The Kind Folk (24 page)

It's out of sight by the time he speeds onto the motorway, but he knows where he's likely to encounter it again. The lights of the city fall behind, and soon the lamps above the motorway come to an end. As the road climbs towards the moors and the unfinished moon it grows almost as deserted as the sky between the stars appears to be. On both sides bleak slopes that seem too gloomy for the moon to begin to illuminate stretch to the horizon. A lorry lowers its headlamp beams as it races around a bend ahead, and Luke dips his. A mile further uphill he repeats the routine on behalf of a solitary oncoming car, and then he's alone on the road. His headlights find nothing to fasten on until a signboard comes into view—the sign for the Crakemoor road. The board sails by, and the raised beams light up a figure standing at the junction with the side road.

It's grotesquely reminiscent of a policeman directing traffic. Its right arm is extended towards Crakemoor, not pointing but forming the sign of the Folk. "I'm going home," Luke says loud enough to be heard on the moors, "and nowhere else." Before he has finished speaking he tramps hard on the accelerator.

He's nearly at the junction when the shape lurches in front of the car, flinging its arms wide and thrusting its mouthless head forward so violently that the eyes almost sink out of sight. He doesn't brake; he floors the accelerator, and the car runs the scrawny figure down, having struck it in the region where its genitals should be, a withered tangle more like bone than any species of flesh. Luke doesn't feel an impact, but the car shudders as though it has been seized by a wind across the moors. As he races past the Crakemoor road he sees a dim glimmering shape stagger to its feet in the mirror and stretch out its claws to the car. The arms are lengthening; they're yards long now—they're even longer. Then they appear to merge with the night, and eventually Luke lets the car lose speed on the ascent to the highest moor. "Don't bother trying to entice me any more," he says and doesn't care if anything can hear. "I've left you behind. I'm not your kind of folk."

A TOUCH IN THE DARK

"While you can afford me. Of course I'm not offended, but was that your idea?"

"Now you mention it," Amy Greenaway begins and then gives Luke a blink of her glittery eyelids. "Well, that's an old song."

"Not as old as some," Luke says and reads the onscreen name as his mobile continues to sing about last month. "Excuse me while I take this. It's my partner and she's pregnant."

"I'll be fetching your water," the manager says and leaves Luke in the dressing-room.

Luke swivels his chair towards the mirror, which frames his face with lights and allows him to spy on the corridor. The visible section stays deserted as Sophie says "Can you talk?"

"I hope I'll always be able to do that. I won't be much use otherwise."

"You know what I mean," she says with a nominal laugh. "You aren't putting on a show."

"I'm not onstage for a few minutes, if that's what you mean." Having said just the first part of this aloud, Luke adds "How's everything at home?"

"I think somebody's anxious to see the world. I've been asking him to wait till next week."

"It isn't likely to be that soon, is it? I thought we had months."

"Won't you be happy if he's here sooner?"

"You know I will whenever it turns out to be. Why next week?"

"That's when they've booked me into the studio, and by the way, we were all wrong."

Luke finds he hasn't run out of apprehensiveness. "About what?"

"They've convinced me we should call the album
Drew Two."

"If that's what sells." In case this seems insufficiently enthusiastic Luke says "It's more you, isn't it?"

"That's all my news." As Luke wonders if anything made her anxious to hear his voice she says "The Arnolds have been to the house."

He feels uneasy and can't quite grasp why. "How did it go?"

"Freda's taken a fancy to something. She wants to be sure you don't mind."

"I don't see how I could," Luke says, only to realise what he shouldn't have forgotten. Suppose Freda has told Sophie that she found the deformed skull? It reconstituted itself somehow after he destroyed it, and may it have reappeared again? Sophie will know something is very wrong, and not just at the house. "What thing?" he makes himself ask.

"The piece of ironwork with the moon in it. Maurice says he can make it into part of a gate for her."

"They're absolutely welcome to it. Was that all?"

"It's all they liked."

"No," Luke says as a shadow darts along the corridor. "Was that all whoever you spoke to said?"

"Just about." As the owner of the shadow, which was thin because Amy Greenaway is tall and slim, enters the dressing-room Sophie says "She thought they could take anything that's salvageable to one of the charity shops."

"They could," Luke says as he's handed a bottle of water. "Thanks, Amy."

"I didn't know you weren't alone," Sophie protests. "I'll let you go. Just don't drive all that way if you're too tired. I'd rather you stayed overnight if you need to."

"I'm not tired," Luke says and vows not to let it catch up with him.

"Why don't you decide when you've done your gig. If you aren't coming home just let me know and then I can bolt the door."

"I've decided now. At the latest I'll be home by two."

That would mean driving slowly, which he doesn't plan to do. "You're on in an couple of minutes," Amy Greenaway murmurs.

"I heard that, Luke. You do whatever's safest afterwards, and now go and be a star."

As Luke pockets the mobile the manager says "Ready for your audience?"

"Bring them on," Luke says and has to ensure she takes his vehemence for a joke.

He's thinking of intruders, and he doesn't have to wait long for one. As the lights go down in the auditorium that reminds him of a lecture theatre, the dimness appears to lend substance to a figure beyond the aisle that climbs between the rows of seats. It could be the spectator he encountered at the Elysium; there's little to distinguish it, and even less that bothers to seem human. As Luke portrays a variety of characters bent on ignoring children or beggars or some aspect of themselves, the figure grows frantic to attract his attention. It lurches at the aisle as though it's threatening to distract his audience, and all the laughter seems to madden it; perhaps it thinks it's the butt of the jokes. When Luke finds more improvisations to perform, it prances behind the back row, plucking at people's heads. Some people wave their hands as if they're fending off an insect, but that's all the reaction it provokes, and so it starts capering behind them while its elongated fingers drag so fiercely at its face that they might be trying to render it even less complete. Ignoring its antics energises Luke, and he feels as if he could go on all night. It isn't until the audience sounds exhausted by laughing that he ends the show.

When the light swells up it seems to shrivel the intruder, which collapses on all fours as if there's no longer enough of a body to support the head, and the scrawny remnant dodges behind the highest seats. Luke is sure he hasn't seen the last of it, but it doesn't appear to be eavesdropping while Amy Greenaway enthuses over his performance, and there's no sign of it on the way out. Once the car park empties he could imagine that he's on his own.

The Tarnside Theatre is close to one of the English lakes, although not on the shore. A pallid trail suggests that the ungainly lopsided moon has crawled across the water. This isn't Mountain Swallow Lake, which is some miles along the route to the motorway. While Luke has passed it once without incident, he suspects the drive back may be less uneventful. He's determined to deal with whatever confronts him, though the energy that sustained him onstage has dissipated. At least Sophie doesn't know how tired he has suddenly grown. He isn't about to search for lodgings this late in the small Lakeland town. He wants to be home to see Sophie and their child are safe.

The road winds as though it's trying to wriggle away from the moon. In a few minutes the headlights find the sign for Mountain Swallow Lake. No doubt most people would assume that it's named after a species of bird. It's mentioned in Terence's journal, and it reminds Luke of a tale of Terence's about a submerged mountain where the drowned enact an ancient ritual whenever the moon lends them a kind of life. Luke expects to see a figure attempting to beckon or otherwise entice him to the lake, but the only active presence is a shadow that the headlamps send to sprawl next to the hedge before the silhouette reverts to hiding behind the signboard.

Has he managed to persuade the Folk that he isn't worth the effort? His journey takes him close to quite a few locations Terence listed; he could think this part of the country is riddled with them. Nothing is waiting to divert him onto the road to Old Moon Fell, and he tries not to think of the tale it brings to mind. When he sees the sign for Broken Neck Ridge he can't help recalling the story Terence told him of the hill where the hanged came back at night to dance. It hardly seems an ideal tale to tell a child, but then Luke wasn't the ordinary kind. The road leading to the ridge is deserted, and so is the route to Deep Toll Bay, where according to Terence swimmers dived to worship at the sunken church—swimmers who came mostly from the ocean rather than the coast and grew to resemble the polypous occupant that had made its nest on the altar. The bay is well over the horizon, and the road Luke is following has straightened towards the motorway at last. In a few minutes he sees lights chasing lights as though they're searching for the dawn.

It isn't even midnight yet, and fatigue is starting to overtake him. When he reaches the first motorway services he pulls into the car park. He can nap for half an hour and still be home by two if not earlier. He sets the alarm on his mobile and closes his eyes. At first he thinks the glare of floodlights will keep him awake, and he feels himself nod in agreement. But it's sleep that is tugging his head down, and soon he has no more thoughts.

The rest of the drive home isn't worth remembering once Sophie is beside him, caressing his face. He hadn't realised pregnancy could affect her temperature so much; her slim fingers are unexpectedly chill. He could imagine that as well as being cold as fog, they're little more substantial, because they feel as if they're not merely on his skin but somehow on the flesh inside it. Even this sensation doesn't waken him; it's the word that is breathed into his ear. The voice is thin and shrill, and the breath feels like an exudation from a swamp. He jerks awake so violently that his fist punches the horn, which resounds through the car park. He's alone in the car, but the word lingers in his brain. "Page," the intruder whispered. "Page."

THE PURPOSE

Perhaps the intruder is still in the car. All the way home Luke expects to see its unfinished silhouette rear up behind him in the mirror, and when it doesn't he keeps thinking it's about to poke its bloated temporary face over his shoulder. He has to switch off the air conditioning, since its chill feels too reminiscent of a cold hand fingering his face. "Stay away," he mutters whenever he fancies that he senses a presence, "I've got nothing for you," and much more of the same.

At least he reaches the outskirts of Liverpool. The miles of deserted lamplit streets don't let him feel as alone as he would prefer, and the sight of the occasional late pedestrian isn't reassuring even once he's close enough to be certain they're human. When he parks the car under the apartments and makes for the steps he has to persuade himself that only shadows and echoes are imitating him—on the stairs too. It's almost two o'clock, and he eases the apartment door shut in the hope that Sophie will have fallen asleep. As he finds his way along the dim hall, however, she says indistinctly "You, Luke?"

"Just me," he murmurs before mouthing "And nobody else. There better hadn't be."

He repeats the words while he's in the bathroom. If he indeed has any powers, he hopes they'll help the formula to work. He doesn't feel as though he's being followed across the hall, but then Sophie mumbles "Come to bed." Of course she's inviting nobody except him, and he slips under the thin quilt, where she takes his hand as if she's using it to measure her girth. Now his back feels exposed, and he could imagine that an uninvited visitor is about to press against it, mimicking his embrace of Sophie's waist by slithering a boneless arm around him. More than once he feels the wormlike limb not merely holding him but insinuating itself beneath his skin. It's a dream, and it keeps jerking him awake, so that daylight has started to brighten the room before he's able to sleep.

A touch on his face wakens him. While it's light enough for a kiss, it isn't one. Although it's with him in the bed, it isn't a hand either; it's too insubstantial. He manages not to cry out as he recoils to the edge of the mattress. By this time his eyes are open, and he laughs instead, although mostly because that's how someone would behave in the circumstances. On the pillow is a notepad page, which a breeze through the open window must have blown against his cheek.
Didn't want to wake you,
Sophie has written.
Gone to supermarket.
That's all except for a string of kisses like a censored version of his first name.

The supermarket he and Sophie use is several miles away. He sends her a text—Don't carry anything upstairs. Ring when you're back—and tugs the quilt over himself. He's wondering whether he has time to catch up on his sleep when a thought overtakes him. His fear that an intruder could have followed him home has distracted him from another possibility. He assumed that the whisper in his ear was meant to remind him of ideas he'd found in Alvin Page's book, but was he being directed to the section he still hasn't read? Might Sophie have been thinking of that too if she has read further than he did?

Luke flings off the quilt and hurries to the computer. Several emails are waiting for him. Some are from theatres—more invitations, he presumes, and wonders who's responsible;—but one is from the clinic where they tested him. A spasm passes through his fingers as he opens the message. All the fluids he provided and the rest of the evidence of himself have passed the examination. He's as good as anyone could hope—as good as human.