‘Try and control it.’ Danny’s hand hovered near to his gun-toting pocket. ‘You’re a powerful magician, Mickey, you can control it if you try really hard.’
‘I’m trying. I’m trying. Come into the hut. Let’s not talk out here.’
Danny followed Mickey into his converted hut. Before entering Danny raised a thumb in the direction of Parton Vrane’s van. He could get this sorted on his own. He just knew that he could.
Danny walked into Mickey’s hut.
And a frying-pan full in the face.
‘Mickey, don’t!’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Mickey struggled to help Danny up. ‘It just came over me. I couldn’t control it.’
Danny clutched at a now bloody nose. ‘Just sit down. Turn your head away, don’t look at me.’
Mickey turned away, but the Rider on his shoulders kept staring at Danny. It was really most upsetting.
‘How are you doing?’ Danny asked.
‘Not too good, I still want to rip off your head.’
‘I’d like to tell you that it will pass,’ said Danny. ‘But I don’t think it will. If anything it will get worse.’
‘You’d better go,’ said Mickey. ‘I’ll go through my book of spells when you’re gone. See if I can come up with anything.’
‘You promise?’
‘Yes, I promise. No, I don’t promise, the voice in my head is saying, “Wait until he gets outside, then push him in the canal.” Whoever put this spell on you is one dangerous individual.’
‘I’m going to have to come clean, Mickey. It isn’t a spell. The voice you can hear in your head is coming from a creature that is sitting on your shoulders. I can see it and it can see me.’
‘He’s mad, I mean, you’re mad.’
‘Everyone’s got one,’ Danny continued. ‘But mine left me and now I’m a clear.’
‘Kill the clear,’ said Mickey Merlin.
‘It’s manipulating your thoughts.’ Danny’s hand was right on his trouser pocket. ‘Think for yourself, try to stop it.’
‘I’m trying. I really am trying.’
‘They’re some kind of alien beings,’ Danny explained. ‘They make men do terrible things. We have to wipe them out. Or drive them off the planet, or something. Your book of spells could help do it.’
Mickey clenched his fists. ‘It’s telling me that you are evil and must be destroyed.’
‘They’re not your thoughts. You know they’re not.’
‘I bloody do.’ Mickey shook and twitched. ‘I can control it. I can. I can.’
‘I knew you could.’ Danny didn’t know. But he had hoped.
‘Get it off me,’ spat Mickey, through gritted teeth. ‘If you got yours off, get mine off.’
‘I don’t know how to. But we could do it with your magic book. I’m sure we could.’
‘Bloody Hell!’ Mickey sat down hard upon his camp-bed. ‘It’s telling me to burn my book of spells. Blaggard! Get out of my head, you blaggard!’
‘We’re definitely making progress here,’ said Danny.
‘But it’s all the progress you will be making.’
The voice wasn’t Mickey’s and neither was it that of Mr Parton Vrane. This was a voice Danny felt that he knew. And as he felt that he knew it, a terrible chill ran through him.
Danny turned to the door.
And Mickey turned to the door.
‘Cor look,’ said Mickey. ‘It’s a doggy. A big golden Labrador doggy. Is that your dog, Danny?’
And Danny saw the dog. For a fleeting moment he saw it. It was his dog, Princey, with its lovable ears and its big waggy tail and its nice cold nose and everything.
And then Danny saw what he was actually seeing and Danny fell back in some alarm.
Looming in the doorway was a thing to inspire terror. A foul travesty of the human form dressed up in a clutter of gore-spattered rags, gaunt and skeletal with stark, staring mismatched eyes. It was a patchwork quilt of stitched human flesh, cobbled together on a frame of all the wrong bones. The head was lopsided with great hunks of hair, in three different colours, framing the face of a fiend. The mouth, which was clearly that of Mrs Roeg, opened, exposing several sets of teeth. The voice of Demolition spoke.
‘Fun’s over, Danny,’ it said. ‘Time to get back to work. My spine needs adjusting and I need a new arse. I think your Aunt May’s will do the job. A bit wrinkly, I bet, but you can put a tuck in it.’
‘Get away from me.’ Danny snatched out his pistol.
‘What are you doing?’ Mickey asked. ‘You’re not going to shoot that nice doggy.’
‘It’s not a nice doggy. It’s a frigging monster. Use your eyes, Mickey, the thing in your head is controlling you. Use your eyes. Try to see it.’
‘He can only see a nice big doggy,’ said Demolition.
‘Can’t you hear it speak?’ Danny held the pistol in both hands. And both hands were really shaking.
‘I hear barking,’ said Mickey. ‘You are mad. You evil clear.’
‘Leave him to me,’ said Demolition.
‘Oh, okay,’ said Mickey.
‘There.’ Danny’s hands went shake, shake, shake. ‘You must have heard that. Or the thing in your head heard it. You’ve got to stick with me, Mickey. I’m not going to be a puppet again.’
‘I’m coming back in,’ said Demolition.
‘No.’ Danny raised his gun. And then he put it to his left temple. ‘No,’ he said again. ‘You’re not coming back in. I’ll shoot myself first. I will. I mean it.’
‘Let’s discuss this in private.’
‘Who said that?’ asked Mickey.
‘The monster. Look hard, Mickey. Try to see it.’
‘I’m trying. I’m trying.’
‘Out,’ said Demolition. ‘Outside. Your friend can’t help you. Nobody can help you, you’re mine, Danny. All mine.’
‘Oh no I’m not!’ Danny charged at the creature in the doorway. It was a very brave thing to do. Reckless, but brave. But then brave is often reckless and reckless often brave. Danny caught the horrible monster at belly level. Tissue gave and bones crunched. Man and monster tumbled out of the door and fell in a heap on the ground. Danny fought to gain his feet, but a six-fingered hand had him by the throat. ‘Here I come,’ crowed the voice of Demolition.
‘Oh no you don’t.’ Danny tried to raise his gun, but he’d dropped it. The hand held him tightly. Danny tore himself away and the hand came with him, Mrs Roeg’s hand, parting from the skin-patched arm with a most disturbing snap. On his feet Danny put the boot in once and ran.
Back to the van and far away from here.
Danny ran. Turning back for an instant he could see the monster rising and Mickey in the doorway looking all bewildered. Danny ran. Ahead was the van and some degree of safety.
Along the tow-path and over the lock gates. Yards in it now. Danny kept on running. ‘Start the engine,’ he shouted. ‘It’s coming after me. Start the engine. Start the engine.’
He threw himself towards the van, tore open the passenger door and almost leapt inside. Almost but not quite.
Danny lurched back, horror in its every form writ big upon his face. Slumped over the wheel was Parton Vrane. Bits of him. Other bits were all knotted together. Arms and legs entangled.
The cab floor swam in blood.
‘Aaaagh!’ Danny jerked back.
‘Got there first,’ called the voice of Demolition. He was coming over the lock gates now. He, she and it. Danny’s hands trembled. All of him trembled. ‘Run, Danny, run,’ said a voice in his head. And it was his own voice too.
Danny ran.
He didn’t run towards the High Street. Not a second time. A lesson once learnt, and all that kind of thing. Danny ran along the tow-path. Towards where? Well, there were the allotments. He could hide out there, lose the monster amongst the huts. Hide out. Not in his own hut though. Definitely not.
Danny ran.
And the monster ran too. It shambled along looking very out of p
lace upon this nice summer’s day. Monsters really belong in the night time. They never look right at four in the afternoon.
‘Help!’ went Danny, although he knew there wouldn’t be any.
Two lads were fishing on the opposite bank.
‘Look at that silly man,’ said one.
‘And his nice doggy running after him,’ said the other.
And, yes, Danny ran.
There was no gate to the allotments on the canal side, in fact there was a bit of a wall. Quite a bit. Quite high. Hard to climb.
Danny leapt at the wall, fingers clawing. He sank back and leapt again. Horrible footsteps clumped nearer and nearer.
‘I can do it,’ Danny told himself. ‘Oh yes I can.’
‘Oh no you can’t.’
‘I can too.’ Danny took another leap. This time his fingers found purchase on the top of the wall. He hauled himself up.
The thing’s remaining hand caught him by the ankle, tried to drag him down. Danny kicked it away. Scrambled up. Scrambled over and dropped down the other side.
Heart doing a thrash metal drumbeat. Temples pounding. Sweat a-dripping. Knees knocking together. All about right, considering.
Don’t stop now. Keep running. But how much run did he have left in him? Not much. Although in the circumstances it was probably worth making that extra effort. Danny made that extra effort.
He stumbled along the rows of plots. The bean pole battalions, the corrugated plot-dividers. The sheds and the water-butts. So normal. Everything so normal. So safe. But not any more. Nothing was safe. Nothing was normal.
Here and there some local fellows tilled the soil.
Danny could see them, and the beings which rose above them. Don’t let them see you, Danny. Stay cool, try to act normal. Just walk.
Danny tried to just walk. Where was he going to hide? Mickey had a plot here, didn’t he? He could hide in Mickey’s shed. Would Mickey be joining in the search? Danny hadn’t the faintest idea. Mickey’s shed it was then.
Now just where was Mickey’s shed?
Danny bent double, his hands upon his knees. Trying for some breath. He was in this thing so deep there did not seem to be any way out. But. While breath remained. He was at least still free, and still free he had some chance of making it back to the big building in Whitehall and the top-secret room of the gentleman. The chances weren’t exactly good. But they were there. Which was something.
‘I’ll survive this,’ Danny told himself. ‘I’ll beat them. I will. I will.’
‘But not today, Mr Orion.’
Danny’s blood temperature dropped below zero. He focused his eyes. Before him a shiny pair of shoes and some blue serge trousering. And looking up...
‘It is Mr Orion, isn’t it?’ asked Inspector Wesdake.
‘That’s him.’
Danny’s eyes flickered to the side. There stood a constable. Danny had seen him before, he came into the shop on Fridays to buy a six-pack. He didn’t like Danny. The barcode reader Danny had run across his wrist had spelled out the word WEIRDO on Danny’s side of the cash register.
‘It’s definitely him,’ said Constable Dreadlock.
Danny turned to make a break for it. But other constables were approaching, from every direction it seemed. ‘Now look,’ said Danny. ‘It’s not what you think. You’re not going to like me. In fact, you might just want to kill me. But it’s all because—’
‘No-one wants to kill you, sir,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘We’d just like to ask you a few questions.’
‘Perhaps later,’ said Danny. ‘I’m a bit busy at the moment.’
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to arrest you now,’ said the inspector. ‘Constable, would you care to read this gentleman his rights, as our colonial cousins like to put it?’
‘With the greatest pleasure, sir.’
‘No,’ pleaded Danny. ‘I haven’t done anything. Well, I have, but it wasn’t me. I’m an innocent man.’
The policemen now formed a nice tight ring around Danny. They began to laugh.
‘Don’t laugh at me. Get away from me.’
The policemen ceased to laugh and as they did so, Danny saw that expression coming over their faces. That look coming into their eyes.
‘You’re a psycho, lad,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘You should get what’s coming to you.’
‘This is England, I deserve a fair trial.’
‘You’ll get one, lad, now don’t you fear.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Constable Dreadlock, staring hard at Danny, as hard as the Rider that sat upon his shoulders. ‘You’ll get a fair trial. But not here.’
‘No, not here,’ said Danny. ‘In court, eh?’
‘At the station,’ said the constable. ‘Down in a nice quiet cell.’
‘No!’ screamed Danny. ‘Help me, someone, help me.’
‘Shut it, you,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘Draw your truncheon, Constable, strike this, this - this clear on the head.’
Constable Dreadlock drew his truncheon. ‘Oh look,’ said he, pointing, ‘a nice doggy. Whose nice doggy are you then?’
‘It’s not a doggy!’ screamed Danny. ‘It’s a—’
‘Shut up, you,’ and the truncheon hit home.
Danny went down in a blur of red. As he passed from consciousness the last thing he heard was several constables going, ‘Good boy there, whose dog are you?’ and the inspector saying, ‘Bring the dog to the station, Constable, it might belong to Orion.’
And then things went very dark for Danny.
Very dark indeed.
22
Hang on by your fingernails and never look down.
RORSCHACH (1884-1922)
SHAVING THE MONKEY
Danny sat upon the cold stone floor in the corner of the cell, his knees drawn up to his chin, his arms hugged about his shins. He was rocking gently to and fro.
And humming.
He had woken, of course, to yet another ceiling. This one was small and white with an iron bulkhead light, tinged by tiny flecks of red, which Danny rightly supposed to be blood. Moonlight shone in through a tiny open cell window, there was nothing too romantic about it.
Before he’d started humming, Danny had weighed up the cons of his present situation. Most folk would have weighed up the pros and cons. But not Danny, as his present situation didn’t have any pros. He’d been truncheoned unconscious and thrown into a police station cell. The Riders on the policemen had seen he was a clear, their human hosts would shortly come and kill him. The report would read ‘while in an agitated state the prisoner threw himself to the floor, striking his head on the radiator’. No change there then.
But that wasn’t the worst of the cons. Being beaten to death didn’t have much to recommend it, but the alternative was even more dreadful. ‘Hello, Mr Orion, we’ve brought you a present. It’s your dog, Princey. Would you like some time together? In you go, boy. My, you are eager. He’s pleased to see you, Mr Orion, isn’t he?’
Danny rocked and Danny hummed. He was done for. He, the erstwhile saviour of mankind. Not that he ever really stood a chance, even with the help of Parton Vrane and the gentleman in Whitehall. You couldn’t defeat an enemy that numbered in billions, was invisible to the human eye and in charge of the human mind.
What a complete no-hoper.
‘Hum, hum, hum,’ went Danny, rock, rock, rock as well. He did have one option. But it involved biting on a cyanide capsule and he didn’t have one of those about his person. He could hang himself by his shoe laces. Possibly. Or stuff his socks down his throat. Or hold his breath. Suicide was not something Danny had ever given a lot of thought to. In fact—
Danny stopped humming. In fact, he wasn’t going to give any thought to it now either. The situation might be hopeless, but that didn’t mean it was without hope. Danny stood up and put his palms against the painted brick of the walls. There had to be some way out of here. It couldn’t be impossible. David Copperfield had walked through the Great Wall of China and that
certainly was impossible. It didn’t stop him though.
‘I could make a dummy of myself,’ Danny said to himself. ‘Put it over there, then hide behind the door and when someone comes in, whack them on the head.’
Danny gave this some thought. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I could tunnel out. Lift up a flagstone, use a spoon. Might take a while though.’
Danny didn’t trouble to give that one any more thought at all. ‘I remember reading somewhere about how you have all the ingredients for gun-powder in a cell. If you know just where to look.’
Danny sat back down in the corner and returned to his humming. It was hopeless. He was doomed. It was wait for the clear-bashers or wait for the dog from Hell. Either way it was goodbye Danny Orion. Nothing but goodbye.
‘Hello,’ called a disembodied voice. ‘Hello, Danny Orion.’
Danny froze against the wall. He knew that voice.
‘Danny, are you there?’
‘Yes,’ said Danny. ‘I’m here.’
A head popped up outside the little barred cell window.
‘Hello, Danny,’ said the mouth on the face of the head.
‘Hello, Mickey,’ said Danny. ‘But how?’
‘No time to talk. I’m having a real job keeping this thing in my head at bay. But I think I’m getting the upper hand. I’m here after all. Take this and meet me around the back.’
‘Do what?’
Mickey’s hand craned through the window, it had a shake on.
‘Take it quick, before this thing makes me use it on you.’
The hand held a gun, Parton Vrane’s gun. Danny snatched it from the shaking hand.
‘Around the back,’ said Mickey and then he was gone.
Danny weighed the pistol on his palm. ‘Yes,’ said he. ‘Now we’ll see who’s beaten.’
There came a rattling at the cell door. The sound of a big key turning in the lock. Danny tucked the gun away behind his back. The cell door opened and there stood Inspector Westlake. And Constable Dreadlock. And several other constables. And what a surprise, they all had their truncheons drawn.
‘Hello, Danny Boy,’ said Inspector Westlake. And Danny knew that voice. And it wasn’t the voice of the inspector. ‘I’ve taken up a new residence,’ said the voice. ‘Your services are no longer required.’