He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think about anything but getting the fuck away from the thing that was pretending to be his father. Whatever it was, Smiley was sure it was the same as the policeman. Something terrible and angry and dangerous and so far beyond his understanding that he couldn’t even begin to imagine how powerful it was.
The thing wasn’t a policeman. It wasn’t his father.
He didn’t know what it was behind those flat black eyes, but Smiley was dead sure he didn’t want to be around to see it if it ever took its face off.
*
Chapter Twenty
Smiley’s dad stood over Hippo’s corpse, shaking his head.
What a fucking mess.
The boy’s head was caved in. The skin had puckered from the rain and pulled back. The deluge had washed the blood away so completely that he could see the ivory bone through the torn flesh. He could even see the cracks that ran crazily through the skull.
Without going inside, he couldn’t tell if it was where the infant bone had fused or the result of the trauma. He didn’t care. The dead meant nothing to him.
But he couldn’t leave the body there.
He lifted the body by the lapels of the boy’s coat, and his fingers touched the dead boy’s neck. The thing that wore Smiley’s dad cried out and snatched his hand back. Steam rose where he had touched the boy.
More carefully, he took hold again and dragged the corpse through the rain, deeper into the alley, where he threw it over a wall with no more effort than a man tossing his child in the air in the hope of a giggle.
He turned back and walked to the front of the bookshop.
John March’s body was a different matter. He was lying face down in the rain with one leg cocked under him and an arm under his head. The arm had saved his miserable life. His mouth was about an inch above the running water.
His breath was ragged because of the rain that had got into his lungs. It sounded like he had a heavy cold, but he was still breathing.
The man leaned down and put his hand on John March’s back. He could feel the chest rising. He could feel the ribs grating as March’s breath went in, went out. Small parts of him, little drops of rain, were in the lungs, just sitting there. Inert. Unaware. Disconnected.
He could wake them up, but that wouldn’t help him.
Hunkered down beside John March’s body, he shook himself like a dog shaking off a bath. Shook off Smiley’s dad.
Became a policeman.
The policeman turned John March onto his back so he was facing up into the rain. He spoke to the rain in the man’s lungs and called it forth. It poured out through his mouth. The water from John’s lungs ran along his chest, twinkling like a wave on the shore in moonlight, then up the policeman’s arm, where it sank in.
John coughed and sputtered, then cried out in agony.
The policeman’s mouth shifted, trying things out, and hit upon concern.
“Easy, now. Easy, Mr. March. You’ve been attacked. Looks like you took a beating, eh?”
John tried to focus. He figured policeman, but he couldn’t see straight. His head was pounding, and there was fire in his lungs when he breathed in.
He hurt everywhere.
“Officer?”
“Just sit up a little.”
John’s recollection was shaky. He remembered the lights flashing and the power going out. Did he have a fight with someone? He couldn’t remember, but it seemed likely. From the injuries. He remembered the glass breaking, cutting his feet …
Then, blank.
“I think I need an ambulance.”
“Service is stretched at the moment. A ton of shit going on tonight. I’ll get you inside while we wait. I’ve already called them. I don’t know how long it’s going to be. Damn, you took a beating, though. I thought you were dead. Shit. Uh, sorry. Sir. For the profanity.”
The policeman shook his head.
“It’s OK,” John said. He turned and noticed his shop. There was hardly any glass left in the frames. Just a few shards pointing up and down, and some left in the corners. There was a slight mist on the glass, like a kid had gone round with some fake snow, wanting to make snow, ready for another dry Christmas.
“Can you get up?”
“I cut my feet up,” said John. “I don’t think I can walk.”
“I’ll carry you. I can’t leave you here in the rain. People die from exposure on a night like this, even though it’s not that cold.”
John shivered. But he didn’t want to be carried like an invalid. He was a mess, but he wasn’t about to let the policeman carry him.
“Maybe I’ll try. Walking. Just got to get into my office.”
“The glass’ll cut you to shreds. There’s glass everywhere.”
Fuck it, thought John. Being carried shouldn’t be so bad.
“OK. If you don’t mind.”
The policeman nodded, a kind smile on his face. It looked pretty close to pity.
He lifted John up easily. John’s ribs grated, but the pain wasn’t any worse than breathing. He sucked in a breath and bit down to keep from crying out.
“Any idea who it was?”
“Thieves, probably.”
“Anything worth taking? I mean, you wouldn’t think thieves would rob a bookshop. Not renowned for their intelligence, thieves.”
“Nothing worth much … except the till … Oh, shit.”
The box. Were they after the box?
He couldn’t remember if he’d locked his front door. He couldn’t remember where he’d put the box.
The day had been fucked up enough. It wouldn’t surprise him if it ended with someone beating the shit out of him and then stealing what he’d been left in Mr. Hill’s will.
“There’s a box. It’s upstairs. I don’t know if it’s valuable, but someone might have wanted that.”
“We’ll check. You OK? You know. If I carry you up the stairs?”
“I’ll live with it.”
The policeman chuckled.
“Strange night, eh?”
“Yeah. Pretty much the topping on the weirdest day of my life.”
The policeman hefted John higher in his arms, crunched over the glass with far less care than John expected. He pulled open the door at the bottom of the stairs. The lights were out, so the stairs were black, but John could see. The policeman seemed to be glowing.
Some kind of concussion, probably, he thought.
“Got a key?”
“In my pocket.”
John rooted round through his pocket. It wasn’t easy, being carried like a baby, but he managed it.
“I can’t see to find the lock.” The switches for the stairway lights were inside his apartment and at the bottom of the stairs.
“Here,” said the policeman. John saw the policeman’s eyes were black.
Trick of the light.
Probably the pupils, massive in the darkness.
The policeman could see better than John. He opened the door without so much as a scrape.
The policeman put John down on the armchair. The box was on the floor by his feet. John was looking up into the policeman’s face, somehow light even though the rest of the room was in darkness.
John put his feet out straight, so that he could rest them on the heels, which were unhurt.
It was as close to comfort as he could manage.
All in all, he thought, it’s not worth it. Whatever the things in the box meant to Mr. Hill, they weren’t worth getting killed over.
He shifted, trying to ease his ribs.
“I don’t know who you are,” he said. “I don’t care. If you want the box, just take the damn thing.”
*
Chapter Twenty-One
The policeman cocked his head like he was thinking about something hard. Playing back the conversation in his head.
He nodded. Fair play, Mr. March, he seemed to be saying.
He didn’t waste any more time on it.
�
�What’s in the box, Mr. March?”
“A jar, a pendant and a box.”
John watched the policeman’s face in the strange glow that emanated from his clothes and skin. He saw a whole run of emotions there. If the policeman had been a card player, he would have been the one wearing mirrored sunglasses.
“Just a bunch of shit.”
Then John saw anger. Pure and simple.
He’d only wanted to know if the objects were worth anything. Now he knew. Financially, they might not be worth a thing. But to this man, they were worth a hell of a lot.
He’d hate to think he’d nearly been beaten to death and had his shop wrecked for nothing.
“What are they?” he asked. He knew he wasn’t going to keep them. In the state he was in, if the policeman wanted to take them, John wasn’t even going to try and fight.
He thought about the way the policeman had carried him up the stairs. John wasn’t small. The policeman hadn’t even sounded out of breath.
No. Even if his feet hadn’t been cut to shreds, this wasn’t a man he’d take chances with.
But …
The policeman smiled.
“Just what’s owed, Mr. March. You needn’t concern yourself any longer.”
“Why me?”
“You don’t know?”
“I haven’t got a clue.”
The policeman laughed. Real mirth, without guile. It was a pure, tinkling sound, but underneath it, John could hear something else. Something he didn’t like. It got the hairs on the back of his neck standing.
“Are you going to tell me?”
“Oh, Mr. March. What a fool I am. No, Mr. March. I don’t think I will.”
“Well, fuck you then. Just take the box and get out of my house.”
Rage flicked across the policeman’s face, but then it was gone, sliding off like the water dripping down his face from his cap.
He smiled, full of good humour again.
“It’s been an education, Mr. March. It really has. You have the key?”’
It was on the coffee table beside John. He picked it up and threw it underhanded. The policeman snatched it out of the air. He eyed the box greedily.
“Mine,” he said, like he couldn’t believe it.
Hunger in his black eyes. He knelt reverentially in front of the box. John thought he was actually going to stroke it.
He reached out and, like John had expected, the box got hot.
Only this time, it didn’t just get hot.
Light exploded. The policeman exploded. Everything turned white.
John cried out in pain. The light left him blind. He put his hands in front of his face, waving them around. There was a crash of glass. His window blowing out. Suddenly the roaring of the rain and the wind was unbelievably powerful. In his panic, he fell to the floor and covered his head.
The white light behind his eyes gradually faded, and he looked around.
Even in the meagre light of the night, John could see the policeman was gone. There was no sign of him, but John could see where he’d gone. Through the window. The box had blown him clear through the window.
No it didn’t, John’s mind tried to tell him. The policeman exploded. You saw that, right? He touched the box and exploded.
The box was still by John’s feet.
If he’d touched it, rolling around, wet, would he have exploded?
He didn’t think so, but he pushed himself carefully away from the box and put his back against the rear wall. Then he crawled into the kitchen. When he came back, he threw a black plastic sack over the box. He set a candle on his table and lit the wick with a cook’s match from the box he’d taken from under the sink.
He felt better in the light.
He scooted against the wall again. He’d left a trail of blood from his feet across the carpet. He couldn’t move. He knew he should, but he was shaking too much. Shaking all over, because he was cold, because he was in shock, but mostly because he was absolutely terrified.
*
Chapter Twenty-Two
Wendy sat cross-legged as she watched Jane rolling around, struggling to breathe against the water that was filling her lungs.
“Oh, honey. Don’t fight it so hard. Just give it up.”
Urgent noises came from Jane. The last of her air being pushed from her lungs.
“They say drowning’s one of the best ways to go. Who knows that, eh? I never had the pleasure myself.”
Jane tried to claw at her, but Wendy caught her hand and stroked it.
“Come on, sweety. I’ve got business in the room down the hall. Sow my seed, so to speak. Bit difficult without a cock, but I’ll give it a shot. Hmm? Well, Jane Walker, I never figured you for a prude.”
Jane’s eyes bulged, then she vomited water all over the floor.
“You …”
Wendy didn’t get to finish what she was saying. Her knees began to flow across the floor.
Jane gagged and spat out water, hitching great breaths into her burning lungs.
“Oh … you bastard …” said Wendy.
Her hips, then her stomach, turned to water, something thick and vile and fetid, and flowed across the carpet.
“Fucking men, eh?” said Wendy, then what was left of her fell to the floor with a splash.
Jane struggled to breathe. She couldn’t cry out.
She watched, curled on the floor, as the water that had pretended to be Wendy flowed across the floor and through the bottom of the door to Mrs. March’s room.
No, she thought, because she couldn’t shout at it. She pushed herself to her hands and knees, vomited again, then pushed herself to her feet and stumbled through the door.
“No!” Her voice cracked and weak. But she needn’t have bothered. The trail of water slid up the wall and underneath the curtains, out into the night.
Jane fell down on the edge of Mrs. March’s bed and cried until Marion came in with Margaret and the caretaker, George.
She got up close and checked their eyes. Then she sniffed at them.
“Wendy’s dead,” she said. “Wendy’s dead. The rain killed her. The rain killed Wendy. Blew her apart. Nothing but bones. Blew her to pieces. The rain killed Wendy. The rain!”
She was screaming at them, but she couldn’t stop, and it was only Marion holding her up that kept her from falling to the floor and losing it completely.
“The rain … the rain … the rain …”
She couldn’t stop. She didn’t know how.
Margaret and George, pale faced, shuffled to one side. Neither of them said a word. What was there to say?
“Has he … has it … gone?” asked Marion. She felt Jane nod against her shoulder.
She held Jane and stroked her hair. She didn’t know what else to do. What was there to do? What could any of them do, in the end, against something that could do …
She couldn’t finish the thought, even in her head. She’d seen what was left of Wendy. They all had.
*
Chapter Twenty-Three
Smiley let the bike roll down the slight incline to the entrance to his estate. The bike slowed as it reached the flat, then coasted to a stop.
“Why are we stopping?” said Mandy.
“I can’t see straight. I need to walk a bit. Come on.”
He pushed her from his lap, gently, and had to catch her when her legs gave way. He didn’t think he’d be able to hold her with his arms shaking the way they were. He held her, though. He held her tight. He held on to her, because if he let her go, she’d see how much he was shaking.
Smiley didn’t shake.
Smiley certainly didn’t cry.
When he turned his face up to the rain, he could see the way it glowed. The rain, the distant fires, the blue swirls in the sky from the emergency vehicles, an occasional hint of headlights on the bypass two miles away, nothing more.
No house lights. No streetlights. The power to town was out.
He didn’t know how long it would take to get i
t back on, but he hoped it was soon.
Any other night, he would have loved it. Any other night, he, Hippo, Mandy, Greg … they’d revel in it. Hoods up, CCTV out of action. The stuff of dreams.
Smiley flexed his hand. It was turning into a claw. His skin looked pale. He imagined himself turning blue. He imagined his hand dropping off, blue from the cold. He imagined his hand holding a baseball bat. Shied away from it. Rubbed Mandy’s shoulders.
Had he killed Hippo?
He wanted to ask Mandy. But he didn’t.
The last few hours were like a bad dream. A bad trip. The policeman that wasn’t a policeman had given them something. Then after that? Just a trip. That was the way it was going to stay. The way it had to stay.
Mandy wasn’t shivering. She was shuddering against him. He thought maybe she was crying, but he didn’t want to look at her. Maybe she was just cold. It was November, and she was only wearing a bra. She was probably freezing.
“Come on. I’ve got a coat you can borrow. My house is just up the street.”
“What about your dad?”
Smiley thought about the question. He gave it a lot of thought, standing there, shivering in the rain, holding Mandy against him. Some of the thoughts were tied up with emotions, inextricable. The other thoughts were cold, ice cold.
“Fuck him. I’m not afraid of him.”
Smiley pushed the bike one handed. He kept an arm around Mandy while they walked. There was something about having a girl on his arm. It was making him bolder. He liked the way her shoulder felt under his hand. He liked the way her back felt on his forearm. He was too numb to feel the skin, but he could sense the weight, the solidity.
People thought she was kind of a tomboy. She played games online, some shit with swords and magic. Kids’ stuff.
She didn’t feel like a boy, though.
Smiley left his hand where it was.
His estate was quiet. The houses were practically built of cardboard. Normally, he would have heard parents screaming at their kids. The nighttime sounds on his estate were almost a comfort. His neighbours, screaming, ‘Get back to fucking bed,’ the kids crying themselves to sleep.
RAIN/Damned to Cold Fire (Two Supernatural Horror Novels): A RED LINE Horror Double: Supernatural Page 8
