by Gary Fry
But both enquiries were overruled when Anthony dropped to his knees.
A silence followed, threatened only by wind thumping the window looking onto the rugged Yorkshire Dales.
“Daddy, what’s…wrong?” asked Carl, his innocence painful to observe.
Anthony glanced up sharply. “Go to your room! Now!”
“Ant, you’re being unreasonab—”
“I don’t care!” After cutting off his wife, Anthony addressed his son again, pointing at the object in his hands while also flinching from it. “Where did you get…that?”
Carl, now upset, turned to place the model on the dining table and then fled from the lounge, hurriedly along the hallway.
“Suman told me to give it to you,” he cried, slamming the spare room’s door behind him. Then, his tone muffled as if he was irrevocably lost to his parents, he added, “At least he’s my friend.”
Moments later, Melanie stared at her husband.
“What is this all about?” she asked, striving to suppress recollections of all the weird sights and sensations she’d experienced on the moors only hours ago.
“I’m…sorry,” Anthony replied, shaking his head. Tears had formed in his eyes. “There’s something I have to do.”
Sitting on the nearest chair, he addressed his laptop on the table and then switched it on.
“Ant?” Melanie protested, but her husband refused to look away from the machine’s illuminated screen. The clay model their son had brought home lay a few feet from the device, and Anthony clearly didn’t wish to examine it until he’d dealt with whatever it had put him in mind of.
“Well, if you won’t speak to me, I’m going to see how Carl is,” Melanie added, her tone deliberately sharp. “But sooner or later, you and I need to talk.”
“We will. Later,” Anthony replied, connecting to the Internet and hoping she’d leave him alone for however long it took to contact his old friends, the only other people who’d witnessed what he had so many years ago.
Even if combined accounts from many people were unable to exhaust a shared experience, he must try. Something strange was going on in Deepvale; he knew that now, if indeed he hadn’t always known it. That was why he’d rarely brought his family here, and why he’d always been uncomfortable about Carl playing out whenever they visited. On this occasion, his son had clearly left the house without Melanie’s permission, and he shouldn’t blame her. He and his wife certainly would talk later. But right now, he had to track down three significant people.
The first name he hacked into the search engine was Lisa Robinson. There were innumerable women on the Internet with the same name, but at the top of the list stood the only one that mattered to him: HORROR WRITER: INDEPENDENT PRESS, FILM SCREENPLAYS. Anthony clicked on the link and was transferred to a gothic-looking site whose kitschy music and flashing skulls chimed uncomfortably well with his location. He glanced up and heard a breeze creeping around the grove, but whenever he glanced that way, only shadows stirred beyond the windowpane…But he remained focused on the task at hand.
The author’s homepage offered a number of options, from which he selected the BIOGRAPHY section. The screen produced a passage of text, at the head of which stood a heartbreaking photograph: his old friend, now an adult, her face as pretty as he’d imagined it would be. He stared at Lisa for a long time, hoping Melanie wouldn’t return so soon. The simple truth was that the woman’s blonde hair and flawless complexion had aroused him. But then he moved on, clicking other options: a list of publications, a free sample of prose, and most usefully for his purposes, a CONTACT page.
He was relieved to discover that she’d provided not only an email address, but also a telephone number. She was based in York, a short drive from the village, which could be managed in a few hours. He jotted the telephone number on the same pad he’d used to leave a note for his wife earlier, and then returned to the search engine to hunt down his next target.
Andy Smith was an artist living in Liverpool, another location from which Deepvale was easily accessible. This knowledge encouraged Anthony, but he was disappointed to discover that only an email address was available and not a single picture of the painter. After examining a number of impressive, horrific portraits for which the man had clearly become notorious, Anthony fired off a quick missive:
Hi there, mate!
Long time, no see. I hope you’re well. Forgive the intrusion after all these years, but I’m hoping you’ll be willing to attend an informal get-together at my parents’ place back you-know-where. I know it’s short notice, but we’re hoping to do this tomorrow evening. Can you make it? Please say you can! We’ll have much to talk about, catching up and whatnot. With luck, I’ll get Lisa and Paul here, too.
Let me know by return mail ASAP.
Best wishes—
Ant(hony Mallinson)
Finally, he trawled for Paul Jenkins, locating him not directly by name but through the website of the rock band with which he performed these days: The Cthulhooligans. Anthony skipped several pages of information about this Manchester-based group and was relieved to find another contact telephone number. The group was clearly indie, relying on small gigs to pay its way. It was difficult for Anthony to pick out his old friend from a photo of four grungy dudes, but it was clear from several passages of text that Paul was their leader and invited direct enquiries.
Anthony couldn’t be certain the musician would be happy to receive a call from him, but he stood to grab the telephone anyway.
At that moment, Melanie returned from the spare room, and now he was in possession of some hope, Anthony felt contrite.
“I’m sorry about…that, love,” he said, struggling to hold his wife’s gaze. Then he glanced away—at the window, behind which elements tossed and skipped in a ruthless wind. “How is Carl?”
“He’s fine…under the circumstances,” Melanie explained, and seemed uncertain about what she meant. “What’s going on, Ant?”
Her husband had located the phone and held a sheet of paper on which he’d scribbled his notes. “I just need to make a few calls,” he explained, his voice flinty and determined. “Then I promise to tell you everything.”
She’d always trusted him; he’d rarely raised his voice to Carl in the past; his uncharacteristic behaviour must relate to something serious. Offering him the benefit of the doubt, she sat on the couch and picked up the wallet and purse to examine. As Anthony dialled a number, he seemed reluctant to observe what she was doing, but the only alternative was looking at that curious model on the table and that was even less appealing. Then the line obviously connected, and Melanie listened to her husband’s edgy words.
“Hello, is that Lisa?”
Another woman? But Melanie realised how foolish this thought was. She’d have known if anything like that was going on. Anthony might be habitually sullen and secretive, but he’d never conceal a relationship from her. Besides, he’d hardly call the third party in front of his wife, would he?
After some affectionate chitchat, Anthony told Lisa there was a party the following evening in this house, and asked if she could attend? After several more minutes, during which Anthony persuaded the woman with a charming manner Melanie had rarely seen him exhibit, he said, “Marvellous! See you then!” and hung up. Before Melanie could make any enquiry, however, he dialled again, reaching a man this time, someone called Paul. After a short chat, Anthony made the same request and was visibly cheered when the answer appeared to be a prompt affirmative.
Once her husband was free again, Melanie tried speaking, but that was when Anthony stooped to reaccess his laptop. A metallic ping registered an incoming email, and Anthony used the mousepad to unfurl it. The message had clearly brought good news, because then he turned to Melanie wearing a broad smile.
“Three out of three,” he said, clenching his fists in triumph. “I knew they wouldn’t let me down.”
“Who wouldn’t? What’s happening, Ant?”
“Okay, I should
explain.” He paced across and took her shoulders, presumably to offer an apologetic kiss. “I’ve just arranged a reunion. They’re all freelance artists, and were free to come over tomorrow evening. Is that okay with you? I’ll get beer and food from the local supermarket. A lot of the older people here yesterday will be pleased, too.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, and for some inexplicable reason felt afraid. It was growing darker outside, the wind blustering around. She was put in mind of all she’d experienced that morning. “Who’s coming, Ant?”
“My childhood friends,” he told her, but Melanie thought she’d already known. It was as if something larger than all of them had ordained this new development. And it was hardly necessary for him to add, “The only other people who witnessed what I did when my brother went missing fifteen years ago.”
TWELVE
After such a hectic day, they made up for missing lunch by eating chicken legs and sandwiches left over from the wake. The dog, which had slept all afternoon, devoured scraps they tossed her way, an impromptu game that had Anthony, Melanie and Carl laughing together the way they often did in their city apartment. No further conversation was necessary; they were a close family, always had been, and fractiousness rarely lasted long.
Settling in the lounge to catch some television before bedtime, they drew comfort from normality. Above the drone of the TV, a breeze felt at the curtained window and occasionally there was a sound of people walking in the grove, probably neighbours returning from work. None of this overruled their contentment, however, and after a movie in which the special-effects monster had been frighteningly convincing, Melanie said to Carl, “Come along, young man. Time for bed.”
Their son, closely shadowed by Lucy, kissed both parents and then strolled along the hall passage to the spare room.
Now there were only two of them.
Anthony stood from the armchair and removed the cigarettes he’d yet to touch today. Stress always made him want to smoke, but he’d been so preoccupied he’d moderated his habit. Nevertheless, with his wife gazing at him from the sofa, he felt as if he must do something with his hands. He plucked out a cigarette and lit it with the lighter he always carried in one back pocket. The first hit of nicotine felt like a physical assault.
“Should you be smoking in your parents’ home?” Melanie asked, seeking a way to begin the conversation they’d delayed for too long.
“I won’t do it often,” he replied, and drew again on the smouldering butt.
She thought for a moment, examining the mantelpiece, which appeared bereft of life, bearing only a few dusty ornaments in a row. “I thought you told the people who are visiting tomorrow that your reunion was a party of sorts?”
“I did. But let’s make it a housewarming, shall we?” When she didn’t immediately reply, he added, “Well, that is what you’ve been waiting to ask about, isn’t it?”
“No need to put it so bluntly.” Melanie felt as if Anthony had read her mind, and this was an uncomfortable sensation.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I agree that the apartment is too small and that this bungalow would suit us.” He hesitated and then switched off the TV, which had been babbling in the background. Now only the world outside was audible. “But what about our work? We’re both based at the university—it’ll be quite a trek from here each morning.”
“Oh, come on, Ant. You know that’s the least of our worries.”
He nodded, and then decided to change the subject. “Go on, then, ask what you need to.”
As he stepped across to the table on which their son had left that bizarre clay model, Melanie said, “Where did you go today?”
Anthony realised his wife had props in place for her next enquiry: the wallet and the purse she’d found in the spare room. He sighed and then let it all out, telling her about his suspicions and why he’d contacted Larry Cole. He described everything he’d been told by the historian and how this related to rumours that had always circulated in the village. Then he mentioned the man called Peter Suman, the “Conjurer” of local myth.
After he’d finished, Melanie looked at him, feeling startled.
“Hey, come on, Ant. I can’t believe a dyed-in-the-wool rationalist like you has fallen for such nonsense!” Nevertheless, she was mindful of all she’d experienced that morning, and her voice was cautious as she went on. “That stuff about collapsing time…about a God’s-eye view…well, even I can acknowledge the impossibility of that.”
“I agree. But surely that’s less worrying than the old guy’s name: Suman. It’s the same as that of the boy Carl claims to have…befriended.”
“Maybe that’s just some local lad having him on. You said yourself that gossip has always been rife in Deepvale. Schools are noted for this. Perhaps he’s just some devious sod trying to frighten Carl.”
“I considered that, actually. But…well, I’m not so sure.” Anthony rested one hand on that near-elephant, the clay cold to his touch. Then he gazed again at his wife. “Did Carl say where Suman lived?”
“Yep.”
He responded with a frown. “Well? Where?”
“Just don’t grow alarmed. Think first,” she instructed, and then drew breath to finish. “In that dark old house at the foot of this grove.”
The silence between them was supplanted by a riot at the window. Wind blew violently off the moors, and whatever shuffled beyond the curtains must have been conveyed by this torrid gust—surely just a few leaves on the garden path.
When a minute had passed and Anthony still hadn’t replied, Melanie spoke again. “What is it about that place, love?”
Her affectionate tone made him reply honestly. “It’s where…it’s where my brother vanished.”
After stubbing out his cigarette in a plate on the table, he told his wife what little he knew about Simon’s disappearance. How he and his childhood friends—Paul, Lisa and Andy—had been watching while his younger brother entered the building. How weird white light had assailed them, and how, when they’d refocused, the evening had been darker, as if too much time had passed. How, after returning home, it had been very late, and when Anthony’s dad had gone to look inside the property, there’d been nothing but shadow and sounds of movement without source. And how police had been called, but all to no avail. Simon was lost…forever.
There’d been no reason why the boy might run away, but he’d vanished anyway. Everybody had been cautious in Anthony’s company during the following few months. When he’d discussed that terrible night with his friends, one had recalled strange music, another just dazzling light, and a third could provide a vivid description of the experience. But none could offer anything helpful to authorities. And then the truth had struck the Mallinsons: their youngest member was missing, almost certainly dead.
Years had dragged by, during which Anthony had devoted himself to the study of psychology, which he’d encountered in counselling sessions as a grieving survivor. Later, all three of his childhood friends had moved from Deepvale when he had, but not for the same reasons. Each had been talented, and their later careers had nothing to do with the tragedy. But…but…
“But what, Ant?”
At last he picked up the clay model, brought it across to the couch, and then, on the verge of sobbing, sat beside Melanie.
“I don’t know,” he replied, perhaps the first time in his adult life he’d ever done so; he’d always prided himself on knowingness.
“Come here,” said Melanie, taking him in her arms to hug him tightly, as a mother might a child. The unsightly model dug into her side, but she drew him close anyway. “It’s okay, love. Don’t despair.”
There was a short pause, during which Anthony appeared to grow tense. Then, his voice muffled by her shirt, he said, “Don’t ask me that. I’ve…I’ve no idea.”
“Ask you…what?” she replied, easing him away.
Glancing up, he looked confused. “I was referring to what you just said.”
“But…I
didn’t say anything.” She had been thinking about asking a question, however: Why have you invited your childhood friends here? It was as if he’d just read her thoughts, and to settle her unease, she added, “Anyway, I don’t think you should have said that to me? It wasn’t very fair.”
“Me? What did I say?”
“You told me that I shouldn’t interfere, that this all happened before you’d met me, and that I should keep my nose out.”
Anthony was astonished. He could admit this cruel sentiment had crossed his mind, but he never would have expressed it. He respected his wife too much to say such hurtful things. But now she’d got inside his head, turning his thoughts inside out…It was a deeply unpleasant sensation.
He leaned back, pushed the clay model to one side. Then he stood again, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
“This is crazy,” he said, tears rolling down his cheeks.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s a difficult time for you.” Melanie was stirred by his uncharacteristic emotional display. “Do you miss your parents? I mean, you never…well, you never seemed close. But I suppose lots of families behave like that without lacking love.”
He glanced at her, wiping his eyes with each thumb.
“It’s complicated,” he explained, his voice firmer. “They were straightforward people, really. I’m not sure they understood me. But…I forgive them for that. They always looked after me…and Simon. We were loved.”
“Yes, but…well, there are no family photos here. That’s so sad.” Melanie refused to dwell on this, however. She switched her gaze from the featureless walls and returned it to her husband. “Tell me what your brother looked like.”
Anthony smiled, clearly warmed by his recollections. He’d obviously loved the boy a great deal. “He was smallish and stout. Dark hair. He had a mole on his upper lip and—”
