Collected Stories (36 page)

 The lower sash had been raised - not before all the glass panes had been broken in the frantic struggle - and grand-father Shaddy had his head and shoulders out over the sill, when the whistle began.

 Caroline had watched the eyes dilate, the head go back, the hands slowly turn, revealing the smooth, hairless backs, the fingers stiff and widely spread; the pink tongue coiled back until it resembled a tightly wound spring. Then the whistle. It was born somewhere deep down in the stomach and gradually rose up until it erupted from the throat as a single note of shrill sound.

 Just abandon all hope when the shadmock whistles.

 In the midst of her terror, Caroline thought: "It's not so bad. After all, what can a whistle do?" Then quickly changed her mind when the sound rose to a higher pitch.

 A whistle - a shriek - a sound that went higher and higher until it reached a pitch that seemed to make the walls tremble and broke the remaining fragments of glass in the window. Then from the shadmock's mouth appeared a pencil-thin streak of light. It shot across the room and struck Sheridan in the base of the throat.

 The big man screamed and for a moment clawed the air with convulsing fingers, before he crashed down across the table, his head hanging limply over the edge. Blood seeped from his open mouth and formed a pool on the floor.

 The shadmock advanced slowly forward and the whistling sound rose to an even higher pitch, while the beam of light became a pulsating, white-whiplash that flicked across the conglomeration of bodies that were jammed in the window frame. Marvin moved his head from side to side and the three bodies jerked, quivered, bellowed and screamed. Only that of Sheridan remained still.

 It was then that Caroline realised that the door was unguarded. She crept towards it like a mouse in a den of fighting wild-cats, and hardly daring to breathe, eased her way out into the passage.

 The front door was not locked.

 Caroline ran desperately down the drive. Running under trees that shook their naked branches as though in sinister merriment; stumbling over pot-holes, bowed down by the horrible fear that rode on her shoulders.

 She staggered round a bend and there were the front gates, mercifully unguarded. The iron barrier that partitioned the world of everyday activity that men call sanity, from the bizarre realm of the unacceptable. She ran by instinct, not daring to think, prepared for disaster to strike at every step.

 The gates were locked. A thick iron chain was wound several times round the rusty bars and this was secured by a massive padlock. The rough ironwork rasped her soft palms, when in a frenzy of despair, she shook the gates and cried out her hopeless appeal.

 "Help me… help me."

 Barely had the sound of her voice died away when running footsteps came crashing through the undergrowth and Marvin emerged from beneath the trees. Beautiful as Adonis, graceful as a golden snake, he came to her, and at once the fear, the urgent need for escape, was submerged under a blanket of slavish desire. His voice was gentle, but reproachful.

 "Why did you run away? I was not angry with
you
."

 "I was frightened."

 He began to lead her back up the drive, talking all the while, like any enthusiast who has found a kindred soul to share his burning interest.

 "There's no need to be frightened. My parents have decided to let me have my own way. They always do in the end. Now you can help me in the garden. Help me prepare your husband for planting. Will you do that?"

 "Yes… yes, Marvin."

 "Cut him up and watch him grow ripe?"

 "Yes, Marvin."

 "And you won't make me angry, will you?"

 "No, Marvin."

 "I expect I'll be angry with you sometimes. I just can't help myself. But I'll be awfully sorry afterwards. That should be a great comfort for you. I'm always sorry afterwards. Always… afterwards."

 They disappeared round the bend in the drive and for a while peace reigned among the slumbering trees and the rolling hills beyond. Then a colony of rooks rose up with much flapping of wings and raucous cries and became black, wheeling shadows against the clouded sky.

(1978)

The house was old and tucked away behind a curtain of trees; a lonely place that had been built by a man who loved solitude.

Mr Ferrier liked the company of his fellow beings as much as the next man, but he did not have much money, and The Hermitage – due, possibly, to its isolated position – had been very cheap. So he bought the property, moved in with his furniture and family and began to extol the virtues of a rustic life.

“Room to move around,” he informed a sceptical Mrs Ferrier. “A chance to breathe air that isn’t contaminated by petrol fumes.”

“But it’s such a long way for Alan to go to school,” his wife protested. “And the nearest shop is five miles away. I tried to warn you, but I might as well have saved my breath.”

“Ten minutes’ car ride,” Mr Ferrier retorted impatiently. “Besides, there’s a travelling salesman who has everything you’ll ever need in his van.”

“And what about social life?” Mrs Ferrier demanded. “How will we get to know people, stuck in this out-of-the-way place?”

“Other people have cars, haven’t they? At least give the place a chance. If at the end of three months we find the solitude a bit too much, well – I suppose I’ll have to look for another house nearer town.”

Alan was more than content with his new home. After years spent in a large industrial town, he found the rolling moors had much to commend them. He also discovered ruined farmhouses with frameless windows and gaping roofs, the exposed inner walls still retaining patches of flower-patterned wallpaper; and he wondered how long ago the last family had moved away, leaving their home to fall into decay.

But one of these relics from a bygone age was not completely deserted. According to an old map which Alan borrowed from the public library, this particular ruin had been called High Burrow: a very suitable name, as the house stood on the summit of a fairly steep hill and commanded a splendid view of the surrounding countryside. Alan climbed the slope, clambered over a low wall, then walked across an expanse of weed-infested ground that had probably once been a front garden.

He mounted three crumbling steps and passed through an open doorway, then entered the narrow hall, where the stone floor was coated with dust, and a large rat jumped down from a window-ledge and went scurrying into a side room. The ceiling had either fallen down or been removed, and Alan could see the room above, which had an iron fireplace clinging precariously to one wall. Higher still were massive beams, each one festooned with writhing cobwebs; the naked bones of a dead house.

Alan was about to leave, for there was an indefinable, eerie atmosphere about the place, when he heard the sound of ascending footsteps, which seemed to come from beyond a gaping doorway situated to the left of a dismantled staircase. The footsteps became louder and were intermingled at irregular intervals by an exceedingly unpleasant barking cough.

Presently a figure emerged from the doorway and walked slowly into the hall. Alan saw a tall young man with a heavily bearded face and long matted hair that hung down to his slightly bowed shoulders, deep sunken eyes that were indescribably sad and a set of perfect teeth which were revealed when he again coughed and gasped in a most alarming way.

Alan waited until the man had regained his breath, then said:

“I didn’t realize there was anyone here. I was just exploring.”

The man wiped his brow on the sleeve of his ragged shirt, then spoke with a surprisingly cultivated voice.

“That’s all right. But I heard you come in and wondered who it could be. Haven’t had a visitor for years. This place is rather off the beaten track.”

“Do you live here?” Alan enquired.

The man jerked his head in the direction of the doorway.

“Yes, down there. The cellars are still intact, if rather damp.” He sighed deeply. “There’s no other place I can go.”

Alan thought there were many places he would rather live than in a damp cellar of a ruined house, particularly if he had such a bad cold. In fact, the man probably had bronchitis, or even pneumonia, for, despite the perspiration that poured down his face, he was shivering and could scarcely stand upright. Alan felt a twinge of pity for this strange, lonely person who appeared to have no one to look after him.

“Look, I know it’s none of my business – but shouldn’t you be in bed?”

The man nodded and leaned against the wall.

“Yes, I suppose I should. But my stores are running low and I must somehow get to the village before...”

Another fit of coughing interrupted his next words, and Alan made the only suggestion that was possible under the circumstances.

“Would you like me to do your shopping?”

The man groaned and shivered so violently that Alan became quite alarmed.

“It’s a long way for you to go and come back,” said the man.

“I’ve nothing else to do,” the boy replied, although the prospect of tramping back across rugged moorland carrying a heavy shopping bag was not all that attractive.

“Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind. Come downstairs and I’ll give you some money and some idea of what I require.”

Alan followed the tall figure through the doorway, down a winding flight of steps and finally into a large underground room, dimly lit by an ancient hurricane lamp. So far as he could see, this dismal place contained little more than an iron bedstead and a rickety chair.

“The nearest village is Manville,” the man said, pulling a tin box from under the bed. “About five miles as the crow flies. Get some tinned stuff. Soups and stewed steak. I suppose you couldn’t carry a gallon can of paraffin?”

“I could try,” Alan said ruefully, determined never to explore empty houses again.

“I’d be greatly obliged if you could. Otherwise I’ll soon have to lie down here in the dark. Here’s five pounds – that should cover the cost of all you can carry.”

“Right.” Alan cast a glance at the untidy bed. “You cover yourself up and keep warm. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Thank you very much,” the man said. “You are exceedingly kind.”

Actually, Alan thought he was, too, but just murmured: “Nonsense, no trouble at all,” before walking towards the steps, carrying a leather shopping bag in one hand and an old rusty paraffin can in the other.

The greater part of four hours passed before Alan arrived back at the ruined house.

He ran down the steps and found the sick man sitting up in bed, his face lit by a smile of intense relief.

“And I thought you were not coming back! I should have known better.”

Alan frowned and put the heavy bag and paraffin can down on the floor. “Of course I’ve come back! But it took me a long time to find that village and I lost my way coming back.”

The man shook his head in self-reproach.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. And it must have been very hard work lugging that bag and can over the moors. What have you got?”

Alan began to remove tins of food from the leather bag.

“I spent most of your five pounds. There’s tins of stewed steak, mixed vegetables, soups and some nourishing rice pudding. Now, where’s your cooking stove?”

The man nodded in the direction of a dark corner. “Over there. You’ll find a saucepan and a few odds and ends of crockery.”

Alan found the oil stove – and a very smelly, decrepit piece of apparatus it was, too – and, after lighting it, heated some oxtail soup, which the sick man consumed with every sign of satisfaction.

“That’s marvellous!” he said. “I’m beginning to feel much better already.”

“Would you like some stewed steak now?” Alan asked.

The man shook his head. “No, this will keep me going for a bit. Maybe I’ll heat something up myself a little later on. But I must thank you for all your trouble. Not many lads of your age would have been so kind.”

“That’s all right.” Alan began to back towards the steps. “I’d better get back now or my parents will start worrying. Would you like me to pop in tomorrow?”

For a while the man did not answer, then he said quietly: “I don’t think you should. No – definitely not. Go away and forget you ever saw me. That would be best.”

Alan wondered if the man had done something wrong and was hiding from the police. It might well be the reason why he was living in this awful place. But he did not look like a criminal, nor act like one. After all, he apparently went into Manville to do his shopping. So, just before he ran up the steps, Alan said:

“Don’t worry – I won’t tell anyone you’re here. And I will come to see you again.”

Mr Ferrier brought Charlie Brinkley back from the Grape and Barleycorn, for he was determined to make friends with his nearest neighbours, even if they did live miles away. Charlie was a youngish man with a full red face, a mop of flaxen hair and a hearty, familiar manner which did not go down all that well with Mrs Ferrier.

He sank into a chair, accepted a glass of brown ale, winked at Alan, then directed a slightly bovine stare at the good lady.