Creed

by James Herbert

  Creed swallowed. ‘So listen, why don’t you hang out with me for a coupla days? Forget about school, that’s always gonna be there. You like horror movies? I’ve got some tapes. You could watch them while I’m out working. Maybe, uh, maybe you could even come along with me in the morning, give you a chance to see how the old man works. What d’you think?’

  ‘Do you smoke marianna?’

  ‘Marijuana? Christ no. What makes you ask that?’

  ‘Mum says you do.’

  And what else has she told you? ‘Look, Sammy, your mother and I don’t get along, you know that. That’s why we’re not married any more. She may say things about me from time to time that aren’t necessarily true just to get back at me, you know? Women are like that.’

  Samuel nodded, but he didn’t look convinced. ‘Can I have a Big Mac?’ he said.

  ‘Sure. And a double helping of fries. What kind of milkshake would you like – strawberry, banana . . .?’

  ‘Kiwi.’

  ‘You got it. Make yourself at home – you know where the television is – and I’ll be back in ten minutes.’

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to steal anything. I mean . . . I did, but I didn’t want to.’ He looked helpless sitting there, a ten-year-old in dark red school blazer, grey shirt unbuttoned at the neck, tie halfway down his chest, hair unkempt, jam-grin and sad eyes set in his face. An overweight kid who’d just been passed from one parent to the other, at that moment not really wanted by either. Creed could have been looking at himself twenty-odd years ago, except he hadn’t had a weight problem and his abandonment had been more radical and eventually more permanent.

  He walked around the table to his son, leaned down, and hugged him. Sammy resisted only for a moment.

  He hurried through the shady moonlit streets carrying the carton of Big Macs, french fries and strawberry milkshake (‘Kiwi? What’s Kiwi? We don’t do Kiwi’) tight against his chest as if a precious gift, perhaps for a prince. Well, Sammy was no prince, but he was his offspring and he was hungry. Creed was also hungry, the realization that he hadn’t eaten a thing all day surprising him. It wasn’t like him at all. While never a big eater, he did tend to snack it through the day and night. Today, however, he just hadn’t felt hungry. Now he was ravenous and didn’t much fancy tepid food. Hence the haste.

  Earl’s Court is a thriving thoroughfare at any time of the day and usually well into the night, but the backstreets are something else. Full of elegant terraced houses, garden squares, hotels and bedsits, it’s both seedy and select, a not uncommon paradox in the big city. These streets and squares are quiet though, and not particularly well-lit. The mews are even quieter and even less well-lit.

  Creed’s attention was so engaged on the problem of what the hell he was going to do with his son until Evelyn got over her sudden attack of child-phobia that he failed to notice the figure lurking in a shadowy doorway ahead. Only when a throaty growling sallied forth from those shadows did he stop dead in his tracks, the toughened carton he was holding caving in under his fierce grip. The figure revealed itself, although not completely; it clung to the darkness as though umbilically linked.

  ‘Yerrulabobof.’ An arm extended towards the frightened Creed. ‘Cerrlabobuv.’ The voice sounded curiously strangled, as though there was a furious struggle going on between his throat and mouth to form the words. By the time the old down-and-out managed ‘Coupla bob, guv’ Creed was long gone.

  In fact, Creed didn’t stop running until he was safely back in his own mews, where he slowed to a trot and eventually a breathless quick-march when he was almost at his front door. Once inside, the door securely locked behind him, he leaned back and fought to calm himself. Music drifted down from upstairs.

  He dumped the battered box on a lower step and bent almost double, one hand on his hip, the other resting over the stair-post; he sucked air like an athlete after a four-minute mile. Can’t let Sammy see him like this, don’t want to scare the boy. Why now, why did the bitch have to unload him now? Judas, he had enough things to worry about without having Sammy to look out for as well.

  What had that character shouted at him? Something foul, something nasty, he was sure of that. The beard and wild hair, the dirty smelly clothes – hadn’t he seen that same person only that morning? The old sot in Soho Square, the one he suspected had cracked the jeep’s windscreen – had it been that very same tramp? No, no, couldn’t have been. He was getting paranoid. There were hundreds, thousands, of these old reprobates shuffling around the streets of London, sleeping in cardboard boxes or dosshouses, begging and scrambling their brains with cheap booze and meths. Millions of them. And they all looked alike. Scruffy old lice-bags, reeking of madness and filth. Couldn’t have been the same one. No way.

  He was perfectly correct, of course – an unfortunate coincidence, given his dreadful state of anxiety at that time – but Creed couldn’t be completely sure, and his rightly reasoned explanation to himself cut little ice with his not-so-irrational fears.

  ‘Dad?’

  He looked up to see Sammy peering down at him.

  ‘Did you get me a Big Mac, Dad?’

  Creed had lost his appetite again by the time they settled down to eat, but that was okay: Sammy managed to tuck away everything his father couldn’t. Creed began to understand why Evelyn had imposed a diet.

  The gurgling as Samuel drained every last drop of milkshake from the beaker through a coloured straw had started to grate on the photographer’s already frayed nerves. ‘I think it’s all gone, Sammy,’ he advised.

  A few more strained gurgles and the boy stopped. ‘You got a phone call while you were out,’ he said after withdrawing the straw and licking its length.

  Creed realised he’d forgotten to switch on the answer-phone that morning. Who could blame him for that? he wondered sourly. ‘Did you take a message?’ he asked.

  ‘Two. You got two calls. From’ – he pulled a yukky face – GIRLS.’

  ‘You’ll learn to live with them one day.’ Or maybe not, Creed thought. ‘So? Did you take messages?’

  The boy nodded as he prised off the beaker’s lid and looked inside. He poked in his tongue as far as it would go to swab round the edges.

  Creed kept his voice even. ‘Will you leave that alone. You must be busting by now.’

  His son’s expression assured him he was not, that he could easily manage the whole thing again, Creed’s share as well. ‘One’ – that grimace again – ‘girl said something about champagne. I forget her name.’

  ‘Prunella?’

  ‘Think so. Something soppy-sounding. The other one didn’t say who she was. She asked me who I was, though. I said you’d be back soon.’

  ‘What was her name, Sammy?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know. She didn’t tell me. She said she’d call later. I think.’

  Creed wondered. Could it have been her, Cally? It might have been any number of girls, so why her? ‘Did she say when she’d call back?’

  Sammy shook his head. ‘Just said later. I think.’

  And she did ring later, and it was her, Cally.

  ‘Sam,’ Creed, a hand over the mouthpiece, called to his son who was back in front of the television set in the living room. ‘Get yourself ready for bed now. Climb into mine for tonight.’ He put the receiver to his ear again and lowered his voice, making it mean. ‘What the hell are you playing at? Who are you? Your name isn’t really Cally, is it?’

  ‘Yes, it is. But that doesn’t matter. You must listen to me.’

  ‘Okay, but it’s not McNally, is it?’

  ‘Yes, it is. Will you please listen to me? You’re in trouble.’

  ‘No, you’re in trouble.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake. Look, you have to give him the film – or films if you took more than one roll. Prints, negatives – everything.’

  ‘Give them to who? Who wants them? The freak who broke in the other night? Christ – last night, too.�
��

  ‘It doesn’t matter who he is. Just let him have them. I mean it, you’ll be in terrible danger if you don’t.’

  That worried Creed considerably. For the moment though, bluster prevailed. ‘It’s got something to do with Nicholas Mallik, hasn’t it?’ It was an old journo’s trick: throw in a name, wait for a reaction.

  The reaction was silence.

  ‘You there? I was right, wasn’t I? It’s got something to do with this guy Mallik.’

  He waited, then heard her say: ‘You bloody fool. Why couldn’t you leave things alone?’

  Now he decided to stay silent.

  After a few agonizingly long seconds, she said, ‘Please do as I ask. It may not be too late.’

  ‘Maybe we can do a deal.’ Creed allowed himself a smile, although it was a grim one. If he couldn’t syndicate these sicko pictures, there might at least be another way of earning a few bucks from them.

  ‘What?’ Her tone was very cold.

  ‘As you seem to value the pictures so highly, I wouldn’t be disinclined to sell them to you.’

  ‘Creed, don’t do this. It isn’t worth it, please believe me. Just . . . just don’t get involved. Let us have the prints and the negatives, and then you can forget all about this.’

  He liked the nervousness that had crept into her voice. A tiny surge of power swelled his chest. ‘Two – uh, three grand. That’s what I’d want for them.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘Two-and-a-half, and that’s it. They’re probably worth a lot more than that, seeing the trouble you’ve taken to get them. Or maybe I can convince my newspaper they’re worth a bonus. Who knows what a good news team could dig up?’

  ‘Joe . . .’

  Ah, back to Joe, was it? Now she was really anxious. ‘That’s the deal, Cally – if that is your name. I’ll hand over everything I have on this weirdo who likes doing unpleasant things in graveyards, and that’ll be the end of it. I’ll forget about what I saw, about the shots of him. I’ll even wipe you from my mind.’ He couldn’t help adding, more from smooth-talking habit than anything else, ‘If you want me to, that is.’

  ‘Oh, you bloody idiot. Can you bring them to me tonight?’

  ‘Sure, if it’s a deal. But why don’t you come over here and collect them?’

  ‘No, better that we meet somewhere . . . neutral.’

  ‘Like where?’

  ‘The park. Kensington Gardens. It’s not too far from you.’

  ‘Are you kidding? At this time of night? It’ll be closed.’

  ‘So much the better. Do you know where the Round Pond is?’

  ‘The place’ll be locked up.’

  ‘It’s easy to get in. You want the money, don’t you?’ She took his silence (quite rightly) for a definite ‘yes’. ‘You know where the Round Pond is?’ she repeated.

  ‘Yeah, it’s opposite Kensington Palace.’ He wasn’t happy and still wasn’t sure he’d agree.

  ‘There’s a small bandstand close by. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘In the dark?’

  ‘Look out your window – there’s a bright moon. Can you meet me in the park in an hour’s time?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘You’ve got to trust me on this. I promise you, it’s your only way out.’

  ‘What’re you talking about? Are you threatening me?’

  ‘God, no. I’m trying to help you, believe it or not. Just be there, Creed.’ She hung up.

  Just be there. Oh yeah, just be there and get your legs broken. Or worse. He put down the phone and scratched his chin. So what could they do? Murder him? For some photographs? Nah, his imagination was running away with him. They’d given him a couple of scares, but that was all. No violence. He touched the bump on his forehead; an accident, his own fault really. They’d made him see things that were not possible – how, God only knew – but they hadn’t actually harmed him. Hallucinations, that was all, nothing worse than a bad trip—

  Wait a minute. Wait . . . a . . . minute . . . Hallucinations. The night of the blood-sucking bedbugs, and the toothsome toilet – Cally had been with him earlier. That had to be it! Christ, yes. She’d somehow managed to drop something into his drink. What had he drunk last night? Coffee, brandy? Whatever, she must have got to it. But wouldn’t it have tasted odd? In brandy, though? Probably not. Anyway, she could have used something that was tasteless. Acid, maybe? That had to be it, didn’t it? Yeah . . .

  Then he remembered the strange, the illogical, earth movement around Lily Neverless’ grave two days before. The ground had seemed to ripple . . .

  An optical illusion. Like the shimmering effect of a road’s surface on a hot day. But it had been a cold day . . . An illusion anyway. Drizzle playing tricks. Shape up, Creed. Too many old horror flicks for too many years. They’ve crept into the old brain-box, settled themselves in, made themselves at home. Bound to have had some effect sooner or later.

  Bravado banter still running through his head, he went through to the living room and found Sammy still pigged out in front of the television.

  ‘Come on, Sam,’ he said without much patience. ‘Time for bed. Forget about washing if you want, but get yourself in. Did your mother pack pyjamas? Okay, sleep in your vest, we’ll sort you something out tomorrow. Move it.’ The boy rose and trudged to the door, his eyes never leaving the television screen. Creed noticed he’d been watching one of his videos, The Tingler, no less. ‘You can see the rest tomorrow, okay? Listen, I may have to go out in a little while – will you be all right on your own? I shouldn’t be gone too long.’ Hell, these were old men he was dealing with. Both of them – the one in the cemetery and the bald codger he’d found in the house – looked as if a sudden fart would deck them. What could they do to him? Glare him to death?

  Sammy stopped in the doorway and shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I don’t have to if you don’t want me to . . .’

  The boy shrugged again, then went into the hall. Creed heard the bathroom door open and close. ‘I’ll be there to say goodnight in a minute,’ he called after him. He turned off the television and recorder and returned to the kitchen.

  Creed sat at the table and opened the large brown envelope he’d brought back with him from the newspaper offices, while Grin sat on a chair opposite and watched.

  15

  He looked nonchalant enough as he strolled along the Bays-water Road, but inwardly Creed was a mess of nerves. A part of that condition was due to professional excitement, the buzz; another part, perhaps the largest, was due to fear; the final proportion had much to do with curiosity. He lingered, looked around. Traffic was halted momentarily at the lights further down the broad main road, too far away for the drivers and passengers to observe a lone figure standing by the brick and iron barrier that bordered the northern edge of the park. Creed had left his own vehicle in one of the many side-streets opposite.

  ‘Now or never,’ he mumbled to himself. It had taken a good fifteen minutes to find a reasonable gap between traffic and pedestrians, even at that late hour, so he couldn’t afford to hesitate too long. In no more than three seconds he was perched on the horizontal bar of the railings mounted on the low wall, one foot resting between the spikes. He balanced there for barely another second before leaping into the blackness beyond.

  He landed heavily, but years of jumping into forbidden territory had taught him the trick of collapsing his legs and rolling forward on one shoulder. Quickly he pushed himself back against the thick hedge on the inner side of the railings; he rested there, waiting to find out whether or not he’d been seen. His breaths came sharp and heavy, and for a few brief but almost enjoyable moments he imagined himself an escapee in one of those venerable prisoner-of-war films.

  That fancy soon passed when he recalled why he was there.

  He could be, he might just conceivably be, on to something BIG, the revivification of a story that had involved sex, scandal, obsession, suspicion and ultimate
ly, mutilation and murder. Juicy stuff.

  Prunella had done a good job: inside the envelope she’d left for him he had found Xerox copies of an old newspaper story, one that had made front-page headlines in its day, a story whose principal ingredients were sex, scandal, etc, etc . . . The editorial comments and features had been full of indignant outrage, an obvious reflection of the public’s views.

  Nicholas Mallik apparently had been one of those enigmatic figures who, while generally unknown to the public at large, moved in high social circles: there were photographs (unfortunately somewhat bleached by the photocopying process) of him alongside members of government, industrial tycoons, a fair glittering of movie and stage stars, and the occasional high-ranking church elder. Judging by the company he kept, Mallik’s wealth must have been considerable, yet nowhere amongst the cuttings was there a hint of where it came from. Nor was there any certainty as to his origins, although one story suggested that Hungary might have been his birthplace, while another decided upon Russia, for Nicholas obviously – to the journalist writing the piece, at any rate – had been altered from Nikolai. Mallik, according to others, could have been the shortened version of a dozen or more foreign names. Wherever he came from, however, Nicholas Mallik wasn’t saying; but his accent and aristocratic manner continued to fuel the speculation.

  Still, that little conundrum was not what had excited the masses: no, it was the man’s nefarious activities that had done that. Many of the stories about Mallik referred to him as a colleague or cohort of Aleister Crowley – Aleister Crowley, later to be dubbed ‘the wickedest man in the world’, whose motto was, ‘Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law’. A satanist, black magician, mountebank, dope fiend, womaniser and sexual pervert, Crowley appeared to be an all-round hateable guy but an interesting person to knock around with. Both of them, along with the likes of Algernon Blackwood and the poet, W. B. Yeats, belonged to a dubious mystic society known as the Order of the Golden Dawn. It appeared that this infamous pair, Mallik and Crowley, had finally fallen out over an incident in Paris. Nothing Creed read indicated the cause.