Simon Clark - The Fall

He looked down at the woman’s corpse again.

Where was the little girl?

But already he’d convinced himself he was too late.

So it is impossible to go back in time and change history , he told himself. At some point the newspaperman would take his photograph as he fled the scene.

But where was the killer?

Sam was certain the man was still somewhere in the house.

And the way Sam burnt with anger right now, he was ready to deal out some rough justice of his own.

He glanced at his watch. One minute to 10.30. Then Ruth would play merry hell with the horn.

Not that it mattered now.

He’d failed.

Three people dead.

If only he’d been quicker.

Damn. He clenched his fists.

At that moment, above the rumble of bombs falling far away, he heard another sound. Much closer.

A sizzling sound. The sound of dry sand falling in a steady drizzle on newspaper.

Sam turned to the kitchen doorway.

The sound itself made no sense. He couldn’t identify it. But he knew who was making it.

It was the robber.

He was approaching the kitchen.

Sam looked around for somewhere to hide.

The sizzling sound grew louder.

From behind a washtub and mangle he saw a pair of feet appear. In the darkness they were just ill-defined shapes.

The feet moved towards the door, then paused. The sizzling sound remained constant.

Again Sam had the mental image of sand pouring lightly onto paper. He gripped the bicycle lamp so tightly his fingers ached.

For a moment the feet didn’t move. Maybe the robber knew Sam was there?

Certainly the man seemed to be considering some problem.

Sam could even imagine him looking this way and that, half expecting to see a crouching figure.

But then Sam realised the man must be gazing down at that streak of blood on the floor.

It was puzzling him.

But why? Sam wondered.

Why should he break away from looting the house to come and stand looking at that streak of blood?

Obviously it had been made by the woman as she’d slithered across the floor, her throat cut, as she’d tried to crawl to…

To where?

It was rational to assume she’d make for the door out into the back garden.

If she’d been trying to escape, that was.

But no. She’d been crawling away from the door.

Sam risked looking round the end of the mangle rollers.

Damn. If only he’d brought a weapon of some sort. Then he wouldn’t have had to skulk here like a frightened puppy. Even though Sam was barely breathing he could smell the reek of wet wool again. Clearly it was exuded by the man.

The figure stood with its back turned to him. Just a humped, even headless-looking silhouette in the darkened room.

It appeared to be contemplating the streak of blood. Then it turned to look at a door set in the wall. Perhaps a door to a cupboard or a pantry.

The rumbling became louder. Somewhere a dog started a frenzied barking. A series of tremors from the exploding bombs raced through the house, rattling crockery and shaking the pictures on the walls.

Then a sudden silence fell once more. Sam could hear his own breathing.

At that moment he and the figure reached the same conclusion.

The woman with her throat cut had been trying to reach that low door set in the wall. Because—

The humped figure moved forward towards the low door.

Because that was where the little girl had hidden herself .

Sam stood up as a flash of light filled the kitchen. It was a cold, bluish light; it flickered, transforming what he saw into something resembling a scene from an old silent movie.

The walls switched from being brilliantly illuminated to being plunged into darkness then just as quickly lit again, as if a brilliant strobe light had been switched on outside the back door.

In an instant, the figure had dragged open the cupboard door.

Sitting on the pantry floor, knees hugged to her chest, was a small girl.

This was it.

Sam moved like he’d been shot from a cannon.

‘Don’t you touch her!’ he shouted as he ran across the kitchen floor.

The moment the figure turned to face him, the blue flickering light went out.

Instant darkness.

Sam stopped.

The only thing he had in his hand was the bicycle lamp. He pointed it towards where the figure had been while twisting the switch on top.

The yellow light flashed in the robber’s face.

The sizzling sound suddenly increased in volume.

Sam stared at the face.

A shout sounded in his ears.

And he realised that it had been he who’d made the sound. Because there, in the trembling light of the lamp, was the intruder’s face. The sight of it stopped him dead.

It was a large, distorted face; almost a demon-like caricature rather than recognisably human. The nose was beak-like and stubble bristled sharply across the jaw. A heavy blue tattooed line ran across the upper lip, following the same contour as a moustache would. More vertical tattooed lines ran from the bottom lip down to the line of the chin to create a blue beard effect.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. That wasn’t what shocked Sam Baker to the marrow of his spine.

Standing out from the man’s face were three snakes. They swung slowly from side to side, tongues vibrating from their mouths; that sizzling sound turning into an angry hiss.

Sam took an involuntary step back and thumped against the kitchen table.

He couldn’t take his eyes from that face.

The snakes protruded from it as if looking out of holes in a statue’s head.

One snake came out of the man’s temple like a rubbery horn.

A second came from his forehead, just below the hairline. A third – most shockingly of all – actually poked out from the man’s left eye socket, just where the eyeball should have been.

The little black bead snake eyes set in greenish snake heads were hypnotic. The tongues quivered as the hissing grew louder.

At the same time the man’s own tongue came out, aping the snake tongues, quivering too. His single eye stared at Sam: unwavering, mean, hostile.

The figure moved.

In one lightning movement, the man grabbed Sam by the throat. Effortlessly he pushed Sam back until he lay flat across the table.

The next second the man raised his free arm. Sam saw in the faint light the gleam of an axe head.

Sam knew he’d only a moment before his head was hacked from his body.

Falling bombs rumbled. Cutlery rattled like nervous creatures in the kitchen drawers.

Sam twisted his head while trying to reach up and grab the arm that held the axe. The arm was thick, muscular.

The man leaned over him, then brushed Sam’s hands aside like he was a child.

The snakes stretched out from the man’s head, trying to bite Sam’s face. The eyes glinted. The furious hissing seemed to drown out the sound of exploding bombs.

Suddenly music crashed through the house.

Sam shook his head, trying to make sense of it all.

The air raid. The snake-faced man.

Now the sound of Meatloaf’s ‘Bat Out of Hell’ was coming through the house in tumbling waves of crashing guitar chords. Pumping bass notes vibrated the windows, drums sounded like worlds colliding: it all came in one hellish extravaganza of sound. Then the operatic vocals came battering over the top of the music.

The music surprised the man, too.

His head jerked up as he listened.

Sam seized his moment.

With one hand free he reached up, grabbed the snake that grew from the man’s eye socket and pulled.

The man bellowed in pain.

Sam pulled harder; the snake’s body stretched as if it were rubber. He could feel it wriggling inside his clenched fist, squirming, contracting, expanding as that thick, warm body of muscle, bone and sinew tried to wriggle free.