Green Grow the Rashes and Other Stories (7 page)

"Do you believe it?" he said, "I sit
in trial of a poacher, find him unjustly accused, and what do you
think he does? Only gives me a pair of my own birds in
gratitude."

He laughed, his head thrown back,
showing off the proud roman profile enjoyed by all his family. The
laugh was such a joyous thing that I was forced to join him. Five
minutes later we were ensconced in his study, sharing a bottle of
clear, golden, whisky, watched over by the imperious portraits of
his ancestors. I couldn't help but notice that they had all been
caught as young men.

John was full of tales from the
courts, completely enthralled in the life of the people in the
area, and for the first time in our long acquaintance he looked
truly happy and at ease with the world.

I was loath to break the spell that
this place had woven around him, and it took two glasses of whisky
to loosen my tongue, and a further one before I could relate my
findings. I was serious, and tried to impress the gravity of the
situation on him. He listened intently, but his eyes told me that
he didn't believe a word of it.

"I've heard parts of the tale before,"
he said, "We used to have an old gamekeeper here - Jim Callender.
He was full of the old stories - how that man loved to hear himself
talk. He tried to frighten my brother and I when we were little
more than children."

"But come," he said, leaning forward
and placing a hand on my knee, "Surely a sophisticated gentleman
like yourself has not fallen for such old wives tales?"

Suddenly he seemed to come to a
decision.

"Come on. I'll show you that there's
no need to be afraid."

He stood and made for the door before
turning back to me.

"Well. Are you coming? There's just
enough light for the task."

I took a last, lingering, drink before
placing the glass on the table, and had a longing look back at it
before following Sir John out to the loch.

There was a small rowing boat tied to
a makeshift jetty, and John must have noticed the look on my face
when I saw it.

"Don't worry," he said, "It's more
stable than it looks. I take the boat out most evenings - there are
some terrific trout in the waters around here."

Without another word he led me into
the boat which swayed alarmingly until we were both settled. He had
taken the oars and allowed me no argument. He rowed with the ease
of one well used to the task, and was not even breathing heavily
when he spoke.

"You know. It's a curious thing. I
have been out on this loch more times than you can imagine, but
I’ve never set foot on the island. Nobody has, for as long as I can
remember."

"I'd wager that your grandfather did."
I said, my mouth working faster than my brain. I immediately
regretted it as a cloud seemed to pass over John's
features.

"For pity's sake man - granddad was
going soft in the head by all accounts. He was obsessed with the
old stories. And it wasn't the curse that got him - he killed
himself, up there in that library you are so fond of."

I jumped at that, causing the boat to
sway slightly, but John didn't miss a stroke, and his face was now
set against me. I could do no more than watch that dark blot appear
ever closer over his left shoulder.

It was less than five minutes later
when there was a grind of wood against stone and the boat came up
on a steep, rocky shore.

The sun was closing in on the mountain
side, laying layers of orange and red across the sky. The loch
itself glowed gold like the whisky I was missing so much, a gold
that was slowly turning blood red.

I turned away from the view and forced
myself to confront the island itself. At first it was no more than
a larger smudge of darkness but then the splendour of the sunset
faded from my eyes and the island asserted itself in my
view.

It was smaller than I had thought -
barely thirty yards in diameter, raising itself no more than six
feet from the surface of the loch at its highest point. A grove of
twisted yew trees seemed to grow straight from the rock, so dense
that it was impossible to guess what might lie beyond
them.

John was already up and out of the
boat before I had time to take in the whole scene. Even then I
found that I no longer had the desire to explore this god forsaken
patch of land. I watched him scramble across the slimy rocks and
followed his progress until his shape melded with the greater
darkness of the trees.

A stillness descended around me like a
shroud, the loch around me as flat and calm as the surface of a
lady's mirror. No bird sang, nor did any of the fabled trout
disturb the waters. Suddenly I felt more alone then I ever
desired.

I called out to John, twice, my first
attempt coming to little more than the thin, croaky, pleading of an
old man. There was no reply.

I pushed myself out of the boat, the
soaking of my good brogues not improving my temper. I was glad of
them only seconds later - the rocks proved a more tortuous route
than I had imagined.

Once more I called out for my friend,
and this time was rewarded by an answering call, muffled, as if
having travelled a great distance to reach me.

"Over here William" the voice said,
and my heart immediately lifted. I followed the source of the voice
to the grove of elms and began to push my way through them, all the
time becoming ever more aware that darkness was beginning to draw
itself in around me.

Just when I began to believe that the
grove had, somehow, become larger than the island on which it
stood, I emerged into a rough clearing, no more than nine feet
across. The ground rose to a taller mound, one formed of fallen
rocks and rubble, rubble that seemed strangely black, even in the
dim light.

"John?" I shouted, and this time I
could trace the reply - he was in the mound itself. As I stepped
closer I could see a rough entrance, just above and to the left of
where I was standing.

"In here" the voice said.

I stepped closer, then stopped, halted
by a sudden whiff of corruption. There was a scrape, as of stone on
stone, and the caustic odour strengthened. I started to call out,
but everything was driven from my mind when John screamed - a cry
the like of which I hope never to hear again.

A figure barrelled out of the mound,
knocking me over to scrabble, dazed, amongst the rubble. I managed
to push myself upright just in time to see John's stout frame push
away from me through the yews.

The stones beneath my feet shifted and
the smell became so strong as to sting at the back of my throat and
cause gorge to rise. It was all the excuse I needed - I hurried to
follow my friend.

At first I thought that he had already
gone, leaving me to go insane on this rough rock, but then I saw
that the boat was still where we had left it. I came across his
prone body several steps later - by that time it was becoming so
dark that I might have missed him if I had passed several steps to
either side.

He had fallen victim to the rocks,
losing his footing and striking his head hard. There was a warm
wetness in his hair, but his breathing was strong. With no little
difficulty I managed to manhandle him into the boat - I still have
a scar on my left knee where a rock sheared clean through my tweeds
and into my leg.

I only looked up once, no more than a
glance back to the island to get my bearings, and then I was
rowing, with an energy I never knew I possessed, rowing with all
haste back to the safe, warm lights of Sir John's ancestral
seat.

I will say nothing of that mad flight
across the loch - the fears and terrors of it have been blanked
from my mind, a necessity if I am to remain sane.

Some time later Mrs Jameson met us on
the doorstep. The walk from the jetty, all the while carrying the
dead weight of my friend, almost exhausted me and I fell across the
door, tumbling both myself and the master of the house in an unruly
heap on the carpet.

By that time I was most willing to
give myself over to the ministrations of Mrs Jameson. She did not
let me down. Within five minutes we were installed in the stout
armchairs in the study, the whole household having been roused for
our attention.

Which is how I came to be facing John
on his awakening.

His eyes opened first; strange,
unfamiliar, red-rimmed orbs. He stared at me then his gaze lifted,
looking beyond me to the portraits on the walls.

That's when the screaming
started.

I left that very night, ignoring all
of Mrs Jameson's protestations, and since that night I have never
left London. Indeed, I rarely set foot from the safety of my warm,
suburban home.

But at night I dream.

I am once more back in that rowing
boat, having managed to tumble John into position. I pick up the
oars and look back, just a glance to get my bearings.

And there, backlit by the last rays of
the dying sun, I see a group of figures proceeding towards us,
their bare feet shuffling among the hard rocks, tattered clothing
flapping about their flanks. One bends and lifts a rock from the
shore, and I see the red of John's blood appear at its mouth. And
as the boat begins to drift away from the shore one of my oars
strikes a rock, and the figures all turn towards me.

I wake screaming at the sight of those
proud roman profiles, the same profile I see adorning the face of
my friend Sir John, my good friend Sir John who will be fifty in
less than two months time.

The room was white, a
brilliant white that almost hurt her eyes as she struggled to
focus. Something was wrong. The last thing Sheila Davidson
remembered was leaving the shop. She’d said goodnight to the
assistant, walked to her car and…

And nothing.

She couldn’t remember
anything after that, until she woke sitting in front of a desk
composed of a white marble that shone with its own inner light. She
was transfixed, tilting her head from side to side to catch the
glittering patterns of light and shade, and was only stopped in her
reverie by a discreet cough from across the desk.

"When you're quite
finished?" a deep gravelly voice said.

She looked up into a pair
of piercing green eyes and a sardonic grin. The owner of the grin
wore a sharp business suit and an expensive Italian silk tie. The
gold band of a watch gleamed as he rolled a hand over the computer
keyboard in front of him. Sheila was so taken with the suit that it
took her several seconds to notice the talons… and the
horns.

She threw herself back in
her seat with a scream, and came up hard against the wall of the
room. She searched frantically for a door, but there was none, just
blank, featureless white.

The demon smiled at her
again.

"If you’d just take a
seat miss, this won’t take too long."

"Where… where am I?"
Sheila whispered.

The demon tapped at a
badge on the lapel of his suit. Sheila had to stand and move closer
to read it.

It
read,
Ballygrampus, Assistant
Deputy Demon, Substation 3933 level 46, Hell.

"Hell?" Sheila
whispered.

"What, you were expecting
Pearly Gates and mellow fruitfulness?"

She sat down, hard. She
pinched her forearm, so tight as to bring a flare of pain, but when
she looked up, the demon still sat there, smiling.

"So, what was it?
Accident? Heart attack?" the demon asked.

She could only sit and
stare. Every time she tried to speak, she failed to come up with a
sensible sentence for this situation.

"Ah. Here it is," the
demon said, reading from the screen. "Shelia Davidson, aged
forty-nine, heart attack. Unlucky not to reach the big
5-0."

"It’s next month," Sheila
whispered. "We’re having a party… all the family will be
there."

"I guess they
will now," the demon said. "It’s a pity
you
won’t be
there to see it. Let’s see why they sent you to me, shall
we?"

Sheila watched as the
talons rattled across the keyboard.

"So far so good,"
Ballygrampus said. "Nothing for Fornication, nothing for Sloth,
nothing for Envy."

He looked up and gave
Sheila a wink.

"Looks like
you might actually
have
come to the wrong
place."

He went back to looking
at the screen.

"Nothing for Pride,
nothing for Avarice."

The demon looked up
again, and this time it was more a smirk than a grin that crossed
his face.

"That just leaves Theft
and Gluttony. Want to guess where you stand? I'll bet you five
years that it's Theft."

The demon pulled back his
sleeves revealing a line of red, almost burnt, flesh, as he turned
once more to the keyboard.

"You weren’t a bureaucrat
were you? We love them down here. They come in very handy with the
filing."