Moon

by James Herbert

  Childes replaced his glasses and went through to the sitting room, ducking his head slightly as he entered the door; he wasn't especially tall, but the building was old, the ceilings low, the door frames lower. The room lacked space, but then Childes had not packed too much into it: a faded and lumpy sofa, portable TV, square coffee table; low bookcases flanked the brick fireplace on either side, their shelves crammed. On top of one, by a lamp, was a small cluster of bottles and glasses. He went over and poured himself a stiff measure of Scotch.

  Outside, the rain had become a steady downpour and he stood by the window overlooking his diminutive rear garden, broodingly watching. The cottage, among a row of others, all detached, but only just, backed on to open fields. At one time the houses had all been field-hands' tied homes, but the estate had been divided up long since, land and properties sold off. Childes had been fortunate to rent one when he had come to the island over two, almost three, years before, for empty property was scarce here, and it was the school's principal, Estelle Piprelly, eager for his computer skills, who had directed him towards the place. Her considerable influence had also helped him obtain the lease.

  In the far distance, on the peninsula, he could just make out the college itself, an odd assortment of buildings, expanding over the years in various, unbalanced styles. The predominant structure, with its tower, was white. From that far away, it was no more than a rain-blurred greyish projection, the sky behind gloomed with rolling clouds.

  When Childes had fled the mainland, away from pernicious publicity, the curious stares, not just of friends and colleagues, but of complete strangers who had seen his face on TV or in the newspapers, the island had provided a halcyon refuge. Here was a tight community existing within itself, the mainland and its complexities held at arm's length. Yet, close-knit though their society was, it had proved relatively easy for him to be absorbed into the population of over fifty thousand. Morbid interest and -he clenched the glass hard - and accusations had been left behind. He wanted it to stay that way.

  Childes drained the Scotch and poured another; like the brandy earlier, it helped purge the foul taste that lingered in his mouth. He returned to the window and this time saw only the ghost of his own reflection. The day outside had considerably darkened.

  Was it the same? Had the images his mind had seen beneath the sea anything to do with those terrible, nightmare, visions which had haunted him so long ago? He couldn't tell: nearly drowning had altered the sensation. For a moment, though, during and shortly after, when he had lain gasping on the beach, he had been sure, certain the sightings had returned.

  Dread filled him.

  He was cold, yet perspiration dampened his brow. Apprehension gripped him, and then a fresh anxiety homed in.

  He went out into the hallway and picked up the phone, dialled.

  After a while, a breathless voice answered.

  'Fran?' he said, eyes on the wall but seeing her face.

  'Who else? That you, Jon?'

  'Yeah.'

  A long pause, then his ex-wife said, 'You called me. Did you have something to say?'

  'Where's, uh, how's Gabby?'

  'She's fine, considering. She's next door with Annabel playing at who can create most havoc. I think Melanie planned to banish them to the garden for the afternoon, but the weather won't allow. How's it over there? - it's piddling here.'

  'Yeah, the same. I think it's working its way up to a storm.'

  Another silence.

  'I'm kinda busy, Jonathan. I have to be in town by four.'

  'You working on a Saturday?'

  'Sort of. A new author's arriving in London today and the publisher wants me to cosy him, give him a prelim on his tour next week.'

  'Couldn't Ashby have handled it?'

  Her tone was sharp. 'We run the agency on a partnership basis - I carry my load. Anyway, what do you expect of a born-again career woman?'

  The barely veiled accusation stung and, not for the first time, he wondered if she would ever come to terms with his walking out. Walking out is how she would have put it.

  'Who's taking care of Gabby?'

  'She'll have dinner at Melanie's and Janet'll collect her later.' Janet was the young girl his former wife had hired as a daily nanny. 'She'll stay with Gabby until I get home. Is that good enough for you?'

  'Fran, I didn't mean-'

  'You didn't have to go, Jon. Nobody pushed you out.’

  'You didn't have to stay there,' he replied quietly. 'You wanted me to give up too much.’

  'The agency was only part-time then.'

  'But it was important to me. Now it's even more so - it has to be. And there were other reasons. Our life here.'

  'It'd become unbearable.'

  'Whose fault was that?' Her voice softened, as though she regretted her words. 'All right, I know things happened, ran out of control; I tried to understand, to cope. But you were the one who wanted to run.'

  'There was more to it, you know that.'

  'I know it would have all died down eventually. Everything.'' They both knew what she meant. 'You can't be sure.'

  'Look, I don't have time for this now, I have to get moving. I'll give your kisses to Gabby and maybe she'll call you tomorrow.'

  'I'd like to see her soon.'

  'I… I don't know. Perhaps at half-term. We'll see.'

  'Do me one thing, Fran.'

  She sighed, anger gone. 'Ask me.'

  'Check on Gabby before you leave. Just pop in, say hello. Make sure she's okay.'

  'What is this, Jon? I'd have done that anyway, but what are you saying?'

  'It's nothing. I guess this empty house is getting to me. You worry, y'know?'

  'You sound… funny. Are you really that down?'

  'It'll pass. Sorry I held you up.'

  'I'll get there. Do you need anything, Jon, can I send anything over?'

  Gabby. You can send over my daughter. 'No, I don't need anything, everything's fine. Thanks anyway.'

  'Okay. Gotta run now.'

  'Good luck with your author.'

  'With business the way it is, we take anything we can get. He'll get a good promo. See you.' The connection was broken.

  Childes returned to the sitting room and slumped onto the sofa, deciding he didn't want another drink. He removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes with stiffened fingers, his daughter's image swimming before him. Gabriel had been four when he'd left them. He hoped one day she would understand.

  He rested there for a long time, head against the sofa back, legs stretched out onto the small patterned rug on the polished wood floor, glasses propped in one hand on his chest, sometimes staring at the ceiling, sometimes closing his eyes, trying to remember what he had seen.

  For some reason, all he could visualise was the colour red. A thick, glutinous red. He thought he could even scent the blood.

  4

  The first nightmare visited him that night. He awoke afraid and rigid. Alone.

  The after-vision of the dream was still with him, yet it resisted focus. He could sense only a white, shimmering thing, a taunting spectre. It faded, gradually overwhelmed by the moonlight flooding the room.

  Childes pushed himself upright in the bed, resting his back against the cool wall behind. He was frozen, fear caressing him with wintry touches. And he did not know why, could find no reason.

  Outside, in the bleak stillness of the silver night, a solitary gull wailed a haunted cry.

  5

  'No, Jeanette, you'll have to go back and check. Remember, the computer hasn't got a mind of its own - it relies totally on yours. One wrong instruction from you and it doesn't just get confused -it sulks. It won't give you what you want.'

  Childes smiled down at the girl, a little weary of her regular basic errors, but well aware that not every youngster's brain was tuned into the rapidly advancing technological era, despite what the newspapers and Sunday colour supps informed their parents. No longer in the commercial world of computers, he had had to
adjust himself to slow-down, to pace himself with the children he taught. Some had the knack, others didn't, and he had to ease the latter through their frustration.

  'Okay, back to RETURN and go through each stage slowly this time, step by step. You can't go wrong if you think about each move.'

  Her frown told him she wasn't convinced. Neither was he.

  He left Jeanette biting her lower lip and pressing each key with exaggerated deliberation as though it was a battle of wills between girl and machine.

  'Hey, Kelly, that's good.'

  The fourteen-year-old glanced at him and beamed, her eyes touching his just a little too deeply. He peered at the screen, impressed.

  'Is that your own spreadsheet?' he asked.

  She nodded, her gaze now back on the visual display.

  'Looks like you won't get through the year on those expenses.'

  'I will when I send the printout home. Dad'll pay up when he sees the evidence.'

  Childes laughed: Kelly had soon discovered the potential of microelectronics. There were seven such machines on benches around the classroom, itself an annexe to the science department, and it seemed all were in constant demand even when he was not there to supervise. He had been fortunate when he had come - fled - to the island, for the colleges there, so many of them private concerns, were keen to embrace the computer age, well aware that fee-paying parents regarded such knowledge as an essential part of their children's education. Until his arrival, Childes had been employed on a freelance basis by a company specialising in aiding commercial enterprises, both large and small, to set up computer systems tailored to their particular needs, advising on layout and suitable software, devising appropriate programs, often installing the machinery itself and running crash courses on their functions. One of his usual tasks was to smooth out kinks in the system, to solve problems that invariably arose in initial operation, and his flair - intuition, some called it - for cutting through the intricacies of any system to find a specific fault was uncanny. He had been highly skilled, highly paid, and highly respected by his colleagues; yet his departure had come as a relief to many of them.

  Kelly was smiling at him. 'I need a new program to work on,' she said.

  Childes checked his watch. 'Bit late to start one now. I'll set you something more difficult next time.'

  'I could stay.'

  One of the other girls giggled and, despite himself, Childes felt a sudden, ridiculous flush. Fourteen years old, for Chrissake!

  'Maybe you could. Not me, though. Just tidy your bench until the bell goes. Better still, run through Jeanette's program with her - she seems to be having difficulties.'

  A mild irritation flickered in her eyes, but the smile did not change. 'Yes, sir.' A little too brisk.

  She sidled rather than walked over to Jeanette's monitor and he mentally shook his head at her poise, her body movement too knowing for her years. Even her close-cropped sandy hair and pert nose failed to assert her true age, and eagerly budding breasts easily defeated any youthful image presented by the school uniform of blue skirt, plain white shirt and striped tie. By comparison, Jeanette appeared every inch the young schoolgirl, with womanhood not yet even peeking over the horizon. It seemed aptitude was not confined just to learning.

  He shifted along the benches, leaning forward here and there to give instructions to the other girls, some of whom were sharing machines, soon enthused by their enthusiasm, helping them spot their own 'bugs', showing them the correct procedures. The bell surprised him even though he knew it was imminent.

  He straightened, noticing Kelly and Jeanette were not enjoying each other's company. 'Switch off your machines,' he told the class. 'Let's see, when do I take you again…?'

  'Thursday,' they replied in unison.

  'All right, I think we'll cover the various types of computers then, and future developments. Hope you'll have some good questions for me.'.Someone groaned.

  'Problem?'

  'When do we get on to graphics, sir?' the girl asked. Her plump, almost cherubic, face was puckered with disappointment.

  'Soonish, Isobel. When you're ready. Off you go and don't leave anything behind; I'm locking up when I leave.'

  The concerted break for the door was not as orderly as the principal of La Roche Ladies College would have wished for, but Childes considered himself neither teacher nor disciplinarian, merely a computer consultant to this school and to two others on the island. So long as the kids did not get out of hand and appeared to absorb much of what he showed them, he liked to keep a relaxed atmosphere in the classroom; he didn't want them wary of the machines and an informal atmosphere helped in that respect. In fact, he found the pupils in all three schools remarkably well-behaved, even those in the boys college.

  His eyes itched, irritated by the soft contact lenses he wore. He considered changing them for his glasses lying ready for emergencies at the bottom of his briefcase, but decided it was too much trouble. The irritation would pass.

  'Knock, knock.'

  He looked around to see Amy standing in the open doorway.

  'Is sir coming out to play?' she asked. 'You asking me to?'

  'Who am I to be proud?' Amy strolled into the classroom, her hair tied back into a tight bun in an attempt to render her schoolmarmish. To Childes, it only heightened her sensuality, as did her light-green, high-buttoned dress, for he knew beyond the disguise. 'Your eyes look sore,' she remarked, quickly looking back at the open doorway, then pecking his cheek when she saw it was clear.

  He resisted the urge to pull her tight. 'How was your day?'

  'Don't ask. I took drama.' She shuddered. 'D'you know what play they want to put on for end-of-term?'

  He dropped papers into his briefcase and snapped it shut. 'Tell me.'

  'Dracula. Can you imagine Miss Piprelly allowing it? I'm frightened even to put forward the suggestion.'

  He chuckled. 'Sounds like a good idea. Beats the hell out of Nicholas Nickleby again.'

  'Fine, I'll tell her Dracula has your support.'

  'I'm just an outsider, not a full member of staff. My opinion doesn't count.'

  'You think mine does? Our headmistress may not be the Ayatollah in person, but I'm certain there's a family connection somewhere.'

  He shook his head, smiling. 'She's not so bad. A little over-anxious about the school's image, maybe, but it's understandable. For such a small island, you're kind of heavy on private schools.'

  'That comes with being a tax haven. You're right, though: competition is fierce, and the college's governing body never lets us forget it. I do have some sympathy for her, even though…'

  They were suddenly aware of a figure in the doorway.

  'Did you forget something, Jeanette?' Childes asked, wondering how long she had been standing there.

  The girl looked shyly at him. 'Sorry, sir. I think I left my fountain pen on the bench.'

  'All right, go ahead and look.'

  Head bowed, Jeanette walked into the room with short, quick steps. A sallow-complexioned girl with dark eyes, who one day might be pretty, Jeanette was petite for her age; her hair was straggly long, not yet teased into any semblance of style. The jacket of her blue uniform was one size too large, shrinking her body within even more, and there was a timidity about her that Childes found disarming and sometimes faintly exasperating.

  She searched around the computer she had been using, Amy watching with a trace of a smile, while Childes set about unplugging the machines from the mains. Jeanette appeared to be having no luck and finally stared forlornly at the computer as though it had mysteriously swallowed up the missing article.

  'No joy?' Childes asked, approaching her section of the bench and stooping to reach the plug beneath.

  'No, sir.'

  'Ah, I'm not surprised. It's on the floor here.' Kneeling, he offered up the wayward pen.

  Solemnly, and avoiding his eyes, Jeanette took it from him. 'Thank you,' she said, and Childes was surprised to see her blush. She hurried from
the room.

  He pulled the plug and stood. 'What are you smiling about?' he asked Amy.

  'The poor girl's got a crush on you.'

  'Jeanette? She's just a kid.'

  'In a girls-only school, many of them fulltime boarders, any halfway decent-looking male is bound to receive some attention. You haven't noticed?'

  He shrugged. 'Maybe one or two have given me some funny looks, but I - what d'you mean halfway decent-looking?'

  Smiling, Amy grabbed his arm and led him towards the door. 'Come on, school's out and I could use some relaxation. A short drive and a long gin and tonic with lots of ice before I go home for dinner.'

  'More guests?'

  'No, just family for a change. Which reminds me: you're invited to dinner this weekend.'

  He raised his eyebrows. 'Daddy had a change of heart?'

  'Uh-uh, he still despises you. Let's call it Mother's influence.'

  'That's pretty heartwarming.'

  She looked up at him and pulled a face, squeezing his arm before releasing it as they went out into the corridor. On the stairway to the lower floor she was aware of surreptitious appraisal by several pupils, a few nudged elbows here and there. She and Jon were strictly formal with each other in the presence of others on school grounds, but a shared car was enough to set tongues wagging.

  They reached the large glass entrance doors of the building, a comparatively new extension housing the science laboratories, music and language rooms, and separated from the main college by a circular driveway with a lawned centre. In the middle, a statue of La Roche's founder stared stoically at the principal white building as if counting every head that entered its portals. Girls hurried across the open space, either towards the carpark at the rear of the college where parents waited, or to dormitories and rest-rooms in the south wing, their chatter unleashed after such long restraint. The salt tang of sea air breezing over the clifftops was a welcome relief from the shared atmosphere of the classroom and Childes inhaled deeply as he and Amy descended the short flight of concrete steps leading from the annexe.