A Cry From Beyond

by WR Armstrong

  The music got still louder, making it virtually impossible to talk. I sat back with a fresh beer in my hand and surveyed the bar, happy to observe the proceedings with an air of detachment. Alcohol continued to fuel the occasion. In certain quarters excitement was giving way to low level rowdiness. In a dark corner Dracula could be observed cuddling Morticia, while in a dimly lit alcove Lurch of the Adam’s Family frolicked with a black haired cadaver dressed in a mini skirt and open topped blouse. It looked like it was going to be an enjoyable night.

  And then, quite suddenly, the trouble started.

  A male, possibly of Romany descent, entered the bar with another man, one I recalled having seen at the fair. He had broken up the fight involving a couple of youths. A group of skinheads clocked him and his friend. Insults were exchanged. A standoff resulted. It appeared the skins saw the fairground workers as a challenge; scalps to be had. Whatever the reason, the skins did their best to goad the men into a fight. Inevitably it got ugly and a nasty scuffle ensued. And then one of the skins took a wild swing at the bigger of the two newcomers, who retaliated instinctively with a counter punch. The skin ended up on the floor stunned, minus his dignity and with blood spouting from his nose. His mates took it as a signal to jump in with kicks and punches. Their would-be victims were more than a match for them however, quickly gaining the upper hand.

  “The little bastards picked on the wrong buggers there,” Irish said into my ear, referring to the newcomers.

  “You know them?” I asked.

  “Know ‘em, I’m fucking related to ‘em!”

  A second scuffle suddenly broke out on the far side of the room, this one involving the devil and a rotund corpse with ear piercings dressed in an ill fitting tuxedo. Things were threatening to get seriously out of hand. A couple of young guns dressed in civvies, had targeted a couple of innocent bystanders, who immediately beat a hasty exit through the front door, knocking glasses from a table as they went.

  Meanwhile, the two Romany’s continued to get the better of their young adversaries. Others, fuelled by alcohol joined in, appearing to relish the challenge violent confrontation brought with it. A girl screamed as a man fell on her, toppled by a wild punch to the head. The landlord, aka Mr Hyde, and his staff promptly tried to restore order to this outlandish wild-west scene, but for a while at least it was a difficult situation to deal with.

  A man dressed in a theatrical cape and leggings approached our table, his face painted up to look like a skull. Irish rose to his feet sensing trouble, but the man wasn’t interested in us. Instead he targeted one of the young guns, felling him with a single punch.

  By now it was mayhem. Somewhere in the confusion a bottle was heard to smash and a woman screamed. David was of a mind to leave, but Irish insisted we all stay and enjoy the fun, promising to lay his life on the line to protect us from any wrongdoing.

  “I agree with Dave: we should go,” Michelle insisted, rising from her seat.

  I found myself in two minds. Pub fights usually end quickly: a fact that was confirmed when the landlord emerged from behind the counter holding a baseball bat, demanding the fighting stop. His staff meanwhile continued to serve customers as normal.

  The bizarre spectacle of the lurch attacking Uncle Fester caught my attention. Dracula stumbled across my line of vision, a hand cupped over his bloodied mouth, the sight of blood adding an air of authenticity to his appearance. And then Michelle spoke again, this time voicing her disapproval with the situation, “This is not my idea of fun, John,” she complained, “I think we should leave, right now.” When I failed to answer she grabbed my arm. “John, are you listening to me? For God’s sake: John, what’s wrong with you!”

  The answer was simple: I’d just spotted Kayla’s mother standing on the other side of the room. She stood there looking as pretty as a picture. And she was focusing her attention on me. What’s more, she was smiling.

  Suddenly desperate to re-establish contact, I abandoned Michelle and the others and fought my way over to join her. By the time I got there however, she was gone. To my surprise, Kayla stood in her place, still cradling the thick weighty looking blanket. For the first time I managed to get a good look at that blanket and saw to my dismay that it was ripped and soiled. Why, I wondered, was a child so obviously well cared for carrying such a thing?

  “Kayla,” I said, peering closer, “what exactly do you have there?”

  At that point a large powerful hand fell on my shoulder. I spun automatically and found myself gazing up into the stoic features of the formidable Bill Willis. He had a message for me and he wasn’t about to waste time with pleasantries.

  “Keep your nose out of Martin’s business,” he warned, referring to the newspaper article in which his late son and I were mentioned. “If you don’t, be prepared to take the consequences.” He leaned in closer so our noses almost touched. “Take my advice young ‘un, by all means enjoy your time at High Bank, but don’t go stirring things up. Do you understand what I’m saying or do I have to spell it out for you?” His hand, which had inflicted more than its fare share of pain in its time, was back on my shoulder, and squeezing hard.

  “I understand,” I said, meaning it. Willis frowned as if deciding whether or not to believe me. In the end, and much to my relief, he turned and fought his way back through the crowd to retake his seat at the other end of the bar. Returning my attention to the child, I again tried to establish what was inside the blanket, at the same time wondering why she and her mother were never in one another’s company.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” I said when she began to back away. “I just want to speak to your mother. Do you know where she is? She was here a moment ago. Do you know where she went?”

  “You’re supposed to help us,” the child suddenly blurted, appearing all at once angry and frustrated. “You promised.” She searched my face for recognition. “You don’t remember, do you?”

  Before I could react, she turned and fled in tears and as she did so, I saw to my horror what really lay within the rotting folds of the blanket, not a doll but human remains. I felt myself sway unsteadily and clutched at the bar counter for support.

  A voice spoke into my ear. “Are you all right mate?” It belonged to the pub landlord, alias Mr Hyde. He still held the baseball bat and looked like he wanted to use it.

  “I’m fine,” I lied, “a slight giddy spell.”

  “Yeah, sure,” he said cynically. “Any trouble and you’re out. Understand?”

  Without waiting for an answer he moved on to lecture a couple of unruly youths, while on the other side of the bar a bouncer physically ejected the skins, the original instigators of the trouble.

  I ordered a drink at the bar in an attempt to calm my nerves, and then rejoined Michelle and the others.

  “Mind telling me where you’ve been?” Michelle asked, plainly angered by my prolonged absence.

  “I thought I saw someone I knew,” I said weakly.

  “And did you?”

  “What?”

  “Know them?”

  “Err; no.”

  “You don’t sound too sure.”

  “What did Bill Willis want with you?” David asked, interrupting us.

  “Who’s Bill Willis?” Michelle asked.

  “One of the locals,” I told her and to David I said, “He just wanted a friendly chat.” David raised his eyebrows sceptically.

  By now the fighting had stopped, and people were again relaxing into the spirit of things. Willis, I noticed, stood alone at the bar counter supping from a pint pot. There was no sign of Kayla or her mother.

  I rubbed the nape of my neck sensing the beginnings of a headache, stress ache more likely, not really surprising I thought, bearing in mind what I’d been through that evening.

  “Let’s call it a night, shall we,” I said to Michelle, belatedly agreeing to her earlier wish. A taxi was duly ordered to return us to High Bank, and we left the others to carry on partying. Once inside the cottage I
made straight for the bedroom where I collapsed onto the bed. Michelle joined me shortly afterwards, offering me aspirin for my headache which I gratefully accepted. Then we stripped off, slipped beneath the covers, and slept.

  Sometime during the night Michelle shook me awake.

  “Who’s Melinda?” she asked, staring down at me suspiciously.

  “I have no idea,” I replied truthfully, whilst desperately trying to shake off the effects of sleep. I glanced over at the alarm clock, saw it was the middle of the night and said, “What the hell is this Michelle?”

  “You were talking in your sleep John.”

  “Clever me...”

  “Cut the sarcasm buster.”

  “I’m sorry. What did I say?”

  “I couldn’t make out much. You repeatedly spoke of someone called Melinda: said you needed to speak to her. Was she the one you made reference to at the party? Did you see her at the pub tonight? Is that why you left our group like you did? Best tell me the truth, because I’ll know if you’re lying.”

  “I’ve never heard of anyone called Melinda,” I repeated.

  Michelle would have none of it. “You were out of your seat like a shot. You looked like a love sick pup.”

  “I went to see Bill Willis.”

  “Try again, sweetheart.”

  “I swear.”

  “Last chance!”

  “Why won’t you believe me?”

  “Why? I’ll tell you why; because I called Jenny as soon as we got back. She told me all about your Bill Willis. I find it extremely difficult to believe you’d try to court the friendship of someone who allegedly hates your guts: unless of course you’ve developed a death wish!”

  I was suddenly lost for words. My silence served to fuel Michelle’s anger.

  “I mean it John,” she said, fighting to control her emotions. “If you don’t tell me I’ll leave right now and I won’t be back: ever! Now who did you go over to see?”

  “No one: I swear!”

  She made to throw back the sheets in readiness to jump out of bed.

  “What the hell is this, Michelle, the third bloody degree? Come on, surely you don’t think I would set out to two time you so blatantly? ”

  Her reply came in the form of a cold hard stare. A brief standoff ensued. And then: “Okay, you win,” I said realising I had to tell the truth to retain her trust. Hoisting myself up to a sitting position I said, “”There’s this woman and her daughter. They’ve turned up here at the cottage a couple of times, independently of each other. They’ve never entered the house, but stayed outside in the grounds. I have no idea who they are. I thought I saw the woman tonight, but I must’ve been mistaken.” I paused to collect my thoughts and decided not to mention the child or the unnerving incident involving her. In conclusion I simply said, “My intention tonight was to discover who they are and what interest they have in me. The child is called Kayla; that much I do know. Whether the woman’s name is Melinda, I have no idea.”

  “Does anyone else know about them?” Michelle asked.

  “Not that I’m aware.”

  “It all sounds very fishy to me.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Let’s just say the jury is out on this one, for the moment at least.”

  “How can I prove it to you?”

  “Why not introduce me.”

  “I can’t. I’ve told you, I don’t know who they are, let alone where to find them.”

  Michelle lapsed into thought.

  “Penny for them,” I said.

  “Tell me truthfully John. Do you think we have a future together, or am I wasting my time with you?”

  The question caught me off guard. I struggled for a reply.

  Sounding hurt and angry Michelle said, “I take your silence as a no.”

  “It’s too early,” I replied, irritated at being put on the spot.

  “We’ve known each other for over two years,” she reminded me.

  “But it’s been a loose arrangement,” I argued. “I didn’t realise you were looking for commitment.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “So what’s changed?”

  “I’m two years older for one thing.”

  “What’s brought all this about?”

  “I just want to know where I stand John.”

  I felt cornered. Despite my best intentions I failed to summon up a reply

  “Why won’t you let me get close John? What are you so afraid of, huh?”

  “I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “You were afraid of the dreams.”

  She was referring to the night terrors I once suffered, dreams that seem so real they continue into wakefulness. I used to get a lot of those when I was a kid and they never really stopped, not even when I got to the point in my life when I was perpetually stoned out of my tiny mind. And then there were the premonitions I often awoke to, equally vivid and equally scary because of it. The freaky thing was, some of those premonitions came true, although I would always put the fact down to coincidence. Like with the brochure advertising High Bank.

  “I don’t get the dreams anymore,” I said, conveniently forgetting about the one in which I’d envisioned Kayla, un-dead, in the tunnel.

  Michelle shook her head in defeat. “There is absolutely no getting through to you is there John?”

  “That’s unfair. Hey, where are you going?”

  But Michelle, butt naked and looking as gorgeous as ever, was already out of the bed and heading for the door.

  “Michelle?”

  She turned, with tears in her eyes.

  “What have I done?”

  “Nothing, but that’s the point.”

  She slipped on her bath robe, opened the door and crossed the landing to the guest bedroom. Glancing round she said, “I would prefer to sleep in here tonight.”

  “Michelle, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  “Am I? It’s always been the same with you John. Sex, drugs and Rock n Roll.”

  “I’ve given up the drugs,” I said, hoping she’d fail to see through the lie. “And when was there anything wrong with good old rock n roll.”

  Turning to face me, hands on hips, she said, “And what about the sex John? I used to turn a blind eye to the groupies because I could kid myself you were too addled to know your own mind, that the drugs and booze were to blame, but now...”

  “What?”

  “You say you’re clean, so you don’t have any excuses for straying off the straight and narrow, and yet you have this mysterious admirer who visits you but who never strays into the house. Do you really expect me to believe that?”

  “Well, yes,” I said falteringly. When it was put like that I had to admit the story did sound questionable.

  Michelle disappeared into the guest room, quietly closing the door behind her. I didn’t want her to sleep in there. It was the room in which Mike had experienced his own form of night terrors. I dragged myself out of bed, crossed the landing, and knocked the guest room door.

  “Michelle?”

  “Go away.”

  “I don’t want you to sleep alone.”

  “Why the sudden concern?”

  “I care about you.”

  “How gallant! Now for the second time of asking, go away.”

  I was forced to concede defeat. “You win Michelle, but promise you’ll call me if you need anything.” Like help fighting off the dreaded bogeyman, I felt like adding.

  “I wouldn’t call on you if my life depended on it,” I heard her mumble to herself.

  I felt disillusioned and out of sorts. The headache was returning. I was suddenly in the mood for a fix of some kind. Irish had come good the day before, managing to provide me with quality gear. I crept down the stairs and entered the kitchen unintentionally disturbing Lennon. I got him settled again and then fished my fresh stash of Charlie out of the cupboard beneath the sink, ran a neat line of the intoxicating white powder along the drainer and snorted
it using a plastic MacDonald’s straw. Invigorated by the drug I left the kitchen, quietly mounted the stairs and returned to the master bedroom, where I eventually fell into an uneasy sleep...and suffered another particularly bad dream.

  It showed me Kayla. She was crying. As always she held the cursed bundle in her arms. From the darkness beyond I glimpsed women, children and babies, who stared through eyes that saw nothing other than their own eternal damnation. Their tortured minds reached out to me but I refused to hear. Kayla looked past me. I turned and there stood her mother. She smiled her beautiful smile and walked towards me. And I wondered how that was possible, how she was able to even stand, let alone smile and walk, when she was so obviously dead.

  It was four in the morning. I lay awake in bed listening to the creaks and groans of the old house as it shifted restlessly on its foundations. I felt isolated and alone. The only person I truly valued chose not to be with me, preferring to sleep in a separate room. All of a sudden I felt the need to check on her, make sure she was all right.

  I climbed silently off the bed and crept over to the bedroom door, turning the handle and pulling it open a couple of inches, determined to make not a single sound. I quietly turned on the landing light and peered out. The landing was empty. The door to the guestroom was shut, the bathroom door slightly ajar, how it had been left.

  I stood, listening, but heard nothing but the creaking protestations of an old house. I left the bedroom and silently crossed the landing to the guest room, where I turned the door handle, suddenly dreading what I may or may not find inside that room. The disappearances had begun to play on my mind, scratching at my conscience like a rusty nail. God forbid Michelle had suffered the same fate as Mary Louise and Terry. I would never forgive myself.

  I had no cause to worry as it turned out. Her presence was immediately evident for she slept with the light on, something she often did due to her natural fear of the dark. She lay beneath the blankets in a relaxed foetal position, with her hands curled beneath her chin. She resembled a child. I felt incredibly protective of her.

  Satisfied she was safe, I quietly closed the door and returned to the master bedroom, where I dwelled on Kayla and her mother, two people who had come to....well, haunt me. Was Melinda the name of Kayla’s mother, I wondered? If so, how on earth did I know that? By now I was desperate to unravel the mystery surrounding them both.