The Faceless (37 page)

F
ROM HIS KITCHEN
window on the twelfth floor of Macy Court, the old man who called the police to Danielle Morton’s flat looks down on a sea of churning, yellowish-brown smog, hiding everything below the fourth floor.

Someone’s screaming. In the corridor, alarms shrill. Outside, amplified voices blare; sirens wail.

Too late for the Dunwich. Always first to get the bad, last to get the good.

Ah, well.

The kettle boils. He pours. One last cup of tea.

The screaming’s from next door. Melanie; that’s her name. Three kids; as many different dads. The screaming stops; a thud as a body falls.

The old man fishes the teabag out. He’s always liked his tea weak. Good job, too: might have time to drink it. He sits at the kitchen table, sips.

Melanie’s kids are screaming now; thin, piping cries, swiftly cut off. He sucks air through his teeth. Perhaps a mercy. Poor little sods.

He doesn’t hear the door go, but someone steps into the kitchen. A brown serge uniform, and the face... no. It has no face. Just this gaping, bloodless hole. The old man takes a deep breath, drains his cup, and stands up straight. Cold white hands grip his head and–

M
YFANWY BLINKS AND
bites her lip. That’s the trouble with the Sight; you don’t always see what you want to, and you don’t always want to see what you do. The willow’s branches blow in the wind. Not long now, but she isn’t ready to go yet. There’s something she needs to know first.

So she closes her eyes, and sees.

B
ANSTEAD KNEELS NAKED
in his room, thrashing himself across the back with a knotted rope. There are still those who’d persecute him, if they knew, for the past. They don’t understand, of course. He’s made penance: suffered guilt, prayed, mortified himself. The good in his life outweighs the bad. He’s paid for his sins.

No, you haven’t.

Banstead leaps up. Why’s it so dark? The light’s fading. He can’t see his bedroom anymore. He reaches for his clothes, but they’re gone. And instead of carpet he’s standing on a cold earth floor.

The blackness is total. A pool of light appears; three small boys stand in it.

Hello, Mr Policeman.

The boys move forward, revealing three men: Adrian Walsh, George Fitton, Father Sykes – kneeling, bound, naked, gagged.

Remember this?

Something falls at his feet. He picks it up: the leather mask he always wore.

He’s flung to the ground beside the others, then forced to kneel. Cords bite into his wrists and ankles. Something’s forced into his mouth.

The boys have changed; their hands are claws, their faces like withered jack-o-lanterns.

It’s our turn now.

Banstead screams through the gag, but there’s no sound.

M
YFANWY RECOILS, SHAKES
her head, grips the walking frame to steady herself. She wishes she hadn’t seen that, but at least she won’t have to live with it for long. She closes her eyes again.

And sees.

“T
HIS WAY, GIRLS.
This way, please.”

Constable Brock’s voice sounds thin and weak and reedy to his own ears as he jogs after the two girls – the last of the stragglers he was detailed to round up – out of the Station Hotel, towards the two buses outside it. They’re holding hands, he notices. Sweet. Everything’s so loud. He wants the comforting quiet of his evidence room again, but it’s not to be had.

“Stay in line!” The bellow from the bus in front hardly sounds like Sergeant Graham at all, but it’s her alright. “No pushing. Get back in your place, please sir.”

“This one,” Brock tells the girls, pointing, but they’re already scrambling on board the rear bus. The doors hiss shut behind them. A roar and the bus pulls out, headlights blazing, vanishing into the mist. The other follows.

There’s a stink like a swimming pool; it’s burning his nose and throat. The mist is thickening round the hotel steps; dark shapes come out of it.

“Brock!” Sergeant Graham’s by her car. “Get your fucking arse in gear unless you want to bloody die.”

He runs over, scrambles in. The engine roars; the car pulls out. Brock’s hands are shaking and he feels he’s about to piss himself.

“Good work, Brock,” Sergeant Graham’s saying. “Knew you had it in you.”

He can’t tell her that he doesn’t; he’s got nothing left after this. He just fumbles his seat-belt into place, shuts his eyes and doesn’t look back.

M
YFANWY TAKES HER
glasses off, plucks a tissue from her sleeve, carefully dabs her eyes. But she still hasn’t found what she’s looking for, so she closes them again.

And sees.

M
R
L
EE, PROPRIETOR
of the Good Luck restaurant, has not been idle; his wife, sons, daughter and three grandchildren are crammed aboard his van, and they’re already turning onto Dunwich Road South.

His hands are steady on the wheel. He remembers China dimly; the Civil War, the Cultural Revolution, and the many killed by both. His father got them out. His mother fell sick and died along the way, but he and his father reached Britain.

Another war, another country, another world, and now he’s become a refugee again. He isn’t afraid; he’s calm as he drives. He’s proud of the business he has built up, but if it now has to be abandoned, the money from the wall safe is under the front seat. Once they’re clear of immediate danger, he can empty his bank account, too. If you’re still alive, you can always start again.

M
YFANWY SMILES; SHE
doesn’t know Mr Lee, and Chinese food’s too spicy for her – give her a stew or hotpot, or one of the old Welsh dishes she grew up with,
cawl
or
bara brith –
but she knows a kindred spirit when she sees one. The quiet, steady courage that doesn’t win medals and often goes unnoticed; she’s had to find it many times. Anna has it too. Poor Martyn never did, and now he’s dead. She knows that. But it’s Anna she has to know about.

The willow branches part; someone steps out, looks up at her.

So, here at last. But not yet. She has to know, first, that Anna’s safe.

And she closes her eyes. And for the last time, sees.

W
HO’S THIS IN
the car with her? Some woman? Well, Myfanwy’s always had a feeling about Anna. She doesn’t judge. Little Mary’s safe in the back; that’s what matters. Never any doubt Anna would take care of the little one. And there’s something else only Myfanwy sees; a point of cold, white light, glowing like a tiny star above her breast. She knows who put it there. A mark of protection. It’ll keep Anna safe; she’ll live, if she wants to.

On the street outside, the dead are everywhere. One steps back from his victim and motions them on their way; another kneels, head bowed, over a body, as if mourning. This is an invasion like no other; there’ll be invaders seeking to spare their descendants from what’s coming. Some will succeed, and others won’t.

She’s coming here. No Anna, don’t. The mark will keep you safe from the dead, but this mist will kill you if you’re caught in it. Don’t burden yourself with an old woman who’s lived out her span, who always knew today was her day to leave.

M
YFANWY OPENS HER
eyes, looks down at the empty lawn. There’s a cold shadow on her back; she knows who it is.

“Hello, Da.”

He doesn’t answer. He takes off his mask and cap. He looks so tired still, so prematurely old.

“She’ll be safe, won’t she?”

He nods.

“You’ve come for me, then?”

He nods again.

“Will it hurt?”

He shakes his head.

“Quick? No pain?”

A nod.

Myfanwy takes a deep breath. “Alright, then. Just give me a moment.”

She lowers herself into her favourite chair, makes herself comfortable as her father comes over, a cushion in his hands. A different death for her, then; quieter, more peaceful. Is there anything important she might have left undone? She can think of nothing. Better luck than most, then. She nods, settles back.

And closes her eyes.

“A
UNTY
A
NNA, YOU’RE
going too fast.”

“It’s OK, princess. We’ve got to go fast today.” Anna swerved up the drive to Stangrove Wood. “I’ll leave the engine running,” she whispered to Vera. “If something happens–”

“I’ll look after her.”

“Don’t let her see anything.” Anna climbed out of the car.

“Aunty Anna!”

She’d almost reached the entrance doors when they swung wide; her great-grandfather stepped out, Nan cradled in his arms.

“No.
No!
” She almost flew at him, hopeless though it’d be, until she saw the sorrow on his face. Nan’s, on the other hand, was quiet, composed, with the faintest trace of a smile. She looked like she was sleeping.

Mary, screaming.

Her great-grandfather stepped around her, walked down the drive into the thickening mist.

She climbed back into the car. Vera opened her mouth. Anna held her hand up; she didn’t trust herself to speak. Mary, sobbing.
You said you wouldn’t let her see
. She turned the ignition key.

On the road she passed him, still carrying Nan. He turned down a side street, towards Trafalgar Road.

T
HE MAIN ROADS
were already clogged; Anna wove her way through the back streets to the outskirts of town. Beyond that, the Micra bounced and rattled over narrow lanes and dirt tracks, loud thumps coming from its already martyred suspension, finally joining the column of vehicles on Dunwich Road South near the front.

“Where now?” said Vera.

“Join up with Dunwich Road South, head for Manchester. What do you reckon, princess? Trip to Manchester? Go for a Chinese, maybe?”

“What about Daddy?” Mary’s voice rose. “You said we’d see him.”

“Anna,” Vera said, and pointed; behind them the mist was coming, like a relentless river.

Anna pulled out into the right-hand lane, floored the accelerator; other cars were already flashing by. Horns blared. Cars swerved into her path up ahead; Mary screamed.

The road sloped upwards, over a rise, and they cleared it. Only half a dozen more cars did. Brakes screeched; steel and glass shattered and tore. There were screams. But no mist came over the rise – at least, not yet.

A couple of buses. A van with
Good Luck Restaurant
emblazoned on the side. Two or three police Land Rovers. Twenty or thirty cars. Anna kept looking back as they drove on, but no-one else came over the hill. She put her hand in her pocket again, gripping the cross. More about Nan than any faith; holding it gave her some sort of strength. She didn’t know what kind it was, but she’d take whatever from wherever she had to now. For Mary’s sake, and her own.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

A
NNA CHECKED THE
rearview mirror continually, but there was no further sign of the mist. For now, at least, the immediate danger seemed to have passed.

As they drove, though, ugly knocking sounds came from under Minnie’s hood, and a rattling from somewhere in the chassis. Anna fumbled a cassette into the deck. Sibelius. Mary liked that.
Fantasia
. She’d seen the film. Soothe Mary, calm her down. And herself.

The knocking didn’t stop; it got louder. That last tearing rush to get out of town and the cross-country dash over rough roads had been too much for the old girl.
Museum piece
, Martyn had used to say.

Vera stared dully out of the window, chewing the skin around a thumbnail; Mary rocked, pale and silent, in the back, a stuffed toy clutched to her chest.

It was too easy to imagine Minnie broken down at the roadside, and her pounding on passing cars’ windows, begging them to at least take Mary. Until the killing mists, and what moved in them, drifted down the road.

Vera snorted a laugh.

“What?”

“Just thought. Our Bentley was back at the hotel. We could’ve travelled in style.” Vera’s voice almost cracked. “Fine. I’m fine.”

“I’m so sorry, Vera.”

She shook her head. “At least he’s out of it now. It’s over for him. He’s not in any more pain.”

Anna didn’t answer. Nothing she’d learned of the life to come had given any comfort so far.

Crossing a stretch of moorland, the column slowed; the police cars were pulling over. The other vehicles halted. Renwick got out of a Land Rover, pale and haggard, Stakowski beside her, close enough to catch her if she fell. Anna pulled Minnie in nearby, steam drifting out from under the hood.

“Anna. You made it.”

“Just about, but my car’s had it.”

“Doesn’t look too healthy. What do you reckon, Mike?”

“Aye. Think we’ve room for a little ’un.”

“OK. We’ll take you.”

“Thanks.”

“Got through to Manchester on the radio. It’s bad.”

“How bad?”

“They’ve got satellite pictures. Kempforth’s gone. Probably guessed that.”

“Yeah.” Didn’t make it easier, though. Witchbrook, the Creamery, Trafalgar Road – gone. Whatever she had thought of the place, it had been home.

“The mist has expanded east and westward, mainly. Swamped Burnley, Accrington, Oswaldtwistle, god knows how many little villages in between. They’re estimating thirty, forty thousand dead. At least ten thousand refugees.”

“Oh Christ.”

“Seems to have stopped for now, anyway. Wind’s not even shifting it.” Renwick’s voice shook; she dragged her sleeve across her eyes. “They’re setting up refugee camps in safe zones, prepping to evacuate as far as Manchester if it comes to that. Meantime they’re calling the army in, to try and contain it somehow.”

“How? They’re already dead.”

“We’ve got to try.”

More lives thrown away. The Somme; Passchendaele; nothing changed, nothing learnt. The same wastage. Maybe the ghosts were right to be so enraged.