by Tim Lebbon
“An orgy!” Andy whispered down. “Mrs Hopkins is being bonked by Rachel’s dad!”
“What? Really? Quick, let me have a look.”
“I’m only joking, dick features. Not much going on. The two oldies are sitting there talking. Jesus is still watching them.”
“So what were they so worried about?”
Andy rubbed the glass to see if he could get a clearer look. “Dunno. Hang on a minute.” Father Norman had turned away from Dave, and at first Andy thought they were having some sort of disagreement. But then he saw that both men were staring at a door in the far corner of the church, just to the right of the altar and all but hidden down several steps. The door was open, Andy was certain, otherwise it could not have looked so dark. The men weren’t talking, at least not so he could see. They were only looking. As if they were expecting something to come up out of the darkness any moment. Suddenly, Andy didn’t want to look any more.
“Let me down!” he said. As Stig unhooked his hands and Andy dropped, the last thing he saw was Father Norman leaning forward, holding his head in his hands. He thought it very unlikely that it was from the heat.
Besides, it would be nice and cool in the church.
“So what was it?” Stig asked, his chubby, burned cheeks puffing in excitement. He looked like a little boy now for sure, a frightened boy who wanted his mum and regretted ever having come in here.
“They were just chatting, but something’s happened alright. There’s a door they were looking at. They didn’t seem scared, just … upset.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Stig said, trying to act nonchalant as he kicked at a pebble on the path. “ I want to go scrambling. Cooler in the woods.”
“Cooler in the church,” Andy said, not really sure why.
“The woods,” Stig said. And obviously not taking ‘no’ for an answer, he headed off around the corner of the church towards the gate.
That was when they heard sirens in the distance.
“Someone’s dead in there,” Andy said, and as the words came out he knew them to be true.
Somehow, he knew.
Nightmare
He ran, because it was all there was for him to do. He had a target in mind – somewhere in mind, somewhere buried beneath the panic and agony, and the disbelief that his Wednesday could possibly have turned into this – but for now he could only run, and if his flight took him anywhere near his target, his plan, so be it. He could not slow down enough to think, nor lessen his pace to allow his brain time to plan his route. All sense of where and when had vanished when the fire-dogs chased him from the field.
He enjoyed physical labour, even on days like today. It was extremely hot, true, but what always kept him going was the promise of a cool evening sitting outside the village pub, getting slowly drunk with his girlfriend, maybe picking up some fish and chips from the takeaway on the way home, then sleeping with the windows open and letting the cool night air soothe his burned skin and aching muscles. The same the next day, true, and the day after that, but he rarely looked farther forward than the evening. No great ambitions stole his time, no real aims to get anywhere other than where he was now today. He liked his life.
Which made it worse knowing that he was about to lose it.
The dogs had come just after his mid-morning break. He’d already dug out most of the soakaway, and the rest of the day would be spent lining it and filling it in with pea gravel. Then the growls had come from the trees, accompanied by a sound like fire eating at old, dried leaves. He’d gone to investigate, of course, because a fire out here could be devastating. It had been a long hot summer already, with plenty more dry weather to come.
Another growl as he approached. And still that crackling sound of fire.
No smell. No heat. Just the sound.
And then they had come. Three of them, flaming visions leaping between the trees, and through the trees, not touching an inch of bark with their fire, leaving nothing behind but a dissipating heat-haze in the air. They came straight at him. Fire dogs, he thought, not knowing exactly what they were, nor where that idea had come from. He turned and ran.
Snarling, spluttering, their claws spitting contact with the already melting Tarmac, the roar of flames their growls, their barks explosions as pockets of air erupted around him. He’d felt the skin on his back stretching as the heat came closer, and he’d put on a spurt of speed. The fire dogs dropped back for a bit then, but not for long, because however much manual labour he did during the day he ate and drank far too much at night. He could feel his love-handles jiggling as he ran, and his stomach and tits, and even though he was running for his life—
--for his fucking life, from fire dogs, and just what the fuck were fire dogs when they were at home, and why him?—
--still he felt vaguely embarrassed.
He’d aimed for the village. He needed help, and if people saw what was chasing him maybe they could do something. With a drought and a hosepipe ban? he thought, and maybe the heat had got to him, he’d been working out in the fields for too long, the sun had cooked the skin of his neck and shoulders and arms, there were no fire dogs, he should have been wearing a hat because his brain had cooked and now he was witnessing what carbonised skull contents spewed out.
Through the streets. People had seen him and offered a smiled greeting, but he’d run on, looking back over his shoulder now and then to see the flaming red, orange, yellow hounds chasing him. Sometimes they passed the people, sometimes they went straight through them, but they seemed to do no damage. Two kids in the square watched him and one of them glanced up as the fire dogs passed by, as if sniffing something in the air or seeing something high up in the clear blue sky.
Then he was in the lanes again, alone, and he finally realised just where he had to go. The pond. The lake, it was called by the villagers, but it was little more than a puddle fed from an underground trickle, somewhere for young kids to gather frog-spawn and older kids to skinny-dip and fool around afterwards.
Help me, help me, he thought, and suddenly his plea for help flew on ahead ... because he hadn’t even seen the pond for a good few weeks, and it was just possible that it had dried up.
He ran. They chased. He dove over low hedges and dodged between apple trees, hoping that fleeing through one of the big orchards would slow them down more than him. The craziness of the situation barely even occurred to him, because escape and survival was at the front of his mind. Later, when he was sitting in the cooling evening outside the pub, he would look back and wonder just what the hell had happened to him today. He’d sit there with his fifth pint of Old Bastard, his girlfriend would gently touch the singed hairs on his arm, and he’d try to remember what the sun had done to him, what it had sent his way. Phantom fire hounds to chase him through the village and into the pond.
It could be dried up, like all those reservoirs on TV.
He was panting now, his chest hurt and his skin was slick with sweat. That made it cool at least; sweat being swept from his body as he ran kept some of the heat at bay, but every now and then the spitting and crackling would come that bit closer and he’d feel a shoulder blade or the back of a thigh heat up and blister.
And then the pond was there, and thank God for underground springs because it was over half full.
He launched himself straight in without pause. The water closed shockingly around him, winding him it was so cold, and he had sudden images of someone finding him floating here dead from heart attack. But he recovered quickly and held himself under the surface, hands wrapped in the weeds growing from the pond bed to prevent himself rising and offering his skin to the fire dogs.
Dogs, he thought, made of fire. He almost smiled. Almost. Because right then the sky above the pond lit up yellow, flames dancing in his eyes because the water blurred his vision so much. And any brief sense of victory or escape fled as the fire dogs came down into the water after him.
The coolness vanished, the heat came again, and it was suddenly hot
ter than it had ever been before.
He opened his mouth and screamed steam.
Two
The two boys sat on the village green and watched the peace destroyed.
An ambulance arrived first, just after the boys exited the churchyard and ran back to their bikes. Its siren wound down as it pulled into the square but the flashers still blinked, the blue lights looking cool in the hot air. Father Norman hurried out to meet the paramedics as Dave stood in the church doorway, but try as they might the boys could not make out what was being said. The two paramedics rushed past the vicar and into the church, carrying their little bags of tricks with them. The door swung shut closed and the square was silent once more.
“Let’s go and let the siren off,” Stig said, but Andy knew he was joking.
A few more people had noticed the disturbance now, and several village folk stood in open doorways or shadowed front gardens watching and waiting for developments. Few of them ventured out into the sun. Andy knew it would take something majorly exciting to lure them from the shadows; only kids enjoyed baking in weather like this. And mad dogs and Englishmen, if his nan’s wise words were to be believed.
Another ambulance flashed into the square, followed by a lone police car.
“Murder!” Andy whispered. “Bloody hell!”
“Just because there’s a police car it doesn’t mean there’s a murder.”
“’Course it does! If it was an accident the police wouldn’t need to be here. There’ll be fingerprint guys soon, and the forensics team to find out the time of death, and they’ll set up one of those tents so we can’t see in.” Andy’s mind flashed through all the police procedural TV shows he’d seen. “Hey … maybe we’ll see the deceased.”
Stig pushed Andy so that he rolled towards the dried stream. “What deceased, thickasshit? We don’t know that anyone’s dead.”
“Bet they are!” Andy spat on his hand and held it out, but Stig didn’t take the bet. Probably because he wishes I was right, Andy thought. He didn’t actually want anyone to be dead, of course – neither of them did – but if they were dead anyway then it didn’t count. And it would be so exciting! Enough excitement to last them the summer, at least. And he’d be able to tell everyone about how he’d looked into the church before anyone else arrived, and what he’d seen. The story, he knew, would grow. Perhaps not quite as far as Mrs Hopkins doing it after the fashion of the ram, but the scope was endless. Blood, he could say, I saw the blood! And the next day perhaps he’d recall the brains he’d seen splashed across the feet of the crucified Christ … although he’d have to be careful about that one because his mum was religious. Never went to church but prayed every night. Her own faith, she said.
The police were in shirtsleeves, and they didn’t bother wearing their hats. They both looked tired and hot and pissed off.
“Who’s been murdered?” Stig called. One of them glanced over and smiled briefly, the other did not even acknowledge the two boys.
The second team of paramedics stood beside their ambulance, preparing a bag of equipment but not going into the church. The policemen wandered over to chat to them, and then headed for the church gate as the heavy oak door opened.
One of the first paramedics hurried out and came down the steps ... and Andy saw that look on his face, too. The worried look, the adult look, the look Father Norman and Dave had aimed their way as they’d dashed into the church half an hour ago. “See?” he whispered to Stig. “Must be murder.”
The paramedic reached the policemen and shook his head. “Weird,” Andy and Stig heard him mutter, because the square was silent and the church was holding its breath. “Some guy’s been drowned in the crypt.”
“Drowned?”
The medic nodded, held his hands up, shrugged. “That’s what it looks like to me. Lungs are still full of water. And it’s as dry as a bone down there.”
“No pun intended, of course,” the second policeman drawled. He looked over at the two boys watching raptly from the green and motioned his colleague in closer.
The boys did not hear any more – the men began conversing in whispers – but they’d heard enough.
“How the hell can someone drown in a church crypt when there’s no water and it’s as dry as a bone?” Stig asked.
Andy shook his head. “Dunno. Hey, you think they’ll bring the body out soon?”
“They’ll have to investigate first,” Stig said wisely. “The body may be there for four, five days until the examine the area fully.”
“It’ll smell!”
Stig nodded slowly. “Yes, but these guys are used to it. They put black cream under their noses to stop the smell. I saw it in Silence of the Lambs.”
“Yeah, but …” Andy trailed off. Much as he knew Stig was talking bollocks, it did seem unlikely that they’d bring the body out this soon. And he knew it was for the best, because he didn’t really want to see a dead guy. Yet still, he felt a pang of disappointment.
One of the policemen walked across to them, wiping at the beaded sweat on his brow. . “You lads been here long?”
“Only half an hour!” Stig said quickly.
“Has someone drowned?” Andy asked.
The policeman’s face remained impassive. “There’s been a little accident with the workmen in the church, that’s all. You can run along now, lads. And don’t let me see you riding on the main roads without your helmets on!”
“We’re just going up to the woods, Officer,” Stig said, obviously pleased with his use of the word. “We wouldn’t want to get stung with a murder rap.”
“Well I’m glad to see you’re out in the fresh air instead of inside playing computer games,” the man said. He wiped at his forehead again and Andy realised that saw that he was really, truly disconcerted. His hand was shaking and his eyes kept flickering back to the church, as if the open belfry louvres were eyes glaring out over the village.
“How many workmen?” Andy asked, suddenly realising what the policeman had said.
“Now off you go, lads, no business for you hanging around here anymore. Take care in the woods. Don’t talk to strangers.”
“You said workmen,” Andy said again, but the policeman presented them with his sweat-soaked back and walked away.
“Multiple murder!” Stig said. “Cool!”
They left the square slowly, stopping every few feet to fiddle with their tyre pumps, test the tyres, tighten the chains. They had to stand in close to a garden wall to make way for a second police car, and when they looked back they were waved away again by the sweating policeman.
“Come on,” Stig said at last, “it’s cooler in the woods. We can come back for a look later.”
“But how does someone drown in a church?”
Stig was already pedalling away from him, and Andy only heard a muttered ‘dunno’. He caught up with his friend and they made their way slowly out of the village.
After arriving in the woods, they very soon discovered that their hearts were not really in it. They spent an hour kicking through bushes, climbing an old dead tree and scrambling along a dried-up stream bed, and then the boys decided to make tracks for home.
It was hotter than ever when they left the woods and free-wheeled back down to the village. Hotter than hell, Andy’s nan would say. Colder than a witch’s tit in winter. Daft as a brush. Perhaps sayings like that were something you collected as you grew older. Andy tried to think one up to start his own collection, but he could only come up with ‘frightening as fire’. It was quite good, he supposed, but he hoped he’d never have cause to use it.
Just as they passed the first thatched cottage squatting at the edge of the village, the screaming began.
Seconds later, somehow worse, it stopped.
Nightmare
Sometimes she can remember them. Their nightmares provide intermissions in her own, oases of mere dread in a desert of utter horror. She welcomes these memories when they come along, although it seems that they are appearing less and
less lately, as if time itself is wearing them away like pebbles in a stream. The stream is her own nightmare, the pebbles those horrors she has taken. Soon they will be sand, and then nothing, and then she will be left in her own awful limbo, alone forever.
They always came in the mornings. Their expressions were always the same: eyes wide and empty; faces drawn and tired; shoulders drooping in dejection. To visit her was always their last resort because they knew what she was, and so she always saw them at their worst. Some were proud, some bitter. Many were as scared of her as of their own nightmares … but they were all, every single one of them, utterly desperate.
She had always known that they would destroy her in the end.
The one with water was an old woman, someone who had spent her years raising children and working in the fields, and her body was small but wiry, her face haggard but strong. Until the fluid nightmares took her … coming with neither rhyme nor reason, because the most water she had ever seen was the village pond. “Mengezah, I need your help,” she said.
Mengezah knew that already – no other reason for the old woman to visit her – but she sat and nodded and let the woman tell her story.
“I dream of water. For months now, months, every time I slip into sleep my mouth fills and I’m being held down.” She looked away from Mengezah and stared off into some liquid distance, her eyes widening, her face stretching as disbelief and fear took hold. Fear, perhaps, of where she was now. “I struggle, I thrash, but I can’t reach far enough to touch whatever’s holding me. It has no face, it has no body. Just arms, around my neck and on my chest and down between my legs, holding me down until the water fills me and I … become the water.”
“Every night?” Mengezah asked.
The old woman looked back at her and this time held her gaze. Not many people could do that, or would, and the woman rose in Mengezah’s estimations. She’d obviously had a hard life, and it had made her hard. So sad that dreams could be her undoing.
“And you wake every morning fine and untouched. So live with it.”
