A Cry From Beyond (15 page)

“On a
scale of one to ten I’d give them a seven,” he said, sounding like
an X Factor judge.

“In other
words, you’re unimpressed?”

”I didn’t
say that. What I mean is, they’re easy to listen to and very
commercial, but you have to admit, neither of ‘em could hold a
candle to Bohemian Rhapsody.”

“I never
aspired to be Freddie Mercury, Mike.”

“Good
job,” he said, “you don’t have the legs; nor do you have the teeth
for that matter.”

I chose
to ignore the comment. “Fancy a drink?”

“Why not;
I’ll take coffee, white with two sugars.”

“I was
thinking of something a little stronger.”

“Yeah, I
know. You always are. I suggest we both abstain on this occasion.
We’ve got work to do.” He delved into his briefcase, produced a
sheath of papers and waved them at me. “Important shit,” he said.
“Best we both keep a clear head. Maybe we can have a friendly
tipple afterwards, but for now, let’s keep it a sober affair. Now
go make the coffees.”

I went
into the kitchen to prepare them. To Mike’s I added two sugars, as
requested. Mine I sweetened with a generous shot of
scotch.

The rest
of the evening was spent discussing the finer points of the
contract that my new record company wanted me to sign. It was
around midnight when we hit the sack.

The dream
woke me. In retrospect I think it was lucky for Mike that it did.
It went like this: I was trying to escape from some kind of tunnel.
It was dark. I sensed I wasn’t alone, that someone or something was
following me. All of a sudden a hand brushed mine. It belonged to a
child, yet it felt wrong in a way I couldn’t explain. Its touch
made my skin crawl, and when it clutched at me I instinctively
broke away and ran, but I had nowhere to go. I came to a dead end.
I turned, searching the darkness for my pursuer, but I was blind.
And then I heard whatever it was coming along the tunnel towards
me, dragging its feet, breathing air that I somehow knew it no
longer required.

I woke
abruptly knowing it’d been the child, Kayla, stalking me: knowing
also that she’d been dead, and that the sight of what she carried
in her arms would be enough to send a person insane. I lay
perfectly still, calming myself whilst trying to gather my thoughts
and that was when I sensed Mike was in deep trouble.

I
hurriedly pulled on my jeans and rushed to his room. Throwing open
the door I flicked on the light. And there he was, as large as life
and twice as ugly, sitting bolt upright in bed in his blue striped
pyjamas, eyes wide open and bulging; a look of stark terror on his
big round face. He was a large man with a macho presence, but on
this occasion he looked as defenceless as a small child.

“Mike,” I
said, “what’s wrong?”

“Thank
God you’re here,” he stammered, “Damn thing very nearly got
me.”

“What
thing? What are you talking about?”

“It came
out of nowhere. It was big, John, and it was about to attack me.
Then you came in here and it disappeared.”

“What was
it Mike, what did you see?”

“I’m not
sure, s-some kind of,” he struggled to find the right word. And I
mean, really struggled. “S-some kind of...ghoul...” He laughed self
consciously and wiped a shaky hand across his face. “Christ this is
embarrassing, it was like something out of a fifties B movie. It
had wings and multiple faces and oh my God, John, something about
it reminded me of you! I know it was a dream, but it was terrifying
because it seemed so real. It was coming for me, John; rising out
of the floor like The Creature from the Black Lagoon.” He laughed
again, weakly and without the slightest trace of humour. “I was
convinced it was going to take me away and do God knows’ what to
me. But it must’ve been a nightmare, right? It couldn’t have been
real.” He was begging for confirmation that what he’d seen was all
in his mind.

“It was
just a bad dream, Mike,” I assured him, “Probably the country air.
City dwellers like us just aren’t used to it. We need time to
acclimatise.” I forced a smile whilst trying to come to terms with
what he’d told me and with the apparent insanity that had invaded
my life. I kept telling myself there must be a rational explanation
for all the bad things that were happening in and around High Bank,
yet when it came right down to it, there was simply no getting away
from the fact, that something was seriously wrong in this neck of
the woods.

Mike
swung his legs off the side of the bed and sat in morbid silence
trying to gather himself together, his big clumsy hands gripping
the edge of the mattress so tightly it was as if he were afraid to
let go. And then, ever so slowly he rose to his feet, crossed the
room, somewhat unsteadily I thought, and gazed out onto the
landing, as if searching for something.

“Where’d
it go?” he asked in a mystified tone, yet to be convinced the
unnerving episode he’d endured was the result of a dream and not
reality.

“Where
did what go, Mike?” I was fishing in the hope he’d open up further,
tell me exactly what it was he’d seen.

He
grinned lopsidedly. His lower lip trembled. He looked completely
out of it.

“Mike,
did you hear what I said?”

He
finally found his voice and belatedly answered my question, ““The
creature from the Black Lagoon,” where’d it go, John?”

“It was a
dream,” I reiterated for his benefit, preferring he believe that
rather than the alternative.

“Yeah,
right,” he said, nodding dumbly. “And thank God for that is all I
have to say.” He laughed unconvincing again.

Without
another word he slowly descended the stairs and went about checking
door and window locks, still noticeably shaken and confused and
uncharacteristically unsure of himself. He ended up standing in the
hall dressed only in his pyjamas, looking utterly
bemused.

“It
seemed so real,” he repeated, almost to himself, still far from
over it.

He failed
to return to bed after that and who could blame him. Instead he
stayed up until the early hours of the morning, watching the sports
channel on T.V. before leaving bound for London, never to
return.

Prior to
departing, and having regained his composure to an acceptable
degree, he instructed me to recheck the contract for my own peace
of mind, and to let him have my final decision as quickly as
possible. The Legal Eagles had cleared it already, so my opinion
didn’t really count. All I was good for was a signature. In the end
I duly signed. The contract was post dated and would come into
effect as soon as the one with my present record company
ended.

That
evening I phoned the big man at home, on the pretence of ensuring
he’d arrived back safely, when in fact all I wanted, was to
reassure myself that he was fully recovered from the traumatic
experience he suffered during his recent visit to High
Bank.

You know
what: he couldn’t even recall it. Maybe he just didn’t want to.
Whatever the case, we never broached the topic again and maybe that
was just as well. Tough as he was, I don’t think he could’ve coped
with it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was
All Hallows Eve and a fancy dress party was being held down at The
Ship which, according to David and the lads, was well worth the
admission cost. I saw it as a welcome distraction from all the bad
stuff that had happened recently and invited Michelle over, knowing
she loved that sort of thing.

“And be
sure to wear something sexy,” I told her once she’d agreed to the
idea.

She
didn’t disappoint, regaling herself in thick Gothic make up, a
blood red Basque and matching split skirt, all of which magically
transformed her into one of Count Dracula’s legendary nymphs. I was
one lucky son of a gun, make no mistake. For my own part, I gave it
my very best shot, painting my face Gene Simmons style, (adding a
touch of blood red nail varnish around the mouth for good measure),
and using old clothing, ripped and torn at strategic points to
transmigrate into a member of the living dead.

The pub
was already packed with revellers when we arrived, the atmosphere
helped along by an up tempo version of the Monster Mash played by a
combo hired especially for the occasion. The regulars were
disguised in various imaginative garbs. Ghosts, ghouls, witches and
warlocks of varying descriptions occupied the bar and dance areas;
many already on the way to alcoholic oblivion.

H made an
appearance as the Ghoul, having crudely powdered his face, used
charcoal around the eyes and donned a cape more resembling an old
red curtain. Rick took over Lon Chaney Junior’s mantle as the
Werewolf, made up in false whiskers, eyebrows and plastic fangs
that refused to stay in position. David made a pretty convincing
Frankenstein’s monster, decked out in clod hopper boots and an ill
fitting suit, while Jenny, dressed to macabre perfection, played
the part of the monster’s Bride with aplomb, using robotic
movements and wild stares in order to create the desired effect.
Irish was yet to make an appearance; business at the fairground had
delayed him, which, according to Rick, meant he’d got lucky on the
dodgems again.

Jenny
waved excitedly when she spotted us, crazy bee hive hair and
blacked up eyes making her look like a caricatured version of Amy
Winehouse. A long flowing dress with intricate lace trimmings
completed the picture; clothing straight out of a Dickens
novel.

“She’s
Miss Haversham on a bad day,” Michelle giggled as Jenny wandered
over to join us. I was forced to agree. Beneath the sombre pub
lighting she looked nothing short of terrifying.

“So
pleased you both could make it,” she enthused. “This is going to be
a real fun night. I can feel it in my bones!” She laughed and
turned to Michelle. “Why, you look absolutely stunning. You must
let me into your secret. As for you Johnny O’Shea; I’m afraid the
lip stick doesn’t quite do it for me.”

“Nail
varnish,” I corrected.”It’s nail varnish.”

She
looked across the room and waved to David, who failed to see her,
appearing to be in deep conversation with another party goer done
up to look like Beetlejuice. Jenny said, “David was on the lookout
for a table, but appears to have been sidetracked by the drunken
idiot in the clown’s costume. I’m afraid I’ll have to go to his
rescue. When you’ve got your drinks come and join us.”

She
wandered off into the crowd. I escorted Michelle to the bar and was
about to order when someone wearing a “Scream” mask made a playful
grab for my throat. I ducked out of the way, easily avoiding the
outstretched hand, whilst quickly recognising who it was beneath
the disguise.

“Hey
Irish, glad you could make it,” I said, clapping him on the
shoulder. “Rick wasn’t sure if you’d be joining us.”

He
slipped off the mask and scowled. “How the fuck did you know it was
me?”

“Your
boots: you always wear the same boots,” I pointed out. The boots in
question were Doc Martins that had seen better days.

Irish
glanced down and swore beneath his breath. Michelle caught his
attention. “I’ve seen you before,” he said. “You were at the party
the other weekend. Nice seeing you again.” His hand found her
waist. He pulled her close and pecked her on the cheek. “You smell
as good as you look,” he said unable to suppress his flirtatious
nature. He released her and stood back. “Like the get up by the
way: very sheik.”

Michelle
smiled sweetly and thanked him.

Returning
his attention to me he feigned surprise and said, “Didn’t realise
you were still here. Seeing that’s the case, you may as well make
yourself useful and get the drinks.”

I obliged
by ordering two Carlsberg’s and a chardonnay.

Then we
went in search of a vacant table, finding one over in a corner
where we were quickly joined by the rest of our troop.

“Let’s
play a game in keeping with the occasion,” David suggested once we
were settled.

“What
kind of game?” H asked.

“How
about we divulge our own personal fears?”

We all
looked at each other, considering.

“Very
well,” I said, seeing no harm in it. “Who wants to go
first?”

“I will,”
David volunteered. “It was my idea after all. Snakes, I hate
snakes. I’m even scared of grass snakes.” He glanced at Jenny.
“Your turn my dear.”

“Slugs,”
she admitted with a shudder. “Even snails give me goose bumps.” She
looked at me.”

I
laughed. “Everything,” I said. “I’m scared of just about
everything!”

“But
what’s your worst fear?” H asked, pinning me down.

“Being
buried alive,” I admitted following a slight hesitation. “I have
this fear of being buried alive and suffocating to death. I don’t
even like talking about it. What about you?”

“The
dark,” H said simply. “The dark gets your mind working against
you.”

“I’ll
vouch for that,” Irish agreed, surprising everyone with his
honesty.