Relics

by Shaun Hutson

  Rain was coursing down the window panes in torrents and Clare hoped that it would have stopped by the time she had to go home. Still, perhaps her mother would pick her up in the car. Or, if not, she could always get a lift from Amanda’s mother.

  Clare liked Mrs Fraser. The large wart with its three ever-present hairs growing beneath her chin never failed to mesmerize the small girl. She glanced out of the window once more, watching the rain as it ran down the glass and she felt a chill run through her.

  Clare swallowed hard and looked down at the paper, wondering why her hand seemed to freeze as she reached for the green crayon which she needed to draw the grass. Her hand hovered over the wax stick for a moment longer, then she picked up the black one, and with swift strokes began to draw.

  Her breath was coming in low sighs and her eyelids had partially closed, yet still her hand worked over the paper, moving in unfailing curves and lines, fashioning an image which she herself could see only in her mind’s eye.

  Amanda spoke and looked over at Clare and her drawing, but the girl seemed not to hear.

  Her eyes were now almost completely closed and her lips fluttered rapidly as she mouthed soundless words, the crayon moving back and forth across the paper with dizzying speed.

  The black crayon, then the red one, then the black again.

  Clare heard a loud noise from beside her and the sound seemed to rouse her.

  She looked up, like a dreamer awaking from a deep sleep, her eyes focussing on Amanda, who was backing away from her, eyes riveted to the drawing before her. Miss Tickle was making her way towards the desk, her face knitted into that familiar look of concern.

  She saw how pale Clare looked. How the colour seemed to have drained from her cheeks. The child looked like death.

  Miss Tickle approached her slowly, seeing that Clare was about to faint. She was swaying from side to side on her chair, one crayon still gripped in her hand, gliding across the paper.

  ‘Clare,’ the teacher said, softly. ‘Clare, are you all right, dear?’

  It was patently obvious that the child was not.

  Miss Tickle turned to a boy near her and told him to run and fetch the nurse. All other eyes in the classroom turned towards Clare, who had now turned the colour of rancid butter.

  She was still swaying back and forth, and now Miss Tickle rushed towards her, seeing the child’s eyes roil up in their sockets.

  From somewhere deep inside her Clare heard a sound tike rolling thunder. A deafening roar which seemed to hammer at-her eardrums. So loud that it hurt.

  She screamed and fell forward onto the desk.

  Miss Tickle reached the girl and cradled her in her arms, lifting her away from the desk. As she did so she looked down at the drawing, and she, too, felt an unearthly chill run through her.

  ‘Oh God,’ she murmured, softly.

  Kim knelt beside the bed and brushed a strand of hair from her daughter’s forehead, feeling the soft skin with the back of her hand.

  ‘There’s no sign of a temperature,’ the school nurse told her. The woman was young, Kim’s age, but painfully thin, the dark uniform she wore accentuating this feature. ‘She woke up as soon as we got her in here; the nurse continued, making a sweeping gesture with her hand to encompass the school sick room. It was small, clean and smelt of disinfectant. There were pictures of animals and toys on the walls, competing for space with cabinets and shelves.

  ‘How do you feel, sweetheart?’ Kim asked her daughter.

  ‘I’m all right, Mummy,’ Clare assured her, the colour having returned to her cheeks. She sat up quite happily and sipped the plastic beaker full of orange squash which the nurse had given her.

  ‘I think it might be best if you took her home, Mrs Nichols,’ said the thin woman and Kim agreed, fumbling in her jacket pocket for her keys. ‘It’s a good job we were able to reach you at the museum,’ the nurse added.

  Miss Tickle, who had been standing by the doorway throughout the conversation, now stepped forward and beckoned to Kim.

  ‘Might I have a word?’ she asked, almost apologetically.

  Kim smiled, noticing as she approached the woman that she held a piece of paper. The two of them moved out into the corridor, while inside the room, the nurse helped Clare into her shoes and coat.

  ‘Your daughter was drawing when she . . . passed out,’ the teacher said. ‘This is what she’d done.’

  Kim took the paper from the other woman and looked at it, her brow furrowing.

  ‘I didn’t know what to make of it,’ the teacher confessed. Kim noticed that goose-pimples had risen on the woman’s flesh.

  Drawn in thick black crayon, sketched with remarkable dexterity for a child so young, was a large figure. The features were smudged apart from the red eyes. At its feet Kim saw several hastily drawn small stick figures, each one surrounded by a smear of red. There were more of the small figures in the black shape’s hands, too, with red dripping from them. But it was the lettering over the top of the shape which Kim found the most disturbing. In letters two inches high were scrawled four words:

  HIS TIME IS COME

  Forty-Seven

  The loud knocking seemed to echo throughout the wood-panelled interior of Dexter Grange, bouncing off the walls and high ceilings until it faded away to a low hum. After a moment or two of silence the banging came again, louder and more insistent.

  Laura Price hurried down the wide staircase and crossed the hall to the door, anxious to silence the knocking and also curious as to who could be calling at the house with evening approaching. The grandfather clock nearby struck six as she pulled open the door.

  The figure barged past her, arms pinwheeling in an effort to remain upright.

  Laura, taken by surprise, screamed and turned to look at the intruder, who was standing unsteadily in the centre of the hallway, clothes soaked by the rain which was still falling outside.

  The youth was in his early twenties. His face was twisted with pain and a thick growth of stubble covered his cheeks and chin. He wore a T-shirt which had at one time probably been white, and a pair of faded jeans tucked into scuffed ankle boots.

  She recognized him as Tony Evans. As he stood dripping wet before her she could see the suppurating sores on his arms, grouped around the insides of his elbows.

  ‘Where’s Dexter?’ he barked, his throat sounding tight.

  ‘What do you want?’ Laura demanded.

  ‘I want some stuff,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve got to see Dexter.’ His breath was coming in gasps. ‘I’m fucking strung out.’

  Laura looked past him towards the two figures approaching from the corridor behind Evans. He noticed the movement of her eyes and turned, almost overbalancing.

  Henry Dexter approached him slowly, running appraising eyes over the wretched youth.

  ‘Dexter, I need some stuff,’ he moaned. ‘I need a fix. Now!’

  ‘Why did you come to the house?’ Dexter said. ‘You were told never to come here. Any of you.’

  ‘I fucking need it,’ Evans rasped, taking a faltering step towards the older man.

  Gary Webb stepped ahead of Dexter, his imposing frame stopping Evans’ advance.

  ‘You could have been followed,’ Dexter said, angrily. ‘Anyone could have seen you.’

  Evans dug his hand deep into his jeans pocket and pulled out a handful of crumpled five pound notes.

  ‘I’ve got money,’ he said. ‘Just give me the stuff.’

  ‘Where did you get that?’ Dexter demanded. ‘Did you steal it?’

  The youth was already clutching his stomach, wincing as he felt another powerful contraction.

  ‘Please.’ he whimpered, doubled up in pain. ‘Take the money. I promise I’ll never come here again. Just let me fix.’ The money fell from his quivering hand.

  ‘Get him out of here,’ Dexter said, looking at Gary.

  ‘You bastard,’ roared Evans and ran at the older man. His reactions, however, were dulled and Gary merely stepped between the
m, driving one powerful fist into the other youth’s face. There was a loud crack as Evans’ nose broke. He toppled forward, but Gary caught him by the front of his T-shirt, held him up and drove another pile-driver blow into his face, shattering two of his front teeth, driving one of them through his upper lip. Blood ran down Evans’ chin and he burbled incoherently as Gary threw him to the floor and drove a kick into the base of his spine.

  ‘If you speak to anyone about this,’ Dexter said, looking down at the injured youth, ‘I’ll kill you. If one policeman turns up here, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?’

  Grabbing Evans by the hair, Gary lifted his head a foot or two off the ground then slammed it down, hard enough to open a gash below his hairline.

  ‘Understand?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Evans whimpered as he was hauled to his feet.

  Laura opened the front door and Dexter watched as Gary hurled the other youth out onto the driveway. He rolled over twice and lay still, the rain lashing his exposed body. He lay on his back, one arm twitching slightly, mumbling to himself through his split lips and broken teeth, groaning every now and then as a fresh contraction knotted his stomach muscles.

  The three of them stood watching, waiting for him to drag himself to his feet which, moments later, he did. He looked back once, then stumbled off down the long driveway, falling once.

  Dexter closed the door.

  ‘Do you think he will go to the police?’ Laura asked, apprehensively. ‘Not just about the drugs, I mean . . .’ She paused, aware of Dexter’s unfaltering gaze upon her. ‘I . . . You know, about what we’ve been doing?’

  ‘The police won’t find out,’ he replied, striding back down the corridor.

  The two youngsters followed Dexter into the library, where he crossed to the wall safe, fiddled with the combination and opened it. He placed the notes Evans had dropped inside with the money that was stacked there beside bags of heroin, glancing at the store of cash and drugs indifferently. Gary looked at Laura then at the heroin. He took a step forward, as if the drug were some kind of magnet, drawing him. Laura, too, felt a tingle run through her. She nudged him and a knowing look passed between them, unseen by Dexter.

  ‘If one of us was ever strung out,’ Laura said, ‘you wouldn’t treat us like you treated Evans, would you?’

  Dexter smiled and closed the safe, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.

  ‘If anything happened to you, how would we get hold of the stuff in the safer Gary asked.

  Dexter smiled again.

  ‘But nothing is going to happen to me,’ he said, brushing past them as he left the room.

  Gary looked at the older man, then at the wall safe with its precious contents.

  But it was on the ornamental dagger over the fireplace that his gaze finally came to rest.

  Forty-Eight

  The rain which had been falling all day finally disappeared soon after the onset of night. It was replaced by a chill wind which swirled and eddied around the houses of Longfield, occasionally rattling window frames like a mischievous child.

  Frank King looked up from his newspaper as a particularly powerful gust howled around the house. He was the only one in the room who seemed to notice it. All around him his family were engaged in pursuits of their own.

  His wife Linda was sitting on the floor studying the large jigsaw puzzle laid out on the coffee table. He saw her smile triumphantly as she slotted a piece into the maze of shapes and colours.

  Behind him his youngest son, Ian, was busy trying to destroy the next Imperial walker as it lumbered across the snow. He manoeuvred his X-wing fighter expertly, pumping shot after shot into the evil agent of the Empire. The scores lit the multi-coloured screen of the TV set as he punched buttons on the computer, teeth gritted in concentration.

  ‘Dad,’ he said, not taking his eyes from the screen. ‘When will you be able to finish that desk you’re making for me?’

  ‘Your father’s trying to rest, Ian,’ Linda reminded the lad.

  ‘I only asked,’ he muttered, narrowly avoiding a laser blast from a marauding Imperial craft.

  ‘I was going to do some work on it tonight,’ said King.

  ‘Oh Frank, for heaven’s sake,’ Linda protested, fitting another piece into the jigsaw. ‘It’s freezing out in that workroom.’

  ‘I don’t notice it when I’m working. Besides, there’s not much left to do now. I’ve nearly finished,’ King told her.

  ‘I don’t know why you couldn’t have built the shed closer to the house instead of putting it right at the bottom of the garden.’

  ‘That, my dear,’ he said, getting to his feet, ‘is so I don’t disturb you with hammering and banging when you’re busy with your puzzles.’ He picked up a piece of the jigsaw and slotted it smugly into place.

  ‘I’ll be making a cup of tea in a little while,’ she told him.

  ‘What’s Simon doing?’ asked King, wondering where his other son had disappeared to.

  A moment later the floor above seemed to shake as the older boy switched on his record player. King stood listening to the rhythmic thud of the bass for a moment and then, smiling, he shook his head and headed for the back door. He heard Linda yelling to the boy to turn the record player down as he stepped out of the kitchen.

  The darkness closed around him and he shivered as the wind jabbed icy fingers into his flesh.

  Ahead of him, barely visible in the gloom, was his workshop. King had built it himself two years earlier, shortly after the family had moved into the house. Since then he’d worked in it most nights, turning his mechanical and practical skills to useful ends. He’d built them a dining room table and the six chairs which went with it, all finished in dark wood and carefully varnished.

  He hurried down the path towards the workshop, fumbling in his trouser pocket for the key.

  The trees which overhung the structure bowed and shook as the wind blew with renewed ferocity. King let himself in and clicked on the light.

  The dark figure saw the light flash on inside the hut.

  It saw Frank King illuminated in the window.

  Keeping close to the trees and bushes at the bottom of the garden, the figure moved closer.

  Linda was right, thought King, shivering. It was freezing inside the workshop. He rubbed his arms briskly for a moment, trying to restore some circulation before he moved over to the workbench and picked up a piece of sandpaper. He set to work on the legs of the desk.

  It had taken him barely a week to complete his latest project. Copying the design of some that he’d seen in a stationer’s the previous weekend, he had worked quickly but methodically to construct the article, and he was pleased with his handiwork. Ian had been going on for months about wanting a desk on which to put his computer.

  The lad was fascinated by the bloody gadget, but King couldn’t make head nor tail of how it worked. When he’d been eleven, no one had even heard of calculators, let alone computers, and the thought that his kids would be using them in school one day would have been beyond the bounds of imagination.

  King’s other son was a year older, but electronic wizardry held no such appeal for him. He was much more at home with his records and tapes. Despite the diversity of their interests, King was pleased to find that the two of them got along well together. There was little of the rivalry, even open hostility, which was usually associated with brothers. Especially two so close together in age.

  Frank King was more than happy with the way his children and his marriage had turned out. Life had been kind to him, and for that he was grateful.

  The wind howled mournfully around the workshop, the sound reminding King of a dog in pain.

  He heard a harsh scraping sound on the roof of the hut.

  Like bony fingers being drawn across the canopy.

  King looked up briefly, listening to the disembodied sound. It promptly ceased and he continued with his task.

  Something smacked against one of the windows and he spun round, squinti
ng to see what it was.

  He straightened up and walked over to the window, cupping one hand over his eyes so that he could see out into the wind-blown night.

  Nothing moved except the trees.

  As he stood there a sudden movement immediately in front of him caused him to step back in surprise.

  A low branch from one of the trees had swung down and scraped against the glass. Clattering against the pane as if trying to gain access.

  King shook his head, annoyed at his own jumpiness. Perhaps the thoughts of what had happened to Stuart Lawrence, John Kirkland and those two women were causing his mind to play tricks, he told himself. He returned to his job, trying to blot out the night sounds.

  He finished sandpapering the desk and blew the wood dust away, reaching for the tin of varnish on the worktop. He stirred it thoroughly, enjoying the smell of the fluid.

  The door of the workshop rattled in its frame and King looked up, watching it for long seconds, listening to the wind and the creaking wood.

  He shivered slightly and frowned. His imagination must be playing tricks now.

  It seemed to be getting colder inside the hut.

  King continued stirring the varnish, his eyes still on the door.

  The handle turned a fraction.

  He almost dropped the tin.

  The handle moved again, twisting full circle this time, and at last King put down the varnish. He stepped quickly across to the door.

  He stood by it for interminable seconds, watching the handle twisting back and forth, but there seemed to be no attempt to push the door open.

  Outside, the wind howled with ever-increasing force.

  The rattling of the handle stopped and the puzzled man was left staring at it, as if expecting more movement at any moment.