by Simon Clark
Tonya caught her breath. They weren’t tattoos at all. Those red streaks were trickles of blood. Each time he sucked on the bottle he smudged the marks. Had he cut himself? She almost pressed her nose to the pane so she could examine the arm as he sat there. Even though blood smeared his skin, with more staining his jeans, she could see no wound. Her gaze travelled round the room’s interior. Magazines littered the sofa. In the doorway were a pile of clothes. A blaze of wet crimson besmeared the white-painted door from the living room to the hallway.
Wait . . . She rewound back to the clothes on the floor. There was more than a sweater and a skirt there. In the ruffled garments lay a figure. Tonya saw blonde hair, a face . . . oh God, just part of a face. Half of it had been destroyed. Gashes in the flesh leaked blood on to the carpet. While in a growing pool of crimson lay a hammer.
‘Is this real?’ The words almost choked her as she asked the boy the question. ‘Are you showing me the night when Andrew killed his wife?’
The boy didn’t answer.
‘Talk to me, you little monster.’ In frustration she smacked her hands against the window.
Instantly, her former lover turned to the window. When he saw what would be, to him, a stranger peering at the scene of the crime, he began to move. Something shrivelled inside of her. Because with a furious speed he snatched the hammer from the pool of blood, then ran over the corpse of the woman to the door.
‘What have you done?’ she hissed at the boy. ‘In God’s name what have you done?’
Clouds had obscured the moon by the time she started to run. But where could she go? The house door clattered open. A drumming of feet. Tonya fled along an overgrown path that smelt of mushrooms. A pungent smell that made her want to gag. Now she did question the reality of this. Yes, it would be a dream; that’s all. ‘So wake up, Tonya, wake up!’ She blundered through straggly bushes. The wild growth of lawn tugged at her feet, slowing her.
‘Come back here,’ Andrew barked. ‘I want to know what you’re doing here.’ His heavy body surged through the undergrowth. ‘Wait till I get my hands on you.’
Tonya wanted to wake up. She’d be next to her husband again. Richard wasn’t so bad, was he? They’d had fifteen years together that had been safe, stable.
‘Come here, you bitch.’
The vegetation closed in on her. Branches had tangled together so she couldn’t get through. The last of the moonlight had gone. She struggled in utter darkness. A hand gripped the collar of her leather jacket. The first blow that fell didn’t hurt. In fact, she found herself remembering what a wise soul had once warned: ‘Be careful what you wish for.’
In a gloating voice her first love purred, ‘Gotcha.’
Andrew shoved Tonya to the ground. The hammer head glinted above her. Dying like this won’t be painful. She wished with all her heart that would be the case. Only this time Jay did not grant her that one last wish.
Nineteen
The morning after the night Jay had tried so hard to make the islanders’ wishes come true, Victor, Laura, and the still-healthy volunteers, emerged from the meeting at the doctor’s surgery to find an astonishing sight.
Victor estimated around fifty men and women of all ages shuffled into the square near the church. Some people wore assorted nightwear. A few were clothed after a fashion in mismatching garments. At least three wore nothing but dazed expressions. The day had begun under a cloud, a cool breeze jetted from the river. In his fleece Victor felt the chill. These people would end up with hypothermia.
A silver-haired man who’d been at the doctor’s emergency meeting watched his neighbours walking by. ‘It’s like the Village of the Damned,’ he breathed.
Victor appreciated the spirit of the reference, even if it wasn’t accurate. It really did look as if the villagers were bewitched in some way; they shuffled like they were sleepwalking.
Laura hurried to the nearest. A woman of around thirty in a flimsy nightdress. Her feet were bare; one toenail bloody from stubbing it during this weird stroll through the village. ‘Madam, can you hear me? Can you tell me your name?’
‘Hmm?’ She appeared to be distracted by her own thoughts.
‘Your name?’
The woman’s face had frozen into an expression that suggested both delight and bewilderment. ‘I went for a walk on the beach with him last night. The boy took me to him . . . sunny day at midnight. Mac brought a picnic. He liked chocolate cake and cream.’
Laura rested her hand against the woman’s face. ‘Just as I thought. Burning up.’
‘The boy took me to Mac,’ insisted the woman. ‘It’s marvellous what they can do these days. Because Mac died six years ago. That factory accident. Took his hands right off. Both of them. So how could he pick up the cake?’
Laura turned to Victor. ‘We’ve got to get everyone indoors.’
Victor took the arm of an elderly man who was saying, ‘I went back to school again. We played football in the field. I haven’t been so happy since . . . oh, I can’t remember when.’
‘Zombies,’ intoned the silver-haired volunteer. ‘Just like zombies.’
Laura snapped, ‘It’s this infection. It’s pushing their temperature up so high they’re hallucinating.’
The old man beamed. ‘The boy took me back to school. He said to me, “Come on, we’ll go for a little walk.”’
At this Laura shot Victor a telling look, and mouthed, ‘Jay.’
The man chuckled as he allowed himself to be led by Victor to a cottage. ‘I saw the headmaster again. Old Master Grice. If I’m ninety he must be a hundred and fifty years old. He still chased us with his cane. Swish, swosh, swish.’
Victor could feel the heat of the fever through the man’s pyjama sleeve. Glancing back, he noticed Mayor Wilkes leave the surgery with Dr Nazra beside him. Neither was happy with the other’s company.
Wilkes stormed, ‘Look at these bloody people, they’re wandering the streets like a herd of stunned mules. Now’s the time to bring in outside help.’
The doctor tried to be patient. ‘Mayor Wilkes, there are three villages on the mainland affected with the virus. Like them we’re obliged to quarantine ourselves.’
‘And fend for ourselves? From this plague?’
‘There is no plague, Mayor. The disease has yet to be identified, but it’s probably just a mutated version of gastric flu. People will experience high fever and vomiting for a few days, then it will pass. The health authority is keen to contain the illness where it possibly can. It should burn itself out within a week.’
‘I have business meetings. I can’t sit about, watching the whole place go insane.’ Wilkes back-stepped from an elderly woman in a dressing gown. She appeared to be plucking objects out of the sky. The mayor barked, ‘Mrs Fielding, will you get yourself back home? Don’t you see, you’re making a fool of yourself!’
‘Look at all these gold butterflies, they are all around you. I’m taking some home to Daddy.’
‘Good grief.’ With a face like thunder, Wilkes stormed away.
Dr Nazra called after him, ‘We need every able-bodied person we can muster. Can you volunteer your time, sir?’
Victor was sure that Mayor Wilkes muttered, ‘In your dreams,’ before shouting, ‘Too busy. Far too busy!’
‘What a charming man,’ Laura said to Victor.
The doctor bustled round. ‘Make sure they all get home as quickly as you can. The cold won’t be doing them any good. Here.’ He handed Victor a sheaf of papers. ‘These are dos and don’ts for the patients. They should avoid dairy products but drink plenty of water. Go on ahead, please, and leave one sheet by the bed of each patient, or with an occupant of their home, if there is one. Let those who care for the sick know that they must help get fluids inside of them. Water is best.’ He gestured to the silver-haired man who’d made the Village of the Damned comment. ‘Mr Lees, you take Victor’s patient so he can go ahead and distribute the leaflets.’
Victor whispered to Laura, ‘When you
get a break come up to the farm. I’ll make lunch.’
‘Realistically, by the time we finish here it might be supper.’
He smiled. ‘Supper it is then.’ Then he added seriously, ‘You heard it, too, some of these people say that a boy took them to meet friends and family that died years ago.’
Laura nodded, her face grave. ‘It’s time to talk about Jay.’
‘You know what Solomon told us we must do?’
Laura started to reply, but the man who’d made the crack about the Village of the Damned sat down on a wall. ‘I don’t feel so good myself now,’ he said. Then his shoulders heaved.
Laura grimaced. ‘We’ll talk later, Victor.’
Later would have to be a lot later, Victor decided by midday. He’d distributed leaflets giving advice on dealing with the infection. Clearly, however, two-thirds of the island were down with the illness. Where houses waited the return of the wandering occupants, under the guidance of the volunteers, he left leaflets on bedside cabinets along with jugs of water and a cup. He also checked properties belonging to those who’d wandered off to make sure stoves or electrical appliances hadn’t been left on that might become dangerous. Though the work kept him busy he still replayed what the African policeman had told him. All of it troubled him. Not just the part about Jay, either. True, Victor long suspected Mayor Wilkes of shady dealings. Solomon had shrewdly made a compelling deduction about Wilkes’ methods. Then there’d been the comment about the wedding ring. Victor glanced at his left hand. During the day he didn’t wear the ring that Ghorlan had given him. A casual observer wouldn’t notice the slight groove in his otherwise unmarked skin but sharp-eyed Solomon Constable had spotted a slight indentation. A year after Ghorlan had vanished into the river he’d stopped wearing the ring by day, but every night he slipped it on before going to sleep.
‘So,’ he murmured, heading for the next house. ‘Solomon told you how to deal with Jay. Do you act on that information? Ignore it? Or do you meet this head on and damn the consequences?’
By five that afternoon Victor could take a long-needed break. For once his charges were human ones, not the island’s wildlife. He’d checked in with Lou. Fortunately, she was fine, as were the children from Badsworth Lodge. None of them had come down with the bug, but some of the people providing accommodation for the children were sick, so Lou had brought three children up to White Cross Farm where there were spare rooms. Victor was relieved to see that his sister seemed to be over the worst; what’s more, she hadn’t been one of the zombie-like wanderers. With Laura still down in the village he grabbed a hot shower then decided to spend twenty minutes at the computer. What Solomon had told Victor about Mayor Wilkes had intrigued him so he decided to fish for some facts of his own in the Internet search engines of the world.
It’s amazing what you can find out about people on the Internet, he mused. Just enter their name into the search engine. You can even find out details of their ancestors, not to mention photos, videos, resumes. You name it. It can have consequences though. Once he’d searched under his own name. There were still filed reports about not only his conservation work on the island but how the river took Ghorlan. Reporters had devoted a lot of text to the lovely young bride who’d walked down to the shore one evening. Then never returned.
Victor rubbed the groove on his wedding finger before snapping out of his darkening mood. Quickly he tapped at the computer’s keyboard, entering ‘Mayor Wilkes Siluria business deals’. As Solomon had told him, Wilkes kept himself at arm’s length even from wholly innocuous commercial deals. Victor had to admit that suggested habitual secrecy; as if it was second nature for Wilkes to conceal even innocent projects. Victor typed: ‘Mayor Wilkes ex-prisoner rehabilitation’. Now, a blizzard of websites filled the result’s page. Even though many a business in nearby towns had only a tenuous link with Wilkes he seemed to be instrumental in finding employment for men who’d recently served prison sentences. These were companies that did everything from running fleets of ice-cream vans to construction to road haulage to crop picking. The picture painted by the media of Mayor Wilkes was of a charitable man, who believed in giving former lawbreakers a second chance. Then, when in public, he adopted an extremely charming persona. Victor, however, knew the man behind the affable mask.
The African policeman had told Victor such ex-con employees would be loyal, for the simple reason they’d not find well-paid work elsewhere. What’s more Solomon had said, ‘They might even help Mayor Wilkes bury his secrets, too. And men who build bridges can bury secrets very deeply indeed.’ What Solomon had told Victor helped the jigsaw pieces click into place. Suddenly, Victor saw the whole picture. Wilkes sat like a spider in the middle of his web. The different strands were the different companies he ran through puppet figures. In every company would be a former prison inmate, who’d turn a blind eye when necessary, or bend the rules or even dig a hole to bury one of Mayor Wilkes’ mistakes. Perhaps even a literal hole in the earth if need be. Not that all ex-convicts would voluntarily return to a life of crime, but by then they were stuck in the web that Wilkes had spun. Victor gazed out of the window as the low sun turned the river a copper colour. A flock of Saban Deer ambled on to the beach to feed on kelp. As he watched the animals nibble the salty, brown fronds he cast his mind back to the many building projects on the island.
‘So just what have you managed to bury here?’ He recalled renovation works at the castle. There were thousands of tons of rock tipped on to the northern tip of the island to prevent erosion. But also a convenient dumping ground for Mayor Wilkes’ problems. Almost flippantly Victor asked himself, ‘So is that where the bodies are buried?’
Victor typed another name into the computer: Jay Summer. This yielded a truly amazing crop of results. Thousands of them. Victor hadn’t appreciated what a huge story it had been at the time. He flicked through newspaper reports from all over the world: Miracle Moses Child. Sole survivor plucked from shark-infested sea. One lives out of hundreds. Refugee ship that died of shame. There were plenty of photographs of Jay when he was four years old. That fragile elfin face with the large eyes was just the same. Nations blamed each other for turning the rusty tub of a boat away from ports. Photographs of the thing, even weeks before it sank, revealed a ruin of a vessel that listed to one side. After the initial splurge of rescue reports the media were clearly still fascinated by Jay. Efforts to track surviving relatives in Africa drew a blank. He was the miracle boy who’d appeared floating Moses-like in his basket, albeit an inflatable one.
Victor zipped through dozens of reports at random. When he saw a news story online with a photograph of an older Jay Summer he stopped. His heart gave an uncomfortable lurch in his chest. The newspaper carried a huge black headline: MIRACLE MOSES CHILD CHEATS DEATH AGAIN. The photograph was of Jay aged seven. Victor read on.
Yesterday the sole survivor of the N’Taal disaster survived yet another tragedy. Neighbours woke to find the house of the Clancy family to be in the grip of an inferno that tore through rooms in minutes. Jay Summer, who’d survived alone in shark-infested seas, was found in the garden unscathed. All four members of the Clancy family perished in the flames. Jay had been their foster child for six weeks.
A report five days later quoted the police emphatically ruling Jay out from any involvement in the fire. The blaze had started in the basement when a faulty boiler had caused a gas pipe to heat up until it exploded with enough ferocity to demolish the house internally. Yet the reporter also quoted the child of a neighbour who claimed Jay had spoken to her the day before the fire.
Alyssa Bartley, 13, told our reporter that Jay had tearfully made this confession: ‘They’ve got to die. You’ve all got to die for what you did to the ship. I’ve been put on earth to get revenge.’ Police maintain that this alleged statement made by seven-year-old Jay Summer cannot be corroborated.
‘Good God,’ Victor breathed. ‘Death and disaster follows you around, doesn’t it?’
‘What’s that?’
Startled, Victor turned in his chair to see Laura Parris standing in the doorway.
‘You were miles away. You must have found something fascinating.’
‘Oh, this?’ Victor switched off the computer so Laura wouldn’t see Jay’s picture. ‘It was something that Solomon said about Mayor Wilkes. I thought I’d do some research on our illustrious politician.’ He looked closely at Laura. ‘You look exhausted. Grab a seat. I’ll get you a drink.’
‘Thanks. Sorry about just appearing at your apartment like this. Your sister told me to come straight up.’
‘You’re always welcome.’
‘Am I?’
‘Sure, we’re partners in adversity now.’ He headed for the kitchen area at the corner of the room. ‘Coffee, or something stronger?’
‘Coffee for now, but I’ll take you up on “stronger” later.’
‘Everything under control in the village? You’ve rounded the wanderers up?’
She dismissed his question quickly. ‘It’s fine now.’ Something more important demanded their attention now. ‘Victor, I need to talk to you.’
‘I know. I’ve been thinking about Jay non-stop.’
‘There’s Jay. Absolutely. But there’s an important question I have to ask you, Victor.’
Twenty
Victor put the kettle on to boil. ‘You want to ask me a question?’
Laura sat down on the sofa. ‘Can you guess why?’
Victor was mystified. Laura’s attractive face was unreadable. It seemed as if she had some secret of her own to reveal. He spooned coffee into a pair of mugs. ‘OK, fire away.’
‘We find ourselves in this situation, but we don’t know one another, do we?’
‘My name’s Victor Brodman, age thirty-five, the island ranger. I live here, the former chauffeur’s apartment at White Lodge Farm, Siluria.’
‘Great, just great.’ Laura spoke politely. ‘You’ve given me information I could find in one of your educational handouts.’
