The Midnight Men and Other Stories (10 page)

“Fool,” Vallance said, tobacco juice oozing from the corner of his mouth.

Louise, crouched at Randy’s side, looked away from the scene of conflict, pressing her face into Randy’s neck.

Young Saul stood with his father’s well-worn hands on his shoulders, his eyes wide with expectation; a silent prayer on his lips.

The people of Perseverance held their breath.

In a blur of movement, Vallance drew his Smith and Wesson and fired. Wade drew simultaneously, slamming his hand across the hammer twice in quick succession. As he did so, he felt a searing pain in his arm and a corona of crimson filled his vision. A cloud of gun smoke obscured his view of Vallance. Seconds later, as the cloud dissipated, Wade saw a dark ribbon of blood pouring from Vallance’s chest, soaking into the fabric of his long johns. He clasped his throat with his free hand. Blood oozed between his fingers. His eyes bulged. A moment later, his knees buckled and he fell onto his back.

A cheer filtered through the crowd, but Wade felt no sense of elation. He checked his arm and saw that it was only a flesh wound. Under any other circumstances he would have considered himself very lucky. But it didn’t really matter. He had made sure that his shots were fatal; Vallance would soon be dead.

He had to act quickly . . .

Clasping his fingers over the bloody gash in his arm, he started towards Vallance’s twitching, prostrate body.

Vallance’s gun hand waved unsteadily in the air.

“Jeremiah!” Louise cried. She started to get up, but Randy gripped her arm.

Wade couldn’t listen to her now, had to block out everyone and everything. What came next was unavoidable. If he didn’t finish what he had started, the entire train of souls clinging to this monster would become his burden, along with the monster himself.

He stopped at Vallance’s feet. The dying man looked up at him, blood bubbling between his swollen lips. His cataract-ridden eyes flashed with hate.

This time it was Saul who cried out: “Sheriff! What are you doing? Finish him!” The boy’s hands had pulled into fists, his face contorted by bloodlust. “Finish him now!”

Wade stood motionless, staring down the barrel.

“You have a hard choice here, Vallance,” he said. “If you decide not to pull that trigger, then you and all your souls will become my burden. For me, that’s a punishment I don’t think I could bear. But . . . if you decide to pull that trigger of yours, do what you do best, end your life with one more murder, well . . . here’s the thing: it’ll be a mercy.”

Vallance’s eyes narrowed as he grappled with what Wade was telling him. More blood oozed from between his lips.

Then, there was a moment of clarity in those cataract-clouded eyes.

“You’re still a fool,” Vallance said.

The shot rang out.

In that instant Wade knew nothing except searing pain and white light. There was the sensation of falling and then the horrible bone-crunching jolt of hitting the dirt. When he tried to open his eyes he found that only one responded, and he saw through a film of purest crimson.

He tried to call out the first name that came to him, the name of the girl who had been his dream, his true heart’s desire way back when things had been so simple and he had known for sure how the world worked.

The girl he had wanted to marry.

But her name wouldn’t come. His vocal chords would not respond. A deep, icy chill overwhelmed his brain. All he could hear was the moan of the spectre at his side. Parnell. Far Rider. The lament was like a rotten splinter in his head, and despair filled his heart.

Then warm, tender hands were around him, lifting his lolling head into a loving embrace, and he knew it was her. He looked up, desperate to see her beautiful, freckled face, her straw-blonde hair and to hear her soft voice. He saw her features washed in the deepest red, and she was crying.

“He’s dead,” he heard someone say, and for a moment he thought they were talking about him, that he had somehow passed on but was still hearing everything.

But then: “Vallance is dead.”

Through his bloody filter, Wade watched as the churning souls surrounding Vallance lifted away from the body, drifting slowly up the street as if borne on an invisible wind.

Heading towards him.

“Oh God,” Louise cried, seeing the advancing horde.

Wade reached up, placing his fingers on the soft skin of her cheek. He felt a single tear spill onto his forehead.

“Don’t cry,” he managed to say. “It was the only way.”

Reverend Simmons appeared then, kneeling down and placing a trembling hand on his shoulder. He opened his Bible and in a faltering voice began to read:

“‘Come to me, all of you who are tired from carrying heavy loads, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke and put it on you, and learn from me, because I am gentle and humble in spirit; and you will find rest. For the yoke I will give you is easy, and the load I will put on you is light’ . . .”

Wade was aware of breathing his last breath, feeling the air escape from him and realising that his body would draw no more. There was only time left to feel the dreadful weight of his burden unchain itself from his soul. With a sound like the sighing of the wind, the entity which had once been a man called John Parnell, Far Rider, was free.

In that moment, the host of Vallance’s inherited souls found themselves in a void, trapped between two dead men.

Two closed doors.

In a matter of moments, each one of the spectres dissipated into the air like smoke, and a gentle, cleansing wind rolled down the dusty main street of Perseverance.

“What’s this?”

Rosie plucked the small glass vial from underneath the pillow and held it up to the light.

“My God. Mum, do you think that’s blood?”

Wendy finished rinsing the mop, then straightened her back with an audible popping sound. It was late afternoon and the heat in the caravan was becoming unbearable. The jagged scar which ran diagonally across her face began to prickle uncomfortably. Wiping sweat from her eyes with the back of her wrist, Wendy squinted at the tiny object in her daughter’s hand.

“Let me see,” she said, stepping closer.

Rosie offered her the miniscule prize.

“Could be blood,” Wendy said, after examining it thoughtfully. “But who would keep blood in a little glass bottle like this?”

Rosie’s eyes lit up with youthful animation. “Hey, what about that Hollywood actress? She used to keep her husband’s blood in a bottle round her neck!”

Wendy smiled. “Somehow, I don’t think a Hollywood actress would be staying at The Paradise Palms caravan park. But I see what you mean.” She looked once more at its dark contents. “Still, it probably meant something to somebody.”

“Can’t have meant that much for someone to leave it behind.” Rosie turned back to the bed she’d been turning down, her young hips swinging. “I’d toss it in the bin if I were you.”

“Toss what in the bin?”

This third voice came from the open doorway of the caravan, causing both women to flinch.

Doreen Pike, the sole owner of Paradise Palms, stepped up into the caravan and studied her two employees with an intense gaze. She was well over sixty, and her stony features had weathered worse than the sphinx. An unfiltered cigarette dangled from her lips, the right side of her face screwed up tight against the rising smoke.

“I heard the word ‘valuables’ being bandied about,” she growled, “and you know the policy, ladies: all valuables found in the accommodation become the property of the accommodation owner—i.e. me—until claimed otherwise.” She took a step closer to Wendy, who wilted under her gaze, and held out one of her arthritic hands. “Now hand it over.”

Obediently, Wendy dropped the little capsule into her palm. Doreen’s painted-on eyebrows arched in puzzlement. She, too, raised it up to the late-afternoon sunlight.

“Where’d you find this?” she barked.

Rosie, who was nervously pulling the gum in and out of her mouth with her long fingernails, pointed to the double bed. “Under the pillow.”

“Really?” said Doreen, gilding the word with distrust.

Rosie said, “Do you know what it is, Miss Pike?”

“If I’m not much mistaken, it looks to me like a gypsy glamour.”

“A what?” Wendy and Rosie asked in unison.

“Gypsy magic.” The old woman looked at the vial again. “My Aunt Cissy used to run with the gypsies back in the old country. She told me some tales. Like how the old gypsy women used to make up all sorts of spells and potions to try and keep their husband’s interested, stop them running off with the younger fillies. The glamour was supposed to be the best method, a few drops of blood from the old women themselves, mixed with a few drops of blood from a young girl. They’d say a few words over it, and then . . .”

“And then?” asked Rosie, eyes bulging.

“They used to drink it.”

“Eugh!” cried Rosie.

Wendy shivered at the thought.

Miss Pike seemed to take delight in their revulsion. With a smirk, she continued: “They’d drink it down and then, supposedly, their appearance would change. Instead of looking like an old hag, they’d become a beautiful girl in the bloom of youth. But-” She held up a bony finger. “The glamour would only last as long as it took to get what they wanted. Once they’d had their way with their man, the effect wore off.” She laughed through her nose. “Imagine the fella’s horror, spending a night of passion with a beautiful young girl, only to wake up next morning cuddled up to his missus - back to her old, wrinkled self!”

She stared at Wendy and Rosie for a moment, then threw her head back and let out a throaty, braying laugh.

“And if you believe that, you’ll believe anything!” she cackled. “It’s probably smelling salts!”

Rosie, realising they’d been had, threw a scowl to Wendy, who flushed pink with embarrassment for having believed such a tall tale.

When Miss Pike had stopped laughing, she shuffled over to the door and looked out at the small community of caravans--her empire--and sighed. “Anyway, ladies,” she said, “the reason I came out was to tell you that caravans seven and eight need cleaning before the end of your shift.”

“What?” cried Rosie.

“That’s right. So you two better get a move on.” Miss Pike looked once more at the vial of red liquid, then studied Wendy’s face, her watery eyes roving over that awful scar. “Hey, Wendy,” she said. “You need a man, don’t you? Maybe you should give it a try.”

Wendy felt the heat rise in her face, and the fingers of her left hand instinctively covered the scar.

“I didn’t think so,” Pike said, looking at Wendy with an air of pity. And with that, the old woman tossed the vial into the rubbish bin, hitting the side with an echoing clang.

When she’d gone, Rosie turned to Wendy. “That old witch!” she spat. “I wouldn’t let her speak to me like that, Mum!”

Wendy could only shrug. Her hands still trembled with suppressed rage.

“Hey,” said Rosie, “if we get these last caravans done quickly, do you fancy coming for a drink after?”

Wendy tensed inside at the mention of socialising. “No,” she said quickly. “But thanks anyway, sweetheart.”

Rosie stopped scrubbing the cooker top. “What’re you doing instead? Watching TV?”

“Rosie, please. I’m too old for clubbing.”

“Mum, you’re forty-seven, not seventy-four! You’re in serious danger of becoming an oldie before your time!”

Wendy recognised the concern in her daughter’s jibes, but there was a lot of truth in it. There was a time when she had partied with the best of them, but that Wendy had disappeared half a lifetime ago - right around the time Rosie came along. The same time that she got the scar . . .

Rosie shrugged and started packing up the cleaning bucket. “Oh well. Don’t say I didn’t ask. Let’s go and start on number seven.” She groaned. “My lucky number!”

Wendy followed Rosie to the doorway, lifting the bucket and mops down to her.

“Is that everything?” Rosie called up.

Wendy looked around the caravan, reviewing their work quickly. Then, quite unexpectedly, she found herself staring down into the rubbish bin, her eye drawn to the gleam of that tiny glass vial.

“Mum?” said Rosie.

In one swift movement, Wendy stooped low, grabbed the little bottle and slipped it into her pocket. Her heart beat a little faster.

“Yep,” she said. “That’s everything.”

***

At ten o’clock, Rosie and Wendy walked wearily across the floodlit park towards the exit. Rosie had changed out of her uniform into a miniskirt and crop-top combination which showed off every curve of her blossoming figure. Wendy was still wearing her uniform under her shapeless raincoat. As they approached the gates, Rosie broke away from Wendy and skipped over to a small security hut, rapping loudly on the window.

“Hey, Joey! Wake up, we’re going!”

A young man’s face appeared, dark eyes peering out beneath an unkempt fringe. Wendy felt a familiar burning sensation in her chest. Crazy, really. The boy was half her age, but he was undeniably handsome. And he was so quiet. So mysterious. In her prime, he was just the kind of boy she went for.

Joey slid the window open and leaned on the sill.

“Fancy coming for a drink, Joey?” Rosie said in that flirty, sing-song way of hers. “Just me and the girls tonight,” she added, with a suggestive wink.

Even in the artificial light of the caravan park, Wendy saw the boy’s cheeks flush with colour. He shook his head.

Rosie backed away from his hut, swinging her hips. “Your loss, Joey!” she said.

Some feet away, Wendy watched the boy as his eyes followed Rosie’s figure. The pleasant sensation in her chest turned to a bitter pang of jealousy towards her own daughter. She suddenly burned for those long-lost times when men had looked at her like that - with such naked lust.

“Goodnight, Joey,” Wendy called over, but he didn’t answer. He didn’t even look to see who’d said it. His eyes were still roaming over Rosie’s body.

Head down, Wendy joined Rosie at the gate and they slipped out onto the main street.

“Sure I can’t change your mind about coming?” Rosie said, indicating the glittering lights of the town centre.