by Matt Hilton
I’d have loved to touch her again, yet our collective destiny had an immediate need to impose itself on us. Broom’s strangled shout had us running for the front door.
THIRTYSEVEN
Outside Broom’s cottage
The rain had returned with a vengeance.
Huge gobbets of water flattened the grass and rattled the Halloween ornaments Broom had yet to remove from his garden. Streams overflowed the gutters of the cottage, cascading through the downspouts like they were fumaroles in a rainforest cliff-side. It was the kind of rain that drenched instantly and left the body pummelled under its weight.
But that was not why Broom cried out.
The object of his dismay was the thing crouching on the bonnet of the police car like an oversize hood ornament. Even through the deluge I saw the gleam of green eyes, the black talons extending from the malformed hands.
“Get back in the house!” a high-pitched voice yelled. Only now in recollection do I believe that the voice was that of the burly policeman, Bob Harris, his larynx nipped by fear.
His suggestion was infinitely wise, but not something I could do. Call it misplaced bravery, but I ran to join Bob and Shelly as they approached the crouching obscenity. Broom was by the gatepost, and I grabbed at him. “Take Janet back inside, Broom. You’d better get the gun, too.”
“The police…”
“Get the fucking gun,” I snapped.
Then I was past him and rushing up behind Constable Harris. The policeman was bent at the waist, hands flexing like a wrestler. Shelly McCusker was thumbing the mike on her radio, shouting for back up, but judging by the forlorn expression on her face she was receiving no reply. I snatched at her. “Go with Broom,” I told her. “Protect Professor Hale.”
She shook her head as though dislodging a beetle from her ear.
“It’s come for Janet,” I shouted. “Do your bloody duty, Sergeant. Protect her from this thing.”
If she had slapped me across the chops I would have deserved it, but what the hell. I grabbed at her utility belt and hauled her backwards. Propelled her towards the gate. She rounded on me, hands coming up to grapple.
“Please, Sergeant McCusker,” I begged. “Protect her. Just in case it gets by us.”
Her face told me that I was the worst kind of bastard she’d ever met, but only for an instant. Then she blinked as though waking from one dream into the living nightmare we faced. Next instant she was running for the door of Broom’s cottage, shouting again into her radio. Janet’s face was a pale blob in the doorway, but for only as long as it took the sergeant to bundle her back inside.
Too many seconds had passed.
When I searched for the thing on the car bonnet it was no longer visible. Neither was Bob Harris. All I could make out through the deluge was an indistinct blur that congealed into a mass of writhing limbs as two combatants rolled in the road beside the car. Bob Harris’s voice was now a throaty roar.
“What you gonna do, hero?”
Cash again. Not so uninvited this time. His words were enough to galvanise me to action. Charging for the rolling combatants, my only thought was to do something.
“Careful, bro. That fuckin’ Skeklar dude is one scary mother humper!”
Christ! Cash actually said something I agreed with. Not that I was about to back off. I charged in, the rain stinging my features like a million hornets. Trying to determine Skeklar from cop was nigh on impossible. They were grappling so tightly, twisting and turning and changing position so rapidly that I couldn’t find a clear spot to put my fist. It didn’t help that they were both garbed in black, or that they both made the guttural noises associated with mortal combat where intellect and words were replaced by the savage growls of wild beasts.
Like a referee I skipped round the rolling bodies. Jerking left to right as I sought a clear shot at the Skeklar. When my opportunity came, I almost missed it.
The Skeklar gained top position for a moment, sitting astride Bob’s chest as it raised a taloned fist in the air, poised to strike at his throat. Bob’s hands thrust up and caught at the claw, wrenching it to one side, tussling with the beast to save his flesh. The move was so desperate that I was caught in momentary flux, torn between watching the death match and actually doing something to help.
“Get this fucking thing off me, will you?” Bob yelled.
His words snatched me into the there and then, and I lunged forward, snaring the Skeklar’s head in both my hands. Yanking it backwards. The Skeklar tumbled off Bob Harris, coming to its hands and knees on the road. Then it was barrelling towards me and I’d lost my grip on its malformed head, and I felt the fire of its claws raking my chest.
There was nothing practiced about my move, I simply relied on natural instinct to lift my foot up into its groin. It was like kicking the underside of a table, but it seemed even Skeklar have testicles. It stopped in its tracks, a low moan issuing from the face hovering so near to mine. I kicked the bastard again.
I should have smacked it in the head, because it was ready for the kick this time, catching my foot between its knees. Caught off balance I had no recourse than sprawl in the rain-puddled road as it twisted by me.
“Stop it, Bailey. It’s going for the women.”
Bob was already struggling to his feet as I lurched up. The Skeklar was a shadow racing for the cottage. We both ran after it, but it was an unfair race. The Skeklar was at the door before we’d even made the gate stoop. It didn’t stop, it rammed into the door. Surprisingly the door resisted its efforts, and it was only when I heard Broom’s roar of exertion that I realised that my friend was on the other side, throwing his weight against the door.
The Skeklar raised its fists and slammed them against the door panel, cracking it lengthwise, yet the door withstood it. Then we were only feet away, and the damned thing spun to confront us. Bob Harris had his extendable baton out and he struck with all his might. There was no attempt at tempering the blow as law dictates, Bob aimed to smash the thing’s ugly skull in. There was the crack of leather off willow usually associated with spring days and games of cricket on the village green, but it was the noise of the baton on the Skeklar’s head.
My kick to the groin had failed to stop it, now it appeared it was as invulnerable to a stove in head. Almost without pause it threw a counter-strike at Bob Harris and the big policeman went down, his head rapping painfully off the path. Then the Skeklar leaped over him, its arms outstretched to grasp me.
Skidding on the path, going to one knee amongst the crushed seashells, I could see no way of avoiding the swiping claws. God bless him, but Broom wasn’t as slow on his damaged leg as he often appeared. He came out the door and onto the Skeklar’s back like a lioness protecting its cub. Neither was he a weakling. He grappled the Skeklar round the waist, lifting it like a sack of corn, and then hurled it sideways. The Skeklar landed in a flowerbed, the Whump! of flesh meeting earth loud even against the teeming rain.
I was neither trained nor a natural when it came to unarmed combat, perhaps it was merely the instinctive need to protect that caused me to rush at the Skeklar and kick its head rugby ball style. Catching it as it lurched to all fours, my foot connected under its chin, lifting the malformed head up and backwards on its neck. The Skeklar went over onto its backside, moaning a very human-like sound of pain.
In my mind I was propelled back to that dreadful night in the water mill. I hated this thing more than I hated what Cash had become. If it meant doing so, I would have gone tooth and nail against the beast, as I had my brother. The only thing that stopped me from doing so was Bob Harris catching me by the shoulders and tugging me backwards.
Good job he did: if I’d continued forward as planned, the Skeklar’s swiping claws would have disembowelled me as cleanly as any of Cash’s victims.
Bob saved my life. For that I’m eternally thankful. The only problem being, it allowed the Skeklar an avenue of escape. It rose up, shaking its head to clear the effect of my kick. Then it twisted
away from us.
“Get it!” Broom yelled from somewhere behind me. “Don’t let it escape.”
“Come here,” Bob grunted as he lurched past me, grabbing at air as the Skeklar dodged away.
“It’s going to get away,” I hollered.
The fence round Broom’s garden was no obstacle. The Skeklar vaulted it like an Olympic hurdler, then charged off down the slope towards the beach. The rain conspired against us, causing a watery screen to envelope the escaping killer, concealing its route from us.
We didn’t follow. Out there, if we were separated, we would be sitting ducks against its ravening claws.
“Did you bring the gun, Broom?” I asked.
My friend was supporting himself on the fence, hair plastered across his face. His fight had been for only a few seconds but he appeared totally wiped out of energy. He glanced back at me, then to Bob Harris. “I didn’t get the opportunity.”
Giving him his due, Bob didn’t make an issue of the gun. He had experienced first hand what the Skeklar was capable of and I could only hazard a guess that he wished he had a gun, too.
Shoulder to shoulder the three of us stared out into the rain like we were mourners searching for the wreckage of a ship lost on a storm-tossed sea.
Finally, the tinny strains of a voice buzzed from Bob Harris’s earpiece.
“We’re all okay, Sarge,” he said into his radio. “No, I’m sorry. He’s got away from us.”
There was more buzzing in his ear.
“Aye, Sarge. We’re going to come in now.”
As we moved for the cottage the policeman grabbed me by my wrist. I stopped and looked back at him. There was a network of scratches and abrasions on his bluff face, and he had to be thankful that he was wearing his protective vest because the cloth was tattered and the inner padding showed through. He nodded slowly. “You saved me back there,” he said. “My sergeant has her suspicions about you, Bailey, but I ken you’re a good man.”
Shoving my hands through my hair I whispered, “You saved me, too, Bob.”
He gave himself a once over inspection. “I don’t know how I managed that.”
“Well, you did,” I said, still mildly embarrassed by his words.
“Of course, I didn’t do anything worthwhile,” Broom chipped in.
I turned to my big friend and hugged him. “Broom, you’ve saved me more times than I can ever count. I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me…”
“I owe you an apology. After what I said…”
“I’ve already forgotten all about that,” he said. Earnestness shone from his blue eyes like a beacon and it had nothing to do with my ability for viewing auric lights.
Bob Harris hadn’t a clue about what we were referring to, but he had the good grace not to interfere. He waited until Broom and I stepped apart before saying, “Bailey. Best you don’t mention guns in front of Sergeant McCusker, eh?”
THIRTYEIGHT
Broom’s cottage
Shelly McCusker, Bob Harris and Janet Hale left shortly after the Skeklar fled into the sudden storm. Shelly was engrossed with forming a search party and barely spoke to us, however Bob remained grateful for our help and extended his hand to both Broom and I.
“If either of you are thinking about taking a walk on the beach I suggest you take along that thing we talked about,” he said out of earshot of his supervisor.
Broom said, “I’m battening down the hatches. There’s no way on Earth that you’ll get me past that door tonight.”
“I might take an evening stroll,” I told the constable. “A little wind and rain doesn’t bother me. If you need an extra pair of eyes for the search party, give me a shout, okay?”
Shelly McCusker turned and gave me the beady eye. “It’s best you batten down the hatches as well, Mister Bailey.”
“I’ll let you know,” Bob said. There was little conviction in his voice. What would the police want with a sports clothing salesman getting in their way? Likely Bob held some respect towards me, but it seemed I’d yet to win over the sergeant.
For all intents and purposes the area of the garden and drive where their squad car was parked was a crime scene. The rain and wind would most probably have obliterated any forensic evidence, though, so the police had no qualms about climbing into the vehicle. Only Janet came over as reluctant to get in the car. She stood at the open rear door, watching me. Finally I gave her a nod that was meant to convey reassurance. As I did so I saw her auric lights flare around her like a controlled explosion. The lights shimmered golden, then flared with lemon and then swirled into a pallet of pastel shades that changed more rapidly than I could follow. I couldn’t understand what each colour meant, but instinctively I knew that the colours were those of a person guided by the highest good. Janet was thinking nice things about me; could I be seeing the auric manifestation of love?
If that was the case or not, I blinked and the lights were gone. Only Janet’s return nod and the slow smile etching itself into the corner of her mouth told me that the colours had ever been there. She gave me a brief wave, then got in the car and off they went.
When I turned to my friend, Broom was studying me as if I was a bug on the end of a pin.
“What?”
“Something came over you just then.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s hard to explain.” Broom’s face pinched in on itself as he considered. “When I looked at you it was as though I was looking at a stranger.”
Unconsciously I touched my fingers to my face. It was the same old scarred mug I remembered.
Broom laughed. “You didn’t look different. Not your features. Like I said, it’s hard to explain.” He seesawed his head, before coming to the conclusion, “You looked intelligent.”
A short expulsion of air broke from me unbidden. “Gee, thanks, Broom.”
He made his way inside the house. “I didn’t mean that you normally look stupid. There was just something that came over you that gave you an inner calm, a heightened perception; it made you look like you were existing on a higher plain of existence.”
Following him indoors, I said, “I saw her auric lights, Broom.”
He swung to stare at me again. “What? Just like that?” He clicked his fingers.
“Yeah.” I clicked my fingers. “As quickly as that.”
“Close the door behind you, Carter. Then come into the bedroom. There’s something I want to try out.”
I closed the door. “I know you said you’d forgiven me for earlier, but there’s no need to show me how much.”
Broom tutted at me, shaking his head so that his moisture darkened hair swung bell-like. “Just get yourself in the bedroom, will you?”
The spare bedroom I’d used last night was sumptuous, but Broom’s room went beyond luxurious. It was like half-a-dozen pimps had gone crazy with faux-fur and pastel paint to create a subdued version of a hippy love nest. The divan was so deeply sprung it required a step up to it, so large it’d take an expert guide to navigate it crossways. A second plasma screen TV dominated one wall; cut glass mirrored-doors on a walk-in closet the other. Momentarily I expected MTV to turn up at his crib with a camera crew.
“And you tell me that there isn’t much money in writing,” I said.
“Trust me,” Broom said, “most professional writers in the UK make thirty three percent less than the minimum wage. There are very few who can afford this level of comfort.”
“Not unless you’re the country’s sixteenth best selling horror author, eh?”
“Not even if you hit the Kindle top ten,” Broom said. “And actually, I’m fifteenth in the rankings. But most of my money comes from other business initiatives. In fact, I make more of a living from fan conventions and seminars than I do the royalties from my books.”
“Looks like you’re doing all right for yourself, however you make your money.”
Broom indicated the bed. “Lie down, Carter.”
“You want me to u
ndress first?”
“Enough already,” Broom laughed. “Then again, maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to take off your coat and boots. Seeing as you’re wet and covered in God knows what!”
“That’s what I meant,” I said. “I don’t know what you were thinking.”
“Told you, Bro. Broomy’s got ideas for you.”
“Aw, shut it, Cash.”
My coat was a mess. It was to be expected, considering that twice tonight I’d been forced to roll on the ground to avoid the Skeklar’s claws. My trousers weren’t much better, but at least they weren’t smeared with mud, clumps of grass and tiny fragments of sea shells. My boots had to be left outside the bedroom; the cream carpet wouldn’t stand up to me treading all over it. Broom threw a towel at me and I used it to scrub the rain from my hair.
“Okay. Now lie down on the bed.”
It brought back memories of lying on a psychiatrist’s couch and momentarily I experienced a tingle of panic. Almost, I was transported back four years, and for the briefest time I had to fight the urge to flee screaming from the room. An illogical fear that I was going to have to live those four years over again assailed me with the force of crashing surf. Still, it was testament to my journey along the route to recovery that I was able to inhale deeply, then expunge the fear in one long ragged exhalation.
“That’s good, Carter. Clear your mind.”
“What exactly is it that you want me to do?”
Broom moved away, switching on a lamp in the far corner of the room. Next he switched off the overheads so that we were bathed only in the meagre glow of the lamp. “An experiment,” he said. “Something I researched earlier about auric lights. Using a low light, you lie down and hold your hands out in front of you. You don’t stare at them, just gaze at your hands. Then you slowly bring your hands together until they are almost touching. Apparently you will notice a blue haze appear around your finger. This is supposed to be the etheric aura. Would you like to give it a try and see what you achieve?”
