Vengeance Child

by Simon Clark

‘Mayor Wilkes? You remembered one of the children’s names?’

  He smiled his best political smile. ‘I’m not made of stone, you know. Archer had a nasty fall out on the street earlier. I thought I’d look in on him.’

  If Lou was surprised by his sudden concern for the Lodge children she kept it hidden. ‘Oh, that little graze. He’s fine.’ She hugged the boy. ‘Archer’s got his own way of dealing with the world. When things get that bit too much for him he closes down for a while. It’s like a trip switch on electrical equipment.’

  ‘He’ll get well soon?’

  ‘Archer will be fine, Mr Mayor. We’re going to get him to bed for a while.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘No, something more homely. I’ll take him to the place I’ve been staying.’

  Mayor Wilkes went to pick Archer up. Already he glimpsed a twinkle of something gold in the child’s pocket. ‘Here, let me help you, Lou.’

  ‘Thank you, but no, Mr Mayor,’ Lou said pleasantly in her sing-song voice. ‘He needs to be close to someone familiar right now.’

  Wilkes tried not to show it but inwardly he seethed with frustration. ‘Of course. Just you give me a call, though, if you – or Archer – need anything.’

  She smiled her thanks. One of the teenage children arrived carrying a Burberry pattern blanket. The girl helped Lou wrap the comatose Archer in it. Then Lou, still holding Archer, got to her feet without any difficulty. The boy must be as light as a feather, thought Wilkes with a modicum of surprise. At least extracting the bracelet from him will require no effort at all. What I need is just a minute alone with him. Still smiling, Wilkes adopted a helpful persona. He opened the door to the street then held up his hand to stop a couple on bicycles so Lou could safely cross.

  ‘Sure I can’t be of help, Lou?’ Wilkes asked.

  ‘I’m fine.’ The woman carried the boy easily. ‘Besides, I’m staying at that cottage just over there.’

  ‘The one with the lilac door?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ she answered. ‘Thanks anyway.’

  Wilkes watched her go toward the snug cottage with a weeping willow in the front garden. Still smiling, he made a mental note of the address. He’d call back later. When there was nobody around to interfere with his plans.

  Archer heard everything. Like when you listen through a rolled-up comic it all sounded funny, sort of echoey, faraway, yet he heard each word distinctly. He knew that Lou carried him. He’d heard her conversation with Mayor Wilkes. Archer remembered that Jay had repeated Laura’s name. That meant he’d put his curse on her. For now, while in this state of seizure, that knowledge occupied another part of his brain. He knew it was bad. Only he was detached from that sense of danger. Archer could not move, or talk. He’d remain like this for a while. Eventually, he’d fall asleep. When he awoke he’d be back to normal again. Until the next time. Archer felt Lou carry him upstairs. Then more voices . . .

  ‘Oh. Lou, what happened to the little chap?’

  ‘He’s fine, Agnes. He just needs to rest a while. How’s William?’

  ‘I’m perplexed, dear. He seemed to have got over the bug this morning. He ate a huge breakfast. Then by lunchtime he came over all drowsy, and forgetful like. Not him at all. About an hour ago he said he’d have to go back to bed. Thing is, he couldn’t remember how to find the stairs. Funny that, isn’t it?’

  ‘William could still be dehydrated. Have you called the doctor?’

  ‘He’s on his way.’ A bell rang. ‘Oh, that’ll be him now. By the by, can I help you with the little chap?’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine. You concentrate on getting William back on his feet again.’

  Within moments Archer lay on a soft bed with a quilt over him. He felt its protective touch. Lou bustled around him; a window opened a fraction for a healthy dose of fresh air. Water poured into a glass on his bedside table. Motionless, he gazed at a white lampshade against the red ceiling. More voices:

  ‘Oh, Victor.’ It was the old woman’s voice. ‘I thought it was Dr Nazra.’

  ‘I saw Lou carrying Archer and wondered if she needed any help.’

  ‘Go on up, Victor. First door on the left.’

  Archer could not move. The clump-clump of Victor’s feet on the risers grew louder. Lots of things went through Archer’s mind. The Ghorlan~Victor bracelet. The dead/alive woman with the bright blue eyes. She’d risen from the back seat of the entombed car. Archer suspected Victor had put her there . . . after bashing her to death with his fists first. And that bracelet was evidence. Evidence of murder.

  Footsteps grew even louder. A sound of breathing. Archer knew that Victor approached. He couldn’t move a finger. Paralysis gripped him. A shadow moved in the room. Then Victor’s face loomed over the bed. The eyes locked on the boy’s face. Concern? Or the moment before the man smashed his fist into Archer’s face? Cold spread through Archer’s body. A deathly cold . . . just like the dead/alive woman would feel as she lay in the car.

  ‘Archer. I wanted to see you.’ Victor smiled.

  Heart pumping, Archer tried to scream out. Not so much as a sigh escaped his lips. With all his might he tried to leap from the bed. He must get away before Victor reached him. Only he had no power of movement. He might as well have been carved from dead wood.

  ‘Victor?’ Lou’s voice. ‘Were you looking for me?’

  ‘I saw you carrying Archer. Do you need any help?’

  ‘I’m fine. All Archer needs is rest.’ She chuckled. ‘My, my, everyone’s being very considerate today. Mayor Wilkes wanted to help, too. He was most concerned about Archer’s well-being.’

  ‘Really?’ Victor’s voice suddenly became deeper. ‘Talk about miracles.’

  ‘Are you over the bug, Victor?’

  ‘I think I’m just about back to normal.’

  ‘You sure? You look as if you’ve got something on your mind.’

  Archer heard Victor start to speak but another voice echoed on the stairs. The old woman called, ‘Dr Nazra, come on up. William’s taken to his bed again.’

  The doctor’s soft tones resembled chimes on the air. ‘That’s been the pattern today. Those who contracted the virus appeared to make a complete recovery. Now some are starting to display signs of confusion and lethargy. Unfortunately, that’s prevalent with influenza. You may suffer bouts of mild depression for months after. I hope this germ doesn’t do the same to us.’

  With Lou nearby to comfort him Archer found himself drifting into sleep.

  Mayor Wilkes faced the breeze coming in from the river. Mountains of black cloud were marshalling themselves over the Welsh hills. He knew this was a sign that Siluria would be attacked by a storm. Attack was the right word. When bad weather blew in from the west it could be hurricane force. For ten minutes Wilkes had watched the cottage where Lou had taken Archer. As soon as Lou returned to the hostel he’d nip in quick. He knew Agnes Davies. Suavely, he’d explain he’d dropped by to find out if old William had recovered yet. Then he’d track down Archer. Only things didn’t go to plan. Within seconds of Lou entering the cottage, she’d been followed by Victor (bane of my life, that man, always in the way); moments later, Dr Nazra had entered the cottage, too. Wilkes needed to get his hands on that bracelet. This wasn’t a chore he could delay until tomorrow. A cold wind blew up the street. It seemed to carry with it another of the Badsworth Lodge misfits. A thin boy marched along, as if matching the pace of the breeze. He swung his arms as he walked. His huge, elfin eyes smouldered with something that approached excitement. As if he anticipated wonderful events.

  He chanted to the rhythm of his stride. ‘Laura, Laura . . . Siluria, Siluria . . . Laura, Laura . . . Siluria, Siluria . . .’

  Why mutter the name of the nurse and the island? Then again, the behaviour of these kids to Wilkes was inexplicable. They were screwed up. And this was the boy that caused the trouble when the group arrived here. For some reason, the boy put the fear of God into all the other children.

  Air currents screamed t
hrough tombstones in the churchyard. Wilkes watched dark cloud racing over the hills. The storm had begun its march on the island. Little Siluria was going to be hit hard.

  When the opportunity for Wilkes to enter the cottage didn’t arise he decided to check on June. If she dragged her bones off her sickbed she could visit Archer on some pretext. It should be simple for her to separate the strange little boy from the bracelet.

  When he opened her bedroom door, he paused. ‘Well, well, well,’ he murmured in surprise. ‘You managed to escape after all.’

  Stretched out in bed, the sheets twisted around claw-like hands, June stared at the ceiling. Without a shadow of doubt the woman was utterly lifeless. Already the eyes were sunk into her dead face, while her lips had turned a delicate shade of blue.

  Twenty-Seven

  Mayor Wilkes found the doctor sitting on a garden bench, staring at a phone in his hand. From the expression on Dr Nazra’s face he might have expected the device to turn into a spitting cobra at any moment.

  Instead of beginning with a greeting, Wilkes barked, ‘You know that pad of death certificates you keep in your safe? Get one. June Benyon has just died.’

  Dr Nazra’s face had turned a washed-out grey. ‘I need more than one.’ He inclined his head to the cottage. ‘Mrs Hollander died ten minutes ago. Before that I’d been in Mr Kowalski’s house. He’s passed away, too.’

  ‘This epidemic’s got nasty, then?’

  The doctor nodded, exhausted.

  Wilkes clicked his tongue. ‘You’ve called in more help?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve just spoken to the director of emergency planning.’

  ‘Good, because this is more than we can handle.’

  ‘No . . . bad is the relevant word here. It seems as if the island has been struck by a mutant version of the virus that’s been infecting people on the mainland. There, sick people are getting better. Here they become worse. Much, much worse.’

  Wilkes fumed. ‘My God. All the medical expertise we have is you and one qualified nurse, the woman from Badsworth Lodge.’

  ‘And that’s all we will have until the virus is identified. At the moment, the infectious diseases specialist doesn’t know what this is. Or how it can be treated. Until they find a treatment for the condition we remain under quarantine.’

  ‘Surely they can send medics in those bloody space suits you see them wearing when they’re playing out their biohazard scenarios?’

  Wearily, the doctor shook his head. ‘Too risky, even for protective suits. We’re a code red. Nobody is allowed on to the island, or off. We’re locked out of the rest of the world. We might as well have been exiled to the dark side of the moon.’

  ‘Surely this can only be temporary?’

  ‘How long we’re isolated here, I cannot say. Medical specialists have seen nothing like it . . . I’ve seen nothing like it. Not in all my thirty years as a medical man. You’ve heard of pneumonic plague and bubonic plague, Mr Mayor? Well, this is a psychoactive plague. It starts in the digestive system then it attacks the brain.’

  Wilkes began to understand. ‘I wondered why June Benyon couldn’t comprehend a thing I was telling her.’

  ‘It begins with vomiting,’ the doctor said, ‘with a high fever, episodes of hallucination, then it appears to vanish from the body. The patient feels much better. Only the virus is in the process of occupying brain tissue. Within hours the patient experiences lethargy, confusion, forgetfulness; the condition worsens until they lapse into coma. Ultimately, the virus switches off the part of the brain that governs respiratory function.’ His bloodshot eyes were grave. ‘Its victims stop breathing. They suffocate. They die.’

  ‘Wait a minute, June was only forty-two. We’re not talking about geriatrics croaking here, are we?’

  ‘That we are not, Mr Mayor. Every single person on this island is at risk. We must assume, also, that everyone who suffered the first stage of the disease will enter second stage within hours. That’s everyone, whether they be elderly or young.’

  Victor had been to White Cross Farm to check on his sister and brother-in-law. Mary was her old self. However, Graham had tried to do too much farm work after leaving his sickbed. Now he was so weary that all he could manage was to mutter a word or two here and there.

  Shaking her head, Mary had complained, ‘Can you believe he’d forgotten that we’re supposed to be celebrating our wedding anniversary on Sunday? Now he’s taken himself back to bed, just as the animals need feeding.’

  As Victor took the shoreline path back to the village he felt much better. The queasiness had vanished. Before leaving, he’d been able to help his sister out by feeding the goats and pigs. On the beach the Saban Deer were grazing on kelp now it was low tide. Few land animals could stomach the salty estuary weed but then the Saban weren’t your regular animal. Few creatures in the animal kingdom have blue eyes. Some humans do. Siamese cats certainly, but the Saban have eyes that are electric blue. Despite the gloom, due to thick cloud, he caught flashes of sapphire as they lifted their heads to watch him pass, still munching on leathery kelp fronds as they did so. In his role as island ranger, Victor habitually scanned the terrain for anything amiss. As he passed the Saban he noticed specks of silver at the water’s edge. Anything that didn’t resemble the natural shore required further investigation.

  This stretch of beach consisted of brownish pebbles, so those silver glints looked anything but natural. Quickly, he jogged to the water’s edge. Lucky I checked, he mused as he bent down to carefully remove what had threatened the safety of the animals, and humans, too, if they chose to paddle here barefoot. For there, tangled in a spray of twigs, was a yellow fisherman’s line adorned with a dozen steel hooks. Victor handled the line carefully; the points of the hooks had been filed for extra sharpness, while the barbs would grip their prey with a bloody-minded tenacity. Once that hook slipped into your flesh it wouldn’t be coming out in a hurry.

  Clearly, the hooks were intended for big sea fish. What’s more he counted ten hooks on the tangle of line. Probably a commercial fisherman had left the baited hooks attached to a buoy way out to sea. They’d broken free, then an incoming tide had swept them up the estuary. Victor checked further along the shoreline. Sure enough he found a line with eight more viciously sharp hooks. The havoc these would cause to the soft muzzle of a deer didn’t bear thinking about. Victor picked up the line. Dear God, he’d be entering a whole world of pain if he accidentally impaled himself on one of those. He saw the ends of the tough nylon line had been cut. Probably by the propeller blades of a speedboat that had got too close to the fishermen’s buoys.

  Victor carried the tangled lines, with their barbed weaponry, to one of the bins near the path. Gusts of wind shook the trees by the time he started out again for the village. A pall of cloud obscured the hills. The River Severn rose into angry peaks, as if the water tried hard to form sharply pointed pyramids. At the tip of the island the castle had begun to vanish into a grey murk of water vapour carried by the westerly. As Victor neared the village the path narrowed. Here the beach was narrower, too. The path was raised a couple of feet above the shore on wooden piles. To the landward side a steep-sided mound flanked the path. This constricted section of pathway ran for around two hundred yards until the ground opened out just before the village.

  Through the mist he glimpsed a figure almost a hundred yards away. He recognized it as Laura Parris. She headed toward the village, her back to him. He remembered only too clearly the painful conversation with Lou. He hurried after Laura determined to clear the air with her. Damn it, he was so annoyed with himself. Laura was beautiful. They’d got on so well together – both shared the same sense of humour. Then he’d retreated into his shell. You’ve effectively blown it with her, Brodman, he scolded.

  ‘Laura,’ he shouted. If anything, Laura quickened her pace. Had she heard, and decided to hurry away so he couldn’t speak to her? ‘Laura.’ The figure dwindled as it moved along the narrow path between the shore and the
bank that rose a good twenty feet to one side. ‘Laura!’

  At that moment the ground quivered. Victor paused. He frowned. It did it again. The earth shuddered. A deep rumble throbbed through the air. Victor found himself remembering Solomon’s words about what to do in an earthquake. An earthquake? Here? That’s impossible. He’d barely registered the thought when a huge cry wailed through the sky. Victor spun round to see a vast object racing by the island. This dark mass of steel had no right to be here, or to be so close, or to be travelling so fast. ‘The idiots! The stupid idiots!’ Victor took a moment to absorb the shocking sight. A huge tanker pounded along the river. Dangerously close to the island, too. The ship must have been seven hundred feet long – and with a displacement of thousands of tons it hurled a bow wave more than ten feet high at Siluria. Victor watched as the foaming wave roared up the beach. The Saban Deer fled before it. Fortunately they were fast, managing to escape the killer wave.

  Victor glanced back at Laura. She wouldn’t be so lucky. For some reason she hadn’t heard the rumble of the ship’s engines, or the cry of its foghorn. And because she walked with her back to it she hadn’t seen the hulking vessel.

  ‘Laura! Watch out!’

  She didn’t react. Then again, the roar of the winds must have overwhelmed Victor’s cry. His first instinct was to clamber up the banking. He’d make it just in time but that wouldn’t grant him the precious moments to reach Laura before the bow wave struck. Already this man-made tsunami had hit the path a hundred yards behind him. Now it raced along this strip of land faster than a man could run. At six feet high that massive body of speeding water would shatter your bones before it swept you into the river. Then a combination of natural current and turbulence created by the ship would ensure that you drowned very quickly indeed. Victor dashed along the compacted shale. At one side of him rose the twenty-foot-high bank. At the other was the narrow ribbon of beach. Then closing in behind him at a furious rate was the tidal wave. The dirty-cream coloured wall of water ripped up the path like a plough blade. The concrete bin containing the fish hooks shattered as easily as a wine glass.