Tales From The Wyrd Museum 1: The Woven Path (27 page)

The girl frowned, the man was obviously unhinged, yet there was a compelling quality to his voice that fascinated her.

‘Much do I know of your cause,’ the sour, sugary voice continued, ‘and great is mine knowledge of those you loyally serve and hold in high esteem. A blessed creed and purpose is theirs; to conquer and subdue the lesser species, destroying the impure strains—that is a glorious aspiration. You cannot imagine my gratification in knowing that there are still in this world such strong and ruthless leaders. For they are undoubtedly the fruit of my toil—the flourishing offspring of my will and mind.’

Steadily, Kathleen fell under the stranger's spell, enchanted by the mellifluous thorns of his speech, and she edged a step closer to where she had left Michael Harmon's body.

‘A common bond do we share,’ the melodic voice jarred, ‘do I not perceive correctly? There is in you an unquenchable yearning—a thirst for the spice of glory, a wanton hunger for destruction and death.’

Kathleen's skin pricked and needled as an unholy numbness stole over her and she took another pace forward.

‘Yes,’ she said thickly, from the depths of her trance.

‘Unbridled should be your ambition,’ he vaunted, 'yet why keep it shuttered and constrained? Give vent to your longing, follow me and I shall shower you with all that you crave. Serve with unswerving fidelity and under my guidance you shall become mighty—a tyrant to rival the governors of ancient realms long despoiled. I, it was, who set them upon their thrones and anointed them with blood. Upon the grave-pits of their vanquished foes were their kingdoms founded, with the bones of the slain were the palaces raised and with terror did they reign.’

An indistinct shape was now visible in the heaving mist. Twelve feet tall it stood, blocking the entrance to the street, its vague form writhing within the gloom.

Kathleen's breath panted with mounting excitement, as triumphant visions for her beloved fatherland were unfurled before her. No longer would she be an insignificant player in the mighty theatre of the Fuhrer's design; now saw herself standing at his side—spreading his doctrines over the globe.

‘Please,’ she begged the sinister, alluring shadow, ‘tell me who you are.’

With a haughty, rumbling growl, the dim shape reared up and two points of crimson fire came blasting through the mist.

‘Beli Ya'al am I!’ he cried arrogantly. The worthless one, the arbiter of conflict, parent of despair, cultivator of all deeds deceitful and without mercy. Cain was my first disciple—I, it was, who steered his hand to spill the first blood and tasted the sweetness of the human soul.

‘Behind the armies of the forgotten wars did I hoist my standard and greatly did I feast on the battlefield. Ever was man ready to hearken to my guiding counsel and mighty did I become, till the ancients of the loathly race we both revile, did assail my towers and throw them down.’

‘Beli Ya'al. . .’ the girl echoed,’. . . let me look on you, let me see your face.’

A discordant, evil cachinnation blared from the mist-mantled demon before her and the fiery eyes blazed round and wide.

‘My face?’ he cackled. The aspect I choose depends on the company I keep. Already I have worn the raiment of many diverse forms, yet there is one which I found most pleasing and entertaining. Perhaps you shall also, for it contains an element which you will surely recognise.’

Kathleen watched as the dark figure in the fog shimmered and warped, assuming a different shape with long, segmented limbs. Then, to the girl's insane elation, Belial came forward and the mists parted.

With her eyes mirroring the light emanating from those of the demon, Kathleen Hewett stared in awestruck wonder at the imposing, distorted image of the squander bug.

Larger now than when he had first escaped from the casket and probed the thoughts of Doris Meacham, the cockroach-like creature reached upwards, standing upon its powerful, splayed legs whose curved talons gouged deep into the ground.

Raising her eyes, past the mottled, leathery belly which was freckled and blemished with marks resembling swastikas, Kath gazed on the demon's face and fell to her knees with a gasp of devoted reverence.

Centred in the sagging flesh, housed beneath the tortured horns that disappeared into the darkness above, she had seen the gross parody of her leader's face and was filled with doubt and terror.

The looming nightmare hissed with ecstasy. ‘Such charming prostration,’ the squander bug savoured. ‘In the days of my previous existence, before I was tethered and sealed within the confines of the Jewish casket, temples were built unto me and amusing sacrifices burned upon the altar. Worshipped and prayed to, was I—it will be agreeable to be so again.’

Staring down at the stricken girl, Belial ordered her to stand. This is a strange, new time for me,’ he proclaimed, ‘a prince cannot reclaim his fiefdom without loyal servants. You shall be my priestess, my honoured slave—first to be gathered back into my dark service.’

Intoxicated by his grotesque grandeur, Kathleen readily consented.

‘What do you ask of me?’ she asked. ‘What is your will?’

The travesty of her Fuhrer's face grinned hideously. ‘My wants are simple,’ the demon instructed, ‘I desire only the death of thousands. Then shall my strength be as of old and my greatness shall resound over the circling seas once again.’

The girl let out a shrill, boastful laugh. ‘I know exactly how you can begin!’ she told him.

Clambering over the garden wall behind the Stokes's house, Neil Chapman strode purposefully up to the back door and rattled the handle.

The boy had spent a long, tiresome afternoon, aimlessly wandering the streets and waiting for the evening to fall before daring to return to number twenty-three. He had no wish to run into Mrs Stokes again and had deliberately delayed his reappearance until the time when he was quite sure she would be in the underground station.

As the door was locked, he hunted through the garden for a tool he could use to break his way in, dwelling on the wonderful prospect of returning to the future and seeing both Josh and his father again. Soon all this would be behind him and back in the past where it belonged.

To his surprise the kitchen door suddenly opened and, armed with a poker, Jean's voice called out into the fog, Who's there?’

‘Jean!’ Neil cried. What are you still doing here? You promised to go to the Tube with your grandmother!’

The young woman groaned with relief, put the poker down and ushered him inside.

‘Neil, love,’ she said, delighted to see him, ‘I didn't think I'd see you again. I thought that old battleaxe had frightened you off for ever.’

‘I don't understand,’ he said. ‘You shouldn't be here!’

Jean laughed. ‘Don't start that again,’ she told him. ‘Ooh, you're freezing, I bet you haven't eaten anything either. There's some stew left, then I'll mash you up a boiled parsnip and put a drop of banana essence in—how does that sound?’

‘Awful. Please, you must get out of here.’

‘I am, I was just about to go over to Kath's when I heard you trying to get in.’

Neil relaxed and gave a great, grateful sigh. ‘Good,’ he breathed, ‘I thought for a minute you were going to sleep in the Anderson tonight.’

‘Well, I will,’ she replied, ‘the one in Mrs Meacham's garden.’

That's all right, you'll be safe there.’

Jean laughed at him. ‘You aren't half funny,’ she said, ‘I s'pose you'll have to come to Kath's as well. Hope there's room in that shelter.’

‘Er... no,’ he said quickly, ‘I'll be fine, I don't need to go with you.’

‘But you've got nowhere to stay.’

‘I have,’ he answered, fumbling for an explanation, ‘I ... I finally remembered where my dad lives, I only came back to pick up Ted.’

Jean looked at him dubiously. ‘So where do you live?’ she asked, not satisfied by the clumsy statement.

‘Oh, you wouldn't know it,’ he said, ‘it's over in Ealing.’

‘Ealing!’ she repeated in astonishment. 'Then what were you doing on the other side of London when my dad found you?’

‘Sleepwalking?’

‘Less of that sauce—and how are you going to get back there tonight?’

‘Don't worry about it,’ he assured her, making for the hallway. ‘Do you mind if I go upstairs to get Ted?’

“Course not, mind you it's nothing to do with me what happens in this house no more.’

Assuming this to be a mere figure of speech, Neil hurried up the stairs and ran into the box room.

‘Jeezus!’ Ted shrieked furiously. Where in hell have you been? I been goin’ nuts here—you know what the time is? You realize we only got a little over half an hour to sort this out! I told them screwy dames not to make me drag you along—I just knew you'd louse it up somehow!’

“What are you screaming about?’ the boy cried. ‘Everything's fine, Jean's taking Danny to that girl's place, so she won't be here when the bomb lands.’

‘And Angelo and Frank?’

Neil shrugged. ‘Erm, I don't know,’ he said.

‘Angelo is still downstairs, ain't he? I mean he ain't gone out yet—right?’

‘I haven't a clue, I came straight up here.’

The bear pulled a ferocious face and shook his paw at him. ‘If he's gone...’ he threatened, ‘I gotta go find out—come on.’

Neil picked him up and leaped downstairs.

Jean was in the living room, fastening the catches on a suitcase and tying up the neck of a rucksack. At her feet Daniel was sucking on a carrot lolly which he waved in a mad greeting when Neil entered with Ted.

‘Is the American here?’ the boy asked.

‘Did you want to say goodbye?’ she said. 'That's nice—no, he went out after his friend.’

Neil flinched as Ted gave him a discreet kick.

‘I see, well I better get going then,’ he gabbled quickly, ‘sorry to dash—it was nice knowing you, Jean. P'raps I'll come back one day and say hello.’

‘Well, don't look for me here,’ she told him, ‘I'm not setting foot in this house again.’

Neil wavered in the doorway as her words struck a dismal chord inside him. 'You're leaving then?’ he muttered.

‘I am,’ she declared, ‘that evil old crab of a grandmother's gone too far this time, I can't take any more of her. As if things aren't bad enough, what with Dad still missing—heaven knows what's become of him. If it hadn't been for Angelo, well, I never used to wring the children's necks but I wouldn't mind doing it to that wicked old bat.’

“What do you mean, if it wasn't for Angelo?’ Neil murmured, ignoring Ted's urgent pinching.

Jean flushed a little and looked away. Take no notice of me,’ she sighed, ‘I'm just wishing for the moon, that's all. I could never be that happy, my life's never worked out like that.’

Neil bit his lip and looked at the mantelpiece where Jean's wedding photograph still stood in its frame. The woman followed his gaze and uttered a sorrowful gasp as she realised that she had not thought to take it with her.

Hurriedly, she took it in her hands and stared at it.

‘Don't know how that happened,’ she muttered guiltily, ‘I've got too much on my mind, that's what it is. You do understand, don't you, Neil? I do still love my husband, it's just that I don't know if he's dead or alive and it's killing me. I can't go on any more—I just want to get away. I know I sound stupid and selfish, but it isn't like that, it isn't. Is it so terrible to want a little bit of joy?’

Neil thought of his own mother and realised for the first time that the abrupt and severe manner of her departure was the only possible way she could have gone. She had seen her one chance of happiness and had seized it utterly. The complete and final separation from her former life was the only way she could escape and begin again.

‘You like Angelo a lot, don't you?’ he ventured.

Jean placed the photograph in her pocket and smiled. ‘I feel safe when he's around,’ she said simply, ‘heaven knows why ‘cos he's the most outrageous man I've ever met. I don't know what it is—I sort of sense that he'll always take care of me. What am I saying? I don't even know what he really thinks of me, I'm probably just the latest in a long line of girls he's sweet-talked.’

Neil said nothing and Ted softened, ceasing the violent nudging he had been engaged in.

‘Got to go now,’ the boy finally told her. ‘Be happy, Jean, whatever you decide, whatever happens, be happy.’

‘Don't go without giving me your address,’ she said. ‘I'll write to you.’

‘No,’ he replied, ‘the way things are, a letter would take years to reach me.’

‘Goodbye, Neil.’

But the boy had gone into the hall and was already out of the front door.

‘Did you really love her?’ he asked, holding Ted before him as he paused by the gate.

‘I wanted to take her to the States with me,’ Ted answered sorrowfully, ‘her an’ Danny. Only I never told her, I never once said to that lovely creature how much I adored her. What kind of a schmuck was I? If there were ever two people in this crazy, down-at-heel world who deserved a little happiness, it was Jean and Angelo.’

The bear stared back at the mist-enshrouded house and a fierce, determined scowl appeared on his furry face.

This time I'm gonna make sure they do,’ he growled. ‘Hey! We gotta get with the programme. I just hope we ain't been delayed too much. We don't have no time left, kid. The lives of two men are depending on us. You gotta turn right here and run fast as you ever did. Please, I'm beggin’ ya.’

“Course I will,’ Neil promised and into the swirling curtain of fog he ran—into the night where Belial was stalking.

‘That's the lot,’ Jean muttered, glancing at the bulging suitcase and rucksack, ‘I think your mum's going to have to make two trips with these, Daniel. Why don't I take you over to your Auntie Kath's then I can run back for the rest?’

The two-year-old chuckled and nodded his agreement, so Jean picked him up and stepped into the hall where the huge pram was waiting.

Before she had time to lie him down, the air raid siren outside abruptly warbled into life.

‘Flippin’ nuisance!’ she tutted. Well, I'm not going to toddle across the street in the middle of no air raid. Looks like you and me'll spend one more night in the same old Anderson after all, doesn't it, Daniel?’

The infant gurgled and Jean reached inside the pram to take an extra blanket out into the garden.

As she hurried to the kitchen door, the thick cloth in her hand shimmered with countless shades of green and sparkled momentarily with threads of silver tinsel.

‘Brrrrr!’ she cried, wrapping herself and her young son in the blanket and running across to the shelter. We could catch our deaths out here.’

As she made for the Bethnal Green underground station, Old Mother Stokes was feeling extremely pleased with herself. She had seen to it that her granddaughter's happiness wouldn't last for long.

After leaving Baker's Row that afternoon, she had caught a bus and travelled into London to divulge some information concerning the whereabouts of a certain deserter from the United States Air Force. The Military Police had taken the matter extremely seriously and promised that they would apprehend Lieutenant Signorelli as soon as possible.

Enjoying herself, the vindictive old woman also told them that he had been most abusive and threatening in his behaviour, adding that he seemed quite mad—such a useful insinuation, and that she was now too afraid to go back into her own house.

The MPs guaranteed that the airman would be severely dealt with and, hardly able to contain her malicious glee at this most splendid eventuality, Mrs Stokes caught another bus and returned to the East End, munching her dripping sandwiches contentedly.

Outside the station's single entrance, the mist was thinning and only a few slender wisps lingered within the nearby park. The street was unusually busy as a great many people were moving towards the Tube, and the old woman reminded herself that the numbers on the platforms had been steadily increasing on recent nights. The crowds who congregated there were noticeably jumpier than she had ever known them to be and, on three occasions to her knowledge, fights and scuffles had broken out amongst them.

Everyone was expecting some kind of retaliation to the raids that the Allies had been inflicting on Germany lately and they all dreaded what could prove to be a devastating bombardment. As her shoes clopped over the road, Mrs Stokes hoped the shelter warden had saved her regular bunk for her. If he had not, then she was quite prepared to do battle for it and she steeled herself for this possibility.

Then, just before she reached the entrance, the siren sounded, wailing dismally overhead and, with a surge, the people hurried forward.

Squawking insults at them as they overtook her, Mrs Stokes scrunched up her hatchet face and waded through the throng, elbowing them sideways until she managed to barge on to the dimly-lit stairway that led down to the booking hall.

Half a mile away, in Victoria Park, Hackney—the new Z rocket batteries spluttered into life against the, as yet unseen, aircraft.

The noise of their sudden firing was tremendous; no one had heard such a deafening series of blasts before and the frightened people trying to get into the underground station looked up fearfully.

‘What is it?’ they shrieked above the terrible din.

Bulldozing her way down the steps, Mrs Stokes was infuriated when she blundered into someone's back and could find no way of getting past.

Her pernicious mind thought quickly and as the anti-aircraft batteries exploded into the night, she screeched. ‘Land mines! They're dropping land mines on us!’

A wave of panic swept through the horde that impeded her progress and they stumbled more swiftly down the stairs. Yet behind the cackling old woman, the multitude of terrified people had also heard her squawks and as one they shoved forward.

Near the bottom of the steps, in almost pitch dark, a woman carrying a baby suddenly tripped and fell. At her side, an elderly man lost his footing and tumbled after her. Unable to stop, shunted along by the mass of panic-stricken people pushing behind them, a third, then a fourth stumbled—trampling over those already fallen.

In the dark, like a macabre line of human dominoes, men, women and children fell and were crushed against the wall at the bottom of the poorly-lit staircase, and ever the tide poured in.

In the midst of this suffocating terror, as those around her pressed and jostled and the suffocating clamour of those in front rang in her ears, Mrs Stokes squealed as she trod over soft, breaking bodies, crunching a woman's hand under the heel of her shoe.

Horror and fear hung thick on the air and the old woman tried to turn back, to escape the crushing nightmare that she was swiftly approaching. But her efforts were futile and the river of people pushed all the more.