Cuckoo

by Richard Wright

  Feeling better for being upright, he considered his options. Before leaving, Jameson (the thing) had taken his key from him. Though the lock was not a particularly strong one, it would be suicide to think of breaking the door down. Everybody in the house would hear, and his escape would be over before it began. Besides, the first problem had to be the handcuffs. With his left wrist securely bound to the doorknob he was going nowhere. Checking the cuff about his wrist, he tried to find some give in it. Prising with his fingers, he tugged and pulled until the stabbing from his wrenched limb made him stop. Nothing. Only the key was going to open them. Even if his wrist were not horribly swollen, no amount of working on the cuff would free him.

  Despair licked down his spine. He would wait there, ‘on storage’, until the thing returned. When it did so, and he was judged to have suffered an appropriate amount, it would kill him. Greg still didn’t know why. Some of his theory had been accurate, or at least close to the truth, but what was missing? Where had he gone wrong? He had been told that looking at it from a different angle would reveal everything to him, but he had no idea what that might mean.

  Looking from the wrong angle?

  He lost all interest in theories and suppositions, and focussed on the cuff. Not the one attached to his still swelling wrist, but the one around the doorknob. It was also too tight to slip off, but that might not be a problem. What he needed to see was the handle itself, where it was attached to the door. Hoping there was nobody in the hallway, he turned the flashlight on. It was as he remembered from fitting it, a plain brass knob inset in a rectangular base screwed into the wood of the door. A moment of hope, of private triumph, glided through him. It was possible, but he needed a screwdriver.

  He didn’t have one, and rummaged in his pocket for a suitable substitute. His keys were too large, his pen too fragile. He settled on a one-penny coin. Heart rattling his ribs, he kneeled next to the lock. Placing the torch in his mouth he began work with his free hand.

  The task was long and arduous. Several times he thought that the joints of his fingers might break with the strain as they pushed and twisted the penny anticlockwise. Perspiration made his grip loose. Each time he slipped he would nearly lose the coin as it flew from his grasp, but it never rolled beyond his reach. The work always began anew. One screw eventually came out, a small but precious achievement. It gave him hope for the second, which took longer to drop to the floor. Sore from the constant strain, his fingers grew numb, forcing him to stop for a few minutes. After allowing blood to flow back to the tired flesh, he continued. Saliva dripped from where he held the torch in his mouth, jaw muscles watering with fatigue. Release of the third screw brought with it elation, and it was with renewed vigour that he tackled the last.

  Then Greg was staring at the fourth screw as it sat in his hand. He could hardly believe he had done it. Working quickly, he disassembled the rest of the handle and removed the knob. As he slipped the cuff from the end of it, a sudden surge of energy blew through him. Having never had his liberty taken from him before, Greg had not previously understood what freedom really meant.

  There was no time to enjoy it. Limping to the other side of the room, his flashlight now back in his hand, he looked over the pictures a final time. Taking the photograph of Carlisle and he meeting in the Ramkin, he folded it and placed it in his trouser pocket.

  Checking himself over, he tried to assess his injuries. Only his wrist was seriously damaged, though his fingers throbbed and his back and legs sang bruising from when he had fallen during the struggle. Other than that he was exhausted and hungry. Two meals had been surrendered to various parts of the floor now, and he felt weak from lack of sustenance. He would only have one chance then. If he were caught a second time he would be finished. Having made a mistake once, his enemy would not be so casual the next time he confined Greg.

  But escape was finally realistic. With the door locked there was only one means of leaving the room, and he pried apart two slats of the horizontal blinds across the window with his aching fingers to steal a look outside. Jerking his head back, for the morning light was bright enough to sting his tired eyes, he allowed himself a moment to adjust to the new dazzle. Looking again, he saw the street was empty. Good. The evening had begun with him taking on the role of burglar, and the last thing he needed was to be arrested as such when he was trying to leave. Fully opening the blinds, he fumbled with the window catch. It swung slowly open.

  Relaxed footsteps beat from the hallway behind him, coming towards the study door. Hammering hard, his heart was suddenly his entire chest. First floor to ground. He could do it. He would have to land carefully, letting his knees absorb the shock of the fall. Swinging himself over the windowsill, he perched precariously. What if he broke his leg, or even his back? What would he do then?

  A key slid into the lock behind him and the time for doubt was gone. As the door opened, Greg jumped.

  It was over faster than he imagined. For less than a heartbeat the world flew upwards, blurring across his vision. Then the ground hit him. Air exploded from his lungs, the impact trying to sculpt two-dimensional shapes of his feet. For a confused instant he didn’t know whether he was on the ground or had just fallen backwards off the windowsill and into the room. With his head clearing, he rose to his aching feet and hobbled a cripple’s pace across the lawn, towards his car.

  He could see it at the end of the street, but couldn’t move faster. He tried to estimate where the thing might be by now. After it entered the room there would be a second or two of confusion before it turned and ran down the hallway. By now it must be at the bottom of the stairs, and his car was still too far away. The fall had been the final straw for his tired flesh.

  Now it would be on the street behind him. After a moment’s delay unlocking the front door, it would have sprinted down the drive. Greg could almost count off the approach in his head.

  Ten seconds. Nine seconds. Greg reached his car, fumbled epileptically for his keys. Eight seconds. Seven seconds. Finding them, he shoved the first one directly into the lock. It shot in and he twisted. Six seconds. Five seconds. It wouldn’t turn. Four seconds. He realised his mistake. Three seconds. This was his car. His real car. The keys to which were on a shelf in his fake apartment. His hire car was parked around the corner, near the entrance to the street. In his panic he had made for the first blue Focus he saw. Two seconds.

  One second.

  Greg whirled to face his incoming enemy.

  He was alone on the street.

  He searched each garden for hidden figures, suspecting some trick, some new game. The avenue was empty. Only when he looked back to the study window did he see the face he sought. Disguised once more as the man Greg had first met, it stood in the study, nonchalant, unconcerned by the escape it had witnessed. Seeing Greg gaze upwards, it smiled and raised an arm in casual farewell.

  Sickened by what the thing was, Greg turned and fled.

  Closing the door of the apartment behind him, Greg allowed his aching body to relax. Feeling he could collapse at any moment, it was an effort to even turn the key in the lock. The beanbags in the corner called him forward, and with enormous relief he dropped onto one.

  He had not been pursued. Despite his tired efforts to determine why, he couldn’t see any logic to it. After the effort of catching and containing him, he had been certain that he would be pursued during his haphazard escape – he would have been easy enough prey. The only sound reason he could think of was that the enemy knew where he had fled. They could pick him up any time, for he had nowhere else to run. Perhaps that was why they had provided such a comfortable haven in the first place, so they always knew where he would hide.

  He had to leave. Staying was suicidal. He might as well just drive back to Wimbledon and hand himself over.

  Yes, he would flee. When his shattered body had recovered from his ordeal. A few seconds of recuperation were not too much to ask after all he had suffered.

  Closing his eyes, he tumbled
to a deep, troubled sleep.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  SOFT TEARS

  Smoke filled the room as he looked up at the enemy. The man was clear in his vision; other details were made hazy by grey light. He was talking, though Greg understood little of what was being said. Wisps of smoke distracted his attention as they drifted through the other’s long, brown hair.

  Only then did he realise where he was, and he recoiled in anticipation as the last words became clear.

  “…don’t do repeat performances.”

  He did not want to watch, nor did he know which part of him fixed terrified eyes on the man’s face. Strong, matinee handsome features, wavy brown hair. That was what he would see, would make himself see, for nothing else could be real. Telling himself this did not ease the iron fear that tightened around him.

  At first the changes were subtle, almost unnoticeable. Healthy, tanned skin gradually whitened, becoming pallid and drawn. Sores, red and spreading, appeared at the corners of the mouth and eyes.

  Spreading out. Spreading sickly.

  Like some virulent disease, they grew over the rest of the skin, glistening red cracks cutting through whiteness. Flakes of healthy tissue dropped to the floor. A leper now, contagion reeked wetly from it as the condition worsened with the passing seconds.

  Greg tried not to breathe, for the sudden fresh meat smell was suffocating and vile. Ripping his eyes from the face, he turned to his left and vomited until there was nothing left for his stomach to evacuate.

  Though he wanted nothing less than to see, his head turned back, and he screamed. Where once had crouched a man, there now hulked a monstrosity. It can’t be true, he thought, it can’t be real.

  Everything about the man was as before, with one singular exception. Not a square inch of skin remained on his body. The face he looked at was one of tendons and muscle, blue veins and slick fat standing prominent against the scarlet backdrop of flesh. No hair remained on the head, and the eyes were joke-shop wide.

  The thing stood back, removing the mundane dressing gown to reveal the rest of its body in the same condition. Red muscles were taught across the ribs, the pounding heart beneath causing them to shudder and fall in time with the inhuman pulse. Intestines gleamed slickly from the abdomen, rubber-soft and writhing. Over the entire of the wet and stinking body flies landed, laid eggs, and drew sustenance.

  It leaned close to him, foetid breath driving into his nostrils.

  “Fear me.”

  Greg jolted awake, the scream stopping in his throat before it could sound out. It was becoming dark and he rushed to put the light on. How long had he been asleep? A glance at his watch told him nearly twelve hours.

  Heading to the kitchen, he tried to clear his head of the nightmare memory. A cup of coffee helped, and he was soon able to think without the smothering grogginess of oversleep clouding his mind. He had slept for the entire day, yet no one had come to snatch him. Why? Were they waiting downstairs, eager for him to exit so they could pounce, or was a new game being played out?

  The nightmare still haunted him, despite the other matters hollering for his attention. Acknowledging that it would not leave of its own accord, he resigned himself to thinking on it. Impossible though it seemed now, as he basked in the luxury of the apartment, the dream had been accurate, borne of memory not fantasy. That was what he believed he had seen, but what in the name of God was it? Nothing he had ever beheld looked like it, nor was there a fictional creature he could compare it to, yet it was real. How could he challenge something he did not understand, in a game with rules that had yet to be explained to him?

  What he knew for certain was that it wanted something from him, needed his suffering. Everything he had been through was designed to heighten his emotional trauma – even being shown the creature’s true appearance had been to that end. So what happened now? Wandering to the window, he took a cautious look at the car park far below. Nothing was out of place in the half-light. No strange cars, no lurking figures in the shadows. It was frustrating, for he did not know what they expected of him. If he could only work that out, start anticipating instead of constantly reacting, he would stand a chance of getting ahead of them.

  Think then, he thought as he sipped his coffee. What would you expect yourself to do? He had not yet taken the most obvious step in going to the authorities. He was being criminally manipulated by a creature that wanted to kill him, so of course he should go to the police. Studying the notion, he made up his mind. This was what was expected of him, so it was the last thing he could allow himself to do. Doubtless each of the five victims before him had sought help from official sources. None of them had survived.

  So where could he go? Friends were ruled out. It was probable they had suffered the same fate as Jennifer. This left one choice, one acquaintance so recent that he might be outside their circle of influence.

  Touching the photograph in his pocket, he allowed his hopes to ignite afresh as he remembered Alex.

  Two hours later he was standing in the evening rain outside Carlisle’s flat. On the ground next to him was the suitcase he had packed, for he did not plan to return to the apartment again if he could help it. He pressed the buzzer a second time, praying that the hotel manager was in. A click sounded from the speaker, followed by Alex’s weary voice.

  “Hello.” He sounded groggy. Greg had obviously woken him.

  “Alex? It’s Greg Summers. Can I come up?”

  There was a puzzled pause. “Greg who?”

  Greg’s heart sank. Surely not Alex too?

  “Oh, Greg! Sorry, I’ve just got out of bed. Hang on.” The lock of the door buzzed open. “Come on up.”

  With a deep sigh of relief, Greg opened the door. He was right. Whether too peripheral or just too recent, Alex had escaped the net after all.

  At the second floor he turned onto the landing. Alex was standing by his door, jeans and a T-shirt hanging haphazardly over his wiry frame. He beckoned Greg inside his flat, concerned.

  “Greg, you look terrible. What happened? Been in a fight?” The last question was a joke, but Greg could not help rising to it.

  “Yes.” He collapsed on one of the couches.

  Alex’s eyes widened. “Shit. Should I call the police? Where did it happen? Are you hurt?”

  “What I need, Alex, is for you to sit down and listen to me.” Seeing the intent in his eyes, Alex took a seat on the couch opposite Greg.

  And Greg began to tell his story. Starting at the evening with Georgina, he laid out each moment as it had happened, leaving aside no detail he could remember. It took him nearly an hour to tell the tale, backtracking several times to amend points he had already made. Alex sat, attentive and silent, though all of it. At last he finished.

  “I picked up some stuff and came here. It’s one of the few places they don’t seem to know much about yet.” Alex stared at him, making no comment. “Well? Am I crazy? What do you think?”

  Alex rubbed his eyes. “What can I say? You were doing fine until the skin fell off the bloke who’s sleeping with your wife. After that, yes, I decided you’re an absolute bloody lunatic.”

  Greg felt momentous relief when he recognised a glint of humour in his friend’s eye. “Don’t mock. I’m having more than enough trouble with this as it is.”

  “Sorry.” He looked sincere. “If it’s any consolation, I’m pretty sure you believe all this.”

  Greg sank back in the couch. “Christ, I know I believe it. I believe everything I just told you. That might be the bloody problem.”

  Alex smiled again. “Right. Okay, I refuse to discuss this further without something fortifying in me. Drink?”

  “God yes. Scotch with ice.”

  “A man of refinement. I’ll join you in that.” He walked over to the cabinet, poured the drinks, then returned and sat down. Handing Greg a scotch, he looked concerned when it all but vanished with the first swallow.

  “Steady. Whatever’s happening won’t get easier to fathom if yo
u’re wasted.”

  “I know, I know. But that felt good.” Grinning at Carlisle, he went and poured himself a second measure then returned. “Don’t look so worried, I’ll slow down.” As he sat, he looked Alex straight in the eye and asked him outright. “Do you believe me?”

  Alex glanced away. “I don’t know. You look like hell, which fits the story, but the rest of it? Conspiracy theories. Brainwashing and murder. Even hell-spawned demons. Seriously, you have to give me some help here. You sound sane enough, but I saw one of your fits. If you really want my opinion, it looks worse than a breakdown to me. Maybe something you should get checked.” He paused, struggling to say it. “Some tumours, Greg. Don’t they cause hallucinations? Other illnesses. Schizophrenia. Alzheimer's. There’s a comprehensive list of things that might fit what I’m seeing before we get close to actual conspiracies and demons.”

  Greg acceded the point. He hadn’t expected to be taken on his word. Pulling the photograph from his pocket, he tossed it over. “This should do for a start.”

  Alex snatched the paper out of the air, looked at it for a moment, then let out a deep sigh. It was a photograph of the two of them meeting for the first time. “From that wall in your house?” Greg nodded. “You were being watched from that morning?”

  “Before that, I think. At least the night before. I had my first fit in the restaurant before I went to the hotel.”

  Alex nodded. “There’s more?”

  Trying hard not to touch his swollen wrist, Greg pulled back the sleeves of his jacket and shirt to reveal the handcuffs which still hung from his arm. “There’s these.”

  “Christ. You can’t get them off?”

  Greg shook his head. “Lock-picking ranks right up there with burglary as one of the skills I don’t have. Every time I try to force them off, my wrist screams blue murder.”