Sleepwalker (16 page)

Davis gritted his teeth, and wrapped the hand in a sheet of plastic. Just before he covered it he saw the head of a tattooed snake on the ball of the thumb, where it had lost the rest of its body.

The team was stunned, and had trouble speaking, but they did not lose their sense that Alf would survive. They encouraged him, prompted him to sit up, and when the ambulance arrived, they helped strap him into the stretcher. Alf was screaming less. His voice was torn to a thread of anguish, and he gasped, from time to time, for air.

The severed hand was wrapped in white plastic, and rested beside Alf like a second victim.

When the ambulance was gone, with its dancing blue lights, Peter stayed on his knees. Firemen arrived to soak the machine with water, but they spent as much time recoiling their hoses as they had dousing the smoke. The fire had been extinguished before they arrived.

The firemen departed. Spectators, hands in their coat pockets, watched from the distant gate, but they gradually melted away.

Peter stayed, sitting on the ground, alone. Davis found him there and asked how he was.

“There was no reason for it to do that,” said Peter finally.

It was the first sentence Peter had spoken to Davis for days.

They both sat, gazing at the wreckage. A breath of smoke escaped a coil of ruined cowling. The area around the wrecked machine was black water.

“No reason at all,” Peter continued.

Davis dreaded the words. “A mechanical failure,” he suggested.

“What sort of mechanical failure would do that, Davis?”

“I have no idea.”

“Generators don't blow up like that.”

“Come on inside, Peter. Don't stay here like this.”

Peter was trembling. Davis dragged him to his feet, and led him into the main cabin, to his desk. Peter sat with his head in his hands and could not stop shivering. Davis knew exactly how he felt. Davis offered Peter some tea, or some coffee, but Peter seemed not to hear.

It seemed to Davis that he could still feel the weight of the severed hand in his.

“I can see now what the trouble is,” said Peter at last.

“Too many accidents.”

“This was not an accident.”

“Sabotage,” Davis suggested. “Some twisted scientist somewhere envies us our success. He decides to make it difficult for us.”

“Someone like me,” said Peter with a sneer.

“I didn't mean anyone at all like you.”

“Someone bitter. And smart enough to do this sort of damage.”

“I had never considered you.”

“You should have. But I swear this, Davis. I didn't make the generator explode. I wouldn't know how to do that if I wanted to. Poor Alf. I wouldn't want to do that to anybody.”

Peter despised the sound of his own voice. The shock of the explosion was leading him to near confession. He was being very foolish. He should stop chattering like this. He scattered tobacco onto the floor when he rolled a cigarette. Sit still and be quiet, he commanded himself. The explosion has you a little bit shaken. That's quite understandable. No need to say anymore about it. He had been very good about working with Davis as though they were both nothing more than fellow professionals. It was essential to keep up the pretense, if only as a mental discipline.

“You hurt yourself,” said Davis.

Peter pulled his sleeve down over a red scratch on his wrist. “It's nothing,” he said hoarsely.

Peter hurried along the river, nearly running by the time he reached the stairs to his flat. It's best not to seem nervous, he warned himself. It's best to seem calm, to smile and return the greetings offered by people as they pass.

But he had to hurry. It was important to be sure that no one had entered the flat while he was gone. It was always possible that one of the cleaning girls might want to Hoover, and might for some reason fumble about in the closet.

Besides, things were not going entirely well. Well enough, but not entirely. He paced the sitting room, until he forced himself into a chair. Someone might hear him pacing. He must seem calm.

He stared at the closet door.

First of all, too many things were happening which had nothing to do with his plans. He had discovered Dr. Higg unconscious on the floor. That had been a rude shock. And the Skeldergate Man had been lying beside Dr. Higg, inexplicably. It almost made one believe in all this talk of spirits. Almost. But not quite.

And this explosion today. That made no sense at all. And then there had been a disappointment. Peter had built a structure for the bog man's body, a metal frame that allowed him to stand upright. He stood upright now, unseen, in the closet. That part worked admirably. There had, however, been a failure. Peter had hoped to design a mechanism that would cause the leather man to walk, and all of his notes and all of his genius—he could use the word privately, to himself—amounted to nothing.

All of his knowledge of radio-controlled devices could not supply him with a way to make the dead walk. It was as simple as that. He could mount the dead man on wheels, and have him move in that silly manner, but he would resemble a disturbing skateboarder more than anything else. And what Peter required was a means to drive Davis to the point of deathly fear.

Peter struck a Swan Vesta. Tobacco made him lucid, and he would need all of his mental acuity tonight. Because tonight he was going to experiment. He would not try to get the poor tanned gentleman to move. That was an old plan, to be set aside as colorful but unworkable.

Tonight, he would need to begin a new plan. He would experiment. And like any man about to experiment with something unheard of, he was perhaps a bit too excited.

He stood and stepped, as though afraid to wake someone, toward the closet. He had cut up an old black leather jacket. He had soaked old burlap he had bought at a jumble sale in motor oil. He had worked during the all too short nights, the nights that fled so quickly because he burned them up with his plans.

Convincing. He would need to look convincing. He opened the closet. The Man himself stood, covered with black plastic. The shapeless black rags, looking like a skinned man, hung on a hook.

The leather had been soaked in beef blood from the butcher's on Bridge Street. He had then pounded it epidermal thin. The eyeholes fit exactly over Peter's own eyes. The black, supple skin was, as he slipped it on, now his own.

He felt it around him, this new skin, this second body. He was no longer Peter Chambers.

He had crafty fingers, he had to admit to himself. Skilled fingers, and a faith that there was always a way around any problem.

The tunic fit over him, and tied with thongs that looked age-clotted. He had considered actually wearing the Skeldergate Man's clothing, but this was a better fit. He had even considered wearing the Man's actual leathered skin, but there were enough stalactites of skull and femur within the skin to make this impossible.

Peter pulled the black skin tight around his face, and tucked the lips he had worked at so patiently over his own. How, he asked himself, will this ancient murder victim walk? Will he drag one foot? Will he stride slowly? Very slowly. As though he knew exactly where he was going.

He was conjuring the dead, and as he stood before the bathroom mirror he saw not Peter, the man who understood the ways of cat and man. He saw the dead, with a dead man's glittering eyes.

He laughed, dancing a strange jig into the kitchen. It was going to work! Tonight he would go for a ramble. Just a little stroll. Let the people of York continue to talk about spirits and a haunted site.

Tonight a dead man would walk among them.

20

Coffee cups were flung everywhere, and sugar cubes were buried under folders. Strangely, none of the cups were broken.

“As though someone was very careful,” said Davis as he straightened out the coffee things.

Langton helped clean up, but he did not speak. They were in the office Portakabin to get ready for a meeting of the entire team.

“I suppose this is another thing you'll want to keep secret,” Davis said pointedly.

Langton surprised him. “It doesn't matter, Davis. Not now.”

“I simply can't see how we can continue.” Mandy was speaking. She wrung her hands as she spoke. “I hate to stop, as we all do. And I know we'll all start working again as soon as—”

As soon as what? Davis wondered.

“As soon as we can,” she finished. She looked around for support, and the team nodded agreement, although it was clearly not a happy decision.

The entire crew had gathered in the main cabin, except for Jane. She had evidently made her resignation effective immediately. It was the morning after the generator exploded. Peter was more composed now, but had little to say. He shook out his packet of tobacco and smoked, not looking at anyone.

“We've been happy at times,” said Mandy. “Working here together.” She seemed dissatisfied with herself. “It's not wrong to stop for a while, until some questions can be answered.”

Mr. Langton looked deflated. He shook his head from time to time, and blew air out of his mouth. His white hair was wispier than ever, and for the first time his tie was askew.

“It's Alf, really. If his accident hadn't happened, we'd all feel different about this.” Mandy stopped again, and looked around.

“That's right,” said Oliver. Other workers nodded, too, and only Skip scowled and seemed to disagree.

Skip glanced at his mates, and held forth his hand, as though begging for reason. “I could keep working myself, like, but what good would it do, one man? I need men working with me, don't I?”

Oliver cleared his throat. “People have been saying you can see the Skeldergate Man some nights. Walking Walmgate Stray. Stalking Hob Moor.” Oliver shrugged. “That's what they say.”

Mr. Langton sat back in his chair. “We may as well stop,” he said. “There's no use pretending. There's something very wrong here.”

The workers had apparently expected Langton to insist that they keep working. His agreement with them brought forth murmurs of “We'll be working here again, soon” and “It's only for a short while.”

“It's not so very wrong, Mr. Langton,” said Oliver. “And we don't really blame you or anyone. Everything will get sorted out, and then we'll all come back.”

Everyone was being brave, but no one would pick up a shovel, thought Davis.

“I don't even want to mention this,” said Langton. “Perhaps it's unwise. But my wife has told me that things have begun moving about in our house.”

The team stared, stunned.

Langton spoke to the floor, as though ashamed. “Teapot, smashed. A picture, sailing off its hook. Nothing terrifying, you understand. But I wish it were not happening, and I think we should stop work here for a while. What do you say, Davis?” Langton asked.

All eyes turned to Davis.

Davis had sat with Irene and Langton in the waiting room all night, while surgeons worked on reattaching Alf's hand. The news was not encouraging. The surgeons had not met their eyes, and all they could get was a “too early to tell.”

Dr. Higg was doing badly, too. His blood pressure was shockingly low, and his heart beat as slowly, Dr. Hall reported, as a man who was freezing to death. Medically, Dr. Hall had confided, it all made very little sense. They had him attached to an IV, and monitored his brain and his heart, but medicine was a mere spectator at a time like this.

Now Davis was expected to have something smart to say.

Davis stood and told the team about Alf and Dr. Higg, and explained that the police were working hard on finding the Skeldergate Man, but with no results as yet. The faces Davis saw around him told him that Davis was the leader here now, and that they all counted on him to reassure them, and to make sense out of what was happening.

“I don't blame you if you want to stop working for a while. I'll keep working myself, though. I'm basically a very stubborn person. Besides, I think that our stopping here will not necessarily make the strange events cease. I think we may have unleashed something here, and until we put it to rest it won't stop.”

This sounded very possible, but it was hardly reassuring. Irene smiled and nodded. Go on, she seemed to say. You're right.

“Someone has to discover why these things are happening, or they may get worse.” Davis saw only pained faces. Surely not, they seemed to say. How could things be worse?

Peter exhaled smoke and watched Davis. The walk the night before had been a success. Hob Moor had been dark, and the long grass wet. He had lingered near a row of houses, bright-lit bedroom windows and back gardens of brussels sprouts and just-turned earth.

And if a few children, a few drunken hooligans, had spied him in the distance, this was exactly what he had wanted. It fit his plan perfectly. That was exactly why he had chosen the moor. “Hob” was an old word for goblin. Many people recalled from their infancy the whispered tales that the moor was haunted.

Let the word spread. The Man walks. Let Davis think about this, and let it eat a hole in him.

But there were voices in his head, a tangle of whispers. The faces around him were colorless through a haze of his own scrambled thoughts. He could hardly hear the voices when they spoke.

The scratch the gray cat had made must have become infected. Cats were such filthy-clawed creatures. Like Davis, they seemed impeccable, but were not. Peter had splashed some gin on it, the only antiseptic he had in the flat, aside from some Gino aftershave from Superdrug.

Soon he would be finished practicing on cats, and ready for larger, more clumsy game. But he would have to concentrate more. Now Davis was asking him a question. Peter pieced it together. “I don't know what I'm going to do,” said Peter. He knew one thing. That explosion had frightened him. A machine like a generator did not explode like that.

But already the explosion was fading in his mind. There were so many voices in his head, so many promising schemes.