The River Dark

by Nicholas Bennett

  "We made them ourselves," Andy said with pride. Whoopee-fucking-do, Damien thought and handed the rod back to Paul. Paul took it and leaned it at an angle over the side of the boat while he reeled in the driftwood wondering what had inspired him to ask Damien along. He didn't even like the other boy that much; all that they had in common was that they lived in the same road and occupied some of the same classrooms at school. Damien reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the battered packet of ten cigarettes that he had filched out of his mother's handbag that morning. "Smoke?" he asked Paul.

  Paul glared at Damien. "No thanks. I don't."

  No, of course you don't, Damien thought. Probably afraid your daddy would arrest you.

  "Bollocks," he said and Andy snorted. "They're soaked through anyway." He tossed the red and white packet on to river in disgust. Paul was instantly livid.

  "Why the hell did you do that?"

  Damien smirked at the other boy.

  "Fucking fish it out!" Paul demanded. Damien saw something in Paul's eyes that led him to reason why, although he was a Billy-No-Mates at school, he didn't get picked on either. There was something about that look that made even the worst of Measton High's bullies wary.

  "Alright, alright," he said. "I'll get it."

  The cigarette packet had met the flotilla of vegetation and was almost within arm's length. Damien got onto his knees and reached out to the crumpled cardboard. As he did so, he noticed more of that wild grass waving around among the twigs and branches of the flotsam. At the central point a hollow reed jutted out of the water. A spray of noxious smelling water from the tip of the reed touched his face. He grimaced and wiped his eyes. There was a pale object amid the bracken. What? Damien leaned closer to the water until his nose almost touched the water.

  The woman in the water opened her eyes.

  The boy threw himself back into the boat causing it rock dramatically.

  "Ey up!" Paul shouted. "Be careful! What the fuck are you doing?"

  There was no response from Damien Dean. Andy stood in the boat looking down at the older boy, his mouth open in wonder. Damien had curled himself into a ball and whimpered like a dog in fear, his eyes wide and staring like a crazy horse.

  "Damien? What's wrong?" Paul asked and squatted next to him. Something knocked against the boat from beneath- another branch probably- and Damien screamed.

  "Come on, Damien,' Paul said, a little more of an edge to his voice. "You're frightening my little brother! Tell me what you saw or stop fucking around!"

  Damien shook his head wildly, staring over Paul's shoulder onto the river beyond. He gibbered nonsensically. The words home and please, were all that Paul could make out. Behind him Andrew Heaney burst into tears.

  "What's the matter with 'im, Paul? Why is he looking like that? Why is he so scared?" Andy sounded terrified too and Paul felt the beginnings of cold fear in his belly.

  "It's nothing, Andy," he soothed and grabbed the oars, his fishing gear cast to one side. "He must have a-"

  Another knock against the boat, at the side this time though. This time Paul jumped too.

  "-a kind of phobia about the water,” Paul continued. “Don't worry, we'll take him home." Paul managed to keep his voice calm for the sake of his brother but inside his stomach was clenched and his heart beat hard. He began to row, slowly at first but soon felt himself speeding up. Andy crouched next to the foetal Damien and looked from Damien to his brother's back casting occasional glances at the river. Damien had closed his eyes tightly and occasionally moaned. The boat picked up speed and- with the current- was soon speeding away from the trees.

  As Paul rowed, occasionally comforting his brother with reassurances that everything was going to be alright, despite the disturbing mewls that came from Damien Dean, he thought of his father's words of warning and, even though he had no idea of what had spooked Damien so badly, wished more than ever that he had heeded John Heaney's advice.

  Thub, thub.

  Again the knocking noise from the sides of the boat. Paul leaned far to the left to see the cause of the noise. As he did so, he felt a force grip the blade of his oar. Before he knew what was happening the oar was ripped from his grasp, hard enough to chafe the skin of his palm. What? That couldn't be right. It felt almost as though it had been pulled into the water.

  "There's something in the water, Paul, there's something in the water!" Andy wailed. "It's going to get us!"

  Paul automatically turned to his brother to comfort him. "Don't be silly, Andy. It's the current that's-"

  The other oar was violently wrenched across Paul's palm and sucked into the water. He looked at the splintered graze on his hand in amazement. Andy screamed: "I told you, I told you! It's gonna get us! We never should have come! Dad said-"

  "Just shut up, Andy!" Paul shouted at his brother. "There has to be a logical explanation." We're stranded, he thought and quelled the panic that threatened to overwhelm him. Once again, having the responsibility of a younger brother saved him.

  "No. No. No," muttered Damien and pulled his knees up to his chin.

  Paul beckoned to his baby brother to come and sit next to him in the centre of the boat. Andy did as he was told. Paul took his hand and looked at his brother seriously.

  "Now listen," he said. "You know that flood water creates strange and unpredictable river currents, don't you?"

  Andy stared back wide eyed.

  "Don't you?" Paul persisted. Andy nodded; it was true, their daddy had told them so. "And those currents can be very, very strong, can't they?" Nod. "Well. I think the oars have been caught in a small but powerful whirl pool and-"

  Thub. This time near the prow. Andy visibly jumped. Paul held his hand.

  "And those things banging against us-" he continued, "are branches and things, all dislodged from the river bank by the strong flood currents."

  Tears ran down Andy's filthy cheeks creating clean tracks but he nodded at his older brother.

  "Good," Paul said to the younger lad, "now wipe the snot off your face."

  They drifted towards the weir, the rear end swinging to the right. "What now though, Paul? What about him?" Andy nodded at the comma shaped Damien behind them.

  "Okay," Paul answered assertively. "We are going in the right direction. When we get a little closer we need to cause the boat to veer off to the right of the weir. This is possible because of the run off towards Mason's Mill, do you remember?" Andy didn't but nodded any way. "Once we get over there, we can pull ourselves back to land using trees." He thought for a moment. "In fact, the water is very shallow there so- if the worse comes to the worse- I can get out and pull us out of the water. Okay?" He smiled at his brother.

  Andy nodded. "Okay." He wiped his face again. "But what about him?"

  Paul looked again at Damien whose eyes darted around the lip of the boat never focusing on one area for more than a second. "I don't know," he said. "We might have to get help." Paul looked at his brother. He knew what help meant- it meant adults and that meant trouble for all of them. God, they were going to be in so much-

  Thub.

  Paul's attention was drawn to his left by a change to the sound of the water closest to the boat. A mud streaked hand reached out of the water and placed spidery fingers on the edge of the boat.

  There was a band of gold on the third finger.

  Paul screamed and staggered away from the hand to the other side of the boat causing it to rock dangerously, almost spilling the three of them into the river. Andy saw the hand and the arm and the crown of the woman's head as she began to pull herself out of the river. Her other hand slammed against the boat- Thub- and she began to rise. The younger boy passed out and slumped against Damien who stared at the yellow hand and chewed at his own lips.

  Paul's shriek skimmed across the water and around the snaking bends of the river until it reached the Old Bridge. Then it sank along with everything else.

  5

  John-o was awoken by the pebble that cracked his
bedroom window pane.

  "Fuck's sake," he muttered and sat on the edge of his bed. He looked at the clock; it was lunchtime. Who was disturbing him at this ungodly hour? He peered through the smeared windows onto the garden that he and Sean used as a bottle depository and on to the bald spot that Tom Saunders still denied having. Tom looked up at him and gestured wildly for John-o to let him in through the back door. He threw on his dressing gown and took the stairs in three bounds. Tom had gone missing on the night of the hospital riot. He- along with the rest of the secure wing- was being pursued by the filth to help them with their enquiries.

  The back door glass was frosted, enabling John-o to see Tom's vague outline waiting on the other side. He paused. What if he was like some of the others that had gone mad? What if he was coming for his old mate John-o? Strange things were afoot as they used to say. Sean had not been back for days and he wasn't the only one to have disappeared. He had spoken to Short Pete, his vertically challenged dope dealer last night and Pete had told him that he was going away for a while; things had gotten decidedly creepy. He said old Terry Pritchard had been hammering on his door all evening and every time Pete opened the door, Terry just stood there with his eyes rolled back to the whites and his mouth open so wide- Pete said- the top two-thirds of his head could easily have fallen off. He had the madness, Pete said and told John-o he was sorry but he had things to pack. In short, Short Pete was going away indefinitely.

  And then there were the Mary Morans- there had been no announcement about her disappearance. Dave Weaver had called him the previous evening to apologise for not making it to Rennick. Weaver clearly hadn't heard about the mental hospital at that point so John-o had filled him in on what he knew, relishing the weirdness of the story he was telling. Weaver had listened quietly and then told John-o of his own adventures that evening. No wonder Weaver had sounded unsurprised by John-o's sensational account of the massacre at Rennick; Weaver had experienced the madness- as the dope circle was calling it now- at first hand.

  How did he know whether or not Tom was alright? He had, after all, already been gripped by a type of madness with Phillips. Fuck's sake. He was going to burn that motherfucker alive.

  "Is-er-is that you, Tom?" He ventured through the glass.

  "Of course it is, you fuckwit!" Tom snapped. John-o smiled confidently. That was Tom alright. He unlocked the backdoor and let his friend in to the house. Tom shivered rubbing his hands together as he went into the kitchen, commented on the state of the sink ("Have you got fucking animals living here?) and filled up the kettle.

  Tom rinsed out two cups to his satisfaction and placed a tea-bag in each before putting a pile of sugar in the bottom of each cup. "I need a shower or- better still a bath- have you got a clean towel? No of course you haven't. Fuck's sake."

  John-o grinned happily at his friend.

  "What the fuck are you grinning about?" Tom demanded.

  "And to think," John said, "I was worried that it wasn't you."

  *

  6

  "Prepare yourself," Collins warned. He nodded at Heaney who activated the playback facility.

  Weaver heard the hissing- the white noise, he had thought at the time- that had accompanied the surveillance tape they had watched only louder this time. Twenty seconds passed and nothing changed. He looked at Collins inquisitively when the whispers began with a cultured, crooning.

  "She wanted it…yes she did…we know it's true." The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and something dropped in his stomach. "They all do…sluts…every one of them."

  The rage in the scream that cut across the whisperer caused Weaver to physically jump. "SHE WAS A FUCKING WHORE! They're all fucking whores!" A wild giggle emanated from the speakers and filled the room. At that moment, Weaver thought he knew what it would be like to spend time in a room full of snakes. A mournful voice in the background prayed. "In the name of the father, the son and-"

  "Fuck him, fuck them both," a woman stated coldly and broke into a wild cackle. The praying voice began to sob. The whisperer returned, cajoling: "I know, I know. She was the start of it all, wasn't she? She took her tender breast away from you and would not let you have it again."

  "BITCH! FUCKING BITCH! THEY'RE ALL THE SAME! THEYAAAAAHH!"

  Then a childish, playful voice drifting through the ranting, whispering, cajoling, praying insanity: "Weeeeeeeeeeeeee-ver! Weeeeeeeee-"

  "What the fuck is this?" Weaver said breathless with panic. "Who the fuck would mess around like this? Why-?" The world swam out of focus. Heaney was at his side looking into his face.

  "Weeeeeeeeeeeeeee-ver!"

  Heaney’s voice dim and distant: “He's having a panic attack!"

  "Weeeee-"

  "KITINYOUREYESTICKITINYOUREYE-"

  Collins reached over and shut the stereo off. In the silence, the echo of the obscenity they had heard lived on. Heaney put his hand on the back of Weaver's neck and gently pushed his head forward towards his knees.

  "Slow and deep," the policeman said.

  Weaver breathed hard.

  "Why would it call my name?" Weaver demanded, looking at Collins in desperation. Collins frowned.

  "What do you mean, David? Your name?"

  Weaver looked at Heaney and back to Collins. Both men looked blankly back at him.

  "You must have heard it," Weaver stammered. "It called my name. The child or whatever it was."

  Collins shook his head. "John?"

  Heaney shook his head slowly. "I didn't hear a child on the tape or anyone calling your name."

  Weaver put his head in his hands and tried to slow his palpitating heart.

  "Believe me, David, I would have heard it. I drew the short straw. I'm the poor bastard that had to transcribe it."

  Weaver stared at the Detective Sergeant.

  "And that last thing- before you turned off the tape," he said quietly. "Did you hear that?"

  "The stick it in your eye man?" Collins asked.

  Weaver nodded. "I've heard that before."

  "So have we, David," Collins said, "and that's probably the one reason Heaney considered your testimony to be of value to us."

  He paused and drained his coffee. "When we listened to that tape we realized that we were no longer in the realms of conventional police work," he said. "When we heard that stick it in your eye bit, we knew that the enemy was real."

  Weaver looked at the older man through blurred vision.

  "You see- the voice on the tape is using the charming catchphrases of a serial killer from the late 1960's. We never caught him. Never got anywhere near. Probably be different nowadays with forensics but the point is, the killings stopped of their own accord. The perpetrator of those attacks was long ago presumed dead. Thank God. He had enjoyed nine months of going around the area kidnapping, raping and torturing young women. What he said on the tape there was his calling card, usually written in the victim's blood."

  Heaney said: "He also had another peculiarity that set him apart from other serial killers. He used to take their eyes and eat them."

  Collins sighed and shook his head.

  Heaney added: "The voices seem to be justifying his crimes. Taking his part somehow."

  Weaver shook his head in confusion- the room seemed to shift, everything seemed off-kilter.

  "But why would they speak to me? Why would they call to me? Why couldn't you hear it?"

  Collins studied Weaver thoughtfully. "I don't know that, I'm afraid. If, of course, that particular voice was there at all."

  Weaver sat up abruptly. "So you think that I made that detail up, do you, Mister Collins?"

  Collins spread his fingers in a conciliatory gesture. "We have to consider all possibilities," he said.

  Weaver got to us feet. He felt shaky and the earth beneath his feet felt insubstantial. I'm losing it, he thought and then, who wouldn't lose it? "This is too much for me, Mister Collins," he said. "I've got to get out of this place, this town. It's driving me insane." He lurched towa
rds the door. Got to get outside, he thought.

  "Mister Weaver. David." Collins' voice was maddeningly calm.

  "No. I'm finished. I have to get back to-"

  "David-"

  "-Brighton. I have a life there and things to do. Good-bye. Good luck."

  On the verge of letting Weaver go, Collins had a moment of intuition. "Who's to say that it'll leave you in peace there, David?"

  Weaver stopped and turned back to the desk. "What do you mean?"

  "Why don't you tell us what happened in Brighton before you came up here," Collins said gently. Heaney looked at his superior, mystified. "I gave them a call earlier," Collins explained. "Just a whim really."