by Davies, Neil
He had died easily as she gouged out his eyes, tore open his throat and gorged herself on the warm, pulsing blood and meat within.
She had felt satisfied afterwards, but only for a short while.
She had prowled the streets several more times, but it was dangerous. Her companions grew restless, worried. That was when Aello reached out to them and sent her followers. Now Christina never went hungry. Sacrifices were plentiful. She was satisfied. Her companions were satisfied.
Lying on her back, stomach full and distended, she closed her eyes and waited.
She felt the hands, the lips, the bodies all over her as they prepared to feed. She relaxed and laughed as, one after another, they entered her far more intimately than any lover could, more intimately than they had that first time. Then, the sensation of someone inside her had been centred between her legs, now it flooded her whole body. It was no longer a purely sexual act; it was a coalescing of forms, of her physical and their metaphysical bodies. She moaned, she writhed, and she screamed an orgasm that lifted her physically off the ground where she was supported by the swirling, mist-like shapes of her lovers.
And through her ecstasy, through the shudders of pleasure that jerked her body, she felt rather than heard their voices, stronger with each feed.
It is almost time.
Soon she will be strong enough.
She is watching. She knows. She is ready.
“Aello!”
2
“Are you sure you don’t want me to phone the police?”
“That won’t be necessary,” snapped Susan, looking coldly at Tim’s questioning and slightly puzzled expression. “In our experience, the local police have little interest in following up such things.”
“In your experience?” Tim shook his head in tired disbelief. “You and your father were attacked. He could have been killed. You were almost…” he hesitated, stumbled slightly over words he did not want to say
“I’m not stupid Mr. Galton. I am very well aware that those bastards would have raped me and then killed me. But I say again, in our experience the local police would have done nothing more than take a few notes and then stuff the report down the back of a filing cabinet. In places like this,” she shrugged bitterly, settling back into her chair, cradling her hot mug of coffee close to her chest, “they either don’t care or are paid not to care.”
Tim was about to reply, to carry the disagreement further, when the Professor interrupted.
“You will have to excuse my daughter, Mr. Galton. She is more cynical than befits her age and does not always have the self-control I would wish.”
Tim, ignoring the derisive snort from Susan, smiled at the older man, calming himself, annoyed that he had let this woman get to him so easily.
“It’s okay. I’d be surprised if you weren’t both a bit on edge after your experience. It’s not every day you get attacked in the street.”
“More often than you know Mr. Galton,” laughed the Professor.
Tim let the curious remark slip past him without comment, although it piqued his curiosity. There was more to this strange father and daughter than was immediately apparent, and more, he suspected, behind the attack on them in the car park than a random mugging.
“Are you and your daughter just visiting?”
“We were trying to find an old friend. A priest.”
“Father Rex,” added Susan, recovering from her annoyance enough to rejoin the conversation. “Perhaps you know him?”
Tim shook his head. “Sorry. Only just got back into the area. I’m not exactly up on who’s who at the moment. So, just visiting an old friend?”
“I lecture in history at Waleton College in Derbyshire. Do you know Derbyshire at all?”
Tim shook his head. “I’ve not travelled much... in England.”
“Well, nice as Derbyshire can be, I liked the idea of a field trip outside the county. I’ve been lucky enough to have one or two books published and I’m looking for material for the next one. Byre has some interesting historical sites in and around it, Mr. Galton, and with the added bonus of Father Rex being in the area…”
“Too good an opportunity to miss.” Tim smiled and nodded. “Perhaps those kids were history critics? Didn’t like your last book.”
The Professor laughed politely, although his eyes showed little humour.
“I’m not that famous. I doubt anyone outside of academia has even heard of me.”
The conversation fell silent. The Professor glanced first towards his daughter and then towards the darkness outside the window.
“Well, thank you for your hospitality Mr. Galton and particularly for your help earlier. I don’t know how we’d have managed without you.”
Tim smiled. “No problem. Glad I was there.”
There was a heavy sigh from Susan.
“So am I,” said the Professor. “So am I.”
Both men stared into their drinks as an awkward pause lay heavy between them. Then the Professor raised his head and glanced at his surroundings.
“This is a fascinating place you’re staying in Mr. Galton. Not originally a house I’m guessing.”
“No,” said Tim, relieved at the more casual topic. “It used to be a Wesleyan chapel, but they stopped worshipping here a long time ago. It’s not long since been renovated and converted.”
The Professor nodded appreciatively.
“It still has the feel of the old chapel to it while being modern and comfortable. Quite a remarkable achievement.”
Tim waved a hand towards the far wall and the long bench pushed up against it.
“No idea if that kind of thing is original or what, but it certainly helps to retain the old atmosphere as you say. Sit on that and you can feel like you’re waiting for the preacher to start berating you.”
The Professor smiled and was about to say more when Susan caught his eye with a look full of impatience and a flash of anger. He knew his daughter well enough to see the danger signs.
“Well, thank you again for your help and your kindness,” he said. “But now I think we’d best be leaving. It’s getting late.”
Susan was first to her feet, putting her mug of still unfinished coffee on the table and holding out a hand to help her father as he struggled to push himself out of the deep armchair.
Tim stood also, still holding his mug of tea.
“Are you staying in the village?”
“It’s all arranged thank you,” said Susan, a trace of sharpness in the snap of her words.
The Professor glanced towards her, an eyebrow raised in mild surprise.
“We’ll be staying in the area, yes.” He smiled and held out a hand towards the younger man. “Thank you again.”
Tim shook hands and, for a moment, looked towards Susan, his hand starting to move hesitantly towards her before dropping loose at his side.
What a cold bitch!
He walked them to the door, watching to satisfy himself that they reached their car unmolested. Perhaps the old village wasn’t as peaceful as he’d first thought?
3
“Considering that young man probably saved our lives, you were distinctly unfriendly in there Susan.”
The Professor spoke quietly, no anger or surprise in his voice, just a quiet resignation at his daughter’s sometimes impenetrable moods.
She said nothing as she climbed into the driver’s seat of the car and shut the door, pulling it hard so the bang echoed in the night air. For a moment she glanced back to the house, frowning at the silhouetted figure watching them from the doorway at the top of stone steps that led down to the path.
She shrugged.
“I don’t like him. Is that a crime? He’s so smug and uncaring about anything but himself.”
“You hardly know him Susan. How can you make a judgement like that? And if he’s as uncaring as you say, why did he risk his life to help us?”
Susan started the car, revving the engine angrily.
“I don’t know.
It’s just a feeling.” She looked towards her father. “I trust my feelings. He’s mixed up in what’s going on around here, I know it.”
She turned back to the road.
“I just don’t know how yet.”
4
Ethel Barlow waited as her terrier Sammy created a puddle at the base of the lamppost. She looked up as a red car sped through the deserted village, a young girl driving, an older man sitting in the passenger seat, almost asleep. Funny how she had never lost her eye for detail when so much else had failed with age.
Ethel often chose to walk Sammy late at night, or very early in the morning, because there were fewer of them about. Less chance of seeing something she shouldn’t or saying something wrong. She had lived through the war, huddled in the Underground during the blitz, volunteered for service shortly afterwards, seen and done things she hoped she never had to see or do again, but at least the Germans had been an enemy you could identify.
She was far more frightened in Byre than she had ever been during the war.
They could be anywhere. Anyone.
“Come on Sammy. Time to go home.”
The small terrier panted happily and followed its owner away from the, now wet, lamppost and towards the dark, looming shapes of the housing estate tucked away behind the shops of the main village street.
CHAPTER TEN
1
“There were four of you, and a woman and an old man did this?”
Katrina Bayley ushered the four teenagers in through her front door and shut it behind them with an angry slam.
The urgent ringing of the doorbell had woken her and, for one moment, frightened her. Wild thoughts that everything had gone wrong and the police were at her door flicked through her head. As hard as she tried to push them away, the voices nagged at her, admonishing, accusing, panicking. In those brief moments between the nightmares of sleep and the rational thought of wakefulness, she had felt empty, deflated, defeated.
But she was supremely confident of her authority. No one would have dared stand against her. No one!
She had grabbed her silk dressing gown off the back of the chair to cover her nakedness and stamped to the door, those moments of fear twisted into rage at whoever had disturbed her. When she opened the door and saw the four beaten, battered teenagers her rage intensified. She had not been anticipating a problem.
“I asked you to do a simple job, an easy job, and you fucked it up. I thought I could trust you.”
“You can trust us Miss Bayley, honest.” Janie Little, nervously fingering the ring in her pierced nose, took a deep breath and tried to explain. “There was someone else. A stranger. The woman and the old man… we had them. Then this fucker shows up and kicks shit out of us.”
“He broke my fucking leg!” cried Brian Wright, dragging his useless leg behind him, wincing with pain. He knuckled tears from his eyes.
“Do I care?” Katrina’s eyes were cold, hard, glaring at all four of her late night visitors in turn.
“Broke Jimmy’s nose too,” added Candida Silva quietly, reaching out to touch her boyfriend’s bloodied face, only to have her hand slapped away, angrily. Jimmy Stackforth was determined not to show the pain he felt, nor the fear that rumbled in his stomach.
Katrina said nothing as she led all four to the drawing room of her detached, cottage-style, two-storey house. She crossed without a word to the window pulling back the heavy curtains and peering out at the library opposite. It was dark and quiet. She let the curtains fall back into place and, reaching down, flicked on a single small lamp on the low, glass coffee table. It didn’t so much illuminate the room as throw shadows into corners and over despondent, frightened faces.
“One man?” She made no attempt to hide the contempt in her voice. “One man did all this to you?”
The four teenagers looked down to the floor, ashamed and embarrassed. There was a long pause filled with sniffing and shuffling and the hypnotic tick tock of the old clock on the mantelpiece before any of them could gather the nerve to speak.
“He used some kung fu shit,” moaned Brian, holding onto his leg as if afraid it would fall off. “We weren’t ready for him. Next time…”
“Next time?” Katrina laughed cruelly. “What makes you think I would trust you again? There are plenty of others waiting to take your place.”
“He took us by surprise.” Janie looked around to the others for support. “We can take him. We just didn’t see him coming this time.”
Candida and Brian nodded. Jimmy, his nose blocked with dried blood, mumbled agreement.
Katrina said nothing. She stood near the lamp, hands thrust into the pockets of her long, silk dressing gown. She had hand-picked these four. All of them were experienced fighters. Street fighters. They knew every dirty trick in the book. For one man to have left them like this… She was intrigued.
“A stranger you say?”
“Yes,” said Candida eagerly, desperate to hang on to the apparent interest as a diversion from their failure. “We’ve never seen him before.”
“A friend of the woman and the old man?”
“I’m not sure.” Candida looked at Jimmy, who shook his head. “He wasn’t in the car with them. He seemed to come out of nowhere…” Her voice trailed off.
“So, just a passing good Samaritan or an additional outsider interfering in our affairs?”
Katrina sighed, her anger all but dissipated. She would need to find out more about this stranger. There was too much at stake to allow any unexpected and unknown interference. She looked once more at the boys and girls before her, eyes still cold but less unforgiving than earlier.
She focused for a moment on the blood staining Jimmy’s face and T-shirt, and felt a strengthening of her heartbeat, the prickle of excitement and arousal crawling over her skin. Smiling now, she watched the rapid rise and fall of Candida’s and Janie’s breasts as they breathed heavily.
The last remnants of her anger emptied from her. She was aware of her nakedness beneath the dressing gown, and she felt animal lust rising within. Her nipples hardened, straining against the silky fabric. Heat and wetness spread from between her thighs.
She stepped forward.
“You need to tell me more.” Her voice was soft now, almost a whisper. “But first, Brian and Jimmy need to get to a hospital.”
She stopped before Janie, reaching up with her hand and caressing the side of the girl’s face with soft fingers.
“Candida, go with them.”
Janie did not resist as Katrina placed her hands on her shoulders and gently pushed downwards. Her three friends shuffled out of the room, not even looking back, not seeing Katrina open the folds of her dressing gown, not seeing their Principal grip the teenage girl’s spiky, gelled hair and pull her face between open thighs.
Katrina moaned softly as the girl’s tongue flicked out, willingly, eagerly.
Talk of the stranger could wait.
2
Tim sat deep in the armchair nursing a half full glass of white wine. He had abandoned the tea some time ago.
The Professor and his daughter confused him. Why wouldn’t they go to the police? They had been attacked, quite brutally, by four kids who did not exactly blend into the background. It wouldn’t be too hard to track them down, surely? And yet they showed no interest in involving the authorities. In fact, they showed no real interest in the attack at all, preferring to dismiss it as if it were a regular occurrence. He had heard of people wanting to forget traumatic experiences, but not in such an off-hand way.
He glanced towards the television, silent pictures throwing flickering light around the otherwise darkened room. Picking up the remote from the arm of the chair, he flicked through the channels without turning the volume up. Nothing caught his attention, or at least what little attention he gave it.
His mind was restless, flitting between his memories of the village, his home, Katrina Bayley and now the Professor and his cold, annoying bitch of a daughter.
H
e gulped a mouthful of wine angrily.
The way that woman had acted, anyone would have thought he had attacked them, not saved them!
He emptied his glass and reached for the bottle on the floor. Empty.
He stood and crossed to the old pine sideboard against the far wall. The only other wine bottle there was also empty. He glanced at the clock. Almost 4am. No chance of getting any more now and little chance of him getting much sleep either. Too much to think about.
He paced the floor, unsure what to do next.
He grabbed up the remote again, tried a few more channels, and then thumbed the standby button. The picture shrank to nothing, the green power light on the TV changed to red, and the room fell into almost complete darkness, the only light a faint line around the edge of the heavy curtains where they didn’t quite fit the window.
He felt his way back to the armchair, feeling suddenly very alone, very aware that all his adult friends were many miles away, and all his childhood friends had moved on in their lives.
What exactly had brought him home? A desire for nostalgia? A vague, romantic image of the wanderer returned? Or was there something deeper? A pull so strong, and yet so hidden, that he wasn’t aware of it himself?
With all the thoughts twisting round in his head, he was convinced he faced a sleepless night. He was still convinced fifteen minutes later when he started to snore.
3
Susan Hall jerked awake, her hand automatically diving beneath her pillow, fingers closing around the comforting solidness of the Heckler & Koch.
For a moment, she still saw that bald head bearing down on her, still felt the hands forcing her legs apart, the body smothering her, and then, thankfully, it faded. A strange afterimage of the nightmare she had woken from. Nightmare or memory? The two blurred in her sleep-addled brain.
Sweat smeared strands of hair across her forehead and her face as she stared hard into the darkness of the guest-house bedroom, but there were no further visions, no further memories trying to fight their way into her present.