Andrew Hurley - The Loney

There was a smell of burning. A table by the mattress was covered in a black cloth, and the bunches of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling were turning in the heat from the candles. The air was thick and stagnant and the walls glistened with condensation. Here and there, thin stalactites had formed and roots of weeds sprigged through where the mortar had dissolved. It was nothing more than a cave clad with white bricks. It was the place Alice Percy had taken all those sea-weary sailors to be bludgeoned and eaten.

By the mattress was a heap of dirty towels and an enamel bowl of instruments coated in blood that had turned dark and resinous: a scalpel, scissors, a pair of forceps. Else had given birth down here. The child had never seen the daylight.

At the end of the room was a wicker basket, which shook as the baby kicked and screamed itself hoarse. Clement put his hands over his ears. In the low room, the noise was terrible. Parkinson and Collier stood against the wall. The dog lay with its chin on its paws, its frightened eyes looking up for some comfort. It whimpered once and was silent.

Under the screaming there was another sound, a soft thudding coming from somewhere, something like thunder heard from a distance. It rolled and scattered and returned. And I realised that it was the sea pounding the rocks under Thessaly.

‘You can go back upstairs now,’ Leonard said to me as he went over to the basket and took out the baby which was wrapped in a white sheet.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I want to be with Hanny.’

I bent down and squeezed Hanny’s hand, but he couldn’t open his eyes. He had been sick down his new white shirt. His whole body was shaking as his leg seeped blood. He was dying moment by moment.

‘Clement,’ said Leonard.

Clement put his hand gently on my shoulder.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Tha’d better do as they say. There’s nothing tha can do for him now.’

‘I want to stay.’

‘Nay,’ said Clement, his voice almost at a whisper now. ‘Tha doesn’t. Believe me.’

I knew Clement was right and that I had to go with him, but I didn’t want to leave Hanny alone with them.

Leonard came past me with the bundle. The baby was still screaming in a ferocious way, terrified and violent, like a trapped animal. It was so strong that Leonard had to hold it close to his chest.

‘Go on,’ said Leonard, raising his voice. ‘You can’t stay.’

I felt myself being pulled out of the room as Clement dragged me up the stairs and out into the hallway, where he stood against the door so that I couldn’t go back down.

‘They’ll tell you when it’s been done,’ he said.

‘When what’s been done?’

‘When he’s better.’

‘What will they do to him?’

‘Them?’ said Clement. ‘ They don’t do anything.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Clement looked at me in a way that suggested he didn’t either.

How long I waited there, I don’t know. An hour, two maybe. The fog pressed close to the house and the hallway was filled with a pallid light. All the while Clement stood with his back to the door, eyeing me nervously, until finally we heard Leonard calling us down.

Clement stood aside as I went down the steps two at a time into the darkness. The main bulb had been turned off and the cellar was lit only by the candles that had been placed around the rim of a chalk circle that had been drawn on the floor. Leonard, Parkinson and Collier were standing inside the circle. Collier’s dog lay by his feet shivering.

Outside the ring, Hanny was lying on the mattress, the baby next to him. Both of them were motionless — Hanny curled up with his hands around his knees as he had been when I left him, the baby half wrapped in a sheet.

The swaddling clothes had come apart, and although Leonard quickly stepped out of the ring to draw the sheets back over the child, he wasn’t quick enough. I saw the baby’s blind grey eyes. Its shrivelled yellow face. The grotesque swellings on its neck. The mangled claw of a hand.

I say baby. I’m not sure that it was human.

Leonard knelt down by Hanny and shook him gently by the shoulder. Hanny woke blearily. He rubbed his face with the backs of his hands and sat up. After a moment he seemed to recognise me, though his eyes were still half-closed and drooping, and Leonard helped him to his feet. The bleeding had stopped and he came to me without a limp.

‘Now what dost tha think?’ said Parkinson from the gloom beyond the candlelight.

I felt Hanny put his hand into mine. It was warm and heavy.

Parkinson laughed quietly to himself. Seeing my expression of disbelief, Collier laughed too. The dog barked once and shook its collar.

Still the baby didn’t stir. It lay there with its eyes half open staring at the ceiling.

The sea thumped against the rocks and faded and returned but more faintly now than it had been before.

‘The tide’s going out,’ said Leonard.

‘The sands will be clear by two,’ said Parkinson.

‘The fog won’t lift though,’ said Collier.

‘No?’ said Leonard.

‘It’s cold as you like out there,’ said Collier. ‘Especially with allt flood water. They’ll sit well inland all afternoon wilt frets.’

‘Good,’ said Leonard. ‘Then there should be fewer people on the roads.’

He looked past me at Clement, who had come down the steps without me noticing.

‘Is everything ready?’ he said.

‘Aye,’ replied Clement.

‘Well then,’ said Leonard. ‘I think we ought to conclude our business here.’

‘Gladly,’ said Parkinson and he took a candle to the end of the room, returning with the palm leaves Mummer had used on Easter Sunday. He had evidently stolen them from the kitchen when he’d come to Moorings with the Pace Eggers.

Setting the candle down, he pushed the leaves into his fist and offered the first draw to Leonard.

‘Oh no,’ said Leonard with a quiet laugh. ‘You know full well I was never part of the disposal, Parkinson. We agreed that from the start.’

Parkinson looked at him and then moved on to Collier, who took a leaf and glanced sidelong at Clement.

‘Go on,’ said Parkinson.

Clement shook his head and Parkinson smiled and drew one for him anyway, placing it into his hand and closing his fingers around it.

Clement began to cry, and I was so taken aback to hear him sobbing like a child that I didn’t realise that Hanny and I had been given a leaf each until Parkinson was ready to draw the lot.

‘Let’s see then,’ he said and everyone showed their leaves.

Parkinson smiled and Collier let out a breath of relief.

‘The best result eh, Parkinson?’ said Leonard.

‘Aye,’ he said, grinning at me. ‘Couldn’t’ve been better.’

Clement sniffed and wiped his nose on his arm.

‘You can’t do this,’ he said, holding Hanny by the shoulder. ‘He’s only a lad.’

‘Nay,’ said Parkinson, holding out the rifle for Hanny to hold. ‘Fair’s fair. He drewt shortest straw.’

‘Come on,’ said Clement. ‘Tha knows tha tricked him.’

‘You sawt straws, Clement. There was nowt amiss.’

Still dazed, Hanny took the rifle and looked at it curiously before he slipped his hand around the small of the butt and placed his finger lightly on the trigger.

‘Draw it again then,’ said Clement, turning to Leonard, thinking that out of the three of them he might have some pity.

‘Fuck that,’ said Collier anxiously. ‘It’s been done. It’s not right to do it again.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Parkinson, reaching into his jacket and taking out one of his butcher’s knives — a cleaver that looked as though it could split a pig in one blow. ‘The lad’s not going anywhere until everything’s been cleared away.’