Dead Man at the Door

by Anthony Masters

  Dead Man at the Door

  Anthony Masters

  To Rosemary Canter, my agent and friend,

  with much love and affection

  Also to Chris, Robin and the students

  of Cowes High School

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  A Note on the Author

  One

  Gary shifted restlessly in his bed. Somewhere, swimming in his consciousness, was the knowledge that the waking dream was coming. It was relentless and he knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. However terrifying the blurred experience was going to be, he was going to be in the thick of it. Then his body stilled, and he accepted that dream-time was here. Slowly, silently, he rose out of bed, opened the door and began to walk softly down the stairs.

  In the half-light the garage looked much bigger than it really was, with its high, steel-girded roof and oil-dark walls. The builders had moved in a couple of weeks ago and all the old partitioning had been taken down. A new concrete floor had already been laid and was temporarily covered with polythene sheeting. It was this sheeting that held Gary transfixed in rising terror; for no reason at all it was rippling and moving, as if someone was walking across towards him. He couldn’t hear any footsteps, but he could see the polythene flapping, waving – reluctantly allowing something to tread its billowing surface. For a few minutes it was still, but then it moved again, and the sound of a blustering wind assaulted Gary’s ears. There was no rise or fall, just a sudden, inexplicable rattling sound.

  Gary’s eyes darted to the steel shutter that led into the narrow Victorian street outside, but it was firmly closed. The terror became icicles in his heart. Hurriedly he turned to leave, back towards the half-open door that led into the yard by his father’s shop, but then he heard them – quick slapping footsteps, resounding now in the cavernous space. They were urgent, commanding, desperate. He raced to the door, and it shut with a slam. Then the footsteps stopped, and when Gary turned the polythene was no longer rustling. The inside of the garage was completely still. There was not the slightest sound anywhere.

  Instinctively Gary knew that he mustn’t move, and he stood stock still, hardly daring to breathe. It seemed that he stood there for ever. Then he went rigid with shock as, again without warning, the banging on the steel shutter started once more. It was horribly insistent, yet somehow he knew that there was no one outside. Half sobbing, Gary turned to kick at the unyielding door into the yard. As he did so he could feel the polythene fluttering again.

  ‘Oi!’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘A chat.’

  ‘It’s going-home time.’

  ‘I’ll not keep you long.’ There was an attractive quality to the boy despite his menacing attitude, as if he couldn’t quite hide the fact that he had a special kind of warmth. Taller than Gary, but thin and wiry, he just stood there, staring unsmilingly at him, continuously pushing his long dark hair out of his eyes. Gary was sure he hadn’t seen him before, but although his parents had been living on the Isle of Wight for about a year now, he hadn’t made that many friends in the enormous school, and most of the students were strangers to him. Like this one.

  ‘I’ve got to get back.’ Gary felt slightly trapped, but at the same time he wondered if he was going to make a friend at last.

  ‘Aren’t you Baxter’s kid?’ said the boy, ignoring his half-hearted excuse.

  ‘What if I am?’ responded Gary defensively. He didn’t like being patronized.

  ‘The bloke who owns the do-it-yourself shop.’

  ‘Handiwork,’ said Gary, a little more confidently.

  ‘Yeah – that’s it. That’s the place.’ He paused and then spoke quickly. ‘Isn’t he – aren’t you expanding, like?’ The boy ran his hands through his hair impatiently and although Gary found his forcefulness irritating, at the same time his interest was appealing.

  ‘Yes,’ said Gary, pleased that the boy had noticed. He was very proud of his father’s ambitious plans, however much his mother nagged and prophesied doom. ‘We’re becoming a supermarket.’

  ‘They say you’re taking over Jackson’s Garage.’

  ‘We’ve bought it.’

  ‘And that’s where the supermarket’s going to be, is it?’ There was an edge to his voice. ‘I’d – we’d hoped you were going to knock it down.’ The boy was suddenly oddly hesitant.

  ‘We were.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Then the bank wouldn’t lend the money for a new building. So we’re linking up the shop with the garage. Converting it.’ Why was the boy so interested? Gary just couldn’t make it out.

  ‘You’re an ovener, aren’t you?’

  Gary nodded dismally. That was the Isle of Wight term for a newcomer.

  ‘You wouldn’t know our ways then.’

  ‘What ways?’

  ‘There’s – places on the island you don’t go to. Like Black Gull Chine.’

  ‘What happens there?’

  ‘The Watchers.’

  ‘Who are they?’ Gary was puzzled.

  ‘Ghosts of drowned seamen. You can feel them watching you. Even the anglers don’t go there.’

  ‘I don’t see what this has got to do with –’

  ‘And then there’s Jackson’s Garage.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It should be razed to the ground.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘It’s a bad place.’

  How did he know? What did he know? Could the boy have some idea of what he had been dreaming about? About what he had seen? For he was not sure if his dreams were real, or if the reality he had felt was a dream. All he knew was that once he had woken up in the cold cave of a garage, thumping at the door which he thought wouldn’t open. And then it did – quite easily.

  ‘I don’t get you.’

  ‘There’re stories about it.’

  ‘What stories?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The boy was instantly shifty. ‘You tell your dad. Us lot want it pulled down.’

  ‘Who’s “us lot”?’

  ‘Islanders.’

  ‘I’ve never heard anyone say that before.’

  ‘You’re hearing it now.’

  ‘My dad wouldn’t be interested,’ said Gary firmly.

  ‘Wouldn’t he now?’ The menace was back in the boy’s voice. ‘Wouldn’t he just?’

  ‘It’s too late,’ said Gary. ‘The builders are in.’

  ‘You tell your dad to watch out.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Someone might set fire to it. Burn it down. Your dad would get insurance money. He’d be all right.’

  ‘You threatening me?’

  ‘No. Just warning.’

  ‘Push off then,’ said Gary, walking away.

  ‘Don’t you talk to me like that.’ The boy grabbed his shoulder and spun him round. Gary swung his bag at him and missed. There was a tense moment of silence. Then the boy walked away.

  ‘What’s your name?’ yelled Gary, anxious to identify his assailant.

  ‘Ted,’ he called back.

  ‘You keep away from us.’

  ‘I can’t promise anything,’ Ted replied as he wandered out of the playground. Gary watched him go with a strange mixture of feelings. He was afraid and curious at the same time. He was also very anxious, for the dream – if that’s what it was – was occurring with alarming regularity.

  *

  Gary decided not to tell his parents about his confr
ontation with Ted, but they probably wouldn’t have listened anyway for they were far too preoccupied with sniping at each other. Ever since they had arrived on the Isle of Wight, the pressures on them had been intense. The small town of Benport was clannish, inward-looking and unwelcoming to oveners. But Bill Baxter, who had previously and unhappily been a paint rep in South London, was determined to make a success of his fresh independent start. Despite local prophets of doom, Handiwork flourished in the cramped premises of a former greengrocer, whilst the Baxters lived in an equally cramped flat over the shop.

  Buying the garage and turning his business into a supermarket had not only taken up the last of the Baxters’ savings but had required a substantial bank loan as well. All this had led to frequent quarrelling between Bill and May Baxter, and the arguments had become all too familiar to their only child Gary. Now they were at it, hammer and tongs, over a computer system that his father wanted to install to deal with the accounts.

  ‘It makes sense,’ he was yelling at his wife. ‘Can’t you see it makes sense?’

  ‘No I can’t. It doesn’t make sense at all. Nothing you do makes sense –’

  The argument dragged on; Gary munched his way through a doughnut and tried to switch off. He would go up to his room soon and do his homework. That would be a relief. He was fed up with his parents’ rows and frightened by their increasing regularity. He loved them both very much and hated to see them tearing each other apart. They had had him late, and now that he was thirteen they were both quite old – or seemed old. He was afraid for them and the pressure they were under, and he wondered if his strange repetitive waking dream had anything to do with his parents’ deteriorating relationship.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes?’ she snapped at Gary angrily, her blue, usually kind, eyes dull and uncaring.

  ‘I’ll go up and do my homework now.’

  ‘All right. Off you go then.’ She turned back to his father. ‘And another thing …’

  Lying on his bed, his homework untouched on the table, Gary’s mind re-ran his encounter with Ted time and time again. What did it all mean? Could it be some kind of joke? He yawned, but knew that he dreaded going to sleep because the dream was bound to start up all over again. There hadn’t been a night in the last week when he hadn’t dreamt the same dream, and unlike any dream he had ever had before he could still remember every detail: the undulating polythene, the purposeful steps coming towards him, the door that closed itself, the frantic knocks on the steel shutter. Above all he could remember the fear – the awful pounding fear. He longed for a friend to talk to; he’d had loads of them in Clapham. But here? Everyone was so clannish, so off-putting. And now there was this boy – Ted – warning him about Jackson’s Garage in such a melodramatic manner. What was so wrong with the place? Was it haunted or something? Suddenly Gary knew what he had to do. He had to talk to Ted. What had he said his surname was? Then he realized that he hadn’t.

  That night Gary lay awake as long as he could, willing himself not to sleep. But however much he tried, the need to sleep was stronger, and just after midnight he fell into a doze that became a deep black hole into which Gary reluctantly plunged. At the bottom lay Jackson’s Garage.

  Again he stood and watched the polythene ripple, but there were no footsteps this time and the polythene rippled in a different way, as if the steel shutter was open and a breeze was blowing in from the outside. But the shutter was firmly closed. Gary shivered. Repetition did nothing to stop him being afraid. In fact repetition seemed to increase his fear, and tonight sweat was coursing down his back, cold as ice. He waited for the footsteps but still they didn’t come. Then, with its usual abruptness, the beating began on the shutter, hard and insistent. Gary stood there, listening to the hammering; then he felt himself moving towards the steel shutter which was livid white in the subterranean glow that accompanied the dream. He seemed to float rather than walk, and however hard Gary tried not to, his body still moved relentlessly nearer the door.

  Jerkily, unwillingly, he eventually arrived and reached out to touch the hard grey steel. It was so cold that a burning sensation filled his hand which had become stuck to the shutter, and it was only with immense pain and difficulty that he managed to withdraw it. All the while the knocking continued without the slightest sign of weakening. Gary fumbled to pull the handle that cranked open the shutter. Again it was ice-cold, and he cried out in pain as the shutter slowly wound open. When it was half-way up, Gary could bear the pain no longer and clawed his hand off the cold steel. He held the burning palm against his stomach, and as the pain began to fade, Gary was able to take in who was standing there. It was a young man in jeans and a leather jacket. He had fair, sandy hair and an anxious expression. Suddenly, Gary felt all the fear drain out of him, and he was filled with something quite different – a kindness, a desire to help the young man.

  ‘I’m frightfully sorry to bother you, but have you seen a little boy?’ His voice was rough but somehow over-polite.

  ‘No. He’s not round here.’

  ‘Oh dear. You see – I’ve lost him.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I was driving, you see.’

  ‘Driving?’

  ‘He’s very young.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Only a few weeks. Just a baby really.’

  ‘But he couldn’t have wandered off by himself.’ Gary stared at him in amazement. ‘Not at that age.’

  ‘No. They took him.’

  ‘Who?’

  The young man shook his head impatiently. ‘Is this Jackson’s Garage?’

  ‘It was,’ said Gary, but the young man didn’t seem to have heard him.

  ‘They took him here. They must have taken him here. Can’t we look and see?’ he said, and his voice was so pleading, his eyes so desperate that Gary’s heart reached out to him. But he knew there was nothing he could do. Nothing at all.

  ‘You can look. But there’s nothing here.’

  Gary turned round and had the shock of his life. Instead of the big empty space and the rustling polythene there were a large number of cars, some of them on ramps, others dismembered with bits of their engines on work-benches. The place was in semi-darkness and no one else was around. Then the air was pierced with the chilling sound of a baby whimpering and then bursting into the full flood of crying.

  ‘It’s him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The baby.’

  ‘God –’ Gary stared up at the young man in horror. His face was changing, his features collapsing in a horrible way.

  ‘The baby.’

  He seemed to be melting into himself, rotting on the spot where he stood. His speech became more muffled.

  ‘The baby.’

  Gary turned away. There was a stench of death. He ran, but the dream-running was all too familiar, and his feet plunged into the floor as if it were made of soft, sinking sand. Gary felt a powdery hand on his shoulder, screamed and ran on towards the door he knew would not open.

  ‘Baby,’ bubbled the collapsing voice. ‘The baby.’

  With a desperate lunge, Gary pushed at the door. It was soft, spongy like the floor, but to his surprise it yielded.

  Glancing behind him, Gary saw the huddled outlines of the cars. They were all out of shape, as if they, too, were melting. Of the young man there was no sign, only the softest of sighs, ‘Baby.’

  As Gary pushed his way through the cotton-wool door, he entered directly into his bedroom. Throwing himself on to his bed, Gary forced his eyes to remain open. He looked at his watch. Just after twelve. No time – no real time – had passed. Only dream-time. His hand was aching horribly, and when he looked down he saw the ugly burn which began to pulsate until he could bear it no longer.

  ‘Mum!’ he roared.

  ‘You been smoking?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how on earth did you get this?’

  ‘Don’t know. Just woke up with it.’

  Sh
e smelt, as she always did at night, of honeysuckle cold cream. Her face was slippery with it and Gary found it very soothing and reassuringly familiar – even if she was in a bad temper. But underneath the irritation there was her rough kindness, and he felt it so keenly that he could hardly bear the pain in his heart. The pain in his hand was much easier to cope with.

  ‘You can’t just wake up with burns like this. What are you hiding, Gary?’

  ‘Nothing, Mum.’

  ‘Come on –’

  ‘Honest. Nothing.’

  She looked down at him sternly. ‘Gary –’

  ‘Well, there is one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’m frightened that I’m sleep-walking.’

  ‘You kidding me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sleep-walking?’ she openly scoffed, but he could see that she was afraid.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You’ll have to go to the doctor then.’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘You’ll have to –’ She smoothed a cold compress on his palm. It soothed the pain and Gary breathed a sigh of relief. But not just for the comfort, more because she half-believed him at last.

  ‘Did you switch the cooker on?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘S’pose I lock your door? Just till you’ve seen the doctor.’

  ‘Well –’

  ‘Can’t have you wandering about. It’s dangerous.’

  ‘Mm.’ Maybe she was right. Maybe the door would be better locked. Then it would prove it was a dream. Or maybe the dream wouldn’t happen.

  ‘Let’s give it a try, Mum,’ said Gary cautiously.

  Two

  ‘These Islanders.’

  Bill Baxter often uttered these words, twice or maybe three times a day. It was his way of blaming anything that irritated him on the locals, and Gary and his mother were already weary of the phrase.

  ‘What now?’ asked May.

  Gary only half-listened. He was tired. Although his mother had locked the door of his bedroom, he had still been worried about sleeping. Eventually he had dozed off into a light, but mercifully dreamless, sleep from which he occasionally restlessly awoke, his mind buzzing with images of the young man, what he had said and how horrendously he had changed. Then something his father was saying suddenly made him pay attention.