Simon Clark - The Fall

He’s going, he’s not going to stop, he thinks it’s kids , were the panicky thoughts whirling round her head.

The man, still with his head tilted to one side, walked a pace or two in her direction. Nicole snatched up the gorilla mask and waved it over her own blonde head. All the time she was shouting.

Now the man walked more quickly towards the tree. He still had his head tilted to one side, obviously wondering just what the deal was.

Then she recognised the man. Brian Pickering, the ice-cream man in his caterer’s white suit.

‘Brian! I’m here! In the tree. Brian! Help!’

Now Brian realised there was something wrong. He was a stumpy man, but he broke into a surprisingly rapid jog through the scrubby bushes towards her.

‘Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!’ Bostock spat in frustration. With that, and a look of white-hot fury, he was gone.

‘Oh thank God, thank God,’ Nicole croaked, her throat sore now, painfully sore.

Bostock had run for it.

She couldn’t wait to get out of that tree.

Brian Pickering had almost reached the tree now and was looking up at her in amazement. ‘Nicole? Nicole, is that you?’

‘Yes.’

‘What on Earth are you doing up there?’

‘Oh, just help me down, please. He was going to kill me.’

Brian held up his arms. In the dying sun his ice-cream seller’s white suit seemed to gleam like shining armour.

‘Who was going to kill you?’ He looked baffled as if suspecting this was some leg-pull.

‘Bostock… one of our tour group.’ Nicole lowered herself down from the branch, ready to jump the last eight feet or so. Her whole body was shaking now. A watery sensation filled her stomach.

But, Jesus-sweet-Jesus, the relief was enormous. Brian looked so solid and reassuring as he stood looking up at her with concerned eyes, his hands outstretched to help her down.

‘Bostock killed his wife in the wood… He was – Brian! ’

‘ Neee – yah! ’

Bostock materialised from the deepening gloom.

As if he was swinging a baseball bat at a ball, he swung the iron bar at the back of Brian’s head.

Brian didn’t even make a noise as he staggered groggily from the blow. Nicole watched his body go all rubbery as he slumped face forward against the tree. With a yell, Nicole hoisted herself back into the branches, every fibre of her muscles quivering.

She saw Bostock raise the iron bar high over his head. It glistened wetly in the gloom. She knew what would happen next.

Screwing her eyes shut, she hugged herself against the tree trunk. Although she saw nothing, she heard Bostock’s excited grunts, heard the iron bar smacking against Brian Pickering’s skull, and felt the vibration of the blows transmitted up the tree and into her body.

‘No, no,’ she whispered over and over. ‘No, no, no…’ Then she began to sob. She felt helpless, alone, vulnerable. And night was falling fast.

Ryan Keith jogged along the road from Casterton to the amphitheatre. He was exhausted. His legs ached, a stitch pierced his side. He’d hardly stopped running since leaving the Gryphon Hotel. For quite a time he’d repeatedly shot looks back over his shoulder with huge, terrified eyes.

He expected at any moment to see the mob of skinheads chasing after him to beat him to a pulp on the road.

It took a while but he eventually realised they weren’t in hot pursuit after all.

Nevertheless, he still ran. He didn’t want to take the risk of being spotted in town.

Now it was nearly dark. The road was flanked by fields. Only the occasional car passed him. Once someone honked at the sight of the plump, round-faced youth in an Oliver Hardy costume. He’d jumped and yelped at the sound of the horn.

A mile out of town he’d passed a tramp striding purposefully along the road. He wore orange overalls and Wellington boots and sang the hymn ‘Jerusalem’ with loud gusto. Every so often he would pause to drink from a bottle of cider. Then he’d draw the back of his hand across his mouth in a hugely dramatic gesture to wipe the drops from his ginger moustache and beard.

For a moment Ryan slowed down. Would the tramp attack him too? Anything was possible in this crazy, topsy-turvy world.

As a child he’d watched the old Benny Hill TV shows. They always ended with Benny being chased by old men, blowzy women, policemen and pretty girls in high heels and stockings. Those chases always fascinated Ryan, and he’d imagine what it would be like to be pursued like that, with people shaking their fists after him. Now he knew. Today the whole of humankind seemed out to get him. It was horrible. Now even that tramp might chase him, laughing gutturally and making horrible suggestions about cuddling together under the bushes.

If Ryan’s shadow had been visible he’d have been frightened of that, too.

Taking a deep, controlling breath he began jogging again. Jogging as fast as he could, so he could get by the scary tramp.

The moment he passed the tramp he heard a bellow.

‘I know no pleasure sweeter, than in my heart to sing you a song of praise, Jesus, my love…’

Dear God , thought Ryan in deep, deep terror. It’s happening again. He ran harder, feeling his stomach pull heavily from side to side beneath his shirt.

Behind him the tramp held up the cider bottle triumphantly while shouting, ‘We shall sing to Christ with sweet voices and delightful melody. His love conquers all things. Therefore let us live in love, and in it die!’

Shit, shit …

Ryan gasped for breath as he ran. Any second the tramp would run after him, grab him, and haul him into the bushes.

‘Wait… wait,’ the tramp shouted. ‘We need to speak… Listen to my words. I know you. I know you! ’

Ryan ran on, shaking his head in terror, his breath coming in sobbing grunts.

‘Listen to me!’ shouted the man. ‘You’ve got to get out of that hole in the ground… the Watchett Hole! If you don’t, it’ll be the death of you. Did you hear that, my mate-ee-oh? You’ll all die!’

Closing his ears to the shouts, Ryan ran on.

From her perch in the tree, Nicole Wagner peered down cautiously through the leaves. On the ground, gazing up at her once more, was Bostock. In the gloom his face appeared to glow whitely until she could almost believe she was looking at a replica of the moon lying on the dark ground. His eyes were merely shadows in his face.

At times she wondered if he’d fallen asleep there, with the iron bar lying diagonally across his chest.

Then, as she was thinking of sneaking down from the tree and making a run for it, she’d hear him click his tongue. He’d wag a finger at her as if to say, ‘Don’t worry, girl, I’ve still got my eye on you.’

And from her high vantage point she could see the darker stains on the earth, the broken grass stalks and trampled nettles where Bostock had dragged the body of the man who sold ice creams into the bushes.

Now she felt cold as the night air closed around her like a hand. Taking the gorilla suit, she held it to her chest, buried her face in the synthetic fur and prayed for a guardian angel.

Ryan Keith no longer walked straight. He moved in long zigs and zags, and he was muttering to himself. Every so often sobs would judder through his body so strongly he had to stop. Then he’d unscrew the cap from the half-bottle of brandy he’d bought from an off-licence on the edge of town.

He was so drunk he thought at times he’d simply barf the whole lot into the gutter. But somehow he kept it down. Now the alcohol was singing through his veins.

Above him stars appeared in the night sky. Bats swooped around the street lights.