Graham Masterton - The Devils of D-Day

I said to Madeleine, softly, “You don’t have to go through with this if you don’t want to. I mean, if you don’t really believe this devil’s going to hurt you, you could take a risk and stay at home.”

“What do you mean?”

I shrugged. “I’m not sure. But I’ve always felt that any kind of devil only has as much power as you’re prepared to concede it. If we weren’t afraid of Elmek, then maybe it couldn’t hurt us.”

Madeleine shook her head. “I believe in this devil, Dan. I’ve believed in it longer than you have. And I started all this terrible killing, too, so I think I have a duty to see it through.”

“It’s your choice,” I told her, and switched on the engine. Then I pulled out of the snowbound yard, and drove through the cold, empty streets of Pont D’Ouilly. I kept glancing in my mirror at the dull shape of the medieval trunk—and also to see if any smoke was rising yet out of Father Anton’s house. But the trunk remained silent and closed, and it only took a few minutes of driving down those winding roads before the village disappeared behind the trees and the hills, and I never saw Elmek’s strange powers at work.

Madeleine said, “I’m sorry, Dan. If I’d only known.”

“We’ll beat them yet,” I told her. “Elmek and Adramelech and the whole damned team.”

But when I looked again at the sinister bulk of that ancient trunk, I felt far from confident; and I couldn’t even guess at what hideous atrocities its nightmarish inhabitant was already scheming.

A French onion-seller wavered across the road in front of me on his bicycle, and I blew my horn at him angrily.

“ Cochon! ” he shouted, and shook his fist as he dwindled out of sight in the snow.

Dieppe was as grey and tatty as any Channel port, and we only stopped in the cobbled square in the centre of town for a few minutes, just to change some French francs into British pounds. It was almost lunchtime, and we were lucky to make the bank before it closed. In France, they take their lunch seriously. Then we drove out to the SNCF ferry, past the cluttered little cafes and tourist arcades and bars called “Le Bar Anglais” or “Le Bar Churchill”, where day-tripping British tourists spent their last few francs on very ordinary vin ordinaire ; past the cranes and the docks and the clutter of crates and trucks; until we turned the corner and saw the black-and-white ship with its red-painted funnel, and the English Channel the colour of pale green soup.

I bought tickets, and we waited nervously in line for twenty minutes before our Citröen was waved down the metal ramp into the bowels of the ship. We parked the car in a jam pack of Mercedes and Audis and Renaults, and then climbed to the upper decks to wait out the three-and-a-half hour journey.

The trip across the Channel to Newhaven is one of the dullest sea voyages there is. We went into the ferry’s restaurant, and ate leek soup and veal with congealed gravy, while the ship’s engines drummed and the sea rose and tipped outside the salt-stained windows.

Madeleine said, “You’re very quiet.”

I mopped up soup with a piece of stale French bread. “I was thinking about last night.”

“Was it really terrible?”

“I was scared stiff, if that’s what you mean.”

She looked out of the window. “Do you think we can exorcise it? Do you think there’s any way?”

“Well, maybe the Reverend Woodfall Taylor will know the answer to that—if the Reverend Woodfall Taylor’s still alive.”

“Oh, God, I hope so ”

They brought the meat and a selection of overcooked vegetables. At least they had a decent wine—a bottle of rich, heady Margaux that almost sent me to sleep with its fumes. I ate because I was hungry, but every mouthful was like balsa wood.

Madeleine said, “Couldn’t we simply throw the trunk over the side?”

I sipped my wine. “I suppose we could do. But I don’t think devils drown, do you? And what if he killed us before we could throw him over? Or after? And apart from any of those problems, the ship’s crew would probably stop us. I shouldn’t think they’re very keen on people tossing strange boxes into the Channel.”

She put down her fork, although she had hardly touched her veal.

“Dan,” she said, “I’m frightened.”

“You have every right to be.”

“No, Dan, I mean really frightened. Like something awful is going to happen.”

I looked at her over the rim of my wine glass, and there was nothing I could say. I couldn’t pretend that things were going to get better, because it looked as if they were going to get worse. I couldn’t even pretend I had a plan to get us out of trouble. All I was doing was playing for time, with the terrible knowledge that Elmek was probably going to sacrifice both of us to Adramelech in any case. Why should he keep his bargain, if he could cut us to shreds by magic at any time he chose, and we were powerless? The ship rolled steadily, and the cutlery and cruets and glasses and ashtrays all rattled and jingled and vibrated in a ceaseless cantata.

Later, we stood by the rail and watched the whitish smudge of England appear on the port side—the seven chalk cliffs they call the Seven Sisters, sloping gradually down on the westward side towards Seaford beach and Newhaven harbour. The ferry turned herself round to back stern-first into the narrow harbour entrance, and a barely intelligible French voice told us over the intercom to return to our cars.

We were both depressed and fearful as we went down the stairs to the car decks and unwillingly rejoined our hellish charge. Neither of us spoke as we sat waiting for the stern doors of the ship to open up, and neither of us looked around at that dark medieval trunk in which the devil nestled. I felt unbearably claustrophobic inside that ship, as if tons of metal were pressing down on me from up above.

At last, the crew waved us out of the ferry and up the ramp to the dockside. It was one of those bright, grey afternoons, with a damp sea-breeze blowing. A cheerful-looking customs official beckoned us towards a vacant inspection bay, and we drove in and stopped.

Madeleine opened her window, and the customs official leaned in. He had that relentless urbanity that always disturbs me in British excise officers—a little different from the laconic gum-chewing lady in the fur coat who always insists you open up all your bags at JFK. He said: “How long do you plan to stay in Britain, sir?”

“I don’t know. About a week. Maybe two.”

“Holiday?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

He shaded his eyes against the reflection from our window glass, and peered into the back of the car. Then he walked all the way around, and came up to my window. I opened it, and sat there with what I hoped was a calm, obliging smile. I probably looked like Sylvester the cat when Tweety-Pie’s bulldog pal suddenly appears in the garden—all clenched teeth and sick grin.

The customs official said, “Do you know that it is a serious offence to try to smuggle live animals into the United Kingdom, sir?”

I nodded like an idiot. “Yes, I knew that. Something to do with rabies, right?”

“That’s right, sir. Now, would you care to tell me what you have in that box?”

“Box? Oh, you mean that trunk.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, that’s just a few odd bits and pieces. I collect antiques. I have a few books in there, a couple of statuettes. Bits and pieces.”

The customs official made a note on his clipboard. Then he pointed with his ballpen to a side bay where a couple of Germans were already having their Mercedes thoroughly searched. He was just about to say something when he frowned, and looked back at me, and then looked around as if he’d lost something.