The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 18

by Stephen Jones (ed. )

  “That settles it.” Captain Barlowe rose, looking grim. “It’s somebody they told. The father’s given us the names of three people and he’s trying to come up with more. There may be more. He admits that. His wife . . .”

  “Hadn’t she told anyone?”

  “That just it, sir. She did. She seems to have told quite a few people and says can’t remember them all. She’s lying because she doesn’t want her friends bothered. Well, by God they’re going to be bothered. My problem – one of my problems – is that all these people are out of state. I can’t go after them myself, and I’d like to. I want have a good look at them. I want to see their faces change when they’re asked certain questions.”

  He breathed deep, expanding a chest notably capacious, and let it out. “On the plus side, we’re after a stranger. Some of the local people may have seen him and noticed him. He may – I said may – be driving a car with out-of-state plates.”

  “Couldn’t he have rented a car at the airport?” the horror writer asked.

  “Yes, sir. He could, and I hope to God he did. If he did, we’ll get him sure. But his car had worn tires, and that’s not characteristic of rentals.”

  “I see.”

  “If he did rent his car, it’ll have bloodstains in it, and the rental people will notice. She was bleeding when she was carried out of her bedroom.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Not much, but some. We found blood in the hall and more on the back stairs. The bad thing is that if he flew in and plans to fly back out, he can’t take her with him. He’ll kill her. He may have killed her already.”

  Captain Barlowe left, Dan and Charity moved into a motel, and the day ended in quiet triumph. The experts who had visited the crime scene earlier reappeared and took more photographs and blood samples. The horror writer asked them no questions, and they volunteered nothing.

  He drove to town the next morning and shopped at several stores. So far as he could judge, he was not followed. That afternoon he got out the binoculars he had acquired years before for bird-watching and scanned the surrounding woods and fields, seeing no one.

  At sunrise the next morning he rescanned them, paying particular attention to areas he thought he might have slighted before. Selecting an apple from the previous day’s purchases, he made his way through grass still wet with dew to the well and tossed it in.

  He had hoped that she would thank him and plead for release; if she did either her voice was too faint for him to catch her words, this though it seemed to him there was a sound of some sort from the well, a faint, high humming. As he tramped back to the house, he decided that it had probably been an echo of the wind.

  The rest of that day he spent preparing her cellar room.

  He slept well that night and woke refreshed twenty minutes before his clock radio would have roused him. The three-eighths-inch rope he had brought two days earlier awaited him in the kitchen; he knotted it as soon as he had finished breakfast, spacing the knots about a foot apart.

  When he had wound it around his waist and tied it securely, he discovered bloodstains – small but noticeable – on the back of his barn coat. Eventually it would have to be burned, but a fire at this season would be suspicious in itself; a long soak in a strong bleach solution would have to do the job – for the present, if not permanently. Pulled out, his shirt hid the rope, although not well.

  When he reached the well, he tied one end of the rope to a convenient branch and called softly.

  There was no reply.

  A louder “Kiara!” brought no reply either. She was still asleep, the horror writer decided. Asleep or, just possibly, unconscious. He dropped the free end of the rope into the well, swung over the edge, and began the climb down.

  He had expected the length of his rope to exceed the depth of the well by three feet at least; but there came a time when his feet could find no more rope below him – or find the muddy bottom either.

  His pen light revealed it, eight inches, perhaps, below the soles of his shoes. Another knot down – this knot almost the last – brought his feet into contact with the mud.

  He released the rope.

  He had expected to sink into the mud, but had thought to sink to a depth of no more than three or four inches; he found himself floundering, instead, in mud up to his knees. It was difficult to retain his footing; bracing one hand against the stone side of the well, he managed to do it.

  At the first step he attempted, the mud sucked his shoe from his foot. Groping the mud for it got his hands thoroughly filthy, but failed to locate it. Attempting a second step cost him his other shoe as well.

  This time, however, his groping fingers found a large, soft thing in the mud. His pen light winked on – but in the space of twenty seconds or a little less its always-faint beam faded to darkness. His fingers told him of hair matted with mud, of an ear, and then of a small earring. When he took his hand from it, he stood among corpses, shadowy child-sized bodies his fingers could not locate. Shuddering, he looked up.

  Above him, far above him, a small circle of blue was bisected by the dark limb to which he had tied his rope. The rope itself swayed gently in the air, its lower end not quite out of reach.

  He caught it and tried to pull himself up; his hands were slippery with mud, and it escaped them.

  Desperately, almost frantically, he strove to catch it again, but his struggles caused him to sink deeper into the mud.

  He tried to climb the wall of the well; at his depth its rough stones were thick with slime.

  At last he recalled Kiara’s body, and by a struggle that seemed to him long managed to get both feet on it. With its support, his fingertips once more brushed the dangling end of the rope. Bracing his right foot on what felt like the head, he made a final all-out effort.

  And caught the rope, grasping it a finger’s breadth from its frayed end. The slight tension he exerted on it straightened it, and perhaps stretched it a trifle. Bent the limb above by a fraction of an inch. With his right arm straining almost out of its socket and his feet pressing hard against Kiara’s corpse, the fingers of his left hand could just touch the final knot.

  Something took hold of his right foot, pinning toes and transverse arch in jaws that might have been those of a trap.

  The horror writer struggled then, and screamed again and again as he was drawn under – screamed and shrieked and begged until the stinking almost liquid mud stopped his mouth.

  NICHOLAS ROYLE

  Continuity Error

  NICHOLAS ROYLE WAS BORN in Manchester in 1963. He is the author of five novels, Counterparts, Saxophone Dreams, The Matter of the Heart, The Director’s Cut and Antwerp, and one short story collection, Mortality (Serpent’s Tail). A novella, The Enigma of Departure, is forthcoming from PS Publishing.

  Widely published as a journalist, with regular appearances in Time Out and the Independent newspaper, Royle has also edited twelve anthologies. He currently teaches creative writing at Manchester Metropolitan University.

  “Much of what happens in the story did actually happen in so-called real life,” confirms the author. “I would like to acknowledge Rebecca Healey’s generous help with lip-reading and Michael Kemp’s kind permission to quote from his poetry.”

  CHRISTINE RANG MADDOX on his mobile. A little accident, she said. A bump.

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No, no one was hurt.”

  He made his way to the side street in Shepherd’s Bush where it had happened. A one-way street temporarily blocked off by roadworks at the junction with Goldhawk Road. Estate agent’s on the corner. Christine had reversed away from the roadworks and at five miles an hour hit a silver Toyota coming out of the concealed exit from the sunken car park behind the estate agent’s.

  By the time Maddox arrived, the driver of the silver Toyota was in full magnanimous third-party mode, confident the insurance companies would find in his favour. Maddox hated him on sight. Too reasonable, too forthcoming. Like providing his a
ddress and insurance details was some kind of favour.

  Maddox’s son Jack had got out of the car and stood staring at the small pile of shattered glass on the road, seemingly transfixed by it. Christine was visibly upset, despite the unctuous affability of the Toyota driver and Maddox’s own efforts to downplay the situation.

  “It’s only a couple of lights and a new wing. No one was hurt, that’s the main thing.”

  Two days later, Maddox and Jack were walking past the top of the side street. The roadworks had been removed and a car was exiting into Goldhawk Road without any difficulty.

  “Is that where the accident happened, Daddy?” asked the little boy.

  “Yes.”

  Jack stopped, his big eyes taking in the details. The fresh asphalt by the junction, the concealed exit from the sunken car park behind the estate agent’s.

  “Is it still there?” the little boy asked.

  “What? Is what still there?”

  “The accident. Is the accident still there?”

  Maddox didn’t know what to say.

  They were getting ready to go out. Christine was ready and Maddox was nearly ready, a too-familiar scenario. She waited by the front door, smart, made-up, tall in new boots and long coat, enveloped in a haze of expensive perfume.

  “Are you nearly ready, Brian?”

  That she added his name to the harmless query was a bad sign. It meant her patience was stretched too thin. But he’d lost his car key. He’d looked everywhere. Twice. And couldn’t find it.

  “Where did you last have it?” she shouted up the stairs.

  The unhelpfulness of the question grated against his nerves.

  “I don’t know. That’s the whole point.”

  He started again. Bedroom (bedside drawer, dressing gown). Jacket pockets. Kitchen.

  “Have you looked in your box?”

  “Yes, I’ve looked in my box.”

  They each had a box, like an in-tray, in the kitchen. Christine never used hers, but always knew where everything was. Maddox used his, but still managed to lose at least one important item every day. Wallet, phone, keys. Chequebook, bank card. Everything always turned up, sooner or later, but in this case, not soon enough.

  “I can’t find it. I’ve looked everywhere.”

  Heavy sigh.

  If the atmosphere hadn’t become tense he would jokingly accuse her of having hidden it, of trying to make him think he was losing his mind. But that wouldn’t play now. They were beyond that.

  “It’s probably at the flat,” she said, loading the word with her customary judgmental emphasis.

  “How could it be at the flat when my car’s outside?” he snapped before realising that she must have been joking.

  “It’s a pity you don’t have a spare key,” she said.

  “It’s a pity your car’s in the garage,” he retorted, “about to be declared uneconomical to repair. Look, Christine, it’s very late. I can’t find it and I certainly won’t find it with you hovering, getting all wound up, so I suggest you get a cab and I’ll follow.”

  “But what if you don’t find it?’

  “I’ll find it. I’ll be there, just a little late, that’s all. You go. You’ll easily pick up a black cab on the Green. You’re only going to Ladbroke Grove.”

  Sweating, he listened as the front door was opened and shut – slammed. Gate clanged. Fading echo of footsteps receding. He felt the tension flow out of him and collapsed on to the nearest chair. He loosened his tie and reached for a glass.

  In their bedroom he pressed the power button on his laptop. While waiting, he stared blankly at the framed poster on the wall. A production he’d been in more than twenty years ago. Colossus. Clive Barker’s play about Goya. He allowed the faces of cast members to run through his mind, particularly those who’d gone on to other things. Lennie James – you saw him on television all the time now. A part in Cold Feet. A one-off drama, something he’d written himself. That prison series. Buried. Right. Buried in the schedules.

  Aslie Pitter, the most naturally talented actor in the cast. He’d done one or two things – a Channel Four sitcom, guest appearance in The Bill – then disappeared. Maddox had last seen him working for a high-street chain. Security, demonstrating product – he couldn’t remember which.

  Elinore Vickery had turned up in something at the Waterman’s. Maddox had liked her, tried to keep in touch, but there was an invisible barrier, as if she’d known him better than he knew himself.

  Missing out on a couple of good parts because of his size (five foot five in stocking feet, eight stone dead), Maddox had quit the theatre and concentrated on writing. Barker had helped with one or two contacts and Maddox sold a couple of horror stories. Over the years he’d moved away from fiction into journalism and book-length non-fiction. The current project, New Maps of Hell, hadn’t found a home. The publishers he’d offered it to hadn’t been able to reject it quickly enough. They didn’t want it on their desks. It made them uncomfortable. That was fine by Maddox. He’d worry if it didn’t. They’d want it on their lists, though, when it was too late. He’d finish it first, then pick one editor and let the others write their letters of resignation.

  He read through the afternoon’s work, then closed the laptop. He opened his bedside drawer and there was his car key. He looked at it. Had it been there before? Of course it had. How could it not have been? But he’d not seen it, so it might as well not have been. It had effectively disappeared. Hysterical blindness? Negative hallucination?

  He pocketed the key and went downstairs. The door closed behind him and the car started first time. He sneaked past White City – the exhibition halls were gone, torn down for a future shopping centre – and slipped on to the Westway. He didn’t think of Christine as he approached Ladbroke Grove, but of Christie, John Reginald Halli-day. The former relief projectionist at the Electric, who had murdered at least six women, had lived at 10 Rillington Place, later renamed Ruston Close before being demolished to make way for the elevated motorway on which Maddox was now driving. The film, starring Dickie Attenborough as the killer and John Hurt as his poor dupe of an upstairs neighbour, who swung for at least one of Christie’s crimes, had been filmed in Rillington Place itself. Maddox understood, from comments posted on ghoulish message boards on the internet, that the interiors had been shot in No.8 and the exteriors outside No.10. But when the police, acting on a tip-off from Timothy Evans, yanked open a manhole cover outside No.10, Attenborough could be seen peering out through the ground-floor window of the end house in the terrace, No.10, where three of Christie’s victims had been walled up in the pantry, his wife Ethel being found under the floorboards in the front room. For Maddox it was the key shot in the film, the only clear evidence that they’d gained access to the charnel house itself. The only other explanation being that they’d mocked up the entire street in the studio, which he didn’t buy.

  The case accounted for five pages in Maddox’s book. He concentrated mainly on the interweaving of fact and fiction, the merging of film and reality. Attenborough as Christie. No.8 standing in for No.10, if indeed it did. The internet also yielded a piece of Pathe film footage of the demolition of Ruston Close. Two men with pickaxes. A third man speaking to camera. A burning house. Shots of the house at the end of the street with the white (replacement) door. Clearly the same house as that in the film. But there was no sound, the reporter mouthing inaudible commentary. Maddox lured a lip-reader to the flat, a junior editor from one of the publishers that had turned down his book. She reminded him of Linzi with her green eyes and shoulder-length streaked hair. Even in heels she didn’t reach Mad-dox’s height, but she had a confident, relaxed smile, She held his gaze when he spoke to her and appeared to be looking into his eyes, but must have been watching his lips, as she relied heavily on lip-reading. Maddox was careful to make sure she was looking in his direction before speaking to her, probably over-careful. She must have spent a lifetime compensating for situations in which people wouldn’t have m
ade such allowances. Working backwards from the first words she managed to lip-read and then having to catch up. So much information assumed rather than known for certain, but Maddox could relate to that. In some areas of life he, too, knew nothing for certain. The deaf woman’s name was Karen. He assumed the proposal for his book had been rejected by someone senior who had given Karen the unpleasant job of telling the author, but he didn’t know that for certain. Possibly she’d read it and rejected it herself and only agreed to provide lip-reading services because she felt bad about it.

  When she entered the flat, Maddox felt at ease. In control. He apologised for the loud, bass-heavy music coming from the downstairs flat, but she said she couldn’t hear it.

  “I thought you might be able to feel it,” he said.

  “It’s a new building,” she said. “Concrete floors. Otherwise . . .”

  He showed her the footage. She said it wasn’t straightforward. The quality was poor and the picture kept pixellating, plus the reporter unhelpfully turned his head to the side on several occasions.

  Maddox asked her if she would come back and have another go if he was able to tidy the picture up a bit.

  “I don’t think I’ll be able to get much off it for you,” she said.

  “If you wouldn’t mind just trying one more time, perhaps when you’re less tired,” he said. “It’s very important to me, for my book, you know.”

  Maddox pulled into one of the reserved spaces outside a block of purpose-built flats in the depressed residential trapezium bordered by Green Lanes and the roads of West Green, Seven Sisters and St Ann’s. He listened to the ticking of the cooling engine for a few moments as he watched the darkened windows of the second-floor flat. The top flat.

  The street door had been left open by one of his neighbours. He walked up.

  Inside the flat, he left the light switched off, poured himself a drink and sat in the single armchair. He pulled out his phone and sent a short text message. Orange street-lighting cast a deathly glow over the cheap bookshelves stacked with pulp novels, true crime, horror anthologies and dystopian science fiction. His phone chimed. He opened it, read the return message and replied to it. When he’d lived here, the room had been dominated by a double bed. Moving into Christine’s house had allowed him to turn the tiny flat into the dedicated office he’d always wanted by burning the bed on the waste ground out the back. He’d considered giving it away, since selling it had struck him as tiresome: placing an ad, answering calls, opening the door to strangers. Easier to burn the damn thing and all the memories associated with it. So then he’d moved his desk from the east end of the room, under the Velux window, to the west-facing windows overlooking the street.