The River Dark

by Nicholas Bennett

  "But surely you would recommend the power of prayer," the policeman argued.

  "And what is prayer if it is not a form of meditation, John? Perhaps the power of prayer is synonymous with the power of self-hypnosis." The priest smiled at Maureen who had stiffened at the words. "As well as giving us the opportunity to focus on the Lord and give ourselves to him, it allows the time and meditative conditions required for self-hypnosis. Why is it, after all, that even the die-hard atheists pray in times of crisis?"

  Heaney shook his head and held Paul's hand. It was cold to the touch.

  "They turn to the act of prayer in order to galvanise a change for the better and where else to do this but in one's own mind."

  "But what you're saying goes against the idea of praying for- I don't know- your sick mother. It suggests that you are praying for yourself."

  "Or, that you're praying for the strength to be able to carry the pain of your mother's experience or to be a comfort in a time of grief and hardship. The act of hypnosis is a recognized way of bringing about a beneficial change. Giving up smoking, losing weight, anxiety management and stress. Does not prayer often bring about the same changes if the individual believes in the power of God enough?"

  Heaney looked at his wife once more. Her pinched lips continued to move in silent prayer. "What do you think, Maureen?"

  She moved her eyes away from her rosary beads long enough to nod to him and then returned to her catechism.

  "Alright," Heaney told the priest. "What do we need to do?"

  *

  2

  A familiar voice called to her in the darkness.

  She sat in the bunker, once more in complete darkness and thought of the corpse of the old woman only inches away. In her mind she was two versions of the same person: she was the little girl, at once afraid and fascinated by spiders, drawn to her beloved older brother despite his repellent behaviour, the beautiful little girl that was often called ugly names by the neighbouring children; she was the tall woman from the shop, proud and independent, at once ashamed and fiercely loyal to the memory of a father that was as kind as he was corrupt. Either way, the darkness bound them. Her dream self found the Zippo once more and flicked the wheel. Light that was beyond that given by the petrol flame filled the bunker but she saw that the coal bunker was gone. In the eerie yellow light she knelt on the damp floor of a tunnel. Echoing plops of water resonated through the tunnel along with the distant sound of running water.

  Mary stood up and brushed her damp-denimed/little girl's scabby knees. She looked around and saw that the tunnel stretched into the distance in both directions. The bowed walls bore testimony to manmade brickwork- in places crumbling away and poking through the slick-mossed surface.

  She felt the presence at her back and turned to see the boy's shadow streaking away from her around the far bend.

  "Hello," she called after the retreating form with the voice of a child and woman simultaneously. She was answered only by a shallow echo of her own voice. Nevertheless, she knew that she was supposed to follow.

  That was the way of dreams. There was no uncertainty.

  The woman/girl walked after the shadow, picking up her pace with each step until she was almost running. Brickwork and crumbling masonry passed by on either side and, at intervals, the walls opened out into further tunnels that led on to what she knew were more tunnels, a labyrinthine network going on forever in the darkness and decay that existed beneath the town. Once, she glanced to the right into the distant recess of a tunnel and something unspeakable seemed to become aware of her. She sensed a yellow, pulsating eye opening in the heart of the tunnels. Before she could look away a jaundiced arm snaked out of the darkness at her. It snagged her arm and she screamed as she continued to hurtle along the downward sloping passageway. The shadow was still there, just ahead, just out of sight, she was sure of it and, although the shadow scared her, she knew instinctively that it was a benevolent presence, unlike the figures that skulked and waited in the recesses, enslaved to the thyroidal, gelatinous eye that searched for her. She had to be quick, she knew that. She had to find the shadow that guided her to safety before she could be taken once more and locked in the dark place along with the corpse and the spider. She moved faster, vaguely conscious that she was not using her legs to move. She looked down at herself expecting to see her knee-high white socks/blue-jeaned legs pumping away but there was nothing.

  She was nothing but a thought. A figment of her own imagination.

  Freed of physical constraint she sped forward at an impossible speed until she was aware that she was no longer moving down but ascended the tunnel towards a pinprick of colour and at the heart of the colour a vibrating golden light. It grew with each passing thought until Mary was looking down on a room. The shadow drifted at the side of vision and she knew that this was the way out, this was freedom. To the left of the pulsing light, she saw herself, sleeping on a couch while several other figures faced each other.

  The shadow urged her forward but she stood firm appraising the situation. A patch of darkness within her being sucked at her, inviting her back into the comfort of oblivion, back to the place where it was alright to fantasise about the revengeful acts she could commit upon the scum that made her youth such merry hell, where she could eternally relive that no longer shameful moment of relief when her mother had finally succumbed to cancer. No more half-dressed in the street embarrassments, no more responsibility to pick up the pieces after a woman that had the selfishness of an infant leaving half-broken toys on the floor for others to trip upon, no more "uncle" kisses off pissheads with a penchant for leaving a lingering hand on pre-pubescent flesh, no more-

  The eye turned towards her.

  She felt its insane heat blasting at her back, drawing her back to it. The room before her began to dim. A fleeting movement to her left and she glimpsed the boy within the shadow.

  That good bad boy.

  The shadow placed itself between Mary and the fury of the eye. She felt its intensity increase and the boy screamed. She wanted to turn back to the boy-shadow, wanted to reach out to him but she felt cool hands in the small of her back, she felt-

  -the push-

  The room below regained its cohesion. She saw herself again. She saw a creature that vaguely resembled the nightmares that had waited in the tunnels to do the eye's bidding. Then two other figures entered the room and began to scream that silent scream along with the creature. Both had guns. As she watched one of them placed his rifle against the wall. She saw an unconscious form slumped in an armchair and two men staring at the creature and before the creature was the source of the light. A man called David.

  The light drew Mary into the room.

  3

  Paul's eyes flicked from side to side beneath his eyelids.

  "He's under," O' Brien said. Despite his earlier assurances, Heaney thought that the priest seemed nervous. Maureen sat next to Heaney on Andy's vacant bed and the priest sat on the bed next to Paul. Paul breathed easily and regularly. His face had relaxed it seemed and Heaney thought that he saw more colour in the boy's cheeks.

  "Paul, can you hear me?" O' Brien asked gently. The boy's face contorted into a frown and then became smooth again.

  "Yes," Paul said softly. Maureen let out a low moan and Heaney felt tears form instantly in his eyes. He wiped them and sat alert.

  "Everything is good here, Paul," the priest soothed. "Your mother and father are here to see you. Would you like to speak to them?"

  "Yes," Paul said and a smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. "Hi mom, hi dad."

  O 'Brien nodded encouragement at them.

  "Hello darling," Maureen managed.

  "Hello son," Heaney said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Paul smiled again but remained still with his eyes closed.

  "Now Paul, I want you to look round you. Can you do that?"

  "Yes."

  "Can you describe to me where you are?"

  "I'm in dad
's boat." He frowned and then added. "Sorry dad."

  "That's fine," Heaney croaked. "Don't worry."

  "Are you on the river, Paul?" O' Brien continued.

  "No, not really. I'm in a sort of cave. I'm floating towards a bank."

  O' Brien nodded thoughtfully. "Is there anything else in the cave that you can see?"

  "Only the beach."

  "The beach? Tell me about the beach. Paul."

  "It's like a beach but made of mud, not sand. There are lots of people on the beach. They don't know where they are."

  O' Brien shot a confused look at Heaney and Heaney shook his head. The priest had asked both parents to listen carefully to the details in order to access the symbolism of wherever Paul had hidden himself. In this way he could perhaps understand what he needed to say to lead the boy back to them.

  "Who are these people, Paul?" O' Brien asked.

  "People from the town," he said and then a look of fear passed over his features. The temperature seemed to fall; goose bumps broke out on Paul's arms; Maureen pulled the blanket up to Paul's chest. "They're all afraid," Paul whispered. "They don't know where they are."

  Heaney thought of the growing number of missing persons' photographs littering the incident rooms at Measton Station and shivered.

  "Do you know where you are, Paul?" O' Brien asked gently.

  "Beneath," the boy said, matter-of-factly and sighed. O' Brien looked from the boy to his parents again. Heaney noted the anxiety in the priest's eyes.

  "Beneath what, Paul?"

  "Beneath." Upon repeating the word, Paul squirmed and his face crumpled like it had done as a baby when he had suffered fromcolic. "I don't like it here! I don't-"

  "Hush, Paul, rest again," O' Brien soothed and put his hand on the boy's brow. Paul relaxed into a peaceful posture. O' Brien blew hard.

  "Strange," he said to the parents. "Where is he visualising? A cave with a kind of beach. Has he ever been cave exploring or potholing?"

  The Heaneys looked at each other and shook their heads. "He's never been anywhere like that," Maureen told him. O' Brien rubbed his forehead. He lowered his voice.

  "I don't like this," he said. "Wherever he is, it does not seem like a healthy place to hide. Why would he subconsciously choose to be in such an unpleasant place?"

  Maureen looked back at him wide-eyed. There was something close to medieval superstition bubbling beneath the surface of his wife's sanity and Heaney knew it.

  "Can we take him back to this afternoon, Father?" Heaney said. O' Brien frowned.

  "I'm not really sure that I-"

  "Please," Heaney insisted and the priest sighed. He turned back to the resting boy.

  "Paul. It's Father O' Brien again. Can you hear me?"

  "Yes."

  "I want you to leave that dark place-"

  The fear stole across the boy's features again.

  "I can't," he whispered. "They won't let me."

  "Who won't let you, Paul?" O' Brien asked firmly.

  Paul struggled and shook his head. "Can't," he repeated.

  "Tell me, Paul," O' Brien insisted. "Who holds you back?"

  "The dead," he whispered and shivered violently. Heaney felt his skin crawl.

  O' Brien put his hand over his mouth thinking. Decided, he spoke in a louder voice as though calling into a crowd.

  "I'm addressing whoever it is that is stopping Paul from leaving the cave! Kindly step forward and allow us to speak with you!"

  "What are you-" The priest held up a silencing palm and Heaney stopped.

  "Whatever you are, I command you to come forward and tell us why you are-"

  Paul's eyes flicked open and a knowing presence that was not that of a young boy regarded them humorously.

  "Fuck you, priest," it said. Maureen screamed in outrage that such filth could be directed at the clergy and from the lips of her own flesh and blood. The voice from within Paul was hoarse and experienced- the voice of an unpleasant old man. "Better still, why don't you fuck her?"

  Maureen clapped her hand to her mouth.

  "That's what she wants," it cooed. "You know it, she knows it, and we all know it. Do you know how wet she is when she kneels in front of you to take the body of Christos into her mouth? Do you know how much she wishes it was your cock-?"

  Maureen shrieked and ran out of the room. Heaney's mouth hung open.

  "Be silent!" O 'Brien roared at Paul's face. The young-old eyes regarded him coldly.

  "What's the matter, priest? Does the truth hurt? Or are altar boys more to your liking, eh?"

  The voice became an innocent falsetto. "What are you doing father? No, no, that hurts, it hurts-"

  "In God's name, be silent!" O' Brien shouted hoarsely. A chorus of laughter emanated from the boy: a shrill cackle, a filthy deep-throated laugh and a high-pitched scream chief among them. Paul no longer moved his lips, his mouth simply gaped. The intelligence had left his eyes too. A cultured voice replaced the old man.

  "God? Who was it said that he was nothing more than a concept for judging one's own pain? Marx?"

  "Lenin," a woman's cool voice responded.

  "Lenin? Surely not-"

  "No, Lennon, you cunt," the first voice, the aged voice cut in and laughed that leering, knowing laugh once again.

  A high sweet voice began to sing in the background. "Row, row, row your boat-"

  "Quiet, rat boy!" The cultured voice snapped.

  "-gently down the stream-"

  "Quiet or we'll slash their throats!"

  "Merrily, merrily, merrily-"

  "It's Andy," Heaney whispered. "That's my boy!" He looked at the priest, his mouth moving wordlessly.

  "Life is but a dream. Row, row-"

  O'Brien, who had been stunned into silence, noted the dangerous look around Heaney's eyes and was spurred into action. He took his crucifix from around his neck and placed it on Paul's neck.

  "Get that shit off me!" This time it was the haughty woman that snarled from Paul's mouth. The boy's eyes flickered briefly and closed.

  "-gently down the stream-"

  "Jesu, in your sweet mercy help us all," a man begged from the depths.

  "Fuck him and all the saints!" The first man screamed.

  "If you see a crocodile, don't forget to scream."

  O' Brien closed his eyes and began to recite The Lord's Prayer. In response, a succession of voices laughed at the priest. The diminutive Irish man looked at Heaney weakly. "Help me, John!' O'Brien urged. "Pray for your sons."

  John Heaney listened to the high sweet voice of his youngest son singing the song that they had sung together on their fishing boat since Andy had been old enough to say a few words, a song that now seemed to come from somewhere deep within his older son. Both of his boys now surrounded by foul mouthed corruption. Heaney began to pray. For the first time since he was a child at Church back in Bangor, he really prayed. He prayed to a God in whom- at that moment- he believed with absolute assurance was there. He had to be. If the Devil existed, then so must God. He held his son's clammy hand and joined in with Psalm 23.

  "And yea, though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil," they intoned.

  "Merrily, merrily, merrily-"

  The voices stopped in unison.

  Paul opened his eyes, focused, and looked at his father.

  "Dad," he said weakly. "This isn't about God. There's nothing you can do. You're fighting against yourselves. You should have left me alone."

  O'Brien opened his mouth to give thanks. Tears rolled down Heaney's cheeks

  "Paul-" Heaney began.

  "Good-bye, dad," Paul said and his pupils rolled back into his head.

  "Paul, Paul! No! My boy! Come back to me!” Heaney begged. “Please, I beg you, come back!"

  The voices exploded into the room.

  *

  4

  The rain continued to pour, allowing the river to creep further up

  Ash Road and invade the off-shoot roads and a
lley ways. A stream that ran through Greenfields had long since burst its banks and ran in a torrent into the trim gardens and driveways, sloshing against patio doors and cascading through cat flaps. Despite the flood warnings, no-one seemed prepared. Many of the homes were strangely unoccupied. A corpse floated down Riverside until it snagged and caught in the treetop that jutted out of the water, a stubborn leafy island. Teddy the ferry boy stared up at the starless sky with his one remaining eye. Teddy had met a gowned figure with whom Tom Saunders was all too familiar. Teddy had fulfilled his part. His mental faculties had proved to be too limiting even when controlled by others. On the sloppy mud of Ross's fields, the body of a young soldier twitched in the final throes of death. He had been shot in the chest by the man that had acted as best man at his wedding. The young soldier lay in his own blood wondering whether best man had found out about what he had been doing with best man's wife and then died. A helicopter flew over the town and hailed anyone that was on the streets. "RETURN TO YOUR HOMES OR YOU WILL BE TAKEN INTO CUSTODY!" The few that reacted at all disappeared into the town's nooks and crannies; the rest continued to amble through the disgusting night rain as though on a Sunday stroll through the park in August. The pilot was instructed to fly on. They could not stop. They were ordered to stay airborne no matter what they saw down there. Under no circumstances should they land. A woman crouched behind a tree in Fuck Forest, unaware that she was only feet away from the place where Patsy Bourne had been murdered, oblivious to all in fact except for the sound of the man that had been her camera man up until several hours before. At her instigation, Ken had gone to speak to a local youth- who had been standing quietly in a concrete bus shelter- about what was going in Measton that night. Ask him about the gunshots, Harriet had told him. While Ken spoke to the boy in the shadows of the shelter, she had made mental notes for her next news flash. The network had given her the green light to go on the late night update live. Ken would eat his words when he found himself escorting her up the red carpet to accept the prestigious plaudits and would then thank her for persuading him to march across the farmland of Measton and back into the town. Gunshots and screams pervade the air of Measton tonight as, despite the quiet move in to Marshall Law, the madness that has infected this sleepy little town continues to rise along with the water levels. The source of the gun shots is- as of yet- unknown but according to one youth- fill in the blanks with what Ken had found out. Only it hadn't been that simple. When Ken had re-crossed the road to where she had stood, hopping from toe to toe to keep warm, Ken was no longer Ken. Instead, he had opened his mouth and spoken in a harsh, disturbing rasp that had chilled Harriet enough to realize that she had better run. The young man that had waited in the shadows for a non-existent bus almost grabbed her as she fled past her colleague. She easily outran Ken but her cameraman was not alone now. Several times she had been cut off by vacant faced youths and once she had been shot at by a soldier with blood pouring down the side of his face. Stupidly, she now realized, as she cried silently and rocked against the base of a tree, she had thought that the forest would be a good place to hide. She felt as though she had walked into an ants' nest in order to escape ants. The forest was teeming with them. Some stood motionless, statues among the trees; others leapt out at her as she ran by their hiding places. Christ. How many of them were there? In the forest alone, there must have been at least thirty, although she may have ran in circles so perhaps there were less. When she thought she had found a good place to hide until the authorities came in and took control, she saw the familiar figure of Ken lurching through the undergrowth towards her. She had pushed her way through the harsh shrubbery and twigs, scratching hands and face as she went until she thought, finally, that she had lost him. She would begin to think that she was safe and then she would see him closing in on her once again. After several hours of this macabre version of Hide and Seek, frozen solid by her absolute fear and too tired to run any more, she hadn't even bothered to turn around when the branches behind her creaked and complained. Ken put a hand on her shoulder and began to whisper into her ear. Harriet Mason the roving, ball-busting reporter was soon no more. Harriet Mason. Infected with the River Madness. Measton. On Cornhill Road three women called at each house in turn like out of season carol singers and, on the few occasions that the doors opened to them, they opened their mouths in further parody of the Yuletide choristers and gave vent to the voices from beneath Measton. At 23, Cornhill Road, Claire Haines listened to the repetitive banging coming from her parents' room and squeezed her head under her pillow; her dresser was pushed up against the door and her bed was pushed up against that; there was no way anyone was going to get in to her room. No way. She told Jack Bermingham via text message what she had done. Jack had told her to do it.