A sound disturbed him. It was low, not more than a choking sigh, but at once his attention was alerted and he jerked his head round in sudden alarm. The girl from the restaurant was sitting on the far end of the pew and she appeared to be crying. Anger and a fierce joy made his heart beat faster; they were followed almost at once by a sense of frustration, Sad or happy she could do no more than disturb his peace of mind. The isolation which cut him off from the rest of his fellow creatures, would not - could not - exclude her. He watched the slight trembling of her shoulders and was relieved that the mane of auburn hair hid her face. When they rose to sing the next carol, he was only too aware that she was not singing, and suddenly the urge to look sideways could not be resisted.
His eyes came round, then froze into a shocked star She was watching him. The beautiful, tear-filled eyes looked straight into his and they seemed to flash an appeal - a plea for help that frightened and confused him. Then she abruptly turned and left the pew, pausing once to look back at him over her shoulder, and walked quickly towards the main door.
The remainder of the service was a period of exquisite torture. He should have followed her out. Now he would never know why, and live the rest of his life under the shadow of a giant question mark.
The congregation filed out of church and dispersed, leaving Andrew to walk his lonely way across the square. It was when he reached the narrow dark passage leading to the main street, that the girl came out from the shadows and said: ‘Please, help me.’
At that moment he knew his life would never be the same again. Up till then the world had been populated by two kinds of people - him and them. Now someone had broken the barrier. He said: ‘What can I do? ’
She came close to him and the beautiful grey eyes searched his face.
‘You must know.’
For an awful moment he wondered if she was a prostitute who had the originality to procure her clients from a church, and a sick joke flashed across his brain, ‘Lust after righteousness.’ He dismissed the thought as ridiculous. There was a terrible fear in those eyes, he could almost taste the terror. ‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘But - you’re one of us.’
He shook his head in bewilderment.
‘I still don’t understand ...’
She repeated the statement with more emphasis.
‘You are one of us. Please - you must help me.’
She gripped his arm and began to pull him into the passage. ‘You know ... Come quickly ...’
He was led - pulled like a half-reluctant mule - along the passage and out into a narrow street. Presently the girl began to speak.
‘I only went out for an hour. He seemed all right and I had to get away for a while. I’ve had to watch him for three weeks - you know how it is. Then when I got back . . .’
She began to cry again and Andrew, not knowing the cause of her grief, could only pat her hand and make sympathetic noises. Presently she was able to continue.
‘I never expected to see you in church. I only went there in desperation - you know. The vibrations are sometimes pretty strong in those places. Then I recognized you from the hotel dining-room. Did you get my message? ’
'Message? ’ he repeated the word dully.
She gave him a quick glance. ‘You’re a non-receptive, aren’t you? Must be, or you would have followed me out. But I knew I couldn’t be mistaken - I picked up your mental image. You are one of the few. What’s your name?’
Andrew had not parted with his Christian name for over twenty years and now it seemed he was committing some kind of sacrilege. ‘Nesbitt - Andrew - Andrew Nesbitt.’
‘I am Janet Gurney. Have you got a cocoon-knife on you?’ ‘Knife!’
‘No, I don’t suppose you have. Non-receps never seem to carry anything useful. How you manage in an emergency, I don’t know. Never mind, I’ve sharpened up some carvers at home. Can you walk a bit faster? ’
Andrew obediently lengthened his stride until they were walking a little too fast for comfort. But the girl did not appear in the least distressed and continued to talk in a normal tone.
‘He looked awful when I got back from the restaurant - all blown up and surface-hardening had taken place. You know what I mean. But he was still able to speak - there were no air-bubbles in the windpipe - and he said: “Try to find one of us, you’ll never be able to handle this on your own.” It was then I thought of you. Wasn’t I lucky I found you in that church? ’
He said, ‘Yes,’ not knowing what else to say, and uncomfortably aware that they were moving swiftly through streets that looked neither respectable nor healthy. At last she stopped at a door to the right of a dilapidated bookshop, and, fumbling in her coat pocket, produced a Yale key.
‘It’s only two flights up,’ she said as they trudged up a dimly lit staircase. ‘The change-over hit him on the first landing. I had an awful job getting him up to our rooms. Thanks be to All-Power, no one saw him.’
The second landing was an evil place with a single green- painted door, lit by a twenty-five watt bulb. Janet Gurney opened the door and hurried into the room beyond. Andrew followed and watched the girl as she slipped out of her coat, allowing it to fall to the floor.
‘Go into the bedroom,’ she nodded towards another door, ‘and I will put some water on to boil. See what you think of him. We have about three hours before he strangles.’
She went into what was presumably the kitchen and left Andrew staring at the closed bedroom door. Questions reared up like venomous snakes and demanded answers. Every instinct ordered him to leave that awful room and run back to the world he understood. But he knew he was at the mercy of the demon with a blank face. Curiosity. He must know what lay behind the bedroom door, even if that knowledge meant madness.
The door with its cracked paint and dented brass handle, seemed to deny that it would hide anything that could shock or horrify. It might be disgusting, possibly, even revolting. Andrew could imagine a room with faded wallpaper, a bed with soiled sheets and curtains that hung in tattered drapes. But not something that required a knife before it strangled. He closed his eyes, opened them, took a deep breath, then opened the door and went in.
The room did justice to his imagination. The pink wallpaper was faded, the green curtains were dusty and moth-eaten and the sheets, which were flung back over the end of the bed, were most certainly soiled. Like a reluctant snail, he crept towards the bed and whatever lay naked upon it. He tried not to believe the evidence of his dilated eyes. His paralysed brain was numb with horror. What was it? He remembered, with that curious memory reflex that sometimes operates in moments of stress, an advertisement for car tyres that depicted a grotesque rubber man. The thing on the bed could well have been a duplicate. The skin - if indeed the dark grey, flaccid substance could be so called - was ridged in deep, rounded folds from bulging head to bloated foot. The eyes and mouth were buried in six-inch deep pits; the fingers and toes merely ridged stumps. The continuous, obscene movement sent Andrew screaming to the door. Every ridge pulsated, and at regular intervals rippled; a weird twittering sound came from the deeply buried mouth-hole.
The girl came in with three large knives clasped in one hand and two rubber aprons slung over one arm. She laid the knives down on an old-fashioned wash-stand, then handed him an apron.
‘Put this on,’ she ordered. ‘As you know, this is a messy job.’
He shrank back, pointing a shaking hand at the bed.
‘In the name of sanity - what is it? ’
For a moment the smooth flawless face assumed an expression of dawning surprise, then it changed to one of alarm.
‘Don’t tell me - Oh, God, don’t tell me - you haven’t matured.’
He shook his head slowly, not wanting to understand.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Her look of horrified despair was that of a bewildered child. Her choking whisper said: ‘A nurseling. I had to find a nurseling . . .’
Terror b
ecame diluted with pity; and pity turned into a warm flood of tenderness, so that Andrew wanted to take her slim body into his arms and promise to do anything she asked. Anything at all. His fear and repugnance retreated and he said: ‘I don’t understand. I don’t think I want to, but if I can help . .
She seized his words as though they were lifelines and clasped his hands in a surprisingly firm grip.
‘You will help? You’ll do anything I ask? You promise?’
There was only a slight hesitation, then he nodded. ‘Tell me what I must do.’
‘First, I’ll fetch hot water. We must soak the outer pelt - soften it, you understand, otherwise it will blunt the knives. Put the apron on.’
When she had left the room, he put the apron on, examining the ridged horror with something like interest now. It was at least human-shaped. There was no neck worth mentioning, nor any trace of arm or leg joints, but - Andrew tried to ignore an ominous heave in his stomach - a few short black hairs stood up from the ridged skull. He tried to think logically. It was as though the skin had risen up and left all but the longest strands of hair behind. Also, when he peered down into the eyepits, he could see a little fringe of black lashes sprouting round tiny pools of blue.
The girl came back carrying a bowl of steaming water and a pile of towels slung over her left shoulder. She put the bowl down, then proceeded to soak a towel, which she handed to Andrew.
‘Lay it across his chest, then push it well down so the water! gets into the ridges.’
Andrew did what he was told. When he pressed the thing billowed out on both sides and the arms assumed the proportions of giant sausages. The girl handed him another! I towel.
‘Knead,’ she instructed. ‘Don’t be afraid to put the pressure on. He won’t burst’
As Andrew obeyed, the head inflated and became a monstrous, humped bulge; the eye and mouth holes disappeared and the twittering sound merged into a shrill whistle.
‘Harder,’ the girl ordered with something like impatience. ‘We must soften the outer casing, otherwise you won’t get I through.’
With perspiration pouring down his face, Andrew kneaded, punched, pressed and heaved, while the thing under his hands, bulged, squirmed, rippled, expanded and deflated. He felt like a baker trying to make a misshapen loaf.
‘I think that will do,’ she said after a while. ‘Give me the towels, I’ll put them back in the bowl, just in case. Do you want a rest before cutting?’
Andrew wiped his brow. ‘If I have time to think, I’ll never I start. Let’s get on with it.’
‘Right.’ She picked up the largest knife. ‘Now, listen carefully. I’ll sit on his legs and that will make your job a little easier, because then his chest will blow up and stretch the skin. You must make the first cut just under his throat, then slit downwards. I should stand back as far as you can - I otherwise you’ll get soaked. Have you got all that? ’
Andrew tried to nod but gurgled instead.
Without further words, the girl lowered herself down on to I the legs and instantly the chest assumed the proportions of an embryo mountain.
‘Now,’ she shouted, ‘stick the knife in.’
Andrew placed the knife point just under the ridged chin and pressed down. The skin bulged on either side, one quarter of the knife disappeared, but the razor-sharp point refused to penetrate.
‘Press harder,’ the girl ordered. ‘Use all your weight.’ Andrew did his best. He even jumped and pressed down at the same time, but the tough skin would not give and at length he sank down on a chair.
‘It’s no use, I can’t get through.’ He mopped his streaming brow and tried to regain his breath. ‘It’s like trying to cut through granite.’
Janet wriggled as though to make herself more comfortable on the grotesque legs, then wiped away a solitary tear.
‘Won’t you try again? Once you’ve got through, the rest shouldn’t be too difficult.’
It is in the depths of despair that the best ideas are found. Andrew sat up.
‘Have you got a hammer?’
She frowned. ‘Yes, I think so. Why?'
‘Fetch it.’
She brought him a hammer, a heavy affair with a gleaming head. He examined it with some satisfaction.
‘Should do the trick. Right, back on his legs.’
The young mountain was reformed, the head grew big and Andrew replaced the knife point where the throat should have been. Then holding the knife steady, he brought the hammer down on to its handle. The effect was instantaneous. Twin fountains shot up from either side of the knife-blade and generously sprayed Andrew’s apron. The girl cried out for joy.
‘You are clever,’ she said. ‘Now slit downwards.’
It took him five minutes to enlarge the hole, and another half an hour before he had a sizeable incision. By now, what appeared to be water, was flowing out in a continuous stream and splashing down on to the floor. The girl handed him a bread-knife.
‘You can saw the rest of the way down. Then we can slip the skin over his head and the job will be finished.’
Gradually the skin parted and as it did so, the rest of the hideous cocoon was covered in a network of crisscrossing wrinkles, so that it resembled a length of crumpled leather. ‘I’ll take over now,’ the girl said quietly.
Andrew watched with horrified fascination as she plunged her hands into the slit and stretched it to its fullest extent He had a glimpse of a wet, pink body, then she said: ‘Catch hold of the loose head-skin,’ and together they eased the cocoon (what else could it be?) over a head, pulled it down and down, until it finally parted company from a pair of feet with a nasty squelching sound. The girl held up the ridged crumpled skin.
‘When it’s washed,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘it will make up nicely into a dress for wearing round the house.’
But Andrew Nesbitt was looking at the figure on the bed. A young man with a mop of black, curling hair, finely formed features and the body of a god. But he was wet and pink. Slimy wet and pink. The girl must have noticed his look of horror, for she laughed softly.
‘He won’t always be like that, silly. When I’ve washed him and given him his first feed, he’ll be beautiful. Simply beautiful.’
‘Then he ..
Janet’s eyes were bright and her voice was husky with loving pride. ‘Has just been reborn. We all have to go through this stage, sooner or later.’ She looked at Andrew with a certain, proprietary affection. ‘It will happen to you one day.’
‘Are you sure . . .?’ he began, but she smilingly interrupted him.
‘Absolutely certain. But don’t worry, when the time comes, we will know. After all, one good turn deserves another. Now . . She began to usher him towards the door. ‘You must go.’
‘But. . the apron was off and he was being eased into his overcoat, .. won’t I ever see you again? ’
‘Of course.’ The main door was open and the awful landing was waiting. ‘When you need us, we’ll be there. But tomorrow is moving day. We can never stay long in one place - can we? ’
‘No, I suppose not.’ He was out on the landing, the door was slowly closing. Her beautiful face smiled, her grey eyes glittered, and her soft voice mocked.
‘Thank you for everything. And - oh, yes - a merry Christmas.’
The door shut. Time snapped back into place.
***
The desk-receptionist looked up as a white-faced Andrew staggered in through the swing-doors. He grinned.
‘Been celebrating Christmas, sir? ’
Andrew grunted.
‘Never mind, sir. It only comes once a year.’
Andrew did not bother to answer, but staggered towards the lift.
Upstairs, he went into the bedroom and quickly stripped. Then, naked, he walked over to the wardrobe mirror and examined his body with lively interest. His legs were thin and hairy, his belly sagged, his shoulders bowed, and there were pronounced pouches under his eyes. He looked tired, old and ugly. Aloud, he asked the all import
ant question,
‘What the bloody hell am I?’
The Ghouls
(1975)
The doorbell rang. A nasty long shrill ring that suggested an impatient caller or a faulty bell-button. Mr Goldsmith did not receive many visitors. He muttered angrily, removed the saucepan of baked beans from the gas ring, then trudged slowly from the tiny kitchen across the even smaller hall and opened the front door. The bell continued to ring.
A tall, lean man faced him. One rigid finger seemed glued to the bell-button. The gaunt face had an unwholesome greenish tinge. The black, strangely dull eyes stared into Mr Goldsmith's own and the mouth opened.
"Oosed o love hore…"
The shrill clatter of the doorbell mingled with the hoarse gibberish and Mr Goldsmith experienced a blend of fear and anger. He shouted at the unwelcome intruder.
"Stop ringing the bell."
"Oosed o love hore…" the stranger repeated.
"Stop ringing the bloody bell." Mr Goldsmith reached round the door frame and pulled the dirt-grimed hand away. It fell limply down to its owner's side, where it swung slowly back and forth, four fingers clenched, the fifth - the index finger - rigid, as though still seeking a bell-button to push. In the silence that followed, Mr Goldsmith cleared his throat.
"Now, what is it you want?"
"Oosed o love hore." The stranger said again unintelligibly, then pushed by Mr Goldsmith and entered the flat.
"Look here…" The little man ran after the intruder and tried to get in front of him, but the tall, lean figure advanced remorselessly towards the living room, where it flopped down in Mr Goldsmith's favourite armchair and sat looking blankly at a cheap Gauguin print that hung over the fireplace.
Collected Stories (4.1) Page 13
