Creed

by James Herbert

  Finally, thoroughly depleted, they lay naked on the bed, Prunella snuggling her head under his chin, one hand resting on his hip. She was thin and small, her body like a nymphet’s and surprisingly pleasing in the fading light.

  It was then that Creed told her everything – well, almost everything; he left out the bit about demons, and vampires, phantoms, office tornadoes, black voids, etc., as any sane person (as any person wanting to be considered sane) would. So what was left? Plenty. Threats, violence, kidnapping; enough to leave Prunella aghast and anxious. Mentioning the man who should be dead didn’t improve her disposition.

  Her hand, which before had strayed occasionally to tinker with his wearied genitals, became affixed to his hip, its grip tightening as the story progressed. When he had finished, her reaction was fairly predictable. ‘You’ve got to tell the police.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘It’s the only thing you can do.’

  ‘If it was your son would you take the risk?’

  She paused before saying, ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve been warned not to.’

  ‘Well they would do that, wouldn’t they? Joe, what do you expect to do on your own? What can you do? You’ve already given them what they wanted and yet they still haven’t returned Sammy to you.’

  ‘Cally will be in touch.’

  ‘How do you know that? They might just be giving themselves time.’

  ‘For what?’

  Kill the boy and teach Creed a lesson, then disappear. She didn’t say that to him. ‘Organize a ransom demand?’

  ‘I don’t think they take me for an eccentric millionaire.’

  ‘All right. Perhaps they’ll hold Sammy as a permanent threat to keep you quiet.’

  ‘You mean just keep him? For ever? That’s crazy.’

  ‘According to you they’re crazy people.’ She looked up from beneath his chin. ‘Tell me more about this girl Cally.’

  ‘I’ve told you all I know.’

  ‘Yes, she’s Lily Neverless’ granddaughter and somehow she’s involved with this sect. But why is she helping you? If that really is what she’s doing.’

  ‘She might not be involved in that way – I mean, not as a cult member. Maybe because of her grandmother she feels some kind of loyalty towards them.’

  ‘What loyalty could she have towards someone who’s supposed to be dead? I’m talking about Nicholas Mallik, not granny. Then again, how can you really believe this person is still alive? You’ve read those old newspaper reports of the hanging yourself, so how could Mallik be around still to terrorize you? It’s not credible.’

  ‘Who the hell knows what’s credible? Look, a war was beginning, so maybe the government, the War Office – I don’t fucking know who or what – maybe they realized they needed someone like Mallik. He was a foreigner, wasn’t he? Could be he had valuable information about the other side. Or they wanted to use him as a spy for England. He had important connections, we know that. But they couldn’t pardon him, for Christ’s sake, not with the crimes he’d committed – the public would have gone wild, war or no war.’

  Creed sat up in bed, excited by his own reasoning. ‘Maybe it was better that everyone thought Mallik was dead – what better cover for a spy. That’s it! It’s gotta be it.’

  ‘You’re getting carried away, Joe. What you’re suggesting isn’t possible.’

  ‘Isn’t it? You’re a journalist, you know the score. Would you trust a politician, let alone a government, who knew its country was about to enter one of the bloodiest wars in history? They’d use any means and anyone to get an edge. It makes sense, it makes perfect sense. That’s the only possible way Mallik could have escaped the noose.’ By now Creed was elated with his own theory, even though it hardly helped his cause.

  ‘It’s too far-fetched,’ was Prunella’s view.

  ‘But not that unbelievable. Come on, think about it. The big one’s coming, the war to end all wars. Hitler’s might is on the move, storming through Europe, heading our way. We know we’re in deep shit. We’re not ready – we don’t have the weapons, we don’t have the trained manpower. So any advantage we can rake up, no matter what, is something we’re gonna use. It has to be the answer, don’t you see? Whatever else Nicholas Mallik might have been, he could still be useful to our side in some way. That’s why he was spared. He was more useful alive than dead no matter what public expectations demanded. News of his execution lasted one day, didn’t it? There was nothing else in those copies you gave me.’

  ‘I couldn’t find any more.’

  ‘Exactly. It was totally forgotten. The authorities wanted it that way. And now he’s turned up again and that’s an embarrassment for all concerned.’

  ‘After all these years? What does it matter?’

  ‘It’s another example of devious government – doesn’t matter how far it goes back and who was in power at the time. A known killer – a child killer at that – is still free. But worse than that, the man was sentenced to death and was in custody! They let him walk!’

  ‘But you said the man you’ve dealt with doesn’t look old enough.’

  ‘What do I know? I’ve seen him at a distance, I’ve seen him in bad light. I’ve never been close. He’s no spring chicken, I know that.’

  Prunella bit into her lip. ‘It would be a great story, if it were true.’

  ‘Yeah, wouldn’t it just. But I couldn’t use it, I couldn’t risk Sammy’s life.’

  She pulled away from him, laying her head back on the pillow. ‘I could write it for you.’

  He frowned. ‘I told you, I couldn’t use it.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, you couldn’t take the risk. But it might give you something to bargain with. If it turned out to be right.’ She gave a small huffing sound. ‘I still think the whole thing is too fantastic for words, though.’

  ‘But you’d write the story.’

  ‘Only if there was no other choice. And providing you came up with some proper evidence, of course.’

  ‘Like what? What could I prove? Where would I start?’

  ‘First you’d have to show that Nicholas Mallik is still alive.’

  ‘And how would I do that?’ He was quickly losing patience with her.

  ‘Find out whether or not he was really hanged.’

  ‘Sure. Any ideas how?’

  She nodded her head on the pillow. ‘Ask the hangman.’

  That wasn’t as silly as it seemed – or so Creed was to discover much later.

  He hadn’t wanted to leave the house in case Cally called (he also hadn’t wanted to face Freddy Squires and explain where he’d been all day for, although he may have been independent of the newspaper, he was still contractually obliged to it). Prunella had returned to the Dispatch while he had dressed, drunk coffee, smoked, and generally fretted. It seemed like hours before the telephone rang. It was hours before the telephone rang.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Joe? It’s Prunella.’

  ‘I know that. What the hell have you been doing all this time?’

  ‘Digging for you, as I said I would. It hasn’t been that easy.’

  ‘Okay, so tell me.’

  ‘Antony hasn’t turned up yet.’

  ‘I’m not interested in Blythe.’

  ‘Everyone’s a bit mystified here. It’s not like him.’

  ‘Prunella . . .’

  ‘We’ve got a deadline and no star diarist.’

  ‘Make something up. That’s what he usually does.’

  ‘That’s not quite true.’

  ‘You’re making me unhappy, Prunella.’

  ‘Sorry. I know how anxious you are.’

  ‘Just tell me what you’ve learned.’

  He heard her take a breath. ‘I spoke to features first and they put me on to the right department of the Home Office. They have the list of qualified executioners on record, you know.’

  ‘We don’t have executioners any more.’

  ‘I mean the old list. They�
�re still all on file.’

  ‘They told you who hanged Mallik?’

  ‘Of course not. That’s not allowed. But remember those old newspaper clippings mentioning that he’d been hanged by the Home Office’s principal Official Executioner? I asked them to verify that. They wouldn’t, but neither did they deny it. They probably couldn’t be bothered to look it up even if they were permitted to tell. But I think it’s fairly safe to assume that in a crime so grievous and with such public interest they would have used the top man. And if what you suspect is true, then all the more reason to assign someone they could trust implicitly.’

  ‘Did they tell you who the Official Executioner was at that time?’

  ‘They got huffy at first and wanted to know what it was all about. I told them the Dispatch was doing a feature on the hanging debate; unfortunately that made them even more huffy. But they couldn’t withhold the information, so I got the name eventually. It’s one that hardly goes with the job, although I suppose it was rather silly to expect something macabre.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘A man called Henry Pink.’

  ‘I don’t know why, but it sounds familiar.’

  ‘He was quite famous for a while, especially just before the abolition of hanging. He wrote his memoirs in the ’seventies.’

  ‘Is he . . . is he still alive?’

  ‘Just about. He’s old though.’

  ‘Of course he’s bloody old. Did you find out where he is?’

  ‘I’ve done my best, Joe. There’s no need to snap.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You know what I’m going through.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry too. I made a few phone calls. Not too difficult – one led to another – but they took time. First was the Booktrust, who gave me the title of Pink’s book and publisher. Then I spoke to someone in the publisher’s publicity department. The girl there remembered the book, but wasn’t sure where the author was now. She checked back for me though and the address they had on file was of a pub in Yorkshire. Seems that was a popular sideline for public executioners; they could run the business and still have time to pop off when the call came. Real servants of the people, these characters. Anyway, I phoned the pub, and no joy. The landlord there hadn’t a clue where Pink was now, nor even if he were still alive.’

  ‘Prunella, can you just get to it?’

  ‘Only demonstrating how clever I’ve been, Joe. Indulge me. I enquired which brewery owned the pub and he told me it was a Tadcaster Brewery house, so next stop was their head office.’ She hesitated then, but not to catch her breath. ‘Joe, I . . . I enjoyed today.’

  ‘You rang the brewery’s head office . . .’

  ‘It did mean something to you, didn’t it? It wasn’t just . . .’ she lowered her voice, as if suddenly conscious of the office around her ‘. . . you know.’

  ‘Of course it meant something, Prunella. I’ve never been so turned on in my life.’

  ‘Not just that. Didn’t you feel something . . . more?’

  If you only knew the something more I felt. ‘It was special, very special. We’ll talk about it later, okay? Right now I’ve got all this other stuff on my mind.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry, Joe. I only wanted to make sure you felt the same as I did.’

  ‘What did the brewery tell you, Prunella?’

  ‘I spoke to a very helpful chap there, who said the brewery would still have the address Henry Pink moved to after giving up the tenancy because they liked to keep in touch with their old and valued landlords – apparently they send Christmas and anniversary cards, that sort of thing. Unfortunately they hadn’t been in contact with Henry Pink for some time – ten years at least, he seemed to think – so frankly he didn’t know if old Henry was alive or dead. Anyway, I took down the address, but the brewery man wouldn’t give me the telephone number – against company policy apparently. That was no problem though; I called Directory.’

  ‘You got it?’

  ‘I got it and I rang it.’

  Creed waited.

  ‘Joe?’

  ‘You spoke to him.’ Not a question.

  ‘No, I spoke to his niece. Pink is a widower with no children of his own and she moved in to take care of the old man when her own husband died. But her uncle has been poorly for some time, which is hardly surprising since he’s eighty-one. She told me she hadn’t visited him for years, and she was quite guilty about that. She must be getting on a bit herself, poor thing.’

  ‘Visited him? You mean he’s not with her any more?’

  ‘He was taken into a rest home several years ago, somewhere too far away for his niece to make regular visits. In fact, she admitted she’d only been there once, and he’d been too far gone in the head to talk sensibly to her. She decided he’d be much better off there with trained staff to look after him, though she said he was a very lucky man to have been accepted by such a fine place. Conveniently enough, if you want to see him yourself, Joe, it’s down here in the south. A place called the Mountjoy Retreat.’

  27

  Basically Creed had three fairly simple philosophies in life (there were others, but they were minor and usually varied when occasion dictated). The main ones were these: 1) Do unto others before they do unto you; 2) Never trust anyone in authority, ex-wives/lovers, helpful strangers, priests (of any variety); 3) Bend with the wind, and snap back hard in the lulls.

  He had never actually defined these philosophies in such definitive terms, had never carved them in stone, but they had certainly served as a kind of tacit guide through the last ten or so years of his life. Call him hardbitten, if you like, call him a cynic, call him a fool; what you can’t call him is gullible (not entirely, anyway).

  Although he was attracted to the girl named Cally – who wouldn’t be? – there was no way he would believe she had his best intentions at heart. As far as he was concerned she was up to her gorgeous neck in this unholy mess. She’d drugged him, had kidnapped Sammy, had lied to him – so why should he trust her? Even so, to give her a minor benefit of doubt (she had, after all, saved his life too) he’d waited for her call all evening and all night.

  Earlier, when Prunella had arrived back on his doorstep, he had turned her away, telling her that he needed time on his own to think, and that he’d take no further action anyway until he was quite sure Cally wasn’t going to make contact. Prunella clearly had been disappointed, for the lustre in her eyes was not only because of the exciting story she had become involved in, but was also because she was keen to repeat some of the previous action of the day. Mistakenly, she’d been impressed by Creed’s prowess.

  She had gone away slightly miffed, even though she’d understood the pressure he was under.

  Creed hadn’t eaten, hadn’t touched the booze, but had smoked and drunk coffee before eventually drifting into a fitful sleep on the lounge sofa, one ear remaining wide awake in case the telephone should ring. It hadn’t.

  He had risen early the next day and, with a further smoke and coffee, searched through his roadmap book, the address Prunella had given him by his side on the kitchen table. He hadn’t found mention in the book of the Retreat itself, naturally enough, but he did trace the village that the address claimed the place was near.

  Now he was on his way, through the morning traffic, heading out of the city, going west towards Berkshire, on his way to talk to a retired and, for all he knew, totally senile ex-hangman. He could feel in his water that it was going to be another strange kind of day.

  28

  The Mountjoy Retreat was impressive, like one of those mansions for sale you often see full-page, full-colour, in Country Life; the kind that aren’t priced, but for which ‘substantial offers are invited’. For all its glory, however, it hadn’t been easy to find. One local that Creed had stopped to ask had heard of the place, but was blowed if he knew where the bugger was ’xactly. Another sent him off in a totally wrong direction. Finally he managed a reliable route instruction from the village post office.

&
nbsp; The home was several miles from the village itself, tucked away down a tree-lined country lane with only an insignificant and weather-worn sign proclaiming its existence. Creed had steered the Suzuki between the unimposing brick pillars of the gateway and driven along the winding drive until the trees and foliage on each side opened out and the mansion was there in the distance across the sweeping lawns. He brought the jeep to a halt.

  If Creed had had any knowledge of old architecture, he’d have noted that the building appeared to be a combination of sixteenth-, seventeenth– and eighteenth-century styles, but basically Tudor in origin. The rose-coloured brickwork was patterned with soft unobtrusive diapering, and tall windows were symmetrically arranged on either side of an early classical portico whose white columns rose almost to roof-height. There were higher turrets at both ends of the main facing, and plain lawns, made sullen by winter, stretched before and around the broad, gravelled forecourt. To Creed it was just a wealthy person’s paradise.

  He drove on, studying the house as it loomed larger in the windscreen, and brought the jeep round to the wide steps of the portico entrance. He parked alongside a capacious delivery van from which covered trays and cartons were being unloaded. Creed climbed out and followed one of the men who was carrying six narrow cartons balanced precariously on top of one another.

  A portly figure in a black suit and shiny grey tie appeared in the doorway ahead. ‘Adrian, if you drop those I’ll personally strangle you,’ he said, his expression one of outraged alarm. ‘Chef would die if he saw his gateaux in such mortal danger.’ His glance flicked briefly towards Creed before he turned and flounced back inside the building.

  Creed overtook Adrian, who seemed suddenly to have lost confidence and was testing each unseen step with a probing foot first before committing himself, and entered the Retreat’s high-ceilinged hall. Its stark whiteness was almost dazzling.

  The portly man in the black suit and grey tie was talking to an even more portly, not to say gross, woman seated at a large oak desk. She wore a fluffy pink cardigan over a uniform of pale blue.