Krampusnacht: Twelve Nights of Krampus (16 page)

The skyscrapers of Canary Wharf loomed up on his right and then the queue for the tunnel started. The only words the driver had spoken since he had got into the cab was “Where to?” at the start, and Mervin was glad. He did not feel like conversation. All he wanted to do was get home.

He switched his mobile phone on and saw that there was no signal. The time was half past six. He wondered what time first light was on Christmas Day. He remembered leaving home at a quarter to eight the previous Christmas Day, so first light would be about 13 hours away. He pushed the thought away. Within the hour he would be tucked up in bed in the safety of his perfect home with his perfect wife, and it would be the best Christmas either of them had ever experienced. He would make sure of it.

The traffic in front started moving and the cab followed down the slope and into the mouth of the tunnel. Mervin jumped as a huge road tanker thundered past, the sound of the diesel engine reverberating off the walls and the 10 wheels pushing down on the tarmac.

The trailer was painted silver with the words Navitas Petroleum in red along its side.

Popular choice.

Mervin shivered. The fact that it was at least 13 hours until first light did nothing to allay the anxiety that was building.

Mervin felt a deep sense of relief as the cab emerged into the night of south-east London and quickly left the tunnel behind. The traffic was moving freely, and by his reckoning he would be home by 7:30.

As they drove down the slip road and joined the M25 motorway, snow started falling. At first the fall was light, but enough for most drivers to slow causing all those following to brake. As the snow got heavier, the traffic came to a standstill and the snow settled across the surface of the motorway.

“Why has everyone stopped?” Mervin said to himself. “It’s only snow.”

“Human nature,” the cab driver said.

“How many miles is it to Westerham?”

“Ten miles.”

“It would be quicker to walk.”

“I’m sure that is what Oates thought.”

“Sorry?” Mervin said thrown by the comment.

“Terra Nova 1912. I may be gone for some time.”

“I wouldn’t have plans to come back here.”

“A good traveler has no fixed pans, and is not intent on arriving.”

Mervin resisted the urge to ask what he was talking about and looked at his watch. It was a quarter to seven. He did not want to be sitting in the back of a cab on the motorway all night, and he was sure that he could walk 10 miles in no more than three to four hours.

He switched his mobile phone on and it beeped at him. The message was from Jenny and it said: ‘Where are you? Call me.’

He was about to phone, but instead just pressed the reply. He did not want to face a hundred questions about how he ended up stuck in the snow on the motorway. He typed “Stuck in snow. Going to walk. Home by 11.” He pressed send and prayed that he would be home by 11 thinking midnight would have been more optimistic.

“How much do I owe you?” Mervin asked.

“Ordinarily the journey would have been four score, but then ordinarily I would not have found myself sitting in the snow for all eternity.”

Mervin pulled his wallet from his pocket and opened it to see what notes he had. He took out four 50’s and leant forward to pass them to the cab driver. A hand raised and took the notes from him without looking back. Mervin caught a brief glimpse of the cab driver’s eyes in the rear view mirror and felt cold. The moment had been short, but the dark eyes that stared back at him left him cold.

“Ten score should…” He stopped himself, and said, “Two hundred pounds should cover it.”

“The wages of a hired man are not to remain with you all night until morning.”

Mervin opened the door and stepped out into the cold. If he had realized just how cold it would be outside the cab, he might have had second thoughts about trying to walk, but he had paid the fare, and as soon as he slammed the door closed, he felt a sense of relief to be leaving the cab driver, his strange comments and those unsettling dark eyes behind.

He looked back. Three lanes of cars disappeared into a swirling fog of snow, an icy cold wind blowing snow from the surrounding fields. He turned and looked in the direction he would be walking, and he could see no further than about four cars. He buttoned up his coat, pushed his hands into his pockets and started walking.

* * *

Mervin felt as though he had been walking for hours, but he refused to look at his watch through fear of seeing just how little time had passed. Snow had settled on the windscreens of the cars and stuck to the windows along their sides, and no other person had left the relative warmth of their cars. He could not see anyone and, even though he knew there must be hundreds of stranded people around him, he felt as though he was completely alone.

He continued on, one foot in front of the other. He passed a large signpost, but the writing was covered with a layer of snow blasted to its surface by the wind. His face felt numb. His fingers hurt, the cold getting to the tips even through the fabric of his pockets. A pain was building in his toes and he wondered how cold it had to be and how long it took to develop frostbite.

He had driven along the motorway many times, but he had never strayed from its path. There had never been any reason to, but he was sure that towns and villages could not be far from it. Nowhere in the overcrowded southeast was far from some form of habitation.

He stopped and looked towards the steep bank that led up from the hard shoulder. If there was a town at the top, he was sure that he could find someone with a four wheel drive vehicle that could be persuaded to drive him cross country back to Westerham.

He turned and headed for the bank. Without stopping he started up the slope. It was steep and he had to take his hands out of his pockets to keep himself from falling.

As he reached the top a blast of wind almost threw him back down, but he somehow managed to stand his ground. The snow felt like grit against his face and the cold air was smothering, but he was determined not to give up. He doubted whether he would ever be able to find the cab again even if he did turn back.

Through squinted eyes he looked about, but the waves of snow blasting him made visibility beyond a few yards impossible. He was sure that there must be houses only a stone’s throw from where he was standing. Developers had stuck housing estates all over the countryside.

He pushed on, his legs sinking into the snow up to his knees. He wondered whether anyone would find him before he froze to death if he fell and broke his leg. He doubted it. He would have to crawl back to the motorway assuming he did not get lost in the maelstrom of snowflakes and end up crawling around in circles until his muscles gave way and the snow covered his dying body.

He walked in a straight line, or as straight a line as he could with nothing to guide his way, hoping that by doing so he would at least stumble upon a road, assuming he could distinguish a country road covered in snow from the surrounding countryside covered in snow.

A dark shape appeared ahead, and as he neared he saw that it was a house. He started walking quicker and his right ankle twisted painfully in a hole beneath the snow and he fell onto his side where he lay hoping he had not done any serious damage.

As the pain subsided and became an uncomfortable throb, he got back onto his feet, cringing as he put weight onto his right foot. He guessed it was sprained, but he had no choice but to walk on it.

The house looked substantial, and around it were old wooden barns. He could not see whether there were any lights on in the house or not through the snow, but he assumed there must be someone home.

He slowly made his way towards the house following what looked like hoofed animal prints in the snow. He could not tell what type of animal had made the prints, or whether they followed the path of a driveway or grass. He only hoped that his good ankle did not find another hole. He did not think he would make it even to the house with two damaged ankles.

* * *

He knocked on the door and it moved. He pushed and the door swung back to reveal a dark entrance hall. Through the gloom he could see that strips of wallpaper had fallen from the walls. Wires dangled from a hole in the ceiling where a light had once been fitted and the floor was littered with empty tins and bottles.

“Is anyone in there?” he called.

He was not certain whether he would feel safer if someone called back or not. At least that way he would know. Silence would create an uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching him from the shadows.

He walked across the threshold and stood in the center of the entrance hall. A rush of cold air made him shiver and the front door slammed closed. He assumed there was a through draft, but the slamming door had already done its work on his nerves.

When he tried the door it would not open. He tried pulling the catch back on the lock, but the door would still not open. He turned and walked through an opening into what he assumed was once the sitting room.

The floor was wooden, and from its poor state he guessed that it had once been carpeted. A large stone fireplace occupied the center of the far wall. All traces of the people that had once lived in the house had been removed, and he doubted that the house would ever be lived in again.

He hobbled back out to the hall and looked up the stairs. He made his way up, his ankle only making a mild protest, and found that the doors to the rooms—he counted four—had been removed.

He hobbled into the room to his right and went to the window and looked out. The wind howled as it passed and, if anything, the storm seemed to be getting worse.

He slumped to the floor with his back against the wall. He tried phoning Jenny, but he could not get a signal. He did not know whether it was the location or just the storm that prevented him making the call, but he did know that Jenny would soon be becoming very anxious about his whereabouts.

He raised his wrist to check the time, but his watch had stopped, the second hand frozen over the seven. The battery was only a few weeks old, so he assumed it had been knocked a little too hard when he had fallen.

He closed his eyes and listened to the wind blowing the snow against the windows. The sound undulated and, as his breathing steadied, he felt his anxieties draining away.

* * *

Mervin stared at Ben Mudd as he spoke. He was not interested in listening. He stood and walked towards the door. Sitting at a table by the door was Jack Thomas and someone he knew to be Justin Bonner. They both looked up and smiled at him. He knew they had both been talking about him the way people do. He felt nothing but hate toward them.

He found himself standing in the petrol station. Jack looked up and he raised his hand. He held a gun and when Jack opened his mouth to say something he pulled the trigger and a hole appeared between his eyes as the wall behind turned red.

He was standing outside a Victorian semi-detached house. The door opened and he slammed the sole of his right shoe into a man’s stomach sending him to the ground. He poured petrol over the man. The smell of the liquid was almost overpowering. He lit a match and dropped it onto the man. There was a flash of light and he turned away.

He saw a small black circle and then a gun came into focus. A black gloved hand held the gun, but beyond that his eyes refused to focus on the face.

“Between the eyes,” a voice that seemed vaguely familiar said. “Popular choice.”

“I chose fire,” Mervin said with the same irritation he reserved for waiters when they brought him the wrong order.

“Never say fire to a man with a loaded gun.”

“Who are you?” Mervin asked, his eyes refusing to focus on the face.

“Call me father time. All I have is time and my games to while away that time.”

“Are you going to kill me?” Mervin asked surprised at the calmness in his voice.

“I really would like to tell you that I’m here to spread the joys of Christmas, but that would be a lie. Whatever I am, I am not a liar.”

“Why?” Mervin asked. “If you’re going to murder me, at least tell me why?”

“How old does a man have to be before he grows tired of life? That depends upon the man I suppose. There you were at the bottom looking up, and now you’re looking down. You have a beautiful wife, a beautiful house and in nine month’s time a beautiful son…”

“Jenny isn’t pregnant,” Mervin said, his skin prickling as though something tiny was scuttling about beneath his clothes.

“A son you will never know, and who will never know you.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” Mervin shouted.

“You did this to yourself,” the man told him. “You went in search of the past and you walked here of your own free will, and now you sit here alone in the dark with nothing but your past to hold you together.”

Mervin tried to stand, but his ankle had swollen and gave. He slumped back to the ground gritting his teeth tightly against the stabbing pain. His face felt hot and his heart was pounding. He closed his eyes tightly and waited for the pain to subside, and eventually it settled down to a dull but bearable throb.

He opened his eyes and the man was gone. He looked about the room, but he was alone. He looked down and saw a handgun lying on the floor by his feet. He reached out and stopped just short, his fingers hovering over the handgun as though afraid to touch it.

He lowered his hand and touched the handle, surprised that it felt warm as though someone had very recently had it clutched tightly in their hand. He had thought the man had been nothing but his imagination, but the handgun brought him into reality.

He was about to call out, but stopped himself. He did not want to see the man again. He wondered whether the gun had been left for him to shoot himself with. He wondered whether the man was waiting to see what he would do. He wondered whether it was the same gun that had shot Jack Thomas in the head.

He picked the handgun up allowing his fingers to curl around the handle and his forefinger to pass through the trigger guard and rest against the trigger.