Moon

by James Herbert

  The scared little voice fought hard to stem the sobs. 'The… the… stairs are all on… f-fire.'

  He stroked her hair, pressing close. 'We'll use the other staircase. Don't you remember fire-drill and the stone steps that lead out of the building? They can't burn, so there's nothing to be frightened of there. And you remember me, don't you? Mr Childes? I bet you've come into my computer classroom at some time to have a look, haven't you?'

  As if by silent, mutual consent, they threw themselves into his arms and he held their small, trembling bodies close, feeling the dampness of their tears on his neck, against his chest. Without further words, he lifted the two girls and made his way back between the short rows of beds, carrying them on either arm, their combined weight hardly encumbering him for those few moments. He stumbled once, twice, using a red-glowing line he knew to be from beneath the closed door as a guide.

  Yet another sound now mingled with the general muffled roar, this one distant, beyond the school itself, and growing louder with each passing second. Approaching sirens.

  The two schoolgirls, one in pyjamas, the other in an ankle-length nightie, buried their faces against him, bouts of coughing jerking their bodies.

  'Try not to breathe in too deeply,' he told them, swallowing with some difficulty to relieve his own parched throat. The towel had fallen from his shoulders and become lost.

  When they were at the door, Childes put down the girls and fumbled around the floor for the discarded bedsheets. His fingers closed around the material and he drew it up, remaining on one knee, the two frightened girls staying close.

  He forced himself to speak easily, discarding any hint of panic.

  'I know you both, I'm sure, but for the life of me I can't remember your names. So how about telling me, eh?'

  'Sandy,' a quivery voice said close to his ear.

  'That's nice. And what about you?' he asked, pulling the other to him. 'Aren't you going to tell me yours?'

  'R-Rachel,' came the stuttered reply.

  'Good girl. Now listen, Sandy and Rachel: I'm going to open this door and go outside, but I want you to wait here for me.' The fingers dug into him.

  'I promise it'll be all right. I'll only be gone for a short while.'

  'Please don't leave us here!'

  He couldn't tell which one had cried out. 'I've got to help some of the others, some of the older girls. They're not far away, but they're in trouble. I've got to go and fetch them.' He pulled their arms free, hating what he was doing, but having no choice. They struggled to keep hold of him, but he stood, the sheets over one shoulder, and felt for the door knob. Was it warmth from his own hand, or was the metal really hot? He yanked open the door.

  To squint against the torrid glare, his skin contracting against the harsh blast of heat that swept in.

  Shielding his eyes, he peered into the corridor and was dismayed at how much more the fire had spread.

  The awful, splintering roar came just as he stepped out from the dormitory. No shrieks and no cries for help accompanied that sound - at least, none that he heard - but he knew its source, he knew exactly what had happened.

  Yet he had to make sure. He had to be certain. If there was the slightest chance -

  'Stay there!’ he screamed at the two clutching, terrified ten-year-olds. He ran, crouching low, ignoring the peeling sensation of his skin, knowing it was only drawing tight around his bones, not really breaking, that it only felt that way. He bumped off the wall as he ran, the tied sheets trailing behind.

  Childes reached the wider area overlooking the main staircase, only a few areas of unburnt flooring left. Overhead, curious rolling waves of fire swept the ceiling.

  He could no longer touch the balustrade that was part of the balcony over the stairs, for the wooden beam was engulfed, a burning log amidst a greater fire. But he could see sections of the stairway through occasional gaps in the flames.

  Only there was no stairway any more, just bits of burning timber protruding from the walls. And there was no longer any landing below. Everything had collapsed into the screeching volcanic pit.

  ***

  Childes returned to the dormitory, too numbed for emotional tears, his blurred vision caused by stinging smoke-whirls. The three tied bedsheets lay further back along the corridor where he had dropped them and were already beginning to flame. He staggered, an arm resting against the wall, but kept moving, knowing it would be fatal to stop. His pace quickened when he saw that the two girls were no longer by the doorway. He prayed that they had obeyed him, had not run off in the opposite direction, away from the oncoming fire. If they got lost in the thickening smoke…

  The door was still ajar and he pushed it back so that the wood smacked against a bedside cupboard behind. His shadow was black against a yellow-red patch of shifting, soft-edged light and Sandy and Rachel, cuddled together on the nearest bed, watched him with wide fearful eyes.

  'Come on,' he said, and they both felt the deadness in his voice. 'I'm taking you out.'

  They ran to him and he scooped them up, one in each arm. Now they were heavy, but he would manage. Whatever it took, he would at least save these two. Childes backed out and headed down the long corridor, away from the worst of the flames, everything around them - walls, ceiling, floorboards - sizzling, ready to ignite, to explode into one huge conflagration. He could barely see and there was a steady growing numbness inside his head, a constricting of his throat. Flames shot out from the floor near a wall, forcing him to turn his back and face the opposite wall to squeeze by. There wasn't a murmur from either of the girls. Their arms were around his neck and they kept perfectly still, terribly afraid yet trusting. Perhaps they had sobbed out the worst of their terror inside the cupboard.

  They were in semi-darkness for a while, smoke obscuring even the light at their backs, but another soft-hued glimmer soon came into sight ahead. Although this flickering glow acted as a beacon, it was unwelcome; he had hoped that the fire stairs were far enough away to be still untouched by the fire below.

  After groping his way along, almost blind, sliding his back along the wall at one side, they finally reached the stone landing over the stairway. Childes all but collapsed onto hands and knees. Sandy and Rachel squatted by his side, waiting for his coughing fit to ease, they themselves choking into open palms.

  Recovering enough to pull himself up by the metal railings of the stairs, Childes looked over the top. The stairway acted as a chimney, smoke pouring upwards to swill into the corridor they had just left. Through the sweltering clouds he could see several fires emerging from corridors below.

  There was still a chance to get out - if they didn't choke to death on the way down.

  He gathered the two girls to him, kneeling so that his face was on a level with theirs. 'We're going to be fine,' he said, his voice dry and strained. 'We're walking down the stairs and we'll be outside within minutes. The stairs are concrete, as I told you, so they can't catch fire, but we'll have to keep away from the corridors.' He reached into his pocket. 'Rachel, you keep this hanky over your mouth and nose.'

  Obediently, she took the handkerchief from him and pressed it to her face.

  'Sandy, I'm afraid we'll have to spoil your nightie.' He reached for the hem and tore off a long strip of material, then tied it around her neck so that the lower half of her face was masked. He stood, but still crouched low. 'Okay, here we go,' he said.

  Childes took their hands and led them down the first flight of stairs, keeping to the wall and away from the rising fumes.

  The deeper they went, the fiercer the heat became.

  Sandy and Rachel hung back and Childes had to tug at them to keep them moving. Reaching a corner between first and second floors, he closed them in, protecting their bodies with his own. Rachel's knees were sagging as she leaned into the corner and he could see in the red light that she would never make it all the way down. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her head, then lifted her. She slumped against him, only half-conscious
. Maybe that was just as well; she'd be easier to handle. He took Sandy's hand once more and continued the descent, shielding her as best he could.

  'Not far now!' he said loudly to encourage her.

  In response, her other hand curled around his upper arm, holding tight. For an instant, Gabby's bespectacled face swam before him and he almost cried out her name. It was he who now faltered, sliding down the wall to sit on the steps, Rachel cradled in his lap, completely covered by his jacket and almost oblivious to what was going on. And it was Sandy who tugged at his shoulder, who worried him into rising again, refusing to let him rest for even a moment.

  He looked into her upturned, dirt-streaked face, flickering shadows playing over her features, and she repeated his own words: 'Not far now.'

  Not far, he kept telling himself, not far now, soon be on the last flight of stairs. But his strength was fading fast, was really leaving him this time, the last reserves expelled with his now ceaseless dry-retch coughing, each lungful of air taken in filled with asphyxiating fumes; and he could hardly see where to place his next step, so full were his eyes with running, stinging tears which made the rims of his eyelids so sore that it hurt even to squeeze them shut…

  … and Sandy was pulling him down, her exhausted little body unable to cope any more, her bare legs giving way so that she began to sink lower and lower until he was finally dragging her down the stone steps by her arm…

  … and his senses were reeling, full of images of moonstones and Gabby's face and torn mutilated bodies and piercing malevolent eyes that leered mockingly through flames, and Amy, cut and bleeding and writhing, and the glistening white and smooth moon shining through the whirling smoke layers, its lower curvature seeping dark blood…

  … and he was fading, slowly sinking with each blundering step downwards, losing his grip on Sandy, his hand touching warm concrete, taking his own weight so that he could gently lower himself, let his body fold up to rest, succumbing to the choking heat, even though there was only a short way to go, just one more flight, one more -

  A tiny part of his flagging senses revived a fraction, became alert to something that was happening below. His length sprawled on the stairs, he raised himself on one elbow.

  Voices. He could hear voices. Shouting. Dark silhouettes against flames that billowed from a corridor on the ground floor. Figures on the stairs. Coming towards him…

  46

  MOONSTONE

  (potassium aluminium silicate KA 1Si3O8)

  Density: 2.57

  Hardness: 6

  Indices of refraction: 1.519-1.526 (low)

  A variety of orthoclase feldspar, moonstone exhibits a faint but characteristic fluorescence when subjected to X-ray radiation.

  Moonstone, so called because when held to light, presents silvery play of colour not unlike that of the moon. Colour, usually white, known to mineralogists as schillerisation, from German word 'schiller’ meaning iridescence. Found in Sri Lanka, Madagascar and Burma.

  ***

  Overoy stubbed out the remains of his cigarette, rubbing his tired eyes with thumb and forefinger of his other hand. He sat at the dining-table, a light hanging so low over the smoked-glass surface that the room around him was cast in shadows. The living area was beyond a squared archway, two small rooms made into one large, an alteration he had tackled himself when he and Josie had moved nine years before, a distant time when he possessed energy for both career and domestic enterprises. Only a single lamp shone in that room, the television in grey suspension, curtains closed against the summer's night.

  Nothing. He looked down at his notes and said the word: 'Nothing.'

  The tiny gem was no more than some kind of kinky calling-card. But calling-cards were a reference. So why a moonstone? A reference to the moon?

  With one hand he spread the notes before him, sweeping them in an arc like a winning hand of cards.

  Amy Sebire had suggested that Moon was a name. Yet Childes had psychically seen the moon as a symbol.

  A symbol representing a name?

  Overoy reached for the cigarette pack, found it empty, tossed the carton towards the end of the table. He stood, stretching his arms out behind his back, taking a short walk around the table. He sat once more and ran his hands over his face and around to the back of his neck, entwining his fingers there.

  How was Childes coping? he wondered. Against all the rules, Overoy had left scene-of-crime evidence with him. A tiny piece of evidence, the moonstone itself. Childes had wanted the gem. So why not? It was useless to the police. But the stone had some significance for the killer. Checking jewellers in and around the London area had yielded nothing so far, even though the gem on its own wasn't a usual item for sale. The person they were looking for was obviously shopping around, never using the same place twice.

  His weary eyes ranged over the pile of books heaped on the dark glass, most of them unhelpful, the information he needed sifted only from a few. That information was all to do with the moon; or more precisely, the mystical aspect of the moon.

  Moon-madness, Josie had scolded him before leaving him in the gloom for their bed.

  Not my moon-madness, Josie; someone else's.

  Ask any policeman how the crime rate, usually with violence, inexplicably increased during a full moon. Even headshrinks believed a full moon tended to bring out the loonies. Overoy had underlined a note he had made: If the moon has an effect on the earth's water masses, then why not also on the brain, which is semi-liquid pulp? It was a thought.

  And two new moons in one single month was said to be calamitous by those who believed in such things. There had been two new moons in May when the Moonstone atrocities had begun. That point had been underscored in his notes as well.

  Another common belief among many people was that the moon's maleficent character (despite his weariness he smiled at himself, thinking of the old Man in the Moon and his cranky ways) could be manifested here on earth as a baleful emanation by those who had occult powers. Interesting but not a point to put before the commissioner.

  He picked up a red felt-tip and circled the capital-letter word MUTILATIONS, then drew a line from it to another: RITUAL. Close to that he now wrote: SACRIFICE?? Perhaps a better word was OFFERING.

  Offering to what? The moon? No, there had to be some kind of reasoning, even if only a crazy man's reasoning. To a moon god then? Goddesses seemed to dominate that area of worship, so let's make it moon goddess. Oh boy, if the boys in blue could see him now.

  All right. There were a few moon goddesses to ponder on. Let's run through the list again:

  DIANA

  ARTEMIS

  SELENE

  Then three who were the same:

  AGRIOPE - Greek -› HECATE

  SHEOL - Hebrew -› HECATE

  NEPHYS - Egyptian -› HECATE

  Hecate. Why did that one ring a bell, albeit a very distant bell? Coming across that name in his researches had prompted further investigation into moon worship and the relevant gods and goddesses. (She seemed to be the most popular, but why should that mean anything? Let's have a look at her.)

  Hecate. Goddess of the dead. Necromantic rituals devoted to her. Daughter of the Titan Perses and of Asteria. Protector and teacher of sorceresses. (Was he really taking all this seriously?)

  Hecate. Keyholder of Hell, dispatcher of phantoms from the underworld. At night she would leave Hades and roam on earth accompanied by hounds and the souls of the dead, her hair like bristling snakes and her voice like a howling dog. Her favourite nocturnal retreat was near a lake called Armarantiam Phasis, 'the lake of murders'. (Nice lady.)

  Hecate. Possessor of all the great dark knowledges, mother of witches. (What was it about the name?)

  Hecate. Like the moon she was fickle and inconsistent of character. At times benign and motherly, acting as midwife, nurse and foster-mother, watching over crops and flocks. But the other side of her nature, the dark side, gradually superseded her kinder side. She had become an infernal deity,
a snake goddess with three heads -a dog's, a horse's, a lion's. (Real Edgar Allen. Hell, he couldn't believe he'd written it all down. At least he'd been wise enough to carry out his research at home.)

  Overoy reached for the half-drunk mug of coffee lurking behind the pile of books, his lips curling back in disgust on tasting the tepid dregs. He put down the mug again and relaxed back in the chair. Where was he getting with all this? Was the research mere time-wasting or did it really have some relevance? They were dealing with someone who had a sick, deranged mind, someone who desecrated the dead, mutilated murdered victims. Someone who left a moonstone as a calling-card, and someone who got a kick out of psychological torment. Not a pleasant person. But a moon-worshipper? Or, more accurately, a moon-goddess worshipper?

  Nah, no sense to it.

  But their quarry was demented anyway.

  Why had Hecate stuck in his mind? What was familiar about that name? Something he'd seen somewhere…

  He groaned. No good, he was too tired to think any more. Everything was buzzing around inside his head and none of it settling. Bed. Sleep on it. Talk with Josie - whoops, was that the time? Talk to her in the morning; she always helped clear his thoughts. Maybe he'd got it all wrong anyway. Moon-goddesses, moon-worshippers, moonstones. Psychics. Life was simpler on the beat.

  Overoy rose from the dining-table and, hands tucked into trouser pockets, took one last look at his spread notes.

  Finally shrugging, he turned off the light and went up to bed…