“Help me… pleeasse…”
The desperate, dying man croaked out the words, a dribble of blood escaping from his thin anguished lips, and I couldn’t imagine his agony. I couldn’t see past my own fear, as the legs contracted tighter around him, pulling the prey closer, and the awful round body rose up slightly as if to investigate the distraction, its milky white surface shining like mother of pearl, as for a moment the sucking stopped.
“Pleaasee …”
I moaned as I felt it look at me, really look at me, from its rank of almost invisible eyes, their raised bump surfaces glistening with the same sickly colour as the rest of its body, each standing out only by the pinpoint of bright red at its centre. I knew in that moment, as it locked me in its gaze, that it was feeding on him, feeding on him while he was still alive, and the primeval fear at the core of me told me that this
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terrible huge spider thing was enjoying his pain. That it understood what it was doing.
I think there’s something else growing inside me. A new kind of baby.
I remembered how Chloe had been when I’d left her, her body jolting and jerking on the sofa, something moving under her clothes, something pushing its way out of her, and staring at this monster in front of me, I let the scream that had been welling up inside of me out, let it rip free, and it released my own frozen limbs.
I didn’t stay. I didn’t help. I didn’t even put the man out of his misery and save him from being eaten alive with a swift stab to the throat, which I think is the help he was asking for. No. I turned and fled down the stairs and through the kitchen, banging my thigh hard on a low shelf but not even pausing in recognition of the pain, my own scream echoing after me even as my shoes beat on the cobbles of the courtyard outside, during every second of my flight expecting to feel that thing touching me, catching me. Devouring me.
For the second time that day I ran in pure terror, my tired legs burning beneath me, but this time I didn’t know where to go, where there was left to go. I came to a stop in the centre of the small roundabout at the corner of High Street and Wolverton Road, of all places, swinging round frantically, knife waving from side to side, raging in preparation for the attacking monster I was sure was behind me.
There was nothing. Just the empty streets and pavements. I spun in circles, checking over and over that I was alone, until finally my heart rate slowed down to somewhere near normal, my blood cooling slightly. But just slightly.
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Only a couple of hours ago I was looking at my home like it was a ghost town. Now as I warily gazed up at the windows that looked down impassively, I realised I’d been a galaxy away from the truth. Stony Stratford was teeming with life. A new kind of life. It was a breeding ground for it.
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Chapter Six
I think it was the music that kept me sane. It started about ten minutes after my escape from the cafe, as I sat in the bus shelter alongside The Plough, my back pressed against the metal, my eyes watchful, letting it waft gently over me for an hour or so until I realised that I really had no choice but to follow it.
Standing up, I stared for a few more seconds in the direction of St. Swythen’s Court before deciding that if I didn’t turn my back on it then, I never would. My whole body shaking, I tucked the knife into my belt and faced in the other direction, biting back the conviction that the thing was instantly behind me, and stepped out onto the street. I pushed myself forward, concentrating on the sound, focussing my thinking away from the fear that bubbled through every pore.
It was distant, but it was definitely coming from somewhere in Stony. Even in this silence I doubted that I could hear anything from Wolverton or the other surrounding villages. It didn’t seem to be coming from
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any of the estates on the south edge of town, so I turned onto Russell Street and headed north. It was light, fluffy forties Hollywood music, the slightly tinny quality of the recording becoming clearer as I walked. At least I knew I was heading in the right direction.
Blossoms dropped from the trees that lined the pretty street as I followed the tune like a rat following the pied piper, although I don’t think his repertoire ever included anything by Frank Sinatra or those other old crooners. I passed the closed primary school and the high walls of the old folks home, and kept with the kerb of the road moving past the uneven line of cottages and houses. I was glad they were set well back from the pavement, mostly hidden by shrubs and weeping willows. I didn’t want to see what was going on inside. I didn’t need to.
Finally, the houses thinned out and the road curved right past the small path leading down to the ancient overgrown graveyard that sat forgotten in the heart of our town. Its sunlight was blocked by overhanging trees, leaving it in eternal twilight, the names on the stones long ago eroded, a true place of peaceful rest. I wondered how long it would take for the modern one on London Road to reach the same state. I doubted anyone would be popping in there with fresh flowers or a lawnmower in the near future.
The music was definitely clearer now, as ahead of me the high gates of the Stony Stratford Sports Club reared into view, one side of thin grey steel bars arched open wide, inviting me onto the gravel drive as Vera Lynn burst into song with “We’ll Meet Again,” from somewhere beyond. To my left, the empty tennis courts gleamed in the sun, and peering to my right I
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could see the huts a couple of hundred yards away that made up the cricket and football clubs, but all that was coming from their direction was a light breeze cooling the air.
I paused and stared ahead of me at the source of the sound. It was floating out from behind the neat hedgerows of the Bowls Club, the roof of the Clubhouse just visible from where I was standing, irritatingly blocking any view I might have of whomever was playing it. For all I knew, a madman was waiting there, his shotgun raised, ready to blow the life out of anyone who answered his call, and despite all that had happened, I wasn’t ready for that. But still, if I wasn’t willing to take a risk on someone, then it was going to be a lonely existence for as long as it lasted. And if the person on the other side of that hedge was still in control of their senses, then they were braver than I was, drawing so much attention to themselves. Or perhaps, they just hadn’t seen what I had so far this morning.
Keeping my footfalls as quiet as possible, I padded up the neat path to the waist high garden gate that signalled the club’s boundary. On the other side lay the pristeenly mowed green, pretty flowers growing in flawless beds set back against the hedges. It looked like a pensioner’s paradise, and for a brief moment my heart ached for halcyon days it seemed unlikely I would ever have.
Lifting the latch, I took a deep breath and pushed the gate open, my legs ready to once again burst into flight in the opposite direction if I needed them to, and stepped onto the path, turning to face the clubhouse thirty or so feet away.
There was a chair on the raised porch and an old
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man sat in it, dressed casually in a cream shirt and tan trousers, smoking a pipe, a relic of a record player on the table beside him blasting out the tunes of his youth. Seeing me approach, he waved a hand and stood up, leaving the glass he’d been sipping from down next to the gramophone and turning the volume down slightly.
Relief flooding through me, I took the wooden steps two at a time, and by the time I’d got to the shade of the porch my hand was out, ready to introduce myself. I knew that I’d wanted human company, but I hadn’t realised how badly I’d needed it.
“Matthew Edge. Am I pleased to see you.”
The hand that gripped mine back was dry but firm. “George Leicester. And likewise.”
He was a tall man, over six foot, and although his hair was past grey and into white, his eyes were bright and focussed in his lined face. I took the knife out of my belt and placed it on the low table. George stared at it for a moment before speaking.
“Why don’t we go inside and get a drink while we wait to see if anyone else arrives? I’ve made coffee, but there’s a whole bar there if you fancy something stronger.”
There must have been a hungry look on my face as we stepped into the cooler area of the bar and I stared at the optics, because George raised an eyebrow.
“Just the one though, son. I think we’re going to need our heads straight today.”
I nodded and smiled as he poured me a whiskey just like the one he had outside; then we went back and stood in the doorway looking out over the green and beyond. Vera had moved on to a less famous song, but
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George hummed it quietly as he reached for his own glass.
I gestured in the direction of the music. “I thought I was the only person left alive in town before I heard that. Clever idea. Brave, too.”
“Brave? Not sure about that. I just needed to know that the whole world hadn’t disappeared on me.”
I sipped my drink, enjoying the moment of heat in my mouth. Disappeared? I wondered just how much he knew about what had happened to our quiet village. Maybe there hadn’t been too many women in his life to give him any clues. My knowledge was pretty limited, but my experience of my own mother before she died was that old people could live pretty lonely lives.
“Are you married, George?”
Leaning against the door frame, he shook his head. “My wife’s been dead for five years. Still, we had forty good years. I miss her every day, but you can’t complain after a marriage like ours. I’ve got a daughter living down in Bristol, Mary her name is, but neither her nor her husband have been answering the phone for almost two weeks now. To tell the truth, I’ve been a bit worried. No, to tell the truth, I’ve been a lot worried. She normally lets me know if they’re going away for more than a day or so.” His smile faded. “Anyway, I got up this morning and the phone wasn’t working. Nor the radio or television.” He took a long sip of his own drink, savouring it, before speaking again.
“And there didn’t seem to be anyone but me about. I knocked on a few doors, but no one answered, even though their cars were in their drives, and then I thought
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of coming down here. To be honest, I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. Not that there’d been a lot of people turning up here recently.”
He met my gaze. “I’d been so wrapped up in my worry over Mary and her family that I hadn’t noticed how fewer and fewer people had been coming out. There’s been a fair few matches cancelled this season, especially the ladies. But I didn’t really pay it any attention. At least, not until this morning when they were all gone.” He paused and stared out into the distance. “There aren’t even any children out playing. Where are they all, Matthew? And why didn’t I notice until it had got this far?”
I knew exactly what he meant. I’d been so absorbed with Chloe I hadn’t seen anything else, either. I bet it was the same for that poor man in the cafe as well. I shivered. George didn’t know how lucky he was that no one had answered the door to him.
“They’re not gone. Not disappeared, at any rate.”
“What do you mean? Do you know something I don’t?”
“You’d better sit back down while I tell you this. It’s going to take a little bit of believing.”
Nodding, he took his seat, and I sat on the top step of the porch and hesitantly started to tell him my version of events, beginning with Chloe and ending with my arrival at the bowls green.
Speaking it all out loud, my words aimed mainly at my feet, was cathartic for my soul. By the time I’d finished, I was surprised by how much better I felt.
“I know it sounds crazy, but it’s the truth.”
Finally, looking up, I could see that George believed me. His face had paled beneath the worn tan of
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afternoons spent gardening, and his hand trembled slightly as he raised his glass and drained it. I may have felt better for sharing my story, but George Leicester was definitely worse for hearing it. For what seemed like a long while he said nothing, before finally leaning back in his chair, pulling a pouch of tobacco from his shirt pocket and refilling his pipe.
Sulphur blazed from the end of the match as he held it in the carved wooden bowl and sucked in, aromatic smoke rising up between us. I’ve got to give him his due, the shake in his hand was barely visible. I’d had weeks to adjust to the changes in Chloe, to get used to the madness, and still the things I’d seen this morning had nearly driven me to insanity. George had to take it all on my words and the evidence of the silent waiting world around us.
He puffed on his pipe for a few moments before speaking, his voice low. “So, your doctor told you this wasn’t just local, this thing that’s happened in Stony?”
I nodded. “He said worldwide. I don’t know how true that is, but I think we can definitely say nationwide.”
He sighed and nodded. “I guess that’s probably right. But if it’s okay with you, then I’m going to go on pretending my Mary and her boy are just fine and on holiday for a little while longer. Just for a little while longer.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring out towards the gate, and I couldn’t think of anything to say to that. I wished I could imagine that Chloe was sitting somewhere on a beach in Tenerife looking beautiful in her jade bikini, smiling over her shoulder and blowing me a kiss. My heart ached
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sitting there in the sunshine, early summer bees buzzing through the flowers in the borders. It ached for me, and it ached for George. He was too intelligent and long in the tooth to be able to fool himself for long.
We didn’t speak, but grieved silently for our lost worlds and lost loves, strangers thrown together, listening to songs from an era long ago dead as time drifted past us.
I don’t know how long we sat there, but I was absorbed in my own thoughts when George stood up.