Authors: Dean Vincent Carter

The Hand of the Devil (28 page)

BOOK: The Hand of the Devil

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Keep her back! Keep her back!

The two insects then became separated on the wet tunnel floor. They both seemed either unwilling or incapable of getting airborne. The dragonfly seemed to have expended all its energy during its frenzied attack, while the Ganges Red, still growing, reared up on her two longest and strongest legs and let out what was no longer a buzzing but an almost human scream. She was preparing to charge, to deal the death blow. Then, as Gina stood there waiting for her opportunity, I heard the other voice. It was the dragonfly.

Now! Do it now!

‘Now, Gina!’

She raised her left foot. The Ganges Red turned in her direction and froze. She looked ready to scream again, this time in terror, but she didn’t get the chance. The shoe came down on her head, and suddenly the water around Gina’s legs was dark with blood.

We stayed where we were for some time, our brains numbed. At some point I was able to make myself walk over and stand next to Gina. I put my arm round her waist. Looking down, I saw a number of red and black lumps lying in the thin layer of water. Blood had splashed the front of Gina’s jeans and the wall opposite. I couldn’t believe how much of it there was. Looking at her face, I could see that she was still coming to terms with all she’d seen. She was drawing deep breaths and staring down at what was left of the mosquito.

‘Did you hear it?’ The question seemed to have come from my lips before I had thought to ask it.

‘What?’

‘The dragonfly. Did you hear it speak?’

‘I heard . . . I heard you,’ she said, turning to me. ‘That’s all.’

Together we both looked at our grey saviour. I moved the torch-beam so that it wasn’t shining directly on it. It was hovering above the ground now, and appeared to be a lot healthier than it was some moments before. It turned round and silently flew back down the tunnel.

‘Well,’ I said, smiling at Gina, ‘I guess it’s not important.’

‘No . . . Come on, let’s get the hell out of this place.’

‘Good idea,’ I replied, but then Gina stopped abruptly and took hold of my arm. Her smile faded.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Can’t you hear that?’

We stood still, listening. At first I could hear nothing but the drops of water from the ceiling. Then I began to make out the sound of tiny splashes, coming closer and closer.

‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘What now?’

We started to back away. Gina took the torch from my hand and pointed it down the tunnel in the direction of the sound.

‘What is that?’

‘I don’t know.’ I shook my head. ‘And I don’t want to know.’

‘Shh. Look!’ I did, though I really didn’t want to. ‘What the hell is that?’

I could see two small orbs of green in the dark, coming towards us. It didn’t register at first but then I realized. Laughing out loud, I dropped to my knees. My hands were outstretched and tears were emerging unimpeded from my eyes. As the little figure came plodding and splashing into view, I heard Gina gasp. He slowed down, miaowed and climbed onto my knees, standing with his back legs on my left thigh, his front legs on my chest. He rubbed his nose against mine, then brushed his right cheek against my chin.

‘Hello to you too,’ I said. ‘You’ve no idea how pleased I am to see you.’ Gina knelt down beside me and began stroking Mr Hopkins’s back.

When we had finished lavishing affection on him, I picked him up and we continued down the tunnel. We must have covered at least two miles before we reached the trapdoor. As we drew closer we could see a plank of wood set into the side of the tunnel, underneath the door. It was old, yellowed and damp, but the letters on it were still legible.

TRYST

Mr Hopkins began purring, the sound oddly amplified by our confines.

‘All that,’ Gina said, while I climbed the small ladder to push open the hatch. ‘That stuff back there. No one’s going to believe it happened, are they? I’m not even sure I do.’

Instinctively I climbed back down to the floor and took her hand in mine. To my great relief she smiled.

‘Do you really care?’ I squeezed her hand tighter. ‘We’re both alive after all.’

‘Yes . . . But I still don’t think I should have left the office today.’

‘I’m glad you did though.’

‘Come on, let’s go. Before something else comes down that tunnel.’

Hours later, after the sun had reclaimed the sky, Gina and I found ourselves in a sparsely occupied train, heading swiftly back to London. I opened my tired eyes and looked around the otherwise empty carriage. A sound had awoken me. I thought I’d heard a buzzing, not unlike that of a large insect. I listened for a while, but could detect nothing other than the noise of the train as it rolled speedily through the countryside.

After we had given our statements to the local police, all hell had broken loose. We were still at the police station when the detectives arrived, and when our story had been confirmed and our details taken, we were allowed to leave, with the assurance that we would be interviewed again in the near future. All we cared about then was getting home and into a warm bed.

Before heading to the station, however, we had one last bit of business to take care of. After explaining my failure to show up last night to a rather bemused Annie Rocklyn, I asked if she wouldn’t mind finding a home for Mr Hopkins.

‘Sir Anthony!’ she exclaimed, darting from behind the counter to pick up the startled cat in her arms. ‘My word, where on earth did you find him? I thought I’d lost him long ago! Oh, you poor, poor puss. Mummy’s missed you so much. Yes she has.’

We left the reunited couple to their celebrations and left the guest house.

Now, sitting in the train, I looked at the pretty girl sleeping next to me, using my arm as a pillow. Her shoulders rose and fell as she slept, and her contentment was infectious. I felt a great calm then, not just because it was all over, but because I’d got closer to her than I’d ever been.

I couldn’t help pondering over what she’d said when we were climbing out of the tunnel. It was true that few, if any, people would believe our story. And I had a feeling that the more time that passed, the less I myself would believe it. Maybe it’s part of time’s great healing process, a way of ensuring that we don’t go insane after the inexplicable events we’re sometimes foolish enough to stumble into.

As I closed my eyes and let sleep welcome me into its arms once more, the only thing I was aware of, besides the endless drone of the train, was a very slight, almost imperceptible throbbing at the back of my neck.

EPILOGUE

An Lao Valley, Vietnam

2005

One minute Cam was tying cord around the broken branch of a mulberry tree, the next he was looking towards the spot where his wife, Long, had been sitting on a tree stump, sewing his tattered work shirt. And all he could see was a body, slumped on the ground.

He turned and ran to the spot where she lay, heaving her into his arms, calling her name over and over again in the hope that it might rouse her from the mysterious sleep that had overcome her. His efforts were to no avail. He checked for breath, for a pulse, but neither could be found.

How? How could his beloved, the only ray of sunshine in his life, have been taken from him so instantly, so unexpectedly, so silently?

He carried her body back to the hut and laid her down on the bed. Pacing around the chamber, panting, holding back tears that would surely consume him, he tried to think of something – anything – that could reverse what had happened. And then he remembered.

An old man lived in the hills to the east of the small village. He rarely came down, and people rarely went up, but stories had circulated for decades of his powers. He was said to be as old as the mountains and wiser than any other man alive. The elders of the village swore that he was a genie, that he could heal, perhaps even restore life. It couldn’t possibly be true, but Cam had to find out for sure. Life without Long just didn’t bear thinking about.

For seven hours he carried his wife’s body up the treacherous mountain path, until, late in the day, he arrived at the peak. It was colder up there and the path was almost overgrown with thorn bushes. Looking around, the wind bringing tears to his eyes, he spotted a small wooden building. He pushed through the harsh thorns, cutting himself numerous times, until at last he stood before the door of the hut.

The door was half open, but Cam could see only darkness inside. He was about to place Long’s body on the ground before stepping inside, when a voice called out: ‘Stop! Do not come closer. I know why you are here, and I cannot help you.’

‘You—’ Cam began, feeling the tears run from his eyes. ‘You cannot do anything?’

‘What you ask means more than you can imagine. The dangers are immense.’

‘So you
can
do it?’ Cam moved closer to the doorway, straining to see within, but making nothing of the dark shadows.

‘I can . . . but—’

‘You must!’ Cam dropped to his knees. ‘Please, I will do anything, anything if you bring her back to me.’ He now started sobbing openly, staring into the hut in the hope that his earnest grief would spur the old man into acquiescing.

There was a pause, during which Cam’s sobs and the howling wind were all that could be heard. Then: ‘Did she love you? Unconditionally?’

‘Yes,’ Cam replied immediately, wiping his eyes. ‘We loved each other more than you can imagine.’

‘And was she content with her life? Was she never tempted to leave you for another? Another who could offer her more?’

‘No!’ The man was firm, almost angry. ‘Her only desire was to be with me. That and nothing more.’

‘Hmm,’ came the reply.

‘I am going nowhere until you bring her back to me, old man. If you don’t, I shall kill myself right now.’ Cam stared into the darkness, knowing the truth in his words would not be mistaken. ‘If I can’t be with her in this world, I shall join her in the next.’

There was another pause. For some minutes Cam knelt on the ground, wondering what would happen. Then he saw a face appear in the gloom of the hut. It was older than he could imagine. The skin was dry and horribly wrinkled, the hair thin and brittle. He had never seen a creature so old and frail.

‘Very well, young man,’ the old man sighed, shifting uncomfortably. ‘Carry her inside. And bring one of those mighty thorns with you.’

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

On a research level I would like to acknowledge the book
Mosquito: The Story of Man’s Deadliest Foe
by Andrew Spielman and Michael D’Antonio, as a valuable source of facts about the terrible insect itself. Any factual errors in the novel, however, are mine alone. Aside from this and numerous visits to the World Wide Web, the rest comes from the depths of my imagination . . . God help you all!

I would like to thank everybody at Random House Children’s Books not only for publishing me, but also, along with the folks at Transworld Publishers, for being valuable colleagues and friends, always generous with praise, support and encouragement. I really do love you guys.

And most importantly, an overwhelming and ongoing gratitude to a certain lady I met at a party once. Charlie Sheppard: respected editor, trusted friend and true hero.

Thanks, Charlie.

D.V. Carter 2005

BOOK: The Hand of the Devil

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