by Amy Cross
I remember that moment, but I didn't see Jude or Herb. I only saw Lloyd. But now...
Suddenly Lloyd taps on the glass and smiles. In an instant, I realize that I recognize his face from somewhere else. He's the boy who was on the bed upstairs, in room one. Which means Jude and Herb are, or were, his parents.
The sense of fear is growing, overwhelming, until finally I can't help myself.
Unable to help myself, I turn and start racing along the street, scrambling desperately through the snow despite the pain in my legs. Never before in my life have I felt such a pure sense of fear, and it's as if some deeper, more basic instinct has taken complete control of my body, pushing my mind aside and forcing me into survival mode. The snow is deep and heavy, but all I can think about is the fact that I have to get as far away from the B&B – and from Lloyd – as possible, and then I have to make sure I never, ever go back. Gasping as I feel my legs starting to burn with the effort of wading through so much snow, I nevertheless keep going until I reach the very end of the street, and then I run along the next street and the next, racing through the maze of narrow, winding medieval roads until suddenly my legs buckle and I drop down into the snow, panting and desperately gasping for air.
I can still feel the fear, but it's not nearly as strong now.
Turning, I look back along the snowy street, and I swear I can sense the B&B's evil throbbing in the night air. How am I the only one? How are all the other people in Canterbury not aware of this? And how did I not notice until now?
“There!” I remember Lloyd saying earlier, when he tapped the office window while I was in the room. “I saw someone!”
He claimed he saw someone skulking through the shadows, but now I know he was lying. He must have realized it was me outside, so why didn't he admit that? And why, at the time, did I not see Jude and Herb standing next to him?
My legs are stinging, but I slowly get to my feet and start brushing clumps of snow from my soaking night-gown. I'm cold, but at least the effort of running has warmed me up a little. Still, when I try pulling the night-gown tighter for a little warmth, I find that it's cold and wet. If I don't find something else to wear soon, I think I might actually die.
My first instinct is to go back to the train station. I can wait there all night, if necessary, and catch the next train to London. The idea seems pretty perfect, until suddenly I realize that all my possessions and all my money are in the suitcase and my jacket pocket, back at the hotel. I check the pockets of the night-gown, but I don't have so much as a penny. After all my careful work, and all my planning, I've lost everything. I can't go home without the suitcase. I need the money, so I can give it back to the people I stole it from. So I can begin to make amends.
“Come on,” I whisper, shaking my head, convinced that there has to be some way out of this mess. “Think, Bobbie,” I continue, trying to give myself a pep-talk as I start shivering violently in the cold. “You can do this. You can just go back to the B&B and make them give you your stuff...”
My voice trails off as I realize that there's no way I can do that.
I can't ever go to the B&B again, not when I felt such a powerful sense of evil. I can even feel the evil now, although it's much weaker since I'm several blocks away. Something about the sight of Lloyd in that window seems to have driven pure dread into my chest. I'll never be brave enough to go back, not now.
As I start limping through the darkness, past unlit shop windows, I feel all manner of pains making their presence known throughout my body. My arms, my ankles, my hips, my chest... I've taken such a battering tonight, I feel as if I might be about to collapse.
And finally that's exactly what happens, just as I reach the next corner. Dropping to my knees, I feel a swelling surge of pain under my rib-cage. That's one part of me that I actually don't remember hurting tonight, but it pains me anyway for a few more seconds before passing. Then I'm left still on my knees, trying to find the strength to stand, knowing that if I fall again I might never get up.
In the distance, there are faint bells. Or maybe not bells, maybe glasses clinking together.
I turn and look, and to my surprise I see that there are several bright, warm lights moving inside an otherwise dark restaurant over on the far side of the cobbled square. I stare for a moment, convinced that I must be hallucinating, that these overgrown fireflies can't possibly be real, but then I see one of them being set down on a table and I realize that they must be lanterns.
Lanterns carried by men.
The sight is totally bizarre, like something out of an old Christmas card, but it's enough to get me back up on my feet. I should edge around the sides of the square, using the windows as support, but instead I push out into the snow, crossing past the war memorial as I stagger toward the restaurant. I can see my own reflection in the glass, but I can also see the faces of men talking as they carry their lanterns about, and finally one of them glances this way and sees me.
I stumble and fall, landing hard on my knees. Just as I start to get up, however, I hear a door creaking open. A moment later, someone takes my arm.
“Let me help you there,” he says, supporting my weight as I stumble to my feet. “You're freezing. Come inside, we've got lamps that'll warm you.”
Limping along with him, I let him lead me into the restaurant, where half a dozen other men are buttoning their dark uniforms shut, as if they're preparing to head outside. At first, I mistake them for police officers, but I quickly realize that they actually seem to be civilians, although I can't make out their faces properly. No matter what part of the darkened room they're in, their faces seem to be perpetually shadowed.
“I'll catch up to you,” the man next to me says, turning to the others. “I just need to make sure this young lady's alright first. Go on ahead, and remember to be vigilant. He'll be on the prowl tonight, there's no doubt about it.”
I look over at him, but his face is shadowed too. I can see the faintest hint of his features, but nothing more.
As the rest of the men file out, holding lanterns that somehow light their way without lighting their faces, I stumble toward a lamp that's burning on one of the restaurant's tables. As soon as I hold my hands closer, I feel a rush of desperately-needed warmth. Turning, I look out the windows just in time to see several silhouettes trampling away through the snow, spreading out and heading down various side-streets. It takes a moment before I realize that the man who found me is now over on the far side of the room, retrieving something from beneath the counter.
“Now what were you doing out there, eh?” he asks. “Freezing to death, I shouldn't wonder. It's not the kind of night to be out alone, you know. Even if there wasn't the Snowman to worry about, you're still in danger of catching hypothermia.”
He comes over to me and sets a pile of dark clothes on the table. I tilt my head, still trying to see his face properly, but again there are too many shadows. The room might be dark, but I'm sure the lantern on the nearby table should be casting at least some light across his features.
“These are on the house,” he continues. “You need to change out of what you're in.”
Gratefully taking the clothes, I look around for somewhere I can change.
“I can turn my back,” the man says, turning away from me. “Don't worry, I won't look. Or you can go into the storeroom at the back. We use this restaurant as a kind of staging post whenever we have to go out at night.”
I hesitate, before realizing that I don't really have much choice. I start peeling the wet gown away from my flesh, although in several places the freezing fabric has started sticking to my body.
“Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?” the man asks after a moment. “We're a volunteer night-watch group. We walk the streets on nights like this, hoping to keep the city safe. The police do what they can, but we like to think we help a little. Of course, with this Snowman character rumored to be out and about again, we're taking extra precautions tonight. We might just look like a bunch of do-g
ooder old codgers, but we're all ex-servicemen, so we know a thing or two about taking care of ourselves.”
“I'm okay,” I stammer, setting the gown on the table. My underwear is soaked too, so I double-check that the man is looking away and then I strip down. Grabbing the dry clothes, I quickly start slipping into them, and I find that he's found me one of their uniforms. It's not exactly a look I've ever tried before, but it's warm and dry and I'm so grateful.
“Are you a runaway?” he asks.
“No,” I reply. “Not really.”
“So where's home?”
“A long way away.”
“But tonight, I mean. You didn't look like you were dressed to be out just now.”
“I was staying at the...” My voice trails off as I finish getting dressed. I guess there's no harm in telling the old man where I've been. “I'm done now. It's okay, you can turn around. I was staying at the Castle Crown B&B. Maybe you -”
Suddenly I hear a faint gasp coming from his lips, as if he's shocked.
“The Castle Crown B&B,” I say again, in case he misheard. “It's not far from here, it's just -”
“I know where it is,” he replies, interrupting me. “What in the name of all that's holy were you doing there?”
“Long story,” I mutter. “Why? Do you know the place?”
“Everyone knows the Castle Crown,” he tells me, turning this way but keeping his face in the shadows. “They might not want to talk about it, but they sure know the stories.”
He hesitates for a moment, before stepping closer and reaching a hand out toward my arm. Still, his face is hidden in the room's shadows, as if the lantern's flickering light isn't picking out his features at all.
“Do you mind if I check something?” he asks.
“What?”
“Humor me.”
He hesitates, before touching my arm, holding it for a moment as if he can't quite believe what he's feeling.
“Well, stone the crows,” he continues finally, sounding a little relieved. “It's been a long, long time since a live 'un managed to make it out of that place.”
Nine
“Castle Crown has been in the same family for years,” the old man explains as he pours us a cup of tea each. “I don't know how far back exactly, but when I moved to the area it was owned by Herb and Jude Landon.”
“Herb and Jude?” I ask, immediately thinking back to the strange couple I met earlier tonight.
“Nice people,” he continues, sliding a cup of tea along the counter toward me. “Friendly. Open to strangers. Definitely not the kind you'd ever expect to be hiding something. I knew Herb quite well, and I never guessed he was sick, not until one day we got a call to say he'd been found dead. The poor guy was dying, and he didn't want to put his wife through any more misery. He waited 'til she was out for the day, and then he cut his wrists in the bath.”
“What are you talking about?” I reply, trying not to panic. “I just -”
I catch myself just in time. The last thing I want is to start ranting about ghosts. At the same time, I can't help thinking back to the sight of Lloyd standing in the office window, flanked by those two figures. I could see them when I was outside, but not when I was actually in the room.
“Could you do me a favor?” I ask. “I know this is kind of a big one, but could you go to the B&B for me and fetch my suitcase?”
“Your what?”
“It's really important. It's kinda life or death, actually.”
He immediately shakes his head. I might not be able to see his features, but he's silhouetted against the restaurant's window as snow falls outside.
“Please,” I continue. “I can even pay you. I just -”
“I'm not going there,” he says firmly. “You'll not find many who are willing, not these days, not since he took over.”
“Who?” I ask cautiously.
“After Herb killed himself, it was their son who found the body. Just a little kid, no more than eight or nine years old. I can't even begin to imagine what that does to a child, but there was more to come. The next day, overcome by grief I suppose, Herb's widow Jude took the same way out. She cut her wrists on the bed, and do you wanna guess who found her? That poor kid. One parent one day, the other the next. If he wasn't damaged in the head from Herb, he sure as well after he found his mother.”
“A little boy?” I whisper, thinking back to the child I met in one of the rooms this evening. “What happened to him after his parents died?”
“What happened to him?” the man replies, sounding concerned by the question. “Nothing much, at least not from the outside. He grew up and took over the Castle Crown B&B, and he still runs it to this day. He's a weird chap, and no mistake. I've never much cared for him, but maybe I'm just showing my prejudice there. Hell, there's probably nothing wrong with poor old Lloyd. In fact, given the cards he was dealt as a boy, it's a wonder he turned out as well as he did. Of course, I haven't seen him in years. I don't think many have.”
“Lloyd?” I stammer, thinking back to the polite, mild-mannered man I met at the B&B. “Lloyd runs the Castle Crown?”
“Not that he gets many guests these days. He doesn't even advertise. Just a business card here and there. How did you find the place?”
“I called around,” I tell him. “I tried all the B&B numbers I could find, but they were all fully-booked for the night. Then I found a card for the Castle Crown on the floor of the phone-box, and I figured it was worth a shot.”
“Well, I wouldn't go back there, not if I were you,” he explains. “He's a strange chap, and no mistake. When were you due to go home, anyway?”
“Home?”
The word sends a shiver through my chest. For a moment, I try to imagine what it would be like if I walk through the door and tell them I don't have their money. No matter how much I apologize, they'll hate me, and they'll have every justification. They took me in a long time ago, they treated me as a family, and I betrayed them. I stole. All the apologies in the world won't mean anything, not if I've lost the money. If I go back empty-handed, I can't even begin to make things right.
“What happened?” the old man asks suddenly.
I turn to him.
“I can see it in your eyes,” he continues, with a faint smile. “You are running away from something.”
“So?”
“So nobody can run forever.”
“I can!” I tell him defiantly. “It's not like they'd want to see me again anyway. If I go home, they'll just...”
My voice trails off, and after a moment I close my eyes and imagine the hatred I'll have to see in their eyes if I do go home. The shock. The sense of betrayal. I deserve all of that and more. I deserve to go to jail. I'm an awful person.
“I did something bad,” I whisper finally.
“I'm sure it wasn't as -”
“Really bad,” I add, turning to him. “So bad that I can't ever go home.”
“And what might your crime have been?”
I open my mouth, poised to tell him that I can't reveal the truth, but suddenly I feel as if I really need to get it off my chest. I look around the dark, deserted restaurant, and then I turn back to him.
“I deserve everything that's happened to me tonight,” I say finally, “and more. I deserve it because I stole something, and because I ran away like a coward. And then I lost the only thing I can use to make it up to them.”
It takes a long time for me to tell him the whole story. Partly because a lot happened, but also partly because I take a meandering path through the facts, constantly stopping and backing-up a little, trying to put everything in context. There are things I don't want to tell him, parts of the story that I still don't want to admit, but I force myself through these little roadblocks. After all, it's not the kind of story that can be half-told. Finally, feeling a flash of relief, I get to the end and fall silent.
I wait for him to say something, but he's simply sitting calmly by the window, as if he thinks I have mo
re to tell him.
“I'm a bad person,” I say after a moment. “See? I told you.”
He pauses, before taking a sip of tea.
“And I can't go home,” I continue. “Not ever.”
“That's not entirely true,” he replies. “You can go home.”
“I'll be arrested!”
“Probably.”
“And I lost the money!”
“Apparently so.”
“And they'll...” I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “They'll hate me. If I had the money, I could go back and give it to them, and I could try to make things right. But without the money, all I have is words and apologies, and that's not what they need.”
“You can't be sure that they hate you.”
“Of course they do. I did something terrible.”
He pauses, and then he starts slowly nodding.
“I'm a bad person,” I continue. “No-one who's good would do something like that. They took me in after my own parents died, they raised me and loved me for a decade. And I repaid them by lying and stealing, and then I ran away from the mess I'd created.”
“You certainly seem to have made some bad choices,” he mutters.
“They don't want to see me,” I point out, with tears in my eyes. “They're probably sick of the sight of me. And they'd be at the trial, they'd watch me as I was sent to jail.”
“I'm no expert,” he replies, “but the amount you took, and the way you did it... It's certainly possible that you might have to serve some time behind bars. Especially since you ran away. I don't think the courts look too kindly on that type of thing, not when you take advantage of somebody's trust.”
“It was so easy,” I whisper, thinking back to the day when I first came up with the plan. “It was easy because they treated me like family. I know there's no excuse, I know nothing justifies it. I just... I'd never seen so much money in my life, and then one day it was just sitting there in the open, waiting for them to take it to the bank. I had this moment of weakness, and by the time I realized what I'd done, it was too late. If I could go back and undo it, I would, but I can't.”
