Anyway, it’s all okay now. Sure, the heartache is still there, but I’ve learned to accept everything – and I mean everything, even the cruel irony of refusing to die in those dirty waters because I wanted to be with Constance – that’s been thrown at me during my lifetime and anything yet to come. You see, for me it’s only a little while longer anyway.
Those headaches I’d been getting more and more frequently were not the result of too much drink or drugs (both of which I’ve given up completely nowadays because life itself is fun enough without either false-enhancement or desensitization – trust me on this), but from something even more sinister. I’d not only burnt my scalp during my adventures at PERFECT REST, but somewhere along the way I’d taken a knock to the head which had left a sizeable bump and when they had taken me to hospital to get my various cuts, bruises, and burns attended to, not to mention an overnight observation period because of the near-drowning, they had X-rayed my skull to check for fractures. Well, there weren’t any, but what they did find was a tumour eating into my brain.
It’s pretty big and it’s inoperable (at least, if they did try to remove it and I survived the process, there’s a ninety-eight per cent chance I’d be left in a vegetative state, odds I’m none too happy about). The doctors tell me I’ve got two or three months left to live, and I couldn’t be more pleased.
I understand, you see, that I’d only been given this second go at life to redeem myself for those misdemeanours first time round and now that I’ve done so, my time is up. Why couldn’t I have just drowned after leaping from that high window? Well, Michael’s life was still in my hands (or in my arms), wasn’t it? And in a way, so was the fate of my river rescuers and new-found friends – someone had to make sure they were not hidden away again by the authorities. It’s okay though: a deal is a deal and now it’s been done properly. Besides, I want to see Constance again, and the sooner the better.
At present, my friends, the ‘others’, are residing in a lovely manor house, in a remote, and equally lovely, part of the country. This time they are being well taken care of by the authorities – the public, ably kept informed by the media, make sure of that. People do care, you know, even though at times it appears the opposite is true. None of the other ‘others’, incidentally, survived the fire, which is probably just as well, for no amount of care and attention could have made their lives tolerable. Like me, Michael hasn’t long for this world either. He knows this, even if the medics don’t, and he told me – I’ve become quite adept at picking up his thoughts when I go for visits. And by the way, Michael is Shelly Ripstone’s long-lost son. The tattoos were the clues, you see: Leonard Wisbeech registered each ‘specimen’ with their birth dates, and Michael’s was 080581 – 8 May 1981, the precise date that Shelly gave birth. They were both DNA tested and the match was perfect. Even yet another cruel irony though, is that my ex-client wants nothing to do with her son. In fact, on the one occasion she was taken to see him, she was physically sick. Michael repulsed her and no amount of money left by her late husband would make her accept him. She said she never wanted to see ‘it’ again, and I think she’ll stick to her word. Michael’s got over it, but it took a while.
Me? I’m enjoying the short time I have left. When the pain eventually gets too bad, then that’s when I’ll use drugs again, but only those prescribed by the medics. I’m still nervous of death, of course, but I’m no longer afraid. I’ve glimpsed it, remember?
Besides, I’ve got someone waiting.
Metaphorically speaking, of course.
END NOTE
This story is based on a true incident that occurred in a certain London children’s hospital some years ago and was related to me by the now elderly person involved. At least two of the main protagonists are known to me personally (one, alas, now deceased) and, lest I be accused of possessing an inordinately warped imagination, I should point out that most of the ‘others’ described herein are taken from actual medical case histories. I sincerely hope you have been disturbed.
JAMES HERBERT
London, 1999
Others
‘An apocalyptic vision’
Independent
‘One of Herbert’s best novels to date’
Irish News
‘Surely Herbert is now at the peak of his writing and, more importantly, story-telling powers’
Doncaster Courier
‘this memorable novel is a true classic’
Publishing News
‘from the first page, until you close the book with a shudder at the end, the horror of it all will keep you gripped, and more than likely cowering under the duvet with fear’
Peterborough Evening Telegraph
‘Britain’s top selling horror-master is at his chilling best again in this disturbing page-turner’
Liverpool Echo
‘Spine-tingling read . . . this is a compelling tale that dares the reader to put it down’
Bath Gazette
‘an opening scene brilliantly created . . . there is not a moment in this book when the reader cannot fail to be moved as well as horrified as the tale unfolds’
Books Magazine
‘It’s as chilling, as memorable and as timely as we have come to expect from James Herbert. Others seems destined to join the classics for which he is remembered with fear’
Bolton Evening News
‘James Herbert’s controversial and stunning new chiller . . . an astonishing finale . . . Another classic from one of Britain’s best thriller writers’
Holyhead & Anglesey Mail
‘As chilling as Herbert knows how to be . . . this is a fast, well-told, gruesome love story’
Scotland on Sunday
‘A humane and inspiring tale’
Glasgow Herald
Others
James Herbert is not just Britain’s number one bestselling writer of chiller fiction, a position he has held ever since publication of his first novel, but is also one of our greatest popular novelists, whose books are sold in thirty-three foreign languages, including Russian and Chinese. Widely imitated and hugely influential, his twenty-three novels have sold more than forty-eight million copies worldwide.
Also by James Herbert
The Rats
The Fog
The Survivor
Fluke
The Spear
The Dark
Lair
The Jonah
Shrine
Domain
Moon
The Magic Cottage
Sepulchre
Haunted
Creed
Portent
The Ghosts of Sleath
’48
Once
Nobody True
The Secret of Crickley Hall
Graphic Novels
The City
(Illustrated by Ian Miller)
Non-fiction
By Horror Haunted
(Edited by Stephen Jones)
James Herbert’s Dark Places
(Photographs by Paul Barkshire)
Devil in the Dark
(Biog. Craig Cabell)
First published 1999 by Macmillan
This edition published 2000 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2011 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
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Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-0-330-46908-1 EPUB
Copyright © James Herbert 1999
The right of James Herbert to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopy
ing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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James Herbert, Others
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