The HUM: The complete novel

by Michael Christopher Carter

  She finally reached her destination. As she stepped inside, the school hall was a hubbub of excited and nervous fellow students. Carys needed to find where to get her results. There was a girl crying in the corner with whom Carys assumed to be her parents. Clearly she had not achieved the results she needed to get into whichever University she had applied to.

  Carys’s intelligence was not in question. There had been an IQ test in her class before she even joined the sixth form. Her score, an impressive 137, was by far the highest in her class. Most break times she could be found, if anyone had been looking, in the library (she’d volunteered so as to avoid the need to socialise with people she was sure disliked her at worst, and ignored her at best.)

  If her schoolmates were asked, they’d surely predict good results for Carys’s exams. She wasn’t so sure. Her big brain was hard to keep on task. Gazing through a window, lost in thought would take her away from school. Classwork had often been a struggle. Revision, impossible. Pages whizzed by at a blur as nothing would stick in her head. As soon as she had sat in the exam hall she’d known she would do badly.

  She’d applied to Bristol, Cardiff and Swansea universities because of their proximity to where her home would soon be. Staying behind when her parents made the move back to Wales had been hard. They were loath to leave her, but Geraint couldn’t stand the city crime anymore.

  When a position as sergeant became available in a small town in West Wales boasting the lowest crime rate in Britain, he’d decided to take it easy there until he could benefit from the generous police pension.

  He’d more than paid his dues, but there were just too many horrific things he’d had to deal with every day: too many drug related murders, too many rape victims. Sometimes, things that weren’t crimes were the worst.

  Visiting a family to deliver the devastating news they were to be without their father because he’d been killed on yet another fatal accident on the Great Cambridge Road. Being called upon to yet another cot death to make sure it wasn’t suspicious. It had all taken its toll. He needed to be in a small community.

  There were only three thousand people on the voting register of Narberth in South West Wales compared to thirty thousand in Royston, and close to two hundred thousand in Cambridge. It had to be better for him. Less people equated to less crime.

  The last straw came for Geraint when he’d been called to a suicide. Another train jumper. He felt awful for people so down they could jump in front of a train, but also a terrible guilt at his irritation.

  The horrific mess left behind was gruesome, but he’d forced himself to build a resistance to it. He thought them selfish and hated himself for it.

  One day, the ordeal had been worse than he could ever have dreaded…

  He discovered the mutilated body of a female jumper. Terrible any day, but when he saw her dress, it looked familiar. His heart leapt to his mouth. Diane had the exact same dress.

  With a violent shake of his head, he forced himself to disassociate from the possibility it could be his wife. Her mood hadn’t gone downhill, had it? In fact, she’d been good, really good, for months.

  Squinting at the body, vomit reached his mouth and he swooned as blood rushed from his head, because that’s all it was; a body. A conspicuous space existed where her head should have been. But the body wasn’t Diane’s. No. It didn’t look like Diane, did it? Or was he fooling himself?

  The effort to turn his head to find the decapitated head was too much, but he spotted it twenty feet away, straight ahead. Long brunette hair, just like Diane’s, laying at the side of the track.

  Thankfully (or was it delaying the inevitable?), the head faced away from him. As he staggered slowly towards the sickening sphere, his legs filled with adrenaline, shaking violently. Shudders rippled through him, rattling his keys and handcuffs on his belt. The last oxygen carrying blood drained from Geraint’s addled mind and reality merged with a surreal soup of disbelief. Falling to his knees, he collapsed in a heap still several feet from his worst nightmare.

  His colleague, a WPC who had no idea what was wrong with him, rushed to his aid. She checked on him before she saw the head. Instinctively she moved to collect it, to place it respectfully with its body.

  Geraint lay still now. Staring, unable to tear his gaze away as the head was picked up. Wincing as it turned slightly toward him in his colleague’s grasp, he squinted, straining to make out the features. Would this nightmare never end?

  As it paraded past him, the face was visible for the first time; a motionless wax work; a necessary disassociation. When reality hit, he wept as relief relaxed the bear-trap on his heart. The waxwork head looked nothing like his wife…

  After that, he had suffered a complete mental breakdown. The stress of his career, on top of mortal concerns for her beloved mother was more than he could take.

  She forgave him his fall from calm capable father, and supported his move back home. He’d needed persuasion that she’d be okay finishing her A-levels with them both away. She was a big girl now, she encouraged. It had been vital for him to secure his new Sergeant position in Narberth.

  She went to the line of tables set up in the hallway as a long desk. She saw her Head of Year, Mrs Clark, and approached her. Mrs Clark smiled when she saw Carys. It was a warm smile, but Carys could tell already that she would not be surprising herself with better than expected results.

  When handed the sheet of paper with her grades in different modules of her exams printed on, she had to take a deep breath to bring herself to glance down at it. A half-smile played on her lips. She’d scraped what could narrowly be described as a pass, but not at a level that would impress any of the universities to which she had applied. Mrs Clark glanced keenly, ready to support her pupil.

  “How are you Carys? Did you get the results you hoped for? What you expected?”

  Carys felt apathetic. She hadn’t hoped for anything. She’d expected to do badly, and those expectations had been met. Nodding, she turned and walked away without saying a word. It would be nice to feel proud of herself. But mediocrity fitted in better with her low self-image.

  She wasn’t sure if she should hang around for a while. Walking to the school hall, confirming her low expectations, then walking straight back home seemed a little pointless. With a sly twinkle in her eye, she had an idea.

  No-one need know her poor results. Her move to Wales was imminent. And whilst her own expectations had been low, she knew her contemporaries anticipated great things from her. She didn’t have to correct their misjudgement, did she? In the middle of her thoughts a voice broke through.

  “How’d you get on?”

  Carys looked round to see one of the few people she could recognise and name. Not because the two of them were friends, but because everyone knew him. Stephen Holmes was popular with boys and girls alike, He had it all.

  His swarthy, Mediterranean looks were incongruent with his Scottish accent, but that only added to his charm. Sports of astonishing variety were under his mastery, representing the school, and the county, at running and swimming and gymnastics; and Judo, she thought she could recall.

  His name was proudly displayed on a number of brass plaques in the school foyer with his blisteringly white smile beaming down at visitors to the school.

  He was no jock though, to coin an Americanism (even if he was a Jock, coming from bonnie Scotland). Boasting academic skills as well as athletic, his GCSE results had been exceptional, and much acclaim had been given to his lead role in the school’s latest production.

  It was no secret his education was pointing him toward becoming an airline pilot. The future was rosy indeed for Stephen Holmes, and he was talking to her! She couldn’t speak, but managed to nod to suggest that she had done well.

  “I did better than I expected,” he volunteered. “Oxford, here I come!” Carys still didn’t manage to find her voice and could think of no appropriate gestures either. Staring at him, her cheeks reddened.

  Stephen was
so immensely confident, he took the apparent lack of interest for the shyness it was. Rejection of his attention was unthinkable. “We’re going out to celebrate tonight. Wanna come?”

  Carys’s cheeks flushed redder. She would have beamed at him, but was momentarily unable to meet his gaze. She accepted at once. That is, she nodded vigorously to the invitation, and to the following instruction to meet at The Green Man pub at seven.

  It wasn’t that she fancied Stephen (although she had to admit he was handsome), but his attention made her feel accepted. Not the social leper she always felt.

  Unwilling to spoil the high, Carys hurried back home clutching her almost forgotten results in her fist. Stella was busy in her pottery. Not expected back so soon, she rushed upstairs to plan getting ready for her night out.

  She knew that whilst everyone would be excited, mainly due to finally having their long awaited results and being able to map their futures a little more, she’d be the only one nervous about the social shenanigans this evening promised.

  Maybe she wasn’t as unpopular as she had imagined. Stephen could’ve asked anyone and been sure of a positive response. Aware he’d only said ‘we’re going out’ and hadn’t specified she would be with him, she was still sure the invitation was personal.

  A brief perusal of her wardrobe produced no notion what to wear. She could list every item without opening the door anyway. Standing with the door ajar only confirmed her hopeless task.

  She checked her purse. It was full enough; her mum and dad left her with sufficient pocket money to appease their guilt at bolting to Wales at such a crucial time for her education. She could easily walk into town and buy a new outfit. But there was a reason her wardrobe was so unappealing. She had always bought clothes with her parents. Every item chosen for its practical purpose. Geraint, in particular, had seemed more than happy for her to dress that way.

  Occasional visits to the Woodman Inn, in Nuthampstead, and mingling unwelcomely with the young farmers, had not provided clues to what was fashionable. They all shared her parent’s tastes.

  Determined to make the most of tonight’s social opportunity, Carys set off to the town centre to take advice from the shop assistants.

  Not bothering to say goodbye to Stella (she wanted to put off answering questions about her results), and sure she hadn’t noticed her return anyway, she strode off with a spring in her step.

  Crossing over the busy London road and past the park, she walked through a small alleyway leading her to the square where various eateries could be found. Norman Smith’s Lotus House Chinese takeaway still thrived, next to the inevitably named ‘Taj Mahal’ Indian restaurant, kebab shop, burger bar, a Thai restaurant and a very popular cafe opposite the obligatory fish and chip shop. Carys resisted the temptation and continued on.

  Glancing in the window of Ladds newsagents/ cards/ and stationary supplier, brought a pang of childhood memories and she missed her mum and dad. She’d bought most every Christmas or birthday card she could remember from there.

  Snapping back to task, she strode away towards a boutique she’d not visited before (why would she have?) just next to a small arcade of covered shops.

  Temptation to abandon her hunt for clothes in favour of visiting the bookshop she loved drew her attention for a moment. If there was time, she decided, she could buy more books to add to the ever-growing collection she planned to spend her lifetime reading.

  She entered the boutique with the disconcerting name of ‘Suzi’s’, as one of very few choices in the former market town. Two assistants bustled, sliding clothes along rails, clicks and scrapes filling the air as their hangers were nimbly moved for no apparent reason. One scarcely looked up as Carys walked in. The other failed to look at all.

  Carys thumbed through the items on display, adding to the racket. Unwilling to ask for advice from the unfriendly staff, instead she noted what they wore and selected similar from the shelves.

  With a frown, she decided she wasn’t so keen on the way either of them looked so opted instead to assume everything in the shop must be fashionable and just choose for herself. With an armful of various garments, all considerably more girly than anything she had at home, she made her way to the changing rooms.

  Upon glimpsing her reflection in the little cubicle’s mirror, her favourite of the new clothes adorning her curves, she stunned herself; scarcely able to believe the beauty smiling coyly was her.

  Venturing back onto the shop floor to search out accessories, she laughed as the two assistants nearly tripped on their open jaws rushing to help. Wow, I must look good, she contented herself as she allowed them to suggest embellishments.

  It was a stylish and confident Carys who left the shop having purchased enough clothes to not have to leave in her unfashionable old ones. Resisting again the temptation to go book shopping in favour of new shoes, she was surprised she was enjoying herself. The rude assistants had made her feel even more special in their turnaround performance than if they’d been pleasant from the start.

  In the shoe shop she was treated at once with respect. The male assistant had trouble serving her without stuttering. For the first time in her life, she felt as though she was fancied. Mildly disconcerted, she considered, on balance, she probably liked it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Carys Regrets

  When Carys explained to Stella about her plans to meet up with friends (and especially Stephen Holmes), she was thrilled. It diverted her attention easily and deliberately from her exam results which Carys had diffused with “All in good time. There’s something else I’m excited about…”

  Stella hadn’t been around Carys in Nuthampstead and witnessed how lonely she was, and had assumed (as most people would) that this charming, beautiful young girl was inundated with offers of friendship and more.

  She wouldn’t know Carys’s fashion statements were always rather unfashionable. And she was unaware how isolated Carys felt; how detached. Not understanding the significance of tonight’s social meeting, Carys’s coyness at the mention of a boy met with a knowing look from Stella.

  Carys’s eyes twinkled at the misunderstanding. She was sure she had no interest in Stephen romantically. It was just so reassuring to receive some positive attention.

  Excitement coursed through her veins as she laid out the new clothes on her bed and then a flush of panic again as she realised she didn’t have any make up.

  Stella might have something she could borrow. She wouldn’t need much. Her long, dark eyelashes were already as thick and lustrous as she could want. She might use eye shadow and lipstick. Just so her face looked different to her normal unglamorous self.

  By six thirty, almost time to make her way to the Green Man public house, she was a nervous wreck. She was happy with her clothes, but worried that despite her best efforts, and the admiration of the respective sales assistants of the day’s shopping, she still wouldn’t meet the expectations of the girls from school with their cruel tongues.

  Tutting, “Don’t be such a neg-head,” she muttered. “You know you look good!”

  Her mum always suggested the bitchiness was down to jealousy. She could almost believe that now. Grabbing her coat from the bed, she made a move before the feeling ebbed.

  Stella seemed surprised when Carys called ‘bye’. Despite the time of meeting being mentioned, she must not have heard as she was warming up the telly for the Friday edition of Coronation Street the family still followed devotedly.

  Stella, once she realised Carys’s departure would clash with the planned viewing, offered to video it for her.

  “Er, okay. But I probably won’t get around to watching it,” she smiled. In her parent’s absence, Cary’s interest had waned. Bidding farewell received wishes of good luck in return, and Carys pulled the front door closed behind her.

  At first, she couldn’t hear it. The busy road effectively masked the noise. A disquieting shiver ran down her spine before she was even aware of the low humming filling the air. Stoppin
g abruptly, it was with a nauseous shudder that she identified it. She’d subconsciously attributed it to air-conditioning units on the rear of shops, pubs, and restaurants she passed on her route; or perhaps the bus stopped at the pelican crossing nearby.

  As she stood in the market square, which doubled as a car park at different times of day, she was certain the humming noise had remained constant. She knew now it wasn’t coming from any of those other things. Shaking uncontrollably, she squinted in anticipation.

  Why was it here? Over twelve years in Nuthampstead she’d all but convinced herself the sound emanated from farms in the village But that can’t be true because she wouldn’t hear it in the town, would she? Yet, it was undeniable.

  Was it following her? A wail of despair startled her as it escaped her lips. Those dreadful creatures. Were they coming for her again?

  Fighting the urge to run straight back to Stella’s and hide under her duvet, she hissed, “No,” under her breath. “Stop it!”

  A long time had passed since she’d heard that noise which had so many dreadful connotations for her. It could be a different farm. Or whatever it was could be present in town and village. She didn’t know, but that didn’t make it sinister.

  She had a choice: worry, or enjoy herself. Worrying would achieve nothing. A psychologist might suggest she simply associated the humming with unpleasant occurrences in her childhood. Like Pavlov’s dogs, trained to expect food at the sound of a bell and who salivated accordingly, Carys had conditioned herself to be fearful when she heard this noise.

  Encouraged by her logic, Carys resumed walking the remaining short distance to the pub. Entering the building on her own gave her butterflies. As she tentatively pushed open the door to the lounge bar, she gained a view of the room beyond.