“What you looking at?” Harry demanded.
“Nothing, Haz,” Jason said, blushing slightly. He realized he had almost given himself away.
“Let’s find a pub.”
They moved on, and as they went, Jason noticed the old man glance at him almost sadly, as if he knew something that Jason didn’t. Later on, he would remember that. Meanwhile, Harry had crossed the road and a few minutes later they were both drinking pints of Adnams – the local beer – and the tray of exotic plants was forgotten.
The rain had stopped and they spent two hours in Aldeburgh, drinking until their money had almost run out, then walking the High Street, sneering at the art galleries, playing football with a Coke can, testing the doors of parked cars in case any of them had something inside worth stealing. By six o’clock it was getting dark and suddenly they were on their own. They bought fish and chips and ate them on the sea wall, looking out at the black, choppy water. It didn’t taste as good as it had when Jason had come here as a boy.
“Well, this is a waste of time,” Harry said at last.
“Let’s go home,” Jason suggested. It had already occurred to him that stealing a car lost a lot of its point when you didn’t have anywhere to go.
“Yeah. We got our very own Beamer!”
“Right.”
“We’ll get it home and then we can trash it.”
“The tyres.”
“The seats.”
“The paintwork.”
“We can drive it into someone’s garden and set fire to it!” Harry whooped.
The car was still waiting for them where they had parked it. Harry pressed the remote on the ignition key and sniggered as the lights blinked and the locks sprang open. Once again he got into the driving seat. As Jason had thought, there was going to be no discussion about that. The BMW roared into life at one push of the button, that lovely, efficient growl of German engineering. And then they were away, knocking over an oil-can as they left the car park and perhaps damaging the bodywork – but what did that matter? It was nothing compared with what they were going to do when they arrived home.
But it was a bit more difficult, getting back again. Night had fallen and a slight mist had rolled in from the sea. Neither of them had much sense of direction and it was years since Jason had found himself in this part of the county.
“Turn the sat nav back on,” Harry said.
“Do we need it?” Jason asked. There was something about that old woman’s voice that unnerved him, even though he had laughed about it earlier.
“Just do it,” Harry snapped. He was focusing on the road ahead, watching the beams as they picked out the rushing tarmac. Jason wondered if he had ever driven in the dark before. He probably hadn’t driven much at all. In fact, now that Jason thought about it, it was quite remarkable that Harry had even learned to drive.
Jason turned the sat nav on and entered his own address – the Kenworth Estate, nr Sproughton, Ipswich – then punched the button to begin navigation.
Almost at once, the voice began. “At – the – next – junction – turn – right.”
That was strange, because Jason was sure they had come the other way. And there, indeed, was the sign – Ipswich 22 miles – pointing to the left. But it was already too late. Harry had wrenched the wheel, doing what the voice had said. This was where the streetlamps of Aldeburgh ran out. As they completed the turn, they plunged into the darkness of a Suffolk night.
Jason thought about arguing, but decided against it. They were both tired. Harry had downed four pints before they’d left the pub. And anyway, the sat nav system would consult lots of information before suggesting a route. Perhaps this was a short cut. Perhaps there was a traffic jam on the A12. They seemed to be following a fairly narrow country lane and that, perhaps, was a good thing. The last thing they needed to see right now was another police car. It made sense to go back on quieter roads.
They drove in silence for seven or eight miles. It really was very dark. The rain clouds had closed in, blocking any sight of the moon or stars, and suddenly there were no buildings around them. Instead, they seemed to be crossing open countryside, with undulating fields and low gorse bushes dotted around like crouching soldiers.
“Take – the – second – turning – on – the – right.” The high-pitched voice broke the silence.
Harry did as he was told.
Another couple of miles, this time through forest. They had to be on a B-road. It was certainly narrower than the road they had just left, with trees jammed together on both sides, forming a tunnel over their heads.
“In – one – hundred – yards – turn – left.”
The left turn was even narrower. Now there wouldn’t be room for another car to pass them unless they pulled into the side. Not that it looked as if many cars came this way. They had lost sight of any civilisation. The woods were getting thicker and thicker.
“Fork – left – then – continue – straight – ahead.”
The fork took them off the road and onto what was little more than a track. Jason could hear dead leaves squelching under the wheels. He wondered whether they were even on tarmac. “You sure this thing is working, Haz?” he asked.
“What thing?”
“You know … the sat nav.”
“Why wouldn’t it be working, Jace?” Harry snapped. He knew they were lost and that was making him angry.
“We didn’t come this way.”
“Well, what do you suggest?”
Jason looked out of the window. All he could see was leaves. The track they were on was so narrow that the branches of the trees were scraping the windscreen. The BMW’s headlights lit up a tiny world, perhaps five metres ahead of them. Outside the beams of light, there was nothing. “Maybe we should turn round and go back the way we came.”
“There’s nowhere to turn round.”
“At – the – crossroads – continue – straight – over.”
And that surely had to be a mistake. A fairly main road – at least, it was definitely covered in tarmac, with dotted white lines down the middle – crossed in front of them, promising perhaps a fast exit from the surrounding forest. Straight ahead of them was a rotting wooden gate hanging crookedly on one hinge. The gate was open and beyond it was a bumpy, muddy path – you couldn’t call it a track or a lane – barely wide enough for the BMW to pass along. It was pitted with pot-holes, some of them full of water. A rusty barbed-wire fence, broken in places, followed it on one side.
“Take a right, Haz,” Jason said. This time Harry did as he suggested but he had no sooner completed the turn than the voice cut back in. “If – possible – make – a – U – turn.”
“You want me to turn it off?” Jason asked.
“Nah.” Harry shook his head. “We might as well leave it on. We don’t have to do what it says.”
“That’s right.” Jason nodded. They had picked up a little speed, following the better road. “It must go somewhere.”
“If – possible – make – a – U – turn,” the sat nav tried again. The screen was showing an arrow, bent in the shape of a U. Harry ignored it.
The road led nowhere.
About half a mile further along, Harry had to brake hard and they came to a sudden, sliding halt. A huge branch had somehow splintered and fallen, blocking the way. Leaving the engine ticking over, the two of them got out of the car. It was very cold in the wood, far colder than it had been when they left. There was no breeze, but the air was thick and damp. The mist had followed them in from the coast. They could see it, curling slowly between the trees.
“What now?” Jason asked. It was obvious that the branch was far too heavy to move.
“We keep driving,” Harry said. His voice was sounding a little bleak.
“Have we got enough petrol?”
“We got plenty of petrol.”
That at least was true. The BMW was still half-full and, if they could only find their way out of the forest, they would have easil
y enough fuel to get home. Almost reluctantly this time, they climbed back into the car. All the fun had gone out of their adventure. They just wanted to get out of this forest, to find themselves somewhere that they knew.
There was barely enough space to turn round. Spinning the wheel, Harry managed to reverse into the stump of a tree. Jason heard the metalwork crumple and for a few seconds the engine screamed, out of control. Harry swore and changed gear. In a way, Jason was almost glad that the car had been damaged. The BMW had got them into the mess. It deserved all the punishment it could take.
They had barely completed the turn before the sat nav system began again. “In – one – hundred – yards – turn – right.”
And that was odd too, because neither of them had noticed a turn-off on that part of the road. But the machine was correct. In a hundred yards they came to an opening between two trees and, beyond it, a track snaking its way through the forest. Harry took it, even though Jason’s sense of direction told him they were going completely the wrong way. But which was the right way? They were utterly lost. He wished now that they had followed their instincts outside Aldeburgh, taking the turning marked Ipswich 22 miles. By now they should have been safely back on the A12.
“Take – the – next – turning – on – the – right.”
Harry seemed to have become enslaved by the ugly old-woman voice of the sat nav. Perhaps he didn’t mind doing exactly what a machine told him but Jason was less comfortable. He hated the idea of having to rely, one hundred per cent, on a tangle of wires and software that might have been malfunctioning in the first place. Maybe that was why the BMW had been dumped at the Kenworth Estate. Nobody in their right mind would have actually wanted to drive there. Maybe the car’s owner had got as lost as they were now and had gone off for help, accidentally forgetting the keys. That made sense.
“At – the – crossroads – continue – straight – over.”
Jason’s heart lurched. He blinked several times, his mouth hanging open and for a moment he really did look like a child and not like an adult at all. It wasn’t possible! They were back exactly where they had been ten minutes before. Somehow, the various tracks had brought them back to the broken wooden gate and the track beyond. Jason swore. He could feel tears pricking against his eyes. This was getting nasty. He wanted to go home. “Turn left,” he said.
“It’s saying straight ahead,” Harry countered.
“The machine doesn’t know what it’s talking about. If we hadn’t followed it in the first place, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
And then a light blinked on, in the woodland, straight ahead of them. It was about a quarter of a mile away, very tiny, almost concealed by the thick spread of the trees.
“There’s something there,” Harry said.
“What…?” Jason squinted into the darkness.
“It must be a house or something. We can ask the way.”
“At – the – crossroads – continue – straight – over,” the sat nav urged them. The voice sounded almost cheerful. Why had it repeated itself, Jason wondered, when they weren’t even moving?
But Harry needed no further prompting. He changed gear and the BMW moved forward again, through the gate and onto the track with the barbed wire along one side. As they rolled forward, the trees thinned out a little. Somehow the moon had finally broken through and they saw fields spreading out, what looked like rough farmland but completely surrounded by the forest. Ahead of them, a cluster of buildings sprang up, made of red brick with weeds and ivy climbing up the guttering. They passed an abandoned tractor, a rusting coil – more barbed wire. The light seemed to have vanished and they wondered if they had really seen it. Whatever this place was, it looked abandoned.
They turned a corner and there, once again, was the light, coming from an open barn on the other side of a yard. A tall, uneven chimney had been built behind the barn, stretching high above it. And someone was burning something. Thick black smoke rose into the night and, even with the windows closed, Jason could smell meat that was being roasted and smoked at the same time. They drove through a second gate, this one made of steel and brand-new. There was a vehicle parked to one side, a refrigerated lorry which looked old but in better repair, at least, than the tractor. Jason saw some words painted in red along one side:
Somewhere a dog barked. Behind them, Jason heard a clang as the steel gate closed and, just for a moment, he thought of Dionaea muscipula, the Venus flytraps that he had seen in Aldeburgh.
Harry pulled up in front of the barn. The BMW stalled and they came to a halt. The two boys got out. The night air was very cold. They could feel it running through their hair, stroking the backs of their necks.
This was a pig farm. It had to be. There was an oven burning at the back of the barn, and the floor was covered with straw splattered with blood that had dripped down from the carcasses hanging on hooks from wooden beams. But the carcasses didn’t look like any animal Jason had ever seen. He saw a leg and what might have been a shoulder. And, on another hook, an arm. It might have been made of plastic, but Jason knew that it wasn’t. The arm had a bright red marking on the right shoulder.
A heart – and a name.
Romeo.
Jason felt his blood freeze. There was a rushing in his ears.
A woman appeared, coming out of the barn towards them. She had long, silver hair, a yellow face and grey lips that were partly open, revealing teeth that could have come from the cemetery. She was wearing a dirty green apron that hung all the way to her feet. She lifted a hand to wipe her mouth with her sleeve and Jason saw that she had blood on it. Harry was standing dead still. He had gone white. Jason was surprised to see that he was crying. But Jason was crying too. He knew what this was. He knew where they were.
The woman was not alone. A man – huge and bearded – had appeared behind the car, holding a length of filthy rope, the sort you might use to tie down animals. Jason caught sight of him in the wing mirror. Then the woman reached them.
Her eyes blazed and she smiled at the two boys. Her voice was shrill and high-pitched. “You – have – arrived,” she said.
THE COBRA
THE ANCIENT TAXI WITH ITS scratched paint and dusty windows rattled to a halt and the engine cut out. They had parked in a narrow street, next to a shop selling lanterns, chairs, boxes and chessboards, all of which were hanging off the front wall and spilling onto the pavement.
“Is this it?” Charles Atchley demanded.
“This is it,” the driver agreed with a smile.
“But it’s not a hotel!” Charles whined.
“It’s a riad,” his mother explained. “It’s not quite the same thing.”
The truth was that Charles Atchley had never wanted to go to Marrakech. It might be a holiday abroad, but from what he had heard, the city in Morocco would be hot and sweaty with no beaches, no McDonald’s, no amusement parks and nothing much to do at the hotel except sit and read. And as he hated books, what was the point of that? Worse still, the food would be strange, the people would speak little or no English, there would be flies everywhere and he would have to spend hours either walking through ruins or struggling up the Atlas Mountains. All in all, he would much rather have stayed at home.
But as usual, of course, he was going to have no choice. Charles was fifteen years old, the only son of Rupert Atchley, a successful barrister. His mother, Noreen Atchley, produced illustrations for women’s magazines. The three of them lived in a house in Wimbledon, South London, and Charles went to a local school where he did just enough work to stay out of trouble but not enough to make any real progress. That was the sort of boy he was. You could never point your finger at him and say that he was actually bad. But he was undoubtedly spoiled and really had no interests outside fast food, computer games and Manchester United. Left to himself, he would have stayed in bed until twelve and then watched television all afternoon, perhaps with a plate of fried chicken and chips balanced on his knees.
It was ha
rdly surprising that he was rather overweight. Again, he wasn’t exactly fat. He just looked unhealthy, with ginger hair that he never brushed and a scattering of acne that moved – almost liked clock hands – around his face. He liked to wear tracksuit trousers and baggy T-shirts, and he could even make his school uniform look shabby and out of shape. It must also be said that he was something of a bully. There had been one or two incidents with some of the younger boys at the school, but Charles had been clever enough to avoid taking responsibility and although the teachers had their suspicions, so far they’d never had enough evidence to nail him down.
His mother and father adored him and turned a blind eye to most of his faults. Noreen had once queued all night to make sure he was the first boy in the street with a PlayStation 4, and Rupert was certainly over-generous with the pocket money. Whatever Charles wanted, Charles usually got, even if he did have to stamp his feet a bit to get it.
It was only when it came to holidays, or any decision that affected the whole family, that his parents would insist on having their own way. After all, they would argue, they both worked hard – and they were the ones who were paying. So like it or not (and the answer was definitely not), Charles had been dragged to no fewer than six art galleries in Rome, to a whole selection of dreary chateaux in the Loire, and to far too many shops in New York, and now, it seemed, he would just have to put up with whatever horrors Marrakech had in store.
Even the airport seemed to confirm his worst fears. It consisted of a single, rather old-fashioned building that wouldn’t have looked like an airport at all but for the runway outside. And it was hot. The breeze seemed to be blowing out of some enormous hand-drier. It almost burned his skin and Charles was sweating and irritable long before the bags turned up – last, of course – on the single carousel.
His mood did not improve in the taxi on the way to the city. His first impression of Marrakech was of a vast cluster of low, red-brick buildings all jammed together inside an ugly wall. Palm trees sprouted out of the rubble, but they somehow failed to make the place any more appealing. The traffic was terrible and it didn’t help that there was no air-conditioning inside the taxi.
Scared to Death--Ten Sinister Stories by the Master of the Macabre Page 4
