Blood Crazy (14 page)

As we talked two sisters, I called them the Singing Sisters, came up. They were about ten and twelve, went everywhere together, blonde curly hair shining like halos, and everywhere they went they sang in harmony.

The eldest Singing Sister spoke to Sarah. ‘Excuse me, Miss Hayes. Dave needs to see you.'

‘Duty calls, Nick.'

‘Sarah, try and convince Dave to find a replacement for the yellow mini-bus … sorry, vehicle number 9. The engine's shot to buggery.'

‘I'll ask.' Smiling, she squeezed my arm, then ran lightly across the yard.

I returned to work, annoyed that Saint Dave of Doncaster could command Sarah's presence whenever he wanted.

‘Shit.' The wrench slipped and I grazed my knuckle. ‘Shit, shit and double shit.'

11 a.m. Martin Del-Coffey lounged back in an armchair in the barn, one leg crossed over his knee, his laces dangling. A laptop computer rested on his stomach. He still played the role of bored intellectual. The Asian girl, Kitty, stood outside the door of the lock-up looking through the gap at our Mr Creosote. She made notes on a clipboard.

‘Has he been chatting to God this morning?' It was my break and I'd taken my coffee into the barn.

Del-Coffey waved a limp hand. ‘Not even a murmur to one of the lesser angels. Take a look.'

Kitty stood back to let me look through the gap.

Mr Creosote stood in the cell sideways on to me. His mud-caked clothes made him look like the town tramp, his bald head gleaming faintly in what light trickled through the ventilation grill in the
ceiling. He stared at something on the wall. I shifted my position to see what it was. There was nothing there – just an expanse of blank concrete. But he stared at it, eyes as bright as light bulbs, like it was a dazzling technicolour vision sent by God Almighty himself.

‘Does he always stand like this?' I asked.

‘Mostly. He's said nothing. He's eaten nothing.'

‘What do you think of these rumours that Mr and Mrs Creosote have a hotline to God?'

‘I think, Mr Aten.' Del-Coffey pressed a key on the computer and read what scrolled up the screen as he held a conversation with me. ‘I think a student of human behaviour would find it fascinating. God has driven our parents mad. And, mad, they have been supernaturally programmed to destroy their young. Us. God has done this because we have sinned most horribly. And now, Mr Creosote is communicating with God, either with the bottle patterns, or verbally – or both. He is asking God to finish the Divine work and end the world.'

‘You believe that?'

‘Do I buggery … It demonstrates though, does it not? That if you gather together a lot of frightened human beings, who haven't the slightest clue what's happening, they invent answers. The more outlandish the answers the more they believe them. It's a wonder they haven't seen snow on Mr Creosote's boots.'

‘Snow on their boots? What do you mean?'

‘Mr Aten, haven't you heard the Snow On Their Boots legend? No? In the First World War, Britain reached a point where it looked as if it would lose to Germany. Russia was our ally. The rumour spread like wildfire that a million Russian troops had landed in Britain to help defend King and Country. Trouble was, the population was as frightened of Russians as it was of the Germans. Panic. Pandemonium. The Russians are coming! People hid anything of value up trees, in holes in the garden … And do you know how the rumour started?'

‘No.'

‘Everyone believed Russia was a very cold place … and someone saw – said they saw – soldiers with snow on their boots. Ergo, they were Russian soldiers.
Comprende?
People were too stupid to
realise that even the coldest Russian snow would melt during a three-day sea voyage from Russia to Liverpool. No Russians, Mr Aten. Nor does Mr Creosote talk to God.' Pleased with himself, Del-Coffey tapped the computer keys. ‘Also in the First World War, during the battle of Mons, the British forces were being defeated when the ghostly archers of Agincourt appeared and slew the Hun. The genesis of that rumour was a fictional story,
The Bowmen
, by Arthur Machen who was—'

‘What's planned for him in there, then?' Del-Coffey's lecturing was beginning to grate. ‘Are we taking him with us?'

‘No. If you put your nose to the door you'll realise he's lost some of his civilised niceties.'

‘Pardon?'

‘Your nostrils will tell you that Mr Creosote is suffering from a case of crowded trouser syndrome.'

‘In English, what's that?'

‘He's shit himself, Mr Aten, he's shit himself.'

‘If Slatter had his way, he'd kill him.'

‘Ah, Mr Slatter. I caught him this morning tormenting poor Mr Creosote. He just kept repeating, “Do you like it in there? Do you like it in there? Fucken basturd. Do you like it in there?”'

I grinned. ‘Maybe we should put Slatter in there with Mr Creosote and let them sort one another out.'

‘Nice idea. I'll be glad to give Mr Creosote the push, though. We're not learning anything from him, but Dave thinks we should persist. That if we discover what sent adult humanity schizo then maybe we can cure them. Or prevent the same happening to us.'

‘We're okay so far.'

‘We are. But we've found no one over the age of eighteen who is sane.'

‘So?'

‘So what happens, Mr Aten, on your nineteenth birthday?'

‘All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small …
'

The Singing Sisters appeared. ‘Mr Del-Coffey, would you come to the farmhouse, please. Dave needs to see you urgently. Rebecca is very poorly.'

12 noon. Standing in line for lunch, Curt grumbled, ‘Damned
meatballs again. Damned instant mash. Why can't we have something different for a change? In there …' He pointed his spoon at the farmhouse. ‘They'll be living like lords.'

Not true. I knew Dave Middleton would eat what we ate. He was one of those people so honest it's sickening.

But two days ago Curt would have stood in line, eyes still red from sobbing into his vest, and been pathetically grateful for whatever was slopped into his bowl. Now he was grumbling. Earlier I'd seen a fourteen-year-old girl refusing to wash a zillion breakfast plates. If it demonstrated anything it was that the human spirit was returning from wherever sheer naked, run-for-your-life terror had sealed it. Kids were starting to say, ‘No.'

1.30 p.m. With oil black up to my elbows I was slaving on the minibus engine. Oil leaking through the cracked rings had bunged up the plug to prevent one of the cylinders firing.

The Singing Sisters turned up holding out a sheet of paper. ‘It's got Nicholas Aten written on it.' The youngest smiled, her chubby face dimpling.

‘So you guessed it was for me, right?'

‘Yes.'

‘Just give me a minute to wipe my hands … Thanks … Wait a second – who gave you this?'

‘No one. We found it stuck in the gate at the end of the driveway.'

They marched away singing. My hand was shaking by the time I unfolded the note.

Nick
,

Come home. John waiting to see you. Uncle Jack too
.

Love
–
mum & dad
.

Nightmares of my parents haunting me flickered back into my head so brightly I had to sit down against the mini-bus. When I found out who was playing this sick joke I'd break their damn necks. Slatter was the—

Slatter should have been the prime suspect. He could have got someone to write the note. He knew I had a brother called John. I'd lay a bet, though, he didn't know I had an Uncle Jack.

Sweat oozed from my face. I looked round the yard at people
from four to eighteen carrying boxes of food, and I suspected each and every one. Why was someone playing this shitty trick on me?

‘Another one?'

I looked up, shielding my eyes against the sun. ‘Hello, Sarah. Yeah, another one.'

‘Same message?'

I nearly told her but – ‘Yeah. No doubt someone's laughing fit to burst their bag. One day I'll catch them at it. Then I'll kick them so high they come back down covered in frost.'

She knelt down by my side and squeezed my leg. ‘I'm sorry, Nick. There are some cruel people about.'

‘Don't we know it. The world's full of them these days.' I tore up the note. ‘What's new, Miss Hayes? Are we moving out yet?'

‘No. Rebecca's not well. Dave wants to wait until she's better.'

‘What's wrong with her?'

‘We don't know. Martin and Kitty are going through the medical books, but the symptoms could fit a dozen complaints.' She looked at me, troubled. ‘I don't like the look of her, Nick. I think it's serious.'

6 p.m. I'd spent the afternoon working on the mini-bus. I'd managed to get it running on all cylinders and kicking out clouds of blue smoke, but I was far from happy with the thing.

We had no word on Rebecca but in the afternoon the bedroom curtains were snatched shut. Every so often Kitty would run white-faced to the trucks to look through the supplies.

By 6.30 people were stopping doing their chores and began gathering outside the farmhouse door.

I went to clean up in the stream that ran at the back of the farmhouse. I noticed Slatter slouching through the trees at the other side. The girl with the eye makeup followed him as best she could in her high heels across the grass.

‘I'm sorry, Tug. … I'm sorry …' She kept repeating as they disappeared amongst the trees. I saw a red mark on her cheek.

7 p.m. The barn was deserted. People hung round the farmhouse door waiting for news.

I looked in on Mr Creosote. He stood in the same position,
staring at the wall. He saw something marvellous there. God knows what.

As I watched, his knees bent a little, then straightened. Gently, he began to bob up and down, like a guitarist in a rock group getting into the rhythm. The light-bulb eyes still stared, fixed at the point on the wall. His lips moved slightly now as if he was whispering.

Whispering to God, Mr Creosote?

I coughed. No reaction. ‘Hello … Can you hear me?'

He couldn't, or maybe he ignored me. He carried on with his silent whispering and gentle knee jigs.

I looked at him and thought about my own parents. Could they be like this? Their own shit hot in their pants? Gazing at visions? No. I could not believe that. Somewhere they were hiding. As sane as me.

Suddenly, Mr Creosote froze in mid-jig, cocked his head to one side and held it there. The eyes blazed. He'd heard something. What was it? The call of his own kind?

I shivered as I left the barn.

7.20 p.m. Dave opened the farmhouse door and stood on the top step. He looked round the assembly and said, ‘Rebecca Keene died five minutes ago … Nick. Can you help me for a moment?'

Did I hell want to go into the farmhouse, but I followed.

At the top of the stairs Simon was wringing his hands. ‘How can we be sure? We can't be certain … No one knows enough to … We're just kids, for Chrissakes … We've no medical training … How do we know Rebecca is dead?'

In the last few days I'd seen enough death to believe I'd been toughened against it.

It was still a shock. One look at her lying hunched on one side, her face looking as if it was moulded from lard, her mouth pulled into a crimson O, told you life had gone from that eighteen-year-old body.

In Dave Middleton's band of survivors Rebecca Keene was the first to die.

‘Do you want to go first?'

‘No. I'm scared. It's dark down there?'

‘I'll be with you, Susan.'

‘I'm still scared.'

‘We'll go down together, then. Hold my hand … There – that's better, isn't it? Now, hold it tight.'

The voices of the little girls, the Singing Sisters, although nearly whispers, were enough to wake me. I came to groggily, still tasting the whisky on my lips.

I rubbed my face and sat up in my sleeping bag. That night I was in the barn. Dave thought it best if we took turns sleeping near Mr Creosote's lock-up. In case he started behaving differently, started talking, or simply tried to break out.

I looked round for the voices. The Singing Sisters should be asleep in the farmhouse. I listened.

‘Now. I'll count to three.'

‘Are you sure it'll be all right?'

‘Yes, Susan. It will be all right. Hold onto my hand. Tighter.'

‘I'm frightened.'

‘Remember what I told you. This is magic. We will see mummy and daddy.'

‘Will mummy and daddy be nice again?'

‘Yes, of course they will. Now, hold onto my hand tightly. One, two, three … jump.'

A terrible, terrible feeling of dread cut through me. My head snapped up.

From out of the darkness two girls glided down, halos of blonde hair around their heads.

I held up my hands in this futile, this fucking stupid futile attempt to catch them both.

They stopped five feet above my hands with a sound like a gunshot that still echoes in my head. Then they swung like little blonde dolls on the end of their ropes.

At that moment, my heart felt as if it had cracked like an egg.

Stiff, I walked out through the doors of the barn into the farmyard, the mud cold beneath my bare feet.

I did not know whether I wanted to shout, or just run and run and let the night swallow me whole. I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered.

When I was five, dad would wrap me in a blanket and carry me out to show me the night sky. He'd point out the stars. Those same stars that burned harder and brighter now the streetlights had died.

Far away in the distance, someone began to whistle. A slow, haunting sound. It was faint, but the night air carried the notes well enough for me to recognise the tune.