Mammoth Book of Best New Horror (17 page)

    "Are you okay?" the captain asked her, looking her over. "Where's your friend?"

    "I - I thought she would be here already. She should have been right in front of me."

    He nodded. Then nodded again. The other passengers who had come to the island had started lining up by the ship when the crew returned to it. Monica looked at their pale lost faces, but none of them were Jessica.

    "We have to wait for her. I think-" She paused for a moment, unsure of what she wanted to say. "-I think I must have left her back there someplace."

    "It's okay, it's okay. Don't worry. We won't leave without her. But we can't just stand here waiting. I have other passengers I have to worry about, too. We have to be ready to leave when she arrives. You can wait here if you'd like, but you'll probably be more comfortable on the ship."

    She looked behind her, back at the path she had just come from, and was unsure of what to do. It was getting so hard to think. She rubbed the sweat off her brow again.

    "Okay, but we won't leave without her, right?"

    "Of course not." He smiled reassuringly and led her back to the ship.

    She stood on the deck, looking back at the island as the other passengers boarded. She was still quite tired from running, and underneath the heat she found her mind becoming muddled.

    She watched the trees though, watched them swaying underneath the wind as though shaken by hundreds of hands, all trying to get her attention. But why they'd want her attention, she wasn't sure. She wasn't sure of anything anymore except that she was looking forward to getting back to the mainland, back to her tour group. It was silly, in hindsight, to have left it for a trip to the island, but she didn't think she regretted it. It was good to do different things on a vacation, and she wasn't sure if that was something she'd really understood until that moment. Perhaps the rest of her vacation would improve now that she had uncovered the secret to enjoying it. Already, she felt better.

    When the crew had finished unmooring the ship and the vibrations of the engine were making the deck hum underfoot, Captain Lethes came down to stand with Monica as they pulled away from the island.

    "You were right about that village," she said to him, as she watched the people on the island getting smaller. "I'm glad I saw it, but I can't imagine ever wanting to go back to it."

    "True. Still, it looks like it's done you some good."

    She smiled, and played with the stones around her neck. Their dark brown colour stood out in contrast against her pale skin, yet they seemed strangely cool under her fingers.

    "I can't remember why I was so miserable before we arrived. I suppose we all need to put our troubles behind us sometimes. Oh look!" she said, pointing. "There's someone waving goodbye to us from the island."

    She lifted her arm high and waved happily back at the shrinking figure.

    "Goodbye!" she cried out.

8 - Mike O'Driscoll - 13 O'Clock

    The days were beginning to stretch out. Another couple of months and it would be surf and barbecue, cold beer out on the deck listening to Bonnie "Prince" Billy. Play some silly tunes on the guitar for Jack, teach him his first chords. Make some other kind of music for Polly. The sweet kind for which the diminishing nights left barely enough time.

    The cold still hung in the air at this hour though. Caleb Williams could feel it on his face as he followed Cyril across the rising field. He bent down, scooped up the mostly black mongrel terrier and boosted him up the stone ditch. He climbed up and over while the dog, resenting the indignity of having to be lifted, scrambled down by itself.

    They crossed the dirt track to the garden, where Caleb paused to lean against the unpainted block wall. The sun was a ball sinking below Cefn Bryn, leaving the mid-April sky streaked with red.

    Gazing up at the house, he felt a sudden, unaccountable yearning. The otherness of dusk made the cottage seem insubstantial. Shrugging off this unexpected sense of isolation, he opened the back gate and let Cyril bolt through. They got the dog two years ago for Jack's birthday, but whether Jack had tired of it, or the dog had tired of the boy, it had ended up attaching itself to Caleb. Only now was he getting used to the idea of himself as a dog person.

    In the living room, Polly was curled up on the sofa, dark red hair breaking in waves over her shoulders, ebbing across her blouse. She was channel hopping as he came in, and had opened two small bottles - stubbies, she called them - of San Miguel. "Saw you coming from Jack's room," she said, her grey eyes lucent with mischief. "You looked like you need one."

    Caleb took the beer and sat next to her. "Is it me," he said, "or is the climb up from the bay getting steeper?"

    His wife swung her feet up into his lap. "It's decrepitude," she said.

    "Good. For a moment there I thought I was getting old." He tapped his bottle against hers and took a sip.

    She smiled for a moment, then her expression changed. "You didn't hear Jack last night?"

    "No. What?"

    "I meant to tell you this morning. He had a bad dream." She frowned. "More than that, I guess. A nightmare."

    "There's a difference?"

    "Of course there is, fool." She jabbed a foot playfully into his thigh. "This was a nightmare."

    "How could you tell?"

    "I'm serious, Cale. He was petrified. He screamed when I woke him."

    "Was he okay?"

    "After a while, yes."

    "What did he dream?"

    "He was alone in the house at night. That's scary enough for most eight-year-olds."

    "Poor Jack. How is he tonight?"

    "He's fine. Has been all day. I was half-expecting him to say something but he never mentioned it. I guess he's already forgotten."

    "Good," Caleb said, feeling a vague sense of guilt. Should have been there for him, he thought.

    Polly sighed and rubbed her foot across his belly. "So, how was your day?"

    Caleb said nothing. He was thinking about Jack's nightmare, trying to imagine how he must have felt. A yellow woman moved across the TV screen. He wondered where nightmares came from. What caused them?

    Polly wiggled her toes in his face. "What's the matter? Got the hots for Marge Simpson?"

    He laughed and grabbed her foot. "It's the big hair that does it for me"

    She yanked her foot free. "There you go, making me jealous," she said, sliding along the sofa.

    He drained his bottle and pulled her close. "I always thought blue would work for you," he said, before kissing her. He didn't think about Jack's dream again until after they had made love, and then only for a short while, until sleep took him.

    Caleb taught basic literacy skills to young adult offenders, most of whom were serving community sentences for alcohol and drug related crimes. Twice a week he held a class in Swansea Jail for those whose crimes were more serious. In all the time he had worked as an English teacher in a city comprehensive, he had seen countless faces just like theirs. The faces of disaffected boys who had never willingly picked up a book, or lost themselves in words. After ten years he had walked away. Now, watching these young men begin to find pleasure in reading, he felt he was finally doing something that mattered.

    All the more maddening then, not being able to comprehend his son's terror. As he moved from one student to the next, his thoughts kept drifting back to Jack. He'd had another nightmare last night, worse than before. Hearing him, Polly had woken Caleb. When he'd gone to his son's room, the look of terror on Jack's face had shocked him. After he'd calmed the boy and returned to his own bed, he'd lain awake for hours, trying to comprehend the extent of Jack's fear. His inability to understand the dream left him feeling helpless, and this in turn had added to his confusion and guilt.

    At lunchtime, he called Polly on her mobile. "Hi Cale," she said. "What's up?"

    "You busy?"

    "On my way to town. Got work to drop off at McKays." She worked part-time, auditing small business accounts. "Can I get back to you?"

    "It's okay," Caleb sighed. "I was just wondering about Jack. How he was this morning."

    "Okay, I guess." Caleb heard the doubt in her voice. "He dreamed about a stranger. He, uh-"

    "He what?"

    "He said a stranger was coming to our house."

    Caleb tried to imagine his son's nightmare.

    "We spoke at breakfast and he was all right. I think he forgot most of it. He's tough, you know, resilient."

    "You're right," Caleb said. "I'll stay with him tonight, till he's asleep."

    "He'll like that, Cale. Really." She broke the connection.

    I hope so, Caleb thought, as he flipped the phone shut. Despite Polly's reassurances, he felt there was more he should be doing. Like being able to explain the dream to Jack, stealing its power through interpretation. Take away that ability to rationalize and he was no better than the most illiterate, most brutalized of his students.

    In the evening Caleb put his son to bed and read him a chapter from
The Wind in the Willows.
Jack liked it when he put on different voices for the characters. High-pitched and squeaky for Rat, ponderous and slow for Mole. Toad was his favourite. He always laughed at Caleb's braying, exaggeratedly posh voice, but tonight there was no Mr Toad, just the softer, more subdued notes of Rat and Mole as they searched the river for young Portly, the missing otter. He found himself strangely moved by the animals' mystical quest, experiencing an emotion akin to the yearning regret that was all the memory Rat and Mole were left with of their encounter with Pan. He closed the book and forced a smile, trying to hide his mood, but his melancholy was mirrored in Jack's eyes.

    "What's wrong, Dad?" Jack asked.

    "I was thinking about the story."

    Jack nodded. "Me too. About the friend and helper." He frowned. "Why did they forget him?"

    Caleb hadn't read the book since he was a child himself, and he'd forgotten how mysterious, how at odds with the rest of the tale, the "Piper at the Gates of Dawn" chapter had been. "So they wouldn't feel sad," he said, after a while.

    "But he helped them find Portly."

    Caleb nodded. "Yes, but there are things…"

    "Why?"

    Caleb wondered what it had felt like when he had first become aware of his own mortality. Choosing his words carefully, he said, "Sometimes people know things they're better off not knowing."

    "Things in dreams?"

    "Yes." Something resonated in Caleb's memory. He couldn't quite grasp it, though he suspected his feelings were an echo of Jack's empathy for Rat and Mole. "You remember anything about your dream last night?"

    Jack shook his head.

    "If you're scared, Jack, if something's troubling you, I want you to tell me."

    "Are you okay, Dad?"

    Caleb wondered why Jack would ask that question. It disturbed him, but he managed a smile and said, "Course I am."

    "Right," Jack said, but the look of concern remained on his face. "I'll say a prayer."

    "Why?"

    "You're s'posed to," Jack said. "Mrs Lewis said you have to pray to Jesus to look after your family."

    Mrs Lewis was Jack's teacher. Caleb had nothing against religion, but he was troubled by the notion of Jack taking it too seriously.

    "You don't need to pray for me, son. I'm fine, really. Sleep now, okay?"

    '"Kay," Jack said, closing his eyes.

    Caleb woke from a fretful sleep, scraps of memory gusting through his troubled mind. Though a film of sweat coated his body, he felt cold and vulnerable. A shaft of moonlight fell through the gap in the curtains, cloaking familiar objects in odd, distorting shadows that, in his drowsy state, unsettled him. He struggled to claw back the fragments of a dissipating dream and the sounds that had slipped its borders. A minute passed before he understood that he had followed them out of sleep, that he was hearing the same muffled cries from somewhere in the house. He sprang out of bed and crossed the landing to Jack's room. His son was whimpering softly, making sounds unrecognizable as words. As Caleb approached the bed, Jack's body spasmed and an awful scream tore from his throat. Caleb hesitated, unnerved by the intensity of his son's fear. He wrapped his arms around the boy and felt the iron rigidity in the small, thin body. Downstairs, Cyril began to bark.

    "It's okay, Jack," he whispered. "I'm here." Jack's eyes opened, and in his disoriented state he struggled in his father's arms. Caleb made soothing noises and stroked his face. Jack tried to say something, but the tremors that seized his body made him incoherent. "Ssshhh," Caleb said. "It's over."

    "Duh-duh, Dad," Jack cried.

    "I'm right here," Caleb told him.

    Jack struggled for breath. "He-he was here. He knew you wuh-were gone."