by Simon Clark
‘Danny!’
He didn’t think about it. He jumped up and down on the ice. Until, with a crunch, he felt it sag beneath his feet.
Then, suddenly, he was in the freezing water; it flooded chokingly down his throat.
Somehow, and he didn’t know how he did it, he hauled his best friend out on to the ice. His friend lay there, his eyes shut; not moving. He was dead. Richard knew it. There was no heartbeat he could feel. No sign of breathing. Just a wet lump of dead skin and clothes lying on that ice.
Sobbing, Richard rolled the body on to the sledge and dragged it across the deserted fields to Danny Masson’s house on the edge of town.
Not knowing what to do, at last he simply hauled the sledge up to the front door. Knocked as hard as he could on the door, then ran away.
But he found he couldn’t go home. For twenty minutes he walked the streets, sopping wet. It was an evening not long before Christmas. There were carol singers. Children having snowball fights. Dads walking home, whistling, with Christmas trees under their arms. It seemed the whole world was happy. Also the whole world was ignorant of a ten-year-old’s terror knowing he’d killed his friend.
At last he couldn’t stand it any more: he’d gone back to Danny Masson’s house.
It was dark by then. And that’s when he’d stood in the snow watching the lights on the Christmas tree blinking red and green and he’d wondered what terrible events were happening in the house.
He imagined the boy’s parents kneeling weeping at Danny’s side as he lay in a pool of lake water on the kitchen floor. Upstairs would be Danny’s Christmas presents that would never be opened.
More than anything in the world Richard had wanted to go home. But he knew he couldn’t. It was his fault that Danny lay cold on the kitchen lino. He had to go and face the boy’s parents. Admit everything. Say he was sorry …
He’d walked up to the door, knocked hard. Then waited.
It was the longest wait of his life.
And that’s when he felt most afraid. Waiting for Danny’s mother to appear, tears streaming down her face. Then he’d have to say the words that frightened him so much:
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Masson. I’m sorry I killed Danny.’
He heard shuffling behind the door. A key turned. Then a long, a horribly long pause. Then the door opened.
Richard blinked.
There stood Danny in a black and white Kung Fu dressing gown. His hair still damp. He held a mug of steaming milk in his hand.
‘Richard?’ He sounded subdued. ‘I got my new shoes wet. Mum’s really pissed off.’
Richard hadn’t known what he felt. Stunned, he’d turned and walked away.
By some unspoken agreement that bordered on the mystic, they’d never discussed what happened. Richard had seen Daniel Masson five years ago; now a plump little man, he’d launched his own business selling agricultural machinery.
Richard blinked again. In front of him on the table was the bowl full of sugar lumps. His mind on something else, Joey sat eating one sugar lump after another. His heavy bottom lip slid from side to side, then drooped open as another sugar lump reached his mouth.
Now Richard knew why he’d remembered the Danny Masson incident. A: until today it had been the most frightening episode of his life. And B: for twenty years he’d forgotten it had ever happened. And right now he wished he could forget this. But he knew he’d remember it all his life.
‘Richard. You’d like a cold drink?’ asked Michael.
Richard shook his head. ‘Coffee. Black.’
When the girl came to take the order Michael sat the rucksack on his knee and rested his forearms casually on top of that, covering the bloodstains on his white shirt. He switched on the charming smile as he talked to the girl who, Richard saw, was clearly attracted to the man. She blushed and smiled as she wrote the order on the pad.
Richard glanced at the rucksack. Packed so full of something the material was stretched tight, Michael was keeping a tight grip on it. What was so important in there? Clothes? A sleeping bag? For Christsakes, it might be stuffed tight with Ecstasy tabs for all they knew.
Across at the play area Amy had made an amazing recovery. She sat on a horse set into the ground on a spring and rocked violently backwards and forwards shouting, ‘Boys! Follow me, Boys!’
Perhaps she’s forgotten what happened already, thought Richard. Like I forgot what happened when Danny Masson fell through the ice. Perhaps she’d recall what happened in Pontefract under hypnosis when she was forty-something; when a fondness for the gin had got the better of her.
The coffee arrived and he took a scalding mouthful. He watched Christine sipping hers. She studied the stranger’s face as if she was trying to read his mind. Joey looked at his surroundings with a bewildered cast to his brown eyes which made Richard think of a cow stuck in a hole and not knowing what the hell had happened to it; or how the hell it could climb out. Joey took a mouthful of coffee that burnt his mouth. He grunted and looked round as if not knowing what had hurt him. ‘Shit … I’m getting something to eat.’ He heaved himself to his feet, then headed unsteadily for the fast-food trailer.
‘He’ll come round soon enough,’ Michael said. ‘It’s been quite a shock for all of us.’
‘Quite a shock,’ echoed Christine. ‘Christ, that wins first prize for understatement.’
Richard was still thinking of terms of gangsters with a grudge. ‘What did they use? Grenade launchers? I mean that car just …’ Descriptions failing him, he finished the sentence with a gesture of bewilderment.
Michael smiled compassionately, his gentle downturned eyes constantly flicking from Richard to Christine. ‘No. Nothing like that.’
‘But what, then … there must have been a bomb … the car exploded like —’
‘No,’ the man interrupted. ‘Imploded. Think what happened. The car did not explode. It imploded. It was crushed by an external force.’
Richard remembered. The man was right. He’d realized that himself. ‘But what did —’
‘Wait until Joey returns. It’ll save me having to explain twice.’
As Richard worked his way steadily through the coffee the world began to look more normal. His mind didn’t feel as if it had been yanked somewhere half through his skull any more. He looked round, seeing the fast-food trailer with Joey standing at the counter; Amy now climbed the slide steps; someone had defaced a menu with a ballpoint pen: instead of Hank’s Yankee Diner it read Hank’s Wankee Diner. Sparrows, their eyes as bright as glass beads, hopped around the tables, pecking crumbs.
Joey returned with a plate stacked with four hotdogs. He squirted a thick stream of mustard over them. Then he began to eat like he’d not touched food in three days.
Michael placed the rucksack carefully at the side of his chair. Then he leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, hands clasped together. ‘I wouldn’t blame you if you ditched me here and ran to the police.’
Richard looked up. ‘That’s exactly what I’ve got in mind.’ He drained his coffee and stood up. ‘And that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Christine, Joey. Come on, back to the car.’
Michael leaned forward. ‘Listen. If you did that there’s a distinct chance you’d all be dead within the next thirty minutes.’
Richard shook his head. ‘Come on, Christine, we’re leaving. And you, whoever you are – you’re staying.’
‘Richard. You saw what happened to the car?’ Michael looked him straight in the eye. ‘That could happen to you.’
Chapter 24
Michael’s Story
Richard sat down. Amy was shouting: ‘Boys! Not up the green steps. Follow me up the blue steps.’ He needed another coffee.
‘Listen,’ said Michael. ‘I want to get to a police station as much as you do. But it’s only fair to warn you that it might not be as easy as you think.’
Christine’s shrewd eyes watched the man’s face. ‘What do you mean? Do you think whoever’s chasing you is somehow
keeping watch on local police stations?’
‘No. Not exactly, Mrs Young. There is the chance you —’
‘Well, what the fuck do you mean, then?’ Joey spoke through a mouthful of hotdog. ‘What’s going to stop us?’
Michael looked at his watch. ‘Look, give me ten minutes to explain. Then you make up your minds. You can leave me here and go to the nearest police station. Or you can decide to take me with you.’
‘Leave you damn-well here,’ Joey grunted. ‘Sooner the bloody better.’
‘Ssh, Joey,’ Christine leaned forward. ‘If he’s saying we might be in danger it’s best we hear what he has to say first. Agreed?’
Richard nodded. Joey snorted and leaned back in his chair, wanting no part of it.
‘This won’t take long, I promise. Then —’
‘You’ve been promising a lot,’ Joey snapped. ‘You’ve delivered bugger-all.’
‘I’ll tell you what I know. Then you decide. Leave me. Or take me with you to the police.’
‘Go on, then,’ Christine said. ‘You’ve got ten minutes.’
‘I was born in Cambridge. My father was a hospital administrator and I grew up in a —’
Joey snorted. ‘I don’t bloody believe it!’
‘Please —’
‘He’s telling us his life story. The next thing you know he’ll —’
‘If I can ask you to just give me ten minutes. Without any interruptions or questions. It’s important I tell you what I know.’
‘But —’
‘Please, Joey. I don’t know how much longer we can stay here.’
That shut Joey up. He looked round uncomfortably as if expecting to see snipers stalking amongst the cows in the field.
‘As I was saying. I was brought up in a safe, middle-class family. When I was eighteen I rebelled. With two of my friends I left for Greece. We were going to set up a scuba diving school. Of course, we were as green as that grass over there …’
The man continued in that softly-spoken way. He moved his hands as he talked, in slow gestures that were graceful, even calming. Richard suddenly found the man familiar. Then he made the connection. The realization surprised him. No, it wasn’t so much his looks. It was his manner; the slow, calming gestures as if he were an artist making long, slow sweeps across an invisible canvas; the compassionate eyes. The man sitting across the table from him reminded him of movie portrayals of Christ. The softly-spoken words; the slow gestures; the permanent expression of compassion as if he cared deeply for those around him.
And, as the man spoke in a softer and softer voice, Richard, Christine and Joey found themselves leaning further and further forward as if afraid to miss a single word.
‘The diving school ended in disaster. Our equipment was stolen; insurers wouldn’t pay; my friends became, to put it mildly, dispirited. They returned home. I felt I couldn’t. I’d lose face. Eventually I left Greece and headed for Turkey. There I lived little better than a beggar. I became thin, shabby and depressed. I couldn’t speak more than a few words of the language. To the locals I was the strange Englishman who looked like a drug addict.
‘My life went from bad to worse. One night as I walked to a nearby town I was jumped by some thugs. They beat me, then dumped me into a ditch. Half dead, I dragged myself out, aching all over, blood running from a gash in my head like it was on tap.
‘I made it as far as this old shell of a building that stood on a hillside. It must have been used as a stable. The floor was a mixture of dirt and I guess six hundred years’ worth of goat dung. The building itself was an old Byzantine church, complete with domed roof. When the Muslims conquered the place in 1453 a lot of the old Christian churches were recycled as warehouses, grain stores or even somewhere dry to keep your goats. Anyway, by this time I could no more make it home then fly to Mars. I was throwing up, and my temperature shot up like a rocket. Some bug, I think, had worked its way into my bloodstream through the cuts.
‘Soon I was completely out of it. My body felt hot enough to fry eggs. I was crying and laughing. The whole delirious bit. I was holding conversations with the Archangel Gabriel about Divinity, Moses in a basket, chicken in a basket, Charlie Chaplin, you name it. Then I’d hallucinate about Hitler or Donald Duck or ghosts. Then I’d believe the floor had turned into chocolate and I’d crawl along eating this goat dung like it was the sweetest thing in the world.
‘It must have been then.’ Michael fixed each in turn with his brown eyes. ‘It must have been then that it happened … Now, looking back, I can only think of it as the miracle. It transformed me. Later it transformed the lives of others. One day, God willing, it will transform the lives of everyone.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘I’m getting ahead of myself. Anyway, for day after day I crawled about that derelict chapel, shouting, screaming, laughing. Sometimes I’d stand at the door and look down through the almond grove, at the blossom looking like white snow on the branches in the moonlight, and I’d think I saw an army of men in gold armour looking up at me. With my brain hot enough to cook from the fever I believed they’d come for their orders. So I told them, go forth, conquer cities, bring back gold.’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘Believe me, I was out of my skull.’
Then his face became serious. ‘But soon after that I was lying in the corner of the church, balled up tight on some old gravestones; shivering and groaning because I hurt all over. Then I looked up. This time I saw something, but I didn’t feel as if I was hallucinating. Even though I suppose I must’ve been. I remember seeing this man. It seemed as vivid as I see you now. He walked across the church to me. And I remember seeing every detail. He was dressed in a purple robe. I even remember his boots. They were purple, too. And each bore the motif of a double-headed eagle. He had a long beard and moustache with the ends so long they drooped down to his chest. He walked up closer, then looked down at me. It was shocking. I even stopped breathing. Because he had the fiercest eyes you’ve ever seen in your life. So sharp they seemed to stab right through into the back of your head. Then he asked me this:
‘Do you want power?
More precisely, do you want power over people?
Do you want the power to command someone to die for you?
And for that power to be so absolute, so complete, that they not only die for you willingly, they go to their deaths so full of joy, so full of pride that they cry out your name with their final breath.
Do you want that power?
Do you?’
“‘Yes! Yes!” I remember shouting. “Yes! Yes! That’s what I want!”
‘I shouted so loud that my voice echoed off the walls like thunder; the bats started flying until it seemed like a black cloud had filled the church.
‘I remember the stone floor became soft as rubber. Then it curved up at me. For a moment I thought someone was inflating it like a balloon. Then I fainted and slammed down cold onto it.
‘The hallucinations continued. Men and women walked into the church. I gave them orders. To bring me food and drink mainly; then they went away again.’
His brown eyes met theirs, each in turn. Then he looked far away to the horizon shimmering in heat haze. ‘Bizarre story, mmm? Now I want to tell you I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe in fairies, or astrology, or the prophecies of Nostradamus, he was a flake and a fake. I don’t believe Spiritualists who claim they can see your late Uncle Abraham, and that he’s here to warn you not to buy any more ice cream because he knows your freezer’s going to go kaput next Friday. I don’t believe the spirits of the dead come back in any shape or form. However …’ He looked back at them again, his face serious. ‘But I do believe there are far more things in our universe that we do not recognize yet. Phenomena that are perfectly natural but, equally, perfectly astonishing. And I believe that as I lay half dead in that broken-down old church something entered into me. I actually felt it. I felt it move from outside of me, in through my skull, and move into the back of my head. And it stayed there. No …’ He smiled ge
ntly. ‘I’m not completely mad. Although I will admit to being a little bit mad.’ The smile became a grin. ‘We’re all a little mad. After all, it would be a living hell to be totally sane.’
Again, he gave that disarming smile. ‘One fine Turkish morning I woke up. God, I felt this change inside of me. I knew, also, the virus had gone. Although I was a bit shaky on my feet, I felt rational, healthy. I sat there where the altar must have been and I remembered all the weird hallucinations, my giving ghostly figures orders. But then I noticed all around me were plates and bowls, plastic cups, mugs; they’d clearly had food and drink in them. There were blankets. Set around me in a big circle were old Coca Cola bottles with candles stuck in the top. A few still burning.
‘For a minute I just sat and stared, then I noticed movement in the doorway. Outside it was brilliant sunshine. And I could see what looked like a farmer and his family, old folk with wrinkled faces, some children, and a pretty girl with her hair beneath a headscarf. They were peering round the doorway like they’d come across a werewolf in their stable. They looked scared to death. But, this is the odd bit. They were fascinated, too. I looked down at myself and I realized they couldn’t take their eyes off me because I was caked head to foot with goat dung. It stuck my hair down like glue.
‘Then before I could stop myself I said: “Clothes. I need clothes.”
‘That did it. They just ran like hell. Nice one, Michael, I told myself. You’ve just gone and scared your Good Samaritans away. Now they’ll bring the police and you’ll end up on a trespass charge.
‘Well, I was wrong. In a couple of hours they were back with brand new clothes, still in plastic wrappers. They looked a poor lot and they must have spent their last few lira on them.
‘I thanked them but said I needed to wash first.
‘And in this odd way, almost bowing and walking backwards, they asked me to follow them. We went out through the doorway and round the side of the church. There, the hill fell away almost like a cliff. I followed them down the steps, then this old guy says, “I’m very sorry. We thought how we could make the water warm for you, but we couldn’t think how.”
