by Amy Cross
Finally, I'm too weak to do anything. I can feel myself dying. There can only be moments, perhaps a second or two, left. And then, as everything starts to fade away, I look up and see those two kids standing over me, staring down with their black eyes.
Jess
"Are you sure you don't want to go for a swim?" Duncan asks, looking across at me as we sit in a seafront cafe. "That's what people do at the beach, isn't it? They go swimming. I've read about it. That's what beaches are for."
"Not when it's raining," I say, looking out at the gray scene of the Sussex coastline. Rain has been pouring down for hours, and the sun has remained firmly hidden behind dark clouds since we arrived.
"Oh," Duncan says. There's a pause as he drinks some tea. "I suppose that makes sense," he says finally, having apparently thought about it for a while. "I wondered why we were the only ones here today."
As rain continues to pour down against the window, I watch the choppy, light brown waves out at sea. Even if the sun was shining, I'd be hesitant about going into that water: not only does it look cold, but there's a sewage outlet warning beacon nearby, which means the sewerage from the local town is being dumped straight into the sea. Add that to the fact that the beach is full of pebbles instead of sand, and the fact that there are broken bottles scattered about the place, and this must by far the most depressing beach view I've ever seen.
The town's not much better. Herne seems to be a dead spot, full of those little shops that sell stuff you don't want at absurdly high prices. No wonder I've never heard of the place: there's nothing to recommend Herne, not even any decent bars. There's no-one about, and the whole town seems to be completely dead. I guess everyone's hiding away in their houses, hoping that this mini-storm will blow over soon. Even then, the only thing to do in this place seems to be to go shopping at the local supermarket. I can't imagine living in a place like this.
"What's wrong?" Duncan asks, his voice full of cheer. "You're being a very glum plum today."
"What do you think's wrong?" I ask, nodding towards the window. "It's hard to be cheery when it's pissing it down." As I say those words, an empty shopping car trundles past the cafe, blown along by the wind. Reaching the beach, the shopping cart tips over and lands on the pebbles.
Duncan frowns. "Right," he says after a while.
"Okay," I say, deciding enough's enough. "I was delaying asking this, because I feel like everywhere we go, I ask the same question. But I have to spit it out." I take a deep breath. "What are we doing here, Duncan?"
He smiles. "I was wondering when you'd ask. We're waiting for a friend of mine," he says. "Brian Martin, he's a local writer. Knows everything about this neck of the woods." He leans closer. "If there are any clues about Excalibur around here, he'll know about it."
"And he's meeting us here?" I ask.
"I imagine so," Duncan replies. "I've known Brian for a long time, and he always comes to this cafe for a cup of tea in the morning. Regular as clockwork. You could set your watch by him. He'll be here any minute."
There's a cough from behind us, and we both turn to find that the cafe owner has started listening to our conversation.
"I'm sorry," he says, looking a little embarrassed. He's a small, thin old man who looks about as timid as a mouse. "I couldn't help over-hearing. Did you say you're here to meet Brian Martin?"
"That's right," Duncan says, smiling. "Do you know where he might be?"
"Sort of," the cafe owner says. "They buried him last Tuesday, so I imagine he'll be in the cemetery."
"Buried him?" Duncan asks, looking shocked. "Who buried him?"
"Well..." the cafe owner says, seeming a little surprised by the question, "his family."
Duncan pauses. "Why?"
The cafe owner stares at Duncan. "Because he died," he says eventually.
Duncan gets to his feet, seeming a little angry. "Says who?" he asks.
"Says the doctor," the cafe owner says. "I don't want any trouble. If you're looking for a fight, I'd ask you to kindly pay for your tea instead and leave."
"I'll do no such thing!" says Duncan, pulling out a £5 note and putting it on the counter. "Come on, Jess. We're leaving."
"We are?" I ask, getting up. Right now, anything would be better than sitting here and staring out at the gray sea. "Where are we going?"
"We're going to the cemetery," Duncan says, "to see Brian Martin's grave." He pauses, still seeming annoyed. "And then we're going to go and speak to his wife and find out why he died, because Brian Martin should definitely not be dead!"
"Good luck," says the cafe owner as we head to the door. "His wife's dead too."
Duncan stops and turns back to face him. "Doris is dead?"
The cafe owner nods.
"How?" Duncan asks. He seems genuinely shocked.
"Suicide," the cafe owner says. "Both of them. Separately."
Duncan laughs. "Well now I know you're lying. Brian and Doris Martin were the happiest, most contented people I ever met. There's absolutely no way either of them would even contemplate suicide."
"Nevertheless," the cafe owner replies, "they both did it. Brian first, a few weeks ago, then Doris on Sunday. They both seemed fine right before it happened, but that's the way it goes around here."
"The way it goes?" Duncan asks. "What does that mean?"
"You know," the cafe owner says. "Herne's got its little problem."
"What's Herne's little problem?" I ask.
The cafe owner sighs. "Haven't you heard?" He pauses. "Herne's famous for it right now. At the start of the year, there were three hundred and fifty people living here. Not a big town. Today, there's just over two hundred and fifty."
"A lot of people moved," I say.
"A lot of people killed themselves," says the cafe owner. "There's been a massive spate of it. People who seem totally happy one minute, suddenly turn up dead, and every time it's suicide. The coroner's looked into it, and there's no messing about. People have just started killing themselves in Herne."
Duncan pauses. "That doesn't make a whole lot of sense," he says. "Suicide isn't contagious. People aren't like lemmings, they don't just off themselves because someone else did."
The cafe owner shrugs. "They've looked into it. There's nothing suspicious about it -"
"Of course there's something suspicious about it!" Duncan shouts back at him. "Almost a third of a town's population commits suicide in less than nine months, and there's nothing suspicious going on? What kind of idiot are you? Of course there's something suspicious going on!"
"Calm down," I say, tugging at his sleeve. "It's not this guy's fault." I turn and look over at the window. The rain's pouring down faster than ever. To be honest, I'm only half-joking when I say I can kind of understand how people living around here would decide to end it all.
"How do they do it?" Duncan asks. "Do they all do it the same way?"
The cafe owner shakes his head. "Some of 'em hang themselves. Some of 'em cut their wrists. All sorts, really. One guy even jumped off a cliff. I know it sounds weird, but it's true. You can ask around. Everyone knows someone who's done it, and no-one knows who's next."
Duncan turns to me. "What do you think?" he asks.
"Me?" I reply.
"You're always complaining that I don't ask for your opinion enough," he says. "Come on, out with it. What do you think?"
"It's certainly a bit strange," I say. "People don't -"
"Of course they don't!" Duncan says, interrupting as he turns back to the cafe owner. "It's preposterous!"
"Are you calling me a liar?" the cafe owner asks, looking distinctly unimpressed.
"I'm saying you're gullible," Duncan says, turning and walking out the door.
"Sorry," I say to the cafe owner before running out to join Duncan in the wind and rain. "Now what?" I ask him.
"We'll go to Brian Martin's house and see if he's really dead," he replies, "and then we'll decide what to do after that." He starts walking away, and I pause for a
moment before following him.
"I liked you better when you had a tail," I mutter under my breath.
"What?" he asks, spinning around to face me.
"Nothing," I say. "Can we just get going, please?"
We hurry along the promenade, getting utterly soaked by the rain.
Jess
By the time we reach Brian Martin's house, we're soaked to the skin. I've never been so completely drenched: my clothes are so wet, you'd think I'd been swimming in them, and there's water in my shoes. I'm cold and pretty miserable, but the last thing I want to do is become one of those people who constantly complain, so I keep my mouth shut as Duncan knocks on the door. He's not in the mood to talk, anyway. I can tell that he's bothered by the news about his friend, and he seems convinced that somehow the cafe owner was lying.
"Hello?" says a woman as she opens the door. She's in her thirties and strikingly good-looking, the kind of woman who seems to exude effortless grace and style.
"I'm looking for Brian Martin," Duncan says in a very direct, matter-of-fact way. "Is he here?"
"No," the woman says, eying us both a little suspiciously, "I'm afraid he's not. Can I ask who's asking?"
"An old friend," Duncan says. "From a while back. It's very important that I see him."
"I'm sorry," she says, "but my father passed away a short while ago." She pauses, looking a little uncomfortable. "We tried to contact all his friends, I'm sorry but we weren't able to find everyone."
"Your father?" Duncan asks. "Well now I know you're lying. Brian and Doris only had one child. A daughter, named Meredith, and she's only four years old."
"I'm Meredith," the woman says, "and I'm thirty-two."
"Well..." Duncan says, and I can tell by the tone of his voice that he's started to realize that he made a mistake. "I suppose it's been a while since last time I came to visit."
"Approximately twenty-eight years, perhaps?" Meredith asks. She seems more amused than annoyed by Duncan right now, which is a miracle. If a stranger turned up on my doorstep acting this way, I'd probably knock him out, especially if my parents had just died.
"About that, yeah," Duncan says a little sheepishly. "Last time I saw you, you were... younger." He pauses. "So it's true. Your father's really dead?"
Meredith nods. "And my mother."
"I'm sorry," Duncan replies, and for the first time I can tell he's really troubled by the news.
Meredith stares at us for a moment. "Perhaps you'd like to come in?" she says, stepping back and opening the door fully.
Once we're inside, Meredith takes us through to the front room. The house is small, and everything's brown: brown carpets, brown wallpaper, brown furniture, brown ornaments... This is one of those little English houses near the sea where nothing ever happens, except this time it seems something has happened here. Two people have committed suicide; perhaps that explains the strange atmosphere here, and the general sense of unease.
"Can I get you some tea?" Meredith asks.
"No thanks," Duncan says. "What happened? How did he die?"
Meredith takes a deep breath, then she turns to me and reaches out a hand. "Meredith Martin," she says, smiling. "Pleased to meet you."
"Jess," I say, shaking her hand. "Pleased to meet you too."
"Duncan," says Duncan. "So tell me how your father died."
Meredith smiles, but it's the sad, resigned smile of a woman who has clearly been hurt. "He, uh..." She pauses. "He hung himself. From the attic door, actually."
"In this house?" Duncan asks.
Meredith nods.
"Did he leave a note?" Duncan continues.
"No," Meredith says. "None of them do."
"None of who?" I ask, deciding I might as well take part in this conversation. I'm sick of being a prop for Duncan's adventures.
"None of the others," Meredith says matter-of-factly. "My mother. My boyfriend. The hundred other people in this town who've killed themselves so far this year. None of them left notes. None of them gave any indication that they were unhappy. In each case, they just... did it. With no warning."
"What happened to your mother"? Duncan asks.
"She cut her wrists in the kitchen," Meredith says. "Not long after my father died." She pauses. "The weird thing is, there's this rash of suicides and I don't know whether she killed herself because she was caught up in it, or because she was just sad about my father's death."
Duncan looks around the room. "It's one thing for there to be a hotspot of suicides," he says, clearly deep in thought, "but it's another for there to be so many. Something else is going on here."
"Why did you want to see my father?" Meredith asks.
"It doesn't matter now," Duncan says. He pauses. "Your boyfriend. You said your boyfriend also committed suicide."
Meredith nods. "I'm trying really hard not to take it personally." There's a pause as she seems to be regathering her composure. "I'd gone out for the night. When I got back a few hours later, all the doors and windows were shut and he was on the bathroom floor. He's cut his wrists open, and his chest." She smiles. "You know, now I think about it, that's the one really strange thing about it."
"What?" Duncan asks.
"Like I said, when I found my boyfriend, he's pulled all the curtains and closed all the blinds, like he didn't want anyone outside the house to see in. And my father and mother had both done the same thing."
Duncan stares at her for a moment. "They were all worried about someone outside the house. Someone who might be looking in. They were all trying to not see something."
"Worried or scared," I say.
Duncan turns to me.
I shrug. "Maybe they were scared," I say. "Maybe..." I see the way Meredith is looking at me; she looks a little shocked. "Sorry," I say, "I was just thinking out loud."
"Don't be sorry," Duncan says. "You might be on to something. This whole situation is about coincidences, except they're not coincidences, so we have to think about every single thing."
Meredith pauses. "There was a full coroner's report into each death. In each case, they were determined to be suicides. There was no doubt. They were all alone, and their injuries were all consistent with suicide.
Duncan stares at her. "Your father," he says slowly. "Your mother... and your boyfriend." He narrows his eyes, studying Meredith. "Nothing suspicious there, is there? It's not as if there's a connection between them... unless..."
"If you're thinking I had something to do with it," Meredith replies, "you can forget it. I had an alibi when my father and my boyfriend died, and as for my mother... No way. Besides, everyone in this town knows people who've killed themselves. I'm in no way remarkable."
"That's just what you'd say," Duncan replies slowly, "if you were trying to hide how remarkable you really are."
"Then you can get out," Meredith replies. "I don't need to listen to your shit. I don't even know who you are, and as far as I know, you have no right to come storming in here and tell me what to do."
There's another pause, and I decide to butt in. "Listen, Duncan's just upset," I say.
"No I'm not," Duncan says.
"Yes you are," I reply. "Meredith, he's just upset because a friend of his died, and there seems to be something suspicious about it."
"Duncan?" Meredith says. "I've heard that name before. My father used to talk about you. He said you're a w-" She pulls up before she says the word. "Well, he said you're a..." She stares at him for a moment, and then she laughs. "He said you're a werewolf."
"He did?" Duncan asks.
She nods. "My father was into the supernatural. He was part of that Pythagoras Group. He had various files about ghosts, vampires, all that kind of stuff. And he said that you're a werewolf, which is obviously... I mean, there's no such thing, but... Hang on!" She hurries out of the room, and we hear her running upstairs.
"What do you think?" I say, turning to Duncan.
"She didn't kill them," he replies.
"I know that," I say, "but
why did so many people knock themselves off? It's not like it's very normal, is it?"
We're interrupted as Meredith comes back into the room, holding a piece of paper which she hands to Duncan. The paper shows what seems to be a child's drawing of some kind of dog.
"That's you," Meredith says.
Duncan stares at the drawing. "I really don't think it is," he says.
"It is," Meredith says, grinning. "I was about four, maybe five when my father told me about you. I think I might have even met you, briefly. And I drew a picture of you, as I imagined you."
"It looks a bit like you," I say.
Duncan gives me a dirty look.
"Except it has a tail," I mutter.
"My father always talked about you like you were special," Meredith continues. "He spent all his life researching the paranormal. Blurry photos. Interviews with nutters. But..." She pauses. "He said you were the only proof he ever found. He said you made it all worthwhile."
"That's very nice of him," Duncan says quietly.
"So is it true?" she asks.
"What?" he replies, clearly playing for time.
"Are you a werewolf?"
Duncan pauses. "Do you believe in werewolves?"
She pauses. "No," she says.
"Then the answer is obvious," he replies.
She smiles as she stares at him. "I guess so," she says.
I clear my throat, feeling that Duncan and Meredith are sharing some kind of 'moment' that's leaving me out in the cold. I kind of want to remind Duncan that he and I are a team, though to be honest I'm not even sure what that means any more.
"Was your father working on anything before he died?" Duncan asks Meredith.
"He was always working on something," Meredith says. "I don't know what, exactly, but I still have all his files."
"I need to see those files," Duncan says. "It's possible that he was onto something." He turns to me. "This is going to be boring," he says. "You can go back to the hotel if you want."
I stare at him. Is he seriously trying to get rid of me?