by Tony Walker
“Well, I’ll come up and see,” he said. As they walked out of the living room, he heard the slow metallic ticks of the grandfather clock from where it now stood in the hallway. Something about it drew his attention. He saw Jessica look too.
“Nice old clock, isn’t it?” he said, but she just scowled. He carried her upstairs. Her room was on the third floor. The staircase was made of oak, and the house was centrally heated so it was never cold. The nearest other house was about half a mile away and the nearest pub and public telephone about four. The valley was quiet at night - all the sounds of civilization absent; all they heard was the rushing water in the rain-fed back and the occasional caws of ravens. Around the house, high up on three sides out of four, glowered the dark fells. John loved the quiet and the sense of place he found since moving there. This was the valley his family were originally from — the home of his people since the Ice Age. He had wanted to get back there for years and so he snapped the farmhouse up when it came on the market.
The stairs creaked as they mounted them.
“Can I stay down with you and mummy?”
“No, it’s time for bed.”
“I don’t have school till next week; we’re on holiday.”
“I don’t care; you’re only little. You need your sleep.”
And then they arrived in Jessica’s room. There were her toys strewn all over the bed and her doll collection sitting on the chest of drawers watching them.
Jessica wrinkled her nose. “Pooh,” she said.
“It’s just your imagination.”
“Sniff!” she commanded.
He drew in the air. There was a strange smell. He’d never noticed it before. It wasn’t damp - it was a musty smell of decay, but with something else - some acrid after-smell, like vinegar or burning.
Jess was watching him. “See! You can smell it too!”
He put her down on her bed and pulled the covers over her.
“Can’t you?” she said. “I saw you wrinkle your nose.”
He smiled. “Yes, there is a faint smell. But it’s not too bad. It won’t stop you sleeping.”
She crossed her arms in defiance, but he bent down and kissed her head. “Night night my lamb,” he said, and he stepped over to the door. He was about to turn off the light when she said, “Can I keep the light on?”
He ruffled her hair. “You’re not scared of the dark are you? You didn’t used to be.”
“Yes, I am,” she said.
“Since when?”
“Since the clock came.”
“That’s just an excuse.”
“No, it’s not.”
“You won’t sleep with this big light on,” he said. “How about I switch on your star globe?”
Jess loved the star globe. It always soothed her to sleep. It sat on the table by her bed and slowly rotated while casting stars on the ceiling and walls.
“Ok,” Jess said. “But you’ll be just downstairs, won’t you daddy? You and mummy?”
He smiled. “Of course we will you sausage. Where do you think we’re going to go?”
“If I call out, will you come?”
“Enough of this now, Jessica. You’re just trying to avoid going to sleep.” He turned on the star globe and it started its pretty circuit, slowly turning and projecting the constellations around the room. He switched off the main light and stood for a while, watching its magic stars track around the walls and ceiling. “Now, sleep!” he said.
When he went downstairs, Sarah poured him another glass of wine. “What’s got into her?” he said as he sat down and picked up the wine.
“She’s just that age,” said Sarah. “Night fears and suchlike; she’ll grow out of it.”
“I guess. What’s on?”
Sarah had the TV controller. “Want to watch this drama documentary about the start of the First World War?” she said.
“Sure,” he nodded. “Beats those bloody cash in your attic antique programmes that are always on.”
When their programmes finished, Sarah went up to bed before him and he finished the bottle of wine, sitting in the living room listening to the rain that beat on the window. They’d drawn the heavy satin curtains to keep the night out, but he could still hear the wind moving down the valley and the rain hitting the stones outside. It sounded wild.
Once he’d finished his wine, John stood but before he went to bed; he admired the clock in the hallway. The clock kept good time now with its steady tick-tock. There was a painting of a man who looked like a farmer on the left-hand side of the clock face and a woman on the right-hand side who was probably his wife. Below the main dial, there was a little circle that had the sun on one half and a starlit sky on the other. John guessed that this circle had originally turned to show night and day, but it had long since got stuck.
Once in bed, John slept heavily, Sarah cuddled in beside him. They were both deeply asleep when there was a scream that rent the silence. Instantly awake, John jumped up, Sarah woke suddenly beside him and, in her fear, grabbed his arm and held him back.
“It’s upstairs,” he said and pulled free of her before she could answer. He ran out of the room and rushed up the stairs to his daughter’s room, driven by a primal instinct to protect. He could feel the adrenaline rushing through him; feel his muscles harden and dark aggression pool in his heart and belly, ready to fight, to kill and to destroy anything that threatened his daughter. He quickly pushed at the half-open bedroom door. The little globe still cast its plaintive stars across the room, and there, where he had expected to see her sobbing in fear, Jess was asleep. She woke as he entered and sat up.
“Daddy?” she said sleepily. “What’s the matter?”
He could feel himself shaking, even though she was safe. He scooped her up and brushed her tousled hair out of her eyes.
“Daddy!” she said, getting worried. “You look scared.”
“I just heard a noise. I thought it was you.”
Sarah had come up behind him and was peering into the room, half holding back as if she too had expected something terrible in the room.
“Hello, mummy,” said Jessica.
Sarah came over. “Back to bed now, baby,” she said.
The girl yawned. “I was asleep daddy. I was dreaming I was in a forest and there was somebody there. I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were there in the trees, but Timmy was with me and I was okay.”
He hugged her to him. “I’m just glad you’re okay my darling.”
Jessica continued to talk about her dream. “I don’t think it was a person, though. It was something else.”
John ignored her sleepy chatter as he put her back to bed. She fell asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. John went out of the door and Sarah held him so he couldn’t walk. “I was so scared,” she said. He could feel her heart thumping against his chest as she spoke.
“She’s fine,” he said and hugged her back.
“But what was that noise — that scream?”
“Could we have dreamed it?” he said.
“Both of us?”
He shrugged. “There’s no one in the house but us.”
“Could the cat have screamed like that?”
“I doubt it. Where is he anyway? He usually sleeps up here with Jess.”
There was no sign of Timmy. They walked down the stairs. Sarah said, “He must be out. Will you make sure he’s okay?”
John nodded. “You stay here.”
They were at the door to their own bedroom. “I’ll come with you,” she offered.
He smiled. “Don’t need to. I’m sure Timmy’s fine. I’ll just go downstairs and double check we’re locked up. Maybe a burglar tripped over a wire or something and that was him screaming.”
She punched him lightly. “Don’t make jokes about it. I was scared.”
He crossed the room and picked up a cricket bat that stood propped up against the wardrobe. “Just to reassure you,” he said. He kept the bat there in case of intruders
though he knew it wouldn’t do much against a man with a knife or a gun. He hefted the bat in his hand and turned and smiled at Sarah. “Be right back.”
He stood on the bottom stair and listened in the dark before flicking on the light switch. He heard the house shift slightly as the wind outside moved down the valley. He heard the water in the stream outside. Then he heard something in the hall in front of him. His muscles tensed and he shifted his grip on the handle of the bat. He stepped down onto the hall floor carpet, shifted his stance and switched on the light.
And there in front of him; his back arched, tail bristled and fangs bared, was Timmy the cat. But he wasn’t facing John, he was hissing and spitting at the grandfather clock. John put his hand up to his nose. “Jeez, what’s that stink?” he said.
The foul odour of rot filled the hall; like something dead in the grass on a hot summer’s day. The cat stood its ground as if the clock was a person or a creature.
“What are you doing you crazy animal?” he said. “Have you shit somewhere?” He bent down to scoop up the cat, but it turned on him, yowling and raking him with its claws — struggling frantically to be free. It ran up the stairs out of sight. He dabbed the bleeding scratches, still carrying the cricket bat in his right hand. The smell was strong, but he couldn’t tell where it was coming from. It tainted the whole area. John checked the doors, but they were all locked. The cat was just spooked by the new clock and its ticking, mistaking it for a real creature, something that was a threat to its cat-ness.
He walked back upstairs. Sarah was sitting up in bed looking at him anxiously as he came in the door. He put the cricket bat in its place.
“So?” said Sarah. “Mystery solved?”
“I think the cat’s shit down there, or dragged something dead in. I’ll sort it in the morning. Couldn’t find the source of the stink in the dark.”
“What about the noise?”
He shrugged. “Must have dreamt the noise. It’s all secure down there - no maimed burglars or anything.”
“But I heard it too.”
“You sure though? You sure my waking didn’t just scare you and then when I said I heard a noise, you thought you heard it too in some kind of somnolent state?”
“Don’t try to psychiatrize me John. I heard the scream.”
He preferred to believe his version, but it was too late to fight so he said, “Ok, sure. Let’s sleep.”
Then she saw his arm. “What did you do?” she said. “It’s bleeding.”
“It was the cat.”
“Timmy?”
“The clock spooked him and he was standing spitting at it. When I tried to pick him up, he went for me.”
She leaned over and got a tissue from the box on her bedside table. She dabbed John’s arm with it. “I still don’t like that clock,” she said. “There’s a nasty feeling to it.”
“Just because it came from my nasty uncle. Maybe some of his nastiness rubbed off on it?” joked John.
“You never take anything seriously, John. Sometimes you should consider feelings or hunches.”
He lay down with his head on the pillow and pulled up the covers. “No,” he said. “Feelings aren’t facts. That’s where people go wrong. Don’t trust your feelings, especially your fears. Look for evidence.”
She put out the light. “Good night Mr Scientist,” she said and leaned over and kissed him on his cheek.
John was dozing when he felt a weight jump on his chest and heard the soft purring of the cat. It rubbed itself against his face and he reached out to stroke it. “So we’re friends again are we, Timmy?”
In response, the cat just purred louder. It stuck him that the cat was usually aloof and independent — never this needy of comfort. “Calm down, bud,” he said. “I need to sleep.” The cat found the space between him and Sarah and settled itself down to doze.
Sarah was up before he woke properly. She brought him a cup of tea. It was just light outside. He checked the clock. “Damn, I’ve slept in.”
“Not much,” she said. “Drink your tea and I’ll get Jessica up. We’re going to the aquarium this morning with her little friends.”
John got out of bed and went to switch on the shower. He had just got into the bathroom when he heard a scream. This time it was clearly Sarah’s. He ran upstairs.
Sarah was standing at the door of Jessica’s room, holding the little girl in her arms. Jessica looked fine.
“What?” he said urgently.
Sarah gestured to Jessica’s bed. A red flood of blood soaked the pillow. He touched it. It was dry, as if it had bled during the night. “Nosebleed?” he said.
“There’s no blood on her,” said Sarah.
“Baby, did you have a nosebleed?” he said to Jessica.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so, daddy.”
“But where’s all this blood on your pillow come from?”
She shrugged and smiled. “I don’t know. But maybe from the thing in the forest.”
John was baffled. “What forest?”
“I told you!” she said in her little girl voice. “I was having a dream and me and Timmy were in the woods and there was a thing there. It was watching us and it was all covered in blood. Timmy was brave, and he went to fight it.”
Sarah looked searchingly at him.
“Another mystery,” he said. “Come on, let’s get moving. I need to get going.”
He went to his room and finished dressing. When he came downstairs, Sarah was in her nightdress covered in a dressing gown serving Jessica Oatibix.
“Smell’s gone,” he said. “Did you find whatever Timmy killed last night? It smelled like an old dead bird.”
“There wasn’t a smell when I came down.”
John didn’t have time to talk it through. He looked at his watch. “Going to be late for ward round,” he said.
Sarah walked him to the door. He was expecting his usual goodbye kiss, but she hesitated. She looked worried. She said, “I’ve read about young girls being the centre of occult phenomena.”
“Sarah,” he said firmly. “There are no such things as occult phenomena.”
“But what about the scream and the blood and the smell?”
“All perfectly explainable; just coincidences that our mind strings together and thinks it sees a pattern. Don’t worry, I won’t let the monsters get my girls.” He teased her, but she wasn’t laughing. He stroked her face. “Really, don’t worry. Have a nice time at the aquarium. See you when I get home.”
The Ward Round was a long one. In the room was John as Consultant Psychiatrist in charge. Also, there was his student Melissa - CT1 Doctor in Psychiatry. Then there was Sofia the Clinical Psychologist - originally from Athens. There were various nurses - Billy the Charge Nurse, who looked as tough as he was; Maureen who talked about nothing except how long she had to go to retirement; a pretty student nurse called Frances. The Social Worker, Sue, sat next to Melissa and the pharmacist Ned Brown — as boring as he was knowledgeable — on the far side of her. The patients came in one by one — some with their families. There was a bit of argy-bargy with each of them about what meds they would accept and whether John could lift their Sections. Hardly any of them thought they were ill. In reality, most of them were psychotic and somebody at some point had judged them dangerous. John’s job was to recommend transfer to open wards for those who were responding to treatment and whose delusions were diminishing. Unfortunately, some of them were treatment resistant, and even the dangerous drug clozapine - the last line of defence - didn’t touch them.
They had seen six patients and John was in need of a coffee. He suggested as much but Billy said, “Just one more boss? Then we can go for lunch.”
“Who is it?”
“Robert.”
John raised his eyebrows. Robert had delusions that he was a black magician and usually spent ten minutes shouting at John that he would drain his soul and eat his heart. John sighed. “Robert? I think I need a coffee before I can take the abuse
.”
Billy shook his head. “No, he’s loads better this week. Frances has been spending a lot of time with him.” John looked at Frances, young and fresh faced — probably only about twenty. He remembered being that keen once. He knew that the student nurses had more time to spend face to face with patients because they were not burdened with paperwork like the qualified ones. The patients enjoyed the simple human contact.
“Ok,” he said. “Bring him in.”
Robert came in wearing his black t-shirt and black jeans. If allowed he would don a black cloak too, but the staff didn’t think it helped his mental state and wouldn’t let him wear it to ward rounds.
Robert sat down, looking suspiciously all around him at the smiling professionals. He began to chant something that John vaguely recognised as lines from the Book of Revelations - something about the Beast.
“And how are you this week, Robert?” said John.
Melissa sat ready, pen in hand, to record Robert’s response.
Robert stared hard at John. “Hello, Dr Eliot,” he said. Then he began to smile as if at some private joke.
“What’s so funny?” smiled John back. “Is my hair sticking up again?” The assembled professionals laughed quietly at their boss’s joke, but Robert shook his head; he glared at John. “Little Brother, you have been meddling with the Goetia,” he said. Everyone smiled - polite but puzzled. But Robert didn’t give up. He said, “I mean you doctor. It’s a quote about Aleister Crowley.”
“Well, Robert. I don’t know what it is, so I don’t know if I’ve been meddling with it.”
Melissa leaned in. “Aleister Crowley was an occultist at the beginning of the…”
John turned to her. “I know who Aleister Crowley was.”
Robert peered at John as if examining him - almost sniffing. Then he said, “Rather, the Goetia has been meddling with you; I think that would be more correct.”
“Still don’t know what that is. Could you explain?”
But Robert ignored him. “I smell a stink and see red blood,” he said.
John sat up and frowned. He felt a flash of alarm but hid it. The talk of blood was just a coincidence. No one else looked ruffled. This all just sounded like Robert’s normal religious ramblings.
