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226 lines
13 KiB
HTML
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<meta name="generator" content=
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"HTML Tidy for Windows (vers 14 February 2006), see www.w3.org" />
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<title>Chapter 2</title>
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<h2>5</h2>
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<p>On the night Jack Fallon fell asleep in his chair and drifted
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into the nightmare, William Simpson opened the side door between
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the manse and the church and came quickly down the narrow alley to
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the iron gate that leading to the boiler-house. The key took two
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turns to slot the bolt back and the gate swung back with a groan of
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protest. The cold wind was gusting up the narrow space, but William
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Simpson did not feel it.</p>
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<p>Inside his head, thoughts were sparking and sputtering, hot
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thoughts that made him hurry down the dry stone stairs. The green
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door at the bottom opened easily and he let himself into the
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basement directly under the old church. His knuckle hit the switch
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and a cone of light flickered down from the single bulb under the
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green metal shade. He screwed his eyes up against the luminescence,
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shying away from the light. In the past few days, he'd spent most
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of his time in his study, keeping the blinds drawn, hardly speaking
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to any but the most determined parishioners. Inside his head, the
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whispering, grating thoughts had prodded him unceasingly, as they
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did now.</p>
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<p>Over in the corner, the boiler rumbled and sighed to itself. The
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pipes pinged and close to the basement ceiling, where an air-lock
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always caught at the bend, there was a knocking sound, a witchety
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hammering in the cobwebbed shadow. Simpson ignored it. The bunch of
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keys jangled in his hands as he made his way forward. To his left,
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old pieces of the pipe organ, giant penny whistles, lay stacked
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against the wall, and beyond them, boxes of hymn books which hadn't
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been used in years were stacked one atop the other. Further back, a
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stout door, paint peeled and cracked, stood bracketed by the red
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sandstone wall. William Simpson unlocked this one, let himself in
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quickly and closed the door behind him before switching the low
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wattage bulb, letting its orange luminescence tussle with the
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shadows.</p>
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<p>The old store-room was his secret place. He had changed the lock
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nineteen years ago, not long after he had come to take charge of
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the Castlebank Church in the east side of Levenford. There was one
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key, and that remained firmly on the ring that he kept in his
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pocket at all times.</p>
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<p>The room was small and clean. Against the far wall there was a
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double sink on which lay several flat photographic trays. Close by,
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the circular drum of a drier, connected to a wall socket by a white
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cable. The light overhead shone dull casting a weak glow over
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everything. Simpson sat down in the chair next to the wooden desk
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and opened the bottom drawer. He drew out a box, hand shaking with
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anticipation. Inside his head, the thoughts were sparking away like
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an overloaded fusebox, behind them the ceaseless whispering voice
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goaded him on with incomprehensible promises. He felt hot and
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feverish.</p>
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<p>The box had a small hasp. It opened easily on two brass hinges.
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The minister reached inside and drew out a small pink object which
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he placed on the rough surface of the desk. His trembling hand
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dived in again and brought a tiny pair of panties, yellowed with
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age. There was a rip just under the elastic at the top, and an old
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stain down at the crotch. Simpson felt the texture of the flimsy
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cloth between his fingers and felt the hot anticipation rise. His
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breath came quicker and a slick of sweat beaded his brow. Outside
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the wind howled. In the other room the boiler sighed and gurgled
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and the spectral knocking came intermittently from the pipes.
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Simpson noticed none of these things. His hot mind was lost in the
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memory, unreeling the scene that he had played back too many times
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in the early years. Eventually he had all the objects laid out
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before him. The tiny briefs, and beside them a little lace
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handkerchief with two initials embroidered in a corner. A pink pair
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of small spectacles, the left lens starred with cracks. Next to
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last, was a fine silver circlet with a simple clasp, and alongside
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that the pink plastic hand and podgy-smooth arm of a child's doll.
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Simpson ran his hands over these things, feeling them, recalling
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the first time he had seen them, the first time his hands had
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closed over them, and he felt as if his brain was on fire. It had
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been a long time since he'd unlocked the drawer and opened the box,
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a very long time. Yet tonight, the cajoling voice in his head had
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driven him to come and touch them again.</p>
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<p>His breath came quicker now, here in his secret place. Over the
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years he'd made the storeroom into a darkroom where he would
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develop the family photographs, scenes of church picnics, the
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choir, the Sunday school. Some of the pictures he kept aside for
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himself, printing them out over and over again, waiting with
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trembling anticipation as the angelic face of a little girl would
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appear, faint at first on the blank sheet, watching it wax stronger
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until the lines were firmly caught on the page. His excitement
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would be like a pressure inside him as he watched the appearance,
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and then, his hand sneaking down past the waistband of his black
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trousers, he would watch while the photograph would overdevelop.
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The page would grow darker and darker until the child was swallowed
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by the blackness, overcome by oblivion.</p>
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<p>He had told himself over many years that he was an evil man, and
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he knew that to be true. He'd thought of himself, at one time, as a
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man of God, but he knew he could not be that, despite the collar he
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wore and the sermons he preached. For inside him there was a need
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that he could no nothing but try to appease, though he had become
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cunning as the years went by. There were places in the church,
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under the choir-loft, for instance, where he could stare between
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the knees of the teenage sopranos as they sang in practise. At
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Sunday School, a minister was always free to hoist a little girl on
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his knee and hold her tightly, feeling the heat of the little body,
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the flutter-beat of a baby heart. They trusted him of course. At
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times he did not trust himself to hide the mounting pressure.</p>
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<p>On this cold night, his wife was in the drawing room, with three
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of the women from the guild. He had heard their voices, each
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talking over the other, and the chink of fine china cups. His
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youngest daughter was upstairs, doing homework. He dared not go up.
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The two older ones had left as soon as they were able. They had
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never said anything, perhaps they did not remember anything from
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when they were so small, but they had left home with no love in
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their eyes. Betty, his wife tolerated him with cold politeness,
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Fiona with wary suspicion. Of course she knew nothing, but he
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sensed that she sensed something. Betty had used all her power to
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keep father and daughter apart. His was no longer a family of hugs
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and kisses. His was hardly a family.</p>
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<p>But he had his darkroom, and she was content to let him potter
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around there, glad to have him out of sight. She went through the
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posture of the minister's wife. Smiling as the congregation left
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the church on a Sunday, taking meetings of the guild, organising
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coffee mornings. But she had never forgiven him for the loss of her
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two eldest daughters and lived in fear of losing the third.</p>
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<p>These thoughts did not occur to him on this cold night. His mind
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was strangely <em>alive</em>, crowded with bustling thoughts,
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urgent thoughts. He felt the old hunger well up inside him, the
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hunger he'd tried to deny over the years after the first terrible
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time. Despite having kept the treasures - a mad risk, he knew - he
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had lived with the guilt of it all. The burden had built up over
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the years, adding shame on shame, and yet he had been unable to
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change himself. Every time he had slipped his hand under a small
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girl's buttocks, every time he had sneaked into his daughters rooms
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while they slept and slipped his hand under the bedclothes, he had
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been unable to deny the need. Yet afterwards, the guilt and shame
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had crowded in on him, dark shadows with long accusing fingers.</p>
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<p>He had gone to the spiritualist because there was something he
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needed to know. He had long since lost his faith in a forgiving
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God. The god he had wanted to dedicate his life to had made him a
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twisted thing inside his own soul, and if he had been a good and
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just God he wouldn't have done that. He had needed something to
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believe in when he had first taken those steps up to Marta Herkik's
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rooms. He had wanted a sign from the other side, from the dark or
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from the light, just a sign that would tell him there <em>was</em>
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another side.</p>
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<p>What he wanted with that knowledge, even he did not know. It was
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a forked stick, barbed on both prongs. If there was a life
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hereafter, he might be consigned to a hell of his own for the
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things that had been done. If there was none, he had consigned
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another to oblivion in a moment of fine madness. But that thought
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did not occur to him now. He only remembered opening the door of
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the old woman's house, shaking his coat out in the hall. There was
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no memory of what had happened after that. Since then, he had very
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little memory of anything.</p>
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<p>The day before he had left the manse in the late afternoon. Some
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time later, when it was full dark, he had found himself on the old
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chandler-yard road close to the bridge over the river. How he had
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got there, or why he had come, he did not know. He had no
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recollection of what had happened after he had closed the garden
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gate behind him. All he was left with was a dull emptiness and a
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vague feeling of fear. And added to that was this new and strange
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sense of satisfaction, of unfathomable glee.</p>
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<p>Now in the storeroom next to the old cellar, William Simpson's
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thoughts spangled and sparked. Old memories came rushing in at him,
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fresh desires welled up.</p>
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<p>And again he heard the voice, scraping at first on the inside of
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his skull. It came as a dry, barely audible whisper, but it
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persisted, ever louder until he could finally make out the words
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from the gabble. It was telling him what to do.</p>
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<p>After a while, the minister sat back slowly in the seat. The
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tremor of his hands had stilled. He closed his eyes and listened to
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the voice inside his head.</p>
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<hr />
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<p>A quarter of a mile away, in the basement of the library on
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Strathleven Street, the girl was preparing to finish for the night.
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The words on the stock-list page were beginning to blur in front of
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her eyes and she yawned, stretching her hands up into the air,
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easing her cramped muscles. In the light from the overhead tube,
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her hair glowed the bright auburn of new chestnuts. She checked her
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watch, debated finishing the end of the list, then with a quick
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movement, snapped her folder shut.</p>
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<p>From upstairs, in the main section of the library, she could
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hear muffled voices. here, the basement was her own haven, a narrow
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room lined with stacks holding thousands of books, a wealth of
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words. The place was new to her, but she already felt at home in
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the dry cosiness of the stack-room. She turned to lift her black
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bag from the floor by her ankle, when a sudden wave of dizziness
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washed over her. The shelves in front of her wavered and the light
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seemed to dim.</p>
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<p>For a second she thought she would pass out.</p>
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<p>Then from nowhere a picture came into her head and the stacks of
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books faded into the background, shimmered like a dusty veil and
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disappeared.</p>
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<p>She saw the man climb on to the stool and watched as he tied
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something round his neck. His eyes were dead, though one of them
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had a strange blind sparkle.</p>
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<p>There was an utter silence and then, behind her ears she heard
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the whispering, the abrasive rasp that she'd heard before, though
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she couldn't quite remember when.</p>
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<p>As soon as she heard that, a vast and overwhelming sensation of
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badness swept through her.</p>
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<p>Here was a <em>bad man</em> and he was being urged on by a
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<em>bad thing</em>.</p>
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<p>In her mind she heard a chuckle of glee. The man turned to look
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at her and his eyes glowed yellow-orange, the colour of pus. She
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shook her head. He was doing something with his right hand, showing
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her what he was doing. She tried to look away and he took a step
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forward.</p>
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<p>The scene winked out. The stacks came wavering back into her
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vision. Above her the white light blared. She was back again in the
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library basement. The girl drew in air in a swoop, as if she had
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been holding her breath a long time. A small spasm of dizziness
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rocked her against the back of the swivel chair and then was gone,
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leaving her feeling drained. It left her with a shuddery sense of
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incomprehensible foreboding.</p>
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