by Mark Morris
Despite his efforts, the bikers were gaining on him, fanning out behind him in a pincer formation. What meagre light there was glinted on their machines and leather jackets. Their faces were blurred whitish ovals beneath their helmets; Jack imagined each of them slashed with a savage red predator’s grin. The car hit a bump and something crunched; Jack’s seat belt locked across his body, cutting into the soft flesh beneath his ribs. “Fuck!” he shouted when he had his breath back. Though he knew they couldn’t possibly hear, he yelled, “Fuck off, you bastards. Leave me alone!”
The bikes were right on top of him now, their headlamps like the luminous eyes of some gigantic insect. They were bathing him with light, pinpointing their prey. In his rearview mirror he caught glimpses of black leather etched with zips like battle scars. The bikes were bellowing their hunger; Jack’s adrenaline was cranking his heart up to such a rate that he could barely breathe. Behind him the left and right headlamps detached from the rest, like eyes on stalks, and began to crawl up the sides of his car.
Later, Jack realised there was a great deal he could have done to disable his pursuers if he’d had his wits about him. He could have slammed on his brakes to take out the four bikes behind him, and then slewed left and right, using the car as a giant fly swatter, to take out the other two. Of course the car would have been damaged, if not written-off, but when his life was at stake what the fuck did that matter? However, what he could have done was immaterial; he was so scared he could think of nothing but headlong flight.
The bikes continued to overhaul him until their headlamps were level with his wing mirrors. Jack was now going so fast that the road no longer seemed uneven; it had become a colourless blur. The bikers seemed unfazed by the speed they were going, or by how narrow the gap was between Jack’s Mini Cooper and the dry-stone walls. All it would take would be the slightest contact on either side, and biker and machine would become a spectacular Catherine wheel of metal, leather and flesh. Jack glanced out of his right-hand window; the biker was so close that Jack could see the dirt beneath his fingernails, the skull ring he wore, the swastika tattooed on the back of his hand. The bike began to pull round in front of him, and now Jack saw that two people were riding it. The one at the back, though jacketed and helmeted, was undoubtedly a woman. Her legs, encased in tight jeans, were long and shapely; her blonde hair blew out behind her, beneath the rim of her crash helmet.
Though Jack hadn’t liked Tracey Bates very much, it still disheartened him to know that she was in on this. Had her father put her up to it or was she doing this off her own bat? Both of the lead bikes were pulling round in front of him now, and the two bikes on the outside behind were peeling off, presumably to overtake him as their companions had. Jack saw Tracey half-turn towards him and make a sweeping motion with her arm. He ducked as something thumped against the windshield. For an instant he lost control of the car, heard the tires screech, glimpsed a black blur of wall veering crazily towards him on the left. His foot stamped instinctively on the brake at the same time his hands regained the wheel and twisted it to the right. For a long moment the world became a screech of tortured, high-pitched noise, a spinning confusion of blackness and glaring light. It slowed minutely, then abruptly stopped. Jack closed his eyes, shaking all over, and listened to the fading sound of wasps. His throat felt like torn paper and his ears were humming; he realised he must have been screaming. When he finally raised his head into the silence he saw that he was alone. The bikes were intermittent pricks of light far, far ahead.
He felt exhausted, cold, shocked, horrified, angry. What in God’s name had he done to deserve that? The car was dead, though Jack hoped that it had only stalled. It was skewed a little to the right, pointing in roughly the direction he wanted to go. His mind ground into gear again, anger his most dominant emotion. What had those morons hoped to achieve by their actions? Had they wanted to kill him or simply scare him? Christ, they had almost killed themselves! When Tracey had thrown that thing at the windshield, he could so easily have ploughed into one or more of them. At that speed there would have been little left but a mangled mess.
It was only when he reached for the ignition key that he realised how badly his hand was trembling. He formed a tight fist, but the sensation slid up his arm, into his bones, and seconds later his belly was juddering, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. He knew it was the shock of the accident, and that he ought to get back to the house, drink something hot, keep himself warm. Driving did not seem a good idea, but he couldn’t just leave the car in the middle of the road, especially in the dark.
“Thank you, God,” he muttered when the engine started first time. He scanned the road ahead once more, half-fearful that the bikers may be coming back, and only then did he notice the object that Tracey had thrown at the windshield. Miraculously it was still there, having slithered down to rest on his wiper. It was small and pale and pulpy, and had left a glutinous trail like a slug. Jack’s face creased in disgust. It was a used condom. He stabbed at a button and twin jets of screenwash sprayed over the glass. He prayed that the condom would not become caught in his wipers as he turned them on, forcing him to extricate it with his fingers. Fortunately it didn’t; the wipers swept it and its slither of semen disdainfully away. Jack put the car into first and tentatively eased it forward, as if in the belief that such careful treatment would neutralise any damage that had been done. The car responded immediately, seeming to have suffered no ill effects from its misuse. Still shaking, Jack crawled back to the house at fifteen miles per hour.
He parked carefully and got out of the car. At once, the wind seemed to slice straight through to his core, making his flesh writhe, his teeth chatter violently. He hurried through the gate and up the path to the front door. The key rattled in the lock like an echo of his teeth. He turned and slammed the door quickly after switching on the light, and then hugged himself, taking one long breath after another. He walked through to the kitchen and made himself a pot of tea. The window was a black mirror, reflecting his pale face, his wild hair. He yanked down the blind, wishing he could get warm. He felt confused, depressed, angry, thought longingly of Gail, his flat in London. He felt as though his flayed emotions were almost down to the bone; he could feel their coldness, their hard sharp points.
He waited until the tea was almost stewed, then poured himself a mug and laced it generously with honey. His stomach muscles cramped momentarily against the hot sweet liquid, then seemed to settle, allowing the warmth to flood them like a panacea. He sat down in the kitchen and savoured the tea, cupping his hands around the mug, enjoying the sensation of steam rising into his face like a mask of soft warm kisses. As soon as he finished the tea, he poured himself another and stood up, intending to carry it through to the hall and ring Gail. He reached across the table for the teaspoon . . . and heard the unmistakable creak of footsteps above his head.
He looked up, mouth slightly open, as if afraid the ceiling was about to fall in. Footsteps. An intruder. “Oh, shit,” he breathed. He couldn’t believe he now had this to contend with. Hadn’t he been through enough for one night? He felt exhausted, but looked around for a weapon. When he left the kitchen he was holding a carving knife in his right hand, a rolling pin in his left.
He stood for a moment in the hall, listening to the sounds from upstairs. Obviously whoever was up there saw no need to be cautious. This could mean one of two things: either they didn’t know Jack was in the house or they didn’t care. Jack felt both angry and scared, though strangely detached. It suddenly occurred to him to just get out of the house, get into his car and drive away. There was nothing much to steal up there anyway. A few clothes, a few books, and that was it.
Yes, that was what he would do. He would call the police and then get the fuck out of there. He sneaked along the hallway to the foot of the stairs, jamming his tongue between his teeth to stop them from chattering. He reached the telephone table, put the rolling pin down on it, and picked up the receiver. The dial tone filled his head as he brought the re
ceiver to his ear. But before he could punch in the first number the dial tone abruptly cut out and from the hissing silence that replaced it a male voice said, “Jack.”
He dropped the receiver and leaped back from it as if it had turned into a snake. That had been his father’s voice. It had spoken only one word, one syllable, but he was certain it had been his father’s voice. Panic suddenly overwhelmed him and he spun round, bouncing off the wall, and plunged towards the front door. With his free hand he scrabbled at the handle and managed to yank the door open.
He ran out of the house, almost stumbling on the path. He came to the gate, pulled it open so violently that he cracked his shin with it. Tears of pain sprang to his eyes. Muttering curses he limped into Daisy Lane. He began to hobble towards his car, patting his pocket for keys. Then he stopped.
There was a dark, humped shape beside the car. At first he thought it was a bush or the stump of a tree, but then it began to unfurl, to straighten up, and he realised it was a man. The man had his back to Jack but was already beginning, painstakingly slowly, to turn. As he did so, moonlight spilled across his face, turning his skin into a ghastly blue-white clown’s mask. Deep black wrinkles were etched into his cheeks; his eyes were sunken pits of shadow. Jack began to back away as the figure raised its white hands towards him in an almost supplicatory gesture. When his father began lurching in his direction, face expressionless as a death mask, Jack ran.
10
THE GRAND DESIGN
He didn’t get very far. His left foot hit a patch of mud and slid from under him. Jack cried out at the wrenching pain in his leg, and then his whole body was going down, arms flailing for balance. Impact with the ground knocked the wind out of him. For a moment he could only lie gasping, trying to blink away the fuzzy bursts of light that had arrived with the pain. His mind was racing. He had seen his father. This time he had really seen him, there was no mistake. Did that mean his father was still alive, that Jack had been tricked into coming here? He couldn’t believe his aunt would deceive him, but that would leave only one alternative.
His father was a ghost.
Jack’s vision began to clear, the lights fizzling out, as his breath came back and his pain subsided. He was staring into a black sky, across which the tattered remnants of grey cloud occasionally drifted. He needed to know where his father was now, he needed to lift his head and see. When he did so it was like raising a boulder using only his neck muscles. Bits of muddy gravel pattered from his hair onto his shoulders.
There was no one standing by his car. He looked around; he was completely alone. Painfully, he stood up, his fear pounding dully in his skull like a headache. He patted dirt from his clothes and hands. Light was pouring from the open front door of his father’s house. Jack remembered the sounds he’d heard, what he had thought was an intruder. Could there really be an intruder in there or was it all part of the . . . the (he felt reluctant to even think it) . . . the haunting?
For a few moments he simply stood, not knowing what to do. He did not want to go back into the house alone, but what was the alternative? Drive to his aunt’s and ask to stay there? Find a B and B in one of the nearby villages? What he really wanted to do was go back to London and stuff this whole fucking business. He sighed and rubbed a hand across his temple as if it might help soothe his thoughts.
He looked at his watch and was amazed to discover it was not yet ten o’clock; it felt like the early hours of the morning. The moon slithered from behind a bank of spongy cloud, bathing the land in light once again. Four hundred yards away the cluster of buildings that comprised the Butterworths’ farm resembled gigantic blocks of ice. Suddenly decisive, Jack hobbled toward his car.
He got in, started the engine, executed a shaky three-point turn, and drove back along Daisy Lane. He cruised to a halt in front of the Butterworths’ farm, got out of the car and pushed open a metal three-barred gate. This led into a yard with worn cobbles that peeped above a layer of mud like the slick grey heads of frogs. Jack began to tiptoe through the mud toward the farmhouse, muttering, “Wonderful,” when it oozed up over his black suede shoes. Soft light glowed from behind orange curtains, making him think of Halloween. His knock was followed by surprised voices from inside, the scrape of furniture. The door opened and a plump dark-haired woman said, “Yes?”
“Er . . .” Jack was thrown; he hadn’t expected a woman. He tried to remember the name of one of the Butterworth brothers. He had reeled them off to his aunt in the car that afternoon, two of them at least; he could never remember what the youngest was called.
The woman’s eyes were narrowing suspiciously. “Is . . . er . . .” Jack thought he was going to have to admit defeat—then suddenly he remembered. “Is Martin in?” he blurted. “Martin Butterworth? Or one of the other brothers?”
The woman’s expression became more, rather than less, suspicious. “Who wants them?” she asked curtly. Then a hand with the thickest, reddest fingers Jack had ever seen appeared above the plump woman’s head, curled around the door and pulled it all the way open.
Jack felt like a character in a cartoon, rocking back on his heels and gaping up with awe at the man-mountain who had just appeared. The guy was vast, at least six foot eight, and he must have weighed all of twenty-five stone. His pale blue and black lumberjack shirt stretched over a belly that looked as though it were pregnant with quints. The sleeves of the shirt were rolled up, revealing arms covered with a fine downy blond hair that any adult male gorilla would have been proud of. Despite the awesome bulk, however, the man’s face—smooth and red and topped with a straw-blond thatch—held an expression of inquisitive geniality. “ ’Ello, Mister,” he said, nodding. “What can we do for you then?”
“He asked for Martin,” the plump woman said before Jack could reply.
The man-mountain appeared to consider this sombrely for a moment and then said, “Our Martin don’t live ’ere any more. Hasn’t done now for about ten year. ’E’s got a place over in Mirfield. If you want to come in a minute or two, Mister, I can write y’out some directions.”
He began to turn away, but Jack said, “No,” a little more sharply than he intended. The man-mountain’s eyebrows raised a notch in surprise. “It wasn’t Martin specifically that I wanted,” Jack explained. “You’ll do fine. What I mean is, my name’s Jack Stone. I’m staying in the house just up the road. I’m Terry Stone’s son. I’ve come from London for his funeral. I used to live here in Beckford.”
The man-mountain blinked rapidly a few times as though digesting the information, then a wide and delighted grin seeped across his face. “I remember you,” he said. “You went off an’ become a writer. You’re pretty famous, aren’t yer? Yer dad always used t’ tell us how you was doin’.”
“Did he?” said Jack, surprised. Then: “Yes, that’s right.”
“Come in, old son,” exclaimed the man-mountain effusively. “Barbara, put t’ kettle on. We’ve got a celebrity come t’ visit.”
Barbara ducked under her husband’s arm to do as she’d been asked, but Jack held up a hand. “No, please,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t come over just to say hello. I . . . er . . . I’ve got a bit of a problem. I wondered whether you could help me out.”
The man-mountain’s face creased in concern and he bowed his head as if to impart or receive secrets. “Oh, aye?” he said. “What’s up?”
Jack told him about coming back from the pub and hearing noises upstairs; he omitted the part about the bikers and the phone call, and about seeing his father standing by his car. “I wondered whether you and your brothers could pop back to the house with me and check it out,” he said lamely. “I mean, I wasn’t sure how many intruders there might be. I didn’t think it would be a good idea to try and handle it myself.”
Butterworth (Jack was still not sure which of the brothers this was) nodded sagely and said he’d be glad to. “There’s only me ’ere now, though,” he said. “Well, me an’ t’ missis. Our Ed’s got a place in Sheffiel
d and, like I said, our Martin’s in Mirfield. Me old dad died about six year ago. ’Ad an ’eart attack in t’ pigsty.” He seemed about to say more on this subject, then shrugged. Instead he said, “But I’ll come back wi’ yer if yer think the two of us can ’andle it?”
“Oh, yes,” said Jack. “I don’t think there were many of them, two at the most. They’ll probably be long gone anyway by the time we get back.”
Butterworth called his wife from the kitchen and told her what was going on. In the course of the conversation she called him by name—Gerard—and immediately Jack realised this was the youngest of the Butterworths. Nevertheless, he must have been ten years older than Jack, which would put him in his early forties. It was only when Jack led him out to the car that he realised the Mini Cooper and the big man were not exactly compatible. Butterworth somehow managed to squeeze inside, though. Jack half-expected the seat to groan and collapse, the bodywork to bulge, rivets to spring from their sockets. Butterworth looked both comical and uncomfortable, like Desperate Dan in a kiddie-car. Suppressing a smile, Jack clambered into the driver’s seat.
When they reached the house, Gerard commented on the open front door, from which light blazed. Jack muttered that he mustn’t have closed it properly. Gerard surmised that perhaps it was the intruders who’d left it open after their departure. Jack said nothing. Because he hadn’t told Gerard about his father’s voice on the telephone, the admission that he’d left the door open after fleeing the house would seem like an overreaction.
They got out of the car, Gerard with difficulty, and approached the house. Butterworth showed no trepidation whatsoever. Followed by Jack, he marched into the hallway, checked both kitchen and lounge, and then retraced his steps to the foot of the stairs. There were no sounds now, and indeed the house proved to be empty. Gerard paused outside each door for a couple of seconds to listen before ramming them open and leaping inside, but all he disturbed was air.
