The Faceless

by Simon Bestwick

  Morwenna stroked his arm, gazing up at him adoringly. She seemed genuinely in love with her much older husband, which was rather sweet, but Anna could understand how Renwick could have found her maddening.

  “She was something of a wild child when she was younger. But she was doing well in the Manchester police. And then Lorraine died. Joan was angry, more than anything else. Didn’t understand why I wasn’t, or didn’t seem to be. I wanted to help her, but... Lorraine’s death only pushed us further apart. And then she moved to Kempforth. And then–” He smiled at his wife, squeezed her hand “–I met Morwenna, and that just made it worse. To be honest, I’d almost resigned myself to losing Joan. But I kept trying. I kept telling myself she was an adult with her own life, but... she was still my little girl.”

  “I’m not sure what you want me to say,” said Anna. “She was a very brave woman. Determined. She saved my life. And Mary’s, for a while at least. If it wasn’t for her, no-one would’ve got out of Kempforth. If she could have rescued the missing child, she would have. That’s all I can tell you. I’m sorry I didn’t get to know her better.”

  Arnold nodded, eyes bright. “That sounds like my girl,” he said at last.

  The three of them were silent for a while.

  “And what about you?” he asked.

  “What about me?”

  “You seem happy,” Morwenna said.

  “In some ways.”

  “You lost a lot, too.”

  Anna shifted in her chair. “I think everybody did. But something good came out of it.” She stroked her belly again. Her breasts were tender, sore. Except for one spot. The piercing cold of the white mark had faded within a few weeks of leaving Britain, but the skin remained hard, numb and dead.

  “When are you due?” Morwenna asked.

  “Another five months.” She leant back in the chair. “It was Vera’s idea. We had a male friend who was willing to provide the necessary.” She smiled. “Plus a turkey baster.”

  “Oh.” Morwenna looked a little queasy. Anna managed not to laugh, feeling a little cruel.

  “But you’re not together anymore?” asked Arnold.

  “No. I wanted the child too, but – I think for Vera, it was a way of trying to... almost... make me choose the present over the past.” That was Vera’s reason; she wouldn’t talk about hers.

  “To replace your niece?”

  “Not to replace Mary, no. You couldn’t, but – help fill the gap, maybe. You see, the big difference between us was that if I could have Mary back, I’d have things back the way they were in a second.” That was the question; how much did you have to accept, and live with, and how much could truly be undone? “I wouldn’t have to think about it. But Vera wouldn’t want her old life back on any terms. A big part of her’s glad that Alan’s dead. If it was a choice between the life she has now, and having Alan back, he’d stay dead. Does that make sense?”

  “I think so.”

  “That’s really why we split up. I made her feel guilty.” She shrugged. “Well. I’m used to being on my own. A lot of people aren’t, but I am. I’ll cope.”

  Arnold held her gaze. “Yes. I think you will.” He looked out to sea. “To think it’s all gone. Theirs now, not ours. What will they do with it?”

  The mist had continued to expand for several hours after Anna sang the White Song – perhaps because of that, perhaps not. By the time it stopped, virtually the entirely UK mainland was engulfed, along with the Isle of Man and even parts of Northern Ireland. Some of the outlying islands – the Orkneys, the Hebrides, the Shetlands – had been spared. Some remained inhabited even now, unlike the mainland.

  A few odd patches of the Cornish, Scottish and Suffolk coasts remained clear of mist. Now and again some brave or (more often) avaricious soul would land on one of them, armed with gas mask and camera. They always brought back the same thing; grainy footage of shadowy figures moving in empty streets and ruined houses, with a soundtrack of hissing static. Overlaying both, dancing in and out of the interference, were images of ghostly, gossamer faces and a faint chorus of overlapping voices, each reeling off an endless unbroken monologue of suffering and loss.

  “I caught a glimpse,” said Anna. “They just wanted to go home. But their homes, their families, weren’t there anymore. They were acting out scenes from the lives they remembered, as if they were still there. But they’re not. Some things, once they’re lost, you can’t get back. That’s the worst thing. The utter pointlessness of it all.”

  THE TESTAMENT OF GIDEON DACE CONTINUED a damned cheat i call it leaving me penned up in here served my penance did my time kept my word to them

  THE TESTAMENT OF SIR CHARLES DACE CONTINUED you deserved every indignity and torment they heaped upon you and more but dear god what they have put me through in this place tried to remonstrate with them to explain it was for england but they would not listen

  THE TESTAMENT OF ST JOHN DACE shut up both of you shut up you both deserve it we all do all three of us the punishment is just we all used them as fodder grist harvest

  THE TESTAMENT OF SIR CHARLES DACE CONTINUED enough st john this maudlin self laceration serves no one

  THE TESTAMENT OF ST JOHN DACE CONCLUDED no father be silent and you gideon also this is my testament i will say this only and nothing ever more to both of you their lives were yours to do with as you wished in life and death you to rebuild your dreams of empire gideon to rebuild his bank account the same principle on a less exalted scale and i in my weakness and my cowardice acquiesced i am as guilty as you both and so i say our punishment is just and will complain no longer only endure farewell

  ARNOLD PECKED ANNA’S cheek, squeezed her hand. She squeezed back, exchanged brief and insincere air-kisses with Morwenna, and walked them back to their Citroen.

  “It must be strange. You’re effectively the leading authority on Ash Fell. The files you brought out of Britain with you, I don’t suppose you ever envisaged...”

  “No.”

  “A shame that book of Sir Charles’ was never found.”

  “Might be for the best. Look what’s been done with the information that did come out.”

  “True. A new arms race. Cheaper than nuclear bombs, anyway.”

  “Or perhaps more costly. We don’t know. If you start tampering with what’s real... where does that end? One mistake...”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it? It’s not where you start. It’s where you stop.”

  “Frightening.”

  “But attractive, too. Wouldn’t you say?”

  He knows. “Perhaps.”

  “I suppose, in the final analysis, it would come down to the conscience and judgement of the person with that knowledge.” He smiled. “I’d like to think that if it still exists, it’s in good hands.”

  The moment hung between them in the dying sunshine. “Well, time to go, I think. Au revoir, Anna.”

  “Goodbye, Arnold.”

  When their car was gone she went back inside and began to pack. Only what she needed; she was travelling light. From the mantelpiece, the pictures of Nan, Dad, Mum, Martyn, and – always, always – Mary. And a small metal crucifix, set in a pyramidal wooden base. You couldn’t cling to the past, but you couldn’t just discard it, either. What were you, after all, if not the sum of your scars?

  But some scars could, and should be erased; men had gone into Ash Fell, and places like it, faceless and been given something like a life. Sometimes a scar could diminish you, make you less than what you were.

  THE TESTAMENT OF SIR CHARLES DACE CONCLUDED st john st john drat the boy where is he ah well all shall be well all shall be well all manner of things shall be well my notes still remain they can be brought back restored there is still time all may yet be set to rights once more

  THE TESTAMENT OF GIDEON DACE CONCLUDED oh do put a sock in it pater dearest no one is listening i can assure you pater pater where are you father where are you daddy dearest oh i see gone off in a huff have we pater tally ho gone away
fuck you then daddy dearest this place of darkness it now appears is mine and mine alone well then i shall make it my own believe you me ah well tis very well.

  THE TRAIN ROLLED south, into the deepening night. Anna had bought a ticket for Marseilles; she’d get off before there, of course. Disappear. A minor miracle no-one had come looking for her yet.

  Alone in the compartment, she opened her backpack.

  The journal still smelt faintly of chlorine, but the words of the White Song were clearly legible.

  Even Vera hadn’t known she had it; even Anna didn’t know what effect the incantation had had. It hadn’t rolled back the dead, but then she could never have sacrificed Mary. Dace’s diary had spoken of them claiming the world back; perhaps she’d stopped it at the British coast.

  The singing of the White Song must be prefaced by the sacrifice of the speaker’s child... without that sacrifice, the gates remain open.

  She stroked her belly. If done properly, with the correct sacrifice, how much would it restore? What? More importantly, who?

  For the briefest moment, a patch of light and shadow in the empty seat opposite shifted; became, just for an instant, a small thin girl, about eleven years old, with red hair, blue eyes, and an impish smile that melted Anna’s heart. And then was gone again.

  When the thing that gave you the reason for living was gone, did you live without it, find something else to live for, or did you try to bring it back?

  The train rattled on through the night.

  Who was she to make this choice? But then again, who was she not to?

  Anna returned the book to her bag, looked out of the window into the gathering night, and wondered what future, if any, she would give her unborn child.

  In war, there are no unwounded soldiers.

  – José Narosky

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Jenni Hill, who said ‘we should publish this.’

  Jon Oliver – of course – who agreed and commissioned this novel, as well as waiting patiently waaaay past the deadline and helping refine it into its final shape.

  Mike Rathbone and Gillian Rathbone, for psychiatric information.

  The other Simon, for advice on matters military and medical, and for eleventh-hour proof-reading.

  The year leading up to the writing of The Faceless was at times a difficult one; I can only offer my heartfelt gratitude to the many friends whose kindness, affection and support helped me through it. Bernard and Clare Nugent (and Mac), Vicky Morris, Roberta Lannes-Sealey, I’m looking at you in particular, along with:

  Andrea Power, for ideas, helpful information and support.

  Gary McMahon, for architectural advice and feedback on the early chapters.

  Joel Lane for casting an eagle eye over most of Part One.

  Mark West and Anna Taborska for two rather cool book trailers.

  Pat Kelleher, for additional World War One-related info.

  Adam Higson of Greater Manchester Police, for information on police kit.

  My grandmother, Lilian Iris Gillespie, for sharing her memories of my great-grandfather Richard James Lynam, who fought at the Battle of Passchendaele.

  Clare Bland, Jenny Bent and Sara ‘The Milf’ Jones.

  Dark Sanctuary, Lisa Gerrard, Azam Ali and Ladytron for the writing soundtrack.

  Other sources of information included War Is War by ‘Ex-Private X’ (A.M. Burrage) and War Against War! by Ernst Friedrich, the poetry of Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon, Charles Hamilton Sorley and many others, Repression of War Experience by W.H.R. Rivers and Hysterical Disorders Of Warfare by Lewis Yealland (in which the doctor’s methods are the most unsettling aspect of the book.) All this provided a wealth of material, only a fraction of which made it into the present novel. Anything I’ve got right is due to the help of those people and sources listed; any mistakes, intentional or otherwise, are my own.

  There are many people who have helped, in one way or the other. If you’re one of them and your name’s not on this list, it’s down to my lousy memory, not any lack of gratitude or appreciation on my part.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Simon Bestwick was born in 1974. His short fiction has popped up all over the place, in the UK and the States, and is collected in A Hazy Shade of Winter. His first novel, Tomes of The Dead: Tide of Souls, received wide critical praise and, more recently, he has been nominated for the Bram Stoker award.

  Find out more about Simon at

  Simon-Bestwick.blogspot.com

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