The Faceless (14 page)

Vera could hear the High Street traffic again; down the road, a drunk was shouting. Fitton: she remembered facing him in the living room at Shackleton Street, Walsh’s corpse still cooling in the kitchen, and saying
I don’t want anything more of yours than I can help. Just enough to get out of here and never have to look at your face or this shithole town again.

A hand closed round hers; she nearly cried out.

“It’s alright, sis,” said Allen. “Just me.”

He squeezed her hand. She squeezed back, then let go. Didn’t want people getting the wrong – or worse, right – idea. They walked back to the hotel.

CHAPTER TWELVE

T
HE LAST PAGE
of notes was printing off when someone knocked on the trapdoor. Anna went and opened it; Martyn blinked up at her. “Thought you might want a brew.”

She had to smile. “Yeah. Come on up.”

He climbed; the steps creaked. “What you about?”

“Printing some notes off.”

“What about?”

She sipped her tea. Too much milk, as usual. “Ash Fell.”

He sighed. “Worry about you, sometimes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know no bugger likes talking about that place. That’s if they’ve even
heard
of it to begin with, cos no-one’s
ever
liked talking about it.”

“Yes, I do know. But it
is
local history, like it or not.”

“That’s the point.
Nobody
likes it. No-one’s gonna want to read about it.”

“Yes, alright,
thanks
, Martyn. It just so happens it might be relevant to what’s going on round here.”

“Eh?”

“Those faces you told me about? On the wall, at Shackleton Street?”

“What about them?”

“I thought the description sounded familiar.”

“What, from that place?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to find out. I’ve definitely seen a picture, and I’m sure it related to Ash Fell, but it’s not in any of the material I’ve got here.”

“T’internet?”

“Bloody thing keeps timing out on me. Doesn’t matter anyway – there’s nothing, and I
mean
nothing, about Ash Fell online. I speak from experience.”

“So where’s that leave you?”

“Work.”

“Eh? What, that call you got from your mate t’other day?”

“Carole. Yeah. She found it.”

“Found what?”

“What happened at Ash Fell was forgotten very quickly, mainly because everyone in Kempforth wanted to pretend it never happened–”

“Still do–”

“–but after what
did
happen, there had to be an inquiry. And they published a report. Got buried as quickly as possible, of course.
But
Kempforth Library had a copy, which ended up in the basement with everything else no-one wanted to read. Carole found it. It’s in my desk drawer at work. Can’t be taken off the premises, but I’ve read through a lot of it.”

“And the picture’s in that?”

“Think so.”

“You think?”

“Need to get the report to be sure.” She drained her coffee. “Sod it. I’ll go now.”

“Now?”

“I’ve got the keys. Go mad wondering, otherwise. What?”

He was half-smiling, shaking his head. “Can’t remember last time I saw you like this.”

“They came after Mary, Martyn.”

He stopped smiling. “I know. I were there too.”

“What if they come again?”

He didn’t answer.

Downstairs, she pulled on coat and gloves, stuffed the notes in her bag.

“Christ on a bike, have you seen it out?” Martyn had the curtains open; outside the mist was thick and white.

“Can’t drive in that. I’ll walk it.”

“Don’t talk daft. Ring a cab.”

“On a Saturday night? I’ll be waiting forever. It’s five streets, Martyn. And the police station’s not much further.”

“Well, I’m coming too, then.”

“And what if Mary wakes up?”

“Anna–”

“She needs one of us here. And you’re her dad.”

He looked down.

“I’ll be fine. Pepper spray’s in my bag.”

“Can’t you just ring the coppers?”

“And say what? I need the report, Martyn. Otherwise I’ve got nothing.”

“Then wait till tomorrow.”

“If this has got something to do with Ash Fell, do you think anyone in Kempforth knows as much about it as me?”

“No.”

“Then it could make a difference. Save someone’s life, maybe. Can’t risk waiting till tomorrow.” He opened his mouth to speak. “Martyn, just stay here and look after Mary. I’ll be fine.”

THE TESTAMENT OF SERGEANT EDWARD HOWIE CONTINUED the day a shell burst over our position an i alone like ishmael lived to tell the tale though aye an it was a close run thing to be sure for i lay it four hours or more while fighting raged trapped under a fallen earth bank that pinned my lower body afore help came and all around me torn an sundered into collops mince tripes an chops riven and shattered into lights kidneys brains an steaks were the men of my command an they lay all about me in that yellow reeking mud an helpless i could only watch as the rats crept into the trench an began to chew at my mens remains whilst others came to watch an stare beadily at me with cold cruel black little eyes deadlier than any germans for we knew the rats in the trenches even though we gave them our grudging respect one man i knew keeping one as a pet oh we knew them to be pitiless and deadly and these watched me steadily waiting to see when it might be safe to devour my flesh also their grey and brown fur the yellowish feculent mud of the trench an the red an the white of blood an bone only the blue was lackin to make a suitably patriotic spectacle of the carnage an the water in the trench was rising and i might drown but a patrol came by in time an dug me out i was evacuated to a casualty clearing station who found no major but i had other injuries not apparent on the field

T
HE CAB DROPPED
them on St Matthias’ Road. Across the road, the church’s lights glowed through the fog. Vera heard voices from inside: evensong.

Allen stood looking at the church. Vera touched his arm. “Come on. We’re after Shackleton Street, remember?”

“I know. Just... remembering.”

“Surprised they kept the place open, after what happened.”

Someone came out of the front gate, stood gazing back at them. He wore black. White at his throat. A priest? But the service hadn’t finished. But then she realised the singing had stopped. So had the traffic sounds nearby.

The priest raised a hand and waved. And she recognised him.

He lowered his hand and was gone. She blinked. The evensong returned; the traffic sounds came back.

“Father Joseph,” she said at last.

“Yes.”

Her throat was constricted; she could barely speak. “Is it ever going to stop?”

“What?”

“Me seeing what you see.”

“I don’t know.”

The far end of St Matthias’ Road led onto Scott Street. Vera clutched Allen’s hand. This close to the Dunwich, it wasn’t just the dead you had to fear.

“Here we are. Memory Lane, eh?”

“Don’t.”

“Sorry.”

Some streetlights flickered; others had gone out completely, leaving pools of shadow. Uncovered windows and doorways gaped; the tin sheets over the rest seemed to twitch and shift. Scott Street felt empty and filled with watching eyes all at once.

Something scratched and scuttled above them. “What–?”

“Easy.”

“What was that?”

It came again; sounds echoed in the damp air as if in a cave. She looked at the upstairs windows on either side, saw nothing. She pictured something moving on an empty upper floor, crawling maybe from house to house through the walls. Here, it could be the living or the dead.

Allen squeezed her hand. They walked. All around there were tiny noises in the mist: ticks, scratches, skitters, taps, the soft
hush
of fabric on stone. Rats, or the wind, she told herself; rats or the wind.

Amundsen Street. One end of the sign jutted into space; the brickwork at the corner had crumbled away. Fragments littered the pavement.

“Come on, lass.”
Lass
. The bastard North in his voice again. He wasn’t wearing gloves; his hand was slick in hers. The faint, tiny sounds followed them down Amundsen Street too. Something clattered on the potholed road behind them. She didn’t look back, wouldn’t. Just a tin can, blown by the wind. Except there wasn’t any wind. She squeezed her eyelids shut. Her legs were weak. Shaking. God, why had they come?

“Here we are.”

She opened her eyes, and saw the sign. Shackleton Street.

“Oh god.”

“We’ve got to, sis.”

He led; she followed. When had that last happened? Had it ever, before? She looked down. Brittle weeds sprouted from cracked tarmac; potholes exposed the cobbles beneath. The houses could be hiding anything. She breathed deep. Calm. Control. “Home sweet home,” Allen said.

“Don’t call it that.”

They stopped beneath the streetlamp outside the front gate. Tin sheets covered the front room and upstairs windows. The front doorway was a black hole with incident tape across it.

Number 35.

Faint scratching sounds came from inside the house–

“Oh god–”

–and stopped.

“Listen,” he said.

“Can’t hear–”

“That’s right.”

There were traffic sounds and a girl’s voice in the distance, shrieking insults at someone. “You can fuck off you fucking slag, go on piss off you cu–”

And then the sound died.

“Oh Christ no,” Vera said, or tried to. But there was no sound, none at all, and then the lights on the other side of the street flickered and went out. The black fell like a curtain over the houses opposite. She turned to run, but Allen grabbed her arms. The lights beyond the bottom of the street went out too. Only the lights along their side of Shackleton Street remained. Outside their circle, the dark was absolute.

Allen pulled her close to the lamppost outside number 35. Soon it was the only light left. It shone on the cracked pavement and the tangle of weeds and brambles that had been their front garden, the short footpath from the gate, and the front of the house itself. But it didn’t reach into the hole where the front door had been. She could almost believe there was a door there, only painted the most perfect black imaginable.

The incident tape across the doorway stretched taut, then snapped. Something moved inside the house; two long pale hands emerged and clutched the doorframe. And then the man dragged himself out into the light, and it began to flicker.

Scuffed brown and white two-tone shoes, tartan socks; light brown corduroy trousers. A check shirt; a brown cardigan with antler-horn buttons. Greying brown hair to his shoulders. A lined, perpetually-amused face; warm brown eyes.

Oh, yes, she knew him. Adrian Walsh; she’d never felt such hatred for anyone else, or such fear. Fitton had been dangerous; always full of violence and rage. Like sharing space with a hungry wolf; a moment’s distraction and it’d strike. Father Sykes had wielded the threat of Hell over you, like a whip. But Walsh... Walsh had always been her personal monster. Even though she’d watched him die.

Vera clung to Allen and shrank back. He was doing the same, but there was nowhere to go. Children again, afraid of Daddy. Walsh’s smile widened; crooked yellow teeth.

Walsh stepped onto the pavement. Vera backed away from the lamppost until Allen stopped her. She was close to the edge of the light. Walsh took a step forward and smiled his Special Smile. Oh, Vera knew that smile of old. From the outside, at a glance, it looked like a doting stepfather’s. Indulgence; affection. Until you saw the eyes. The Special Smile was the promise you’d suffer, by his belt or his cock. Or both.

Walsh halted by the lamppost, slid his hands slowly into his pockets. His lips moved without sound. Words burned red in the black behind him.
Hello, Alan.
His eyes flicked towards her. The smile locked on his face; whatever pretence to warmth it had drained away.
And hello, Vera
.

None of it had happened. None of it. Nothing since the night in 1985 they’d caught the train out of Kempforth. A dream; nothing real. The Bentley, the house on the Downs – that wasn’t their real life,
this
was their real life, waiting all these years to claim them back. Shackleton Street. The stained mattress. The bare bulb. And Daddy waiting with his belt and cock, his friends queuing up to take their turn.

Walsh’s teeth parted; tiny filaments of saliva connected them.
That’s right, Vera.

She could’ve killed herself then – anything, if it put her beyond his reach. But his own death hadn’t stopped him. Why should hers?

Now you understand,
said Walsh.
Dead or alive, you belong to me.

His foot lifted. Its thick, inevitable slowness was like movement underwater. Allen’s fingers clutched her arm. But big sister couldn’t help him now, or even herself. Walsh would touch them in a moment, unless they went into the dark. But Allen would have by now if he’d dared, and he knew this dark; she didn’t.

The streetlight began to flicker. Vera wanted to scream. Perhaps she did. In that silence, she couldn’t tell.

But the light wasn’t fading, it was getting brighter. Walsh stared up at it, face screwing up in rage and – could it be? – fear. He opened his mouth to roar, but as the light brightened he walked backwards down the garden path to the doorway. It was like watching a film played in reverse. At the doorway, his arms flew out. The long hands clutched the frame’s edges. His mouth yawned open, screaming. Rage or fear? Both? Impossible to say.

Walsh’s face faded into the drowning black as he was pushed back inside. His hands remained, clutching the doorframe. The incident tape stirred, rose. It reattached itself to the frame, stretched taut, then slackened. Walsh’s knuckles were white with strain. Then their grip broke and he was sucked away into the black beyond the doorway.

Allen turned, looked into the dark behind them. He took hold of her, moved her back from the edge of the light. As he did, the three dead boys, moving as one, stepped into the streetlight’s glow. The black holes of their eyes stared past her.