by Adam Nevill
From his rucksack, Seb removed half of the SPR files that Ewan had taken from this very room. He stacked them upon the table. From Mark’s rucksack, he removed the second half and placed them alongside. The action of returning the documents provided some relief, but it also felt pitifully insufficient, a mere gesture.
Beyond the archive room Seb inspected the subterranean alcoves.
Each brick cubicle was filled with shadow or made grey where rays of sunlight struggled to enter through the dirt-encrusted windows near the ceiling. From what he could make out, the storage spaces were filled with paint tins, stacked garden furniture, some rusted tools, hundreds of empty wine bottles, and all of it coated in cobwebs and dust.
He also found a fire poker, unused light bulbs, an old pith helmet, rotting deck chairs, broken tennis racquets, mattresses soaked by water as if there had been a flood, an old iron cot and perambulator, the fabric mildewed and decomposing.
At the end of the concourse he came across a column of cardboard boxes that were sealed and not nearly as old and speckled as most of the surrounding materials in the basement. The boxes bore the stamp of a printer in Crewe.
Seb tore open the first box and pulled away the bubble-wrap. The container was filled with books. At least two dozen copies of the same book. Another two dozen copies were waiting inside the second box that he tore into. And this was a book written by an author that Seb knew fairly well, because that man was currently standing inside the SPR archive and noisily pulling open drawers.
Theophanic Mutations by Mark Fry, and what must have accounted for nigh on the entire print run of the sole edition of a rare and long-out-of-print paperback.
Confusion made Seb’s movements near frantic. ‘Mark?’ Seb held onto the stack of boxes to steady himself. ‘Mark?’
‘Seb. Seb. Seb,’ Mark called back, but in a suppressed, urgent, hissy voice.
Seb stepped out of the storage alcove and into Mark’s torch beam, directed down the corridor to locate Seb. He could see no more than a silhouette of Mark’s head.
‘We got company!’ Mark whispered forcefully.
‘What?’
‘Ssh! Outside.’
Seb moved to where Mark stood. ‘Just seen someone walk past that little window. Up there. Feet.’
‘Turn your bloody torch off, then,’ Seb said, as he killed his own light.
In silence and darkness, they listened to each other’s breathing.
‘A security guard?’ Seb eventually whispered, and from a hope that what Mark had seen was real and not something else.
‘No alarms, though. Nothing. Door wasn’t even locked. Didn’t look like a guard either. I saw a bit of skirt. Must have been a woman.’
‘It’s her! Come on.’
Seb made his way back up the stairs and into the passage behind the kitchen. Mark followed, but he took his time, as if he was more reluctant to leave the SPR hoard than afraid of what waited for them outside.
23
She Beckoned and I Followed
‘We’re so pleased that you came.’ The same woman with the crudely cut hair, who had accosted him on King Street in Brixham, spoke first. She appeared just as dishevelled as before, and was dressed in the same clothes, the dirty cords and a bobbled fleece inside a grubby, yellow raincoat.
The eyes of the second woman darted between her companion and Seb, assessing the exchange and the facial expressions, as if searching for the right tone, the correct discourse, with which to participate in the opening exchange. She wore a long, patterned skirt with hiking boots. In places the hem was soiled and ragged. The thick rope of her plaited hair seemed coarse, like grey hemp. Unkempt strands formed a fuzzy halo around her lined face.
She appeared expectant and eager to join in, but was also suffering an attack of nerves. Her white fingers twisted and her hands trembled. And if Seb wasn’t mistaken, she also seemed relieved to see him.
The two women stood apart at the end of the oval, weedy terrace, before the portico. They had been in that curious position when Seb emerged from the side of the building.
He cleared his throat to get rid of the tightness. ‘The files that Ewan took. They’re back downstairs. All of them.’
‘Thank you. I hope they gave you an idea of what has been achieved here.’
Mark remained behind Seb, and kept silent.
‘This has to end . . . I want it to stop, today. I want you to leave me alone. This has nothing to do with me. What was done here. Whatever you are doing now, I want no part of.’
The long-haired woman looked at the floor as if embarrassed by his outburst. But her companion with the helmet of hair smiled with what Seb took for satisfaction. ‘We’re all involved. We all struggle through the psychic stream. And the current is more powerful in some places, like here, and in some people. But the slowly flowing flood does not stop reaching out, Sebastian. When a roof leaks, the water always finds its way down. It drips onto our heads. A little at first, then more and more. But we all join the flow eventually. The dark, slowly flowing flood. We merely join it at different times. Who can say when that time comes to any of us?’
‘Ewan had no right to involve me in this. Whatever he did has nothing to do with me. I hadn’t seen him in years until recently.’
‘Lucky you,’ the woman said, her eyes becoming sly. ‘And what a disappointment he was. We hope you won’t be. But let’s be grateful that Ewan brought us together.’
‘What is it that you want?’
‘Want? This isn’t about us, this is about you, and your potential. We offer nothing but an opportunity.’
‘Yes, it is. It really is, Seb,’ the nervous woman with the long hair finally spoke up, only to be admonished with a withering look from her friend, who resumed her spiel. ‘Do you close yourself off from the truth, Sebastian? Do you fear a vision far greater than anything that appears in story books?’ She was referring to his work again, and this time as if it were childish. No attempt was being made to conceal her contempt. ‘Have you not received an inkling of a place far greater than this?’ She spread her arms and looked about herself, as if to indicate the ground upon which they stood.
‘Whatever this is, I told you, I want no part of it.’
‘That, unfortunately, is not my decision to make. I can’t grant wishes, but I can guide you in what must appear strange and frightening. But you needn’t be afraid, or confused.’ She’d widened her eyes mockingly when she’d said ‘frightening’. ‘And if you see them tonight, and you may do, don’t be frightened. They don’t know themselves.’
Seb breathed out hard enough for it to become audible. He worried he might hyperventilate and needed to force a swallow to regain control of his larynx. ‘What do you mean? Tonight?’
‘Please, Seb. You must try to understand what Veronica is telling you. Otherwise it’ll always be difficult. It doesn’t have to be this way. We don’t have much time.’ This from the second woman again, her face pleading with him. And Veronica? At least he now had a name for the creature with the helmet-hair.
Seb shook his head. ‘Have I not made it explicitly clear that I want no part of whatever it is that you are doing? And that goes for whatever you were doing with Ewan that got him killed.’
Veronica leapt in. ‘This is why trust is so important. Ewan couldn’t be trusted. He may have been gifted, but he lacked other qualities. So it’s very important during your visit that we establish a clear understanding of what we are to expect from each other. What we are to give and what we are to receive, so that we can avoid the wrong outcome.’
‘I’m not giving anything and I don’t want to receive anything. I’ve replaced your files. If I am forced to endure one more . . . episode, I’ll take action.’
Veronica laughed gaily.
Seb cleared his throat, his anger welcome. ‘Oh, I’ll let others know exactly what is going on here. And what went on here. Bit of exposure. I bet you’d love that.’
Veronica tutted, mockingly, but the amused grin never relented. ‘W
e have very little patience with the indiscreet. That has never changed in the entire history of the organization.’ As she spoke she’d looked past Seb and at Mark Fry.
‘Organization?’ Seb said. ‘Stop faking legitimacy. People were terrified here, drugged, driven out of their wits by a con man, who extorted money from them with threats. Maybe some of them even died here. Who knows? But there are ways of finding out. There is always evidence.’
Veronica’s nameless companion winced, but continued to concentrate on her feet, hinting that Seb was making a grave error in goading them.
Veronica returned her attention to Mark Fry. ‘Mark, perhaps you would like to contribute to our discussion. You’ve been awfully quiet so far.’
Seb swivelled about and stared at Mark in bafflement. They knew him? He thought of the books in the basement.
Mark was biting his lower lip and snaking his head in evident discomfort, looking everywhere but at Seb. ‘Veronica, you said you wouldn’t mention that.’
‘All things change, Mark,’ she said, smiling.
Mark glanced at Seb. ‘Mate. You better . . .’
‘Better what?’
‘You have to.’ Mark looked at the two women as distaste transformed his face. ‘They . . .’
‘You know them! You’ve been in here before, haven’t you? You lied!’
‘Seb . . . I’m sorry.’
‘You bastard!’
‘What could I do? You know, yeah, you know what they can do. You think you were the first?’
Veronica beamed. ‘Mark knows all about our potential at the Tor, and our capacity to continue protecting ourselves. He has learned things of great importance that continue to be nurtured here, and that continue to thrive. And we have a long reach as you know, Sebastian. I hope you didn’t mind our paying you a little visit at your hotel? You might also want to be advised that there is no earthbound place where we cannot find you. And this organization has you in mind for something very special.’
The two hooded figures in the corridor outside his room. The cold hands that had held his at the bedside? ‘You . . .’
Veronica gave him her best yellowy grin.
‘Seb. Please, Seb,’ the nervous woman said. ‘There’s no point in resisting your appointment. When he makes them, I’m afraid they must stand. He’s very specific about who he works with. And it really is an honour to be chosen. This is a very special role we are offering. A place has been made for you, right here. As soon as he found out about you, well—’
‘Joyce! If you please!’ Veronica’s incongruously girlish voice deepened into a tone that struck Seb as even stranger and formidably masculine. They all flinched.
Veronica and Joyce. He had their names now. Even in shock and fear, he told himself to remember their names. ‘Role? What bloody role?’
Veronica’s smile returned. The crimson of her rage faded from her cheeks. ‘We all have contributions to make to one who has journeyed so far for our enlightenment, for the truths that have the potential to transform our lives, and this world, with a common goal.’
‘What? Why am I even having this conversation? You’re mad.’ Seb made a move for the end of the terrace.
Mark spoke up again, his eyes flicking nervously between the two women and Seb. ‘Seb. You have to. Just get it done. Trust me.’
‘Done? Get what done?’ he shouted at Mark.
Despite the insincere smile on her face, which Seb found more odious as each moment passed, Veronica’s tone became more forceful again. ‘This organization has to be maintained. You’ve seen the disrepair on your tour of our building, and our work is at a vital stage that was envisaged many years ago. We approach a critical phase. Appearances can be deceiving, but I can assure you of a great deal of activity that continues within our organization. Despite some setbacks, in a world that struggles to understand our mission, many here are still projecting.’
Even though they were close to the hottest part of the day, Seb experienced a horrible sensation of coldness and queasiness. Briefly, he thought of the two obscure authors that Mark Fry had told him about on the train. One had committed suicide and the other had drunk himself into an early grave. Moira Buchanan and Bertrand Webster must have been sharers of the great vision too. They had been the recorders of those that still hindered in the passage. Mark had only been prepping him.
‘There is work to be done, Seb. And urgently.’ Joyce spoke plaintively, her fuzzy head tilted forwards out of sympathy, as if she were explaining difficult news to an infant.
Seb backed further away, and from Mark too, who seemed unable to stop a pained grinning, as if he thought the situation tragically funny. The day had turned into a ghastly and absurd practical joke.
Joyce followed Seb, near pleading. ‘So many have given so much to the society. And we must all contribute what we can.’
‘Money,’ he said, but his voice was a rasp. ‘You want money. Extortion.’ Nothing had changed at the SPR. Blackmail backed up with threats remained the core tactic of the ‘projectors’.
Veronica frowned. ‘I don’t perceive it in such vulgar terms, but as Joyce has explained to you, all vital organizations require funding. Public health, charitable organizations, scientific research, all require maintenance, do they not?’
Seb had never felt even remotely violent towards a woman, but he wanted to split Veronica’s skull apart with a brick and then beat Mark Fry to death with the same dripping masonry. His anger was intense enough to make him dizzy. When he managed to speak, his voice retained half its original strength. ‘Taking drugs and forcing out-of-body experiences. To travel through the spheres. Selling lies about paradise? Harrowing old women with ghastly visions of the greylands . . . This strikes you as significant? Akin to medical research into life-preserving drugs? Are you bloody insane, or just completely without any morals, scruples or ethics?’
Veronica laughed, and even clapped. ‘We don’t expect you to understand immediately. It’s a lot to grasp so quickly. But you must admit that you have been a witness to miracles. And can I ask you to refrain from swearing? He despises the foul-mouthed.’
‘Yes,’ Joyce said, nodding vigorously, her long, miserable face transformed into a mad glee. ‘This is the only way to direct you towards our vital cause. We thought you of all people would understand this mission. Perhaps the most important research being conducted anywhere at all in the earthbound sphere is happening right here. So I implore you, Seb, to embrace this opportunity, so that we can work together and minimize any further difficulties.’
‘Seb. Seb. Trust me on this,’ Mark said, now moving towards him, his arms open. ‘Take it from me, you really don’t have a choice. Just write the book for them.’
‘Book?’ Seb spun around, losing his balance. He sat down in the weeds. Pieces of gravel pricked his buttocks.
‘It was the most marvellous idea. One that was tried before, though by far inferior talents and with limited success. We were very patient with Ewan too, though it appears dear Ewan’s visit was not all in vain. We believe he was struck by the very same idea, though one intended for his own enrichment. We had no idea when he ventured out alone, that he had intended for you to be complicit in the theft of his legacy.’
‘Legacy?’
‘God, Seb,’ Mark suddenly spoke up. ‘If you hadn’t called me. You should never have called me. They only wanted Ewan. But I had to tell them . . . about you.’
‘You . . .’ Seb couldn’t follow what Mark had said. He seemed stuck within the midst of a complicated plot whose story he’d been improperly following.
‘I’m sorry, mate. They made me . . . they asked me to get in touch if anyone ever . . . you know, dug around about the SPR, because of Mutations. Only a few review copies ever got out. I had to tell them about you. And once they figured out who you were, they guessed what Ewan was up to by gate-crashing your place with those stolen files. If only you hadn’t bloody called me, you’d . . .’
Seb closed his eyes to quell a dizz
y spell that tried to rotate the big white house, the blue sky and the grass about in his eyes. He wanted to be sick, but felt too bodily weak to throw up.
He’d been off the hook when Ewan died. That was what Mark was suggesting. If you’d left the bags at the Beach Haven Hotel . . . and not . . . Oh, Christ. But the potential for his own book had been too tempting, and it seemed they wanted him to write one on the same subject too, though not for his own benefit.
Veronica beamed. ‘And this will be the most exciting collaboration. I think Ewan’s ambition got the better of him, and things took an unfortunate turn, but this is an enterprise that we now wish to take ownership of. And it has been such a long time since he has published. Too long. He has so much to share with the earthbound world. His vision will just astound. We’re quite certain of that. There has never been a better time to embark upon the next stage of our work.’
‘He,’ Seb whispered. ‘Hazzard . . .’
‘And you, yes!’ Joyce cried out, as if with elation, her drab ponytail swishing like a dead eel. Seb had seen few people in his life so excited. She turned her head to peer at the dark windows of the highest storey of the Hall, and smiled beatifically. ‘He wants to begin immediately.’
‘He . . .’
Veronica nodded her head slowly. ‘Is still with us, yes. He often comes home. Many of the others still do. You’ll meet him soon enough, at a time of his choosing I expect. Perhaps tonight. Maybe at another time. We are not his keepers. But it is his wish that you will be our guest at the Tor tonight.’ She then raised her chin in an attitude of self-importance and seemed eager to bring the meeting to a close. ‘We’ll discuss terms in the morning. Joyce, will you show our guest to his room while Mark and I have a little chat.’ Veronica then turned away from Seb, as if she were dismissing a trifle.
‘We’re delighted to have you with us,’ Joyce said to Seb, while vigorously nodding her head, coming close enough for him to smell the damp and the sweat clinging to her old clothes. ‘Your presence here is just perfect. Nothing could make us happier. Though I hope you brought something to eat. I’m afraid we can’t possibly cater for you. We no longer have that facility at the Tor. But one day we’d like to open our doors again, and wider than ever before.’
