Moon by James Herbert

  ***

  … And awoke at dawn, the answer there before him like a faint neon sign seen through fog. Not much, no big deal, but a glimmer. All grogginess instantly gone, he scrambled out of bed.

  47

  Full moon..

  48

  'To whom am I speaking to?'

  'Hello, Daddy!'

  'Hi, Pickle.'

  'Daddy, I've started a new school.'

  'Yes, I know, Mummy just told me. Have you made any new friends yet?'

  'We-11, one. Two really, but I'm not sure of Lucy yet. Do I have to stay at this school, Daddy? I miss my proper one.'

  'Only for a little while, Gabby, just until summer holidays begin.'

  'Then will we go home to our own house?'

  'Don't you like it there at Nanny's?'

  'Ooh yes, but home is nicer. Nanny spoils me, she thinks I'm still a baby.'

  'She doesn't realise you're a big girl now?'

  'No. But it's not her fault, she has good pretensions.' He chuckled. 'Make the most of it, kiddo, you're a long time old.'

  'All grups say that.'

  'Grups' was their special word for grown-ups. 'Are you coming to see me soon, Daddy? I've done some pictures for you, I did them with finger-paints. Nanny's cross about the walls, but she didn't smack me, she never does. Are you coming to see me, Daddy?'

  Childes hesitated. 'I'm not sure, Gabby. You know I want to, don't you?'

  'Are you too busy at your schools? I told my new friends you were a teacher, but Lucy didn't believe me. She said teachers didn't teach video games. I tried to explain, Daddy, but you know how thicko some children can be. When it's holiday time, can I come and see you?'

  So many uncertainties in his mind, but he told her yes, anyway. 'But I don't want to go on a boat this time, Daddy,' she said after her initial pleasure, her voice becoming low. 'No, you'll come by plane.'

  'I mean there - I don't want to go on a boat like last time.'

  'When we cruised round the island on that little motorboat, when we went to all those sandy beaches? I thought you enjoyed that.'

  'I don't like water any more.'

  That was all she would say.

  'Why not, Gabby? You used to.'

  Silence for a while. Then: 'Can Mummy come too?'

  'Yes, of course, if she'd like to. Maybe Mummy'll let you stay on for a month or so.' Forget those black uncertainties, he told himself. Let these promises bring you out on the other side. Think of them as weapons against… whatever was about to happen.

  'Really? D'you really mean it? I can stay with you for more than two weeks?'

  'It's up to your mother.'

  'Will you ask her now - please?'

  'Uh, no, Gabby, not just yet. I've got something that needs… well, it needs clearing up first. Then I'll know everything for certain.'

  'But you won't forget you promised?'

  'I won't forget.'

  'Okay, Daddy. Miss Puddles is here and she wants to say hello.'

  'Tell her meow from me.'

  'She says meow back. Not really, but I can tell she's thinking it. Nanny's bought a basket for her, but she likes sleeping on top of the fridge.'

  'Nanny does?'

  'Silly. D'you want to speak to Mummy again? She's going to read me a story in bed.'

  No, he wanted to ask her about the water. Small children often developed sudden and irrational fears that bothered them for a while, then disappeared just as quickly, but Childes had been disconcerted by what Gabby had said. Perhaps she'd seen a bad TV movie, or one of the other kids had told her a drowning story. No matter; he hadn't been keen on water himself for some time. 'Yes,' he said, 'find Mummy for me. Listen, I'll speak to you soon, all right?'

  'Yes. Lubboo, Daddy!'

  For a fleeting, terrifying moment, Childes felt he might never hear his daughter say that to him again. The feeling passed, a cold breeze rustling through a tree.

  'I love you, too, Gabby.'

  She mouthed six rapid kisses down the phone and he returned one big one.

  Just before Gabby rested the receiver, she said, 'Oh and Daddy, tell Annabel I miss her and tell her about my new school.'

  He heard the clunk as the phone was laid down and Gabby's voice growing fainter as she went looking for her mother.

  'Gabby-'

  She was gone.

  Had he misheard? More probably, Gabby had meant to say Amy. Tell Amy I miss her… Her little friend Annabel was dead, Gabby knew that by now. Fran had explained that Annabel wouldn't be coming back.

  'Me again, Jon.' Fran's voice sounded rushed as usual.

  Childes gave his head a little shake - or was it a shudder? - to clear his thoughts. 'Fran, has Gabby been acting okay lately?'

  'Hardly. The move's upset her more than she lets on and starting a new school is always a mite traumatic anyway.' Her tone changed. 'I get a weird feeling when you start asking about Gabby nowadays.'

  'No premonitions, Fran. Honest. Has she mentioned Annabel to you?'

  'Several times. But she's not as distressed as you'd have thought. What makes you ask?'

  'I just get the impression she believes her friend is still alive.'

  Fran did not answer immediately. Eventually she said, 'Gabby's been dreaming a lot recently. Not particularly bad dreams, nightmares, anything like that; she's taken to talking in her sleep a lot.'

  'Does she mention Annabel's name?'

  'She did once or twice at first; not any more, though. I think she's accepted she'll never see her again.'

  'Why is she suddenly afraid of water?'

  'What?'

  'She seems to have gone off boats and water.'

  'That's a new one on me. Fire I could understand, after what you've been through. But water? That I can't figure.'

  'You told her about La Roche?'

  'Sure. Her daddy's a hero; she's entitled to know.'

  'Hardly a hero.'

  'Modest, too.'

  'A few over here would like to know how I got to the school so fast, even before the Fire Department had been alerted.'

  'The police surely don't suspect you?'

  'I wouldn't put it that strongly, but let's say nobody's clapped me on the back yet.'

  'Oh, Jon, I can't believe this. They can't be that stupid! You barely got out of there alive yourself. And you rescued those two little -'

  'I left seven others to die.'

  'You tried to save them, you did your best. You told me that, Jon.'

  'What happened was because of me.'

  'Stop being such a bloody martyr and start talking sense. Just because some psychopath has chosen you for a crazy personal vendetta, it doesn't mean you're to blame. None of what's happened has been within your control. Now tell me what these hick policemen are up to.'

  'You have to see things from their point of view.'

  'Like hell I do.'

  'They wanted to know what had made me go to the school before the fire started.'

  'That must have been difficult to explain. Explain it to me again.'

  'I've told you, Fran; let's not do a re-run. Anyway, their questions came thick and fast even while I was still in a hospital bed having oxygen pumped into me.'

  'The ungrateful -'

  'They had a burnt-out school, lives lost, a murdered policeman - what would you expect? That's twice I was ahead of anyone else at the scene of a crime.'

  'So they suspect you of arson and murder. That's terrific. Jon, why the hell don't you get back over here, right now, take a late plane, or the first one tomorrow morning? Why put up with all this?'

  'I don't think they'd like that.'

  'They can't hold you there.'

  'Maybe they can. I'm not leaving, Fran. Not yet.’

  Her exasperation bordered on raw anger. 'Why?'

  'Because it's here. And while that's so, you and Gabby are safe, don't you understand that?’

  She did. She said so. Quietly.

  ***

  Childes we
nt through into the sitting room, heading for the small array of drinks kept on the bookshelf opposite the door. He lifted the whisky bottle, twisted the top. And stopped. That's not going to help, he told himself. Not tonight. He returned the bottle.

  The room was shaded, only a table lamp providing light. The curtains were drawn back at both ends of the sitting room, open to the night, and he saw the sky was sheened an eerie metallic blue. Childes closed the curtains nearest to him, those at the front of the cottage, then walked the length of the room to the other window. Outside, the moon, white and only faintly smudged, not yet high in its cloudless territory, resembled a communion wafer, flat and delicately tissue thin. He drew the curtains against the night.

  Hands tucked deep into the pockets of his cord jeans, Childes went to the coffee table near the room's centre, his movement slow, almost sauntering (except there was nothing casual in his demeanour). A two-day stubble darkened his chin and there was an intensity to his fixed gaze that was oddly both weary and alert as he stood over the low table, looking down. In his eyes, too, was a steady resoluteness.

  He lowered himself onto the edge of the sofa facing the coffee table, leaning forward, elbows on knees, observing the tiny round object on the smooth wooden surface.

  The lamp's reflection infused a hint of warmth into the moonstone's translucent coldness, while liquid blue, toned to indigo, shimmered a wintry variegation.

  He stared into the moonstone's depths, like some old-fashioned clairvoyant gazing into a crystal ball, as though fascinated by the subtle shades; in truth, he looked beyond that interior, seeking perhaps the inmost part of his own self. But searching for something else as well: grasping for a link, a connection, an access code.

  All he found was names. And unearthly faces. Kelly, Patricia, Adele, Caroline, Isobel, Sarah-Jane. And Kathryn Bates, Matron. All dead. Ashes. Estelle Piprelly. Ashes.

  Annabel. Dead.

  But: Jeanette, alive. Amy, sweet Amy. Alive. And Gabby. Alive.

  Strangely, these last three were not as strong in his vision as the others; thoughts of them were shallow, somehow irrelevant, not part of this new thing.

  His thoughts lingered with the dead.

  Even those he had not known.

  The prostitute. The boy, violated in his grave. The old man with the top of his head sawn off. Others in the asylum. He did not want to envisage them, nor hear their voices, for he sought something -someone - else; but their images and sounds pulsated before him, throbbed inside his mind… palpitating… growing, fading… growing, fading… expanding, contracting… a swelling, deflating, incorporeal balloon… a misty white ball… a moon -

  - He gasped, his hand jumping to his forehead, the pain sudden and sharp, cutting through the dull ache that had troubled him throughout the day. He slumped back on the sofa.

  His mind had almost touched…

  ***

  'Vivienne?'

  'Yes?'

  'It's Jonathan Childes. I'm sorry to bother you this late.'

  The silence at the other end of the phone lasted for a while. 'Just closing the door,' Vivienne said. Childes imagined Paul Sebire was on the other side of that door. 'How are you, Jonathan? Have you recovered from that dreadful experience?'

  'I'm okay,' he replied. Physically, at least, he added to himself.

  'Amy's very proud of what you did. So am I.'

  'I wish-'

  'I know. You wish you could have saved those other girls, too. But you did all you could, you must realise that. I just hope they soon catch the madman responsible. Now, I don't suppose you want to waste time chatting to me. Amy's resting in her room, but I can put you through to her. I know she isn't sleeping because I've only just left her - we were discussing you, as a matter of fact. She'll be glad you called.'

  'You're sure it's okay?'

  Vivienne laughed quietly. 'Positive. Um… I'll have to sneak upstairs and tell her rather than call up.'

  'Her father?'

  'Her father. He's not as bad as you might think, Jonathan, he just likes to give that impression. He'll come round eventually, you'll see. I'll put the phone down now, and go up to Amy.'

  He waited, his head still aching, the dull throb of before. A click, then Amy was on the line.

  'Jon? Is anything wrong?'

  'No, Amy. I wanted to hear your voice, that's all. I suddenly felt the need.'

  'I'm glad you rang.'

  'How're you feeling?'

  'Same as when you called this afternoon. Sleepy, but that's the pills I'm taking. No problems. The doctor called earlier this evening and he says the cuts aren't half as bad as he at first thought. "Healing nicely", to use his words. I can get up and out tomorrow, so guess where I'm heading.'

  'No, Amy, not here. Not just yet.'

  'I know where I want to be, Jon, and who I want to be with. It's useless arguing. I've had time to think over the past few days and I think I can put any jealousy I have over you and Fran to one side. Not easily, I admit. But I can do it.'

  'Amy, you have to stay away.'

  'Tell me why.'

  'You know the reason.'

  'You think you're a danger to me.'

  'I'm a danger to anyone at the moment. I even had to consider the risk when I phoned Gabby tonight. I'm frightened to think about her in case this monster discovers where she is through me.'

  'The police will find him soon. There's no way he can get off the island.'

  'I don't think it cares about that any longer.'

  A sharp, probing, pain again. Childes drew in a quick breath.

  'Jon?'

  'I'll let you rest now, Amy.'

  'I've had plenty of rest. I'd rather talk.'

  'Tomorrow.'

  There was an uncomfortable vagueness in the word.

  'Is there something going on that you won't tell me about?' she asked almost cautiously.

  'No,' he lied. 'I guess I'm just tired of standing on the sidelines while this mayhem goes on.'

  'There's nothing you can do. It's for the police to bring it to an end.'

  'Maybe.'

  Again she didn't enjoy his tone. For all its solemnity, there was an anger there, a contained but inwardly seething rage; she had felt its potency when she had picked up the phone, incredibly even before he had spoken, as if beams of furious energy were coursing through the lines. She was thinking the impossible, and Amy knew that; yet why did she feel so ill at ease, so weakened by this -imagined? - force?

  'Sleep now, Amy,' he said. 'Rest.'

  And she suddenly felt so tired, almost as if he'd given an order that her body dare not disobey. She was unbelievably tired. 'Jon…'

  'Tomorrow, Amy.'

  His voice was hollow, the tail end of an echo. The receiver felt awkwardly heavy in her hand.

  'Yes, tomorrow, then,' she said slowly, her eyelids ridiculously weighty. What is this - hypnosis by phone? 'Jon…' she began to protest, but somehow not having the energy left to complete the sentence.

  'I love you more than you know, Amy.'

  'I do know…'

  The phone clicked, the connection was dead. The sudden deep sense of loss almost roused her again. But he had told her to rest, to sleep…

  The receiver slipped from her fingers.

  ***

  Childes put down the phone and wondered if the pills Amy was taking were making her so tired. They probably contained a sedative as well as a painkiller. He went into the bathroom to douse his face, also feeling weary - but paradoxically, also acutely aware. Filling the basin with cold water, he bent low and splashed his face, holding his wet fingers against his closed eyelids for several moments each time. Eventually, he straightened, confronting himself in the cabinet mirror; he stared into his own eyes, noticing the bloodshot coronas around the soft contact lenses he wore.

  And if mirrors had reflected auras, he might also have observed short dancing white-to-violet rays of ethereal energy dazzling from his own body.

  Childes wiped his face and hand
s dry, then went back into the low-lit sitting room. Once more he sank into the sofa near the coffee table, and once more he resisted the urge to pour himself a large whisky. He wanted his senses clear, would risk nothing that might dull them. The moonstone seemed brighter, the bluish flare inside diminished.

  Pain in his head again, tiny repeated knife jabs this time. But he would not desist. Only the sudden urgent need to speak to Amy had interrupted the long, long, process - and before that, the urgent need to hear Gabby's voice - and now there could be no more intrusions, for Amy and Gabby were safe, away from harm. He could concentrate his mind. It hurt, though; God, how it hurt. He closed his eyes and still saw the stone.

  He opened them when he heard whispers.

  Childes looked around. The whispering stopped. He was the room's only occupant. He shut his eyes again. And again heard the hushed whispers.

  He allowed his mind to go with the sounds, to absorb them and be absorbed by them, and it all came so fast (so fast after hours of probing, sending out his thoughts, seeking) like tumbling into a snowy pit, the sliding plummet soft and smooth, landing with scarcely ajar, sinking into cushioned earth.

  Whispers.

  Voices.

  Some he recognised. Some belonged to girls from La Roche Ladies College, those who had been fused into one melting mass of flesh when they had plunged together into the fiery maelstrom, incinerated into ashes, cremated into no more than a collective powdery heap.

  Others.

  A small squeaky voice, like Gabby's, but not Gabby's. Others.

  Demented even in death.

  He could almost feel their presence.

  Voices warning him.

  Voices welcoming him.

  His head reeled with them. And the moonstone that was now the moon throbbed and pulsated, grew large, encompassing… threatening…

  … And this time he touched wholly the malignant and diseased other mind…

  49

  If Police Constable Donnelly had not considered all life sacred -even that of rabbits who squatted, paralysed by headlamps, in the middle of the road late at night - then probably he would never have lost the car he was supposed to be following.