The Hollowing (6 page)

He’s not down there, not all of him, only part of him. What happened? What in God’s name happened?

The loss was too much, and the return to the village too strong an event to resist: emotion surged; and for a while he sat, letting the sodden turf saturate his skin through his jeans, and cried, and missed Alex, and thought of Alice, long gone Alice.

He was startled by the sounding of the church bell. It was three-fifteen. The bell rang a second time, then was silent. A moment later, the side door of the church opened, closed, and was noisily locked.

Richard returned to his car and drove to his house, parking on the street and spending a few minutes greeting neighbours. It was clear that his absence from the village, and from the house, was a source of criticism. But he had found it impossible to stay here after Alex’s body had been found, and had moved to London, where he now worked in a bank.

Entering the house through the back door he was at first overwhelmed by the smell of damp. During the winter there had been a leak in the bathroom ceiling, and the carpets were encrusted with fungus. Giant spiders scuttled across the enamel of the bath itself. He trod the floor warily, but the soaking wood was firm. Below, the ceiling of the utility room sagged badly, and he sighed as he thought of a peaceful holiday now inclining towards repair work.

Everything otherwise was as he had left it. He had fresh bedding and a bottle of wine. The bookshelves were full of old favourites. There was no television. He would not miss it.

Inside the front door was a scatter of letters. He picked them up and leafed through them, the accumulation of nine months’ absence. Among them were two scrawled notes on paper that had been folded and not enclosed in an envelope, and as he opened the sheets he was disturbed by the handwriting on one of them. It seemed familiar.

The first note, written in a robust, upright style, read:
Mr. Bradley—I have some information for you of urgent interest. No one in the town knows your forwarding address, but I’m told you return here regularly. I’ve left an instruction with the manager of the Red Lion. I’ll drop by just before Christmas and hope to catch you then.

It was signed
Alexander Lytton.

The second note, in a slanting but precise hand, read simply:
You’re a hard man to pin down. But we’ll keep trying. Believe me, Mr. B, you’ll want to talk to us. I don’t want to be more specific right now. We need to talk. If you come back to the house in the next few months, can you go out to the brook, where the bridlepath crosses it, and tie a green ribbon to the signpost there? And check to make sure it stays? One of us will notice it and stop by. We move in and out all the time. Sorry to be so mysterious.

It was signed
Helen Silverlock.

*   *   *

When the Red Lion opened, at six-thirty, Richard went into the lounge bar and ordered a pint. He was served by someone he didn’t know, but Ben Morris came down later and greeted him.

“Showing your face again, eh?”

“Time to come home, Ben. Time for a holiday.”

“There were some folk looking for you, a few months back.”

“Yes, I know. They spoke to you. Left a message or something…?”

“Last summer. Strange pair of tourists, strange dress. The bloke was small, sturdy, a Scot, very irritable. The woman was very pretty, like, long black hair. A right head-turner. She was American, no doubt about it. Not a hippy, though. Not a student. But both of them queer, like. Odd clothes. They were looking for you but wouldn’t say why.”

“What did they ask you to tell me?”

Ben nodded and frowned. “If you came home, you were to tie a ribbon out by the old track, by the brook. Nobody knew where you were, Richard. You didn’t leave an address…”

“I know. I wanted to be away. Did they say anything else? Did you get an idea where they worked?”

Ben shook his head. “He was some sort of scientist, working out on the Manor grounds, there. I heard them talking about the ‘Station.’ That’s all. As I said, queer, like.”

*   *   *

It was a fine May evening, very tranquil, very warm, the light almost lucid. Richard walked along the bridleway to the brook, found the signpost, and tied a strip of green rag, torn from an old shirt, around the top. Two riders galloped over the hill, from Ryhope Manor, he imagined. Ryhope Wood, on the Manor estates, was shimmering, a solid wall of green and orange, just across the fields, beyond the rights of way. Alex had been fascinated by Ryhope, as had his friend Tallis, but probably only because it was reputed to be haunted.

Having left his marker, he returned to his house and began the process of unwinding, with fish and chips, red wine, and
Cold Comfort Farm,
a school favourite of his.

*   *   *

Two days later, she was waiting for him when he returned from a shopping trip to Gloucester. She had found the green ribbon and arrived in Shadoxhurst as fast as she’d been able. Finding the house open she had entered and called for Richard, but then gone outside and sat down against the base of the elm at the bottom of the garden.

As he stepped through the gate she rose from the ground, startling him. She was dressed in a dull brown anorak and baggy trousers, tied tightly around hard working-boots the colour of mud. Her long hair was jet black, save for a silver streak at each temple. Her skin was tanned and her eyes an intense green. For a second she had seemed a part of the tree and its root system, but now she stood, breathing hard and extending a friendly hand.

“I’m Helen Silverlock.” She tugged the streak of white and grinned. “My grandfather named me ‘Frightened of Foxes’ but I buried that one years ago. I left you the note. I
guess
you’re Richard Bradley?”

“Yes, I am.” As he stepped closer to shake hands he became aware of her smell, stale breath and the damp, rather rank scent of wet undergrowth. Her gaze was startling, flickering over Richard’s face in a penetrating and inquisitive way that unnerved him slightly. As his grip curled around her fingers, he felt the scaly, bark-hard skin on the back of her hand, and was so taken aback that he broke the greeting prematurely and obviously.

She smiled at him, rubbing the skin—which was almost black. Had she been burned?—and said, “It’s OK. It doesn’t cause me pain.”

“Looks nasty.”

“Necessary,” she said cryptically, and then, as if slightly embarrassed, put her hands into the deep pockets of her strange anorak. She was not tall, and her American accent gave him no hint as to where she was from in the States. As they walked to the house he asked the question.

“Nebraska. A small town called Watanka Lake. I’m Lakota Sioux. Not pure blood, but not far off. I’ve lived in Brazil for four years, and here in the UK for over a year now, so home seems a long time ago…”

“Well, you’re more than welcome in my own damp and humble home,” Richard said as he let her into the house.

She confessed that she’d already entered once. “I forgot where I was. Back home it would have seemed normal…”

Richard was easy about the intrusion, but then he began to remember the running woman of eight years ago, the intruder who had scrawled a note to him, an incomprehensible message. And connections, nagging connections, began to be made.

Helen sat at the kitchen table, biting her lip and clearly not totally at ease. Richard offered tea, coffee, or red wine.

“Not wine,” she said. “Coffee, if it’s made from beans.”

“I’m afraid I only have Camp Coffee. It’s a liquid. Quite thick. Quite strong.”

She grimaced, showing her teeth and just a hint of tongue, but smiling too. “Tea would be just fine,” she said.

“I agree.”

As he poured water into the kettle she asked, “Do you have a TV? A paper?”

“No TV, I’m afraid. And I’ve chucked my paper away. Why?”

She shrugged, loosened the zip of her overcoat. “This is going to sound odd,” she said. “But what’s today’s date?”

He had to think for a moment. “It’s … I think it’s the eleventh. Yes, the eleventh of May. Does that help at all?”

With a laugh, walking over to the window and peering out at the evening, she said, “Just helps me orient.”

Richard leaned against the sink, watching his odd guest. He noticed a film of moisture on her forehead and, unsure as to whether she was hot or just nervous—she was behaving nervously—he suggested she shed her coat. Without response she unzipped the anorak and tossed it on the floor by the back door, returning to her chair at the table. The heavily lined, baggy trousers were tied about her waist with a belt of gadgets. Her undershirt was a startling affair of green webbing, a body stocking that hugged her slim frame like a skin. Watching the man watching her, looking at her body, she smiled sympathetically. “It keeps me warm, it keeps me cool. It’s based on what the astronauts wear on Apollo.”

“I was staring,” he said, reddening. “I apologise.”

“I don’t mind if you stare. It’s OK.”

With a laugh he said, “You look and sound as if you’ve just beamed down from the Starship Enterprise.”

“Isn’t that a neat show? I miss it. I miss a lot of TV. Did you ever see
The Twilight Zone?
”

“My son did. I watched it with him sometimes. The programme I always liked was
Quatermass.
Did you see that in America?
Quatermass and the Pit?
”

She shook her head. “I certainly heard about it. Some of the British guys at the Station grew up on it. Ancient Martians, right?”

“Ancient Martians,” Richard agreed. “The Station?”

“That’s where I’m based. Old Stone Hollow Station, Hollowstone for short.”

The kettle boiled and Richard made the tea. His heart had started to race. Helen watched him, more relaxed now. The evening sun, through the window, made her hair shine. The musty, dank smell of her clothes was heavy in the air, but the scent of the tea became stronger for a moment. He was too aware of the gnarled skin on her right hand. He thought of the hand as ruined, but she flexed it easily, the black scales stretching like a lizard’s. He was more aware of her eyes. She seemed so familiar with him. Indeed, she seemed familiar to him. He thought of her note. He thought of the running woman. The thought nagged its way to expression.

“How long did you say you’d been in England?”

“About a year. In
England.
”

“You wouldn’t have been in Shadoxhurst in 1959, then?”

She seemed startled, frowning, then quickly said, “Damn it. No. No I wouldn’t. Why? I was still at college. Why?”

Disturbed that he had alarmed her he turned and stared, then brought the teapot to the table. His head was in a spin—he consciously thought this as he tried to clear his thoughts—and he tried to visualise the writing on the note that the running woman had left all those years ago. Although he had long since lost the scrap of paper, he was sure that the writing was similar to Helen’s. And the running woman had been small, short-haired, and bulkily dressed.

What had that note said? He struggled to remember. Some of it came back. “Do you have any idea about … pre-morphs?”

“Pre-morphs?” She looked puzzled.

It wasn’t the right word. “Proto-gamma-morphs?” he suggested hesitantly.

“Proto
gamma
morphs? You
have
been watching too much
Star Trek.
No. It means nothing…”

But for a second her face clouded, a moment’s concerned thought before she again shook her head and confirmed, “No. Nothing at all. Why?”

“I feel I’ve known you before,” Richard said bluntly, and Helen laughed.

“Great line. I’ve only heard it a hundred times.”

“I feel I’ve known you before,” he insisted solemnly, watching her face carefully. She was upset.

She stared at the table, good hand covering the black scales of the other. “Please don’t,” she said quietly.

“Please don’t what? I’m not making a pass. I feel I’ve known you before. You’re very familiar.”

“Don’t,” she insisted. “Just pour the tea. Don’t talk about it. Not yet. I didn’t come here for this. I’m not ready—”

“But I’m sure it was you—”

She erupted with anger. “Stop it, Mr. Bradley! Stop it now! You don’t know what you’re doing. Shut up about it!”

Her fury was heavy in the room. Her eyes had widened and her whole facial demeanour had knocked the breath from Richard’s body. She had not just been angry: she had been terrified, and had covered the fear with a look of such draining aggression that he was incapable of speech for a moment.

It was she who spoke finally and her words were an apology. Then: “I came to tell you something.”

“Tell me then,” he said stiffly. “You’ve obviously been after me for some time. Tell me what you have to say.”

“Don’t be angry with me. Please! I didn’t mean to upset you, Mr. Bradley. I can’t explain yet, but you were touching difficult ground for me.”

Her candour softened him and he regretted the bitter tone that had touched his words. “Please feel free to call me Richard.”

“Richard,” she echoed, “I bring you tidings of great joy, yet great difficulty. Greater than I’d realised, since you’re obviously in deeper than you know. And I’ve been in the deep end for a year, now…”

“You’re not making any sense, Helen. What tidings of great joy?”

“We’ve found your son,” she said in an urgent whisper, leaning toward him, trying to instil confidence.

Richard’s heart stopped. He banged the cup into its saucer, his face reddening, her words touching anger in him again. “Alex? Alex died a long time ago. What is this? What are you doing?”

“Please!” she said urgently. “Just listen to me. Alex isn’t dead. We’ve located him. He’s not dead. He’s alive. We’ve made contact with him. He’s been communicating with us since late last summer. He’s still alive, Richard.”

Confused, wanting to feel anger yet aware that the certainty of the woman’s words, her assurance, were pointing up his own uncertainties about the fragile, sad remains that had once been discovered in the woods, he drew breath and closed his eyes.

Dear God, he thought, I’m beginning to have hope again.