The Dark Gateway

by John Burke

  “What yarn are you going to tell the police?” snapped Denis.

  Jonathan laid his knife down. His brow wrinkled.

  “I’m afraid—”

  “It would help if you didn’t act dumb. Frank and I saw you last night. You can rub that silly face off and be honest about it.”

  Mrs. Morris said protestingly: “That will do now, Denis. While Mr. Jonathan is in this house—”

  “Let Mr. Jonathan speak for himself. This is no time for being polite, Mum. We want an explanation of what happened here.”

  “Doubtless,” said Jonathan, “there will be an inquest.”

  “You can bet your life there will be.”

  “Then I suggest that we wait—”

  “For our own satisfaction,” said Denis heavily, “we want to know what you were doing to Brennan last night. I may as well warn you that if you’re going to try telling any pretty yarns to the police, we’re going to tell the truth.”

  “And what is the truth?” asked Jonathan smoothly. “What were you doing out of bed at that time?”

  “We thought we heard burglars.”

  “Burglars? They must have been courageous burglars to come out on a night like that.”

  “We thought it might be a carefully arranged plan,” said Denis meaningly, “and anyway, I’m asking the questions. We saw you and heard you. What were you trying to do?”

  Jonathan slowly and carefully finished a mouthful before replying. Mr. and Mrs. Morris were silent, apparently unwilling to interrupt their son, but disapproving of this rudeness to a guest. Jonathan said: “I was endeavouring to persuade Brennan, poor fellow, to come back to bed. Very hard, dealing with sleepwalkers, you know. I fear I have had little experience in the matter. He was a most stubborn case.”

  “He was giving you very plain replies. Anyone would have said you were arguing.”

  “I believe it’s not uncommon. What were we talking about, by the way? It all seems very far away this morning.”

  Denis turned in desperation to Frank. “You can remember the exact words he used, can’t you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. It wasn’t sleepwalking talk, either. We’re both prepared to swear to what we heard. I’m warning you, Mr. Jonathan—”

  Abruptly, Jonathan scowled. His face seemed to split up in hideous fissures. There was something repellent about his face, as though he had not washed for months…no, thought Frank, something deeper and less ordinary than that. It was a filth that came from inside, and that could not be washed off.

  Jonathan said firmly, decisively: “Brennan was walking in his sleep. I came out to try and fetch him—”

  “Fully dressed?”

  “I slipped on my coat and trousers as it was so cold,” Jonathan said, daring them to argue about what they had glimpsed in the dim light of the candle. “I tried to persuade Brennan to turn back. He would not come with me. We argued—talking nonsense, I expect—and then he acted as though he had seen something in a dream, and fell downstairs. A tragedy—a real tragedy—but none of us is to blame.”

  Denis said: “What we heard—”

  “We were all very sleepy at the time.”

  Mr. Morris got up. “I’m goin’ for the police, whatever,” he said.

  Mrs. Morris left the table and went to fetch his coat from the passage. Jonathan made no protest. Denis said: “I’ll come with you, Dad.”

  “No, I’ll go,” said Frank. “I must try to get home, and let them know how things stand. I suppose I’ll be dragged back for questioning and so on, but at least I’ll let the folks know I’m still in the land of the living.”

  “We’ll all three of us go, then.”

  “I think you ought to stay here,” said Frank quietly.

  Denis opened his mouth to argue, then nodded. “Maybe you’re right. But don’t get lost.”

  “I particularly want to go out now,” said Frank, “in order to check up on myself after last night’s wanderings. It’s not going to happen this time. We’re going to reach Llan.”

  The old man had no doubts about it. Slowly he struggled into his coat, brushed his hat with his elbow after his wife had already gone over it thoroughly with a brush, and then nodded to the group of people who were to be left behind.

  Outside, the air was crisp and exhilarating. The sun was invisible, but its light filtered through the dove-grey sky and imparted a dazzling radiance to the snow. That great untrodden expanse of glittering whiteness appealed for the imprint of a human foot. You felt, thought Frank, that you simply had to wade in and break up that arrogant surface. A few strides, and the smooth carpet would be rumpled and torn.

  Then he saw the footprints that were already there. Away down towards the hedge, two sets of uneven, staggering prints. His own and Brennan’s. The wind had blown fresh powder over them, but they were still visible.

  “The path for us,” said Mr. Morris, striking away to the right.

  Frank would have liked to follow his tracks of the previous evening to see whether they went round in circles. He would have liked to come once more to that stile where he had been forced backwards. But the old man’s untroubled confidence made him feel safer: the main thing was to get down to the village, keeping all questions for later. With Mr. Morris, whose calm demeanour had hardly altered, he was in safe hands. Llanmadoc lay below, its chimneys beginning to smoke; the view was uninterrupted by falling snow-flakes or by anything else. The way was clear.

  “A bad business,” said Mr. Morris as they crunched downhill.

  “I hope the police can untangle it,” said Frank without much conviction.

  “Bad for the missus, it is. Worried she’ll be.”

  “None of you were responsible—nor was I, fortunately. It’s entirely a matter for Jonathan to fret about, and he doesn’t seem to care.”

  “Simon was right. Young Simon, he said this man ought not to come, and right he was.”

  He offered no explanation, but relapsed into silence, and they were within twenty yards of the path, its line marked by the top of a small stone wall and a few clusters of bare trees, when they came to a halt.

  “What is it, now?” said Mr. Morris.

  Frank could not trust himself to answer. That same soft, insistent pressure; the impossibility of moving one more step forward, although the ground was plain before his feet.…

  “Try down this way.” Mr. Morris did not pause to argue or to wonder. He accepted the unpleasant phenomenon and moved away to seek another way down.

  The light reflected from the snow seemed to increase in intensity. It was beginning to hurt Frank’s eyes. He closed his eyes, stumbling forward, and saw red, as though gazing with closed eyelids at the sun. When he opened them again, the harsh glittering light struck once more, with more cruel insistence. Dimly he was aware of Mr. Morris beside him, muttering to himself.

  “No good there…we can’t get through.”

  “Where are we now?” asked Frank wretchedly, swimming in a world of white anger.

  “Not far from the house,” was the reply.

  He tried to avert his eyes from the ground, and at once the pain eased slightly. Ahead of them was the farmhouse, standing out against its pallid background with a cheerful flaunting of coloured door and window-frames. The edges were blunted by the heaped snow, but the house was clear and real.

  Beyond it, the castle ruins hunched blackly on the hill.

  “The same thing again,” said Frank.

  “Last night—the same, is it?”

  “That’s why we came back.”

  They were silent. The old man, dressed for chapel, looked up in supplication to the heavens. They were grey and featureless. He sighed and turned round to face the village, and almost at once began to blink. The hills, and the valley below, and all the cold expanse of sky, all shone upon the two men like mirrors of brilliant light.

  “Let’s go back,” said Frank. He was beginning to understand how Brennan had felt.

  “The poli
ce have got to know. We must get down, else there will be—”

  “We can’t get through. We’ll try again if you like, but it won’t be any good. We may as well go back and see what’s in store for us.”

  The old man hesitated. From far below, the chapel bell began to ring, sending its one shivering note up the hillside directly to him.

  “We’ll try again.”

  Together they walked, stumbled, and pushed, searching for an opening in that baffling invisible curtain. The bell was still ringing, now jeering at them, when at last they desisted and Mr. Morris removed his hat in order to mop his brow.

  “No use,” said Frank.

  “Perhaps someone will come.”

  “If we can’t get out, it’s highly probable that no one can get in. Brennan said something to that effect.”

  “If they can see us…if we could have a fire, or a torch, and get them to come up here—”

  “They still wouldn’t be able to get in,” said Frank, “and it would be a long time before any of our friends succeeded in getting the army here to sling a few shells at this—well, this whatever-it-is. Whatever’s going to happen is going to happen soon. I have an idea it should have happened last night, and Brennan’s death gummed up the works somehow.”

  They knew that as they came up the last slope to the farmhouse they would be visible from the windows of the kitchen. The door was open for them, with Nora and Denis waiting, as they reached the step.

  “No luck?”

  “The wall’s still there,” said Frank briefly.

  This time there were no jokes, and no disbelief. Nora sat down and folded her hands in her lap. They were all intensely aware of Jonathan’s presence. He said: “Was the going too rough for you?”

  Frank did not deign to reply.

  “Absolutely no way out at all?” said Denis.

  “None that we could find. It seems to be a circle all round the hill: it goes round the other side of the castle, I think, though we didn’t try to get out that way.”

  “There might be—”

  “It doesn’t seem likely. We didn’t think it was worthwhile. And the light in our eyes was getting worse. I don’t believe we’d have found any way out. It didn’t seem much good trying.”

  “No,” said Jonathan silkily, “it doesn’t look so good, does it?”

  Denis turned on him furiously. “We’ve had enough from you. If you don’t stop sitting there and smirking, I’ll knock your bloody silly face in. In fact, if you don’t tell us right here and now what all this is about—”

  “Don’t come any nearer.” Jonathan’s voice cracked like a whip. “You’d regret it. I will not endure any more of your impertinence. You’ve seen what occult powers can do: do you want to test them still further?”

  Denis hesitated, but his swaying movement and the rapid clenching and unclenching of his fist told Frank that he would not hesitate for long. Whatever the risk—and Denis would probably still not believe that anything could stand up for long against the impact of a large fist in the middle of the face—he was going to hurl himself at Jonathan.

  Frank said: “Stop, Denis. We’ve got to think this out. Don’t do anything silly.”

  “Thank you,” said Jonathan. “Sound advice, Mr. Swift—though I don’t know what you intend to ‘think out,’ as you put it. There is not much you can do in the way of either thought or action.”

  Mrs. Morris passed to and fro through the middle of the group. If this should be Judgment Day, Mrs. Morris was not going to let the housework get out of hand, on Sunday of all days.

  She said: “How long will we be up here like this, then? Worse than the winter we did have when Denis was born. What we’ve got stored away…well, it will be a long time before I will make you any more big meals if we are stranded again.”

  “How long are we going to be stuck like this, without any contact with the outside world, Mr. Jonathan?” asked Frank directly.

  Jonathan shrugged, his eyes narrowing with amusement. “How should I know? What is it to do with me?”

  Denis said: “Now look here—”

  “All right, Denis; take it easy. Mr. Jonathan, there’s no need to keep up this elaborate pretence. You’ve told us enough—or, rather, hinted enough—to make it clear that you’re behind all the queer events of last night and this morning. Don’t you think we’re entitled to an explanation?”

  Jonathan got up and walked up and down the room. Mrs. Morris frowned with annoyance. She poked the fire to a blaze, and put her hand inside the oven to test its heat.

  Jonathan said: “Perhaps you’re right, my blunt young friend. There is really no need for me to explain, but since it cannot possibly make any difference, I don’t see why I shouldn’t let you know who is in your midst. You have regarded me as a tripper—a weekend tripper.” He chuckled with delight. “I played the part well, didn’t I? But now I will tell you who I am, and what I am about to do, and then we shall see your faces. I’m looking forward to that. How your faces will change! This is a day in the history of the world and of—”

  He broke off, an incredulous expression dawning slowly on his evil face, until this moment suffused with revolting self-satisfaction. He said: “No. Impossible.…”

  They listened. Someone was coming up to the door of the kitchen. Footsteps in the hard snow, then the ring of the flagstone and the step. The knock.

  Nora went to the door, and Frank was sure that she knew who was standing outside. He watched as she pulled open the door and admitted a slim, effeminate-looking young man with sallow features and fine long hands, one of which he put up with a slow, lazy motion to push his hair back over his head—a gentle, smoothing motion. He had deep, thoughtful eyes that seemed sad even when he smiled, as he did now: a smile of greeting.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Simon.”

  “I’ve had the nerve to invite myself over for lunch. I hope you don’t object. I had a feeling”—he raised his eyebrows questioningly—“that you needed me.”

  Jonathan stood motionless, save for an uncontrollable trembling of his mouth.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  For Mrs. Morris, life was mainly concerned with food. The preparation of food, the serving of food, and the washing-up afterwards: these activities filled the larger part of her working day. Existence was marked out in sections, and each section was subdivided, different phases of the work being signalled by different sounds: the dull roaring note, slowly ascending the scale, as the kettle was filled; the clang of the oven door; the jingle of knives and forks being scooped out of the drawer; the clink of plates being stacked up for removal to the scullery, and the sound of tap water plunging down on the hard stone sink. At times she would show signs of tiredness, straightening up with one hand pressed against the small of her back, the other tucking a wisp of hair into place, but she did not protest. Nora had never seen her flop down in a chair and profess herself “dead beat,” nor did she get into a bad temper and accuse her husband, aloud or by implication, of not realising just how much work she had to get through. Mrs. Morris had no complaints. Her routine satisfied her, even when it left her most weary.

  Today she did not sit down immediately after dinner, waiting for the kettle to boil up again so that they could have a cup of tea. She did not want to join the nervy, jumpy group at the table. It was better to get on with the jobs that were to be done. She would throw herself into that familiar round in defiance of the growing menace of which even she was becoming dimly aware.

  “Nice out now,” she ventured, leaning over to remove the gravy boat from the table. “Nice for a walk, and you’ll be out of my way.”

  They grinned at her, but made no move. The tension had been almost unbearable throughout the meal, and it showed no signs of relaxing. Jonathan was manifestly disturbed, chewing his nails and too definitely ignoring the newcomer, Simon, the only one of the company who seemed more or less at his ease. Nora seemed to derive some slight reassurance from Simon’s presence
, but he was not the sort of young man who readily inspired confidence: he was too secretive, and when he spoke he was not always perfectly lucid. They had asked him how he managed to reach the house and, with a shrug, he had said: “I took a bit longer walking than I usually do, but the way was quite plain. I didn’t have any difficulty.” That was all he had volunteered, but Nora was sure that the matter would be left there for a short time only. There was more to come. Reluctantly, she left the table and went out to help her mother, who, after one look, said: “Go back, Nora. I’ll finish off myself. Go you and listen to—to whatever’s going on. Maybe you’ll understand, and that will be a good thing.”

  Nora returned to the kitchen. Simon’s arrival had inspired in her a momentary feeling of jubilation. If Simon had got through, everything would be all right. She was conscious of a warm rush of affection for him at first, but it had soon abated: ten minutes of Simon’s company invariably had the effect of making her irritable, although he was never anything but polite and forbearing. Now, he sat there looking as though he knew what all this was about, but did not propose to tell anyone.

  She said, probing: “You know, we quite thought we were cut off from the world. We were awfully surprised to see you, Simon. How did you get across?”

  “I didn’t have any difficulty,” he said, as he had said before.

  She fought down her exasperation. “But Frank here, and poor Mr. Brennan, and Daddy, this morning—they couldn’t get down because of…well, some queer thing that seemed to hold them back.” She did not know how far Frank and her father would wish to be committed on the strange resistance they had encountered.

  “The wind, perhaps,” said Simon lightly, “but mercifully that has dropped.”

  Jonathan took out a grubby handkerchief and blew his nose with a great amount of noise. He said: “I’m given to understand that you, too, have found a great deal of interest in Mr. Morris’s splendid collection of rare books?”

  “That is so.”

  “Are you…do you study the subject much—I mean, the matters discussed…?”