Carnies Read online

  He hit the tree line at high speed and plunged into the woods like a high diver slicing through water. He dodged the trees easily, not slowing down at all, breathing fluidly in time with his motion. He ran for a while longer like this, not caring where he was going, but after a minute he slowed. His breath became more ragged and his legs complained.

  He slowed down gradually, and finally came to a halt, breathing deeply. He felt tired, but not exhausted. He knew he could continue if he wanted to, but for now he was content to stand there and absorb his surroundings.

  There was no sign of the paddock or Roy’s house in any direction. Instead, all around him were the straggle barked thin trees, dwarfed by occasional huge dark karris and jarrahs. The ground was covered in leaves and branches, many of which had softened and decomposed a little into a cushioning layer of organic matter. The smell of the forest almost overwhelmed him, a deep mixture of saps and leaves and decaying materials, vegetable and animal. It was pungent and sweet, and he breathed it in, amazed that he’d never noticed it before, even the previous night when Jasmine had led him into the woods. And the sounds... The whole forest seemed alive with noise. Crickets beginning their evening sonatas, trees creaking in the breeze, the crunch and crackle and rustle of fallen branches and leaves slowly collapsing, the distant burble of a river somewhere like a hushed conversation. It was a soft but clear cacophony, but not unpleasant or distracting at all. In fact, he’d never felt as focused in his life.

  What the hell’s happening to me? he thought in awe, intense sensations still flowing over and through him.

  But then something caught his attention. Something to his right, a soft rustle in the underbrush, a tiny whiff of a musky odour. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle and his skin tingled. His breath caught in his throat and he froze as still as the trees around him. Without turning his head, he scanned the forest, with his eyes of course, but more so with his ears and nose. Then he saw it.

  A rabbit.

  It darted through the bushes, throwing a nervous glance Paul’s way, then it paused for a moment, sniffing the air, its tiny pink nose wrinkling.

  Again, Paul acted on instinct. There was no conscious thought involved. One moment he was a statue, the next he bounded towards the rabbit, running low to the ground. The rabbit jumped almost straight up, twisting in mid-air, its legs spinning uselessly for a moment, then it hit the ground and shot off as if out of a gun. Paul was right behind it, his hands brushing against the dirt and branches on the ground as he ran. His gait changed, becoming more rhythmic.

  Then, without warning, both his shoulders popped out of joint. He stumbled a little for a moment, momentum carrying him onward, a cry of pain halfway out of his mouth before he realised there was none. His arms flopped for a split second, then, with an audible click, they re-seated themselves, in a different location, higher and farther forward. Now his hands weren’t brushing the ground. They were pounding it. His fingers curled over loosely and his knuckles punched the ground with each step. All over his body he could feel the hairs standing up straight, the follicles raising them like thousands of tiny flags. There was another pop as his back bent and curved outward, again without a hint of pain, just a momentary sensation of looseness in his bones. Then they were back in place, a new place. A better place.

  His run became a lope, increasing speed twofold. His head tilted upward as he moved almost without effort on all fours, and his breath became an excited panting. He felt some spittle drip from his mouth and spread across his cheek, blown by the wind in his face. The gap between him and the rabbit shrank, until he could almost reach out and touch it.

  Grab it. Kill it. Eat it.

  With a guttural growl, he leapt forward, passing above the rabbit’s terrified form. He landed atop it, rolling in the dirt. He clutched the little animal’s furry body, clutched to his chest like a beloved doll. Then he came to rest on his back, breathless for a moment. He could feel the rabbit’s heart beating against his chest so fast it was unbelievable that it didn’t explode right there and then. After he’d rested for a moment, he held the animal up over his head. Their eyes met, predator and prey. He bared his teeth, ready to strike.

  What the fuck are you doing?

  The voice in his head seemed strange, alien. He realised it was his own. It was like being dunked in freezing water. The shock was terrible. He just lay there, horrified by what he’d been thinking just moments before. What he’d been doing. What he’d been about to do.

  He spoke, his voice as gentle as he could manage, alarmed by the rough tone still deep in his throat.

  ‘Shhh,’ he said, trying to soothe the animal. ‘Shhh...’

  He rolled over onto his side and released the rabbit. It stood there for a second or two, unable to move, shivering. Then it looked at him, its eyes puzzled.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  It went, bounding into the bushes, and vanished in an instant.

  Paul lay there, gasping. His shoulders and back were still in their strange new places. He concentrated for a moment, thinking about how it had felt when they’d moved there, and with a sudden series of muffled snaps, his shoulders fell back into their sockets, and his back returned to its usual gentle arch. He moaned softly, more disturbed than pained, and lay there for a while longer. He felt something wet on his cheek, and realised he was crying.

  What’s happening to me? he thought in desperation, feeling his sense of reality beginning to slide. He closed his eyes tight, getting a grip. He couldn’t answer that question, he knew.

  But he also knew who could: Alvan Roy.

  Paul clambered to his feet, his head spinning a little. He had to find his way back to the house. He wasn’t certain he could, but...

  Sure you can, something in him said. Just go the way you came. The exact way.

  ‘No!’ he said out loud. That way lieth madness, he admonished himself silently. Here be monsters.

  He looked around himself. He was in the midst of the woods, but he could still see the sun setting through the trees. He figured he’d headed west, towards the sun, away from the house. If he turned and put the sun at his back, and kept walking straight, he had a good chance of finding his way back.

  As he set off, he found signs of his passing. He hadn’t been subtle, but even so, he really shouldn’t have been able to follow his own trail back. But that didn’t change the fact that he could, and with unnerving ease. Even when he was calm, even when he was in control, his senses were still sharper than they’d ever been.

  It took much longer to pick his way back through the forest. He passed the spot where he’d seen the rabbit, and continued on without looking back, despite his instincts crying out again. Back, back through the trees, until they thinned out. Then he found himself in the brown knee-high grass out the back of Alvan Roy’s house. He could see it in the distance. The lights inside were on.

  He approached it, got within fifty metres or so, then stopped, tilting his head to one side.

  Voices. Not just Alvan, one... no, two others. He could hear them as clearly as if he was in the next room.

  ‘What were you thinking, Alvan?’

  His heart made a strange staccato beat for a moment. That was Rachel’s voice, deep and smooth, the question holding more empathy and sadness than recrimination.

  ‘I... I found him,’ Roy said, nervous. ‘In the woods. I thought...’

  ‘You thought you’d found yourself a guinea pig,’ another voice said, a male voice. He recognised that one too. The manager, Amos.

  ‘I just wanted to observe the change,’ Roy said, his voice almost soaked in apology. ‘It was an opportunity I couldn’t miss. And anyway,’ he added, a little rebellion surfacing, ‘he’d probably have died out there without me. Or were you just behind me, ready to collect him?’

  There was a telling pause, and Paul smiled a little. Score one for Alvan.

  Rachel spoke next. ‘It’s dangerous for the change to occur outside the group, Alvan. It needs t
o be controlled, directed. It’s a perilous path to walk alone.’

  ‘He wasn’t alone,’ Roy protested.

  ‘He might as well have been,’ Amos snapped. ‘In fact, it may have been better if he had been.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  There was a moment’s silence. Paul heard an odd noise, which took him a second to identify.

  Sniffing.

  ‘He’s here,’ Rachel said.

  For an instant, Paul found himself caught by indecision. Part of him wanted to flee, to go back into the forest, to try to find the highway, the motel, the train station. The way home. But another part of him realised a simple fact: there was no going home now.

  He sighed and walked towards the house, holding a hand up to the three people who’d emerged from the back door and gathered on the verandah. Behind him the sun finally set and the orange light deepened to purple. Paul glanced over his shoulder and felt a twinge of regret. He was leaving his old life behind.

  Then he shrugged. Hell, he thought, that’s no big loss.

  -20-

  The Tillbrook Pub was all but empty when David walked in through the swinging glass doors. He looked around with what he hoped was a calm and collected veneer, though deep down he was even more nervous than he’d been at the carnival earlier. The carnies were a known quantity, using thuggish standover tactics. But here, tonight, he knew nothing about the person - or people - he would be meeting, except that they’d tipped him off in the first place. This was as much a leap into the unknown as entering the dark room in the carnival fun house had been. He hoped it’d be more rewarding, though.

  ‘Come alone to the private room in the back,’ the man on the phone had said. Fine. If that was how they wanted to play it. Before he took another step, though, he reached into his inside jacket pocket and thumbed a button on his digital recorder. It didn’t click or whir, but he knew it was now taking in any sounds it could pick up. It’d be a little muffled, sure, but hopefully it would record enough to interpret later. Then, feeling a little more confident and comfortable, he squared his jaw and headed to the bar.

  The woman standing behind the bar had a badge that identified her as Lucy. She looked up from cleaning a glass with a touch of surprise in her eyes. David smiled as he approached, aware that he was a stranger in a strange land.

  ‘Can I help you, love?’ the woman asked, wearing a smile that didn’t seem entirely heartfelt.

  David nodded. ‘I’m looking for the private room. At the back?’

  Lucy pointed down the bar, and David looked. There was a door that appeared to be made of some kind of dark red wood. It was closed, and had a small silver plate bolted to it with black letters that read ‘PRIVATE’.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, a little embarrassed. He could have spotted that himself if he’d taken a few moments to look around first. Not a brilliant start. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ she responded, and sounded like she meant it.

  He turned and walked towards the door. The few people in the pub all watched him as he did so. He felt scrutinised, like an ant under a magnifying glass. His shoes made soft squeaking noises on the wooden floor as he passed. They sounded deafening in his ears, amplified by his discomfort.

  Reaching the door, he knocked softly. He still felt the back of his neck burning with half a dozen curious stares. He waited a moment, hoping for an invitation, but there was none. He took a breath and held it, then opened the door.

  Inside was a long, thin table, around which sat half a dozen people, men and women, all looking to be David’s age or older. At the head of the table was an elderly man, well dressed in a grey suit, his silver hair arranged in a coiffure that looked more like a hat than a hairstyle. He waved a welcoming hand towards David, and gestured towards an empty seat at the other end of the table. He nodded and sat down there.

  ‘Mr Hampden,’ the old man said in a familiar, feathery voice. It was the voice David had heard on the telephone. ‘Very good of you to join us. I hope your journey wasn’t too arduous.’

  ‘No more so than the last one,’ David said. ‘I’d love to know exactly why I’ve driven down here again. I’m not fond of riddles.’

  The old man laughed, soft and breathless. ‘My sincere apologies, Mr Hampden. I’ve grown distrustful of telephones over the years, and prefer to conduct my meetings face to face.’

  ‘Or by anonymous note?’ David asked, arching an eyebrow. He’d noticed a hierarchy in the room, denoted by each person’s position at the table. It was obvious that the man at the head of the table was the unequivocal leader, as obvious as the carnival manager’s domination of his own subordinates.

  ‘Desperate measures, Mr Hampden. Desperate measures.’ The old man picked up a glass of water on the table and drained it in a single gulp. The moment he put it down again, a man with short black hair and a tiny moustache sitting to his left refilled it from a jug. ‘But to business. I suppose I should introduce myself. Parkes is my name, Sebastian Parkes. And this,’ he said, gesturing at the people sitting around the table, ‘is my council.’

  ‘Council?’ David looked at them all, frowning. ‘You’re politicians?’

  ‘Some of us, yes,’ Parkes said with a thin smile.

  ‘Richard here, for example,’ he said, indicating the man who’d poured his drink a moment earlier, ‘is the deputy mayor. But we’re not an official council, if that’s what you mean. We’re more...’ he paused, searching for the right words, ‘a collection of concerned citizens.’

  ‘Concerned about what?’

  ‘About Tillbrook, of course,’ Parkes replied. ‘My family has lived here for six generations. My ancestors helped to found this town.’ His expression turned grim.

  ‘I’ll be damned if I continue to stand by and watch it corrupted by those... those freaks.’

  ‘The carnival people, you mean,’ David said.

  ‘Of course,’ the old man responded, his tone a little patronising.

  David frowned. ‘What I don’t understand, Mr Parkes, is why you harbour such animosity towards them. I mean, I can understand some ill feeling, but with all due respect, you appear to have organised a vendetta against the carnival. I was hoping you might explain why.’

  Parkes shook his head. ‘I don’t know if it’s possible to explain it to an outsider, Mr Hampden. We’ve been forced to tolerate the presence of that carnival for over a century now. It has dominated us through a determined campaign of fear, and taken its toll on our fair town. Every generation since they arrived here - we have grown fewer, and they greater. Eventually Tillbrook will vanish, and the carnival will be all that remains of our community.’ He took another drink of water and continued. ‘We cannot allow this to happen. They must be driven from our midst.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ David admitted. ‘What did they do? What do they do? They’re just a carnival.’ He looked at Parkes carefully. ‘Aren’t they?’

  The old man met his gaze steadily. ‘No, Mr Hampden. As I told you over the telephone, they are much more than that. And I think you know it too, or at least suspect it.’

  ‘A cult?’ David asked, his instincts telling him he was correct. Particularly the way the carnies kowtowed to their leader, almost worshipped him. Yes, it made sense.

  ‘A religious cult?’

  ‘No, Mr Hampden,’ Parkes said, solemn. ‘Not religious. Quite the opposite. They are godless creatures, abominations. No better than animals.’

  ‘Actually...’ one of the women at the table began, but stopped when Parkes glared at her. She was seated farthest away from the leader, closest to David on his right. Her greying hair was tied in a utilitarian bun on top of her head, her clothes looked quite old and she wore a nametag that read ‘Noelene’. ‘Sorry,’ she said in a hushed voice, looking down at her hands.

  Parkes returned his attention to David. ‘We all have something in common here, Mr Hampden. Including you, I believe.’

  ‘And what is that?’ David asked, but he suspected he al
ready knew the answer, and he didn’t like it. His stomach was bubbling again.

  The old man’s expression darkened, like a cloud had passed nearby. ‘We have all lost loved ones to the Dervish folk, in one way or another.’

  Around the table, the ‘council’ reacted to this statement in different ways. Some looked sad; others held themselves with a quiet stolidity. But the majority had much the same expression as their leader: barely repressed rage and resentment. David looked at their faces and saw himself.

  ‘So why not boycott the carnival?’ he asked. ‘Get the rest of the townspeople behind you and drive them out?’

  Parkes shook his head. ‘The townspeople are fools. Some are afraid, but most simply don’t understand. They go to the carnival because they always have, as their parents did, and theirs before them. It’s tradition,’ he said, spitting the last word as if a curse.

  There only seemed one more question to ask: ‘What do you want from me?’

  Parkes’ mood remained black. ‘We want you to expose them. Expose their evil to the world outside of Tillbrook. They are powerful here, big fish in a small, isolated pond, but drop them in the ocean and they’ll be devoured in a heartbeat. This is what they fear.’ His hands, resting on the table, curled into angry claws, the long fingernails scratching on the wood. ‘They feel they are safe here. We want you to remove that safety. Only then will they be forced to flee. Only then will we be free of them.’