Stephen Volk - Whitstable

So much for being a lifelong fan. His true colours, at last. “I know evil when I see it.”

A grunt. “What? Dracula and Frankenstein and the Wolf Man?”

“No. I’m talking about the true evil that human beings are capable of.”

“And what’s that, eh? Tell me. Tell me what’s going on in your sick mind, because I have no bloody idea.”

Cushing did not reply. Simply stared at him and with supreme effort refused to break his gaze. He saw for the first time that the monster’s eyes were as colourless as the invisibly pale eyebrows that now made an arch of self-pity over them.

“You think I’d hurt him? I wouldn’t hurt a hair of his head. Cross my heart and hope to die.” With the thumb of one hand, Gledhill made the sign of the cross, horizontally across his chest, then from his chin to his belly.

“It’s curious,” Cushing said, one hollow cheek pressed to the side of the door. “In vampire mythology, evil has to be invited over the threshold. And she invited you in, didn’t she? With open arms.”

“Yeah, mate. It’s called love.”

“Love can be corrupted. I will not be witness to that and let it pass.”

“How Biblical.” The glistening eyes did not suit the sneer that went with them.

“I have been a Christian all my life. It gives me strength.”

“You Bible-thumpers see evil everywhere.”

“No, we don’t. But to God innocence is precious. It’s to be valued above all things. It must be protected. Our children must be safe. It’s our duty as human beings.”

“Too right. They do need to be protected,” the creature that was Gledhill said. “From old men talking to young boys on the beach. Boys all alone. What did you say to him, eh? That’s what the police are going to ask, don’t you think, if you go to them?” His voice fell to a fetid, yet almost romantic, whisper. “That’s what people are going to ask. What were they talking about, this old man who lives all alone? This old man who makes horrible, sadistic films about cruelty and sex and torture, someone who’s never had any children of his own, they tell me, someone who adores other peoples’ children? This old man and this innocent little boy?”

His skin prickling with the most immense distaste, Cushing refused to be intimidated, even though the nauseous combination of beer and cigarette breath in the air was quite sickening enough. “I’m quite aware he is innocent, Mr Gledhill. And I’m quite aware what you might say against me.”

“Good. And who do you think they’ll believe, eh? Me or you?”

“They’ll believe the truth.”

“Then that’s a pity. For you,” the mouth said. It wasn’t a face any more. Just an ugly, obscene mouth.

Cushing did nothing to back away. He knew that once he did that, physically and mentally, he was lost. But he was backing away in his mind like a frightened rabbit, and he feared that Gledhill could see it in the clear rock pools of his eyes. Frightened eyes.

“I should knock you into next week,” Gledhill breathed. “Just the thought of what you were doing, or trying to do, makes me want to puke, d’you know that? But I’m not someone who takes the law into their own hands. I obey the law, me. I’m a law-abiding…”

Though he wanted to cry out, Cushing stood his ground. He was resolute, even if he didn’t feel it. He felt crushed, battered, clawed, eviscerated. The truth was, he knew, if he gave into impulse and stepped away, then he was afraid that would mean running away. And what might follow that? His visitor was clearly big enough and strong enough to barge through a door held by a flimsy old man with no effort whatsoever. Yet he hadn’t. Why, the old man dared not contemplate. Sheer inability , not bravery, glued him to the spot. But how much of that could the other eyes looking back at him see?

“You need to drop this, I’m telling you,” Gledhill said. “For your own good, all right? I’m doing you a favour coming here. You don’t get it, do you?”

“Oh, I do. I ‘get it’ entirely. Thank you for clarifying any doubt in my mind.”

Cushing instantly wished he’d kept that thought to himself, but now there was no going back and he knew it.

With all his strength he shoved the door hard in the hope the latch would click and he’d turn the key in the Chubb to double-lock it before Gledhill got a chance to push from his side—but Gledhill had already pushed back, and harder. He was a builder, labourer, something— heathen , Cushing didn’t know why that word sprang to mind, but he didn’t want him in his house, he wasn’t a reader he was a destroyer of books, and people. He fell back from the door, panting, a stick man, brittle. Then he did decide to run, the only thing he could do as it flew open, banging against the wall.

He dashed to where the telephone and address book sat on the hall table and snatched up the receiver and put it to his ear, swinging round to face the man in the doorway as his finger found the dial.

To his astonishment Gledhill stopped dead, his feet see-sawing on the threshold, his boots pivoted between toe and heel.

“Sorry! Sorry. Sorry. I’m really sorry, mate! I shouldn’t have talked to you like that. Shit! That, that’s the booze talking. I don’t normally get like that. I don’t normally say boo to a fucking goose, me.” The swear word pierced Cushing like a blade, deep and hard and repellent. He knew people used it, increasingly, but he hated such foul language. But now he had the measure of the man, and the difference between them, and it gaped wide. In the full glare of the hall light, scarlet sweater radiant, a bloody breast swimming in the older man’s vision, Gledhill wiped his long, shiny slug-like lower lip. “But I don’t like people making allegations against me, okay? When they’re lies. Complete lies, all right? What normal man would?”

Les loves that boy.

The low burr on the telephone line changed to a single long tone and Cushing tapped the cradle to get a line.

“Please go. Immediately, please. I don’t want to continue this conversation.”

“Mate, honestly…”

“I’m not your ‘mate’, Mr Gledhill, quite frankly.”

His heart thudding in his ears, Cushing dialled with a forefinger he prayed was steady. The wheel turned anticlockwise with the return mechanism, waiting for the second ‘9’.

The cold had infiltrated and he felt it on his blue-lined skin as he stared at the long-haired man framed in his front doorway against the February night and the other did the same in return. Neither man dared give his adversary the satisfaction of breaking eye contact first. Gledhill hung onto the door frame, meaty hands left and right. Passingly, Cushing thought of Christopher Lee in his big coat as the creature in Curse . But all that monstrousness on the outside, for all to see.

He dialled a second time, straight-backed, not wanting to show the stranger he was afraid, but he was afraid. Of course he was afraid. He wasn’t a young, athletic man any more, sword-fencing beside Louis Hayward or leaping across tables. Far from it. If this man chose to, cocky, powerful and threatened, he could stride right in and beat him to a pulp, or worse. There was no guarantee that a man prone to other acts, despicable acts, would be pacified by a threat of recrimination at a later date. Or a mere phone call . Criminals did not think of consequences. That was one of the things that defined them as criminals. There was nothing, literally nothing, to stop his unwelcome guest killing him, if he decided to.

For the third time he placed his index finger in the hole next to the number ‘9’ and took it round the circumference of the dial.