ANNA LEAPT OUT of the Land Rover before it had even stopped at Mafeking Street and ran across the car park to the Micra. She scrambled in, slammed the door behind her, got the key in the ignition and turned it. The motor caught and growled.
Martyn folding Eva to him, burying his face in her. What about Mary, you selfish bastard? What about your bloody child?
Something banged on the passenger window; Vera. Anna unlocked the door, fastened her seatbelt as Vera got in. “Belt up,” she shouted, and hit the accelerator.
Out through the gates; she’d stop for no-one now. The family, lass. Always the family. Had to get Mary. Nan, too. But Mary most of all. Sirens wailed. The cold spot burned at her breast, a dagger of ice pushed slowly in. She pushed the accelerator down. It was time to see how fast the Micra could go.
“YES, SIR. I’LL take full responsibility. Please... please just pass the order along. Thank you.”
Renwick put the phone down. Even through the double glazing, she could hear the amplified voices blaring from the police cars as they spread out across town. There has been a chemical spill. The town is being evacuated. Please leave for your own safety. You will be able to return when the situation is under control. If you do not have a car, the bus companies are providing transport; report to the following pick-up points.
The yellow clouds swirled around the top of the hill. She’d tried ringing Banstead to warn him, but his phone was dead. The mist was coming down the Dunwich Road, too. Soon it’d swallow up the Polar. Goodbye, Shackleton Street. And then it would hit the Dunwich itself.
“It’s a bloody emergency,” Stakowski was shouting at the next desk. “Get those bastard buses out to those pickup points. Any queries, refer them to my superior, but just get bloody moving now.”
Nothing to take from her desk. The photo of her parents wasn’t there anymore. It was back at her flat. No time to go back there. She gripped the windowsill for a second. A wave of giddiness. She shut her eyes, opened them again.
“Done,” said Stakowski. “Buses are on the move.”
“Good. Thanks.”
“You OK?”
“No. This is a fucking shambles, Mike. Just made it up as I went along.”
“What else could you’ve done, lass?”
“We need to evacuate the whole fucking town. We’re not even gonna shift a fraction of them. People are gonna die.”
“That’ll happen whoever’s in charge. There’s not enough time.”
“I’ve fucked this up, haven’t I?”
“Number one: I’ve just heard you convince four superior officers we need to evacuate. Number two: it were your idea to get onto the bus companies. Each of those’ll save Christ knows how many lives. Number three–”
“What?”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself and get your arse in gear. I’d offer to make a last brew, but I don’t think we’ve got time.”
Renwick smiled back; in that moment she loved him deeply. Maybe she always had. “Probably not.”
“Best go.”
“Aye.” Christ; he’d made a northerner of her at last.
They ran for the stairs.
ANNA PULLED UP, gave Vera the house keys. “Get food, anything we can carry. There’s carrier bags in the cupboard under the sink. Use them.”
“Anything else?”
“The photos on the front room mantelpiece. If you’ve time. And, there are presents under the tree.”
Always the family.
“And some books and toys from the little spare room upstairs, Mary’s room.”
“Gotcha.”
Vera ran to the front door. Anna eyed her reflection in the rearview mirror. Wild hair, bloodshot eyes. Dirt and dust on her clothes.
That cold spot was still burning. Quickly. Now. She unbuttoned her blouse, pulled it back from the skin above her breast. There: where her great-grandfather’s fingertip had touched her, the skin was hard and white, like a chicken-pox scar. Still numb, and ice cold when she touched it.
She rebuttoned her blouse with shaking fingers, tidied herself as best she could and then went up Mrs Marshall’s drive.
A few streets away a police siren sounded; an amplified voice blared out: There has been a chemical spill. The town is being evacuated. Please leave for your own safety. You will be able to return when the situation is under control.
She rang the bell. Mrs Marshall opened the door. “Anna? Oh my god, what happened?”
Anna shook her head. Mrs Marshall bit her lip. The sirens. The blaring voice. “Anna, what’s going on?”
“They’re evacuating the town,” Anna said. “Everyone’s got to get out. Some kind of chemical leak.”
Vera came running out of Anna’s house holding two or three bulging carrier bags. “Ready,” she called.
“Is Mary OK?” asked Anna.
Mrs Marshall’s eyes flicked from Vera to her. “She was until about an hour ago. Then she started wailing for her Dad. Sobbing her heart out, she was. The bloody hell does he think he’s playing at? She thinks the sun shines out of him.”
Anna could only shake her head. She didn’t think she could speak of it yet, not without falling apart. Mrs Marshall put a hand to her mouth.
“Don’t tell Mary–” Anna said at last.
“Aunty Anna?” Mary ran down the hallway. “Where’s Daddy?”
“We’ll see him in a bit.” Anna didn’t dare look at Mrs Marshall’s face.
“Where is he?”
“We’ve got to go now.” Everyone would be trying to leave Kempforth at once. If they were caught in a traffic jam they wouldn’t stand a chance.
“Where’s Daddy?”
“Mary, I’ll explain, I promise. But you’ve got to trust me for now, OK?”
“No!” Mary’s fists were clenched. “I want Daddy. I–” Her bottom lip shook; her eyes filled up.
“Mrs M, do you need a lift?”
“No, no. I’ve got my own car, I’ll be fine. You just go. Be safe. Take care.”
Anna bundled Mary into the car. “Put your seatbelt on, princess.”
“What about Daddy?”
“We’ll see him in a bit.” The lie made her sick.
“Who’s that?”
The engine turned over. “This is Vera. Vera, meet Mary.”
“Hi.”
Mary just blinked. Anna looked away.
“Where now?” said Vera.
“Nan,” said Anna.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
MYFANWY LOOKS OUT over the misty lawn. Isthat someone under the willow tree? Her eyes are too weak to tell. But she has another Sight. It’s been years since she last used it; she thought it was gone – just one more thing age had taken from her – but now it’s back again. And it takes only the tiniest effort to open that other, unseen eye, and search for Anna.
She closes her eyes, and sees.
THE TESTAMENT OF PRIVATE OWEN SHORE CONTINUED and the rain beats down foul stagnant trench water laps around my groin i grip my rifle tighter with sodden gloves shivering with cold staring across the pulverised landscape of mud ponded with great drowning shellholes full of fouler water still and i stand here i stand alone with the comrades bodies scattered round and the germans starting to advance complete catatonic withdrawal no response to external stimuli occasional increases in respiration perspiration heartrate indicate distress attributable to recollection of war experience but withdrawal so complete external signs virtually undetectable
FROM HIS KITCHEN window on the twelfth floor of Macy Court, the old man who called the police to Danielle Morton’s flat looks down on a sea of churning, yellowish-brown smog, hiding everything below the fourth floor.
Someone’s screaming. In the corridor, alarms shrill. Outside, amplified voices blare; sirens wail.
Too late for the Dunwich. Always first to get the bad, last to get the good.
Ah, well.
The kettle boils. He pours. One last cup of tea.
The screaming’s from next door. M
elanie; that’s her name. Three kids; as many different dads. The screaming stops; a thud as a body falls.
The old man fishes the teabag out. He’s always liked his tea weak. Good job, too: might have time to drink it. He sits at the kitchen table, sips.
Melanie’s kids are screaming now; thin, piping cries, swiftly cut off. He sucks air through his teeth. Perhaps a mercy. Poor little sods.
He doesn’t hear the door go, but someone steps into the kitchen. A brown serge uniform, and the face... no. It has no face. Just this gaping, bloodless hole. The old man takes a deep breath, drains his cup, and stands up straight. Cold white hands grip his head and–
MYFANWY BLINKS AND bites her lip. That’s the trouble with the Sight; you don’t always see what you want to, and you don’t always want to see what you do. The willow’s branches blow in the wind. Not long now, but she isn’t ready to go yet. There’s something she needs to know first.
So she closes her eyes, and sees.
BANSTEAD KNEELS NAKED in his room, thrashing himself across the back with a knotted rope. There are still those who’d persecute him, if they knew, for the past. They don’t understand, of course. He’s made penance: suffered guilt, prayed, mortified himself. The good in his life outweighs the bad. He’s paid for his sins.
No, you haven’t.
Banstead leaps up. Why’s it so dark? The light’s fading. He can’t see his bedroom anymore. He reaches for his clothes, but they’re gone. And instead of carpet he’s standing on a cold earth floor.
The blackness is total. A pool of light appears; three small boys stand in it.
Hello, Mr Policeman.
The boys move forward, revealing three men: Adrian Walsh, George Fitton, Father Sykes – kneeling, bound, naked, gagged.
Remember this?
Something falls at his feet. He picks it up: the leather mask he always wore.
He’s flung to the ground beside the others, then forced to kneel. Cords bite into his wrists and ankles. Something’s forced into his mouth.
The boys have changed; their hands are claws, their faces like withered jack-o-lanterns.
It’s our turn now.
Banstead screams through the gag, but there’s no sound.
MYFANWY RECOILS, SHAKES her head, grips the walking frame to steady herself. She wishes she hadn’t seen that, but at least she won’t have to live with it for long. She closes her eyes again.
And sees.
“THIS WAY, GIRLS. This way, please.”
Constable Brock’s voice sounds thin and weak and reedy to his own ears as he jogs after the two girls – the last of the stragglers he was detailed to round up – out of the Station Hotel, towards the two buses outside it. They’re holding hands, he notices. Sweet. Everything’s so loud. He wants the comforting quiet of his evidence room again, but it’s not to be had.
“Stay in line!” The bellow from the bus in front hardly sounds like Sergeant Graham at all, but it’s her alright. “No pushing. Get back in your place, please sir.”
“This one,” Brock tells the girls, pointing, but they’re already scrambling on board the rear bus. The doors hiss shut behind them. A roar and the bus pulls out, headlights blazing, vanishing into the mist. The other follows.
There’s a stink like a swimming pool; it’s burning his nose and throat. The mist is thickening round the hotel steps; dark shapes come out of it.
“Brock!” Sergeant Graham’s by her car. “Get your fucking arse in gear unless you want to bloody die.”
He runs over, scrambles in. The engine roars; the car pulls out. Brock’s hands are shaking and he feels he’s about to piss himself.
“Good work, Brock,” Sergeant Graham’s saying. “Knew you had it in you.”
He can’t tell her that he doesn’t; he’s got nothing left after this. He just fumbles his seat-belt into place, shuts his eyes and doesn’t look back.
MYFANWY TAKES HER glasses off, plucks a tissue from her sleeve, carefully dabs her eyes. But she still hasn’t found what she’s looking for, so she closes them again.
And sees.
MR LEE, PROPRIETOR of the Good Luck restaurant, has not been idle; his wife, sons, daughter and three grandchildren are crammed aboard his van, and they’re already turning onto Dunwich Road South.
His hands are steady on the wheel. He remembers China dimly; the Civil War, the Cultural Revolution, and the many killed by both. His father got them out. His mother fell sick and died along the way, but he and his father reached Britain.
Another war, another country, another world, and now he’s become a refugee again. He isn’t afraid; he’s calm as he drives. He’s proud of the business he has built up, but if it now has to be abandoned, the money from the wall safe is under the front seat. Once they’re clear of immediate danger, he can empty his bank account, too. If you’re still alive, you can always start again.
MYFANWY SMILES; SHE doesn’t know Mr Lee, and Chinese food’s too spicy for her – give her a stew or hotpot, or one of the old Welsh dishes she grew up with, cawl or bara brith – but she knows a kindred spirit when she sees one. The quiet, steady courage that doesn’t win medals and often goes unnoticed; she’s had to find it many times. Anna has it too. Poor Martyn never did, and now he’s dead. She knows that. But it’s Anna she has to know about.
The willow branches part; someone steps out, looks up at her.
So, here at last. But not yet. She has to know, first, that Anna’s safe.
And she closes her eyes. And for the last time, sees.
WHO’S THIS IN the car with her? Some woman? Well, Myfanwy’s always had a feeling about Anna. She doesn’t judge. Little Mary’s safe in the back; that’s what matters. Never any doubt Anna would take care of the little one. And there’s something else only Myfanwy sees; a point of cold, white light, glowing like a tiny star above her breast. She knows who put it there. A mark of protection. It’ll keep Anna safe; she’ll live, if she wants to.
On the street outside, the dead are everywhere. One steps back from his victim and motions them on their way; another kneels, head bowed, over a body, as if mourning. This is an invasion like no other; there’ll be invaders seeking to spare their descendants from what’s coming. Some will succeed, and others won’t.
She’s coming here. No Anna, don’t. The mark will keep you safe from the dead, but this mist will kill you if you’re caught in it. Don’t burden yourself with an old woman who’s lived out her span, who always knew today was her day to leave.
MYFANWY OPENS HER eyes, looks down at the empty lawn. There’s a cold shadow on her back; she knows who it is.
“Hello, Da.”
He doesn’t answer. He takes off his mask and cap. He looks so tired still, so prematurely old.
“She’ll be safe, won’t she?”
He nods.
“You’ve come for me, then?”
He nods again.
“Will it hurt?”
He shakes his head.
“Quick? No pain?”
A nod.
Myfanwy takes a deep breath. “Alright, then. Just give me a moment.”
She lowers herself into her favourite chair, makes herself comfortable as her father comes over, a cushion in his hands. A different death for her, then; quieter, more peaceful. Is there anything important she might have left undone? She can think of nothing. Better luck than most, then. She nods, settles back.
And closes her eyes.
“AUNTY ANNA, YOU’RE going too fast.”
“It’s OK, princess. We’ve got to go fast today.” Anna swerved up the drive to Stangrove Wood. “I’ll leave the engine running,” she whispered to Vera. “If something happens–”
“I’ll look after her.”
“Don’t let her see anything.” Anna climbed out of the car.
“Aunty Anna!”
She’d almost reached the entrance doors when they swung wide; her great-grandfather stepped out, Nan cradled in his arms.
“No. No!” She almost flew
at him, hopeless though it’d be, until she saw the sorrow on his face. Nan’s, on the other hand, was quiet, composed, with the faintest trace of a smile. She looked like she was sleeping.
Mary, screaming.
Her great-grandfather stepped around her, walked down the drive into the thickening mist.
She climbed back into the car. Vera opened her mouth. Anna held her hand up; she didn’t trust herself to speak. Mary, sobbing. You said you wouldn’t let her see. She turned the ignition key.
On the road she passed him, still carrying Nan. He turned down a side street, towards Trafalgar Road.
THE MAIN ROADS were already clogged; Anna wove her way through the back streets to the outskirts of town. Beyond that, the Micra bounced and rattled over narrow lanes and dirt tracks, loud thumps coming from its already martyred suspension, finally joining the column of vehicles on Dunwich Road South near the front.
“Where now?” said Vera.
“Join up with Dunwich Road South, head for Manchester. What do you reckon, princess? Trip to Manchester? Go for a Chinese, maybe?”
“What about Daddy?” Mary’s voice rose. “You said we’d see him.”
“Anna,” Vera said, and pointed; behind them the mist was coming, like a relentless river.
Anna pulled out into the right-hand lane, floored the accelerator; other cars were already flashing by. Horns blared. Cars swerved into her path up ahead; Mary screamed.
The road sloped upwards, over a rise, and they cleared it. Only half a dozen more cars did. Brakes screeched; steel and glass shattered and tore. There were screams. But no mist came over the rise – at least, not yet.
The Faceless Page 29
