Carnies Page 17

  He lay there for a moment, his head spinning, then there was a spark of light, a flickering flame, as a cigarette was lit. He looked up and saw her face.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Paul,’ Jasmine said with a grin, weirdly without malice. The tiny light from the end of her cigarette dimly illuminated her face and part of her chest, making it appear to float in mid-air, like a ghost or a hallucination.

  ‘Why...’ he gasped. ‘Why did you do that?’

  She leaned forward, smoke drifting in front of her face. Her eyes were filled with a strange kind of affection. ‘Why? Because you’re mine, Paul Hampden,’ she said, her voice warm, yet somehow it chilled Paul to his core. ‘I made you. You belong to me.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Paul said. ‘You didn’t make me. You infected me. Without my consent, without my knowledge.’

  ‘Hey, come on,’ she said with genuine indignation. ‘I asked if you wanted to be one of us, and you said yes.’ Her eyes lit up, mischievous. ‘Yes means yes.’

  ‘If I’d known...’ he started.

  ‘If you’d known, you wouldn’t have believed it anyway,’ she laughed. ‘And you’d still have said yes.’

  Paul went silent. She was most likely right about that.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said ‘it’s too late now. No going back. You’re a newblood, like me. Bottom of the totem pole around here.’ She smiled again. ‘But not for long.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, with any luck, in nine months I’ll be giving birth to a newborn oldblood all of our own.’ She rubbed her bare belly with the hand holding the cigarette, illuminating the sweaty skin there for a moment, then returning it to her mouth. ‘Then they’ll have to give me some respect. Us some respect,’ she corrected, and laughed again. There was still no malice there, just determination.

  ‘Christ almighty,’ Paul breathed. He felt like he would throw up.

  Jasmine got up and walked to the door, the cigarette still the only illumination in the room. She opened it, and the wan light of the very early morning lit her nude body like a turn-of-the-century photograph, all shades of sepia. She looked back over her shoulder for a moment, as if she would say something more, but remained silent. She smiled at him, warmly, sadly.

  Then the door closed and she was gone. Paul was alone, for real this time.

  He lay back on the blanket, which was sticky with sweat and semen, and looked at the ceiling, which he could just make out now, the light increasing. Damn it, he thought, angry and miserable, I should have known it wasn’t Rachel. I should have...

  I did. I did know.

  That realisation sickened him. He’d known from the moment he’d sensed someone in the room with him that it wasn’t Rachel. The scent was all wrong, the size of her hands on him, the length of her nails, the shape of her hips and breasts. It was obvious.

  And yet he’d chosen to believe that it was Rachel. He’d known it wasn’t her. It could never be her. She belonged to Amos, and could never be his. He’d known, but had gone along with the fantasy anyway.

  Because he’d wanted it to be her. Needed it to be her. So she could save him from himself.

  He closed his eyes, praying for sleep to reclaim him. The nightmares weren’t as bad as what he had to face while awake. He knew that he was in trouble here, that the conflict between what he wanted and what he could have was tearing him apart. As long as he had that conflict, he could never belong here.

  I have to talk to her, he decided. I have to work this out, one way or another. Otherwise it’ll just fester.

  Jesus, who am I kidding? It’s already festering.

  With that despondent thought the last of the adrenaline faded from his veins, and his consciousness faded with it, replaced by blissful, dreamless oblivion.

  -28-

  David pulled the car into his driveway and stopped it a few metres from the garage door. He opened his car door and stepped out onto the lawn, stood up straight and breathed in deeply through his nose. The morning air seemed alive with smells: freshly mown grass mingled with pollens and carbon monoxide, there was the faint threat of distant rain and even dog and cat excrement. A thousand scents jostled for his attention, and he could smell them all, each individual one. He ached, yes, but sleeping in the car would account for most of that. Besides the mild pain, though, David felt more alive than he’d ever felt.

  Smiling and whistling, he walked away from his car, which was parked at a crooked angle across the manicured grass at the front of his house. He walked to the front door, his keys in his hands, and quickly unlocked the handle lock, the bar lock and the deadlock. It was an automatic action, one he’d done hundreds of times before. As he opened the door he heard the familiar beeping of the alarm system, ready to go off.

  It was a little farther to the kitchen from the front door compared to the distance from the garage door, but David jogged without effort, amazed at how his muscles, though sore, seemed a good twenty years younger. There was a definite spring to his step. He punched the code into the control panel, and the beeping stopped. Then he mounted the stairs, bounding up them two at a time, sometimes three. He reached the first floor in moments, then walked to the bedroom door, opening it a crack.

  Christine was still asleep. That was good. It was still very early in the morning, maybe seven o’clock, and her alarm wouldn’t go off for another half hour at least. He quietly closed the door, not wanting to wake her, though a small part of him had the urge to rush in there and jump up and down on the bed like a child on Christmas morning, then tell her everything.

  Not yet, his father’s voice cautioned him. She wouldn’t understand.

  ‘All right, Father,’ he whispered, and instead went to the bathroom to clean up.

  He took off his clothes and climbed straight into the shower, washing the dirt and blood off his body. As he did so he touched his neck, still tentative even though he’d already touched it a dozen times that morning.

  It was whole. He could feel the trace of a scar there, but that was all.

  A miracle, the voice intoned. A gift from God. He has spared you. Healed you.

  ‘Yes.’

  And you know why. A statement, not a question.

  ‘Yes,’ he said again.

  From the bedroom he heard Christine’s voice. ‘David? Is that you?’

  Stupid question, he thought. ‘Yes,’ he said yet again, louder this time. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Oh,’ she mumbled, and her breathing became deep again. David was amazed that he could hear that, even over the running water. It was like he had been...

  Resurrected, his father said. Renewed.

  ‘New and improved,’ he said himself, then gargled some water and spat it out, the last of the clotted blood coming with it. His tongue was fine too. Even his stomach ulcer, that omnipresent burning in his gut, had gone. He splashed some water on his face to clean it. And paused, hands on his cheeks. What he felt there made no sense. Quickly, without turning off the water, he climbed out of the shower and looked into the mirror. It had fogged up, but the image was clear enough.

  David recoiled, horrified. His face was covered in hair, as if he hadn’t shaved for weeks. It made him look like a savage, like...

  Understanding hit him like a spear to the gut. Like one of them.

  ‘Oh no,’ he breathed. ‘Please, God, no...’

  Calm down, his father’s voice murmured inside his head. Calm down...

  ‘What do you mean, calm down?’ he cried. ‘I’ve been...’

  Possessed? the voice asked. Corrupted?

  ‘I...’

  Do you feel corrupted?

  ‘I...’ David thought for a moment, then relaxed. ‘No, I don’t. Quite the opposite.’

  So what does that tell you?

  The words came, halting, as the truth emerged. ‘It means... it means that I’ve tamed the demon. That it tried to take me, but I was too strong for it.’

  That is correct. The voice sounded proud. He’d never heard pride in hi
s father’s voice before, at least not directed at his eldest son.

  ‘And now I have their power at my fingertips,’ he continued, looking at his face with awe instead of fear.

  ‘To destroy them with their own weapons.’

  You have turned their poison into the holiest of waters, his father said, and they shall choke upon it. Drown in it like the Egyptians in the Red Sea.

  ‘David?’ Christine had woken again. Not surprising, because David had been speaking quite loudly. ‘Is there someone there with you?’

  ‘No, honey,’ he called back. ‘I’m just...’

  A soldier of God.

  ‘...thinking out loud.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said again.

  David reached back into the shower and turned off the water, then filled the sink and pulled a can of shaving cream from one of the vanity’s drawers. He lathered up his face and grabbed his safety razor.

  Five minutes later he looked human again.

  You’d better take the razor with you when we return, the voice advised him. I suspect it may grow back.

  David nodded.

  And you’ll need a weapon.

  He thought of the gun he’d bought a few years back, against Christine’s wishes. It was funny: she was paranoid about home security, but loathed the idea of firearms in the house. Seemed like a contradiction to him. But his crime stories had been earning him some powerful enemies, and he’d wanted to ensure his safety. And Christine’s, of course.

  No, you dolt! The voice was like a slap across David’s face, and he flinched at it. You need the holy metal, the metal of God.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he said with a soft laugh. ‘Silver.’

  The letter opener your wife gave you for your wedding anniversary will be an adequate beginning. Go and get it.

  He wrapped a towel around his waist, leaving his bloodied and tattered clothes on the bathroom floor, and went back into the hallway. He left wet footprints behind him in the carpet as he went to the tiny spare bedroom he’d claimed as his own office. Once inside he walked to his desk, much smaller than his wife’s, and opened the top drawer. The letter opener lay on top of the junk in there, glittering. He reached for it.

  No! his father warned, and he jerked his hand back as if out of a fire.

  ‘What?’

  Our flesh is their flesh, he explained. It will hurt us.

  ‘Oh.’ He looked around, and saw a handkerchief sitting on the corner of the desk. He reached down and picked up the letter opener with it. With his free hand he wrapped the rest of the handkerchief around the handle of the small knife.

  Yes... The voice sounded pleased.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Christine’s sleepy question made David jump. He spun around to face her. ‘Uh... I’m...’

  Going to war.

  ‘...opening some mail.’

  ‘At this hour?’ she asked, one eyebrow raised. Then she shrugged. ‘Well, I’m glad to see you’re using the letter opener I bought you. I’d swear I’ve never seen you use it before.’

  He smiled. ‘Oh, I’m sure I have. It’s very handy.’

  She turned and headed back towards the bedroom.

  ‘Be careful with it, though. It cost a fair amount. It’s sterling silver, after all.’

  ‘Sterling...’ he mumbled as she left.

  Inside his head his father was furious. Sterling silver? Sterling silver? Touch it, boy!

  ‘But...’

  TOUCH IT!

  He reached out a finger on his free hand and, flinching, touched the blade once. Twice. Held it there.

  Nothing.

  Sterling silver, the voice spat. Silver mixed with copper. Useless. Useless!

  ‘Useless...’ he muttered.

  It’s her fault!

  ‘Her fault...’

  She’s in league with them.

  He paused. ‘Christine? No, she...’

  She must be punished.

  ‘No!’

  YES!

  David found himself walking from his office towards the bedroom. The towel fell away from his waist, and he strode naked through the door to stand at the foot of the bed, still holding the letter opener in his hand.

  Christine was sitting on her side of the bed, flicking through some papers. She didn’t look up. ‘Yes, David?’

  ‘Christine...’ he growled.

  She looked up, and her eyes widened, staring at his crotch. ‘Oh, David, is this really the time?’

  He glanced down himself, and saw that he was fully erect.

  His eyes returned to her face. She was blushing. Then she noticed the knife in his hand.

  ‘David?’ she asked again. Her voice betrayed a little fear. Her scent betrayed much more.

  With a snarl, he leapt onto the bed at her, catching her hair in his hand and pulling it hard, flinging her onto her back on the mattress. She screamed, but only for a moment. He plunged the letter opener into the soft flesh underneath her chin, driving it straight down. It speared her windpipe, and her screams turned to a breathy gurgle. Bright red blood bubbled around his hand. Her eyes locked on his, filled with confusion and terror. Then everything faded from them and they rolled backwards, exposing the whites.

  He heard her heart falter, skipping a few beats before coming to a ragged halt, a band deprived of its conductor.

  David sat there for a few moments longer, still clutching the knife in his wife’s throat. Then he pulled it free, releasing a sudden gush of blood. It slowed after that, though, becoming a steady trickle down both sides of her neck to the bed, shiny and thick like a gaudy necklace of rubies. He watched this for a while, feeling instincts billowing up from deep inside him. His vision turned as red as the blood that was staining their mattress.

  Let it happen, boy, his father’s voice reassured him. It is part of you now.

  He raised his head and roared, a deep, husky sound that should never have come from the throat of a man. Then his head pitched downwards, and he bit into the tiny wound he’d created, tearing it with his teeth. His teeth ripped into her soft flesh again and again, until the head was almost separated from the body. He found himself chewing on the bones of her neck, teeth scraping against the vertebrae. Then he sat up and howled again, shaking his head, blood splattering across the bed.

  That’s enough, the voice murmured, but it acted like a bucket of cold water in his face. He stopped and looked down at what he’d wrought on the body of his wife. Her head lolled at an unnatural angle, the throat nothing but torn flesh and blood, with glints of shining white bone deep within.

  David knew he should have been appalled at the sight, disgusted. But all he felt was excited. No, more than that. He felt energised. Ecstatic. Alive.

  Come, David, his father’s voice said firmly. We have God’s work to do.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, a bloody grin on his face. ‘And I know where to start.’

  He got off the bed and jogged, still naked, to the office that Christina used. He opened the door and walked to the desk, then opened the rolodex on it and flipped through it.

  ‘I remember Christine once dealt with insurance for a silversmith down south,’ he babbled. ‘It’d be a short detour. Ah!’ He ripped a card out of the rolodex and waved it, victorious. ‘The guy does silver artworks as well as jewellery, and even does custom orders.’

  Perfect, his father said. We have some very custom orders indeed.

  ‘Indeed,’ David agreed.

  And what if he asks about your wife? the voice asked, as David picked up the phone and dialled.

  ‘I’ll tell him she’s not feeling well,’ he said, still pressing the numbers. ‘I’ll tell him...’ he paused, fingers on the buttons, grinning even wider. ‘I’ll tell him she’s got a sore throat.’

  -29-

  The layout of the carnies’ permanent camp was almost identical to the carnival itself, so much so that Paul’s first impression of it in the daylight was that they’d stayed in the park after all, and somehow overnight the canvas
and ropes had been transformed into wood. The shelters were fairly rough, but very solid, built of large, uneven chunks of the hard red wood of the forest that surrounded them. It was laid out in a clearing, but there was no gap between shanties and trees. In fact, the roofs were adorned with leaves, making the whole affair look organic, natural. From a distance no one would have seen it. Paul imagined it would be even better camouflaged from the air.

  He stepped out of the wooden hut where he’d spent the night and stretched. There was a fair amount of activity going on in the area: repairs to the buildings were underway, materials were being stacked, water was carried from place to place in huge buckets slung over each end of a pole and balanced across the workers’ shoulders. No one was even glancing at Paul. He felt invisible, unwelcome. Unsurprising, after what had occurred the previous night. If he was unpopular before then, he’d be a pariah now.

  Squaring his shoulders, he headed out into the camp, blinking in the sunlight. He didn’t bother to ask for directions, didn’t need to. Like at the carnival, Rachel would have the largest structure. Shared with Amos. All he had to do was find it.

  ‘Hey!’

  The familiar growl came from his left, and he turned to see Ben lifting an enormous tree trunk, hefting it as if it was balsa. He waved to the creature and smiled a little, but didn’t pause. Ben’s eyes spoke volumes as he passed, concern and confusion mixed together in their brown depths. Then he was past. He was trying to keep his head clear. He had to hold it together.

  The biggest hut in the encampment appeared in front of him as he passed between two others. It was almost a proper house, with a wide front door and windows covered with canvas. He strode up to it and knocked.

  There was no answer.

  He hesitated, the wind going out of his sails a little. He’d pictured the scene, marching in and demanding to talk to her. But he hadn’t counted on not actually getting inside. He knocked again.

  Her voice came from inside. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me,’ he said.