Dark Tales From the Secret War

by John Houlihan

  It were last winter, when it were proper raining all up and down the country, and they found that thing washed up on a riverside in America. Reckon there were things washed up on riversides here an all. It were raining that afternoon in Maths and it’d been raining all day and all day before. Proper solid rain, thick grey sheets of it, and a thick grey fog rolling down from off the moors too. Thick brown rivers rolling the gutters, the rivers in town all brown and boiling — no, I wouldn’t be surprised if summat pink and clawed and grinning’d appeared on the high street first thing in morning.

  So in Maths, I were doodling in my book like usual, and Mr Wilmarth were explaining summat at the board, and I were doodling, I dunno, like lightning bolts or a skull or a dagger, and like a muppet I got so involved in it I didn’t realise Mr W had come over to my desk and were standing over me. He’s okay, I suppose, for a teacher, but if he’s mardy with you he lets you know about it. I were ready for the usual line about concentrating on my work and Mr W started giving it, but then he stopped, and then there were just a long pause, and I noticed one of the girls across the room staring over at where Mr W were stood behind me, staring as if she’d seen summat alien. I shifted and looked behind me at Mr W. He were froze on the spot, breathing carefully through his nose, fists clenched by his side. Teachers look a lot of things, you know, but I’ve never seen one look scared before.

  “Yalreyt sir?” I said.

  “That,” he said, pointing at my book. “Jordan, what is that?”

  I couldn’t tell what he were looking at.

  “Dunno sir,” I said. “Just — er — a picture —”

  He grabbed my book, tore out the page, folded it and put it inside his jacket. He glanced around the room, then went to the window and looked out. Still bouncing it down. Just the outside of the school, the road, the hills going down to town, hills other side of the city, distant moors of the peak —

  “Stay after class Jordan,” Mr W told me, and went back to the board. He’s like the oldest teacher at the school. Reckon he must be sixty at least — he’ll probably retire soon. Wears a grey tweed jacket and he’s got a sharp grey beard and thin grey glasses. If you say summat daft he looks over the top of them at you and says nowt but makes you feel the size of summat on a pinhead. Year 7s are scared of him. Even the lads in my year, Year 11, don’t backchat him. But like I say, now he looked scared, and I reckon that scared us, and when the bell went — end of lesson, end of day — everyone shuffled out, whispering, and glancing at Mr W. I stayed where I were. Mr W were sat at his desk, rubbing the front of his beard and gazing out the window. Then he glanced up. The door were open and he told me to close it. I did, and stood near his desk, waiting. Mr W got out the page of my book and spread it on the desk in front of him.

  “Now,” he said. “This here — this creature. What is it?”

  Doodle of some alien or other, thing with wings and tentacles sitting on a rock —

  “Dunno sir,” I said. “Honest. Things just come into my head. You know I don’t always get Maths — I drift off — I mean —”

  He waved a hand. “That’s not important. What’s important is this. Are you telling me you don’t know what it is, this thing you’ve drawn?”

  “No sir. No idea. It’s just a doodle.”

  “Have you ever drawn anything like it before?”

  “Dunno. How —”

  “Listen to me,” he said, giving me that look. “Think. It’s a fairly elaborate sketch, don’t you think? More detailed than the usual nonsense. Look at it. Seems to me if you’d seen it before, you’d know. You’re not stupid, Jordan.”

  “Suppose,” I said, but really I didn’t like his tone, and he were starting to freak me out.

  “Suppose isn’t good enough. Listen to me. I need you to look through your sketchbook — on your computer, too — do it tonight. Do you understand? As soon as you get home. Don’t talk to anyone about this. If you find any more images like this one, bring it to me. Wait —”

  And he did summat I weren’t expecting. He pulled the plastic liner out of the bin, grabbed the page off the desk, pulled a Zippo lighter from his jacket, and set light to the page. He let it burn — let the image of the alien burn — and dropped it in the bin, where it smouldered away. Did all this saying nowt. Then he looked up at me. He’s gone mad, I were thinking. Proper mad. What the hell?

  “That’s what you need to do,” he told me. “If you find any other images like that one, destroy it. Burn it. If it’s on your computer — well, delete it, and then empty the recycle bin. Do you understand? This is important. That image is — well — it’s —” He stopped, took a deep breath. “Never mind. You destroy any more like it, then see me tomorrow. See me anyway, even if you didn’t find any more like it. This is important. Do you understand?’

  * * *

  I told him I did understand, just so I could get the hell out of there. Freaking me out, like I say. All way home I were thinking, Okay, do I see the principal about it? Mr Wilmarth’s gone nuts, ranting about destroying images, setting fire to stuff in the classroom? It were proper strange. But the principal weren’t a decent bloke — all us reckoned none of the teachers liked him. And I suppose what you need to know is there were no one at home I could ask about it.

  Mum were in her chair as usual, yellow blanket over her knees, curtains drawn — well, it were still belting it down outside, but she’d’ve drawn the curtains even if it were dead sunny and nice. She were listening to her record as usual too, and the photo of her and dad were looking down on us from the shelf. I made mum her tea and washed the pots and then went to my room and sat at my desk thinking. Then I got my sketchbook — it were on the desk, ready for art in the morning — and flipped through it. Couldn’t see any sketches of winged, tentacled creatures sat on rocks, rocks carved with weird hieroglyphics. But that weren’t the only sketchbook I had.

  There were a knock at the door then. I looked up. We hardly ever had visitors. And if we did, I knew they were coming.

  I went downstairs. The door to the front room were open — I could hear the needle scratching at the end of mum’s record — so I closed it, and went to the front door. Opened it, and there on the doorstep were two men. It were still raining, and the shoulders of their raincoats and the brims of their hats were damp, and there were a shiny black car on the road, third man at the wheel, watching. One of the men were taller and broader than the other, and he stood a little in front, and he said “Good afternoon,” in this flat southern accent. “Jordan Turner?”

  “Er — yeah,” I said.

  “Do you mind if we come in? It’s a little wet out here.”

  “What’s this?” I said. “Who are you?”

  He smiled, flashed some sort of ID badge at me. “LEA,” he said. “We’d just like to ask you a few questions —”

  “What sort of questions?”

  But he were bigger than me, and before I knew it, he were stepping past me, into the hall, the other bloke following.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. The rain were coming in, and I closed the door. I turned and they were looking around, not that there’s much to see in our house.

  “Hang on,” I said. “You can’t just —”

  “A cup of tea would be fine,” the taller man said. “Black. My colleague will have his black, too.”

  He smiled. It weren’t a friendly smile.

  The smaller one hadn’t said anything. He were looking at the closed door to the front room. I didn’t want them disturbing mum, but in the end they showed themselves down to the kitchen. I followed, and put the kettle on. They were still looking around, as if for something in particular. The smaller one’s eyes fell on the single plate and pair of cutlery on the draining board. He glanced at the other one, nodded, and wrote something in a notebook.

  I gave them the black tea, and they sipped it noisily, and the taller one made a satisfied noise — ‘Aaah.’ He set the mug down carelessly and tea slopped out on the side. He ignored this, a
nd took off his hat — thin sandy hair, which he raked through with a big hand, and ugly acne scars on his forehead — and looked right at me: “Now. Questions, as I said.”

  * * *

  They asked me a whole load of questions, like my date of birth, and where dad were, stuff about mum, where I went to school. I lied and fudged every one. I didn’t know who these men were, but I didn’t like them, and the only thing that stopped me calling the police were this uneasy sense that it somehow wouldn’t end well. They even went into the front room, where mum were asleep now, and I thought they’d wake her up and quiz her too, but they didn’t. The smaller one picked up the photo of mum and dad — it were from before I were born, when dad were still around — and looked at it for a long time, then set the photo down again.

  Finally they left.

  “Well, thanks for your cooperation,” the taller one said. “And for the black tea.”

  The other one touched the brim of his hat.

  I made double sure I’d locked all the doors and windows that night. I got mum settled down and pulled the yellow blanket over her, and went to bed mesen. But I couldn’t sleep. A slice of moonlight came in past the blind and outside somewhere in the neighbourhood a dog barked and barked.

  * * *

  In’t morning it were still pelting it down, and I set off for school with my hood up and boots on. There were some lass hanging around end of the road, fit lass in tight jeans and boots like mine and a big yellow anorak. “Ayup,”’ she said as I passed.

  I glanced back. “Ayup.”

  “Keep walking,” she said.

  I did. Said nowt else.

  “See you had some visitors last night,” she said.

  Now I stopped. “Eh?”

  “I told you to keep walking.”

  We walked. “Goons in macs and trilbys?” she said. “Black car?”

  As she said that, a black car passed on the other side of the road. I weren’t sure if it were same one, mind —

  “Jesus,” the girl said. “Keep walking.”

  “Who are they?” I asked her.

  “Don’t know,” she said. “But they’ve been to see me twice now, and they’ve been hanging round the whole city ever since this rain started. I went up to Firth Park, and they’re round there too. Or others like them.”

  “Maybe there’s a factory, makes creepy blokes in raincoats,” I said.

  She looked at me. “Don’t joke.”

  I stopped again, and looked at her. “What you mean? What you saying?”

  “What do you think I’m saying? You can’t reckon they mean anything good, can you?”

  I looked around me, at the murky rainwater rushing in the gutters —

  “Wait a minute,” I said. I got out my sketchbook and a pencil, and quickly drew out the winged creature, and held it in front of her — “You ever see anything like this?”

  She didn’t say anything. But I knew she recognised it.

  “Give me that,” she said, tearing out the page and ripping it up. She dropped the pieces into the gutter. The water carried them away.

  “Who are you?” I said. “What’s all this about?”

  But she’d started walking off.

  “We shouldn’t be seen together,” she were saying.

  * * *

  I were in it up to my neck by that point, only I didn’t know it. I wonder if there were anything I could’ve done. Probably not. It went back decades, to the war, longer —

  We’d been reading about the Sheffield blitz in history. Two nights. December 1940. Full moon. Hell and fire raining down on the city —

  I watched the lass go. I’d not seen her before. Didn’t go to my school. But I were still thinking about her when I got to school mesen, and found my mate Kyle in art. I were a bit late — from hanging round on road talking to strange lasses in yellow anoraks, intit — and Kyle’d already got his clay out. I were so busy telling him about the two men, and the black car, and the lass in the yellow anorak, I weren’t paying attention to what Kyle were doing. But when I did notice, I stopped and stared.

  Wings. Tentacles. Perched on a rock. He’d got a sculpting tool, one with sharp hook on end, and were scratching words into the rock —

  Cthulhu fhtagn

  — now what the hell did that mean? Kyle noticed me staring and put down the tool. “Now then,” he said.

  I pointed. “What’s this?”

  He looked. Shrugged. “Dunno,” he said. “Just an idea. Miss Giger said do what I like, just to shut us up —”

  I didn’t like any of this. What were this winged, tentacled creature that kept popping up? What did Cthulhu fhtagn mean? I got my phone and googled it — nowt. No matches. I were about to explain to Kyle, but Miss Giger said she’d split us if I didn’t shut up and put my phone away, so that were that.

  At lunch I went to find Mr Wilmarth, thinking reyt, he’s gonna tell me what all this is about or I’m going to the principal. He looked relieved to see me. Then, when I told him about the men, the lass on the road, Kyle’s clay sculpture, alarmed.

  “This is serious Jordan,” he said, going to the door, looking out along the corridor, and closing it. He faced me. “Where is Kyle now?”

  “Dunno sir. Canteen?”

  “Call him.”

  “Sir?”

  “You’ve got your phone, haven’t you? I said call him.”

  I tried, but Kyle weren’t answering. I looked at Mr W and shrugged. He stood, thinking. He looked at his watch. Then he looked directly at me.

  “Jordan,” he said. “Can I trust you?”

  “Sir?”

  “Never mind. There’s no time.”

  He were reaching in his pocket again.

  “Take this,” he said. “Read it.”

  He were holding out some small book — like a notebook, or diary. A6, fat, swollen. I flipped through it. Apart from a wodge of photos and folded bits of papers stuffed into the back, it were filled with dense notes, tiny buckled handwriting in ancient fountain pen —

  “I can’t read this sir,” I said. “I can’t read what it says.”

  “Read it,” he repeated, as if he hadn’t heard me. “All —”

  We were interrupted then. The door opened, and the principal came in. He glanced at me.

  “Mr Wilhelm,” he said, business like. “A moment of your time, please. My office.”

  Mr W gazed at him. “I’m with a student —”

  “Turner can wait. Now, please, Mr Wilhelm —”

  Mr W pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows at me. I followed the two teachers out into the corridor. Mr W locked his door behind him, murmured to me, “Wait here.”

  I watched them go. The book were still in my hand. I opened it randomly, looked at the page —

  12th December 1940 –late in the night — scared and alone — the bone — news of Father — Later — Organisation wives — Yellow alert 6.15pm — Purple alert 6.45pm — Red alert 7pm — bombing — fire —

  That were about all I could make out, and that took me rest of lunch time. I looked up from the book to hear the bell going, and Year 7s crowding round Mr W’s room, asking me where’s Mr Wilhelm? I said I dunno pal. And then another teacher were approaching, grabbing her lanyard off her neck, looking irritable —

  “Turner,” she said. “Haven’t you got somewhere to be?”

  “Where’s Mr Wilhelm?”

  “Go ask the principal,” she muttered. “Right!’ she yelled at the Year 7 kids. “Line up you lot!”

  “Turner,” she said to me. “Seriously. Move it.”

  * * *

  Double English that afternoon, which would drag normally, but that day took forever. I’d managed to send a text to Kyle, but he weren’t getting back to me, and I asked some of the other lads, but they hadn’t seen him. One of the girls said she reckoned she’d seen him go down to reception, but weren’t sure. I asked teacher if she knew where Mr Wilhelm were, but she just sighed and said if the principal needed to speak to a teac
her about anything then it wasn’t anything for me to worry about and would I please get back to work?

  Seriously, try getting anything useful out of a teacher pal.

  I were wondering how I’d find that lass in the yellow anorak. Just hang around down by the crossroads where she’d left me. Even without all this stuff about men in black cars and the image of the alien and Cthulhu fhtagn and Mr W’s diary, it were hard to stop thinking about her. We shouldn’t be seen together, she’d said. Alright lass, so we’ll just go back to my house, mum won’t be seeing much of anything —

  I wondered what sort of family she had. Why had the men in the black car visited her twice?

  First, I wanted to find Kyle.

  And leaving school, I saw a black car parked by the gates. The third man stood by it in a raincoat and hat, smoking and watching the school. He saw me looking at him, and looked back at me, and blew out smoke. He frowned and looked away, rubbing his forehead like there were an itch or summat. I’d stopped. Keep walking. I walked, and when I’d got round the corner, ran until it felt like my lungs were gonna burst out my chest.

  I weren’t far from Kyle’s house. He’d still not responded to any calls or texts, and when I turned the corner onto his road I stopped.

  There were a black car parked outside his house, and two men in coats and hats were leading Kyle away from his house and into the car. He were struggling a bit, but they were bigger and stronger than him, and they bundled him into the back head first. One of them got in too, closed the door. The other went back to the front door, where Kyle’s dad were. He were crying, and the man in the coat and the hat stood saying summat, but what he were saying I still don’t know. I backed away, around the corner, and legged it, towards the crossroads, Mr W’s diary in my bag.