Ellen Datlow - The Best Horror of the Year. Volume 4

“No, no way am I having anything to do with them. They’ll question me and I will have to tell the truth and they’ll think I’m mad. Do you think I’ve gone insane?”

“It crossed my mind,” Franz confessed, “but I think it more likely you just got it all wrong. Maybe you fell asleep for a short while that day and Murdock left without waking you.”

“He couldn’t do that. He makes too much noise, I told you. He bellows about and blunders into everything. Knocks things over.”

“He’s a big man. Anyway, I’m off now. I’ll have a fish about and I’ll be in touch.”

“What do you mean ‘fish about’?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll see if I can dig into things a bit, if you know what I mean?”

“I don’t. But that’s fine. Thank you Franz. I’m sorry to have off-loaded all this on you. But I felt I had to tell someone who was not too… judgmental.”

Franz slipped out of the room and almost ran downstairs. At the bottom he found his sister waiting for him.

“What do you think?” she said. “Has he told you the whole story?”

“He told me too much. More than I can believe.”

“When he called me up on Wednesday, to extinguish a cigar Murdock had dropped, I had no idea that he was up there alone. Usually I hear Murdock leaving the house. He can only manage three stairs then he has to have a rest. Like a bloody elephant coming down. And he usually calls out goodbye to me before he leaves. I didn’t hear a thing that day.”

“Perhaps he was in a hurry for some reason. Late for an appointment. Wanted to get away without causing a fuss.”

“I expect you’re right but people do disappear under odd circumstances. Strange things do happen, Franz.”

“Not to me they don’t. I’ve lived for almost fifty years and nothing remotely strange has ever happened to me.”

“That’s why I suggested Jerry get in touch with you to hear his story. You’re so down to earth. Jerry believes what he says though. I can’t get him away from that.”

“He’s delusional in my opinion. Not that I know anything about unusual psychological states. But you said yourself you’ve both been under a lot of strain recently. Perhaps he’s been working too hard.”

“We were doing okay before Murdock went missing, Franz.”

Next morning, Sunday, Franz lay in bed until just before noon, thinking about the work he was planning to do on his new project and trying not to think about Jerry or Murdock. It was a perfect day for working indoors, with a constant drizzle falling outside. But, after he had dressed and eaten a late breakfast, he phoned Barbara and asked for Murdock’s address. As it happened it turned out to be quite near where he lived. After establishing that Murdock was not answering his phone he told Barbara that he was going to call round to see what, if anything, was going on.

“Murdock probably isn’t aware that he’s caused this upset Barbara,” he told her. “I’ll see if I can get him to explain himself.”

“That’s really good of you Franz, but be careful.”

“What?”

“You heard what I said.”

“Are you suggesting Murdock might pose some sort of threat?”

“Not really, no. But we don’t know what might happen next, do we? I mean the man’s disappeared, hasn’t he?”

Franz put the phone down, grimaced at his reflection in a mirror, and went out to his car.

Franz recognised the spot as soon as he saw it. He’d passed it many times going in and out of town. A thirty yard square of grass, still covered by an inch of grimy snow from weeks before. It was surrounded by a mixture of bungalows and cheaply built houses of various vintages and with little or no individual parking space so their occupants had to squat their vehicles in front or on a makeshift and crumbling area of cement set in the among the unkempt grass. The higher walls of a larger and grander estate recently built behind loomed above them, giving the impression that the older group of houses had clung on where they were not wanted.

After finding space for his car on the cracked cement Franz looked about for number 15 which proved to be the largest of the bungalows. Obviously the script writing didn’t bring in as much money as he had supposed or, for some reason, Murdock chose to live in one of the less salubrious parts of town.

Franz walked in the continuously drizzling rain through a creaky gate and up to Murdock’s front door. As soon as he rapped his knuckles on the glass something, probably a small animal, went berserk in the hall beyond. He could hear it leaping and scratching frantically. He tried to get sight of it through the letter box but could not do so because a flap of canvas hung behind the door. He whispered what he hoped were words of comfort to the creature, whatever it was, which only made it wilder in its desperation. Franz withdrew and took stock of the rest of the building, which was much bigger than he had supposed, by circumnavigating it. When he got round to the front door again he was pretty sure that Murdock was not at home. He tried peering into the gloom beyond the front windows when a voice said, “Would you be looking for Mr. McFee, by any chance?”

It took Franz a few seconds to recognise Murdock’s surname, it was so long since he’d used it.

He turned and saw a bald man in a boiler suit carrying aloft an open umbrella. He said, “Yes, have you any idea where he is?”

“No,” the man said. He seemed to be measuring Franz up carefully.

Franz said, “There is some kind of animal in there that obviously wants to be let out.”

“That will be Mr. McFee’s dog, Rasputin.”

“Is it hungry?”

“If Mr. McFee is not at home and it’s not been fed, then it will be, yes.”

“Is he in the habit of going away and leaving it?”

“No. He gives my lad charge of it.”

“Your lad?”

“I’ll fetch him. He’s got a key.” The man went swiftly off towards the house next door and returned at once with a boy of about fourteen huddled up next to him under the umbrella. “This is the feller, Clive,” he said. “Says he’s a friend of Mr. McFee.”

Franz saw at once that Clive, unfortunately, was not all there. His father’s words seemed to mean nothing to him and he stared steadily at the ground in front of him.

“Clive is a bit slow, but he loves that dog. Mr. McFee isn’t here to let him in but if you say so he’ll open the door and let it out.”

“Well, certainly, yes, let’s do that.”

The man said, “Go on Clive,” and the boy sauntered away holding the key out in front of him. A moment later the dog burst out of the open door like a flood of bathwater, and squirmed round and round Clive’s legs. The boy knelt down and Rasputin licked his face voluptuously.

“It doesn’t bark,” Franz observed. “Why’s that?”

“Mr. McFee had it operated on, I believe.”

That seemed an odd remark to Franz. “I’d better take a look round in the house, to make sure nothing unfortunate has happened,” he said and, when the man made no objection, he made his way into the bungalow.

The stale smell of Murdock’s cigars hung about the place, particularly the kitchen, which was obviously the room most used. A few small piles of dog shit were scattered about on the floor, which Franz grubbed up with some paper towels. Not as many turds as might be expected but then the dog hadn’t eaten for possibly three or four days. Franz opened the fridge. Not much there either — some wilting salad, a pint of milk beginning to turn blue and a few cheese rinds. Relics of meals. Obviously, Murdock was not a fancy eater. On a shelf next to the refrigerator he spotted some tins of dog food. He eased the lid off one and turned its contents out into a saucer and set it down on the linoleum.