Spawn (14 page)

Harold felt his heart beginning to pound. He felt as though his head were swelling. The execrable stench filled his nostrils, hanging in the air like an almost palpable cloud of corruption. He dropped the torch but it fell to the ground with its light pointing into the grave and, in that light, Harold saw a third creature begin to move. It rolled onto its side, yellowish fluid so viscous it was almost jellied, oozing from the hole in its belly where the umbilicus should have been. Part of its body was blackened and rotted, one arm mottled, two of the tiny stubby fingers missing. It clambered up and fixed Harold in a hypnotic gaze, the twin black orbs which were its eyes holding him immobile.

He pressed both hands to his head and screamed but no sound would come. His mouth was stretched open as far as it would go, the shriek of terror and revulsion waiting to be released but he could not summon it. That ultimate exclamation of disgust remained deep within him. He tried to stand, to get away but his knees buckled and he fell face down in the mud, close to the edge of the grave, watching helplessly as the three living foetuses crawled towards him. He felt as if someone had laid a huge weight on his body, for when he tried to rise again he felt an intolerable pressure pinning him down as surely as if he’d been skewered to the mud with a long knife. He could only watch, mesmerized, as the trio of abominations drew closer to him. He was babbling incoherently now, his words unintelligible even to himself. His mind struggled to accept what his eye saw but could not,
would
not. He fought against the pressure above him and managed to rise, dragging himself to his knees, eyes still locked on the monstrosities before him.

“No,” he murmured, his entire body trembling.

The leading foetus had reached the edge of the grave and was trying to crawl up the side.

Harold shook his head violently. He heard voices.

Was there someone else with him?

He spun round, searching for the source of the voice.

Had someone discovered him?

“Who’s there?” he gasped, his gaze still riveted to the trio of creatures beneath him.

Again the voice came only this time it was joined by another, and another. Soft, hissing words which he could barely understand seemed to flicker inside his head like a dying candle flame. He stopped trying to back away and watched the three foetuses writhing in the grave. He tried to tell himself that he would awake in a moment, safe, in his hut. He would leave this nightmare behind him, wake up to find that it had all been a figment of his imagination.

He bowed his head and tears began to flood down his cheek. Kneeling like some kind of penitent, he remained where he was, his body racked by sobs, his vision blurring as he cried like a child. Gradually, the spasms subsided and he stared down at the three creatures which lay in the sticky mud, pinned in their collective gaze. Then, very slowly, he unrolled the blanket and lifted the first of them out, putting it gently onto the soft material. He repeated the procedure with the other two. They lay before him, grotesque parodies of human babies – living nightmares. The third moved slightly and Harold reached forward and wiped some of the thick yellow discharge from its belly, rubbing his hand clean on the wet earth.

“Yes, the grave,” he said, nodding blankly, as if speaking to some invisible companion. He began scraping huge clods of reeking soil onto the other five bodies in the grave, sweating with the exertion. It took him nearly half an hour to fill it in then he turned back to the three creatures who lay on the blanket.

“I will find you shelter,” he said. He smiled crookedly. “Gordon.” He looked down at them.

“Gordon.”

The word echoed inside his head, swirling around in a fog of confusion that seemed to be thickening by the second. A mist made of nightmares from which there was to be no escape.

Harold sat on the edge of his bed, looking down at the three foetuses on the blanket before him. He had left the light off in the hut and, in the darkness, the hands of his clock glowed dully. Harold noted that it was approaching 2.23 a.m. His head was throbbing and his body felt stiff, every muscle crying out for rest but he could only sit. Sit and stare at these. . .

He didn’t even know what they were. He realized that they were abortions but, more than that. . . The thought trailed off once more.

Words. Soft, sibilant, came hissing inside his head once more and Harold wondered if he was imagining them. Were they really his own thoughts? He swallowed hard. The voices seemed more distinct now, as if they were speaking directly to him.

He nodded in response to the silent question.

“Yes,” he said, softly. “I am afraid of you.”

A pause.

“Because I don’t know what you are.” If not for the fact that he was constantly pulling at the flesh on the back of his right hand, he might still have thought that this was some horrendous nightmare from which he would be hurled screaming at any second, to wake up sweating and trembling in his bed with the daylight streaming in through his window. As it was, all he heard were the voices again, echoing, resonating like whispers in a cave.

He gave answers to unspoken questions.

“Food? What can
I
do?”

Hissing inside his head.

Harold shook his head and stood up.

“I can’t.”

The whispers became louder.

“No.” He backed off until suddenly he felt a searing pain explode inside his head. White light danced before his eyes and he felt something warm and wet trickle from his nostril. He put a finger to the orifice, with- drawing it to see dark fluid on the tip. The blood looked black in the darkness. Harold swayed drunkenly. It felt as if someone had clamped a vice on his skull and were twisting the screw as tightly as possible.

“All right,” he yelled and the pain receded. He leant against the nearest wall, panting. “Tell me how,” he sobbed.

The words came slowly and, at first he recoiled again but remembrance of the awful pain when he disobeyed forced him to listen. Tears streaming down his face, he sat motionless, hands clasped together, head bowed until finally he got to his feet and walked into the tiny kitchen. He pulled open one of the rotting wooden drawers and rummaged through until he found a butcher’s knife. It was a heavy bladed implement, rusty in places, its black handle missing a screw but, as Harold pressed his thumb to the cutting edge he found that it was still wickedly sharp. He shambled back into the other room and sat down on the bed, the knife held in one unsteady hand. The ghostly voices spoke to him once more and he put down the vicious blade in order to undo his shirt. As each successive button was unfastened, he could hear the soft sucking sounds which the foetuses made echoing around the room. They moved only occasionally on the blanket but, all the while, their black glistening eyes were fixed upon him. One of them, the smallest of the trio was gurgling thickly, a stream of fluid spilling from its mouth which it kept opening and closing rather like a goldfish. Harold looked at it and then across at the knife.

Perhaps he should kill them now, destroy these foul things. Cut. . .

He groaned once more as a white hot burst of agony seared his brain. He imagined his head swelling then exploding into a thousand sticky pieces. He undid the final button and pulled his shirt off then, with shaking hands, he reached for the long bladed knife. His own body looked pale in the gloom and his skin was puckered into goose-pimples. He held the knife before him, looking at the wicked weapon then, with infinite care, almost without looking, he pressed the sharp edge to his chest. It felt cold and he held it there for what seemed like an eternity then, with one swift movement, he drew it across his pectoral muscle, opening the flesh, slicing through veins. He moaned in pain, felt the hot bile bubbling up in his throat but he fought it back, hacking at himself once more until a bright stream of blood gushed from the torn breast. His second cut was more random and he was fortunate not to carve his left nipple off. His chest felt as if it were on fire and he swayed for a second, some of his blood splashing the bedclothes and, all the time, the voices inside his head urged him on.

He bent forward and lifted the first of the foetuses, cradling it in his arms for long seconds, allowing some of his blood to drip onto the tiny body, then he raised it to his torn chest. He felt its jellied, putrescent flesh in his hands, he smelt the stench which it gave off and he allowed it to press its bulbous head against his wounds. Harold was shaking uncontrollably as he felt the thing’s lips on his chest, probing the ragged edges of the twin gashes, burying its small mouth inside the bleeding maw as it swallowed his life fluid. It bucked violently in his hands and he felt that familiar wave of sickness sweeping over him again but the pain in his chest kept him conscious. Tears streamed down his face, dripping from his chin to mingle with his blood and the odorous fluid which the foetus itself seemed to exude.

He heard the voice deep within the darkest recesses of his mind and he laid the creature back on the cover where it lay still, its face slick with blood, its body bloated and immobile.

He repeated the procedure with the second monstrosity, opening a third wound on the other breast to satiate it. He moaned once more, feeling the thing grip his flesh with stubby fingers as it pressed itself tightly to the weeping wound. It too signalled its satisfaction and Harold completed the vile ritual by lifting the third foetus to his tom pectoral.

When the task was over, Harold got to his feet, unhindered, and staggered into the kitchen. He hung over the sink and vomited violently, remaining there for a long time afterwards, finally spinning both taps and washing the foul mess down the plug-hole. Then he sponged down his chest wounds with a wet towel, – pressing it hard against the wounds in an effort to seal them. When he withdrew it, the material was stained orange and red. He was bruised black in some places where the creatures had fed. Harold held the towel in place until he was satisfied that the bleeding had stopped then he dried himself and sought out some adhesive strip which he had in the bedside cabinet. He carefully cut some lengths of it and placed it delicately over the wounds. It still felt as if someone were using a blow torch on his chest but the pain was diminishing somewhat.

Bleary eyed, he looked down at the three abortions.

Where the hell was he going to hide them?

He inhaled deeply, wincing as his torso began to throb once more, looking around for a suitable place. There seemed to be just one.

There was a large cupboard beneath the sink which appeared to be ideal. He carried them, one by one into the kitchen and knelt before the cupboard door, a sliding effort with a metal handle.

“I have to hide you,” he said. “Someone might come here.”

Silent questions.

He nodded, pulling open the door. A strong odour of mildew wafted out, taking Harold’s breath away momentarily. He looked inside and saw that, but for a couple of old saucepans and a plastic bucket, the cupboard was empty. He hastily removed the offending articles, pushing them to one side. A silver-fish scurried from the dark confines of the enclosure and Harold crushed it beneath his foot, gazing down at the shape less mess for a second before lifting the blanket into the cupboard. This done, he carefully laid the foetus’ onto it, finally pulling it over them. He gazed into the darkness, heard the vile mewling sounds which they made, the soft mucoid snortings and gurglings and he closed his eyes. Then, the voices came to him again, soft but full of menace. Full of power. He slid the cupboard door shut and stumbled back into the other room where he collapsed on the bed. Immediately, he was overcome with the welcome oblivion of unconsciousness but whether it was sleep or a blackout he was never to know. Either way, he sprawled on the blood-speckled bed, the odour of the creatures still strong in the air.

Outside, the rain had begun to fall again, pattering against the window, thrown by the wind which rattled the glass in its frame. Inside, the steady ticking of the clock was the only sound.

It was 3.17 a.m.

“. . . death could drop from the dark

As easily as song.”

– Isaac Rosenberg

Inspector Lou Randall pushed two coins into the vending machine at the end of the corridor and pressed one of the buttons. A plastic cup dropped down but no tea followed it. Randall muttered something to himself and pressed the reject button but the machine had swallowed his money and obviously didn’t intend parting with it. The Inspector swore and kicked the recalcitrant contraption, smiling when he saw a stream of tea suddenly gush forth into the waiting cup. Grinning, he retrieved the tea and retreated back to his office, closing the door behind him.

He crossed to his desk and sat down, lighting up a cigarette before flipping open the first of half a dozen files spread on, the work-top.

They were statements from four residents of Exham, all of whom claimed to have seen Paul Harvey in the past two days. Randall read each one slowly, shaking his head every now and then. Every one gave a different description and at least two of the sightings had happened at exactly the same time but on different sides of town. He closed the file and dropped it amongst the others. He sat back in his chair, the plastic beaker in one hand, the cigarette in the other. His office was already full of smoke and an empty packet of Rothmans lay at his elbow. He put down his tea and massaged the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, trying to assess what little he knew of the investigation so far.

He ticked the items off mentally, as if striking them from some kind of psychological shopping list.

1. Harvey escaped six weeks ago.

2. Four sightings so far, all unsubstantiated.