by Guy N Smith
‘It must've all collapsed, given way.’ Gun-toter spoke in a squeaky voice that had earned him the nickname of Pip until he had asserted his character with a CB.
‘You got brains, Gun-toter,’ Mule Skinner replied. There was a titter of laughter from the others that in any other place would have been coarse guffaws. But not here. The youths were uneasy, wanted to be away, but that depended upon Mule Skinner.
Whisky Mac was playing with his radio, picked up a wavelength, a garbled message from some ham that only the receiver it was intended for would understand.
‘Shut that fuckin' thing,’ their leader snapped.
The CB was instantly silent. They did not often see their leader as edgy as this, but they knew he could be bloody nasty if he got upset. Better do as he said.
Silence. The five of them sat there on their bikes just looking at that stretch of water. A bubble hit the surface, burst. They jumped; it was like there was somebody down there, dying just as Mick Treadman had done. The water edge seemed to lap like a tide, a movement that claimed another inch of ground. An optical illusion? It had to be.
‘Let's take a closer look.’ Mule Skinner dismounted, walked forward, still carrying his CB. A yard from the water's edge he turned, looked back at the others with a scathing expression on his face. ‘What's the matter with you buggers? Come on, it won't fucking bite you.’
Motorcycles were abandoned as the other four reluctantly obeyed, stepping nervously across the ground which was surprisingly soft, boots sinking up to the heels in places.
‘I don't care much for this,’ Tobacco Joe muttered.
‘Chicken,’ Mule Skinner sneered. ‘Afraid o' gettin' your feet wet?’
They stood on the edge of the pool, stared down into its black depths. Dead water, nothing could live down there. A stench, not just that of rotting vegetation, an acrid odour that caught you sharply at the back of the throat. After a while you got used to it and didn't notice it or else it had wafted away.
Mule Skinner experienced a sense of vertigo, clutched at something to steady himself; the strap of his CB radio. The water seemed to come up to meet him, then receded. His legs felt weak, jellified. After some moments the sensation passed. He just kept on staring down at the pool as though compelled to do so. It did not seem so forbidding any longer, in fact it was quite a friendly place. What a shame to fill it in and bury it. That guy who had been buried alive had got what he had asked for. There was no point in wasting any sympathy on him.
‘It's nice, ain't it?’ Gun-toter piped shrilly, breaking the lengthy silence. ‘Can't see what folks were scared of. I hate those sort of folks. I'd like to … kill 'em.’
‘Look!’ Tobacco Joe pointed down at the water. ‘See that?’
The others stared. A slight ripple that must have begun in the centre and spread out to the sides. Another bubble; it burst immediately. Nothing else.
‘What?’ Cherokee asked timidly.
‘There is somebody down there.’ Tobacco Joe's tone was high pitched with excitement. ‘I saw 'em.’
‘You're nuts.’ Mule Skinner's reply lacked conviction but he bent over and peered even harder. ‘There's nobody down there. They'd be dead, drowned.’
‘I tell you I saw 'em. A face, looking up at me. A girl.’
This time nobody contradicted him, none of the other four spoke, just kept on staring down into the murky depths. Nothing moved; all the same, you got the feeling that maybe it wasn't as dead down there as you thought, and you could stay here for ever. Just looking.
Voices. Scarcely audible, a jumble of words that came and faded, came again. Sort of lilting, like music where the words didn't matter just as long as there was some kind of vocal accompaniment.
‘Who's got their CB switched on?’ Mule Skinner asked but he did not turn round.
No answer.
‘Well?’ The big youth whirled, suddenly angry, his pale blue eyes blazing cold fire. ‘Are you fucking deaf, you lot?’
They shrank back from him, flinched as his gaze flipped from one to the other. He shook his head slowly, that unexpected anger dying away. None of them had tuned in, those whisperings had not come from any of their radios. Where, then? He made as if to ask, changed his mind, shrugged his shoulders.
‘We'll have to be going,’ he said at length, consulting his watch. ‘It's after five.’
‘What!’ Four youths simultaneously checked their own timepieces, looked at one another in amazement.
‘We've been here three hours!’ Cherokee grunted. ‘It only seems like minutes.’
‘We're going.’ Mule Skinner turned, began to walk back towards the bikes.
‘Whereto?’
He reached his bike, paused. Now that was something he had not thought about, only that he got a kind of feeling that they had outstayed their welcome at the Sucking Pit. It had been worth it, though. Like a trip to the sauna, you went in feeling tired and jaded, came out fresh and alert with a new sense of purpose. Looking at water was supposed to be a kind of therapy. It worked, too.
‘We're goin' into town tonight.’ His voice was soft yet purposeful. A statement that was in itself an order.
‘What for?’
Always stupid fucking questions. He had to fight to control his impatience. Jesus, Tobacco Joe was bloody thick.
‘Carl Wickers is on at the club.’
‘Carl Wickers!’ Whisky Mac echoed. ‘He's a load o' shit. What d'you want to go and listen to him for? Sunday's always a dead night anyway.’
‘You don't like country and western, eh?’ Mule Skinner's question, a direct challenge, was addressed to Cherokee.
‘It's all right.’ The other swallowed, blushed with embarrassment. ‘But we always go to rock dances.’
‘Well, they don't have rock dances on Sunday nights, stupid,’ Mule Skinner's jaw jutted defiantly. ‘Or any dances for that matter. Just folk and country music to listen to and for once we'll go along, all of us. Anybody got anything to say?’
‘It'll be an old fogies night,’ Gun-toter squeaked. ‘You know the kind that'll be at the club, Mule Skinner.’
‘Sure I do, prim and proper fuckers that have been to church and are kidding themselves that they're cleansed of their sins and all that kind of crap. The sort of folks who'll be screaming blue murder to get that lot bulldozed in.’ His finger stabbed in the direction of the pool they had just left. ‘I vote we go along and show 'em a thing or two.’
‘We don't want no trouble, Mule Skinner.’
‘We don't but they do. What's goin' to happen to our scramblin' ground, eh? Let me tell you, they'll bulldoze it flat and build snobs' houses on it. Show 'em a bike then and they'll be ringing for the fuzz. We're nobody, we don't count, because we got nothin' and we never will have as long as they keep takin' it off us. Where we gonna ride on Sundays then, eh? Just the roads, with the fuzz waitin' to pull in bikers. I tell you, let's go sort some of these fuckers out!’
‘But why the club, Mule Skinner?’
‘Like I said, there'll be old fogies in there straight from church. We hate their guts, don't we?’ He didn't add. ‘Because I can't think of any other place to find these snobs all bunched together except at the golf club and we'd never get past the door there.’
‘Maybe the people at the club don't come from around here.’ Whisky Mac desperately sought an excuse not to go along. ‘They probably ain't interested in what happens in Hopwas Wood. We could be all wrong. Anyway, we never started any trouble before.’
‘Carl Wickers comes from Hopwas.’ Mule Skinner's features were dark with escalating fury. ‘And he's one who's been screaming for this lot to be levelled. He's making a fortune singing that rubbish of his, kidding everybody he's good, all dressed up in his fancy gear. He's after a posh house up here, you can bet your life. Wasn't he a mate of the Latimers when they owned the wood? Sure he was, and it was Latimer who had the Sucking Pit filled in. So we'll go and spoil Wickers' party for starters.’
‘We'll be in trouble wit
h the law,’ Cherokee whispered, half-hoping that Mule Skinner wouldn't hear him. ‘We've never bothered 'em before. My dad'll …’
‘Sod your dad.’ Mule Skinner half-raised a clenched fist. ‘We've lain down and let everybody shit on us up until now. Well, things are goin' to change, I promise you that. And after we've taught Carl Wickers and his fine friends a thing or two -’ he paused, turned, pointed towards where the tops of some tall pines could just be seen above the sand mounds. ‘- we'll maybe come back and see what that big fucker's got to say for himself. Right, let's go.’
The other four glanced at each other, nodded their mutual agreement. Mule Skinner was right; he usually was. They were ready to fight for what they believed in. Things had certainly changed; from the moment they had stood and stared down into the black depths of the Sucking Pit.
CHAPTER FIVE
Strangely, Chris Latimer found the atmosphere of the social club relaxing. Half an hour and the tension which had tautened every nerve in his body was beginning to relinquish its hold on him. The soft strumming of Carl Wickers' guitar and the younger man's lilting strong voice almost had him at peace with the world, nearly had him forgetting what he had come here for. He would think about that tomorrow.
Carl was certainly on form tonight: a small lithe country and western singer, his hallmark was his pseudo fringed buckskin jacket and Stetson - the latter he usually removed after the first half hour. A tan that was probably the result of some means of artificial ‘sunbathing’; Wickers slept by day and worked by night. Not exactly handsome but his latest acquisition, a Mexican-style moustache, improved looks which some might regard as weak. Eyes that smiled, made you feel that you were his number one fan as they flicked from one member of the audience to another. He had talent, though, the ability to move from a slow smoochy number to a faster beat so naturally that you were hardly aware of the change in tempo. Feet tapped on the bare boards in time with the music; you found yourself wishing that it was any other night except Sunday so that you could get on your feet and dance.
Carl always had his problems, basically stemming from one source - women! Once he had been married; that was back in the days when the Latimers owned Hopwas Wood. An attractive girl with whom he had been passionately in love but for the club singer there always had to be another woman. Separation, divorce, and then girlfriends who were two-timed. A way of life, perhaps subconsciously emulating stardom with all the glamour of infidelity. It would always be that way, love and heartbreak alternating.
Chris Latimer stole a sly glance at the girl seated beside him on the second row. Small and dark, petite in fact, everything about her from her short dark hair down to the varnished toenails protruding from her dainty shoes: perfection. Pamela; she objected to being called Pam, so Wickers had informed him when he had introduced her at his house earlier in the day. A friend of Carl's current girlfriend, Samantha. Chris had wondered at first if the two girls were sisters, or perhaps cousins, because there was a distinct physical similarity. But it transpired that they were merely friends, two of a kind.
Carl had whispered to Chris that Pamela's marriage had broken up a couple of months ago and she had been suffering from acute depression so Samantha had invited her up to stay for a week or two. Latimer felt his pulses quicken, had the impression that Wickers might just be matchmaking. But he would play it carefully; after Pat he had become very wary of the opposite sex. All the same, he could not help stealing glances at his companion.
The audience was sparse. Sunday wasn't a good club night or maybe it was the old story of a prophet in his own country, Chris Latimer reflected wryly. A singer needed to travel further afield than his nearest town to receive acclaim.
Faces that were unfamiliar to Latimer. He didn't know them and it was doubtful if any of them remembered him. That was fortunate; a man who had sold a local heritage to a sand and gravel firm was a traitor. He had begun the chain of desecration which had terminated in Grafton's arrival. And now the Sucking Pit had risen from its own unfathomable depths.
The beat faded, was replaced by sparse clapping.
‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.’ Carl Wickers unslung his guitar, propped it up carefully on the stage. ‘I'm taking a short break now. If any of you have any special requests I'll be pleased to try and play them after the interval. Just write your favourite song on the back of a five-pound note and hand it to me!’
Delayed laughter made the joke seem feeble. On a Saturday night it would have set them roaring with mirth.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Chris turned to Pam, experienced a twinge of nervousness like asking a girl for a first date, holding your breath in anticipation of the reply.
‘Thank you.’ She smiled, her eyes meeting his, holding his gaze as though seeking something there. ‘Gin and lemonade, please. Plenty of lemonade.’
‘I'll be right back.’ Damn it, he sounded just like Carl. The other's mannerisms were infectious. It might be a half-empty clubhouse but the singer certainly got through to his audience.
Everybody seemed to be at the bar. Chris felt a sudden impatience. Damn them, he could be sitting talking to Pamela instead of standing behind a middle-aged man who was buying a seemingly unending round of drinks, placing the glasses one at a time on a battered tin tray.
People were still coming into the club. Chris turned, saw five youths dressed in biking gear, wondered why the door steward had allowed them in. Probably because they were members. It was a sign of the times: any club nowadays was glad of membership subs and the opportunity to sell a few extra drinks. The borderline between solvency and bankruptcy was a narrow one. You didn't have to wear a collar and tie any more to gain admittance.
The five of them stood there surveying the room, or that was what they appeared to be doing … until you saw their expressions, their eyes. Chris Latimer started, felt his skin begin to prickle. There was something sinister, frightening about these bikers. Eyes that were glazed, like dead orbs, limbs that were stiff as though in the grip of rigor mortis, moving jerkily, robots controlled by some unseen malevolent power. You sensed evil. Drugs, probably; he tried to find a logical explanation. No, that wasn't quite right. Drink? They appeared to be sober enough, making their way towards the bar, a sort of slow march as they filed in behind the big fellow who was obviously their leader.
Nobody appeared to be taking any notice of them. Possibly they came here regularly and the novelty had worn off. A slow, arrogant advance on the bar.
And in that one moment Chris Latimer's brain spun, an uncontrollable rollercoaster that brought with it a wave of nausea and dizziness, his vision blurring, his flesh going icy cold as the goose pimples spread, his intestines knotting. The big fellow, his expression moulding his features into a face that was unmistakable, one that still haunted the ex-reporter in his nightmares. Cornelius, the evil Romany leader!
Latimer clutched at the bar, afraid that he might faint. It was ridiculous, a suburban club and the old memories were threatening to take him over again. It was coming back here again that was responsible. He should have kept away, he couldn't do anything. If the evil was abroad, he was powerless to stop it, it was none of his business any more.
They cut a path through the throng, people moving aside, some beer slopping on to the floor. A sudden silence, everybody watching them, stepping back. The barman looked up, said something that sounded like ‘yes?’ but the word caught in his throat; he seemed preoccupied with nervously pleating a dishcloth.
Mule Skinner turned, headed towards the dartboard hanging on the wall; jerky steps, an arm reaching up and plucking out the darts embedded in the cork. The other four were helping themselves to drinks off the polished mahogany surface, clumsily spilling pints of bitter and lager, nobody attempting to stop their blatant act of theft.
Chris Latimer had backed away, his one thought the girl called Pamela: she must not be left alone.
Somebody screamed, a shriek of pain and terror. It was the grey-haired man on his way back to his s
eat balancing that tray of drinks. Glasses hit the floor, exploded like bursting grenades; the tin tray clanked, rolled.
The man was still screaming, clutching at his eye, trying to pull something out. Latimer stared in horror, almost vomited with revulsion. A dart had found its mark, its needle sharp point going in deep into the pupil, puncturing it, blood pouring out.
A hail of darts, vicious messengers of bloody mutilation, sped across the room. Everybody seemed to be screaming, incapable of defending themselves against this unexpected attack. A girl slipped, fell headlong on to some upright shards of broken tankards. A woman was trying to tug a brightly coloured array of feathers out of a dress that was fast turning crimson, the steel tip of the weapon buried in a fleshy breast.
Latimer ran, ducked, felt something brush against his shoulder, heard the dart hit the pine panelling. Pamela was cowering on the floor between two chairs as he flung himself on top of her, attempted to shield her with his own body. Oh, Christ!
Everybody was diving for cover, the injured left to fend for themselves. Five crazed youths continued their attack: the supply of darts exhausted, now it was glasses of every shape and size, hurled with unerring force and accuracy, smashing on the barricade of chairs, exploding into thousands of flying fragments.
Latimer peered between frail chair slats, trembled at what he saw. So coldly calculated, no crazy drunken assault, as though the attackers were working to a preconceived plan. Those expressions, like … zombies resurrected by evil houngans for some sinister purpose. And still he saw Cornelius!
A fragment of glass caught Latimer's hand, a sharp pain on the knuckles and he saw the blood beginning to ooze but he ignored it, held Pamela close beneath him. She was sobbing, trembling violently.
The youths had moved into a kind of formation, three in front hurling the missiles, the other two passing them from the shelves behind the bar, a conveyor belt of human disfiguration. So organised, so deadly.
