Long Lankin

by Lindsey Barraclough

  Gussie stared down at the floor, then, without moving her head, slid her eyelids up and fixed me with her gaze.

  “My old dad said that the priest buried Lankin at night, in the very hole he’d dug out with his own hands. As the years went by, some old sexton put another tomb over where Lankin’s grave had been, but that wasn’t the end of it, was it? … Oh, no, it wasn’t… .”

  I said, “Tell me what happened to your brother.”

  Her mouth twisted. She closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek hard with her hand. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear …” she muttered.

  “I’m sorry —”

  She rubbed the thin skin even harder so it creased into deep folds under her fingers, then she sat and chewed her gums for a long while.

  “Oh dear, oh dear …” she said at last. “There were a lot of us children. Charlie was the oldest, and he was a bad boy — ended bad, too. Charlie had this pair of boots. He must have thieved them from somewhere because we didn’t have proper shoes. They were everything to him, these boots. He was always polishing them to a shine with his spit. One evening Dad was up at the Thin Man like usual and Ma was sick, like usual, too. Charlie thrashed my little brother, Bobsy, like he always did for sport, but Bobsy’d had enough. When Charlie went out, Bobsy got hold of those boots where they were standing in the hearth and threw them right into the fire. When Charlie come in and saw them all black and scorched in the flames, he went crazy like a madman. He took down a rope, then got hold of Bobsy and dragged him out the cottage and down the Chase and out in the lane towards the church. Me and Grace ran after, screaming, but Charlie wouldn’t stop.

  “He lugged Bobsy across the graveyard and over to the gypsy tree by the water. We thought he was going to hang him. Me and Grace, we pulled Charlie’s arms and hit him, but he was too strong. Grace was older than me, but we were both little. But Charlie wasn’t going to hang Bobsy. That wasn’t his plan at all. He pushed Bobsy up against the trunk and tied him up really tight to it with the rope. Then he got hold of our hands, Grace’s and mine, and dragged us away. Bobsy screamed after us. Even Charlie wasn’t strong enough to hold on to the both of us girls for that long. Halfway back up the Chase, I managed to get free and wriggle away. As I ran back, I heard Charlie laughing.

  “I ran and ran fast as I could, and by the time I got back to Bobsy, he was yelling and crying and there were things in the churchyard moving, like children. I was so scared. I tried and tried to undo the rope. The skin came off my fingers I tried so hard, but Charlie’d made big tight knots. I half fell in the water behind the tree. My feet were soaked. I cried and cried.

  “Then this voice came, this strange voice. I looked up, and there was an old man standing there in front of me. ‘You cannot save him,’ he said. ‘Save yourself; run away. Long Lankin is coming.’ ‘What?’ I said. ‘Who are you? Help me — help me untie the rope! Please help me!’ ‘I am Piers Hillyard. I cannot save your brother now,’ he said. ‘You must run away or he will take both of you. Listen to me. It is too late to save your brother. He is coming. He is coming. Run away!’ Then he turned and looked over his shoulder, and behind him, round the corner of the church, this dreadful thing was crawling towards us through the graves. Bobsy screamed. I tugged once more at the rope, then, then …”

  Gussie rubbed her cheek again.

  “I ran away.”

  Dennis and Terry whizzed up the lane towards Fieldpath Road. Pete and I followed, carrying the heavy bags, changing hands from time to time.

  I looked up and spotted Cora, sitting on the bench by the pillar box outside Mrs. Wickerby’s. The first thing I thought was that Grandma hadn’t given me a tube of Smarties for Cora, so should I hide mine in my pocket and eat them later, or should I share them with her, and would she be one of those people who always took the orange ones so I wouldn’t get so many for myself? I was pondering all this when she got up and started walking in our direction.

  She looked dreadful — grim, pale face, drooping shoulders.

  “What on earth’s the matter?” I called.

  “Nothing,” she mumbled, shooting a glance at Pete. “Just thinking about school next week. I don’t know what’s happening, what I’m supposed to do, and I ain’t got no pencil case.”

  She didn’t look me in the eye, so I knew she was fibbing.

  “Here, have some Smarties.”

  She held out her hand.

  Back at home, the two of us sat in the garden with some squash while Mum got liver and bacon on the go.

  “I didn’t want to say nothing in front of Pete,” she muttered. “I — I went to Old Gussie’s.”

  “Crikey! What did you want to go in there for?”

  I pushed a bit of liver around the plate with my fork.

  “Don’t you like liver and bacon?” asked Mrs. Jotman.

  I didn’t want to upset her. “Well, it was a big stew at Roger’s gran’s.”

  “You won’t be wanting that bit of bacon, then,” said Roger, leaning across the table to stab it with his fork.

  Mrs. Jotman flicked the back of his hand. “Leave it alone. Cora’s been ill. She might want it later.”

  Terry was eating bread and jam as usual.

  “Have some of these lovely vegetables from down the Patches,” said Mrs. Jotman, pushing the bowl of runner beans towards him.

  “Terry says if he eats anything green, he’ll get that dangerous disease Grandpa died of, a new-mown ear,” said Pete.

  I was aware of Mrs. Jotman glancing at me every now and then. “Rex,” she said to Mr. Jotman, “Cora’s really tired. You know she’s had that germ as well. When we’ve finished, is there any chance you could take her down to Mrs. Eastfield’s in the car?”

  Mr. Jotman sighed loudly. It was obvious he didn’t want to. I should have told him not to bother, but the truth was I couldn’t face the walk on my own. I stared down at the cold gravy on my plate, feeling terribly tired, wondering how I could get Mimi back to London.

  “We’ve had all this out before, Rosie, you know that,” he grumbled. “Even in this weather, you’ll never get a car down that Chase.”

  “You could drive to the bottom of the hill and walk her the rest of the way. It wouldn’t take long. Just look at her.”

  “Well, it looks as though I’ve got no choice, doesn’t it?” said Mr. Jotman. “Did you say there were raspberries?”

  “Well, there were, but the bowl’s mysteriously empty. I’ll open a tin of peaches.”

  After the meal Mr. Jotman got up and took his keys off the dresser.

  “Can I come?” Roger cried, jumping up.

  The car bounced along Old Glebe Lane, while the cow parsley on either side blurred into balls of white fluff. Cora sat next to me, shoulders turned away, staring out of the window. Dad obviously couldn’t bear the silence.

  “I’m thinking of renting a television from Yateman’s,” he said. “It’s only two bob a week.”

  “Hooray! We can see The Lone Ranger!” I whooped, grinning from one ear to the other. Then I caught the look on Cora’s face, a mixture of misery and fury.

  We pulled up at the end of the Chase.

  “Do you want to walk Cora up to the house?” said Dad, taking out his cigarettes. “I’ll just sit and wait here for you.”

  Cora and I walked away from the car. She wouldn’t look at me.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked. Then, thinking to cheer her up, I added, “You’ll feel better soon, you know. Mum always says worse things happen at sea and every cloud has a silver lining.” It was a mistake. I was too breezy, too excited about the television.

  Cora’s anger was like a huge blast of wind in my face.

  “How the hell can you blinkin’ well go on like that?” she bawled. I took a step backwards, my mouth dropping open like a cod’s.

  “Are you a flippin’ idiot or something?” she carried on. “Didn’t you take a blind bit of notice of anything Mr. Thorston or Gussie said? After everything we’ve seen an’ all? Don’t you
think I’m scared stiff about me sister? How can you just switch yourself on and off like that, like — like a flippin’ lightbulb! I can’t believe I’m walking along with you! All you’re bothered about is whether I’m going to give you me blinkin’ bacon! You don’t care about nothing except a ruddy telly and how much you’ll get for ruddy dinner!”

  Then she burst into tears. I didn’t know what to do. I touched her arm.

  “I’m really sorry, Cora,” I said. She shrugged off my hand and wiped her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve.

  I looked at the ground, not knowing what to say to stop her crying. After a few moments, her shoulders dropped. She bit her bottom lip to hold back the tears, then looked up, her face blotched and puffy.

  “I — I think the same thing’s going to happen to me and Mimi,” she said. “The same thing what happened to my mum and her sister.”

  “Oh, come on, don’t be daft. Lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place… .”

  “Down here it does, Roger. Down here, bloody lightning bloody well strikes over and over again.”

  A heavy door slammed downstairs; a key turned in a lock. I woke up with my heart thumping. Auntie Ida must have gone out again. I reached over for Mimi and felt only a cold pillow.

  I opened my eyes. The entire room burned crimson. I shook myself and blinked. The sunlight was shining so brilliantly through the old brick-coloured curtains that everything was drenched in a livid red — the walls, the floor, the bedspread — everything.

  I jumped out of bed and pulled open the curtains so forcefully that a couple of the brass rings flew off and landed somewhere on the wooden floorboards. My eyes were sore; my head felt heavy.

  I had slept fitfully. Every now and then, slipping, slithering sounds had broken into my sleep, and the odd crash like the shattering of flowerpots on the gravel.

  Recalling the noises, my stomach twisted and my chest tightened. I wiped my moist forehead with the palm of my hand. How could Auntie Ida have left us on our own again — left Mimi?

  I pattered down the landing on my bare feet and pushed open Auntie’s bedroom door.

  I stood on the threshold for a few moments, barely breathing, as if I were about to enter a sacred place.

  Only partly lit by the thin sheets of sunlight that pierced the spaces between the thick curtains, I saw Mimi’s little outline under the blankets of a vast wooden bed with, at its head and foot, heavily carved panels of fruits and curling leaves.

  In the half-darkness, Mimi looked tiny, pale, and fragile as bone china. One hand, with Sid loosely cradled in it, rested on the bedspread, embroidered with so many scattered flowers it looked as if she were lying in a meadow. I brushed her fingers gently with the back of my own, leaned over, and kissed her soft hair.

  “I’ll get you home, Mimi,” I whispered. “Honest. Soon as Auntie gets back, I’ll tell her we’re going, even if I’ve got to carry you all the way to London myself. I’ll look after you, keep you safe.”

  She stirred a little and closed her hand around Sid.

  I sat with Mimi until I heard Finn’s bark of greeting. Auntie must have returned.

  As I made my way back along the landing, I heard another noise from below, from the direction of the kitchen. I leaned over the rail and listened, then crept down a few stairs. Taking each tread one by one, I moved farther down still, until I reached the bottom and stood in the hall, uncertain what I should do.

  It was dreadful sobbing, terrible to hear, the sound of a shattered heart.

  I tiptoed along the hall and peeped through the crack between the open kitchen door and its frame.

  Auntie Ida was sitting at the big table, holding her head in her hands, clutching a sodden handkerchief, her whole body racked and shuddering. Finn sat looking up at her, whining, putting a paw on her knee then bringing it down and shifting on his back legs.

  I still didn’t know what to do and had just decided to creep away and not let on that I’d heard anything when Finn got up, padded over to me, and whimpered. I tried to shoo him away quietly, but he gave a soft bark and I knew I had to come out from behind the door.

  Auntie Ida looked over with bloodshot eyes, swollen and streaming. Her mouth trembled; her hair hung down in wet strings. She turned away, but the tears and the noise kept coming.

  I moved towards the table. In front of Auntie lay an old book, the open pages wet with teardrops. I looked down. It was The Pilgrim’s Progress. We’d read some of it at school.

  But now, in this Valley of Humiliation, poor Christian was hard put to it; for he had gone but a little way, before he espied a foul Fiend coming over the field to meet him; his name is Apollyon. Then did Christian begin to be afraid, and to cast in his mind whether to go back or to stand his ground: But he considered again that he had no Armor for his back, and therefore thought that to turn the back to him might give him the greater advantage with ease to pierce him with his Darts. Therefore he resolved to venture and stand his ground; For, thought he, had I no more in mine eye than the saving of my life, “’twould be the best way to stand.

  “Can — can I help, Auntie Ida? Is it something I’ve done?”

  “No — no,” she sobbed at last, groping for the words. “It — it isn’t you, Cora.”

  “Shall I make a cup of tea?” I went to the big stone sink and filled up the kettle.

  “There are lots — lots of things I should have told you,” she said in the end, mopping her eyes.

  “I probably know most of them.” I lit the stove and put the kettle on to boil. “I know about Long Lankin, Auntie.”

  She stared at the open book for quite a while. I stood against her shoulder and looked, too.

  So he went on, and Apollyon met him. Now the Monster was hideous to behold; he was cloathed with scales like a Fish (and they are his pride); he had wings like a Dragon, feet like a Bear, and out of his belly came Fire and Smoke; and his mouth was as the mouth of a Lion. When he was come up to Christian, he beheld him with a disdainful countenance, and thus began to question with him.

  APOLLYON. Whence come you? And whither are you bound? …

  “Cora —” said Auntie at last, tears beginning to spill from her eyes again. “Cora, I saw my little — my little boy this morning — Edward — I saw him… .”

  “What?”

  “Down — down at the church. I — I’ve begun to go there again, and — and sometimes the children come, and other times they don’t come,” she sobbed. “I go because I hope I’ll see him, but if I do, it’s terrible, because he’s neither dead nor alive. He still knows me. He — he calls out to me, Cora, he calls —‘Mummy!’— but I can’t — I can’t reach him.” A horrible rattle left her throat. Her shoulders shook, and the pitiful crying began again.

  “But even — even if I knew how to set him free,” she was weeping, the words running into each other, “but even if I knew how, even if I was able to do it, then I would never see him again. He would be lost to me forever. And — and the worst thing is — he fills me with fear — my own little boy — he frightens me — there’s only a bit of the real him left — but I can’t stop wanting to see him — even though he’s become — I don’t know what he’s become —”

  I warmed the teapot and spooned in some fresh tea leaves.

  “I thought — I thought it had all finished when the great flood came. How could it have gone on? How could Lankin have survived, being afraid of the water? Then — then, when Mimi said she saw the man in the graveyard, I went — I went down to see if I — if I could still see my son … and it took me a long time… . If he hadn’t come to me first … I — I don’t know which is my brother Tom, because the longer the children are with him, the more like him — the more like him they become. But my son — his eyes … his little eyes … Yet he still knows me, he knows me, Cora … even now that I’m getting old.”

  I took down two cups and saucers from the dresser, found a jug of yesterday’s milk in the pantry, and poured out the tea. We sat down oppo
site each other at the table and stirred in a lot of sugar. Auntie Ida dabbed her eyes and blew her nose with the same soaking handkerchief.

  “I’ll have to get another,” she said.

  “I’ll go.” I left the kitchen to fetch one from the pile of clean laundry in the outhouse. When I returned, more tears were running down Auntie’s cheeks. She looked old and worn out, shredded into pieces.

  “I’ve — I’ve seen the children, Auntie Ida,” I said. “I think I’ve seen Mum’s little sister, Anne.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen her, and all the others, all the others… . I used to go and see my brother Tom all the time when I was a little girl — it was as if he had never gone — as if he were just in a different place — and it made me feel better because, Cora, when he was taken — when he disappeared —”

  She covered her eyes with the fresh handkerchief and groaned, and the groan was so laden with misgiving and regret that I found helpless tears pricking my own eyes at the sound.

  “When he disappeared — Roland — my big brother, Roland, and my sister, Agnes — Roland, and Agnes — and me —” she said, taking the handkerchief from her face and pulling it around in her hands. “Cora, we were — we were hiding from him — we were teasing him. We could hear him running around the house looking for us. We were hiding — hiding in the priest’s hole. Roland said some woman had shown him where it was, but we thought he was pretending about the woman and had just come across it himself. Sometimes — sometimes Roland would disappear for a long time. He would go into the dark places in the house, places where Agnes and Tom and me would never go. We went inside the hole, but we thought it was funny to hide from Tom. We were … laughing at him, laughing at him crying and calling for us.

  “Our parents were up in town. We had hardly any house servants here. They were frightened of what they saw and heard and couldn’t bear the doors and windows always having to be kept locked. None of them ever stayed for long, and Mother could never get anyone from the village to work for us.