Darkness Falling

by Peter Crowther

  As they started to walk, Angel yanked on Ronnie's sleeve.

  Ronnie stopped and looked down at the girl, fighting off – just for a few seconds there – an urge to snap. Instead, he said, "What is it, honey?" in an exasperated tone.

  Angel tugged at his shoulder and pulled him down towards her.

  "Sorry about this," Ronnie said to Virgil. "She's been through a lot."

  "Hey," Virgil said, shaking his head, "no sweat. Not going anyplace." He watched the girl frowning at him as she shuffled around out of his sight and leaned in close to the big guy's ear. Virgil decided that he would like to put Angel Wurst through a lot more. An awful lot more. He figured he knew what was coming and smiled to himself.

  Ronnie stood straight again and turned to Virgil. "Can we see your car?"

  "My car? She wants to see my car?" He looked over at Angel. "Why'd you want to see my car, girly?"

  "I–"

  "Like I say," Ronnie said, "she's been through a lot. Can we just take a look at your car? No big deal. Just a look."

  Virgil shrugged. "Sure," he said. "Keys are in it." He smiled a big smile and slipped his hands into his pants pockets. "Figured it would be safe."

  Ronnie nodded. "I'll leave all the stuff here."

  Virgil watched the two of them moving through the parking lot towards the Pontiac, unable to shake this feeling of anxiety. He waved when Ronnie turned around, saw the girl turn around at the same time, the two of them almost at the Pontiac. He could imagine the conversation:

  He's got a what in the trunk?

  A woman… and she's all trussed up. Dead.

  Dead?

  Yes. He killed her, that man… that Virgil Ban–

  They had stopped. It was the girl – wouldn't you fucking know it, the little cunt – she'd stopped right in her tracks alongside the Pontiac, and she was turned towards it now and looking at it, holding her goddam doll under her arm.

  "Everything OK?" Virgil shouted.

  He saw the guy lean close to the girl and say something. The girl didn't move.

  "Mine's the vee-double-you." Virgil cupped his hands around his mouth to make sure they could hear him. He stepped forward. Shit, maybe he was going to have to deal with this right here and now. He looked down on the pavement for something he might use if it came to it, something he might be able to beat this little shit's goddam nosy fucking head with, but there was nothing.

  Virgil had now moved one row of cars closer to them, appearing confused, a little quizzical, trying not to draw any attention to himself. Then, all at once, the girl looked around at Virgil, stopped him dead in his tracks, just as the man – Ronnie, his name was; Virgil would have to remember that – reached out and grabbed a hold of her free arm and pulled her away.

  Virgil stopped right where he was and watched them.

  They were at the Volkswagen now. Virgil tried to ignore them and looked over to the right, four or five cars. He saw the Pontiac. In his mind, he imagined good ol' Suze coming back to life again right there in the trunk, hammering on the inside with her forehead until Ronnie and that little shit-wipe went over to find out what was going down. Then it would be, Well, hey there… what do we have here. Let's remove this wrapping Angelkins – what's that you say? Why, that man? That man over there? He did this to you? Whatever for? Virgil? You come over here right now and exp–

  He was looking up into the sky, over to the east, and it was unmistakably darker than it was overhead. No stars. He did a double take. It was kind of like two different pieces of sky, captured on photographs and spliced together badly.

  "Forgot about the trunk!"

  Virgil shook the thought away and looked over at Ronnie. He was walking around to the front of the car.

  "Forgot that the trunk is in the front," Ronnie shouted, and he gave a little self-deprecating shrug as he tugged on the handle and lifted the trunk lid. Standing right next to Ronnie, Angel was watching Virgil, her eyes burning into him.

  Virgil wanted to shout over, tell the girl to get the fuck away and stop staring at him like that, but instead he just smiled at her, gave a little wave before sweeping his hair back and returning his attention to the sky.

  Angel kept right on staring, just as Ronnie said, "Nope, nothing in here – just a few canvas sheets, a tool kit, a–" He paused and rummaged, rustling paper. "–and a bag of old paperback books." He closed the trunk. "No bodies. Not even one," he said.

  "She's here," Angel said, annoyed to hear the whine in her own voice as she looked around desperately. "I know she is. She's in the other car. The blue one."

  Ronnie put an arm around the girl's shoulder and started to move back to join Virgil. "Well, if she is here someplace then there's two things." He held up two fingers and, as he folded one of them over, he said, "First off, she's dead. You said so yourself, right?" Without waiting for the girl's confirmation, he continued. "So, honey–" He said the word "honey" as an afterthought, amidst all the talk of death and destruction. "–there's nothing we can do for her. And secondly–" He folded over the second finger. "–it's got nothing to do with Virgil. Though I grant you," Ronnie added softly as they came closer to the boy, "he's a strange one."

  Virgil watched them approach and couldn't stop the smile. "Everything OK? Did I pass your test?"

  "Yeah, you passed the test," Ronnie said.

  Angel Wurst didn't say anything at all.

  (13)

  In the hours that followed, once they had satisfied themselves that the station was reasonably secure, the quartet ate a light supper of cold meats and salad, bagels filled with pâté and humus, coleslaw and pickles, and then, while Johnny had played his hard rock session leading to midnight, Melanie, Geoff and Rick sat out on the roof staring across the quiet and empty world. When the night finally spilled over into morning and it was Melanie's turn at the turntable – they still called it the turntable even though most of the music was now played from a three-disc CD setup – Rick and Geoff agreed to have a last smoke before turning in.

  There was something inexplicably threatening about the silent blackness of the trees across the valley that made the pair uncomfortable and, without saying anything about their thoughts to each other, they sat in silence yearning for the sanctity of the station. Feeble though they were in the grand terms of the cosmos and whatever things might be marauding their way through it, the walls of the station seemed to promise some kind of barrier to all that might be out there. Maybe, Geoff thought as he took a last lingering look at the outside world, that was how the people had felt back in the 1950s when they carried out those ridiculous safety precautions against atomic bomb attacks – hiding under flimsy wooden tables with their hands over their ears – or like squirrels and rabbits that curled themselves up against the wheels of an oncoming car.

  They went inside without speaking.

  It was almost two o'clock when the light came again.

  Johnny and Geoff were asleep – Johnny in his room and Geoff on a cushioned camping mat stretched out on the floor in the sound booth – and Rick was sitting across from Geoff reading Mad magazine in the glow of the flashlight, with his feet propped on the CD shelves. Melanie was playing tunes and songs and huskily breathing her patter into the mic, hoping against all reason that someone would call her on the telephone – if for no other reason than to complain. It was an interesting playlist after all, the usual late night, early morning aural fodder of Bennett, Sinatra, Holliday and Mitchell having given way to The Chemical Brothers, Philip Glass, Will Smith and Captain Beefheart. As the strains of Frank and the Mothers' "Bobby Brown" faded, the world went white.

  Rick jumped to his feet dropping his magazine.

  "Wh– What's up?" Geoff rolled to one side and thumped his head on the table leg. "Shit!" he said, rubbing the side of his head as he squinted up at his brother. "That hurt. You say something?" he asked groggily.

  "The light. It came again." Rick was at the glass looking into the candlelit studio. Melanie was looking around her, check
ing to see if anything had changed.

  "Go get Johnny," Geoff said. As Rick left the booth, Geoff leaned over and switched on the connecting mic. "You OK, Mel?"

  Melanie nodded. And then, as though reconsidering her first answer, she gave a shrug. Who the hell knew? It was a fair point.

  "Now what?"

  Geoff allowed the question to sink in while craning his head to one side to see if he could pick up any sounds from outside. Now what?

  He looked around the booth, searching for an answer. Then his gaze settled on the telephone sitting on the table.

  When he looked up again, Melanie was pulling the broadcasting mic towards her. Geoff hammered on the window and shook his head. "Not yet," he said. "Let's just wait a while, find out if anything's happened."

  "Why don't I make an announcement? See if anyone's there."

  Geoff shook his head again and lit a candle – Rick had taken the flashlight with him to get Johnny. "No, not yet."

  "Can I at least put a record on?"

  Geoff thought on that one a minute. What was the harm in that? Well, a small voice said lazily, in a small back room inside Geoff's head, the harm in that is letting folks know we're still here – isn't that why you're wandering around in the darkness? "No," he said, trying to sound casual, like there was some damned good reason – maybe there was a damned good reason but Geoff couldn't actually visualize it. "Let's not do anything yet."

  Melanie sat back down and lit a cigarette. "I'm smoking too much," she said, her voice thick with disappointment in herself. "But the light is just so good."

  When Rick came into the booth with Johnny in tow, the flashlight beam playing around their feet, Geoff had the telephone handset in one hand and was keying in numbers with the other.

  "Anything?" Johnny asked around a yawn.

  Rick switched off the flashlight and said, "Who you calling?"

  "Sheriff's office."

  Geoff finished keying and waited. The phone rang.

  "We gonna go outside?" Johnny said. "See if anything's happening."

  Geoff glanced into the studio and watched his wife – or, more accurately, Mel's cigarette tip – swinging side to side in the swivel chair, in small erratic movements.

  Rick said, "Shit, nobody's there."

  "Come on, let's do it," Johnny said. "Let's go outside."

  Geoff was about to hang up but Melanie stopped him. "Give them a couple of minutes."

  Geoff hit the squawk button and dropped the receiver onto the cradle. The sound of the telephone brrrrt-brrrrting all the way down in Jesman's Bend sounded sad and lonely. Around the brrrrts, Rick said, "Anything's better than just sitting here." He turned around with his back to both Johnny and Geoff and then turned back. He ran his hands through his hair and took a deep sigh. "I mean, that's what we were waiting for, isn't it? We were waiting for the light… and we got it. So let's go out and–"

  Geoff raised his hand.

  Rick frowned petulantly.

  Johnny said, "What?"

  Geoff turned to look down at the phone. It was silent.

  "It's stopped ringing," Johnny said.

  "Hey, you win tonight's star pri–"

  "Quiet, Rick." Geoff watched the phone, leaned closer to the squawkbox.

  "Whyn't you pick it up, for Chrissakes?"

  Geoff looked at his brother. Then at the telephone. No, it wasn't silent – there was a sound coming from it, but what was it?

  "You know," Johnny said, his voice soft and careful, "you know what that sounds like?"

  Geoff looked at him.

  "It sounds like someone listening."

  Geoff returned his attention to the telephone. That was what he had heard. Johnny was absolutely right – maybe it was something inherent in human beings, that you actually could hear when someone was listening to you on the phone. He'd done it plenty of times, called someone up and asked them something and then he had actually been able to hear them thinking – or, indeed, listening. It wasn't a sound of breathing or of movement, but simply of existing.

  Hey mom, someone's existing on the phone.

  Yeah, well make sure they clean it up when they're through.

  Mel's voice broke the silence. "What's happening out there?"

  Geoff hit the audio button killing the dead sound and then hit it again. The dial tone sounded friendly and reassuring. He re-dialed quickly.

  "Geoff?" Mel said. Her voice sounded scared.

  "It's OK," he said.

  No it isn't, the voice in Geoff's head whispered. It isn't OK at all and you know it.

  No sooner had the final number connected than the busy tone echoed around the booth. It sounded for all the world like an early warning siren.

  Geoff hit the audio button and the tone stopped. He stepped back from the table.

  Johnny plucked a cigarette from the Marlboro pack with his mouth. "Maybe it was someone picked it up and–" he lit up and continued around a cloud of smoke, "–and they didn't like to say anything."

  Rick moved over to the chair and plopped into it. "Know what I think?" he said, "What about if maybe–" He used to his hands to suggest a surface and objects above that surface. "–maybe the vibrations of the telephone's ringing unsettled something and–"

  "Aw, come on, man!"

  "Shut the fuck up, Johnny and let me finish, OK?" Rick turned back to his brother. "So, the vibrations of the phone unsettle something, like something on a shelf above the desk… a manual or something. Anyway, and this something drops down onto the desk and–" He clapped his hands together. "Blam! Knocks the receiver off the hook."

  Johnny blew smoke and shook his head.

  "Hey, all I'm saying is it could happen, right?" He ignored Johnny and looked at Geoff. "Right?"

  Melanie came through the linking door to the studio. "Mind if I join in?"

  Nobody answered.

  "Geoff, all I'm saying is it could happen, right?"

  "OK, it could happen." He hit the audio button and redialed.

  "Who you calling, honey?"

  Geoff held a finger to his lips.

  The final number clicked home and for a second nothing happened. Then the familiar noise of a ringing tone sounded. Geoff hit the audio key and clasped his hands around his stomach.

  "Oh God," Rick said, his voice sounding small in the cramped booth.

  "Will someone tell me what's going on?"

  Johnny put his arm around Melanie's shoulder. "What's going on, dear Melvin, is another book has just bounced off of Don Patterson's desk and flipped his phone receiver back onto the cradle." He shook his head. "I mean, shit like that could make Ripley's Believe It Or Not."

  "We have to go out," Geoff said. "We have to go outside and take a look around."

  Johnny dropped his butt to the floor and ground it with his boot heel. "Now why did I just know you were going to say that."

  (14)

  "It's getting too dark," Ronnie said.

  Angel Wurst and Samantha the doll looked at him through the driving mirror. Without looking at the girl's expression, Ronnie knew she was questioning his reason for the statement.

  "There should be more stars," he added by way of explanation. I mean, he thought, what the hell kind of a statement was that? It's getting too dark. For fuck's sake. It was like in the movies when someone always said, It's too quiet. It didn't mean diddly. What they were really saying was that their gut instinct was warning them of impending danger. He hunched forward over the wheel and gazed up into the sky. Why the hell was he worried? It wasn't darkness that had gotten them into this sorry state of affairs, it was light… a very big light.

  "Just ignore me," he said to the rearview as he straightened up again.

  Why was he doing this? What was the point in having a conversation with a six-going-on-seven year old about the gnawing feeling in his gut that all was not as it should be? And even if she could contribute something, wouldn't Ronnie's apprehension – was it apprehension he was feeling? – scare her all the more?
After all, the kid had just lost her parents. "Lost" being the operative word: "misplaced" would be one almost as good.

  "What time is it?"

  Ronnie glanced down at the clock on the dashboard. "Coming up to a quarter after eight." He glanced out of his side window into the gloom, gazing up at what appeared to be elongated streamers of black fluttering across the sky from the right as they trucked back down the littered blacktop towards the plane. Then he looked across at the boy, Virgil: the sky on the horizon on his side of the car was still filled with a little bit of color. Angel followed his stare.