Vale of Blood Roses Page 8

  From outside, as if in sympathy with the old woman on the pavement, more screams erupted. A terrible dawn chorus.

  3. Dead-weight

  Tonight, as usual, darkness was home. It hid confusion and shielded inadequacy from public scrutiny. It made where he was seem like the whole world. Blane loved the dark.

  Clouds dampened the starlight. In the woods the darkness was almost total, and solitude was guaranteed. Blane spent most nights here, sitting naked on a fallen tree trunk, whiling away the hours as the world slept around him. He would close his eyes, let his mind wander and wonder, encouraging it to explore the past and probe the deep recesses of unknown memory. But this, too, was hidden by clouds.

  At night, more happened than most people knew. He loved to listen to the sounds of nature: the exuberant cries of mating; growls of the hunt; screams of the kill. A family of foxes lived nearby, and when the sun sank behind the hills to the west they emerged from their hiding places. Beyond the gaze of humanity, away from its influence and the scars it had wrought on the planet – both physical and spiritual – the animals frolicked and killed and mated, screaming like lost children and frightening those unable to sleep in the nearby village. Blane would sit amongst them, eyes closed, experiencing with them and enjoying the intimate comfort of the occasional warm body brushing against his shins.

  Birds slept in the trees, but sometimes there would be a frantic rustling as a predator found its way to a nest, or discovered a fallen fledgling calling for its mother on the soft leaf carpet. Owls haunted the dark, flapping by like giant moths and questioning the night air. Badgers lumbered through the bush, hissing and spitting. Sometimes a deer would venture down from the hills, and on these occasions Blane sat with his eyes open; such a creature held beauty which had to be seen in starlight, as well as heard and sensed.

  He never truly slept. His eyes would close and his breathing slow down, but sleep was always elusive. Blane had not slept for many years, not since the day that defined his life, the event he knew had made him the person he was today. The day he could not recall. Where memory should be there was only blankness, a hole in his mind through which the truth of his existence had slipped. Sometimes he could slip a finger into the hole and widen it almost enough to touch what he was seeking, feel its warmth, encourage its rebirth; but most of the time the hole was locked tight. The darkness helped, he knew, and the proximity of nature around him, as if this could in itself take him to wherever the memory had gone. But for years, he had never been close enough.

  Occasionally, when he thought his past was there for him to touch, something happened. The night felt different, the animals overactive or silent altogether. The trees reached creakingly down for him, or strove for the stars. The ground beneath his feet would be coloured with the smell of fresh flowers, or acidic with the stench of decay. These moments were not dictated by the seasons. They followed him.

  Tonight was one of those nights. He sat on the same old trunk, clothes thrown carelessly to the ground, skin prickled by goosebumps and invigorated by the cool breath of the forest. He was frowning at the sudden inactivity, straining to hear the bark of a fox or the snuffling of a wandering badger. There was nothing. The night was so silent that he could hear the hum of life from the village across the fields, occasional cars and midnight strollers. And less often, the whimper of tamed pets, cosseted and unused to true nature.

  He waited for a long time. He kept his eyes closed, letting his other senses reach out. The forest smells were normal, the tang of pine and the sickly stench of a dead thing, overlaid with the pleasing knowledge of spring blossom. He stuck out his tongue and tasted the night, but even here it was corrupted by the poison waste from motors and machines. Disappointed, Blane opened his eyes.

  The deer was standing before him. It started, as if only seeing him for the first time as he saw it. A flash of memory suddenly snapped at Blane – an awareness of importance, a sense of belonging everywhere at once, homeless, baseless – but the creature whined and coughed, and as it hit the ground the memory was stolen away once more.

  Blane stood and darted to the deer where it lay squirming. It still whined, but the sound seemed involuntary, as if produced by instinct rather than intention. It sensed his footsteps and tried to stand, but its legs were no longer able to hold its weight.

  “Deadweight,” Blane whispered. The deer howled in reply.

  He knelt by its side. His knees popped in protest, and for the first time that night he realised how cold he was. He was suddenly aware of his nakedness and he looked around guiltily. He felt certain that strange eyes were upon him. The deer whimpered again as if to recall his attention, and Blane touched it.

  It died. Quickly, noisily, messily. It arched its back and coughed, spitting a black clot from its frothing mouth. Blane leaned back, then placed his hands on the fluttering body, ashamed of his temporary squeamishness. The animal’s eyes glazed, excluding what little starlight found its way through the clouds and the budding tree canopy. Blane felt a sinking sensation in his stomach; perhaps he could have saved the animal, had he acted quicker.

  On examination, he knew that this was not the case. The creature’s neck was crushed, bones ground and splintered by whatever force had done the deed.

  “Roadkill.” It always made Blane seethe. The word itself was repulsive to him, but he felt he had to speak it to properly air his anger. “Roadkill.”

  The road was half a mile away. It was a wonder that the deer had managed to walk at all, let alone this far. The resilience of nature never failed to amaze him.

  He stood suddenly, almost tripping over the dead thing, as a noise cut through the darkness. He was never afraid here – never – but this sound raised his hackles and sucked his balls up into is body. He exhaled and stood motionless, barely breathing in case the noise came again. It had been low and deep, quiet but menacing; a malign chuckle.

  Silence.

  Not far from Blane, standing sentinel over the forest clearing, an old oak tree grasped at the dark. It was magnificent, its trunk enfolding the past within its rings, holding traces of lost times ready to be discovered. Blane revered this tree, imagining the layers of history contained inside: dust from the Krakatoa explosion; dead remnants of the Black Death; the stored screams of the millions killed in the last war. A living testament to life, and to its end.

  He wondered what the tree would know of today in a hundred years’ time

  Gathering his clothes he felt spied upon, set upon, victimised. He dressed quickly, garnering a comfort from being clothed which was unusually keen. Normally for Blane natural was best, but tonight his clothes were a barrier against whatever had happened here. As ineffectual as a blanket over a nightmaring child’s head, perhaps, but still heartening.

  There were no more sounds from between the trees. The world was still unnaturally silent. A smear of light bled across the hills to the east.

  From the village, a single scream murdered the peace.

  4. Chewing Grass

  Blane craved solitude. In his unseen past he had never been alone, he was sure of that at least. But his new self, his modern, confused self, sought no company.

  Things were happening now which would change that.

  More screams floated across the fields. He stood in the clearing, unsure of what to do, uncertain whether to intervene. These were the screams of nightmares, waking ones, not the ambiguous grizzles of sleep.

  He could stay here, wait for the disturbance to pass.

  Another scream. This one a child, androgynous in high-pitched panic.

  It took several minutes to move to the edge of the woods. Once in the fields he hurried through the tall grass and glistening bracken, even now realising the beauty in nature. Spider’s webs, perfect creations unmatched by any clumsy construct of man, had caught the dew, and they reflected the dawn like memories of better yesterdays. There had been better times passed, Blane was sure. He simply could not remember them.

  The path worn
into the field curved around a clump of trees, then headed straight across to the stile by the village church. As Blane started towards the ancient edifice, increasing his speed as the sounds from the village became more frenetic, he thought he saw someone in the churchyard. The early morning mist, rising in natural sun worship, may have distorted his view, but for a second there was someone standing among the leaning gravestones. Someone staring through the mist, across the field at Blane.

  The shape was shockingly familiar. Blane recalled a musical laugh which sent birds shimmying and dancing through the air, and time spent at work and play in unspoiled woodlands.

  The figure vanished suddenly, folding up in the sea of gravestones, or perhaps becoming one. The church took on a menacing aspect. Blane carried on, discomfort rising in tandem with his speed.

  As he reached the stile there were more screams from the village. The square itself was hidden by the row of trees bordering the churchyard, but he did not need to see to know what happened next. The growl of abused gears; engine protesting at such an early awakening; a crash, a shout, silence, followed by the cough of fire being birthed.

  Blane looked up at the church and knew that it was tainted. He could taste it in the air and sense it in the way the light seemed loathe to touch the ancient stone. As more shouts came from around the village, and the whimper of fire turned into a roar, he saw what was in the graveyard.

  Where the silhouette had stood there was no living thing, but there lay several dead ones. A cat, a badger, a magpie, a small boy, his pyjamas shredded in sympathy with his soft flesh. Blane gasped, breathed in the stench of death and swayed on the stile. He could have gone either way and later he wished he had fallen backwards, away from the church, away from the scenes that awaited him in the square. But fate pulled him into the graveyard, and fascination and disgust took him over to where the dead things lay. They had been arranged in a star-like pattern, heads pointing inward, feet out. The boy was at its centre. They were all terribly mutilated. Some bore obvious teeth marks.

  Chunks of flesh had been gnawed away from the boy’s neck. Blood merged with the dew on the grass, catching the rising sun and turning black.

  Blane knelt by the dead boy, tears in his eyes for the other creatures as well as the lad. They had all been bitten or slashed, and none had died easily. He touched the child’s forehead, wiped away a splash of blood which was drying there. The boy’s eyes were still open, staring in sightless agony at a dawn he should never have expected not to see. Blane closed them.

  The gate to the churchyard burst open. Blane stood, ready to ward off a panic-stricken parent, stepping over the dead boy in an effort to hide the mutilation from whomever had come searching for him. But the person running between the graves seemed to have no interest in Blane, nor the grotesque arrangement behind him. It was a woman, middle aged, her night-gown flowing around her ample form like ghostly gossamer.

  “What’s happening?” Blane called to her. She did not see him, nor seem to hear. “What’s going on?” His voice sounded alien to him, desperate, filled with a terror that had, as yet, failed to completely reach his brain. He felt aloof, apart from what was happening, though he was certain it was not simply the usual remoteness he felt from humanity. He was normally caring and concerned, if distant. Today he had taken one whole step back.

  He looked down at the dead boy once more. Who had been in the graveyard? They must have seen this horrendous display. And suddenly he knew that the person he had seen had arranged it.

  More memories. The laughter again, a song-thrush joining in and adding its own wonderful voice. Surely that laugh could not belong to someone capable of such destruction?

  “Wait!” Blane shouted, and raced after the woman. He was short, but she was large, and he intercepted her at the church doors. She glared at him, eyes wide and white and empty in the red landscape of her face.

  “Slow down,” he said, holding out his hands, palms up.

  She stopped. “It’s horrible,” she said, and fell heavily to her knees.

  Blane knelt by her side, reached out and placed his hand gently on her head. He was not used to such close contact, not with people. He did not know whether the sticky mess in her hair was caused by wounds to her own body, or to someone else. He wondered whether she was the instigator of the terrible murder back among the graves, but he instantly saw how ridiculous this assumption was. She was mad, not insane.

  “What’s going on?” he said. “I heard screams. There are … dead things in the graveyard.”

  “You’re that weirdo from out on Pond Road, aren’t you? From the prefab?” Blane nodded, hardly concerned with the ‘weirdo’ label. She was right, in a way. He knew how he was usually perceived, and weird was not so bad.

  “Davey always tells me you’re odd,” she said. Her eyes glazed and Blane recognised the signs of shock settling over her system like a possessive ghost. “Weirdo, animal lover, layabout. Davey is quite opinionated, you know. He’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry.” Blane was unused to grief so he was unsure of how to handle it. To him, death was a natural part of living. “How? Is that why there’s lots of screaming? Is there … an animal in the village?”

  The woman frowned, hands clasping and unclasping at her sides. A dribble of blood found its way from her great mop of hair and trickled down her temple, onto her cheek. She seemed not to notice. “He’s in bed. Dead. Bloody. In bed. Dead and bloody.” She looked up at the front of the church, squinting at the broken sunlight reflected from old stained glass windows. “I think maybe I should pray.”

  Blane wanted to help her, hand her over to someone who could look after her properly. But she stood, nudged him aside, hurried over to the church door, tried the handle and found it locked.

  “Father!” She banged on the door. “Father!” Another bruising knock. “Father!”

  “Come with me, please, we’ll find-”

  “Father! Father! FATHER!” The woman continued striking the door, her whole body vibrating with each impact.

  There were more sounds of disruption from the village, and a cloud of greasy smoke was forming in the still morning air. Blane stood undecided, wanting to help the woman but also drawn by the sounds of chaos from beyond the line of trees. He had to find someone, tell them about the dead boy. And the animals. And the person he had seen in the graveyard, the murderer––

  ––the laugher.

  He walked to the gate, unable to purge his mind of the sight of the dead boy and animals accompanying each other into stiffness. Nature had no morals, he knew, not of the human kind. The morals it did hold true were way beyond the comprehension of many, inspiring phrases such as ‘nature is cruel’, ‘nature is indifferent’. Blane had seen as much death as life, and knew it to be a balancing force. But he had never known it dealt in such a meaningless and vicious way as this. In nature, death was food for the body, or protection of family. What lay in this sick graveyard was sustenance for a perverted, turned mind.

  He paused at the gate. What he had seen and heard in the graveyard should really have prepared him for the sight confronting him, but shock immobilised him for the few seconds it took to take everything in.

  The village square was no longer quaint. The pond at the far side, beyond which lay the road leading up to his home, seemed to be the focal point for wandering, screaming, crying people. Some of them were hugging, most were sitting alone, one of them was floating dead in the pond. The others appeared unconcerned. None of them noticed Blane, or if they did they failed to acknowledge him. The burning car lay to his left, its front end huddled around a telegraph pole, its insides a mass of voracious flame. Its tyres were melting across the cobbles. He could not tell whether there was anyone still inside. No-one was even trying to douse the flames. In the small bandstand on the green, where the village tramp Saint often spent warmer nights sleeping and plotting his next day’s odd-jobbing, there was something huddled in the corner. It looked like a pile of rags that had been dipped
in red paint, then flung carelessly across the timber floor of the small building. Two dogs, animals Blane recognised as pets from the village, were fighting over whatever the rags contained.

  He could see no other dead bodies. But death itself hung heavy over the village.

  “Mr Blane.” The voice was quiet, fragile, full of a restrained emotion which constantly threatened to flood through. It belonged to one of the kids from the village; he was standing half-hidden beneath the church conifers. “What’s happened, Mr Blane?”

  “I don’t know. You’re Slates, aren’t you?”

  The boy nodded. “That’s what my friends call me. Mum and Dad … Mum and Dad don’t…” He trailed off and stared through Blane, lost somewhere in a horrible memory.

  “What happened here, Slates?”

  The boy started, focussing once again on Blane’s face. “Mum and Dad are dead. I was reading under my duvet, you know, secretly …” He trailed off again, looked across at the pond and the body marring its surface. “That’s Mrs Greenwood from the village store. I nicked a Mars Bar once and she didn’t tell Mum and Dad. She said one little misdemeanour shouldn’t scar a life for life, but more than one would destroy it. I didn’t nick again. Stupid. Stupid old woman.” Slates’s face, strained like a taut drumskin while he had been talking, changed shape. His cheeks rose, mouth tensed, eyes wrinkled almost shut. His long hair, hooked behind protruding ears, shimmered as he tried to hold back the tears. He shouted out once, loud and incoherent, as if a pressure valve of emotion had snapped open. Then he began to cry.

  “Slates, come on, come with me.” Blane held out his hand and gently touched the lad on the shoulder. He was hot through his T-shirt, too hot. Burning up with terror.

  “Mum and Dad are dead,” Slates said, and it was as if stating the fact again had opened the floodgates. The boy began to talk, drowning his tears with words. “I was reading under the covers, couldn’t sleep, then I heard a noise from across the street in Mr Simpkins’ house, like a sort of crash, or a bang, or something. I looked out the window, but couldn’t see anything. It was dark.”