Каарон Уоррен - The Best Horror of the Year Volume Ten

Eventually, however, he made it, and ran all the way along the promenade until he reached the place where he had spoken to Parr several hours earlier. There was only a single panda car there now, and two uniformed officers guarding the steps, one of whom was taking shelter beneath the awning of a seafront café, sipping tea from a Styrofoam cup. He emerged only when Skelton pounded to a halt in front of his colleague and doubled over as if about to be sick. In truth, Skelton thought he was going to be sick; it was only when he stopped running that he realised how exhausted he was. His head was pounding, his lungs were burning, and beneath his several layers of clothing his body was pouring with sweat. When one of the officers spoke to him—he had no idea which—the voice seemed to reach him through a long, echoing tunnel: “Are you all right, sir?”

Pulling himself together with an effort, Skelton spat out his story in disjointed segments, as if they were chunks of glass. He had to repeat himself several times, and answer a great many questions, to make himself understood, but at last, at his behest, the two officers agreed to inform Parr.

By the time the DI arrived, Skelton was sitting at a table inside the café whose awning the police officer had been sheltering beneath, his hands curled around a mug of strong hot coffee. Steam rose from his hair and clothes as he dried out beside a wall-mounted heater, but he was still shivering. Though his thoughts were mostly turned inward, he knew that the café owner was eyeing him suspiciously, and had only allowed him to take refuge in the café on the condition that one of the police officers remain on the premises. What he must look like to alarm the café owner Skelton had no idea—not that he really cared.

DI Parr sat opposite him and spoke softly. “Mr. Skelton?”

Skelton’s eyes flickered to regard him.

“Mr. Skelton, I understand from my officers that you’ve had a very distressing experience. Now, I know you’ve already told them your story, but I’d be grateful if you could repeat to me what you claim to have seen this afternoon.”

Skelton told his story again, quietly and more coherently this time. When he had done Parr excused himself and went away to inform the coastguard and make enquiries. Eventually he returned and sat down. Without preamble he said, “Mr. Skelton, you claim that this woman, Belinda , is staying in the same hotel as you?”

Skelton nodded. “With her sick husband, yes. They’re in the room above mine.”

“And you’re quite sure about that?”

Skelton stared into Parr’s eyes. “Yes. At least… it’s what she told me. Why?”

Parr sighed and sat back. “According to Mrs. Derry, the owner and manager of the hotel, the top floor is currently unoccupied. Furthermore she says that there is no woman matching the description you gave us staying in the hotel, with or without a sick husband. Neither did Mrs. Derry recognise the name ‘Belinda’.” He shrugged. “It seems you’ve been hoodwinked, Mr. Skelton.”

Skelton felt as if something was unwinding inside him. “But… I had dinner with her last night.”

“That’s as maybe—but the woman you describe is not a resident at the Derry Hotel.”

Skelton felt panicky; he had to resist an urge to grip Parr’s sleeve. “But you do believe me, don’t you? You do believe she exists?”

“I have no reason not to,” Parr said carefully.

“Even though you still think I might be an imposter?”

Parr shook his head. “The results of the DNA test came through earlier today. I’m satisfied that you’re who you claim to be.”

“So what about the… things you found on the beach?”

Parr grimaced. “Currently unidentified. The earlier results must have been wrong. As I suggested before, a computer error.”

Skelton thought of the uniformed officers outside, of the police tape stretched across all access points to the beach. He was still struggling to fight down the feeling of panic inside him. “What about this morning? What did you find?”

Parr looked at him shrewdly, narrowing his eyes. Then he shrugged and said, “More male body parts. Sealed in plastic freezer bags like before. There was a foot in one. A tongue and a… a more intimate part of the anatomy in another.”

“So who do they belong to?”

Again Parr shrugged. “I wouldn’t like to speculate. The inquiry is ongoing.”

Skelton slumped in his seat. He clenched his fists to stop shudders from rippling through him. “I’m cold and wet,” he said. “I’d like to return to my hotel now.”

Parr looked surprised, but he raised a hand and gestured vaguely towards the door. “Certainly, Mr. Skelton. You’re free to go whenever you like.”

Back at the B&B Skelton went up to his room, stripped off his jacket and dropped it on the floor. Grabbing his towel from the rack over the radiator he sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed at his wet hair. He felt so sapped by all that had happened that even this simple yet momentarily vigorous action enervated him. Allowing the towel to slip limply to the floor, he sank back on to the bed, arms stretched out like the woman (Belinda?) who had dropped like a diver off the edge of the cliff.

He stared up at the ceiling, watching the remains of a cobweb, clotted with dust, quiver on the light fitting. From the room above he heard three deliberate thumps, as if someone was trying to attract his attention, followed by a groan.

Echoing the groan, he pushed himself into a sitting position. His heart thumped hard, as if even this amount of activity was putting a strain on him. He stared up at the ceiling until his eyes started to ache, but the sound was not repeated. With another groan he rose to his feet and clumped heavily across the room to the door.

The B&B was so silent as he stepped out on to the landing that he might have believed he was the only person in the building. Slowly, as if moving underwater, he plodded along the landing to the cream door at the end. After opening it he began to ascend the twisting staircase that lay beyond, his breath rattling at the base of his throat, his leg muscles straining. The door slowly swung shut behind him, enfolding him in gloom. A minute later he reached the upper landing. He crossed to room 12 and raised his hand to knock on the door.

Before he could do so, he heard a sound coming from inside. A sigh? Or perhaps a whispered invitation to enter? Unclenching his fist he lowered his arm, wrapped his hand around the door handle and twisted. There was a grinding clunk as the latch disengaged. He pushed the door inward and stepped forward.

The room beyond was wreathed in shadow, only a few slivers of light leaking in around the edges of the closed curtains over the single window. The window was directly opposite the door through which Skelton had entered, but the main focus of the room was to the right of that, tucked into an alcove. Here was a bed, and what appeared to be a figure in it. Skelton could make out a dark hump of bedclothes, and the blurred shadowy oval of a head creating a depression in the centre of a faint glimmer of white pillow. Reluctant to relinquish his grip on the doorknob, he leaned forward.

“Hello?” he hissed.

The bedclothes shifted. From the oval of the head came an inarticulate groan.

Skelton took another step into the room.

“Are you all right? Do you need help?”

Another rustle of bedclothes. Another groan. Heart thumping, Skelton crossed to the window, tugged back one of the curtains.

The light was grainy, as though flecked with dust motes. The air was thick, stale. Trembling, Skelton turned from the window to confront whatever was in the bed.

It was a man, and he was shuddering as though with fever. A bandage wrapped around his head was slanted down on one side to cover his left eye, from which a brownish liquid had seeped, staining the white gauze. From the neck down the man’s body was covered with a thin white sheet, which was smeared and splotched with dark stains. With a mounting, dream-like sense of horror, Skelton crossed to the bed and pulled the sheet aside. Though he opened his mouth to scream, the shock that seized him rendered him unable to do so.