Simon Clark - The Fall

She saw the fingers were red with blood. And as he stood there she watched his polo shirt turn from white to red from the collar downwards. Within seconds the whole left-hand side of the polo shirt had turned to that deep, bloody crimson as the blood soaked it.

Bostock’s eyes bulged in shock; his lips trembled as if he was trying to speak, but no words came out.

Stunned, Nicole looked round the clearing. She was alone with Bostock. So what had happened to him?

There was a blur of movement as a figure moved with such grace and speed she could barely take it all in. Instantly there came a swish as something like a stick buzzed through the air.

This time Bostock cried out.

The figure moved quickly to one side and she saw Bostock clutching that plump beer belly of his. He looked down at it as if he was about to witness something marvellous.

Slowly, with one shaking, blood-red hand, Bostock lifted the bottom of his polo shirt to see his stomach.

He gave a sudden shocked yell. Nicole closed her eyes.

But it was too late. The image had already burnt its way into her brain. Bostock standing there clutching his beer gut while his intestines slipped smoothly out through his fingers, sloppy with stomach fluid and blood.

It was quite involuntary. She didn’t want to do it. But her eyes snapped open.

This time she saw a tall figure standing over Bostock, who now lay flat on his back, grunting pig-like.

Again the figure moved with such grace and poise he could have been a dancer.

He was, she saw, holding a long, slender sword. Then, in a strangely delicate way, he assumed an odd pose, holding the sword by the pommel in his right hand, while steadying the blade with just the fingertips of the left hand. Almost comically, the little pinkie of his left hand was cocked outwards as if he was drinking tea at a royal garden party. His eyes were fixed on Bostock, who lay at his feet. Then she saw him jab the sword down at Bostock’s neck.

Bostock himself gave a huge shudder. His feet scuffed the grass as if he was suddenly trying to run as he lay there. Then he was still.

For one lunatic moment she thought the man who’d saved her was Lee Burton. The figure was tall; he wore a cloak. But as she looked again she saw it was no fancy-dress-shop Dracula cloak, but one in brown wool.

With that same grace he bent from the waist, tore up a handful of grass and wiped the blade of his sword clean before slipping it into a scabbard that hung from a strap across his shoulders.

Later Nicole would curse what she did next. It was naff, so embarrassingly clichéd, but it happened anyway.

She fainted clean away on the ground.

‘Is this your vehicle, sir?’ the policeman asked as he leaned into the car. The man’s face seemed huge. And Sam was so close to it he could see the shaving nicks and the lines of bristles that had escaped the blade. Rolls of fat nearly hid the knot of his tie. Sam also smelled the odour of onions beating out from the man’s mouth so richly that he found himself holding his breath, or at least trying to.

‘It is yours, sir?’ the policeman repeated.

‘Yes, officer.’

‘Oh, American, are we, sir?’

Sam gave a tight smile. He would have nodded but to do so would mean he’d end up head-butting the huge face in front of him.

The policeman looked searchingly at Carswell’s white linen suit, then at Jud’s golden waistcoat. Then he turned to look at the Range Rover’s hi-tech instrument panel and CD player.

‘Which button do you press to make it all fall apart, then?’

Sam felt his smile growing increasingly phoney the wider he forced it. ‘Fall apart?’ he echoed, wondering if everyone in 1946 was ever so slightly barmy. Already a crowd had gathered around the car. A boy of around ten had climbed onto the bonnet and was pulling faces through the windscreen.

‘It does fall apart, doesn’t it?’ the constable asked, liberally venting onion breath into Sam’s face. ‘My wife can’t stand ’em, but I’ll be bringing the kids. It’s the smell that puts her off, you know. Smells like dirty britches, she says.’

What the hell was the man talking about?

The man turned his red, razor-nicked face back to Sam so they were only about five inches from eyeball to eyeball. Sam found himself pressing his head farther and farther back into the head-restraint.

‘Although I’ve got to tell you one thing,’ the policeman said, his eyes bulging hypnotically into Sam’s. ‘You’ve come too far.’

Too far? Did the policeman know what had happened to them at the amphitheatre? That a hundred or so acres of dirt and grass had come adrift in time and were carrying with them 50 people, like shipwreck survivors on a raft? But how could he?

‘Quite a bit too far.’ The policeman looked back at the dashboard. ‘I bet this does all kinds of funny business, doesn’t it? Squirting water. Bangs, flashes, smoke. I love ’em. Kids love ’em an all. Pity the wife won’t come. It’s the stink she can’t stomach.’ He shook his head gravely. ‘Never mind, eh? One less won’t bankrupt you, will it now?’

Still smiling a fixed smile that was starting to hurt his cheek muscles, Sam shook his head in a way that he hoped humoured the mad policeman. On the bonnet the boy had stuck both fingers up his nose while shoving his tongue out against the glass, leaving spitty wet smears.

The policeman noticed. ‘Oi… clear off.’ He withdrew his head from the car and made as if to cuff the boy, but the boy had slithered off the bonnet and run into the crowd singing, ‘Nah-nah!’

‘Bloody tyke,’ grunted the policeman heavily and hitched up the belt of his trousers. Then he looked back at Sam.

‘Wouldn’t do to have this thing exploding all over the street, would it now?’

‘It wouldn’t, officer,’ Sam agreed pleasantly while thinking: Please God, won’t anyone tell me what on Earth he’s talking about?

‘Anyway, like I explained. Your lot turned left at the Buttercross. You can’t miss them, they’re all parked in the parish field. That’s the big one down by the bridge.’

Sam nodded and grinned; his cheeks ached outrageously.

He couldn’t stand much more of this lunacy.

The policeman continued, ‘Last I saw, they already had the Big Top up. Besides, you can always follow the elephant shit. Big as bloody cannonballs, it is.’

‘Ah, the circus ?’ Sam almost shouted with relief.

‘Yes. You are with the circus, aren’t you?’

‘Of course, yes. We got held up back in… uh…’

‘In Selby,’ Jud chipped in helpfully from the back. ‘This car’s just been shipped in from America.’

‘America?’ The policeman gave an appreciative whistle. ‘It looks a fair piece of machinery.’ He ran his finger along the door frame. ‘Cost a bit, too, I expect?’

‘A hundred thousand dollars,’ Sam said, lying easily now; he felt the circus story would cover anything.

The policeman, however, stopped smiling. ‘How much?’

‘Just our little joke, constable,’ Carswell said.

‘Oh… right, right.’ The constable chuckled. ‘Right, best get you moving or you’ll be late for the show. You will be on tonight, won’t you? I’ve got seats on the front row.’ He touched his nose. ‘I had a word with your boss.’

‘Oh, we’ll be there, constable.’ Sam grinned. ‘You’ll be amazed what this car can do.’

‘I say, don’t over-egg the pudding, old boy,’ Carswell whispered into his ear. ‘Otherwise he’ll be asking for a demonstration right now.’

‘All right,’ the constable grunted. ‘Everyone back. Let the car back up the street. Oi, you!’ The boy had worked his way to the front of the crowd again. The constable used his meaty hand to cuff the boy round the ear. The crowd laughed and backed away as Sam, still smiling fixedly, slowly reversed.