Stephen Jones - Dark Terrors 3 - The Gollancz Book of Horror

It was odd, Daniel reflected, that there were no people making their way towards him up the hill: one would expect the population of the dull little hamlet to turn out in force for any kind of diversion. He wondered if most of the village was in fact uninhabited: many of the houses did have a look of shut-up vacancy. Perhaps most of them were second homes, used by the well-off only occasionally, or untenanted holiday cottages. He had heard of cases where whole villages had become depopulated because most of the properties had been bought up by outside investors. This idea made him feel a little better about his experiences since he had arrived at. Where? He realized he didn’t even know the name of the place! Anyway, the deep, awesome silence, that still surrounded him on almost every side was no longer quite so inexplicable and disturbing. It was, of course, quite natural, and only-to-be-expected, if the village was almost deserted.

Just before ten past two Daniel roused Marc and told him what was about to happen. The boy, who had not attended a similar function before, seemed nervous at the prospect. Daniel did his best to explain what lay before them as they wandered to and through the lych-gate that now stood wide open. Daniel offered a handful of change to the waiting woman, but she said there was no entry charge.

As father and son stepped on to the lawn, the band struck up with audible enthusiasm. Daniel was mildly surprised to find that they seemed to be the only visitors so far. In fact, there were fewer people about than there had been earlier, when he had watched some of the last-minute preparations for the event. Perhaps the helpers he had seen then had withdrawn into the marquee to refresh themselves: he could hear the murmur of voices from that direction.

The first stall he came to was covered in tumbling heaps of White Elephants. Daniel paused dutifully as he passed, but hurried on when the over-anxious assistant stooped to retrieve various articles he dislodged when he clumsily lifted a faded lampshade at the bottom of one of the piles of sad junk. He bought five tickets at an instant raffle of bottles of wine and spirits and bathroom soaps and medications, but won nothing, then moved on to a book stall covered in old, valuable looking volumes mostly in a foreign language. The printed words looked to be in the same language as the inscription on the base of the monument, or whatever it was he and Marc had discovered. He wanted to ask about this, but the stall was unattended: a tin with a slot cut into the top, next to a small sign saying CONTRIBUTIONS GRATEFULLY ACCEPTED acted as a receptacle for self-assessed donations. Daniel nearly purchased a book, out of curiosity, but it was surprisingly heavy, as though its leather bindings concealed lead covers. He decided he did not want to be burdened by it for the rest of the day, put it down, and moved on.

Next was some kind of game he couldn’t understand, but had a go at nevertheless. The rather glum, shifty-looking man behind the trestle table told him, when asked, it was called ‘Lost and Found’. It involved a large number of brightly covered cards spread over a white sheet, and a vertical board, nailed to the trunk of a nearby tree, on which had been drawn a diagram of baffling complexity. Daniel paid the man fifty pence, and was told to select three of the cards and turn them over slowly, one by one. On the reverse of the first was written ‘LOST’. The man took it from him and, referring to the design on the board, traced a path along the centre of it with his finger. When he came to a stop, he turned and said, ‘Very good, sir: excellent,’ and reached out for the second card. Daniel was slightly dispirited to find, as he handed it over, it also had ‘LOST’ on the back. The man seemed to cheer up a little when he saw it, however, and turned eagerly back to his chart. He used two fingers to plot converging courses this time, and gave a grunt of what sounded like triumph when the tips of them came together at the top right-hand corner of the board. He actually smirked at Daniel then, and said, ‘And the next one sir? Is it going to be third time lucky?’

‘I hope so,’ Daniel said, trying to smile back. But his heart sank as he turned the final card, because he was sure he was going to see the word ‘LOST’ again.

He was wrong.

‘“FOUND”,’ he read aloud, sounding absurdly relieved. ‘There you are,’ he added as he handed the card over, as though some kind of bargain had been struck.

‘And there you are, sir,’ the man said as he accepted it. This time he hardly consulted the board: after glancing at it in mild puzzlement for a second, he stabbed a finger towards a point in the centre of the design, then held up the card — and called out, ‘Congratulations — well done. You’ve won something, sir.’

At this, quiet clapping sounded nearby. Daniel glanced around and saw that more visitors must have entered the garden. Half a dozen or so close by were watching him, nodding their heads sombrely in approval, and bringing their hands carefully together.

‘Would the boy like to choose a prize?’ the stall assistant asked, looking almost jovial now. He held out a box full of objects identically gift-wrapped in gold and silver paper, like birthday presents.

Marc, who had been standing some paces back from the table in an attempt to disassociate himself from his father’s activities, shook his head and tugged at his hat with both hands in embarrassment.

‘You’re all right,’ he muttered awkwardly, ‘I’m not bothered.’

‘Oh, come on, Marc.’ Daniel was aware of the small audience around them, and anxious to move on to where they would not be the centre of attention. ‘Pick one out, and we’ll go and find something to eat. Let’s get on.’

For a moment it looked as though the boy was going to refuse to comply. At the first sight of rebellion the stallholder’s face took on an impatient, intolerant look. He stepped forward and thrust the box towards Marc, who gave way immediately. He blushed, snatched the nearest prize, and held it out to his father. Daniel grabbed his arm and steered him away towards the big tent.

‘Don’t you want to see what you’ve won?’ Marc asked.

‘We can open it later. If it’s any good, you can have it.’

‘It’ll just be rubbish,’ Marc complained. ‘Something useless.’

‘You never know,’ Daniel said, aware, however, that his son was right. They would probably end up throwing his ‘prize’ away.

They had to walk around the tent twice before they found the way in. The entrance was a flap that hung closed and almost invisible in the dark shadows cast by the descending sun. Daniel pulled it aside and peered in.

About a dozen small, stocky men were gathered together at one end of the marquee, drinking beer from disposable plastic tumblers. They stood in a line along a makeshift bar, with their backs towards the two newcomers. They were talking quietly but somewhat excitedly to each other with the easy familiarity of the long-acquainted. Locals, Daniel thought, probably village-born: they’d be sure to be able to tell him how to find his way back to his car. He stooped and stepped into the tent, then turned and waited for Marc to join him.

The air inside smelt of old canvas and trampled grass, and was cool, sharp and agricultural. The boy entered suspiciously, glancing covertly about him as though he feared he might be entering a trap. Daniel smiled sadly at this display of adolescent unease, and wished he could say or do something to quell his son’s excessive self-consciousness and irrational and seemingly habitual anxiety.

A couple of the men moved aside as Daniel reached the bar, but not very far, as though they were none too keen to make way. They seemed incurious about the visitors, and otherwise ignored them. Daniel postponed asking about his car for the moment, and bought a pint of pale, soapy looking beer for himself and cola for Marc. There was no food on offer. They sat at a skimpy table some distance from the other drinkers, on metal chairs with thin legs that dug into the ground under their weight.