Or even human, she reminded herself.
She went up to the door and was reaching for the doorbell when she hesitated. She tried the door handle. It was open.
***
Wakefield tried to blot all thoughts from his mind when she appeared at the door of the living room. She paused to look at him, smiling quizzically.
“Hello, Russ,” said the false Marie. “You seem a little agitated. And why are all the lights on?”
She reached out a pale, slender hand and flipped the switch. In semi-darkness, now, she walked over to him, put her hands on his shoulders, and drew her to him. Her clothes were cold from the chilly night air. He knew the body beneath them would be warm.
“So tense,” she said, massaging his shoulders. “Long day at work, darling? I know how to relax you.”
She reached down and took his hand, tried to lead him out of the room. He resisted, and she stopped, eyebrows raised.
“Don't tell me you're not in the mood, darling?”
Her expression was still amused, half-mocking. She let go his hand and took off her coat, threw it onto the sofa.
“I … I want to know something,” he said, dismayed to hear his voice falter. Marie lifted his hand and laid it on her breast.
“You know all you need to,” she whispered. “Don't spoil this, Russ. I came back. Changed a little, perhaps, but still me. Still the woman you love.”
Wakefield's attempt to suppress all his confused, disturbing thoughts failed. Images of the corpse in the woods flooded his mind's eye, jumbled together with memories of Marie.
“Try not to think about it,” she said, pressing herself against him.
Her eyes were level with his, just a few inches away. Wakefield felt a wave of acceptance wash over him, dark thoughts fading as he began to anticipate another bout of lovemaking. Again, she took his hand and lead him out of the room and up the stairs. This time he did not try to resist. As they climbed the stairs, she began to undress him, and herself, teasing and caressing him all the while.
“You need this,” she murmured. “You need me. And all I need is your love. Be faithful to me, Russ.”
They entered the bedroom, and she moved quickly to draw the curtains and turn off the light. Wakefield turned on a small lamp on the bedside table. It was a familiar routine. But this time something was slightly different. Beside the lamp, stood a framed photograph of Marie Wakefield. He had put it in a drawer after her death, unable to face the reminder of his loss. Now it reminded him of just how far he had betrayed her.
“Oh, Russ,” she said. “We can't have that. You're just upsetting yourself.”
She strode around the bed and turned the picture face down. As she did so, her back was to him. Wakefield reached under the pillow for the syringe, which he had filled earlier. Marie was straightening up, turning, when he stuck the needle into the back of her neck and pushed the plunger. She gave a piercing screech and moved with terrifying speed, spinning around and lashing out. The needle broke off in her body, but he had already injected her with a massive dose of morphine.
Wakefield jumped back, but she was way too fast for him. She caught the side of his head with an open-handed blow that sent him reeling across the room. He crashed into the dressing table, then fell to the floor. He looked up to see the false Marie standing over him, a dark shape with the dim light behind her. She seemed to be changing shape as he watched, losing her familiar soft curves, becoming thin, wiry.
“You idiot,” she growled, her voice become deeper, the words more crudely formed.
There was enough in that syringe to kill anyone, he thought desperately.
“Any human being,” she said, reaching over her shoulder and pulled the needle out, threw it aside. “Not enough–”
She paused, swaying, seemed to stagger, then drew upright again. Wakefield tried to shuffle away from her, felt around for a weapon, but there was nothing. She stepped forward, crouched over him, her hands pinning him down. He felt sharp talons cutting into his flesh. When she spoke now the words came from a mouth that was elongating into a kind of muzzle.
“I didn't kill her,” the creature said, its words now heavily slurred. “I became what you wanted. That should have been enough.”
“Let me go!” he cried, trying to shove the monstrous being away, but failing.
“I'll just have one last kiss,” it grunted.
The funnel-like mouth-parts descended toward his face. Wakefield twisted his head aside, closed his eyes, and continued to yell for help. Then his frantic struggles seemed to prevail, all of a sudden. There was a hissing noise, followed by another screech from the monster.
“Get up!” said a new voice. “I think I blinded it.”
Wakefield looked up to see a second shape holding out some kind of canister and directing a spray into the face of the creature. It lashed out with claw-like hands, but seemed much slower and clumsier than before. The newcomer dodged and there was more hissing. A strong scent was discernible, now. The creature fell back onto the bed, flailing and grunting. Gradually its movements died down, but it continued to twitch and heave spasmodically. It was certainly not dead.
The morphine's working, he thought. Just not so well as I'd hoped.
“Come on, doc!” the woman said, reaching down to help him to his feet. “We need to tie this thing up. Got anything to–”
The woman stopped when Wakefield reached under the bed and pulled out a box containing four rolls of duct tape, plus a length of nylon washing line, and a large plastic garbage bag.
“Let's get its feet secured first,” he said. “I take it you're Denny Purcell? Pleased to meet you. Thanks for the assist, as they say.”
Chapter 7: Sex and Violence
Denny stared down at what looked like a half-naked woman tied up on the bed. The Interloper had returned to the form of Marie Wakefield shortly after they had secured it. The hairspray and morphine both had no obvious lasting effects. The creature was not struggling against its bonds, but simply staring up at its captors.
“There's this guy I know,” Denny said to the doctor. “He might be able to – to deal with it.”
As she spoke she thought, I sound like a gangster offering to have someone 'disappear'. But Wakefield merely nodded.
“I never really thought that far ahead,” he said. “I've been improvising since this morning. Since I realized that this …this thing must have killed Marie.”
Denny looked at Wakefield closely for the first time. She saw a man in his mid-forties, slightly paunchy, with a face that was handsome in a careworn way. He seemed wired, still on edge despite having subdued the creature.
Is he telling me the whole truth? Denny wondered.
“Were you planning to kill it?” she asked quietly.
“Of course he was!” said Marie. “He always wanted to kill me. The original me, that is. The first version was a bit of a slut, you see. On the night Marie Number One died, she wasn't just out for a walk. She was ready for a roll in the–”
“Shut up!” Wakefield shouted, stepping towards the bed, fist raised.
Denny caught the doctor's arm, pulled him back.
“Don't let them manipulate you,” she warned. “The more emotional you get, the easier it is for them. Fear, desire, greed – you name it, a powerful emotion is a handle they can grab hold of. Self-control can block them. Focus.”
Wakefield shook off Denny's hand, but stepped back, and went to the window. He ran his fingers through his untidy, graying hair, looking out into the night. The doctor squared his shoulders, seemed to reach a decision.
“This friend of yours,” he said. “Will he kill it?”
Denny explained that she had no idea what Jim might do, but she felt the need for backup. She sent Jim a message that simply read,
CAUGHT A LIVE ONE, MEET YOU AT BLACK SWAN. HURRY!
“Thing is,” she went on, “often, they simply die after exposure to our world.”
Seeing Wakefield's puzzlement, she tried
to explain that most Interlopers could not survive for long outside the Phantom Dimension. The doctor stared at her, then at the false Marie.
“It's true, darling,” said the Interloper. “I'm like Cinderella. Sort of. If I don't get home before dawn, I fall to pieces. Quite literally. Will you enjoy watching that?”
“Shut up, you murderer,” Wakefield growled. “I'm not your puppet anymore.”
“Let's talk downstairs,” said Denny quickly. “That thing is tied up pretty good.”
In the living room, Wakefield poured himself a large Scotch. Denny turned down the offer of a drink. They talked, she explained what had happened to her at Malpas Abbey to gain his confidence. She explained that the foundation she worked for called the creatures ‘Interlopers’, and was building up research on them. But, after a brief hesitation, she decided not to mention that she had ventured into the Phantom Dimension and returned.
Not strictly relevant, she told herself, besides, he might think I'm a random crazy person. I'm asking him to take a lot on trust.
After Denny had finished explaining why she was in Machen, she gently probed him over how he had become a tool of the Interlopers. His explanation was both convincing and disturbing.
“So all they wanted you to do was verify to the police and parents that the children were normal?” she asked, after he had finished.
Wakefield grunted in assent, not meeting her gaze.
“And were they?” she asked quietly.
Wakefield shook his head, took a last gulp of his Scotch.
“No, they were anomalous in all sorts of ways. Low blood pressure, intermittent pulse, and peculiar eyes. The pupils seemed hypersensitive to light. But you'd have to know what you're looking for – they certainly pass for human. And I told myself that perhaps they were, that they had simply been changed in some way.”
“But you think they were replaced?” she asked.
Wakefield shrugged, looking guilty and miserable.
“Everything in my medical training tells me that's nonsense,” he said, in a pleading voice. “If somebody came to me and said their child had been replaced by some kind of – some kind of alien, I'd recommend they be detained under the Mental Health Act. But on the other hand, after what I've seen in this town. In this house …”
He looked up, and Denny thought of what they had left trussed up on the doctor's marital bed.
Poor guy's been in a mess for a good while, she thought. They played him.
“One more question,” she said. “The obvious one.”
Wakefield looked at her.
“Oh, that. Believe me, I've thought about it. A lot. But I still don't know what they want with human children,” he said. “I asked her once, she flat out wouldn't tell me. I didn't dare push it.”
Didn't want to lose your Marie-shaped sex doll, thought Denny, then felt guilty for feeling so superior. What would I do if a fake Frankie turned up? Kill it, just like that?
“I can't be sure, of course,” Wakefield went on. “But I've always been interested in folk tales, and there's a Scottish ballad called 'Tam Lin' that might–”
He broke off as Denny's phone rang. Jim was on his way from Hereford with what he referred to as a 'containment and disposal kit'. He would arrive in Machen in about twenty minutes. Denny did not ask what it included. What she had seen of Interloper deaths had not been pretty. She explained the situation, including the fact that a large dose of morphine had had some effect, but not for long.
“In about half an hour, I have to go and meet my …” she hesitated to say 'superior'. “My colleague from the foundation. Will you be okay? I need to show him how to get here from the town center. Then we'll deal with … with the Interloper.”
Wakefield poured himself another Scotch and took a gulp.
“I'll be fine,” he said. “We locked her in. What harm can she – I mean it, of course, what harm can it do?”
“Nothing physical,” Denny said. “But remember, it can read your mind and influence it.”
“I know,” Wakefield said, suddenly sounding weary after his earlier tension. “It always knew what I wanted, how to stop me thinking, asking obvious questions.”
“Come and make me a cup of coffee,” Denny said. “And tell me about this legend you mentioned.”
***
Mel Bavistock noticed Denny's jeep pull into the car park, then reverse out again a minute or so later. She was mildly curious as to where her guest might be going on a weekday evening. But there was a queue of customers waiting to be served at the bar, and Mel had to focus on keeping her business afloat.
A few minutes later, during a lull, Mel asked Phoebe to take charge.
“I'm just going to tuck Isobel in,” she said to the surly teen.
“Don't be all night about it,” grumbled Phoebe.
“I won't,” Mel replied. “And don't you lounge about like a great pudding girl, when there's people waiting to be served!”
Leaving Phoebe seething with silent resentment, Mel climbed the stairs to the second floor. She passed the guest room to the door at the end of the corridor, which opened into the apartment she shared with Isobel. As she let herself in, she hoped to hear the sound of the television. The sound of a normal kid wasting their time. If it were on, Mel could gently rebuke her daughter for watching it when she should be brushing her teeth, getting ready for bed. But the living room was silent, the TV screen a dark mirror. Since she had come back from Branksholme Woods, Isobel had lost interest in what had been her favorite shows. And she had gone to bed on time, without protest, every night.
Like a good little girl, Mel thought, as she crossed to the bedroom door. So why does it seem so wrong?
The bedroom door was a few inches ajar. Mel paused, listened, but heard nothing other than the faint sound of the jukebox from downstairs. She pushed the door a little wider and sidled in. Faint moonlight, through open curtains, showed a small shape beneath the bed sheets.
Mel tiptoed over to the bedside, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. She could make out Isobel's head on the pillow. The child was facing upward, eyes closed. Mel leaned closer, listening for her daughter's breathing. She could not quite hear it, could not feel the gentle wash of the girl's breath.
Isobel stirred, then mumbled something. Mel thought she heard the phrase 'I'm like Cinderella', and smiled. Isobel had loved the picture-book and the film. Now she never touched her books, never asked to watch the DVDs, never asked to dress in a princess outfit.
Perhaps it's just the trauma, Mel told herself. Like the way she's gotten so fussy about what she eats. Kids aren't tiny adults, after all.
Isobel stirred again, turning her head so that her face was illuminated by a shaft of moonlight. For a moment, Mel forgot her anxieties about her daughter. She leaned closer still, and a strand of her hair fell onto the sleeping child's face.
Two dark eyes opened, stared up into hers.
“Mummy,” said Isobel. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing, love, go back to sleep,” Mel said, kissing the girl on the forehead, then standing upright.
“You used to read me stories,” Isobel said. “Read me one now.”
“I haven't got the time, love,” Mel said, truthfully. “I have to get back downstairs. Shush now, and go to sleep.”
She was almost at the bedroom door when Isobel's voice came again.
“Do you still love me, mummy?”
Mel stopped but did not turn around.
“Of course I love you, poppet.”
I don't love her enough, though. I'm not a good mother. I'm holding something back.
Mel tried to suppress the accusing thoughts as she pulled the door almost shut behind her. But the voice in her head, now all too familiar, followed her back downstairs to the bar. Even as she worked the beer pumps, collected glasses, bantered with the regulars, the small, persistent voice continued to condemn her. It had always been there, a niggling presence. But since Isobel and the Hawkes twins had vanished and come back
the voice had grown louder, more insistent. It was wearing away at her character, she knew, robbing her of judgment and self-respect. But she could not quiet it.
I don't do enough for her. She's so shy and sensitive. Needs protecting. I nearly lost her once. That was my fault. Poor excuse for a mother. Not good enough.
***
Wakefield stood in his darkened living room, looking out at the taillights of Denny's jeep as it wound its way along the lane into town.
Just a few minutes more, the doctor thought. Then I can be rid of that foul thing forever.
He finished his third Scotch of the evening and went to get another, then slammed the glass down by the bottle.
What a cliché. The boozy doctor with the disastrous marriage.
Despite his best effort to suppress them, memories of Marie swarmed in his mind. Moments he had shared with his wife vied with images of the imposter, the two blurring in a sensuous mix of desire and betrayal.
Never see her again.
The thought would not be silenced.
Never touch her again. Never feel that ecstasy, that release from all your cares.
Wakefield reached for the Scotch again, poured himself a good measure. He was just raising the glass to his lips when he heard a dull impact from upstairs. He listened intently but the sound was not repeated. It had sounded like something falling to the floor in the bedroom. He imagined the false Marie writhing, biting, clawing herself loose from the tape on her wrists and ankles.
Wakefield took a gulp of Scotch, put the glass down, and went into the kitchen to get a knife.
***
Denny dipped the jeep's headlights, and saw the signal returned by the unmarked, white van outside the Black Swan. She pulled up alongside Jim and rolled down the window.
“Ready to roll, big fella?”
Jim gave a thumbs up, then jerked his head to indicate the contents of the van.
“I've got an airtight bag and some preservative chemicals, so if it dies we still might recover an intact body.”
Nightmare Valley Page 10
