one twisted voice

by Unknown

  ‘Uh, thanks,’ Josh said, but he’d lost his appetite.

  Ten minutes later he’d finished pushing the burnt offerings around his plate - although the haggis had been good - and he took a walk over the bridge and onto the waterfalls that made Killin a stop off on the tourist trail. There were signs to an ancient clan burial ground on an island in the centre of the river, but the path across to it was gated, the gate padlocked. So much for seeing that landmark, too. He watched the rush of white water over the rocks, wondering if the fish were biting. That turned his mind to his real reason for being here and he returned to his car and took the narrow south road back to his digs. On the way, he flicked on the car radio. The reception was hit and miss, and – coincidentally - the news report was about the flu epidemic sweeping the country. Not to worry, though, the NHS was on the case and had already implemented a nationwide vaccination programme, despite fears of side effects from the rushed and untested vaccine. Some doctor or other guested on the show, offering advice and calming the listeners over the unsubstantiated rumours of…the radio cut out.

  Josh turned it off. The road demanded all of his attention. Jesus, it was even worse at this end of the loch. Up and down it went, twisting and turning, following the contours of the land. He could see where recent rain had washed miniature landslides over the road, and from the lack of disturbance to the dirt and twigs it didn’t look as if many vehicles chanced this route that often. He passed a hotel set on the hillside. When he’d researched Loch Tay, seeking his ideal getaway, he’d learned that the hotel was a popular eatery, with top grub on the menu. He thought that anyone risking this road of an evening must have a strong constitution to eat a meal afterwards. There were vehicles in the car park. He saw a woman, her hair under a woolly hat, wearing a North Face ski-jacket, but for all of that she still looked cold. Her features were ruddy, her nose streaming with mucus, and she was shivering wildly as she watched him drive slowly by. It looked like some five star grub would do her good, because the lingering stare she followed him with was one of intense hunger. He thought that she even took a couple of steps after him, but then she was lost to sight by a bend in the road.

  Coming this way, the ancient telephone box was on his right. It had been there so long, at the mercy of the elements, that it had required many coats of paint over the years. The latest paintjob was beginning to look a little worse for wear, and the box had sunk at one corner so that it now leaned awkwardly towards the water. He followed its lead and looked across the loch, watching the sunlight sparkle on the crests of waves kicked up by the breeze. He couldn’t recall it being that cold when he’d been at the falls at Killin, but maybe here where the valley broadened out, the wind was chilly as it raced through. That might explain the state of the woman he’d passed a couple miles back. Or she had the frigging flu.

  He turned into the lane that led down to the cottage.

  There was no time like the present, he decided. He’d paid for a license to fish on the loch, and the cottage came with a private strip of beachfront. He collected his rod and tackle, his bait box, and headed off down by the water.

  Out of the fly fishing season, he elected instead to bait his hook with maggots he’d purchased before leaving Newcastle and carried here sealed in a Tupperware container. It was a long time since he’d been out on the Tyne with his dad, and back then he hadn’t taken much interest in the technicalities of fishing. He had been more interested in sitting in companionable silence with his dad, feeling the closeness, the connection without the need for conversation or instruction, and catching fish was secondary. He felt out of practice now and wasn’t full sure he was using the correct method for a loch. He believed that most lochs had gently sloping shallows that then dropped off to great depths. For such places his dad used to employ a method called ledgering, where a baited hook was supported by a float that ‘dangled the bait over the ledge’, attracting the fish that gathered there. Because he wasn’t necessarily interested in catching fish here, as much as he was attempting to rediscover that feeling of peace he’d once known at his father’s side, Josh made do with baiting a hook and adding a couple of lead weights. He cast the line out into the water, then sat down, supporting his rod across his knee as he waited for the almost imperceptible tug that a fish was biting. For him, the waiting game of fishing was meditative, Zen-like.

  Usually.

  Now he felt agitated.

  ‘Well, dad, I’m here. I made it.’

  He felt foolish talking out loud like this. He took a squint over his shoulder, back across the floodplains to where the cottage was lost amid its screen of vegetation. There was no one around. From here he could see across the loch and high up on the opposite hills could make out the pale shapes of buildings, but he could imagine that he was the only man left alive in the world and that this lake, serene in its beauty, was all his. But he couldn’t be sure of that.

  Lowering his voice a tad, he asked, ‘Dad? Are you there? Can you hear me?’

  There was a plop somewhere from across the water: a fish breaking the surface. Josh laughed to himself. It would be ironic if there was such a thing as reincarnation and his dad had come back as a trout. Typically, Josh would hook him and piss him off even more. He laughed at his stupidity, and realised that laughter was a great healer. He felt more at ease.

  ‘I wish you were here with me dad. I wish things were like they used to be between us. I’m…I’m sorry.’

  He wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for. Nothing he’d done to upset his dad could be called a fault. Not joining the police force at any rate. It was a good career move, a honourable and noble calling. He understood that his dad would have a disliking for the uniform, after the violence he’d been subjected to, but that was a thing of the past, not indicative of the modern police service. Yet he felt he must say sorry, because his dad had always been too stubborn to do so. Jesus, before he’d died, the old man had given express instructions that Josh should not attend his funeral, and having a stubborn streak of his own, Josh had said he had no intentions of going anyway. He had stayed away, too, even though it had broken his heart.

  ‘Dad. I know you didn’t mean it. I didn’t either. I hope now that you can see that. Please, I want things to be good between us again.’ Josh checked around, making sure no one was in earshot. ‘Can you do something…give me some sort of sign that you have forgiven me? I don’t expect miracles, but a tug on the fishing line would do. If it’s not you,’ - he coughed out a laugh – ‘at least I’ll maybe catch a fish.’

  The line didn’t tug, and he didn’t catch a fish, but he did get a sign of sorts.

  He heard a scream.

  Bloody capercaillies, he thought, noisy buggers are going to scare away the fish.

  Josh wondered about taking supper along at Kenmore village. The hotel there had a bar, and a couple of pints wouldn’t go amiss either. Except a couple pints would probably end up as four or five and there’d be no way he could drive the car back along that narrow road if he was three sheets to the wind. He wasn’t being holier than thou, not concerned about a copper being caught drink driving, but it was a certainty that he’d end up driving off the road and into the cold water of the loch. There were still a couple of eggs and some rashers of bacon left over from the landlord’s supplies, so he opted for a fry up instead. His second of the day, but what the hell, he was on holiday!

  Once he’d eaten his fill he was at a loss at what to do. He thought about turning on the TV, but he’d promised himself that he wouldn’t. He wasn’t here to vegetate in front of a bloody television: he could do that at home. He decided to take a walk, maybe even try and catch sight of one of the super-grouse he’d heard calling earlier. When he went out he was surprised at the density of the night. Someone who spent most of their time in a city had no real comprehension of darkness, not until they were somewhere as remote as this and it fell on them like an executioner’s hood. Josh had appropriated a Maglite torch from the storeroom back at his nick, a
nd he went to fetch it from his car. He flicked on the beam and followed it back along the driveway to where it met the main road. He had two choices, left or right, because he couldn’t bring himself to enter the forest directly ahead. He took a right, thinking about checking out the telephone booth, and seeing if it really did have all its glass intact, a working receiver and if the coin box hadn’t been jimmied. He made himself a bet that – even out here – somebody would still have taken a piss in it.

  In the car the booth had seemed practically adjacent to the cottage’s driveway, but it was much further on foot, in the dark. Josh wasn’t too bothered, he’d stocked up on calories and was dressed warmly, and actually enjoyed the feel of gravel crunching underfoot. Plus, he had another cigarette as he strolled, feeling liberated. Back home in Newcastle, he often felt like a leper when he sparked up, and couldn’t abide the disapproving glances from the café culture set who’d taken over the city centre. Jesus, once the Toon was the domain of the rough and ready working class, now it was so far up its own arse that it’d be better off down the poncy south.

  Coming to the phone booth he took a squint inside. All – as he’d guessed – appeared to be in order. Yet, the nagging doubt that criminals were everywhere these days won out and he lifted the receiver and held it to his ear. He smiled in self-satisfaction. There was no dial tone: no nothing in fact because the line was dead. There was a card for a local taxi firm shoved into the doorframe. Back home in the Toon it would have been flyers for “escort” services. He glanced round, feeling rebellious, thinking of christening the telephone box with his own mark, but decided against it. He loved the remoteness of this landscape, the beauty and tranquillity, and he wouldn’t despoil it by taking a leak in the living antique of the phone box. He turned slowly from the box and looked up a short track to a couple of cottages set back on the hillside. Both were in darkness. He couldn’t recall seeing anyone in or around the houses earlier in the day and decided that they were probably holiday homes, vacated much of the year by owners working in the City. His rebellious streak was still nagging at him for action and he made do with flicking his cigarette end in the direction of the empty homes. The sparkling ember shot through the dark like a miniature comet, struck the drive and dissolved into a shower of sparks.

  He sent the beam of the Maglite up into the forest. The stark light was in contrast with the night, casting dense shadows from the tree limbs, and he fancied that things were moving just beyond the arc of the torchlight. He steadied the beam, probing the dark. Nothing. Not a super-sized grouse in sight. He grunted: what were the chances of seeing one of the illusive creatures anyway? As far as he’d been able to glean from his brief discourse with the twins at the café earlier, capercaillie were as rare as Geordie’s around here.

  So what the fuck was making all that noise?

  Twice now he’d heard faint squawks from some distance.

  Now he heard one much closer, and again he couldn’t help but think that it sounded chilling, more a scream of pain than a birdcall.

  He turned full circle, running the beam over the forest, the road, down towards the loch and then back to the forest again. He was no coward, and it wasn’t the first time he’d heard screams, but something about these sent an uncanny feeling squirming into the pit of his gut. He began to slowly backpedal, before turning and walking back towards his rental cottage. Before he knew it his steps had grown more rapid and the torch was jiggling in his fist with the jarring contact of his boots on tarmac. Feeling stupid, he made an effort at slowing down, but he couldn’t shake the feeling. He was creeped out and the feeling didn’t sit well with a tough copper from the Toon. To calm himself, he stopped and pulled out his packet of cigarettes. He thumbed one to his lips, and set a flame to it from his chuckaway. It took a couple of attempts: each time he placed flame to ciggie his rapid exhalations doused it. He swore softly to himself. Down by the loch he had been hoping for the spectre of his dead father to come stand alongside him, but now that he was imagining all kinds of supernatural beasties out in the woods he was trying to convince himself that he didn’t believe in ghosts. He practically jammed the lighter to his cigarette and drew the flame to it with an angry intake. The smoke invaded his senses, giving him more of a rush than the first fag he’d had. He shuddered out his breath and blue wisps veiled his face, swam across the torch beam. The smoke stung his eyes, bringing forth tears. He flapped his left hand to clear the smoke from his vision.

  ‘Fuck me!’

  He stepped back, at the same time lifting the torchlight to illuminate the figure that had suddenly appeared from out of the gloom. He bit down on any further expletives.

  The last thing he had expected to meet out here in the remoteness was a small girl.

  ‘Hello…uh, what are you doing out here at this time of night?’ The girl wasn’t dressed for the cold, in pyjamas and bare feet. ‘You must be freezing. Where’s your parents?’

  The little girl stood as she had since she’d appeared on the road. Her hands were tight by her sides, her chin tucked on her narrow chest, her hair hanging lank over her face.

  ‘Little girl,’ he tried again. “I’m a police man, OK? There’s nothing to be afraid of. Where’s your mum and dad?’

  He took a step closer; conscious of making any quick movements that might frighten the child. The last he wanted was to spook her and have her race off into the woods. Shit, for all he knew the kids out here were tough little buggers and often roamed around in their PJ’s, but he doubted it. No way did he want to be responsible if she ran screaming from him and got lost in the forest to perish from exposure.

  He used the torch to illuminate himself, just briefly before returning it to the child. ‘Are you lost? Do you need help?’

  The girl didn’t answer, but she did turn her head slightly as if listening.

  Or had she looked towards the seemingly empty holiday homes?

  ‘Do you live up there?’ He pointed back the way he’d come.

  Again he got no reply. Hedging his bets, he took another slow step forward. He expected the girl to flee at any moment, but she didn’t. The opposite was true: she matched him with a step of her own. He glanced down at where her feet were pale blurs against the road surface. They looked blue with the cold and were smudged with dirt. Now that he was closer he could make out a motif on her pyjamas – some cartoon character he was unfamiliar with – but also that her PJ top was smeared with dirt and something that glistened as the torchlight played over it. Christ, if she didn’t look like one of the latchkey waifs from the estates…

  The girl lifted her head.

  Where the beam struck her features it was reflected wetly and he saw that thick globs of stringy mucus hung from both nostrils. The streams of snot ran down her top lip, over her chin and hung like ribbons of gel all the way down her front. Poor kid: that was one hell of a head cold she had. No, not a cold, he realised. The poor sod had got the flu that was raging throughout the country. He had to wonder now if she was suffering from the illness and she’d wandered away from her home in a delirium. As much as he wanted to avoid catching the flu he couldn’t allow the kid to be out like this.

  ‘Hey,’ he called again, ‘we have to get you inside, little un. Will you let me take you home?’

  ‘Noo,’ the girl said.

  His instant thought was that she’d said no, but that wasn’t right. The sound wasn’t as much a word as it was a groan that came deep from her chest.

  ‘It’s OK. I’m a policeman. I’ll make sure that you get home to bed. You’re parents are waiting for you…’

  ‘Noooooo.’

  The little girl’s head had come up further, and though he didn’t want to temporarily blind her, he stroked the light across her features. The beam sparkled on the goo on her lower face, but it was as if the dark pits of her eyes sucked the light into them. Despite himself he felt his anus twitch a couple of times as he stared into their endless depths: they were lifeless voids, the eyes of a corpse.
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br />   ‘Jesus,’ he said under his breath.

  ‘Noooooooooo...’

  He took a step back now. Her voice had risen in pitch and volume, and he watched as her mouth stretched to a wide oval as she reared back and continued the weird call.

  Noo, he thought, what the fuck is that? It took him all of a split second to realise. He was in the depths of Scotland: she wasn’t saying “no” she was saying “now”. Actually, she wasn’t saying it; she was screaming it at the top of her lungs. And there was only one reason why she’d be calling “Now”. It was a command, a direction, a fucking signal for someone else to act.

  In the next split-second he understood. The girl was a decoy. She had held his attention allowing someone to creep up on him.

  He spun round, bringing up the heavy torch as if it was a Neanderthal’s club.

  For the second time in as many minutes he was stunned by what he saw.

  Another child was behind him: a boy this time, a little older than the girl, but still slight and waifish. His mouth and chin was smeared with mucus and his eyes were as dead as the girl’s.

  If that was all he faced then he wouldn’t have been too concerned, but there was movement at the periphery of his vision and figures began to shamble out from the tree line above and from down by the lochside. He took a step back, realised that the girl was too close behind him and spun round to see what had become of her. More figures were stepping out of the darkness, and some of them were chanting the same word over and over. ‘Noo. Noo. Noo.’

  Then he heard that same high-pitched screech that had punctuated the night already. It wasn’t the mating call of a bloody capercaillie after all! It was a sound of hunger and longing that some of the shambling figures emitted. Like the girl’s single word, the shriek too was a signal, and he didn’t have to be a genius to understand what it meant.