The Nightmare Man: (Child of the Vodyanoi)

by David Wiltshire

  She frowned as she studied the long black snake-like coil that lazily weaved in the clear water like an eel.

  Dunlop poured out two big mugs of tea, sugared Fiona’s and stirred. He took the tray into the hall, pulled on his coat, and then stepped outside. The metal stairs were lethal, the re-frozen slush turning them into slippery death traps. Grimly he hung on to his tray with one hand, the rail with the other. Finally he stood at the dark shop door. He tried the handle, but it wouldn’t open.

  Impatiently he tapped the glass and looked in. He could see nothing. Dunlop tried again. As the seconds passed, impatience gave way to unease. He shook the handle and knocked again—harder.

  The shop remained dark and quiet as the grave. Dunlop set the tray down and hammered with one hand, the other cupped to the glass. With a sudden surge of panic he began kicking the door, frightening images of the other mutilated bodies whirling around in his mind, mixed with pictures of her face, shocked and backing away from something crowding in over her.

  He was about to shoulder the door open when a white-faced Fiona rushed from the developing room at the rear and unbolted the door which flew open under his assault. It crashed into a perfume display and bounced back, shaking, as the cosmetic bottles rolled on the floor.

  Fiona backed away.

  “Ian—what’s the matter with you?”

  He came to, chest heaving.

  “I—I couldn’t get an answer. I was afraid.”

  Fiona gave an unbelieving look.

  “ You—afraid, Ian Dunlop, I’ve never heard of anything more stupid. Scared of what?”

  He licked his lips. “I thought something had happened to you.”

  Fiona pushed past him and picked up the tray.

  “Get the door shut before we freeze.”

  He closed the door, kicking a bottle rolling on the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” he waved his arms around apologetically. “The mess. I’ll put them all back for you.”

  “No—not tonight. Ian—are you—ill?”

  He took a deep breath.

  “No, of course not.”

  She gave him an odd look. “Come on. We’ll have tea in the developing room—it’s warmer.”

  He followed her down between the counters, through the dispensary to the sealed off room at the very back of the shop. She led the way into the red interior, set down the tray on a work top and closed the door behind him.

  “You can’t hear anything when you’re in here and the extractor fan kicks in. It’s just been going.” Her red coloured face was strange to him. It was her, yet in a gross theatrical way—the bones of her face seeming to protrude more, the eye sockets dark, the pupils unseen. Like a puppet.

  Quickly he looked away.

  “How are you getting on?”

  Fiona moved to a tank and lifted a clip with film attached up to the light before replacing it quickly.

  “Not very well. The roll has been over-exposed. Nothing on it at all. It’s as black as the ace of spades.”

  Disappointment must have shown on his face. She smiled encouragement.

  “Mark you, when it’s fixed properly and we can shine a strong light through it, you may see something I suppose.”

  He looked dejectedly into the black depths of the fixing tank.

  “Was the camera damaged?”

  She shook her head.

  “No.”

  “Then how do you reckon they were over-exposed?”

  Fiona sipped her tea.

  “Didn’t you say the geiger counter detected radiation?”

  He winced. Of course!”

  “Damn. I’d forgotten that.”

  They sat in silence, so still that Dunlop, looking across at Fiona staring fixedly at the timer, was reminded in the all enveloping red light of a tableau at Madame Tussauds’ Chambers of Horrors.

  He couldn’t suppress a slight start when the timer went off. Fiona had been waiting for it.

  “That’s it.”

  She slipped off her stool, dealt with the alarm, and lifted the rack of 35mm film out from the left hand tank. She snapped on a viewing light, instantly returning the room to normality, and held the film up to the viewer.

  Dunlop stood close behind her, looking over her shoulder. She moved the strip of film up and down, seeking the strongest source of light.

  “There’s nothing on there.”

  He didn’t reply, taking the metal frame from her. She stepped back as he moved forward, scrutinising the black strip intensely.

  Fiona folded her arms and took a worried, surreptitious look at him as he pushed his face closer up to the film.

  “Those little white lines—are they scratch marks?”

  Fiona switched her gaze back to the films.

  “Hmm. Could be.”

  She opened a cupboard and took out a large magnifying glass.

  He waited impatiently while she very carefully went over every frame.

  “Well?”

  “Difficult—but I’d say...”

  He held his breath.

  She made her mind up. “... No”

  Excitedly he grabbed the magnifying glass and had another look.

  “They don’t make much sense .. . unless .. .” He turned to her. “Could you produce these as a cine-film?”

  Fiona frowned. “Hardly. These are ordinary stills don’t forget. What would be the point?”

  Dunlop lowered the film. “You know those kids’ books—where you flick the pages quickly and matchstick men dance?”

  Fiona nodded. “So?”

  “It might just be that if we do that here—with strong projection light and blown up on a screen—we might get the same effect.”

  Fiona looked thoughtful.

  “Well—I don’t know.”

  “Try—please. If you make a mess of it—we’ve lost nothing.”

  Fiona straightened up. “Okay. It won’t be easy. And it’s going to take me quite a while.”

  “Thanks. Can I do anything?”

  She gave him an old fashioned look.

  “Do you think you could handle another cup of tea in a minute—without wrecking the shop?”

  Sheepishly he nodded.

  “I’ll get on to it right away.”

  He stopped at the door.

  “Inskip has called a meeting with Mackay at seven o’clock. Will it be ready for then?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ve no idea.”

  Fiona worked all the afternoon.

  Dunlop made the tea, sometimes held things for her, but mostly sat on a stool and watched as she used a variety of equipment.

  By half past six she was looking flustered and irritated. “Something not going right?”

  Fiona didn’t look round.

  “No.”

  He ventured further. “Will they be ready in half an hour?” Fiona slammed down a pair of scissors and took a deep breath.

  “Ian Dunlop, have you any idea of the size of the job? I’ve converted your films into transparencies. Now I’m trying to get them on to a piece of cine blank. That’s bad enough, but I’ve got to get the spacing right. If I put them on to consecutive frames it will be over in under three or four seconds and you won’t be able to differentiate anything, it will be so quick. So I’m going to space them out.” She threw out her arms. “Half an hour—no way.”

  He shuffled his feet.

  “Sorry.”

  She gave a tired smile and put her hand on his arm.

  “Look, you carry on. When I get it right I’ll bring it over.”

  “Thanks. We’ll be in the post-mortem office.”

  He got up. “Is it safe to leave?”

  Fiona smiled.

  “You make me sound like an ogre.”

  Dunlop took her by the shoulders.

  “Never.”

  He bent forward to kiss her. She didn’t resist, but she didn’t respond either.

  Disappointed, he turned away.

  She tried to soften
the atmosphere with a cheery—“Don’t let the party get out of hand before I get there.” He only grunted and closed the door.

  Fiona gave a despairing shake of the head and turned back to her work.

  When he arrived at the cold office attached to the postmortem theatre, he found it empty. He pushed open one half of the double door leading straight into the theatre. A strong carbolic smell assailed his nostrils. Beneath the white light, on the operating table, lay Symonds’ equally white torso, with a hunched up Mackay dressed in surgical green, busy at one end.

  He turned, holding an unrecognizable lump of blood soaked tissue in his gloved hands.- “Ah, Ian, glad to see you.”

  Dunlop nodded at the cadaver, Symonds’ empty eye sockets seeming in some way to be a gesture of horror, as though he could not bear to look at his own hideously opened body. “How’s it going?”

  Mackay made a face.

  “This laddie was not just killed, not even butchered. He was mutilated.”

  Dunlop grimaced.

  “You mean the eyes being pushed out?”

  The old doctor inserted the lump of bloody tissue which Dunlop now recognized as liver, into a jar.

  “I do not. Get yourself kitted up. I could do with some help.”

  Mystified, Dunlop made his way to the changing room.

  A bleary-eyed Inskip, still accompanied by the faithful Robertson, arrived half an hour later; they could hear the showers running. Wearily Inskip sagged into a chair and yawned, long and hard.

  “God, I’m bushed. I doubt if even the combined medical and dental professions can hold my attention for long tonight.”

  When Mackay and Dunlop appeared five minutes later. Inskip’s eyelids had finally given up the struggle. Robertson looked up, his face reflecting his own exhaustion.

  “Good evening. Doctor. Mr Dunlop. I’m afraid Inspector Inskip is near the end of his tether.”

  Inskip opened an eye.

  “Not quite yet, Robertson. Well then, gentlemen, let’s get down to it. What have you got for me? Anything new?”

  Mackay and Dunlop exchanged looks. The doctor pulled up a chair and sat down facing the policemen, while Dunlop contented himself with the corner of a table.

  Mackay scratched his chin.

  “This chap,” he jerked his head towards the theatre, “has been cut about. The other didn’t seem to have had that done to her.”

  Inskip was immediately alert.

  “Cut about—you mean a knife was used? I didn’t see any evidence of that when we brought him in.”

  Mackay shook his head.

  “No, I only discovered it when we turned him on his side.” “On his side? I don’t understand.”

  Mackay shook his head again. “Neither did I to begin with, but then we realized pieces of him had been removed.”

  Robertson couldn’t help a sickened grunt of disgust as Inskip drew in his breath through clenched teeth.

  “Jesus, is there no end to this? What’s missing?”

  The old doctor took out his large handkerchief and noisily blew his nose before replying.

  “Portions of the femoris and gluteus maximus have been sliced off.”

  Inskip was baffled.

  “Come again.”

  “The femoris muscle is on the upper leg—the back of the thigh; the gluteus maximus is what you sit upon. Do you understand the implications, Inspector?”

  Inskip frowned. “Ritual mutilation?”

  The doctor sniffed.

  “There is that of course. But no, I had something more unpalatable in mind.

  “Like what?”

  “Cannibalism.”

  15

  Inskip searched Mackay’s face for any hint of the dry humour the latter was famous for. There was not a flicker of it.

  “Dear God, why do you think that?”

  Dunlop swung his leg down.

  “Ask yourself. Why shear off some of the best lean meat areas? It’s the only reason that makes any sort of sense, repulsive as it is.”

  “Besides,” added Mackay, “we had a hint of it before with all those bite marks. Whatever it is has acquired a knife—and it’s hungry.”

  Inskip closed his eyes and massaged his eyelids with his fingers before opening them again.

  “Are you sure? Couldn’t it just be accidental?”

  Mackay shook his head.

  “No, it was quite definitely deliberate, purposefully done.”

  Robertson shifted his great weight forwards in his chair. “Would you say the person showed medical knowledge, sir?”

  “That’s difficult to tell. Mark you, it was reasonably expertly done; cut along the planes of the muscle.”

  Inskip’s face was a picture of distaste.

  “So our killer has a knife and is feeding on his own kind.”

  Dunlop shook his head.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Surprised, Inskip looked up at the contradiction, and then he understood.

  “Of course, Ian, I was forgetting. You don’t think of this as human do you?”

  Dunlop didn’t answer, but Robertson did.

  “You can’t blame him, sir. I don’t either now.”

  But Mackay was already shaking his head.

  “The spermatozoa histologically speaking, definitely points to a human origin. There can be no doubt in my mind about that.”

  Inskip tightened his mouth, and uttered a non-committal grunt. .

  “What about the films, Ian? Anything there?”

  “Fiona’s still working on them. Basically they were blank; over-exposed because of the radiation we think. But there were a couple of indistinct lines on them. I thought we might get something more out of it if she made them up into a form of cine-strip and we projected them on to a screen. She’s having trouble, but she’s a first rate technician. Promised to bring it over as soon as it’s ready.”

  Mackay nodded.

  “If it’s possible, Fiona will do it. I’ve great faith in that girl; the island’s lucky to have her.”

  Dunlop looked up and started to open his mouth to tell them, but closed it. They’d find out soon enough.

  The Inspector began to pace, the room, stopping by the small clinical wall blackboard.

  “Can we just list what we know about this thing?”

  He picked up a piece of chalk and wrote on the board:

  1. KILLS IN A FRENZY

  He looked at the doctor.

  Is it correct to say that there seems to be no clear method? The victims have died of multiple injuries, blood loss, shock, that sort of thing?”

  Mackay nodded.

  Inskip broke the chalk as he wrote a ‘2’ on the board. He brushed some of the dust from his coat sleeve and continued:

  2. SEXUAL ASSAULT-THE WOMAN.

  Without turning around he tapped the last entry with the chalk and said, “Which brings me to point number three.” The chalk squeaked as he wrote:

  3. SPERM HUMAN, RADIATION DAMAGE.

  Inskip placed the chalk in its ledge, dusted his hands together and faced Dunlop.

  “And that seems to be that. Whatever else we find it must be human, and male”

  Dunlop stood up.

  “I’m not arguing with that. It’s fine as far as it goes. But the mystery just doesn’t end there, does it?”

  He stepped forward and took up the discarded chalk as Inskip stood back.

  “What about these points?” Dunlop added a ‘4’ to the list.

  4. CANNIBALISM.

  “That’s a fearsome thing to cope with for a start.”

  5, THE MASK.

  He looked around at them all. “There’s something very funny about that. I’m sure it’s not worn just to frighten people, not out here in the wild country. In a suburban rape case or a kidnapping, yes, but out here?”

  6. SURVIVAL.

  Dunlop faced Mackay this time.

  “Don’t you think it odd to say the least how it manages to survive in sub-zero temperatures, appa
rently at ease?”

  The doctor pulled his pipe from out of his mouth.

  “We don’t know that he hasn’t got excellent shelter somewhere. Maybe he’s being looked after.”

  Dunlop’s face expressed his scepticism.

  “Anyway, there is the presence of some sort of breathing apparatus. The pipe I saw was like the stuff we use on anaesthetic machines and gas masks. I think it’s part of some sort of protective suit. And that would tie in with the radio-activity and the pieces of rocket tail fin picked up by the ferry.”

  Mackay stopped the re-lighting of his pipe and looked up sharply.

  “What’s this about a rocket?”

  They told him about the Chieftan, and the wreckage it had recovered. It was the old doctor’s turn to look sceptical.

  “You’re not suggesting are you, Ian, that this ‘laddie’ has survived any form of extra-terrestrial descent into the cold Atlantic, and that the incident has gone unnoticed?’’

  “Well surely, it’s just possible. That radio-active satellite that came down in Canada...”

  Mackay cut in dismissively. “But very unlikely. Firstly, what with the Americans and the Russians, there isn’t any chance of anything coming down without somebody knowing about it. And secondly, a life form from another planet is a hell of a long shot. The chance of such a happening is very remote, and for it to be human-like in such cellular detail is biologically almost impossible I would have thought.

  Dunlop frowned, knowing he was beaten.

  “I suppose not. But again we can’t be sure, one hundred per cent sure—can we?”

  It was Mackay’s turn to tilt his head to one side in begrudging assent.

  Dunlop quickly followed it up.

  “If you don’t like the idea, what other explanation can you offer? That somewhere in the north of the island somebody has been doing a Frankenstein and got away with it?”

  Instantly Inskip was adamant.

  “The area up there is hard barren country, inhabited by only a few crofters. There is no way anybody could be doing anything like that without us knowing.”

  In strong contrast to the others’ voices, Robertson was gruff. “What about the quarry out at Loch Maichinal, sir? They’ve been blasting out there now for weeks, making ready for the oil storage tanks. Could they have disturbed something from the past?”

  Mackay was gentle in his tone.

  “You mean, have we released our own Loch Ness monster? No, sergeant, that’s more unlikely even than yon Mister Dunlop’s outer space theory—though the biological similarity could be better explained.”