The Nightmare Man: (Child of the Vodyanoi)

by David Wiltshire

  With difficulty the canvas covered body, its strange humanoid form still causing revulsion in Dunlop, was lowered to the waiting Frazer, standing in the bottom of the boat. Symonds’ bits and pieces, collected from the wrecked tent, were handed down in plastic bags.

  Dunlop and Robertson climbed down after them, the coastguard man steadying the boat and offering a hand, before climbing out.

  On the jetty Inskip turned to McGrath.

  “I can depend on you to keep your head down, now can’t I? No false heroics.”

  McGrath gave a mirthless chuckle.

  “Don’t you worry about us. We’ll keep the doors locked, and if the wee green spaceman does come a-calling, he’ll get more than he bargained for.” He patted the double-barrelled shotgun under his arm and looked around at the snow-covered cliffs.

  Inskip smiled. “Good man.”

  He climbed down into the boat, the water slapping against its hull. They cast off, and Dunlop at the controls gunned the engine.

  The boat pitched and butted out into the small rocky cove. As it came around to pass the head, they all looked back.

  McGrath was still on the jetty. He raised his arm in farewell, gun above his head, then, like a curtain pulled across, the rocky cliff slowly obscured him from sight.

  The view as they crossed the bay was breathtaking. The snow-covered mountains swept down to the sea from low clouds that covered their peaks. At their feet Inverdee was a collection of black dots against the white that slowly resolved into houses as they made their way up the icy loch.

  They sat in uneasy silence, Dunlop remembering the report of the rocket fin from the Chieftan. Every black wave seemed to carry extra menace, rearing up behind the boat before washing past towards the shore with a hiss and a salty spray.

  It took nearly two hours before they entered the harbour, by which time they were intensely cold.

  As they tied up, a small crowd collected and peered down at them from the towering quay. Robertson climbed up the metal ladder, his chin strap holding his hat in place.

  “Keep back there, please!”

  A lad of fourteen wasn’t impressed.

  “Who have you got there, Mr Robertson?”

  “Never you mind young Davy. Get up to the station and tell them we need a Land-Rover here fast. There’s fifty pence in it if you can get them back here in five minutes.”

  He’d hardly finished speaking before Davy was away around the corner. He earned his money. The Land-Rover was back in four minutes, with three men.

  A block and tackle was swiftly rigged up, and the stiff body of Doctor Symonds was swung up on to the quayside and then loaded into the vehicle.

  Inskip turned to Dunlop.

  “I’m going to start organizing an evacuation of all people in outlying areas. It’s going to be a hell of a job in these conditions, probably impossible. But at least we must try and warn them.”

  Dunlop nodded as the Inspector climbed into the front passenger seat of the Land-Rover. He opened the window and looked out at the dentist.

  “I’d like to meet again after Doctor Mackay has had a look at Symonds. Perhaps we can work out some sort of joint idea as to just what we might be up against.”

  Dunlop hunched his shoulders and tried to shrink further into his coat as he shivered with cold.

  “Of course. What time? I’d like to get some rest.”

  Inskip looked at his watch.

  “It’s going to be a busy day, and I don’t expect Mackay will be able to get around to Symonds until later. What about seven o’clock tonight—at the path, lab?”

  “Right.”

  Inskip gave the driver a nod.

  “Take care.”

  The Land-Rover drove off.

  Dunlop watched it out of sight. The tiny crowd drifted away. For the first time ever, Inverdee seemed small, desolate, oppressive. He walked towards his flat, the pavements partly cleared, with the snow piled in the gutter several feet high.

  Dunlop had no intention of seeing Fiona, at least not straight away, but as he walked, he realized he hadn’t taken the shortest route home, that he was in fact passing the chemist’s shop.

  From the corner of his eye he saw her behind the counter, and then suddenly a flash of her white coat as she ran to the door.

  “Ian darling, are you all right? I’ve been so worried.”

  He stopped, hesitated, and turned. Fiona’s face, eyes anxiously searching his, seemed more beautiful, more desirable than ever before—now that she was out of reach.

  He found his voice.

  “We had to shelter the night at Broughty. There was no way of getting back.”

  She shivered in the cold air. “Come inside, you look frozen. I’m shutting the shop in ten minutes. We could have lunch together. I’ve got a big roast in the oven—far too much for one.”

  She turned and made back into the shop. He followed reluctantly.

  She was taking pity on him.

  “That’s very nice of you, but...”

  He looked down at the floor, awkwardly, thinking of an excuse. The agony of being with her, just as a friend, was unthinkable.

  “Yes?”

  He couldn’t tell her outright. “You see, I’ve got things to do. There’s been another murder.”

  Fiona snatched in her breath.

  “Who was it?”

  A chap called Symonds. He was an ornithologist counting winter geese, apparently. It happened not far from Broughty.” Fiona, eyes wide with shock, reached to the counter for support.

  “I knew him. He sometimes left in his films for developing. He’s been coming to the island for years now.”

  Dunlop gave her an odd look.

  “What films?”

  She slumped into the chair used by people waiting for their prescriptions to be made up.

  “For his camera. He always used it on all his visits. It’s something special. Takes serial shots of the birds he’s observing.”

  She shook her head.

  “Poor man. How did he die?”

  Dunlop turned aside, thoughtfully staring at the small showcase of developing and photographic equipment.

  “He was attacked in his tent. Multiple injuries. Bled to death. He’d also been blinded.”

  Fiona shuddered and pulled her cardigan off the counter where it was lying and put it protectively around her shoulders. Her face was white.

  “Have they any idea who’s responsible yet?”

  He was deep in thought, only half hearing her.

  “No—not yet. Look Fiona, I’ve got to pop across to Inskip. He’s organizing protection for the outlying districts. I’d like to come back in half to three quarters of an hour—if that’s all right with you.”

  She looked relieved.

  “Oh good. I’m glad you’re staying. I’ve got roast beef and roast potatoes—your favourite.”

  His throat tightened, making it difficult to speak.

  “You haven’t had any second thoughts I suppose?”

  A flicker of disquiet crossed her face.

  “Ian, I can't. We’ve been through all this before. Please.” Miserably he nodded. When she didn’t add anything he turned and reached for the door.

  “Okay. Three quarters of an hour then.”

  She nodded, pulling her handkerchief from out of her sleeve. Dejected, he stood hoping she would continue to talk, but the door pushed with a tinkling of the bell against his hand.

  He moved aside as a large woman struggled in, wrapped in a huge coat with a scarf around her frozen face, a dewdrop on the end of her nose.

  “Ah, hello there, Mr Dunlop. What a terrible day it is. Morning, Miss Patterson. Sorry to trouble you, but I’ve got a prescription from Doctor Mackay for Sammy. It’s his back again. I told him not to shovel the snow, but he wouldn’t listen. Now he’s doubled up and …”

  He met Fiona’s eyes as he closed the door. They stared back at him from a most unhappy face.

  Dunlop found the little police station
packed with people. He struggled through the uniformed men milling around a large map of the island pinned up on an easel.

  The desk sergeant was sticking coloured paper tabs to various regions and writing in names. He turned to the man at his right.

  “I want you to get to the Harrises, Old Jacob, and the Cochranes. If they won’t come in, get them to group together in one of the farms. Stay with them and organize it. Okay?”

  The constable nodded.

  Dunlop pushed past and on up the stairs. He opened the door to Inskip’s office. The latter was poring over his desk looking at another, smaller map with Robertson.

  “Hello, thought you were going to get your head down?”

  “I was. Went to Fiona, and she mentioned something that had me wondering.”

  Inskip was puzzled.

  “About what?”

  Dunlop closed the door behind him.

  “Have you had a chance to go through Symonds’ effects yet?”

  “No. I’ve got more immediate problems as you well know. Why? What interests you?”

  “Well, she mentioned that Symonds always had camera equipment with him—takes serial shots of the birds he is watching.”

  “So?”

  “I was wondering if he took some photographs earlier in the day that might have caught something—anything that might give us a clue.”

  Inskip tilted back his chair and pursed his lips.

  “It’s possible I suppose. He might even have been killed because of it.”

  “Get me Symonds’ stuff will you, Robertson?”

  “Ay, sir.”

  When Robertson had gone, Dunlop moved around the table and took his place.

  He looked down at the map and saw a triangle drawn on it to include Inverdee, Broughty Head and Raigsmore Strand.

  “Is this the area where you reckon it’s going to be found?”

  Inskip made a face. “Don’t really know of course, but after we’re satisfied that people are safe, we’re going to have to go after it. And we’ve got to start somewhere.”

  Robertson came back with the plastic bags. Setting them down on the desk, he undid one, took out the tape recorder, and then rummaged in the bag again.

  “Here we are.”

  He lifted out the stained, battered camera and set it down on the desk. It rolled on to its side. As it did so it gave out a whirring noise and a flash.

  The effect on the men was startling. Inskip shot back in his chair as Robertson and Dunlop both took a step away and raised their arms.

  They all looked at each other shamefacedly.

  Inskip grinned.

  “Christ knows what the others would think of us.”

  But Dunlop wasn’t listening. Carefully he picked up the camera and turned it over.

  “Wait a minute. Don’t you see what this could mean?” Excitedly he held the camera in front of the Inspector who was shaking his head, mystified.

  “No, what?”

  “This thing is set on an automatic timed firing device—and it’s faulty. It’s possibly full of pictures, maybe even...”

  It took Robertson to finish off the sentence, as Inskip and Dunlop looked in fear and awe at the black box.

  “Maybe we’ve got lovely snapshots of what we’re after in there, actually killing Doctor Symonds?”

  Inskip dragged his eyes off the battered camera and looked up at Dunlop.

  “Ian, I’ve got to get on with this work. Do you think you could get Fiona to develop the film for me and bring it along to the meeting with Mackay? It’s all confirmed for seven o’clock tonight?”

  “Sure.”

  Dunlop took the plastic bag and replaced the camera in it, twisting the top into a knot.

  “Perhaps we’ll see what no other humans—except dead ones—have seen before.”

  He gave a little chuckle to relieve the tension.

  But his eyes were drawn back once more to Inskip’s. In them he saw that perhaps now he was not the only one who thought that something awful, strange, alien roamed the earth, and more to the point—an island only several miles long and even less wide. An island snowbound and cut off from immediate help from the outside world.

  He started to shake as he struggled with his plastic bag towards his flat. It wasn’t just the sub-zero temperature in the gloomy shadows that grew longer as the short northern day drew to its early close.

  It was an inner, far deeper, coldness.

  14

  Fiona was waiting anxiously for him.

  “Where have you been? I was getting worried--thought perhaps you’d changed your mind?”

  She searched his face for any sign that she was right.

  He gave a weak smile.

  “Fell asleep in the bath.”

  “Dafty, you’ll drown yourself one day.”

  Before he could stop himself he said, “That’s why I need someone to look after me.”

  She said nothing in reply, fixedly intent on hanging up his coat.

  “What’s this?” She held up the plastic bag.

  “It’s a job for you.”

  She looked puzzled.

  “For me?”

  “Yes, if you will. It’s Doctor Symonds’ camera. We—that is Inskip—would like you to develop its contents. There is a possibility it may have picked up the killer.”

  Her face was horror struck.

  “How awful.”

  He nodded. “Maybe, but if it helps...

  She distastefully lowered the plastic bag on to the hall stand. “Okay. I’ll do it after we’ve had lunch—and a drink. There’s just time before we eat. I’ve turned the oven down.”

  He followed her into the sitting room. She poured two sherries and gave him one.

  “There.”

  He took a sip.

  “That’s good. Nothing so civilized as an aperitif.”

  She sat down on the sofa, crossing her legs. He sat opposite her—unthinkable a few days ago.

  Dunlop found his urge for her was painful. He wanted to set his drink down and grab hold of her, physically imprison her, and by the strength in his arms convince her of his need* his dreadful aching need.

  Fiona gave him a concerned look.

  “What happened at Broughty? Tell me everything.”

  He did, skipping over the face he had seen at the window. At the end of it all, Fiona shuddered.

  “Well, I’ll certainly do the films, but you’d better be with me when they develop.”

  There was a pause, during which she played a finger on the rim of her glass.

  “And how are you, Ian?”

  He sipped his drink.

  “Need you ask?”

  She looked hurt.

  “You don’t think I’ve been happy, do you?”

  He found he couldn’t reply and when he took a sip his throat was so stiff it made a noise when he swallowed.

  She went on miserably.

  “I’ve written to James and told him I’m willing to give him another chance. I’ve asked him to look me out a job in his district.”

  Bitterly he looked up then.

  “It seems cut and dried. When he wants you—he gets you.”

  Fiona’s lips pressed into a tight straight line. '

  “Look, Ian—I’ve told you. If it was a case of starting all over again he wouldn’t get a look in. I love you—you know I love you. But the fact remains, he is my husband. I never thought it would happen—but it has. He needs me. He has swallowed his pride and asked me to go back. I couldn’t live with myself if I turned him down now. It wouldn’t work for us because of that, eating away from the inside it would destroy me—and us.”

  His voice was gruff. “I’d risk it.”

  Fiona tossed back the remains of her drink and stood up. She ruffled his hair as she passed into the kitchen.

  “I know you would. You’re a man to lean on, Ian. You’ll make out all right.”

  He stared disgruntled at the fire, his sense of loss welling up in him.

&nb
sp; The meal was excellent. Fiona’s cooking was always to his liking. But today he had great difficulty eating, his appetite deserting him and his throat refusing to slacken its iron grip on itself. He compensated by drinking a lot of wine. Fiona anxiously watched the level of the bottle going down.

  “Right. I’ll make a deal with you.”

  For a wonderful moment he thought she was referring to them. It was shattered as she went on.’

  “I’ll take your films downstairs and get started—the tanks have got to be warmed up—if you do the washing up.”

  Gloomily he agreed.

  He helped her on with her jacket in the hall and gave her the plastic bag.

  “I’ve no idea how many shots are in there. Will it take long?”

  “You’ll finish before me. How about bringing a cup of tea down with you?”

  “Right.”

  She felt in her pockets. “Now, where are the shop keys?”

  They jingled in her pocket.

  “See you in a minute.”

  She pulled the hood of her anorak up and opened the door.

  Somehow, although she was only down below, he didn’t like seeing her go down the now dark stairs to the empty shop.

  Angrily he told himself off for being bloody jumpy, and took the dishes into the kitchen, finishing the last of the wine straight from the bottle.

  It took him fifteen minutes to clean up and put away everything. He took a delight in being in her flat alone. Surely, his brain kept saying, surely she can’t mean it? They were so close already. Then the darker, pessimistic side of him took hold. Fiona, he knew, was a girl who rarely said anything she did not mean.

  He waited for the tea in the pot to brew, and wondered how she was getting on down below...

  Fiona was red! Her hair, her skin, her clothes—all shades of red from dark black red to white bright red. In the small but completely equipped dark room the only light came from the overhead red lights built into the ceiling. The opened camera lay on a side table. In the big tank to her right, long strips of 35mm. film hung down, disappearing into the developing liquid. The bell on the timer clock began to buzz. She silenced it with an efficient tap and lifted the film from the tank and put it into a tray that contained a constant flow of clean water.