The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 18

by Stephen Jones (ed. )

  “There is also a deep well at the centre of the Castle’s main hall where children drop coins and count the seconds before the ripples spread. It is all so innocent . . .”

  IT HAD BEEN A HARD DAY in the dungeons. Now, as the summer sun dipped to the horizon, Martin Glover stood on the Castle battlements and gazed out over the city. The golden cockerel at the tip of the of the Cathedral’s thin spire glinted in the setting sun and urged him to lean out through the crenellations as if he was about to fly to it across the rooftops. He tested the notion by opening his mouth as if to feel the rush of air.

  “We want none of that, young sir.” There was a harsh rasp to the voice that made him start and look over his shoulder. “We wouldn’t want to have to scrape you up off of the street, would we, son?”

  Dr Martin Glover, the scholar, was amused to be addressed as son. He was young, but not young enough for that. But he was aware he had just been spotted leaning too far over the parapet like a schoolboy showing off to a girl. “I was just enjoying the view,” he said.

  “They all say that, son – but they go for the long drop just the same.”

  “Do they, indeed?” Martin had not been aware that any suicides had chosen to leap from the battlements. He said so.

  The man merely grinned. “There’s several been for the high jump hereabouts.”

  “But surely not recently?” Martin had not seen the man before but he was obviously an attendant at the Castle. He had an air of authority, and at this hour all visitors had long since gone.

  “Maybe not recently, but we do keep a record of all of them who come here to end it all.”

  “That’s bizarre . . . I had no idea.”

  “We keep a book.” The man was thin and his shaved head and hollow cheeks were frosted with a grey stubble. “We make a note of the names, and someone has to sign to say it happened. It’s our duty, Mister Glover.” The emphasis was deliberate and his smile seemed to invite Dr Glover, the scholar, to correct him, but Martin merely smiled back. It was too late in the day to stand on his dignity, and maybe he did look too young to hold a doctorate.

  As a historian, he had been granted the freedom of the records kept in the Castle museum and he had been given space to work in what must have been the dungeons long ago. He had climbed to the battlements for a breath of fresh air before leaving. Now he glanced at his watch. It was later than he thought. “The Castle must have closed long ago!” he exclaimed.

  “Locked and bolted some time back. Maybe you didn’t want to hear us making the last rounds . . . had your hands over your ears, maybe.” The man’s smile was watchful.

  “Why should I not want to hear?”

  “Matter of opinion, son. Some don’t want to hear me coming.”

  Martin laughed. “People like me, you mean – too busy with their lives to want to stop work.”

  “If that’s the way you want to think of it, son.”

  The man’s dark clothes were slightly shabby, and not what Martin expected of a museum attendant, particularly the loose leather jacket, sleeveless and rubbed smooth with wear. Dress regulations were plainly relaxed for night staff.

  Martin, suddenly embarrassed by his own silence as he studied the man’s clothes, said, “I have to apologise. You must have stayed on late to let me out.”

  The attendant was amused. “That’s no problem at all, son. We keep a night watch hereabouts.”

  “Nevertheless . . .” Martin began, then changed his tack. “Well I must be on my way and let you get on with your night’s work . . . your patrols, or whatever you have to do.” He nodded towards the large bunch of keys in the man’s hand, “Locking up, and that sort of thing.”

  “Locking up . . .” The thin smile pushed up wrinkles that turned his eyes into watery slits that glinted in the last of the sun. “Plenty of that, oh yes.”

  Martin grinned a shade uncomfortably with the golden glint of the eyes on him. “I hope you can unlock doors as well as lock them or I shan’t get home tonight.”

  “Enjoy the fresh air while you have the chance, Mr Glover.” The man still mocked his name, as if to deprive him of his title.

  Martin made a mild attempt to correct him. “You haven’t chased me off the roof,” he said, “so I imagine my name is on a list of people allowed behind the scenes.”

  It had no effect. “There’s always a list, Mr Glover, always a list.”

  “Well I’m very pleased to be on the right one.” Suicides were still on Martin’s mind. “But I’m afraid I don’t know your name, Mr . . .”

  “Me name is Jack, but that don’t matter . . . you won’t be around when I’m here next.”

  That could be true. Martin, the historian, had almost finished his work among the records kept in the old dungeons, but it rankled that the nightwatchman was dismissing him so curtly.

  The man had turned away and the sunlight no longer showed his face. “We’ve had our glimpse of daylight,” he said, “so now it’s time to go.” Another order, but Martin had no reason to disobey. He had had a profitable day and his laptop held many files that would fill out the detail of his research.

  He crossed the roof and began descending the stair into the heart of the Castle. Above him keys rattled as the door to the roof was locked. It seemed an unnecessary precaution. No thief could possibly scale the Castle walls to make an entry, but perhaps locking up was a measure to prevent people coming out onto the roof from below . . .

  “Suicide . . .” The nightwatchman’s voice broke into his thoughts. “You’d be surprised at how often it’s in their minds when I bring ’em up here.”

  Martin turned and looked up. A skylight at the top of the steep stair framed the foreshortened figure of the nightwatchman as he came down. He was as squat as a frog.

  “As you work nights,” said Martin, “you don’t take tour parties up here so I suppose it’s only the odd person like me who is allowed on the roof alone.”

  “That’s right. People just like you . . . but the ones you’ve got to watch is them who’ve got out of the habit of daylight, if you know what I mean.” No, Martin did not understand him, but the descending figure was pressing him and he had to turn and continue going down. “I take ’em up as a kindness, so as they can see the world spread out on every side, but it’s then I’ve got to watch ’em most of all . . . talk about trying to cheat the hangman!”

  The nightwatchman was laughing as they came down to the open floor that had once been the Great Hall of the Castle. Martin pushed thoughts of suicide out of his mind, but for a moment he trembled and felt very small at the edge of the huge emptiness. Without its daytime visitors the Castle brooded on too many secrets, and even though the museum exhibits in their glass cases were still illuminated and shed a familiar and friendly glow, the ceiling high overhead was a shroud of darkness.

  He turned to the watchman. “I wouldn’t blame you if you kept these lights on all night.”

  “Not up to me, son. They go off all by theirselves.”

  “Then I imagine you are pretty lonely, Jack.” It was the first time he had used the man’s name, but it sounded ingratiating as if he sought companionship in facing a childish fear of the dark.

  “I wouldn’t say lonely. I’ve always enjoyed my work.”

  “I mean there are so many strange things here to work on the imagination.” Martin turned and marched swiftly to where an iron grating was set in the centre of the floor. “Take this, for example.”

  They stood on each side of the grating and looked down. A vertical shaft had been cut through the rock and they gazed down through the long funnel that had been rigged with lights but nevertheless ended in darkness far below.

  “I know it’s only a well, but it’s dark down there at the bottom. Gives me the creeps.” Martin shuddered. The well had always made him uneasy even when, feeling like a child himself, he had stood among crowds of children kneeling on the grating to let pennies fall into the darkness. He stepped back. “Too big a drop for me,” he said.r />
  The watchman did not appear to have heard him. He stood with head bent, contemplating the depth of the pit, and the light from below emphasised his heavy brow, the spread of his nostrils, and the severe line of his mouth as he concentrated. “Yes,” he said, and blew out his breath in a grim chuckle. “I’ve seen men sprung apart in a drop not half so big as that.”

  “Sprung apart? What does that mean?”

  “Don’t ask . . . or I might tell you.” The watchman lifted his head and the shadows flung up from the light below distorted his smile. He was gloating at the thoughts he had put into Martin’s mind. “It’s not something a young feller would want to know about – not in your situation.”

  “What situation is that?” Martin was angry and expected an answer, but none came. Instead, the watchman motioned him to step ahead and lead the way across the Great Hall. Martin, on the verge of defying him, hesitated. And then it was too late. There was a hint of malice in the watchman’s steady stare that persuaded him to swallow his pride and obey. He went ahead, but it was a mistake. He felt like a schoolboy . . . or worse. The faint jangle of keys at his back compelled him to think of the watchman as his jailer which, in effect, he was. There was no way out of the Castle without him.

  The lights in the exhibition cases suddenly went out and he stumbled. It betrayed his nervousness, and he felt foolish because there was enough pale greyness in the air from the arrow slits in the Castle wall to show him the way to the next chamber. He apologised for the stumble.

  “And they call me clumsy!” There was a bitter edge to the watchman’s voice. “Some of ’em reckon I’m a bungler, but not one of ’em would do the job I do. Never. They haven’t the nerve.”

  “I suppose it’s the night work they don’t like.” Martin was sympathetic, but the response was a laugh so harsh he felt the back of his neck crawl.

  “It’s not the night they don’t like – it’s the morning! It’s what has to be done when the sun comes up – that’s what makes ’em go all lily-white.”

  Martin manoeuvred so that the watchman was no longer completely behind him but alongside. “What is it they have to do . . . in the morning?”

  “They have to open up the place, don’t they? But there’s one door in particular they don’t want to open, ain’t there?” The bristled head turned towards him. “And you know what door that is, I reckon.”

  Martin did know. It was suddenly obvious what was happening. The nightwatchman had detected his anxiety and was putting him through something that happened several times every day. The old Castle, in more recent times, had been a prison and parties were conducted through what little remained intact of those brutal days. It was an entertainment. The guides made the prison tour as gruesome as they could, and there was one place in particular where to be told of the unlocking of a door at dawn gave tourists a ghastly thrill.

  “It’s the door of the execution chamber,” said Martin.

  “You got nerve, son. A lot of people in your shoes don’t want to know about it.”

  “In my shoes?”

  “You’re standing there talking about it when you know what’s coming.”

  Martin was ignorant of what came next. It was his guide who knew what would happen.

  “I can open that door and I don’t feel a thing,” said the watchman, “but some o’ them others always jib at it.”

  The man loved his work. His grim pleasure was to make people fear him. Dread at being alone in the Castle with such a man must have shown in Martin’s face. Jack the watchman detected it.

  “There’s nothing to worry about, son,” he said. “I’m good at me job.” His chuckle was a rasp as if he was clearing phlegm. “None of me clients ever complained . . . yet.”

  Too much talk of death. Martin was caught up in the night-watchman’s world. He was losing himself, as if he was a scared child.

  Too much like a child. He wanted to be safe at home . . . with his mother and father, as if they were still alive.

  He and the watchman had entered part of the Castle where each room led into others in a confusing honeycomb. “It’s very late.” His mouth was dry and, like the terrified boy he had become, he had to lick his lips before he went on. “I don’t need to fetch my papers from down below, I’ll just leave straight away.”

  He had begun to cross the room before he realised he did not know which way to go. The honeycomb was a maze and he was not sure which archway led to the foyer and the outer door. To take the wrong one would make confusion even worse.

  He paused, and turned. The watchman had not budged.

  “Lost your way, son?”

  “If you could just point me in the right direction . . .”

  “And even then you wouldn’t get far without these.” The watchman, smiling, held up his bunch of keys and jangled them softly.

  The room was a picture gallery lit only by the blue glow of the emergency lights close to the floor. Martin felt its dimness close around him. He was trapped. Then the watchman spoke.

  “Nothing to worry about, son. You’ll be out and away in just a few minutes. I can guarantee you that.”

  And Martin’s head sagged with relief. Jack the watchman was playing a game with him. He was still acting out the daytime tour to give him an idea of what the Castle meant to those who were not allowed the privileges of scholars.

  “I’m tired.” He yawned and his eyes were closed as he listened. The watchman was still playing his part. He had the voice for it; harsh and without pity.

  “Some of them tell me they’ll be glad when it’s all over. After all that time down in them dark dungeons they come up here as quiet as lambs. They don’t even want to go for that little walk on the roof that we just had. Everyone knows I always offer – but some just don’t want me to take ’em.”

  There was silence. Martin kept his eyes closed. The nightwatch-man would see that he was not afraid. The game was over.

  “You know where you are, son.”

  He did know. More than a hundred years ago this picture gallery had not existed. It had been part of the prison.

  He felt a hand on his arm. Jack the watchman changed his tone. He gave orders. “You’ve had your walk, lad. Now it’s time to go.”

  The grip tightened, and Martin opened his eyes.

  The light in the room had changed, but that could only be the effect of having had his eyes closed. The light was yellow, like the pale glow of candles, and the walls were dull and seemed to have closed in. The ceiling, too, was lower, and in the centre of the room was something he had not noticed. At first he took it for an open doorway until he realised it was no more than a doorframe, freestanding in the middle of the floor.

  He opened his mouth to ask a question when, from one side of the room, what seemed to be a group of people entered in single file, gliding silently until they stood behind the open doorway. It was then he saw that the framework was no door. It was a gallows. A noose hung from the centre beam.

  It was all a trick. The figures were no more than a shadow show, a projection on the wall to entertain visitors. And only the nightwatch-man could have switched it on. Martin moved to tell him so, but before he could even look over his shoulder his arms were forced together behind his back and his wrists were bound.

  He opened his mouth to cry out but the cord at his wrists was twisted and bit into his flesh with a spasm that arched him backwards.

  “It’s no good, lad.” The watchman’s voice rasped in his ear. “You know you got to go through with it.”

  He gritted his teeth. “Go through with what!”

  “You should never have done what you done,” said Jack. “You knew this was coming.”

  And in that moment Martin did know what lay ahead. Every sinew in his body tautened and he twisted. He felt his shirt sleeve rip, and he backed away. But he got no further than a single step. He stood against a stone wall. Cold stone. And the floor was stone. Except for the wooden flap of the trap in the centre, under the noose.

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p; “It ain’t no use.” It was Jack’s voice.

  There was no way out. He had slipped from century to century. Even his clothes were different. His prison shirt had been torn in his struggle. His feet were clammy in the cold leather of his shoes. The gallows were in front of him and there was nowhere to go.

  “You know you got to go through with it, lad. You was a naughty boy, wasn’t you?”

  Martin shrank from the voice. It spoke the truth. He was a boy. He was wicked. He had put his skinny fingers into a purse and pulled out a coin.

  “You done it, so you knew this was coming. I give you a walk on the roof, didn’t I? Like I do to everyone I has to deal with. I give you a breath of fresh air and let you see the countryside, but then I bring you down here and you got to face it.”

  There were tears on his face, but there was no chance to cry out. He was choked to silence by heavy fingers across his face.

  “You don’t want to be gagged now, do you, son?”

  The fingers relaxed and as they did so Martin ceased to struggle.

  “That’s more like it, boy. Now I want you to step forward.”

  He heard himself whimper. Then the voice of the hangman. “Three steps . . . that’s all it takes.”

  He was gripped and pushed. He saw the outline of the trap in the floor, and his feet were kicked until he stood on it.

  His legs were bound. The rope brushed his head, but there was no hood. He felt the knot of the noose tighten under his ear. The rope was rough on his neck. He struggled, silently, lithe as a cat, writhing like a dangling man but with his feet still scuffling the solid trapdoor. And now came the hood, and blackness. The cloth was against his mouth and his last breath was muffled as the trap fell away beneath him, and he dropped.

  Then nothing . . .

  blankness . . .

  darkness . . .

  Pain flashed white in his brain, and a voice was saying something.

  The hangman had bungled. His neck was not broken. He struggled to free his arms from the cords. There were no cords.