The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 22

by Stephen Jones

  R. glanced down with her to see medium-heeled shoes that were now covered in mud.

  “I know. I had to carry two suitcases and a cat.”

  She smiled. “You could have let the cat walk.”

  “H. would have bolted. In fact the suitcases would have run away too, if I’d put them down. This place is a bit weird for Londoners like H. and me.”

  “It’s a bit weird for the locals too,” she replied, taking his cue, “and of course the last . . .” She stopped, abruptly.

  R.’s invisible antennae quivered. “Last?”

  “Nothing – I – I was thinking of something else. Oh well, back to the grind. Sorry about the intrusion. I know you wanted peace and quiet. I’m sure you’ll get that, once I’ve gone. Goodbye.”

  They shook hands and she left. Last? Last time? Last person? Last waltz? What? Who knew how that sentence ended? R. shrugged. He had more important puzzles to solve. One was ten thousand words long. He set about unpacking his bags and making himself comfortable just as evening came on. It was September. The darkness came in like fine black dust and settled on the cottage and surroundings. He switched on the light but could see no others out there. He was alone with a grumpy feline beast and nine-tenths of a novel. That was the way it had been planned, so he could congratulate himself on a job well done, rather than succumb to this sinking feeling.

  He went to the back door and held it open.

  “Off you go, H. See you in the morning.”

  H., a slim grey cat with black tiger stripes along his flanks, stared out into the gloaming. He stood for a long time, peering into a slow twilight that was draping shadows like dust-covers over the bushes. Something out there seemed to be worrying the animal. R. went and stood by the cat and stared out with him, seeing nothing but the gloom of an early-autumnal evening descending upon a wasteland. Then H. turned away, walked to the front door, and looked up to be let out.

  “Oh, your majesty doesn’t want to use the tradesman’s entrance, eh? Well bugger off out the front then. It makes no difference to me, mate.”

  R. let H. out, then went to make himself some tea before settling down before a coal fire to think. This is what he had come out here to do, to think. Those who did no creative writing did not know how important it was to simply clear away the mind-clutter and let one’s thoughts roam, where they were free to bump into all sorts of interesting other thoughts, one of which might be the key to the solving the ending of a novel. Other folk – wives, girlfriends, mums, dads, tax inspectors – they failed to understand that thinking was work. It was the hardest work a writer had to do. G. understood that. His other writer friends understood it. Actually punching the words onto paper was child’s play next to thinking through the story, even a story without a coherent narrative that flowed chronologically. R.’s books never did that of course. They were enigmatic voyages through a misty otherworld where strange men met supernatural beasts, and women whirled paradoxes like gladiators’ nets over both sets of creatures.

  For the first week at the cottage, R. did nothing more than open his mind. It was essential that he allowed his imagination this free space in order that there was room for ideas to come sailing in from wherever it was that ideas were harboured. R. was one of those writers who did not like to think too deeply about the source of his genius, afraid that rooting it out might cause it to dry up. He continued to try to interest H. in going out back, into that wasteland beyond, thinking the cat would enjoy hunting such a fruitful-looking jungle. H. was having none of it though. He stood in the doorway and stared out, clearly uneasy with what was out there. Perhaps he could smell a rogue cat, a feral tom? Ferals, R. knew, could be quite dangerous creatures having wild untamed natures.

  Finally, one evening R. became impatient with H. and gave him a little nudge with his foot, then shut the door. H. whined, long and loud. R. went and made himself a drink, ignoring his cat, thinking it would be good for H. to get over his prejudices. Even if there was a feral out there, surely H. could handle himself? He was a tough cat, a little tiger when he wanted to be. R. knew that H. had taken on foxes before now. H. had to face his fears the same as R., who had come to Iken carrying a whole sheath of them.

  The next morning R. woke early. He immediately felt guilty. Fancy forcing H. to do something which clearly worried him! R. went downstairs and opened the back door, expecting to find an indignant, perhaps dew-coated H., waiting to be let in. There was no H., no cat in sight. That in itself was not unusual. H. came and went when it suited him. If he had found good hunting out there amongst the tall weeds and spiky gorse, then he would have fed himself and perhaps be looking to punish his master. R. left the door open, a saucer of milk just inside, and went to write. He had actually started writing at last and while the muse was on him, he had little thought for anything else. S. telephoned halfway through the morning and asked after both of them, but R. failed to mention the missing H. The signal was not good and her voice kept fading away. R. did not like making explanations into the ether.

  Lunch time came. Still no cat. R. wandered out back for the first time, calling H.’s name. “H.! H.! Come on H., stop messing about.” But no cat parted the tall grasses and came trotting to R.’s feet. Just a whisper of wind through the weeds and a sort of dead-air silence beyond. “You bugger – I know you’re out there,” cried R., beginning to get annoyed with his pet. “If I have to come in there and get you . . .” But the gorse bushes looked formidable. A cat could squeeze under them, but not a great lumbering R.

  Evening. Still no H.

  Morning again. The doorway was empty.

  R. was now seriously worried. This was strange territory for his cat and perhaps H. was lost? What should he do? Start putting up notices on telephone poles? Who ever came out here, to this god-forsaken area of the marshes? Only mad-capped ramblers. R. had seen one or two of these, but not many. If he saw any more he would mention H. to them. Tell them to keep an eye open for a tiger-striped cat. And what would S. say? It was a bugger, that was certain.

  The next day R. dressed himself in thick jeans, gloves, coat and walking boots. He was going in. He had to search for H. Leaving the back door to the cottage wide open, he crossed the uneven sods of turf to the edge of the gorse, hesitated, then entered. All the while he called H.’s name, using a walking stick to part the spiny fronds of the gorse, looking for traces of his pet.

  Nothing. What he found were old carcasses, littering the whole area. Nothing to do with H., he was sure. They looked like the fur- and hair-covered skeletons of rabbits and foxes or dogs, with some large birds among them, hard flesh still stuck to the bones of many of them. Hell, what had killed these creatures? R.’s heart was beating fast now. It was hot and dusty out here, where old cobwebs formed nets between the bushes and the air was as still as death. Perhaps his initial thoughts on the wasteland had been correct? A feral tom? But surely even a big un-neutered tom could not kill a fox or dog? Something bigger then? A wild hound of some kind? Or a big cat escaped from a zoo? Something pretty savage lived in these shrubs. H. had been right all along.

  Then, a few more paces, and R. found him. Or half of him. H.’s fur was unmistakable. That tiger stripe on the corpse could not be anything else. Just the head was gone. The rest was covered in green flies that feasted on flesh that was already crusted and hard.

  “Oh shit!” R. cried. “Oh fuck. Poor H.”

  What a horrible end for a lovely cat. And R. knew it was partially his fault. If he had taken notice of H.’s instincts, H.’s intuition, the cat might still be alive. Why hadn’t he just left well enough alone and allowed H. his foibles? No, he had to be the big master-of-the-house and know everything about everything.

  R. stared around him. What in hell’s name was out here? What demon of a beast had killed his little cat? His first thought was to get a shotgun and bait a trap for the creature. It wouldn’t bring H. back, but it would give R. some satisfaction. Bring the murderer to justice. But R. was a city dweller. After some
thought he admitted to himself that he knew nothing about shotguns, how to get them, whether one needed a licence, nothing. In the end he knew that would not happen. But a club of some sort? A heavy club. Put something tempting out in the back yard and wait. If the creature came and it was small enough, R. could then destroy it. He was a big man and could handle a club all right. Of course, if the beast was some huge hound of hell, then such action was not on. At least he would know what was out here and could call the authorities, get them to catch it.

  R. went back to the house, leaving H.’s remains to the maggots and flies in the dead zone of the wasteland. He intended to tell S. that H. had simply wandered off and got lost. No point in distressing her unnecessarily.

  Once indoors he defrosted some pork chops in the microwave and left them in the back garden on an upturned dustbin lid. There were some golf clubs in a cupboard under the stairs. R. selected a heavy iron, wondering whether he could actually use this weapon on a live animal. But he was still smouldering with anger over his H. and he felt that rage could drive him to such action. Kill his cat? Whatever was out back was going to get some of its own, in spades.

  Evening came. Twilight. That time when shadows lengthen and seem to move of their own accord. R. stood awkwardly by the rear window, looking out. It would have been better if he could stand in the open doorway, but the creature would undoubtedly get his scent and fail to come near the bait. Perhaps he should have poisoned the meat, just in case he couldn’t deal the mortal blow? But then, what if some innocent creature came and ate the chops? Someone’s runaway Golden Retriever, or little white Westie? R. couldn’t risk such a thing. It had to be the golf club round the head. Split the bastard’s skull with the iron.

  He waited until well into the night.

  Nothing came.

  In the morning there was a knock on the door.

  Oh please, not S., R. thought.

  Thankfully, it wasn’t S. It was a man with a white collar worn the wrong way around. A vicar. R. let him in, having had no human contact for more than a week he was eager to talk to someone.

  “Not evangelising,” apologised the vicar, “just saw your light during the evenings and thought to give you a neighbourly social call. I’m Iken church – you can see the tower sticking up over that corner of the marsh. The Rectory is just beyond. Oh, tea please. How are you getting on? Are you here permanently, or just for the summer?”

  They sat and drank tea, while R. answered the questions, and then asked a few of his own.

  Finally, he confessed to the man of the cloth.

  “My pet’s been killed,” he said. “Out back.”

  The vicar looked suitably shocked.

  “Any idea who did it?”

  “Who? I rather think what. There’s some sort of beast out there, I’m sure of it. The area is covered with bones of all kinds. Why, the whole scene is . . .” R. had a sudden and chilling thought. He hadn’t noticed any skulls. Plenty of legbones, spines, pelvises, but no skulls. H.’s head had been missing. Eaten? A HEAD? What sort of beast eats only the heads of other beasts?

  “Are you all right?”

  “Eh?” replied R. “Oh, yes. Tell me, did the last occupant of this cottage have any pets?”

  The vicar looked uncomfortable.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “You don’t happen to have his – or her – phone number do you? I could give them a ring and have a chat.”

  “No – no, I don’t. Wouldn’t do any good.” The vicar cleared his throat and put down the mug of tea he was holding. “You see the last person who lived here, simply disappeared one night. A Welsh gentleman. Never saw him at the church. Chapel, I expect. A writer like yourself, came out here to get away from the noise of the city just like you. Vanished. No one knows why. I’m told he never contacted the estate agent again.”

  “Skipping rent?”

  “Apparently his rent had been paid in advance.”

  “He didn’t go out back, did he?” said R., jokingly.

  The vicar failed to be amused. “I’m fairly new here. I’m sure I don’t know the details, but I do know that Mr E. took none of his possessions with him. It was indeed as if he had simply walked out of the door wearing what he stood up in.”

  The hairs on R.’s neck stood on end.

  “Which door? Front or back?”

  “No one knows. Both doors were found open. He simply – vanished. The police were called, of course. They searched the house, the surrounds, even dredged the marshes. No trace of Mr E. was ever found.” The vicar sighed. “You hear of these cases, someone goes out for a newspaper and never returns. Never to be seen again by loved ones and those who know them. The brain is a delicate instrument. Something tips it this way or that, and the owner wanders off not knowing who he is, where he lives, or where he’s going. It’s my belief Mr E. is probably now one of those poor creatures you see in city centres wearing a beard, rags and smelling of alcohol.”

  The vicar left half-an-hour later, but he told R. that the pork chops probably would not work.

  “You need warm-blooded bait. You know, a live rabbit or something. Dead meat is often ignored by wild beasts. They sense a trap. They’re very wily creatures with sharp instincts for survival.”

  R. sat down after the vicar had left. He considered what the man had left him as a parting suggestion. A live creature? No, he couldn’t do it. It would mean buying an animal at a pet shop and leaving it out, like a sacrificial goat, to be decapitated. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. What he should do, now rather than later, was pack his bags and leave this unholy place before something else happened. Something a little more terrible. Where was Mr E.? Was his skeleton out back somewhere, perhaps at the bottom of some boggy sinkhole, minus its skull? How very strange. R. tried to think of some animal that might want to eat another animal’s head and could not come up with any answer.

  The next village was seven miles away. R. decided to walk there along the marsh-edge footpaths. He would not need to go out back to do this. There was a well-defined walker’s path at the front. He would have a pub lunch, perhaps talk to one or two of the locals and try to gauge their reaction to his experiences, then come back and call a taxi to take him to the nearest railway station. It seemed a sensible plan. Perhaps the death of poor old H. had unbalanced the situation in his mind somewhat? Maybe a walk would clear his head and help him to see things in perspective? After all, the evidence for a single assassin being responsible for all those rotting carcasses was very thin. It could be that all those dead remains had been the result of foxes or badgers, or some other natural carnivorous beast.

  As he stepped out along the track, painfully aware that his right foot was not in prime condition since he had suffered unwelcome visits from gout ever since he’d started spending every New Year in G.’s place in Spain (oh, that Andalucian red wine!), he carefully considered his last thought. Natural. Why had he used that word? Natural carnivorous beast. An unusual adjective in the context. Was there some idea deep in his subconscious, perhaps even deeper in his id, that there was something unnatural about H.’s death? Something preternatural? A head-hunting ghoul? R. searched his encyclopaedic mind for a supernatural being that bit off the heads of living things. He could think of none.

  A partridge clattered out of a bush startling him as he skirted a dark woodland grown to weakness in the centre. He shook himself, physically, and told himself to get a grip. What the hell was he doing, seriously considering something out of folklore, myth or the spirit world. He wrote about such stuff, he didn’t experience it. Fact was fact, fiction was fiction. He’d been too long on his own. He needed to get back to the sensible and practical company of S. She would put his feet back on the ground and very soon the world would cease to tilt.

  The Wild Boar pub turned out to be virtually empty. Apparently there was a carnival on in Lowestoft and everyone had gone there for the day. The only other occupant of the bar was an elderly farm labourer who drank half pints of warm
bitter. R. bought the old boy one or two halves, but got nothing out of him regarding the cottage and its surrounds. It turned out the man, in his eighties, had never been more than five miles from his own back door. He had never been to Iken, let alone Lowestoft, which accounted for his presence in the Wild Boar on a day when village excitement was at fever pitch. The barman was an Australian youth in his early twenties and was “just passing through the county of Suffolk, mate”. They talked cricket for a while, with the Aussie making disparaging remarks about the English team, while R., being English, made polite remarks about the Baggie Greens.

  Before he left though, there was a shock to come. As he waved goodbye to the old boy, the Suffolk yokel called to him, “By the by, did they ever find that young fellah who went a-missin’ from Iken?” He pronounced the word “find” as “fyund” making it a double-syllabled word. The local accent tended to do that.

  “You mean the Welshman, Mr E.?” R. said.

  “No, no, weren’t no Welshman. Went by the name of R.K. Just disappeared into the mist, so’s I bin told.”

  A sort of electric tingling went through R.’s skull.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t Mr E.?”

  “Positive. Doctor told me. Doctor Williams didn’t ever tell lies, lad, he were a good Christian soul. Seven year ago, now, it were. An’ I may now be goin’ on a bit, but the noddle’s still workin’.” He tapped the side of his heavy grey head. “I never heard of no Mr E.”

  “Shit!” murmured R., under his breath, realising that the old boy was talking about an earlier incident which had probably happened before the Iken vicar took over his church. For some reason the news of Mr E.’s later disappearance had not reached the farm labourer. Perhaps Dr Williams, bearer of news beyond the pale of the Wild Boar and confines, no longer resided in the vicinity? (Or something worse.) Was a good Christian soul? Perhaps the doctor himself was dead?

  R. moaned, “Oh, holy shit.”