He put his hand on the door and tried to open it, forgetting about the bolt. The door shook as his hand slipped off. The footsteps started again, coming out of the mess room.
Shame at the thought that McGrath would see his hysterical selfish barricading caused him to pull the bolt silently back. '
He started to gently open the door.
“I was getting the defences ready in case you . . .”
The door stopped after six inches, arrested by the side of the wardrobe.
There was nobody in sight in the dark corridor, and he could see across into the brightly lit mess room through its half open door that sent a shaft of light between the two rooms.
He was acutely embarrassed at the narrowness of the opening through which a fleeing McGrath was supposed to have passed through.
He put his shoulder to the wardrobe, and gave a shove, talking again to McGrath who must be there—checking something.
He lived because his strength was only half that of the demented man who had pushed the wardrobe in a frenzy only half a minute before. It didn’t budge.
“I didn’t hear the gun . . .”
His voice choked off as his stomach jerked into spasm, forcing the gastric juices into his throat. Out of the gloom, right beside him, moved an awesome, frightening figure.
Fiona woke up screaming. She screamed on and on even as Dunlop, heart pounding, burst into the room. She was sitting up, her face still transfixed with sleep.
“Fiona.”
He grabbed her by the shoulder and shook her. Still she didn’t respond. Desperately he slapped her face.
The scream stopped, and in the forced silence she looked at him in shocked bewilderment. Then her face collapsed into recognition. She clung to him as great sobs racked her body.
“There-there.”
He stroked her hair and held her tightly to his chest, crooning words of comfort as he would have done to a frightened child.
“Oh Ian, it was awful.”
Her body convulsed again.
He gave her another hard hug and gently rocked from side to side.
“You were having a nightmare, that’s all, nothing more.”
Her sobbing gradually died away. He felt her stir against his chest, and released his grip a little.
She sniffed. Her voice was small.
“I’ll get my handkerchief.”
He let her go as she searched beneath her pillow. When she found the dainty, embroidered cloth, she gave a very undainty, fierce blow of her nose into it. Dunlop, still affected by the excitement, began to relax. He chided, “Wow—that was a big one.”
She gave a weak smile, and used the clean corner of it to dry her eyes.
“Gosh, I must look a mess.”
He shook his head, and reached out to delicately lift aside a hair that had fallen across her face.
“Not to me.”
She smiled her thanks, but it slowly drained away.
She gave a shiver.
“What’s the matter with me? I haven’t done anything like this since I was a wee one.”
Dunlop shrugged his shoulders.
“You’re upset, that’s all. God, who wouldn’t be with what’s going on here. Two horrible murders . . .”
Fiona shivered again and interrupted him.
“I know, but I feel. . She hesitated. “... different.”
He must have looked puzzled, because she gave a wince.
“You think I’m just being a silly, frightened woman. Well I’m not.”
He started to contradict her but she wouldn’t let him.
“Ever since I saw that—” She made a face of revulsion. “—thing on the film, it’s as though some basic human confidence in me has turned to jelly. And what frightens me is that it happened just like that—” She flicked her fingers “... like the touch of a switch. I told you before. Somehow that horrible shape did it—getting right into my soul.” Dunlop’s anxiety gave way to scepticism.
“Oh come on, Fiona—your soul?”
Her eyes flashed.
“All right, perhaps I’m not using the correct word. Call it the basic primitive part of the brain—whatever you like. But you know what I mean. All the deep instinctive fears that we manage to lock up in our own polished twentieth century life—with its mod. cons.—like electric light, and dead loved ones removed from the house to the chapel of rest, and so on. But then along comes something like this and—hey presto!— you’re shot back not only into your own childhood but everybody’s childhood ... the racial memory.”
Dunlop raised an eyebrow.
“Bit heavy for this time of the night, isn’t it?”
“Maybe—but you explain to me why tales about bogey men exist? You can’t tell me they just happened. We use them to frighten children who’ve been naughty—but I ask you—was that their original use?”
Dunlop took a deep breath.
“You mean its real origins are lost in time? That somewhere in our dark cave-dwelling past, bogey men were real?”
She sank back on to the pillow.
“Yes . ” Then she frowned in exasperation. “Oh, I don’t know.”
Frazer lay under the bed, eyes fixed on the narrow gap between the door and the wall. It wasn’t there at the moment. But he knew it would be back, that it would eventually—kill him.
For the first ten minutes it had gone mad trying to get in at him. He thought he’d been a goner then. Eventually it had stopped, and had stood silently watching him, eyes glinting, that funny noise coming from the pipe.
He’d looked around for something to use to defend himself, and when he’d looked back it wasn’t there. But it would be. Of that there was no doubt.
★
Inskip and Mackay sat in total, frozen, silence as the tape flicked endlessly round and round at the end of its run.
They quite simply hadn’t believed their ears.
Dunlop stood up.
“Well, if you’re okay now...”
Fiona said nothing, lying with her hair curved and shiny on her pillow and shoulder. Slowly, deliberately, without taking her eyes off his, she pulled back the bedclothes.
Dunlop searched her face for any hint that it might be a joke—that he read her intentions entirely correctly.
With a surge of excitement, he realized there was no doubt about one thing. She was inviting him back into her bed. But was it just to comfort her, because she seemed to be more than unusually afraid? Or was it something more? Was he being taken back into her life?
There was only one way to find out.
Carefully, not hurrying, he undid his pyjama jacket. Her breathing started to become pronounced, but she made no move to stop him.
Sure of himself now, with an animal urge thrusting in his mind and body, he let the trousers fall away. She took her eyes from his then, hungrily dropping them to his loins. It was the female challenge—the trigger. Dunlop bent down and cupped her face back and up, holding her momentarily like a captive, and then plunged his mouth down over hers, his tongue deep into her.
Their love-making was primitive, violent. She had sexually taunted and offered. He now sexually took and chastised.
When they finished, she curled submissive and content within the fortress of his arms, soon in a deep, untroubled sleep.
Dunlop lay awake for a long time, looking at the moonlight on the ceiling. Just before he went to sleep he saw a soft pink glow that made him feel warm and content.
Out through the window, away to the north west, the flames reflected on the low clouds that now obscured the stars.
18
Frazer smelt the smoke before there was any sign of the fire, but it was only when the flickering red light accompanied by the roar of the flames had entered the corridor did he realize what had really happened. ‘The Thing’ had set alight to the overflowing oil.
So that was how it was going to get him! The fire roared up the corridor as though it was a chimney. Soon the room was full of smoke. Choking, he pulled a sheet from t
he bed, soaked it in some water from a corner sink and covered his face.
He opened the small window and thrust out his head. The cold fresh air hit him, helping to clear his brain as he looked around. There was no sign of ‘It’.
Burning bits of ceiling began to drop around him. He rushed about putting out the small fires with water thrown from a shaving mug.
One wall became red hot and bulged inwards. Frazer realised it must be well ablaze on the other side; there wasn’t much time before it gave ip. Then the full force of the heat and flames would sweep into the room, if the roof hadn’t collapsed before then.
Face blackened and, streaked, choking and sobbing, he staggered back to the small square window. Outside the fire lit up the snow for hundreds of yards around. Millions of sparks were leaping and funnelling high into the night sky.
The whole place was going up like a torch.
The end wall split with a minor explosion. Great tongues of flame licked into the room, the already tinder-dry bunks immediately bursting into flames. The room was fast becoming an inferno.
He picked up a chair and smashed at the other half of the window. The glass shattered out, leaving the middle part still obstructing his escape. The flames roared hungrily after the increased oxygen.
Wildly he looked around, his eyes falling on the metal legs of a table, the top of which was already on fire.
Using a coat to protect his hands, he pulled it over to the sink. When he turned the tap on there was a roar of jetting steam that forced him to back away.
The tap shuddered, water suddenly coughing out in regular, air-locked thumps. Lifting the table he got one leg under the stream and moved it along. There was a hiss as the metal cooled. Sweat was pouring from him as the intense heat built up. Panicking, he realized there was little time left. His lungs were paining him now, the air was so hot and dry.
Frazer threw the table on the floor and pulled viciously at the leg. With a crack it broke free with torn wood still attached. He ran over to the window and started to violently lever at the upright. With a creak of protesting nails it moved.
Somewhere on the other side of the building there was an explosion. A red hot blast ripped through the room bringing acrid smoke.
Choking, he continued attacking the crooked upright. It moved once and then steadfastly refused to budge. The ceiling started to fall down in great flaming lumps.
He threw the bar aside, pushed a chair up against the wall, climbed on and forced‘himself into the narrow space. Frazer got one shoulder and his head through and then jammed tight.
He was screaming now, his hands pinned uselessly to his sides. His trousers began to burn. Smoke poured around his face and he could smell the rubber melting on the soles of his boots.
A great wooden beam, blazing from end to end, fell heavily across his exposed back. With a tremendous crack and a brilliant shower of colours in his eyes, the pain in his limbs disappeared.
His back was broken.
Mercifully he couldn’t see or feel as the lower half of his body became a human torch. It was only when the stench of his own burning flesh reached his nostrils that he realized what was happening to his legs. It finished his sanity.
The screaming seemed to be coming from somebody else, waking him from his dream. He was warm and comfortable, lying by the fire on his stomach. Mum said tea would be ready soon. He looked out of the window—there was snow on the ground.
Suddenly he was afraid. That thing was there—he just knew it. He strained his eyes out into the gloom.
There—there it was.
No, as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark he could see that it was a funny shaped rock. But even as he looked again he instantly saw the tall menacing figure looming slowly from the right.
He began to cry. Then his mummy came, and he died.
Inskip was asleep in his office when one of his men knocked and entered.
“Excuse me, sir.55 He shook Inskip by the shoulder. “Sir?”
The Inspector groaned and pulled a hand from under the blanket to protect his sleep-filled eyes from the light coming, from the doorway.
“What is it?”
“There’s a fire—a big one, sir. Seems to be at Broughty Head Coastguard Station.”
Inskip pulled the blanket aside and was across the room in one movement, pulling the curtain nearly off its track.
He said nothing, staring at the red sky and the occasional massive flames that licked heavenward, reflecting in the pupils of his eyes.
He turned away and looked at his watch.
“It will be daylight in two hours. Have Mr Dunlop and Doctor Mackay notified—we’ll take one of the big power-boats. Get on to MacLoud’s Boat Yard and have his biggest one ready and fuelled—now”
“Yes, sir.”
The policeman strode to the door.
“And another thing—get some coffee sent up, will you?”
“Ay—I will that, sir.”
The hammering on the door brought Dunlop up from the bed in a rush. Fiona, deep in her first good sleep of the night, was more bewildered than frightened. Bleary eyed she watched him struggle to get his trousers on.
“What is it?”
“Somebody at the door.”
He grabbed his jacket from the hall stand and pulled it on as he undid the bolts and turned the key.
He suddenly stopped and looked at his watch. Six-forty-five a.m. What the hell was up now?
The big burly policeman in the doorway was speckled with dry snow blown up from the street piles, and picked out on his dark blue gaberdine.
“Mr Dunlop—Inspector Inskip would be obliged if you would come to the station, sir. He’d like you to join him in the boat.”
“Boat?”
“There’s a fire out at Broughty Head Coastguards. You can see it from here, sir—it’s still there—been raging over an hour, so I’m told.”
Dunlop raced down the passage to the kitchen and flung open the door. He walked slowly to the window, staring out across the rooftops to the red glow.
Fiona, wrapped in a coat, joined him. Silently they watched as every now and then a flame superimposed on the red seemed to reach up to caress the low clouds.
She shivered.
“What does it mean?”
“Something’s happened at the coastguards; the main building’s on fire.”
“Do you think it’s got anything to do with our friend?”
“Nobody’s going to know the answer to that until we get there.”
The policeman appeared.
“Can I tell Inspector Inskip you’ll be coming then, sir?” Anxiously he looked down at Fiona.
“Well...”
“You go. I’m all right now.”
“You sure?”
She smiled. “Yes. And in any case, it’s nearly daylight.”
He turned to the man.
“Tell him I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Right, sir.”
The policeman closed the front door behind him as Dunlop passed into the bedroom and threw off the jacket.
Fiona watched him dress in a way that made him feel good—like a wife watching a husband, concerned for his warmth and well-being.
He finally put back on the jacket and pulled the woollen commando-type hat from the pocket.
She took it from him.
“Here—let me.”
He stooped to let her put it on. When she finished, she quite naturally put her arms around his neck and kissed him. He responded, then she pulled back, her face worried.
“Take care.”
He grinned and tweaked her nose.
“’I’ll do that, don’t you worry.”
As he slithered and half fell down the dark stairs, and set off up the street at an equally dangerous trot, he looked back at the house. She was watching him from a window, face and hand up against the glass in order to see out. He could hardly believe it even now. She was coming back to him—there was no question of it.
With his old, light, athletic steps, he ran up into the police station.
Though he was fit and ready for anything, it was still a shock to find half-a-dozen men equipped with old .303 Lee Enfield rifles forming up.
Anxiously he sought out Inskip. When he found him, the man seemed to have gathered up Dunlop’s recently abandoned mental burden. His face was lined with fatigue, his skin pale and waxy.
“Thank you for coming. You’ve seen the fire?”
“Yes. Is there any news?”
Tensely Inskip shook his head.
“No, but I’m very worried as you can guess. We’re taking an armed party and Mackay over there in one of MacLoud’s big power boats. You were in the army and know how to shoot. If you come I can spare one of my sergeants to stay here and organise the town’s defences with Robertson. Will you come?”
Dunlop slapped him on the shoulder.
“Count me in.”
Inskip’s relief, and then surprise, was clearly visible.
“You’re in good form—specially for this time of the morning.”
Dunlop nodded sheepishly.
“Yes. Fiona and I... well...”
Inskip nodded. “Whatever it is—tell me all about it some other time.”
He turned to the tall cupboard behind him that Dunlop had never seen before—it had always been secured with a large padlock. Now he realized why. It was the station’s armoury.
“What would you like?”
Dunlop looked over Inskip’s shoulder at the rack of oiled weapons and then glanced around the room.
“I see a preponderance of rifles. Would anybody accuse me of delusions of grandeur if I took a sidearm?”
“Certainly not.”
Inskip handed him a .38 calibre standard British Army Officer’s pistol.
“If you want to hit anything with that, make sure it’s nearer than ten feet.”
Dunlop weighed it in his hand before breaking it and checking the barrel and magazine.
“Don’t worry. Anything nasty within ten yards of me will be full of lead—as the saying goes.”
Inskip grunted as he handed him a carton of ammunition and a web belt.
“Right, let’s get on with it then.”
The police moved in a calm orderly way down the narrow streets to the harbour, Dunlop and Inskip leading. The column moved purposefully, but without the noisy obtrusiveness of the military Dunlop had been used to.
The Nightmare Man: (Child of the Vodyanoi) Page 13
