The Undead

by Guy N Smith

  ‘Well, that's up to you,’ the clergyman replied haughtily. ‘But neither the Major nor his gamekeeper have had any success yet. Beguildy is like the rabbits he snares, coming and going as he pleases.’

  ‘We'll see about that.’ Ron stood up, helping Marie to her feet. ‘Now we'd better be getting back because I've some work to do before I go to fetch our daughter from boarding school.’

  ‘I really must try and get hold of a copy of that book of yours,’ Pickering muttered as he showed them to the door. ‘It really won't do having an author living in my parish and I've never even read his bestseller.’

  ‘Well, that's that,’ Ron said once they were out of earshot of the vicar. ‘A harmless old vagrant, nothing to worry about at all. All the same, I'm damned well going to stop him coming into the grounds even if I can't keep him out of the wood. The Major and his gamekeeper might have failed to keep him at bay but I think old Beguildy, or whatever his name is, will find me a slightly tougher proposition.’

  Marie did not reply, shivering even though the morning sunlight was warm, the bees and the flies already having embarked upon their daily occupations of gathering pollen and annoying human beings. That face in the moonlight, she would never forget it. The locals might claim that old Beguildy was harmless but maybe their ancestors over two centuries ago had thought the same about Bemorra. Until it was too late! That expression on the upturned features last night had been one of the utmost malevolence, a diabolical mask of hatred directed up at the usurpers of Gabor, the strangers who had suddenly appeared from nowhere to rule over Beguildy's domain.

  And even now Marie Halestrom had the feeling that she was being watched. Furtively she glanced about her. The narrow lane was bordered on either side by high straggling hedges that had not been pleached for twenty years or more. Behind them was a wilderness of undergrowth. Something rustled, it could have been a rabbit or some other creature of the wild. Marie tried unsuccessfully to tell herself that that was what it was. Her intuition told her differently; that behind the dense foliage a pair of deep-set eyes followed her every movement, burned into her body with fierce intensity.

  She quickened her pace until she was ahead of Ron, not looking back. There was only one thing she wanted right now, to get away from Gabor for good, to leave this hostile environment with its sinister vagrant who prowled the night hours and howled his anguish and his hate for all to hear, unhindered and unchallenged. For truly Beguildy ruled Gabor, had its inhabitants in his inexplicable grip of fear.

  And Marie Halestrom was very much afraid.

  CHAPTER THREE - THE COMING OF THE GYPSIES

  Marie couldn't understand why she had not changed her mind and gone with Ron at the last moment. It would have been so easy but she made no move to accompany him. Possibly it was a mixture of pride and stubbornness that had her remaining behind, an unwillingness to concede any ground following their recent quarrels; the time for reconciliation wasn't yet right. She needed time to think, to be alone with her thoughts, attempt to sort everything out in her own mind. Four hours cooped up in the car with Ron would not have helped, and Amanda must not sense any friction between her parents; life was complicated enough for her daughter as it was.

  Marie stood on the steps watching the blue Citroën disappear from sight round the bend in the drive. Ron was gone, he wouldn't be back until seven at least. That was when she sensed her fears returning.

  Turning away, she went back indoors, aware of the emptiness, the loneliness of the place. She found herself glancing out of the window, her eyes searching for a movement in that wilderness of a garden but seeing none. Imagining that the rhododendron bushes swayed, that a pair of deep sunken eyes peered out from the depths of the foliage; that footsteps crunched on the gravel drive when there was nobody in sight. Wanting to lock and bar the doors, to skulk in a cupboard until the Citroën could be heard returning, Amanda's shrill cries of delight when she saw her mother for the first time in several weeks.

  That was what Beguildy did to you, why the villagers remained in their homes and never went out. Because he might be anywhere or nowhere. Not knowing for sure was the worst part of it all.

  The first caravan had pulled into the open space adjoining Gabor Wood in the early afternoon, a battered box on wheels towed by a V-registered Land Rover that displayed no road-fund licence.

  The other caravans came at intervals throughout the afternoon, a cavalcade of dilapidation parking untidily and spilling out their contents. Mongrel dogs barked and tore tirelessly across fields and woodlands in pursuit of any living creature, the one or two cross-bred lurchers hunting more systematically; children threw stones and urinated against the vehicles. Brown-skinned women hastened to spread damp washing on hedges and bushes, an air of urgency about their every movement as though they were staking claim to this patch of ground, marking their boundaries with multi-coloured items of damp clothing.

  Only the menfolk were casual, congregating in groups around two pickup trucks loaded with scrap metal and other cast-off household items. For them there was no hurry, the whole summer ahead of them, this their stronghold in a remote area, a place of beauty to be scarred with ugly mounds of litter, the evening air heavy with the smoke of camp fires. The only way of life they knew.

  They had not been to Gabor before, had stumbled upon it by chance during a hasty flight over the county border to escape the educational authorities who had harassed them for not sending their children to school. The police had also made a token effort to issue a summons on the drivers of the untaxed vehicles. But it was a game both sides had played before. The gypsies moved on, dug in somewhere else and stayed there until the law became a nuisance again. Always running, but in a place like Gabor they might not be troubled for a long time. Here they would poach and steal because that was their mode of life, a far cry from that of their predecessors, the Romanies with their gaily-painted horse-drawn caravans who respected property and left no litter.

  But times had changed, even in Gabor.

  Less than a mile from the encampment of tinkers stood a pair of cottages sorely in need of renovation. Barely ten yards from the roadside, they were screened by thick uncut hedges and dense briars, the small garden a mass of weeds that flowered with an amazing variety of colours. A cast-off from the break-up of the Gabor Estate, these cottages had been bought for a pittance, long before the property boom began, by a charitable organisation who realised the need to offer deprived children from the city slums a chance to breathe fresh country air. In theory the idea was commendable; in practice it was deplorable, a blatant misuse of public donations.

  Phil Barron would not have agreed with this statement, for this same charity paid him handsomely to spend weeks at a time throughout school holidays at Longlea Cottage in charge of mixed parties of adolescents whose main desire was to misbehave in as many different ways as possible. At twenty-eight Phil was happy with his lot and life could be very pleasant if he didn't try to discipline his various charges. And there were always a few girls who were only too willing to indulge in a number of pleasurable activities. So Phil did not want anything to change.

  He had slept late that morning and from the window of an upstairs dormitory he had watched the tinkers arriving. Their coming left him with a feeling of unease, for the bunch of kids he'd got staying for the next fortnight were spoiling for trouble; a couple of the big lads had already served a term at a detention centre for GBH. A mugging. All they talked about was ‘doing somebody up’ and unlike so many of their kind today they didn't mind getting hurt. Worse, several of the others regarded them as heroes and followed on like sheep. There could be trouble brewing; not that Phil Barron cared what they got up to but he didn't relish anything that might involve police investigations. For he had a record too; theft, and if the education authorities found out, that would be that. Gone would be his regular income and numerous free holidays a year.

  Tall and well-built his unkempt appearance stamped him as a hippy whenever he made a trip
into town; few would have guessed that his official designation was Social Worker. He didn't give a damn, though. His needs in life were modest; a few pipkins of ale a week, grass, and a bird to satisfy his natural urges. And they were all to be found here at Gabor.

  One cottage was supposedly reserved for boys, the other for girls, his job to ensure that they were kept apart after ‘lights out’. Jesus, he smiled at the thought, there was a bleedin' orgy most nights and last year there had been a bit of a stink when a sixteen-year-old girl had got herself pregnant. He'd had to write a full report, made it quite clear that at no time had there been any opportunities for sexual intercourse to take place on the premises and it must have happened out in the woods or fields, maybe whilst some of the older ones had gone to collect kindling wood for the Rayburn. There had been no repercussions and Phil Barron had breathed a sigh of relief.

  Then last week some of the stupid buggers had gone to ‘do’ that old tramp guy who lived in that stone-built hovel in the dingle. Phil sweated when he considered the possible outcome of such thuggery but fortunately the silly old fucker had been away at the time. So they'd just stoned the windows, smashed every bloody pane of glass, but that was OK because most of 'em were cracked anyway. Hermits like that kept well clear of the law so there wasn't likely to be any bother. The old boy was a nuisance, prowling around after dark, making noises like a donkey in labour. Serve 'im fucking well right to have his place messed up a bit.

  But these gippos could be trouble. The more Barron thought about it the more convinced he was that there was going to be a confrontation soon. It was no good trying to warn his ‘charges’ because if they hadn't already thought of the idea then they wouldn't waste any time once he had put it into their thick heads. Do like the prophet, he told himself, wait and see. He did not have any other choice.

  The group returned towards evening. From that same upstairs window Phil Barron counted them in with relief. The older boys and girls had paired up, probably been screwing in the woods most of the day; the younger ones had bunched together under the unofficial supervision of Elaine. A strange kid, Elaine, Phil decided, enjoying the faint sense of arousement he felt every time he looked at her. Certainly not attractive, her figure was passable, but when you knew some of the things she'd been up to it had you wishing you'd known her earlier. Eighteen and she'd had a miscarriage and an abortion.

  ‘I just like the feelin' of being preggers,’ she told him two nights ago when she'd called in on him in his room after lights-out when things were getting steamed-up in both cottages. ‘I'd go through it all again any time.’

  He believed her, too, particularly when she started feeling for his zip. The younger kids all looked upon her as their mother and she really seemed to get her kicks out of showing off her maternal instincts. And Phil knew that she would be calling on him again tonight.

  Sex is Man's strongest urge next to the will to survive. Phil Barron remembered this saying as he lay on the camp bed listening to the chorus of orgasmic squeals, and decided how convenient it was. Without sex half these bloody yobbos would be down at the tinker encampment smashing hell out of the place. Of course, they might do that tomorrow but tonight was a brief respite and he kidded himself that maybe he would think of something else to divert their attention next day. He knew he wouldn't, though, tomorrow was another day, as they said.

  Elaine stirred, began feeling for him again and he had his doubts whether he could make it a third time. He'd have a damned good try, though. Christ, these bastards were making a fucking row tonight; there was a fight going on somewhere. Good job this place was right out in the sticks otherwise folks would soon be complaining.

  ‘What'd you do if I was to get preggers?’ Elaine whispered hoarsely.

  ‘Do!’ he echoed, a sudden pang of alarm jerking him like an electric shock. ‘What d'you mean, what'd I do? I thought it was you that did the doing.’

  ‘I'd like to 'ave me a baby,’ she sighed wistfully. ‘not 'ave it terminated as they say. And let's face it, Phil, I could do just that. I mean, we 'aven't taken any precautions, 'ave we? And the time's right, too. I could've caught, probably 'ave.’

  Phil Barron felt himself go cold.

  ‘Don't get me wrong.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I'm not tryin' to trap yer or anythin' like that. Don't believe in marriage meself but we could live together. This could be our 'ome and I'd 'elp yer look after the kids. A nice little love-nest all for free and the baby'd be ours. ‘Ow's that sound to you?’

  ‘Bloody great!’ he sighed. ‘Even out here in Gabor we'd never get away with it. You told me you were “safe” this week, anyway.’ Anger crept into his tone.

  ‘I must've made a mistake.’ She sounded sullen and he wished that he could have seen her expression but it was too dark. ‘Never was very good at reckonin' up.’

  ‘Which is why you've already got yourself pregnant twice,’ he snapped. ‘Anyway, you've had it off with some of the big lads earlier in the week so if you are in the club you're going to find it very difficult to pin it on me!’

  ‘I didn't think you was like that.’ Her fingers came away from him. ‘You can't prove I've 'ad it wiv anybody else, though.’

  A sharp retort was on his lips but it died. Whatever Phil Barron was about to say he immediately forgot - because he smelled smoke, not the sweet aroma of the wood-fired stove which hung in the atmosphere on a calm night but the acrid stench of something smouldering in the room directly below!

  ‘Fucking hell!’ He pushed the girl roughly to one side, swung his bare feet to the floor. ‘Something's on fire downstairs!’

  Naked, he ran for the stairs, met the creeping wall of smoke just as he reached the top step, recoiled coughing and fighting for breath. His eyes were streaming, his vision blurred, but even so he could see the spreading flickering yellow and orange flames, hear them crackling as they leaped up the rickety front door, an angry fire-breathing monster forcing its way inside!

  Phil Barron acted instantly, a combination of panic and a sudden realisation of his responsibilities, the lives that were at stake. He rushed downstairs, delivered a hard kick at the blazing door. No maintenance had been carried out for years in these dilapidated buildings; the door had always hung precariously, its hinges sagging where their screws merely rested in woodworm-riddled posts. Now the whole structure was weakened by the flames and it shuddered under the impact of his bare foot, the screws torn from their holes. Swaying, only the jambs prevented the door from falling inwards. Tottering, then crashing out onto the weed-strewn path, an oblong of blazing wood showering sparks everywhere, burning fiercely but only fresh green growth all around it, sizzling and spitting but not spreading.

  Barron heard the others coming downstairs, coughing, cursing, children crying. He barred their way, held them back. The stairs were crowded, the smoke already starting to thin.

  ‘Jesus Christ, what the fuck's goin' on?’

  ‘Don't panic, it's OK.’ Phil Barron's voice was hoarse, every nerve in his naked body trembling. ‘A fire, but it was only the door. It hasn't spread, it'll burn itself out in a few minutes.’

  ‘What started it? Doors don't set fire to themselves.’

  Barron moved forward, out into the flimsy trellis-work that had once formed a porch of climbing roses. He thought he caught a glimpse of a shadow, a patch of blackness that melted away and merged with the surrounding bushes. But he could not be sure.

  ‘Somebody started it. It couldn't've started itself!’ One of the older youths voiced his opinion, the one who had served a term for GBH.

  That was true enough. Barron's brain was bemused, he didn't try to offer an explanation, just muttered. ‘It looks that way.’

  ‘It's them fucking gippos!’

  The other's words were greeted with a murmur of anger. ‘Guess you're right, Buff. They tried to burn us in our beds.’

  ‘Well, we ain't goin' to let 'em get away with it, are we?’

  ‘Now hold on.’ Phil Barron whirled on them an
grily, but somehow his authority seemed to count for less than it ever had; being in the nude didn't help, gave you a feeling of inferiority, put you at a big disadvantage. ‘We don't want any …’

  ‘You guys ain't goin' to stand for this, are you? We ain't gonna let 'em get away with it, are we?’

  Cries of anger greeted his words. ‘We sure ain't, Buff.’

  ‘Then what are we waitin' for, then? Get dressed you guys, we ain't got no time to waste. Let's go hit 'em hard and fast. Now!’

  Phil relegated himself to the role of an insignificant spectator. Whatever he said or did would make no difference, he couldn't stop them. The conflict he had feared most, that of the deprived youths against a band of nomad tinkers, was only minutes away. The fuse was lit, soon the powder keg would explode.

  Already the holidaying youths were dressing, grabbing anything that might serve as a weapon, some rusted farm tools that had lain forgotten in an outhouse for years; a piece of a ploughshare, a sickle with no handle but the blade still intact, a pitchfork with one prong missing. Disorderly but banding into a formidable commando force bent on violence.

  Phil Barron watched them go, made no move to stop them. He sensed somebody at his side, knew it was Elaine and turned away. Right now there was room for nobody in his life. He was on his own in every sense.

  It was with no small amount of relief that Marie Halestrom heard the sound of a car's engine, the crunch of the Citroën's tyres on the gravel drive. She was running towards the front door before the engine died, pulling it open, trying to disguise her fear with a show of excitement at Amanda's homecoming.

  Amanda was already out of the car, the passenger door creaking on its hinges, an expression of joy on her freckled face. Her fair hair, tied back in two plaits, streamed behind her as she dashed for the steps, arms wide in a gesture of delight at being reunited with her mother. For the moment Ron Halestrom was forgotten.