The Survivor

  The cemetery. The girl must have been visiting it with her mother when she’d wandered off. She must have a dead relative – her father, perhaps? – buried here. Now where’s she got to? There doesn’t seem to be anyone else around; her mother’s probably gone off looking for her. Then he saw a flash of pale blue and he caught sight of her dashing between old, grey headstones. She stopped and looked back at him, standing perfectly still as though waiting for him to move. When he didn’t, she raised an arm in a beckoning motion. With a resigned sigh, he walked up the gravelly path between the graves towards her.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he called out, ‘I don’t think your mother’s here!’ But she ran on again.

  He saw the vast, freshly dug area and wondered at it. There appeared to be over a couple of hundred mounds of dark earth, obviously outlining fairly new graves, and then he realized what they signified. This was the mass grave for the victims of the air crash! Ugh, how horrible, he thought. The poor little thing must have lost someone in the disaster. He noticed the clear centre area where the large tombstone bearing all the names of the dead would be eventually placed. The boys in his house had frightened each other with their macabre stories of how all the bodies were mixed up and nobody could be sure that the right limbs and heads were buried with the right torsos. He shuddered violently and felt goose pimples rise on his flesh.

  He was about to call out to her, wanting to get away from there, back on to the road, away from the quietness, when he caught sight of her again. She stood in the middle of the mounds of churned earth – a tiny, remote little figure, clinging to her doll and looking down at one particular grave. It seemed somehow disrespectful to shout out in a cemetery, as if the sounds of his voice would disturb the peaceful rest of the dead, so he made his way carefully through the soft mounds to reach her.

  She had her back to him as he approached and she didn’t seem to hear him coming. He saw that she stood between two graves that were slightly separated from the rest; one was normal size, the other was smaller, much smaller. About the size of a child’s.

  Still she kept her back to him and he wondered if she were weeping again for a greater loss, not just the temporary parting from her mother. Then a thought struck him: could this be the grave of her mother? Had her mother been one of the victims of the air crash? His heart reached out to her. He understood loneliness.

  Slowly, he stretched out a hand to touch the child’s shoulder, feeling compassion for the first time in his young life. For some reason, he stopped with his arm half raised. His fingers felt as if they had touched something cold, as if they had suddenly dipped into an icy substance. He withdrew his fingers in shock but strangely he drew the coldness back with them as though pulling on an invisible thread, drawing a more overwhelming mass of coldness to him. It seemed to envelop him, touching his face first then drifting round and down on to his shoulders, holding him close in its cold grip, slowly wrapping itself around his obese body.

  A movement on the ground drew his eyes away from the girl’s bowed head. He looked down past her and suddenly felt the iciness around him clamp down and hold him paralys-ingly. His eyes widened in horror.

  The earth at the little girl’s feet was beginning to move as though – as though someone underneath was pushing it upwards. Tiny rivulets of soil broke away and ran down the sides of the thrusting earth. He knew that something would break through at any moment but he couldn’t move! His own flesh weighted him down.

  The doll the girl had been holding suddenly dropped to the ground and the movement distracted his eyes from the rising soil. A low, wailing moan escaped from his lips as he saw the doll’s face. Half of it was buckled and scarred, blackened, melted as if it had been exposed to extreme heat. And its eyes were alive! They stared into his, dark and searching. Its lips seemed to be smiling.

  He stumbled back and fell heavily, his fatness saving him from any real harm, the action breaking the icy grip he had been held in. The earth was still rising and he saw something white emerging, as though a worm were surfacing, to be joined by another, then another! He suddenly understood that he was watching a hand breaking through the earth. The girl moved and obscured his vision, then slowly turned towards him. Her hair hung down over her face. She began to lift her head, and he heard the low, growling chuckle that came from her – a sound that didn’t belong to a child. An old man’s chuckle, rough, obscene.

  She faced him but he couldn’t look. He didn’t want to see her face because he knew, instinct told him, he could never stand the horror of it. He began to crawl away, slowly at first, whimpering and keeping his eyes on the stony, gravel path. The further he moved away, the more he seemed to gather strength. He was on his knees now, still moving, a ridiculous figure of stunted fatness, but moving, moving away. He half glanced back and fresh fear quickened his pace. He thought he had seen a figure standing behind the girl; a figure that had risen from the ground at her feet.

  He screamed and gained his feet but staggered forward, betrayed by his own weight again. He grazed his knees painfully against the sharp gravel but the hurt meant little to him. As he sprawled there gasping for air, he became aware of more movement all around him. The earth over other graves was being disturbed.

  He lurched forward, this time successfully gaining his feet, and he began to run. But his movements seemed slow, as though he were wading through water, as though some power was holding him back. He struggled against it, and only sheer terror helped him to defeat the feeling of helplessness. He staggered between the other gravestones towards the narrow gateway. He reached it and in his panic turned and ran in the direction from which he’d come, towards the fields. He felt stronger now and his heavy legs pounded against the path and then against the softer grass of the fields. He collapsed in a heap and lay there panting, gasping huge lungfuls of air into his body, thinking for one brief moment he had escaped, but then he heard the whispers – the whispers that seemed to come from inside his own head. He looked back over his shoulder and he saw the tiny figure standing there alone on the edge of the field. He scrambled to his feet and started to run again and he heard the laughter, the low chuckling sound that could only be right behind him.

  He screamed again, a high-pitched, almost girlish scream.

  The field sloped upwards and he grasped at tufts of grass to pull himself forward. He slid back down once but his scrambling legs found a hold before he reached the bottom. His body soaked with perspiration, the front of his trousers stained with something worse, he reached the top of the incline and rolled over on to it.

  He crawled over the gleaming silver tracks making for the other side, something inside telling him if he could reach it, he would find safety. But as he reached the edge and looked down, he saw the tiny figure standing there, her head upturned towards him, waiting. Her dress was no longer pale blue; it hung in scorched tatters around her body and her white ankle socks were now blackened and torn. She wore no shoes.

  He screamed in a greater anguish when he saw that she had no face, that what should have been a mouth, nose and eyes was just a burnt, open wound.

  He tripped on the gleaming silver track and fell back awkwardly, striking his head against the parallel rail and for a moment everything went black. He was dimly aware of the vibration running through the rails as he lay there powerless to move, and his senses tried to tell him that the rumbling noise that grew louder and louder was the sound of approaching death. But a small part of him was aware, and accepted it almost gratefully. What was so wonderful about living anyway?

  The train driver saw the figure slumped across the tracks too late. He reacted fast but by the time he’d cut off his power and applied his brakes, the train had already passed over the boy’s plump body.

  11

  It was a small, terraced house, inconspicuous from the others it stood amongst in the long, narrow street. The brown paint on the door was cracked and peeling, revealing speckles of dark green, the colour it had been many years before. Keller pressed
the doorbell impatiently, the third time he had done so, then rattled the letterbox for extra, summoning noise. He was about to give up, deciding that Hobbs must be out, the house empty, when he heard faint noises from inside. A door closed and shuffling footsteps approached along the corridor. A muffled voice asked: ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Keller,’ he replied, leaning closer to the door.

  There was a brief pause and then he heard the door being unlocked from the inside. It opened a few inches and he saw those pale grey eyes observing him through the crack. The door swung wide and Hobbs stood in the opening, his face expressionless.

  ‘I knew you’d come sooner or later,’ he said. He stood aside and gestured for the co-pilot to enter. Hobbs closed the door behind them and the hallway was in semi-darkness. ‘In here,’ he said, opening a door to their left.

  Keller entered the room and found the slightly musty smell unpleasant, reminiscent of age and loneliness. It was obviously a room unused to lightness. Hobbs pushed past him and parted the heavy curtains, the lace behind them still diffusing the sudden sunlight.

  The medium told him to wait and disappeared through the door, returning seconds later with a half-emptied bottle of gin and two glasses.

  ‘You’ll join me?’ he asked, pouring a large measure into one of the glasses.

  Keller shook his head curtly. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘I have whisky, if you’d prefer.’

  Keller shook his head again.

  Hobbs shrugged his shoulders and took a hurried gulp from his glass. It was obvious to the co-pilot it hadn’t been his first that day.

  ‘Sit down, please, Mr Keller.’

  Keller sank into the faded, but comfortable, armchair which occupied a corner of the room and the medium pulled out a chair from the round, heavily draped table that stood in the centre. He placed it so he was facing Keller.

  ‘So you believe me now,’ he said. ‘What’s happened to change your mind?’

  ‘I’m not sure it has been changed.’

  Hobbs was silent, waiting for the co-pilot to continue.

  ‘It’s – it’s the town itself,’ Keller said uncertainly. ‘Strange things are beginning to happen in Eton. It’s that more than anything else.’

  ‘Strange things?’

  ‘Three people have died there today and another two, it seems, have been frightened into incoherence.’

  Hobbs finished his gin, his grey, penetrating eyes never leaving Keller’s. ‘Are these . . . incidents . . . connected in any way?’

  ‘Well, they all happened around the area of the air crash. It seems too much of a coincidence for them all to happen within hours of one and other, and all fairly close by.’

  ‘How did these three people die?’

  ‘One had a heart attack down by the river; the other two fell from a window.’

  ‘And there’s something else, Mr Keller? Something more specifically to do with you?’

  ‘It’s just a feeling.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s too vague – I don’t know what it is. Unease? Maybe guilt.’

  ‘Why guilt?’

  Keller took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘You know Captain Rogan and I had an argument before the flight; it may have carried on after we’d taken off. It could have affected his or my judgement.’

  ‘I see. The argument was over his wife, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  A pause. ‘And you can’t remember if it broke out again on the plane?’

  Keller shook his head. ‘I keep getting fragments, but the minute I concentrate on them and try to remember, they just fade.’

  ‘It could be your own subconscious protecting you from the blame.’

  ‘I realize that. But I’d rather know for sure than go on like this.’

  ‘You think I can help you?’

  ‘You said you heard voices. You heard Captain Rogan’s.’

  ‘Then you do believe me.’

  ‘I don’t know! So much has happened, I’m not sure of anything any more! If you really did hear the skipper’s voice, maybe you can try again. You can ask him.’

  Hobbs smiled without humour. ‘It’s strange how much easier it is to believe when you need help. Like the dying agnostic who suddenly finds faith in God.’

  ‘I didn’t say I believed. You came to me, remember?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Keller, that was wrong of me. I can understand that you must be feeling quite desperate to resort to this. We’re used to the cynical in this field, and sometimes we weary of it; but that’s no excuse for my behaviour.’

  ‘I don’t blame you. I was pretty rude to you last night.’

  ‘You’re under a great deal of stress. More, I think, than you really know.’

  Keller wondered at the words, but found no clue in Hobbs’s expression.

  ‘Can you help me?’ he asked delicately.

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m not sure that I want to.’

  Keller looked at him in surprise. ‘But last night . . .’

  ‘Last night I was thinking of them. I’ve had a chance to reflect since I saw you. You might not like the answers we may find.’

  ‘I’m prepared to risk that!’

  ‘There are other factors, also.’

  Keller’s puzzled look asked the question.

  ‘I told you last night,’ Hobbs said, ‘that I’d given up this sort of work; that certain forces were becoming too powerful. Let me try to explain what happens to me sometimes when I go into a trance. My spiritual body leaves the physical and I talk to entities on the other side that are in some way connected with the sitter. Meanwhile, other, often unknown, spirits may speak through my body. This began to happen to me more and more frequently, and eventually, certain spirits not only spoke through me, but began to control my body. It left me too susceptible to evil influences. I’ve resisted the spirits of the air crash victims because of this.’

  ‘You said before you felt there was something strange about the voices.’

  ‘Yes, something wicked is beginning to dominate them. That’s why I’m reluctant to give in to them, to allow myself to go into a state of trance. I may not have any choice though; my resistance is being broken down.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Hobbs’s hands were trembling slightly now and he turned his attention towards the bottle of gin. He reached for it then changed his mind. He looked directly at Keller.

  ‘There are two kinds of medium: mental and physical. The physical medium produces manifestations: moving objects, ectoplasmic materializations, sounds – that sort of thing. I am a mental medium: I see and hear physically. When I am clairaudient, I just hear the voices and sometimes the sitter hears them with me; when I am clairvoyant, I see the spirit forms. That is when I’m more vulnerable to trances. I’m subdued, I feel a blockage at the top of my spine, and everything goes hazy. I lose the control of my own body. I’m – I’m a little afraid of it happening with these spirits.’ He reached for the gin bottle and this time he poured himself a drink.

  ‘Will they ever leave you in peace if you don’t help me?’ Keller’s question momentarily stopped the glass from reaching Hobbs’s lips. He studied Keller for a few moments before he swallowed the contents.

  ‘Possibly not, Mr Keller. That is my other fear,’ he said finally.

  ‘Then let’s try, for God’s sake.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re asking.’

  ‘I know time is running out! Don’t ask me how I know – call it instinct if you like – but I’ve got to find the answer soon!’

  Hobbs’s body seemed to straighten. Indecision visibly left him.

  ‘Come and sit opposite me,’ he said.

  Keller quickly pulled out another chair from the table and sat facing the medium, a nervous tingle running through his body.

  ‘What do I do?’ he asked.

  ‘You do nothing,’ said Hobbs, putting the gin bottle and glass to one side, ‘except clear your mind completely th
en begin to think of the people you knew on the flight. Think of Captain Rogan.’

  The senior pilot’s image flooded immediately into Keller’s head: Rogan at the seat of the aircraft’s controls, his face contorted in – was it fear or anger? The mental picture was vivid but the exact mood indefinable.

  ‘Just concentrate, Mr Keller, and keep silent for the moment. You may or may not hear his voice. I will tell you when you can ask questions, but you must do so through me. I’ll try to keep this on a fairly low level to prevent the others from coming through. Please help me by remaining calm whatever happens.’

  Hobbs closed his eyes and began breathing evenly through his nose. Almost at once, his breathing became deeper. ‘They’re strong,’ he said anxiously, ‘they’re so strong. They’ve been waiting. I can see so many of them . . . pulling me down . . . it’s happening so fast . . .’

  Keller was astonished and a little scared of the rapidity of it all. He had always imagined it was a gradual process, the medium purposely building up the drama of the situation for the sake of his sitters. It was all wrong somehow: the commonplace suburban house, the dull but conventional lounge, the unimpressive little man himself. He had expected something more theatrical. But it was the very ordinariness that made it so much more credible.

  ‘Concentrate, please, Mr Keller! Think only of Captain Rogan. Form a picture of him in your mind.’ Hobbs’s voice sounded strained and lines of tension had formed on his face. ‘So many . . . so many . . .’ His hands that had been resting on his lap suddenly appeared on the table, fingers outstretched and quivering, indicative of the mental anguish he was going through. ‘Rogan . . . only Rogan . . .’ He spoke the words as though he were asserting his will on others.