Creed

by James Herbert

  Creed continued to stare as though he could still see that face.

  It was beautiful.

  Full, blood-coloured lips; a nose that was strong but not dominant; sweeping hair that framed her cheeks to curl against the jawline. The eyes had been downcast, eyelashes thick and long, but before she had snuffed the flame they had looked up at him; they must have been a deep brown, but they seemed softly black. Her glance was languidly sexual. Then the light was gone.

  Creed cleared his throat.

  ‘Don’t you like the darkness, Joe?’ The tone was as sexual as the glance she’d given him. ‘Don’t you find it . . . restful? It veils so much ugliness, while light only serves to shatter illusions.’

  ‘I want my son back.’

  Although he couldn’t see her eyes now, he underwent a similar sensation to the one in the cemetery when his own eyes had met the crazyman’s, a feeling that his skull was being invaded. This time, though, it was a softer exploration, a delicate probing of his thoughts rather than a scouring. He shivered suddenly, and even that was not unpleasant. The skin of his back seemed to be dilating, stretching, causing an agreeable crawling tingling that almost made him squirm. And . . . oh Judas Christ, not that, not now . . . a muscle twitched between his legs.

  Her cigarette glowed again and she appeared to be smiling.

  ‘Of course you want the boy back,’ she agreed soothingly. ‘But you’ve been very troublesome to us, Joe. That isn’t easy to forgive.’

  He saw her shoulders rise, watched her as she came round to his side of the desk. Oh boy, she was tall, five-ten at least. She made Sigourney Weaver look frail and positively dowdy. She leaned back against the desk, one arm folded across her stomach and holding the elbow of the other, cigarette poised inches away from her face.

  ‘I’ve got the negs, the prints – everything you want. Just give me Sammy.’ He was tempted to go over and grab her by the shoulders, maybe shake her some to let her know she shouldn’t mess with him. The temptation wasn’t very strong.

  ‘I’m not sure if it isn’t too late,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ For a moment he was stunned. ‘You haven’t—’

  ‘I told you the boy is safe. No, I didn’t mean anything like that, although . . .’ She let the sentence hang. ‘You see, you’ve already stirred up interest in something that would best have been left alone.’

  ‘That isn’t true. I’m the only one that knows about the connection with this character Nicholas Mallik and even I don’t understand what it is.’

  He thought he heard her sigh, although she might merely have been exhaling cigarette smoke.

  ‘You know about Nicholas.’ She said it as a wife admitting she had a lover might.

  ‘I, well, I . . . no.’

  ‘A pity.’

  A pity he did know, was the implication.

  ‘But then, perhaps not.’

  He wondered at that.

  ‘Would you mind . . .’ he said, ever so politely. ‘. . . would you mind telling me who you are?’

  ‘Do you really want to get in deeper?’

  ‘Uh, no, it’s not important. Look, I’ve got what you want right here.’ He drew out a large envelope from inside his buttoned coat. ‘It’s all there, everything you – he – wanted.’ He proffered it towards her.

  ‘You can call me Laura, Joe. Yes, I’d like you to call me that.’

  She came towards him and he thought it was to take the envelope. She ignored it.

  He could see her more clearly now and at any other time he’d have approved. She was not quite slim, but her body looked firm and her curves were gentle. Her perfume was odd, a musk of some kind, a fragrance that had an underlying bitterness; it was strangely erotic. Her face really was beautiful in that half-light.

  The envelope slipped through his fingers when she kneeled before him and said, ‘Let me breathe you, Joe.’

  20

  It wasn’t a proper reception desk; nor was it a proper reception hall. It was an old and somewhat tired-looking oak table with ornately carved legs situated in a marble-floored hallway opposite the home’s main doors. The woman seated there – a very rotund lady with the puckered yet dainty face of a gorged twelve-year-old – looked up at Antony Blythe in surprise. She put down her copy of Elle.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Her voice was somehow distant, as though having lost much of its strength in the struggle through all those layers of flesh.

  In her pale blue uniform, over which she wore a fluffy pale pink cardigan, she reminded Blythe of a pastel blimp. ‘My name’s Wingate,’ he told her. ‘From Birchenough, Mibbs and Burroughs,’ he added, as if confident that would explain everything.

  She blinked at him with eyes narrowed by the fat around them.

  ‘My secretary rang yesterday to make the appointment.’

  The woman, who could have been aged anywhere between mid-twenties and early-forties so heavily did her weight disguise her, blinked again. ‘I’m afraid she didn’t, Mr . . .’

  ‘Wingate. Well someone here accepted the appointment,’ Blythe blithely lied. ‘I’m here to see Ms Buchanan – Grace Buchanan. It concerns her late mother’s estate.’

  ‘Her mother . . . ?’

  Blythe showed only a little of his usual impatience. ‘Lily Neverless. The actress. You might recall she died very recently. I’ve come a long way and my time is short . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry but Grace isn’t allowed visitors.’

  ‘And I’m sorry but you really can’t deny me access. This is a matter of importance.’

  ‘I’m afraid she isn’t well enough . . .’

  ‘That’s as may be, but not altogether relevant,’ the diarist prattled. ‘It’s a point of law that I see her whether she understands what I say or not. In some ways it’s like serving a writ, only in this circumstance it’s entirely beneficial to the recipient. Will you please make the arrangements as quickly as possible so that I’m not further delayed.’

  Those piggy little eyes stared at him blankly. ‘Would you wait for a moment?’ She rose from the table like a mountain from the sea and moved surprisingly swiftly and lightly down the hallway to disappear with one last glance back at him through a door at the far end.

  Blythe considered what to do should whoever was in charge of this high-class institution refuse his request to see Lily Neverless’ mad daughter. Insist? What if they demanded to see some form of identification? Beat a hasty retreat, that was what he would do. It was a reasonable ploy, pretending to be an executor of Lily’s will, but one that would be impossible to brazen out.

  He glanced around, curious about this place called the Mountjoy Retreat. It didn’t look like a lunatic asylum, despite the walled grounds, nor was it billed as one. A retreat for the elderly, the infirm, or the emotionally exhausted? he wondered. He hadn’t seen any yet. The only person he’d met so far was the fat receptionist. How old would Lily’s daughter be now? Late-fifties/sixties? Had to be something like that. She’d been incarcerated for thirty years or so, poor imbecile.

  Blythe’s original aim had been to discover the connection between the Beast of Belgravia and Lily Neverless (there had to be a reason for Mallik’s offspring to visit her grave), but the few calls he’d made to some of Lily’s friends had yielded nothing initially (older Thespians these, in the main, who would trade a confidence without conscience for a mention in the tabloids). No, they couldn’t recall Lily associating with someone called Nicholas Mallik – ‘Wasn’t he a notorious spy during the war, dear?’ one not-quite senile actress enquired of Blythe – but then she’d ‘associated’ with so many men in her life, hadn’t she? Possibly the one person who would know, advised a financier who had indeed had an ‘association’ with Lily some time in the long-gone past, was Lily’s daughter, but then she was probably too loopy to give him a sensible answer. Where was she now? God knows, old boy. The fact that her one and only child was twopence short of a shilling wasn’t something the old ham wished to be generally known. Never heard her ta
lk about the lassie, let alone where she was kept locked up.

  Naturally that had merely increased Blythe’s curiosity, for the public, hence journalists, loved skeletons in cupboards. They loved those old bones to be dragged out and cast to the ground where they could be read like runes. A madness in the family was wonderful stuff, if the family was famous (a madness in the Royal Family was even better, but virtually impossible to get into print).

  So who would know where Lily’s dippy daughter was being kept?

  Simple, really. Lily Neverless’ solicitors would know. He checked with the newspaper’s own legal office, who provided the answer within ten minutes (the actress had had occasion to sue the Dispatch some years ago for publishing a ‘malicious and untrue’ story about herself; apologies and money had passed hands and the litigation had been dropped). Blythe rang the company of Birchenough, Mibbs and Burroughs and enquired if Lily Neverless’ will had been read yet and, making no pretence as to his own identity (solicitors are well-used to such enquiries from journalists), who were the main beneficiaries? The solicitor, who had every right to withhold the information, even though it would eventually be a matter of public record, was surprisingly helpful and informed him that the sole beneficiary of Lily Neverless’ last will and testament was the Mountjoy Retreat, an arrangement made years before and swiftly expedited on her death. But did she leave her daughter nothing? Blythe had asked. Grace Buchanan had been well provided for, came the reply, and the insinuation was plain to see. So the old girl had left everything to the home or asylum or retreat or whatever tasteful term they used to describe the funny farm that cared for her daughter. She must have had a lot of faith in the people who ran the place.

  Tracing the Mountjoy Retreat had been relatively easy; locating it on the map had been difficult.

  But eventually, by travelling to the area and searching country backroads, he managed to find the place. He wondered why it was not even listed in the telephone directory. He also wondered if they would allow him to see Grace Buchanan.

  The pale blue dumpling appeared at the end of the corridor and swept back towards him, her pudgy face expressionless.

  ‘That will be fine,’ she squeaked.

  ‘I can see her?’

  ‘Yes, not for long though. Would you like to follow me?’

  He did, lengthening his stride to keep up with her (how did she manage to glide like that?). Up one flight of stairs, along a bright, white corridor, then up another flight. My God, where do they keep her? In the loft? He wrinkled his nose at the sickly stale smell that pervaded the air, an unpleasant sweetness that was not unakin to baby’s vomit or old people’s body vapours. A door on his right opened an inch or so as he passed by and he caught a glimpse of a solitary eye that was so yellow-stained and damp, the skin around it so sagging and cracked, that it could have belonged to some leprous creature locked away because of its own hideousness. Allow me to die before I get old, Blythe silently pleaded. His obese guide stopped dead in her tracks, perhaps alerted by the worse stench that had filled the corridor like a jet of polluted steam. She turned back and yanked shut the door from where the offending smell came. The diarist thought he heard a feeble moan from the other side.

  The fat woman resumed the journey without so much as a glance his way, leading him down a short flight of stairs and along yet another corridor. This one was much narrower and would not have allowed Blythe to walk alongside the woman even if he had wanted to. He imagined that vast bottom ahead of him bouncing from side to side like a giant fleshy pinball and the thought filled him with loathing rather than humour.

  Another staircase (up, this time) which wound round and round as if it were in some kind of turret (Blythe had noticed two from the outside) until it reached a small dingy landing. Only one door led off from there.

  The receptionist stood to one side. ‘Grace Buchanan,’ she announced as if that were the name of the door itself.

  He stood on the landing and raised his eyebrows at the fat woman.

  ‘You can go right in,’ she said, and smiled.

  And right then he didn’t want to go in. Suddenly he wanted to climb back down those stairs, find his way along the confusing corridors, get to the main hall, run through the large doors there, jump into his Rover, and drive back immediately to the warm world of scandal and calumny that he knew and loved so well.

  Unfortunately for him, it was but a fleeting and indeterminate moment, a swiftly suppressed intuition that had no real influence over the opportunity for a good and meaty story. He was about to catch sight of a famous star’s crazy daughter, someone who had been locked away for the past thirty-odd years, a prisoner of her own mother’s shame. The princess in the tower, the loon in the attic! It was irresistible.

  He gripped the doorhandle, looked once at the fat woman (was there just a glint of mockery behind those beady little eyes?) and opened the door.

  Again he was revolted by the stench that greeted him, although this was slightly different – perhaps more sour – than that of the corridors below.

  He stepped inside the darkened room and faced the most peculiar individual he had ever seen in his life (alas, a life that was to be all too short).

  21

  Breathe him she did.

  Creed was perplexed. What the hell was she playing at?

  The woman called Laura nuzzled his neck, taking in short sharp breaths, first through her nose, then her mouth, capturing the air around him – capturing his smell! – drawing it into herself. She moved over his chest, pushing his coat aside, her nose and lips almost touching his sweatshirt. Up again, under his chin, now lightly brushing his mouth.

  He couldn’t help but breathe her, taste her redolence, that bitter muskiness that was so much stronger now she was so close. Her thick black hair tickled his nose and he angled his head away, looking up at the ceiling as if appealing to the Almighty beyond.

  ‘Uh, listen . . .’ he began to say, but she was descending once more, past his chest to his stomach. Her hands tugged at his sweatshirt so that his flesh was bare. She breathed it.

  ‘Oh no . . .’ he muttered as the animal at his groin stirred again. He put a hand on her shoulder, but his pressure was not insistent. Without raising her head, she lifted the hand away.

  She went down to his thighs, moved to and lingered over his crotch, inhaling all the time, those breaths becoming stronger, a little more urgent.

  He moaned inwardly as he felt himself swell.

  With some effort, he said, ‘I’m here for Sammy, not . . . not this . . .’

  She paused only to look up at him, ducking her head once more almost immediately to resume her curious exercise. Her shoulders rose and fell in quickening shudders.

  Creed squirmed in the seat.

  Her hands touched the buttons at the neck of her dress and so deft was the movement they seemed to open of their own accord. Her fingers travelled down them and still she did not stop inhaling him, her lips parted, their redness moistened.

  Oh shit, he said to himself, oh shit oh . . . not this. Christ, not now . . .

  She pulled at her dress and it slipped from her shoulders.

  Her skin was white, so very white. Even in the gloom he could tell it was as white and pure as ivory; but soft, so soft, demanding to be touched . . .

  We know Creed wasn’t the strongest of men when it came to morals – in fact, he wouldn’t even have regarded sex with a proper stranger as immoral – but the thought of the danger his son might be in did put something of a downer on the situation. He struggled to sit upright (for he had sunk low into the couch, the nape of his neck almost on the headrest).

  ‘Quit it!’ he said, and there was an element of desperation in his voice. ‘I’m here to get my boy, that’s all, that’s it, that’s what I’m here for. Let’s cut this crap and get down to business. Who the fuck are you, anyway?’

  She paused to smile at him.

  ‘I told you, you can call me Laura.’

  ‘Laura who, Laur
a what? What have you got to do with all this? I came here to see the pervert who kidnapped my son, not some fucking nympho who gets her rocks off snorting body odour. You better start talking before I get really mad.’

  Her broader smile barely showed her teeth. Her dark-rimmed eyes watched him intently, yet there was a vacuity there, a kind of distant emptiness, that was disconcerting, not to say downright eerie.

  He felt that probing again, gentle exploring fingers inside his mind, sensuous as they touched certain nerves, certain thoughts. And those thoughts were suddenly bad. They were of her. They were of her and him. No, no, not now! He thought he heard her laugh, but her lips had not moved, they still smiled, and the sound was too far away, too hollow, as if coming from a locked attic. She hadn’t laughed; but the laughter had come from her.

  She touched her dress again and it opened further, almost to the waist. The material appeared to be sheer, as if having metamorphosed into gossamer, and he could see the curves of her breasts against the hardened dark tinges of her nipples. She drew the dress to one side and he groaned at the pleasure of her body’s full, soft whiteness.

  He attempted to speak again, tried to resist, but he was only human and what’s more, he was only Creed. He had to caress that exposed flesh.

  She stayed his hand.

  Then reached into him with her other hand. The zip of his jeans opened in the same magical way as her dress buttons, almost without being touched (or, more realistically, her touch was so expertly light it seemed as if the undoing was of its own accord). Her fingers were cool and soft as they delved further. She brought him out into the open.

  Creed shifted, unsure if he should join her on the floor, or if she should join him on the couch. Laura placed her hands on his thighs to still him.

  Creed glimpsed himself and marvelled at his own erection; it had been quite a while since he’d been aroused to such eminence. It was worthy of a snap.

  He wanted this strange woman very badly. So badly that Sammy had become no more than a shadowy thought somewhere at the back of his mind, there, not forgotten, but not in the reckoning at that precise moment. If Creed felt guilt, it was easily overwhelmed by lust.