Terror in the Night

by J. M. Robinson

  The whole department was empty but he could hear voices coming from Hayes’s corner office. He knocked on the door and the voices stopped. Through the frosted glass he could see movement and a moment later the door swung open. Hayes did not look angry. “Kable,” he said and then paused for a very long time. “You’d better come in.”

  Poleman was there, sitting in one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs. He didn’t look at Graham. “I’m sorry I’m late sir,” he said.

  “What?” Hayes said. He looked at the clock on his desk as if he hadn’t realised what time it was. “So you are. Don’t worry about it, don’t worry at all.”

  Graham stood in front of the desk. Hayes moved and for a moment everything seemed to slow down. He could easily believe that he was in a dream, that he had fallen asleep on his chair at home waiting for Agnes to return.

  “Sit down Kable,” said Hayes as he took his own seat behind the desk.

  He sat and looked at Poleman who still refused to look at him.

  Graham could hear the ticking of Hayes’s gold carriage clock. All of the fears that had been too terrible to give a voice to came to him now. By the time Hayes finally spoke he was actually shaking.

  “Mrs Kable is dead,” Hayes said. His mouth continued moving and there were words coming out but Graham felt like he was under water.

  “Kable?” Hayes said, his voice sharp and piercing. Graham looked up. “Are you still with us?”

  He nodded. His own voice sounded soft and weak. “What happened?”

  Hayes glanced at Poleman for a fraction of a second but it was enough for Graham to realise that neither of them was sure he could handle hearing it.

  “Please, I need to know.”

  “Alright Graham, but you won’t like it.”

  His wife was dead, however it had happened he wouldn’t like it. They were supposed to die together, an old couple who had lived good lives. Maybe there would be grandchildren who came to see them sometimes and that would be a fine thing because that would be the mark they had left on the world. That was how they would know they had lived a worthwhile life. He nodded for Hayes to go on.

  “Her body... Mrs Kable was discovered in the early hours of this morning by a constable on the Underground.”

  “She fell?” he said.

  Hayes shook his head. “There were no broken bones and very little external damage.”

  “Then how did she die?”

  “We don’t know. She lost a lot of blood.” Hayes tapped the side of his neck and Graham understood.

  The papers were calling them the vampire murders, although of course they weren’t really looking for a vampire because there was no such thing. The victims were dying of massive blood loss and each one had two puncture marks on their neck. But there was a perfectly rational explanation for it.

  Graham nodded and Hayes said more, meaningless niceties and platitudes that wouldn’t bring Agnes back. He listened without hearing and when he became aware that the room had fallen silent he stood up. “If it’s all the same to you sir, I think I would like to go home.”

  Hayes also stood and so did Poleman. “Is there anyone you would like us to contact? We can send a telegram at once.”

  Graham shook his head. There was no one left. He walked out of the office and there were people there now, detectives that he had worked with for weeks. But he didn’t notice them anymore than he noticed the furniture they sat at. One or two of them might have said something as he passed but he didn’t notice. He went on through the building past more people that he didn’t really know and out into the street. He felt at home among the strangers there. At least there was no pretence that they cared.

  CHAPTER 22

  SNOW COVERED THE GROUND, IT HURT HIS EYES to look at the brilliant white for too long. His clothes were a mess, they hadn’t been cleaned for weeks and there were holes that would never be mended. He sat on the bench and looked out across the field. There were footprints in the snow showing long and intricate dances performed by people who were no longer there.

  Graham did not think he was still there. Not really, not anymore.

  He hadn’t been to work for weeks, did not, in fact, think that he still had a job. Poleman had come to the house a few times, whether because he wanted to or because Hayes had sent him, but Graham hadn’t answered the door. Mrs White had sent him away. The last time he had tried to visit was more than a week ago. He thought, time was a fragile web that was failing one strand at a time. Soon he wouldn’t be aware of it at all and that was fine because nothing mattered anymore.

  When the children arrived he stood up. Their happy voices and screams of joy cut through him like a rusty blade. It hurt to think there was still pleasure in the world while his every breath was infused with misery. He walked to the edge of the park where the snow had been cleared enough to see the ground. He walked out onto the street where the noise was subdued and and less painful.

  The shops had thrown open their doors despite the cold. Young women hurried in and out with paper bags full of parcels growing larger with each visit. A man with a bell walked down the middle of the street collecting donations for orphan children, he seemed to know instinctively to avoid Graham.

  The funeral had been a simple affair. He had managed to hold it together for long enough to arrange that. The only attendees were himself and Mrs White, the service was conducted by a vicar named Rutherford. Rutherford had asked if he wanted a ceremony for Bridget as well and a bolt of anger almost caused Graham to punch him, instead he shook his head and said ‘no, my daughter is alive’.

  He made his way past the happy and hurried shoppers. He had no interest in being around jollity. Graham made his way towards the dark quarters, the seedy side of town where a man could sit by himself and drink at ten o-clock in the morning without anyone asking questions.

  The last sounds of happiness faded away and the alleyways narrowed between brick buildings covered with a sooty black sludge. The world seemed to get darker. A purple bruise of clouds hung overhead threatening more snow. All he sought was a place with a fire, somewhere he could sit and drink and not be bothered by anyone.

  He stopped in front of a brown door. The paint had pealed away to reveal rotting black wood beneath. In other places the wood was splintered as if it had been struck by an axe. There was no sign to say what this place was but this was not Graham’s first visit to the grotty establishment. He pushed open the door and went in.

  There were opium dens throughout the city. One particularly famous one was down by the river and run by a group of Chinese collectively known as The Silk. Opium dens were often hot topics for debate but the truth was that opium addicts were rarely capable of causing trouble. Conversely there were ten times as many pubs in the city and they were never considered places that might need to be closed, despite the fact that violent drunks could be seen on any street corner throughout the city after dark. But Graham had never tried Opium and he didn’t plan on trying it now.

  He ordered his drink at the bar and carried it to a dark corner. The ceilings were low and filthy, the air thick with tobacco smoke. There were lamps on the walls but few of them were on and the windows were too dirty to let much light through. He slumped into a chair. There wasn’t a fire but at least people would leave him alone. He could drink the day away and stumble home when he ran out of money, fall unconscious on his bed and remain that way until the next day when he could do it all again.

  “Mr Kable?”

  Except nothing was ever straightforward. He turned to look in the direction the voice had come from.

  He saw a man in his mid-sixties with wiry grey hair and matching moustache. He raised a hand to his mouth and sucked deeply on a cigarette.

  “Who wants to know?” Graham said, annoyed that he had been interrupted.

  “It is you, I knew it was,” the man said and smiled.

  Graham studied the face, the lines of age and dirt. He didn’t know the man and he didn’t want to. “What do you wa
nt?”

  The old man smiled and coughed as if he was hacking up a lung. His hand came away speckled with blood and mucus which he wiped on his dirty coat. “It is what you want detective that I am here to see you about.”

  “You didn’t come here to see me,” Graham said. He had been to the pub before but not yesterday and not the day before. There were enough pubs within walking distance that he didn’t have to become a regular at any of them. Regulars attracted attention and questions and he didn’t want that. Just a quiet place where he could drink away the day and not be bothered by anyone. This old fool was ruining that.

  “So you say but there are many things you don’t believe in, am I right detective?”

  Graham picked up his drink and turned away from the man. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

  “No, of course,” he said, sliding further along his seat so their arms were almost touching. “There are many things you don’t believe in. Perhaps too many to name.”

  Graham sighed, he wasn’t in the mood for this sort of nonsense. “Just leave me alone,” he said.

  The old man reached into his jacket and Graham could hear paper crumpling. A brown and charred envelope came out, there was writing across the top but it was too small for him to read.

  “My name is Doctor Howser,” he said.

  The old man didn’t look like a doctor but Graham refused to ask what his qualification was in. Whatever it was he was selling, Graham wasn’t interested.

  “I work for the Witchcraft Council.”

  Graham snorted into his glass. “Some sort of pagan club you mean? You go around praying to trees and the sun and things?”

  “Far from it detective.” Howser pointed at Graham’s glass and muttered a few words. When he moved his finger the glass slid across the table.

  Graham grabbed the glass. “A cheap trick,” he said, pouring the rest of it into his mouth. “If you expect me to believe in ‘magic’ you’re wasting your time. He put the glass back down on the table. Howser pointed at it and muttered a few more words. As Graham watched the glass began to fill up. He looked at Howser.

  “Go ahead detective, it’s on me.”

  Graham picked up the now full glass. It smelled the same, deep and earthy, rich and spicy. He sipped it and it tasted good. Maybe even better than the drink he had bought at the bar. “A cheap parlour trick,” he said putting the glass down.

  Howser shook his head. “It’s not necessary that you believe me detective though I think that in time you shall. Here,” he said and held out a letter. Graham looked down at it. The edges were crisp and black, it looked as if it had been in a fire. “Go ahead,” Howser said, “it is addressed to you.”

  Graham sighed and took the envelope. Sure enough his name was scrawled across the front in a small shaky script. “How did you get this?” he said.

  “Open it,” said Howser. “I will answer your questions when you know what it says.”

  With a deep sense of suspicion Graham delicately opened the envelope. The paper inside was fragile. He could hardly see the tiny writing in the dim light of the grubby corner.

  “Allow me,” Howser said. He pointed at the lamp on the wall above them, muttered a few words in what Graham suspected was Latin, and the lamp was lit, burning brightly and illuminating both the letter and the dirty corner in which they sat.

  Graham looked at Howser for a moment. The man was a con-artist, he had to be. A few well placed props in the dark pub and a letter that he had probably written himself. But there was little else to do so he bent his head and started to read.

  CHAPTER 23

  DETECTIVE KABLE,

  BY THE TIME YOU READ THIS I will be dead

  Graham turned over the page to see the name at the end. For a moment he was convinced it had come from Agnes, although he didn’t recognise the writing and she never called him ‘detective Kable’.

  In good faith,

  Miss Nighthorn.

  The witch. “How did you get this?” he said.

  Howser shook his head. “All in good time detective. Read and then I shall explain everything.”

  Graham turned back to the letter and read:

  By the time you read this I will be dead. Somehow they have managed to get through the protection charms I set up and they are coming for me now. Once I am dead everything will change.

  But let me start at the beginning. I am and always have been a witch. Not in the way that everyone in Odamere thinks, although that too, but in the sense that I can perform magic.

  Graham looked up at Howser, this had to be some sort of joke, a con. It was ridiculous. But he continued reading.

  Your daughter Bridget is in danger. The people who have come to kill me tonight are really looking for her but they can’t hurt her while the charms and spells I put in place still stand. Once I am dead they will start to fade and then fail and your daughter will be vulnerable.

  This will be very difficult for you to believe but I offer this as evidence: the charms that I put in place had the unexpected, though rather wonderful, effect of generating peace in Odamere. If this has not already begun to falter then I invite you to inspect your records of the years preceding Bridget’s birth. You will see a large number of violent crimes that will offer some proof for what I am saying. Likewise I expect that you will be moved out of the village somehow.

  Time is short so I offer this as my final word: do not leave Odamere. You have friends here and they will help protect your daughter. There are people who would harm her and people who would use her extraordinary gifts. If this comes about then the world as you know it will cease to exist.

  I wish I could say more but they are coming for me.

  In good faith,

  Miss Nighthorn.

  Graham looked at Howser who sat patiently waiting for him to finish. “How did you get this?”

  “A witch’s correspondence can never truly be destroyed.”

  He shook his head, he was getting sidetracked, of course the letter wasn’t real, it was a fabrication and an insulting one at that. But it was difficult to argue that the village hadn’t changed since Miss Nighthorn’s death.

  “Your daughter is in great danger detective,” Howser said.

  Enough was enough. Graham had come here for solitude, it was bad enough that Howser had interrupted that, but to bring Bridget into it was insensitive and rude. “Please leave me alone,” he said.

  “I will detective but first there are some things I need to tell you, whether you believe them or not. Do you remember your father detective?”

  Graham nodded but it was barely true. He remembered having a father, he had been one of the first detectives at Scotland Yard and it was no coincidence that Graham had wanted to follow in his footsteps. But he had vanished off the face of the earth when he was still a boy.

  “Your father was taken away by the Church. They knew, you see, that his blood was special.”

  “Special?”

  “That’s right. Your blood is too but they can’t use it because you are male. Have you heard of something called a blood transfusion detective?”

  Graham shook his head. He could guess what it meant though.

  “The Church thought that they could take your fathers blood and put it into a girl. That way they could use it, do you see?”

  “This is nonsense,” he said but was starting to feel that maybe it wasn’t. Howser had found his weak point and now he was open to hearing more.

  “Is it? How many sisters did your father have? How many did your grandfather?”

  “None,” Graham admitted.

  “Bridget is the first female born into you family for more than a thousand years.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “We live for a very long time detective.”

  “Get to the point,” Graham said.

  “Have you heard of an institution called The Grigori?”

  Graham shook his head.

  “The Grigori is an i
nstitution set up hundreds of years ago. Rumour has it they can trace their roots back to King Arthur and the Knights. They have charged themselves with protecting the world.”

  “And how do they fit into this?” Graham said, his sense of disbelief rising and falling. Maybe it was all lies, maybe just some of it.

  “They want to kill your daughter.”

  “I thought you said the Church were the bad guys?”

  “It all depends on your perspective detective Kable. And from your perspective I fear you have two large and powerful organisations who want to hurt your daughter. From another perspective we might say that The Grigori offer the lesser of two evils; your daughter will be killed but the world will be saved.”

  “So why are you telling me? If you know where she is go tell The Grigori and be done with it,” Graham said.

  “You misunderstand me detective, I don’t know where your daughter is, only that she is still alive.”

  “And how do you know that?” he said.

  “Because The Grigori are still looking for her, so they don’t have her. The world is still here so the Church haven’t been able to use her, yet.

  “I see you still have doubts detective,” Howser said. He leaned back in his chair and lit another cigarette, without the use of a match. “Let me ask you this: was there someone on the train with your wife and daughter that night? Someone who inexplicably turned up and offered to help?”

  Graham nodded.

  “He works for The Grigori and you cannot trust him.”

  “He tried to help,” Graham said, without the slightest idea why he was defending Park.

  “It may have appeared that way, I’m sure. But mark my words, he was there to kill your daughter.”

  Graham leaned back in his seat and let his eyes become unfocused. The bar became a dark muddy blur and he tried to think about what he had been told. The idea that Bridget might still be alive was appealing but that had always been the case. Unless he believed at least some of what Howser was saying he was no better off than he had been before the conversation.