New Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos (34 page)

It hadn't seemed worth arguing. Though his parents rarely used the car at night, Michael was never given the key. Where did they go at night? 'When you're older' had never seemed much of an explanation. But surely their nocturnal excursions were more frequent now they'd docked at Pine Dunes? And why was his mother so anxious to persuade him to leave?

It didn't matter. Sometimes he was glad that they went out; it gave him a chance to be alone, the trailer seemed less cramped, he could breathe freely. He could relax, safe from the threat of his father's overwhelming presence. And if they hadn't gone out that night he would never have met June.

Because of the wanderings of the trailer he had never had time for close friendships. He had felt more attached to this latest berth than to any person - until he'd met June. She was the first girl to arouse him. Her small slim body, her bright quick eyes, her handfuls of breast - he felt his body stirring as he thought of her.

For years he'd feared he was impotent. Once, in a village school, a boy had shown him an erotic novel. He'd read about the gasps of pleasure, the creaking of the bed. Gradually he'd realized why that troubled him. The walls of the trailer were thin; he could always hear his father snoring or wheezing, like a huge fish stranded on the shore of a dream. But he had never heard his parents copulating.

Their sexual impulse must have faded quickly, soon after he was born - as soon, he thought, as it had served its purpose. Would his own be as feeble? Would it work at all? Yes, he'd gasped over June, the first night her parents were out. 'I think it'd be good to make love on acid,' she'd said as they lay embraced. 'That way you really become one, united together.' But he thought he would be terrified to take LSD, even though what she'd said appealed deeply to him.

He wished she were here now. The trailer rocked; his parents' door swung creaking, imitated by the bathroom door, which often sprang open. He slammed them irritably. The dream of the bubbling head at the window - if that had been what was wrong with it was drifting away. Soon he'd sleep.

He picked up Witchcraft in England. It looked dull enough to help him sleep. And it was June's.

Naked witches danced about on the cover, and on many of the pages. They danced obscenely.

They danced lewdly. They chanted obscenely. And so on. They used poisonous drugs, such as belladonna. No doubt that had interested June. He leafed idly onward; his gaze flickered impatiently.

Suddenly he halted, at a name: Severnford. Now that was interesting. We can imagine, the book insisted, the witches rowing out to the island in the middle of the dark river, and committing unspeakable acts before the pallid stone in the moonlight; but Michael couldn't imagine anything of the kind, nor did he intend to try. Witches are still reputed to visit the island, the book told him before he interrupted it and riffled on. But a few pages later his gaze was caught again.

He stared at this new name. Then reluctantly he turned to the index. At once words stood out from the columns, eager to be seen. They slipped into his mind as if their slots had been ready for years. Exham. Whitminster. The Old Horns. Holihavan. Dilham. Severnford. His father had halted the trailer at all of them, and his parents had gone out at night.

He was still staring numbly at the list when the door snapped open. His father glanced sharply at him, then went into the bedroom. 'Come on,' he told Michael's mother, and sat heavily on the bed, which squealed. To Michael's bewildered mind his father's body seemed to spread as he sat down, like a dropped jelly. His mother sat obediently; her gaze dodged timidly, she looked pale and shrunken - by fear, Michael knew at once. 'Go to bed,' his father told him, raising one foot effortfully to kick the door shut. Almost until dawn Michael lay in the creaking unstable dark, thinking.

'You must have seen all sorts of places,' June said.

'We've seen a few,' said Michael's mother. Her eyes moved uneasily. She seemed nervously resentful, perhaps at being reminded of something she wanted desperately to forget. At last, as if she'd struggled and found courage, she managed to say, 'We may see a few more.'

'Oh, no we won't,' her husband said. He sat slumped on the couch, as though his body were a burden he'd had to drop there. Now that there were four people in the trailer he seemed to take up even more room; his presence overwhelmed all the spaces between them.

But Michael refused to be overwhelmed. He stared at his father. 'What made you choose the places we've lived?' he demanded.

'I had my reasons.'

'What reasons?'

'I'll tell you sometime. Not now, son. You don't want us arguing in front of your girl friend, do you?'

Into the embarrassed silence June said, 'I really envy you, being able to go everywhere.'

'You'd like to, would you?' Michael's mother said. 'Oh, yes. I'd love to see the world.'

His mother turned from the stove. 'You ought to. You're the right age for it. It wouldn't do Michael any harm, either.'

For a moment her eyes were less dull. Michael was glad: he'd thought she would approve of June's wanderlust - that was one reason why he'd given in to June's pleas. Then his father was speaking, and his mother dulled again.

'Best to stay where you're born,' his father told June. 'You won't find a better place than here. I know what I'm talking about.'

'You should try living where I do. It'd kill your head in no time.'

'Mike feels at home here. That's right, isn't it, son? You tell her.'

'I like it here,' Michael said. Words blocked his throat. 'I mean, I met you,' he hawked at June.

His mother chopped vegetables: chop, chop, chop the sound was harsh, trapped within the metal walls. 'Can I do anything?' June said.

'No, thank you. It's all right,' she said indifferently. She hadn't accepted June yet, after all.

'If you're so keen on seeing the world,' his father demanded, 'what's stopping you?'

'I can't afford it, not yet. I work in a boutique, I'm saving the money I'd have spent on clothes.

And then I can't drive. I'd need to go with someone who can.'

'Good luck to you. But I don't see Mikey going with you.'

Well, ask me! Michael shouted at her, gagged (by his unsureness: she mightn't have had him in mind at all). But she only said, 'When I travel I'm going to have things from everywhere.'

'I've got some,' he said. 'I've kept some things.' He carried the cardboard box to her, and displayed his souvenirs. 'You can have them if you like,' he said impulsively; if she accepted he would be more sure of her. 'The flashlight only needs batteries.'

But she pushed the plastic faces aside, and picked up the ring. 'I like that,' she said, turning it so that its colours spilled slowly over one another, merging and separating. She whispered, 'It's like tripping.

''There you are. I'm giving it to you.'

His father stared at the ring, then a smile spread his mouth. 'Yes, you give her that. It's as good as an engagement, that ring.'

Michael slid the ring on to her finger before she could change her mind; she had begun to look embarrassed. 'It's lovely,' she said. 'Have we time for Mike to take me for a walk before dinner?'

'You can stay out for an hour if you like,' his mother said, then anxiously: 'Go down to the beach.

You might get lost in the woods, in the fog.'

The fog was ambiguous: perhaps thinning, perhaps gathering again. Inside a caravan a radio sang Christmas carols. A sharp-edged bronze sun hung close to the sea. Sea and fog had merged, and might be advancing over the beach. June took Michael's hand as they climbed the slithering dunes.

'I just wanted to come out to talk,' she explained.

So had he. He wanted to tell her what he'd discovered. That was his main reason for. inviting her: he needed her support in confronting his parents, he would be too disturbed to confront them alone -

he'd needed it earlier when he'd tried to interrogate his father.. But what could he tell her? I've found out my parents are witches?

'You know that book you lent me-'

'No, I didn't really want to talk,' she said. 'There were just too many bad vibes in there. I'll be all right, we'll go back soon. But they're strange, your parents, aren't they? I didn't realize your father was so heavy.'

'He used to be like me. He's been getting fatter for the last few months.' After a pause he voiced his worst secret fear: 'I hope I never get like him.'

'You'll have to get lots of exercise. Let's walk as far as the point.'

Ahead along the beach, the grey that lay stretched on the sea was land, not fog. They trudged towards it. Sand splashed from his boots; June slid, and gripped his hand. He strained to tell her what he'd found out, but each phrase he prepared sounded more absurd: his voice echoed hollowly, closed into his mind. He'd tell her - but not today. He relaxed, and felt enormously relieved; he enjoyed her hand small in his. 'I like fog,' she said. 'There are always surprises in it.'

The bronze sun paced them, sinking. The sea shifted restlessly, muffled. To their left, above the dunes, trees were a fiat mass of prickly fog. They were nearly at the point now. It pulled free of the grey, darkening and sharpening. It looked safe enough for them to climb the path.

But when they reached the top it seemed hardly worth the effort. A drab patch of beach and dunes, an indistinct fragment of sea scattered with glitterings of dull brass, surrounded them in a soft unstable frame of fog. Otherwise the view was featureless, except for a tree growing beside the far dunes. Was it a tree? Its branches seemed too straight, its trunk too thick. Suddenly troubled, Michael picked his way over the point as far as he dared. The fog withdrew a little. It wasn't a tree.

It was a windmill.

A windmill by the sea! 'My grandparents lived here,' he blurted.

'Oh, did they?'

'You don't understand. They lived near that windmill. It's the same one, I know it is.'

He still wasn't sure whether she felt his confusion. Memories rushed him, as if all at once afloat: he'd been lying on the couch in his grandparents' decrepit trailer, the huge head had loomed at the window, vague with dawn. It must have been a dream then too.

He followed June down the path. Chill fog trailed them, lapping the point. His thoughts drifted, swirling. What did his discovery mean? He couldn't remember his grandparents at all, not even what they'd looked like. They had been his father's parents - why had the man never mentioned them? Why hadn't he remarked that they'd lived here? The sun slid along the rim of the sea, swollen as though with glowing blood. Had his grandparents also been witches?

'Did Mike's grandparents live here, then?' June said. His mother stared at her. The spoon and saucepan she was holding chattered like nervous teeth. He was sure she was going to scream and throw everything away - the utensils, her self-control, the mask behind which she'd hidden to protect him: for how long? For the whole of his childhood? But she stammered, 'How did you know that?'

'Mike told me. The windmill just reminded him.'

'Is dinner ready?' Michael interrupted. He wanted to think everything out before questioning his father.

But June was opening her mouth to continue. The trailer was crowded, suffocating. Shut up! he screamed at her. Get out! 'Were they born here, then?' June said.

'No, I don't think so.' His mother had turned away and was dishing vegetables. June went to hold the dishes. 'So why did they come here?' she said.

His mother frowned, turning her back; within her frown she was searching. 'To retire,' she said abruptly.

His father nodded and smiled to himself, squeezing forward his ruff of chins. 'You could retire from the human race here,' June said sourly, and he wheezed like a punctured balloon.

As the four ate dinner, their constraint grew. Michael and June made most of the conversation; his parents replied shortly when at all, and watched. His mother observed June uneasily; he read dislike in her eyes, or pity. He felt irritably resentful, her uneasiness made his skin nervous. Night edged closer to the windows, blank-faced.

His father leaned back as if his weight had toppled the chair, which creaked loudly. He patted his quaking stomach. 'Just storing it up for the winter,' he said, winking at June.

His arms flopped around her shoulders and Michael's. 'You two go well together. Don't they, eh?'

But his wife said only, 'I'm going to bed now. I'm very tired. Perhaps we'll see you again,' which sounded like dutiful politeness.

'I hope so,' June said.

'I know we will,' Michael's father said expansively. Michael walked June to the bus stop. 'I'll see you at the club,' she said through a kiss. Smoldering cones of yellow light led the bus away, and were engulfed. As he walked back, twisted shapes of fog bulked between the trees. Nearby in the dark, something shifted moistly.

He halted. What had it been? Blurred trees creaked with a deadened sound, thin trails of fog reached out for him from branches. He'd heard a shifting, deep in the dark. A vague memory plucked at him. He shivered as if to shake it free, into the chill clinging night. A restless moist shifting. He felt as though the depths of the forest were reaching for his mind with ambiguous tatters of grey. He strode rapidly towards the invisible light. Again he heard the slow moist shifting.

Only the sea, he told himself. Only the sea.

As he emerged into the open, the clouds parted and the moon rolled free. The enormous shape in the open space glistened with moonlight. The unstable head turned its crawling face towards him.

The dream trailed him to Liverpool, to the central library, although the space and the head had faded before he could make them out - if indeed he had wanted to. But a rush of rain, and the bright lights of the library, washed the dream away. He hurried up the wide green stairs to the Religion and Philosophy Section.

He pulled books from the shelves. Lancashire Witches. North-West Hauntings. Ghostly Lancashire. The banality of their covers was reassuring; it seemed absurd that his parents could be mixed up in such things. Yet he couldn't quite laugh. Even if they were, -~›hat could he do? He slammed the books angrily on a table, startling echoes.