‘Don’t be long. I miss you.’
A sob sticks in her throat - No, Cyril, I won’t be long – she leans back on the pillow, and gazes out of the window. Seeing the moon, watching clouds float over its brilliant silver glow, was her one pleasure on these long and sleepless nights. There were nights when she couldn’t sleep; insomnia had grasped her in her early sixties, and now, in her nineties, it had become a raddled old companion. Newer, was the fear of sleep, or rather of not waking. There were times when she’d jolt awake to the feeling of sinking. ‘This is it’, she’d think, knowing that if she allowed it to take her down, she’d certainly die. She’d struggle then, to pull herself to consciousness. The Grim Reaper wouldn’t take her yet, though, not until she was ready, and even Cyril’s whispered encouragement couldn’t budge her; there were more moons she wanted to gaze at, more sunrises she wanted to delight in. Just another lilac, let me see just another lilac bloom over the peonies in the spring, then I’ll come.
An ungodly, and guttural, scream from outside startles Emily from her thoughts and she instantly wishes the curtains were closed. She crosses herself quickly and grasps for the oxygen mask. God help them! Whoever that was, God help them.
11
Billy takes a final swig of beer, draining the pint glass and sits it back on the table.
“Time now, Billy.”
Billy nods and sticks a wobbly thumbs up to Jack. The old bloke was alright. He’d been a party animal back in the day—if any of the landlord’s stories were half true. Billy staggers to a stand and wobbles to the door where Jack waits, twisting the key. A waft of cold air sobers Billy for a moment as it blasts his alcohol-warmed cheeks and he trips down the step to the pavement.
“Steady there, Billy.”
“I’m alright, mate.” He reaches up to slap a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Thanks for the lock-in, mate.” He was a good bloke, that Jack, letting him drink till after hours. Kathy would kill him though, but what was he supposed to do whilst she was doing her shift looking after Mrs. Carmichael or the Reverend? She’d be home now though, so she’d likely give him the cold shoulder and nag him about being late for work tomorrow. He would get it from Steward then too. Won’t be the first time, won’t be the last.
“See you tomorrow, Billy.”
“Yeah, if she lets me out.”
“Night.”
The door closes and Billy is left alone to stagger back home. One good thing about living in this village, it wasn’t far from pub door to home. He’d catch it when he got back though, he’d promised Kathy he was just going for a couple of pints, not five with whiskey chasers. It had been that Andy Blackwell’s fault. Billy had planned on going home after a couple, but when that tasty bit had walked in – wasn’t she the new policewoman Stangton had been laughing about? – and Andy had started to chat her up, he had to see how it all panned out. They’d left together and Billy could tell Andy was on a promise. He’d laughed and handed his five quid over to Jack then ordered another beer as solace for losing the bet. He’d thought she would have better taste than that grease monkey; he’d been wrong.
The cold air brings some clarity to Billy’s sozzled brains but with it comes a queasy stomach. Suddenly bilious, Billy burps. The gas rumbles from his stomach and belches as white clouds in the November air. “’Scuse me.” He continues his stumbling walk. In the near distance footsteps pound. Billy’s brain lags, and the figure at the other end of the street, though running towards him, doesn’t register.
Nausea covers him like a wave and he lurches against the corner of Mrs Belasis’ cottage and swings into her drive, bending before retching and spewing the last three pints onto her gravelled drive. “Sorry,” he mutters to the wall as he retches again. More beer sloshes to the ground. The footsteps grow louder. He takes a lurching step onto the drive, stepping through the beery vomit, and retches once more. This time the vomit is a morass of carrots, though he could have sworn Kathy had cooked sweetcorn for tea. The footsteps pound. Finally aware, Billy turns as he wipes at his mouth, a trail of saliva linking his coat sleeve with his lips. Someone is running down the path, only a few feet away. Billy, in his stupor, stands stock-still, then rocks on his heels as the … what in God’s name is it? … as the thing runs past.
The thing locks eyes then sprints past. Billy sags to his knees, his eyes staring wildly into the now empty space. The thing had looked like a bloke from the village or the Institute, he couldn’t place him, but he could have sworn … no, his mind is playing tricks on him. The thing had dark hairs across its face and fangs! His mind searches for understanding. And … Jesus! It’s eyes. Hallowe’en. Was it Hallowe’en? It was a dog. Too big. A wolf. As he crashes to the path, the man’s wolf-like face with its hideous blood-red eyes fills his mind. Whatever the thing had been, it was insane.
As Billy staggers into his own hallway, alcohol finally sending him into oblivion, Anita crouches behind the toilet block where the longer grass at the treeline meets the mown grass of the campsite. She sighs with relief as her bladder empties. The toilet-cum-shower-cum-laundry-cum-washing-up block is at the head of the campsite, near the shop and the squat reception building. Not that their proximity matters to Anita; the whole place is locked up for the winter months, and is now dark and desolate in the night. She clutches the torch as urine soaks into the grass, some splashing back onto her buttocks, and shivers. Left alone - the others can go and wreck the Institute by themselves! - the place is bloody creepy, and shining the torch out to cast light over the grass and illuminate the blocky silhouettes of empty barbecue stands and slatted picnic tables, doesn’t help. Instead, she trains light on their tents and the camper van. Wind whips through the tranche of camping space between the trees, hair blows into Anita’s face, and the tent fabric dents as though punched.
A gravel road runs from the camp’s entrance down past a stream and out to the village, flanked either side by mown strips of grass for at least a kilometre. The pub, with its homecooked meals, is the only good thing about this place. Nate wouldn’t let them go to the pub. Jamie had even called her ‘stupid’ when she’d suggested it. They were supposed to be keeping a low profile, he’d snapped. She snorted at that. Keep a low profile! Yeah, they were really doing that with their placards stamping around outside the Institute, and the tents and camper van, parked illegally at the campsite, weren’t exactly hidden. The owner was turning a blind-eye that was all.
This wasn’t her first visit to Kielder. She’d come regularly with her parents before she’d started university and had seen Ken, the campsite’s owner, give them the evils as they’d walked through the village on their way to the Institute. He knew they were on his site, so don’t give her ‘we’ve got to keep a low profile’. She was starving, and Jamie calling her an ‘idiot’ had been the last straw. They could protest all they liked up at the Institute, she was going home. She shivers again as her stream of urine becomes a trickle, waits for the last droplets to fall, then pulls up her jeans.
A rustle and the sound of crashing erupts from the woods. Flesh creeping, she swings the torch into the trees. There’s nothing to see of course, the trees are too thick. Must be a deer. A howl splits the air, and she freezes as the eerie noise weaves through the trees and grips her. The wind whips at her face as a gust sweeps over the campsite. It buffets against the tents. The rustle of leaves and snapping twigs comes again, but it doesn’t sound as close now. She stuffs the torch into her pocket and zips up her jeans, takes the torch back out and steps across the grass and onto the wide gravel road. She trains the light on her destination—the two flapping tents and the locked camper van; they’re at least fifty feet away. Movement to the left catches at the edge of the light—something jumps back into the dark. She stops in her tracks, the skin across her belly creeping, and shines the torch where it had been standing. Nothing but empty space. She takes another step towards the tents. Why the hell hadn’t she gone with the others? Gravel crunches. Something is on the track … behind her. How c
ould it move so quickly? Was there more than one? She darts forward, racing to the tents. Footsteps follow, scuttling the gravel. She catches at her breath as her heart hammers, trips with an unsteady beat, the arrythmia she’s struggled with since the age of ten kicking in. She could actually die of fright. She runs, flashlight trained on the flapping tents; they’d be no protection from whatever is following her. She heads for the camper van and yanks at the door. Locked. Damn! It had been unkind of Nate to lock it, but what else did she expect. He was an arrogant, selfish sod, and cruel with it. They’d all heard him shouting at Lois tonight. That had really decided it for her. This trip had become something far more than she’d ever signed up for. Yes, she was up for waving placards and even shouting, but breaking in and destroying property? No. Plus, she didn’t trust him to stop there. There was an edge to his temper that she really didn’t like. Tomorrow she’d planned to have a talk to Lois about him. She’d had her suspicions before, but tonight confirmed it, Lois was in some sort of dysfunctional, abusive relationship, and she, her best friend, had decided an intervention was necessary.
Something knocks against the van and Anita screams. She swings the torch. Movement at the back end and a figure pulls out of the light. A snort and then a snigger. If this was Jamie pulling one of his stunts she’d kill him. “Jamie?” Her heart pounds. A scream of metal as though a knife is being scratched along the door. He is going too far and Nate will be furious if the paintwork on his precious van is damaged.
The figure steps out from behind the van. It’s not Jamie. She screams as it takes a step towards her. It thrashes against the van’s side, hiding its face, and growls. It reaches a hand towards her, fingers splayed. Was he on drugs? An escaped lunatic? A serial killer hunting his next victim? She screams again and yanks at the door. It’s locked. Of course it’s locked. You know that. Run! She turns to the tents, then the toilet blocks. The tents offer no protection and the toilet blocks, like the van, are locked. The trees are her only option; she can hide in the trees. As the figure staggers from the van, she runs for the tree line and the deep forest where she can hide.
The stench of the girl’s urine had carried in tiny particles and rooted themselves in Max’s nose. That and the aroma of her pussy. How had he never smelt it before? It was intoxicating. She wasn’t ovulating like Laura, but she was ripe. He sniffs at the air … pussy! … licks it with his tongue … need it! … he gnashes his teeth … God help me! Go back to the Institute Max. Kill yourself. Euthanise! He cackles. Just a dead dog, like the others, like Shep. He’d watched as the girl had stood and done up her zip, the smell of her genitalia sticky on his lips, and his mouth had watered. The urge to fornicate was immense, a powerful urge ripping through his body, but behind it was something else, something that made his teeth gnash, and need to bite and tear at her flesh. Hannibal … Hannibal Lecter … Hannibal the Cannibal. He snorts. No! He bashes his head against the metal side panel of the van and scratches long, thick nails down it. A hand of blades. He cackles. The blades leave streaks of bare grey metal in the green paintwork.
The girl disappears into the forest, and Max follows.
12
In the dark, in the morning’s earliest hours, Javeen breathes in Andy’s scent; he smells of warm musk, engine oil, and sex. The night had been a revelation to her. How had he learned to do that with his hands? She doesn’t want to know, won’t ask. He murmurs in sleep and she turns to watch him. Curtains open, a silvery light plays with his dark hair, it seems almost white where the light touches it. Dark lashes brush his cheeks, the stubble already covering his chin; he would look even more beautiful with a beard. She aches for him again. She’d definitely be back for more … if he wants her. Her confidence slips. Perhaps he wouldn’t? What if he doesn’t want to see her again? Damn it, Javeen. Why the hell didn’t you keep your legs closed, you bloody stupid little slut. She’d done it again! Let a man touch her heart. Stupid! She strokes his chest. He really was quite beautiful. He murmurs and his arm slips across her belly. She shouldn’t have gone into the pub. Too much wine and she was anybody’s. Come on, that is not fair! He seemed to like you. She sighs, bites at her bottom lip, and wishes she’d gone straight home to the usual cup of tea and the next chapter of ‘Pet Sematary’. Tonight, she would. He wouldn’t want her, not after she’d shown just how easy she was—spreads like butter, does our Jav! She sinks back into the pillow. Another hour and she’d leave. Stangton’s beady, laughing eyes, mock her. She really can’t be late for work.
In the near distance the noise comes again. The first odd howl, or bark, of what must be a fox or a dog, had been instantly forgotten as Andy slid his knee over her legs and pushed himself between her own. He’d bent to kiss her, his mouth covering hers, as he’d … his hand caresses her breast and the desire to take him again makes her ache.
A scream breaks into the room, high pitched and laced with terror.
Javeen sits up, pushes Andy’s hand from her breast, and listens.
“What the hell was that?”
She swings her legs to the floor and strides to the window; moonlight reflects on her breast. Andy joins her, his naked flesh pressed up against hers, all thoughts of carnal pleasures gone.
“It sounded like a woman!” He reaches to the floor for his jeans. She stares out of the window, fumbles for the latch, and swings it open. Cold air blows over warm skin and Goosebumps rise over her belly. She shivers. Ignoring the cold, she leans out. Wind whips her hair.
“I can’t hear anything now, but-”
“We’re going to look. That wasn’t natural, that wasn’t.”
“Could it have been a dog or a fox?”
“No. Not any dog or fox I’ve ever heard. Sometimes the deer make a racket, but not at this time of year, and not like that.”
He pulls on his t-shirt as Javeen reaches for her own clothes. “I’ll be downstairs.”
“Andy!” she calls as he leaves. They can’t go gung-ho out into the night.
A ringing thud sounds in the distance, metal clanks against metal. Another shrill scream splits the air and the light in the neighbour’s bedroom switches on. She pulls back the window, locks it, then dresses.
Andy sits with boots in hand as she enters the kitchen. “Someone’s in trouble, Javeen.” He pulls on the first boot.
“You can’t just go out into the night and-”
“We look out for each other around here, Jav. It’s a small village. No strangers. Whoever is out there is one of ours.”
Shame pricks at her cheeks. “I didn’t mean that we shouldn’t go, just that … - admit it, Javeen, you’re scared! - just that we should be prepared.” Her first instinct hadn’t been to go out and help; she’d thought of calling the Force in town. Next to Andy’s fervent need to be out there rescuing whoever was in trouble, her own response had been inadequate. She’s the one they’d turn to in an emergency. She was the Police, but Andy was the one leading the fray. Man up, twinkle! She takes a breath. “Do you have a torch?”
Rage tears at Max as he follows the girl through the woods. Every second is a torture. He wants to leap, sprint between the trees, wrestle her to the floor and bite deep into her throat. His mouth waters, and cold dribbles of saliva glisten on his chin. She stops, shines her torch around, then continues. He waits, digging claws into tree bark, slicing through its fibres. Hooked nails digging deep into the greenwood, he forces thoughts of carnage away. In lucid moments, the brutality of his need sickens him. He focuses on his hand - the hairs have grown coarse and dark - and wraps his other arm around the trunk, anchoring himself. He won’t follow her. Let her go, let her run free. Save yourself! He wants to warn her, scream at her to run, run for her life, but the instinct to hunt, the instinct to rip her flesh and devour her innards, chokes back the words. He tries. ‘Run!’ he shouts but only a long, hoarse grunt escapes his throat. A tear slips from his eye, travels in rivulets to his nose, and catches in the hairs that have spread across his cheek.
He slides down th
e trunk, sharp talons slicing through the bark, and squats. He takes rapid breaths, calming his body. His mind scratches through the memories of the past hours. Pictures flash in his mind, images of men in dark suits, Lois clasping her neck, pushing away from him, her eyes filled with terror. Shep … Oh Shep. Shep dead on the floor, a syringe sticking from his fur, the younger beagle slain, its head caved in, an extinguisher at its side, Marta staring at him, her mouth slack, eyes darting from him to Lois to the man with the gun. Pain had ripped through his shoulder as he’d lurched forward and the pop of the gun had tapped against his ear drums. He’d knocked the man to the side, barged past Marta, taken the stairs in two jumps and thrown himself through the door and into the night. Laura … Laura. He longs for her warmth. When he’s finished here—when he’s had his fill – he cackles – oh, sweet pussy, be mine. He slams his forehead at the trunk. He snorts. O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love. Again, he knocks against the trunk. What a beautiful Pussy you are. Pain rocks through his skull as his head collides with the uneven wood. You are. You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are! He hits it again, harder this time. The tree shivers. Max sobs. “O Pu-.” His chest heaves. Snot dribbles to his top lip. He sags. “Oh, my love.” He turns his head to the moon and howls, “Lauraaaa!”
The girl crashes through the woods in her efforts to put distance between herself and Max’s snapping, snarling, howling grief. He lets her run. She won’t get far, and even if she did – his lips curl back from his teeth in a smirk – even if she did, he’d easily, oh, so easily, catch her up. He continues to squat and, as the minutes pass, his heartbeat slows to a gentler rhythm, and the first snort of sleep catches him unawares. He jerks at the noise then lies down at the base of the tree, curling, head to knees, and slips into oblivion and dreams.
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