by Paul Meloy
“That’s Barry Cook’s fucking head,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.
"HE WAS ONE of your patients?” Rob said, aghast. “I knew it. I knew you’d know what this was.”
Trevena nodded. He couldn’t take his eyes from the jar on the table. The head was a ruin, little more than a charred skull, but he knew who it was. Who else could it be, come here to accuse him? To haunt him. He couldn’t explain to Rob what he knew about the condition of the head, how one chill morning seven years ago he and Daniel and the others had executed this man in order to take control of the Night Clock and quarantine the devil-in-dreams to the perpetual hell of a burning Quay.
He needed to deflect Rob’s curiosity.
“Where did you find this, Rob?” he asked.
“It was in a freezer in a bloke’s flat.”
Trevena stared at Rob.
“I’d been drinking. Phil. I met these two blokes in The Macebearer and we went back to Dean’s and it all got a bit weird and then Mickey went to get more beers and he found this in the freezer.”
“Why have you got it?”
Rob explained the rest of it, all-inclusive, up to the point where he had decided to come to the Unit and hide out there until Trevena came in. Under the circumstances he considered that Trevena was taking it all pretty well.
“Okay,” Trevena said. “I’m betting these two characters were working at Cook’s farm in Thetford.”
“I reckon. Dean said that someone called Cookie had given him the fridge.”
Trevena nodded. He pointed at the head.
“That would be Barry’s dad. Evil old bastard. Somehow he’s kept his son’s head frozen for seven years and, coincidentally, just as you—and another chap I’ve been assessing—start to have visions of dark forces, he decides to move the evidence.”
“Seven years?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know that?”
Rob’s question caught Trevena off guard.
“Oh, I can tell by the condition of the remains,” Trevena said, not looking at Rob but keeping his eyes on the jar.
“Ah,” said Rob, convinced.
“Can you leave this with me?” Trevena said.
Rob shrugged. “I don’t want it,” he said.
“That other stuff you said you saw,” Trevena said. “The lights in the plaza and the tentacles. You believe you saw that?”
“I saw it with my own eyes,” Rob said, his expression fierce with the declaration.
“You did say you’d been drinking heavily. Remember the work we did around Neil Gollick?”
Rob sat and pondered this. He stared out of the window.
“Neil’s dead, isn’t he?” he said at last.
“Yes.”
“I hallucinated him.”
“That’s right,” Trevena said with caution.
“And the tentacles?”
“What do you think, Rob?”
Rob nodded, a sharp assertion. “Mental,” he said.
“Let’s call it stress, Rob. You did well to bring that here. I’ll get rid of it.”
Rob sank back into his chair. He ran his hands over his head, pulled his ponytail through his fists. “I do feel better, Phil.”
“So, I’ll see you tomorrow. At your mum’s. Stay off the pop, mate.”
Rob saluted. “Absolutely,” he said. He went to stand up. “Bloody fuck,” he said.
“What?” Trevena watched Rob’s expression change from relieved complacency to outright horror. He was staring at the jar.
The head had opened its eyes. They rolled in the ash-beds of their sockets and glared at Trevena. And then they swivelled and peered with an avid expectancy towards the office door. Trevena swung around. His hands gripped the chair’s armrests. He stood slowly. Something was behind the door. He could feel it. There was a line of shadow beneath it, blocking the light reflecting off the floor of the corridor.
He crossed the office and gripped the handle. He looked back at the jar. Rob was cowering in his chair. He looked up at Trevena, saw his hand on the doorknob, and shook his head, his expression beseeching.
The eyes blazed in the remains of the face in the jar and Trevena could hear it now; could hear something calling from a cosmos away, sending out its signal like a black, probing filament. It made his mind feel cold and unable to resist.
He opened the door.
Andrew Chapel was outside.
“Hi, Mr. Trevena,” he said brightly, and hit Trevena over the head with something that felt like a piece of iron.
As he collapsed to the floor, his vision blurring, fading, Trevena could hear Rob shouting for help. Whether for himself or for both of them, Trevena might never find out.
All went dark.
TREVENA CAME TO lying on his back on the office floor. Emily the receptionist was kneeling beside him pressing a cold, wet hand towel to the top of his head.
He tried to sit up but Emily scolded him and told him to stay put. There was a cushion behind his head and he sank back down with a groan and stared at the ceiling. His vision was blurry.
“Where’s Rob?” he asked.
“Who?”
“The man who came to see me yesterday, the drunk in reception.”
Emily shrugged. “No idea. Did he attack you, Phil? I’ve called an ambulance.”
“No,” Trevena said, and this time managed to sit up despite Emily’s protestations. His vision swam and he felt nausea rise in his throat. “I’m ok.”
“You’ve got a head wound! It’s still bleeding.”
Trevena looked around. The office was empty. The bag and the jar were gone.
“Help me up,” he said.
Emily tutted. “You shouldn’t have been seeing patients here on your own, Phil. It’s dangerous.”
“It wasn’t Rob,” Trevena said. He struggled to his feet and stood on rickety legs. He put a hand out and steadied himself against the wall.
“Did you see who it was?”
“No,” Trevena lied. “Someone jumped us.” His head was pounding.
They heard footsteps in the corridor and a green suited paramedic put his head around the door. He looked about twelve. “Emily Moneypenny?” he enquired.
Emily held out the towel. It was scarlet. Trevena staggered a little and made it to a chair where he sat, white-faced, gagging.
“Tell him,” Emily said to the paramedic. “He’s being all brave.”
EMILY DROVE TREVENA home. The paramedic had recommended A&E for stitches, but Trevena had declined. The paramedic had been cheerful enough and whistled a toneless version of Walking On Sunshine while he patched Trevena up and did his best to hold his gashed scalp together with steri-strips. He had given Trevena a card with the signs and symptoms of concussion printed on it and then left, lugging a lime green medi-kit the size of a laundry bag over his shoulder.
Now Trevena sat in the front seat of Emily’s tidy, fragrant little Golf with a huge dressing bandaged to the top of his head. His neck and ears were a washed out pink where they had tried to scrub off the blood. He looked sunburned. His hair was matted and crusty with dried blood. He felt like he’d been hit with an axe.
Emily was giving him the silent treatment. Trevena felt the urge to justify his decision not to go to A&E but kept fighting it, not wanting to get drawn into a conversation about what had happened. He’d have plenty of explaining to do to his boss soon enough. And the police wanted to interview him, of course. Emily had been thorough enough to let them know about the assault.
“Bollocks,” he said, unable to contain his frustration.
“What?”
“My head hurts,” he said.
“Well, you know what I think.”
“Yes, yes, yes. It’s good of you to give me a lift, Em. I’ll make it up to you.”
Emily glanced at him.
“Dinner and a show?”
Emily was about to reply but Trevena was saved the sarcasm as his mobile rang. He lifted it from his coat poc
ket and put it gingerly to his ear.
“Phil Trevena.”
“Can you move your car? I’ve got a drug lunch.”
Trevena closed his eyes against the onslaught of his headache.
EMILY DROPPED HIM off and took his car keys.
“Thanks for all this, Em,” he said as he got out of the Golf.
Emily shook her head. “I’ll drop these back later, Phil. Have a rest.”
Trevena gave her a weak smile. He patted the roof of the car and closed the door.
“Phil,” Emily said, leaning across the passenger seat and looking up at him through the half open window.
“Yeah?”
“Maybe just dinner.” She put the car in gear and pulled away leaving Trevena standing at the roadside perplexed and in a lot of pain.
TREVENA LET HIMSELF in and went straight into the kitchen. He sat on a stool at the breakfast bar and got out his mobile. He grimaced at the pain in his head and thumbed through his contacts until he reached the number he needed to call.
As the phone rang he leaned his elbows on the bar and closed his eyes.
“Hello,” a young woman’s voice said.
“Hi. Can I speak to Doctor Mocking, please?”
It had been six and a half years since Trevena had called the Doctor’s office. He’d assumed the Doc had continued practising, but the voice on the other end made him sit up and open his eyes. The kitchen was bright with morning sunlight and he winced. He recognised the voice.
“Lesley?” he said.
“Is that you, Phil?” she said, and Trevena could discern the emotion there, the depth of feeling.
“Yeah, it’s me, Lesley. How are you?”
For a moment there was silence and then Trevena heard Lesley’s voice, muffled as though she was holding the phone away from her mouth. “It’s Phil!” he heard her say. Then she came back on the line. “I’m fine, Phil.”
Trevena caught the hesitation. “What is it, Lesley?”
Lesley began to cry.
TREVENA CALLED A taxi and stood on the pavement waiting for it to arrive. When it pulled up at the curb he slid into the passenger seat and gave the driver the address to Doctor Mocking’s office.
They headed off across town in heavy mid-morning traffic. Trevena flipped the visor down to block the sunlight. He was wearing sunglasses. The dressing bandaged to his head felt damp and he hoped blood hadn’t soaked all the way through. He reached up and touched it with his fingertips, but they came away dry.
Mercifully, the driver was of the taciturn stripe and they took the ride in silence. Trevena rested his head on the back of the seat and thought about what Lesley had told him. Doctor Mocking, her father, was dying. They were all there with him, awaiting his last wishes. If Phil had news, he should come fast and let them all hear it. Anxiety tightened his chest. It had been seven years. What was he going to say?
The cab pulled up on a tree-lined avenue. Trevena paid the fare and walked up to the gates of a large detached three-storey house set in private grounds. There was an apple orchard at the rear, he knew, and a little stream with two bridges. Not visible from the front was a small wing, an addition, where Doctor Mocking had his office. It overlooked the orchard. Trevena had sat and gazed out at that orchard at weekly intervals for two months following his divorce from Carol. They had discussed his dreams, and something had come for them, something ancient and unremitting and evil and he had been drawn into a battle the outcome of which might have been the end of everything. But they had won. Or thought they had.
Trevena walked up the path and rang the antique, push-button doorbell.
He watched the shadow of a figure approach through the stained glass window set into the door. There was the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn back and the door opened. He took off his sunglasses, folded them and put them in the pocket of his jacket.
“Hi, Lesley,” Trevena said. “You’ve grown.”
Lesley stepped out onto the porch and embraced him. The last time Trevena had seen her she had been a child, almost a teenager. She was beautiful. He looked into her face and smiled. “Are you hurt?” he said. As they had embraced he had felt Lesley tense.
Lesley patted her chest. “Bandages. Not broken but badly bruised.”
“You’ve got to stop getting in fights.”
“You haven’t changed a bit, Phil,” Lesley said and Trevena could see the tears in her eyes, catching the sunlight that glimmered through the trees, making them sparkle.
“Not bad for a fifty-five year old,” he said. “All things considered.”
“What happened to your head?”
“Had a work-related accident,” he said. “It’s why I’m here.”
Lesley led him through the wide, panelled hallway into the living room. Three people were sitting together on a plump floral sofa. A child played on the rug near the French windows, her dark hair long and glossy. She was walking a toy tiger across the jungle pattern in the rug.
Trevena felt emotion overwhelm him and he reached out as the man and the two women stood to greet him. The child looked up and smiled.
Lesley said, “You remember Steve and Claire? And Elizabeth?”
“Of course,” Trevena said. He gripped Steve Iden’s hand and shook, and then was grabbed in a fierce hug by his wife, Claire, and then Elizabeth.
“This must be Chloe,” Trevena said, smiling at the child by the window. He couldn’t help feeling a sense of awe as he appraised the child, knowing how powerful she was, how precious. Chloe looked up and gazed at Trevena, her eyes wide, dark and direct. “Hello, Phil,” she said. “Come and sit by me.”
Trevena looked to her parents for some indication of Chloe’s intent. Steve said, “I think she wants to look at that head.” Claire seemed in agreement, her appealing face open and expectant.
Trevena went and sat cross-legged next to Chloe on the jungle-patterned rug. She put the toy tiger in her lap—it was a small, fierce-looking plastic tiger with a tail curled like a crook. Trevena knew him well; they had done work together—and then she said, “Lean forward and close your eyes.”
Trevena hunched forward and his knees popped.
“I’m getting too old for yoga, Chloe,” he said.
“This isn’t yoga,” Chloe said. “This is much older. Shush now and keep your eyes shut.”
Trevena felt her small fingers touch his temples.
"DON’T OPEN THE door!” Rob said to me.
I heard him but the urge was there, pulling through my brain like a black, barbed line. You know what it felt like, Chloe? It felt like an addiction to something terrible, something lethal. Impossible to resist even though you knew the next hit would kill you.
So I opened the door.
Andrew Chapel was there. He looked well. That’s the first thing I noticed, even in that split second of recognition. He looked peaceful, flushed—satisfied. Nothing like the pale, drawn, deeply troubled man I had seen the previous day.
He spoke, a greeting, and then he raised his hand and it held something heavy. It was a hammer. I realise now that it was a stone carving hammer. He had been using it to sculpt something. I could see where the head was discoloured from pounding at the handles of chisels. I saw all this in great detail as his arm came up.
And then I heard your voice, Chloe. It was very clear. I knew it was you. You told me to stand aside. I stepped back, away from Chapel and watched as he lowered his arm, his expression suddenly baffled. Then he refocused and walked past me into the office. He bent slightly and peered at Rob. Rob was cowering in the chair. I don’t blame him. Chapel had an aura, and it was as malevolent and compelling as that filament that had reeled through my head. Chapel snarled and said, “Get out!” like he was commanding a dog. Rob got up and ran. Again, I can’t blame him. Chapel was horrifying in that moment.
I continued to watch from the door. Chapel grabbed the handles of the bag and pulled them upwards, concealing the remains in the jar, and then lifted it, holding it to his chest. He
turned and I saw how his eyes were black holes. I couldn’t look away, although I wanted to. I thought at first they had been scooped from his head and what I was seeing were the recesses of his empty sockets, but as he walked past me carrying the bag I saw that he still had eyes only they were like lenses looking into an infinity of living darkness. He might have wished he had been blinded, considering the things there must have been out there to see.
He went past me and turned and headed down the corridor. He went through the double doors and left the unit.
I closed the office door and followed him but when I got outside he was gone.
I went to my car and drove home.
I phoned Doctor Mocking and then I came here.
TREVENA OPENED HIS eyes.
Chloe sat before him. She looked pale.
“You okay, Chloe?” Trevena asked. He reached out and took one of her slender hands.
“Yes,” she said. She stood and reached for his head. “Don’t move.”
Trevena ducked his head towards her as she pulled at the bandage holding the dressing to his scalp. She removed it and held it out to him. He took it from her, astonished. The dressing was dry and bloodless. He reached up and probed his scalp. The wound was gone. Not healed, but gone. It had never been there.
His headache was gone, too.
“What did you just do?” He asked.
Chloe sat down again and picked up Bronze John. She resumed trotting him through the fronds of the jungle.
“I changed what things I could,” she said. “There was no need for you to get hurt.”
“Did that really happen? Why didn’t I fight?”
Chloe didn’t look up. Bronze John paused in his roaming.
“You’re not a puppet. I could only have asked you to fight and then you would have died. I needed to protect you. I couldn’t stop Chapel, either. He was too powerful.”
“Who is he?”
Chloe shrugged.
“I think he’s a Firmament Surgeon,” she said.
