Moon

by James Herbert

  James Herbert

  Moon

  ***

  P. (heroic scan-finding & OCR) & P. (formatting & proofing) edition.

  ***

  BEFORE

  The boy had stopped crying.

  He lay in his narrow bed, eyes closed, his face an alabaster mask in the moonlight. Occasionally a tremor would run the length of his body.

  He clutched the bedsheets, pulling them tight under his chin. A dreadful heaviness inside weighed his body down, a feeling that his blood had turned into liquid lead: the burden was loss, and it had left him exhausted and weak.

  The boy had rested there a long time - how many hours he had no way of knowing, for all of the last three days had been a timeless eternity - but his father had forbidden him to move from the bed again. So he lay there, enduring the loss, frightened by the new loneliness.

  Until something caused him to open his red-rimmed eyes once more.

  The figure stood near the end of the bed and she smiled at him. He felt her warmth, the momentary shedding of bereavement. But it was impossible. His father had told him it was impossible.

  'You… can't… be…' he said, his small voice a shivery intrusion on the night. 'He… says… you can't… you can't… be…'

  The sense of loss was renewed, for now it was also within her.

  And then the startled boy looked elsewhere in the room, gazing upwards into a far corner as if suddenly aware of yet another presence, of someone else watching him, someone he could not see. The moment vanished when footsteps were heard along the corridor and he looked away, for the first time real fear in his eyes. The woman was gone.

  In the doorway stood the swaying shadow of a man.

  The boy's father stumbled towards the bed, the familiar reek of alcohol as much a part of him as the perpetual sullenness of his features.

  'I told you,' the man said, and there seemed to be guilt mixed with anger in the harsh words. 'No more! No more…' His fist was raised as he approached and the boy cowered beneath the bedsheets.

  Outside, the full moon was clear-edged and pure against the deep blackness of the night.

  1

  At last she was dead.

  Where there had been terror, there was now only emptiness. Dead eyes. Those of a fish on an iced slab.

  Her body dormant, the final spasm exhausted, the final gasp silenced. Her last expression dissolved.

  Clawed fingers still held the shape above her, one thumb curled inside its mouth as though she had tried to rip away the smile.

  The shape rose, releasing its grip from her throat; its breath was barely laboured, even though the woman beneath had struggled for a long time.

  It pulled the thumb from its mocking lips and the corpse's hand fell away, smacking against bare flesh.

  It paused, studying the victim. Smiling all the while.

  It reached for the lifeless hands, gripping their wrists, lifting them. It ran the cracked nails down its own face, drawing the shock-stiffened fingers around its throat as if taunting them, tempting revenge. A low chuckle derided their inertia.

  It trailed the hands across its exposed body straddled over the corpse, moving them down so that they touched everywhere, caressed every part. The deathly soft stroking incited further sensations.

  The figure busied itself upon the woman's slowly cooling body.

  After a while it rose from the bed, a light sheen of perspiration coating its skin. Not yet was it satiated.

  Cold drizzle spattered the window in sudden gusts as if protesting against the cruelty inside. Faded curtains, closed against daylight, muffled the sound.

  A bag in the corner of the dingy room was snapped open, a black package removed. The package was unrolled on the bed, close to the corpse, and the gleam of metal instruments was only slightly dulled by the poor light. Each one was lifted, examined, held close to the eyes whose gleam could not be subdued. The first was chosen.

  The body, cooling to room temperature, was sliced from sternum to pubic symphysis, then from hip to hip. Blood quickly seeped through the deep cross.

  The flaps were separated then pulled back. Fingers, already crimson, delved inside.

  It removed the organs, cutting where necessary, and placed them on the bed covers where they glistened and steamed. The heart, reached for last and wrenched free, was tossed onto the heap. It slithered down the slippery mound and plopped to the floor. The sickly odour pervaded the room.

  A receptacle made, it was soon filled.

  The figure searched the room for small objects, but only after the dead woman's own appendages had been used.

  When at last it was satisfied, it drew needle and thread from the wrapping on the bed.

  It began to sew the flaps together again, piercing the flesh with large, crude stitchwork, smiling all the while. The smile broadening to a grin as it thought of the last object placed inside the body.

  2

  He finned over the green-hued rocks, movement leisurely, relaxed, hands used only occasionally to change direction, careful to avoid barnacles that could cut deep into water-softened skin. His legs flexed slowly, moving from the hips with long, graceful strokes, semi-hard fins propelling him easily through the currents.

  Coral weed waved ghostly patterns at him, and startled fish jack-knifed away from his stealthy intrusion; snakelocks anemone seemed to beckon silently. Daylight filtered through from above, its rays dissipated, the seabed sanctum muted and secretive. Childes could hear only the ponderous, dull sounds of his own actions.

  A tiny undulation, a scurry of sand, caught his eye and he cautiously approached, gently placing his hands on an outcrop of rock, bringing himself to an easy, swaying halt.

  Below him, a starfish had attached itself to a cockle, pinning it down and prising the two shell valves apart with tube feet. The starfish worked patiently, its five tentacles used in relays, tiring its prey, resolutely widening the gap to expose the cockle's body tissues. Childes watched with mild but fascinated revulsion as the hunter eventually extruded its own stomach and sank it into the opening to suck out the fleshy substance beneath.

  A subtle displacement among the ridges and caverns of barnacled stone close by diverted the diver's attention. Puzzled, he studied the craggy relief for a few moments before a further shifting directed his gaze. The spiny spider crab skited across the rock face, its shell and claws sprouting green algae, a natural and effective camouflage in both the shallows and the deeper waters. When still, it was virtually invisible.

  Childes followed the crab's progress, admiring its agility and speed, the little multi-legged creature enlarged and brought much closer by the magnification of his diving mask's glass faceplate and the seawater itself. The spider crab stopped as if suddenly aware of being stalked; he used a probing finger to galvanise another spurt.

  The diver's smile at the sudden panicked flurry was distorted by the snorkel wedged into his teeth and gums, and he was abruptly aware that his lungs were almost exhausted of air. Unhurried, he prepared to skim back to the surface.

  The sighting came without warning. Just as other sightings had in the past.

  Yet he hardly knew what he saw, for it was in his mind, not his vision; a confused jumble of colours, of smells. His hands tingled in the water. There was something long and shiny, coiled, red and gleaming wet. Now metal, keen-edged steel against a mushy softness. Swimming in blood. He was swimming in blood. Nausea hit him and he drew in salt water.

  His body curled up painfully and bile mixed with seawater exploded from his throat, clogging the snorkel pipe. The mouthpiece shot free of his lips and more water rushed in. Childes cried out involuntarily, the sound a muffled, gurgling croak, and he kicked down, arms reaching for the surface. Wildly escaping bubbles matched the crazy disorder behind his eyes. The light-spread
ceiling above seemed a long way off.

  Another vision stabbed into his nightmare. Hands, cruel, blunt fingers, moving in rhythm. An insane thought-sight. They were sewing.

  Childes' body doubled up once more.

  He instinctively tried to close his mouth, no clear direction in his head any more, but it continued to drink in great gulps of salt water as though conspiring with the sea against him. His senses began to dim, his arms and legs felt feeble. So quickly, he thought. They warned how quick drowning could be. Yet ridiculously, he was aware of the J-shaped snorkel, tucked into the retaining band of his diving mask, scratching loosely against his cheek. He struggled, feeling himself drifting, sinking.

  A slender arm slid beneath his shoulder, gripping tight. A hugging body against his back. Rising. Slowly, controlled. He tried to help, but an opaque mantle was descending.

  Bursting through the surface as though shot from a black stifling embrace, life painfully thrust back into him rather than gently returned.

  His stomach and chest heaved, jetting liquid; he choked, spluttered, threatened to drag them both down again. He vaguely heard a soothing voice and tried to heed the words, forcing himself to relax, commanding his lungs to take in air cautiously, gasp by gasp, spitting out residue, coughing out the last of the bile.

  She towed him back to the shoreline, holding his arms above the elbows, his head cradled against one of her own arms. She swam on her back by his side, fins driving them easily through the small waves. His breathing was still laboured, but soon he was able to help by flexing his own legs, keeping in time with hers.

  They reached shallower water and the girl hauled him to his feet. She pulled the mask from his face and put an arm around his hunched shoulders, hitting his back when he coughed more sea, bending with him, her young face etched with concern. Kneeling, she drew off his flippers, then removed her own. His shoulders still jerked with the effort of breathing as he stood half-crouched, hands on his knees; gradually he recovered, the shudders merging into a shivering. The girl waited patiently, her own diving mask raised high over her forehead, her blonde hair worked loose, darkened by the water and hanging in dripping trails over her shoulders. She didn't speak, knowing it would be pointless just yet.

  Eventually it was the man who gasped, 'Amy…'

  'It's all right, let's get to the shore.'

  They left the water, lurching slightly as they went, her arm beneath his shoulders, supporting. Childes slumped onto the shingle, feeling relieved, shocked, sickened - all these emotions. She sat next to him, sweeping hair from his eyes, gently massaging his back.

  They were alone in the small, remote bay, the steep climb through the rock-eroded cleft too daunting for many, a chill south-easterly breeze deterring others. Lush vegetation spilled over the clifftops, flowing down the steep slopes, stemmed only by an uncompromising stone face near the base, a granite fringe washed clean by thunderous tides. Early May flowers littered the upper reaches, speckling the verdure with blue, white and yellow. A miniature waterfall gushed close by, its stream winding through the pebbles and rocks to join the sea. Further out, little fishing boats, dinghies mainly, bobbed easily on the slate sea, their mooring lines stretching like grey thread to a quay on the far side of the inlet. Access to the quay was by a narrow track, a jumble of boulders separating it from the beach itself. The girl noticed one or two faces peering in their direction from the quayside wall, obviously concerned over the incident; she signalled that all was well and they turned away.

  Childes pushed himself into a sitting position, wrists over his raised knees, head slumped forward. He was still shivering.

  'You scared me, Jon,' the girl said, kneeling before him.

  He looked at her and his face was pale. He brushed a hand across his eyes as if trying to dismiss a memory.

  'Thanks for dragging me out,' he said at last.

  She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, then his shoulder. Her eyes were curious. 'What happened out there?'

  His body juddered and she realised how cold he was. 'I'll fetch the blanket,' she said, standing.

  Her bare feet ignored the hard shingle as she skipped over to their pile of clothing and bags lying on a flat slab further up the beach. Childes watched her lithe figure as she snatched a blanket from a hold-all and was grateful for her presence - not just because she had pulled him from the sea, but because she was with him. He shifted his gaze back to the lapping water, a white band on the horizon, harbinger of the coming storm.

  His eyes closed and he tasted salt in his throat. He cast his head downwards and moaned quietly.

  Why now, after so long?

  The weight of the blanket over his shoulders drew him back.

  'Drink,' Amy said, holding a thin silver flask under his nose.

  The brandy loosened the salt inside and he relished the sudden inner warmth. He raised one arm and she joined him beneath the blanket.

  'You okay?' she asked, snuggling close.

  He nodded, but the shivering had not yet ceased.

  'I brought your glasses over.'

  He took them from her, put them on. The focused world was no more real.

  When he spoke, his voice was shaky. 'It's happening again,' he said.

  3

  'Tomorrow?' he asked.

  Amy shook her head. 'Daddy has guests - all day.' She rolled her eyes. 'I'm on duty.'

  'Business?'

  'Uh-huh. Potential investors from Lyon. He invited them for the weekend, but thank God they could only make it for Sunday. They fly back Monday afternoon, after they've visited the company. He's disappointed - he wanted to show off the island as well.'

  Paul Sebire, Amy's father, was chief executive of Jacarte International, a powerful financial investment company based in the offshore island, itself a low-tax haven for those on the Continent as well as on the mainland. Although predominantly British, the island was physically closer to France.

  'Pity,' Childes said.

  'I'm sorry, Jon.' She leaned back into the car to kiss him, her hair, now tied back into a tail, twisting around her neck to brush against his chest.

  He returned her kiss, relishing the smell of sea on her, tasting the salt on her lips.

  'Doesn't he ever relax?' he asked.

  'It is relaxation for him. I'd have swung you an invite, but I didn't think you'd enjoy yourself.'

  'You know me so well.' He prepared to drive away. 'Give your father my love.'

  She mock-scowled. 'I doubt he'll reciprocate. Jon, about earlier…'

  'Thanks again for dragging me out.'

  'I didn't mean that.'

  'What I saw?'

  She nodded. 'It's been so long.'

  He looked straight ahead, but his gaze was inward. After a while, he replied, 'I never really thought it was over.'

  'But almost three years. Why should it start again now?'

  Childes shrugged. 'Maybe it's a freak. Could be it won't happen again. It may just have been my own imagination playing tricks.' He closed his eyes momentarily, knowing it wasn't, but unwilling to discuss it just then. Leaning across the steering wheel, he touched her neck. 'Hey, c'mon, stop looking so anxious. You have a good time tomorrow and I'll see you in school Monday. We'll talk more then.'

  Amy took her hold-all from the back seat, Childes helping her lift it over. 'Will you call me tonight?'

  'I thought you'd planned to mark papers.'

  'I don't have much choice, with Sunday so busy. I'll have earned a few minutes break, though.'

  He forced a light tone. 'Okay, Teach. Don't be too hard on the kids.'

  'Depends on what they've written. I'm not sure which is more difficult: teaching them French or decent English. At least with computers your own machines can correct their mistakes.'

  He huffed, smiling. 'I wish it were that simple.' He kissed her cheek once more before she straightened. The first raindrops stippled the windscreen.

  'Take care, Jon,' she said, wanting to say more, needing to, but sens
ing his resistance. Getting to know Childes had taken a long, long time and even now she was aware there were places - dark places - inside him she would never reach. She wondered if his ex-wife had ever tried.

  Amy watched the little black Mini pull away, frowning as she gave a single wave. She turned and hurried through the open iron gates, running down the short drive to the house before the rain began in earnest. Childes soon turned off the main highway, steering into the narrow lanes which spread through the island like veins from primary arteries, occasionally slowing and squeezing close to hedges and walls to ease past oncoming vehicles, whose drivers adopted the same tactics. He clutched the wheel too tightly, his knuckles white ridges, driving by reflex rather than consideration; his mind, now that he was alone, was preoccupied with other thoughts. By the time he reached the cottage he was trembling once more and the sour taste of bile was back in his throat.

  He swung the Mini into the narrow opening before the old stone cottage, a patch he had cleared of weeds and brambles when he had first arrived, and switched off the engine. He left the bag containing his swimming gear in the car, jumping out and fumbling for the front-door key. The key resisted his first attempts to insert it in the lock. At last successful, he thrust open the door and rushed down the short corridor, just making it to the tiny bathroom as the bottom of his stomach rose like an express elevator. He retched over the toilet bowl, shedding, it seemed, only a small portion of the substance clogging his insides. He blew his nose on tissue, flushing the toilet and watching the soft paper swirl round until it was gulped away. Removing his brown-rimmed glasses, he washed his face in cold water, keeping his hands over his eyes for several moments, cooling them.

  Childes regarded himself in the cabinet mirror as he dried his face and his reflection was pallid; he wasn't sure if his own imagination was creating the shadows under his eyes. Stretching his fingers before him, he tried to keep them still; he couldn't.