Darker

by Simon Clark

  He guessed Amy did, too. Although she’d never use that particular word.

  ‘Tired,’ was all she’d admit to when asked.

  ‘Do you like the doll Michael bought you?’ Richard asked, leaning forward against the climbing-frame bars.

  Amy nodded, curly hair falling forwards across her face.

  ‘Aren’t you going to give Dad a smile?’

  She looked down at the doll and ran her fingers slowly through its long black hair.

  ‘I bet you’re hungry, Amy. Would you like some soup?’

  Tiny shake of the head.

  ‘It was kind of Michael to ask us to stay in his cottage, wasn’t it?’ After what had happened in York today Richard found it hard to speak at all. But he kept going. He wanted to reach Amy and draw her out of this icy silence she’d locked herself into.

  ‘Uncle Joey’s all right now. He felt poorly earlier when … when the accident happened. It was noisy in that church, wasn’t it? All that running about, dust and …’ Words failed Richard as the images came back. The Japanese tourist with her face studded with shards of glass. In his hands … the head … the way the tongue wriggled between the lips …

  Richard turned away to look across the valley.

  The peace here in Devon was so thick you could almost reach out and bury your face in it. He breathed deeply, hanging on to the normality of it all. The little white painted farmhouses on the valley sides, the fields, hedgerows, a flock of white birds moving with long lazy flaps of their wings. In the distance a farm dog barked. From here it was a musical sound that seemed to shimmer on the evening air. Any other time Richard would have drunk it in. But clanking through his mind like a rusty anchor chain came the jarring images. The man Heath pulped where he stood. Houses shattered. Running through the falling church. People crushed by masonry or turned into a paste the colour of strawberry jam by that thing Michael called the Beast.

  He rubbed his eyes with his fists. Michael had brought this pile of shit on them. The bastard. Then again he’s saved Amy’s life today.

  ‘Daddy.’

  Amy’s voice sounded like a silver bell. Richard looked up, surprised she’d spoken at all.

  ‘Daddy. Do you know what I’m going to call this doll?’

  ‘What, hon?’

  ‘Rosemary Snow.’

  ‘Why Rosemary Snow?’

  ‘Rosemary Snow’s a nice name.’

  He said gently, ‘Amy, you keep talking about Rosemary Snow.’

  ‘Rosemary Snow’s coming here.’

  ‘Now?’

  Amy nodded.

  ‘Did Michael tell you about Rosemary Snow?’

  She shook her head.

  How do you know about Rosemary Snow?’

  ‘I just do, that’s all. She’s coming here. And she’s mad at Michael, because she says Michael is a bad man.’

  ‘But Michael bought you the doll.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘That’s a kind thing to do, then, isn’t it?’

  She nodded. ‘Mark gave me one of his comics.’

  ‘Well, that was kind as well.’

  ‘Only because he’d thumped me and didn’t want me to tell on him.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Amy climbed to the top of the climbing frame where she sat combing the doll’s long black hair with her fingers and singing softly to herself, ‘Rosemary Snow, Rosemary Snow …’

  After talking to Amy Richard made his way back to the cottage. It was long and low, built out of stone beneath a red pantile roof. The cottage looked out over the valley below. At the front lay a gravelled courtyard where they’d parked the Range Rover. Beyond that a dirt track ran up through woodland to join the main road.

  Inside the cottage it had been modernized to the point of luxury. A bedroom had been fitted out as a study complete with computer terminals, a fax machine and half a dozen boxes containing disks. Michael told them he had rented a network of properties like this across the country when he realized he would have to keep moving ahead of the Beast. At first he simply planned to move from one to the other, keeping clear of the Beast until his research team had solved the problem. Lately it hadn’t been so easy, due to the unpredictable nature of the creature.

  Richard walked into the cottage to find Joey fortifying himself from the whisky decanter. Christine and Michael studied a leather-bound book.

  Christine looked up from the book. ‘Richard. Have you seen this? The pages are made out of pigskin.’

  ‘Does it tell us what we want to know?’ Richard said in a flat voice.

  Michael said, ‘It’ll take time. But it does definitely contain extracts from the Codex Alexander.’

  ‘You do realize that was going to cost you three mill.’ Joey’s face was red from the booze. ‘But after what happened in York today you got the fucker at a knockdown price.’

  At first Richard thought Joey had got himself steaming drunk, but there was a mixture of challenge as well as fear in his eyes. In a half-drunk way Joey was trying to goad Michael into some kind of justification for what he was doing.

  Michael let it pass. ‘Lucky it’s written in Greek and not Latin or I wouldn’t have had a clue. I’d better begin work on this right away.’

  ‘You said it would take time,’ Richard said shortly. ‘How long?’

  ‘I can have the bones of it deciphered in a couple of hours.’

  ‘We’ve got that long, have we?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Are you sure? Or are we going to find this shack of yours coming down around our ears?’

  ‘I’m sure, Richard. Look, trust me on this one. I’ve lived with the Beast for —’

  ‘The Beast? The Beast! Why not call it Fido, or Rover, or … or even Cuddles? The thing’s a killer. When it comes down to it, you don’t know what it wants, or how to control it.’

  ‘Richard, I —’

  ‘You’re like a monkey with a machine gun. Look at this little lever, I wonder what happens if I touch it. Pow! Ooops, just wiped out half my family. I wonder if it’ll do the same again. Pow!’

  ‘Richard, I didn’t intend it to kill those —’

  ‘Didn’t intend? Well, mate, you might not have been paying attention but that’s what fucking well happened.’

  Michael’s downturned eyes were gentle. ‘What can I say? There’s nothing I can do to bring those people back.’

  ‘This Beast thing. You said you could get rid of it for good. Send it back. You’ve got all the money you want, you don’t need it, so … oh, shit to this. Give me a drink.’ Hands shaking, he took the decanter from Joey and poured himself a hefty slug.

  ‘Richard,’ Christine said in a low voice. ‘What happened today wasn’t Michael’s fault. If anything, it was Heath and his boyfriend, stringing us along, asking for more money.’

  Joey nodded. ‘All this … cloak-and-dagger shermozzle.’

  ‘If they hadn’t delayed us getting us the book,’ Christine continued, ‘and delayed us getting away from York, everything would have been OK. The Beast wouldn’t have had time to attack.’

  ‘Christine’s right,’ Michael said softly. ‘Imagine the Beast’s attached to us by a long piece of elastic. Once we’re moving fast enough it can’t stabilize itself in order to affect anything on our physical plane.’

  ‘We’re not moving now.’ Richard took a deep swallow of Whisky and sang out as if calling a dog, ‘So here, Beastie, Beastie. Come on, boy, we know you’ve got a pressing appointment.’

  ‘It’s not funny, Richard,’ said Christine, eyeing the amount of whisky he was drinking.

  ‘You’re telling me:’ There was a hell of a lot Richard wanted to say. But he found the words had hit a log-jam somewhere in the back of his throat. He refilled his glass from the decanter and walked out of the house and back into the garden. Overhead a pair of swans flapped slowly towards the setting sun. And he wished to God he could sprout wings and follow them to a faraway place.

  Chapter 47

 
Saviour

  ‘Oh, Christ. No … no …’

  Christine Young wept silently; a fat river of tears rolled down her cheeks.

  She was alone, sitting on the hearth rug in the cottage, one elbow on the coffee table, her forehead supported by her hand. She’d just sat through a news report about the destruction of York Minster. The death toll had risen to forty-eight. She’d watched that with a cold detachment as if it had happened a hundred years ago. Not that morning.

  What had opened the emotional floodgates was a report tacked to the end of the news about Darren Wakes, a boy of roughly Amy’s age. It showed him playing with a toy tractor. His face was as yellow as a banana skin. Doctors had given him three weeks to live. They said nothing could be done for him.

  Christine watched, the image of the five-year-old’s face blurred through the tears that stung her eyes. The reporter added that a surgeon at a private hospital was confident he could save the boy’s life with a liver and lung transplant. But it would cost £60,000.

  There followed scenes of Darren’s parents and neighbours desperately making door-to-door collections and trying to organize a sponsored parachute jump. ‘A brave effort,’ the reporter said, ‘but in their heart of hearts they must be thinking: is this too little, too late, to save this five-year-old boy’s life?’

  ‘Here. Take this.’

  Christine looked up startled. ‘Michael? I didn’t realize you were there.’

  ‘Sorry if I startled you.’ Smiling kindly, he held out a clean tissue.

  She felt as if she had to explain. ‘I was watching the news … about York. Then there was a story about a boy. He’s about Amy’s age … he’s going to die.’ She sniffed. ‘Christ. It makes you so angry. Sometimes you think the only reason you’re put on this Earth is to suffer and die.’

  Michael nodded, his eyes gentle. ‘But we still keep bringing more children into the world.’

  ‘It’s a joke, isn’t it? A sad, pathetic joke. Do you know something?’ She looked up at Michael. ‘When my father was dying in hospital – he had cancer of the bowel – a priest walked up to him and asked him if he was ready to meet God. My father said, yes, and when I get there I’m going to kick his backside all over heaven for all the suffering he’s caused down here on Earth.’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘You see, he’d brought up Joey and myself single-handed. My mother had suffered from diabetes since she was ten years old. After I was born she went blind, a couple of years after that she died.’

  ‘But you’re carrying on. You’ve got two fine healthy children.’

  She nodded. ‘But the knocks come hard. Look what happened today. Forty-eight people dead in minutes.’

  ‘I know, Christine. That’s something I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life. It was my fault. I was too blinkered about getting my hands on that book. Instead of going to meet Heath I should have just kept on driving to put some space between us and the thing.’

  ‘Michael,’ Christine’s voice was low, husky. ‘This thing you call the Beast. Can’t you just let it go? Do you really think all these deaths are worth trying to hold on to the thing?’

  Michael placed his fingertips together and touched his lips as he thought about what she had said. ‘Christine. What would you say to this? Imagine that little boy you saw on the television. Now imagine that the Beast could save his life. Would you still insist that I get rid of it?’

  ‘From what I’ve seen the thing’s a killer.’

  Michael picked the cordless phone from the wall, then crouched down in front of Christine. He put the phone on the coffee table.

  ‘But if you could save little Darren’s life? Would you still want me to get rid of the Beast?’

  ‘I …’ Wiping her eyes, she shook her head. ‘No. No, I suppose not.’

  ‘Pick up the phone, Christine.’

  She looked at him puzzled.

  ‘Pick up the phone. You’re going to save that boy’s life.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You’re going to telephone the TV station and tell them you will pay for that life-saving operation.’

  ‘I haven’t got that kind of money.’

  ‘I have. And I acquired that money only because I formed the relationship with the Beast.’

  He found the TV station’s telephone number in the directory, then handed her a printed card on which was printed the words: THE M FOUNDATION. Beneath that were telephone and E-mail numbers.

  ‘Christine. Telephone the TV station. Tell them you represent a charitable foundation, and that they will pay for Darren’s operation.’

  Her eyes shone, full of hope. ‘You’re serious?’

  He gave a faint smile. ‘Yes, I’m serious. Just give them that telephone number at the bottom of the card. The TV station will help the boy’s parents get in touch with the foundation. After all, there’s a good news story in it for them.’

  As Christine began to dial, Michael’s smile broadened. ‘How does it feel to save a life?’

  Outside, in the garden, Richard sat on a low stone wall that separated formal flower beds from the sweep of the lawn where Amy played with the doll she had named Rosemary Snow.

  Amy sang, ‘Rosemary Snow’s coming to stay, Rosemary Snow’s coming to stay, Rosemary Snow’s coming to stay … Dad?’

  Richard looked up. ‘Yes?’ His sore throat coarsened his voice.

  ‘Dad. Rosemary wants to know where we are?’

  Richard wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. All he could think about now was the decanter of whisky in the cottage. He needed a drink … shit, no, he needed lots of drinks, buckets of the stuff. Something that would slaughter this scalding heap of pain and questions and guilt that was rotting him from the inside out. And there were the flashbacks searing through his mind. The severed hand twitching on the floor inside the Church. Spasming fingers still hitting the camera button? If they developed the film … what holiday snaps would they see? Richard Young’s face; his terrified eyes blazing from all that boiling dust; rubble crashing down. A river of blood running from beneath the mountain of fallen stone, like grape juice running from a wine press … where was the Beast now? Coming to eat you up, laddie … coming to —

  ‘Daddy.’

  ‘Yes, hon?’

  ‘Rosemary Snow wants to know where we are now.’

  Richard’s eyes focused on the doll with long black hair being waved in his face.

  ‘Daddy’s thinking,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Go and play.’

  ‘But Rosemary Snow needs to know where we are so she can come and visit us.’

  ‘Amy, I said go and play.’

  Christine smiled, her eyes shining with a sudden elation. ‘They said they’re going to get in touch with the family straight away. And as far as the reporter knew the hospital could do the operation by the end of the week.’

  ‘And Darren will grow up healthy and strong, and marry and have children of his own one day.’ Michael smiled. ‘And he’ll never know the name of his fairy godmother who made his family’s wishes come true.’

  Christine blushed. ‘I’ve done nothing. It’s your money.’

  ‘I’m just the middleman, Christine. If it wasn’t for the Beast I wouldn’t have the money. And if it wasn’t for you seeing that story on the news Darren wouldn’t be having his life-saving operation.’

  She shook her head, not sure whether to laugh or cry.

  ‘Listen, Christine, I’m not suggesting this somehow cancels out what happened in York today. But you … Christine Young … have saved a life tonight.’ He rested his hand on hers and gently squeezed. It felt warm and reassuring. ‘You saved a life, Christine. Feel good about that.’

  She smiled through her tears. ‘Me and that thing of yours saved a life. That’s the reality of it, isn’t it?’

  He nodded, his eyes so gentle that she felt something melt inside of her.

  Amy was persistent. ‘Dad. Tell me where this is, so I can tell Rosemary Snow. She really wants to visit us, so she can tell us some
thing really important.’

  ‘Come on, Amy. It’s your bedtime.’

  ‘But Dad. Rosemary wants to know where we —’

  ‘Amy!’

  Shut up about Rosemary fucking Snow!

  That’s what he wanted to yell savagely. Then grab that stupid doll and rip its stupid head off like —

  —like what happened today. When he held that blond head in his hands red strands of meat hung down; eyes rolled. The tongue and lips still twitching as if the severed head wanted to tell him something …

  What would it tell him?

  You’re next, Richard Young. You’re next. To be crushed into the dirt and …

  Jesus … he took a deep breath; he was cracking up.

  ‘Daddy. Do you feel all right?’

  Amy stroked his back.

  ‘Course I do, sweetheart.’ He swung his arm round her and held her tight, his face pressed into her hair. ‘I’m fine.’ He breathed deeply to settle the quiver in his voice, but he could do nothing to quell the trembling that ran through his body. ‘Now …’ He cleared his throat. ‘What did your doll want to know?’

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘This is Michael’s house. Glebe Cottage. It’s near a little village called Banwick, which is … uhm, let me see … about five miles from Dartmoor in Devon.’

  ‘I love you, Dad.’ She hugged him, the Rosemary Snow doll crushed between them.

  ‘I love you too, hon.’

  Then Amy skipped across the lawn singing, ‘Rosemary Snow, we’re in Banwick, we’re in Banwick; we’re in Devon beside the slippery sea …’

  Chapter 48

  The Road to Nowhere

  ‘Come on, Red Zed,’ murmured Rosemary as she nursed the van along the slow lane of the motorway. ‘Are you on the road to nowhere or what?’

  There had seemed no point in going to York. Although Amy, her family and Michael had obviously been there, they’d be long gone by now. She knew they were still alive because she’d seen disjointed mental images of motorway service stations: Michael driving; the car windows covered with dust. But there had been nothing definite she could identify.