by Maynard Sims
‘I thought Phillip was your friend.’
‘He was, but he’s gone now.’
‘Gone?’
‘The silver people caught him last week. He’s one of them now.’
‘Was it Phillip who attacked George?’
She bowed her head, avoiding my eyes.
‘Maria?’
‘Yes,’ she said softly.
‘And he’s one of the silver people now?’
She nodded.
‘Can you tell me what happened?’
She shook her head. ‘I didn’t see. I think I fainted.’ There was a note of despair in her voice. ‘When I came to, George was on the ground. He was all bloody.’
‘But you didn’t actually see what happened?’
She shook her head again. ‘Just flashes of silver, and those sounds, those horrible sounds. Smacking sounds, flesh against flesh.’
She was getting agitated, rocking to and fro on the bed. I put my hand out to calm her. She grabbed it again and put it to her face. ‘Why is this happening, Daddy?’
And she was a little girl again. Five years old with scraped knees and grazed palms. ‘Why did I hurt myself, Daddy?’
I wrapped her in my arms and hugged her. ‘Try to get some sleep,’ I whispered in her ear. ‘You’ll feel better in the morning when the sun shines.’ It’s what I used to tell her when she was little and she woke in the night after a bad dream. Because this had all the reality of one of her nightmares.
Suddenly she was my grown-up daughter again. ‘Take me home, Dad. Take me away from here.’
‘Soon, pet. I promise.’
I should have taken her out of there then. I should have taken her home. I’m sure I could have got leave from work, even unpaid, on compassionate grounds, to look after her. But, to my eternal shame, I didn’t. Instead I uttered a few more platitudes, stroked her hair again and left her.
I’ll never forgive myself.
***
The address Susan Reynolds gave me was of a bungalow, not two miles away from the clinic.
At my ring, the door was opened by a kindly looking woman wearing a peach-coloured twin set. Her cheeks were ruddy and her hair was grey and tightly permed.
She looked like everybody’s favourite granny. ‘Hello,’ she said, with a bright smile.
I introduced myself and I watched the smile struggle and die on her lips.
‘Is your husband well enough to see visitors?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But it’s no thanks to your daughter.’
‘May I speak with him?’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘Who is it, Phyllis?’ A voice floated out from one of the rooms.
Phyllis Grant glared at me, pushed the door forward slightly, and attached a door chain. ‘Wait there.’
She reappeared a few minutes later, released the chain and ushered me inside. ‘He’ll see you, but I’ll tell you what I told him: I don’t approve. I don’t approve at all.’
I tried a smile. ‘Thank you very much.’
The smile was wasted on her. Frostily, she led me through a small, square central hallway, opened one of the five doors leading from it and stepped aside for me to enter.
George Grant was propped up on pillows in the centre of a double bed covered with a chintz bedspread. A small, flat screen television was affixed to the wall opposite the bed, its sound muted. A daytime quiz show was playing in silence.
George Grant looked to be in his seventies. He was wearing striped pyjamas and his white hair was awry. He looked as if he’d not been awake that long, but despite this, his dark brown eyes were clear and alert. He leaned away from the pillows and stuck out a friendly hand. ‘So you’re Maria’s father. Good to meet you.’
I took the proffered hand and he shook it warmly.
‘Smashing girl. A real beauty.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She is.’ I looked around and spotted a single, high-backed wooden chair in the corner. ‘May I?’
‘Please, please. Take a seat.’
I caught the look on Phyllis’s face as I dragged the chair to the bed. She was frowning. I tried the smile again, but Phyllis’s look froze it in mid-air and it died before it reached her.
‘Can you tell me what happened?’ I said to George. ‘The clinic said that Maria attacked you. Is that your recollection of what happened that day?’
George Grant paused before answering, and turned to his wife. ‘Phyllis, would you be so kind as to make us a nice pot of tea?’
Phyllis Grant looked uncertain, but after a moment she relented and left us alone.
‘I’ll be honest with you…’
‘Call me David.’
‘I’ll be honest with you, David. I have no clear memory of what happened. I’d gone down to the lake to cut back one of the rhododendron bushes. Maria was down there, as she usually was in the afternoon. We got to talking, as we usually did.’
‘What were you talking about?’
‘Oh, the usual kind of stuff we’d normally talk about: the state of the world, what we’d seen on telly the night before, nothing specific. Well, I did most of the talking, truth be told. Maria’s a good listener, and she indulges an old man and his ramblings. Anyway, we were talking and I happened to turn away from her to tackle a large branch of the rhododendron when something cracked me across the back of the head. I must have blacked out. Certainly I fell down, because when I opened my eyes I was laying face down on the ground and someone was kicking seven shades of Socrates out of me.’
‘Did you try to get up?’
George Grant physically shuddered, and tears filled his eyes. ‘I tried, but I couldn’t. The attack was so ferocious, you see. Maybe, when I was a younger man, I would have been up to fighting back, but…’
His words trailed off as he struggled with the frustration of his advancing years.
‘So you didn’t actually see Maria attack you?’
He shook his head. ‘I didn’t actually see anything at all. I had my arms up over my head. Like this.’ He demonstrated, bringing his arms up to cover his face, his hands covering up the top of his skull. ‘Didn’t make much difference, though,’ he said ruefully. ‘A shoe must have got through. That’s how I got these.’ He pointed to his blackened eyes. ‘I don’t remember anything after that. I woke up in a bed in the clinic, with Dr Reynolds sitting at my bedside, like you are now.’
‘So you didn’t actually see my daughter attack you.’
He shook his head. ‘But we were the only ones down by the lake that day. If it wasn’t her, then who was it?’
Phyllis Grant reappeared in the room, carrying a tea tray holding a brown china teapot, cups, saucers and a small jug of milk. There was a plate of biscuits on the tray, as well. Bourbon creams.
For the next half an hour I sat at George Grant’s bedside sipping tea, eating biscuits and listening to his tales of the petty human foibles he’d encountered during his time at the bank. His wife stayed in the room, smiling at her husband’s stories and occasionally glaring at me.
The beating he’d taken had done little to dampen his spirit, and had done nothing to affect his skills as a raconteur.
Eventually the stories dried up and I made to leave. ‘Thank you for seeing me, George,’ I said. ‘If Maria was in any way responsible for what happened to you, then you have my deepest and unreserved apologies.’
He shook his head slightly. ‘I still can’t believe she’d do such a thing. I thought she was a lovely girl.’
Phyllis Grant led me back to the front door and held it open for me.
‘It won’t make any difference, you know,’ she said as I left the bungalow. ‘You might come round here with your grovelling apologies, but the clinic will be hearing from our solicitor.’
‘Thanks for the tea, Mrs Grant,’ I said, and walked back down the path to the front gate.
‘You should have thanked my husband for not calling the pol
ice. I know I would have done.’
I’m sure you would have, I thought, as I stepped through the gate to my car parked in the roadside.
‘Thanks for your time,’ I called, got in behind the wheel and drove away.
***
I changed my mind about driving home when I reached the end of their road. Instead of turning left towards the A1, I turned right and headed back to the clinic.
I left the car in the small parking area and walked through the trees down to the lake.
It really was a tranquil, picturesque spot. The lake was roughly circular and about four hundred yards across at its widest point. For the most part it was surrounded by trees, and the bank was dotted with clumps of bulrushes. The water seemed clear – I could see small shoals of roach or bream swimming languorously through the small clumps of weed. On the far side was a narrow, muddy bank with a few thick tree roots rising out of it.
A less sinister place I couldn’t imagine, and I could see why Maria spent much of her time down here. Apart from the occasional cloud of midges hovering above the water, there was no movement to disturb the peace.
A peace that was rudely shattered by the ringing of the mobile phone in my pocket. I pulled it out irritably and answered it.
‘David, is that you?’
It took me a moment to recognise the voice. Then I remembered giving George Grant one of my business cards in case he remembered anything, never thinking for a moment he’d call, and certainly not so soon.
‘George,’ I said. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘There’s something I wanted to tell you, but never really got the chance with Phyllis… anyway she’s just popped out to the shops so I thought I’d better seize the moment, as it were. Are you at home?’
‘No. I’m back at the clinic, down by the lake. I just wanted to see where it happened.’
There was a moment’s pause and then he spoke again. ‘Well, you be careful down there.’
‘There’s no one here, just me and the midges. I’m just looking at the rhododendron you were cutting back. It’s a bit of a beast, isn’t it?’
‘Bloody awful. I could spend the rest of my days trying to get that stuff under control… anyway, that’s not why I called. The lake, you see, has always been the subject of local gossip. Urban legends have built up around it… rural legends, I suppose you’d call them… and years before the clinic bought the house.’
‘What type of legends, George?’
‘Talk is of people seeing strange things. Strange-looking people who have no business being there. Animals and people too, going missing. Oh, I know a lot of it is apocryphal, and one shouldn’t set much store by it, but I thought you should know. I wasn’t the only one who was attacked down there.’
I was instantly alert. ‘Who was attacked, and when?’
‘I never knew the name. We’re talking forty or more years ago. Not long after Phyllis and I moved into the bungalow. The lake and surrounding woodland was a prime target for poachers. They’d go to the place at night and ply their craft. The house at that time was owned by the Worsley family, and old man Worsley used to hold weekly shooting parties for his family and friends, so the woods were kept well stocked with game birds; the poachers had a field day. At that time, a brace of pheasants could fetch a pretty penny.’ He paused again, and I could hear him sipping something. I waited.
‘Anyway, the story goes that they found one of the poachers down by the lake, beaten to a bloody pulp. Dead.’
‘So what happened then?’
‘Well, not a lot really. Of course, there was a lot of speculation in the village, and the finger of popular opinion was pointing in the direction of old man Worsley’s son. The lad was a bit of a tearaway and had something of a temper. Liked the ladies and they liked him, but his possessiveness coupled with his temper usually drove them away before the relationships amounted to anything.’
‘Was he charged?’
‘No, the police investigated but it never went anywhere. Not long after, Worsley sold up and moved away. I never heard any more about them. But as you can see, the place has always had a pall hanging over it. I just thought you should know. I know Phyllis is keen to pursue this through the courts, but I haven’t got the heart for it, really. I just want to forget it ever happened. Least said, soonest mended is my philosophy. Besides, I knew when I went to work there that the people I’d be coming into contact with were, at best, unstable. So it’s not as if I went in there with my eyes closed. I knew the risks… not that I’m saying Maria was unstable… of course not… lovely girl. Anyway, I’d better go. I think I just heard Phyllis’s key in the door.’
‘Before you go, George, tell me, what was the name of Worsley’s son?’
‘There you’ve got me… what was it?’ There was a moment’s pause and then, ‘Phillip… his name was Phillip, and a horrible little bugger he was, too, by all accounts. Whatever, he wasn’t missed around here.’
I thanked him and hung up. I looked back out at the placid water of the lake and shivered. Somehow the place had just lost its appeal.
The story of Phillip Worsley was ringing all kinds of bells in my head. It was Sean Penman all over again.
I started to walk back through the trees, and then I started to run. I reached the house and skirted the reception desk, ignoring Janet’s startled cry, and made my way to Maria’s room.
It was empty. Maria wasn’t there.
I turned to run from the room and nearly crashed into Susan Reynolds and Janet, who were coming down the corridor towards me.
‘Where is she? Where’s Maria?’
‘She said she needed some air,’ Janet said.
‘And you let her go out?’
‘I really didn’t see there’d be any benefit in keeping her locked in her room,’ Susan Reynolds said. ‘This isn’t a prison. My policy is to let our guests come and go as they please.’
‘Oh, you stupid, stupid woman,’ I said. ‘Where has she gone?’
‘She told me she was going down to the lake,’ Janet said, trying to help and earning herself a reproving look from Reynolds.
‘But I’ve just come from there. I didn’t see her.’
‘Perhaps your paths crossed in the trees and you didn’t notice her.’
I shook my head and ran past them, back down the corridor, and out through the double doors.
I reached the lake, my chest tight, my breath coming in short gasps, and I saw Maria.
She was in the lake, waist deep in the water.
She wasn’t alone.
A figure stood at her side, a hand clutching hers.
The figure was a young man. And he was silver.
It was as if his entire body was covered in silver scales, and they glinted in the dying sun. I called out to them, but he was pulling her inexorably into the centre of the lake. As her shoulders disappeared beneath the surface, she turned her head to look back at me, and I could see she was crying, but the tears looked like bands of mercury rolling down her face, thin rivers of liquid silver.
I ran forward and splashed into the lake, breaking into a desperate crawl, punching through the water, trying to reach my daughter before the lake claimed her.
And I was making progress, closing the gap between her and myself, when the water around me erupted in a seething mass of silver bodies, swimming like sharks around me, impeding my progress and forcing me back to the shore. I struck out at them, but there were too many, too many of the sleek, silver bodies, swimming around and under me, pushing me back and dragging me down under the water.
After what seemed an age, I dragged myself onto a clump of bulrushes and lay there, my heart pounding in my chest, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I looked towards the centre of the lake but the water was calm, placid. Of Maria and the creature she was with, there was no sign.
***
They dragged the lake, of course, and what they recovered shocked the divers and the men ope
rating the dredger. Bones, human bones. The last I heard, they had found enough to make up six full skeletons.
Of Maria and her silver friend, there was no trace at all.
***
Maria’s disappearance sounded the death knell for the Drysdale Clinic. They couldn’t counter the negative publicity in the media, and Tom Drysdale effectively pulled the plug, putting the building up for sale and withdrawing his funding.
Susan Reynolds remains in the field. Last month she opened a small residential centre in Somerset, with room for two or three guests. I haven’t heard from her since that awful day, the day my life effectively ended.
***
The building now stands empty. Drysdale sold it to a property developer whose plan to turn the place into luxury apartments fell foul of local planning laws. One day, I’m sure, appeals will overturn council rulings and work will start on the project, and my access to the place will be blocked. But, until that day comes, I continue to spend any free moment I get there, by the lake.
Sometimes I think I catch a flash of silver moving through the still water, but I live in the hope that if I sit there long enough, and I’m very, very quiet, I may catch a glimpse of my Maria once more.
GUILT CASTS LONG SHADOWS
What then have I to do with men, that they should hear my confessions – as if they could heal all my infirmities – a race, curious to know the lives of others, slothful to amend their own? Why seek they to hear from me what I am; who will not hear from Thee what themselves are? Augustine, Confessions Book X
***
It was that time again, the time of the day that he dreaded. He made himself stay awake and occupied downstairs for as long as he could. It had become a routine, almost a ritual, though it rarely worked. It was getting worse and he was finally coming around to admitting it. He had to sleep eventually, there was no avoiding the fact. It was inevitable. All living creatures have to sleep at some point of the night or day, to re-charge their bodies, rest their minds, or simply to fall exhausted into wherever they chose to sleep.
Martin Tyler chose to make his way to bed, but in truth it would have been just as awful for him if he stayed in the living room, the kitchen, anywhere. It wasn’t the venue where he slept that was the problem, it was him. It wasn’t even the simple act of sleep that disturbed him. It was what lay within his mind. What came out when he closed his eyes and drifted off into the land of nod, or whatever other fanciful name or place it might be called. He called it a growing, an increasing, nightmare of existence.
