by Nick Gifford
Eventually, he reaches the top of the cliff and stares down the grassy slope to the bay in amazement. The sea is red: blood red. And there are things floating in the waves, washed up onto the beach. Arms, feet, heads – all ripped from their bodies by some unimaginably vile force.
He starts to run again, following the road until he comes to Bagshaw Terrace. He turns left, heading for town. Faces crowd every window. Ghoulish faces with bulging eyes and insane smiles. Every window ... watching him, smiling. As if they are waiting for something.
This isn’t Bathside, he realises. Although, in a peculiar sense, it is Bathside. Where is he, then?
His feet are heavy again, and all he wants to do is stop. But he can’t... he knows for certain he can’t stop now.
The faces are pressing hard against the windows now, as if sensing his weakness. Hands press at the windows, and he can hear their fingernails – hundreds of fingernails – scratching down the glass, the sound like some mad, warped string section tuning up. Just waiting.
And suddenly, he knows where he is. This isn’t Bathside, it’s an alternative, a Bathside that has never existed, but contains all the darker, twisted Bathsides that might have existed if things had been different, if things had been far, far worse.
He’s crossing the mental bridge. He’s out jogging in Alternity, and his feet are getting heavier and heavier again.
He stares at all the ghoulish, eager faces.
He’ll have to stop running soon. He won’t be able to go on for much longer. He’ll have to...
~
He woke, his body soaked in sweat, his head aching as if someone had been trying to break out of his skull with a pneumatic drill. He sat up straight, hugging himself, willing the mad images to go away, willing the pain to stop.
He was going insane, he knew. Almost every night now, he was having these dark, terrifying dreams. Even now that he had some kind of explanation – even if it was one that transformed everything he had ever understood about the world – he feared that it would end in madness.
How had Gramps lasted so long if he had suffered like this, he wondered? And how did a child of Kirsty’s age cope with it? Little wonder she had so many ‘turns’, as Aunt Carol called them.
These thoughts offered a morsel of comfort to him: Kirsty survived, Gramps had lived with it for more than eighty years. There must be a way of coping. He remembered the letter, Gramps’ phrase: your talent must be mastered.
He had to find some way of controlling it, whatever it was. He had to master this gift, this affliction. The alternative, he knew, was insanity. Or maybe something worse.
~
The following afternoon presented Matt with his first opportunity to learn. It was the first time he had been alone with Kirsty for more than a few seconds, the first time he had had the chance to talk to her.
Vince and Mike were at work, his mother and aunt were at the hospital with Gramps, and Tina had gone to a friend’s birthday party. That had come as a surprise to Matt: he couldn’t imagine Tina having any kind of life outside the small circle of her family. Perhaps they weren’t very close friends, he decided. She hadn’t been at all keen to go to this party, after all, but Carol had insisted. “You accepted the invitation,” she told her. “You have to learn to meet your obligations. You’re going to go to this party, my girl, and what’s more, you’re going to enjoy it.”
Kirsty seemed to be trying to avoid him. There were just the two of them in the house, yet he didn’t see her for nearly an hour. She was up in her room, he guessed.
He settled down at the end of the sofa with one of his grandparents’ old photograph albums. This one dated back to the early 1950s. Gran and Gramps would have been about the same age as his parents were now, he realised. Next to each of the pictures was a label, written in his grandmother’s flowing script, identifying the place and time. Alhambra Palace, Granada, July 12th 1953. Toledo, August 4th 1953. The Prado, Madrid, August 6th 1953.
The small girl in the pictures must be Carol, he thought. The baby would have been his mother. His grandparents looked so contented, so at one with their world. The young doctor and his wife.
It seemed like a golden age to Matt. He wondered what it was really like: what had been going through the mind of that man? What fears, what worries? What night terrors did he endure?
Perhaps that was why he had travelled so much: distance offering the only respite from the madness, and the danger. Had he been running away?
He looked up as the TV leapt into life. Kirsty had come into the room without a sound, and now she was setting up one of her video games. She met his look briefly, then turned away.
“Hi, Kirsty,” he said.
“Hello.” Her voice was small, uncertain. Suddenly, he knew that Tina must have spoken to her before going out, warned her to steer clear of cousin Matthew. Was she deliberately going against her sister’s wishes by coming down here now, he wondered? Was this her little act of rebellion?
Soon, she was quite absorbed in the game, eyes wide and fixed on the screen. It was a racing game, he saw, not the usual battle game that she played with Tina. He grinned as his cousin’s small body flexed and leaned into every corner.
He let her finish the circuit before saying anything. “Not bad,” he said then. “Where did you finish?”
She looked at him shyly again. “It was just a practice lap,” she said.
He nodded.
“Tina doesn’t like racing,” she went on, as if she was gaining in confidence. “She likes Kombat. She always does better than me at Kombat. Do you play?”
He shook his head. “Not much,” he told her. “I’ve got a Game Boy, but not here. It’s at... at home.”
She offered him the handset. “Here. Have a go. It’s easy, really.”
He put the album aside and moved over to sit on the floor. Taking the controls, he studied them carefully.
“This one’s the speed. This is your brakes...”
He sat quietly as she explained. She reset the game and, finally, let him have a go. He made sure he crashed early on, and sat back, shaking his head. “You made it look easy,” he said. “But that corner just came out of nowhere.”
She laughed. “I did that first time, too,” she said. “You get used to it, I suppose. Another go?”
He shook his head and handed the controls back to his cousin. “Nah,” he said, “I’ll leave it to the professionals.”
She was pretty much like any other seven year-old, he thought. A bit shy, a bit submissive to the demands of her mother and older sister, maybe a bit mischievous. He was wondering how to shift the talk to more serious matters when Kirsty did it for him.
“Are you really going to be living here now?” she asked. “Until you’re a grown-up, I mean.”
He shook his head. “Not that long,” he said. “Just a few days. Mum needs to sort herself out, then when she knows what she’s doing I can make my own decisions.” It sounded very uncomplicated, put like that.
“Tina says you’re a... a destabilising influence. She says you’re making the bad dreams.”
Matt had to stop himself from staring at Kirsty in surprise – he couldn’t afford to put her off now. “Do you believe her?” he asked. “Am I making bad dreams?”
She tipped her head on one side, finding the confidence to study his face as she replied. “You’re certainly doing something,” she said. “I’ve had more funny turns since you came than I did for all of last year. And I am having more bad dreams, too.”
He remembered what Gramps had said in his letter about dark powers emanating from the Way, about mental bridges and the need to master the gift. Was his mere presence stirring up dark forces? Was he really making Kirsty ill? No wonder Tina hated him.
“I’m not doing anything deliberately,” he said. “And you seem okay now, don’t you?”
She seemed to accept this argument. He plunged on, determined to learn as much as he could from this rare conversation. “I’ve been having
bad dreams, too.” He watched her closely as he spoke. “Frightening dreams, about a world that’s not quite like this – a place that’s scary, where you see some horrific things. There’s always a terrible sense of doom, a feeling that some horrifying, monstrous thing is just out of the picture, waiting for me... always waiting for me.”
Kirsty was nodding in recognition. “Alternity,” she said softly.
She knew its name, then. He wasn’t sure what this proved, except that Gramps must have spoken to her at some time, perhaps in an effort to help her master her gift, to control her ‘turns’. Gramps was a doctor, after all: Carol was bound to have turned to him when Kirsty had started showing signs of the family affliction.
“Did your mother give you a letter from Gramps?” he asked.
She shook her head. She clearly didn’t understand what he was referring to. He had been fairly certain that Carol wouldn’t have passed on the letters Gramps had written the day before. So Kirsty must have learnt about Alternity some time earlier, then.
“Have you dreamed of... Alternity very much?” he asked her.
“It started when I was four,” she said. “I wouldn’t go to bed at night unless Tina was with me and the light was on and Mum was sitting on the landing playing her guitar.”
She seemed quite proud of this, Matt thought.
She paused, then went on. “One time we visited Gran and Gramps and I had a turn. Gramps looked after me. He told me stories and taught me old poems that would help me close the doors in my brain.”
Matt suddenly recalled those rare childhood visits to Crooked Elms when he was little. Gramps had always liked telling him old stories – King Arthur, Joan of Arc, Beowulf – and old poems. Matt hadn’t understood them, but they had soothed him. Now, he remembered quite distinctly how Gramps had used the poems to settle him and help him sleep at night. “Words have a magic,” the old man had said. “They work the locks to the doors of the mind.”
Kirsty continued, “He told me that it was very special to be able to see into Alternity, but that it was scary as well, and that I should always keep my dreams locked up in a special place.”
Her look became distant, just then. For a moment, Matt had the horrible feeling that he had somehow triggered another of her turns. What was he supposed to do if that happened? He had done a first aid course through the football club, but that hardly prepared you for dealing with this kind of thing.
But she was thinking of Gramps. “Is he really going to be all right?” she asked. “Is he going to get better again?”
“Sure,” said Matt. “He’s being looked after. He’s getting better.”
“Mum said you saved his life.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t do anything much,” he said.
“You can’t really be as bad as Tina says if you saved Gramps’ life, can you?”
~
A short time later Matt heard the front door open and, immediately after that, the sound of his aunt’s voice.
She came into the front room, followed by Matt’s mother and then Tina, who they must have picked up from the party after leaving the hospital.
Instantly, Matt was aware that he was still sitting on the floor by Kirsty. Tina stared at the two of them, at first in surprise, and then with narrowing, angry eyes.
Matt ignored her. He had done nothing wrong. “How’s Gramps?” he asked his mother.
She looked away and he knew something was amiss. Then she looked up, and tried to smile. “Oh,” she said, “about as well as you could hope, really. He’s an old man. He’s very lucky, really.”
Meaning, of course, that he wasn’t nearly as well as she had expected him to be.
“How long will he be in hospital?” He was aware that they wouldn’t want to say too much in front of Kirsty, but he wanted to know as much as possible.
“They’re keeping him in for now,” said Carol. “He’s been through a lot for a man of his age. We have to take things day by day.”
“But he will come home, won’t he?” asked Kirsty.
Carol nodded and smiled her brittle smile. “Of course he will, darling. The doctors just need to make sure everything’s working properly, that’s all.”
“He’s going to die, isn’t he?” Kirsty’s voice was rising, becoming shrill. “Just like Gran!”
Tina rushed to her sister’s side, forcing her way into the narrow space between Kirsty and Matt.
Matt got to his feet and went to gather up the photograph album, determined not to let Tina’s behaviour disturb him.
But then, when he glanced back at the two girls, he saw that Kirsty had frozen, her eyes focused on some hazy middle-distance. Tina held her sister’s head against her shoulder and rocked her back and forth.
“Mum,” she said quietly. Then, as Carol hurried across to the two of them, Tina turned her hard stare on Matt.
Kirsty was having one of her turns, and it was all Matt’s fault.
Tina’s eyes burned into him. Even when he looked away, he was aware of her eyes, the intensity of her anger.
He sat down and started to leaf through the album, once again.
10 Outsiders
The following afternoon, Matt went with Aunt Carol to see Gramps in hospital.
He had spent the morning in town with his mother. She was buying a suit to wear for job interviews and for some reason she wanted Matt to be with her. She seemed to be trying to impress on him how seriously she was taking what she called ‘the next big step’. This afternoon, she had appointments with the town’s three employment agencies.
The core of the hospital was a cluster of tall Victorian red-brick buildings, the grounds of which had been steadily filled in with modern concrete annexes. Stoham Ward was on the first floor of one of the older buildings, with windows that looked out across the flat roofs of a neighbouring block.
They paused in the doorway and Matt surveyed the ranks of beds along either wall. Ancient grey-faced men lay staring at the ceiling, waiting to die. Others, just as old, sat in chairs by their beds, studying the pages of newspapers or large print books, or talking to visitors. In a side room, a small semi-circle of aged men sat watching daytime TV.
Gramps was one of the ones lying in bed. Matt swallowed, unprepared for the sudden rush of emotion.
“Like I said in the car,” Carol told him. “Gramps is very ill. You mustn’t expect too much from him.”
But then Matt noticed that Gramps was not alone. The vicar of Crooked Elms was sitting by his bed, leaning forward, talking earnestly.
The vicar stood as Matt and Carol approached. “Ah,” he said, “visitors.”
Gramps lay motionless, but Matt saw his eyes move slowly from the vicar to his new visitors and back again.
“Carol,” said the young vicar. “And this is...?”
“Matt,” said Carol. “My nephew.”
The vicar nodded. “We have met before,” he said. “I didn’t realise you were a Wareden, Matt.”
There was something about the way he said that which Matt didn’t like – the reference to his family name, the too-familiar use of his first name.
Matt shrugged, said nothing.
“I hope you don’t mind,” the vicar continued, addressing Carol. “I was visiting another gentleman of my parish and I couldn’t help but notice your father.”
“Of course not, David,” said Carol, quickly. “It’s very kind of you.” To Matt, she added, “David has always taken an interest in our family – he visited Gramps a lot, before...”
The vicar smiled awkwardly. “We miss him in the village,” he said. “I hadn’t realised he was here. He asked me to keep an eye on his house. I’ve been doing that anyway – Neighbourhood Watch, and all that – but I assured him I would continue. Mrs Wareden was always a regular member of our congregation...” He hesitated, as if aware that he was treading in a delicate area, then plunged on. “I hope your family is keeping well, Mrs Smith. How are your lovely daughters?”
It seemed that he
wouldn’t stop talking, now that he had started, but Carol managed to get rid of him after a few minutes.
Gramps watched them all the time, through heavy-lidded eyes. He had probably been sedated, Matt guessed.
“How are you, Gramps?” he asked tentatively.
His grandfather just stared at him, and Matt wondered if he blamed him for stopping him from killing himself.
“Dad?” said Carol. “Can you hear us, Dad?”
Gramps licked his lips, then said, in a soft whisper, “I can hear you, Carol.” But he was still staring at Matt.
Matt wanted to tell him that he had read the letter, and that he understood. He wanted to tell him that he almost wished he had just walked past that open door, so that Gramps wasn’t found until much later. But then, he wondered, why had Gramps left the door open, if he hadn’t wanted to be found?
“Everybody sends their love,” said Carol, unaware of the currents passing between Gramps and Matt. “We’re all praying for you, Dad. We all want you to get better quickly.”
Gramps managed to nod. Then he closed his eyes. A few seconds later, he opened them again. “I’m tired,” he said. “So tired.”
~
Matt couldn’t stay. He couldn’t take the accusing look in his grandfather’s eyes. He made his excuses, telling Carol he’d meet her at the car.
A few minutes later he stepped out into the sunlight. There was a scented garden here, with a fountain and some plastic seats. Over to one side a young man pushed an elderly woman in a wheelchair, both looking politely bored by the other’s company.
The vicar was there, sitting on a white bench. He rose to his feet when Matt emerged. He must have been waiting.
He nodded, and said, “Your grandfather – he’s not a happy man. If there’s anything I can do.”
“Thanks,” said Matt. “But we’re okay.”
“There have always been Waredens in Crooked Elms.” The man seemed hesitant, yet he clearly had something to tell Matt. “The village seems odd without them. Unprotected, I suppose.”
Matt squinted at the man. His choice of words... How much did he know? “You seem to know a lot about my family,” he said.
