The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 19 Page 24

  “There’s nothing more to say. I know how you feel now. But I’m not going to let it ruin things. I’ve spent money on this trip, too, if you’ll remember – money that doesn’t come as easily for me – and I thought I spent it so we could spend time together like we used to. I suppose I should have realized you were going to be like this.”

  “Be like what?”

  “You know.”

  But Monica didn’t. And Jessica wouldn’t tell her.

  They walked in silence for a few minutes more, until they stepped through a wall of vegetation that was blocking their path and, out of nowhere, found themselves in the centre of the other village. The place was surrounded by dense southern jungle and ocean, and it was amazing how much it looked like the village they had landed in, right down to the wooden walls and grey slate roofs. Yet, there was no one on the streets or in the windows there. The empty village had a feel to it that Monica couldn’t quite understand, as though it were full of hiding people ready to pounce.

  “Do you think this place is really deserted?”

  “What do you care?”

  Tables were laid out exactly as in the village on the other shore, though no products were upon them. Monica saw shadows moving behind the windows of the small houses that she was sure weren’t cast by people, but they moved so fast it was hard to tell.

  “What—?” she started, but Jessica hushed her.

  “Do you hear that? It sounds almost like someone crying.”

  Monica didn’t hear anything. She didn’t even hear the birds she knew had to be close by.

  She shivered, despite the humidity that weighed the air down, yet couldn’t quite put her finger on what was wrong. Something in the back of her memory tried to wriggle away, some shadow that should never see the light.

  “Jessica, let’s go back now.”

  “No. I’m not ready.” And she walked farther in, investigating the buildings. Monica stood where she was, absently fidgeting with her necklace. She could see greyish rocks on the ground, more of the shingles that roofed the houses, and she picked one up. Imprinted upon it, barely visible in the fading light, was the fossil of some ancient creature as wide as her hand. Its tiny ribs made grooves in the shingle, and its head a rough circle. She saw what looked like a wing, though folded over upon itself until it was only a series of lines. She dropped the piece to the ground and it shattered. She brushed the dust off her hands and then looked up.

  Jessica was gone.

  Monica called out for her repeatedly as she walked the edge of the village, but there was no answer. In the windows shadows moved, and for a moment she thought she saw a child’s face, small and round, pressed against the glass, but it disappeared so quickly the image blurred in her memory. Monica called Jessica’s name again.

  She didn’t know what to do but wait. She walked up to one of the empty tables and sat down. Surely there was no reason to worry – Jessica must be punishing her for what she’d said, but she couldn’t ignore Monica forever. Eventually, she would have to show herself, if for no other reason than to return to the ship. Monica checked her watch. It was already past four o’clock.

  “We don’t have much time left,” she yelled, and something responded with a noise that couldn’t have been whimpering. She stood. Had there always been shutters on so many of the village windows? She couldn’t recall, but things looked different from how they had previously. She checked her watch again, and though only a few minutes had passed, already the sky was losing its light. She looked up. Clouds had gathered, racing to cover the sun. She wondered if a storm was coming.

  “Jessica! Where are you?”

  Still, there was no answer. She looked at her watch again, not knowing what to do. Shadows of the clouds overhead surrounded her, and as she looked at their pattern there came a noise from within the trees, a noise that sounded like a cry, and Monica realized with cold anger what had happened.

  Jessica had left without her.

  Jessica, the woman who was supposed to be her oldest friend, had left her alone in the abandoned village while she returned to the ship that had brought them to the island. What was she doing? Did she think she could leave Monica behind, like a piece of refuse? Abandon her on an island where she didn’t even speak the language? Monica started to run, eager to catch up with Jessica. She couldn’t have travelled far, after all. Not with the weight she was carrying.

  At first, Monica thought she heard footsteps ahead of her, Jessica’s footsteps as she ran to keep ahead, but soon the echoes multiplied, until it sounded like many running with her towards the ship. With each step she felt the plants wrapping around her feet, like the fingers of many hands clawing at her as they gave chase. Yet, at no point did she actually see Jessica. After a few minutes Monica had to slow to catch her breath, and though the air continued to race by her, none of it wanted to fill her lungs. She gasped, trying to get her breath back, and for a moment forgot about Jessica and her betrayal. Monica panted, her hands on her knees, waiting for the stars in her eyes to clear.

  The storm clouds were turning the sky into night, and the path became more difficult to follow, but it didn’t matter. The island was small, and Monica knew as long as she headed straight ahead, she would end up where she needed to be.

  She wiped the sweat from her forehead. Why was she running? Jessica’s plan had failed, Monica still had time to reach the ship, and when she did she would give the heavy woman a piece of her mind. What she had said before would seem gentle compared to what was coming. Monica’s whole body felt flush with anger, her skin so hot it was blistering. Even the stones around her neck had become like fiery coals, searing into her flesh. She stormed forward for the final confrontation.

  But when she reached the village, Jessica wasn’t to be seen.

  At the small set of tables, Captain Lethes sat with his crew, a sweating drink in his hand. He looked up as the confused Monica returned, and he stood to meet her. Behind him his crew also stood, but then ran with a light jog towards the ship.

  “Are you okay?” the captain asked her, looking her over. “Where’s your friend?”

  “I – I thought she would be here already. She should have been right in front of me.”

  He nodded. Then nodded again. The other passengers who had come to the island had started lining up by the ship when the crew returned to it. Monica looked at their pale lost faces, but none of them were Jessica.

  “We have to wait for her. I think—” She paused for a moment, unsure of what she wanted to say. “—I think I must have left her back there someplace.”

  “It’s okay, it’s okay. Don’t worry. We won’t leave without her. But we can’t just stand here waiting. I have other passengers I have to worry about, too. We have to be ready to leave when she arrives. You can wait here if you’d like, but you’ll probably be more comfortable on the ship.”

  She looked behind her, back at the path she had just come from, and was unsure of what to do. It was getting so hard to think. She rubbed the sweat off her brow again.

  “Okay, but we won’t leave without her, right?”

  “Of course not.” He smiled reassuringly and led her back to the ship.

  She stood on the deck, looking back at the island as the other passengers boarded. She was still quite tired from running, and underneath the heat she found her mind becoming muddled.

  She watched the trees though, watched them swaying underneath the wind as though shaken by hundreds of hands, all trying to get her attention. But why they’d want her attention, she wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore except that she was looking forward to getting back to the mainland, back to her tour group. It was silly, in hindsight, to have left it for a trip to the island, but she didn’t think she regretted it. It was good to do different things on a vacation, and she wasn’t sure if that was something she’d really understood until that moment. Perhaps the rest of her vacation would improve now that she had uncovered the secret to enjoying it. Already, she felt be
tter.

  When the crew had finished unmooring the ship and the vibrations of the engine were making the deck hum underfoot, Captain Lethes came down to stand with Monica as they pulled away from the island.

  “You were right about that village,” she said to him, as she watched the people on the island getting smaller. “I’m glad I saw it, but I can’t imagine ever wanting to go back to it.”

  “True. Still, it looks like it’s done you some good.”

  She smiled, and played with the stones around her neck. Their dark brown colour stood out in contrast against her pale skin, yet they seemed strangely cool under her fingers.

  “I can’t remember why I was so miserable before we arrived. I suppose we all need to put our troubles behind us sometimes. Oh look!” she said, pointing. “There’s someone waving goodbye to us from the island.”

  She lifted her arm high and waved happily back at the shrinking figure.

  “Goodbye!” she cried out.

  MIKE O’DRISCOLL

  13 O’clock

  MIKE O’DRISCOLL’S FIRST collection of short fiction, Unbecoming, was published by Elastic Press in 2006, and his story “Sounds Like” was filmed by Brad Anderson for the second season of Showtime’s Masters of Horror TV series.

  Other stories have appeared in The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror, The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror, The Dark, Inferno, Poe’s Progeny, Subtle Edens, Interzone and The 3rd Alternative. O’Driscoll also writes a regular column on horror and fantasy, “Night’s Plutonian Shore”, for Black Static.

  “The germ of ’13 O’Clock’ was born one night, some years ago in hospital, where I was recovering from a post-op infection,” remembers the author. “I had spent the best part of twenty-four hours in the grip of a horrible fever and when it finally broke, some time in the early hours, I lay in the quiet stillness trying to make sense of what I had been through.

  “Though exhausted, I couldn’t sleep. I remembered at some point – probably when the fever was at its peak – wanting to die. Had I really wanted that, I wondered? Or had I just dreamed it in fever-induced delirium? I couldn’t say for sure, but the possibility that I had desired death scared me and that, I think, was why I was so reluctant to let myself sleep in the aftermath.

  “I found a pen and paper in my locker and scribbled some notes about what I was feeling. Eventually I did fall asleep. When I woke later that day I saw the words ‘thirteen o’clock’ among the notes I’d written. I thought then it might work as a story title.

  “I spent the next couple of days thinking about it, mulling over ideas about dreams and nightmares, trying to remember the nightmares I’d had when I was a kid. I could recall one or two, but not much of their detail or narrative, and nothing of the terror I imagined must have accompanied them. Why? What was it that kept them at bay? I made some more notes, and then stashed them away in a folder and forgot about them until trying to come up with an idea for a new story. I dug out the folder and rummaged through the countless scraps of paper, searching for some inspiration.

  “When I saw those two words again, something clicked, and over the course of the next couple of days I discovered how to tell the story that had been waiting inside them.”

  THE DAYS WERE BEGINNING to stretch out. Another couple of months and it would be surf and barbecue, cold beer out on the deck listening to Bonnie “Prince” Billy. Play some silly tunes on the guitar for Jack, teach him his first chords. Make some other kind of music for Polly. The sweet kind for which the diminishing nights left barely enough time.

  The cold still hung in the air at this hour though. Caleb Williams could feel it on his face as he followed Cyril across the rising field. He bent down, scooped up the mostly black mongrel terrier and boosted him up the stone ditch. He climbed up and over while the dog, resenting the indignity of having to be lifted, scrambled down by itself.

  They crossed the dirt track to the garden, where Caleb paused to lean against the unpainted block wall. The sun was a ball sinking below Cefn Bryn, leaving the mid-April sky streaked with red.

  Gazing up at the house, he felt a sudden, unaccountable yearning. The otherness of dusk made the cottage seem insubstantial. Shrugging off this unexpected sense of isolation, he opened the back gate and let Cyril bolt through. They got the dog two years ago for Jack’s birthday, but whether Jack had tired of it, or the dog had tired of the boy, it had ended up attaching itself to Caleb. Only now was he getting used to the idea of himself as a dog person.

  In the living room, Polly was curled up on the sofa, dark red hair breaking in waves over her shoulders, ebbing across her blouse. She was channel hopping as he came in, and had opened two small bottles – stubbies, she called them – of San Miguel. “Saw you coming from Jack’s room,” she said, her grey eyes lucent with mischief. “You looked like you need one.”

  Caleb took the beer and sat next to her. “Is it me,” he said, “or is the climb up from the bay getting steeper?”

  His wife swung her feet up into his lap. “It’s decrepitude,” she said.

  “Good. For a moment there I thought I was getting old.” He tapped his bottle against hers and took a sip.

  She smiled for a moment, then her expression changed. “You didn’t hear Jack last night?”

  “No. What?”

  “I meant to tell you this morning. He had a bad dream.” She frowned. “More than that, I guess. A nightmare.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “Of course there is, fool.” She jabbed a foot playfully into his thigh. “This was a nightmare.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “I’m serious, Cale. He was petrified. He screamed when I woke him.”

  “Was he okay?”

  “After a while, yes.”

  “What did he dream?”

  “He was alone in the house at night. That’s scary enough for most eight-year-olds.”

  “Poor Jack. How is he tonight?”

  “He’s fine. Has been all day. I was half-expecting him to say something but he never mentioned it. I guess he’s already forgotten.”

  “Good,” Caleb said, feeling a vague sense of guilt. Should have been there for him, he thought.

  Polly sighed and rubbed her foot across his belly. “So, how was your day?”

  Caleb said nothing. He was thinking about Jack’s nightmare, trying to imagine how he must have felt. A yellow woman moved across the TV screen. He wondered where nightmares came from. What caused them?

  Polly wiggled her toes in his face. “What’s the matter? Got the hots for Marge Simpson?”

  He laughed and grabbed her foot. “It’s the big hair that does it for me”

  She yanked her foot free. “There you go, making me jealous,” she said, sliding along the sofa.

  He drained his bottle and pulled her close. “I always thought blue would work for you,” he said, before kissing her. He didn’t think about Jack’s dream again until after they had made love, and then only for a short while, until sleep took him.

  Caleb taught basic literacy skills to young adult offenders, most of whom were serving community sentences for alcohol and drug-related crimes. Twice a week he held a class in Swansea Jail for those whose crimes were more serious. In all the time he had worked as an English teacher in a city comprehensive, he had seen countless faces just like theirs. The faces of disaffected boys who had never willingly picked up a book, or lost themselves in words. After ten years he had walked away. Now, watching these young men begin to find pleasure in reading, he felt he was finally doing something that mattered.

  All the more maddening then, not being able to comprehend his son’s terror. As he moved from one student to the next, his thoughts kept drifting back to Jack. He’d had another nightmare last night, worse than before. Hearing him, Polly had woken Caleb. When he’d gone to his son’s room, the look of terror on Jack’s face had shocked him. After he’d calmed the boy and returned to his own bed, he’d lain awake for hours, trying to comprehend t
he extent of Jack’s fear. His inability to understand the dream left him feeling helpless, and this in turn had added to his confusion and guilt.

  At lunchtime, he called Polly on her mobile. “Hi Cale,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “You busy?”

  “On my way to town. Got work to drop off at McKays.” She worked part-time, auditing small business accounts. “Can I get back to you?”

  “It’s okay,” Caleb sighed. “I was just wondering about Jack. How he was this morning.”

  “Okay, I guess.” Caleb heard the doubt in her voice. “He dreamed about a stranger. He, uh—”

  “He what?”

  “He said a stranger was coming to our house.”

  Caleb tried to imagine his son’s nightmare.

  “We spoke at breakfast and he was all right. I think he forgot most of it. He’s tough, you know, resilient.”

  “You’re right,” Caleb said. “I’ll stay with him tonight, till he’s asleep.”

  “He’ll like that, Cale. Really.” She broke the connection.

  I hope so, Caleb thought, as he flipped the phone shut. Despite Polly’s reassurances, he felt there was more he should be doing. Like being able to explain the dream to Jack, stealing its power through interpretation. Take away that ability to rationalize and he was no better than the most illiterate, most brutalized of his students.

  In the evening Caleb put his son to bed and read him a chapter from The Wind in the Willows. Jack liked it when he put on different voices for the characters. High-pitched and squeaky for Rat, ponderous and slow for Mole. Toad was his favourite. He always laughed at Caleb’s braying, exaggeratedly posh voice, but tonight there was no Mr Toad, just the softer, more subdued notes of Rat and Mole as they searched the river for young Portly, the missing otter. He found himself strangely moved by the animals’ mystical quest, experiencing an emotion akin to the yearning regret that was all the memory Rat and Mole were left with of their encounter with Pan. He closed the book and forced a smile, trying to hide his mood, but his melancholy was mirrored in Jack’s eyes.