And Afterward, the Dark

by Basil Copper

  His legs were bare and he wore thonged sandals on his feet. He carried some sort of hood over his arm. Forcing himself to keep his voice calm, Trumble said, "I heard a noise which woke me up. I was just coming down to see if everything was all right."

  "Everything is perfectly all right, sir," said Joseph, but his eyes gazed at Trumble with bleak suspicion.

  "I thought I heard voices," said Trumble. He knew he had to justify his descent of the staircase and it would hardly do to let Joseph's explanation pass without some expostulation; Trumble had to steel himself to go on. He could not let the servant see that he was so easily satisfied; otherwise his suspicions might become aroused. And Trumble had much to do to prevent himself from falling when he imagined what might be the penalty if Dr. Fabri realized that he had been in the study this morning and that he had heard... what he had heard.

  "There is a meeting, sir," said Joseph patiently, as though he were explaining a simple proposition to a child.

  "That would account for the voices," said Trumble, seeming satisfied with the servant's answer.

  "The Society of the Sabbat, sir," Joseph went on. "The ladies and gentlemen you met earlier tonight. They are making a tape recording of certain occult rites. It is one of Dr. Fabri's major interests. The recordings are very popular among Society members."

  "I see," said Trumble, simulating relief. "As long as all is in order. I'm sorry if I disturbed you. Is there anything I can do at all?"

  He made as though to move towards the study door. Joseph did not appear to shift position but his tall form was suddenly blocking the way.

  "Please return to bed, sir," he said gravely.

  "Well, thank you," said Trumble, retreating to the foot of the staircase. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this to Dr. Fabri. I felt there might be something wrong and I don't want him to think me an over-imaginative day dreamer."

  Joseph allowed himself a faint glimmer of a smile. He had shut the study door behind him at the beginning of the conversation and Trumble could no longer hear the mumble of those hateful voices.

  "I quite understand, sir," said Joseph. He stood and watched as Trumble slowly ascended the staircase. When the poet had gained the landing he heard the noise of the key of the study door being turned in the lock. The corridor started to bend and warp in front of him as he made his way to his room. He somehow groped to the bed and then his legs gave way beneath him. He lay gasping for breath until he found the strength to crawl between the sheets.

  Trumble felt so ill next morning that he sent a message to Dr. Fabri, via Joseph. The servant brought food to his room and all day the secretary lay in a fevered stupor. He took dinner in bed and was relieved to hear from the servant that Dr. Fabri excused himself from visiting his bedside; he sent his best wishes and hoped that Trumble would be feeling better in the morning. Indeed, by ten o'clock in the evening Trumble was so far recovered that he put on his dressing-gown and sat in the other room for a little while.

  When he went through into the bathroom his face in the mirror was so strange that he had difficulty in recognizing himself; apart from the stubble on his cheeks and his dishevelled hair, there was a glint in his eyes which was alien to him and his complexion was almost like chalk. Trumble had to admit that he had been badly frightened; but, looking back, realized at this distance in time that he might have been mistaken; while he had not believed Joseph's explanation regarding the recording at the time it had been made, he now felt that it could have been possible.

  If there were a Society of the Sabbat they may well have been doing a taped reconstruction of a Black Mass or Sabbat, but Trumble found this difficult to reconcile with the demoniac and horrifying quality of his experience the night before. Dr. Fabri had not been to see him, neither had Joseph conveyed any message on the subject, so it was just possible that the affair had a commonplace explanation; but even so, Trumble realized that he would have to go very carefully indeed during the next few days. Despite the depth of terror into which he had been plunged the previous evening, his curiosity had been aroused and he was determined to investigate further.

  One thing which could not be explained away was the question posed by a simple exercise in mathematics; namely, how thirty substantial people of both sexes could have been accommodated in the small cabinet in which Trumble normally worked, crowded as it was with a desk, bookshelves, and innumerable reference works. It was an insuperable problem, matched only by the equally weird spectacle of the shifting red lights in the garden. When Trumble felt equal to it he would devote some thought to the matter on the following day.

  As it happened, things worked out more easily than he had supposed. Dr. Fabri had gone away for a short period, Joseph informed him when he sat down in his familiar place for breakfast next morning. He did not know when he would be back, but he had left word for the secretary to carry on as usual. Joseph pointed out a pile of opened correspondence Dr. Fabri had left by his plate and withdrew to his own enigmatic duties. Trumble sat long over his coffee and then gathered up the mail and made his way to the cabinet.

  He could not repress a faint trembling in the muscles of his legs as he ascended the spiral staircase and the figures in the bronze Sabbat on the great door seemed to stare mockingly at him as he pulled it open; but once settled at his homely task of indexing the cuttings and cross-referencing his notes, Trumble's ragged nerves relaxed. The time passed, he worked steadily on, and he was pleased to see by eleven o'clock that the pile of reference material in front of him was steadily diminishing. He paused in his efforts and then shuffled through the last cuttings, assessing the work remaining before lunch.

  Then the clippings fluttered to the floor, his face turned pale, and again there came an uncontrollable trembling in his limbs. Staring at him from the front page of a popular evening newspaper was a large photograph of a distinguished-looking man Trumble remembered only too well. The picture was captioned: "The Late Ygor Zadek." Over the top was a six-column headline which said:'' Star Cellist Murdered in Essex Wood. ''

  With mounting horror the secretary read how a farm worker had stumbled over the body of the world-famous cellist in a copse at the edge of Epping Forest. The report hinted that the corpse had been shockingly mutilated, evidently before death, according to the pathologist's report; the body had been dumped in the position it had been found after being transported there by car. The police were now concentrating on trying to trace the vehicle from the slender clues they had in their possession, including a distinctive imprint of a tyre-tread.

  Sick at heart, Trumble put down the paper after examining the date-line; it was that day's early edition. The body had been found in the early hours of that morning. Trumble did not need to go into elaborate calculations to see that less than twenty-four hours had elapsed since he had last seen Zadek alive and well in Dr. Fabri's house and the discovery of his disembowelled body that same morning. Trumble remembered the cry he had heard thirty-six hours earlier and again began to tremble uncontrollably.

  To calm his racing thoughts he began to rearrange his desk, the trivial, commonplace actions gradually having the effect of calming his nerves and slowing down his churning mind. He bent down to pick up the clippings he had dropped to the floor; he then saw that the grey carpeting which skirted the desk had been pushed aside in his fumbling efforts to raise the papers; a thin hair-line showed in the grey metal floor underneath the carpet. Trumble's heart gave another great jump in his throat.

  He got up and went to the door; he listened intently but could hear nothing. He crossed to the study window and was reassured to see Joseph at the other end of the garden; he appeared to be trimming a rose bush. Trumble went back into the cabinet and thought long and deeply. He made up his mind. He closed the bronze door gently, isolating himself from the study and the house. The hum of the air-conditioning went reassuringly on. Then he got to his knees; unrolling the carpet, he disclosed the smooth-fitting edges of a trapdoor.

  Raising it by a metal flange le
t into its edge, Trumble saw a flight of steps leading below; they were modern in-design, made of cedarwood, and the treads were covered with rubber. Warm air came up to him. Trumble hesitated but a moment; then, leaving the trapdoor open, he pressed the switch set on the tread at the edge of the staircase and walked down into the cellar.

  As neon tubes trembled into radiance in the high panelled ceiling, Trumble saw that the mystery was solved; here was the room for thirty people, a hundred people. The place was like a theatre; there must have been over two hundred leather tip-up seats. The chamber was decorated like a church and almost sybaritic in its luxury; thick pile carpeting covered the floors. The end of the room where the stage would have been was concealed with dark blue curtains covered with cabalistic symbols. Let into the marble step in front of the curtains was the legend, in gold lettering, which the terrible Aleister Crowley had made his leitmotiv,"Do as Thou Wilt Shall be the Whole of the Law."

  Trumble walked down, mounted the marble steps, and parted the curtains; the first thing he saw was two small, half-moon windows high up in the wall, which must have been just above ground level. It was from these, evidently, that the red, flickering lights must have penetrated into the garden.

  Trumble turned back to examine the area behind the curtains. There was a black marble altar with a curious dip and cavity let into it; behind the altar, in a niche towering up between the two windows, was an image which, fortunately for the secretary's sanity, was half-hidden in the shadow. The pendulous belly and the monstrous goathead made it perfectly obvious which form of worship was practised here. A copper bowl was lying on the altar, together with strange-looking instruments, including a bronze knife which had a long runnel let into the blade.

  The knife and bowl were sticky and the bowl contained a residue of black viscous fluid which stank in Trumble's nostrils. He was overcome with nausea; turning, he reeled against the altar and putting out his hand to steady himself, felt it come away wet and scarlet. He saw that the whole of the top of the marble was awash with unspeakable foulness. He screamed then in the gloom of that charnel-house place and found himself running up the gangway between the seats, the breath sobbing in his throat.

  He found some cloth near the foot of the ladder and wiped his hands clean; he shrank when he noticed that the cloth appeared to be a white robe like a surgeon's smock and that the front of it was already stained scarlet. The nausea rose again in his throat when he realized what lay underneath the quiet cabinet which he had used all these weeks as his office. He now understood the purpose of Dr. Fabri's unholy ledgers and he knew, too, why the doctor had gone away for a few days. It was not hard to guess that one of his destinations would have been Essex. He had only taken Bassett beyond Guildford, but Trumble realized he would have to widen his area if he were to remain unsuspected.

  His feet beat a nervous tattoo on the rungs of the ladder; he switched off the light, replaced the trapdoor, making sure that he left no stains on the metal, and smoothed down the carpet over it. He inspected it anxiously, making sure that all was as it had been originally; his breath rasped unnaturally in his throat. When he got up to the desk he saw that someone had visited the cabinet in his absence; there was a new pile of correspondence on the green leather top. Trumble turned white and bit his lip. He glanced at his watch, saw that the midday post would just have been delivered. Joseph would know. The secretary was actually turning the handle of the bronze door when he found it locked; it was quite immovable.

  His hands were bleeding from beating against it, when he realized the effort was quite useless; he calmed down then, noting that the key had been removed from the inside. He would never get out that way. He turned back to the inner cabinet, searching for a means of escape, but the zinc walls were smooth and blank; there was not a join anywhere that he could discern. He would have to see what could be done in the underground chapel, though he dreaded descending again. Unless he could reason with Joseph. Perhaps the servant could hear him if he called out. A microphone within the cabinet, perhaps.

  Trumble sweated and he swayed a little as he turned this way and that; the rumble of the air-conditioning went reassuringly on.

  But Trumble felt he could detect a faint hissing beyond this. Or was it his imagination? He licked his lips and plucked at his collar. Strangely enough, all fear was leaving him. He stared at the shelves and saw that a metal shutter had rolled back in the metal wall; there was a glass panel set into it.

  On the other side stood his employer. Dr. Fabri smiled encouragingly at him.

  Trumble opened his mouth as if to say something, changed his mind and closed it again; he staggered as the gas hissed remorselessly into the small chamber, smoothly expunging the life from him. He understood many things as he fell against the desk. The Satanist had not forgotten the importance of the Poet. He had just time to note, entirely without surprise, before he went down to death, that the ledger in front of him was open.

  And there, in the Archives of the Dead, as the latest entry, was his own name in Dr. Fabri's impeccable, green-inked writing.

  The Flabby Men

  I

  I did not like the look of the island from the very first. I had come from the capital along an undulating, scree-strewn beach road on the mainland, that circled around great outcrops of splintered firs and pine, and the Switzer was beginning to run out of fuel when I sighted the ferry in the gathering dusk. The lava-like rubble of the shore stretched drearily to an oily, slime-washed sea and against the dark yellow of this sullen background foul, scummy pustules burst and reformed.

  The piles of the ferry-landing were red with rust, I noticed, as the machine purred onto the metallized surface of the pier, and a heap of old-fashioned petrol containers lay huddled together on the shingle like the husks of some giant fruit or the whorled shells of monstrous land-crabs.

  The wind was rising, bringing with it drifts of cold, pungently tainted spume from farther out, and the harshly striated mass of the island, black, brown, and sickly yellow, gashed the sea about two miles offshore. My ring brought no one from the dusty glass and steel office so badly needing paint and upkeep. I waited and then tried the electric klaxon on the Switzer; it stirred the echoes and sent a few broken-winged birds scuttering clumsily among the rocks. I tried once more and then gave up; batteries were too precious to waste in this fashion.

  Rort should have met me at the landing. I had a vision-tube check on that just before I started, and they knew I was arriving about six. Now it was after seven and the crowd on the island should be alerted. Test conditions were said to be ideal for the next two weeks and I was eager to get ahead with the first. There was little sound in the cove, though farther out white was beginning to show among the folds of yellow; nothing but the slap of foul water, wind strumming over splintered wood, and, for a few brief seconds, a startled buzz as a weather helicopter flapped its way hesitantly southwards.

  I had not expected the ferry to be working; that would have been too much, but Rort had said they had got a power launch going which would take me and my traps out. The Switzer would have to take its chance on the jetty with a tarpaulin over it; the swarms of voracious vermin that had been infesting the shore for the past few months might have a go at it, but I doubted whether they would make much impression on its tracks, the only nonmetal component likely to prove edible. Even so I had stripped the machine down to essentials; it looked as though I might have some trouble in getting fuel for the trip back.

  The darkness was growing, blurring the outline of rocks and the distant island; the jetty shuddered under the impact of the undertow, and there was a sharp scrabbling and muffled squeaks from the rusting debris at the side of the pier, which I didn't like. Whole parties of people had been devoured by a debased form of giant rat which haunted the seashore, and it was said that the plague of land-crabs had increased of late.

  I went to the end of the jetty and winked my flash seawards a few times and then unloaded my cases of equipment and personal gear. Whi
le I was clipping the rubberized tarpaulin over the Switzer I heard the shrill whine of a jet, and a short while after I made out the dim shape of a turbo-launch creaming out from the direction of the island. That would be Rort.

  The soughing of the wind had increased and water was slapping stealthily along the filthy foreshore, stirring uneasily among the crumbling rubbish that littered the marge. It was a sad inheritance, I thought, this debilitated world; an aftermath of violence that would have to be painfully reknitted by the industry of a few patient men and women, self-dedicated and working with poor, worn-out tools.

  There was a crunch from the shadows and I stabbed the flash beam into the dusk, outlined the slavering, grey, depraved jaw-line, red-rimmed, white-filmed eyes, and slit-nostrilled mask of a large creature like the caricature of a hare, which went hopping off with a clatter among the oil cans. I went over to the Switzer and something else scurried away. There were the marks of sharp teeth on the half-tracks, where the creatures had been tearing the covering. I sprayed the area round the vehicle with a powerful poison I had brought from the stores, which I felt would discourage all but the hardiest and hungriest.

  When I had finished, the noise of the jet filled the cove and then eased off as someone throttled down; I went to the edge of the jetty and saw a familiar, grey-hulled Ministry launch bearing the hieroglyphics of the Central Committee. Rort came out of the wheelhouse.

  "Sorry to keep you waiting. I came earlier but had to go back over. They get worried if I'm away long. This is the only transport to and from the island you know, and Future knows what things are in the water."

  Rort was a tall, thin man with a tangled stubble of beard; he had been a research worker in one of the innumerable project teams set up by the Central Committee, and had then been seconded for special duties. He had always been the worrying kind, but now I seemed to detect an even greater nervousness in his manner, as he helped me get the equipment stowed aboard; I set this down to the location of the island and the forsaken atmosphere of this part of the coast.