The Faceless

by Simon Bestwick

  As one, the boys swivel back to face him. Allen saw a picture once: ice mummies, dead Inuit whose bodies had freeze-dried in the Arctic cold. A child, face framed in a fur-lined hood, a fringe of inky hair. Lips shrunk back from the teeth. Skin the colour and texture of wood. And no eyes; just holes. Their shape remained – the eyelids hadn’t decayed – but the eyes themselves were just apertures of black.

  The boys’ faces are like that now. Ancient, dried, eyeless. The black holes pin him, hold him. The shrunken lips move, and Allen knows what they’ll say. His bowels and bladder feel ready to fail, because he knows. He’s always known they’d say it one day; now it’s here he’s almost relieved.

  It’s time, Alan, says Mark. Not Allen, Alan. The name he was given; the one they all knew him by.

  The reckoning, says Johnny.

  The atonement, says Mark.

  And then, together: We call you home.

  The blackness spreads, drowning the filtered streetlight seeping through the hotel room curtains. The three boys sink away into it, as if into black, deep water. But out of the dark swim other shapes, closing on the bed. The blackness now covers the whole far wall, and it spreads across the carpet like a tide. Vera sleeps on, silent, as it flows up over the foot of her bed and then the covers, her feet and her legs; the other walls, the ceiling. Flanking him and hanging overhead, surrounding him.

  The dark flows over Allen’s feet. It’s almost total; nothing can be seen in it unless it wants to. And something does. Many somethings. Some are at the foot of the bed; others approach on either side of him. He can’t see them properly yet; just enough to know he doesn’t want to. But in a moment, he will.

  Allen tries to scream. He really tries. But there is only silence.

  RATS SQUEALING; VERA woke flailing at them. Horrible things. Teeth, claws, disease-ridden – she was awake. Rats. Oh Christ she was back in Shackleton Street. No no no. Not that. Please. Everything else had been a dream. No no no. The squealing. The rats. But this wasn’t Shackleton Street, this was their room at the Midland.

  Not rats. Allen. She hit the light. He twisted to and fro in his bed. His arms and legs were stiff, unmoving. A spasm. His head whipped side to side, the neck tendons thin steel rods. He was trying to scream, but his jaw was clenched, so instead he made the rat-sound.

  Vera threw the covers back. Her heart wasn’t hammering so much now. She knew what this was. She’d done this a hundred, a thousand times. Once it’d seemed a price worth paying. Now, though – would she still be doing it at sixty, or older? She knelt by the bed.

  She switched his bedside light on. Sometimes that’d wake him, but not tonight. Still screaming, or trying to. She grabbed his shoulders, flinching – he lashed out sometimes if you did that. She’d had to hide bruises on a couple of occasions. Last thing he needed, stories like that. Appearances were all.

  Allen stopped thrashing; now he shuddered instead. Shaking. His skin was hot and slick with sweat.

  “Allen. Allen. Allen!”

  His eyes rolled under the lids. The clenched scream became a whimper.

  “Allen. Sweetheart.” She stroked his cheek, his forehead. Kissed his forehead, his cheek. A faint moan. “Allen. It’s me. I’m here. It’s OK.”

  His eyelids flickered open. Another moan, then a ragged breath. She let her own breath out, forced a smile, stroked his forehead again. “It’s OK. It’s OK.”

  A night might come when she couldn’t bring him back, or when the terror stopped his heart. If it did, she wasn’t sure if she’d grieve or rejoice. But tonight wasn’t that night.

  “Sis.”

  “It’s OK.”

  He reached up for her, like a child. She held him; he shook, whimpered, cried. She stroked his hair, kissed his cheek, prayed he’d need no more than this. She sang, softly, the old song Mum had sung to them: “Heelya ho, boys, let her go, boys, swing her head round and hold together...”

  Slowly, he calmed and relaxed. “Toilet,” he said. “Need–”

  “OK.”

  “Scared. The dark.”

  She turned on all the lights, opened the bathroom door for him. Allen slid out of bed. His body shone with sweat. The bathroom door shut behind him. She didn’t believe, but she prayed: that she’d done enough; that he wouldn’t need more.

  The toilet flushed; water ran in the sink. Allen came back, naked, still shaking.

  “Sis?” He whispered. “Sis, I... I...”

  Her prayers had gone unheard. Still, that was nothing new. “Alright.”

  Ever since Shackleton Street: his raw need, her comfort. Back then, it’d been the only kind she could give. Now, it was the only kind that worked. Allen crawled back into bed; Vera peeled her nightdress off, turned back the clammy sheets, climbed in beside him and guided his hand between her legs.

  THE MORNING LIGHT woke her. What time? Panic. If someone came in – even the rumour would be lethal. Damp sheets clung to her; she fought to thrash free, then found the narrow bed empty save for her.

  “Al–”

  He was at the window, elbows on the sill, barefoot in polo shirt and jeans. She fumbled for her nightdress. The bedside clock read 8.43 am; time for breakfast if they were quick, made themselves presentable. She’d need to take a morning-after pill later. Be safe. Forty-six years old and still no menopause. Christ. She always had three or four in her handbag, courtesy of a pharmacist friend. Always best to be both prepared and discreet. “Allen?”

  “I’m sorry, sis.” He looked old, suddenly; the greying hair, the face tired and slack. And he was the younger. Where had her life gone? “Cancel the show tonight.”

  “What?” Tonight was Liverpool; it was sold out.

  “I need you to cancel it, Vera.” His voice was quiet but very level. Determined. She wasn’t used to hearing him sound that way.

  “What did you see last night?” she asked. Because she knew he’d seen something. Allen might not know the real thing anymore, but she did.

  “I’ve got to go back,” he said. “Today. Right now.”

  “Where?” she asked. But she knew. Of course she knew.

  “Kempforth,” he said at last. He smiled; she saw terror and bliss entwined in it. “I’ve got to go back to Kempforth.”

  And she didn’t know whether she felt more terror or relief. After all these years of circling, finally, he was flying into the black sun.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Saturday 21st December.

  NAN’S LIVING ROOM; Anna and Martyn perched on chairs, Nan sunk in hers. Mary at Martyn’s feet, huddled against his leg.

  “Where you going today, then?”

  “Just off to Witchbrook, Nan.”

  “Ah well. Bit of fresh air. Do you a lot of good, that. ’Specially you, Martyn.” Martyn flinched a smile back, looked down.

  “Now, Mary, come here a minute. Come on, I don’t bite. Something for you.” Kendal Mint Cake in dark chocolate; Mary’s favourite. “What do you say?”

  Mary had inched over. “Thank you, Nan.”

  “Give your great-gran a hug, then.”

  She didn’t. “Mary,” said Anna.

  “Go on, love,” Martyn said. Mary reached out thin hesitant arms. Nan pulled her close. “Bless you. You’re getting a big girl.” After a moment, Mary hugged her back. Nan released her. “Now, you go and have fun at Witchbrook.”

  “OK.”

  “And if you’re good,” said Anna, “we’ll go to the Creamery after.” Mary loved the place, although Anna couldn’t forget arranging to meet Eva there.

  Nan winked. “Spoils you, your Aunty Anna. Get fat, you will.”

  “No I won’t!”

  “Mary,” said Anna.

  “Don’t talk to your Nan like that,” said Martyn.

  “Soz.”

  “Not soz,” said Anna. “Sorry.”

  “Sorry.”

  Nan reached out to ruffle Mary’s hair; the child flinched away. Anna opened her mouth, but Nan shook her head. “It’s alright, love.” T
hey looked at each other for a moment, then Mary went back to Martyn and threw her arms round him, buried her face in his side. Nan studied him. “You take care as well, boy. Look after the little one.”

  “Aye, Nan, will do.” Martyn kissed her cheek.

  “Go on with you.”

  Mary almost ran out, Martyn lumbering after.

  “I’m sorry, Nan,” Anna said. “Don’t know what got into her.”

  “I’m old, that’s what. Could pop off any second.”

  “Nan.”

  “It’s true. She’s already lost her Mam. Nearly lost Martyn too. And I’m still here and her Mam’s gone.”

  Anna shouldered her bag. “What about you, Nan? You OK?”

  “Just the usual. Old age cometh not alone, mate.” A smile. “Know what you’re on about. Have I seen any more ghosts, that’s what you want to know.”

  Anna looked down.

  “Anna, love, it’s alright. I’m not going off my head.”

  “Never said you were.” Her grip on reality wasn’t so tight she could judge.

  “You were thinking it, though.” She didn’t answer. Nan eyed her; she’d snapped at Anna before for questioning her memory. Finally she shrugged and nodded. Anna bent to kiss her cheek; Nan’s thin hands rose up and met in the middle of Anna’s back.

  “Love you, Nan.”

  Nan’s grip tightened. “Love you, too, Anna. And don’t worry about me.”

  “But I do, Nan. I worry about everyone.”

  Nan sighed, nodded sadly. “I know.”

  The door clicked; Myfanwy Griffiths didn’t hear it, but knew she was alone. She’d always known when she was. The Sight, her own nain had called it. But it wasn’t just seeing, there was feeling, too.

  And what did she feel now? Myfanwy studied the pictures of the dead. The dead and the lost looked back at her. Her own son among them; wrong, that was, surely, to outlive your own child. But he’d made his mark; there was still Anna, Martyn, little Mary too. The family would continue, after she was gone.

  Her father’s photograph: the dazed, bleak eyes fixed on some distant vanishing point. It had come and gone over the years; sometimes he was with them, sometimes somewhere else, somewhere terrible. Late at night with a drink in his hand until his eyes glazed; he might have peace after that, or wake screaming in the small hours. A terrible sound, that. By breakfast he’d have put himself back together again – how many cigarettes, lit with shaking fingers, did that take? And nobody would talk about it because you didn’t, about such things.

  And he went out to work, whatever kind a one-armed man could get – you didn’t ask, not back then; if your father put bread on the table that was all that mattered. And age and drink ate him away. In the wedding photo, in the black suit jacket and bowler hat, he held her arm, tried to smile. The weariness: on his face, in his eyes. Myfanwy took a tissue from her sleeve, dabbed away the beginnings of tears.

  ANNA WENT UP the cemetery path alone, Nan’s flowers beneath her arm; neither Martyn or Mary had felt able to come. She didn’t mind, some solitude was welcome.

  “Hi, Dad. Nan sends her love.” She replaced last month’s withered bouquet, took out wet-wipes to clean the plaque. “Miss you. Wish you were still here...”

  She stopped. There was no god, no afterlife. They were all gone. Dad, Mum, Grandpa – Nan’s dad, too, even if she’d started seeing him at the window. Hard but true. She doubted conversing with the non-existent was a habit someone with her history should cultivate. But after a moment, she went on anyway.

  “I’m worried about Nan. She’s started seeing her dad, would you believe? Don’t think I could face it if she...” She shrugged. “Well, I’d have to. Wouldn’t I? That’s my job.” A sigh. “I know. Stop feeling sorry for myself. Maybe it’s just her mind getting itself ready. She can’t have long left, can she? She’s had a good innings.” That didn’t help, she realised. She didn’t want anyone else to go anywhere, anyone else to leave. A child’s thought, she knew. This was just how it was. “Alright. Best go.”

  Anna dropped the dead flowers into a bin near the top of the garden. On impulse, as she passed the church, she went to the door and entered.

  Cold air. She smelt must, varnished wood, polished brass. Her shoes clicked on wooden tiles. Rows of pews; tall pillars held the roof aloft. High rafters pointing skyward; a stone angel looking down, placid and unconcerned. Stained glass windows lit by winter light. Christ raising the dead: Lazarus, come forth. Christ casting out demons: Call him Legion, for we are many.

  Anna found a pew. She didn’t pray. She didn’t believe. She didn’t come here for that. She came as she’d once come to woods, rivers, hillsides, seashores: for stillness, peace, to calm herself. She couldn’t go to places like that alone anymore, there wasn’t the time. Everyone needed something from her – Mary, Martyn, Nan, work. Everyone claiming a piece. This is my body; this is my blood. But she mustn’t break down. Couldn’t. She closed her eyes, breathed deep, until she felt ready. When she opened her eyes, the pews were full of dark, blurred shapes.

  She blinked, but they wouldn’t come into focus. There were dozens of them, black and silent, in the pews and aisle. At the periphery of her sight some details – clothing, hair colour – came almost clear, only to vanish if she looked straight at them. They didn’t seem aware of her; they all faced the wall to her left. A single spot on it flashed and gleamed; gold or polished brass.

  There was no sound. She stood. Silent. Silent. Get away unseen. But as she rose they turned, the seated ones rising. Their faces were blackness, but in a moment she might see them. She overbalanced, fell back into the pew. She thought she cried out but heard nothing.

  Leave her.

  She felt rather than heard it. Her imagination, perhaps. But she looked, and the church was empty.

  “Oh fucking hell.” Sound had returned; her voice, her fast, panicked breath. Anna gripped the pew’s edge, saw the knuckles whiten. She stood; her fingers shook when she put them to her forehead. “Not this,” she heard herself whisper. “Not again.” It was the strain. She’d have to see her GP. She couldn’t afford to break down. Not again, not now. At least they hadn’t been like the things she’d seen when she was in Roydtwistle; those black, tattered things, so similar to what’d been lurking outside Mary’s school.

  She had to get out of here, away from things she hadn’t, couldn’t have, seen. Back to Martyn. And to Mary, always Mary. But instead she was going down the aisle, to the brass that gleamed on the wall. That hadn’t been her imagination. It was curiosity and it was something else. Defiance, perhaps. A whistle in the dark. I’m not scared. I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.

  A brass plaque. She touched it; it was polished, smooth.

  In memory of the officers and men of the ‘Kempforth Pals,’ killed in action, 4th July 1916.

  Nan: You might have a touch of it, too.

  Martyn. Mary. Nan. They were real, to be held on to. Anna turned and walked out fast.

  THE TESTAMENT OF PRIVATE LEONARD BLOOR halfway across no mans land bullets whizzing by like wasps going past your earhole they did that in a summer meadow when i was a little boy whizz they went whizz whizz whizz buzz buzz buzz like wasps and me breaking into a run across no mans land jinking as i did like on the make do soccer pitch in the park back in blackburn cos i could play and that was my plan that was my dream to play football but it wasnt going to happen except as we went across no mans land i thought it was could hear all the bullets going past missing me and i thought im special im something special same as every kid does cos thats all i was a kid a stupid little kid and i thought they werent going to touch me id been spared picked chosen but then oh then oh then the blow the blow to my leg and it was knocked out from under me and i was in the air for a second only a few feet up but in the air looking down at that shitten reeking field of mud and then i slammed down into it and the pain hit and oh god the pain the worst pain i had ever known german rifle bullet 7.92mm tearing through
the large muscle of the left thigh and directly impacting the femur shattering the bone into fragments damage to the femoral artery also patient suffered severe blood loss and would have perished had not one of his comrades applied a tourniquet thus saving his life however the amputation of the left leg immediately below the hip was necessitated hopping along hopping along on fucking crutches didnt eat hardly slept only drank everything gone the one way out and nothing left for me now nineteen years old and back to blighty and hopping along on fucking crutches and dont care if its swearing i will swear i want to bloody swear ive earned the fucking right and back in blackburn watching the lads a few years younger than me play footy in the park

  WITCHBROOK WAS A deep, sheltering combe carved into a hillside above the Dunwich Estate. A stream ran through it, there was a picnic area, a playground, rocks to climb, thickets to hide in. The winter wind keened but didn’t reach them here.

  “Faster, Daddy!”

  “Don’t spin her quite so fast, Martyn.”

  “Don’t worry. Be alright.”

  The roundabout spun; Mary clung on, squealing happily. Martyn laughed.

  Your family, lass; your family.

  Anna sat at a picnic table. Below was the sprawl of terraced streets enclosing the town centre’s medley of brutalist and Victorian. Enclosed was the word; small and cramped, sealed in by grey sky and dour faith. She needed more than that; without it she was withering away.

  But your family, lass–

  Now on the swings, Mary shrieked again as Martyn sent her flying.

  Daddy was back, and Anna could never be Mummy. That had to be faced. Perhaps she could leave, finally, once Martyn was well again. No more excuses. Dad’s death, Eva’s, Martyn’s troubles – they’d all given her reasons not to go.

  But your family, lass.

  Mary tore past en route to the slide. Anna smiled and waved.

  Beyond the town, the green-grey moors; beyond them, Manchester and its busy gay scene. Twenty miles, that was nothing. She could be there in half an hour if need be. Stay in Kempforth and she’d wither into respectable spinsterhood. There was still time, but only if she left now.