

  Alistair pressed on until he came to the ground floor. He ran his fingers across the bottom of the coats hung up in the hallway, enjoying the feel of his mother’s faux-fur. He had an urge to pick up one of the umbrellas in the elephant’s foot stand, and flourish it about, as if it were a rapier and he was Peter Pan, but thought better of it.

  A rectangle of moonlight streaming in from the end of the hall lit up the black and white tiles of the kitchen floor. The tiles were cold underfoot after the warmth of the carpet covering the stairs and the corridors, and Alistair felt the shock of the chill in the soles of his feet. He pottered over to the refrigerator, a huge white fifties’ retro model, and stood on tiptoe in order to reach the handle. He tugged at it and pulled it back, squinting as the inside light turned on and it exhaled an icy breath.

  There, on the middle door shelf, next to a bottle of iced tea, was his milkshake carton. He took it down and slurped through the straw, looking around at the contents of the fridge as he swallowed the chocolaty drink.

  There were all sorts of foodstuffs and drinks in there that he’d never tried. In the middle shelf was a joint of lamb that had been left overnight to defrost after being stored in the freezer compartment. It lay in a dish and, peering more closely, Alistair saw that a pool of red liquid had collected around its base.

  He put down his milkshake on the floor and dipped his fingers into the dish, turning his fingertips red. He then began licking them clean. After that, he carefully took the lamb and dish out of the refrigerator, laid it on the tiled floor and then used his straw to drink up the rest of the redness, which he found much more delicious than milkshake.

  From outside he heard the howling rising again from the graves in the cemetery, and scampered into the garden.

  He would climb the separating wall and see his grandparents, and his grandpa who was his real Papa.

  They probably had a special treat for him.

  They had promised one day that they would take his substitute Papa away for good when he was a big boy.

  My World Has No Memories

  When I awoke, it was to the roar of a storm at sea. Gradually, as my senses returned, I became aware of its ceaseless motion all around me, engulfing the world. I was aboard a small vessel, alone, and with no memory of how I came to be there. I struggled out of the single berth in which I lay and my first thought was that I must have suffered a blow to the head, causing concussion and amnesia. My memory was a blank.

  The vessel showed signs of occupancy for many weeks. It stank of my unwashed body. The galley was covered with a film of grease and food supplies in the overhead lockers appeared about half used. I ran some water over my head from the sink and then swallowed a cupful. My throat was very dry and I assumed I had been unconscious for many hours.

  Above the sink was hung a small shaving mirror. A drawn, unshaven face that I did not recognise stared back at me. My reflection. I guessed that it belonged to someone in their mid fifties. Eyes blue. White hair shaven close to the scalp. Very thin. Not handsome, not ugly. Gold wedding ring on the third finger of his left hand. No inscription inside the band.

  The cabin was eighteen feet long by eight feet wide. It contained all the essentials for a lengthy ocean-going voyage.

  By the side of the radio was the ship’s logbook, charting the progress of its course, and the last entry gave its position as being unconfirmed. The previous entries were garbled, with notations detailing the difficulties of getting accurate sextant measurements from the sun or stars. The only information it yielded up to me of any satisfaction was the name of the vessel: the Pulsar out of Poole, Dorset.

  Contact with GPS was gone, as if the damn satellites had simply fallen out of the skies. All compasses aboard were wildly unreliable, their needles pointing in differing directions.

  I tried the radio set. Nothing but static on all frequencies. There was no response to my Mayday requests.

  The self-steering mechanism had been operating all the time I had been unconscious. I did not adjust it, since I assumed it was set purposely towards some definite destination, or preferred course, and passed through the cockpit hatch up onto the deck.

  A blast of salty wind hit me, making my eyes smart. It was refreshing and clean; a stark contrast to the foul smelling air in the cabin. I gazed across the turbulent sea stretching in all directions, foam and spray sweeping over the monohull yacht. The four sails were up, billowing in the air, driving the vessel through the surging walls of seawater.

  The sky above was a sheet of uniform gunmetal grey, featureless and grim, giving no indication of the sun’s position. It may have been morning or afternoon.

  Retreating back into the cabin, I sought out the Pulsar’s emergency flares. Perhaps, I thought, if there were another ship within a reasonable distance I could alert it to my presence. I found the flare gun but there was no sign of any cartridges. Doubtless I had already exhausted the supply in previous attempts.

  How long, then, had I been at sea? Months probably. But to what purpose? Had I set out on the voyage to escape some disaster or had the disaster struck unexpectedly while I was already at sea? The latter possibility seemed the more probable. Then again, might it not be the case that I had fled in advance of the cataclysm, having been forewarned of its impending approach? That seemed likeliest of all.

  It was all so maddeningly vague. I was certain that something terrible must have occurred but had no memory as
to its exact nature. My inability to make contact with the outside world, indeed the very lack of any evidence of there being an outside world with which to make contact, was a strong indication of some worldwide calamity. Had this event in some way affected my brain, impairing my memory to the extent that I could not even remember my own name and history?

  What was the cataclysm? Some enormous burst of radiation from the sun, a stupendous solar flare that knocked out the global communications system, and also somehow affected the magnetic poles? I could come up with no better solution to fit the facts.

  It was either that or madness.

  *

  I cooked myself a meal in the galley. It consisted of toast, scrambled eggs and curry powder. My appetite, however, was listless and I picked at the food without enthusiasm. The cabin was insufferably damp, with condensation on the roof, and all around me raged the noise of the sea, an unending primal roar that encompassed two-thirds of the globe.

  By now it was getting dark outside, and, having finished my meal, I turned on a lamp, and wondered how best to pass the night before sleeping. I wandered over to the single shelf of books forming the Pulsar’s small library. They were mostly navigational and technical books of seafaring, but amongst their number was also a handful of other, more general titles.

  Next to them, shoved well back into the recess of the shelf, was a large glass jar. I could not see clearly what it contained, masked as it was by shadows, and so adjusted its position, drawing the jar towards me. But when my fingertips touched the glass object I almost recoiled. It felt warm, wet and sticky, as if containing something alive and radiating heat. Repulsed, I slipped on a pair of rubber gloves lying close by on the worktop I utilised for repair of my electrical devices.

  Suspended in a transparent fluid was a monstrous flower the size of a grapefruit. It must have been preserved, not for its aesthetic quality, for it was hideously ugly, but instead as a specimen of abnormality. Perhaps it most resembled a rose in its shape but a rose that had suffered some hideous malformation or disease.