The Teacher's Tales of Terror (3 page)

And so the Thriplow family left their hotel and walked down the steep hill to the harbour and over the bridge. Fishing boats were returning as they made their way through the market and up through the narrow lanes.

Near to where the long flight of stone steps leading to the church began, Martha and her family stopped and stood staring in confusion at the window of a haberdasher’s.

They retraced their steps and came back to the same spot. They walked on a little and then returned, all with the same bemused expression.

‘But that’s impossible,’ said Vernon, giving voice to a sentiment shared by his mother and sister.

For though they were all sure that they should be looking at the window of the jet shop where they had bought Martha’s brooch, there was no sign of that shop at all. That is – there was a shop there, but it was the aforementioned haberdasher’s, not a jet shop.

Martha’s mother went to the door of the shop and opened it. All three of them peered in. Even if it was possible that the jet shop had packed up its business and been replaced by this one in such a short space of time, the haberdasher’s shop was a completely different size and layout. The door opened the opposite way for one thing. The Thriplow family retreated to the other side of the street.

Mrs Thriplow was a practical, unromantic sort of a person and was ill-prepared to deal with such strangeness so soon after breakfast. She felt a migraine rolling in like a storm.

‘How is that possible?’ said Martha. ‘The shop was here. And now it’s not.’

‘Don’t be silly, dear,’ said her mother. ‘We must be mistaken.’

‘But –’

‘
We must be
mistaken
,
Martha
,’ Mrs Thriplow repeated fiercely and was already walking back down the hill, eager to be away from the dizzying illogicality of that place.

Martha and Vernon followed her after a moment’s hesitation, each of them looking back over their shoulders at the place where the shop should have been but was not.

The subject of the shop that was not there was avoided at supper. Mrs Thriplow had refused to speak of it again, and Martha and Vernon had not had any opportunity to speak of it while alone. By the time they went to their room they had both privately veered towards their mother’s way of thinking. They must have been mistaken about the location. It was the only answer.

Martha got changed hurriedly, as she always did, whilst Vernon was in the bathroom. When she put on her nightdress, she noticed a bloodstain on it, just below her neck.

She wanted to get a better look. The only mirror she had in the bedroom was a small hand mirror and that was really not much use. Something about the shape of the stain made her realise that it corresponded to where she would have worn her brooch. She had pricked her finger on the pin. Had she done the same when she had put it on her coat?

She unbuttoned the front of her nightdress, nervously checking that Vernon was still in the bathroom. Pulling the nightdress aside, she was horrified to see that there was a small hole in her flesh, as if an arrow had pierced it. Surely it was much too large to have been made with a brooch pin?

Then Martha felt something move under her nightdress and jumped back, shrieking and slapping herself, trying to catch whatever it was and bat it away. Vernon came in and was very much amused by his sister’s curious antics.

Until she turned to face him.

Vernon’s face was transformed in an instant from mirth to horror as he shouted out, pointing and staggering backwards. Vernon ran for the bedroom door and flung it open, throwing himself through, screaming for his mother.

Martha felt something moving across her face and put her hand up to flick it away, but it was not
on
her face she now realised – it was
underneath
. It was under her skin.

Martha knew instantly and instinctively that it was the snake from the brooch – what did the man call it? – the uroboros. It was somehow inside her flesh, slithering round her eye socket and across her forehead. She looked in the mirror and screamed.

Martha Thriplow awoke with a gasp, sitting upright in her bed, the bedcovers strewn on the floor. She was bathed in sweat and her heart was hammering.

‘Martha?’ called Vernon.

Martha made no reply. She patted herself all over for a sign of the thing under her flesh but could feel nothing.

Whilst Vernon gazed on in bafflement, she grabbed the mirror and pulled her nightdress aside. Martha saw with relief that the hole in her chest was gone. It had been a nightmare, she thought. Just a nightmare.

Martha Thriplow ate her breakfast with all the relish of a reprieved felon who had escaped the axeman’s block. She even shrugged off Vernon’s teasing of her behaviour on waking.

Martha’s nightmare had been so shocking that she had no inclination to revisit it in her thoughts, and with startling speed a fog seemed to roll over and obscure it entirely in her mind, much to her relief.

By the time Mrs Thriplow had gathered her children together for yet another shopping expedition into town, Martha was back to her normal self.

They made their way down the hill from the hotel, crossed the bridge and then walked along the stone jetty to the little lighthouse at the end. Mrs Thriplow encouraged them to take large breaths of the sea air as she always did, convinced as she was of its efficacious properties.

As they strolled back along the harbour wall, Martha remembered that she had woken from a nightmare, but she could no longer recall what it had been about. She found this unaccountably irritating and her mood was not improved when her mother announced that they were going to shop for some pieces of jet jewellery as suitably sombre mementos of their stay.

A small bell pinged shrilly as Martha opened the door. It was a dull and sunless day, but even so the tiny shop seemed gloomy and cave-like in comparison.

Martha Thriplow was still occupied with trying to recall the nightmare that had disturbed her sleep. She had barely noticed anything on her walk up from the harbour. It was something terrible, she remembered. But that was all she could remember.

Mr Munro snapped the book shut as he finished the story, making most of the class jump in the air. A girl near the back let out a small whimper. Mr Munro smiled.

‘There,’ he said quietly. ‘I trust that was not too dull for you?’

Looking down at his desk, he noticed the name ‘Montague’ carved into the wood in a neat copperplate script and mused for a moment on the falling standards in graffiti.

‘Are you going to tell us another story, sir?’ said a boy at the front.

Mr Munro looked up and raised an eyebrow.

‘Would you
like
another story?’ said Mr Munro.

‘Yes please!’

Mr Munro opened the book and began to look through it.

‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘I think you will enjoy this one.’

‘Is
this
one about Dracula, sir?’ said one of the boys eagerly.

‘None of the stories are about Dracula,’ replied Mr Munro.

A prim-looking girl near the front put her hand in the air.

‘Or vampires,’ said Mr Munro.

The hand went down.

‘What is it called, sir?’ asked another girl.

‘It is called “Simon Magus”,’ said Mr Munro, opening the book and taking out the leather bookmark, ‘and concerns a boy called Simon and a holiday he took with his guardian to the glorious city of Siena in Tuscany.’

3

Simon Magus

Simon had enjoyed much of his visit to Italy. He had particularly appreciated the chaotic energy of Rome and had been utterly entranced by tales of Christians being thrown to lions in the Colosseum.

He had thrilled to the stories of gladiators hacking away at each other in front of a bloodthirsty crowd.

He had enjoyed eating out in the crowded piazzas with their huge fountains. Rome was loud and raucous and just a little bit dangerous.

And in Florence they had witnessed a fatal stabbing in the Piazza della Signoria. Blood had spurted out of the dead man’s mouth. A woman had fainted. It had been the most exciting thing Simon had ever seen.

But Simon was not enjoying Siena. The only interesting thing about Siena seemed to be that there was a dangerous horse race round the town square every year. Sadly the next race would not be run for months.

Simon’s parents had both been killed in a ballooning accident in the Atlas Mountains of North Africa two years previously whilst he was away at school. He was in Italy with Uncle Henry, his guardian.

Uncle Henry had enjoyed a misspent youth and, like many who have been led astray in their younger days, he was determined that Simon would not replicate what he now saw as appalling errors of judgement.

Uncle Henry was very keen that Simon should embrace the arts and culture of Italy, but more importantly, fully engage with his Roman Catholic faith – a faith that had given Henry such solace in the years since the death of his beloved wife.

Their marriage had been childless, but possibly because of it, they had been everything to each other. It did mean, however, that Uncle Henry’s knowledge of children was hazy in most respects.

His avuncular advice often took the form of warnings against the lures of Satan. Simon was rather intrigued by what these lures might be, but Uncle Henry was always frustratingly vague in that regard.

‘Satan is everywhere,’ his uncle had said.

‘What does he look like?’ asked Simon.

‘Just like an ordinary man,’ said Uncle Henry.

‘Then how will I know if it’s Satan?’

‘Oh, you’ll know,’ said his uncle solemnly. ‘Be on your guard. He is among us at all times, my boy. Waiting: waiting for his chance to ensnare a good boy like you.’

Simon was not a good boy, however. He had never been a good boy. But Uncle Henry meant well and Simon was very fond of him. When his guardian smiled down at him, he did his best to stifle a yawn and smile back.

They were in the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo. It held the treasures of the
duomo
— the cathedral – of Siena. He and Uncle Henry had just been in the cathedral and had lit candles – Simon for his parents and Henry for his late wife.

Simon had rather liked the cathedral. It had a sort of gloomy grandeur about it. But the museum was less to his taste.

It was not that it did not contain some interesting things. It was just that there were only so many statues and paintings Simon was prepared to look at in one day.

It might not have been quite so bad had Uncle Henry and Simon simply walked around on their own. Uncle Henry had quite a skill for bringing out the gory and unsavoury details that many guidebooks missed. He was particularly strong on the torture and grisly martyrdom of the saints. His description of the slow grilling of St Lawrence over an open fire was something that would stay with Simon for ever.

But, possibly aware of this dubious trait in his personality, Uncle Henry had decided that it might be better if they joined an organised tour group for their visit to the museum.

Their guide to the treasures therein was an Italian woman in her late forties who had the reddest lips Simon had ever seen.

‘This is another exquisite tempera panel by Duccio and it shows a fascinating incident in the life of St Peter,’ said the guide. ‘Can anyone guess what it depicts?’

Simon had not the faintest idea and even less interest, but just as he was drifting off to thoughts of battling gladiators, he heard his name mentioned and instinctively looked up.

‘That is correct,’ said the guide, pointing to a small painting. ‘This figure here is Simon Magus. It is said that he had a dispute with St Peter in Rome. Perhaps some of you have already been to Rome?’

There was a murmur of assent from many of the assembled tourists, including Simon and his uncle.

‘St Peter and the magician had a kind of a competition. Simon Magus wanted to show that he had the greater powers, so he built a wooden tower and climbed to the very top. The painting shows him levitating, held aloft by demons.’

Simon could see the little bat-winged figures beneath the magician. He had noticed these demonic figures in many paintings on their tour. They were often scratched and defaced in frescoes as if the faithful were trying to erase evil from their lives by erasing it from the paintings. But here they were untouched.

Simon Magus was standing triumphantly in the sky, arms outstretched.
How wonderful
, thought Simon.
How wonderful to be able to fly
.

‘But St Peter prayed to God for assistance,’ continued the guide, ‘and the demons supporting Simon Magus were exorcised. Without their Satanic assistance, the magician fell to his death. Here,’ she said, pointing to another panel, ‘we see him on the ground.’

The guide crossed herself at the end of this story.

‘It is not a common theme in religious painting,’ continued the guide. ‘There is a painting by Filippino Lippi for instance — and another by Gozzoli . . . But it is not a common subject.’